"Lieutenant Brannigan don't like us to call 'em a crew, ma'am," Donaldson reminded her. "He prefers the word detachment"
Veronica's temper snapped. "I don't care if he wants them referred to as the goddamnedNew York Metropolitan Opera! Have you seen them around?"
"No, ma'am," he replied. "Not since yesterday."
Veronica returned to the flight deck and took the trouble of walking the entire length of it, looking over the side in case her wandering comrades-in-arms had gotten together in one of the whaler boats. Maybe they'd decided to go off for a swim someplace. Or even go fishing. After a twenty-minute search, she figured there was nothing else to do but return to the wardroom and wait to find out what was going on. Her jaws were torqued tight with anger at being ignored. It seemed she would have to experience some male chauvinistic snobbery after all. It was a real shame. She had begun to almost feel like a SEAL herself, especially after going into battle with them. They owed her something for that, even if nothing more than polite consideration.
Veronica's mood didn't improve when she arrived back at the wardroom to find the coffeepot empty. Then there was nothing in the supply cabinet to brew a fresh batch. She was seriously considering throwing the empty container against the bulkhead when the door opened and Petty Officer Second Class Bruno Puglisi stepped inside.
"Oh!" he said. "There you are."
"Yes " Veronica growled. "Here I am."
"The skipper's really pissed off at you, ma'am," he said. "How's come you didn't come to the meeting he called up for'd in the pilots' ready room?"
"I didn't know a goddamn thing about any meeting in the pilots' ready room because nobody told me about it!"
"Well, you better come with me," Puglisi said. "And be careful what you say. Wild Bill's feathers is really ruffled. He don't like it when somebody misses one of his meetings. Fact is, he expects ever'body there fifteen minute before it even starts. And here you are--"
"I told you that nobody gave me the word on any godamn meetings, Puglisi, so back off!"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Lead on, Puglisi," Veronica said in disgust. "Escort me to my doom. Does the firing squad have their weapons loaded?"
"I don't know, ma'am," Puglisi answered, missing the sarcasm. "Do you want me to check the ammo inventory?"
"Shut up!"
They made their way forward, going up a couple of decks in the island. The ready room for pilots was unused since no squadron was assigned to the Daly at that time. When they arrived at the door, Puglisi opened it and stepped aside to allow her to precede him into the interior.
Veronica took a deep breath and stepped inside, then stopped.
All the SEALs immediately got to their feet and broke into applause with wide smiles. She frowned in puzzlement now rather than anger, and was baffled by the silly grins they directed at her. Wild Bill Brannigan signaled for her to join him at the front of the room.
Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins suddenly yelled, "Three cheers for Lieutenant Rivers!"
The three "hip-hip hurrahs" thundered out as she walked up to join the skipper. It was then she noticed the keg in the corner and the beer-filled paper cups everyone had at their seats. Petty Officer First Class Connie Concord handed her a cup. "It's light beer, ma'am," he said. "We know that's what you prefer."
"A toast to Lieutenant Rivers!" Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson ordered.
"To Lieutenant Rivers!" the SEALs yelled out simultaneously as they raised their beers.
Veronica didn't know what the hell was going on, but whatever it was she liked it.
Suddenly Brannigan loudly commanded everyone to attention and they all snapped into the proper position. Then the skipper called, "Attention to orders!"
Lieutenant (JG) Jim Cruiser marched grandly to the front of the room. He turned to face the assemblage, holding a document in his hands. After clearing his throat, he began reading aloud from it.
"Ahem! Whereas Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers, United States Navy, has been assigned to a mission with the United States Navy SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands; and whereas the said Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers, United States Navy, has participated in combat with the SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands; then let it be known that the aforementioned Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers conducted herself with courage and cool efficiency in a battle against an enemy naval force, firing weapons in anger while taking evasive actions to keep our ACV Battlecraft from being harmed. Therefore, the aforementioned United States Navy SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands does hereby proudly, affectionately, and respectfully declare that the aforementioned Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers is now and forever an honorary member of the United States Navy SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands with all the rights and privileges that go with that honor. This, of course, includes permission to drink an unlimited amount of beer--regular or light as she prefers--in the Fouled Anchor Tavern in Coronado, California, in the company of United States Navy SEALs." He cleared his throat again. "Ahem! However, I must point out that her running up a tab in the joint depends on Salty and Dixie Donovan, the proprietors of the aforementioned Fouled Anchor Tavern."
Brannigan reached behind him to the podium, picking up a framed certificate. "By the authority of the proclamation just read, I am pleased to present this to Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers, United States Navy, as a testimony to her new status."
Veronica took the certificate and looked at it. The SEAL trident insignia was displayed conspicuously at the top, and under it was her name. The other printing identified her as a full-fledged honorary Brigand.
Then Petty Officer First Class Milly Mills presented her with a neatly folded T-shirt and sweatshirt bearing the unofficial buccaneer insignia of the detachment. "You are also authorized to wear these whenever you choose, ma'am."
Veronica was close to crying, but she was determined it wasn't going to happen. She clenched her teeth long enough to bring her emotions under control, then glanced out at the assembled SEALs.
"You bastards! You wonderful bastards!"
.
ROYAL YACHT SAYIH
1800 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad and Hafez Sabah lay on the bunks in their shared cabin. Sabah was morose and inconsolable, not speaking or acknowledging his companion as he stared up at the overhead. All the work he had done in building up a foolproof transportation and smuggling system for al-Mimkhalif had gone completely to hell. Any further attempts to get arms to the terrorist group would be risky since the one sure oceangoing protection they once enjoyed had been blown away under the guns of the United States Navy.
Mike was in a well-concealed good mood about that particular situation. For all intents and purposes, al-Mimkhalif would slowly deteriorate like melting snow as their resources were used up. On the other hand, the SEAL was not exactly elated about his own situation. His mind churned with one unworkable idea after the other as he tried to figure out a way to get the hell off the yacht to find an opportunity to make contact with American intelligence. Unfortunately, Sheikh Omar Jambarah could bring the terrorist movement back to life within a year or so. Mike had to get the word out on the guy to knock out al-Mimkhalif once and for all. Once they knew who he was, the CIA could dispatch some real nasty types to kidnap him. Sweating the bastard out in Guantanamo Bay would produce a lot of useful information.
There was even a possibility that a large percentage of other terrorist programs could be eradicated permanently. That would be a giant leap forward in eliminating the worldwide threat.