Lee Crane rubbed his hands over the stiffness in his thighs. When that didn't ease the ache, he stood and stretched, his eyes wandering about the cavernous waiting room and high vaulted ceiling -- a relic of the age of steam and the might of the nation's passenger railroads. All that was left of those days were in these few buildings, saved from the developers wrecking ball.

It was Crane's first time in a railroad station and he tried to imagine what it had been like in the old days -- more benches probably and more people and most certainly more trains. Several trains a day to every destination and thousands of destinations no longer had even one passenger train stopping at deserted stations. Though more people would be difficult to imagine. Every seat was taken and there were people stretched out on the floor and leaning against walls. The worst snowstorm in Chicago's history had stranded cross country travelers and commuters alike. A goodly number of them had ended up in this waiting hall at Chicago's Union Station.

That he was here at all was Chip Morton's fault. Crane glanced at his sleeping companion, obviously unaffected by the crime Crane charged him with -- kidnapping one submarine commander and incarcerating him in a train station! They should have been in California yesterday and would have been if Morton had not decided to take the train. He didn't tell Crane until they arrived at Washington's Union Station. The overnight train from D.C. hadn't been that bad, but this Thursday storm had stranded them. Serves me right for letting him make the arrangements Lee chided himself. Next time I'll look at the tickets before I leave.

Crane sat back down as Morton shifted suddenly and his head ended up on Crane's shoulder. Lee pushed him away, refusing to provide a pillow for the perpetrator of the deed.

Morton moved again, this time muttering "Dive! All dive!" with more than a little hint of panic in his voice. Crane couldn't remember ever hearing that tone from his executive officer before. Must be some dream, Crane told himself before reaching over to shake Morton awake.

Chip shook his head to get rid of the sleep fog and asked, "The train ready?"

"No," Crane told him. "You keep diving the boat in your sleep and waking people up!"

Morton stretched in a vain effort to unkink muscles stiff from the enforced inaction. "Think I'll go for a walk," he said running his hands through his hair. He looked over at Crane. "Want some coffee?"

Crane shook his head. "But see if you can find out about the train, will you?" As Morton got up, he added darkly, "And next time we fly."

Morton, unfazed by Crane's tone, scratched a jaunty salute and with a cheerful "Aye, aye Skipper!" he headed toward the ramp leading down to the train shed where the lunch counter staff, unable to get home themselves, attempted to serve the gathering humanity.

Crane watched him go, idly shaking his head. It constantly amazed him that the world's most dignified executive officer could become so flippant. Chip on leave was the antithesis of Chip on duty. If the crew could only see him now. On second thought, Crane decided, perhaps Morton was right. This was supposed to be a relaxing trip home. It wasn't the exec's fault that blizzard-like condition was halting all transportation outside the walls of this fortress-like building. They had been lucky to get the last minute cancellations. No, Crane couldn't blame Morton for that, but there must be something else he could pin on him...like the travel arrangements!

Idly, he gazed at his fellow passengers. People-watching came in very handy in his profession and it never ceased to amaze him that there were so many variations in look, dress, and posture and each variation told it's own story, though the dominant message this night was one of frustration mixed with exhaustion.

Chip was back much sooner than Crane expected.

"Come on," the Exec said, grabbing his suitcase. "They've posted the train departure in 30 minutes. That means they'll board in ten minutes and the sooner we get to our cabin, uh, stateroom, the sooner we can get some real sleep."

"How about some real food?" Crane asked grabbing his own gear. "Will the diner be open?"

"How should I know?" Morton responded somewhat peevishly.

Crane smiled. It was nice to know that the wait had affected Morton's perpetually calm disposition, after all.

A half-hour later, Crane asked in a pleasantly sarcastic tone, "I thought you said we'd be leaving now?"

"Well that's what I was told."

Instead of their nice hard benches to sit on, they were now each perched on a suitcase in the middle of a mob of people -- all waiting for the departure of the Desert Wind to Los Angeles. As near as Crane could tell, the train hadn't even made it to the platform yet.

When the streamliner did arrive, the crowd surged forward as one, only to be held up by a conductor. The train would not be available for boarding for another twenty minutes. As one, the waiting passengers visibly deflated and settled back to wait -- again. When they finally boarded, Morton and Crane were just too tired to care about anything except the Pullman bunk that awaited each man. There wasn't even any dispute over who got the upper -- Chip hoisted himself up and let Crane take the lower bed. Within minutes, each was snoring peacefully.

iiiii

Two days later, Chip Morton braced himself against the rocking motion of the train as it sped through the early morning darkness. The small compartment was as black as the desert beyond the curtained window. He reached blindly toward the bunk where Lee Crane slept, oblivious to the clackety-clack of steel wheels on a steel track. Just as Chip touched the sleeping form the train lurched as the front wheels of the Pullman car passed through a junction. He fell across Lee, who woke with a start ...ready for battle.

With Lee's arms tight around him in a bear hug, Chip struggled as the air was slowly squeezed out of him. "Let go," he croaked, and when Lee grip didn't loosen immediately, he repeated the words, adding an undeleted expletive for good measure.

"Sorry," Lee muttered. "You know you shouldn't wake me like that." Lee flipped on the dim light over the Pullman bunk, then pulled aside the heavy curtain on the window. "Ugh!" he said in disgust. "It's still the middle of the night. Why the hell did you wake me?" he demanded.

"We have to get off in about 30 minutes and I thought you might want to get dressed." Chip pulled down the folding sink and ran some water on to a wash cloth. "'Course," he said from behind the cloth, "if you want to arrive with three days growth of beard, that's your business."

"Arrive where?" Lee pulled back the curtain again. "It's nowhere out there and we're not due in LA for hours yet."

"We're not going to LA. We're getting off at the next stop."

"Why?"

"Why aren't we going to LA or why are we getting off at the next stop?"

"Both."

"Well..." Chip started to reply then was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

"We'll be arriving in 30 minutes," a voice from the hallway said. "I'll be right back with your complementary coffee."

"The porter," Chip announced unnecessarily.

"I had figured that out for myself. Well?"

"Well..." Chip began.

Crane could read the hesitation in his friend's voice. "Well, what?" he almost shouted.

"You need a break and I figured that if we stopped off in Vegas, we could have a little fun before heading home."

Crane glared at his executive officer as he thought of the stack of work awaiting him in Santa Barbara. Then his mouth softened slightly as he thought about a couple days leave in Las Vegas -- do a little gambling, see a couple of shows, do a little skiing in the mountains, have a little fun.

His desk in Santa Barbara would still be there, the stacks would just be higher. Crane glanced surreptitiously toward Morton. It wouldn't hurt to pull a little rank and drag Morton into the clean-up process. After all, since Chip was the cause of the additional work that would be waiting, it was only right that he should share in the burden. That the stacks of work on Morton's own desk would also be growing geometrically, Crane refused to consider. Instead, he smiled happily and nodded agreement.

"I suppose I do need a rest and a couple days in the desert sounds great."

Now Morton was on guard. "You gave in too easily," he charged. "Just what are you up to?"

Crane was now all innocence. "I agree with your plans and now 'I'm up to something'. I've been the victim of your conniving and now I'm up to something? Make up your mind!"

"Now I'm sure you're up to something," Morton replied disgustingly, "and I'm not sure this is such a good idea anymore."

"Hoist on your own petard, Mr. Morton?" Crane wondered.

Chip gave that remark the credit it was due... he dismissed it with a toss of his head, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.

iiiii

It was still dark when the train eased its way into the Las Vegas station. The terminal was actually an addition to the Union Plaza Hotel, built on the site of the original Union Pacific station. The railroad's freight yards spread out at the rear of the hotel property. The small passenger station had been an afterthought to the hotel itself, since the stop at Las Vegas had an off-again, on-again history. The only way out of the station was through the hotel and the way was bordered by the inevitable row of slot machines, tempting the passengers with the clang of coins falling into brass buckets and the sirens and bells which accompanied any winning combination on the spinning wheels.

The two officers joined the general exodus from the station and into the hotel. Crane exacted a small portion of revenge when he refused to carry any luggage. "This was your idea and you can carry the bags," he grumbled, tiredly dragging his feet. "People on vacation aren't supposed to have to get up at 4:00 o'clock in the morning. You did get us hotel rooms, didn't you?"

Morton nodded.

Crane sensed reticence in his executive officer and turned his head. "You do have hotel reservations?" he repeated and again Morton nodded. "Where?" the captain asked.

"The Horseshoe," Morton replied.

Again, Crane sensed that there he wasn't getting the whole story. "And?" he prompted.

"And, it's an old hotel just down Fremont Street from here; caters more to the locals than to visitors."

"I know the Horseshoe!" Crane stated flatly, certain now that there was something Morton was hiding. "And?" he prompted.

"And nothing," the exec said slowly, "but . . ."

"I knew there had to be a 'but'," Crane muttered. "But what?"

"But the reservations aren't good until 2:00."

"PM?"

"PM."

"And just what are we going to do between now and 2:00 PM?"

"Shoot craps, play cards, eat!" Morton answered and lengthened his stride.

Crane shook his head and followed. He wanted food and a bed that didn't move and Chip wanted to play. Sometimes Crane wondered at the disparity of interests between them. Somehow, through discipline and hard work, they blended into a smooth functioning team despite the differences between them or, as Crane sometimes thought, because of them.

A surge of gamblers exiting the casino swallowed Chip up among their laughing group and Crane momentarily lost sight of his friend. Crane continued toward the exit. Chip would be waiting outside, he knew. Near the door, Crane felt a hand on his arm. He turned with a slight grin; "Thought I'd finally lost --". The tease ended as he saw the stranger who had grabbed his arm and was jerking him back toward down the concourse from the terminal.

"Hey!" Crane said, irritated, as he tried to pull his arm away.

The fingers gripped tighter as a voice hissed in his ear. "Just take it easy. The boss is waiting for you out back."

Crane glanced at his captor - a man in a neat blue business suit. But Crane did see the distinctive bulge that only a revolver could make under the expensive tailoring of the jacket.

With his free hand, the man patted the revolver lightly and once again urged Crane down the hallway. Crane complied. Though he didn't know why he was being kidnapped, Crane was not about to argue with someone who was so obviously a professional. What Crane didn't know was what the man's profession was.

iiiii

Chip Morton turned to comment on the crowds exiting the casino only to find that Crane was not readily visible. Again the surge of gamblers momentarily surrounded Chip. When the crowd cleared, Morton expected to see his friend but Crane was nowhere in sight. Chip began to retrace his steps along slot machine alley, the occasional clang of coins in the hopper now seeming more ominous than inviting. Chip shook himself mentally. This was, after all, something of a vacation trip and no one could possibly know who they were. He and Crane were simply separated. With no sign of Crane between the hotel entrance and the Amtrak station, Chip decided to head to the Horseshoe. He'd probably find Lee waiting impatiently for him, ready to tease Seaview's navigator for somehow getting lost.

Despite the early hour, Fremont Street was full of temptations to separate the tourist from his money. A variety of 'free' gifts were offered by scantily clad young ladies in an attempt to lure Chip into the casino that paid their salaries - free popcorn...free cocktails...free pictures ...even a free spin on a Big Six wheel. More enticing still were the sirens and the clang of coins announcing yet another lucky slots winner.

Chip didn't hurry, but he didn't dawdle either.

Inside the Horseshoe, it took Chip several minutes to find the hotel's miniscule front desk tucked away behind the casino's vast sea of craps tables.

No Lee Crane had checked in. No Lee Crane, or anyone else, had left a message for one Chip Morton. No one, in fact, had been at the front desk in the last 20 minutes.

Chip rapped his knuckles against the counter and turned to stare out over the crowded casino. Idly, his eyes scanned the room while his mind retraced his steps through the Union Plaza and down Freemont. Crane had given in to stopping in Vegas too easily and Chip was certain he was exacting a payback for the unexpected stopover. He turned back to the hotel clerk.

"I'll check in for myself and for Mr. Crane and leave a note for Mr. Crane."

The desk clerks nodded and slid the registration card across the counter. When that was complete, he gave Chip a pad of paper. Quickly, Morton scribbled that he'd gone to get some breakfast in the hotel coffee shop and that Lee would find him there, checking out the show room attractions for the evening. Chip scribbled his signature and handed the pen and pad back to the clerk. He watched as the clerk tore off the page and placed it in a cubbyhole on the rack behind him. That done, he checked the luggage at the bell desk and headed towards the stairs down to the coffee shop, certain that Lee would follow along quickly.

Thirty minutes later and still no Crane. Chip asked for another cup of coffee. Forty-five minutes and Chip began to worry for real. When an hour had passed, he hurried from the restaurant, leaving sufficient money on the table to cover the check.

He had lost Crane at the Union Plaza and Morton headed back there with the small fingers of dread beginning to clutch his heart.

iiiii

Meanwhile, silent escorts were accompanying Crane to an isolated parking lot. Ahead, the rear door of a black limo opened slightly and Crane felt a hand on his back push him in the direction of the open door. Smoked glass prevented Crane from seeing who was inside.

Bending down to enter the open door, he found himself face to face with Big Al Seraphim, the Angel of organized crime. Big Al stuck out a large, meaty hand. He grasped Lee's hand tightly, shaking it with enough enthusiasm to momentarily off-balance the leaner Crane.

"Welcome to Vegas," Big Al enthused. "Didn't think you'd make it what with the snow in Chicago, but the conductor called me from Denver, said you were on your way." He looked more closely at Crane, who had settled into the leather seat next to his host. "Said you had another guy with you. Thought you always worked alone." Big Al stared harder at Crane. "You teaching him the business?" he asked.

Lee, gratified at this excuse so nicely handed to him, nodded. "Gonna be good some day," he said. "But not just yet."

"What's his name? I'll have one of the boys get him and bring him."

Name, Crane thought. Something close to Chip's own -- close but not too close. "He'll be registered as C. Morton. Can't have him using his real name," Crane lied. And I can't let you find out just who Chip really is or I am, for that matter. And, he wondered, just who did the Angel think he was?

Big Al interrupted Crane's thoughts. "Hotel?"

"The Horseshoe," Lee replied. At least that part was easy.

"The Horseshoe?" Big Al sputtered. "Why didn't you pick one of our places?"

"Didn't want anyone to connect us," Crane replied. And he had thought that this was an easy question.

The driver put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot. Crane wondered where they were heading, but hesitated to ask. He had no idea how much information the person he was supposed to be had. It was clear that Big Al didn't know much about the expected visitor. Big Al, however, was in a talkative mood.

"We're going out to my place at the lake. Nobody'll see you there. Nice and private."

Great, Crane thought, quiet, secluded and nobody would know if Big Al decided to get rid of him. At least I'll have company with Chip arrives. I wonder what he'll think of this!

iiiii

At that very moment Chip was heading back to the Horseshoe, this time totally oblivious to the enticement of the various gambling establishments along Fremont Street. He arrived at the Horseshoe and went directly to the front desk to ask if Crane had checked in.

The moment he said Crane's name, a man moved away from a nearby craps table to sidle up next to Morton. "Mr. Crane wants you to join him at Big Al's," he whispered to Morton.

Chip turned to see a large man slightly shorter than himself. It was obvious that the man's bulk was the product of prodigious hours in a gym.

"Mr. Crane wants me?" Chip asked, wondering where Lee was and how he had met up with the man next to him.

Chip could have resisted. In the busy casino, with its ubiquitous security, he could have refused and there was little the man could do to force compliance. But unsure of the effect of such action upon Lee, Chip moved toward the exit, the man following him closely.

Once on Fremont Street, a black Lincoln Continental sedan pulled up to the curb. The man held open the front door and motioned for Chip to get in.

"Where are we going?" Chip asked as he slid into the passenger seat.

"I told you. Crane's at Big Al's."

And just where, Chip wondered, is Big Al's? And who is Big Al?

The driver took the expressway out of town. It was soon clear that they were heading for Lake Mead, a lake with a river running through it.

If not for Chip's worry about Lee's condition and what he, Chip, was doing in this car with this stranger, he might have enjoyed the ride through the desert mountains. As it was, the car seemed to creep along the highway though the speedometer told him otherwise.

A high brick fence surrounded Big Al's place. Shrubbery, thick with thorns, grew on both sides dissuading would-be trespassers from climbing the fence. The tall gate was closed and, Chip suspected, electrified. The driver pulled up the gate and opened his side window. He punched a series of numbers into a keypad mounted on a pole and the gate slid open before them. Chip tried, but couldn't read the numbers the driver had punched.

The driveway curved up to a low, western style house. There were no windows visible on this side of the house and only one door.

"OK, Mr. Morton," the driver said as he pulled up in front of the door. "Just knock and somebody will let you in."

"Just knock," Chip repeated doubtfully.

"Yeah! Knock. Just like I said. Got a problem with that?" The driver was playing tough guy. At least Chip hoped he was playing.

With great reluctance, Chip exited the car and approached the door. If it hadn't been for the hope that he would find Lee inside, and the fact that the driver had a gun, he might have run for it.

Chip knocked.

The door opened.

A man in a dark suit with a yellow shirt and black tie invited him inside.

This is a nightmare, Chip thought, and I'm going to wake up in my cabin on Seaview.

A dark hallway stretched the width of the house. The far end opened into a large room with a wall of windows overlooking the lake.

Crane was seated by the window sipping a drink and looking for all the world as if he was quite at home.

"Hi!" Crane greeted his exec. "Help yourself to a drink." He nodded his head toward the bar at the side of the room.

"I think I need one," Morton replied.

Chip walked over to the bar, poured a very little bit of bourbon and a very large amount of water and ice into a glass and went to join Crane at the window.

"Sit." Crane commanded.

Chip sat and whispered, "What's going on?"

"Quite a view, isn't it Charlie? We gotta talk the boss into getting a place out here."

"Sure, the boss," Chip said, glaring at Crane while trying to follow his lead, wherever it was going.

"Harry will love it," Crane said expansively.

"Harry. Sure."

Lee Crane gave silent thanks that Chip Morton was so quick on the up-take. They needed all their wits about them if they were to leave this building alive - or so he thought. Before Lee could say more, Big Al came into the room. He gestured toward Chip. "This the new guy?" At Crane's nod, Al asked, "Any good?"

"Might be some day," Crane acknowledged. He looked speculatively in Morton's direction. "Now, he's just so-so."

Chip raised his eyebrows at the insult. "So-so?" he questioned. "Just so-so?"

"Yeah," Crane replied. "So-so."

Crane's look was enough to quell the retort on Morton's lips. Instead, Chip grinned ruefully toward Big Al and acknowledged, "Just so-so, but I'm learning."

"The first thing you gotta learn is to shut up," Big Al barked. "How do you put up with Mouthy, here?" he asked Crane.

"When he gets out of line, I just knock him around a bit." He glared at Morton. "Don't I, Mouthy?"

Crane was rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of Chip's patented 'I'll get you for that, Captain, Sir,' look, before he dutifully lowered his eyes and nodded agreement.

Big Al helped himself to a drink and came over to sit opposite Crane. "When's The Hatchet due?"

Crane didn't have a clue who or what 'The Hatchet' was and quickly decided upon evasion as the only course open to him. "I have to check things out first," he declared, "then I send word to Harry and he decides."

Big Al took a big sip of his scotch on the rocks. "Harry The Hatchet," he mused. "Ever hear how he got that moniker?"

"Yeah," Crane replied

Ignoring Crane's answer, Big Al recounted a bloody tale of severed digits and limbs attributed to Harry The Hatchet.

Crane gulped the last of his drink. Maybe he should have had a Bloody Mary in keeping with Big Al's story. "That's Harry for ya," Crane said with an enthusiastic nod of his head. "I'm proud to work for him."

"And ya should be," Big Al agreed, gesturing toward the phone on the bar. "Now, why don't you call him and tell him it's everything's OK out here?"

Reluctantly, Crane got up and went over the bar, setting his empty glass on the highly polished surface. Using his body as a shield in case Big Al or one of his boys might see the area code and know that he wasn't dialing Chicago, Lee punched in the number to Nelson's office. "Angie? Hi, beautiful! Let me talk to Harry."

Crane could hear the surprise in Angie's voice. "Lee? Is that you?"

"Yeah, baby, it's me. Put Harry, will ya."

Crane waited and waited and waited. When the Admiral finally picked up the extension, it was obvious that Angie had cast some doubt on Lee's sanity.

"Lee?" the Admiral said patiently, as if to a child, "Are you all right?"

"Sure, boss," was Crane's breezy answer, "me and Mouthy are here in Vegas at Big Al's. He's all set to deal. Wants to know when you're going to hit town. Have they opened O'Hare yet?"

Despite Crane's attempt to give the most information possible in the most innocent of statements, the Admiral was stuck on the first sentence. "Is Mouthy Commander Morton?" he asked hesitantly.

"Right you are, Boss, compliments of Big Al."

"Has he renamed anyone else?"

"Well, he told us how you got your name, Harry the Hatchet. Big Al said you used to cut off the fingers and other . . . uh . . . appendages of guys that got in your way."

"Big Al said that? I'll have to set him straight." the Admiral answered. "I take it you're somehow mixed up with mob people. Do they know who you are?"

"Negative, Boss. We're staying at the Horseshoe, downtown."

"I'll call you at your hotel and let you know when I'm arriving. Meet me at the airport."

"OK Boss. We'll meet you at the airport as soon as you say when. Anything else?"

"No, I think that's quite enough, Captain."

"Bye, Boss."

Crane hung up the phone and turned to Big Al. "Harry's coming. Said he'd call the hotel and let us know when he was arriving."

"Why didn't you have him call ya here?" Big Al asked. From the frown on his face, it was obvious he didn't like the arrangements.

"I don't tell Harry anything," Crane replied. "He tells me."

Big Al was not happy, but there was little he could say to that. "Well, I want to meet him, too. Soon as you know, you call us. We'll pick ya up and take ya to the airport." Big Al looked over at Morton. "Mouthy's gonna stay here. It's not like I don't trust ya. It's just that I feel better with Mouthy around. You play pool, Mouthy?"

Chip stammered a yes, exchanging a quick, almost desperate look with Crane. Crane nodded slightly and in his best 'captain of the boat' voice said, "He comes with me."

Big Al was surprised, then angry. Nobody talked to him in that tone of voice. Nobody. Crane could almost see the wheels turning in Big Al's mind. He obviously didn't want to do anything that would spoil the deal with Harry and Crane's sudden change of manner sharpened Big Al's focus on Seaview's captain.

"You aren't just Harry's advance man, are you?" Big Al guessed.

Crane smiled. "No." That was all he said, but it was enough convince Big Al that he'd better go let both men return to town.

"OK. You both go back to the hotel. But my guys are gonna watch you, understand? Sort of provide security for the visiting dignitaries."

"Of course. We'd do the same thing for you if you came to us." Crane nodded at Morton. "Come on, Mouthy," he said and led the way out of the room and out of the house.

The same driver was waiting at the limo. He opened the door for the two Seaview officers, who settled into the soft luxury of the seats. The driver closed the door, and he and a second man got into the front seat. Slowly, the car followed the circular driveway at the back of the house. Silently the gates opened as the car approached. Once outside the driver headed the car back to Las Vegas, to the relief of the passengers in the back seat. There was always the possibility that Big Al might have given orders to drop them off somewhere in the desert when their bodies would never be found. Big Al obviously had a great deal of respect for Harry the Hatchet. Idly, Crane wondered if Big Al's respect would be at the same level after the meeting.

Crane glanced over at Morton, whose eyes were flicking back and forth, memorizing the route to Big Al's. Just in case, Crane decided, we need to come back without benefit of chauffeur.

The driver stopped the limo at a side door to the Horseshoe. Crane and Morton exited quickly, in case the driver decided to change the orders.

As soon as they arrived at their room, Crane checked for a message from the Admiral, and when there wasn't one, wasted no time hopping into the shower.

As he walked out of the bathroom rubbing his hair dry with a towel, the phone was ringing. Chip answered it, handing the receiver over to Crane while mouthing "Big Al".

"Crane here."

"It's Al. Hear anything from Harry?"

"Not yet," Crane told, dropping the towel on the bed. "My guess is that he'll get here sometime tomorrow."

"What're you gonna do tonight?" Big Al asked. "Can I fix you up with a couple of girls? Tickets? Anything you want - I can comp."

"We haven't decided," Crane told him. "Just getting the grime of the train washed away. But if we need anything, we'll let know you."

"Just tell my boys. They'll be waiting for you in the lobby."

Inwardly Crane groaned. Just what they needed - babysitters. To Big Al, he said. "Thanks. I'll be sure to let them know our plans."

"You do that," Big Al said smoothly, but the steel was undisguised beneath the smooth words. Crane heard the message. Ditch my boys and you'll find yourself in a ditch somewhere.

"Do I make myself clear?" Big Al asked.

"Absolutely." Crane bristled at Big Al's tone but there was little he could do at the moment. "In fact, we'll take them to dinner. I understand the steaks here are pretty good."

As soon as he hung up the phone, Chip was complaining about the dinner invitation. "I don't want to eat with those guys. For all we know, they kill people for a living!"

"So do we," Crane reminded him.

That brought Chip up short, but then he grinned. "But our victims shoot first!"

"And that makes it OK?" Crane asked, grinning himself.

"It does in my book. Hey, you want to see a show tonight? I'll check and find out who's in town."

"As long as it doesn't interfere with my steak dinner," Crane yelled after his departing Executive Officer.

Chip was back in 20 minutes, waving two pasteboards. "You'll never guess! Sinatra's out on the strip at the Siesta along with Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr."

"How did you get the tickets?" Crane asked. "Everybody in town must want them."

"From our bodyguards," was Morton's smug reply.

"I thought you were avoiding them because they killed people."

"Well, Skipper, I decided to make use of them. They were happy to oblige. Makes their job easier - they know exactly where we'll be and it makes our visit more fun."

"I don't know," Lee began, unsure if accepting tickets from Big Al's boys could be construed as accepting a bribe. "Are you sure about the legality of this?"

"What's illegal about it? We don't know for sure who these guys are, we only think we do. It's only a bribe if they think they'll get something for the tickets and we're willing to give that something. They sure as hell don't know who we are and I'd like to keep it that way."

"It sounds okay," Lee said slowly, "but I doubt a court would look on it the same way. Did you by any chance offer to pay for the tickets?"

"I did, but they turned it down. Seems Big Al is involved in the . . . uh . . . management of the Siesta."

"Great," Lee said with disgust. "Now we're on a mob payroll."

"Look, Lee, I'll take them back. Say we've changed our mind if you feel that strongly about it."

Lee thought about it, then relented. "Okay, I don't see where it's going to do any harm and it might do some good. This is what they'd expect us to do - dinner and a show - on their boss."

"Great! I always wanted to see Sinatra!"

The steaks and the show lived up to the advance publicity. The legendary entertainers cavorted about the stage, interrupting each other and generally making a mess of each other's solo numbers. Crane and Morton enjoyed themselves immensely, as did their bodyguards who were seated at the next table.

Big Al's boys asked the Seaview officers if they wanted to go backstage and meet the stars. Crane declined on behalf of both of them while Morton made choking sounds as he thought of what might have been.

"Why," Chip demanded quietly as they left the showroom, "did you turn down the backstage tour? We could have met Sinatra!"

"And have our pictures taken with Big Al's boys and the Rat Pack. The Adm . . . uh . . . the boss would have loved that."

"I thought it would look nice on the wall of my cabin," Chip said as he turned in the direction of the 21 tables. "Let's play a little blackjack before heading back. I feel lucky."

They played for an hour, both winning a little, then headed back downtown to the Horseshoe. In their absence, 'Harry the Hatchet' had called and left a message with his time of arrival at McCarron.

Lee turned and waved to the bodyguards standing a discreet distance away. The taller one came over and Lee gave him the details of the Admiral's arrival.

"We'll meet him," Lee said, "and take him out to Big Al's. Pass that on, will you."

Big Al's Boy shook his head, and in a tone of voice that brooked no argument, declared, "Big Al will want to meet him personally. He'll pick you up and drive you the airport." He looked from Lee to Chip and back again. "Since the plane gets in at 10:30, he'll pick you up at 9:00. Big Al doesn't like to be late. Good night, gentlemen."

Silently, the two officers watched the bodyguard as he walked back to his colleague, then Crane let the way to the elevators. Once inside the small elevator car, Crane spoke softly. "I'll have to warn the Admiral. When we get upstairs, you go to the room and stay there. Make noise. Talk to me. That sort of thing. I'll slip down the stairs and find a pay phone." The elevator stopped at their floor.

"Be careful, Lee. These guys play rough."

"Like I was sneaking into mother Russia to rob the KGB," the captain promised as he slipped into the corridor and silently closed the door behind him.

ONI training made this midnight excursion relatively simple. Crane entered the stairway and climbed up four floors. Their watchers might have been suspicious of an elevator stopping one, two, even three floors above the Seaview officer's floor, but four floors was more than most people were willing to climb.

Crane calmly took the elevator down to the second floor and walked down the remaining flight. He opened the stairwell door a fraction, peering cautiously into the casino. He was several hundred feet from the elevators with banks of slot machines between his position and Big Al's boys. Satisfied that no one was paying him the slightest attention, Crane slipped out a back entrance, walked down the street to the Mint Hotel and made his phone call.

The return to the hotel room was accomplished just as easily.

"Well?" Chip asked as Crane entered. "Did you get through to the Admiral?"

Crane walked over to one of the beds and threw himself on it. "The Admiral will be here tomorrow morning as promised. He wouldn't tell me his plans, but I think he's bringing half the crew with him."

"That will put the odds nicely in our favor," Chip grinned. "We may get out of town after all."

"I just wish I knew what the Admiral was planning," Lee mused. "I like to know what's going on."

"You will soon enough," Chip assured him.

Lee grunted. He fervently wished that Nelson had told him what to expect. Seaview's captain didn't like surprises.

iiiii

It was, Crane said later, the quintessential Kodak moment.

McCarron International Airport was bustling with passengers arriving for a vacation at the tables courting the elusive lady known as Luck. Big Al, his boys, and the Seaview officers made their way to through the terminal to the gate for private planes.

A Lear Jet taxied up and a ramp pushed into place just as the group arrived.

The door was opened from the inside of the plane and a smiling stewardess stepped onto the top of the ramp and moved to one side.

Exiting behind her was a short, stocky man dressed in a cream colored suit with a yellow shirt and a black tie. He looked surreptitiously from side to side before descending the stairs. At the bottom, he looked toward the terminal, removing his sunglasses to reveal the craggy features of Chief Petty Officer Francis Sharkey.

At the bottom, the Chief moved to the right side of the stairs, constantly looking from side to side as befit a bodyguard. He right hand rested in his jacket pocket where the outline of a gun was visible through the jacket cloth. It was easy to believe that the chief never left the Brooklyn neighborhood in which he grew up.

Next to descend was Seaman Kowalski, similarly attired with right hand in his pocket. Kowalski stood to the left to the stairs.

A bemused Crane looked up at the empty doorway of the plane wondering what would happen next. What happened next was Admiral Harriman Nelson, alias Harry the Hatchet's, arrival.

The admiral emerged from the interior of the aircraft to stand at the top of the stairs for a moment, looking over the group assembled below while the group looked up at him.

Lee heard Chip's swift intact of breath and resisted the impulse to look at his Exec. That could be fatal for all of them since Lee was not certain he could keep a straight face in light of the apparition at the top of the stairway.

Slowly, the admiral descended the stairs, looking neither to the right nor the left. Instinctively, Crane moved to meet him with Morton a step behind.

As he approached Crane, Nelson held out both arms to his captain, pulling him into a bear hug and slapping Crane's back vigorously.

"Ah, Lee, have you once again carved a road for me?" Harry the Hatchet asked his younger associate.

"Yeah, Boss," Lee said stepping away. "Big Al's here and he's ready to deal." Crane gestured toward to the terminal door where Al and his boys stood.

"Excellent." Nelson walked directly toward Big Al. It wasn't difficult to pick out the leader among the troops. Again, Harry opened his arms to embrace Big Al. There was much mutual back slapping and professions of pleasure in the greeting.

Almost unnoticed, Riley and Patterson had followed the Admiral off the plane and now the Seaview crew members stood behind their 'Boss' just as Big Al's men were arranged behind them. Though the greeting between Harry and Al seemed cordial enough, the underlings all eyed each other with distrust.

Big Al gestured toward his limousine. Harry, motioning Lee to follow, joined Big Al in the back seat. Lee sat up front with the driver. The others had to sort themselves out. Lee saw Chip gesture to Chief Sharkey just as the limo was turning a corner. Crane could only hope that their destination was the hotel and not some other place of Big Al's choosing.

"We'll go to my place," Big Al said, his words echoing Crane's thoughts.

As Big Al leaned forward to give instructions to the driver, Harry put out a hand to stop him. "I would not want to insult you by coming to your home clothed in the dust of travel," the admiral said smoothly. "No, I must change first. Take me to the hotel."

"But I insist," Big Al said, but Harry waved him off.

"I would not insult you, not if we are to deal with each other." Harry looked at his watch. "It is now almost the noon hour. Suppose you come to my hotel and we will have dinner. Then, we'll go to your place to do business."

It was obvious Big Al didn't like the arrangements, but there was little he could do if he wanted to deal with Harry the Hatchet. With a nod of his head to Harry, he leaned forward yet again and told the driver, "The Horseshoe."

The car sped away and Big Al was slammed into the seat by the sudden acceleration.

Harry was in an expansive mood. "Where should we go for dinner?" he asked, as they followed the curving road out of the airport. "You pick the best restaurant and I'll do the rest."

"The Italian House," Big Al declared enthusiastically. "If they won't give you a reservation, you tell them that Big Al's in the party and you'll get the best table in the place."

Thirty minutes and at least four speeding violations later, the parade of vehicles pulled up in front of Binyon's Horseshoe in downtown Las Vegas.

"I told your boys they shoulda stayed at one of our hotels," Big Al complained, "but they said they didn't want to give away the game."

Harry tapped him on the shoulder. "They're young yet. They'll learn. But someday, just you watch, you and me'll be working for them." He laughed heartily at his own statement.

Big Al reluctantly joined in though it was obvious he didn't find much humor in Nelson's words. "I'll meet you down here at 7:00," Big Al said. "Make the reservation for 7:30. Best food in town," he assured Harry as the Admiral and Lee climbed out of the limo.

"We have a suite, I believe," Harry said as they went inside.

Lee shook his head. "There are no suites at Binyon's - it's a small place - except for the casino."

This statement was met with a cold stare from Nelson. "Well, the best room, then."

"The best available," Lee responded reluctantly. There was no 'best' at Binyon's - clean, comfortable, but not best. People came to Binyon's to play, not to sit around enjoying the luxury of their surroundings.

Lee led the way into through the casino to the registration desk while Nelson took in the old-time western decorations with tiffany-style chandeliers and walls paneled with dark wood.

The ceilings sported the requisite bubble-shaped 'eye-in-the-sky's' where security watched every hand of every game to guard against cheating by the patrons.

'The Hatchet' registered under an alias using the name Harry Nelson. It solved the problem of knowing what the last name was supposed to be.

Lee led the way to the small elevator bank, wishing that Chip had made reservations at a more luxurious hotel. Binyon's seemed hardly the Admiral's style.

iiiii

Chip, with everybody's bodyguards in tow, arrived ten minutes later. Kowalski got lost on the way in from the airport and they drove around a bit before finding the Binyon's parking lot. Morton led the way into the casino and the Chief found his very own Valhalla.

If a casino could be said to specialize in one game, for Binyon's that game was craps. Other casinos had three or four crap tables at most, while Binyon's boasted that 3/4 of the casino was filled with crap tables. At night, dedicated craps shooters crowded around each of them, placing complicated bets on the ever-fickle role of the dice.

Sharkey's eyes lit up at the sight of all the craps tables lined up just waiting for him to display his skill. He had played craps on the streets of Brooklyn and the ships of the United States Navy, but somehow had never made the trek across the Mojave to this gambling oasis.

"Fingers itching, Chief?" Morton asked with a grin as he noted the intense interest on Sharkey's face.

"Yeah!" was the only response, though the Chief's fingers seemed to twitch as he watched a shooter throw the dice down the table. "Think the admiral will let us stay a couple of days?"

"That was my original idea," Morton conceded. "A few days of fun, but it turned out ... differently." His voice lowered. "Our body guards are over there at the craps tables - the two guys in western shirts and jeans. They also eavesdrop." With that, Morton went over the craps table and thanked the mob guys for the show tickets. "We really enjoyed it. Never saw Sinatra before and it was a real treat. Thanks."

The guards didn't know what to say. The guards didn't know what to say. The two guys they were following didn't act like they minded it at all. Chip smiled at them, furthering the notion that the shadows were thought of more as companions than as a menacing presence.

Chip went back to the waiting Seaview group. "Sharkey," he said slowly. "Why don't you and Kowalski spend some time at the craps table...maybe even get our friends over there to play along. Take their minds off of what's going on upstairs."

The two men didn't wait for Morton to change his mind. With a mumbled "Aye, sir," Sharkey headed over to the nearest table, Kowalski eagerly following.

Well, Chip thought as he headed toward the elevators, at least some of us are going to have some fun.

Morton finally tracked down Crane and Nelson in the Admiral's room.

"Good, you're here," Nelson said when he opened the door. "I was just briefing Lee." As soon as Chip was inside and the door was closed, he continued. "I've alerted the FBI's gang unit. They're very interested, but as long as no laws are violated, there's not much they can do. Same with the state's gambling control division. Unless we can prove hidden ownership of a casino in violation of the state's gambling laws, they, too are interested but can't do more than observe."

"Then the best we can accomplish is getting out of town with our lives," Lee commented bleakly. "With our resident 'bodyguards' that's not going to be easy."

"Don't be too sure," Nelson said with the hint of a smile. "Did you ever want to own a casino?"

"No," Lee said with a gleam in his eye, "I didn't, but I'm not so sure about Chip." He glanced at his executive officer in time to see a look of dismay flicker briefly in the blue eyes.

"I think Sharkey's more your man, Admiral," Morton suggested. "He's downstairs checking out the action and focusing the guards attention on him rather than us."

"A casino?" Crane said, still bemused by Nelson's statement and not quite believing he had heard what he heard.

"The Nelson Institute Foundation invests in a variety of businesses... why not a casino?"

"I like the idea," Chip chimed in, "sort of a vacation resort for the crew! You pay them. They come here and gamble it away and you get it back again - sort of recycling the money. I like it!"

"Mr. Morton!" the Captain grumbled, regretting that Nelson ever suggested owning a casino in the first place.

"I rather like the idea of recycling the money," Nelson mused.

"You're not seriously considering buying the casino!" Crane sputtered.

Nelson grinned.

"Buying a casino is not going to get these guys arrested," Lee pointed out.

"So far there is no reason to arrest them," Nelson reminded his captain.

"How about they kidnapped me?"

"Obviously, mistaken identity. Both of you went along with it," Nelson reminded them.

"Only so Lee could get away," Chip protested.

"Were you threatened?" Nelson asked.

"Not directly," Crane admitted. "Once I knew who I was dealing with, I felt threatened, however."

"Feeling threatened is not enough," the Admiral said.

"Then what do we do? Pack our bags and head for Santa Barbara?" Crane asked.

"Hardly," Nelson told Crane. "We're going to help the authorities with their investigation and then we head for Santa Barbara."

"With or without a casino?" Morton asked, the idea still tumbling about in his head.

Nelson ignored the interruption. "We do it in such a way that Big Al is content to leave us alone."

"But he'll know we're not ... we're not ... we're not what he is," Crane protested.

"We'll give him a demonstration of just what he's up against."

It was obvious from the thunder on Crane's face just what he thought of such a plan. "You think my ONI missions are dangerous? This is positively deadly. One false move and the Institute will need a new director and Seaview will need a captain and a new executive officer, not to mention several other crew members."

"Now, Lee," Nelson soothed, "We'll just pretend it was a case of mistaken identity if Big Al finds out the truth."

"It is a case of mistaken identity," Crane thundered as he took a turn around the hotel room. "They mistook me!"

"And I'll tell them that I came out to get you out of their clutches," Nelson continued as if Crane had remained silent.

"This is the mob, Admiral...the Mafia...la Costa Nostra" Crane almost shouted. "They don't understand mistaken identity. They kill people who get in their way and we are in their way!"

"I'll make them an offer they can't refuse," Nelson quoted smugly.

"Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?" Crane persisted.

"No, Lee, nothing. It will work out, you'll see."

Crane threw up his hands in frustration. "As soon as we get back to Santa Barbara, I am putting to sea and I intend to stay there until Big Al gets tired of hunting us and cancels the contract he's certain to put on our heads!"

Nelson laughed out loud, while Chip permitted himself a brief grin. Morton well understood Crane's reluctance to provide himself as a target for Big Al's gunmen.

"Big Al's legit, now," the executive officer reminded his captain. "He told us so, himself."

"And," Nelson joined in, "the FBI confirms that statement. Big Al appears to be going straight. He's selling the casino because of his previous contacts within criminal organizations."

"But they thought I was a bag man!" Crane protested. "That's why they picked me up as soon as I got off the train!"

"No, they thought you were a representative of Harry the Hatchet and now you are," Nelson soothed. "Lee, we have to be practical about this."

"Practical!" Crane snorted. "Nothing about this is practical." He turned on Morton, advancing rather belligerently. "This is all your fault," he charged. "If you hadn't shanghaied me on that train this would never have happened!"

"Now, Lee," Morton cautioned, backing up until he reached the door. "I couldn't possibly have known this was going to happen."

"That is the only reason I haven't thrown you in irons!" Crane thundered.

"Gentlemen!" Nelson snapped, commanding the attention of the younger officers, "we have work to do!"

A duet of "Aye, Sir's" brought the conversation back to the matter at hand - how to pull the wool over Big Al's eyes while safely getting out of town.

iiiii

The restaurant lived up to the advance billing. The veal Parmesan almost melted in Crane's mouth, while Chip was having no trouble devouring the linguini. Chianti flowed a little more than Crane would have liked, but he counted on the crusty Italian bread to soak up the wine. He felt content, almost expansive, as the cannoli was served. He could only hope that Big Al felt the same.

"Dinner," Big Al had decreed, "is no place to talk business. We'll do that back at my place."

The Admiral slowly sipped his after dinner drink, rolling the liquor around in his mouth before swallowing. "I think," he said slowly as if saying his thoughts out loud, "that I'd like to see the casino before we go to your place to talk about details." He smiled over at Big Al.

"Sure, sure, Harry," Big Al said. "We'll stop on the way. It's a small place, but right on the strip."

The strip lived up to its reputation for neon, excitement, and scantily clad chorus lines. The South Seas Hotel and Casino was small by strip standards but its position as a corner property in the middle of the strip made up for it's lack of size. Its larger neighbor had made several attempts to buy the South Seas in order to tear it down and expand their own operations, but Big Al had a fondness for the South Seas or so big Al said, but they wanted to tear down the existing structure to expand. Big Al had other ideas for the South Seas.

"Spent time there in the navy during the war. Good years. Good friends. Some of them didn't come back. Coulda stayed home, but I wanted to fight. Thought I'd get to Europe. Ended up with sand and palm trees. Never went back. Tried to recreate it here."

At the word 'navy', the Seaview men perked up.

"I was in the navy during the war," the admiral stated, "on submarines."

"No kidding?" Big Al said. "I was on subs, too. Which boat?"

Crane and Morton exchanged surprised looks as the Admiral and Big Al shared war stories. Morton mouthed "I don't believe this" to Crane as they followed the two older men through the casino and into the office area. As the din of the casino ebbed with the closing of the access door, Big Al was saying, "I always wondered what woulda happened if I'd stayed in the Navy."

The surprise of the two Seaview officers only increased as they heard the Admiral offer Big Al a ride on Seaview! He didn't mention the boat by name, but implied that he knew some people who might be able to do him a favor and grant a ride to Big Al.

It was now Crane's turn to mouth at Morton. "Not on my boat!"

iiiii

Pinpoints of brightness punctuated the blackness over the Lake Mead as Harry and Big Al walked along the water's edge.

"Quite a spot, ain't it," Big Al was saying as they paused to looked out over the lake.

"Feel safe here?" Nelson asked casually.

"Yeah! Why shouldn't I? Got the best security system money can buy and my boys are good at what they do. Nobody's gonna touch Big Al."

"Oh?" Nelson asked as a light, far out in the lake, blinked twice, then remained steady. "Impregnable?"

"Yeah," Big Al agreed. "Impregnable."

"You know, Al, things aren't always as they seem. That light out there," Nelson said as he pointed to the steady light mid lake. "What do you suppose that is?

Big Al shrugged in the darkness. "Some boat, anchored for the night. How should I know."

Nelson reached into his pocket to pull out a radio. He smiled in the darkness as Big Al backed away. Nelson held up the transceiver. "I'm just going to call that boat out there." He pulled up the antenna on the small device. "Jackpot to FS1. Come in."

The response was immediate. "FS1 to Jackpot," Patterson responded.

"FS1 . . . blink twice," Nelson ordered.

Mid-lake the blinker signaled.

"That's my submarine out there," Nelson told Big Al. "Anytime I want, she can blow your house to smithereens."

"What you wanna do that for?" Big Al protested. "I never done . . ." He stopped abruptly, Nelson's words finally sinking in. "Nobody has their own submarine," he protested.

"I do," Nelson replied flatly. "In fact, I have several. That's one of the smaller ones."

"Yeah, well I don't believe you," Big Al said and turned to head back to the house.

"I thought you'd want a demonstration. Have one of your men take a dinghy out to my sub," Nelson ordered.

"And then?" Big Al demanded.

"Then my men will arrange a little demonstration with your man as witness. Don't worry, all you're going to lose is your dinghy."

Big Al stared hard at Nelson, then reluctantly waved Marty over. "Take the motor boat out to that light in the lake. You'll be met. And I want that boat back here! Bring it back or don't come yourself. Understood?"

Marty nodded and ran toward the boathouse as Nelson said, "Are you certain you want to lose a motor boat? I assure you, it's not coming back."

"So you say," Big Al growled.

An engine roared to life as Marty gunned the motor. The pitch settled back into a dull roar as he backed the boat out of the boathouse, and once clear, turned sharply lakeward and sped out to where the FS1 beacon pricked the night.

For a moment nothing happened. Then a soft boom echoed across the water and the night sky flashed white, momentarily blotting out the visible stars. The glow of a fire where the motor boat once floated confirmed the craft's demise.

Big Al angrily turned on Nelson. "You blew it up!" he charged. "Why?"

"A small demonstration," Nelson said calmly despite Big Al's aggressive stance mere inches from the Admiral. "I did warn you, you know. Marty should have taken the dinghy."

"You . . . you . . ."

Big Al's sputtering was interrupted as the water beside the board began to froth and foam. Both men turned to see the flying sub rise to the surface, several feet off the seawall. The back hatch opened as she slowly maneuvered her way to the dock where Patterson made her fast.

Big Al was not a man easily surprised. His profession was such that utmost care was used so that all contingencies were known and planned for. This, however, was a situation he could not possibly have foreseen. For once in his life, Big Al was silent.

As the two men watched from shore, Marty emerged from the yellow craft and couldn't climb on to the dock fast enough.

"Boss!" he yelled as he ran down the dock toward Big Al. "They got this thing ... this ray! They destroyed the boat with it. Then they went underwater! I saw it, Boss. It's for real!"

Big Al's confusion was easy to read even in the darkness. "You're sure it was some kind of a ray? They didn't put explosives on the boat and then blow it up?"

"No, boss, they never touched the boat. All they did was pull me on board that . . . that . . . boat of theirs. They didn't do nothing to your boat but aim the ray at it and shoot. These guys got weapons I've never seen before."

"Convinced?" Nelson asked quietly.

"What do you want?" Big Al spit out.

"Just to talk and perhaps reach an agreement," the Admiral replied simply. "Perhaps we should go inside?"

"Talk, huh?" Big Al scoffed. "After a demonstration like that you want more than just talk!"

Before Big Al could lead the way to the house, the Admiral went over to the dock and gave orders to Patterson, then followed Big Al into the house. Nelson joined Crane and Morton in Big Al's recreation room overlooking the lake. Big Al was playing host with little congeniality.

"Scotch neat," the Admiral replied as Big Al gestured to the well stocked bar in the corner.

Big Al busied himself with the drinks . . . water for Crane and Morton who were both suffering from desert dryness, scotch for the Admiral and the host.

When they were all seated comfortably, Nelson began. "First of all, my name is Harriman Nelson and I run a marine research institute." Big Al sputtered something about the ray gun and Nelson held up his hand. "All in good time," he said and took a sip of the drink. "The Institute owns and operates a nuclear submarine, the SSRN Seaview. Lee Crane here is her captain. Chip Morton is her executive officer. For some reason, you mistook them as couriers from your associates in Chicago. Since they could not deliver what you were expected and being very resourceful young men, they stalled for time and got in touch with me. I came from our homeport with members of Seaview's crew and with the flying sub, which is currently submerged in Lake Mead. Believe me when I tell you that the power of the laser weapon on the flying sub is minimal compared to the one on Seaview." Nelson set his drink on a small table next to his chair. He learned forward to emphasize his words. "You've said that you're out of the family business ... that you've paid your debts to society and that one of those conditions was that you divest yourself of your gambling interests. My only concern is the safety of Captain Crane and Commander Morton. I think it's highly possible that we can come to an arrangement. I'm still interested in the casino and I think you will agree that it's in your best interests that all of us agree to forget how and why we met." Nelson sat back. "Shall we continue our discussion?"

iiiii

Three months later, Lee Crane entered the control of the SSRN Seaview, joining his Executive Officer at the plot table. He picked up the clipboard that was lying on the plot table and idly flipped through the pages. "Everything looks in order," he said casually, as he signed the bottom of the top form on the clipboard and handed it to Morton.

"When is the Admiral bringing his special guest down to the boat?" Morton asked.

Crane shook his head. "I haven't a clue and before you ask, I don't know who the 'special guest' is, either. Could be anyone from the President to a local Girl Scout leader as far as I know."

"I doubt it's a Girl Scout leader," Chip replied quite seriously.

Crane glanced at his exec, seeing the glint of humor reflected in the blue eyes. Crane's attention was drawn to the ramp leading to Seaview's dock as an Institute car slowly made it's way to park beside Seaview's gangplank.

Because Seaview's desk was lower than the dock level, neither officer had a clear view of their guest until he stood at the top of the gangplank. Crane's automatic "Attention", snapped the welcoming officers and crewmembers to proper Navy welcome mode as the captain hissed to his executive officer, "Not one word!"

"Would I do that?" Morton whispered back as Big Al carefully descended to Seaview's deck.

"Well, well, well," Big Al enthused as he reached the deck. "If it isn't Crane and Mouthy and in uniform, no less."

Crane forced a smile and said, "Welcome aboard, sir."

'Mouthy' grimaced, totally aware that the assembled members of the crew would soon be spreading that name throughout the boat.

Lee, trying to gain control of the situation, said, "You know my Executive Officer, Commander Morton."

"Always knew you weren't a made member," Big Al said.

Crane and Morton exchanged swift glances before the Admiral stepped in to usher his guest on board. "With your permission, Captain?" Nelson asked.

At Crane assent, he escorted Big Al into the sail and Crane released the crew to go back to their duties.

Lee turned to Chip and said, "Come on, Mmm-"

"You had better be planning to say something like 'Mister Morton' or I would think twice about saying anything," Chip warned.

"What else would I call you? Mouthy?" the captain asked, all innocence.

Lee saw a momentary flicker in Chip's blue eyes and knew that his exec was plotting revenge. He was even more certain of it when Chip said blandly, "It's a good thing you're the captain. Any other rank and you'd be cleaning the hull as Seaview's submerging."

"Guess I'm just lucky!" Lee said as he led the way to the sail hatch, knowing that sometime, some place, when least expected, he would have to pay the piper. "Mr. Morton, make all preparations to get underway."

"Aye, sir!"

Crane stepped over the lip of the sail hatch, then turned back to where Morton was about to set the sea details. "You know, I think it fits, in a perverse sort of way, of course."

Chip, his attention elsewhere, turned to face Crane. "What's that skipper?" he asked.

"The nickname . . . I think Big Al read you correctly."

"What do you mean," Morton said cautiously.

As Crane turned away, his voice carried back to his long-suffering first officer. "No other executive officer in the fleet mouths off at his captain the way you do."

Just as Crane was disappearing into the sail, Morton's wry voice reached him. "Just doing my job, Sir!"

THE END