Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA

[Jane Hartman]

"Cabbages, Lewis? Never had you pinned as the agricultural type." Come to think of it, she couldn't recall a time Lewis had divulged any interests outside of the Navy. "It ain't the betting I take issue with. It's the fact it's happening in uniform. You know the regulations. Hell, back when we came in there'd have been a dozen P.Os on us if we thought about pushing them. Just yesterday, I had a full Lieutenant walk up to an Admiral and a Captain with a 'Hey guys.' Don't think I've seen an officer try and fix that rubbish since Robinson. Right nasty excuse for a human being, but the woman knew her discipline." Commodore Christina Robinson had been the scourge of the Navy for most of Hartman's career before, out of nowhere, trading her position in for a Lieutenant's slides and a quiet posting out God knew where. Seemed like Hartman and Lewis hadn't been the only ones to have trouble letting go. As much as Hartman disliked the Commodore, she had to admit that the officer had run a tighter ship then the Navy Hartman now found herself in. It was an environment Hartman missed more keenly then she cared to admit.

"I'm sure you'd find yourself something, Lewis. Wrestling instructor, maybe." Even as what passed for an old man in the Fleet, Lewis had maintained a fearsome reputation in the sparring ring. More then one overconfident junior officer had gone back to the barracks with a new gallery of bruises, courtesy of his new Commander. "Found some odd work down at Bragg lending a hand with Recruiting when I took a break. Could ask around for you, if you're after something."

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