D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground Read Online Free PDF Page B

called, “Who’s that?”
    “The iceman, Daddy.”
    Brent held Bea for a long kiss then slid a hand to her buttock as he pressed her close. “Hi, Den Mother.”  He used the nickname coined by Woody Parnell the night of their drive to Bremerton Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ).
    Bea wore blue jeans and a red cotton shirt open at the neck.  She perceived herself unattractive as a child, though now she accepted that time had ripened her like a rare wine.  An abundance of chestnut hair tumbled to her shoulders.  She smiled back at Brent through brown eyes set in a slightly oval face.  Bea’s firm full figure brought the top of her head to Brent’s chin.
    She bombarded him with questions.  “Hi, yourself.  How can you be so casual?  What happened out there?  The story is all over the yard and it scared the hell out of me, Brent.  Good thing it ended before any of us heard or I’d have been worried sick.”
    Brent used a nonchalant monotone, “Must’ve been a slow day at the yard if that’s all you talked about.  Taxpayers won’t like that.”
    “They say you’re the hero.  Tell me about it.”
    “There’s nothing to tell.”
    “Okay, I know how to get it from you later.”
    “Promises, promises.  How will you do that?  Spare none of the torrid details.”
    “Wait and see,” she teased.
    Dave arrived to claim Brent; his excuse, a vino refill.  “Hello, Brent.  What a nice surprise.  Can you stay for dinner?”
    “Dad!”
    Opening the refrigerator, Dave asked, “Glass of wine, Brent?”
    “Thought you’d never ask.”
    “Good.  Maybe Bea will let me crack this good stuff seeing you’re here now.  All I ever get is that fifty cents a gallon stuff from a box.”
    Patting her father’s generous stomach Bea said to Brent, “Your heart just has to bleed for this poor, neglected fellow.  He looks so starved.”
    Brent grinned and said, “Don’t see how you make it, Dave.”
    Uncorking a bottle of chardonnay Dave poured two glasses. 
    Bea asked, “What about the cook?”
    Dave winked at Brent and gave him a grin.  “Drinkin’ and cookin’s bad as drinkin’ and drivin’.  Don’t want to spoil our dinner.”
    “Pour me a glass, turkey, unless you plan to drive to McDonald’s for dinner.”
    Dave poured his daughter a glass of chardonnay.  “Should give ya the stuff you make me drink.”
    Bea embraced her father, kissed him and said, “Yeah, sure,” then surrendered Brent gracefully.  “You two get out of my kitchen if you expect dinner anytime before midnight.”
    The men retreated to the family room.
    Dave turned off the television, silencing a local concern over what should be done about excessive wild geese populations that no longer migrate because tourists feed them.
    Being sarcastic Dave said, “I’ll sleep a lot better when they get that goose thing straightened out.”
    Walls of cedar backed a recycled clay brick fireplace that blended well with the Pacific Northwest décor of the room.  A glass sliding door provided a view onto a lush lawn that had already begun to green under the early spring rain.
    At sixty-three, Dave considered himself overdue for grandchildren to spoil and hoped Bea and Brent might remedy that. 
    Dave sipped the golden chardonnay.  “Ah … that’s good stuff.  Not as good as a stiff belt of gin, mind you, but a stomach as old as mine, well, ya gotta compromise.  Sit down, Brent, and tell me what’s doing in these new fangled submarines.  Bea says you had some wild sea trials.”
    “You could say that.”
    “Want to talk about it?”
    “There’s not a lot to tell.”  Brent reviewed the casualty and went on, “It’s happened on other ships but always on the surface.  Just our bad luck to be at test depth.”
    Dave understood the circumstances and nerves of steel needed to perform Brent’s rescue feat.  He sensed Brent didn’t want to discuss it further. 
    “It’s really a lousy design, driven by the need to push