Christmas at Steel Beach

Chapter 1-3

Chief Steward Gail Miller didn’t bother trying to stifle her laugh. It just blew out of her. Her laugh was the main reason of many that her insignia wasn’t gold colored with twelve years of “Good Conduct,” unlike the Chief Petty Officer with the wet behind.

Somehow, the simple fact that she had laughed in the face of a grumpy ship’s Captain three years earlier—after her ship took a bad pitch and roll and she’d dumped a plate of turkey with cranberry sauce she’d been serving him down the front of his dress whites—hadn’t worked out so well.

She hadn’t done it on purpose.

At least mostly not.

But he was enough of a stiff-necked, stuck-up— Well, when the opportunity presented itself, she hadn’t fought too hard to retain her balance. Might have succeeded if she’d tried, might not, but even in retrospect she’d still say it was worth it. However, Gail would make certain she was less obvious next time; she would have been in lockup if saner heads had not prevailed.

Not even yet technically aboard the Peleliu, she decided she’d better behave now. She sent the wet Chief Petty Officer a sharp salute as his injured dignity appeared to call for it.

She also noticed that the Rangers had stopped their laughter the very moment he turned to glare at them. The man clearly commanded respect among them—at least under normal conditions.

Gail struggled to suppress the rest of her laugh, but she could feel a broad smile giving her away.

“Permission to come aboard, Chief.” You didn’t “sir” an enlisted man no matter how high he’d risen or you’d get the standard line about how he “worked for a living.”

A look of deep chagrin slid onto his face, and his salute came back with a smile that pulled up on the left side of this lips first. A good smile. A damn good one, proving he wasn’t nearly as old-school as he looked at first glance. The initial impression of grizzled old sea-dog was actually a handsome and fit man in his late thirties wrapped up in old-Navy respectability.

“Permission granted, Chief.” His voice was deep and friendly despite his recent humiliation. He looked her in the eyes, not the chest, unlike the Marines who had just delivered her from the carrier. His hair wasn’t crew-cut short, but rather long enough to make her want to mess it up.

Who knew they even made men like that anymore.

“Sorry about that, Chief,” she dropped her salute. “But you gotta watch where you sit.”

“Thanks. Helpful.” He looked down at his watch. “Welcome aboard. We’re out of here in thirty seconds, you better hurry across,” he pointed up the ramp and through the crowd aboard the LCAC.

He started up the ramp himself, his boots squishing with each step.

She surveyed the load on the hovercraft. Rangers aboard with combat gear and a trio of M-ATVs looking huge and brutal with a bristle of sharp weaponry. Even the ambulances had turret guns. They were loaded for some kind of exercise. Two Santa hats that stood out among the crowd of Rangers said it would be an easy one. Maybe just transport to do some on-shore relief work.

“Mind if I come along?”

The Chief halted halfway up the ramp of his craft. She was still down on the wood deck. A seaman worked his way through the Rangers and came down to her, clearly there to guide her to the ship’s commanding officer to report in.

“Headed into a live op, Chief Steward,” the Chief Petty Officer fended her off. He emphasized the last word making it clear where he thought she belonged—in the kitchen.

To him she wanted to say, I’m a soldier too, not just a chef, dammit. Granted she only had Basic Training and a yearly one-week refresher, but she was a soldier. Still, it wasn’t her style, so she gave him a different answer.

“Excellent!” An actual mission? She’d never been on more than a training sortie. She remembered that as an exhilarating time. How dangerous could this one be when there were Santa hats aboard.

She handed her gear to the seaman, except for her helmet and armored vest, and waved him off to go do what he had to do with her stuff. With the ease of long practice, he disappeared up the ramp and through the crowd of Rangers headed back into the ship.

Gail had just come from one of the most boring galley messes on the planet. SUBASE Bangor had been tedious at best. Submarine crews returned to the shore of Hood Canal and immediately evaporated. The only ones she fed day in and day out were the maintenance and refit workers. She was so glad to be back out on the ships that she didn’t dare give the Chief a moment to think.

There might be seven thousand culinary specialists in the Navy, but there were only three hundred Navy messes. If she was ready to command one of those, she was ready to go on an actual mission.

Gail strode up the hovercraft’s stern ramp, but didn’t stop beside the nameless Chief Petty Officer still riveted in place halfway up—just in case he came to his senses. Instead she continued onto the LCAC’s deck, donning her gear as she went. She’d never been on one and was eager to look around anyway.

Three-meter steel walls all around. No, three-meter high walls of machinery. This was a hovercraft, big engines and big fans lined either side of the deck. Glassed-in control station high up forward to starboard. Small observer and gunner station port-side forward. Small steering fans to each side forward.

The monster fans at the tail, each twice her height, were positioned to push the boat ahead.

When she reached the first of the Rangers, she turned back to look at him standing there as if paralyzed. She made a show of checking her watch then looking back at him over her shoulder.

“Ten more seconds, Chief. Aren’t we outta here yet?”

She offered him her best smile as the nearby Rangers laughed once more at his complete discomfiture.

Gail was sorry to do it to the man, but it was all in good fun.