John decided to hasten proceedings and looked at Bill, “Looks like we’re playing catch up to the major, Bill. Shall we?” He raised his glass and downed it with aplomb, following his mammoth gulp with a satisfied gasp and a mischievous smile.

“You’re a bugger,” said Bill, staring a little disconcertedly at the two or three shots of whiskey in his glass. He had suffered more than once from trying to keep up with the young lieutenant, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and admit he was less of a sailor than the boy in front of him.

“Your health, Major,” said the chief engineer, then, raising his glass, he grumbled, “why do I listen to you, John? Jack, I hope you know what you’re in for with this one.”

“Oh, I am painfully aware, Chief.” said Jack, thinking that it was Bill Shadley who was sadly innocent of what he was signing up for. He watched as the big man knocked back his drink and smiled sympathetically as the stocky British sailor cringed at the burning in his throat. The chief engineer of the HMS Dauntless whistled and looked into the bottom of the empty glass appreciatively as the alcohol singed his throat, unaware of the powerful soporifics already working their way into his body.

* * *

Ten minutes later, John and Jack were walking out of the barracks, leaving an unconscious Chief Bill Shadley snoring on Jack’s bunk. John had examined him and estimated that they had about ten hours. Ten hours to get twenty-six half-ton crates on board the HMS Dauntless without her captain knowing. Then they had to get back in time to return the British naval uniform Jack Toranssen was now wearing to its owner, who was sleeping happily in his underwear.

For reasons known only to the administrators and planners of the world’s great military forces, the US is virtually unique in that its soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines have nametags on their uniforms. Jack had praised the lack of nomenclature on British uniforms as he had quickly slipped on the Royal Navy breeches and jacket, knowing that the guard detail on the HMS Dauntless would have no way of recognizing the uniform of their chief engineer later that night. The insignia on his sleeves and collar would only tell them that he was a relatively senior warrant officer. They would hopefully then take the word of the well-respected and well-liked Lieutenant John Hunt to bolster the realism of the fake Royal Navy ID Ayala had procured for him.

But getting past them was probably still the easiest challenge they faced tonight.

* * *