Chapter 6

I did not like the look of this admiral. The man was, obviously, not a happy camper. Another item of observation was that the admiral was in a khaki uniform, without a nametag, no ribbons, and four badges; and not exhibiting any signs of discomfort for the 42F ambient. He looked to be a hard man. As I approached, I was able to identify his constellation of badges. Submarine and surface warfare badges, and aviator’s and parachutist’s wings. My thoughts were of the excessive uniform costs to wear all of that metal. Surely it must tear the material. We don’t need no stinkin badges. Whatever.

“Admiral, this is Mark Watson.”

I noted that the admiral was not introduced to me. So I just stood there, looking blank, or maybe stupid; in any case, my expression was not a suave demeanor. I was jerked out of my blank state when my Engineering Director emerged from a second government vehicle, with a bulging document case. This was getting interesting.

The admiral did not fuck around with preliminaries. Scowling at Bart Ashely, the admiral sharply pointed.

“Bring your prints. I want to go see the base of the emitter mast, and the power feeds.”

Oh, shit. I needed to step on that, like now.

“No can do, sir. Not now.”

“What!?”

Admirals are unused to ‘no’. I am not active duty and have a DD-214 in my possesion. It was with great joy that my peon self was able to say no to a flag officer. The joy was short lived when the boss of my boss of my boss quickly intervened. That went well.

“Mark! Get your gear and let’s go aboard. Now!”

“Don’t think so, Mister Ashley. Unsafe. You people should have arranged this with the dockmaster and the equipment scheduler. And we also need to...”

“Why is it not safe, Watson?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. Damn the burritos, warp speed ahead. Batten down the sewer covers. Man the gunwales. Where the fuck are the gunwales on a navy cruiser, anyway? Gun Whales? Never mind.

“That’s ‘Mister’ Watson to you, sir. At this point, if anyone had bothered to study the sequencing on the scheduler, the aft and port Mark Fours are open and exposed. The port emitter array has all power feeds exposed and is in test mode; that is, its fucking running open-loop, sir.”

The good admiral turned an interesting shade of red as he yelled for the attentions of Commander Dumbshit. My director of engineering was turning pale and did not look well. If the man keeled over, I sure as shit would not be giving him mouth-to-mouth. He’s definitely not my type.

I was saved by tits; more precisely, Lt Big Tits of said logistics fame. It was truly a travesty that it was too cold for her to wear her knaki uniform. But the lady lieutent did provide the admiral with a rationale behind my ‘no’.

“Sir, it will take seventy to ninety minutes for the shutdown procedure. The admiral would be more comfortable in the main Ingalls office mainside until...”

Not waiting for Lt Tits of Logistics to complete her attempt at a situational save, the Admiral stomped off to that secret admiral’s stomping place, where ever that is. As for me, I went to the Chief’s office to have some coffee, and to contemplate the errors of my ways.

The admiral squinted at my notes, written in the margins of the large schematic print-outs. I also had more notes and calculations written onto the control wiring diagrams for the ship’s weapons systems. Commander Dumbshit had been almost apoplectic that I had defaced his secret and top secret documents. Well, geez, Mr Officer Sir, I’m really not fucking sorry. And its sure as shit that I am not authorized to create additional secret docs. Notes and calculations made on a secret system are, well, fucking secret.

The admiral silenced the erstwhile XO’s concerns over the preservation of his sacred documents, simply by ignoring the man as he continued to question Mr Ashley about my math and notes.

“I see nothing wrong with this, sir. Mark’s empirical data support his mathematical model such that the first derivative clearly indicates the induced flux, resulting from the inrush, translates into a field vector that couples to the controller feedback port.”

Yeah. Whatever. I second those fancy words Mr Bart Ashley said. I was certain that sooner or later, Mr Ashley will make the admiral understand that his emitter array controller design just doesn’t fucking cut the mustard. Or ketchup. Or Mayo. Mustard is better, perfect viscosity, and goes well with jalepenos. Whatever. Fucking fix your design problems people. Geez, I did the grunt work. Call in the A-team.

“Did I miss anything per your notes and calculations, Mark?”

Yeah, how about a week or two off while these people fix this piece of doo doo? Or how about Lt Big Tits goes back to wearing her tight khaki uniform?

“No, sir.”

As usual, my reply was eloquent. I’ll bet that impressed the fuck out of the admiral. Shit, why is he staring at me? Is my dick hanging out?

“Mister Watson, I will need you in Maryland in a few weeks.”

Damn, the star-wearing fucker adressed me as ‘mister’. Does that mean the lieutent has to show her tits to me?

“Uh ... sir, that requirement will have to come from this man.”

Ashley, unknowingly, proceeded to throw my dumb ass under the bus.

“Legal is working on an augmented contract, Mark. Remain available while the Navy procurement people issue the supplemental.”

Like fucking hell I was going to sit on my lily white ass for two or three weeks. Bite me, mister engineering manager.

“I’ll standby, sir.”

Yeah, right. Like hell I will standthefuckby.

“Get your ass up front. I’ll never improve unless you pace our runs.”

I did not like to run in front of Dinky. The scenic venues were severly limited when to her front. The best scenery was only available when running behind or to her side. And running to her side had proved dangerous, as I seldom looked forward. But for Dinky, I would sacrifice, so I ran in echelon to her front, only occasionly looking back to appreciate the critically-dampened oscillations of her tits. Have I told you she has perfect tits?

The police palace took but a week to become aware of me, probably from me hanging around within fenced off parking lot, waiting for Dinky when she worked a late evening. They did not fuck with me, so I was careful about letting my mouth repeat what was rattling around in my brain housing group. Most of my circumspect behavior was for Dinky, otherwise, I didn’t give a flying fuck what the guns and badges gang thought of me.

I did my best to contain my assholeness, as the Gulfport cops seem to be making more than a minimal effort. But I did ignore their invites into the cop palace. Too many people packed into a small volume. But there were a few cops that seemed to be good eggs.

I watched, with visionary pleasure, as Dinky approached.

“Undercover this week?”

“Yeah. With our resident philosopher. Don’t see how his wife can stand the guy.”

“Seems okay to me.”

“Tell ya what, you go sit in a vehicle with him for five or six hours. Then I’ll ask you what you think of him.”

This was, yet another, element of womanhood beyond my understanding. The cop being referenced was actually a decent stand-up type of guy; polite, educated, well-spoken, and he (foolishly) wanted to save the world from itself. The type of person that I am not. Thank the gods above and the demons below that Dinky has poor taste in men.

During my second week of Life With Dinky, she was deep into some investigation that required weird hours.

“Where’s Dinky?”

“Back on those weird cop hours.”

“Vice?”

“Nah. Some other stuff. She’s teamed up with that over-educated guy ... uh, Detective Willow, or something like that.”

“That’s good. We need smart cops. Educated in what?”

“Dinky said masters degree in French Literature.”

“Wow ... Want your soup hot? Or is this for Dinky?”

“Uh, mild. Takin it home ... What?”

Ana Grace had that same Mona Lisa smile that Dinky provided at unpredictable times. While typically indicative of a happy or satisfied state, there were times when it was an expression of amusement, as if she was observing the antics of a puppy being playful and stupid. I suspected that it was mostly the latter, but was also certain that I had done nothing stupid. Inscruitability among females should be illegal.

I never felt at ease among the public. Being with Dinky minimized the feeling of unease. I was, nonetheless, always a bit too on edge in public without her. I continued to slowly swill my beer, waiting for my take-out order. Fingering my bag full of books from the library, seemed to quell misgivings about this evening’s public ‘exposure’. At least I would have some decent chow for Dinky when she staggered in at zero dark thirty.

“Hey Dinky, ya look beat. Go shower, I heat some gumbo soup for ya”

Dinky said nothing as she, literally, fell into me. I held her tight as she tried to wrap herself around me. This was not good. I may not be clairvoyant, but I am also not a total moron. The woman was supremely upset. Well, fuck. What should I do for her? Fuck.

Dinky had essentially gone blank. I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, removed her clothes, cranked the shower on, then put her in the tub. Dinky leaned into me as I washed her. When I realized that her weight was being totally supported by me, I turned the diverter to the fill the tub.

Fuck, the woman had been seriously beaten down by something. Must be some serious shit. Setting her in the tub, I went to heat up the soup.

“ ... it’s bigger than that ... it’s a mess, Mark. Not even the LT thinks we have a way out.”

“Dinky, you have your shit together. Call the feds and bail on those fuckers.”

“Can’t Mark ... just can’t do it. I’m not a buddy fucker...”

Dinky drifted off to sleep. My best guess was that her jarheadness was causing (misplaced) loyalty to her department. Who would’ve thunk it? Shocked. Shocked I say. Just shocked that there would be corruption in a deep south municipal government.

Fuck me. The shit I get caught up in. My karma is leaking out of my Buddha cup. While I was certain that Dinky was more than worth me standing by her side, I was less certain of me rating her to stand by me. Fucking karma.

“We’re guessing that it started when the city manager was caught boning the county clerk by his other mistress, that happens to work in the DA’s office. When the people at State AG’s office heard of this, they called the captain. The captain assigned the LT, myself, and Willowby to investigae. So here we are.”

“Anyone know, other than you four?”

“About the blackmail or the kickbacks to the comptroller?”

“and/or”

“If there is someone else that knows, the LT hasn’t said.”

“Remember those two feds?”

“Yeah?”

“We talk about every other week. They do this type of investigative stuff a lot. If Gulfport, and especially if you cops get federal bucks, they have jurisdiction to investigate. Let me call them.”

“Why are you talkin to the FBI?”

“Dunno. They make it a point to call me at my Ingalls office. Mostly they just ask where I’ve been and who I’m hanging around. Sometimes we talk about fishing spots and other shit.”

“Yeah? hmmm...”

I like Dinky’s ‘thinking posture’. Her arms closely held to her sides, compressing her tits together with her upper arms, and with nose crinkled. She was doing it again. She looked hot when deep in thought. Fuck, she looked hot doing anything.

“Hey, Jerry. What’s up?”

“Where the fuck ya been, man? The project manager and the commander are going ape shit.”

“Yeah? Good to hear. Fuck ‘em. Got bigger fish to fry.”

“You in trouble with Dinky?”

“Nah. Nuthin like that. But things are getting intense for her at work. Gonna help her through some shit.”

“That’s cool. You really need to see the chief. And be alert, man. The Bitch was asking ‘bout ya.”

“Whatever. See ya. Be cool, dude.”

“Yo, senior chief. What’s up?”

“Where have you been, Mark? You people ever answer your phone? And get one of those fancing answering machines if you’re going to shack up in Gulfport.”

“Good idea, senior chief. Still waiting for the supplemental contract?”

“That will not happen. Lockheed-Martin refuses to fund your employer’s tech assist budget, and the Navy says funding is Ingalls’ problem.”

“Ingalls problem?”

“Design problems identified by the contracter are theirs to own and fix. So it’s now a dick comparison contest between Lockheed-Martin and Ingalls. The navy is threatening fines if Ingalls goes too far off schedule.”

“Whatever. No es mi problema, senior chief. Is Mister Ashley still around?”

“He went over the side yesterday. He left a love letter for you.”

The envelope had been, ridicously, sealed with tape. Ripping open the envelope, I read the message aloud.

“ ... you are to adhere to the master schedule and the scheduler’s intent, and provide direct support for the installation and interface of the ship-set per the original Ingalls support contract. Contact ALS legal at 714-953-6462 if requested to provide any services not specified by the support contract. Do not remain on site when the Mark IV ship-set has no slots scheduled.”

“Damn, your employer is playing hardball, Mark. What are you going to do?”

“Exactly what the man says. Otherwise they’ll probably kick me to the curb. So I need to make myself disappear for the next eight to eleven days. You guys have my notes, that will help Jerry’s people and the radar people. Gotta go, senior chief.”