Tuesday 02 October 2007

Having eventually fallen asleep, she awoke late and heavy-eyed. Having overslept by a considerable margin, she dragged herself out of bed, and realising that if she was to make it to work on time, she would have to miss her run, headed for the shower, with the faint hope that if Fran had beaten her to it she would have finished by now, but there was no sign that Fran had yet visited the bathroom. Annoyed with Fran for oversleeping, but more annoyed with herself for the same fault, she wrapped herself in a towel and crossing the lounge, checked to see if the 'Do Not Disturb' sign was in use on Fran's bedroom door. The naked door-knob testified otherwise, and tapping on the door, Jen entered Fran's bedroom, and was shocked by what she saw. Fran was still in bed, her face streaming with sweat and her hair in limp rat-tails around her face. Her bed was piled with spare blankets, Fran had pulled on a heavy sweater over her customary T-shirt but was still shivering violently.

An alarmed Jen ran back to the bathroom and grabbed the old-fashioned oral thermometer from the medicine cabinet. Placing it gently in Fran's mouth, she placed two fingers against her neck to check her pulse rate. Both were considerably higher than they should have been. Fran's temperature was just under a hundred and one degrees, while her pulse rate was in the high nineties, and she was complaining of a sore throat, a severe headache, nausea, feeling feverish and that her chest hurt when she breathed and she felt as if she had been beaten all over.

Armed with this information, Jen guessed that Fran had somehow contracted a 'flu virus and made a couple of phone calls. The first to the Navy Medical Centre to ask for advice, the second to building security at JAG to ask that a message that she would be late, and that Petty Officer Neumann would be absent, could be passed to Lieutenant Simms, the office administrator.

Mixing a pitcher of orange juice with water and leaving it together with a tumbler on Fran's nightstand, Jen explained that the Medical Centre had tentatively confirmed Jen's 'flu diagnosis, and that the appropriate treatment was bed rest and fluids. "Listen, Fran," she added, I know you probably won't feel like eating, but I've made a sandwich for you, just in case you do. I've wrapped it in cling-film and it's here next to your OJ. Stay in bed as much as you can. Your cell phone's here as well, so if you need me, just call. I've entered the Medical Centre number into you cell, so if you get any worse just call them. Hon, I've got to get going, I'm late as it is and that witch Simms is going to ride my ass for days over this! You take care, and I'll check back in at lunch."

Fran's "I'll be OK, Jen - you get going," lacked conviction, but Jen had to take it on face value, and hurriedly completed dressing and left for duty.

On arrival at the office, she was at once taken to task by Lieutenant Simms for unauthorised absence, and in her usual intolerant manner the tall brunette refused to listen to any explanation. Jen, admonished in sight and hearing of the entire bull-pen felt her cheeks flame red with embarrassment, and knew that she would have to work hard to regain the respect of the junior Petty Officers in the room.

Finally dismissed to her duties, Jen sought the sanctuary of her office - in reality an ante-chamber to Mac's office - where she was soon immersed in the daily routine of 'phone calls, word-processing, dealing with enquiries and all the other routine tasks involved in being Yeoman to a head of department. As the calming influence of routine worked its magic, she found time to wonder at Simms' behaviour - it was so ironic, she thought, that Lieutenant Roberta Simms should have a surname that sounded the same as Lieutenant Harriet Sims yet the two officers were not only complete opposites in appearance, the one a tall slender, almost too thin brunette, the other a shorter, plumper blonde, they were complete opposites in temperament. The one always ready to find fault and ready to impute wilful wrong-doing where often it had been a case of simple human error; the other patient, innately kind, and tolerant of others' mistakes. Except, Jen remembered with a smile, the occasion when her temper finally had snapped and she had punched out Lieutenant Singer and given her a richly-deserved black eye.

Jen had not been at JAG HQ for that particular incident, she had still been assigned to the Seahawk, but she had heard the story from her predecessor as Yeoman, Petty Officer - now Lieutenant -Tiner; he had been outside the office door and had overheard the scuffle and seen Harriet Sims leave the office, massaging her right hand. The developing bruise on Lieutenant Singer's face had been all the further proof required.

Jen drifted off into reverie as she imagined somebody - maybe Lieutenant Walker, the petite, red-haired JAG lawyer - dishing out the same kind of punishment to Lieutenant Simms. Walker, except in the court room, had a temper nearly as fiery as Mattie's, and Jen thought if anyone was likely to take out the sanctimonious Simms, it would be Walker.

An almost shout of "Petty Officer! Are you asleep?" jerked Jen out of her day-dream. Horrified at being caught almost literally napping Jen started guiltily and looked up into Mac's stern but puzzled face. "Three times I've had to call you, Petty Officer, what the hell are you playing at?"

"Ma'am! Sorry, ma'am! A bit pre-occupied ma'am!"

Mac seemed about to deliver a reprimand but then paused, "Alright, Petty Officer, on my six!" She turned and stalked back into her office. Jen followed after with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Mac seated herself behind her desk and looked up at Jen, who froze into a brace and stared at the wall two feet above Mac's head.

Mac regarded her for a long minute, and at her command, "At ease, Petty Officer." Jen relaxed her posture. "What's going on, Petty Officer, it's not like you to lose focus. Is this about Mattie?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am, it..."

"Won't happen again?" There was a hint of resignation in Mac's voice.

"How did you know I was going to say that, ma'am?"

"Because, Petty Officer, it's what you always say!"

"Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am!" Jen's response was crisp and sharp.

"Alright, if it's not Mattie, what is bothering you?"

"It's my room-mate, ma'am, Petty Officer Neumann, ma'am. She's not well ma'am."

"Is it serious?" Mac's tone was one of concern.

"No ma'am, well, I don't think so, I hope not."

"Alright then Petty Officer, back to your duties, and damn'-well straighten up and fly right! Understood? Good! Dismiss!"

"Aye, aye, ma'am." Jen executed a crisp about-face and left Mac's office, her emotions a combination of relief that she had got off so lightly and amusement at Mac's use one of Harm's aviator expressions instead of something more typically naval or marine-like.

A further call of "Petty Officer!" stopped her in her tracks, and re-entering Mac's office she kept a carefully neutral face.

"Yes, ma'am," she enquired.

Mac cast a fulminating look at her Yeoman. "Petty Officer, do you realise that you made me forget why I wanted you?"

"I'm sorry, no, ma'am, I didn't."

"H'mmm... alright." Mac held out a six-inch thick stack of folders for Jen to take, "What I wanted you for is that I need these draft reports typed and on my desk, ready for signature, by oh nine hundred hours tomorrow. Are you sure you can handle that between your periods of distraction?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Good, carry on."

On returning to her desk, Jen saw that 'message waiting' light was flashing on her 'phone, picking up the handset she was surprised to hear Petty Officer Martin's voice, "Jen, hi, it's Sam. Listen, Fran Neumann's just been onto the exchange, she says she wants you to call her back right away. Jen, she didn't sound too good, is everything OK? Let me know if I can help."

Jen smiled. Sam was a treasure. He was old for a Petty Officer, nearing the end of his career, but he and his wife Louise - known as Lulu - were universally popular among the enlisted men and women at JAG. They were an easy-going couple, with four children, all either at college or high school, who kept an open-door policy and were always willing to help out with baby-sitting, or providing a bed for visiting relatives, or whatever might be asked of them. It was so like Sam to offer help before he even know what he might be asked to do.

However, Jen realised that with the new reports that Mac had just handed to her, that she would not only have to re-prioritise her schedule for the day, but that she would have to work late in order to finish by the deadline. She dialled Fran's cell 'phone number and waited for an answer; Fran answered almost immediately, but her weak, croaking voice, as she begged her friend to come home alarmed Jen. Saying the she would do what she could, she replaced the handset

Jen gnawed her lower lip in frustration at her inability to rush home to her friend and thought furiously for a few seconds, and then coming to a decision, with an air of determination picked up the handset and punched in a number.

Three rings later a voice at the other end of the line said, "First Battalion, Motor Pool, Gunnery Sergeant Dixon, Sir."

Jen composed her voice, "Good morning, Gunny. This is Petty Officer Coates, Colonel MacKenzie's Yeoman, at JAG. Would it be possible to speak to Sergeant Martinez, please?"

"Is this official business Petty Officer?"

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant it is, and no Gunnery Sergeant, I am not Sergeant Martinez's girlfriend, that pleasure belongs to Petty Officer Neumann."

"OK, then, please hold the line..."

The time passed frustratingly slowly as Jen, tapping her fingers impatiently on her desk, waited for Tim to come to the 'phone.

"Sergeant Martinez speaking."

"Tim, hi, it's Jen. Jen Coates. No! Don't interrupt just listen. This is supposed to be official business! How tight are you with your Gunnery Sergeant? Can you get away? "

"Why?"

"Fran's got the 'flu, she's at home in bed and I can't get away from the office. Can you get time off, or secure early and go and check up on her?"

"Alright, I'll try. I'll call you back, what's your number?"

Jen gave him her cell 'phone number amid urgent representations that he should get across to Ocean Beach as quickly as he could.

It seemed an eternity until Tim called her back to say that he had been forced to come clean to his superiors but that he had been able to take the rest of the day and that he was headed to the apartment.

With that problem temporarily solved, Jen was able to concentrate on her work. She missed lunch so that she could catch up on the time she had lost and carried on working through the afternoon and into the evening, unaware that the office was emptying around her.

At last she finished the last of the urgently needed reports and having carried out a final spell-check sent the documents to the printer. Waiting for the reports to be printed, Jen suddenly realised how tired she was and looking at her watch was shocked to see that it was past ten o'clock, and there was no-one else in the office except the duty seaman, whose job it was to answer any phone calls and make sure the office was clean and all cups and wastebaskets were squared away.

The lateness of the hour dismayed her; by the time she secured her office, drove back home and prepared a fresh uniform for the morning it would be midnight, if not later. And although Jen was quite prepared to party on a weekend, she had definite ideas about an appropriate bed-time during the working week, and midnight definitely did not tally with those ideas!

Resisting the urge to rush and so possibly compromise her work, she painstakingly collated the reports and ensured that they were locked away, before exchanging a 'goodnight' with the duty seaman and heading for her car.

Now the sun had gone down, there was enough of a chill in the air to make Jen wish for a jacket, as she hurried across the parking lot to her car. As she crossed the expanse of tarmac, her own heels clicking on the hard surface, she thought she heard other footsteps in the dark behind her. She halted for a second and listened, while surreptitiously feeling in her purse for her pepper-spray and simultaneously arranging the bunch of keys in her right hand into the form of a makeshift knuckle duster. Hearing nothing further, Jen reached her car and eased herself behind the wheel, making sure that the doors were locked. Breathing a sigh of relief she turned the ignition key and was reassured as the engine purred into life. Engaging the gears, Jen started the car in motion, turning through a complete three hundred and sixty degree circle so that the car's headlights might illuminate anybody else in the parking lot. Although this manoeuvre failed to reveal any lurkers, Jen could not shake the feeling that someone had been following her, and it was with a feeling of shedding something unpleasant that she drove out of the parking lot onto Ward Road and towards the main gate on 32nd Street.

Jen debated with herself about telling the Marines at the gate about her feeling that she had been followed, but felt that by the time she persuaded anyone to take her seriously and then got back to the parking lot JAG shared with the Inspector-General's Office, the lurker, if there had even been one, would be long gone; besides it was late enough as it was and she just wanted to get home, get squared away for the morning and then get to bed. She was, she thought to herself, too tired even to eat, and then groaned in frustration as she remembered that she would have to look in on Fran and make sure that she was OK before she could turn in.

Determined to make a swift return to the apartment, Jen piloted the Escort on to the I-5 and headed north for the intersection with the I-8 before heading west for West Point Loma Boulevard and Ocean Beach. All was quiet on Cape May Avenue, and despite the lateness of the hour, Jen, still slightly shaken after her experience in the parking lot, was relieved to see that she would be able park right in front of her apartment block. Jen had kept a more than usually watchful eye on the rear-view mirror on the drive home, and although she was sure she had not been followed, it was with a deep sense of comfort that she locked the street door behind her and took the elevator to the third floor.

To her surprise, on entering the apartment, she found it in almost total darkness except for the subdued glow of the table lamp in the lounge area that revealed that Tim was still there, sitting in one of the armchairs. He looked up from the magazine he had been reading, and with a significant look in the direction of Fran's bedroom he put his finger to his lips in the universal sign for 'quiet'. Jen nodded and put her purse on the breakfast counter, and then reluctantly, she really wanted her bed, took a seat on the couch.

"How is she?" she asked quietly.

"I've only just managed to get her to go to sleep," Tim answered. "Jen, she's bad. If it's alright with you, I'm going to stay overnight and keep an eye on her. You look tired, and it's late. Get to bed; I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, but what about you? You look wiped out too."

"Yeah, but I'm a Marine, we're tougher than Squids," his grin turned what could, in other circumstances, have been an insult into something approaching a term of affection.

Jen responded in kind, "Damn' Jarhead! Tim, I've got to get squared away for the morning before I can hit the rack, so if you like I can get you a towel and you can take a shower while I'm doing that."

"Are you saying that I stink?"

Jen chuckled quietly, "No, not yet... but there's no saying that you might not by morning."

Tim smiled and acknowledged "It's probable; yeah, I'd be grateful for the chance, but, no peeking mind!"

Jen, already at the closet, wadded the towel she had selected and threw it at the grinning Marine.

"Get," she said, "you know where the bathroom is."

Working swiftly Jen ironed a blouse, and pressed her skirt for the morning, and going to the kitchen sink took a nail brush to a spot on her white belt. Just as she finished, a fully dressed Tim re-entered the lounge area, vigorously rubbing his cropped head. "Thanks Jen, I feel much better for that. Where should I put this towel?"

"Oh... er... here, hang it on the hat pegs on the door, that way if you need it in the morning it'll be to hand."

With a smile and a half-salute Tim watched her go into her bedroom, before turning out the lounge area light and going to sit with Fran.

Jen's head had hardly hit the pillow before her eyes closed and the world was shut out. She slept dreamlessly but for what seemed a very short time, before she was awakened by Tim's voice urgently calling her name and by his fist pounding on her bedroom door. Turning on her bedside lamp, she called out, "OK, OK, I'm coming, and stumbling out of bed dragged on her robe and shoved her hair back out of her face. Looking at her watch she groaned, it was only half-past three in the morning.

Opening the door she found a panicked Tim staring at her with agonised eyes, "Jen, please, come quick, there's something really wrong with Fran..."

The look of fear on Tim's face was sufficient to dispel any anger Jen might have felt at her rude awakening, and she hurried after him to Fran's bedroom. The blonde girl was streaming with sweat and tossing under the pile of quilts and blankets, she was awake, but recognised neither Jen nor Tim and crying deliriously that she was alright, that she wanted her Mom, that she was hot and that she was cold.

Jen was appalled by Fran's condition, "Hell, Tim, how long has she been like this?"

"I don't know, maybe twenty minutes, I guess."

"You damn' fool! Why the hell didn't you call me earlier?"

"Jen. I did, but you were out of it, you wouldn't wake up! Jen, what are we going to do?" His voice was almost a plaintive wail, and Jen suddenly had the feeling that he had reverted to a small boy wanting the reassurance of a mother. The appeal in his voice almost had the effect of stilling the rising panic that Jen felt. Think! Think! She frantically told herself. Then a flash of memory came to her; Fran telling her about the couple who had moved into the apartment on the second floor - surely she had said one of them was a doctor!

With a curt, "Wait here!" to Tim, she fled the apartment and hurtled down the stairs to the next floor, with each step she took the panic threatening to overwhelm her. Banging on the door she begged silently, please, please be in! Please, please, please wake up! After a couple of minutes her hammering on the door brought results, a bar of light shone under the door and she could hear the sound of bolts being drawn. The door opened to reveal a tousled-haired, bathrobe clad man and behind and to one side of him a blonde woman, dressed in shorts and a singlet and holding a serviceable-looking automatic pistol in her hands. On seeing the distraught Jen, the woman half-lowered her pistol as the man asked, "Yes, what is it? Do you know what time it is?"

"Oh, thank God" cried Jen "Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, Tony Campbell, I'm a surgeon at Hillcrest, UCSD, what's wrong?"

"It's my friend, Fran, she's sick, I think she's dying!" wailed the now nearly hysterical Jen, almost collapsing with relief.

"Where is she?"demanded Campbell.

"Upstairs, third, floor," gasped Jen, "Please, please come!"

"Yes, I'm coming!" He looked over his shoulder at his partner and said, "Sal, I'm going upstairs with..." he looked enquiringly at Jen.

"Jen Coates."

He nodded in acknowledgement of the introduction and turning back to his partner said, "Give me a few minutes and then can you bring me a pair of jeans and a sweater, oh, and my cell; thanks, sweetie! Now, Miss Coates," he continued in calm tones, as he led Jen towards the elevator, "it is 'Miss' isn't it?"

"Uh... Petty Officer Coates," Jen managed to reply, as his matter of fact manner went some way to still her fears.

"Well then Petty Officer Jen Coates," he continued as the elevator came to a stop, "can you tell me what's wrong with your friend?"

"We thought she had the 'flu this... no... yesterday morning now, but she's got much, much worse tonight... no... this morning." Jen gave a half laugh, half sniffle, "I'm sorry doctor, I'm not usually so disorganised!"

"That's alright... Jen... I may call you Jen or... ?"

"Yes, that's fine, doctor," Jen replied, opening the apartment door and leading him into Fran's room, where Tim was trying to keep a struggling Fran in bed.

"Fran," he gasped, "calm down, honey, here's the doctor!"

"H'mm," said Cameron, "that's not good, let me have a look..."

"Tim, this is Doctor Cameron, he lives in the apartment downstairs. Doctor, this is Tim Martinez, Fran's boyfriend."

"Call me Tony," suggested Cameron, "And my patient is?" He enquired with a raised eyebrow, as he sat on the edge of Fran's bed.

"Fran Neumann, Petty Officer Francine Neumann," responded Jen.

"Right," Cameron muttered distractedly, "Now, lie still, there's a good girl," he said to Fran, and then as she broke into a deep-chested, wet, hacking cough, he lifted her shoulders off the bed raising her to a sitting position while she spasmed, tears of pain streaming down her face, looking at Jen he said sharply, "Towel... anything" and holding the proffered pillow-case to Fran's chin he said in a much gentler tone,"easy, easy now... hush... hush... there's a good girl."

He sounded as if he was soothing a child or perhaps a skittish horse Jen thought inconsequentially.

Fran's voice rose in a pitiful wail, "It hurts! I want my Mom..."

"Of course you do, sailor," he responded still in a soft voice, lowering her back to the pillows, "now just lie still for me so I can take a look at you..." He spent the next several minutes examining the agitated Fran, taking her pulse, and temperature, listening to her breathing and sounding her chest. When he had finished his brief examination, he looked at Tim and Jen. "Has she taken anything?"

Their denials were simultaneous, Jen adding somewhat shamefacedly that was as far as she knew. Fran, she explained had been on her own for the previous morning and some of the afternoon.

"Uh-huh, what about non-prescription drugs?"

"What like cough medicine or aspirin?" queried Jen.

"No, like crack, or speed, or coke?"

"Definitely not!" Jen was emphatic.

"No way!" was Tim's equally vehement denial.

"Ok, OK, I believe you!" exclaimed Cameron, "Sheesh! You don't have to bite my head off; I have to ask, it's my job to know. Oh... Sally, is that you? Come on in! You don't mind, do you...? Good. Sally, this is Tim and you've already met Jen". This was said as he slipped into the slacks that a now more modestly dressed Sally had brought him, a process made slightly comical as he fought to keep his bath robe closed until he had made himself decent. This aim having been achieved, he took off the bathrobe and over his T-Shirt, pulled on the sweater she had also brought.

"Tim, Jen, this is my wife Sally, Detective Cameron. Now, to be frank, I don't like the look of our young friend here. Like I said, I'm a surgeon and no expert physician, but I think what we have here is a case of pneumonia; so what I'm going to do is, I'm going to try a telephone consult with the on-call physician at the Naval Medical centre, it's just as near as Hillcrest, and I think that Fran will need to go to hospital, no... don't be alarmed; she'll need to have some tests to confirm the diagnosis, is all, but seeing as how she's in the navy, it will be better if she's treated by navy doctors. Now do either of you have the number for the Navy Medical Centre? You do? Can you call them for me?"

Jen waited for the ringing tone at the Medical Centre switchboard before handing her cell phone to Cameron.

"Hello, Naval Medical Centre? Good morning, I need to speak to an on-call physician. Yes... I'm Doctor Cameron from Hillcrest UCSD. Thank you, I'll wait... Hello, yes, this is Doctor Cameron. Yes, I've been called to attend one of your sailors, but I'm a surgeon, and... yes, yes, of course I'm in attendance! I think what we've got here is a pretty severe case of CAP, but I'd like the Petty Officer to be seen by someone who is better qualified in the field. Yes... I'll wait... That's apartment five, twenty-four thirteen Cape May Avenue, Ocean Beach, that's off Abbott Street. Thank you, Commander."

"Jen, the navy's sending an ambulance; it'll be about twenty minutes. I'll wait with your friend until it arrives. If you want to go with her, I suggest you get dressed."

Jen, suddenly conscious of the picture she must present: nothing on her feet, mismatched pyjamas and faded blue bathrobe, probably with dark circles under eyes and her hair a tangled mess muttered, "Oh God!" and shot across the lounge area to her bedroom.

By the time the ambulance arrived Jen although still looking tired had made herself presentable and was able to give the two Corpsmen a coherent account of Fran's symptoms and what had been done to alleviate them. In the meantime, Sally Cameron had managed, with Doctor Cameron's help, to get Fran into a fresh T-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers, while Tim packed some more necessaries into her holdall.

The drive to the Medical Centre seemed to take no time at all, and yet also seemed to last forever. Happily, Fran, perhaps sensing that she was in professional hands seemed calmer, no doubt also benefitting from the pure oxygen administered to her by the Petty Officer Corpsman.

On arrival at the Medical Centre, Fran was whisked away to the examination room while Jen was left to cool her heels in the waiting area. It was only at this point that Jen realised that not only did she not have her car; she also didn't have her purse or her keys or her cell-phone! Never fully at ease in a hospital, Jen's peace of mind was not helped by reflecting on her own stupidity. After sitting and fuming helplessly for over an hour, and before she could decide how to extract herself from her self-made predicament, she was joined by Tim Martinez, who although tired was freshly shaved and in a clean, freshly-pressed uniform.

"Hey, Jen," he greeted her, rather nervously she thought. "Look, I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed your car to get back to barracks and get changed for formation. I've brought it here, and it's in the near corner of parking lot B; that's just the other side of the ER Ambulance parking zone. And here, I picked up your purse and keys from the apartment - I figure you'll need them! Jen, I really wanna stay, but I gotta go, one of my buddies followed me in his car, an' I don't mind the Gunny bawling me out, but it wouldn't be right if he ripped Pepe a new one too!"

Jen wasn't too happy with the idea of somebody driving her car without her permission, or even her knowledge, but she couldn't find it in herself to voice her concerns. Instead, gratefully accepting her property, she thanked Tim both for his help with Fran and for re-uniting her with her belongings. As she sat waiting for news of Fran Jen felt physical fatigue wash over her like an ocean swell. As well as her physical tiredness, however, Jen was emotionally drained and sat waiting for news in an peaceful, almost trance-like state. Fortunately she did not have much longer to wait before a white-coated figure approached. Jen got to her feet as he asked, "Petty Officer Coates?"

"Yes, sir."

"Petty Officer, I'm Commander Goodrich. I've just come to let you know that Petty Officer Neumann's diagnosis has been confirmed. It is pneumonia. Now, there's nothing to worry about, she's been started on a course of oral anti-biotics, and she'll be back to duty, limited duty that is, in five to seven days. We'll just have to see how it goes. I understand she lives off-base?"

"Yes, sir."

"H'mm, I see. Is there anyone who can stay with her, look after her?"

"Well, sir, there's only me, and her boyfriend, Sergeant Martinez; he's a Marine, First Battalion, Ninth."

"Ah, the Walking Dead! So neither of you is related to PO Neumann? Would you be able to take time off duty to look after her?"

"It would be difficult, sir," Jen replied fretfully, "I've just got back from TAD, and I don't think my CO would wear it. Especially as with Fran, PO Neumann I mean, sick we're already short-handed. It's not that I don't want to help, sir, it's just that I don't think..."

"Not to worry, Coates, I just needed to know how we were going to go forward from here. We'll keep her here for a few days, and see how she gets on. Now, we'll need to know how to inform her unit..."

Lieutenant Roberta Simms was seething with anger. Last night had been a fiasco. Her date had failed to show and she had been left waiting on her own in the cocktail lounge of the Del Coronado hotel, and had been escorted off the premises by an officious busy-body of an under-manager who had virtually accused her of being a call-girl! Now that damned Petty Officer who was so cosy with the Colonel was late - again!

Irritably, she scanned through the typewritten list of office requisitions, her favourite red marker-pen scoring through items and amounts that she thought unnecessary. Typical slip-shod work she thought, looking for the tell-tale initials at the bottom of sheet - ah, just as she'd thought! "Seaman Yates!"

The young, fair-haired seaman looked up nervously from his desk, "Ma'am?"

"Get your six over here Yates...! What the hell is this...this crap?"

The other heads in bullpen bent lower over their work as the Lieutenant continued her rant at the unfortunate youngster. Barely nineteen years old and only weeks out of 'A' School, the young seaman had swiftly become the Lieutenant's favourite whipping boy, but intervention was at best useless, and could even be counter-productive, provoking Simms to be even more vindictive. Jen, as a senior Petty Officer, had tactfully tried to defend Yates, pointing out to Simms that the boy was only just out of' 'A' School, and that by choosing to reprimand him publicly, the Lieutenant was doing nothing to help promote either his self confidence or his job performance. The end result of Jen's intervention had been to make herself a second target for the Lieutenant's spite, and to cause Simms to intensify her attentions towards Yates.

At the conclusion of a ten-minute reprimand which almost had the effect of reducing Yates to tears of rage and frustration, Simms released him to his duties with an order to re-type and re-file the requisition. Having vented some of her spleen, she decided on a fault-finding walk through the bull-pen on her way to the galley for a mug of coffee. One day, she mused, she might get lucky and provoke Yates into insubordination; the opportunity to file charges against such a wilfully incompetent seaman was one to be relished.

Her walk-through the bull-pen to the galley was momentarily delayed when Petty Officer Third Class Gutierrez presented her with a bulging document pouch. Gutierrez was normally a cheerful man, with any other officer he might have made an informal comment along the lines of 'incoming paper'; with Simms, however, he trod warily and was careful to maintain strict formality, "The morning despatches, ma'am."

Simms, took a cursory glance through the contains of the pouch, routine reports, routine requests for legal assistance in drafting wills, queries about house purchases; nothing that couldn't wait until she'd had her coffee.

To her annoyance, on reaching the galley, she found the coffee jug, while still warm, was empty. Now she would have to brew another jug before she have her drink. Careful to spoon only the required amount into the filter, Simms carefully added one cupful of water to the reservoir.

Luckily, Simms was still in the galley when Jen finally slipped into the office. Stopping only to enquire of Petty Officer Wayne, whether or not he knew if the Colonel had anyone in her office, Jen received the not-totally-comforting reply, that, "Not as far as I know, but the Colonel has been asking for you."

Jen gritted her teeth, and pausing only to place her cover on her desk, and collect the urgently-needed reports, she quick-checked her uniform and then knocked on Mac's door.

The tone of Mac's "Enter!" did little to settle the butterflies in Jen's stomach, but attempting to maintain a poker-face she entered the office and placed the files on Mac's desk, and then stood to attention.

"The reports you requested, ma'am!"

Mac, for the moment ignored the stack of reports, and searched Jen's face, noting the signs of strain and the dark smudges under her eyes that were an indication of fatigue. She was about to deliver a blistering reproof, suspecting that Jen was trading on the greater degree of mutual intimacy that had developed due to Mattie's situation, however there was that in Jen's demeanour which suggested that Mac was missing something.

Mac continued looking at her delinquent Yeoman for a moment or two longer and then sternly asked, "A late night, Petty Officer?"

"Ma'am, yes ma'am!"

"Partying, Petty Officer? Midweek?" This time the tone was definitely caustic.

"Ma'am, no ma'am!"

"In that case, would you care to explain yourself, Petty Officer?"

"Ma'am, no ma'am! No excuses ma'am!"

"And if I ordered you to explain yourself, Petty Officer?"

"Ma'am, is the Colonel, in fact, ordering the Petty Officer to explain herself, ma'am?"

"Yes, Petty Officer!" exploded Mac rising to her feet and leaning forward so that her hands on her desk-top supported her upper-body weight, "the Colonel is damn'-well ordering the Petty Officer to explain herself; and the Colonel is damn'-well telling the Petty Officer that it had better be a damn' good explanation..." Mac broke off her tirade in shock, as silent tears suddenly streamed down Jen's face. "Oh, for God's sake! - Petty Officer, shut the door!"

Jen's "Aye, aye, ma'am," was so stifled that it was barely audible, "I... I'm sorry, ma'am. It won't..."

"Yes, I know, Petty Officer, it won't happen again." Mac's voice had regained its accustomed even tenor, as she considered her Yeoman's uncharacteristic reaction to a minor reprimand. To see her normally competent and unruffled Yeoman so emotional was a unique and unsettling experience. During the past two years, Coates had been so dependable, that Mac had more than once, out of Jen's hearing of course, referred to her as "my rock". Petty Officer Coates, Mac recalled, had cheerfully withstood much more intense anger and violent squalls from Admiral Chegwidden during her early days at Falls Church - especially in the matter of persuading that irascible flag-officer to re-instate Harm's commission after the Chaco Boreal srew-up.

Mac fished in one of her desk drawers, and removing a box of tissues, pushed it across the desk towards Jen and then came around to the front of the desk, and indicating one of the two leather chairs facing it, and seating herself in the other, said, "Alright, Petty Officer, sit down. Now, for God's sake, what is going on with you? This is the second day in a row that you've been adrift, it's not like you to be unpunctual, and and you certainly don't normally react like this if I yell at you."

Jen, by this time had stemmed the flow of tears and although heartily despising herself for such an exhibition of weakness, was able to face her CO with some degree of composure.

"I'm sorry ma'am; really sorry. It's just that I've had a couple of late nights, and there's been a couple of other things..."

"Mattie?" asked Mac.

"No, ma'am, well... yes ma'am, I am concerned about Mattie, but that's not it..."

"Well, Petty Officer, what is 'it'?"

"Ma'am, this is going to sound kinda foolish, but..."

"Go on."

"Well, ma'am, I had to work kinda late last night, and when I finished up it was dark... and when I was going to my car, I thought... I thought... well, ma'am, I thought I heard someone following me. Oh, no ma'am..." Jen continued, seeing the look of alarm that had flashed across Mac's face, "nothing happened, and I didn't see anyone, so maybe it was only my imagination, but... it kinda freaked me out."

Mac took her time before replying gravely, "Yes, it would, Petty Officer. Did you report this to security?"

"No ma'am. I thought about reporting it, but by the time they could've gotten anyone to the parking lot to check, anyone who might've been there would've been long gone." Somehow, just telling someone about the incident seemed to lift a weight off Jen's mind. She had, perhaps been too busy, and too worried about Fran, to realise just how much the incident had frightened and spooked her.

"How did you not see anybody, if anybody was there, Petty Officer? Why was it dark, were the lights off-line?"

"Oh, no ma'am, well... I don't think so, but the lights are switched off at ten, so..."

"Wait a minute, Petty Officer; are you trying to tell me that you were here after twenty-two hundred hours?"

"Well, yes, ma'am... there were those reports..."

"Jennifer, no reports, no matter how important I might think they might be, are worth putting yourself at risk. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am, but..."

"But me no buts, Petty Officer. That's an order - don't take stupid chances with your safety."

"Yes, ma'am".

Mac continued to search Jen's face for a minute or two, and then asked, "If it was gone twenty-two hundred when you left, what time did you get home?"

"Oh, I don't know for sure ma'am, maybe twenty-three hundred, or a little after."

"H'mm, that's not so late... so why...? Mac's voice petered out. She wasn't quite sure where this line of questioning would lead, a certain suspicion had suddenly popped into her mind, and she surely didn't want to pry in Jen's private life.

"Ma'am, Fran, Petty Officer Neumann, that is, got worse ma'am; we were sat up with her for a while before the ambulance came..."

"We?"

"Yes, ma'am; Sergeant Martinez and me and the doctor."

"Ambulance? You called a doctor for her?" Mac's voice took on the rising inflection of surprise, even while she ignored the apparent possibility that Sergeant Martinez was sharing the apartment with Neumann and Coates

"Yes, ma'am, he's our downstairs neighbour."

"She's that sick? I thought you said yesterday that she was a little unwell?"

"Yes, ma'am, we all thought she had the 'flu, but the doctors say it's pneumonia."

"And the ambulance?" persisted Mac.

"She had to go into hospital, ma'am," and pre-empting Mac's next question, Jen added, "She's at the Naval Medical Centre, ma'am."

"Did anyone go with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

"And how long were you there, Petty Officer?"

"Oh, about two hours, I guess, ma'am."

Mac once more studied her Yeoman's face. "How much sleep did you get last night, Petty Officer?"

"Uh... about two, maybe three, hours, I guess, ma'am."

"I see," responded Mac. "Now, Petty Officer, why don't I know that one of my people is in hospital?" she asked, in a level voice.

"Well, ma'am, I guess because I was late, and I haven't gotten the daily state to you yet."

"So... you're late, and the whole office grinds to a halt? No, Petty Officer...I don't think so." Mac continued to study her Yeoman. "Alright, Petty Officer, you're no good to me in your present state. Take the rest of the day; go home, get some rest and take control of yourself. Come back in tomorrow - on time, and prepared for work - or I'll be on your six so fast you'll think I'm a SAM. Understood?"

"Ma'am, I'm OK, really, I don't need..."

"Petty Officer, that was not a suggestion. I don't care what you need or don't need. I care about what I need; and what I need is a Yeoman who is here when I need her to be here and when she is here, can do her job!"

Jen, recognising the note of finality in Mac's voice, and reminded of a similar lecture she had once received from the Admiral, got to her feet and answered in the only possible way, "Aye, aye, ma'am!"

Mac watched her Yeoman leave the office, collect her cover and head for the elevator.

Mac, aware that the Medical Centre routinely informed the chain of command when a service member was hospitalised, was annoyed at the failure of her staff to let her know that one of their co-workers had been taken so ill as to require out-of-hours medical attention, and was determined that she would find out who was responsible for this lapse. In the meantime, she would have to find somebody to handle Jen's desk for the day. Not that they would be able to complete all of the Yeoman's duties, but they could at least answer the damn' telephone.

Leaving her office, she walked out into the bull-pen and cast her eyes over her staff. It would be difficult making a choice; they were all competent; they wouldn't be here if they weren't. No, she had better things to do, "Lieutenant Simms!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Lieutenant Simms, detail someone to take Coates' desk for the day, please."

Simms had witnessed Jen's departure from the office, and now that the Colonel was asking for a replacement, it seemed that perhaps the bumptious Petty Officer had at last exhausted her CO's patience. The glow of pleasure she experienced led her into a minor betrayal; her "I'll be glad to ma'am," meeting with a quizzical look from Mac.

Simms hesitated for a few moments, it would be a difficult choice, they were all as ineffective as each other. Finally her choice was made. With an inward smile she said, "Yates, take over PO Coates' desk". Yates was bound to make mistakes, and given the Colonel's recent mood, Simms thought that would be enough to ensure his swift re-assignment.

The unfortunate seaman nervously took his place at Jen's desk, his diminishing self-confidence not helped by Lieutenant Simms last whispered words to him, "When you screw-up, sailor, I'll file charges for dereliction of duty".

The Lieutenant rapped on the Colonel's doorjamb, and in response to Mac's invitation, entered the office. "Ma'am, I have instructed Seaman Yates to man the Yeoman's desk."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"And ma'am, the morning states, ma'am. I'm sorry they're late, ma'am, but we are a bit short-staffed this morning."

Mac took the proffered file, ignoring the Lieutenant's last comment, and glancing through it saw that, yes, there was an advisory from the Medical Centre, 'PO2 Neumann, F M, JAG JSLT, diagnosed CAP, admitted 0525 hrs, Sep 13, 2007'.

"Have you read through these, Lieutenant?" asked Mac in a deceptively mild tone.

"I did glance through them, ma'am, just routine stuff." Simms admitted.

"And do you think Lieutenant, that the admittance to hospital of one your staff is 'just routine'?" There was now a definite edge to Mac's tone.

Simms' face flooded with colour, "Uh... I must have missed that, ma'am. I mean, everyone was accounted for this morning, except for PO Coates who was UA..."

"Lieutenant, how can you miss a MedCen advisory? It's not as if we get one every day, and certainly not with 'JAG JSLT' written all over it! And incidentally, PO Coates was not UA; she was at the Medical Centre, looking after a subordinate!"

Mac knew that while strictly factual, her last statement was not strictly true; Jen had not been worrying about a subordinate, but she had been worrying about a friend.

"Lieutenant," Mac continued, "I know you run a tight ship, and I know that your motivation is that this office runs as effectively and as efficiently as humanly possible, but it might be worth considering that you are dealing with people - humans - as well as with regulations and protocol."

"Yes, ma'am," was Simms' stiff reply. "Permission to carry on ma'am?"

Mac sighed silently in frustration at her inability to communicate with Simms, "Yes, Lieutenant, dismissed!"

"Aye, aye, ma'am"

Simms left Mac's office, the red flags of humiliation flying in her cheeks. Damn Gutierrez for not highlighting that MedCen advisory for her! The little wetback had done it on purpose! He'd pay for making her look stupid!

'Dear God', thought Mac, as she resumed her chair, 'another Loren Singer! Thank the lord though, that this one isn't a lawyer'.

Talking of lawyers, it was time she reviewed the current assignments. On the whole, she was well satisfied with her team's performance so far, but a change of assignments would help keep them sharp. She remembered how reluctant Bud had been initially, not wanting to leave his comfort zone, when Admiral Chegwidden had first discussed his re-assignment from Falls Church to a ship or an overseas post. But that would have to wait for another day. First she had one more 'phone call to make, then she needed to brief Seaman... Seaman... damn! What name had Simms just given her? Bates...? No! Yates! Yes, that was it... Seaman Yates. She mentally reviewed what little she knew of him: a youngster, just barely qualified. She had of course interviewed him on his assignment, and remembered him as being polite, if a little nervous, but that could be explained by the gulf between their respective ranks. He had a trace of a mid-west accent she remembered, so at least he would be intelligible on the 'phone. The 'phone, dammit, the 'phone.

Quickly flicking through her desk-top directory, she soon found the number she wanted, and punched it in to her direct line 'phone.

"Provost Marshal's Office, Master Sergeant Bannerman, speaking, sir". The voice was that of a woman.

"Master Sergeant, good morning, this is Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie-Rabb at JAG JSLT. I'd like to speak to the PM, please."

"Certainly ma'am, I'll put you through."

A couple of seconds silence was followed by a confident male voice on the other end of the line, "Good Morning, this is Lieutenant Colonel Picton, how may I help you Colonel?"

"Good, morning, call me 'Mac', please. I'm not sure if this really falls under your influence Colonel, but it concerns base lighting at night. I thought that as it might be considered a security issue, you might have some say in it?"

"Call me Tom, Mac. Yes, base lighting could definitely be a security issue..."

"Well, Tom, it's a bit complicated... As you probably know, the admin area, unlike Ops, is pretty well deserted after normal office hours?"

"Uh-huh.

"From time to time, though, some of my staff are required to work late. I have a number of female staff, and last night one of them felt that she was being followed across the parking lot. She didn't see anyone, but still... and I was wondering whether an adjustment could be made to the lighting times, maybe keep them switched on until twenty-three fifty-nine hours, say?"

"Mac, I'd like to say 'yes' and have the timings altered immediately, but no can do. I have to tell you that you are not the first CO who has asked for something similar. Unfortunately the question of lighting and electricity supply falls under the heading of budgeting, and I do not have the authority to make those kinds of decisions. I'll do what I've done before; I'll pass your input up the chain of command to the base XO, and in the meantime, I'll give orders to my guys to step up their patrols around the admin area after twenty-two hundred hours. I'm sorry, Colonel, until the chain of command authorises more expenditure, that's all I can do."

"I understand. Thank you, Tom. Please keep me informed."

"That I will, Mac, that I will."

Mac replaced the handset, not really comforted by the conversation. Why is it, she asked herself, that men, particularly, those in high-ranking positions never seemed to care about personnel safety until it was too late. Mac fought off the impulse to specify female personnel safety. She prided herself on having achieved her present position by hard work and by not expecting any favours purely by virtue of her gender, but at the same time, she was realist enough to know, and her own building-to-car routine was based on the fact, that female personnel faced different and possibly greater dangers on base than their male counterparts.

She thought for a few moments, and then scribbled a few lines on a sheet of her legal pad, and then rising, opened the door to her office and stood at the Yeoman's desk. Yates sprang to attention, his face a picture of confusion. He had been left without direction for the last ten minutes, and with no real idea of what his new and, he hoped, temporary duties involved.

"At ease, Yates," Mac suggested, with a hint of a smile. "I want this typed up, and posted on all the notice boards in this office, by lunch-time please."

She was pleased to see that Yates not only took the sheet of paper from her, but read it through to ensure he could read her hand-writing. "Aye, aye, ma'am."

"And I'd like you to pass the word to Commanders Coleman, Sturgess and Blaine, and Lieutenants Matthews, Grant, Simms, and Graves to join me in the conference room in ten."

"Aye, aye ma'am! Ma'am, when I've done that, ma'am, what should I do next?"

"Can you brew coffee, Yates?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Good, once you've passed the word, get me a cup please, black, with two sugars."

"Aye, aye, ma'am."

"And after that, Seaman, I shall be out of the office, probably for the rest of the day, so all I need you to do today is take any messages that come in, and tell any callers that I am unavailable."

"Aye, aye, ma'am. Ma'am, with the Colonel's permission?"

"Carry on."

"Ma'am, if anybody should ask, may I tell them where the Colonel will be?"

"Yes," agreed Mac, "you may. You may tell them that I shall be at the MedCen, probably until about seventeen hundred hours, and then I shall be at home. In an emergency, I can be called on my cell, or on my home 'phone number. You should find both numbers in PO Coates' desk directory - I'm sure she will have protected her computer files. If you are not sure whether or not something is an emergency, ask someone responsible, if there is no-one to ask, then assume it is an emergency and call me, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am, understood, ma'am," Yates was lightly perspiring as the breadth and depth of his new responsibilities began to dawn upon him.

Mac smiled slightly, and resisting the urge to tell him 'not to sweat it' she confined her remarks to, "Relax Seaman, you'll do fine," and turning re-entered her office, closed the door behind her and returned to her padded, leather upholstered chair. Leaning her elbows on the desk she rested her head in her hands, and groaned to herself, 'God, I suddenly feel old - was I ever that young?'

A gentle knock on the door a few minutes later gained access for Yates, he was carrying the promised cup of coffee, which he placed within Mac's reach.

"Ma'am, I have passed the word as the Colonel ordered, and your staff are waiting for you in the conference room."

Mac gulped down the near-scalding and surprisingly good coffee, then collected her cover and briefcase and made her way along the hallway to the imposing double doors of the conference room and entered, the seven officers present rising to their feet as she did so. Mac gestured to them to resume their seats, saying as she did so "As you were, as you were."

"Thank you all for joining me at such short notice," she continued, taking her own seat at the head of the conference table, "I know you are all very busy, but this won't take long; there is only one item I need to cover. It has come to my attention that the admin area exterior lighting is switched off at twenty-two hundred each night, leaving the area, and particularly the parking lot in darkness. A female member of staff has recently reported that while crossing the parking lot after twenty-two hundred hours, she was being followed. I know that occasionally we all have to work late - it goes with the territory, but, with immediate effect and until further orders, no member of staff is to work later than twenty-one forty-five hours. I do not want to find out that a member of my command has been mugged, robbed, injured, assaulted or worse, just because they felt they absolutely must finish any given task that night! I shall be instructing building security to carry out a sweep of the offices at twenty-one thirty hours each working day to ensure that any staff still present are in the process of securing. Do I make myself clear, ladies and gentlemen?"

A chorus of "Yes, ma'am" and "Yes, Colonel" satisfied Mac that her words and the meaning behind them had been understood by her senior staff.

"Lieutenant Simms, I am having Yates print out a Special Order of the Day concerning this matter, which he is to post on all notice boards within this building. Ask him for an additional copy. I would like you to read it out to all enlisted in the bull-pen before they secure for lunch. Thank you. Are there any questions? No? Good, dismissed."

The assembled officers filed out of the conference room, and Mac, collecting cover and briefcase, headed for the parking lot to collect her bright red Mustang before leaving for the Naval Medical Centre to visit Fran Neumann and to check on her condition.

While Mac was holding her brief conference, Petty Officers and brothers-in-law Wayne and Gutierrez had held a mini-conference of their own. The subject of their short meeting was Seaman Yates. Neither of the two liked what was happening in the office, and neither felt that Yates was being given a fair chance to prove himself. The outcome of the conversation was that Wayne spoke to Yates and Gutierrez went in search of Sam Martin.

Petty Officer Second Class Wayne, 'Duke' to his friends, was a reasonable facsimile of his famous namesake, standing over six feet in height, and correspondingly broad shouldered. He had played football, as a running back, in high school, and had at one time been under consideration for a place on the navy team. His height and build were made even more intimidating by a spectacularly broken nose, which had never been properly reset. His ferocious appearance however belied his true nature. He was a caring, gentle father to his son and daughter, and after six years of sometimes tempestuous marriage was totally devoted to his diminutive and excitable wife Juanita, who ruled the Wayne household with a stream of voluble Spanish, most of which Duke believed were cusswords.

Wayne strolled into the Yeoman's office on the pretext of delivering some paperwork for Mac, and took the opportunity to ask the younger man how he was doing.

"I'm doing OK, I think, Petty Officer," said Yates, "the Colonel only really wants me to answer the phone and take any messages for her. And even I can handle that" he added with a touch of bitterness.

"Listen, Yates," quietly said Wayne, "If there's anything that you're not sure of, not sure what to do with, come to me or PO Gutierrez, got that?"

"Yes, thank you, Petty Officer".

Meanwhile Franco Gutierrez had tracked down Sam Martin. The older man was taking a break, drawing meditatively on the ancient briar pipe that had once given him the nickname of 'Popeye', on one of the circle of benches that backed against an ancient elm tree in the building's back area. The conversation between the two revolved around the subject of Lieutenant Simms, and what legitimate steps could be taken to cope with her spiteful persecution of Seaman Yates.

Jen returned to the apartment on Cape May Avenue, almost too exhausted to think. One way or another it had been a hell of a last twenty-four hours. The physical tiredness was something with which she could cope, but the stress of dealing with a possible attacker, Fran's sickness and Lieutenant Simms's bitching and then the raking down from Mac had drained her emotionally. It was taking all of what was left of her emotional reserves to prevent her from total collapse and bursting into helpless tears.

Looking around the apartment didn't help. Although Jen had been alone there often enough, it was always with the sense that Fran would soon come bursting through the door and fill the space with her energy. Today, the apartment felt, empty, cold and unfriendly. There was work to be done, the place, in Jen's opinion, looked as if a bomb had gone off, but she was too tired to square anything away just yet; maybe if she got a couple of hours rest, she might feel more inclined to tackle the mess. In an almost zombie-like state, Jen went through to her own bedroom. Looking with distaste at her crumpled bed, she was still in no mind to re-make it right now, so stripping off her uniform blouse and skirt, letting the former drop onto the floor, but making the huge effort required, successfully placed the latter upon a hanger.

Pulling on her pyjama bottoms, Jen chose a fleeced sweatshirt, and collapsed onto her bed, and pulling the covers over her shoulders, she closed her eyes and dropped straight into a deep, dreamless, refreshing sleep.

It was still light when she awoke, but the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window told her that it must be evening. Jen sat up in bed and hugged her knees. She sat still for a couple of minutes, re-evaluating the events of the past twenty four hours until her growling stomach made her aware that she was ravenous. It was now Tuesday evening, and Jen suddenly realised that she hadn't eaten since Sunday evening's meatloaf. Half-smiling at the ridiculous nature of her self-neglect, she threw off the covers, and jamming her feet into her worn-but-comfortable slippers, Jen went through to the kitchen and investigated the contents of the 'fridge. It was accepted between the two room-mates that Fran was the chief cook and Jen the chief bottle washer, but she wasn't quite helpless in the kitchen. The 'fridge held sufficient ingredients for Jen to decide upon an omelette, with a crusty roll and a bowl of fresh-fruit salad to follow.

The simple meal was quick to prepare and almost as quick to devour. The washing up, including three coffee mugs left over from Sunday evening, took only a few minutes. The coffee left in the jug had taken on a deep purple hue and a decidedly bitter aroma, and definitely needed to be thrown away. Jen debated making a fresh pot of coffee, but decided against it on the grounds that if she wanted to sleep tonight, then caffeine probably wasn't a good idea.

She did, however need to get as fresh uniform, or at least a fresh blouse ready for the morning. Once she'd done that she decided, she would tackle Fran's room. If nothing else, Jen was certain that Fran would appreciate clean, fresh sheets on her bed when she returned home from hospital.

Home. Now, there was a word she had rarely used. Jen thought back over the various places she had lived; her parents' house hadn't really been a home after her mother had died; the various friends' apartments and squats where she had begged the use of the couch, or tolerated the unwanted sexual advances of male acquaintances - and a female acquaintance on one occasion, Jen remembered with a giggle, although it hadn't been funny at the time - in return for a roof over her head, had most certainly not been home. Neither had living on base nor aboard ship been homelike. The first apartment she had shared with three other female Petty Officers, in DC had been a disastrous litany of no closet-space, purloined panty-hose, sour milk in the otherwise empty 'fridge, damp underwear hanging over the bath-tub, a never-ending succession of morning skirmishes over the use of the shower, broken hairdryers and finally, Lynn Wheeler's outrageous and unpaid telephone bill for calls to her boyfriend in Okinawa. That had been the last straw, and although she'd had certain reservations, she had eventually been glad of Harm's offer to share with Mattie, and that peculiar almost-family-like setup had really been the first home she'd had since her mother's death.

Jen was suddenly surprised to find that while she had been musing, she had been ironing her blouse on auto-pilot. Lifting it up to the light she critically checked her handiwork and nodded in satisfaction. She had been lucky that she hadn't scorched it through her inattention. That would definitely have meant a trip to the Base Exchange to buy a replacement - a trip Jen was desperately trying to put off until after her next pay cheque.

It was still daylight outside - just - and Jen was by no means ready to return to bed; she reckoned she had slept from about half-past eleven in the morning right through to seven in the evening, in her opinion that was about as much sleep as anyone needed in a normal day. Having tidied the kitchen area, wiped down the breakfast bar, and cleared the clutter in the lounge area, Jen opened Fran's bedroom door and nearly recoiled from the smell of stale sweat and sickness. Her first priority was to lever open the skylight that served Fran as a window, to allow fresh air into the room; her second was to strip the bed right down to the mattress and stuff the soiled bedding, pyjamas, T-shirt and sweater into a pair of bin liners taken from the roll stored under the kitchen sink. Regretfully she decided to postpone laundering them until tomorrow. The blankets she folded and placed on the side table next to the door, to remind her to take them to the cleaners in the morning.

Sorting out Fran's room made her remember with a guilty start, that she should have checked on her friend's condition. Rummaging through her purse, she extracted her cell 'phone from its depths and dialled in the number for the Medical Centre.

"Hi, good evening, I'm trying to check up on the condition of Petty Officer Neumann, from the JAG office. She was admitted this morning with pneumonia."

"Neumann? One moment please." The pleasant male voice was replaced by the sound of a telephone ringing at the other end of the line.

"Calvin Graham Ward, Lieutenant Copplestone."

"Good evening ma'am, I'm trying to get some information on Petty Officer Neumann, she was admitted this morning by Commander Goodrich. She has pneumonia."

"Who am I speaking with, please?"

"Uh... sorry ma'am. I'm Petty Officer Coates."

"Are you related to the Petty Officer?"

"No ma'am, I work with her, and we're room-mates too."

"I'm sorry, Petty Officer; I can't release any details of your friends' condition."

"Uh... I understand, ma'am. Can I at least ask if she's permitted visitors?"

"Yes... I think that's OK..."

"Could you tell her, please ma'am, that I called, and I'll come and see her tomorrow?"

"Petty Officer Neumann is sleeping right now, Petty Officer, but I'll make sure she's told when she wakes up."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Jen pressed the 'end call' button on her cell 'phone with a slight feeling of dissatisfaction and disappointment. It was no use, she knew, trying to argue her case over the 'phone and she felt like kicking herself for not going to see Fran before starting on the housework. But if she was totally honest with herself, she really hadn't felt up to making the effort of getting dressed and driving to the MedCen.

It was still too early to go to bed, she thought, and she didn't feel in the mood for watching TV or a DVD. Feeling at a loose end, she wandered aimlessly into Fran's room, checking to see if there was anything she had overlooked, when her eye was caught by the array of paperback novels on the wall shelf. Most of the authors she had never heard of, but then again, she admitted inwardly, she had never been one for reading for pleasure. She'd had sufficient adventure in her own life so as not to need to read about other peoples' adventures, real or imaginary. Picking up one of the slimmer volumes at random, she wandered away to her own room, where she decided that a long hot soak would help her relax, and possibly help her in getting back to sleep. Undressing, she pulled on her bathrobe, and taking the novel with her, she moved into the bathroom, where sitting on the edge of the tub she started to flick through the pages while she waited for the tub to fill.

It hadn't been too many minutes when the absurdities of the story she was reading and the improbable virtues of the heroine caused a grin of amusement to cross her face, and despite her scoffing at Fran for reading such nonsense, she quickly found herself caught up in the extravagant convolutions of the plot. The bath having been run, she sprinkled in some bath salts, and immersed herself in the warm fragrant water.

Closing her eyes, just for a second, Jen surrendered to the sensation and wondered if this was anything like the sensory deprivation baths she had heard about... H'mm, interesting thought... she must ask someone who had tried it...

It was dark when Jen opened her eyes and the water was barely still warm. Hastily stepping out of the bath, a shivering Jen pulled on her bathrobe, pulled the cord to switch on the bathroom light and saw to her dismay that she had dropped Fran's book into the bath water. Fishing the ruined book out of the water, she placed it on the bath stool, and hoped that she would be able to replace it before Fran got home from hospital - besides, she grinned at her own foolishness - she'd like to find out how the heroine extricated herself from the mess she had gotten into. Damn it, thought Jen, I'm hooked!

Still inwardly laughing at herself, Jen donned a fresh pair of pyjamas, and for the second time that day snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes.