Time to Hunt Read Online Free

sloppy.
    “Excellent,” said Donny. “Maybe you’re not a girl after all. All right, let’s—”
    But at this moment, the company commander’s orderly, the bespectacled PFC Welch, suddenly appeared at Donny’s right shoulder.
    “Hey, Corporal,” he whispered, “CO wants to see you.”
    Shit, thought Donny, what the hell have I done now?
    “Ohhh,” somebody sang, “somebody’s in trouble.”
    “Hey, Donny, maybe they’re going to give you another medal.”
    “It’s his Hollywood contract, it’s finally come.”
    “You know what it’s about?” asked Donny of Welch, who was a prime source of scuttlebutt.
    “No idea. Some Navy guys, that’s all I know. It’s ASAP, though.”
    “I’m on my way. Bascombe, you take over. Another twenty minutes. Focus on the face-out of the hearse that seems to have Crowe so baffled. Then take ’em to chow. I’ll catch up when I can.”
    “Yes, Corporal.”
    Donny straightened his starched shirt, adjusted the gig line, wondered if he had time to change shirts, decided he didn’t, and took off.
    He headed across the parade deck, passing among other drilling Marines. The showboats of Company A, the silent drill rifle team, were going through their elaborate pantomime; the color guard people were mastering the intricacies of flag work; another platoon had moved on to riot control and was stomping furiously down Troop Walk, bent double under combat gear.
    Donny reached Center Walk, turned and headed into the barracks proper, only crossing paths with half a dozen officers in the salute-crazed Corps and having to toss up a stiff right hand for their response. He entered the building, turned right and went through the open hatch—Marine for “door”—and down the hall. It was dark and the gleamy swirls of good buffer work on the wax of the linoleum shone up at him. Along the green government bulkheads were photos of various Marine activities supplied by an aggressive Public Information Office for morale purposes, at which they utterly failed. At last, he turned into the door marked COMMANDING OFFICER , and under that CAPTAIN M. C. DOGWOOD, USMC . The outer office was empty, because PFC Welch was still running errands.
    “Fenn?” came the call from the inner office. “In here.”
    Donny stepped into the office, a kind of ghostly crypt to the joint vanities of Marine machismo and bureaucratic efficiency, to discover the ramrod-stiff Captain Morton Dogwood sitting with a slender young man in the summer tans of a lieutenant commander in the Navy and an even younger man in an ensign’s uniform.
    “Sir,” said Donny, going to attention, “Corporal Fenn reporting as ordered, sir.”
    As he was unarmed, he did not salute.
    “Fenn, this is Commander Bonson and Ensign Weber,” said Dogwood.
    “Sirs,” said Donny to the naval officers.
    “Commander Bonson and his associate are from the Naval Investigative Service,” said Dogwood.
    Oh, shit, thought Donny.
    The room was dark, the shades drawn. The captain’s meager assembly of service medals hung in a frame on the wall behind him, as well as an announcement of his degree in International Finance from George Washington University. His desk was shiny and almost clear except for the polished 105mm howitzer shell that had been cut down to a paper clip cup and was everybody’s souvenir from service in RSVN, and pictures of a pretty wife and two baby girls.
    “Sit down, Fenn,” said Bonson, not looking up from documents he was studying, which, as Donny saw, were his own jacket, or personnel records.
    “Aye, aye, sir,” said Donny. He found a chair and set himself into it stiffly, facing the three men who seemed to hold his destiny in their hands. Outside, the shouts of drill came through the windows; outside it was bright and hot and the day was filled with duty. Donny felt in murky waters here; what the hell was
this
all about?
    “Good record,” said Bonson. “Excellent job in country. Good record here in the