Chapter 5

Climbing up the ad-hoc ladderwell while hauling out twenty kilograms of test equipment and spare controller PCBs, had become my daily shutdown operation. When the stews on the stern rig or dock saw this, the shore-master slammed controls, driving open the large three-phase contactor bars, effectively ending construction of the Valley Forge. The bars arced as they seperated, ionizing a large chunk of the local atmosphere. I have always liked the sharp smell of ozone.

“You smell that? Do you smell that? Ozone, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of Ozone at the end of the day. You know, one time we had a boat burnt to the water-line by my power converters. When it was all over I walked up. We didn’t find one stinking radar LRU. The smell, you know that burnt carbon smell, the whole boat hull. Smelled like ... beer time.”

Jerry groaned at my brilliant and artistic quote as I stopped to talk before leaving the forecastle deck. Looking down, I noticed a large gaggle of fishing boats passing down the channel.

“What’s with those?”

“Probably moving to Biloxi before the dredgers move in.”

“Yeah? that should be cool.”

“Not even close, man. Its gonna smell like dead coons and shit around here for two or three weeks.”

“Great. How fucking scenic ... So, are your electrical boys done with the shore-power adapter?”

“Tomorrow. You gonna blow more stuff up?”

“The senior chief threatened to cut my balls off if I trash anyone’s shit again. I was sorta hoping to keep my balls for next weekend. Dinky and me, we’re gonna ride up to Memphis. Friday after work. You and Anna Grace wanna come?”

“Yeah? That would be cool, but Ana Grace’s family is coming down from Charleston. You talk to the chief about his bike?”

“Not yet, not without Helen in the room. She’s my ally in this. Tonight at chow. I’m gonna wait until after he has a beer or two.”

“That’s a strategy thing?”

“Yep, it’s low and dirty. Using the Dark Side.”

“I’ll give you what you paid for it. And I’ll be keeping the bike here, so you can still ride it.”

I watched the senior chief’s eyes dart back and forth between Helen and the pork roast sitting on his plate. I too became fixated with the mound of meat on the man’s plate. I noted how the baked potato had been cut up and spread around, so as to impound the meat juices. I had no fucking idea why I was noticing this shit.

As Helen started to open her mouth, whether to say something are to shove more chow in, I was not certain. Probably both because she delayed a bit, then shoved some greens into her lovely face. I also noticed that Helen had but half of a potato. Not good. A potato is good hooter chow. Helen should definitely eat a full potato to maintain her hootage. Oh yeah, back on subject. I was talking about buying the man’s bike.

“What are you going to do with the bike if Helen leaves here to follow me to the ship’s home port? They’re talking about San Diego or Hawaii.”

“Well, wouldn’t that just suck, senior chief. That means that I would have to do a cross-country trip to take the bike back back to Cali. That would just break my heart...”

“Fuck you.”

Helen responded, faking a hyperbolic aghast to her hubby. She appeared wise and knowing; it was somewhat freaky to me as to how a woman could control her man with a simple gesture. I have long suspected that a woman’s tits are the secret source of this superior analytical power, thus providing a greater insight into the behavior and motives of their spouse; there must be additional neural nets and synapses within that soft mass.

“Henry! Be nice. You already said that you would sell it ... Mark, why don’t we talk about this another time?”

“Yes ma’am, good idea. And the roast is damn good.”

Helen’s chow was always somewhere between outfuckingstanding and fucking spectacular. (My mind really really needs to develop some non-jarhead adjectives and adverbs.) I dug into the over-piled plate, returning to my food-focus. My food-borne nirvana was squashed when The Bitch assumed her place at the table, arriving late, probably to make an individually-marked grand entrance. I had no idea why some women did dramatic shit like that.

I re-focused on the important task at hand, being thankful for the fifteen minutes of said consumption prior to Cindy Lou’s grand entrance, thus increasing my rate of consumption and ignoring Cindy Lou, then excusing myself. I continued being careful to never look at the bitch, as there remained concerns about turning to stone and/or liquefaction. I made my smooth and suave exit from the dinner table, with a patch of gravy making its way down the front of my shirt.

The chief and myself assumed our posts, standing the Friday evening watch atop the mizzen deck; that is, atop the garage on the balconey to my apartment. We were evaluating the quality of Cindy Lou’s suitors that were scattered across the southern veranda-style front porch. We had just started on our third beer when Dinky rode her Yamaha XS650 up the driveway.

Now that is how a woman makes a proper entrance. A hot lady on a decent bike, wearing leather coat open to expose her thin tank top. Cindy Lou could take lessons in womanhood from Dinky; there was no way to compare these two, it was not fair and it was not close.

I stood to talk to said hot woman from atop the front of the garage. I had wondered about her choice of motorcycle. The Yamaha XS650 was a proven design, and it was a good looking machine, but I never could figure out why the thing had quirky vibrations and other idiosyncronies. But Dinky handled the machine well, probably absorbing the additional mechanical vibrations using the critically-dampened mass of her perfect tits.

“Yo, lady. Come on up. We got beer ... Your bike sounds good.”

“Hey, Mark ... Yeah, valves were adjusted.”

“Dinky, this is Senior Chief Hank Anderson. Senior Chief, this is officer Dianne Santiago.”

I watched the chief give Dinky a quick once over as he shaked her hand. The chief offered her the plastic chair next to mine while handing her a beer. Dinky was quick to recognize our surveil target.

“So you watching that woman with all of her beaus? Is she holding court or something?”

“Yep. I have no fucking idea why they’re after her skank ass.”

“Money?”

“Dunno. Senior Chief? Is daddy loaded?”

“Damn, woman. You got it on your first try. Yep, her daddy is rolling in it.”

“Basic human nature ... Mark, when we crossing the wire?”

“How about between zero-seven and zero-eight?”

“Sounds good.”

Turning to face me, bending at the waist, Dinky put her empty bottle under her chair. Fuck me. Mind wipe. Why do woman do that? Well duh, dumbshit; they do it because they can.

The chief grabbed two more beers out of the bucket, handing them to Dinky and me. The chief gave me a questioning look when he caught my vacant eyes. I had a blank stare into the distance, being a victim of the tit-effect, with the resultant mind-wipe.

I returned Dinky’s smirk, per her exhibition and her not-so-earnest question to the chief.

“So has anyone made it past first base?”

“We’re not certain, Dianne. I asked my wife, but she thinks that would be, what was her word? ... yeah, she said that was ‘crude’. What’s so crude about that?”

“Don’t know, senior chief. Where I’m from we would be more direct. I’d just ask the girl who was banging her.”

“Where you from, Dianne?”

“West Virginia. And no, I did not date my cousins.”

Dinky’s humor was one of several things that gave her ‘babe’ status in my book. Although, much of her nuance and humor were wasted on my simple mind. But her perfect tits were not wasted on me. Did I tell you she had perfect tits?

As it got dark and cooled down, the hot woman in the thin shirt sitting next to me was, obviously, getting cold. Tragedy of the commons that it was, it meant a priceless visionary asset would be lost to a greater society. But I manned up and offered her my nerdly flannel shirt.

Dinky and myself remained on the balconey after Helen summoned the chief for dinner, and had a few more beers, watching the sunset. Not as scenic as the sun’s horizon smashes in California, but it was acceptable.

“I got some frozen burritos for chow. I’ll heat them up and bring them out. Have another.”

“Had three already. Watch some TV?”

“Don’t have one. Never got around to getting one.”

My motorcycle babe offered no criticism for the dearth of available entertainment. And said nothing as she followed me into the apartment. As I was about to ask her destination, the woman removed my flannel shirt, then pulled her shirt over the top of her head. When she sat on the bed, her intentions were obvious, and required no verbal banter. Dinky knew when saying nothing was better than saying everything; and she seldom said more than what was necessary to make her point. I observed carefully as she exposed her tits. Did I tell you that she has perfect tits?

Reville had me hitting the deck at 0530. Tossing my pre-packed saddle bags and pack in front of the bed, I started coffee. Pausing to admire the female form in my bed, I made my way into the shower. Dinky joined me a few minutes later, saying nothing as she stepped in the stall. My carefully planned schedule would not find fruition. We said nothing of my schedule, actually, as we exchanged no words that morning until we mounted our bikes and fled the scene. Sometimes life can get a little better.

Dinky’s cousin was an eccentric academic, teaching at Memphis State. Her cousin’s small house was dwarfed by the 1500 acres of rural land it rested on. After leaving a note on the front door, and a short hike across a large fallow field then over a ridge, we set up a camp site next to a creek running through the property.

For some reason, I did not have much to say Dinky that weekend. Well, that is not true. I never say much of anything to anybody, other than dogs and cats; and I’ll have you know that members of both the cat and dog societies have expressed appreciation of my suave conversational skills.

Converstaion was not required as I enjoyed tending to her needs for a few days. The culmination of the weekend was the silent declaration that we were a couple, achieved when she squatted in front of me to take a piss. Which was followed by my non-chalant removal of my dick from my jeans to, also, take a piss. I have always wondered why it is expressed as ‘taking’ a piss.

Dinky’s mid-aged cousin was looking me up and down, as if she was a microbiologist evaluating specimens in a petri dish. Dinky seemed to like the woman, so I ingored the once-over, deciding that I would, for once, make an effort to get along.

“You like the boy?”

“He’ll do. At least for a while.”

Geez, don’t these women know I’m standing next to them? WTF?

“That’s good. Y’all come up here anytime. Going directly back to Gulfport?”

“Haven’t decided. What you want to do, Mark?”

What I want to do is ditch your cousin and, again, make you naked and horizontal, lady.

“Don’t care. You said you wanted to go through Jackson. We can do that. Any route ya want is good.”

Dinky shrugged in a non-verbal response, then continued to pull up her leather jacket, in preperation to leave. I found it quite wonderous how her tits rode up when she raised her arms. Yeah, that’s it, ‘wonderous’ is the correct description. What the fuck? Is everything about the woman fucking wonderous? I need to get a grip.

As we exited her cousin’s property, I was careful to ride in trail, letting Dinky take the lead. I really did not care how we got back. At that point, I probably did not give a flying fuck if I never got back to Pascagoula. I was ready to ride across the country with this woman. I wanted to see the effect of each different state had on Dinky’s tits; for science, of course.

Dinky was observing the end of Sunday, from the apartment balcony over the garage, in my bathrobe, when I handed her a beer. Sitting down beside her, I pulled a blanket over the both of us, enjoying the nothingness of the night. We said nothing, recovering from the long ride. I’m a simple guy. I prefer the quiet and an average beer. Silence, as some philospher probably said, can say more than words. We said much in our silence as we swilled beer.

“I’ll stay the night. Don’t have to be back until noon tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

The silence continued. Sometimes life can get a little better.

About midnight, Dinky asked me an unusual question. I suppose the klaxons and sirens of my mind should have blared warnings, but I took the question as a self-evident query, and at face value. Dinky had yet to demonstrate any alterior motives or manipulative behaviors.

“What do you think about when you’re inside of me?”

“Hah! Usually not thinking a damn thing. I dunno, maybe how good you look, and just how it feels, I guess ... but sometimes, ya know, I just want to get as close as possible. I mean, I don’t wanna get my rocks off ... I just want us to be close...”

The silence returned as we swilled our second beer of the evening. As the second beer met its destiny, Dinky pulled the blanket off, and stood to remove the front tie of the robe. My sentient being was drained out of my brain and into my dick as she pulled the blanket off of me, to pull down my sweat pants. Straddling me, she slowly sat down, putting me inside of her. I pulled the blanket back over us as she settled onto my lap. Her only statement was not to implore me to fuck her, but was softly stated as an emotional imperative.

“Let’s be close.”

And for an hour, or of some unknown interval, we were very close.

The yard master was in a particuarly foul mood. I guessed that he had failed to bang his wife that weekend. Not my problem; don’t care. If those radar techs can’t figure it out, I’m not the one fucking up the schedule. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“Mark, where was the fire?”

“Base of the mast. They got lucky, the spy-one array could have been toast.”

“Any ideas?”

“Yeah, sell your Lockheed Martin stock.”

“Fuck you. Where should we start?”

“Geez, Senior Chief. Not my system. Don’t know shit about that stuff.”

“Bullshit. You worked on SAR systems in the Corps.

“Yeah. Much more simple, and smaller. Airborne systems. This shit is fucking huge.”

“Shut up and show me, asshole.”

Fuck me. The chief was roping my malingering ass into troubleshooting the biggest fucking radar system I had ever seen. Not only was it big, it had thousands of individual emitters, each controllable by some magical electronics gifted to mortals by wizards. The RF-4 shit I had worked on was a rifle. The shit on an Aegis cruiser was a howitzer. How’s that for a comparitive analysis?

“Mister Hendly, share your schematics with Mark Watson. The more eyes on the problem, the better.”

The Lockheed-Martin engineer look at me with doubt, and maybe a little contempt.

“I would rather not release...”

“He has a T/S clearance. And experience with airborne synthetic aperture radar.”

I did not miss the exagerrated withdrawl of blue prints from the locker.

“Sign-out the docs in the log. No prints can leave the site ... Chief, I have a phone call with the factory. I will return tomorrow.”

Well fuck me. The asshole is bailing on us. Nothing I can do now.

“Well, sorry ‘bout that, senior chief. Can’t do it without the factory rep.”

“Bullshit, sergeant. Get the senior yard electrician. Jerry, is it?”