Lieutenant Man, Please Report
The captain noted in his official report to High Command that at the moment of the misplaced canon fire, he was in the engine room with Chief Delacroix, discussing the implementation of a routine maintenance schedule. Furthermore, he stated that the subsequent damage to his ship’s exterior was certainly the folly of one of his subordinates, and an investigation and reprimanding would soon follow.
The lieutenant submerged himself in a novel dimly lit by candle light that flicked about his cramped and musty quarters: a small alcove tucked in the back of the vessel’s galley, but quite cozy to him all the same. A stainless steel cup meant for coffee — instead full of scotch — offered some warmth in defense from the cold of night. The single-malt whiskey was a gift from the ship’s cook in return for his assistance in the kitchen. He tutored the cook in the art of baking on most Wednesdays.
The lieutenant’s commander had bade him leave while Engineering repaired a hull breech at the quarter-deck, starboard. The damage was the result of one of the ship’s own wayward canon balls. He was to report back to the bridge at 0400 hours. He admittedly was not proficient at managing his time off, but was thankful a young ensign had loaned him a brilliant, tattered paperback to help pass the time. Swimming deeply both in page and in thought, he was happy and adrift, thinking of majestic whales, the pull of the moon, starlight being taxied by the sea, romantic adventure, the warmness of home, and his mother’s kitchen.
Suddenly, the sugar ants discovered a crack in the wall, and a trail of crumbs leading to a warm cot. A great number of drones came pouring in through the wall, located a source of sustenance, and quickly relayed a message back throughout the network of the unfathomable number of their ranks.
0400 had past, and the gingerbread man had not yet taken his post at Ops. The first officer, Commander Greybuck, commented that it was very uncharacteristic of his lieutenant to be tardy for a duty shift. He called after him over the ship-wide intercom three times — the number of times that ship’s procedure dictated — to which he received no response.
“ He told us that his running days were behind him,” chortled Captain Fox, always a comedian first and a ship’s captain second. His bridge officers feigned laughter. This pleased the captain greatly. He decided to tell truth in his report, after all.
The commander, a no-nonsense action-man, did not laugh. Instead, he ordered the helmsman to slow the ship and bring her to a full stop. He then assembled a search team and deployed them immediately. The search detail fanned out and combed the ship thoroughly in search of their beloved comrade.
In Lieutenant Man’s quarters a crewman from Security found little to report but the three items as follows:
1) Illegal contraband: scotch, one bottle.
2) A trail of breadcrumbs leading to a crevice in the east bulkhead of the quarters. The crumbs will need further analysis in the ship’s laboratory, but it’s this crewman’s humble opinion that they are spiced with ginger, cinnamon and cloves.
3) A lengthy paperback novel of unknown title and author with missing bindings, cover, and title pages; left open at Chapter 87, chapter heading: The Grand Armada.
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