Scorpion in the Sea

Scorpion in the Sea by P.T. Deutermann Page B

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Authors: P.T. Deutermann
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Coasties had just called on the phone, we’d have told them to pack it. But they send a formal message through channels, so we send a ship out. You guys file a message closing it out, and we’re done. OK?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “So, anything else? You coming to this reception tonight, I presume—Admiral’s going to be keeping score.”
    “Yes, Sir,” replied Mike, his face neutral. Aronson studied his face.
    “You’ll be there, but you don’t want to be there, do you.”
    Mike squirmed a little. “Actually, I don’t mind; I just—”
    “Yeah, stow it. You just don’t want to play the game,
that’s your problem. You’re a good enough Skipper, but when it comes to Navy politics, well, you’re hopeless.”
    Mike bridled at that hopeless label. “I thought my job was to be a good Skipper.”
    Aronson snorted. “Don’t give me that ‘my job’ shit.”
    He leaned back in his chair, studying Mike for a moment before continuing.
    “I’m trying,” he said patiently, “to get your ignorant ass promoted. Being a good skipper gets you into the selection boardroom. Being politically adept gets you selected. And that means putting on an enthusiastic face when you show up tonight, and not cutting out after the first thirty minutes like you usually do. You ever gonna get married, by the way?”
    This last question caught Mike off guard. “I suppose if the right woman—”
    “Yeah, right. OK. So, go get your steam leaks fixed, and get me that closeout message on the street tonight. See you at the club.” He picked up a new message, and began to hilite it.
    Mike got up, and left the office. Halfway down the hall he remembered that he had not told the Commodore about Linc’s new environmental conditions system. Barstowe was waiting at the end of the hall.
    “Everything OK? Anything I should know?” he asked.
    “Yeah, I’m supposed to get married before I come to the club tonight.”
    Mike jammed his hat on his head and left the staff offices, oblivious to the quizzical look on Barstowe’s face.
    “Anybody special?” asked Barstowe.

NINE
    Commissioned Officers Club, Mayport Naval Station; Friday, 11 April; 1830
    Mike stood at the main bar in the Officer’s club, nursing a beer. He had come prepared to be bored, and had not been disappointed. The large reception room was already getting hot and stuffy, its air conditioning overwhelmed by the growing crowd of officers in summer whites. The crowd was a mixture of aviators and surface ship drivers. Two thirds of them were trailing wives, and Mike, having nothing better to do, conducted a faintly indifferent appraisal of the women as he scanned the room.
    The Admiral, a tall, ascetic looking man in his mid fifties, had just arrived with his wife, creating the appropriate stir amongst the faithful. He was followed closely by the Chief of Staff and his wife. The Admiral’s wife was a kindly looking lady, with a ready smile for everyone she met and the ability to convey the impression that she remembered each and every one. The Chief of Staffs wife, on the other hand, was something else again. Mike remembered her from previous official functions. In her case, one could not be indifferent. He was intrigued by her fine dark eyes, which she focused neutrally on a point about five feet ahead of her husband as she accompanied him through the crowded room. If she was conscious of the stares and glances of the room full of men, she gave no indication. He watched her progress through the crowd with her husband, moving with a cool, detached grace, causing almost a ripple effect, like an elegant yacht entering a marina through the crowd of smaller day boats. He wondered how a woman who looked like that had ever hooked up with J. Walker Martinson, III, cold fish non-pareil.
    “Now that’s worth staring at,” said a voice behind him. Mike turned to see who it was. A Commander wearing gold wings on his shirt was looking past him at Diane Martinson.
    “Amen to that. Too bad

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