Red Snow. Sean Ryan Stuart

take care of ‘The general’.”

      “Hold on there, sweetie, what general, who, what are you talking about?” Jeremy asked.

      “Haven’t you heard, mon cher? You have been promoted to Brigadier General. Therefore, you deserve an admiral’s suite, okay, oui?”

      “Look, cheri, darling, sweetness, I don’t mind a little fun in the hay, but I don’t want to end up in Leavenworth for impersonating a General officer!” stated Jeremy.

      “Alors, (And) this is the way you thank me for getting you the best suite in the city? You are worrying too much about going to the Bastille for a few years,” she said, her Cajun blood beginning to show signs of cooking.

      “I promise you, mon cher, everything will be just fine” Loretta replied, her voice beginning to take on a slightly irritated pitch to it. Patience, patience she thought, after all, he is only an “homme” (man).

      “Well, I hope so. I am not really the confinement type, if you know what I mean. How are we going to handle this?” quizzed Jeremy.

      “You just let ‘Tante’ (Auntie) Loretta do all the talking for you.”

      “Do you really think anyone is going to believe that a twenty-six-year-old, young-looking captain is going to be a Brigadier General?” Grant asked anxiously.

      Jeremy finally calmed down and began to appreciate the idea. He realized that it could have some serious consequences, but it could also have some interesting possibilities. He looked at the beautiful Loretta and blurted out, “You are the most amazing woman, I have ever met. Let’s have some fun and scare the shit out of these Navy squids,” Jeremy stated, as they slowly drove over the Bay Bridge.

      “Mon Dieu, (My God), thank God, you are finally getting with it. I called and made a reservation for a Brigadier General by the name of Stuart McBarron Fraser III. Can you think of a more obnoxious name than that?”

      “Ha, ha!” She laughed. I told them that you were a highly decorated Medal of Honor winner, recovering from wounds suffered in Vietnam. However, as you were a Special Forces intelligence type, your visit had to remain secret to everyone,” Loretta explained with glee.

      “Wow, I am impressed, madame, but how did you explain your presence? Jeremy asked, his boyish innocence demanding an answer.

      “No problema, cheri, I am your personal physician and temporary Aide-de-Camp, oui? I have reserved a room next to you, and I will come and visit you often, n’est ce pas?” (Isn’t that so?) She laughed.

      “Of course, mon docteur, you can come and check my pulse anytime you want,” he stammered, in his best Maurice Chevalier imitation.

      The little red Mustang slowly wound its way down the curvy road to the main gate at Treasure Island. A young Seaman Third Class (PO3) stood in his guard shack and lazily waved them through. Loretta made a right turn, and immediately turned left in the front entrance of the BOQ. She purposely and knowingly parked her car in a slot marked, “Admirals only,” Loretta walked into the main lobby and walked over to the duty Yeoman.

      “Good evening, ma’am,” he stammered, his eyes focused on her twin large caliber guns.

      “Good evening,” she answered, more formally than she intended to.

      “What can I do for you?” he queried, still trying not to stare too hard at her.

      “Is the suite ready for the general? I sincerely hope so, as I made those reservations three days ago, and I was assured there would be no problem,” Loretta said, her voice projecting impatience.

      “Oh, I am sure there won’t be any problem, ma’am. Let me get the Chief, he’ll, he’ll be able to help you.” The young Yeoman Third Class (YN3) had never seen an admiral, let alone an Army general. He turned around and grabbed the switchboard cord.

      “Chief Mendoza, Chief Mendoza, get up here pronto; I got some general here and no reservation, help me; please,” he yelled into the receiver.

      Chief Mendoza, a twenty-seven-year veteran of the U.S. Navy, calmly answered the anxious sailor, “Hold on, don’t get all panicky, I’ll be there in a second.”

      Chief Mendoza got up and waddled over to the counter. The chief was an old salt; he had enlisted in the U.S. Navy shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor and the Philippines. Like many of his fellow countrymen, Chief Mendoza was proud of his Filipino ancestry, but was even prouder of serving in the U.S. Armed Forces. The years had not been kind to him. His once slim and trim body had turned into a quivering mass of flab and sagging skin. He had a particular fondness for beer and ice cream, neither of which was particularly good for his physique. Hercules Mendoza was near the end of his career and there was very little that could ruffle him. He was a short-timer, two hundred fifty-two days and counting. Hercules had actually purchased a small island near the Mindanao group and intended to retire to a life of leisure and debauchery. His short-timer’s attitude was obvious to all who worked with him, and it made life particularly unpleasant for his staff. The Chief had the reputation for being fierce and grumpy. He approached the counter ready to rip off the head of the “asshole” who dared to disturb him during his “siesta” time. However, Loretta DeFaut’s striking beauty and voluptuous assets quickly changed his mind.

      “Good morning, ma’am, can I help?” he casually asked.

      “I am Chief Petty Officer Hercules Pacito Mendoza, Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge (NCOIC) of the BOQ billets. What seems to be the problem?” he stated heroically.

      “Well, I am obviously talking to the right man,” smiled Loretta.

      “I called three days ago and made a reservation for the general. It appears that someone didn’t inform you. I am sincerely disappointed, but I am sure that you will be able to take care of the problem.”

      “There is no problem, ma’am. I took the phone call, and in the interest of security, I booked the general under the name of John Smith,” he slowly grinned.

      “I have been around a long time, and I know how these things are handled,” he replied, winking at the same time.

      “Yeoman, look under John Smith and Aide-de-Camp, now,” he whispered under his breath.

      “Right away, Chief. Yeah, here it is, Brigadier John Smith. Sure, sure no problem,” said the anxious Yeoman, sensing a pair of dark piercing eyes burning through his skull into his brain.

      “Well, I could tell that you were the right man for the job, Chief.

      If there is anything I can ever do for you, just let me know, hear?”

      Loretta answered, looking straight into his eyes.

      “Okay, I promise, ma’am, if I ever need to have my liver taken out, I’ll be sure to have you take care of me,” Chief Mendoza slowly grinned at her. He knew when a woman was pulling his chain, but he couldn’t remember when he enjoyed it more.

      “Yes ma’am, thank you very much,” he said once again.

      “Your suite is on the third floor, facing the bay and it has been fully provisioned for comfort and entertainment, and your room, ma’am, is right next door,” Hercules proclaimed with a large grin.

      “Thank you, Chief,” Loretta said.

      Loretta slowly exited the office and walked through the lobby toward the main exit. She knowingly sashayed her way past two high-ranking naval officers. Their mouths were so wide open that an entire squadron of F-4 Phantoms could have landed inside their drooping jaws. Loretta knew the effect she was having on these poor hapless sailors. She purposely exaggerated her prancing, as she walked out the door.

      Jeremy sat in the car, nervously waiting for her to come out, his mind racing with visions of swarms of SP’s (Shore Patrolmen) and MP’s (Military Policemen) hauling them off to the brig. Loretta slowly walked over to the car and said, “Get out, sweetcheeks, the