Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“At least there’s some oxygen up here,” Cat agrees. “Somewhat damp, though.”

Their outer layers are soaked despite the ponchos they wear. Tilo has for once abandoned vanity to tie a red plaid scarf—a gift from an aunt—around his head. The scarf is soaked, and Rio can see each breath he takes as it draws wet wool into his mouth.

“You know your problem,” Jack says, shouting to be heard over another moan from Cassel. “You’re not a seafaring folk, you Yanks. You don’t know how to cope with these mildly blustery conditions.”

Stick, normally the most stoic of the group, says, “I don’t want to punch you in the nose, Stafford, but I will.”

“Ah, but being of proper English seafaring stock, I have managed to obtain a cure for all our ills,” Jack says, and with that draws a bottle of whiskey from beneath his poncho.

Rio has sipped the occasional beer at home in Gedwell Falls, has drunk entire beers during the bleak, wet, dull two weeks of training in England, but has never before tasted whiskey. Jack hands the bottle to her first, and though she has her doubts, she doesn’t want to be a stick-in-the-mud.

So she tilts the bottle back and takes a deep swig of what feels like liquid fire.

“Good, eh?” Jack asks.

To which Rio replies, “Cchh . . . Ah . . . Mmpf . . .” and gasps out several painful breaths.

Jack grins happily, sticks his fists on his hips, widens his stance, and begins to sing at the top of his voice.

“When Britain f-i-i-irst, at heaven’s command,

Arose from out the a-a-a-azure main,

Arose, arose from out the azure main;

This was the charter, the charter of the Land

And Guardian A-a-a-angels sang this strain . . .”

Tilo says something that sounds like an exasperated threat, but it isn’t intelligible through his scarf. Rio, however, is charmed to discover that Jack has quite a good singing voice.

“Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!”

“I’m going to kill him, just as soon as we finish his bottle,” Kerwin says, taking a drink.

In short order they are seven quite drunk soldiers, stumbling helplessly into one another with each big swell. And now they are an impromptu chorus belting out the chorus, “Rule, Britannia, Britannia rule the waves,” despite some querulous looks from passing sailors who, being Americans, are not pleased to be celebrating the Royal Navy.

Yes, Rio thinks, Jack has a very nice singing voice. And she likes his accent too.

Rio has no experience of being drunk. Jenou is a bit more knowledgeable and is amused by the sight of her friend growing more garrulous and more friendly. And less steady on her feet.

And Jenou is also more observant when it comes to men. She has noticed several lingering looks from a seriously inebriated Jack—looks aimed not at Jenou but at Rio.

Well, Jenou thinks, there’s no accounting for taste. She tilts her head and gives Tilo a speculative glance, but Tilo has just collapsed in a heap, completely unconscious. Stick hauls him away by the only means he can manage on the pitching deck: he’s got one of Tilo’s ankles in each of his hands and is dragging him as if he’s pulling a wagon.

Jenou says, “Maybe we better get below too,” and takes Rio by the arm.

Rio laughs as if that’s a joke and peers around owlishly, surprised to discover that her little group has already attrited, reduced now to just herself, Jack, Jenou, and Kerwin.

“Come on,” Rio says, “party’s just getting started!”

Jenou rolls her eyes, torn between a never-very-strong sense of responsibility and amusement. Then the matter is settled when Kerwin seems to freeze solid in midsentence, eyes fixed, jaw slack.