Christmas at Steel Beach

by M. L. Buchman

  “Colonel Gibson,” he introduced himself.

  “Delta,” she breathed out. His presence was simply so powerful that there was no question.

  “Please to meet you, Delta.” He said it with a straight face. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him—which was unusual for her.

  She almost had it when a short redheaded woman punched him on the arm.

  “Duh, Michael! You’re the one who’s Delta. She’s just in shell shock. And don’t go getting all mushy on her, Sly will get jealous. Trisha O’Malley, hi!” Her fine-fingered handshake was tougher than any of the guys.

  “Gail Miller,” she managed. Sly would be jealous? Of what!

  Gail glanced over at him. He was busy scowling down at Trisha.

  “Whoops!” the redhead shrugged. “You’ll discover that I have a big mouth. Look forward to trying your food anyway.” And she scooted off to tease the dark-skinned teenager who was as tall as she was and clearly still headed upward.

  Gail tried to decide if her head was hurting from the whirlwind of what was happening around her or from the unexpected jarring aboard the hovercraft. Yes was the obvious, all-encompassing answer.

  Would it be better if she just went with the flow of mayhem? Probably.

  Could she? Not a chance.

  She hadn’t attended many mission debriefings, none at all since Basic Training, but she couldn’t imagine they were often like this one.

  There was as many jokes as facts.

  Serious one moment as they reviewed estimated body counts among the attackers and injured Americans removed from the compound by the ambulances, to once again teasing Sly about his “golf game.”

  Her own analysis of the attack against the LCAC drew interest. Her observations of an attack as coming from one side, implying an attack from the other had Sly studying her closely and the silent D-boy nodding. Her explanation had prompted a discussion of tactics on how to avoid a recurrence. As Sly considered a permanent spotter to be added to the control-room jump seat, he did note that it had been getting stuffy in there anyway and the fresh air through the missing windows had been nice.

  Gail liked the way the conversation rolled back and forth. There was no question of competence here, these people were all the very best at what they did.

  Even LCDR Ramis filled his role exceptionally well. A more ambitious or forceful commander would have been a problem. Ramis was a perfect facilitator, giving this elite team enough room to operate in their own specialty with all of their odd quirks out in the open, yet coordinate it with those around them. It was difficult to imagine him commanding a standard helicopter carrier with a full Marine Corps Expeditionary Unit—not enough of a hard-core commander in him, but this appeared to work well.

  “Well,” Ramis gave a that’s that, wrap-up tone to his voice. “It seems that your plan came off without any real hitch, Michael. Well done. Very well done indeed.”

  The Delta operator hadn’t spoken once throughout the entire debrief, but everyone was nodding. He’d gone invisible on her during the meeting, somehow fading away for most of it until she’d forgotten he was there. She could see by his eyes that he had missed absolutely nothing, and felt no need to embellish what the others said except for that one confirming nod. So that’s what praise for a D-boy felt like? Pretty good.

  Sly Stowell, seated on the couch beside her, showed that same sharp awareness and tracking of every detail.

  And unlike the D-boy, the Chief hadn’t had the decency to fade away from her awareness even in the slightest.

  Sly would be jealous?

  There was nothing to be jealous of. Was there?

  Gail wanted to smack herself sensible, but didn’t see it happening anytime soon. Not until she got some sleep at least…and a little distance from the Chief. There was too much new information slamming into her head and she still hadn’t seen her new kitchen or met any of the staff.

  “Chief Miller?”

  Sly Stowell was standing in front of her. Others were already filing out of the room. He’d extended one hand to help her up off the couch holding her duffle with the other. Not thinking, she took his hand, and felt the power of his grasp. His grip wasn’t hard or crushing, but it was so firm and solid that there could be no doubt of his strength. He was a far more powerful man than he looked at first glance.

  She was tired enough to let herself appreciate his assistance for a moment longer than was necessary. His weren’t a cook’s hands. A cook’s were strong, yes, but soft from being so constantly wet and marked by various small nicks and cuts, calloused only against minor burns and the grip on a chef’s knife. Sly’s were hands that belonged to a career Navy man: rough, muscular, ready for any task.

  With a slight squeeze of thanks for his assistance, she let go and reached to take her gear.

  Sly swung the straps of her duffle over his shoulder as if it weighed ounces instead of the tons she always imagined.

  Gathering up her knife case, she waved for him to lead the way, especially as she had no idea where she was going.

  At least she’d finally dried out in the warmth of Ramis’ office.

  # # #

  Sly led her to her quarters, “02 Deck, Frame 8, 3-L. Odd number means you’re to starboard side. L is living space.”

  “Knew that.”

  “Figures,” Sly muttered to himself. She’d mentioned being ashore for two years, but she still had that fact. Clearly she had a mind like a steel trap despite his initial estimates of her intelligence.

  “Ages ago,” she grinned at him. “I thought that neuron died while cooking for a bunch of brown-bagging bubbleheads.”

  Funny.

  Funny and cute.

  Funny and gorgeous.

  Don’t go there, Chief!

  Leave it to the submarine corps to ignore a pretty chef and bring their own lunches from home when ashore. If he had a billet with a chef who looked like her, he’d never miss a single meal.

  Though he was still chagrined that she’d spotted the attacking truck at the U.S. embassy before he had. He’d been estimating payload and balance as he counted how many people were on-loading at the embassy. An extra twenty tons of people—minus their golf clubs—his load capacity was still okay on top of the Rangers and forty tons of M-ATVs.

  Right until someone started shooting up his side window.

  Her quarters were standard Navy issue, for an officer. Without a full complement of Marines aboard and SOAR doing their own aircraft maintenance, the ship was running with one third of their standard Navy crew. It opened up spaces to allow the new Chief Steward to have a private cabin among the command berths. She’d still rank her own cabin, just not usually in officer country. His own quarters were 3-80-2-L, way at the back-end of the next deck down, close up against the Hangar Deck that occupied the aft half of the boat at this level.

  She had a solo bunk, a couple drawers, and a narrow closet. He had the low bunk in a two-stack berth, but because they were running light, he had the two-stack to himself. Pretty luxurious by any Chief Petty Officer standards. He’d definitely miss the Peleliu when she finally went out of service.

  “Don’t you have somewhere you have to be?”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” he made it a joke and was a little surprised that he didn’t want to go.

  “Why? Would it work if I was?” She made it a tease.

  Her smile made him laugh. “Not if you’re saying it like that, ma’am. Besides, Dave and Tom will see to the windows, probably already have. Glad to show you about, Chief.” And he was. More than that. He didn’t want anyone else doing it.

  It wasn’t some possessive thing, no matter what crap Trisha O’Malley was slinging his way. It was that he liked watching Gail Miller as she discovered things.

  There was no wide-eyed innocence. Instead, she was drinking everything in as if she could never be satisfied. What she’d observed and recalled of their attack on the embassy had been staggering. Everything cataloged and archived in t
he very neatly organized mind he was discovering beneath that silky red hair.

  Her first battle, probably since Basic, and she’d climbed back up into her seat as soon as he had—he’d expected her to be cowering on the deck and then need a post-battle counselor to coax her out of the LCAC.

  Woman had sat right back up and resumed her self-appointed lookout duty. Damn!

  She waved for him to lead the way, keeping the small case black case with her.

  Special spices? No, knives.

  A woman who fetched along her own knives. Just added to the fine image she was already painting right in front of him.

  Chapter 5

  “We’re only running the officer’s Wardroom Mess and the Chief’s for all the ship’s personnel. You can run both from a common galley so you’ll be getting less of a workout than back when we were fully crewed,” Sly informed her. “Normally, you’d have four messes and two galleys spread across four decks.”

  Gail wasn’t sure whether it was normal for one Chief to tour another through the ship, but she wasn’t complaining. The Peleliu was so big that once she was lost they might never find her again.

  “Wardroom Mess is on the 02 Deck forward with the Chief’s Mess directly below on 03. That’s where your main galley kitchen is. The 04 and 05 galley and messes for the Marines are all shut down.”

  Well that simplified things somewhat. To run a double galley you needed to have an assistant that you knew and trusted, whereas she hadn’t even met her staff yet. Somehow she’d become snarled up with the Special Operations crews though, which had made her arrival interesting even if it wasn’t likely to ever affect her again.

  She’d also met Sly Stowell. Mr. Model Navy clearly commanded immense respect, even from the elite forces aboard. She’d seen it clearly at the debriefing and now in the passageways as people greeted him or made way depending on their rank.

  “However, down the 04 and 05 decks are your pantry, cold stores, butcher shop, baker’s space, and all that. I’ll show you all the shortcuts.”

  Shortcuts? Gail’s last ship had included four decks, total. This beast had eight, not counting the four or five of the Communications Superstructure. The Peleliu was twice as wide, twice as long, and ten times the displacement tonnage. The frigate USS James Reuben had barely two hundred personnel. Gail had been both excited and daunted by the three thousand she’d expected to be serving aboard her new ship. That there only six hundred aboard was both a relief and a challenge. It might not be the same monster task, but bringing her A-game was still going to be her main goal.

  “And here’s your new crew.”

  Gail was shocked, because she hadn’t smelled it first.

  A galley should intrigue, tease, entice.

  She stood in the doorway to the galley and mainly smelled sweat and grease. What she saw was frying burgers and dogs. No scent of even the sharp bite of vinegar on slaw though she could see it was already set in large serving pans.

  One of the crew had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips as he leaned over to inspect a vast soup pot.

  “Put that out now, sailor!” she snapped without even thinking.

  The man stood up slowly and turned to her. He wore sloppy khakis and an apron that might have once been white. A long, slow, toe-to-head inspection made him smirk.

  “You’re the new chief, huh?”

  “I am.”

  The man, who looked like he’d spent far too much of his life indulging in the cooking spirits, took his cigarette out of his mouth, inspected it carefully, and then took another deliberate puff.

  “On report, sailor!” she snapped. Not how she wanted to meet her crew.

  He turned to face Sly who had remained silent beside her, “Hey, Sly.”

  “Hey, Vic.”

  “Does she think I actually give a flying rat’s ass what some bitch thinks?”

  Sly started to speak.

  Gail cut him off.

  She stepped up toe-to-toe with the man who outweighed her by at least twice. She took the cigarette from his lips and tossed it into the cleanup sink.

  “You and you,” she pointed at two of the staff who didn’t look to be doing much when she walked in and had remained frozen in her peripheral vision to watch the show, “you will escort this man to the brig. You, sailor, are under arrest for insubordination to a superior rank.”

  He laughed a steamy stale tobacco-laced breath right in her face. “I’m the outgoing Chief Stew. Same damned rank. Can’t do shit to me, lady.”

  “You think?” she tapped her insignia, “this says I can. This is my mess now and you’re no longer welcome.” She finally turned from the belligerent idiot and faced the two she’d indicated earlier. “Get him out of here and into lockup, now!”

  She waited until, with soft-voiced apologies, they escorted the man out. He looked pissed as hell and she didn’t give a damn.

  “Chief, I—”

  She cut off whatever Sly had been about to say.

  “My crew now, Chief. I’d appreciate it if you backed off.”

  # # #

  And Sly did, but he stayed close, hanging just outside the galley in the still unoccupied mess. There were only three or four people at the various tables, playing cards or reading a book while they waited for the start of service. From here he could hear what was happening in the galley but not be seen.

  Vic had always been a misogynistic asshole. He’d lost rank twice before he learned to keep his hands to himself; instead, he’d learned how to ride the legal edge of sexual harassment, barely. Twenty-five years in had been twenty-four too long. But he’d kept everyone fed and knew when to keep his trap shut—except about women.

  “Y’all,” he heard her voice clearly from his position out in the passage—he liked that Y’all, sounded good on her—“have thirty seconds to find a clean apron and a chef’s hat. After that, anyone who is found without their hair properly covered had better find another ship. Then I want everyone at the scrub sink, right up to your elbows for a minimum of twenty seconds under hot water. Are we clear?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Now!”

  At the sound of her shout there was a sudden loud shuffle of feet inside the galley. The water started running.

  Well, that was a Chief Steward Gail Miller that he hadn’t met on the LCAC or in the debriefing. She’d been funny, whimsical, polite, and thoughtful. She’d also successfully baited him several times—that he knew of.

  But in her own environment? It was clear she kicked ass and took no guff from any man’s son. When this day had started, he hadn’t expected to respect her.

  “Service doesn’t start for thirty minutes, why are you cooking already?” Her voice barely carried out to him though she no longer had that snap. It was more a one-to-one human question.

  Didn’t berate her crew except when needed. Another mark in her favor.

  “Never mind. Scrape all that off the grill and then clean it. That’s it. Hit it with some water to break loose the burned-on whatever that is.”

  A sharp sizzle erupted as cold water was sprayed on hot steel. Then the scrubbing sound of wire brushes on the griddle.

  “We’re starting over. Is that mixer there clean? Good. I want fifty pounds of ground chuck, four dozen eggs, a cup of dried oregano, two cups…”

  She went on listing spices and quantities. Then she was adding cayenne pepper to the chowder, explaining aloud what she was doing, making everyone taste it first.

  “What do you mean there’s no vegetarian option?”

  “Chef said—”

  “You!” again that clear sense of command as she cut off whoever dared answer her, but still no harsh tone despite what must have been a building frustration. “Go find me some polenta, refried beans, green and red peppers, onions…”

  Sly nodded to the two returning culinary specialists headed back from delivering Vic to the brig. “Better put some hustle on boys. It’s a new world in there.”

  Th
ey looked at him wide-eyed and then hurried in.

  “And why isn’t there any music? It’s Christmas, boys and girls.” Moments later he heard a Christmas carol start up. She must have brought a personal player with her, probably tucked in that knife case, and patched it into the galley’s audio.

  “Way better,” she announced as Taylor Swift began kicking out Santa Baby.

  So, lady was into Christmas. Have to see if she was rational about it, or a loony like his family. Mama, Daddy, and the whole crowd always made a serious deal about it.

  Sly spent his holiday seasons on-board ship. No gal at home. Not much to do with leave when he had it. Sly didn’t even keep an apartment or bother with a car. Thirty days off a year; he’d mostly go exploring for a couple days at a time whenever they docked somewhere new. The Peleliu was his home and he was relieved that her life had been extended by the Night Stalkers.

  His folks were always pushing him to come home for Christmas. The only one of their kids without family, and grandkids for them—it always left him feeling kinda lost. He figured to stay aboard and let those who really cared about it try for leave to get home.

  Personally, the only holiday he always put in for was the end of October, the Annual Barbeque Festival in Lexington. Best barbeque on the planet. He made sure never to miss a year; hadn’t since he was a snot-nosed kid of six and it was the first-ever festival—except a few times, like the speed run from Australia to the North Arabian Sea after the 9/11 attacks. All leave had been cancelled and he’d been way too pissed at Al-Qaeda to argue.

  Sly wandered off. He had time to go check on the repairs to his LCAC, but this was a meal he was looking forward to.

  He slid down the ladderway headed for the Well Deck.

  Sly was also looking forward to learning more about Chief Gail Miller. Which, he had to admit, had to do with more than merely welcoming another sailor into the Peleliu fold.

  It took him a while to notice what he was whistling as he arrived at his LCAC.

  It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.