Chapter Six
Forty Two
"I don't know what they want."
"Don't matter what they want, they don't want me" is the essence of the conversations at 0630 when Nell Jones / Betty Willoughby sets down her tray at a vacant spot on the long Mess Hall table and tries to convince herself, after a long wait in the queue, that she's hungry enough to want the scrambled eggs, hash and coffee that she was issued.
The hungry part is easy enough. The challenge comes, on sniffing the dark gray gloop the servers called coffee is 'is she hungry enough'?
A bite of the eggs, which are at least yellow (somewhat) convinces her that she's not.
"Just wrinkle your nose, try to ignore your buds and push it through before you can taste it," the blond man, white uniform proclaiming him a Machinist Mate 3, advises from opposite her.
"How can anyone ruin eggs?"
"I think," the man on her right says, "that we ate the chicken on the way in, that it died of –"
"Don't say it," appeals the black man on his right.
"I hear it skips a generation, anyway," says another man to Nell's first adviser's left says, "so you should be safe." She tries that man's suggestion and decides it had been wasted.
A small jar with dark red flakes appears from her left. She recognizes the scent. "Red pepper? Good for pizza, but–"
"We go through tons of it on every cruise. Enough and your taste buds are stunned, crawl into a corner and beg to die.
Lunch is five hours away and yesterday's, presumably made with the freshest food from the mainland, had not been spectacular. She sprinkles a generous portion onto the yellowish concoction, waits a moment for it to take effect and in the meantime samples some coffee.
She considers pouring some of the peppers into that.
She tries the improved eggs and as fire sears her tongue and tiny miners set to work upon her sinuses with picks and dynamite she decides she can hold out for five hours after all.
x
"Don't know what who wants?" she forces out past the flames as she sops up her tears with a napkin, glad that the Imperial Navy doesn't allow mascara. She also knows that this many men are not being nice to her only because she's a newcomer, but because she's an attractive newcomer – aka fresher meat than what's served for meals here.
But there are distinct advantages to go with that and she's well used to them. She's not averse to a little flirting; all in the course of duty, of course. And if it should yield some entertainment on the side, so much the better. Kensi is right; not everything comes for a career. Now all that matters is choosing the right target and time.
x
"INCIS" her well intentioned benefactor across the table says before taking in a generously laden forkful of reddened eggs. She sees he swallows quickly.
"They've been aboard since we left port," the Sailor who'd shared the peppers informs her, his tone sourer than the coffee. "Surprised you haven't heard."
"What have they been doing?"
"Bastards look like they're going through everyone," the man to her right gripes. "Pulling in people on Alpha and Beta all day, the bastards."
"Hesh! You got no sense, man?" the sailor opposite him demands.
"No Incisors here," he declares.
"You never know," her original assistant says. "We took on seventeen new people this port."
"I could even be an INCIS spy," Nell offers.
"You?" he scoffs. "You're too nice."
"Ain't no way you're one of those bastards."
"Man, you keep talking like that, you do it somewheres else where we won't get blood all over us when they haul you away. And you," he turns to Nell, "don't even joke about such a thing."
Time to move in while slamming them with a major distraction. "Seriously," she looks to the complainer down the row. She likes the ones who speak up stupidly. "Maybe I really am an Undercover Spy. Or maybe," she milks, "I'm going to take you below decks and interrogate you, dig out your darkest secrets."
"Oooooooo," from several would not mind being interrogated down below by the comely Communications officer.
"Wait your turns," she tells each with high promise. "If your secrets are worth it, maybe I'll interrogate each of you by the time we reach Australia."
But she has already made her choice. Complainer sounds like he has an axe to grind, her favorite kind of subject. It won't take her as long to find out what, if anything, he has as it had with Duchane.
xx
There are two others in Communications for Alpha shift, another Petite Officer Two of senior standing and a green crewman so obviously on his first tour that she almost feels sorry for him, for her counterpart has taken upon himself the kid's training and Nell, who never went to the Imperial Naval Academy in New York City, is sure the instructions and explanations are wholly unlike those from any textbook ever published.
Maybe the man is having fun. Maybe the result of this tutelage will provide some amusement. Maybe when her mission is over she'll engage in some fun of her own, making clear to her counterpart the consequences of malicious sabotage before the fact.
The Intraship Com on the board beeps, she touches the control and the screen lights with '42'. She turns off the signal, hardly crediting the good fortune while making for the door.
"Where are you going?"
'Damn, he would pick now to start being an intelligent boss.' "Personnel wants me, something about an unsigned form."
"Deal with it later."
"With INCIS snooping through the ship and I can't prove I am who I say I am? Put me on Report; better that than being put to the Question." She exits the cabin, closes the heavy sea door on whatever his answer may be. If this thing is settled before they're halfway to Hawaii, she can be back in proper black tomorrow.
xxx
Kensi is waiting for her outside the INSIPS office but starts away as soon as she enters the section, refuses to answer any inquiry until they reach a door. Kensi pulls it open, Nell follows her into
"The Head? You can't find a better choice?"
Kensi checks quickly under the half doors of three stalls. "Nothing as private. Listen. Crewman Nickolaus Tigan," she hands her a three inch square formal ID photograph, "took Leave with the bulk of the crew. Here he is since his return."
The eight by ten print is from a Security camera in the quarters shared by Tigan and three other men, this one a shot of him from the front, the next from the rear. It shows the shirtless man preparing to lay down in his upper berth. Nell compares the man as well as she can from behind and hands the papers back. "So? Same guy."
"This is from after he returned yesterday." She hands back the larger picture as well as another of equal size, also in the cabin, also on the bunk, also shirtless. "This is from before he left."
"This is all you've done in thirty-odd hours, look at dirty pictures of topless sailors?"
"You should be glad I did." She holds up one large picture. "Before," and the other beside it, "after."
Nell examines them more closely, finally shrugs. "Very sexy, if you're into that but he's not my type either so, once again for good measure: So?"
"So look at the back of the left shoulder."
The high definition (Security never allows uncertainty) shows a dime sized circular black mole in the recent image that, despite the change in angle, is not present in the previous one, and since no one ever goes to have a mole put on "They micronized the data and hid it under an artificial mole."
"Who notices a mole?"
"You do," she hands the pictures back, "and from now on I'm changing in the dark."
"Won't help."
"Yeah." Security systems see better than that God thing, when it existed, could. "Let's see Crewman Tigan. I really want the name of his Dermatologist."