Tenderly, Delroy folded the old memories and put them away. He enjoyed them because they were all he had left of the son he’d loved so much, but he resented that they could intrude into his thoughts, into his life, without warning and sometimes without provocation.
Today, though, there had been plenty of provocation. He returned to the tall stool next to the stainless steel table where he had been composing the letter Dwight had charged him to write. It had almost been a joke between them last night as Dwight was prepped for surgery.
“Write to her, Chaplain Harte,” Dwight had said. “Write to my wife and my kids. Tell them how much I love them. If this thing goes sour, I want them to know that I was thinking of them. And that I’m sorry I couldn’t be there more.”
Delroy had tried to allay his friend’s fears. Serious military man that Dwight was, he had been torn between family and duty all his life. He had always said God would let him know when he’d had enough of the navy—or when the navy had had enough of him.
Someone rapped on the door to the small room.
“Come,” Delroy said. He set his face, automatically reaching for the tie in his pocket in case the length of time he’d spent with the dead man had attracted the captain’s attention. Captain Mark Falkirk was a by-the-book navy officer, but he was also a man who realized his crew and staff were human.
The door opened and a hesitant young man stuck in his head. “Chaplain Harte.”
“You know I don’t stand on formality when I’m not at post, Tom.” Delroy’s military rank was commander, but the proper verbal address for all military chaplains remained Chaplain.
“Yes, sir.” The young midshipman stepped into the room. Tom Mason was one of the aides Falkirk had assigned to coordinate between the chaplain and the staff. “It’s just that …” He looked at the sheet-covered corpse, then back at Delroy. “You’re working.”
Delroy shook his head. “I’m just doing a favor for an old friend. Come on in.”
The midshipman held up a cup. “I brought you coffee. Cream, two sugars. Shaken, not stirred.” It was an old joke, but he meant well.
“Bless you.” A real grin twisted Delroy’s face. He accepted the cup Tom handed him.
Tom stood between Delroy and the door, coming no closer to the corpse than he had to.
Delroy sipped his coffee, finding it sweet and hot. “You don’t have to be nervous, Tom. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you.”
Tom scratched at his shirt collar with more than a little nervousness. “I know that, Chaplain Harte.”
“You watch too many horror movies.” Delroy knew that several of the crew passed DVDs around the ship, sharing and trading with each other as they did with books and video games. Tom was a horror movie aficionado.
“Yes, sir,” Tom agreed. “I do.”
The men aboard Wasp had seen a lot of action in recent years, even if most of it had only been lying in wait off the coast. They were familiar with death, but most of them weren’t comfortable with it.
The matter wasn’t helped by the fact that Chief Petty Officer Dwight Mellencamp had been aboard ship for years and was a personable man. Over twenty-six hundred men and women crewed aboard Wasp since the ship had been retrofitted with fem mods, upgrades that allowed the quartering of the female Marines and sailors that amounted to 10 to 25 percent of the crew. But most of that crew had known Dwight, or known of him.
Delroy put the coffee cup down. “What brings you here?”
“Captain Falkirk.”
Delroy examined the paper in front of him. He’d chosen not to use the notebook computer he had back in his quarters. A message like this needed the personal touch. Dwight would have wanted a letter, not a fax or an e-mail, sent to his family.
“And what did the captain want?” Delroy asked. He thought Falkirk was going to suggest strongly that he stand down for a time.
“A eulogy,” Tom answered.
Delroy frowned, feeling overwhelmed.
“A lot of people knew Chief Mellencamp,” Tom explained. “Captain Falkirk feels that addressing the situation, what happened to the chief, with a small service would be better than letting the crew deal with it alone. As big as Wasp is, we’re like a community. The captain believes everybody aboard ship would feel better if we said a proper good-bye to the chief.”
Despite the additional pressure the situation put on him, Delroy had to agree with the captain’s assessment. The situation along the border between Turkey and Syria was gut-churning for Marine troops and navy crew, who lived with the fact that they might be called into immediate service at any time. Wasp, with nearly twenty-seven hundred souls aboard her, not counting the crews of the other six support ships in the ready group, held almost the same population as Marbury, Alabama. But the crew aboard Wasp lived on a world that measured 820 feet long and 106 feet wide, a very small island. Marbury was spread out considerably more, and folks still managed to keep up with each other’s business. When Delroy had been a boy there, all the funerals were standing room only, the pews packed with family and friends.
“All right,” Delroy said. “Does the captain have a time frame in mind?”
“Captain Falkirk said to leave it up to you. But he also said that something like this, it’s better to deal with it sooner than later.”
Delroy nodded.
“The captain said to take your time,” Tom went on. “He knows you and the chief were close.” The midshipman hesitated. “I suggested that the captain get someone else.”
“No.” The reply was out of Delroy’s mouth before he knew it, and the answer was also sharper than he’d intended. There’s no one else I would assign this to.
Tom took a step back.
“Easy,” Delroy
