Duty at the CINCPACFLT was considered “cake duty” back then in the Navy. CINCPACFLT stands for Chief in Charge of the Pacific Fleet. The admiral who that title was bestowed upon ran the whole goddamn Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy and with a job like that you get your own yacht and a boathouse to keep it in. The only time the yacht went out into the harbor is when the old man had an urge to entertain either bigwigs or his fellow (high ranking only) officers. That was only once every couple of months or so, so when we weren't waxing his yacht or the "barge" as it was called, we ferried "important" tourists out to the Arizona memorial and back. Some of the guests that were taken out on VIP cruises included: President Carter's daughter, Amy, Jack Lord of Hawaii 5-0 fame, Don Rickles, and Don Ho. Pretty heady stuff for the Navy but you wouldn't think it by the crew that was stationed down there. A sorrier assortment of losers you could not imagine. Even though I was one of them I could never figure that one out.
The chief in charge was Boatswain's Mate Chief Marty Mason. A highly decorated veteran of the Viet Nam war who was also a world class lush and white cross addict. A giant of a man with twin propellers (screws in Navy language) tattooed on his ass, he was mean as a snake and wasn't above physically assaulting members of his crew for infractions such as smoking dope or even giving the perception that you weren't listening to him. These assaults normally happened when the Chief was either drunk (often), suffering from a hangover (very often), or a combination of both (constantly).
"I'm so fucking salty that the last whore who sucked my cock told me that I had salt crystals on my nuts," he would scream out as he walked around the boathouse kicking people in the ass and smoking - and inhaling - Roi-Tan Falcon cigars even though one of his lungs had been shot out in Viet Nam while serving on a river patrol boat.
His second in command was the previously mentioned Ricky Brewer who had yet to get sent up to the big house. The chief engineer was Engineman First Class Darin Brooks, a incredibly racist black man who was married to a white woman and who was always talking about how he'd like to fuck young white boys in the ass when he was at sea and who obviously made all the young white boys in the crew nervous.
The rest of the revolving and transient crew were made up of castoffs from the many far flung branches of the Navy. Everyone stationed at the fucking place had some sort of history - drugs and alcohol abuse was the norm and sexual deviancy ran a close second.
The two women stationed there were well known base sluts, although Janine, a white trash babe from Georgia, really gave it her all to stand out. She fucked the entire crew of a submarine, gold and blue crews, including the XO and CO. In less than a year! Quite an accomplishment since submarines are normally at sea six months out of the year. But that even couldn't beat out Rose's accomplishments. Rose was a beautiful, doe eyed babe, and the daughter from a mixed marriage (Native American and black) who moonlighted as a high dollar prostitute down in Waikiki. She even had a pimp (without a heart of gold) named Harold and who she was always holding out on. This type of bad business behavior eventually resulted in the suspicious and volatile Harold (who used both a blackjack and pool cue) beating the shit out of Rose to the point to where Rose needed to be flown out to the mainland for her personal protection else Harold may have decided to eventually pour a bottle of Drano down her throat like that pimp did to his whore in Dirty Harry.
Then there was Malcolm, a seaman who was perpetuated by bad body odor and ringworms and who lived at the boathouse and was suspected of banging the boathouse dog, Brownie. I think you get the idea of what the crew was like.
I myself had been busted for possession of a small amount of marijuana after the dogs had been run through the barracks. I had previously been assigned to the office of Naval Intelligence where my job description entailed mainly drinking coffee and ferrying messages between the many offices of CINCPACFLT. Upon being busted for weed I was stripped of my security clearance and banished to the Navy's version of purgatory. The only thing that kept me from being sent first to the brig for a short stint of bread and water and second to the fleet where I would spend the rest of my enlistment painting and cleaning shitters, was the fact that I had been selling bags of high quality Hawaiian weed to the base personnel chief, a giant black man with a massive afro who closely resembled NBA great, Wilt Chamberlain. He also banged Rose on occasion and knew that I was aware of this so I think he thought it would be prudent to transfer me to somewhere more of my liking in case he needed some more good reefer or if I decided to spill my guts. It probably would have been better for me in the long run if I had gone to the fleet.
***
I was on duty. When you had duty - about once every six days - you had to spend the night at the boathouse where you made sure that no boats sank or any local lowlifes broke into the paint locker to huff paint and break into the vehicles. It was about ten at night, I was high on a combination of Hawaiian Bud and Primo beer, and I was watching Brewer and Malcolm screw a pig. About twice a year the admiral would throw a shindig at the boathouse for the beautiful people (again only high ranking officers and their wives) of CINCPACFLT and this always included some kind of slaughtered flesh, usually a roasted pig but sometimes a calf. A crew of three or four locals would bring the sacrificial hog down and would string it up by it's feet, slit it's throat, and bleed it to the death while catching the blood in the bucket which would be used later for a blood sauce. This event always included lots of beer, weed, sometimes narcotics if they were available, and was always proceeded by Brewer (and this time Malcolm) sodomizing the poor bastard before it's neck was cut. Brewer considered this act to be his way of sticking it to the man although I'm sure the pig didn't think of it that way. The local Hawaiians thought this was rather strange but always laughed so damn hard I thought they'd shit their pants.
"Those bastards are blowing me by proxy when they eat this goddamned thing," Brewer bellowed out above the squeal of the pig. It was a more horrifying scene than watching Ned Beatty getting it in the ass in Deliverance.
"You going to get in on anything of this?" Brewer asked me as the Hawaiians cheered on Malcolm as he took his turn. By this time the pig had finally had enough, and Malcolm who barely weighted a hundred pounds, was stuck inside the pig and was hanging on like it was a fucking rodeo as the hog ran around the pen.
"I think I'll pass, but thanks anyway." "Suit yourself, but you don't know what you're missing. It's almost as good as a woman. Sometimes better." Brewer turned to walk to the beer cooler. "Oh, by the way. Don't get too fucked up tonight. Blanche has my car so you're gonna have to give me a ride home after we get done killing this fucking pig and cleaning the place up."
***
Way after midnight we were flying on a back road that led into Navy housing. I was in the backseat of the government truck, Malcolm was passed out in the shotgun seat, and Brewer who was blind drunk, was at the wheel. We had left the boathouse unmanned, an unbelievable regulations violation, to give Brewer a ride home. Malcolm and I were about equally loaded and the rationale was that both of us would take Brewer home and the one that had sobered up the most in the half hour ride would drive the truck back to the boat house. It was obviously going to be me as Malcolm had already puked down the side of the truck once and was already in a alcohol and Valium induced coma.
Blue lights were flashing behind us! I could see Brewer's eyes as they flashed up into the rearview mirror. "Jesus fucking Christ on crutches! Cops! Do you pricks have any dope on you?"
"No!" My response was immediate even though I did in fact have a small bit of weed in a baggie in my front pocket. But I knew why Brewer was asking. If I said yes, the crazy prick would try to outrun the cops. We were in a huge government issued pickup - the kind with four doors and a full backseat - we couldn't outrun a fucking Volkswagen much less a cop car with a shitload of horsepower.
"Does Malcolm?" Malcolm was still passed out with the top of his head sticking out the passenger window.
"I don't think so!" That tight bastard never had any of his own weed. Malcolm was the biggest goddamn Bogart that I had ever met.
"All right, I'm going to pull over. Just keep your mouth fucking shut and let me do the talking. I'm going to throw the admiral's name around here and hope this cocksucker buys it."
The cop was out of his car and heading our way.
"Get your hands in the fucking air where I can see them!"
"Yes sir! No problem. What's this all about?" Brewer had pulled over half off the road half in a slightly declining ditch. We were about a half mile from the Navy housing complex. The cop, plainclothes of some sort, was standing out in the middle of the road with a huge pistol, looked like a Colt .45 government issue, held in both hands like he was out at the range shooting at paper targets. He looked real young and real fucking nervous. In one motion I slipped my hand into my pocket and threw the dope baggie under the backseat.
"I said hands in the fucking air!" The door closest to me was thrown open. "What did you throw under the seat, asshole? Slide all the way over and stick both your arms out the side window! You move and I'll blow your goddamn head off!"
I quickly slid over and did as I was told. "Yes sir!"
"We work at the CINCPACFLT boathouse," Brewer piped in.
"Shut the hell up, lean forward, and put your hands through the steering wheel! I don't give a hot turd who you work for, punk!" The officer began to climb in the backseat, keeping his eyes on me, one hand on the pistol that was only about two feet from my head, the other hand began to probe under the backseat. Up close, the officer was probably not a couple of years older than myself. And he looked just as scared. He was trying to be the badass. The tough guy. It was a mistake.
Suddenly Brewer spun completely around in his seat and shoved a chrome .22 semi-automatic pistol against the officer's head. The two shots were no louder than a couple of large firecrackers. Blood and bits of skull spattered about the back cabin of the truck as the officer stood straight up - slamming his head on the top of the cab and then crumpling down on to the road.
"Ricky! What the fuck are you doing?" I opened the door and ran around the back of the truck over to the officer. A large pool of blood was already forming on the road around his head. His eyes were open and looking up at me as his mouth moved like a fishes does when it's out of water. And dying.
Brewer was already down next to the officer going through his pockets and found his wallet. "Fuck! This asshole is NIS!" He took the cash out the wallet and threw it back down on his chest and then leaned over and picked up the now known agent's .45 and stuck it in the front of his pants. "Come on! Grab one of his legs, we have to pull him off the road and down into the ditch!"
"You're fucking crazy, dude! What the hell do you think you're fucking doing? You just killed a goddamn NIS agent!"
Brewer stood over the agent staring at me with bloodshot, snake-like eyes. "Yes, I fucking did! And your ass is along for the ride! All the fucking way, so shut the hell up or I'll do your ass next! Now grab a leg and help me get this asshole off the road before anyone shows up!"