Now, as he stared across the table at Shoemaker’s slight, almost comical, form, he wondered what they all were thinking. The silence in the room seemed amplified tenfold. Even the steady hum of the mess’ ventilation fans was absent, silenced whenever captain’s mast was in progress. Had he gone too far in holding captain’s mast at all? They had been through a lot already. But discipline had to be maintained, especially now.
A worn maroon-jacketed Uniform Code of Military Justice lay on the table in front of him, its border haphazardly stamped with Providence hull number, SSN 719. Instead of the usual blue leather table cover, a resplendent forest green wool tablecloth covered the table, a mast tradition. The green tablecloth made the table appear much longer to Edwards, and it reminded him of the sailors’ euphemism for captain’s mast, “playing football with the captain.” He loved the thrill of being a captain but he dreaded this part of the job. Maintaining discipline was essential for any ship at sea. It had to be established and enforced or the ship would be lost at some crucial moment when it made the difference between life and death for all hands. Captain’s mast was a tradition as old as the navy itself and a very effective, if not oppressive, means to maintain the discipline. Edwards couldn’t count the number of Sundays he had spent in similar ceremonies, either as captain or investigating officer, or as one of the accused’s superiors. It was a tradition that served as a stark reminder to the crew. A reminder that the country they served, though itself a free republic, demanded their time, their pay, their freedom, and even, at times, their lives, without question.
Edwards’ thoughts were interrupted by Bloomfield, who noisily cleared his throat and then used his thumb to push his glasses back up his round, sweaty nose. Red-faced and out of breath, as usual, Bloomfield stood to Edwards’ immediate left. He fumbled with a folder for a few minutes, from which he eventually produced a printed sheet of paper. Edwards took the paper and read it. It was the message Commander-in-Chief Pacific, a four-star admiral, had sent informing him of the incident in question. Most captains wanted to avoid getting messages like this one.
“I’ve got to tell you, Petty Officer Shoemaker, never in my career have I received a message telling me to send an apology to another ship’s captain, not to mention to a French captain,” Edwards said, holding up the sheet of paper that bore the message. “What you did was extremely foolish.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Captain. I’m sorry to have embarrassed you, sir.”
“I want the whole story from the top. I need to know exactly what it is I’m apologizing for. Tell me everything.” He paused before adding, “Everything, Shoemaker!”
“Yes, sir.” Shoemaker shifted a little in his stance, and Edwards could tell he was worried about what was going to happen to him. This was the first time Shoemaker had to be sent to captain’s mast in the two years he had been on board. From what Edwards knew of him, he was an overall good sailor who mostly kept to himself, a skillful fire control technician and one of those few chosen ones who manned the weapons console during battle stations. He was known to have an affinity for networks and programming and liked to dabble in different areas of information technology. In fact, he was the only sailor on board who moonlighted as a contract website developer whenever Providence was in homeport. The dual talents of Shoemaker had never come in conflict with his navy duties. That is, until now.
“Well, sir,” Shoemaker reluctantly started. “When we pulled into Diego Garcia a few weeks back, me and some of the guys went to the Brit Club to have a few beers. Nothing but a few beers at the club, sir, that’s all we wanted seeing as how there’s nothing else to do on that island. Well, there were some French sailors there too, from the Le Temeraire. Being fellow submariners and all, sir, we figured we’d buy them some beers and see how good the French can shoot pool. The evening started out innocently enough. We bought them drinks, they bought us drinks, we must have shot a couple dozen games, but at some point those Frenchmen started to change their manners and started insulting us, Captain.”
“They started insulting you?” Edwards knew where this was going. Sailors would be sailors, no matter the nationality.
“I don’t know if it was because they had lost nearly every game, Captain, or if it was because they just didn’t like the smell of us, but they started to cut us down, bad mouthing the President, talking trash about the whole Iraq thing. We tried to brush it off as best we could, sir, but they just kept the insults coming. They even called the Providence an over-designed piece of American shit, begging your pardon, sir. They said we didn’t hit jackshit with our missiles, begging you pardon, sir. That we just blew over a few goat herder tents in the desert. Well, you and I both know that’s a flat-out lie, Captain. I mean, I fired those missiles myself, sir! We couldn’t believe those guys, just cutting us down like we were some merchant seamen or something.”
Edwards held up the message and examined it. “It says here that a comment was made about … let me see, here it is … ‘you (expletive) Frenchies shoot pool about as good as you fight.’ Did you say that, Shoemaker?”
Shoemaker’s eyes shifted high and to the left momentarily. “Yes, sir, I said that.” Shoemaker’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly from his rigid attention stance. “But not until after they’d said all those other things, Captain.”
Edwards didn’t respond. He didn’t know why, but Shoemaker’s transparent honesty suddenly amused him. Shoemaker didn’t have the cunning to lie about the incident, and Edwards had to force himself to keep a straight face in front of the watching crew. He’d have probably said the same thing to the French sailors.
“One of them wanted to fight us,” Shoemaker continued, “and, well, we were all for it. A fight would’ve happened too, sir, but some British officer came in and broke up the whole thing before it got started… uh… I mean, thank God he broke it up, Captain… I mean, we weren’t looking for trouble, sir. The British officer ordered us all back to our boats, so we headed back to the ship, like he said. But as you remember, Captain, the Le Temeraire was moored just down the pier from us, so we ended up walking with the Frenchies the whole way back, and they never did stop their wise-ass remarks … uh … begging you pardon, sir. They really were trying to get a rise out of us.”
“So after you got back,” Edwards said, then paused, holding back a smile, “that’s when you sent them a virus, huh?”