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steam after an op, but they’d been back two weeks and weren’t showing any signs of slowing down. The weekends were even worse: more time to get into mischief.
    But of course Murdock did step over the quarterdeck in the morning, and of course SEAL Team Seven’s Command Master Chief was hovering nearby, checking on the uniform, haircut, and shave of everyone, officer and enlisted, as they showed up for work. And officer or enlisted, if you weren’t squared away, you were going to hear about it in a hurry.
    A smart officer always took the pulse of the Command Master Chief for early warning of impending disasters, and Murdock was a smart officer. It also helped if the Command Master Chief was George MacKenzie, who had previously been the platoon chief of 3rd Platoon and had kept Murdock out of more trouble than he could say.
    “Morning, Master Chief,” said Murdock. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”
    “Good morning, sir,” the chief replied. The formality was for public consumption; now Mac took care of all the platoons in the team, not just one. “I’d love to, but
you
don’t have time this morning.”
    And it had been a pleasant morning, up until now. “Okay, Mac, give it to me straight.”
    “Well, sir, Jaybird and Doc sort of ran amuck last night.”
    “Does the Captain know?” were the first words Murdock got out, even before inquiring as to the nature of the crime. Jaybird and Doc running amuck wasn’t exactly what you’d call a news flash.
    The Captain, as every naval commanding officer is called, regardless of rank, was Commander Dean Masciarelli, known in the teams as the Masher, the newly arrived C.O. of Team Seven. Another result of the move to Coronado was that the team was now led by a standard-issue commander instead of acaptain. Murdock didn’t want be the first one to test the new skipper with any major liberty incidents. From all indications, the man didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
    In the old days all that SEAL officers aspired to was command of a team and retirement as a commander. If by some stroke of luck you made captain, that was just pure gravy. Now the SEAL community regularly produced a couple of admirals, and the no-mistakes-on-my-watch mentality and political gamesmanship had gotten almost as bad as the rest of the Navy.
    “No, sir, he doesn’t,” Chief MacKenzie said calmly. “And with any luck he won’t. Razor’s kept the lid on.”
    Murdock resumed breathing regularly. If the Command Master Chief was going to acquiesce in keeping the lid on the incident, it had to be something less serious than murder, armed robbery, or consensual sodomy. “You going to tell me what happened, Master Chief, or are you going to leave me hanging a while longer?”
    MacKenzie’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t deprive Razor of the pleasure of telling you himself. He’s waiting in your office.”
    “You want to come along?”
    “I’d love to, sir, but Mister DeWitt hasn’t arrived for work yet. On Friday his belt buckle looked like he’d polished it with snot, so we’re going to have a little talk this morning about how many quarterdeck watches he owes me.”
    “Enjoy, Master Chief.” Old Mac had taken to Command Master Chief like, well, like a SEAL to water.
    As advertised, Doc Ellsworth and Jaybird Sterling were waiting outside his office. To Murdock’s utter shock, they both came smartly to attention and chorused, “Good morning, sir!”
    “Morning,” Murdock grumbled on his way through the door. Fuck, he thought; it had to be serious if those two bastards were resorting to textbook military courtesy.
    Also as advertised, Razor Roselli was waiting in the office with the kind of expression on his face that, as the platoon likedto say, came from having to eat shit donuts first thing in the morning. Murdock collapsed into his chair and said, “Okay, Chief, let’s have it.”
    The Razor nodded and stuck his head out the door. “In!” he