Lt. Commander Chip Morton barely restrained himself from whooping with joy as he checked Walter  Kowalski's name from the list. That was it—the last sailor off the boat, which meant his own, official, two-week leave could begin. Tamping down a hint of impatience, he waited for the rating to climb the ladder, but Kowalski only hefted his sea bag higher up onto his shoulder and paused, one foot on the first rung. "Uh, excuse me, Sir?" He fixed his superior with such an innocent look that the blonde hairs on Chip’s neck immediately stood at attention.

"Something on your mind, Ski?"

The sailor lifted one t-shirt covered shoulder in a pseudo-nonchalant shrug. "Well, Sir, I just figured if you weren't doing anything over the weekend...my, uh, sister is flying in from Milwaukee, and...."

Morton gulped, barely restraining the instinctive urge to flee for his life. Kowalski had somewhere picked up the notion that Seaview’s executive officer and his sister would suit perfectly, and had spent nearly two years attempting to get them together. Unfortunately for his plans, Morton had once caught a glimpse of a picture of Janet Kowalski, and had mistaken her for a large sardine. It took an effort to appear properly regretful, but somehow he managed. "Sorry, Ski, but I'm going to be very tied up this weekend. Madalyn." He described a pair of parabolas in the air.

Disappointment drew Kowalski’s lips down at the edges, but the rating nevertheless wiggled his eyebrows cheekily. "Oh, Madalyn! Not Ms. Sanders this time out, eh?"

Chip's brow furrowed, so relieved at having Ski abandon his matchmaking as to allow the impudence. "I don't think so. I was sure it was Maddy this week." A mischievous light twinkled in his arctic-blue eyes. "Maybe I'd better check my book—just  to be on the safe side?" He grinned; despite the difference in rank, he liked the good-natured senior rating though he’d have moved heaven and earth to avoid being related to him through marriage. "Have a good leave, Ski."

"No problem there, Sir," and he was gone, the smell of Chaps aftershave wafting through the hatchway after him.

Chip double-checked the manifest before signing the bottom. Turn these over to the Captain and I’m off for a well-deserved ten days of fun, sun, and Madalyn!  Halfway through the Control Room, Morton stopped cold. What am I forgetting? Crew manifest…check. Refit schedule…submitted. Inventory—  “Oh, no!” he said aloud. “My parents!” Charlie and Clare were flying in ... was it Monday?  No, tomorrow! They'd timed their vacation to coincide with the end of Seaview's voyage, hoping to spend some time with their eldest and only son—namely Chip—and Lee, whom they’d adopted into the Morton clan back in their Annapolis days. It would be wonderful to see them again, Morton reflected, leaving the Control Room through the aft hatchway, even if he did have to cut his time with Maddy a bit short. He'd see her tonight… maybe pick up a good wine to take along….

These pleasant plans were interrupted by a light touch on his elbow. "S'cuse me, Mr. Morton. Message for you, Sir."

Morton nodded the bell-bottomed relief crewman away before unfolding the message.

Chip, Darling:
Airline changed my schedule. Off to Paris tonight then Tokyo. See you next leave?
Maddy

Morton crumpled the paper, images of long, tanned legs and bouncy blonde hair popping like soap bubbles. Blast! He'd been looking forward to seeing Maddy. A lot. Now....

He shrugged philosophically. No sense brooding over what couldn't be helped. Besides, there was still titan-haired Cheryl Sanders who'd be very glad to see him indeed! Chip brightened. He could call her when he reached his apartment in Santa Barbara, make sure she was available tonight. “Who needs Maddy when I have Cheryl?” he told himself, disappointment a distant memory.

Whistling a merry little tune, Morton made his way through the deserted corridors, enjoying the unusual peace and quiet. With a crew of 125, it was rare that he was able to enjoy the boat in quiet solitude. Even the steady throb of the great engines was mute. Not a creature was stirring, “Not even a mouse.” He laughed aloud. Merry Christmas, Mr. Morton! And Cheryl is just the present I want to unwrap!

Stopping before an innocuous-looking door, he rapped once before peering around the jamb at the slender, dark haired young man who sat at the desk, chin in one hand, pencil in the other. Chip’s blue eyes twinkled affectionately at the young man’s muffled cursing…at least, he assumed it was cursing. It was hard to make out. "Lee?"

"...politicians...keelhauled...." The grumbling trailed off as the room's occupant became aware of another presence. Commander  Lee Crane, Academy wunderkind, Naval Intelligence operative, and Captain of the Seaview for nearly four months, looked up from the papers he was perusing. The top button of his khaki shirt was undone and he wore no tie. "What…? Oh, Chip, come in."

Morton took two steps into the cabin before stopping aghast at the papers piled high on the desk, on the bed, on the floor.... "What the devil is all this?" he blurted incredulously. "Looks like Angie’s file cabinet exploded."

"I had them sent over when we docked." Crane shifted a stack to the floor, allowing Chip to perch on one corner of the desk. "Where do these...civilians…" He practically spat the word. "…civilian bean counters!— get off trying to tell the Admiral what's necessary to run this sub? Look at this." He shoved an official-looking document—they were all official looking documents from what Chip could see—under Morton's nose.

Both hands raised in a defensive gesture, Morton retreated several inches. "What is it?" he asked suspiciously.

"It is a list of proposed budget cuts due to affect the operation of this sub. They…" His tone left no doubt as to whom ‘they’ night be. "…have decided that the Admiral should switch to a cheaper contractor for replacement titanium plates for the outer hull. Notice—cheaper, not better." He gestured toward a stack of reports on the bed. "That's a list of equipment and supplies they say we don't need and won't supply unless I can come up with reasons why we do."

"It figures,"  Morton  said  sympathetically, crossing his arms across his chest.  Like  all  Navy men,  he  had  little-to-no  patience  with  the land-bound bureaucrats who controlled the purse strings; unlike Crane, however, his several years with the Pentagon combined with a genuine love of method tempered his frustration to a mild irritation.  "After all, it's not their lives on the line out where one faulty valve could be all that stands between a man and Davy Jones."

"No, it's not." Crane slapped the paper onto a pile already listing alarmingly off center. "They—" He broke off, running a weary hand through his dark hair, ruffling it into curls, then down to pinch the bridge of his finely shaped nose. "Oh, what's the use? If the Admiral can't convince them we know how to run the boat, they're not going to listen to anything I have to say." He waved the pencil once then let his hand drop. “Admiral Nelson is still in Washington working on that blanket funding package. Maybe for next year.”

"If anyone can make them listen, it's Admiral Nelson."

Crane allowed a small smile to touch his lips though his amber eyes remained distant and shadowed. "That's the truth." He sighed. "What can I do for you, Chip?"

Morton apologetically laid a new stack of papers in front of his dismayed Captain. "I brought the Chief's analysis on that damaged ballast valve, the liberty manifest, and the end-of-voyage maintenance reports…for starters."

"Oh." Crane's shoulders drooping a little further. "Looks like it's going to be a late night tonight." Again, Morton added silently. The last voyage—a long and highly dangerous one—had  elicited many late nights for them all, but especially for Lee on whom the primary responsibility for the mission had directly fallen. As the Exec, Chip had done what he could, but he lacked the  ONI security clearances such as was held only by Crane, to handle more than the sub's routine functions this time out. Of course, now that they'd made port, it was a whole new ball game.

"Is there anything else that needs to be handled tonight,  Chip?" Crane reached for the uppermost sheets, starting slightly when his wrist was encased in a firm grip.

"There's nothing there that needs to be handled tonight, Lee." Morton regarded his friend critically, not liking the paler than normal skin and weary expression. "When was the last time you slept?"

Crane gently tugged his wrist free from the strong fingers. "Budget report first."

"Lee, that report isn't due for two weeks," Chip pointed out firmly.

"But the Admiral mentioned needing this for the funding package—"

Chip cut him off with a gesture. "The Admiral is flying from D.C. to Chicago tomorrow afternoon to visit his sister." He picked up the nearest stack and rifled through the files, then eyeballed several others in a glance before grunting.  "As a matter of fact, none of these are due before he gets back in two weeks."

The pencil came up again. "The CS-7 forms—“

Chip Morton laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. "You never could get the hang of all this, could you?" He shook his head in affectionate exasperation; if ever he’d had a kid brother, it would have been Lee Crane for all that the capable, highly-trained man outranked him. “Must have had no end fun when you made XO on the Idaho.”

The fingers went through dark hair again massaging briefly, even as Lee fixed him with a look that clearly consigned him to warmer regions. "What are you talking about?"

Chip laughed harder at the puzzled annoyance in the amber-gold eyes. "Look, buddy, while you were traipsing around the world on those glamorous, exciting little jaunts for Naval Intelligence—“

Lee’s jaw dropped incredulously. "Glamorous? Did you see me after Venice?"

 
"—I  was working  my  way  up  the  ranks  using  the  more  mundane  aspects  of  command  procedure, including learning how the bureaucratic mind works." He tapped his own skull beneath his short-cut platinum hair. He paused for no other reason than to be exasperating.

"And?" Crane prodded through gritted white teeth.

"And none of these are really due tomorrow no matter what they tell you. Next week at the earliest, end of the month realistically. Plenty of time tonight to get out and do something about that headache of yours."

"How did you know—?" Crane caught himself, expression flickering from guilty surprise to somewhere approximating impassive. "I mean, I'm fine."

Chip raised one very light and extremely sardonic brow, adequately expressing his opinion on that subject. He'd seen Crane stubbornly repeat that phrase right up to the time he collapsed. "Really?"

They stared at each other for a total of thirty seconds before Crane bit his lip and looked away. "All right, all right, Doctor Morton. I give up. I'll put the CS-7 forms off and get some rest tonight."

"That's a start." Attempting to relieve a cramp in his neck, Morton shifted slightly, knocking a stack of requisition forms from their precarious balance; the pile tipped sharply to port and both men dove to their rescue, Crane with an alarmed expression.

"Careful, Chip!" He straightened the stack, only to have another one to his right, this one bearing the scarlet heading Missile Inventory, begin a steady slide toward the floor. "Blast! It took Yeoman Barette over an hour to get those sorted."

He conscientiously realigned the files, allowing Morton an unrestricted moment to examine his friend. The heavy pressures of the past voyage had marked him, exhaustion drawing the youthful, fine-boned features taut. Though most people credited the Captain with a seemingly bottomless source of energy, Chip, who knew Crane better than anyone alive, was better informed. Lee would work himself to the point of collapse, and still he'd push himself unless someone kept a tight reign on him. That duty generally fell to his best friend, Executive Officer, and self-appointed big brother, Charles Phillip Morton. And of course there was no reason to believe that Lee really would put the paperwork aside for the night....

With a mental sigh, Chip consigned the energetic Cheryl to stand-by status. "By the way, you're coming drinking with me tonight."

Crane finished realigning a  missile inventory graphs and shoved the pile further over, then shot his friend a guarded look. "I thought you had a date with... what was her name? Maralyn?" Already forgetting his expressed intetion of getting some rest, he pulled over a log sheet covered with a tiny, illegible scrawl. "Who was on the helm last night? Chasteen?"

"Madalyn, and Maddy's been called out of town. Anyway, I want to check out this new club over on Cranmer Street. They say the girls there are not to be believed." He turned sideways, squinting at the scrawled signature. "That's Crowley."

"I'll  believe  them,"  Crane  muttered  darkly, “when I see them.”

"What was that?"

Crane cross-signed the log and tossed it into a pile on the floor, then leaned backward jabbing at his left shoulder, the recipient of a bullet only six weeks previously. "Remember the last time you said that? It was a bar in Morocco—“

"That was not my fault!" Chip protested. "How was I supposed to know her father was the Chief of Police?"

Crane reached for the liberty manifest. "I almost married her! Not that I wanted to marry her...."

Amusement at the incident—admittedly, it was much funnier now than when they were in Morocco—returned the broad grin to Chip long features. "Yeah, but you escaped." Without asking leave, he plucked the liberty manifest out of the other’s slender fingers and stowed it on top of the budget request.

"Barely escaped." But the other’s  grin was infectious and Crane soon found himself smiling back, not even protesting when his second attempt at the purloined liberty manifest was batted off. "Okay, you win. Let's go check out this wonderful new night spot of yours. I can always get on to these reports in the morning."

Morton studied the toe of one polished oxford. "Uh...no you can't."

Lee waited.

Chip waited.

Again, Lee broke first. "Why not?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten," teased Morton, who'd done the same thing himself. "You promised my mother you'd have dinner with us tomorrow. It's the traditional 'gathering of the clan,' and we’re meeting them in San Diego."

Crane dropped his face back into one hand, his groan so heartfelt that Chip immediately regretted his teasing. "Is that tomorrow? I don't see how I can make it, Chip. I've got so much to do...."

"Lee, relax." Morton grasped one lean shoulder, giving it a light shake. "I'll show you a couple of shortcuts I leaned when I was assigned to the Pentagon. I guarantee this paperwork will be done long before deadline."

That brought the other man’s head up hopefully. "Well...."

"Besides, Mom and Dad are kind of fond of you—lord knows why. You wouldn't want to disappoint Mom, would you?" A low blow and coup d’grace and Chip knew it though made no attempt at retracting it. Torpedoes away, Mr. Morton. He slapped the shoulder he still held and hopped off his perch. “Then it's settled."

"You've convinced me." Crane stood up stiffly, hand straying back to his shoulder. "The budget can wait a couple days." He scrubbed his eyes. "And I can use the rest. God, I'm tired."

"You're admitting it?" Chip whistled loudly. "You must be in worse shape than I thought." He snatched up Lee's battered flight jacket with one hand, using the other to propel his friend to the door. "Come on, we're getting out of here now."

"What's the rush?" Crane gasped, suddenly finding himself half-way down the hall.

I’m not giving you a chance to change your mind, Chip thought uncharitably. Aloud, he explained,  "I've got 8:00 reservations for dinner at Giancarlo's and the Golden Eclipse opens at nine."

"Planned to the minute," Crane laughed, donning his black leather jacket while falling into his friend's stride. “Efficient as always, Mr. Morton."

Chip shrugged deprecatingly. "No sweat, Captain. After all, what's an Exec for?"

                                                                        *****

The Golden Eclipse surpassed even Chip's optimistic expectations. Tables ringed a center stage where a woman in a tight sequined gown alternated singing popular hits with intimate little love songs to an enthusiastic crowd. It was already filling up—fancily dressed men and women of all ages packed the room, flirting, dancing, and generally having a good time. Chip made a mental note to bring Cheryl here next week...or maybe not. This seemed like a good place to meet women. Bringing his current date here might not be too wise an idea.

Even Lee had to admit that the women were everything Chip had claimed they'd be. Blondes, brunettes, redheads—every one of them found their way to the bar at some time or other throughout the evening, and that brought them into striking range for the two good-looking young men. Chip had unashamedly devoted himself to this feminine smorgasborg until he happened to notice Lee rubbing his temples when he thought no one was looking. Still have that headache, buddy? Chip thought, studying his friend surreptitiously. I know a great cure for that!

It  took  well  over  an  hour  to  accomplish,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time,  Morton  had  succeeded  in  getting his friend and Captain quite thoroughly soused.

Not that it hadn't taken some doing. Imbued with the Navy traditions of discipline and control, Crane naturally resisted surrendering himself to the gin, but Morton persevered, and Crane succumbed. Unfortunately for Chip's plans, getting his friend drunk took considerably longer than he'd counted on and Seaview's Exec found himself more than a little affected as well. Since Chip's careful efficiency tended to disintegrate after the first half-dozen gin-and-tonics, planning went out the window and the two soon embarked on a round of good-old-fashioned bar hopping reminiscent of their midshipmen days. They visited both favored old haunts and hole-in-the-wall dives they'd never suspected existed. Two o'clock found them at a shabby-looking tavern on the waterfront blearily contemplating life, the universe, and dinner with the Morton family the next day.

"...besides, I want a little support on my side when Mom starts trying to talk me into settling down and raising a family," Morton was saying absently, his fair skin flushed from the large amounts he’d imbibed so far. His light blue eyes wandered from his drink to on an over-painted hooker zeroing in on her prey: a soldier of tender years and obviously no taste whatsoever. Chip shuddered and took a sip of the Jack Daniels he’d switched to some time back.

Not noticing the shift, Lee fixed his friend with a blearily inquisitive gaze. His leather jacket now resided in the trunk of Chip’s Suburban with Chip’s tie and  hat.  "But I thought your parents, especially your Dad, understood that your posting to Seaview might slow that down? Have they changed their minds?"

"He hasn't. Mom's probably changed it for him by now." Chip smiled. "Mom wants grandkids and Dad hasn't been able to refuse her anything in the last thirty-five years. No reason to think anything's changed at this late date."

"They love each other very much, don't they?" Crane asked, picking up his half-filled glass.

"Thirty-five years worth." But there was a wistful note in his friend's question that pulled Morton’s attention from the hooker, who was ushering her newest ‘friend’ toward the back door. "You're not seeing your mother this time out?" he guessed. ”I thought she was spending a few days in LA.”

Long lashes veiled expressive eyes as Lee swirled his drink absently. "No. Not this time out."

There was absolutely no emotion in that decidedly uninformative statement, but Chip scowled anyway. "Have you argued with her again?"

Crane drained his glass in one large swallow. "Again? No, same old argument. My place would be better served back East as head of Father's corporation. Her words, not mine."

"Still?" Morton leaned forward,  resting his elbows on the table then pulling back quickly when they immediately stained through with something sticky. He cursed and pulled out a handkerchief. "Lee, she's been saying that since the first day I met you at the Academy." He dabbed at his khaki shirt. "She won't let it go, will she?”

The empty glass met the table with a clank. "Mother can be singularly... unforgiving when she puts her mind to it." He essayed a smile that didn’t quite work. "Times like that I wish I came from a large family like yours. Perhaps it would have helped to be able to spread the responsibility around a bit."

Restowing the handkerchief and pulling out a pack of Marlboros, Chip Morton lit one with a thoughtful frown. He’d never made a secret of the fact that to him  a family was a big, warm, noisy household full of love, and cheer, and good will. To even mention the possibility that it was simply an expedience to spread around the ‘responsibility’ or a tool to alleviate a parent's displeasure would have earned him blank stares from every person he was related to.

He smoked quietly for a moment, then tipped his head. "A big family, now, that's something else again if you're not used to it. Everybody talking at once, fighting over the bathroom...." He added with a wink, "Of course, it had its advantages too. You always had someone to back you in a fight whether you were right or wrong. And we could scrape together the only one-family baseball team in town. Both sides."

He sounded so animated, that Crane’s depression lightened fractionally. "It sounds great."

"Yes, I suppose it is." Resting the stub against an overflowing ashtray, he poured Lee a drink from the bottle on the table before upending it over his own glass. "Drink up. We'll order another fifth."

Captain regarded Exec with the unfeigned reverence of someone yet again impressed by his chosen family. He glanced down at his glass, back up to Morton, and down again as if trying to wrap his mind around the incomprehensible. "Another bottle? I'm not sure.... I mean, where do you put it? I'm maybe...a little bit...drunk already."

"A little bit? I should say you are!" Inhibitions and judgment off, Chip Morton went so far as to laugh out loud at that. "Well," he amended quickly when he caught a glint of hard gold replace amber in his friend’s eyes, "maybe we both are."

"You don't look drunk," Lee accused, fixing the blond with a critical, slightly crossed glare. He blinked and tried again. “You still don’t look drunk.”

Broad shoulders coming back proudly at the admiration, Chip nevertheless managed a one-handed shrug. "Maybe it doesn't show."

"It  never does,"  Lee  muttered  glumly, resting his chin in his palm; the school ring on his hand glinted in the hazy light.  "Doesn't matter how much  you  drink,  it  never  shows."

Morton, in the interests of friendship, forcibly swallowed his gleeful smirk. “You never could drink, anyway,” he mumbled, baritone muffled when he dipped his long nose into his drink. At Lee’s inquiring grunt he went on louder,  "Matter of body weight?" He forcibly correcting a lean to his left by sticking his arm back on the sticky table. He cursed again and deliberately ignored the second stain. “Got’a be that.”

If Crane noticed  the  heavily  stilted  speech and angle deficit, he made no sign. He scratched at the trace of dark beard just beginning to show on his smooth skin. "A matter of...who?" he asked, fixing his friend with bleary concentration.

"It's a proven  scientific fact,"  Morton  droned  pedantically,  "that the  more you weigh,  the better you can drink.” He reached across the table and slapped his friend’s flat stomach. “I have fifteen pounds on you easy.”

 
Crane swatted him away while considering  the  statement  carefully and from every angle his sodden mind could manage. Finally, he shook his head. "Won't work."

"Why not?" Morton waved his handkerchief frantically until a waitress on the far corner deigned to notice him.

Crane, watching these antics in puzzlement, took a moment before answering. "Betty."  Chip sipped his drink, fixing Crane with an inquisitive look. "Betty Coletta," Crane supplied. Chip blinked at him. "Bettyl" Crane waved his hands, exasperated, then slumped back against the seat. "The little blonde from that London pub. The one that drank us both under the table and stole our—"

"Oh. Betty," Chip twirled his glass, annoyed at having his argument holed so thoroughly. "Forgot about her."

"Wish I could." Lee gulped his drink down. "She took us like a couple of boy scouts."

"Uh, I don't think boy scouts is a term Betty would have chosen." Chip chuckled. "She—“

"Get you another bottle, mister?"

Chip turned, looking up and into a pair of the most sultry brown eyes he'd ever seen. The look they gave him raised the temperature of the room several degrees on the spot. "You must be a mind reader, Miss," he smiled, making to adjust his missing tie. "We were just discussing the subject ourselves."

"Uh-huh." The girl, petite, curvy, and brown-haired,  dimpled. "Haven't seen you two in here before. New in town?"

"New in here." Chip turned up his best high-wattage smile. "And what's your name, pretty lady?"

"Karlie." The girl bent a little closer. "And yours, handsome?"

She directed another smoldering look into his direction, and for a moment Chip Morton only gaped at her blankly. Her look was pure sensuality, so strong as to make a man feel himself undressed, examined, and approved all in the time it took to regain his breath. Even well anesthetized as he was, Morton succeeded in rousing himself only when she repeated her question. "Uh, me?  I’m Chip Morton." He gestured vaguely in Lee's direction. "The quiet one over there's Lee Crane."

She directed the full impact of those eyes in Crane's direction, and the rapidly recovering Chip chortled when Lee gaped. "Hello, Lee."

Crane blinked again and smoothed back his hair, succeeding in controlling about half the curls. "Uh, hello, ma’am."

Karlie swept Lee's slender frame with a distinctly predatory air until Chip cleared his throat loudly. He slipped an arm around her waist in a friendly gesture and pulled her down to perch on his knee. "So, tell me, Karlie, have you worked here long?"

The diversion worked. Karlie left off her catlike scrutiny of Crane and returned her attention to Morton. "A lot longer than I care to remember." She ran a hand up Chip's arm. "These are uniforms, aren't they? Navy uniforms? You an officer?"

"Lieutenant Commander," Chip replied, preening. "I'm Executive Officer aboard SSRN Seaview."

"The Seaview?" Her brow puckered prettily. "That's that big submarine from up the coast, isn't it?"

"That's right. You're very well informed, I see."

"Mmmmm." She twisted around until she could see Lee again. "What about your cute friend. He an officer too?"

"More or less." Chip spared his friend a mischievous grin before turning back to Karlie. "How much do you know about submarines, sweetheart?"

She shrugged. "We get all kinds here. My ex-old man was stationed on an aircraft carrier once during the war. Saw a lot of action… so he says." She bent full lips close to Chip's ear. "You ever seen ... action, Chip?"

Fair skin reddening in a rush, Morton gulped. "Uh—"

"That fish-face couldn't battle his way out of a geisha house."

Chip peeked around his feminine armful, and Lee—who'd been watching Chip's ‘land maneuvers’ through lazily amused eyes—straightened sharply and twisted toward the source of the remark: three beefy Marines who'd been loudly making themselves obnoxious at the next table. Morton and Crane had so far been able to block out the interference. Both sighed in unison, knowing that that was about to change.

"Lay off, Rocky." Karlie's pleasantly throaty voice hardened. "Gowan back ta your cheap booze."

"Wasn't talkin' ta you, bimbo. I was talkin' ta the Navy there." Rocky slowly rose to his full height; to two drunken men, it looked more like a medium-sized mountain rising out of the sea. Morton took a deep breath, the burn of an adrenaline surge stiffening his shoulders and bringing his head up. Never one to sidestep a challenge himself, Chip disengaged his arm from the girl's waist and patted her off his lap.

At his side, Lee Crane grew very still, sudden clarity in the hard, golden eyes. Drunk, sober or half-dead, slip the possibility of a fight in front of the ex-Golden Gloves competitor, and Lee Crane seemed to come alive. "We're not looking for any trouble," he attempted, his tone making it clear that the phrase was more formality than conciliation.

"Really?" The man-mountain sneered. "Too bad, kid, 'cause you got some."

Muscles in his biceps and across his shoulder blades rippled slightly as Morton pushed back his seat and rose. Not overly interested, but feeling compelled to ask anyway, he went for the obvious question. 'What's your beef, Sergeant?"

"No beef, Blondie," the Marine said, hitching up his belt. "It just so happens that I don't like officers very much today. I get that way whenever I have to do time in the brig. Makes me mean. That's why we," the bruiser gestured to his now-standing companions, "are going to kick you back to your little tin can."

Chip rose, circling to the left of the terrible threesome while Lee mirrored his actions on the right… Just in time! With a loud battle cry, Rocky stepped forward, aiming a beefy fist which would have taken Lee's head off had it connected, but Lee was no longer in range. Ducking under the swing, Crane kicked out with his left foot, catching Rocky square in the gut, bracing himself before the bruiser could recover, and then swinging a tremendous right onto the point of Rocky's pugnacious jaw. The force of the blow threw him back across the table and two chairs to lie stunned against the far wall, out of the fight for the moment.

That was all Chip had time to see, for by then he was busy fending off one of Rocky's buddies, a powerful-looking negro wearing neither insignia nor name tag. Chip had no opportunity to disapprove the Marine's negligence in the matter, however, for almost before he could draw breath the man was upon him, forcing him back against the bar in a rush. Chip brought both hands up, breaking the negro's hold, then delivered a powerful blow to the man's unprotected abdomen. The black grunted under the impact, then straightened slowly. "Oh, boy," Chip breathed. Obviously the powerhouse was as strong as he looked.

The Marine circled, made wary by the unexpected strength in Morton's punch, but still secure in his own abilities. He closed again and they traded blows, most of them deflected by the other's guard. However, by the time they separated again, Chip noted with satisfaction that the black had one eye swollen almost shut. Chip wiped an arm across his streaming nose, wincing at the blood now staining his sleeve. Well, it wasn't the first time it had been broken. It probably wouldn't be the last, either.

Acting instinctively, Chip fell into a classic karate pose, prepared when his opponent tried the earlier tactic of using superior size and strength in a forward rush. It was the guy's undoing. Chip caught one arm as he passed and twisted, adding a hefty boost to the guy's forward momentum. The black took off, flying head over heels to slam hard into the side of the bar. He landed in a heap and lay there, out cold and out of the fight.

Chip lifted his arm in a cocky salute before turning to check on the progress of the other half of his team. Lee wasn't doing quite so well with this opponent as he had with Rocky. Rocky had walked right into a sucker punch he'd remember, and regret, for the rest of his life. This guy was cooler, better prepared than was Rocky and out-weighed Crane by at least thirty pounds to boot. And, worst of all, he was smiling.

"Not bad, Navy boy," the thug grunted, barely avoiding Lee's best haymaker right. "Not good enough, either." He stepped forward, feinting with his left, then delivering two fast rabbit punches into Lee's ribs, striking home with bone-jarring intensity before the smaller man had a chance to retreat. Desperately, Crane lashed out, catching the Marine a solid blow on the side of the head, staggering him long enough for him to back away out of range.

They stood there, panting heavily and regarding each other with respect blended with a good dose of healthy hatred. "I'm gonna take you apart for that, kid," the thug managed. "Ya hear me, punk? You're dead."

Lee wiped blood out of his eyes from a cut just below his hairline, and pushed himself upright and away from the wall. "You can try," he gasped, challenge lighting his features. "But don't count on it." The Marine smiled again and closed with surprising speed, but this time he found Lee ready. Dancing gracefully out of range, Lee changed tactics, dropping to send a powerful side-kick to his opponent's stomach, shifting onto the other foot to catch the thug a forward kick in the groin. The Marine doubled over with a groan, allowing his slighter foe to deliver the coup de grace—a magnificent uppercut that traveled nearly from the floor. Even from where he was standing, Chip could hear the jaw snapping like kernelled corn. The Marine dropped as though pole axed.

"Lee?" Chip kicked a broken chair out of the way, reaching his friend just as Lee's legs buckled. "Are you all right?" He slipped an arm around the other man's waist, grunting as he was forced to support his entire weight for a moment.

Then Lee got his legs back under himself and straightened. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." He pulled away but made no protest when Chip left one supporting arm around his shoulders. Crane wrapped both arms around his ribcage though his eyes traveled to his friend’s streaming. "What about you? How bad is it?" he asked, ignoring the blood trailing down the side of his own face and soaking his collar.

"I’m a little the worse for wear." Morton sniffed, spat scarlet from a cut lip, then managed a rueful smile. "Better than the other guy, anyway."

"You've got to get out of here." Chip nearly staggered at a frantic tugging on his sleeve as Karlie attempted to drag him bodily towards the door. "The owner called the cops! Get out!"

"I'd say that's our cue, Lee." Morton urged his friend toward the door.  "Think you can make a run for it?"

Crane straightened determinedly away from his support. "Watch me."

Unfortunately, determination will take a man only so far, even less so when it's through a living wall of bone and muscle clad in the uniforms of the local police department.

Lee sighed deeply, wincing when the action aggravated his damaged rib cage. "Any more bright ideas, Mr. Morton?"

Chip raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "Not at the moment, Sir. Except that we go peaceably. I'd hate to have my nose broken twice in the same night."

Even he was shocked. He didn't know Crane could curse in that many languages.

                                                                        *****

The Santa Barbara drunk tank wasn't any worse—or better—than any other drunk tank they'd ever been a guest of, but a jail is, after all, still a jail. Add to that the after-effects of both a night of industrious  imbibing and a lively round of fisticuffs, and you have the recipe for two very unhappy men indeed.

By grace of the fact that most of the ‘tank's’ inhabitants occupied the concrete floor of the cell, Crane and Morton found themselves the sole possessors of the hard wooden bench against the far wall. Chip sprawled gracelessly, leaning his head far back to prevent his nose from starting to bleed again. It wasn't broken, he decided. Hurt like the devil, but not—quite—broken.

Beside him, Lee sat nursing his bruised or broken ribs, slumped shoulders adequately testifying to the depths of his discomfort. His cheek sported a bruise the size of his palm and blood from the cut over his eye had left his shirt sodden. All in all, Chip reflected, his Captain looked awful. Another moment added the prayer that he wouldn't have to look in too many mirrors for awhile himself.

The harassed and overworked SBPD had had little time to do more than a preliminary booking, although they had allowed the arrestees their constitutionally-protected one phone call. This had elicited much haggling between the two men.

"You want to call the Admiral?" Lee regarded his Exec with an expression of dawning horror. "Have you any idea what he's going to say when he finds out!”

"And who would you suggest we call?" With the alcohol finally making its way out of his system, Chip's pragmaticism was slowly making its reappearance, and with it an acerbity he made no attempt to control. "Tish and Angle both have families, and we can't exactly call my Mom."

Crane raised his hands in a desperate gesture. "What about...what about that Madalyn you're seeing? Can't she...?"

"Maddy's out of town," Chip patiently reminded him. "What about that blonde you were seeing. Julie? You said she was crazy about you."

Crane looked uncomfortable. "Julie...uh, she...." He mumbled something Chip didn't catch.

Morton bent closer. "What was that?"

"I  said  she  got  married!"  Lee  started  to  throw  his  head  back  in  a  defiant  gesture  but  thought  better  of it  when  his  ribs  gave  a  warning  twinge.  He  settled  for  a  scowl.

"Married?" Chip found it suddenly necessary to clear his throat, violently. "Oh, um, right." He recovered himself quickly, spurred on by a spirit of self-preservation. "Let's face it, Lee, leaving a message for the Admiral is the only thing we can do."

"Not the Admiral." Lee crossed his arms stubbornly. "And that, Mr. Morton, is an order."

Morton shrugged. "Who then?"

Lee considered. "We'll leave a message for Angie at the Institute. She can bail us out, and the Admiral won't have to know anything about it. I hope."

That had been at 4:00 am. By six, the last of the gin had worn off, diffusing the semi-protecting numbness and leaving reality in all its glorious, unbuffered majesty. Six o'clock also brought the return to consciousness of several of the denizens of the tank. One in particular—a large, leather-clad biker sporting a wiry full beard—made quite a production of coming awake. He rolled over heavily on the concrete, leathers flapping around him. Suddenly he sat up with a jerk, supporting himself by leaning against Chip's left leg.  Chip shifted several inches to the left,  toppling the biker back onto the floor.  The big man caught himself with  a curse.

"Hey, what d'ya think you're doin'?" the biker grumbled, regaining his equilibrium. "I...oh, man." He clasped both hands to his head. "What was I drinkin' last night? Sterno?" He obviously expected no answer to this. With another curse, the bearded man lurched to his feet and staggered over to one corner where he relieved himself in the filthy communal sink. "Ahhh, that's better," the man grumbled, gingerly rearranging himself before zipping. "Hey, you." He stepped across several still-sleeping bodies, stopping by the wooden bench on which Crane and Morton had remained all night.

When the biker repeated his hail, Chip raised his head to find himself staring into two pig-like eyes set in a good 250 pounds of bone and gristle. Chip groaned. "Didn't the police arrest any little criminals last night?"

The biker stared downward, dividing his scrutiny between Chip's wide-eyes gape and the top of Crane's bowed head. Chip felt himself being sized up, a lot like ... a terrible thought intruded itself … like Karlie had, last night? He shuddered and shook Lee lightly by the shoulder.  "Lee?"

"Hunh?" Crane raised himself from his stupor, fixing Chip with a bloodshot and decidedly unfocussed stare. "What is it, Chip?"

Morton cleared his throat. "Uh ... someone wants to talk to you."

"Who?" Crane asked innocently checking the floor.

"Me," rumbled a voice.

It  took  several  seconds  for  it  to  register  in  Lee's  muddled  brain  that  that  voice  had  come  from  above him. "What? "

"I  said,  me,"  the  voice  repeated  obligingly.

The biker and Lee regarded each other in silence for several minutes during which time a slow blush worked its way into Lee's fair skin. He senses it, too, Chip thought. Feeling better now that he was no longer the primary object of the biker's interest, Chip sat back and prepared to enjoy the show. If nothing else, this was prime ammunition for the next time Lee dragged him into a mess.

"What...." Crane swallowed heavily. "What do you want?"

The leather-clad man leaned heavily against the wall. "What jail is this?" he asked, peering around.

"Jail?" Crane echoed stupidly.

"Yeah. The last thing I remember is cruisin' LA. Where am I now?"

"This is Santa Barbara."

"Santa who? Oh, man!" One massive fist impacted the wall with bone-jarring force; Lee flinched back against Chip’s shoulder. "How'd I get here? Never mind." The biker ran his gaze up and down Lee's body again, then essayed what he obviously mistook for a friendly smile. "My name's Slash. You...eh...want a cigarette...or something?"

Lee stared a full thirty seconds as the unsubtle undertones of this question sank in. "Oh, no, I can't handle this." He dropped his head limply into his hands. "Let me know when this day is all over."

"Oh, I'd say it's just beginning."

Lee's head snapped up. "Admiral?"

"Admiral?" Chip leaped to his feet only seconds behind his Captain. Together they—with not a small amount of trepidation—crossed to the barred door separating them from a stocky, red-headed figure waiting none-too-patiently on the other side.

Four-star Admiral Harriman Nelson regarded his officers with ill-disguised distaste deepening the craggy lines in his face, his eyes flashing like blue lasers. "Would one of you care to explain why I received a call from a newspaper reporter at four in the morning informing me that my command crew is in jail and would I like to make a comment?" His deep voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting by the end. The effect on two particularly delicate constitutions was immediate and obvious. Both men winced—not entirely in remorse—at the tone. "A little hung-over, gentlemen?" he inquired dryly.

Crane and Morton exchanged a look. This was going to be even worse than they feared. Morton cleared his throat nervously. "We...urn...ran into a little trouble, Sir."

"A little trouble? Uh-huh." Nelson examined the younger men more closely. "What the devil happened to you two? You look like you've been through the wars."

"That's ... close enough," Lee admitted ruefully. He attempted to straighten, then caught his breath at the pain in his ribs. "Like Chip said, we ran into a little trouble."

"I  can  see  that,  Captain."  Nelson  simmered  a  full  ten  seconds  before  exploding.  "How  old  are  you  two, anyway? Off ship twenty-four hours and I find you in jail after brawling in some cheap dive like a couple of common sea men. I—" He broke off as the bearded biker, who had been listening to the tirade with great interest, stepped closer. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.

The biker ignored him, addressing Crane instead. "Who's he, buddy? Your father?"

"My...oh, god." This last was directed heavenward. In the mood the Admiral was in now—

"His father?" Nelson's voice rose several decibels, anger and astonishment at the man's temerity waging war in his expression. Then the blue eyes narrowed, stabbing and holding the biker on twin lasers. "You," he gritted, "go away."

The big biker met and held those icy eyes for several seconds before dropping his gaze and backing off.  He returned to the wooden bench muttering little epithets under his breath.

Nelson turned the full force of that sapphire gaze on the two hapless men before him. "Your father? Hummph. If  I  had  an  ounce — just  one  ounce  of  sense…  I  ought  to  leave  the  pair  of  you  right  here for the rest of the weekend."

"No, Sir, you can't!" Crane wailed, clutching the bars.

This despairing cry elicited only another unsympathetic stare. "Oh? And why not, Captain?"

Chip stepped forward. "Sir, you...uh. ..see that big biker-type in the corner?"

Nelson transferred his icy stare to Morton. "What about him?"

Morton cleared his throat. "He's been...uh...making a pass at Lee."

The Admiral frankly gaped at that. "He...?" One look at Lee's flushed face and the way he glared murderous hatred into Chip's carefully expressionless features was more than even Nelson's righteous indignation could survive. His lips twitched once; the rumbling laughter started deep in his stomach and erupted into a helpless crescendo. Harriman Nelson threw back his head—and roared.

It  was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  bring  himself  back  under  control,  though  his  speech  was  still punctuated by occasional chuckles. "Then I... ahem ...suppose I'm going to have to. ..do something to … to protect your virtue, Captain. I... I'd better go post bail." So saying he was gone, the sound of another bout of laughter following him down the hall.

Lee wearily leaned against the barred door, shooting Chip another baleful glare. "I owe you for that, Mr. Morton."

"What else could I do, Lee?" Chip affected an innocent air. "You heard the Admiral. He was going to leave us here."

"I...oh, what’s the use. All I care about now is getting some shut eye, and—“

"Dinner," Morton enunciated clearly. "Tonight. With Mom….in San Diego."

The silence which descended following this seemingly innocuous statement was terrible in its intensity "In all the time I've known you," Crane's voice was soft, quiet, and very, very deadly, "I've never known you to be actively suicidal before."

Morton braced at semi-attention, watching his commanding officer warily. "You promised my mother. Sir.”

The Exec knew that to be a low blow. Ever the gentleman, Crane would have moved heaven and earth to avoid offending his best friend's mother, of whom he was quite fond. Chip knew he'd won when he saw the tension drain from his friend's features, replaced by a weary resignation. "Oh, all right," he relented, sliding carefully back onto the bench. "But I owe you for this, Chip."

"I don't  know  about that,"  Chip  ventured,  reseating  himself  as well. I'd say that after what you got me into in Hong Kong, we're just about even now."

"Oh, no, Mr. Morton," Crane growled, poking Morton in the chest. "We're not going to be even on this for a long time to come."

Chip flinched at the tone; something told him things were going to be a little...tense, ..for a while. All things considered, however, he figured it might just have been about worth it.

finish