The Command

“You got Girls Go Wild, number eight? I got to get geared up for Palma. One of the hull techs, he was telling me there’s like thousands of English girls there. They hear an American accent, they take ’em off right there.”

Pascual’s voice: “Sure, I got it. Two dollar an hour. Never been looked at. You be the first one.”

“You don’t need porn, dickhead. You need a testicle transplant.”

“Your bitch got you so pussy-whipped, you don’t even read porn.”

“I never said I read it. But I look at it.”

“Save yourself some money. Go to the ship’s store, buy some Baby Ruth bars, and go down to Aux 2. Give them to that Wilson chick, she’ll take you in the trash compactor room.”

“I heard that Borromeo say somethin’ about that, but I figured it was bullshit. He’s so full of it. The great Latin lover.”

“It ain’t bullshit. She’ll clear your fuckin’ tubes. The av mechs snuck her into the back of the bird. Sealed her up airtight, three guys at once.”

“Fuckin’ women at sea. Fuckin’ port-a-pussy… sumbitch thought this one up, he oughta get a fuckin’ medal. This little one you got, she’s got a cute little ass on her. Anybody hooked up with her yet?”

Sanders, sounding confused: “What? Who? Kasson? No, she don’t… she ain’t…”

She put her head out and saw two losers from one of the work centers aft. They looked startled seeing her head come out of the enclosure. She snapped, “Ricochet. Clear those tags and set up for a manual start.” They muttered and drifted off.

* * *

They moored before lunchtime at an industrial part of town. Big heaps and wooden bins of reddish clay rose inland. Somebody said it was what they made Spanish tile out of, like for roofs. She looked ashore eagerly. It was her first overseas port, unless you counted Rota. Fortunately she wasn’t in the duty section. They had to sit for a prelib-erty brief in the mess decks, then everybody went down to the compartment to get ready.

Ina was already dressed when she got there. She had her hair back in braids and was wearing white shorts and running shoes. She looked about fifteen. Which was not necessarily bad, Cobie guessed. Better than coveralls and shitkickers. She waited in line for the shower, thrilled when the water came out hot, and scrubbed the fuel stink off her. Back at her locker, she hesitated between her two civilian outfits. A dark red sundress — God knows what she’d been thinking. Maybe drinking wine in Rome in the Colosseum by moonlight. Uh-huh. Or else jeans and a T-shirt. She unpinned her hair and brushed it out, wishing it would lie straight, but with all the humidity from the hole it kinked up like an unraveled rope.

Patryce Wilson came out of the shower and strode through the compartment naked except for flip-flops. Cobie looked away, remembering the overheard conversation. It was just locker-room bullshit. When a woman acted friendly, some guys took it as an invitation, and once the stories started, everybody had to top them. Like the retards by the generator that morning. “Patryce, you been here before?”

“Palma? Shit, yeah, lots of times. I’ll take you to some cowboy bars. We’ll get shitfaced. Speak any Spanish?”

Cobie said she didn’t, only “Muchas gracias,” and Wilson said that was too bad, Spanish men were fun. “Hey, how about Lourdes?”

“She’s gotta speak Spanish. Don’t Mexicans … yeah. Don’t they?”

The ear-piercing whistle she hated, then the 1MC. “Liberty call, liberty call. Liberty call for duty sections two and three. Liberty expires on board at 0200 for second class and below. Now liberty.”

“You get her, I’ll get Ina.”

“She’s already dressed,” Cobie said to her back. Then looked at her makeup kit, hardened and cracked in the heat of the berthing compartment. With hasty, out-of-practice daubs, she began making herself up.

* * *

Ina didn’t show for the longest time, and Lourdes had to go back for her purse. Everyone had to sign out with a liberty buddy. Patryce told them to sign out two and two, if they signed all four together they’d have to come back together. By the time they finally got to the gate the bus was gone, disappearing over the hill. Patryce said it didn’t matter, they’d go to the mall till the next one.

The mall was built into the side of a hill. They had to climb past about five hundred little motorbikes parked below it. Girls and guys were pulling up and leaving. Cobie eyed the girls. Spandex ran rampant. They wore it tight, black stretch pants, or painted-on jeans with big clunky shoes. The guys were swarthy, with dark hair slicked back, kind of greasy looking. There was a Pizza Hut, but it wasn’t like in the States. Everything was in Spanish and the pizza tasted funny, but they had Tanqueray and orange juice for two dollars a pitcher. The waiter was a hunk. Patryce called him “stud muffin.” Cobie had a glass of T&O and then another, listening to Patryce tell about the artist guy she’d met up at the castle the last time she was here and how she raped his thing.