Prepared For Rage

They were reacquired eventually by the XO and led forward, emerging on the boat deck. The XO helpfully pointed out a valve fixture protruding at head height from the bottom of the boat davit, labeled in handdrawn letters "the Darwin sorter," which he said had sampled the DNA of a goodly number of the crew. They negotiated this hazard successfully, followed by two more sets of stairs, which he took at a hustle, and they perforce followed him at the same pace. "I'll take zero gee anytime," Kenai said to Bill. She hadn't meant the XO to hear her but like all good command cadre officers he had a highly developed sense of selective hearing and he paused to give her a su

On the deck just below the bridge the XO knocked at a door, behind which Captain Schuyler was waiting with drinks and sandwiches. Barely registering his presence on her peripheral vision, Kenai fell on them like a starving dog.

Once the twin threats of famine and dehydration had been staved off, Kenai noticed the sitting room was furnished with bronze leather furniture, cherry bookshelves that looked as if they had been built to spec, the latest model iPod docked in a stereo speaker system, and a luxurious carpet that looked fresh off a Persian loom and brought forward in time two thousand years.

She looked back at the skipper, whom she found regarding her with a considering blue gaze that reminded her of Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. "Cal Schuyler," he said, holding out a hand. "You remember, the captain? I would have said something before but I didn't want to get in between you and the food."

Bill choked over his soda and Kenai, well into her second sandwich, laughed out loud. Schuyler's gaze remained steady on her face for a long moment.

He had, he told them, taken command of the Munro just that August.

"Our home port is actually Kodiak, Alaska. We should be doing an ALPAT- Alaska patrol-in the Bering right about now."

Surprised, Bill said, "What are you doing in Miami?"

Kenai was doing her best to look invisible but Schuyler wouldn't let her get away with it. "It's her fault." When she squirmed and Bill still looked blank, Schuyler said, "She's related to Douglas Munro."

"Munro?" Bill said. The light dawned. "Oh. I didn't make the co

"Exactly like the ship," the XO said. "Douglas Munro saved a bunch of Marines off Guadalcanal. He's the only Coastie to win the Medal of Honor."

"That's what the ba

"Oh yeah," Bill said. "The blue ba

The captain nodded. "Just like the Medal of Honor. Normally, we task a 210-that's a two-hundred-ten-foot cutter-to bulldog offshore security during a shuttle launch. This time"-he smiled at Kenai, and she caught the glint of mischief in his eyes-"this time the powers that be decided that since we had a relative of the only Coastie ever to win a Medal of Honor flying on the space shuttle, the least we could do was bring the ship named for him around to do the honors."

Munro was a week away from their first patrol during their Miami hiatus, doing drug interdiction and migrant interdiction in the Caribbean. "And any SAR case that crops up, of course, plus safety boardings and inspections."

"We'll do three months on patrol," the XO said, "and then three months in port. If everyone's schedule holds together, we should be on our last inport in Miami when you're getting ready to launch."

"What happens when we go up?" Kenai said.

"We'll be retasked," the captain said, and nodded at the young mess cook standing silently next to the door with hands folded and expression anxious. "All right, Roberts, we're done." She came forward and cleared away the food and brought them coffee in large porcelain mugs embossed' with the Munro's seal, and offered cream and sugar around.

"Thanks, Roberts, that'll be all," Schuyler said.

She blushed and cast a covert glance at the astronauts. Kenai, replete with food and disinclined to move, said with real heroism, "Would you like the skipper to take your picture with us?" She got a hand under Bill's elbow and heaved the both of them to their feet, and the young seaman produced the camera that had been burning a hole in her pocket since they'd arrived. They posed and smiled, the camera flashed, the young seaman went on her way rejoicing, and the captain closed the door firmly behind her before anyone else on his crew could sidle inside. "We'll be retasked," he repeated, "as command for offshore security during your launch. We'll be on station as soon as they move your vehicle to the pad, and we'll be there until you're in orbit, coordinating security and, if necessary, SAR efforts."

He didn't pretty things up, did Captain Schuyler. "Let's hope it won't be necessary," Kenai said dryly, and he surprised her with a wide, dazzling grin that put interesting creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His eyes were very blue. Sailor's eyes. She thought he might be blond, but like every other male crew member she'd seen he'd shaved his head almost down to the scalp in preparation for sea showers on patrol and it was hard to tell. Come to think of it, he didn't look anything at all like Robert Redford. Robert Redford was a troll by comparison. "That'd be my plan, ma'am."

He escorted them out. At the head of the stairs leading to the boat deck, Kenai's love slave came up the gangway. He looked up, saw her, and hurtled himself up the boat deck with reckless abandon.

The shout came in unison from both XO and captain: "Look out!"

It wasn't in time. The CPO smacked into the Darwin sorter at a velocity that put Kenai forcibly in mind of a crash test dummy hitting a windshield. He went down, hard.

"OOD!" the captain shouted, and a moment later an inquiring face peeped around the hangar. "Pipe the corpsman to lay to the starboardside boat deck!"

The CPO had pulled himself to a sitting position by the time everyone reached him. Blood was flowing freely from his forehead where a knot the size of a golf ball was already rising to attention. The corpsman, a tall man with gentle hands and a grave bedside ma

"I'll get you another driver," Captain Schuyler said. At the gangway Schuyler touched Kenai briefly on the elbow. She let Bill go down ahead of her.

"You staying in town tonight?" Schuyler said.

"We are," she said, refusing to let her smile show past her eyes.

There was an answering smile in his own. "Seven o'clock? I know a place where they brew the beer out back and the steak comes to the table still mooing."

"Sure," she said, "but I can't stay out late, early flight home tomorrow."

He stepped back and gestured at the gangway. As she passed he said in a low voice meant only for her ears, "Not a problem."

HE PRESENTED HIMSELF PROMPTLY AT SEVEN P.M. AT HER HOTEL ROOM door, dressed in deck shoes and a blue polo shirt tucked neatly into tan chinos. She was dressed equally casually, hot pink tank top, white slacks, and strappy little sandals that revealed nail polish to match the tank top. "Pretty in pink," he said.

She smiled. "Thanks."

He looked past her. "How's the room?"

"Palatial. See for yourself."

He displayed a bottle. "A drink before we go out?"

"Veuve Clicquot? I like your taste in drinks."

He nodded at the balcony, visible through the sliding glass doors. "Have a seat. I'll bring them out."

It was a beautiful evening, nothing left of the sun but a band of color that matched her tank top on the horizon, stars appearing overhead, the air on the balcony soft on the skin. The pop of the cork sounded behind her. Kenai pulled the chairs to the edge of the balcony and sat down in one and crossed her feet on the railing, Biscayne Bay, the Miami skyline, and the Atlantic in front of her. "Is it Callan?" she said when he brought the glasses, gently fizzing.