Now We Are No Longer Strangers

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"Hey, sailor, wanna dance?"

He looked up to see the redhead he'd seen looking at him earlier standing there, eyes sparkling. The music had just switched to a slow ballad.

"Why not?" They walked onto the dance floor and she flowed into his arms, swaying to the beat as they moved across the parquet in a slow fox-trot.

"I'm Trisha. And you might be?

"Wally. But tell me: won't your date, Lt. Brackett, be annoyed at your disappearance?"

"Not for one dance, and he's in the head anyway. Besides, the guest of honor at a wetting-down party deserves a dance with someone his own age instead of women old enough to have been his babysitters."

"And how did you know this is a wetting-down party, hmm?" he asked.

She chuckled. "This isn't my first time at the ball. I'm a Navy brat. It's unusual to see a lieutenant commander who's been in for only, what? Nine years? Ten?"

"Seven."

"Even curiouser -- seven years, with a salad bar topped by a Legion of Merit with the Combat V, and sporting a Filipino Legion of Honor. I'd like to hear how you came by those two. Did you get them at the same time?"

"No. I'm surprised you recognized the Filipino ribbon. Very few people do."

"Daddy was stationed at Subic Bay before it closed when I was a little girl. He has friends in their army and navy. Even there, you didn't see many Legions of Honor; it's not a medal they hand out along with the breakfast bacon. You'll have to tell me about it sometime." A scintillating smile.

"And how will I find you to tell you the story?"

"Don't worry, Wally. I'll find you." The look on her face said she was not joking.

The music ended. Wally took Trisha back to her table. Her escort was there, looking askance at them as they walked up.

"Thank you for allowing me to borrow your girl for one dance, Brackett. It's refreshing to dance with someone who isn't old enough to be my mother."

Brackett smiled without mirth. "Yes, duty dances are trying. Congratulations on your promotion, Michaels. Or should I say 'sir' now, in honor of those oak leaves?" His eyes flicked over the ribbons and badges displayed on Wally's chest, plainly contrasting them with his own and not much liking the comparison.

"Not until October, you shouldn't. I'm just frocked; it was the Old Man's idea. And speaking of ideas, I'm taking a party from the Hull out Saturday morning in the Janus II. We very much appreciate the help the Supply Corps, and you personally, have given us during this refit. Would you and your girl care to join us as our guests?"

"Oh, do say yes, Joe," urged Trisha. "It's been a long time since I went out deep sea fishing. We might get lucky and tie into a tuna!"

Brackett plainly didn't want to accept the invitation; but with his girlfriend urging him to, he could hardly refuse. "Where and when?" he asked.

"0500 Saturday morning, at the yacht basin. We'll see you then. Good night."

"Good night, Wally," said Trisha, a purr in her voice. Joe shot his date a dirty look as Wally took his leave.

2.

Five o'clock Saturday morning found Wally on the bridge of the Janus II, looking the gauges over. The 65 footer had a checkered past. Originally a legitimate offshore charter fishing boat, a minor drug lord who'd had a brain wave had bought her to help him pursue his life of crime.

The Coast Guard had stopped looking at sport fishing charter boats after the days of the "square grouper" bales of marijuana ended in the mid-1970s. He had refitted her with hidden compartments to hold bags of cocaine and would go out for a day or two at a time with some of his soldiers and lieutenants, ostensibly fishing but in reality making rendezvous with a coastal freighter to take delivery of the coke and fish brought north by the coaster to support the cover story. The druggies had gotten away with it until they had been caught in the act of transferring drugs by the USS John Hancock. Both vessels had been seized and brought into Mayport. The Coast Guard took over the freighter, but the Navy kept the fishing boat for use by the personnel stationed there. She was a popular recreation and was immaculately maintained and equipped, including a full set of rods, reels, and lures for personnel who did not have their own.

"Ready to start engines, Patch?" he called down to Chief Flores in the engine compartment.

"Compartment is ventilated, fuel lines are open, batteries are in the green, fuel tanks are full. Turn 'em over, skipper."

Wally switched the diesel engines on and waited for the glow plug indicators to light up. He pressed the starters and first one, then the other, rumbled to life. The men and women of the Hull's fishing party began to file aboard as the Patch closed the engine compartment hatch and the engines warmed up. Among the last to board were Joe Brackett and Trisha. The crew cast off the mooring lines and Wally took the Janus II to sea.

Half an hour out of port on a course that would take them southeast to where the reports said fishing would be good, Wally heard a voice say, "Permission to come on the bridge?"

"Granted," he responded automatically, not looking up as he adjusted his heading slightly. The smell of fresh coffee got his attention.

Trisha was standing there in a windbreaker over a thin blouse with what looked like a bikini top under it and a wraparound skirt in some clingy material that looked like silk but wasn't. She handed him the coffee and a peaked cap with a leather bill half again as long as normal and a broad strip of gold-embroidered leaves around the band.

"Chief Flores thought you could use these," she said, sipping at her own mug.

"Right on both counts. Sun will be up in a few, but it will be the better part of an hour before we're across the axis of the Gulf Stream and out where we may expect to get some business. I'll need the hat then."

"What's the insignia on it? An alligator with crossed anchors, a gold cord chinstrap, and enough scrambled eggs running around it to feed a squad of Marines?"

"A souvenir from my past. When I was stationed in Brazil awhile back, we -- lost a couple of Brazilian officers. As the ranking officer of our detachment there, I was de facto next in the chain of command. I did well enough at the job that the Brazilian officers with whom we were working persuaded the Oficial de Ligacao da Marinha, the Marinha do Brasil, and our naval attaché to leave me in command of a flotilla of mixed American and Brazilian craft. They named me, quite unofficially, Comodor da Marinha Jacaré -- Commodore of the Gator Navy -- and presented me with that cap as my badge of office; hence, the alligator. The long bill keeps the sun out of your eyes, a real plus when you're on the water. All the officers and CPOs of the River Force wore hats like this, though without the scrambled eggs; non-regulation of course, but they were good for morale and for telling our guys from the REMFs who didn't belong. If you think the cap's wild, I'll have to show you see my command flag sometime!" He returned his attention to driving the boat. Sensing she had been dismissed, Trisha went quietly below.

A couple of hours later, Wally tied into a school of mackerel being herded by tuna, and fishing began. At any given time there were 12 or 15 lines in the water, and they began catching yellowfin and mackerel. Wally concentrated on keeping the Janus II in contact, but did notice that as the day got hotter Trisha's garb got skimpier. Starting out with a windbreaker, blouse and wraparound skirt, by the time the boat had caught its limit of tuna and turned for home she had shed the jacket, the skirt and the blouse, leaving only a bikini vest made of thin, washed-soft denim with frayed thread edging and a pair of likewise frayed daisy dukes that stopped a quarter inch short of lewdness. She was the object of appreciative male looks when the wives and girls of the Hull's men weren't in sight.

Most of the fishing party had disappeared below to relax, except the three junior sailors on the after deck busily gutting and cutting the yellowfin into steaks for grilling at the ship's picnic. Trisha found her way to the bridge again, a beer in each hand. She offered one to Wally, who held up a hand to decline it.

"No, thanks; I'm driving."

"More for me, then," she smiled, downing one in three long swallows. Setting the first dead soldier aside, she took a sedate sip of the second.

"You conn this boat like you were born on the water," she observed.

"Sometimes it feels that way. I've been messing around in boats for as long as I can remember. I made my first deep sea trip when I was 13. A client of my father's agreed to take me on as a greenhorn, an unrated deckhand. Father thought a summer spent busting my hump in a tuna boat out of New Bedford would cure me of this damfool desire to go to sea. I was gone for 11 weeks, came home with a tan, a decent command of Portuguese, and half a deckhand's share of the profits. By the time I was 18, I'd qualified as a 100-ton Master and did short relief trips for charter boat skippers who wanted a vacation or had a family emergency. By the time I was halfway through the Academy -- "

"Annapolis?"

"No, Mass Maritime, in Buzzards Bay by the Cape Cod Canal. Anyway, by the time I was a second-job I had my 200-ton license, and I used to take the Marathon or the Asheville, two old ex-Navy gunboats the Academy owns, out on long weekends and school breaks to help out my classmates who needed to build sea time. I was the only cadet in the place qualified to sail in command. It annoyed the instructors sometimes."

"So you're a Master," she said thoughtfully, leaning back against the console, stretching her shapely, toned legs and arching her back. He watched her, one eyebrow cocked thoughtfully. "In other areas as well, perhaps?"

"I have been, in my time."

She spread her legs apart, stretching the denim enough for him to see the edge of her pudenda. Her lips parted, and her breathing deepened. "You have?"

"Indeed. Nice Brazilian, by the way. But you have a boyfriend on board who, one presumes, takes care of your needs."

She looked at him. "Say rather I have a date on board. Things have been ... rocky lately. Joe's not the man I'm looking for. He is not giving me what I need, in any area. It's just a matter of my letting him know we're over." As if on cue, a voice called up to her from the after deck.

"Trisha! C'mon! They're about to run Down Periscope and I'm saving you a seat." Brackett waved a bottle of whiskey and two glasses enticingly. Wally nodded at the supply officer below him.

"You'd better go below. But if and when you're free, you know where to find me, baby." Her eyes sparkled at him.

"Yes, I do." She drained the last of her beer and tossed the bottle over the side, running a finger along his arm as she walked to the ladder.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that a cute gal seemed to be interested in him that caused Wally to show off by making a "one bell approach" to the Janus II's berth. He brought her in at half speed and at just the right moment used the throttles and the rudder to spin her parallel with the dock and kill her velocity, leaving her dead in the water about three feet from the wharf. There was a smattering of applause from the passengers, who collectively had enough time at sea to appreciate the artistry involved. Lines snaked across to the pier to a couple of youngsters who had jumped the gap and the charter boat was made fast. A gangway plunked onto the fantail and the sailors went ashore, toting ice chests full of mackerel fillets and tuna steaks for the picnic. Trisha and Joe Brackett were among the last to leave.

"Thank you for having us," Brackett said stiffly. He had not missed his date making eyes at Wally.

"A pleasure," Michaels riposted as insincerely as Brackett had. "Will I see you at the picnic? Heaven knows we have enough tuna to feed everyone and their uncles."

"We'll stop by for awhile," promised Trisha, her red hair a crown of flame in the afternoon sun. "I've enjoyed being under your command." Brackett glared daggers after her as she undulated up the gangway and down the dock toward the parking lot before he picked up his rod and tackle box and followed, smoke practically coming out of his ears.

"Quite a girl, skipper," observed Chief Flores in Portuguese.

"Pity she belongs to someone else," said Wally in the same language.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Wally. She might need some taming, but the man who could tame her would have something very, very special. That 'pork chop' isn't up to the task, if you ask me. He wants her, but she doesn't want him, is how I see it."

"You know anything about her? Apart from her poor taste in dates, I mean."

"It happens I do. With our youngest away at college, Mary took a job at the local elementary school teaching kindergarten. Trisha, short for Patricia, Corcoran teaches third grade there. Single, about your age, lives in town. Very good in the classroom; knows how to balance prepping for those idiotic federal evaluation tests with teaching the kids how to use their brains for something other than storing test pap. Her kids adore her. She told Mary she's a Navy brat from a Navy family, no surprise in this town. She dresses to accentuate her figure, as I am sure you noticed."

"Just because I was busy skippering the boat doesn't mean I'm blind, Patch. I certainly wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. If she'd been wearing any less on the way back in, the cops would have busted her on a morals charge."

"If you're interested, I can ask Mary to pull her home address and phone number from the files," Patch offered.

"Do that, please. She could give a statue a raging erection, and she seems intelligent in addition to her looks. That makes her worth knowing."

"And having?"

"Settle down, Patch. You're married, remember!"

After turning the boat back over to the waterfront personnel, Wally gave Patch a lift to the picnic site; they were about the last to arrive. The air was heavy with the smell of broiling fish and burgers. Patch dragged Wally over to two picnic tables occupied by the ship's CPOs and their wives, handing him a dark beer he knew his former skipper preferred to lighter American lagers. That the chiefs, the career enlisted specialists who are the backbone of any ship, accepted him spoke volumes of the esteem in which he was held. They were exchanging sea stories when the Executive Officer tracked him down with the word that the Captain was looking for him.

The Old Man was standing near the cut in half oil drum grilles on which the ship's cooks were broiling the fish. He looked his newly frocked officer over with amusement, taking in the khaki polo shirt with the gold embroidered waves and alligator's head, and the billed cap with its golden crocodile, crossed anchors, and gold-encrusted palm leaves that circled the hat band.

"Souvenir of a previous life, Mr. Michaels?"

"It keeps the sun off, sir."

"No matter. It suits you." He took out a bosun's pipe and blew Attention. Conversation ceased and all eyes turned to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen and boozers of all stages ... " He paused for, and got, appreciative laughter at this sally of wit, " ... welcome to the USS Isaac Hull's spring picnic!"

Cheers and applause erupted. "Before we commence pigging out on fish, fries, and sliders, I give you the founder of the feast, Lieutenant Commander Wally Michaels!"

"Cap'n, that's not fair!" Michaels protested. "All I did was put our fishermen onto the fish. They were the ones who did the work, and they deserve the credit for what smells like a really tasty fish fry!" He doffed his hat and bowed to the enlisted men and women who had made up the majority of the fishing party. They in turn whistled their appreciation of his compliment, applauded him, and shouted back comments like, "Yeah, we caught 'em, but it was you that found 'em!" and "When you have a skipper who thinks like a fish, catching 'em is easy!" and "You make it look easy, Mr. Michaels, when you know it damned well ain't!" until the Captain raised his hands for quiet.

"Well, whoever among you found the tuna, caught them, cleaned them, carved them, and cooked them, I, my officers, and my crew thank you. Chow down, everyone!" He walked to the table where plates, cutlery, napkins, and side dishes waited and started up the tables toward the grilles loaded down with fresh food. A line quickly formed behind him, officers, chiefs and enlisted personnel intermingling with no regard for rank, and folks got down to the serious business of eating fresh-caught broiled tuna steak and mackerel fillets. For those not in the mood for fish, there were hamburgers and hot dogs.

The sun dipped toward the horizon as the mellow crew lingered at the picnic tables, stuffed to bursting with the good food and drink. Wally had just rinsed his mouth out with water to clear the lingering taste of the fish and was wondered how long he needed to wait before making his manners to the Old Man and disappearing when he noticed a man dragging a girl who seemed to be resisting toward the parking area nestled in the native scrubby pine, live oaks and shrubs. Sensing trouble, he followed.

Brackett and Trisha were standing by the edge of the lot, glaring at each other as they exchanged heated words. Brackett was holding a nearly empty bottle of scotch, gesturing with it.

"So tha's it, you li'l bitch?" he slurred. "You see a taller, stronger guy wi' more fruit salad on his chest an' your pussy starts drippin' like you're a cavegirl 50,000 years ago? You wanna spread those long legs a' yours an' have him pound your cunt so hard you walk bowlegged for a week? You fuckin' bimbo! How long you been plannin' t' dump me?"

"I've known for a while now that we were done, Joe. What I need, you can't give me. You can't give it to me because what I need is not in you to give. It's better for both of us if we just agree it's over, call our relationship quits and move on." She turned away from him.

"I'll show you moves, you whore!" snarled Brackett, his hand snaking out to grab Trisha by the arm and spin her around. She cried out in pain.

"That's enough, Lieutenant!" snapped Wally, stepping forward. Brackett glared at him and shoved Trisha away, sending her sprawling and advancing on Wally.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the big stud himself. Come to claim your slut? You want the cunt, you c'n have her -- if you c'n get past me." He tapped the whiskey bottle menacingly against his palm.

Wally came in slowly. Brackett swung the bottle at his head, his coordination and aim way off. Stepping inside the arc, Wally flipped his left arm high to block the pork chop's swing and drove four fingers up under his sternum. The air whuffed out of Brackett and the bottle went flying as he doubled over. A two-handed hammer blow to the shoulder blades put him on the ground. He lay still, and Wally used a toe to roll him face up. Brackett had a couple of scrapes on his forehead from the parking lot gravel, but he was breathing; he was just unconscious from a combination of too much liquor, having all the air driven out of his lungs from the sternum stroke, and the ground smacking him in the face.

Trisha had watched the fight from where she had landed against a car, eyes wide at the swift, decisive way Wally had dealt with the drunken supply officer. He reached a hand down to her, pulling her to her feet. For a moment, they stood very close, Trisha psychologically sheltering in his presence. He could feel the heat radiating off her.

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