The Command

“We went through that,” he told her. “Plus, so far all we’ve got is her word he’s the father. There’ll be enough complications downstream. I don’t want to pin this on Konow if it actually was somebody else. So he’s got to have his say, too. Put together your evidence and start the process.” He hesitated. “Actually we’ll probably end up losing them both. There’s that issue of trust when you’re in there with the cash and the checks. And he’s abused it. So let’s get a message out to get some kind of quick fill body on their way so we can keep the people paid.”

She tossed her foot nervously. Her coverall had ridden up and he saw fine blond hairs on her calf. “I don’t agree. I don’t think she should go to mast.”

“Get them both ready,” Dan told her. “And you’re dismissed.”

He sat listening to the echo of the slammed door, unable to shrug off that he’d just fantasized doing what he was bound to punish others for.

Ah, but he hadn’t done it. Only thought about it.

Thought about it night after night, alone on that same settee. What she’d say. What they’d do. Just to have her hand gently fingering up and down his prick … and what that first long, irretrievable orgasm would feel like. Guilt and pleasure. The most explosive mix of all.

And if Lieutenant Commander Claudia Hotchkiss, USN, his executive officer, had gone to the door, and pushed in the button? Locking them in?

Fortunately, it couldn’t happen. She was happily married. To a marine aviator she talked about with a lilt in her voice, her professional demeanor suddenly transforming with a sparkle, a smile.

Did Blair smile like that when she talked about him?

He drummed his fingers on his knee, head lowered in contemplation.

* * *

“New foxtrot corpen, relative wind will be three-two-zero, ten knots,” said the speaker, the words echoing from the cavernous aluminum bulkheads and lofty overhead of the helo hangar.

Twenty-four hours later and two hundred and sixty miles to the north, on a hot morning backed by desert-blasted mountains. Horn was coming to a course to put the wind on her bow. Dan waited inside, watching the helo approach, then undogged the flight deck door as the rotors disengaged.

As tradition dictated, the senior disembarked first. Dan saluted a lean officer in a green flight suit. Strong handed him his cranial, fitting a pisscutter to a close-cropped head that was turning silver. The 1MC stated, “Red Sea Task group, arriving.” Six bells, and the commodore’s pennant broke at the masthead, rippling in the hot wind.

Horn was now the flagship, and Dan no longer senior aboard.

“This way, sir,” he shouted over the engine howl. Strong eyed him, holding his salute. But Dan was uncovered. U.S. ships didn’t permit headgear on the flight deck. Too much danger of them getting sucked into an engine and ruining a perfectly good aircraft. At last he returned a bareheaded salute. The blades were still turning, Strong’s staff jumping out while a crewman tossed out luggage and tape-strapped cardboard boxes. They seemed to have a lot of gear.

The Australian glanced around the in-port cabin the same searching way he’d examined the flight deck. A carafe stood on the table. “Coffee, sir?” Dan asked him.

“No thanks. Comm arrangements?”

“My Comm-oh’s already arranged that with yours. We’ll have additional circuits on the bridge and in Combat for your staffers, and I’m putting an extra radioman on watch.” He showed him the sleeping cabin behind the reception and work area, giving it just a word or two. Strong must have been aboard Spruances before and there wasn’t anything remarkable about Horn. Other than the obvious.

As if Strong was thinking the same thing, he said, “I saw some sheilas back on the flight deck.”

“We’re an integrated ship. The first one, actually.”

“Interesting. I rather doubt we’ll ever go that way, but… How are they working out?”

“They’re doing a good job.”

“Friction?”

“There’ve been a couple of incidents.”

“Such as?”

Dan told him the basics, neither emphasizing nor downgrading them. Just the facts. The commodore didn’t seem interested in long explanations. Dan felt condescended to somehow, though that might be merely the man’s manner, and had to take care not to be brusque back.

“Anything since this berthing fire?”

“No, sir, nothing since. I’m hoping whoever set it has either changed his mind or at least gotten scared off. Things are going better since I had that talk with the chiefs. Maybe they’re getting used to them.”

“The chiefs?” said Strong briskly.

“No, sir. The women,” Dan said, wondering if he’d been listening.