Chapter 4

Sunday morning in the desert was what I needed; a mindless and simple existence. I’m a simple guy. Put me in the desert on my bike, and give me a beer or two every evening.

Walking up the top of the east fork of pinyon canyon, I paused to climb up on a boulder, to observe my vast domain. Commander of all that I see, and that sort of shit. Watching the occasional vehicle navigate state route 78 through the San Felipe wash, I looked across the small valley to the opposite mountain ridge, thinking that if I was Darth Vader I would end human habitation of the southwestern deserts. Maybe not. I would allow women with nice tits in the area.

Looking at my watch, it was time to end my fantasies of desert conquest, and return to my poor excuse for reality. But I still had the time to take the long way back to Huntington Beach. Back over the mountains via state route 78, then winding my way down SR76 to unload onto the northbound sewer line, commonly referenced as Interstate 5. A few clicks before the 5/405 split, I glanced onto the Sand Canyon exit. This exit was very familiar, it led to MCAS El Toro. I briefly wondered how Tim and Nick were doing on their carrier deployments.

“Dude, get your bike license. It’s so cool. Great commuter machine.”

“Coming up on forty next month, man. Not gonna push it. But I’ll keep your bike and truck secure.”

Extending the three papers to Dave, I motioned to my beloved truck.

“Whatever. But use the truck whenever you want. Here’s the permission and insurance papers. Ms Hutchinson drafted this. You’re legal to use it, man.”

“Get your shit in the car. You got less than two hours. Damn...”

I did not understand Dave’s sudden bout of sadness. He was getting his hacienda back to normal. As for me, I was chomping at the nipple to vamos. New scenery, new tits, and zero people that knew me. At least that was the theory.

Ingalls ship yard were the builders of the new Aegis missle cruisers. The facility was in the deep south, on the Gulf of Mexico. Pascagoula, Missisipi was a civil oasis that stood apart from a state drowning in poverty and other social problems. Their mess was not of my making, so I really did not give a flying fuck about the locals.

My purpose in life was to guide the ship yard’s integrattion of the ship’s power converters, then train the plank-holding squids. With the exception of corpsmen and the aviation squadrons aboard the Midway, I generally disliked sailors. They were lazy, drunken sots. Their wifes were fat and whiny, had droopy tits, and their children were the spawn of hell. Not that I’m prejudiced of sailors or anything.

The Ingalls contractor affairs office was ready for me with a bazzilion things to read and sign, and for unknown reasons, they issued me, not one, not two, but three ID badges to be worn on my person. I never understood their security system, but I did know that the three badges, for unknown reasons, gave me unlimited access to the sprawling facility. Well, everywhere except the women’s locker room. When I become empereor, I will grant myself access to the women’s locker room. Make that four ID badges; I was also required to wear my ALS-issued ID.

Throughout the indoc process, I was continually ready to spout, ‘Badges? We don’t need no stinkin badges.’ But the oppurtunity of said statement to a receptive audience never arose.

My first week was in a secure warehouse in the back forty, guarded by a fat guy that had probably married his cousin. I never could understand any single extended phrase from the man, so our thrice-daily conversation consisted of ‘hi’, ‘bye, and ‘how ya doin?’. I was beginning to wonder if the fat dolt spoke English.

The warehouse was a secure staging area for systems about to be installed. At one end of the warehouse was, what appeared to be, ASROC tubes. At the other end, were large electrical motors, easily in the thousands of horsepower. I had never seen a larger motor. It must have required hundreds of meters of wire. Passing by one, I stopped to glance at the rating plate, then walking away in a daze as I did the mental calculations for the ungodly amount of inrush current that would be required to get the giant motor turning. Such equiment made me wonder if my employer’s design was not under-specified.

In the middle of my warehouse, I was slowly laying out the LRUs and racks to verify their mechanical condition and to run an audit. Government facilities in the deep south have a long history of equipment ‘falling off’ the back of trucks. I was happy to declare that our shipment had arrived without ‘lost’ equipment. Life was good, at least until a severe-looking navy lieutent walked up, attempting to exercise a command presence.

“You the tech rep for the Mark Four?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She had positioned her body at a 45 degree angle, with jaw raised and ajut. My assumption was that she wanted me to see her railroad tracks. I wondered if she had been recently promoted to full lieutent. One thing that I did like about squid khaki uniforms, is that the shirt makes it difficult for a female to downplay or otherwise de-emphasize a torso having ample hoots. And the LT had ample hooters.

“Mark Watson?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is the ship-set ready for install?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Will you be available for a twenty-four hour jump in schedule?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are dock instructions ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are the...”

The woman ceased her questions upon noticing my eyes had diverted to an approaching navy CPO. I wondered if they sent the chief to gang up on my dumb ass, or the chief was sent to rein in the LT. I was hoping for the latter, as it was becoming exponentially difficult to keep my eyes off of said ample chest.

“Ah, Mister Harris. What bring the good lieutent into my hangar of horrors?”

The chief’s voice was starkly familiar, but his approach did not allow a clear line of sight. I thought the chief had used excellant tactics in his stalk, at least for a warehouse. And it did seem he could be here to rescue my dumb ass from the various projectiles (slings and arrows?) of the Outrageous Fortune from commisioned officers. Maybe not.

The chief approached from my side, suddenly stopped, then emitted a whoop that bounced off the warehouse walls.

“I’ll be fucking damned. Sergeant Watson. I wondered what happened to your gyrene ass.”

“Lieutent Harris, I’ll take it from here.”

“Like the beard, Watson. Other than the obvious, what have you been doing, son?”

“Nothing important, Master Chief ... Whoa, make that Senior Chief, congrats ... you’re a long way from Atsugi, Senior Chief. What the fuck, over? And how’s Missus Helen? You surface navy now?”

“Long story. But Helen is a happy camper. She was ready to leave Japan. We wondered what happened when you didn’t show up for the 81 cruise. Charlie Hutzel wouldn’t say shit.”

I noted the senior chief’s quick glance at my multiple badges, which seem to direct a decision.

“Watson, belay this for a while?”

“No problemo.”

“ ... so, you believe that son?

“Shit, senior chief. Don’t have a clue. You know I’ve never done politics or hanged around with the heavies. In any case, we built the system to exceed the specs the navy published, if the spec is shit, then your barge is fucked. But I was looking at that big-ass motor in the staging warehouse. I mean, that’s gotta be two thousand amps to spin the fucker.”

“The motors with the 1900 series plates?”

“Yep.”

“Non issue. They get juice directly from the shaft generators.”

“In any case, until I see a power budget, I dunno. You want me to talk to my project manager?”

“Nah. Let’s table this shit for now. They just assigned an XO and chief engineer. They will be on site next week, so we’ll await their orders ... So where you staying?”

“Basky motel.”

“That sucks. Per diem limitations?”

“That’s part of it. They’re also letting me pocket the scheduled difference.”

“Bullshit. My place is less than ten clicks north. Let’s get your shit. Helen will be happy to see your dumb ass.”

“Aye, senior chief.”

I had no fucking idea the source of my good karma. Helen and the chief were the good guys. He was one of the CPOs that had kept the Midway CAG flying. And he always knew the best places for all of the westpac port of calls.

As typical of the woman’s nature, Helen welcomed me with open arms. She had been the air group’s den mother whenever the CAG was in Atsugi. There had always been a constant stream of airwing sailors and Marines in and out of their house in Japan, so it did not surprise me that they had welcomed me into their large ancestral home.

“So you’re gonna be the CSC of the next tub?”

“That’s my ship you’re calling a tub, stupid jarhead.”

“So ya think the new navy is up for this starwars shit?”

“Between you, me, and my lovely wife, no fucking way. We’re still identifying threat models and tactics for the SPY-one. And the brass has yet to come up with battle group strategies. They’re only saying that there will be one per carrier group, but it will probably be detached.”

“Wow, sounds like a billion-dollar cluster fuck, senior chief.”

“Yeah. Come outside. Wanna show you something that will put a stiffy in your skivies.”

The bike was beautiful. It was tits. The Suzuki Katana was the GSX1000SZ model, a very civil beast.

“Helen actually let you get this?”

“Fuck you. But I am on a short leash. Have not had it a year, and she already wants me to sell it.”

“Oh my fucking god, senior chief. No. You can’t do it. Your sea gods will punish you. It’s fucking beautiful.”

“You want to ride my bike?

“For a smart man, you ask some really stupid questions, senior chief.”

When he tossed me the keys, I handed the chief my half-full beer, to mount the bike. After a four-minute orientation, I was gone.

The throaty synchronized roar of sixteen valves was a sonata. It rode nicely and was easy to push into a turn. The bike was larger and more powerful than any bike I had ridden. And it felt right. Just like a perfectly-sized pair of tits feels when cupped with your palms. I wished that Doug could have rode this bike.

The apartment over the garage was a basic open configuration, with the bedroom, dining/living area, and kitchen unseperated. The only clear delineation was the bathroom. It was immensely more comfortable than the motel room, and provided some supplemental income to my favorite navy chief. Helen was happy to have me around, accepting my weird hours, and frequently demanding that I eat at their table. But of more importance, Helen accepted my need for avoidance. I had no idea why nature refused to make more women such as Helen.

The most significant change in the chief was in our relationship. His multiple attempts to be addressed by his first name were a wasted effort on me, as my simple mind was not able to disrespect a man that had earned his title. But he did address me as such.

“Mark, another guest is coming. Consider this to be your first frag order.”

Laughing at the chief’s tactical mode, I waited for an explanation while Helen looked on with a silly mona lisa smile.

“Y’all want me to move out? Give me a day, and I’ll be out and...”

Helen shot up from her chair.

“Most certainly not, Mark. She will stay in the house. It is a four bedroom house.”

“My niece just graduated from Mississippi State. She got an admin job at Ingalls. So she’s going to start out here until she can find her own place. She’s not a bad kid.”

“No problemo, senior chief. I won’t get in anybody’s way.”

I beat feet, avoiding further discussion, as I had a hot date with a motorcycle. The chief’s bike had become my primary mode of transport. As such, an unofficial motorcycle club had been forming from the Ingalls shipyard workers. Most Sundays were touring days, exploring the backroads of Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, and southern Arkansas. I liked the bike group. They rode much, spoke little, and never planned a ride, we just met and went; never any drama. It was tits.

My fourth week in Mississippi was spent buried in the hull of the future USS Valley Forge. As systems were subsequently connected to the 400Hz power bus, another check mark hit my list. Some check marks were long in coming, mostly from miswires, typically resulting in a fire or frying the connected system. I took evil pleasure in my system frying other contractor’s systems. I was not the most popular contractor’s rep among the twenty or thirty tech reps that came and went into the shipyard. But neither Ingalls or the navy had any complaints about the ALS power conversion stuff. For the time being, life was tits.

Billy Bob, Anna Beth, Emma Jane, Laury Beth, Tucker Lee. What the fuck is it with deep-south double names? Cindy Lou was one such double. I had no idea if the girl’s southern ‘accent’ was contrived or legit, but it did set me on edge to address the chief’s niece as ‘Cindy Lou’. I would have preferred to never address the flighty bitch at all.

Cindy Lou, in my estimation, had but two things going for the woman, the primary one that she was of the chief’s family. The other was, you guessed it sports fans, that she had c-cup hoots adorning a small frame, giving her an almost comical Barbie-doll appearance. Nice to look at, but she was the spawn, directly from the horrors offered by the ninth circle of hell. Distanced out of hearing range, Cindy Lou was tolerable, but she did remain treacherous.

Every Friday and Saturday evening, she had, never just one, but multiple suitors and horn dogs lined up to sniff around in some primordial southern mating ritual. The chief and myself spent many an evening mounted on the balcony of my upstairs apartment, swilling beer, and watching the comings and goings of the menfolk of Ingalls ship yard and other parts of south Mississippi and Louisiana. We placed bets for the winner of ‘home base’. But we could not be certain if one had, in fact, had reached home base. We believed that most were hitting foul balls or singles to first base. A few were struck out long before reaching the front porch, three strikes in a row.

Cindy Lou had attempted to join the motorcycle ‘club’ several times, soundly rejected by the cadre of men all wiser and older than myself. My secure feeling within this group was emphasized on my fifth Friday evening in Mississippi, as the cyclists gathered in the equipment yard to decide our Sunday departure point.