Streamline

by Jennifer Lane

  “What’s in the bag, buddy?”

  Benito sniffed. “None of your business.” Leo bit his lip, eyeing Benito’s shoulder. The sling was gone, but he still wasn’t back to one hundred percent, and their detailers still harassed him for his injury.

  “It is my business if you have something illegal in here. Detailers inspect our room all the time.”

  “You got nothing to worry about, Leo. They love you.”

  “I’m sorry it’s been rough on you, but it’ll get better once your shoulder’s healed.”

  When Benito let out a miserable sigh and released his stranglehold on the duffel bag, Leo pounced and grabbed it.

  “Hey!” Benito rushed after him.

  Leo yanked open the bag and swiveled around. Benito closed his eyes, defeated. “What the hell are you doing with a gun?” Leo whispered.

  Benito looked away, his shoulders hunched. “I just like to have it with me. It makes me feel safe. Dámelo.” Reluctantly, Leo relinquished the bag. Benito tossed it under his rack and climbed onto the blanket. He hugged his knees to his chest.

  Leo sat down on his own rack and waited for him to explain.

  “I found out what MUFFIN means,” Benito said.

  “Really?” Leo feigned ignorance. He’d heard the meaning of the Navy slang days ago but hadn’t had the heart to tell his roommate.

  Even his fellow plebes called him MUFFIN now.

  “Most Useless Fat Eff in the Navy.” Benito’s head dipped. “I’ll never get rid of that name. And I’m piling up punishments like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Leo glanced at the dark space where the bag had disappeared under his rack. “You’re not…you’re, you’re not gonna use that gun on anyone at the Academy, are you?”

  Benito looked alarmed, then a slow smile gradually spread. “Relax, amigo. No need to call the MPs. I’ve thought about it, though.” Looking off in the distance, he murmured, “I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at Whiskey.”

  “Instead of a shot of whiskey?” Benito managed a guffaw.

  They were stil laughing when Squad Leader Sour zipped into the room. “Inspection time, plebes!”

  Leo and Benito clambered off their racks to stand at attention.

  Whiskey looked down at Benito’s black socks. “Get some shoes on, MUFFIN!”

  “Yes, sir!” Benito stuffed his feet into recently polished shoes and resumed his stance. After glancing at Leo’s side of the room, Sour’s gaze returned to Benito.

  “What’s the motto of the Academy, Midshipman Dulce?” He rifled through the contents of Benito’s desk.

  “Sir, the motto is Ex Scientia Tridens, meaning From Knowledge, Seapower.”

  Sour turned back to face him. “Too slow in your answer, MUFFIN. Both of you plank for a minute.” Leo narrowed his eyes as he dropped to the floor, holding his weight on elbows and toes. This was sheer cruelty, nothing more.

  When Mr. Sour ordered them back up, Leo held his breath as Whiskey glanced down at the duffel bag.

  “Your quarters are a mess, Mr. Dulce!” he hissed. He kicked the bag clear under the bed. “Since you’re too freaking weak to do pushups, I’ll have your roommate pump out your share too. Midshipman Scott, drop and give me forty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sour patrolled the room for contraband while Benito stood ram-rod straight and Leo finished his punishment. Then Sour kneeled and pointed at a black mark on the linoleum floor. “Is that shoe polish, Mr. Dulce?”

  Benito tried to see the stain without breaking attention. “I’ll find out, sir.”

  “Damn straight you will.” Sour rose and sidled up to Benito, grabbing him by the neck. “You’ll find out right now.” He pushed his head toward the floor, and Benito almost lost his balance. The section leader crouched next to him.

  “Is that shoe polish?”

  “I-I think so, sir!”

  “That’s not an answer!” he screamed. “Is that shoe polish, Mr. Dulce?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You don’t have to be such a jerk, sir!” The words were out before Leo realized he’d thought them.

  Whiskey glared at Leo, releasing his grip on Benito’s neck and honing in on his next victim. Benito snatched a towel and wiped the mark off the floor before resuming his stance.

  “Do you think you know how to train plebes, Mr. Scott?” Sour asked.

  “No, sir.” Dread prickled Leo’s spine.

  “Really? ’Cause it sounded like you were telling a firstie how to do his job. High knees for a minute. You too, MUFFIN.” The squad leader stalked over to Leo’s desk as they jogged in place, high-stepping it. Up to this point detailers had ignored Audrey’s picture, but now Sour seized the frame and threw open a desk drawer, tossing it inside. “That’s another minute of high knees for displaying personal items, Midshipman Scott.”

  Leo closed his eyes.

  Glancing in the open drawer, Sour tilted his head. “What do we have here?” He pulled out the diploma holder. There was only the sound of their labored breathing as he read the document.

  Please don’t hurt it, Leo prayed.

  “Stop the high knees.” Sour glared at him. “James is your father, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A Navy brat. I should’ve known. Did your father swim too?”

  “No, sir.”

  Tossing the diploma back into the drawer along with Audrey’s framed photograph, he slammed it shut.

  Leo jumped.

  “What else do you have hiding over here, Mr. Scott?” Unsure how to answer, Leo stood still as Whiskey hovered near his desk, looking into the built-in bookshelves. “When I was a plebe,” he said, “I hid things I didn’t want anyone to see in a special place.” Leo’s eyes widened as Sour stepped onto his chair and then his desk. He reached his hand over the top of the built-in bookshelf to a ledge behind it. Extracting the baby bracelet, he appeared intrigued.

  Leo’s stomach clenched with fury.

  Sour jumped down from the desk. “Scott,” he read, staring at the beads. “Did your daddy send you here with your baby bracelet for good luck, Leah?”

  Leo gritted his jaw. “No, sir.” If Sour so much as touched that bracelet…

  “I think somebody’s close to being fried,” he said. “You keep going at this pace, and you’ll be restricted to the Yard for August break, with no visitors.”

  It was difficult now for Leo to maintain an impassive façade, and Whiskey seemed to sense him unraveling. He dangled the baby bracelet in his face.

  “This contraband’s illegal, Midshipman Scott, and should be destroyed.” He tossed the bracelet on the floor. “Use that shiny black shoe of yours to crush it.”

  An image of Audrey swam through his mind. Someday, Leo, I want to have a baby with you…when the time’s right.

  “No, sir,” Leo said, straightening his back.

  “Are you disobeying an order, Mr. Scott?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sour stepped even closer, grinning. Leo flinched at the crunch that accompanied the stomp of his shoe.

  The next thing Leo was aware of was the smack of fist on flesh as his knuckles connected with Sour’s jaw. The punch seemed to catch both of them off guard, and the squad leader reeled while Leo stood in a daze, gawking dumbly at his balled-up right fist. He looked on with horror as Whiskey regained his balance and wiped the corner of his mouth, leaving blood on the back of his hand.

  Sour’s face reddened with rage, and Leo steeled himself. He deserved it. A plebe simply did not hit a superior, and there’d be consequences.

  As his superior stepped threateningly close, Leo braced himself.

  It was all he could do to keep his chin up.

  “What were you thinking?” Sour screamed in his ear. “You never touch a detailer!” He prowled Leo’s personal space. He’d just cocked his arm back when a firm voice called from the doorway.

  “Whiskey!” Nevington entered the room. She looked down at little beads strewn on the floor and und
oubtedly noticed the smear of blood on Sour’s face. “What the hell’s going on here?” Sour took a step back. “This plebe just punched me!”

  “He what? Midshipman Scott, did you just assault my squad leader?”

  Leo’s cheeks flamed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned to Whiskey. “And you’re going to solve the problem by punching him back, you boat goat?” Sour paused, and Leo said, “I deserve to be punished, ma’am.” She spun to face him, eyes flaring. “Oh, you deserve a boatload of punishment right now, and you’ll get it. But you’re not taking Sour down with you.”

  She took a deep breath, and her gaze landed on Benito. “Clean this mess up, chow hound.”

  Benito kneeled to scoop up the damaged beads.

  Nevington turned to Leo. “Lt. Keaton ordered me to report any significant disciplinary problems to her. I’d say this qualifies. Section Leader Sour, hold the deck while I accompany Midshipman Scott to her office.”

  He nodded.

  “Grab your cover, Mr. Scott.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Still in a daze, Leo reached for his hat. His heart pounded as he walked out the door and followed her through the maze of Mother B. It appeared he’d royally screwed the pooch, and he wasn’t looking forward to the aftermath.

  They arrived at the anteroom of the company officers’ offices, and Las Vegas paused. “You don’t say a word unless one of us asks you a direct question. You got it, Mr. Scott?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She exhaled before knocking. “Here we go. Let’s see what kind of mood the ice queen’s in this afternoon.”

  “Enter!” called a crisp voice.

  Nevington and Leo marched into the office, both turning to face Lt. Darnell Keaton exactly in unison.

  She rose from her chair and returned their salutes. Despite his circumstances, she was one of the prettiest women Leo had ever seen.

  She’d pulled her ash blond hair back into a neat bun, and her blue eyes shone in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

  She had full lips, and her tan uniform hugged her lean figure.

  “Company Commander Viva Nevington and Midshipman Fourth Class Leo Scott requesting your assistance with a disciplinary matter, ma’am,” Nevington said.

  Leo trembled as his superior’s eyes mowed him down. You can do this. Would this be his last day in uniform?

  “What happened, Ms. Nevington?” Lt. Keaton asked.

  “Midshipman Scott assaulted Squad Leader Sour, ma’am.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Assaulted?”

  “He punched Mr. Sour in the face, ma’am.” Her eyes glinted with anger. “Is this the same Midshipman Scott I’ve been reading about in your reports, Ms. Nevington — the plebe acing every academic and physical fitness test you’ve thrown at him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The same plebe you’ve been bragging about?” Nevington winced. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The lieutenant turned her frosty stare back to Leo. “Talk, Mr. Scott.”

  Leo had no idea what she wanted him to say. “No excuse, ma’am.”

  “We will not tolerate sailors punching their superiors, Mr. Scott.

  Tell me one reason not to give you your walking papers this minute.”

  “Ma’am, I-I love it here, and I want to stay. I don’t know what came over me…It was a huge mistake, and I’m so sorry, ma’am. Please, please let me stay. I won’t let you down again, ma’am.” She folded her arms across her chest. “What do you think about this, Ms. Nevington?”

  “Midshipman Scott’s done an excellent job, and Second Company would hate to lose him. However, striking a superior is an egregious offense, and I understand if you have to separate him. I guess I’d like to know why he lost his cool, ma’am.”

  “I don’t care what led to the assault.” The lieutenant’s voice suddenly shook, and she reached for the corner of her desk.

  Leo wanted to steady her elbow, but he didn’t dare break his stance.

  “There’s no excuse for that kind of aggression.” She stood stock still, seeming to forget to blink. A full minute passed, and Leo didn’t know what to do.

  Finally Nevington spoke up. “Lt. Keaton? Ma’am?” The lieutenant sucked in a breath then shook her head, as if to clear it. “You said you wanted to stay at the Academy, Midshipman Scott,” she said. “I’m not convinced of your intentions. You need to think long and hard if you truly want to be part of the Navy, and I’ll give you the opportunity to do just that. Company Commander Nevington and her staff will oversee your punishment. You will march for twenty-four hours straight at T-court, beginning immediately.

  You’ll also attend anger management counseling with one of our psychologists.”

  Turning to the company commander, the lieutenant asked, “Any questions?”

  Nevington appeared taken aback. “I have one question, ma’am.

  Are we allowed to administer water during the punishment?”

  “Of course, Ms. Nevington. No food, though. I want Mr. Scott to be hungry. I want him hungry to serve…hungry for training. I don’t want a sailor who attacks the very man designated to train him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It hasn’t been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Scott,” she said. “Plebes do not want to get to know their company officers.

  It took you less than three weeks to find your way to my office, and it better be three years before I see you again. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Dismissed.”

  They exchanged salutes, and the midshipmen exited.

  Leo followed Nevington’s verbal commands to the small arms storage unit, where he checked out his M-16. They then proceeded to T-court, the area right outside Bancroft. Leo held his rifle at an angle in front of him, shoulders back and eyes forward.

  His company commander bit her lip. “Scott, what’d you do to piss her off? She seems to hate you.”

  Leo squinted in the afternoon sun. “Ma’am?”

  “Short of separating you from the Navy, that’s the worst punishment I’ve ever seen.”

  Wait, it was just marching, right? Twenty-four hours was a long time, but he thought he could make it. The mandated counseling actually sounded much worse.

  “No matter how bad it gets, I want you to keep going,” she said.

  “I meant what I said back there. I want you part of Second Company.

  Find the strength to get through this, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Beads of perspiration already dotted his forehead.

  She glanced at her watch. “It’s fourteen thirty-seven hours. You may begin.”

  Leo took his first step in a slow, measured cadence: the first step of thousands to come.

  56. Million Blister March

  Why in the world had he thought twenty-four hours of marching would be easy?

  Sure, the first six hours had breezed by, his mind wandering through happy Audrey memories and interrupted by detailers offering him water every hour or so.

  Knowing he’d be lucky to get a bathroom break, he’d carefully limited his intake. He was probably sweating off most of it anyway.

  He’d been hungry from the first moment of the march, and once evening chow had come and gone, the needy growls of his stomach echoed in his ears.

  But around 2100, darkness settled into both T-court and Leo’s spirit. It was deathly quiet as he made his way around the perimeter of the cement area. His arms ached from holding the rifle, and his heart ached with loneliness and self-reproach.

  He hoped Audrey would forgive him for the destruction of her precious gift. Leo ground his teeth every time he replayed the sound of Whiskey’s heel crushing their symbolized future together.

  Knowing Audrey, she’d probably be more upset about his violence and subsequent punishment. Bracelets could be replaced — trust from his commanders could not. Audrey could buy him another gift, but she couldn’t buy him an escape from the prison of the internalized CS. Leo now knew
his father’s aggression continued to haunt him, even though he was hundreds of miles away.

  Around midnight, after ten hours of marching, blisters began to form. He’d only thought he was miserable before. His right foot was slightly longer than his left, so his right heel chafed on the back on his shoe, causing him to wince with every step. After he adjusted his gait, his left big toe soon smarted.

  For a while, every step was sheer torture. Then around 0300 he supposed he’d bludgeoned the nerve endings sufficiently into submis-sion, and his feet turned blessedly numb.

  At 0500 T-court came alive with plebes gathering for PT. Leo dared not break his thousand-yard stare, but he was sure his Second Company compadres were getting a good look at him marching.

  It seemed Las Vegas and two of her squad leaders were rotating shifts for watching him and giving him water, but so far he hadn’t seen Whiskey. He dreaded their eventual meeting and was curious how MUFFIN was faring.

  Leo plodded along, zoned out as the sun broke over the horizon.

  Second Company headed back from the PT field to begin the running portion of PT, and he could see the group jogging toward him.

  They passed him on the left.

  He heard a familiar, urgent voice whisper “¡Cóge!” and looked over to see something whiz toward him. Leo caught the small plastic package and pocketed it as Benito winked at him, jogging past.

  When Leo marched around the far corner of T-court, he reached into his pocket. He was elated to find a packet of energy gel. He squeezed the sweet goo down his throat.

  The pounding high-noon sun illuminated the red cement in an undulating haze. His sweaty uniform clung to his body, and his march was almost a stumble at this point. Only two and one half more hours, but it seemed like a lifetime. Just keep swimming. He felt so exhausted he was close to tears.

  “Keep marching,” Company Commander Nevington said, suddenly fal ing into step next to him. “Don’t look, but Lt. Keaton’s watching you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Leo tried to straighten his back and retract his aching shoulders. He grasped the water bottle she held out for him and took a swig.

  “You don’t look so good,” she said.

  Her brilliant white uniform was clean and neat, and she seemed rested and full of energy. Jealousy stabbed him in the eye.