Forgive & Forget (Love in the Fleet)

by Ashby, Heather

  “I hear she puts out like nobody’s business,” an OS named Dixon said.

  “Yeah, but only because she’s a five-nine-five,” Rogers said. “A five before and after the cruise, and a nine at sea.”

  They all had a good laugh over that. Rashid even smiled, but not at what they’d said. Let these assholes have their trysts at sea. They were all going to die soon anyway.

  “Hey, check it out,” one of the men said, indicating the TV. “This should be good. It’s the annual ‘Don’t Fuck Your Shipmate’ lecture.”

  “Perfect timing too. Maybe we can find out all the good spots on board.”

  “And who’s available.”

  That brought another round of snickers from the men. All except for Petty Officer Davis who did not find it the least bit humorous.

  The crew quieted when the senior chief in charge barked, “Quiet down and listen up!” He cranked up the volume on the flat screen monitors positioned around the mess deck.

  The Command Master Chief, or CMC, filled the screens and began his speech to the crew. “I’m gonna make this short and sweet. This ain’t the Love Boat. If you think it is, you may very well find yourself at Captain’s Mast or headed to the beach on your way out of the Navy. This ship has a zero tolerance policy for fraternization—and while we’re at sea that means anybody fraternizing with anybody.

  “We are on our way to break things and kill people, not to pro-vide you with a social network to hook up with a shipmate. So no screwing around, literally or figuratively. This is a warship and you are warriors. Behave accordingly. If don’t think you can do that, let us know and we will help you find another line of work.”

  “The CMC sipped from his water bottle and continued. “And while we’re on the subject, there will be zero tolerance for sexual harassment in any way, shape, or form. I’m talking about your shipmates, folks. Treat them with courtesy at all times and report anything that appears suspicious or makes you feel uncomfortable. All of you should have completed the required hours of awareness training and signed off that you understand the consequences for crossing boundaries.”

  Dixon whispered, “I feel uncomfortable when Petty Officer Stroud wears that perfume that gets me all hot and bothered. She sure knows how to bring me to attention.”

  Every man at the table had to stifle his laughter. All except for one. Assholes, Rashid thought to himself. This was exactly what the Master Chief was talking about. These dickheads had no respect for anybody.

  It was going to be a pleasure killing them.

  “And remember, even permissible dating can get you in a lot of trouble on board this ship,” the CMC said. “Let me clarify. Keep your distance, folks. No PDA is ever allowed. That means never. No holding hands, no sitting closer that a butt-width apart, and no inappropriate touching of any kind. And I get to decide what is and is not appropriate, so just don’t do it. Because I’m always gonna be right and you’re always gonna be wrong. I know half the complement of this ship is under twenty-one. I know what it’s like to be that age, even though most of you think I was born a master chief.” Laughter rippled across the room. “But keep your distance and focus on the mission.”

  “Yada, yada, yada,” the man to Rashid’s left mumbled. The man’s cheeks threatened to erupt in smiles that became contagious around the table.

  These were the same kind of idiots who had teased Rashid in high school, laughing around the lunchroom table. At least they were making fun of the Master Chief this time, but who knew what would happen if Rashid turned his back on them. His pulse began to pound. He already knew what they’d done behind his back. Another round of muffled laughter broke out around the table. When the hell were these guys going to grow up?

  Oh, that’s right. They were never going to grow up.

  “Just so you know,” the Master Chief continued. “If you decide to disregard what I’m saying and break the rules, we will throw the book at you. I’m talking loss of privileges, loss of pay, loss of stripes, and possibly separation from the Navy. It’s a small price to pay to keep your shipmates safe.

  “People, I’m not doing this to spoil your fun. I’m doing this to save your lives. We’re dealing with life and death situations on this deployment and we don’t need no lovesick, hormone-crazed sailors mooning over shipmates while trying to launch or recover a jet on the flight deck. That goes for every other department on this ship as well. You hold people’s lives in your hands. Think of it this way: Loose hips sink ships.”

  The crew groaned over the Master Chief’s little joke. It was all a fucking joke as far as Rashid was concerned. He pushed away from the table, picked up his tray, and cleared out. He had bigger fish to fry than worrying about a bunch of immature teenagers who were lonely and homesick and thought with their genitalia. Hell, he was lonely too, ever since he’d lost his Rosie, but he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself, or get busted by getting it on with some sailor chick. And the hell with the assholes giggling like a bunch of girls at everything the Master Chief said. The guy was trying to save their fucking lives.

  Oh, well, it wasn’t going to make a hell of a lot of difference in the long run. Let them laugh now.

  He walked off the mess deck while the Command Master Chief prattled on about Captain’s Mast and Non-Judicial Punishment for getting caught with one’s pants down. Let the CO, XO, and CMC worry about how the crew behaved. Let them all play good cop and bad cop. Rashid knew they’d do their damndest to make sure everyone obeyed the rules and coexisted as best as possible because they were responsible for all five thousand on board: Four-thousand-nine-hundred-ninety-nine men and women, sailors and officers.

  And one pissed-off soon-to-be terrorist—who was going to beat all of them at their game.

  “Reveille! Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave out and trice up. Reveille!” called from the 1MC. “Sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms. Give the ship a good, clean sweep down both fore and aft. Sweep down all lower decks, ladder backs, and passageways. Dump all garbage clear of the fantail. Sweepers!”

  Hallie now understood the old saying that life aboard a U.S. Navy ship at sea had been equated to being in prison, but with a chance of drowning. She doubted she’d slept a wink last night, between planes landing through the night and a berthing compartment seemingly filled with snoring women. My God, she didn’t know women could snore like that. For the first time since she’d arrived on the Blanchard, every female assigned to the ship slept on board.

  Hallie, Gina, and Trixie were fortunate to be in a berthing compartment with just thirty-six females. Some women had sixty in theirs. She felt especially sorry for the male sailors on the lower end of the food chain who shared living quarters with up to one hundred fifty roommates.

  Gina had the best deal, sleeping in the bottom rack, or maybe Trixie did, sleeping in the top one, since she could sit up in bed. Hallie climbed down from her middle rack and made her bed as best she could without stepping on Gina’s hands.

  “Come on, Geen. Get up.”

  Gina rolled over and grunted, then pulled her privacy curtain closed. “Just five more minutes, please. I did not get any sleep last night. How could there still have been planes landing in the night?”

  “Those weren’t planes landing. Somebody said it was the flight deck crews testing the catapults for today’s flight schedule. And I hear it gets a lot worse when they do night ops and launch and recover while we’re sleeping.

  “Speak for yourself,” a woman called out. “Some of us just got off the night shift and are trying to sleep.”

  “Sorry,” Hallie said.

  Trixie scrambled down from the top rack and whispered, “Welcome to your new home beneath an airport, McCabe. Actually, it’s worse. Airports don’t have catapults. Hopefully you’ll also enjoy the sound of aircraft tie-down chains being dragged across the roof at night. Don’t worry. You’
ll get used to it. And you’ll be able to sleep through anything after this cruise.”

  The racks stood in groups of three, each with a sleeping space six feet long, two feet wide, and twenty-two inches of space above each mattress, except for the top bunk. That space varied from rack to rack, depending on the piping and overhead equipment.

  The privacy curtains might block out some of the visual world, but not the noise. Hallie thought it charming how the women made their twenty-four cubic feet of personal space homey: matching bedspreads and throw cushions, stuffed animals, and posters plus photos of loved ones stuck in the bottoms of the racks above them and on the bulkheads next to their sleeping spaces.

  Beneath the racks, each sailor had a drawer, called a coffin, in which to stow her gear; in addition to a high school sized standing locker for her uniforms. Adding the coffin and the locker to the space within her rack, each crewmember had about fifty cubic feet to call her own for the next six months.

  Because Hallie would never be able to display pictures of her boyfriend, especially since she didn’t have one anymore, she hung a mural of a Japanese garden to remind her of land and serenity on the bulkhead. And tucked pictures of her mom in uniform, her aunt and uncle, and photos of Hallie and Rebecca soaking up rays on Jacksonville Beach in the underside of Trixie’s rack. She would have to content herself with the mental images of Philip, such as that first day on the sailboat. The Ralph Lauren ad with the day-old beard and the cowboy hat—the Marlboro Man-goes-to-the-America’s-Cup. And looking into each other’s eyes while making love on the sailboat.

  Stop.

  It was over.

  She showered and dressed quickly, deciding to skip morning chow and duck into the ship’s store to buy some good stationery for that letter she’d started the night before. She’d finish drafting it on the computer at work, then copy it on to pretty paper. Writing it in her own handwriting was the least she could do, giving him a little piece of herself. Anything to help Philip see it came from the heart.

  A heart that now raced as she scoped out the gray passageways, lined with miles of wires and cords strapped to the bulkheads. She figured Philip would be getting ready to hold quarters for the morning shift at 0800, so it would be a safe time to shop. After a quick scan, she darted into the ship’s store and grabbed writing paper, granola bars, and a boxed juice for breakfast. She exhaled a sigh of relief as she got in line to pay—eyes peeled for the door. Almost done. But what was taking the cashier so long? This felt so public. And she still had to skulk her way back through the passageways to Public Affairs. Why, oh, why was the cashier so slow, and why, oh, why couldn’t she and Philip have just continued the way they were?

  Shit.

  Her gut registered tall and dark before her brain could even identify the man who entered the store. But the glasses were a dead giveaway. Her heart jump-started. She hadn’t seen Philip in his BCGs since she first met him, but she now remembered he wore them at work. She froze to the spot, heart pounding. Her eyes took charge, darting around to find the best escape. Her feet followed, how they worked without her knees buckling, she had no idea.

  Hallie sidled up to the card racks, heart rate racing out of control, her breaths short and desperate.

  Had somebody sucked all the oxygen out of the store? She stood with her back to the cashiers and opened a card to hide her face, glad she’d changed her hair color. From the corner of her eye, she watched him walk to the front of the store. She gauged the distance to the door. Not yet. She turned her head millimeter by millimeter. Peeking around the edge of the card, she caught him looking in her direction.

  Double shit.

  Hallie snapped her head back and slid around the display, bending her knees slightly, hoping Hallmark would keep her secret.

  She counted out the heartbeats, then shielding her face again with the card, she peeked over the top row of greeting cards to discover his back to her. The image slammed into her. The back of his neck, curls threatening the back of his military haircut. Those shoulders. God, she missed those broad, strong shoulders.

  Unshed tears blurred her vision. His long back, tapering down to his tight, little ass. Long legs in coveralls. How she wanted to stay and drink him in. Every detail. How she wanted to run to him. Throw her arms around him. Hug his back. Stay with him forever.

  Forget the stationery. She needed to get that letter in the mail this minute. What if he’d caught her just now? How devastating for him to discover her with no explanation to soften the blow?

  Hallie hauled ass out of the store, feet racing as fast as her heart rate. She double-timed up the ladders and leapt over the raised watertight doorways, trying not to bang her shins. Reaching her desk, she caught her breath and fired up the computer. She’d finish the letter and get it in ship’s mail. ASAP.

  Dear Philip,

  This is Hallie writing. It is very painful for me to share the truth with you this way, but here goes:

  I am a second-class petty officer in the Navy and I am stationed aboard the Blanchard. With you. Right now. Right here.

  I’m an MC2 in Public Affairs on your ship. I am so sorry for deceiving you. Words alone cannot say how sorry I am. When I first met you, I thought it would be fun to go sailing and then I would quietly disappear. I figured the ship was big enough that I could get away with never seeing you again. I hadn’t planned on falling in love with—

  But that’s all she wrote before Chief Bernard interrupted. “Hey, McCabe, Commander Scott wants to see you in his office. You too, Marini.”

  Chapter 13

  “You want me to what?”

  “Take over Blanchard News Tonight,” the Public Affairs Officer said. “We’ve taken some polls and it appears nobody was watching Emmanuel on the in-port broadcast.”

  Mass Communications Specialist First-Class David Emmanuel was the anchor each evening on Blanchard News Tonight, the on-board evening news that essentially read tomorrow’s Plan of the Day. Nobody watched it because it was boring. And so was Petty Officer Emmanuel. There was no background. Just Emmanuel in his aquaflage uniform. Big whoop.

  Hallie looked from one person to the other, trying to comprehend what they were asking of her. Commander Scott sat at his desk. Chief Bernard and the Deputy Public Affairs Officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Latimer, flanked her and Gina.

  Commander Scott glanced down at some notes, then continued. “We want to revamp the whole approach. Move away from essentially reading the Plan of the Day to maybe fifteen minutes of national news that pertains to the mission. You know. What’s going on in the Middle East that day.

  “Then maybe the second fifteen minutes would be ship’s news. Safety measures, risk management practices, cool ideas on making shipboard life easier, and even security reminders. Oh, and maybe some historical background on some of the ports we’re scheduled to visit. Maybe a piece on the Suez Canal before we go through. Go over customs and culture in the Arab cities we’ll be pulling into. The Muslim holy month of Ramadan starts soon. Give the background and share how people are supposed to behave. That sort of thing.”

  Lieutenant Latimer jumped in. She was a petite, young blonde about Hallie’s age, but because she had a college degree in journalism, she was a commissioned officer and Hallie was an enlisted petty officer. “We’re thinking service dress uniform, McCabe. You know. Jacket and tie, fix your hair, make-up. New backdrop. The whole nine yards. As if you’re on a national news network. We’re looking for CNN meets ‘Navy News This Week.’ And we think you’re the perfect person for the job.”

  Hallie wanted to answer yes. This was a dream come true. But she had difficulty because all the words were tangled up with another word: Philip.

  The Deputy continued when Hallie showed no reaction. “When I thought about this, you were my first choice. Hallie, I know this is your dream. We’ve talked about it. This would look awesome
on your resume when you’re discharged from the Navy. This could be your ticket to the big time. With an audience of five thousand, this is almost as good as anchoring ‘Navy News This Week’ or ‘Armed Forces Television and Radio’ in Europe.”

  Hallie bought time as she continued to wrestle with the Philip problem. She was certain Gina knew why she stalled. “It would be a huge responsibility, ma’am.”

  Commander Scott took over. “The staff would write your copy. All we need you to do is go before the camera and deliver the news—good and bad. You’ll be able to use the teleprompter of course. We know you’d be a natural. You’ve studied this for years and we know you’ve had a lot of practice in school. You’ve told me you wanted to do your part in the war on terror, McCabe. So here’s your chance. Be the person who gets this info out to the crew.”

  “I thought I was just going to write about things, sir.”

  “You’re welcome to write any copy you want. As a matter of fact, we were talking about you putting in some of those little Hallie-isms you’re always sharing with us. Hell. Talk about sunscreen. Especially when we get to the Gulf and the temperature hits a hundred-and-thirty on the flight deck. Throw in those big words you’re always using—basal cell carcinoma and all that. I’m sure the folks working on the roof could use a reminder now and then. I have a feeling the men will listen to whatever you tell them.”