Other than the king-sized bruise to his ego, Chief Warrant Officer Robert “Hurricane Bob” Mullinax suffered no injuries from his slip and fall on the gangway of his ship, the Coast Guard cutter Stargazer. But as he picked himself up from the ice-slicked metal ramp between ship and pier, feigning a strained back seemed like the surest way to preemptively silence any laughter from the enlisted men who had witnessed his spill.

It didn’t work.

This is all I need. He stood and brushed himself off with an unnecessary flourish. The sodium lights lining the pier, tinting everything a haunting orange, were utter shit for actually illuminating anything at night. Mullinax had failed to notice the patch of ice until his footing gave way, and he skittered along the gangway until his feet snagged on the flight deck’s nonskid surface. But his momentum carried the rest of his body mass forward, and he went tumbling down. Hard.

Another chapter in the tale of Hurricane Bob, the crew’s favorite sea story. He tried to salvage what remained of his dignity as he turned around and fake-limped his way across the gangway—hands on the railing the entire way—and down to the quarterdeck shack.

“Have the watchstander bring a shovel out here and break up the ice on that brow,” he told the vaguely greasy young man inside. Crocker. That was his name.

Crocker set down the beaten paperback he’d been reading next to a half-empty bottle of Snapple. “Right away, sir,” he said. He picked up the handset from the desk and keyed the button: “Seaman Lucas, contact the quarterdeck. Lucas, contact the quarterdeck.” His duty done, he reached for his book and flipped it open again, as if the Officer of the Day wasn’t standing right there. Mullinax wondered if he should say something about standards of professional behavior for quarterdeck watchstanders, but he knew he’d just be wasting his breath.

“That looked like quite a spill, sir,” Seaman Marley called down from the flight deck. “You sure you’re okay?”

Marley appeared to be on his way out for the evening—leather jacket, dark jeans, Timberland boots, Boston Celtics scarf—but was lingering in the ship’s designated smoking area, finishing a cigarette. Mullinax had been looking for him earlier. As the ship’s education officer, he was responsible for administering all the required advancement exams for the enlisted men, and Marley’s scores for E-3 were in. Mullinax was not one for sitting on bad news any longer than absolutely necessary, but he recognized that now was not the time.

“I assure you, the fall looked far worse than it was,” Mullinax said. “I’m fine, Seaman Marley. Thank you for asking.”

Marley stubbed out his cigarette and bounded across the gangway in four self-assured strides. “I’m just surprised it doesn’t happen more often. I mean, it’s not like you get any traction at all in those dress shoes,” he said as he passed the quarterdeck shack. Mullinax couldn’t help notice how Marley’s ensemble highlighted his youthful, surfer-stoner good looks—especially the way it accentuated his jawline and shoulders. “Anyway, see you tomorrow, sir.”

A minute later Lucas emerged from the helicopter hangar, carrying a shovel and with the new bootcamper in tow. Mullinax carefully stepped his way back up the gangway—he wanted to make sure this was done properly—looking at his feet the entire time. He still couldn’t tell which section was iced over. And he was actively looking for it. Maybe it’s all ice, he thought. Maybe it’s black ice. That’s the thing about black ice—you can’t ever really see it.

“Where you going with that thing?” he heard Sobel ask Lucas. Sobel was smoking a cigarette at the aft rail.

“Eh, I guess some pussy slipped and fell on the ice, so I gotta shovel the brow.”

Mullinax’s eyebrows shot up. Some pussy fell on the ice? Some PUSSY?

His mouth set itself in a hard line. He wasn’t sure why he’d been surprised. It was really no less than he should have expected from the strong, freewheeling, roguish Seaman Lucas. The young man was completely lacking in refinement or any semblance of military bearing. Mullinax started in his direction.

Sobel dragged on his cigarette. “Why do you have to do it?”

“I’m on watch,” Lucas said.

“Well, that’s why god invented break-ins.” Sobel pointed at the new guy and grinned.

“Oh shit, you’re right.” Lucas thrust the shovel into the new guy’s hands. “Get to it, boot.”

“So, Seaman Lucas.” Hoping to startle Lucas with his sudden presence behind him, Mullinax had taken care to tread as quietly as possible. But Lucas was unfazed, only half-turning his head over his shoulder to see who was speaking to him. Mullinax was tall—6’3” in his regulation dress shoes—and as thin as the pencil that drew on his mustache. Mullinax’s immaculate uniform, his ramrod-straight posture, and his ever-present slightly-critical gaze were all carefully crafted to suggest a well-cultivated and unimpeachable military bearing, an effort that was fatally undercut the moment he opened his mouth and his thin, nasal voice escaped into the night air. “Some pussy slipped and fell on the ice, huh?”

“Um, yes sir, I guess so? I didn’t see it so I don’t know.”

“Well, Lucas … that pussy was me!” Mullinax planted both fists on his hips, jutted his head forward a couple inches and glared at Lucas, who was just as tall as he was, but with twenty extra pounds of solid muscle. Lucas snorted; Mullinax couldn’t tell if it was a cough or a stifled laugh. He pressed on. “What do you have to say about that?”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry, Mister Mullinax,” Lucas said. He pulled out a fresh tin of chewing tobacco and thwacked his middle finger against the lid three or four times to pack it. “I didn’t know you were the pussy.” Then he turned back to his break-in. “Shit, I left my mug on the mess deck. Get to work, boot. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And he strolled back into the helo hangar, casually rolling his shoulders with each step.

Half an hour later, Mullinax sat in his small leather club chair, a personal indulgence he had brought from home to lend a touch of elegance to his stateroom, and ruminated in the dark. After twenty-three years in the Coast Guard, these things simply should not happen to him. He had worked his way up from lowly bootcamp scrub all the way to senior chief petty officer before earning his commission: how many of these jelly-spined incompetents would ever even sniff that kind of career success? He wasn’t some prep-school Academy graduate with soft hands and a vague, unearned air of entitlement. He’d worked for a living to get where he is. And for his troubles, they turned him into the butt of their jokes and brayed laughter into his face without fear of reprisal or punishment.

Shitbirds. He was surrounded by shitbirds. That was the issue here.

Mullinax was at a crossroads, and he knew it. After just three months aboard, already there was that whole “Hurricane Bob” nickname, which—as ship’s lore had it—he’d earned by leaving a trail of destruction and chaos in the Combat Information Center once when the Stargazer was navigating some middling chop, nothing more significant than one- or two-foot swells. The gentle rocking of the ship sent Mullinax careening from bulkhead to bulkhead, gangly arms flailing about and knocking over clipboards and binders and loose keyboards and coffee mugs, one of which spilled onto a control panel for one of the fire control systems, which then shorted out in a brief but spectacular eruption of white sparks and a sad wisp of blue smoke.

In Mullinax’s mind, the true culprit was whoever brought a cup of coffee into CIC in the first place. Food and drink were expressly forbidden there. Ship’s regs were crystal clear on the matter. Besides, the entire story was a gross exaggeration—those swells had been three-footers, at least—and it grew larger and more absurd each time he overheard its retelling.

Still, there was no denying the incident had cost him. His standing among the men had taken a significant hit. If he failed to respond correctly to this latest public humiliation, he would never be able to earn their respect.

But striking the right balance was critical. Pretending it never happened would be read as submission. Punishing people for laughing would be an overreaction, which would itself betray weakness in him, a perceived need to overcompensate.

But Lucas. Lucas insulted him to his face. Showed disrespect to an officer in a public setting—and with an audience. An audience of subordinates, no less, the very same ones who had been laughing at his pratfall not ten minutes before. Lucas had eroded the respect for the chain of command. That could not be allowed to stand.

Yes. There it was. He would put Lucas on report for insubordination, and that would be that.

Mullinax went down to the ship’s office and locked the door behind him. He logged into one of the three computers, pulled up the template for form CG-178-3A, Notification of Report, and started typing.

On the evening of 04 JAN 1994 at approximately 1855 hours, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice while crossing the brow to board STARGAZER. I immediately notified RM3 CROCKER, the quarterdeck watchstander on duty, of the hazard. RM3 CROCKER piped SN LUCAS, the deck watchstander, to lay to the brow with his shovel. When informed that the reason for his presence was that I had fallen on said patch of ice, and that it presented a hazard to anyone wishing for ingress or egress, SN LUCAS responded with disrespect and profanity, to wit, referring to me (a Chief Warrant Officer with more than 20 years of service to the USCG) as a “pussy,” directly and to my face. This he did in the full view and hearing of at least four witnesses: GM2 SOBEL, FT2 BROCK, GM3 ANTONUCCI,  and QM3 WETHERBY. I am therefore hereby placing SN LUCAS on report for insubordination and showing disrespect to a superior, and referring this matter to Executive Officer (XO), STARGAZER for further dispensation.

CWO2 R Mullinax

Mullinax scanned his work. His knee bounced ever so slightly. This was the right approach. His methods were sound. He printed the report, signed it, and locked the office door as he left. He’d drop the report in the XO’s wardroom inbox on his way back to his stateroom.

As Mullinax was about to enter the wardroom, he glanced toward the mess deck and stopped. Lucas was in there, watching Cops on the giant television, his eyes unfocused, his jaw slack. He was still wearing his parka, suggesting he’d only recently finished clearing the ice that had started this whole brouhaha in the first place. The symmetry struck Mullinax as particularly sweet. He let go of the handle of the wardroom door and crossed the mess deck instead.

“Seaman Lucas,” he called out as he approached Lucas’s table. Lucas rolled his head back and looked over his shoulder at Mullinax.

“Yessir, Mister Mullinax,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Seaman Lucas, consider this an official notification that I am placing you on report as soon as this conversation is over.”

“Wait, what?” He sat up. “You serious? For what?”

“Why, for that bout of public insubordination up there not even an hour ago.” He nodded his head upward, toward the flight deck. “I felt it would be appropriate to tell you this in advance, so that you can prepare yourself for the moment the XO calls you out tomorrow morning.”

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Mullinax expected Lucas to stand up and argue his case, but he did not. Instead he looked back toward the television. “It’s not my fucking fault you slipped on the ice. Sir.”

Mullinax sighed.  “The ice has nothing to do with this, Lucas. You simply cannot show such blatant disrespect for a superior officer like that, especially not in front of others. Or like you are doing right this minute, for that matter. It undermines respect for one’s superiors and for one’s chain of command, and it only serves to contribute to a breakdown in the machinery that drives this service.”

Lucas looked at Mullinax again. “Are you for real with that shit?”

“Every single experience I’ve had in uniform over the last twenty-three years has only served to support that conclusion.” Mullinax tucked his shoulders back a couple centimeters as Lucas stood up—finally—and faced him.

“Well, Mister Mullinax, I apologize for showing disrespect in front of the crew. I probably shouldn’t have said it, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Mullinax was suddenly overcome with a feeling of magnanimity. Maybe, just maybe, he should rip up the form. Maybe Lucas’s apology was enough.

He opened his mouth to speak.

But Lucas wasn’t done.

“But you know, I think most people would have just brushed it off. It’s just a word. The fact that you’re writing me up for it shows that you really are a giant pussy who’s afraid of what people think of him. Sir.”

Lucas pushed past him, bumping shoulders in what Mullinax could only assume was an intentional gesture of aggression. He watched Lucas go, positively rippling with confidence as he went.

Fuck. Had he miscalculated so badly? Should he have done nothing and just let the insult and insubordination slide?

That was still an option. The notice of report was in his hands. He could just head back up to O-Country and pretend none of this happened. Let it go and let a facade of self-confidence carry him through tomorrow.

But Lucas would know. Then he would tell everyone that he bullied the officer into dropping the whole thing, and that Mullinax had revealed himself to be a slave to his own insecurities. The whole ship would know all about it by dinnertime Tuesday.

Report in hand, he turned and strode toward the wardroom, walking with as much purpose and determination as he could pull together.

 

The next morning, Mullinax was in the middle of giving detailed instructions to Quartermaster Third Class Wetherby on the proper care and storage of the ship’s charts when he heard his name over the 1MC.

“Chief Warrant Officer Mullinax, your presence is requested in the XO’s stateroom. Mister Mullinax.”

Outside Lieutenant Commander Ippolito’s stateroom, Mullinax paused to check his gig line and re-tuck his shirt. If anyone aboard the Stargazer eclipsed Mullinax in attention to detail and intolerance of imperfection, it was Ippolito. Once Mullinax was satisfied that he was completely squared away, he knocked.

“Come,” the XO grunted from inside.

Ippolito stood in front of his modest desk, Mullinax’s report in his hand. He did not look up from the document even when Mullinax addressed him.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said.

“Bob,” the XO said. Finally he looked up from the sheet. “Let’s talk about this report of yours.”

“Yes sir. Well, I feel it speaks for itself, though if you need further details, I’m happy to provide. I felt that keeping the report itself to a certain streamlined—”

“I’m ripping it up, Bob,” he said, and then did exactly that, a long, slow tear straight down the middle of the paper.

Mullinax’s mouth flopped open and closed like a landed mackerel, but no sound came out. What the shit is this? Finally he managed to croak, “I … I don’t understand.”

“I’ve spoken to everyone named in this report other than Seaman Lucas himself, and none of them confirm your story. Or at least, not all of it. Not the most important part, certainly.”

“Well then, those people are lying.”

The XO’s eyebrows raised. “Are they.”

“Indeed they are, sir. Wetherby, Sobel, Antonucci, Brock—they all heard it, they were standing right there, for shit’s sake—”

The XO cut him off with a raised hand. “What they told me is that Lucas made a reference to some pussy who slipped on the ice before he was even aware of who it was who slipped. They went on to describe your own, let’s say, heated reaction to that remark, which, if we’re being honest here, does sound like you.”

Mullinax was nearly quaking. Men have fought duels over less than this. This … this was unbelievable. “And?”

“And nothing. None of them heard Lucas call you a pussy directly. So I am dismissing the matter.”

“I see. To be frank, sir, I would have expected the word of an officer to be given a bit more weight than that,” Mullinax said.

“I understand,” the XO said. He leaned back on his desk and drummed his fingertips along the thin metal side panel. It made a dissonant rattling sound. Then he grabbed the handset of his wall-mounted phone, pressed a few keys and said, “pipe Seaman Lucas to the XO’s stateroom.”

The 1MC speaker crackled to life. “Seaman Lucas, lay to the XO’s stateroom. Lucas.” Mullinax and Ippolito waited in what was, for Mullinax at least, an uncomfortable silence for Lucas to arrive. His mind raced. What was really going on here? Did the XO doubt his account because he’d only been aboard for three months? Sobel and Brock had been on board for years, serving under Ippolito for his entire tour to date; did that outweigh the importance of rank?

Or was it something else? When Mullinax stepped into the XO’s stateroom, was it him—the decorated warrant officer with over two decades of distinguished service—that Ippolito saw, or did he just see bumbling ol’ Hurricane Bob, laughingstock of the Stargazer?

There came a knock at the door. “Enter,” the XO called out, and Seaman Lucas pushed open the door and joined them.

“Seaman Lucas reporting as ordered, sir,” Lucas said, standing at parade rest. Mullinax rolled his eyes. Oh sure, you little shit, now you show some respect.

“Seaman Lucas,” the XO said. “I’m going to ask you a simple and direct question. I expect an honest and unequivocal answer. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Lucas said.

“Did you call Mister Mullinax a pussy last night after he slipped on some ice?”

Mullinax watched Lucas’ face closely, ready to spot and catalog any micro-expression, any facial tic or twitch, any subconscious indicator of deception or guilt.

Lucas hesitated. “Well, sir, you know how it is,” he said, and he gave Mullinax a sidelong glance so brief it may not have even happened. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”

Mullinax openly gaped at Lucas. You son of a bitch.

The XO grimaced and shook his head. “Is a direct order really necessary, sailor? I had hoped we’d be able to handle this like professionals. Like men.”

“Of course, sir,” Lucas said. “Sorry. I’m afraid I did, sir.”

“I see,” the XO said. “Just to be clear. You admit to calling him a pussy to his face.”

“I do, sir,” Lucas said. “I regretted doing so almost immediately, and I apologized to Mister Mullinax on the mess deck about an hour later.”

The XO snapped his gaze to Mullinax now. “Did you,” he said. “One last question, Seaman Lucas. When you apologized, did you ask Mister Mullinax not to put you on report in return for that apology?”

“I did not, sir.”

“I see. Very well. Seaman Lucas, I am assigning you two days of extra duty. You will remain confined to the ship for the next forty-eight hours and will be assigned to general ship’s work with the duty section both days. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, glancing quickly over at Mullinax—is that a smirk, you little fuck?— and then vanishing back into the ship.

Mullinax could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Two days? Two fucking days and that was it? He opened his mouth without knowing what was going to come tumbling out.

“You’re dismissed too,” the XO said, cutting him off. Again.

“But,” Mullinax sputtered. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think you realize how thoroughly you’ve just undercut my—”

“Bob. I’ve made my decision. It’s done. Now I think it’s time for you to get back to your duties.” He crossed his arms and waited for Mullinax to leave.

Beaten, he headed down to the mess deck for a cup of coffee and maybe a donut. It was 1050 in the morning, a few minutes after the crew’s coffee break had secured. Most of Stargazer’s sailors had picked their way through the boxes of jelly-filled and Boston cremes and onion bagels and fat-free blueberry muffins, eaten their fill and returned to work. Mullinax flipped open one of the pastry boxes and found gold: a French cruller, possibly the only one in the entire day’s order. Those never lasted long.

He closed his eyes and let his teeth sink into his consolation treat. Crumbs dribbled down his uniform front; he did not care. He was alone in his humiliation, public though it was. He would take his pleasure the same way.

It was only after a moment or two of thoughtful chewing that he realized he was not alone on the mess deck. Seaman Marley lingered at a table at the far end, leafing through a copy of The Sporting News with the practiced manner of someone who knew how not to be noticed.

“Seaman Marley.” Mullinax stepped in his direction. “A word, if I might.”

“Of course, sir.” Marley stood and casually closed the magazine, making no attempt to pretend he hadn’t just been busted lingering on the mess deck when he should be up topsides, slinging a paintbrush or a hand sander. “What can I do for you?”

“Your scores for E-3 are in.”

“Fifth time’s a charm, I hope.”

“I’m sorry,” Mullinax said. “I’m afraid not in this case. I wish I had better news.”

“Oh.” Marley sank back down into his chair. His face, sparking with the possibilities just a moment ago, was now pinched and downcast as he tried to mask his disappointment. Nonrates on Stargazer were not eligible to apply for an “A” school—the vocational training programs that were the first step in the transition from nonrate to petty officer, some of which had waiting lists three years long—until they’d been advanced to E-3. This policy was supposed to act as a motivating force, an early way to teach the importance of constant self-improvement to a military career. Mullinax sympathized with those who had trouble with the exam; many of them were attracted to the service precisely because there were viable career paths that were the antithesis of standardized test-taking, that did not require a rich vocabulary or rely on a keen grasp of abstract analogies. Those were men who wanted to drive boats through churning surf to rescue people from a sinking vessel. Their hands were hard and cracked and calloused. They could tie knots in their sleep, and those knots would hold fast through the worst nor’easter this century has ever seen. The Coast Guard had a place for men like them. It needed men like them.

Nevertheless, regulations were regulations. It’d be another four months until Marley could try again; until then, he was stuck right where he was, smack in the middle of the messcooking rotation with the rest of the E-2s.

“I—well, I wouldn’t say it’s as bad as all that,” Mullinax said. “According to your file, your score improved by quite a bit.” This was a lie; in fact, the score Marley had just posted was the worst of the entire quintet. “I think that, with some focused study, you’d have a real shot at finally putting this thing to bed once and for all.”

“I don’t know, Mister Mullinax,” Marley said. “I’m already more than two years in. Figure another four months to sit for the exam, two more to hear back. Even if I pass, I’ll have less than a year and a half to go.”

“And?”

“Annnnnnd the waitlist for Marine Science Technician ‘A’ school is at, like, two and a half years or something.” He ran his fingers through his slightly-too-long-for-regulations hair. “I just don’t think I see the point.”

“The point, Seaman Marley, the point is to give yourself options. To put yourself in the best possible position to capitalize on opportunities that may come your way.” Mullinax took the seat directly opposite Marley. “I recognize the temptation to reduce questions of the future to the single dimension of ‘A’ school. But at your age, in the grand scheme of a career, I hardly think that’s the most important factor. Besides, the sooner you pass E-3, the sooner that countdown can begin for you.”

“Sure, okay, yeah,” Marley said. “That makes sense, but I never really planned for this to be a career. I’m thinking I’m done after four, probably.”

“Ah,” Mullinax said. He always assumed that people joined the Coast Guard because they wanted the career like he did. It never made sense to him when it turned out they didn’t. “Well even so, all the more reason to try again. In the two years you’ve been here, have you enjoyed watching your shipmates climb past you on the seniority ladder?”

Marley shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t really bother me.”

“Well it should.” Mullinax stood up to leave. “You have all that seniority you can’t use. It’s a simple test, Seaman Marley, and I have to assume the only thing preventing you from passing it is yourself. Should you wish to pursue it, I would be happy to assist with whatever resources I have available, including—but not limited to—regular, one-on-one study sessions in a quiet and private setting. I’d very much like you to consider it.”

“Sure, I guess,” Marley said. Mullinax sensed confusion in his reply, perhaps a result of the unfamiliar sensation of someone taking an interest in his welfare.

“Very well. You know where to find me,” he said, and then spun on his heels and headed out. He had no idea where he was going, but that didn’t matter. What was important was that he looked like he did.

 

Marley thought about this conversation for the rest of the afternoon. He turned it over in his mind again and again as he did his best to look busy repacking the rescue swimmer suits in the helo hangar. It was actually a two-man job, so there was little chance of doing it correctly. But he could think undisturbed while he went through the motions. And he needed to think.

Marley was unaccustomed to positive attention from a superior. His lack of career advancement had led most of the officers and senior enlisted aboard to write him off as a lazy, unmotivated slacker. They weren’t exactly wrong; while he was willing to work hard at times, it was more frequently done in the service of pretending to work in order to avoid actual work. In any case, Marley didn’t mind. Their lack of expectations was convenient.

So what the hell had it all been about? Why was Mullinax bothering with him? The whole encounter had been a calculated move on Mullinax’s part, obviously. But to what end?

Maybe he was an unreconstructed do-gooder, or maybe he had some other motivation, something that needed a more oblique approach. It didn’t matter to Marley; he knew he’d be able to make it work for him either way. Mullinax was obvious by nature, an easy read. He’d give the game away soon enough.

And so, that afternoon in the helo hangar, as Marley tried in vain to stuff a loose-rolled rescue swimmer suit back into its tiny carrying pouch, it was decided: he would encourage Hurricane Bob’s interest. He would sit for the E-3 exam. He would go to whatever study sessions Mullinax scheduled for him. He would work hard to appear to be working hard. And he would see where it went, though he already had a pretty good idea where that might be. Guys like Mullinax were everywhere.

Later that afternoon, just before sunset, Marley crossed the brow and meandered through the parking lot to Mullinax’s car, a polished, royal blue RAV4. He looked around and, once he was certain no one was watching, slipped the ball peen hammer he’d swiped from the avionics shop out of his sleeve. Without breaking stride, he smashed the driver’s side window with a single sharp blow. Bits of glass sprayed across the taupe leather seats, finding their way into every seam and crease. When no alarm sounded by the time Marley was four or five steps away, he let himself relax. It was always useful to know what kind of a man he was dealing with, and now he did.