A USMC Captain Asked Her Call Sign As A Joke At The Bar — "REAPER TEN" Made Every Marine Stand Up
Chapter 7
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Brim looked at her once, looked at his captain, said nothing. He did not walk away—he stayed by the door, but he turned his body by degrees until he was square with the door instead of with the bar. The phone in his pocket, he did not pull out; the right hand at his side, he did not move; the left hand at his side, he opened twice and closed twice, the way a junior officer does when he is starting to read what he has walked into.Donnelly drifted to the back hallway with an empty CO2 canister under his arm—the cover story he had used three other times in his life to slip out the back of a room for 30 seconds, out of camera angle, out of earshot. He did not run; he did not hurry. He pulled the Post-it out of his shirt pocket, looked at the pen number once, and dialed it from the bar's wall phone.Two rings."Brewster." One word."Sir—Donnelly, The Bowline. We have Reaper 10 here, and a captain is two minutes from causing the kind of problem you and I both already know how this ends. Are you free?"A pause—half a second, the pause of the Brigadier General turning his head a quarter to the aide in the passenger seat. "Are you sure?""Yes, sir.""ETA 11 minutes."The line closed.Donnelly walked back into the barroom with the empty CO2 canister in his hand and switched it for a full one under the speed gun. He poured two more club sodas—one for Hourigan, one for the regulars in the corner who had not asked. He set Hourigan's down without looking at her; he set the regulars' down on their table with one open hand. The regulars—three retired Marines who came in every Friday and did not talk about it—looked at his open hand and read what he meant by it. They closed the dominoes box; they did not finish the round.Bowers, in the back booth, had laid his phone face down on the table and shifted his body two inches toward the aisle; Sherid had copied him. Bowers placed one quiet phone call of his own to a friend at base who carried the duty sergeant major's number, and asked, "Low: who has the duty sergeant major tonight?"The voice on the other end said, "Cyrus Lockridge."Bowers said, "Thanks," once, and hung up. He looked across the bar at Hourigan for the first time since she had sat down. He did not nod; he did not need to. Hourigan did not look at Bowers; she did not look at Brim. She lifted the glass. Sip. Set. The rhythm held.On the state route three miles south of The Bowline, an unmarked sedan ran the speed limit plus four. Brigadier General Easton Brewster, 51, United States Marine Corps, Commander, Marine Forces Special Operations Command, sat in the back in Class B service dress with his cover on the seat beside him. His aide, Captain Tomas Brennan, 28, was driving.The dash clock said 2230. "Sir, six minutes.""Drive faster, Tomas. Park three spots from the door."