Date: Wed, 16 Nov 2005 06:43:11 -0800
From: Donald Gollihue <dromin@gmail.com>
Subject: A Sailor's Fantasy (Part 2)

	Hanson sat in his house in Oceanside California.  It was Friday
night, and he waited impatiently for someone to arrive.  He turned an empty
beer bottle on the table beside his armchair with one finger and scowled at
nothing in particular.
	A sharp knock sounded.
	"Come in."  He stood to greet his guest.
	The door opened and Lt. Kline stood outside.  "Hello sir."
	"Hello Kline."  The Captain sighed.  "Come in."  He'd wracked his
brain, trying to figure a way out of the mess Crawford had mired them in.
He hadn't met with much success.
	Kline entered and shut the door quietly behind him.  The man looked
as worn with worry as Hanson felt.  He was dressed in civilian clothes: a
pair of khaki slacks, a collared shirt, a belt, and glossy black boots
completed his attire.  Hanson was similarly dressed.  In or out of uniform,
these guys took their appearances very seriously.
	The men walked to the kitchen and Hanson offered Kline a seat at
the table.  He pulled two bottles from the fridge and held one out to
Kline.  The man smiled wanly as he reached for the beer.  "I really need
this.  Thanks."
	"I hear that."  Hanson twisted the top off his beer with a grunt
and took a long drink from the bottle and watched Kline do the same from
the corner of his eye.  The men downed nearly half their beers, and then
lowered them to the table.
	Kline wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed.  "Do
you have any ideas how we're going to get out of this situation Captain?"
	"No."  Hanson said and took a seat opposite the Lt.  "The only way
I see out is if Crawford really fucks up."  His green eyes narrowed in
thought.  "I have no doubt that bastard has multiple copies of that
god-damned picture now.  So getting the camera wouldn't do us a bit of
good."  Hanson's voice was tinged just slightly with a southern drawl.
Kline had never noticed it before tonight.
	"And even if we find something on him, it'd have to be pretty bad
for it to hurt him more than he could hurt us."  Kline said and took
another swig of beer.
	"Yeah.  I think we're fucked."  Hanson said and tried to relax his
shoulders and neck.  "We have to show up tomorrow and do what he says to
do."
	Lt. Kline stared at his near-empty bottle.  "What ... what if he
makes us ..." he swallowed nervously, "you know.  What if he makes us screw
around?"
	Hanson finished his beer and set the bottle down with a thud on the
table with three others he'd already had before Kline arrived.  His face
wrinkled in distaste and he planned a hundred methods of torture for the
skinny sailor.  Unfortunately, he couldn't act on any of them without
losing his career.  He looked up from the table into the face of his Lt.
"Look.  Whatever he tells me to do, I'm doing it."  Kline looked at him
with a neutral expression and nodded.  "It doesn't mean anything if we have
to ..." Hanson licked his lips, "... if we have to mess around."  He got up
for two more beers.  Kline downed what he had left and took the fresh one
from him.  Hanson sat back down and twisted the top off.  He had been
feeling the effects of the alcohol for a while now, and he was nearing his
limit.  But tonight, he didn't care.  It felt good to feel something like
relaxed after days of tension and worry.  "Kline.  I can't order you to go
through with this."  He looked up at the big man across from him.  "I
half-wish you'd say `no', but personally, I can't."  He frowned at feeling
so powerless.  "I'm third generation Marine Corps.  It's in my blood, guts
and bones.  I ... I'd do anything to stay in."  He looked up at his
Lt. with an expression close to pleading.
	Kline hated seeing Captain Hanson like this.  The man had an
incredible spirit and pride, and that's what he admired Hanson for.  This
was killing him, the thought of being kicked out of the corps.  Kline
straightened and sat tall in his chair.  "I'll do whatever he says, sir."
	Hanson didn't know what he'd feel if the Lt. would agree, but it
turned out to be something akin to relief.  He sat back and drank the rest
of his near full beer.  Kline eyed the bottles on the table.  Hanson saw
the look and smirked.  "I'm fine, Kline."  This time the accent was thick
and unmistakable.
	"Right now, I bet you are, sir."  Kline grinned at man across the
table.  "But you better stop soon.  You're not gonna be able to get up
tomorrow."
	"Oh, I'll get up."  He idly counted the bottles in front of him.
"Seven beers?  Did I drink seven beers?"
	Kline snorted.  "Some of those were mine, sir."  He laughed at the
drunken man.  "Maybe I should call tomorrow to make sure you get up."
	Hanson grunted.  "I'll never hear my piece of shit phone."  His
accent combined with drunken slurring made Kline grin even more.
	"Why do guys that weigh less than 170 drink like they weigh 220?"
Kline stood and pulled the Captain gently to his feet by his belt and
shirt.
	"I'm fine, Kline.  Really."  Hanson said, and leaned on his Lt. for
support.
	"Right."  Kline towed the man into the bedroom and helped him get
in and lay down on the bed.  Nearly as soon as Hanson's head hit the pillow
he passed out.  Kline took off Hanson's shoes, belt and watch, chuckling
the whole while.  He'd never seen him drunk before, and found it
entertaining.  Kline unplugged the alarm clock beside the bed and carried
it into the living room.  He plugged it in and reset both the time and the
alarm.  He knew the Captain would likely need help getting up tomorrow, so
he sat down on the couch, took off his boots and lay down.  He was a little
buzzed from the beer, and it was just enough to make him sleepy.  In short
order, he was snoring softly and didn't wake until the alarm went off the
next morning.