Post elbowed the Chief. The Chief had met a woman in Jamaica, a beauty who could have appeared in one of the old tourism posters in her yellow two-piece bikini, and had decided to stay with the ship.
"Happily ever afters," Post said, lifting a glass of lemonade to the Chief.
Carrasca shifted in her seat and rearranged the rice on her plate.
Valentine's stomach did flip-flops as he looked at her. "Just see me and the cargo into the hands of my contacts here. You'll take my promise to do anything I can to help you in our common Cause. I'll never forget the Thunderbolt and her captain."
The object of his thoughts and memories smiled. "You'll always have a berth on any of our ships and a bed in Jay-port."
Carrasca stared levelly into his eyes as she spoke, but he saw her jaw tighten after the last sentence. Valentine felt his throat go thick.
"Ah-thank you for the offer."
The table sensed a tension and covered it with technical talk about improvements in the ship since the overhaul. It lasted until the Chief and the two lieutenants excused themselves. Post closed the cabin door behind him.
Carrasca reached out and took Valentine's hand.
"Sorry," she said. "I've been preoccupied since we refloated. We've had no time alone."
"We're not the first couple sacrificed to the Cause."
"I'll miss the sound of your heartbeat." Her skin lost some of its usual glow.
"I wish we could say a proper good-bye."
"I know, and I agree. Discipline. It'll be lonely without you."
"You have your grandfather. The Caribbean, this ship."
"And you have your duty. We're both married, in a way, to both of them."
He lowered his voice. "It was a wonderful time, Malia."
"You'll always be a part of me, David."
Discipline or no, he kissed her, long and hard. It was agonizing to let her go, knowing that his lips might never meet hers again.
"Forgive me," he said, stepping away.
* * *
A full day passed, and no one from the shore tried to make contact with the Thunderbolt. A few idlers gathered to watch the sailors on the Thunderbolt go about their daily duties, but no one requested permission to come on board, and the men who went in groups off the ship claimed no one spoke to them but bar touts.
"I'll have to go inland after all," Valentine decided at the end of the second day. Carrasca looked at him from beneath her black brows, pulling a wet bang out of her eye to do so. They both were plastered with sweat. Even with the windows wide open, the bridge was stifling in the windless harbor. The afternoon rain had succeeded only in dampening the heat.
"Have the Chief send some people in to look for a critical part," Valentine said. "Claim we have a breakdown. Maybe that won't incite too much comment. I don't like the idea of her sitting here, tied up to a dock, with the cargo on board. The people on shore have got to be wondering why the ship looks like a topiary."
"You're not leaving tonight."
"I have to. I've got a better chance moving at night."
"Alone? Can you pass as a native? From what Torres says, they don't like strangers poking around here. You don't want to be strung up in a tree by your own allies."
"They're only allies in the 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' sense. Southern Command never had any luck getting Texas guerrillas to work with us, except right on the borderlands, where we could arm them-and shelter them if they had to run. Not that a Texan ever called it running."
She nodded. "Any orders while you're gone?"
"I hope to be back, or at least send word, in a couple days. If you don't hear from me in five, go back to Jamaica, plant the trees, and wait for the next Southern Command agent to head south."