By 1 P.M. Delbert and Morrow still hadn’t returned to the office. I was glad. It gave me time to think. Time I badly needed.
In the Navy, they yell “clear the decks” and “batten down the hatches” whenever they’re about to go into combat. Sort of like your father punching you on the arm and asking if you have one of those shiny little wrappers in your wallet before your first date. Or your mother asking if you’re wearing clean, fresh undershorts every time you grab the car keys. Proper preparations take many forms.
My two colleagues waltzed into the office together at quarter past one, chattering happily, just all too pleased to have spent most of their day with a couple of sterling physical specimens of the opposing sex. After passing the rest of the morning with Mr. Jones and Miss Smith, I guessed they’d both shared a leisurely lunch with their new, or old, NSA chums. Whichever.
Imelda was smoldering. She had this stern notion of duty, and long, unaccounted-for absences were damned close to a mortal sin. I heard her demand to know where they’d been all morning. As usual, Delbert was too pumped up on his own garlic to either fib or just outright humbly admit guilt. I could hear him arguing, then trying to tell Imelda it was none of her business. That boy had a death wish. He might be right about it being none of her business, only being right never worked where Imelda was concerned. She was the one who decided what was her business and what wasn’t. Whenever she chose to butt into my business, for instance, I just moved aside and made room for her.
I chose this moment to walk out of my office and into the building maelstrom. I was sorely tempted to sit back and enjoy the fireworks, but that didn’t fit into my freshly devised scheme. It was time to clear the decks, batten down the hatches, check my wallet and underpants. Whatever.
“What the hell’s going on here?” I barked.
Imelda’s feet were spread wide apart, her fists were clenched, her lips were fluttering, and a trail of angry black smoke was leaking out of her ears. She was in her full Mount Vesuvius mode.
Delbert pointed a shaking finger at her and, in a very prim, very outraged voice, he declared, “Major Drummond, this specialist has been disrespectful to me for the last time. I’m filing charges.”
“You’re doing no such thing,” I yelled.
More meekly, he said, “She’s been demanding to know where we’ve been. It’s none of her business.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, Captain. I’ve been harassing her all morning to find out where you were. You and Captain Morrow have been