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  Turning to the US flag posted aft, she brought her right hand up knifelike and snapped a guidebook salute to the colors of her country.

  The Officer of the Deck (OOD), a tall, slim lieutenant standing next to her, answered the salute then looked her up and down as she dropped her hand and turned to him. Once again, she cocked her arm and raised her fingertips to her temple.

  “Request permission to come aboard, sir,” she sounded boldly, holding her hand steady above her brow as she waited for the OOD to return the greeting and allow her to step across to the Atchison’s quarterdeck.

  The young lieutenant looked at her with a blinking frown and asked, “May I see your orders please, Ensign?”

  The strong smell of fresh enamel paint made her small, freckle-splattered nose twitch as she pulled her orders from her left skirt pocket. While holding the salute, she shoved the papers to the OOD’s waiting hand. The three-page document mentioned nothing of her undercover duty. Not even the captain of the ship would be informed of the true assignment. Only her contact would know.

  The lieutenant scanned her orders, and then studied her.

  She noticed his blue eyes and long lashes. She’d learned in criminal psych class that eyes could be very revealing to an experienced investigator. They could tell many things about the person behind them; his honesty, integrity, humor, intentions. This man’s eyes were honest and bright. He could be a needed ally in the future. But while mentally critiquing the first member of the crew she’d met, she remembered something her mother had told her about eyes.

  Sometimes they lie.

  The officer’s questioning expression faded and his blue eyes seemed to smile even though his lips didn’t. She took note of his square jaw, sharp nose and high cheekbones and saw something familiar. Maybe she’d seen him when she was in the reserves or perhaps at her father’s retirement party six years earlier—probably someone who looked like him—it didn’t matter.

  She noticed his summer-white uniform was impeccably clean, pressed and attended to without even the smallest Irish pennant or loose thread. Above a handful of ribbons over his left breast pocket gleamed a set of gold jump wings indicating that at some point during his time in, he’d been a parachutist, possibly in special ops. But he didn’t wear the special warfare insignia of a SEAL. Over that strong odor of paint, came just a hint of his Old Spice aftershave.

  He saluted and returned her orders.

  “Very well, Ensign Sperling. I’m Lieutenant Darren North.”

  She remembered what Henry Dubain had said. This was the Lieutenant North that was “always watching you, like if you make a move you’re not supposed to, he’ll keelhaul you.”

  Yes, it’ll be an interesting cruise, she thought, bringing her hand down smartly.

  The young lieutenant continued, “The XO, Lieutenant Commander Reeves, wants all new personnel to report in to him. He’s topside in the Conn— on the bridge. It’s the same thing on this little ship,” North said, then his lips did actually curve into a smile as he gazed at her. He added, “Welcome aboard, Janelle.”

  He offered his hand.

  Surprised by his sudden cordiality, she took his hand warily.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said and forced a courteous smile back.

  He pointed to a clipboard lying on a small table. “Sign in, please.”

  She stepped aboard, lifting her bags for the short distance and placed them by the table, then picked up the pen taped to a string attached to the clip-board and signed. Grimacing, she boosted her duffel bag up to her chest and swung it to her back and then grabbed up the handbag. Pausing, she thought of Dubain’s comment about Lieutenant Commander Reeves—”might be all right.”

  Ignoring her complaining arms and shoulders, she stepped across the deck. It wouldn’t be long before she would be afforded the opportunity to rest. With that in mind, she puffed determinedly and trudged toward the ladder to the bridge. After a day and a half in the air and in crowded airports, she looked forward to reporting in and being assigned her quarters. Somewhere aboard this ship, a soothing, warm shower waited just for her.

  Walking to the metal stairway, she could still feel the weight of the young lieutenant’s gaze and she wondered if he still smiled.

  Chapter 6

  CONDUCT UNBECOMING

  SPURS LOCATED THE ship’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Reeves, leaning over a nautical chart table on the ship’s bridge. He was accompanied by a young boatswain’s mate wearing a radio headset, and, next to the far bulkhead, a black Marine Corporal stood with a duty belt slung around his waist and on it a holstered Beretta. She found the extra security interesting. She reminded herself of the need to be careful about asking too many questions and arousing suspicion of her.

  The XO studied the map with his back turned, and neither of the other men had noticed her.

  “The fleet’s leaving port early to try and skirt that squall that’s blowing in from the Azores. Looks like we’ll be doing a little tossin’ by about 2400 tonight,” the XO said tapping his compass on the portion of chart he studied. “If we’re lucky, we’ll just get into the tail end of ‘er. But if she changes course—well then—it’ll be a good drill for the legs.”

  The term legs passed by Spurs hardly noticed. It wasn’t long after enlisting that she’d gotten used to the terms and slang used in the male oriented Navy. She knew well that in this case, legs meant the inexperienced. That definition had been derived from its use meaning women and in most cases could be substituted for pussy, chicken, gutless, or female.

  Spurs noted a trace of a Southern accent in the officer’s voice that gave her a relaxed, sort of homey feeling, making her think of lazy, wind-teased cotton fields, rambling estates and spacious mansions. But that feeling didn’t last long.

  The boatswain’s mate looked at his XO. “That isn’t going to be just a little gale, sir. It looks like it could build into a major storm. NAVEUR says she might be pushing hurricane winds by sundown.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Botts?” the officer asked, emphasizing disappointment in his voice. He glared. “You talk like a virgin. I broke you in six months ago, boy. You’re no leg. Don’t act like one.”

  Botts bowed his head and stared through the map.

  Spurs dropped her bags outside the open hatch and stepped in, coming to attention. An anxious tingle rushed through her body and she felt herself shaking once again. The officer before her was her new boss and second in command to the captain. He could make her assignment a pleasure or pure hell. She wanted to give a good impression but wondered if she could, as tired and disheveled as she felt. She cleared her throat and hoped that the nervousness, fatigue and apprehension wouldn’t quaver her voice.

  “Ensign Janelle Sperling reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Lieutenant Commander Reeves twisted his neck to look at her and frowned. He inspected her—every square inch, she felt, until at last his stern look softened and a lopsided grin took over. He straightened and stepped over to a clipboard hanging near the helm. The man carried himself like her father, the Admiral: boldly, almost painfully erect and with sure, marching-like steps. Unlike many other officers Spurs had been around, his self-assured manner demanded respect based solely on appearance. After checking the board quickly he looked up.

  Spurs wondered if it was the heat, the season, or the length of time since she was last intimate with an attractive man, but the XO was as striking as the young OOD who’d greeted her. He had intense, coffee-brown eyes, a razor-sharp profile and strong features. His voice, although hinting of Mississippi, rang deep— words clear and crisp.

  “Ensign J. B. Sperling?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Nick Reeves, Sperling,” he said, tipping a salute. “Welcome aboard. We weren’t expecting our new weapons officer to be a Wave.”

  Spurs kept her composure with a blank stare. Wave or WAVES (Women Appointed Volunteer Emergency Service) was an obsolete term still
unofficially used. WINS (Women In Naval Service) was the politically correct, Navy authorized term.

  He continued, “I must be honest, miss, I am both surprised and disappointed. A weapons officer aboard this ship must be strong, intelligent and dedicated in order to take the rigors of the billet.”

  Spurs cheeks burned as if she’d just been slapped. “Excuse me, sir, I am a fully qualified surface warfare officer,” she said pointing to the gold “bow waves” insignia on her chest. “What makes you think that I’m not strong, intelligent and dedicated?”

  The XO gave a contempt-seething smile. “Darlin’, you can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds sopping wet. Hell, you’re not foolin’ anybody. I know what you women want. You’re not out to do a job and serve your country. You just want to prove that you can measure up to men—and you can’t.”

  Spurs tried to contain the pressure building in her temples. “Today’s Navy doesn’t need to be 90% brawn and 10% brain anymore, sir. As a matter of fact, it’s exactly the opposite.” She felt her emotional grip loosen as her words came out quicker and a notch louder. “I’m part of today’s Navy, sir, and if anybody doesn’t understand or like it, I’d suggest they get used to it or get out of the way because I’m here to stay—sir.”

  She glared, wishing for a stare down. She’d always done well against others in the childish but meaningful game, but her eyes got that dry, wanting-to-blink feeling quicker than ever before. She was thankful when Reeves’ lazy gaze turned back to the clipboard, but it made her wonder if he couldn’t outstare even her—if he couldn’t have burned a hole through the back of her head if he’d wanted to, but for some reason decided against it.

  Voices came from the hatchway behind her as a couple of sailors passed by on the catwalk.”

  “ . . . and North says she’s taking Nader’s place.” “No fuckin’ way!” “I’m telling you, our new weapons officer is a split-tail.” “There goes the ship!”

  Spurs twisted toward the hatch. The two sailors paused in front of the hatchway and gaped back like kittens in a tiger’s pen until one shoved the other past and their footfalls slapped on the metal deck as they scampered away.

  She looked back at Reeves. He either hadn’t heard what the two had said, or hadn’t cared to hear. His tone was cooler than expected as he hooked the clipboard back in its place. “My, my, Ensign Sperling, you are full of piss and vinegar. Imagine that, an ensign lecturing about the present course of the US Navy to her own XO whom, I might add, has served nearly twenty years at sea. Some folks might consider that poor judgment for a career officer.”

  Spurs thought about her little run off at the mouth. Sometimes she had trouble containing her enthusiasm and opinions. Her father hadn’t been able to muzzle her when she was a child, no matter how many times he’d spanked a blood-red handprint into her bottom.

  Reeves stepped back to the chart table and after a pause asked, “Tell me, Ensign, you’re not a virgin, are you?”

  Spurs couldn’t help frowning this time. This lieutenant commander was a definite chauvinist. She knew his kind; the good-looking, try-to-impress-women-by-talking-down-to-them, domineering type. Times were changing, but in this man’s navy it was obviously at a snail’s pace.

  He added, “Of the sea, I mean.”

  Her face cleared. Pride of not being a leg caused a crooked smile. “No sir. I spent two weeks on the Spartanburg County sailing from Little Creek to Nassau.”

  “That’s all? Hell, that’s about as close to a leg as you can get. I’m talking about high seas. You know what I mean. . . .” His voice lowered and he smirked, “. . . rough stuff.”

  This time his eyes locked on cold and hard. His eyelids weren’t lazy like before.

  What a jerk, she thought. So much for making a good impression. Giving this asshole more debate would be a losing game—he was a superior officer. She set her jaw, but lowered her eyes.

  “It’s been a long day, sir. May I be assigned my quarters?”

  Reeves leaned back and rested his right thigh across the corner of the chart table. He picked up his compass and toyed with it as he spoke.

  “Certainly.”

  He glanced to the black Marine corporal standing at parade rest near the hatch on the other side of the bridge.

  “All of Nader’s gear’s been sent back to his next of kin, hasn’t it, Sanders?” the lieutenant commander asked the Marine.

  “Yes, sir!” the corporal snapped, coming to attention, staring directly ahead. Then his eyes shifted questioningly.

  “All right then, show our new weapons mistress to her quarters.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” the Marine said and saluted. He stepped across the bridge toward Spurs.

  Reeves looked back to her.

  “I hope you understand,” he said. “We’re in a highly unusual situation here, Ensign. Normally Navy Europe tells us when to squat, when to wipe, and what to wipe with. But NAVEUR didn’t inform us of your gender—highly irregular. You’ll have to make some concessions.”

  “I understand, sir. But may I ask—what concessions? Why does my being a woman make me any different than the other twenty-three female crew members coming aboard?”

  Reeves watched his compass as he toyed with it. “To start with, they kind of surprised us with this WINS detail thing. We were told about it only five days ago. I don’t know what the Navy could be thinking dropping this in our laps on top of all of this trouble we’ve been having. Anyway, we’d been trying to get those orders postponed, and thought we had until you go and show up on our poop deck. For the time being, you’ll be assigned our ship’s lieutenant’s stateroom. You should’ve already met your bunky. He’s on OOD duty.”

  Spurs’ eyes widened as she wondered what kind of insanity had a hold of Reeves. Co-habiting with a male officer wasn’t part of her assignment. The Navy would not put up with this. What’s he trying to do, get court-martialed? It was no less comforting that her roommate was the attractive lieutenant that brought her aboard.

  “Sir!” she argued, then realizing she’d raised her voice again she stopped. Maybe this had something to do with Nader’s death. Maybe the ship was being run by a psycho XO. In order to find out, she should play along. She continued as calmly as possible, “I don’t understand.”

  He looked at her. “That makes two of us, Ensign. Let me make it as clear as possible. There are no other female crewmembers currently serving on this vessel. You are the only new crewmember coming aboard at this port. In other words, Ensign Janelle B. Sperling, you’re it.”

  Reeves seemed to enjoy the shock on Spurs face. Director Burgess had assured her that there was a detail of women assigned TAD (Temporary Additional Duty) with her. She wondered about Burgess’ competence, and then convinced herself that this couldn’t be his fault. After all, he’d been appointed the job because of his excellent work as assistant director of the CIA. There could be no better qualifications than that. Still, she was sure that Assistant Director Paul Royse, being the stickler for detail that he was, wouldn’t have allowed this to happen. Too bad he’d been away when she’d received her assignment. She would be sure to discuss this SNAFU with Royse later.

  “What about the rest of the female detail, sir?” she asked. “Will they be coming aboard soon?”

  “You probably haven’t heard about the trouble we’ve been having—a couple of AWOLs and some accidents and such. We convinced Personnel that now was not the time to try one of their little coed experiments on us. They’ve given us an additional month to prepare. Your orders must have somehow slipped through a crack. Not a whole lot we can do now. We’ll try to get you transferred to a more accommodating ship at the next port. Reeves smiled briefly. “Don’t worry none, Ensign. Your bunky until then, Mister North—he’s gay.”

  Spurs looked in disbelief. Not only disbelief for her absurd situation and the unbecoming comments from her new XO, but also in his last statement about Lieutenant North. What a shame that those beautiful eyes had been wasted on a ga
y man.

  Reeves seemed to read her mind and said, “Yep, queerer than a three-winged sea bat.” He paused until a smirk took over his face. He chuckled. “Lighten up, Ensign Sperling. You’ll have to find a sense of humor if you’re going to make it for even an hour on this ship. You don’t really think I’d bunk you with a gay man, do you? I’ll have the lieutenant put in with a couple of the other officers. They won’t like it, but it appears we’ve no other choice.” He glanced back to the Marine who’d paused respectfully beside her. “Now go on, Corporal Sanders, take Miss Sperling to her quarters. Then have Mister North join me on the bridge.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” the black Marine answered again.

  He marched past Spurs and out the hatch, snatched up her bags and turned to her.

  Reeves still eyed the corporal and said, “We’ll be getting underway earlier than scheduled in order to beat a little storm. We’ll shove off around 1700— that’s five PM.” His eyes shifted to her.

  “I do know military time, sir,” she shot back. “It is still required in training and as the daughter of an Admiral.

  “Uh-huh—sure you do,” he said, his patronizing tone now causing the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to rise. He continued, “I won’t expect you to be on duty as weapons officer until 0800 tomorrow, so get some rest. “Evening meal is at 1730, and it’s customary for all officers not on duty to join our captain, Commander Naugle, in the wardroom for the first meal at sea. Uniform will be dress whites.” He smiled again, pre-telegraphing another inappropriate remark. “We can talk more then, my cute little, freckled ensign.”

  Spurs cocked her head at Reeves. She wasn’t sure what to make of this obnoxious man or the situation. It was hard to believe a US Navy officer of command rank, or any rank for that matter, would conduct himself in this manner in this litigious day and age. The first thing she was to do as an undercover investigator was to watch out for anyone who acted unusual or suspicious and not arouse suspicion herself. The XO had just become her first suspect in the case, but for what she wasn’t sure.