Anne Duquette - Fleet Hospital

“I will.” His smile was warm. “The staff” meant the Chief, but the Yeoman would be the one to pick out the arrangement. She had a pleasant voice and a calm disposition, which made his office a more cheerful place to work than previous duty stations. “Thanks.”

Ten seconds later he was as hot and sweaty as the Chief, who met him outside the Admin building. Michael’s administrative department head and computer systems coordinator, Chief Valmore Bouchard carried a metal clipboard in one hand, his other swinging freely at his side. Naval salutes weren’t required in hospitals or inside buildings except on formal occasions, and the Fleet compound was no exception.

“Leaving, sir?”

“Just about, Chief.” Michael took the proffered clipboard, checked the afternoon schedule and passed it back to the smaller man. “How’s the class shaping up?”

The question covered three areas: physical (would they pass out?), mental (were they stupid?) and morale (did they take the training seriously?).

“The good news, Captain, is most of them are from Jax or Pensacola.”

Michael nodded. That was good news indeed. The two Florida units wouldn’t bitch about the heat, or eat dirt fainting. They knew to keep themselves hydrated. In fact, he’d seen one Jacksonville enlisted with his fatigue jacket on. Some of them actually suffered in air conditioning, something Michael could never understand.

“Not too many boneheaded questions in the classrooms, either, sir, other than the usual computer-clueless.” The Chief snorted, then carefully smoothed his Navy-regulation mustache.

Michael kept silent, knowing that his Chief’s “clueless” category included people with doctorate degrees in computer science. He also knew that NCIS—Naval Criminal Investigative Services—regularly visited the Chief to test computer lockout safeguards or ask advice. They generally left his office with muttered comments such as “Good thing that bastard’s on our side.”

“You’ll handle the clueless just fine, Chief. You whipped me into shape, right?” No comment, nor did Michael expect one. “The bad news?”

“We’ve got a few Air Farce prima donnas enrolled.”

Michael overlooked the Chief’s sarcastic use of Farce for Force. “Flight surgeons?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Those paper-pushers having problems with the heat?” If so, it was the Chief’s problem to solve, not his.

“No, sir. They don’t want to pull their fair share.”

“I’ll have someone talk with them,” Michael promised. That was his job. The officers were usually the first to scream foul when ordered to lift litters. Traditionally litter-bearing was enlisted work in the Air Force. But Fleet wasn’t like military shore hospitals. Fleet was to the Navy what MASH was to the Army. They were fairly identical after the start-up. A Fleet Hospital was initially set down on the beach by ship-based amphibcraft or flown in on cargo jets. MASH was brought on by truck and Army helicopters.

One significant difference existed between Fleet facilities and MASH ones. Incoming supply and personnel runs continually supported MASH. But once a Fleet Hospital was set up, that was it. The hospital became totally self-supporting, so personnel was limited, and as in the MASH units, doctors often had to carry litters. Field-trained Army and Navy doctors might grumble sometimes, but they knew the routine and did their fair share. USAF flight surgeons, who were rarely trained anywhere but permanent hospitals, tended to complain when first confronted with manual labor. They bitched to the Chief, who correctly sent them to the CO. The whole purpose of the Fleet exercise was to bring together a bunch of strangers who could put up and run a wartime-casualty hospital. In the best of circumstances, the unit learned enough in two weeks to avoid being sent back for a second or third session. At worst, the students made the Keystone Cops look capable.

“Have one of my officers give them the standard ‘things are different here’ talk, would you?” Michael said. “I won’t have time.”

“Will do, sir. There’s one more thing.”

Michael didn’t like the devilish twitch at the corners of the Chief’s mouth.

“They’re from Alaska.”

Michael’s lips compressed over the foul expletive he was dying to say. He’d give his eyeteeth for an Alaska station, but no, the Navy hadn’t figured out yet that happy people were productive people.

“Alaska, Chief?” He congratulated himself on his bland tone. The Chief would be all over him if he showed any envy, any weakness.

“Aye, sir. Those snow bunnies have no desert training whatsoever. And it’s going to be another bear today, too.”

You mean another bitchin’ hot afternoon. Not that the Chief would ever say so. His manners were polite, his emotions kept in military-correct check at all times.

This led some fools to assume the Chief was harmless or, worse yet, stupid. Michael never made that mistake. Fleet Hospital was supposedly run by Admin. But Admin was, in effect, the Chief. Treat him and his staff—emphasis on staff—with respect, and he was a benevolent genie in the bottle. Screw with his staff, and you screwed yourself. The Chief had a keen sense of justice, a better sense of honor and a rich wife who made any financial need for promotion nonexistent.

The Chief ran the place like a well-oiled ship’s propeller shaft. Which meant Michael could get out of these cammies and take off early without guilt or worry. The Chief always kept his end of Fleet running smoothly. The man was a credit to his uniform. Always would be.

“Make sure our Alaskan students don’t end up face-down when they’re lifting those litters, Chief.”

“Aye, sir. If that’s all, feel free to bug out, sir. Oh, and I took the liberty of having someone put your dress whites in the men’s locker room. I also had your car started. It should be cool by the time you’ve changed.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Unlike when he’d first reported for duty at Fleet, Michael wasn’t surprised by the nicety. “That’ll save me time.” He returned the clipboard. “I’ll be back at 0630 tomorrow.”

“Aye, sir. My regrets on your loss, sir.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

No further conversation was required.

SHE WAS WAITING for him by the car, Lieutenant Junior Grade Mellow, Supply Officer for Fleet. Sleek sophisticated Selena Mellow, Michael’s cousin. Technically she was his stepcousin once removed, possessing the same blond beauty as her much older first cousin, Sunshine. Michael hadn’t grown up with her, but eight years after he’d lost his mother and sister and left for college, Selena had moved into the house of her aunt Sunshine. She hadn’t wanted to leave her birthplace when her elderly parents moved to Arizona and retirement.

Michael called her his cousin. He would never call Selena his sister, for Anna alone held that place, but Selena was the closest thing to a sibling he had, and he loved her like family. He didn’t see much of her while he was in college, but she made it a point to see him. A “mistake,” an only child who’d never been happy about either fact, she treated him as her big brother. Inspired by Michael, she’d even joined the Navy and requested that she be stationed with him.

Loyal and honest, Selena made him laugh. Just the sight of her waiting by his car put a smile on his face. Although she was lower ranking, she didn’t bother with military protocol when they were alone, nor did he insist on it.

“Something about a man in uniform,” Selena sighed, holding a clipboard with paperwork for him to sign. “God, you look good. If only we weren’t related.”

He glanced up, amused. “Not as good as you,” he said, continuing the banter. “You must drive your fiancé insane with desire.” Although he grinned, he meant every word, despite her moulaged face and leg, the camouflaged fatigues with the ripped pant leg, under which he could see a simulated battle wound.