The Command (13 page)

You could peer through a thick window into the soundproofed interior of the isolation module. A jet engine, same as in an airliner, a DC-10 or a C-5. Looking in you couldn't see much happening, even when they were running, just stainless tubing and hoses and suspended like in midair the long dully gleaming barrel of the turbine itself. It was screaming in there, the temperature was over fourteen hundred degrees in the combustor at full power, but all you saw was the light glowing on it and the safety chains swaying like some unseen hand was shaking them.

Then past that and down yet another half level you came to GTG number one. Another gas turbine, but smaller than the main engines, it ran at a constant speed to drive the generator. Its exhaust ran the waste heat boiler that provided steam for the ship, hot water for the showers, and steam for the mess deck's kettles and all that.

Below that was the lower level, with the engine foundations and the coalescers and fire pumps and the complicated hydraulics for the screw pitch control mechanism, and all the lube oil pumps and filters and tanks. Petty Officer Helm wouldn't let her touch the lube oil. It was synthetic MIL-SPEC-23699 stuff that ate rubber seals. It would give you dermatitis and paralysis and birth defects. He worked on it himself, with rubber gloves and a rubber apron and a face shield. You were walking on diamond-treaded steel floorplates by now, and pulling them up showed you nothing below but the sea chests where pipes came in through the bottom, and red-painted steel, and slowly roiling water that was the bilge.

That was Main One. Main Two aft was pretty much like it, but she didn't see much of it or the aux spaces or Control because Helm kept his watch section busy doing qualifications and cleaning the steam traps and doing all the other stuff they had to do to keep the engines and generators and pumps running. It wasn't as hot down here as she'd thought it'd be, but it was so noisy everyone had to wear ear protection and shout at each other. It had been rough all the way across. She carried trash bags in her coveralls to throw up in. Ricochet was worse. He was puking nonstop. He lay on the IR flat whenever he could because he said there was less motion up there.

Her watch section was five people. Helm and Ricochet, whose real
name was Sanders but everybody called him Ricochet because when he walked down the passageway he bounced off one bulkhead then the other. GSM3 Pascual, who everybody called the Porn King because he had a stash of books and magazines and tapes under his bunk he rented out by the hour. He read
Velvet
and
Superman
and
Vero
on watch. She'd opened one he left on the PLCC. All guys with huge cocks coming in women's faces, the women rubbing it into their tits. Only you could tell it wasn't real come because there was so much of it. She figured probably dishwashing liquid. Whenever she came across one of his magazines after that, she dropped it in the bilge. And Akhmeed, who had a little mustache shaved narrow and came from the Philippines and didn't want to talk about anything but his truck.

It was Akhmeed who'd cut her down after the guys taped her to the overhead. The taping wasn't so bad. What was embarrassing was having to wear a rubber glove on her head. You stretched the latex wrist over the top of your skull and your eyes and your nose. Then blew out until the fingers erected like a rooster comb on top of your head. You had to go around the ship flapping your arms and crowing. She'd come face to face with the exec by the Coke machine. Who'd yelled at her to take the fucking glove off her head and get back to her work space, this was a ship not a frat party.

But now the hazing was over and Chief Bendt had called down on the 4MC to wash down the GTG because they were going into Palma this morning. Helm had shut it down and told her to do the washdown with Sanders. She got her tools together and made sure the temperature was under 110 degrees. If it wasn't, you could warp the blades spraying cold water on them. She climbed into the isolation module and started disconnecting the air lines and hoses. The ship was rolling and her mouth was watering and she didn't like being in there. All somebody had to do was dog the hatch and light off the turbine and she'd cook. Nobody'd ever hear her screaming. So she kept the door propped open. She could hear the guys talking outside about why the rotor rings were sparking.

“We replaced the brushes and sandpapered the rings.”

“Is it the rotor? Is it warped?”

“Naw, it's them rotor worms. They get into it and eat out at it from inside.”

“What kind of zit brain you think I am? You're fuckin' so lame, man.”

“Yeah, fuckin' lame, you scammer. Red on the head like the dick on a dog.”

“At least when I fart you smell something, man. Not just dry old cobwebs.”

“You're the fucking head of the class, man. Like when they told you to go see the chief engineer and ask her for twelve feet of fallopian tube.”

She climbed out and told Helm he could spin the motor now. You spun it at low speed from the panel, about two thousand RPM. Meanwhile she went up the ladder to the upper level and poured half a gallon of BNB into the wash tank. She didn't know what the initials stood for, just that it was like a detergent. She cracked the valve to pressurize it, then went back down to the generator and carefully opened the solenoid valve next to the module. A hiss came out of the open door, but you never actually saw any water. It went in the engine and out the exhaust and evaporated when it hit the hot tubes in the boiler. She gave it one shot with the BNB and two rinses with fresh water. Then climbed back in to reconnect.

“You got
Girls Go Wild,
number eight? I got to get geared up for Palma. One of the hull techs, he was telling me there's like thousands of English girls there. They hear an American accent, they take 'em off right there.”

Pascual's voice: “Sure, I got it. Two dollar an hour. Never been looked at. You be the first one.”

“You don't need porn, dickhead. You need a testicle transplant.”

“Your bitch got you so pussy-whipped, you don't even read porn.”

“I never said I read it. But I look at it.”

“Save yourself some money. Go to the ship's store, buy some Baby Ruth bars, and go down to Aux 2. Give them to that Wilson chick, she'll take you in the trash compactor room.”

“I heard that Borromeo say somethin' about that, but I figured it was bullshit. He's so full of it. The great Latin lover.”

“It ain't bullshit. She'll clear your fuckin' tubes. The av mechs snuck her into the back of the bird. Sealed her up airtight, three guys at once.”

“Fuckin' women at sea. Fuckin' port-a-pussy… sumbitch thought this one up, he oughta get a fuckin' medal. This little one you got, she's got a cute little ass on her. Anybody hooked up with her yet?”

Sanders, sounding confused: “What? Who? Kasson? No, she don't… she ain't…”

She put her head out and saw two losers from one of the work centers aft. They looked startled seeing her head come out of the enclosure. She snapped, “Ricochet. Clear those tags and set up for a manual start.” They muttered and drifted off.

…

THEY moored before lunchtime at an industrial part of town. Big heaps and wooden bins of reddish clay rose inland. Somebody said it was what they made Spanish tile out of, like for roofs. She looked ashore eagerly. It was her first overseas port, unless you counted Rota. Fortunately she wasn't in the duty section. They had to sit for a prelib-erty brief in the mess decks, then everybody went down to the compartment to get ready.

Ina was already dressed when she got there. She had her hair back in braids and was wearing white shorts and running shoes. She looked about fifteen. Which was not necessarily bad, Cobie guessed. Better than coveralls and shitkickers. She waited in line for the shower, thrilled when the water came out hot, and scrubbed the fuel stink off her. Back at her locker, she hesitated between her two civilian outfits. A dark red sundress—God knows what she'd been thinking. Maybe drinking wine in Rome in the Colosseum by moonlight. Uh-huh. Or else jeans and a T-shirt. She unpinned her hair and brushed it out, wishing it would lie straight, but with all the humidity from the hole it kinked up like an unraveled rope.

Patryce Wilson came out of the shower and strode through the compartment naked except for flip-flops. Cobie looked away, remembering the overheard conversation. It was just locker-room bullshit. When a woman acted friendly, some guys took it as an invitation, and once the stories started, everybody had to top them. Like the retards by the generator that morning. “Patryce, you been here before?”

“Palma? Shit, yeah, lots of times. I'll take you to some cowboy bars. We'll get shitfaced. Speak any Spanish?”

Cobie said she didn't, only “Muchas gracias,” and Wilson said that was too bad, Spanish men were fun. “Hey, how about Lourdes?”

“She's gotta speak Spanish. Don't Mexicans … yeah. Don't they?”

The ear-piercing whistle she hated, then the 1MC. “Liberty call, liberty call. Liberty call for duty sections two and three. Liberty expires on board at 0200 for second class and below. Now liberty.”

“You get her, I'll get Ina.”

“She's already dressed,” Cobie said to her back. Then looked at her makeup kit, hardened and cracked in the heat of the berthing compartment. With hasty, out-of-practice daubs, she began making herself up.

…

INA didn't show for the longest time, and Lourdes had to go back for her purse. Everyone had to sign out with a liberty buddy. Patryce told them to sign out two and two, if they signed all four together they'd have to come back together. By the time they finally got to the gate the bus was gone, disappearing over the hill. Patryce said it didn't matter, they'd go to the mall till the next one.

The mall was built into the side of a hill. They had to climb past about five hundred little motorbikes parked below it. Girls and guys were pulling up and leaving. Cobie eyed the girls. Spandex ran rampant. They wore it tight, black stretch pants, or painted-on jeans with big clunky shoes. The guys were swarthy, with dark hair slicked back, kind of greasy looking. There was a Pizza Hut, but it wasn't like in the States. Everything was in Spanish and the pizza tasted funny, but they had Tanqueray and orange juice for two dollars a pitcher. The waiter was a hunk. Patryce called him “stud muffin.” Cobie had a glass of T&O and then another, listening to Patryce tell about the artist guy she'd met up at the castle the last time she was here and how she raped his thing.

After that things started getting fuzzy. So instead of one thing, and then another thing, there were scenes, like postcards. Like snapshots in a cruise book. Our Port Visit in Palma.

They pull themselves on giggling and screaming and the bus driver gives a sour look but nobody cares. The ship rents the buses and there's nothing but
Horn
dudes aboard anyway, and they're noisy, too. There's nothing the driver can do.

Looking out as the straining engine carries them uphill and then down, through a city. She blinks, fascinated at the passing cars, shops, people. All the signs are in Spanish. Sure, what else! This isn't fucking Bumfuck, Louisiana, anymore. She doesn't feel exactly safe, in a funny way she's never felt before. What if somebody asks her a question? She took Spanish at Acadiana High, but right now she can't remember hello or thank you. Behind them the guys have the windows down, hooting at the babes on the street. They're smaller than Americans, with long dark shiny hair. Most are wearing dresses, some, the ones who look like office workers, pants suits.

The bus drives for a long time, out into the country, up and down hills and ridges. Then they see the sea again and tall buildings. It looks
like Fort Lauderdale, where she went on the senior trip. The guys are going nuts, throwing things out of the window, until a first class tells them to knock it the fuck off if they don't want to get everybody restricted to the ship for the rest of the cruise.

A paper bag comes back, hand to hand, somebody stole one of the pitchers from the Pizza Hut. The bus bumps, and it runs down her neck onto her shirt and she says angrily, “Shit. Fuck.” And Lourdes is rubbing at it with a paper napkin from her little purse.

Magalouf's like a TV show about the rich and famous, a long curving beach with hotels and clubs. The Daiquiri Palace is a two-story blue house with an outside bar overlooking the beach, then farther down a little concrete wall. Then nothing but beautiful, fine white sand, and beach chairs lined up like tombstones, that regular, except where people had pulled them together and were lying on them. She has her suit on under her jeans so all she has to do is pull her clothes off. The sand's so hot it burns her feet, but the water's warm and blue. Back at the bar somebody's riding the mechanical bull. They're yelling and screaming, and when he falls off, everybody dumps beer on him. Then some guy from Oklahoma gets on, and he can actually ride. They carry him around on their shoulders, then pour beer on him, too, and throw him in the water.

There are lots of English girls out shopping. The clerks are Spanish, but they all speak English and French and probably two or three other languages, too. She starts to feel like she didn't get a good-enough education, listening to them switch from one language to another. She gets to talking with one of the English girls. Everybody goes to Palma or the Canary Islands, she says. Ina here's from England, Cobie says. The English girl's curious, wants to know if Ina plans to go back. Ina says no, she's a Yank now.

Cobie buys a new swimsuit. A two-piece, made in France. It's expensive, but she really likes it. It makes her look taller. She wishes she wasn't so damn short.

Patryce takes them there in a taxi. She says you can meet Spanish guys there without a lot of Americans around. Cobie isn't sure she wants to, but they're following Patryce because she knows where everything is. Only when they get there it's closed. So then Lourdes says she's hungry, and they go to another place, all dark wood inside and heavy wooden tables and the menu's all in Spanish, which Lourdes reads to them. Everything's roasted meat. Beef and lamb and pork. She'd like chicken, but there isn't any, so she has beef.