Going Overboard

by L. A. Witt

  I flipped him the bird as I took a deeper swallow. “Let’s see how perky you’d be if we cut you off caffeine for a week or—”

  “All right, all right.” He put up his hands in surrender. “Ain’t no need to get crazy.”

  “That’s what I thought. And for the record, you show me an MA who isn’t addicted to caffeine, and I will show you a liar.”

  Chris nearly choked on his own coffee. “You’re not wrong.”

  I chuckled.

  He watched me for a second, head cocked. “You really ready for this? Going back on the boat?”

  I gulped, staring out at the water. It was calm right now. The boats on the pier were barely rocking at all, and the flags were sagging alongside the poles. If there was a good day to try going on the boat, this was it. Turning back to Chris, I nodded. “Yeah. I told you I need to get back on the horse that threw me.”

  He didn’t look convinced. His lips tightened and his eyebrow arched. “They say you can wait to get back on that horse until you’re actually healed, you know.”

  “I’m fine. Especially with the weather being like this.” I tilted my coffee cup toward the view. “Can’t ask for a better day to go back out, you know?”

  He studied me before releasing a resigned sigh. “All right. But you’re coming out on watch with me, and if I think you need to come back in, we’re coming back in. Got it?”

  I blinked, then chuckled. “You already sound like an MA1.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah right. But I’m serious.”

  “I know.” I sobered, nodding slowly. “And . . . thanks. For looking out for me.”

  “Don’t mention it. You know I always got your back.”

  Our eyes locked, and we both smiled.

  Then he cleared his throat. “Anyway. I’m going to go have a look at the boat reports. See if there’s anything we need to ping Port Ops about.”

  “Yeah. God forbid day shift actually put in the call when they find the problem.”

  Chris snorted. “I know, right? Lazy assholes.”

  We both chuckled, and then he left to go downstairs. It was kind of an ongoing joke between days and nights. The day crew would find a problem and dutifully put it in the boat reports but never seemed to think about actually calling Port Ops and getting it taken care of.

  My good-if-nervous mood lasted until I was refilling my coffee a while later, and Lasby materialized next to me. “How are you feeling, MA2?”

  I focused on topping off my travel mug. “Good. Better.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He paused. “Listen, you’re not officially on watch. Not yet. You’re not arming up, either—just going out with the watch standers to work on getting your sea legs back.”

  I nodded, pretending I didn’t already feel seasick. And I was relieved they weren’t giving me a weapon after all. I felt like my head was mostly back together, but my gut said I wasn’t ready for that. As I screwed the lid on the mug, I said, “Okay. Can do.” Right?

  “For the next week, I just want you on the water. Making sure you can handle it. If there aren’t any issues or incidents, I’ll advise the LPO that you can act as gunner or coxswain again.”

  I pursed my lips. “Who is the LPO right now, anyway?”

  Lasby stiffened, eyes narrowing slightly. “MA1 Anderson is still the LPO. He’ll continue writing up the watch bills.”

  That didn’t seem right. If he was under investigation, he shouldn’t have been anywhere near HPU. Not even in an administrative capacity. Somehow knowing he was still writing the watch bills didn’t do much to fill me with confidence that the incident was being properly investigated.

  Pick your battles, MA2.

  So I just said, “Understood, Chief.”

  None of us had to carry a rifle today because we were on the Metal Shark, which was both functional and had a mounted machine gun.

  “So all we had to do to get this thing running again was throw somebody overboard?” I muttered on the way down the pier.

  MA3 Powers laughed. “Guess so.”

  Chris glanced at me, but he didn’t seem to find it as funny. He didn’t comment, though.

  We did turnover with the previous watch—signing off boat reports, getting an update on any mechanical issues, being briefed on anything suspicious they’d seen during their patrol. Of course there was nothing. The Metal Shark was in working order, so unlike the boat we’d been using before, there wasn’t a laundry list of this is leaking and that’s making weird noises. Having a fully operational boat really was something else.

  And the Oregon coast wasn’t exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity, so the “suspicious shit” list consisted of a pleasure boat that had gotten a little too close to the harbor, some tourist taking pictures of the base from the north end of the seawall, and a couple of curious sea lions barking at them near the harbor gate.

  “We saw Bill today too.” MA3 Switzer nodded toward the ocean. “Hadn’t seen him in a while, so we thought something might’ve happened to him.”

  Chris grinned. “Might have to grab some fish from the bait shop. See if we can get him to play catch again.”

  I chuckled. Bill was the ballsiest of the sea lions. He’d come right up to the boat sometimes, and he’d bark until we fed him. We weren’t supposed to—Fish & Wildlife would have a fit if they knew—but he had those big puppy-dog eyes, and none of us could say no. Last summer, the whiteboard in the main office had even had Bill Has/Has Not Been Fed Today written in one corner. No one had seen heads or tails of him recently, and we’d all been afraid something had happened to him, but apparently he was back. At least there was some good news around here.

  When we were done with turnover, we boarded. I helped Powers pull in the lines, and Chris steered the boat out of its slip.

  Part of me wanted to stay in the cabin, but I knew better. I didn’t want Chris to be distracted by me trying not to freak out, and anyway, I needed to keep the horizon at least in my peripheral vision or I’d get seasick. That was what I told myself. I hadn’t needed to worry about seasickness in years. I could read a book in my rack on an aircraft carrier while the ship rocked hard enough to nearly tumble me out of bed, and I wouldn’t get the least bit nauseated.

  But tonight, just looking at the water made me a different kind of sick. One that didn’t seem to be much better than seasickness. This didn’t start in my stomach. It started somewhere deeper than that. Like in my damn bones.

  I gripped the railing with both hands, focusing on the cold, smooth surface and how solid it was, reminding myself that as long as I was holding this, I wasn’t going anywhere. If the boat pitched or rolled, I just had to hold on.

  Except the boat wasn’t doing any pitching or rolling. I felt like a fucking idiot, breaking out in a sweat when the water was so gentle the boat barely rocked or bobbed at all.

  I closed my eyes and took a few slow, deep breaths. The psychologist had given me a few coping methods for PTSD even though I’d told her it wasn’t necessary, and I tried to recall them now. Grabbing on to something cold had been one of them. Shit, no wonder I had a death grip on the railing. I slid my hand to the side, finding a spot that hadn’t been warmed by my skin, and concentrated on the chilly metal. I opened my eyes. Focused on the railing. The water— No, not a good idea. The deck. A solitary white cloud in the distance.

  Heavy boots clomped on the deck behind me. Then a hand came to rest between my shoulders. “Hey. You okay?” Chris. I’d known it was him, but somehow the sound of his voice surprised me. In a good way.

  Keep talking. You don’t know how soothing it is.

  “You still with me, Dalton?”

  It was a stupid question. Of course I was still here. Where else would I be?

  Except . . .

  Why did I suddenly feel like I’d just come back to the here and now? And why did I feel like I’d been gone . . . a while?

  I didn’t know what it meant, only that it wasn’t good. Swallowing the nausea, I turned
to face him. “I don’t think I’m ready to be back on the water.”

  “Want us to take the boat back in?”

  My pride and my stomach warred with each other. “Fuck . . .”

  Chris twisted around and called out to Powers. “MA3, take her back pier-side.”

  A moment later, the deck listed slightly as the boat began the wide arc of a U-turn. It wasn’t even the motion that made my stomach lurch—it was the defeat. The shame. The sense of complete and utter failure.

  I’m a coxswain. I’m a Level II fucking coxswain. And I can’t handle being out on glass-smooth water?

  “Hey. Look at me.” When I met his eyes, Chris said, “This doesn’t mean you won’t get back on the water. It’s a process.”

  “I know, but I feel like such a . . . Fuck, I don’t even know. I mean, we’ve got guys here who’ve been to combat, and I’ve got PTSD from falling off a fucking boat a million miles away from—”

  “Dalton.” Chris squeezed my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter that we’re not in a warzone. You could have been killed. You understand me?”

  I chewed my lip, avoiding his eyes.

  “Anyone would have PTSD from that shit,” he went on. “You better believe Rhodes is fucked up too. Hell I’ve had nightmares about it.”

  I jerked upright and met his gaze. “You have?”

  “Are you kidding?” he whispered, shaking his head. “When we got to you after you’d gone in, I took one look at you and thought we were already too late.” A shudder rippled through him and his fingers twitched on my shoulders. Chris swallowed hard. “I thought you were dead, Dalton. I thought—” It was his turn to break eye contact. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  Queasiness burned in my throat. “I’m still here.”

  “I know. And I want you to stay that way.” He looked in my eyes. “I want you to be okay too. Like . . .” He tapped his temple. “So, we’ll take it in today, and we’ll try again when you’re ready. You’ll get there. I promise.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t say anything.

  A few minutes later, we were back at the pier. MA2 Simmons was waiting, and after I’d gone ashore, she took my place on the boat. Before I’d even made it back to dry land, the Metal Shark was headed back out onto the calm water, silhouetted by the slowly setting sun. I tried not to think about how that seemed like a metaphor for my career—sailing away without me.

  “Why aren’t you out on that boat?” Lasby’s voice made my teeth snap together.

  I turned away from the fading boat and saw him heading down from the HPU building with a cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t look pleased.

  I took a breath. “Chief, I think I need to stay onshore for a while.”

  He glared at me. “We talked about this, MA2. It’s not going to look good on—”

  “And neither will me having a flashback or something while I’m out there.”

  “A flashback?” He blinked. “All your paperwork said you’ve recovered completely.”

  “Yeah, it does, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe I need more time after all.” Maybe I lied to the psychologist because I was afraid of losing my career.

  Lasby eyed me, his expression a mix of impatience and annoyance. Then he sighed heavily and shrugged. “It’s your call, MA2. But remember what we talked about.”

  “I know. I remember.”

  “Good.” He took a deep drag and blew out some smoke. “You keep me updated, all right?”

  “Will do, Chief.”

  He gave a curt nod, then turned to go back inside. I stared at his back, watching him go just like I’d watched the Metal Shark a few minutes earlier. I doubted he actually wanted me to get promoted. And it wouldn’t exactly reflect badly on him if I wasn’t working at full capacity, because everyone knew I’d been injured.

  Which left only one option as far as I was concerned—Chris’s theory that Lasby wanted me back at a hundred percent because it would make the incident look less serious. Or more to the point, make it easier to sweep under the rug.

  Only problem was, I couldn’t prove it.

  I couldn’t prove it, and whether I liked it or not, I needed that promotion more than I needed to be right about Lasby.

  So one way or the other, I was getting back out on that water.

  It was early March, and spring was sort of thinking about showing up, so the sun was shining and the weather was . . . not warm, but not as violently cold as February could get. Since Dalton and I had a few hours before we had to be at work, we were down at the beach a couple of miles north of NAS Adams. We’d started doing that lately, so it was no surprise whenever we ended up here.

  In fact, it had kind of become our routine, now that I thought about it. In the couple of weeks since that kiss in the locker room, we were always either studying for the advancement exam when my head could take it, cuddling up in bed, hanging out at a restaurant, or right here—sitting in the sand or leaning against a log of driftwood, one of us resting his head on the other’s chest. If it was warm enough, our sneakers would be nearby with our socks tucked into them while we dug our toes into the sand. Regardless of the temperature, there was always the faint scent of sunscreen rising over the salt of the sea; apparently Dalton had experienced a second-degree sunburn once as a teenager and did not take chances now.

  The whole scene was becoming as familiar as my apartment or my uniform, but not monotonous or boring by any means. I loved this. Today, with three hours before we had to muster at work, I was propped up against a log with Dalton cuddled against me. In another month or so, when summer started to set in, it would probably be too hot for this. Right now, though, it was perfectly comfortable.

  Except for the stiffness in Dalton’s muscles. Tension had been radiating off him all day. Hell, even since last night. He’d shaken it off when we were screwing around, and after he came he’d been boneless and satisfied for a little while, but it hadn’t taken long before he’d started to tense up again.

  I combed my fingers through his hair. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hmm?” He twitched slightly, then twisted around enough to glance up at me, almost like he’d forgotten I was even here. “What?”

  “You’ve been wound up lately. What’s going on?”

  Dalton sighed and leaned back against me. “Just worrying about work.”

  “The investigation? Or being on the water?”

  He shuddered. “Both.”

  That was no surprise. He was getting better about the boat. Mostly, he’d go aboard to do boat reports, and he’d help clean even when the MA3s were handling most of it. Just being on the boat while it was tied to the pier was helping him get his legs under him again. Going out on patrol still shook him up, but he was doing better. Lasting longer before he’d finally ask me to take him back to the pier.

  Fortunately, aside from Chief Lasby, everyone was endlessly patient with him. I’d briefed them all while he’d been out of the room and let them know it was going to be a slow process. Everyone had understood. No one had so much as batted an eye. A few more weeks, I figured, and Dalton would be as confident on the boat—even at the helm—as he’d been before Anderson had fucked up his world. As a bonus, the guys had apparently caught on that Dalton wasn’t in a good place mentally, and they’d backed off about him and me.

  Leaning against me on the beach, Dalton exhaled. “Is it just me, or has the investigation gone quiet?”

  I frowned. “No, it’s not just you. I haven’t heard anything. Neither has Rhodes.”

  Dalton absently ran his thumb back and forth along the inside of my knee. “I don’t know how I feel about that. Like maybe it means Anderson’s going to get off scot-free, but maybe it also means they’re not going to come after Rhodes for all that bullshit about the rifle.”

  I rolled my eyes. Word had trickled down a few days ago that the divers had pulled up the rifle. No surprise—it was completely destroyed. I supposed now it was just a question of whether the investigators would realize it ha
d been fucked the moment it went into the water, or if they’d try to insist it could have been salvaged if Rhodes had held on to it. “Maybe someone back at Big Navy is testing how long it took for the water to fuck up the rifle. So they know whether to blame you or Rhodes.”

  Dalton snorted. “You know, I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”

  I laughed but didn’t really feel it.

  He sighed, letting his head rest against my shoulder.

  After a while, I quietly said, “Can I ask you something?”

  Dalton turned his head a little so he could look up at me again, but he didn’t lift it off my shoulder. “What’s up?”

  “You don’t have to answer, but I’ve always been curious—why did you go to Captain’s Mast?”

  He sighed heavily, shifting his gaze to the sky. “Because I was a young, stupid, defiant little shit who picked the wrong time to act like a young, stupid, defiant little shit.”

  “You might have to narrow that down.”

  Dalton chuckled. “The official charge was failure to obey a lawful order and regulation, dereliction of duty, and . . . um . . . drunk on duty.”

  “Drunk on duty?” I blinked. “You?” I wasn’t being sarcastic—this was a guy who almost never drank at all, never mind around our coworkers.

  Sighing again, he nodded. “This was back when I used to party a lot more. We were deployed in the Med, and basically, I was going out and getting hammered during port calls even when I had to stand watch the next day. My LPO and my chief kept warning me that if I showed up to muster with a hangover again, they’d fuck my world up.” He sighed, wiping a hand over his face. “I just didn’t think they actually would.”

  I grimaced. “What happened?”

  “I showed up hungover. I’m not sure my section leader even noticed, so I thought I was in the clear . . . until I fell asleep during watch.”

  “Oh shit. Dude. Dude.”

  “I know, right? And of course the goddamned master chief caught me.” He groaned, covering his eyes.

  “Express ticket to Captain’s Mast?”

  “Oh yeah.” He gazed out at the water, but his eyes didn’t seem focused on anything. “Honestly, even though the whole thing has been a headache for the last ten years, it’s probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”