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I spent most of last night pondering that question, right after shifting the blame for my behavior at the Hail and Farewell. It was Eric. It was the woman in blue. It was the navy. Commander Egan. Around and around I went until the spinner finally, truthfully, landed on me.

I let him in. I lowered my guard. The most frustrating thing is that I thought I'd learned my lesson on the
Lake Champlain.
I told myself not to be stupid. Not to let down my defenses. It's how you get hurt, plain and simple. But then, I did it again last night.

So in the wee hours, I made a deal with myself. The next time you see Eric, you are neutral. Cool as a cucumber. You are friendly, but will open yourself no further. Period.

Blast it when he approaches with an easy smile. “May I?” he asks, indicating the chair across from me.

Keep it on the surface, Sara. You can do this.

“Of course,” I say. “Just passing by or…”

“No. Actually, I came to find you.”

Damn it.

I look up as T-Bear and Diggs approach.

“Everything good here, ma'am?” T-Bear asks.

If I didn't know better, I'd say T-Bear wants to know if this guy who's just wandered in isn't bothering me or anything.

“It's fine, yes,” I say.

Good. This is helpful. This is your chance to go casual
.

“Guys, I'd like you to meet Eric Marxen. He flies off the
Lake Champlain.
Eric, this is Petty Officer Jefferson, better known as T-Bear, and Petty Officer Diggins, known to all as Diggs.”

Eric stands and shakes their hands. “Nice to meet you both.”

“Likewise, sir,” T-Bear says.

“T-Bear and Diggs are my weight room buddies,” I say. “You cannot believe what these guys can lift. It blows my mind.”

“I
can
believe it,” Eric says.

“Sir, that's nothing. You should see the lieutenant. She's an animal. Spends way too much time on the cardio equipment.”

“I can believe that, too.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, sir,” T-Bear says.

“Yeah, you too, guys.”

As T-Bear and Diggs walk away, Eric turns to me. “How's it been today?”

Well, at least he's keeping it casual, too. This is good.

“Pretty busy, actually.”

We turn in unison to the small commotion at the banquet room entry. Three shore patrolmen escort a hopping mad sailor in civilian clothes, and they're followed by an older Asian woman who holds the hand of a younger one—one who is clearly a lady of the evening.

Everyone is speaking at once, the sailor in filth-ridden English and the two women in a whip-quick language I don't understand.

“See what I mean?” I rise to cross the room and Eric follows.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, gesturing for everyone to calm down.

I look quickly for our translator, but I don't see him. I spy Senior Chief Makovich instead.

“Senior?” I say. “Have you seen Kong-sang Chan?”

He takes a quick survey of the room. “No, ma'am. Let me see if I can round him up.”

The quiet doesn't last for more than about twenty seconds when the two women start going at it again. I hear Eric laughing and turn as he walks up next to me.

“What's so funny?” I say.

“They're claiming they haven't been paid.”

“I'm not paying them a goddamn thing!” the sailor says.

“Wait. You understand them?”

He nods.

“What are they speaking?”

“Mandarin.”

The women point at the sailor and begin speaking over each other once more. I put up my hands again to urge everyone to calm down, but I stop, stunned, when Eric begins to address them in what appears to be seamless, fluent Mandarin.

My head moves back and forth as they converse, until Eric finally turns to me. “This young woman here was approached by—” He looks at the sailor. “What's your name, sailor?”

“Jason Williams,” he says.

“And your rate?” Eric asks.

“Machinist's mate second class.”

Eric shifts to me. “This woman was approached by Petty Officer Williams for her services. The price was agreed upon by her mamasan here,” he says, indicating the older woman, “and she performed said services in an upstairs room at the New Makati Pub and Disco, but then he refused payment.”

“She didn't perform anything, goddamn it!” Petty Officer Williams says.

“Petty Officer Williams, can you give us your side of the story?” I say.

“She's a fuckin' he/she!” He's shouting now and has the attention of everyone in the room. “I didn't agree to anything with any fuckin' shemale! Makes me fuckin' sick to my stomach!”

I look more closely at the young woman. Holy cow. She has an Adam's apple.

As shore patrol officer, you are judge and jury for cases like this. I glance down at Petty Officer Williams's hand. He wears a wedding ring. Inwardly, I'm thinking,
If you hadn't been messing around on your wife, you wouldn't have gotten yourself into this mess.
But I don't say that.

“I know you feel you've been wronged,” I say. “But I want you to think about this. If you refuse to pay, I'm going to have to call the MPs and they're going to detain you in the brig while an investigation is conducted into this matter. You'll lose your remaining liberty in Hong Kong, and because these investigations take so long, you'll probably lose your liberty in Singapore, too.”

I can already see I'm talking his language.

“In addition, if charges are filed, we're going to have a bit of an embarrassing international incident on our hands.”

I can see the wheels turning, although he's probably only thinking about the losing liberty part.

“And finally, these two are citizens of our host country. And as guests in this country, we should strive to maintain the best possible relations so that the U.S. Navy is asked to return.”

His eyes make it clear that I should have just stuck with the losing liberty argument.

“I think it would be a lot easier, personally, to just give them their money, and then you'll be free to go on your way and enjoy the rest of your time in Hong Kong a free and happy man.”

“This is fuckin' bullshit,” he says, shoving his hand down his front pocket and pulling out a wad of Hong Kong dollars. He counts out the money and throws it on the ground in protest.

I motion to the shore patrolmen to let him go and he runs off as the two women scramble forward and scoop up their earnings.

They speak animatedly to Eric, offering their thanks, I hope, and scurry away.

Eric and I share a look as we walk back to the table. “I cannot believe we just had that conversation,” I say.

“You handled that like a pro,” he says.

“Well, he shouldn't have been messing around on his wife. Serves him right.”

Eric laughs.

“But Mandarin? You speak Mandarin?”

He nods.

“Any other languages I should know about, just in case the need arises?”

“Just Arabic … and well, Pashto and Farsi.”

I stop. “Four languages? Are you serious or are you just pulling my leg?”

“Actually, I'm serious.”

“But why—?”

“I'll tell you about it when we have more time someday.”

We start walking again toward the back of the room and a loud growling noise from my stomach sends an embarrassed blush to my face. “I guess I need to find something to eat,” I say.

“Say nothing more. I've got it covered.”

Oh, wait. No. No. No. This wasn't supposed to happen. This is already heading somewhere I swore I wouldn't go. Too easy. Too familiar.

“Um, no, that's okay. You don't have to—”

“Let me guess,” he says, turning to face me. “You're
fine
?”

The question hangs there, ringed with accusation.

I look down to the floor, guilt clawing at my throat. “I'm sorry,” I say, looking up.

“I just want to do something nice for you, that's all. It's just dinner. I'll bring it. I'll leave. That's it.”

I consider this for several moments, looking well into his soulful eyes. “Okay,” I say, relenting.

He turns, but I call out after him. “We can eat together.”
That's only considerate, right? He's going to get you food. The least you can do is eat with him.
“What I mean is, you don't have to leave right away.”

“Sure. If that's what you want.”

“We could eat in my room.”
What did I just say? Good god, Sara. What are you doing?

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

“It would just be a lot quieter and I was going to head up there anyway,” I rationalize. “The guys can call me if they need me.”

“Whatever you say. What's the number?”

“Eight oh eight.”

“Copy, eight oh eight,” he says. “I should be back within the hour.”

 

20

Once in my room, I cast off my uniform and run a hot bath. I slide into the tub, resting my head against the rounded rim, and close my eyes, shutting out the experiences of the day. I got far more than I bargained for on this round of duty, and I sincerely doubt it's over yet, because for most sailors, the night is young. But it's hard to stop thinking about that last incident. I don't think I ever could have anticipated that one.

And did I really just invite Eric up to my room? I can't even begin to explain this one to myself.

You called yourself stupid before, Sara, but this is getting ridiculous.

While toweling off, I decide to dress comfortably for now, even though I'll most certainly be donning my uniform again tonight. I pull on Eric's maroon shirt and gray shorts—

Wait. He's going to see me in these. He'll know I took his clothes.

You have not put yourself in a good place here.

I do have my blue wrap blouse and jeans that I wore to the Hail and Farewell. When I left the ship, I had no intention of returning until my duty day, the last day. When we pull into port, not only do we stand shore patrol duty, but also ship duty. Every department must keep a minimum number of personnel on the ship, enough that you could get the ship under way, if necessary. So I brought everything with me for both the party at the Hyatt and for my time on shore patrol, attempting to stay away from the ship for as long as possible before I had to return.

Or I could put on my uniform again …

The knock on the door forces the decision. Shoot. Uniform? Jeans? Shirt? I don't want to keep him waiting.
Okay, just go with what you have.
I finish rolling the shorts at the waist and bound for the door. I open it wide … and gasp.

“Sssara,” Commander Egan says, stumbling through the door.

He's a disheveled drunken mess, his plaid shirt only half tucked in, with stains running down the front as if he's spilled a time or two. Bloodshot eyes stare awkwardly into mine. He carries a six-pack of beer in one hand and clumsily pulls one can out.

“Where've you been?” he slurs.

“Sir, I was in the shore patrol office. I was just getting dressed to go back there now.”

“You don't have to do that. The chiefs can handle
everything
.” He waves his beer can grandiosely in the air. “What you need is some time to relax.”

“No, sir, it's my job to report down there, so I need to ask you to leave so I can get dressed.”

“Always soooo professional,” he says, stepping toward me. “Here, this'll help.”

He thrusts the can forward, just in front of my face.

“No, sir, I don't want anything.”

“Well, all right,” he says. He tucks the remaining five cans under one arm and opens the other. Tipping his head back, he takes several long gulps.

“You know what the rumor going 'round is, don't you?” he says, stepping forward once more.

I shake my head, taking a step back, while looking beyond him to the partially open door.

“Everyone thinks we're doin' it. Can you believe that? People think we're doin' it.”

God, how revolting.

“I don't know why they'd think that,” he says, moving toward me.

“I don't know either, sir,” I say, retreating once more.

“It's Doug, remember. Why is it so hard for you to call me Doug?”

“Sir, you're drunk. You need to leave.”

“Of all the rumors. You and me … together,” he suggests.

The tone of his voice and the look in his drunken eyes has changed. I back up, the open door moving farther away.

You've let this go too far. Shit.

I glance around quickly. I'm hedged between the foot of the bed and the desk and there's no room to go around him. I look again at the bed. Maybe I can jump and run over it to get to the door.

While my eyes are on the bed, a hand grabs my arm. Reflexively, I yank to get it clear, but his grasp is firm.
What the hell?

“Sir, what are you doing?”

“Sara, Sara, Sara…”

“Sir, let go of me.”

“But why? Isn't this what you want?”

“No, sir, I don't want this.”

He hastily sets his beer can on the desk and grabs my other arm.
Shit! This is getting out of control fast!

Like a movie reel, frames from my self-defense classes at the Academy start clicking through my head. Kick him between the legs? Jab at his eyes? Scream?

“Let go of me,” I say. “You're drunk.”

“Maybe so, but I'm havin' a good time.”

His grip is getting tighter and it's starting to hurt.

“Let go of me!” I back up, pulling my arms, but it only makes him grab on harder.

Sara, you need to do something and do it right now!

I deliver the strongest kick I have between his legs and he doubles over with a howl. I follow with a hard kick behind the knees and they buckle, dropping him to the floor. Shoving him forward to his stomach, I drive my knee into the small of his back, grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind him.