“I see you in my office like this again,” I growled at the two kids standing at attention in front of my desk, “you’re not going to like what happens. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
I shifted my glare to their lead petty officer, who was also standing at attention, but not quite as rigidly. To the two seamen, I said, “Dismissed. AT1, you stay here.”
The LPO swallowed hard. His men didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at them. After they’d left my office, his posture stiffened a bit more.
I folded my hands on the desk and stared at him. “This is the fifth time in ten months that people from your shop have been to XOI. You want to tell me why that is?”
He set his jaw. “I don’t have any excuses, sir. The assistant LPO and I will look into it, though.”
I regarded him silently for a long moment, deliberately making him uneasy. I waited until he shifted his weight. Some color bloomed in his cheeks too. This wasn’t someone accustomed to being put on the spot. He was a young LPO—no way he’d been in more than ten years—and from what I’d gathered when I’d first arrived, the Aviation Electronics Department had had almost as much turnover as the upper chain of command. Odds were he’d inherited the disciplinary mess just like I had. It wasn’t his fault, but it was his responsibility to get it squared away, and I needed him to know I wasn’t joking.
“I’m going to make you the same promise I made your two junior Sailors,” I said flatly. “I see you in my office like this again, it’s not going to end well.”
The AT1 nodded grimly. “Yes, sir.” It came out as little more than a croak.
“Dismissed.”
He couldn’t get out of my office fast enough. I had a feeling he was going to go catch his breath, then march into his shop and give those two junior Sailors an earful for making him get an earful. That was what I would’ve done.
Alone in the tight confines of my office, I tilted my head to one side, then the other, trying to work out some tension. It wasn’t the idiot Sailors and disciplinary bullshit that had me wound up, though. It was the man who’d been sharing my bed.
I couldn’t get last night out of my head. Diego’s episode had scared the hell out of me, and the things he’d said afterward had burrowed under my skin and wouldn’t move. I’d been certain he was either going to pass out from hyperventilating or have a goddamned heart attack. The ER had seemed like the most common sense place to go. I wouldn’t have minded if the doctors had rolled their eyes and told us it was just a panic attack. At least I’d know he was okay.
But even in the throes of a panic attack, even while he’d clearly been struggling to catch his breath and rein in the demons from his past, he’d had the presence of mind to reject my suggestion. His inability to get medical treatment when he needed it was so ingrained in him, it had cut through a fucking panic attack.
I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. A military veteran. With combat-related PTSD. And he couldn’t afford to get treatment. Or risk someone noticing he was illegal.
What if he really did have a life-threatening emergency? What if he got hurt at work? Or got into a car accident? I knew ERs were required to stabilize anyone who came through the door, but then what? How long before he’d be booted out of the hospital for his inability to pay? Or escorted out of the country because he didn’t have a damn green card?
I dropped my hand to my desk and swore into the silence of my office. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. What the hell could I do about it, though?
Not a damn thing, apparently. I hadn’t even been able to take him somewhere to get help last night. His situation? I didn’t even know where to start.
Make sure he was okay, maybe. I wanted to text him, but my cell signal wasn’t so hot on the ship. They must’ve been running some of the radar equipment today. Always scrambled the shit out of my reception. And anyway, he might’ve still been asleep. It was only 1100, after all, and he’d barely slept last night. I’d give him a couple more hours before I went down to the pier to send him a message. I had left a note under his phone telling him to call me on the ship if he needed anything. So far, nothing.
Restlessness was starting to make me itch, so I got up and left, the hatch clanging shut behind me. Not far down the passageway, I knocked on another.
“It’s open,” Captain Hawthorne said gruffly.
I stepped inside. “Hey. You got a minute?”
“Sure.” He put a thick binder down and removed his glasses while I took a seat in front of his desk. “How’d XOI go?”
I grunted. “They’ll be coming to see you if they set foot in my office again.”
“Repeat offenders?”
“One of them. And they’re both from a shop that’s about to install a revolving door in my office.”
Hawthorne scowled. “What the fuck is going on down there?”
“Don’t know.” I shook my head. “I put the fear of God into the LPO, though. He doesn’t straighten shit out in a hurry, they’ll all be hearing from me.”
“Good, good.”
We both fell quiet for a minute. The disciplinary mess wasn’t really a shock. The Fort Stevens had had a rough couple of years. Morale was in the toilet. Couldn’t really blame the crew, though. It was hard to keep people in line when they knew damn well their last CO had gone down for bribing people in security to hide the results of his drug tests. The CO before him—along with the XO I’d replaced and several other members of the brass—had been busted taking part in the prostitution ring a lieutenant had been running. From what I’d heard from people who’d been here for the worst of it, discipline had pretty much crumbled in the enlisted ranks before any of that had even started. A chief had gone to jail in some port or another for beating up a local national. Federal agents had apparently escorted a master chief off the ship in handcuffs after “something you honestly don’t want to know about, Captain.”
Yeah. This place was a mess. Which meant Hawthorne and I had to pull it all together, especially with a deployment coming up in the spring. We weren’t going to be popular anytime soon, but we would get this crew back in line.
Assuming I kept my head in the game, anyway, and that had been a struggle lately.
“You all right?” Hawthorne asked.
“Yeah. I . . .” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’m curious about something.”
He made a go ahead gesture. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“You heard about immigrant vets getting deported after their time is up?”
Hawthorne shrugged. “If their green cards expire, sure.”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it?”
He studied me. “You got someone under you who wants to get citizenship?”
“I’m, uh . . . Not someone in particular. And it’s someone who’s not in anymore.”
Immediately, Hawthorne shook his head. “Nothing we can do if he’s been discharged.”
I blinked.
He shrugged again. “Look, Sailors and officers have plenty of opportunity to apply for naturalization while they’re in.” He sat back, shaking his head. “If they don’t go through the available channels while they’re on active duty, ain’t much we can do once they’re discharged.”
I pursed my lips. “So it doesn’t bother you? Someone getting out after serving and then getting booted out of the country?”
“I’m not thrilled with it, but as long as there are options available while they’re active, I don’t have a lot of sympathy for people who don’t take advantage.”
Gritting my teeth, I asked, “And what if they’re discharged before they have that opportunity?”
“Then either they fucked up and got kicked out early, or they’re full of shit.” The harsh tone offered no sympathy or flexibility. “There’s no way someone can’t find time to fill out some paperwork in four years.”
Okay, a few weeks ago I’d have agreed he had a point, but now it didn’t sit right with me. Diego had been to combat. He’d been wounded. He had PTSD bad enough to be triggered into a panic attack by a TV commercial. And he’d had every intention of getting naturalized, but by the time he’d recovered enough to be functional, the Navy was showing him to the door thanks to a computer algorithm.
Before I could say something, Hawthorne gave a disgusted sneer. “What’s really fucked up is these illegals who still want VA benefits.”
“You don’t think they should have them?”
“Fuck no, I don’t.”
I blinked. “Why not? They earned them.”
“And they also earned a shot at becoming citizens. If they don’t use that, and they’re not going to pay taxes and work legally like everybody else . . .” He shook his head. “Then no, I don’t think they should be getting benefits other vets have to jump through hoops to get.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “So, what if—hypothetically—a wounded vet was kicked out under Perform to Serve? Before he’d had a chance to get his citizenship squared away?”
Hawthorne scowled. “PTS was a flawed program. It’s a damn good thing they scrapped it. The Sailors who were discharged under it? It’s a shame, but . . .” He waved a hand and sighed. “Look, it isn’t like they would’ve been kicked out overnight. The first PTS score wasn’t final. But if the second one said they were out, then . . .” Another shrug.
I swallowed.
“And it wasn’t like people didn’t know about PTS.” Hawthorne rapped a knuckle on his broad steel desk. “If I were an immigrant and knew that shit was hanging over my head, I’d be filling out my immigration forms right away. What excuse does someone have to wait until the last second?”
“Besides combat-related convalescence?”
Hawthorne cocked his head, and his eyes narrowed a little. “This isn’t a hypothetical, is it?”
I tried not to shift noticeably, but I probably failed.
“This can’t be one of your Sailors.” He studied me intently. “What’s going on?”
“Just a . . .” I thought fast. “Friend of a friend. Got kicked out under PTS while he was recuperating from combat injuries.”
“And he was an illegal?”
“He wasn’t at the time, but his visa expired after—”
“How long was he in?”
“Eight years.”
Hawthorne shook his head, a faint sneer on his lips. “Then he’s got no one to blame but himself. In eight years, he could have done that paperwork. If he isn’t motivated enough to fill out some forms, the Navy doesn’t need him and neither does this country.”
“And there’s nothing we can do.” I sounded even more resigned than I felt.
“Once they’ve been discharged, they’re not our problem anymore. Not our jurisdiction and not our responsibility.” Case closed, I could almost hear him adding.
So I just nodded. “All right. I was just curious.”
We talked for a few more minutes, but then he needed to get to a meeting. I had one in an hour, which meant I had some time to slip off the boat and see if Diego had messaged me.
On the way to the quarterdeck and the ramp that would take me pier-side, I fought to quell a sick feeling that had started during my conversation with the CO. Convincing him he was wrong was probably a lost cause, but I didn’t like the idea that the Navy could and would do nothing for Diego. Except . . . what could they do? If he’d been discharged recently, maybe, but it had been several years.
Hawthorne’s comments about illegals grated on me more than anything. Someone who’d served shouldn’t have been illegal. Period. Why veterans weren’t automatically granted citizenship, I would never understand. A non-US citizen veteran being denied health care for his war-related injuries? That was some bullshit.
I made a mental note to see if any of the personnel on my ship were in danger of falling into Diego’s circumstances. Even if Perform to Serve had rightfully gone the way of the dinosaur, it didn’t hurt to make sure people were prepared in case they decided not to reenlist. At the very least, I could put out a memo urging any immigrants under my command to come talk to me about making sure the proper paperwork was filed if citizenship was something they wanted.
I’d do that after my meeting. First things first, though, I needed to check on the man who’d spent the whole night tossing and turning next to me.
Down on the pier, where my signal was stronger, I took out my phone. I was more than a little relieved to see a text from Diego.
Hey. :) Feeling better today. Thx for last night.
I smiled as I read and reread his words. Then I wrote back, You’re welcome. Glad to hear it. After I’d sent that message, I added, See you tonight?
As soon as Diego started typing, my heart flipped. I silently begged him not to say no. Even if he was still off-kilter tonight, I wanted to be with him. At least then I could see for myself that he was all right. Close to it, anyway.
Then he stopped typing. Shit. What did that mean? Was he trying to let me down easy somehow? Had I done something wrong? Fuck, maybe I’d been too pushy about the ER thing. He’d been busy falling apart and I hadn’t been willing to let it go, so he’d had to argue with me while trying to get his head together.
I winced at the memory. Oh crap. I’d handled that all wrong, hadn’t I? Now how the hell did I—
He was typing again. A few seconds later, a message came through:
Sorry. Boss called. Tonight sounds good. After closing ok?
I smiled like an idiot and wrote back, Can’t wait.