insisted on turning each exchange of pleasantries into a hormone-charged
sexual encounter of some kind; the language, God, the language …
It wasn’t that she minded the profanity; if she did, she’d definitely
made one hell of a bad career choice. Shit, she’d stopped being shocked
by mere words sometime during her first week at Annapolis. No, for
Conway, the worst aspect of the language used by Navy men came from the
accidental verbal harassments, the expression on some guy’s face when he
slipped and said something he thought he shouldn’t have said in her
presence. Things like, “He’s got real balls,” or, “It just went
tits-up,” or, “Make a hole.”
She’d only been aboard the Jefferson for two weeks and it was starting
to get to her. Hell, if she was this stressed out already, what would
it be like in a month? In three? In seven? This was a war patrol, and
no one knew when they’d be setting course for Norfolk again. Smart
money said the cruise would last at least six months … and eight or
nine was far more likely.
“Girl,” she murmured to herself, “it is just barely possible that you
have made one hell of a big mistake.”
Turning right at the next cross passageway, Conway reached the block of
compartments that had been set aside for women officers aboard. A
female electrician’s mate third class, a stocky, plain-faced girl
wearing the bright silver police badge of Jefferson’s MAA force pinned
to her uniform blouse, stood guard. “Evening, ma’am.”
Conway eyed her name tag. “Hey, Shupe. How’re they hangin’?”
Shupe’s eyes widened. “I … beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I’m just tired.” She reached the compartment she
shared with Lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn and walked in.
Flynn, call sign “Tomboy,” was a petite redhead, a radar intercept
officer who’d served with a reserve squadron flying out of Oceana before
being transferred to VF-95. She was sitting at the room’s tiny wall
desk, reading a Hughes factory manual on the F-14’s AWG-9 radar
weapons-control system. “Ho, Brewer. Glad you made it. Some of us
thought you were going to have to swim back.”
“Shit, Tomboy, did everyone on this bird farm see me pull that bolter?”
“Only the ones on duty, and just about everybody else aboard who wasn’t
asleep at the time. You put on quite a PLAT show.”
“I’ll just bet.”
“What’s the matter, Brewer? You okay?”
“Nah. Just feeling unusually bitchy tonight.”
“The PMS blues?”
“Navy blues is more like it. I came that close to cashing in on a
real-estate deal for me and Damiano both tonight. I guess I’m just a
little shook, is all.” She plucked at her uniform blouse, feeling it
cling unpleasantly to her skin. The inside of her flight suit had been
soaked with sweat when she’d changed to her uniform up in the ready area
a few minutes ago. “God, Tomboy, I stink. You’re going to make me
sleep in the passageway.”
“I can stand it if you can.”
All she really wanted right now was a scalding hot shower and bed …
and she couldn’t even have that shower tonight because Jefferson’s women
had to share the shower head with the men, rotating with them according
to a posted schedule. It was damned inconvenient, though not, she
reminded herself, as inconvenient as it would have been to redesign and
rebuild the entire aircraft carrier just to include separate and private
plumbing for women. In any case, water discipline was strictly enforced
aboard the carrier for all hands, and showers could only be taken at
specified times during the day. With the women sharing the facilities
on the 0-3 deck forward, shower times for female personnel were from
1800 to 2000 hours each evening, and again from 0500 to 0600 each
morning.
Since she’d been on CAP until well past 2100, she’d missed her chance at
a shower tonight. True, there was a small shower up by the ready room
for the use of aviators with the duty, but someone had been in there
when she’d been changing out of her flight suit and she hadn’t felt like
waiting. There was also a small head down the passageway outside,