He resorted to repeating his challenge. “You’re entering the restricted waters of a U.S. military facility. You are ordered to change course and return to the civilian traffic lane.”
“I heard you the first time,” the woman replied, “and I told you; that’s not happening.”
Hightower keyed his mike again. “This is not an authorized point of entry to the naval station.”
The woman’s voice carried a tone of exasperation. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on a sailboat. It’s not like I can drive through the front gate.”
“I’m sorry, Lady” Hightower said, “but you can’t come in this way either.”
“Let’s knock off the ‘Lady’ business,” said the woman. “If you need stitches or Motrin, you can call me ‘Doc.’ Otherwise, I answer to ‘HM1’ or ‘Petty Officer Clark.’”
Moose Nolan, who could hear the radio through the open door of the deckhouse, made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh disguised as a cough.
Hightower would have a talk with that dumbass redneck, but that would be later — after Boat Girl and her smart mouth had been taken care of. If Hightower had anything to say about it, that bitch was going to see the inside of a detainment cell.
The woman raised an arm and her voice came over the radio again. “Can you see what I’ve got in my hand? This is a Common Access Card with the Navy emblem on it. The same DoD-issue ID you’re carrying in your wallet right now.”
Hightower ignored her. He switched radio channels to call for backup.
An hour and a half later, Hightower was writing the preliminary apprehension report while Boat Girl sat on a wooden bench in the outer office of the Security Department with her hands zip-tied behind her back. It was all Hightower could do to keep the grin off his face.
The woman’s ID had checked out. She really was a First Class Hospital Corpsman, in the Navy Reserve. Like that counted for something. Trying to get onto his base illegally. Ignoring his authority. Busting his balls. Waving her weekend warrior ID card like it was some kind of free pass.
Well the bitch was in Gitmo now, and that stateside political horseshit didn’t play down here, as she was already finding out.
Her husband (a big bastard) was at the hospital, with two MPs standing at his elbows. Getting his eyes checked out. That was the fucking medical emergency? The dude was seeing spots? Boo-fucking-hoo… What a pussy!
They were both gonna get the book thrown at them; Hightower was sure about that. National security. Illegal immigration. Navy Regs. Maybe even the Homeland Security Act.
The hand of military justice was going to reach out and pop them like a couple of zits. Hightower was contemplating the idea with satisfaction when an inner door opened and a man walked into the room.
Something about the newcomer’s posture and stride caused Hightower to glance up from his work. He caught sight of eagle collar insignias, and realized that it was a colonel.
Once again, Boat Girl beat him to the punch. She was on her feet, calling out ‘attention on deck!’ before Hightower could react.
Hands zip-tied behind her back, the woman couldn’t come to true attention, but she was clearly giving it a solid try.
Hightower got a better look at the officer. It was Colonel Dawkins, CO of the Marine Corps Security Force Company. A serious bigwig on a base as small as Gitmo.
The colonel stalked past with an absent nod. “As you were.”
Hightower relaxed, his focus already returning to the half-completed apprehension report when the colonel stopped and turned back to stare at Boat Girl.
“Doc Wilson? Is that you?”
Hightower saw the change in Boat Girl’s face as she recognized the officer.
“Uh… yes, sir,” she said. “I’m still me! But it’s Doc Clark these days.”
Colonel Dawkins shifted his gaze to Hightower with an uncharacteristic air of amusement. “Afternoon, MA2. Do you know this woman?”
Hightower nodded cautiously. “Affirmative, sir. She’s my detainee.”
The colonel’s eyebrows drew together and he looked back to Boat Girl, taking in her zip-tied wrists for the first time.
“Detainee? What’s the story here, Doc? What have they got you for?”
“It’s a long and ugly list, sir,” the woman said. “Squeezing the Charmin. Mopery and dopery on the high seas. Loitering with intent to gawk. And they suspect me of voting Democrat in the last election.”
The Marine officer’s granite-hard features took on an expression of quiet curiosity, and Hightower felt stirrings of unease somewhere deep in his stomach.
“Seriously, Doc,” the colonel said, “what kind of trouble have you got yourself into?”
“Unauthorized entry to the base, sir. My husband had an accident. I was trying to get him to the hospital.”
The colonel nodded. “You still married to the Jughead who got his ass shot off at Panjwayi?”
“Yes, sir. But he’s still got some of his ass left. Most of it, actually.”
“He got the Silver Star for that, right?”
Boat Girl shook her head. “His platoon commander put him in for the Silver, but it got downgraded to Bronze.”
The colonel’s face went hard again. “God help me, but I do hate that shit. Your man whips seven kinds of butt for the Corps and spills three pints of blood in the process. Then some rear echelon chair warrior pisses all over the award write-up, and a bona fide combat hero gets the shaft.”
“They did give him the Purple Heart.”
Colonel Dawkins waived a dismissive hand. “Come on, Doc, I got the Purple Heart — for a scratch that barely needed a Band-Aid.”
“It was more than a scratch, sir,” Boat Girl said. “I put about thirty staples in you myself, and I didn’t do any of the big parts.”
Hightower’s unease was quickly morphing into something closer to dread. This woman was a war buddy of the senior Marine officer in Cuba? What were the fucking odds?
“It was a scratch,” the colonel said. “Nothing like what your boy got. Speaking of which… What kind of accident? Nothing too serious, I hope.”
“Flash blindness,” Boat Girl said. “Maybe retinal burns. We were sailing south of the island when the nuke went off. Jon caught some of the flash.”
Colonel Dawkins grimaced. “You think it’s permanent?”
“I don’t know, sir. That’s why I had to get him to the hospital.”
Hightower felt his mouth get the better of him. “It’s nothing serious, Colonel. Not an emergency. Just spots in front of his eyes. Like when you accidentally look at the sun for a second.”
The colonel rewarded Hightower with a look that would freeze water. “I’ve seen the Doc here clamp off a femoral artery with her bare fingers, while the Marine who owned it was screaming for Jesus. Saved that Jughead’s life, and his leg. So — unless you’ve got some advanced medical training that I don’t know about — I’m inclined to give HM1 Clark’s diagnosis a tad more weight than yours. I assume you don’t have a problem with that?”
Hightower shook his head miserably. “No, sir. Of course not, sir.”
“Good,” the colonel said. “Glad we got that settled. Now, tell me about this illegal entry to the base… Did HM1 Clark identify herself as a U.S. Navy petty officer?”
The flicker of dread in Hightower’s stomach was solidifying into a knot of pure panic. “Uh… yes, sir.”
“Did she produce a DoD-issued ID card?”
Hightower was finding it hard to speak now. “Yes, sir…”