The Edge of Honor by P. T. Deutermann Read Free Book Online

sit back and relax in a trailer in Florida.”
    “Jesus,” said Hartley. “I grew up in a trailer in South Florida. I hate fucking Florida.”
    The new Weapons officer, Lieutenant Holcomb, came walking through the mess decks on his way back to the Weapons office. Hartley eyed him surreptitiously.
    “You talk to the evaluators. What’s the new guy like?” he asked Rockheart after Brian had passed by.
    “Like any other department head—sweating the load, trying not to fuck up,” replied Rocky, picking at his food.
    “I heard he’s from LANTFLEET; doesn’t know shit about WESTPAC.”
    Rockheart shrugged and said, “He’s a lieutenant in a lieutenant commander’s billet, you know? Doesn’t know NTDS, doesn’t know PIRAZ, so sweat pumps on max.
    But so far, he’s not acting like that prick Austin.”
    Hartley nodded and went back to his lunch. As a rule, Rockheart didn’t pay too much attention to officers, other than to identify the ones who were going to give him a hard time or who were otherwise jerks about salutes and saying sir. He had observed Brian standing his breakin watches as evaluator in Combat. He had quickly realized that Brian knew next to nothing about the PIRAZ business and thus would be dependent on the junior watch officers and the senior radarmen to keep him out of trouble until he learned the ropes in Hood’s state-of-the-art CIC. From the enlisted perspective, how Brian handled the awkward situation of being the senior officer on watch while still not knowing everything there was to know about Combat would be a good measure of the man. The smart ones simply asked until they got everything down; the pricks tried to fake it. Austin was a notorious prick, but from what Rocky could tell, Brian looked as if he was playing new guy for as long as he could, which to Rockheart was eminently sensible—the CO and the XO would have to wait a while before jumping in his shit.
    “They gonna let us go over, hit the PX?” asked Hartley.
    “I don’t think so,” replied Rockheart. He suddenly decided he did not want fried chicken and began to pick suspiciously at his dessert, a sodden lump of what was supposed to be apple pie. Mckinnon began to eye Rock heart’s chicken.
    “That’s a bummer,” complained Bartley. “I need to get some shit; my old lady is all hot to trot for WESTPAC goodies.”
    “You gonna eat that chicken?” inquired Mckinnon, looking up over the bones on his tray.
    “Have at it, Mac,” said Rockheart. “Shit’s too greasy for me. Besides, I have to watch my figure; the birds don’t go for any lardass.”
    Mckinnon just grunted and speared Rockheart’s chicken onto his own tray.
    “I don’t give a rat’s ass what women go for,” he said, his mouth working ponderously. “I want some gash, I go buy it. They don’t like my big gut, that’s too fuckin’ bad.
    Actually, most of ‘em don’t bitch much—it keeps their heads warm.”
    Rockheart grinned. He was a handsome man in a rough-cut, frontiersman fashion. His spotless uniforms and correct military bearing classified him among the officers as a squared-away, highly professional career enlisted man who was bucking for a chief petty officer’s hat. He was the only radarman first class who was not one of the air-intercept controllers in CIC, having chosen to specialize in surface operations.
    Mckinnon finished off Rockheart’s chicken, looked over his shoulder at the dwindling chow line, and pushed away from the table to get another load. A very tall black petty officer first class appeared at the table, carrying an empty tray. He wore a leather tool belt rilled with electrician’s tools around his narrow waist. He acknowledged Rockheart with a bare nod of his shiny bald head, swept the mess decks with his eyes for an instant, and then asked, “Rocky, my man, you got that twenny you owe me?”
    “Sure do, Bullet,” replied Rockheart, craning his neck to look Bullet in the face. “Wallet’s in my locker,