Hanson sat in his house in Oceanside California. It was Friday night, and he waited impatiently for someone to arrive. He turned an empty beer bottle on the table beside his armchair with one finger and scowled at nothing in particular.
A sharp knock sounded.
"Come in." He stood to greet his guest.
The door opened and Lt. Kline stood outside. "Hello sir."
"Hello Kline." The Captain sighed. "Come in." He'd wracked his brain, trying to figure a way out of the mess Crawford had mired them in. He hadn't met with much success.
Kline entered and shut the door quietly behind him. The man looked as worn with worry as Hanson felt. He was dressed in civilian clothes: a pair of khaki slacks, a collared shirt, a belt, and glossy black boots completed his attire. Hanson was similarly dressed. In or out of uniform, these guys took their appearances very seriously.
The men walked to the kitchen and Hanson offered Kline a seat at the table. He pulled two bottles from the fridge and held one out to Kline. The man smiled wanly as he reached for the beer. "I really need this. Thanks."
"I hear that." Hanson twisted the top off his beer with a grunt and took a long drink from the bottle and watched Kline do the same from the corner of his eye. The men downed nearly half their beers, and then lowered them to the table.
Kline wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed. "Do you have any ideas how we're going to get out of this situation Captain?"
"No." Hanson said and took a seat opposite the Lt. "The only way I see out is if Crawford really fucks up." His green eyes narrowed in thought. "I have no doubt that bastard has multiple copies of that god-damned picture now. So getting the camera wouldn't do us a bit of good." Hanson's voice was tinged just slightly with a southern drawl. Kline had never noticed it before tonight.
"And even if we find something on him, it'd have to be pretty bad for it to hurt him more than he could hurt us." Kline said and took another swig of beer.
"Yeah. I think we're fucked." Hanson said and tried to relax his shoulders and neck. "We have to show up tomorrow and do what he says to do."
Lt. Kline stared at his near-empty bottle. "What ... what if he makes us ..." he swallowed nervously, "you know. What if he makes us screw around?"
Hanson finished his beer and set the bottle down with a thud on the table with three others he'd already had before Kline arrived. His face wrinkled in distaste and he planned a hundred methods of torture for the skinny sailor. Unfortunately, he couldn't act on any of them without losing his career. He looked up from the table into the face of his Lt. "Look. Whatever he tells me to do, I'm doing it." Kline looked at him with a neutral expression and nodded. "It doesn't mean anything if we have to ..." Hanson licked his lips, "... if we have to mess around." He got up for two more beers. Kline downed what he had left and took the fresh one from him. Hanson sat back down and twisted the top off. He had been feeling the effects of the alcohol for a while now, and he was nearing his limit. But tonight, he didn't care. It felt good to feel something like relaxed after days of tension and worry. "Kline. I can't order you to go through with this." He looked up at the big man across from him. "I half-wish you'd say `no', but personally, I can't." He frowned at feeling so powerless. "I'm third generation Marine Corps. It's in my blood, guts and bones. I ... I'd do anything to stay in." He looked up at his Lt. with an expression close to pleading.
Kline hated seeing Captain Hanson like this. The man had an incredible spirit and pride, and that's what he admired Hanson for. This was killing him, the thought of being kicked out of the corps. Kline straightened and sat tall in his chair. "I'll do whatever he says, sir."
Hanson didn't know what he'd feel if the Lt. would agree, but it turned out to be something akin to relief. He sat back and drank the rest of his near full beer. Kline eyed the bottles on the table. Hanson saw the look and smirked. "I'm fine, Kline." This time the accent was thick and unmistakable.
"Right now, I bet you are, sir." Kline grinned at man across the table. "But you better stop soon. You're not gonna be able to get up tomorrow."
"Oh, I'll get up." He idly counted the bottles in front of him. "Seven beers? Did I drink seven beers?"
Kline snorted. "Some of those were mine, sir." He laughed at the drunken man. "Maybe I should call tomorrow to make sure you get up."
Hanson grunted. "I'll never hear my piece of shit phone." His accent combined with drunken slurring made Kline grin even more.
"Why do guys that weigh less than 170 drink like they weigh 220?" Kline stood and pulled the Captain gently to his feet by his belt and shirt.
"I'm fine, Kline. Really." Hanson said, and leaned on his Lt. for support.
"Right." Kline towed the man into the bedroom and helped him get in and lay down on the bed. Nearly as soon as Hanson's head hit the pillow he passed out. Kline took off Hanson's shoes, belt and watch, chuckling the whole while. He'd never seen him drunk before, and found it entertaining. Kline unplugged the alarm clock beside the bed and carried it into the living room. He plugged it in and reset both the time and the alarm. He knew the Captain would likely need help getting up tomorrow, so he sat down on the couch, took off his boots and lay down. He was a little buzzed from the beer, and it was just enough to make him sleepy. In short order, he was snoring softly and didn't wake until the alarm went off the next morning.