Father Maloney didn’t respond. He breathed deeply and looked down at the table. Then he said, “The use of force by an individual in an emergency is different than an act of war.” He smiled a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to get into this. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Woods showed his annoyance. “I’m pretty tired of people telling me why we can’t do anything about murder,” he snapped. “I for one am not going to just live with it. I’m not going to stop until they regret having killed Vialli. Not until they’ve paid for it.”
Maloney shrugged. “What can you do? You have to let it go.”
“Why do I have to let it go? Why does everybody keep telling me that?” Woods said, his voice rising again.
“Because you can’t change it. You can’t do anything about it. It isn’t profitable to strain at things you can’t change. It only causes frustration and pain.”
Woods spoke slowly, deliberately. “I will never forget, and I will never quit. Ever.”
Pritch slid her chair back, sensing an opening. “I’ve got to go debrief the last recovery in CVIC. See you later, Trey. Nice to meet you, Father Maloney.”
Maloney rose and extended his hand to Pritch. “I enjoyed meeting you. Are you Catholic?”
“Used to be. See you later,” she said uncomfortably.
“What do you have in mind?” Maloney asked, sitting down again and sliding his chair directly across from Woods.
“Nothing.”
“I miss Tony a lot.”
Woods was amazed. “Father Maloney, you didn’t even know him. All you did was preside over his funeral.”
“You perhaps think you know more than you do. You should be careful. Tony was a Catholic—”
“I know that. But I also know he didn’t buy it. He was a regular guy—”
“Are you Catholic?”
“No.”
“What church did you grow up in?”
“Presbyterian.”
“Do you buy it, as you have put it?”
Woods shrugged and nodded.
“Well, Tony did buy it. All of it. He came to our Wednesday morning mass every week. Never missed once. We talked weekly.”
Woods stared at the priest, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t say that to embarrass you, but so you could understand that there are others who feel his loss as deeply as you do.”
“I know that. I’ve just been a little careless lately.” Woods stood up, pushing his chair back under the table. “I’ve got to hit the rack. It’s been a long day. See you again sometime.”
“Yes. Good night, Lieutenant Woods. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks,” Woods said as he headed toward his stateroom, knowing he’d missed the start of the movie and not really caring. He was no longer in the mood.
He closed the flimsy steel stateroom door behind him, sat down heavily in his desk chair and unlaced his boots. He dropped them on the tiled deck, standing up to take off his flight suit. He slung it over his chair and removed his yellow T-shirt. He turned on the small neon light over the steel sink, feeling the coolness of the metal through his cotton boxer shorts as he leaned against it.
He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. He felt tired. He had been up almost nineteen hours. Nothing unusual about that though, he told himself. Eighteen was the norm. No, it was weariness. He couldn’t do anything about Vialli and he knew it. Every time someone reminded him of it, he felt the frustration more deeply. He shook his head vigorously, and splashed cold water on his face.
He switched off the light and brushed his teeth in the dark. He couldn’t hear Big breathing in the top bunk — he was probably at the movie — but Bernie was there — guush, cuh cuh cuh. At least the catapults were quiet. The last launch was over. He could hear the recovery aft, as an S-3, distinctive by sound of its relatively quiet but deep turbofan engines, strained futilely against the arresting cable.
He pulled back the white cotton sheet and gray USN blanket on the lower bunk and crawled in. He listened to the familiar sounds of the ship, as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and prepared for his usual instantaneous unconsciousness.
His eyes snapped open as his heart raced. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He jumped out of bed and pulled on his flight suit, socks, and boots, zipping up his flight suit all the way to hide the fact he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. He threw open the door to the stateroom and slammed it behind him. He turned outboard, went through a hatch, and grabbed the railings on the ladder as he slid down feet first. Down another, and another, and another, until he was on the mess deck.
He stopped in front of a door and tried the handle. It was locked. Shaking the handle, he finally let go with a grunt. He looked up and down the passageway, but no one was around. He was about to walk away when he saw the sign in the middle of the door: in case of emergency, contact Lieutenant Rayburn at 4765.
Woods walked aft and grabbed the closest phone. He dialed the number, letting it ring and ring. Finally someone answered. “Hello,” a voice said, obviously having awakened from a deep sleep.
“Is this Lieutenant Rayburn?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“This is Lieutenant Sean Woods, VF-103. I need to talk to you.”
“Why?” Rayburn said testily. “Can’t it wait?”
“No. I have to see you tonight.”
Rayburn sighed. “I’ll meet you in my office in five minutes. Can you be there by then?”
“I’m already there,” he said. The line went dead. He hurried back down the passageway to the office door to wait.
Five minutes went by, no Lieutenant Rayburn. Then ten. Woods paced in front of the door, waiting. He looked at his watch again, and finally heard the clanging of a nearby ladder as Lieutenant Rayburn slid to the deck.
Glancing curiously at Woods, he opened the door to his office and switched on the lights. Rayburn was short, about five six, with clipped straight brown hair. In his late twenties, he had obviously taken the time to comb his hair and put on a clean uniform. He was wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses. “Now,” he asked, “what can I do for you?”
Woods offered his hand and said, “I’m Sean Woods. Thanks for coming in the middle of the night.”
“What’s up?” said Rayburn impatiently.
“I was lying in my rack, and I couldn’t sleep.” He saw Rayburn’s face — he was getting angry — and decided to change his approach. “You remember the guy who was killed in the attack in Israel?”
“Sure. He was there illegally. Faked his leave papers. I had to review the JAG investigation to determine whether he was in the line of duty and all that.”
“Then you know what happened.”
“Probably better than you do.”
Woods looked at Rayburn, trying to read his tone of voice. Rayburn was impressed with himself. Great, Woods thought. Just when I need some help I get an arrogant attorney.
“You’re the JAG officer on the ship, right?”
“Obviously.”
“So you’re supposed to know the law.”
Rayburn shrugged. “Some of it. The rest I have to look up, but I have a good set of law books aboard. Why, what do you want to know?”
“Mind if I sit?” he said, pointing to a chair and sitting down without waiting for a reply. Rayburn took the desk chair behind a Navy-issue steel-gray desk.