“Thank you.”
With the transmission over, Clouseau groaned. His stomach was churning. This had never happened before. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another...”
“That’s just how things are.” Castello shrugged. “I’ve never seen an operation go entirely according to plan.”
Then Clouseau got another call. This time, it was from Kurz Weber. “Uruz-6 here. We’ve got trouble!”
“What is it now?” Clouseau demanded.
“The kids polished off all the food,” Kurz reported. “They’re demanding more to eat. Can I let the cooks into the kitchen?”
“I don’t care, you idiot!” Clouseau shouted, then turned off the radio.
After they entered the shopping center, Sailor made a beeline for the indulgence item section.
“Er, Sailor-san. What are you looking for?” Tessa asked.
The response was immediate. “Booze,” he told her. “Vodka, if they’ve got it.”
“You can’t mean—”
“Yeah, I’m making Molotovs. I’m way under-armed, here.”
“Don’t do that!” Tessa protested. “You could really hurt someone!”
“You bet your ass,” Sailor told her. “I’m fighting bad guys, remember? Terrorists screaming and burning and falling into the ocean... yeah, it’ll be a beautiful sight. You get searching too! Go on!”
They ended up finding about ten bottles of Spyritus, a rectified spirit that was about 96% alcohol. They could stick a rag in, light it, and throw it, and end up with a Molotov cocktail.
Sailor got some handkerchiefs and towels from other stalls and started about his work. Tessa didn’t like it, but she eventually decided to help him out.
After finishing three Molotovs, Sailor cursed. “Dammit. I can’t open the stopper. Hand keeps slipping...”
Curious, Tessa peered at the man’s hand in the darkness and was surprised by what she saw; Sailor’s right hand was covered in blood. “That’s awful!” she said. “When did you hurt yourself?”
“During the fight,” he admitted. “Guess I just caught it on something...”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?!” Tessa scolded. “We need to get you to the infirmary!”
“Are you nuts?” Sailor asked incredulously. “They’ve got a dragnet out! Besides, this is nothing!”
“Then take your jacket off,” she demanded. “I want to see the wound.” Tessa had some basic knowledge of first aid, and she’d even sat in on some surgeries to try to build up her nerve.
“It’s none of your business,” Sailor told her. “Besides, you’re a maid, not a nurse. So be a maid, shut up and make Molotov cocktails!”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Tessa argued back. “Just let me see it!”
“H-Hey!”
Tessa forced Sailor’s suit jacket off, then grabbed his burly right arm in her hands. The inside of his dress shirt—mainly the lower half, up to his elbow—was wet with blood. There were about five or six other interlocking cuts there.
“Do you know the place to press to stop the bleeding?” Tessa lectured at him. “It’s here. Press down on it, hard.”
“R-Right...” Sailor agreed uneasily.
“Harder,” she ordered. “Until you feel the bone.”
When Tessa touched the inside of his upper arm, Sailor looked slightly distressed. “I... I know that!”
“For heaven’s sake... I don’t know how you managed to run around bellowing with a wound like that...” Was he stubborn, or just slow on the uptake? Tessa sighed as she tore up a nearby towel.
“How do you think?” Sailor replied stiffly. “I’m a Navy man, remember? I can’t cry over one little cut.”
“The Navy? Are you with the United States military?”
“That’s right. I’m on leave. In fact, I’m— gwah!” Sailor screamed as she pressed a vodka-soaked rag to the wound.
Tessa giggled. “I thought a true sea dog never cried.”
“Why, you little—”
So he was with the US Navy. Judging by his behavior, he had to be an NCO, perhaps around warrant officer level—an old man barking orders at sailors in an old-fashioned vessel, or in the base, managing shipments... something like that. Though, he didn’t seem quite tan enough for that...
Is he a desk jockey? Tessa wondered as she tore a towel into strips to serve as bandages.
“I can’t figure you out,” Sailor said suspiciously. “You’re more clear-headed than I’d expect from a maid.”
“Am I?” she wondered.
“Most people would be scared shitless by all this. But here you are, barely batting an eye... You remind me of one of my men,” Sailor told her.
“He must be a very fine man,” Tessa said, and Sailor scowled.
“Yeah, right. He’s awful.”
“Oh?”
“He argues with me about every little decision,” Sailor grumbled. “He doesn’t respect me as his superior. It’s unspeakable! He doesn’t pay me one mite of respect.”
“I see. Even without knowing all the details, I think I understand how you feel.” Tessa let out a deep sigh.
“Ohh, I see. You understand?”
“Yes,” Tessa admitted. “It’s awful when your underlings don’t respect you.”
“No kidding,” Sailor agreed forcefully. “It’s horrible, and Takenaka just doesn’t understand!”
It was just around the same time that the XO of the US Navy nuclear attack submarine Pasadena, Lieutenant Marcy Takenaka, was enjoying a pleasant chat with a beautiful woman across a dinner table. “You know,” he said, “this is a lot more laid-back than I would have expected from a seajacking.”
“Yes, I agree,” the woman nodded. She was dressed in a black evening gown and wearing fashionable glasses. “The terrorists have been so accommodating,” she went on. “‘Let us know if you get bored,’ and such. It’s such a relief... although I’m still going to file a massive complaint with the operations division when it’s all over.” That last sentence was muttered, barely audible. A vein in her forehead twitched slightly as she said it.
“Huh?”
“Oh, nothing. By the way, where is the man you were with earlier, Takenaka-san?”
“I couldn’t say,” Takenaka said, as he savored another bite of thick, juicy steak. “He’s probably in one of the phone corners, sorting out finances with the wife who ran off on him.”
“Oh, the poor thing.”
But Takenaka wagged his finger at the woman’s show of sympathy. “Oh, no, he completely deserves it. He’s a stubborn ass who never listens to anyone. I’m sure she was just at her wits’ end.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s hard enough working with the man. I can’t imagine being married to
