“Why don’t we wait until we’re at Operations and then answer any questions you have. Captain.”
“Okay, I’ll hold them until then. Meanwhile, put Commander Pettigrew and me together in the stateroom, Captain Carter Lieutenant McDaniels can have the single. That should solve your berthing problem.”
“It would make it easier.”
Carter turned to the MAA.
“Sheriff, have your brig party take their bags to staterooms thirty-six and thirty-seven.”
H. J. leaned over Beau’s shoulder as they fell in line behind Duncan and the executive officer.
“We could have bunked together. It’s not like we’re children or something,” she whispered, miffed over being singled out.
“Let’s not suggest it, H. J. Surface Warfare officers seldom have the humor we SEALs do. They don’t call them the conservative arm of the Navy for nothing.” But, Beau thought, the idea was appealing.
“Come on. Beau. Would I embarrass you?” she smiled, arching her eyebrows.
Beau’s face flushed red. He hurried to close the gap between him and Duncan. H. J. shook her head and followed.
Men! He was cute … in a juvenile way.
Single file they followed the ship’s executive officer down a deck to a hatch marked ops conference room. A revolving red light warned everyone that a classified briefing was in progress.
Carter opened the thin aluminum door and led the way into the conference room. A long rectangular table surrounded by green-cushioned government-issue metal chairs filled the small space. Along the starboard bulkhead a small green-topped metal table held the inevitable coffee mess.
The glass vial on the forty-cup percolator showed a halffull pot.
Duncan ran his hand over his head. No telling how long since it had been perked. A skinny white-aproned mess man — an eagle with a banner reading United States Navy clutched in its beak tattooed on his left forearm — entered through a side door, carrying a large tray of fresh donuts and raisin bread. Hot aromatic clouds rose from the pastries to surround his shaven head before spreading their sweet aroma to offset the metallic scent of the compartment.
It was a bleak, no-frills ship’s compartment that reflected the harsh reality of the sea.
“Make a hole,” the mess man broadcasted as he weaved his way to the table near the coffeepot. Hands reached over and around him to grab the fresh pastries even as he raised his elbows in a vain attempt to keep their hands out of the tray.
“Officers,” Carter announced, grabbing the attention of those in the room.
“This is Captain James, Lieutenant Commander Pettigrew, and Lieutenant McDaniels. They’ve just arrived on the Sigonella shuttle and will be joining the Spec War teams on board.”
The few nearby shook hands. A lieutenant wearing desert cammies began working his way through the tight room toward them. The mess man exchanged the now halffull tray for the empty one and, shaking his head, griped about ungrateful people of doubtful parentage as he left the crowded compartment.
“Captain James, there’s coffee on the cupboard,” Carter said.
“And donuts for dunking. Help yourself and, with this bunch, if you want donuts you’d better grab them fast.
I’ll be right back. Oh, nearly forgot, the captain sends his respects and the commodore looks forward to meeting you.”
Then in a low voice he added, “You won’t have to worry about talking too much with the commodore. He’ll take care of the conversation.”
Grinning at his private joke. Carter left the wardroom.
The three weaved their way to where the condiments of the uniform professions — coffee and donuts — waited. From a nearby chair a tall, dark-skinned, mustached man stood and began to work his way toward them as they poured their coffee. He arrived slightly behind the lieutenant in cammies.
“Captain James, I’m Mike Sunney, the QIC of SEAL Team Four. Welcome aboard.”
“Mike, I’m glad you’re here. Can you maybe tell us what is going on?” Duncan asked.
“Seems our exercise has gone tits up and the Spanish are heading home.”
“Where’s the sugar?” asked Beau to no one in particular.
“Yes, sir. It’s Tango Uniform,” ” he replied, then, noticing the dark-haired mustached officer, introduced him.
“Captain, this is Major Jesus Alcontira.”
“Captain James?”
“Yes, I am,” Duncan replied, eyeing the tabs on the collar of the uniform identifying the officer as a major in the Spanish Army. The uniforms had changed little since Franco’s era.
Beau squatted as he riffled through the table drawers.
“There has to be sugar here someplace. What kind of coffee mess doesn’t have sugar?”
“Sir, I am sorry we will be unable to conduct a joint exercise.”
“What going on. Major? I was whisked out of Washington two days ago for this to find out when we landed that it’s been called off. Are you the senior officer?”
“Where’s the sugar, dammit?”
Major Alcontira pulled a cup from the stack and poured some coffee as he talked. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of sugar and emptied it into his cup.
“I am the senior officer. We were looking forward to this chance to work with the U.S. Navy SEALs. I understood we would participate with Lieutenant Sunney and his teams when we were told three specialists were coming to do the exercise with us. I apologize that I was unable to arrange an officer from my country of equivalent rank. Unfortunately, by the time I found out, the exercise had been canceled.”
“No problem. Major. I am a little confused. I was led to believe that the reason I was sent was that you had sent a colonel. It’s not a big problem, it’s just a typical Washington screw up. This is Lieutenant Commander Beau Pettigrew,” Duncan said, pointing down at Beau, who was searching the bottom shelf.
“Who is slightly taller than he seems.”
Beau reached up and shook hands with the major before returning to his sugar search.
“And Lieutenant McDaniels,” Duncan continued.
The major’s eyes widened. Alcontira pitched the empty sugar pack toward the trashcan; it missed and fluttered down in front of Beau.
“A woman?”
“I was the last time I looked. Major.” H. J. smiled, sticking her hand out. Their eyes locked for several seconds until the major blinked and looked away. H. J.“s smile grew wider.
“And a very bonita mujer at that. Lieutenant,” Major Alcontira replied as he grasped H. J.“s outstretched hand with both of his and held it.
“Hey, por favor, Jesus, where did you find the sugar?”
Beau asked, standing up and waving the empty packet.
“From a European I accept the compliment. Major,” H. J. responded in fluent Spanish.
“Ah, you speak Andalucian,” he answered, also switching to Spanish, referring to the dialect prominent in southern Spain. He reached in his shirt pocket, and, without taking his eyes off H. J.” extracted another sugar packet and handed it to Beau.
“Yes. My father was a career sailor who spent two tours of duty in Rota, Spain. I graduated from the Department of Defense high school there — Admiral Farragut High School — more famous for its parties than its sports programs.”
Beau turned the packet over, examining it.
H. J. reluctantly pulled her hand back. Alcontira grinned and bowed his head as he released it.
“Ah, yes. Rota. It is too bad your navy decided it was not worth the small amount it cost. Rota was good for both of us. Before the new millennium we had such a good, strong relationship that centered on your presence in Rota.
Our people worked closely with your SEAL team there, the Naval Security Group Activity, and those fearless individuals who flew the four-engine aircraft … what did they call them?” He snapped his fingers.