by Sharon Timm
Sam knew the XO was kidding. He couldn't officially force her to stay off the ship for a whole week, but she also knew that deep down, he meant what he said.
She went below and changed into her civilian clothes, packed a bag and headed for the quarterdeck to wait for the liberty boat.
She watched as the Captain's private launch was swung from its davit and placed gently into the water. The low growl of diesel engines drew her attention to a white tour boat crossing the bay toward the ship from the city. In the distance, fairy-tale domes and bell towers leaped up from the skyline. The city seemed to float majestically on the water of the bay.
"Want to ride in with me, Chief?"
Sam turned her head to find the Captain standing beside her. "Sir," she stammered. "Yes sir, thank you. I'd appreciate that."
"I hear the XO has kicked you off the ship."
"You heard about that too, Sir?" she asked surprised.
"I'm glad he did, saved me the trouble of throwing you off myself." His poker face broke into a brief smile that touched his eyes then just as quickly went blank again.
The Captain was a rock solid, no-nonsense, professional. He was sharp, polished and surprisingly soft-spoken, but ran a tight ship with an iron hand. She studied him furtively as he boarded the small boat after her. He was not as tall as the XO. His handsome, African American features were framed with just a hint of gray in his short, tight curly hair. He was a bit of a legend in the surface Navy.
A product of a middle class family from northwest Philadelphia, he'd enlisted in the Navy at seventeen. He applied to the Naval Academy and was accepted. Graduating near the top of his class he set out to be an admiral.
From his first day in the officer ranks he calmly, almost effortlessly, met and surpassed every standard set by his predecessors. Now, 21 years later, he was in line for Admiral, and rumor had it he was at the top of the list.
He was a supremely confident man, yet surprisingly modest. He didn't tout the stack of ribbons he wore on his tailored blue uniform, centered under his gold Surface Warfare Officer pin. Row after row of gold stars belied his modesty and bragged that he had received consecutive awards of many of his ribbons.
Everything about him said "Catch me if you can." yet his attitude had always mirrored the promise he often used in speeches and in private. "I can help you get here".
He was admired for his ability to stubbornly extract the utmost of his people, and his ships. He was almost worshiped for his ability to do so gently and positively. A look from this Captain carried more weight than the tempestuous tirades of lesser leaders.
Sam marveled, not for the first time, at this curious blend of myth and real person. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the engines as the coxswain backed down and eased the gleaming craft alongside the Venice pier.
She stood and waited as the Captain stepped onto the pier, then, followed him ashore. He was met by an Italian Admiral and several other officers. He turned to her before leaving. "Have fun Chief," he had said.
CHAPTER THREE
She had stepped on to the Venice pier and in less than an hour later she was in a dungeon. Locked up in a damp, smelly cubicle. The walls were painted in an institutional light green color. The paint was peeling in the corners and near the floor. Bands of moisture discolored wall like a sand paining. There were no windows. Just the one heavy wooden door with an ancient cast iron security lock which mated to the reinforced door frame.
Sam shivered. The room was damp and cold. She rubbed her hands together and paced back and forth in the tiny cubicle.
She fumed. She paced. She sat on the hard wooden chair and waited. It was senseless to talk to these people, not that they understood her when she did speak.
"I want to make a phone call!" she hollered. But who could she call. She was the first person on the beach. She didn't know the telephone number to the Shore Patrol Headquarters because it hadn't been set up yet. The ship was anchored out so she couldn't telephone. There was no radio.
The Italian Navy knew the ship was here. She wondered if they had passed this on to the local something-or-other police. The name emblazoned on the boat had started with a "C" she remembered.
She sat for a while, paced the floor for a while. From time to time she hollered defiantly at the walls. Time passed. "Just wait!" she yelled. "You can't do this to me!"
Almost as an echo to her voice, she heard the shrill voice of a woman outside the door. She couldn't understand the words, but the voice was getting louder as it got closer to her cell door.
Suddenly, the door burst open and a short woman entered the room. Without pausing for even a moment in her tirade against the uniformed men, she swept into the tiny cubicle and approached Sam. She gently and carefully put her arm around Sam and led her from the room and into the long hallway.
The tall, uniformed man was still sneering. He stood, arms crossed and scowling at the door to a private office. Two other officers retreated quickly from the howling woman who was still waving her arms around and yelling at tall, sneering man. She kept calling him, "Maresciallo".
Sam wondered what the word meant. She stood in the protective shadow of the woman and studied the tall, dark haired man.
She put his age at late thirties to early forties. He was strikingly handsome, he had dark eyes that looked black in the gloomy hallway. He wore an immaculately tailored uniform. His blue trousers had a red stripe that ran down the length of the leg and his boots were well shined. His coat was nicely tailored, full at the chest, tapering quickly to a slim waist. On each bulging shoulder, his epaulets bore a rank insignia of two thin bars.
She hated him instantly. He was a demon, a monster and the scowl on his face was quickly turning to rage. He held up a hand suddenly and the woman's soliloquy came to an abrupt halt. In a deceptively soft and gentle voice he spoke to the woman. She nodded, satisfied it appeared, then took his arm and was led down the passageway away from Sam.
The handsome tyrant returned in a moment. Sam was standing where he had left her, not sure what to do.
"Come with me," he ordered. The man's English was flawless. He had an accent to be sure, but his pronunciation was crisp and clear. He sounded almost British.
Sam gaped at him and stood her ground. "You speak English?" she demanded in disbelief. "You speak English and you couldn't even take a moment to explain what was going on? A man gets stabbed, I try to save his life. How is he by the way?" The question just popped out, but it didn't stop her from her own tirade. "I want a telephone. I want to call someone. I want my ship notified. I am Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy and I resent the way I'm being treated."
The man raised his hand again as he had with the woman. Sam stopped talking abruptly and instantly regretted her reaction. This man was wrong. He was dead wrong. He was... he was talking now.
"I respect the fact that you are a Chief Petty Officer, but you are not on your ship. You are in my police station. I hold the equivalent rank of a Senior Chief in your Navy, but your rank is meaningless here. I am the Chief of Police and mine is the only rank that matters right now. I will ask you again, however, as a colleague, will you step into my office? His dark eyes bored into hers.
Oh how she hated this arrogant pompous man.
Sam walked stiffly into his office. He offered her a chair but she refused to sit down. "I'll stand, thank you," she said glowering at the uniformed man.
He circled his desk and sat stiffly in the chair. "There has been a misunderstanding. The initial report we received was that a man was stabbed by a blonde woman at the water taxi landing. My men responded with that information and you were brought here for questioning. I regret the inconvenience, but I do not fault my men based on the report we received.
"Now," he continued, gesturing toward the hallway, "I have been eloquently briefed on the true nature of the incident, by the very loud woman you met earlier. She is the woman who called the ambulance. Since she cleared up the misunderstanding, I w
ill only need to ask you a few questions and you will be released.
"Also, on behalf of the victim of this terrible crime I would like to congratulate you on your prompt action. To answer your question, the man is in stable condition in the Hospital." He shuffled some papers on his desk.
"Well then," he continued "I have just a few questions for you."
Samantha seethed inside. Not a word of apology. Not a word of sympathy. This exasperating man calmly shifted from role to role. Within the last hour he had gone from jail keeper to esteemed colleague to master of ceremonies at an awards banquet and now just as smoothly had settled back into his favorite role, inquisitor. Sam exploded.
"I want an apology. I want a representative from my ship. I want to be released..."
He cut her off. "You want! You want!" He leapt to his feet, his clenched fists were planted on the desk and he towered over her. "You do not want anything!" he exploded. "You do not make demands! You are not in charge here! I am!"
Her steel blue eyes were locked defiantly on his. Neither of them looked away. The silence was broken as a blue uniformed man entered the room.
"Maresciallo, posso? “ It sounded like a question. He held a folder in his outstretched hand.
The tall, handsome object of her hatred scowled and strode out of the room with the other man. Sam stood, riveted in place. When he returned he sat at his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and fingers and closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft and even.
"We are getting off on the wrong foot, you and I," he said.
"Yes," was all Sam could say.
He continued. "I have a problem. I have a very big problem. I need your help, but I will concede that the questions I have for you can be asked in the presence of a representative from your command. Since your ship has not established its Shore Patrol headquarters yet, I am willing to go to your ship." He sounded bored. His remarks about the Shore Patrol were thinly veiled sarcasm. "Let's go."
He stood, circled the desk and offered her his arm. He could be such a gentleman. There he stood handsome and dressed to kill in his uniform, like a date for the prom, offering to escort her.
She brushed roughly past him and entered the hallway.
A larger police boat was moored at the dock. They stepped on board and the powerful engines throbbed to life.
Sam had a strange thought. Although this was the worst day of her life, it wasn't dead time. She hadn't thought about the demons of her past since the bizarre incident had begun several hours before.
The Maresciallo tapped her shoulder and shoved the microphone to the marine radio in front of her.
Sam understood. It was not considered good manners to just pull alongside a heavily armed warship. It was accepted practice, and much safer, to request permission first.
Sam keyed the mike and spoke into it with a clearly enunciated voice. "DONELSON, DONELSON. This is Chief Logan on board Italian police vessel approaching off your starboard beam."
The radio crackled, "Chief Logan this is USS FORT DONELSON. Roger. Over."
"DONELSON this is Chief Logan. Request permission to come alongside to starboard. Request XO presence on deck."
There was a pause. "Roger. Stand by." Sam imagined what must be going through the mind of the bridge watch as the arrangements were made.
Soon, the radio barked static and the same voice returned. "Chief Logan, Chief Logan. This is USS FORT DONELSON. You are cleared to come alongside to starboard. X-ray Oscar will meet you on the quarterdeck."
Sam led the Italian official up the accommodation ladder. She was impressed, in spite of herself, when the Maresciallo came to attention at the top of the ladder and saluted the American flag, before turning to the Officer of the deck and requesting permission to come aboard.
The Executive Officer was standing by the rail. The Italian policeman marched past Sam, crossed the deck to him, rendered a sharp salute and introduced himself.
Sam was furious. This smooth operator was well versed in Navy protocol. He instantly and effortlessly got the upper hand again, on her ship. He smoothly negated any home turf advantage she might have had.
The XO led them both into the Officer's Wardroom. Sam was shocked to find the Captain was back on-board, standing to one side, waiting for them to enter. The Maresciallo removed his hat the moment he crossed the threshold of the Wardroom door. Here again, he demonstrated extraordinary familiarity with Navy customs or just incredibly good luck. He snapped to attention but did not salute.
His ability to instantly impress the members of her command infuriated Sam. It was those little details that counted. Knowing when a salute was appropriate, knowing what to do when. She studied the Captain's face. Both he and the XO looked concerned.
The Italian Chief of Police was now shaking the hand of the Chief Master-at-Arms. Jim Buford had just entered through another door. Things could not get any worse. Jim gave her a withering glance. She wanted to scream.
"Captain, Sir." the Maresciallo, began in an even, honey smooth voice. "There has been a terrible incident in the city. A man was stabbed, but thanks to the heroic intervention of Chief Logan, the man's life was saved." he glanced in her direction with a gracious smile on his face.
Sam's anger approached the boiling point. The fact that he had remembered her name from the radio transmissions incensed her more than anything he had done up to this point. She had not given him her name. Now he was using it like they were best friends.
"Up to this point," he continued, "her assistance has been most valuable, but she has been understandably reluctant to continue cooperating until she had the opportunity to inform her command. I apologize for the inconvenience of coming aboard your ship, Sir, but your Shore Patrol Headquarters has not yet been established and I felt it was an urgent situation."
The CO and XO looked visibly relieved. Jim looked almost disappointed that she wasn't in some kind of trouble. The XO broke the silence.
"Chief Logan will assist you in any way she can, with the full support of this ship and the United States Navy. She has been given the rest of the week off." The CO and XO exchanged a glance and the XO smiled. The Sheriff grinned like clown. The Italian policeman studied their faces and shifted his eyes back to Sam. He didn't miss a thing.
He snapped his heels together and nodded to the XO. "Thank you, Sir."
"Chief Logan will be available to help in any way she can." The XO placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Chief, you did the right thing, as usual. Good Job!"
"Yes, Sir." she acknowledged through clenched teeth.
The Captain himself escorted them back to the quarterdeck. He shook the Maresciallo's hand and returned his salute.
Sam's legs felt like wood as she trudged down the ladder and stepped onto the boat. Her stomach was a knot. She had never been so angry or humiliated in her life. The irritating, exasperating, conniving, devil of a man in the blue uniform had manipulated the entire thing! He had praised her heroic actions, called her by name and pretty much had her assigned to his personal staff by the Executive Officer of her own ship. He had never hinted at any of the conflict between them or explained or apologized for arresting her and throwing her in the dungeon. She hated him so much! She was mad at herself for letting him manipulate her.
As the sleek craft turned toward the setting sun, Sam collapsed onto the seat cushions and stared at her still bloodstained hands. Hot, angry tears coursed down her cheeks as she bit her lip and trembled.
"What is wrong, Chief Logan?" her nemesis asked in his honey sweet voice.
Sam wanted to explode. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to tell him what a conceited, brilliant and handsome son of a.... what she said came out in a cracked whisper. "I.... I.... never got to wash my hands."
He held out his hand to her and she took it. He led her through a hatch and down into the forward section of the boat. As she climbed down the steps he steadied her with his hand. The boat danced across the waves, rolling slightly from side to s
ide as it sped toward Venice. Due partly to this rocking motion and partly to Sam's physical and mental exhaustion, she stumbled off the last step and fell into the arms of the man she so vehemently detested. By now she had been worn down. She no longer cared.
She leaned against him, longer perhaps than necessary, to regain her balance. He caught her shoulder with his free hand and still holding her hand, pulled her against him. His chest felt solid, his arm strong and his hand, was so warm, her cold hand melted in the electric warmth of his, warmth that traveled up her arm and down her spine, settling like an ember in the pit of her stomach.
She pulled away suddenly, realizing with distaste how close she was to this man!
He said nothing, but held out his hand, gesturing toward the door of the small water closet on board.
Sam locked herself in the cramped bathroom and scrubbed the dried blood from her hands. She scrubbed again, and re-washed the hand that had touched his. The cool water did not douse the warmth that still lingered. She glanced in the small mirror and fought back another rush of hot tears. She was blushing.
The thought that any man could make her blush unsettled her. The thought that a monster such as he could affect her that way made the anger boil inside once more.
She splashed water on her face and fixed her hair. "Get a grip, Sam!" she said out loud. She was determined not to let him get under her skin anymore. He's doing this on purpose to get to me, she reasoned. I won't be vulnerable to him anymore!
She emerged from the tiny bathroom and found him waiting for her. Her medical instincts took over. "You should wash your hand too," she said. "Blood can be dangerous."
He nodded and complied.
Sam climbed the ladder to the pilot’s station and stood next to him as they approached the city. The fresh sea air tossed her hair. She felt better. She gave herself credit for winning the last round. She had told him to wash up and he had complied like a good patient.
That was more her style. It was more familiar to be in charge, to direct rather than to be directed. On the ship she had superiors, but even with them she was the recognized expert in her field. She had grown accustomed to having the upper hand. The hours that had gone by since that poor man had been stabbed had thrown her world upside down, but she was regaining control.