Target Lock

Flag Quarters, USS Carlson 180 Miles Southeast of the Yemeni Headlands 0944 Hours, Zone Time: July 30, 2008

It had been some time since Elliot MacIntyre had shared quarters with a woman, even when the lady herself wasn’t present.

Amanda had insisted that MacIntyre take over her flag cabin while she was away aboard the Cunningham, pointing out that it made no sense whatsoever to leave accommodations empty aboard a living-space-starved man-of-war. Having refused her proposal that she turn her cabin over to him altogether during his stay aboard, he had to allow her to win on this point.

Still, it felt damn peculiar, and Eddie Mac couldn’t define exactly why.

There was nothing overtly feminine about the two-room suite with its connecting private head. Nor was there anything especially extravagant about them beyond the fitted navy-blue carpeting on the deck and the artificial pine paneling on the bulkheads. The overhead was still raked with the naked conduits and cable clusters of a warship.

The little office/living space had room enough for a large gray steel desk and computer terminal, along with a small leather-and-steel-tube couch and a rather battered and mismatched leather recliner chair that MacIntyre remembered as Amanda’s favorite from the wardroom set of the Cunningham.

The paintings mounted on the bulkheads were definitely worth a look. Amanda had several thousand dollars’ worth of original maritime art here, all of it done by Wilson Garrett, Rear Admiral, USN, retired — Amanda’s father.

MacIntyre grinned reminiscently. Back in the Persian Gulf aboard the old Callahan, they’d always thought the Old Man was just a little eccentric with his sketchpads and easels.

Two of the paintings were also transfers from the Duke, the one of Amanda’s first command, the fleet ocean tug Paigan, and the other of her Cape Cod sloop, the Zeeadler. But there was a third he had never seen before, a painting of a young girl looking out to sea from the top of a rocky beachside bluff. Clad in blue jeans and cradling a toy Sailboat in her arms, the child gazed at the distant horizon, a yearning dream in her eyes.

“Damnation,” MacIntyre murmured. There was no mistaking who the girl might be. A lot of father’s love had gone into that picture.

MacIntyre crossed to the door that led into the sleeping cabin. The blue carpet and pine panel motif held over here as well, a blue blanket drum-taut on the bunk-inset in the bulkhead. Again, not a trace of overt femininity, and yet, there was something….

The scent! That was it! The soft sweetness of cologne and talc over rode the usual warm metal neutrality of a ship’s atmosphere. He remembered now how it would strike him when he entered his bedroom back home after a long stint at sea. The scent of his late wife and the promise it held. The ways they would make up for their time apart.

Eddie Mac gave an impatient shake of his head, stuffing those memories back in their box and slamming the lid down. That was past now, and not returning.

Brusquely he turned to the lockers and drawers built into the bulk head across from the bunk, checking to see how the steward’s mate had his gear secured. However, the third drawer he pulled open revealed an explosion of filmy femininity. MacIntyre slammed the drawer hastily shut.

A totally inappropriate set of images involving Amanda Garrett and a small handful of black lace raged behind his eyes. Eddie Mac lifted a hand to his forehead and massaged his temples. This… was going to be difficult.

Seeking to refocus his attention, MacIntyre turned back toward the bunk. An inset shelf railed against wave action ran above it for its full length. Here MacIntyre found his diversion. An expensive portable CD player had been racked at its center along with a long row of music disks.

And there were books.

The admiral noted that a disk was already loaded in the player. He reached over and tapped the Start key. After a few moments the haunting strains of a familiar movement of music issued from the speaker. “The Song of the High Seas”; he should have expected that.

Intently he studied the row of book titles over the head of the bed. One of the surest ways of learning what was in an individual’s heart and mind was in having a look at what they read. Amanda had another bookcase full of professional reading out in the office space, but these were old friends, comfort books, battered and worn from many rereadings.

Not surprisingly there was a strong maritime orientation. There were a few Foresters, The Ship, The Good Shepherd, Gold from Crete. No Horn-blower, though: MacIntyre recalled Amanda once saying that she found the character’s incessant mullygutsing over his own inadequacies annoying. There was also a Jack London, The Adventures of Captain Grief, and Jan de Hartog’s Call of the Sea anthology.

There was humor as well, a couple of Admiral Dan Gallery’s “Cap’n Fatso” books and a massive reprint volume of the “Tugboat Annie” stories from the old Saturday Evening Post. On a hunch, MacIntyre took down the latter volume and flipped it open to the title page. Sure enough.

MacIntyre returned the book to its place. Finally, there were two real old-timers that must have come from Amanda’s father’s collection, Lowell Thomas’s Count Luckner, The Sea Devil and The Sea Devil’s Fo’c’sle.

The former had a bookmark tucked in it. Amanda must have been rereading it just over the last couple of days. MacIntyre smiled and took down the venerable hardcover. Propping the pillows up to a good reading angle, he stretched out on the bunk and turned to the first page.