At this point, Scobey, Benson, and the others all broke into hysterical laughter. "I think… I think we should get him a robe," Scobey said. "You know, like a magician-priest-Druid kind of thing! This is great!.. "
"Nah," Boyce said. "He'd look too much like Uncle Fester. The Addams Family?"
"He doesn't need to worry about getting gigged for no haircut, man," Benson added. "That's for damned sure!"
"Yeah," Boyce said, "and we can use his head as a mirror when we get up. It'll save us all kinds of time."
"Mirror, hell," Douglas said. "I'm gonna use his scalp for a freakin' reading lamp!"
Supper continued, with most of the commentary revolving around bald jokes, mystery radiation, and the Cult of
Death. Benson and Scobey had both decided that they wanted to be members, though Douglas had pointed out that if they were going to do that, they would have to shave their heads as well, and no one would be able to tell them apart.
"In death," O'Brien had intoned, arms crossed over his chest and eyes rolled back, "is ultimate anonymity!.. "
As they were carrying their trays back to the galley, Scobey clapped O'Brien on the shoulder. "You're okay, kid," was all he said.
"Bring forth the Crunchy Dragon Snacks!"
O'Brien had been grabbed out of his rack in the middle of the night, had his hands bound behind him, a pillowcase jammed over his head, and he'd been dragged in his boxer shorts the long way around up to the Crew's Mess. He'd been doused in a bucket of frigid seawater to "wake him up," then made to crawl on hands and knees through a passageway-turned-obstacle-course with fishnets and lengths of plastic piping.
Now he was standing and shivering with the other soaked nubs of the boat, newbies who'd never crossed the International Date Line before … Montgomery and three others who'd come aboard at Mare Island.
The Crew's Mess had been transformed, with spotlights and blue and green filters to give it an eerie, deep-sea atmosphere, and with seaweed, shells, and nets hanging everywhere — along with plenty of Japanese lanterns for a colorful, surreal touch.
The place was packed with grinning sailors, and even the boat's "special packages" and the Navy SEALs watched from the safety of the galley. Captain Gordon was present, but strictly as an observer, leaning against the forward entrance to the Crew's Mess, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Things had been arranged, though, to focus attention on the throne forward.
Master Chief Warren — O'Brien was pretty sure that's who it was from his size, age, and build — made a spectacular Golden Dragon, wearing gold bikini briefs, swim fins, and a truly bizarre, long-horned dragon mask made of what looked like papier mache. He was painted all over with gold paint, and with scales picked out in black Magic Marker. He wore gold-painted gloves with black claws, and a kind of crown made of seaweed and starfish. He was seated upon his throne — a commode from a submarine head decorated with plywood, fishing nets, and a lot of paint — and held in his hand a scepter improvised from a plumber's helper.
To either side were the "Ladies of the Court," Boyce and Benson, wearing black mop-head wigs, gold bikinis with tissue-stuffed bras, and with heavy eye makeup to give them a vaguely Oriental look. Archie Douglas was the Dragon's Special Executive Secretary in an outlandish costume that included an archaic quill pen with an immense plume. Other members of the court included Father Time — Scobey in a sheet and a long white beard — and various senior NCOs as the Seven Days of the Week.
The linoleum deck before the throne had been painted with a thick, dotted line. The word "Sunday" was painted on the Dragon's side of the line, just in front of his throne; the word "Saturday" was painted on the deck on O'Brien's side of the line.
Stepping between the nubs and the Dragon, Douglas knelt, head bowed. "O mighty Draconis orientalis rex, thou great, wise, noble, and hungry Golden Dragon of the East! The prisoners and worthless nubs come before you now, in humble supplication, begging forgiveness of their sins, and induction into the great, royal, and most secret ranks of those who have sought thee across the Mystic Line."
The dragon stood suddenly, bellowing forth a shrieking, wailing howl. "Read to us the listing of their sins!"
Rising, Douglas accepted a parchment scroll from Chief Allison, unrolled it, and began solemnly intoning the list of charges and offenses — the same offenses that had been listed on O'Brien's invitation, with a few new ones thrown in for good measure.
"These are charges most serious indeed!" Still standing, the Dragon pointed a wickedly curved claw at the nubs. "Know ye, miserable nubs, that it is never wise to meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste great when dipped in chocolate sauce!" Reaching out to either side, he grabbed Boyce and Benson by their waists, drawing them close, eliciting girlish squeals. "Know, too, that dragons are horny beasts, who like to play with their food!"
The next hour was sheer misery for the nubs. They wallowed in lime Jell-O, they crawled on hands and knees through a paddling gauntlet, they were drenched in chocolate sauce and spray-coated with whipped cream.
And they were subjected to a barrage of questions about what day it was on which side of the line, each contrived to trip them up in tumbling illogic and imponderables.
"Tell me if you can!" the dragon bellowed in his most imperious manner. "If it be Sunday in Tokyo, on this side of the line, and Saturday in San Francisco on that side of the line… well, doesn't that mean it's also Sunday in Ceylon, while it's also Saturday in Chicago? And if that be true, isn't it also true, then, that it's Sunday in London while it's Saturday in New York? And doesn't that, then mean, that it is Sunday in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and also Saturday in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?…
"By which, of course, we see that all days are one, and time is an illusion… and you are all AWOL because you've already missed your watches tomorrow!.. "
"Captain!" Douglas called out. "We have to put these men on report!"
"I'll take that under advisement, Mr. Secretary," Gordon replied, laughing.
The Dragon extended a gold and scaly arm, pointing at O'Brien. "You! Baldy! Get down on your belly and squirm your way across the Date Line to me, that you may be recognized!"
O'Brien dropped onto the deck, which was already slick with lime Jell-O, and started crawling. The crowd was chanting, "Go, nub, go! Go, nub, go!.. "
"Crawl into tomorrow, miserable worm!" the dragon commanded.
"Captain, Sonar!" Kellerman's voice cut in, and instantly the crowd went silent.
Gordon went to a bulkhead intercom and pressed the switch. "Sonar, Captain. Whatcha got, Kellerman?"
"Contact, Captain, bearing two-zero-three, making turns for twenty knots. Sounds like our friend Sierra One is back… but he may just be passing us by."
"On my way." Gordon speared Rodriguez with a look. The sonar tech was one of the days of the week — Wednesday, as it happened — and was wearing a sheet. "Lay up to the Sonar Shack, Rodriguez. I want you on that baby."
"Aye aye, sir."
"COB, sorry, but I need you in the control room."
"Right, Skipper." The golden dragon removed its fearsome head and gloves, leaving them on a mess-room table. The ritual began to break up as both participants and onlookers headed for duty stations. Or to places where they could simply stand by. O'Brien got up off the deck, translated suddenly back to the familiar world of duty stations, boredom… and occasional moments of stark terror.