Chapter 3 #2
He then took a big, theatrical breath, but gently blew out the single birthday candle to a wild round of applause.
The head chef began cutting the cake as her sous-chefs wheeled in carts of ice cream, fresh-baked Austrian pastries, pots of pour-over Cuban coffee, and a variety of adult libations.
“What kind is it?” Cabrillo asked as the chef handed him the first plate.
“Your favorite. White chocolate macadamia nut cheesecake laced with raspberry sauce.”
Juan’s eyes rolled with ecstasy at the first bite. “Perfecto.”
The head chef flushed with pride. “Enjoy.”
“Surprised you made it this far,” Max offered with a wide grin and a heavy clap on Cabrillo’s back with his meaty hand.
Hanley was dressed like Friar Tuck. It wasn’t much of a reach.
His thinning gray-auburn hair was already ringed like a tonsure, and the heavy wool tunic draped over his high, hard belly.
And just like Robin Hood’s number two, Max was the man Cabrillo wanted with him in any bar fight or gun battle.
“You look gassed. Didn’t you grab any shut-eye?” Max asked.
“Snagged a few winks. Shift change.”
Max eyed his friend, one hand clutching his fighting staff. He had his suspicions, but kept them to himself.
Cabrillo took another bite of cheesecake. “Who’s minding the store?”
“Linda’s in the chair. I’ll head topside after I grab a plate of goodies and send her down.”
“It must kill her not to be at a costume ball like this.” Linda Ross, despite her previous life in the buttoned-down U.S. Navy, had a penchant for wild hair colors—currently cotton candy pink.
“Oh, trust me, she got her Pat Benatar on just fine. You’ll see later.”
Someone tossed on a Gipsy Kings album over the loudspeakers, one of Cabrillo’s favorites.
Juan tugged on Max’s elbow and pulled him aside.
“This whole thing wasn’t your idea, was it?”
“Me? No way. I know you’re not crazy about birthday celebrations, let alone surprise parties.”
“Then whose idea was it?”
Max nodded toward a Texas Ranger in the far corner, wearing the traditional buckskins and pistols of an early Western lawman.
“Kevin’s idea?” Cabrillo asked.
“Yup.”
“Huh. Makes sense.”
Kevin Nixon had been a renowned Hollywood special effects artist, winning numerous awards, including an Oscar.
His department on the Oregon, known as the Magic Shop, created the costumes, makeup, and special effects vitally necessary for the undercover work that Juan and other team members carried out.
In addition, Nixon’s department helped transform the Oregon’s sleek deck lines from a modern bulk cargo carrier into a rusting, derelict hulk in a moment’s notice with phony dead flies in the sills, gut-wrenching stench blown through the HVAC ducts, and a hundred other special effects pioneered by his department.
It was all deployed to scare away nosy port authorities and added to the perfect camouflage the Oregon needed to sneak into ports around the world undercover.
Max’s chest swelled with pride as he fingered his monkish vestments. “Makes me want to go to Hollywood after I retire.”
“Not a monastery?”
Max laughed. “And on that note, I’m gonna fetch some cake and relieve Linda.
See ya in the funny papers, brother.” Max’s face suddenly saddened.
He raised his palm in a small, priestly gesture and whispered something Cabrillo couldn’t hear over the music before he turned away and headed for the snack bar.
Just then, a phlegmy voice growled behind Cabrillo.
“Qu’ buSHa’chugh SuvwI’, batlhHa’ vangchugh, qoj matlhHa’chugh, pagh ghaH SuvwI’’e’.”
Cabrillo turned around.
A pair of tall, lanky Klingon warriors with pronounced cranial ridges spanning their foreheads sneered at him.
They carried traditional mek’leth short swords with curved blades and serrated edges, and wore metal and leather armor along with thick-soled combat boots that made them seem larger and more imposing than they really were.
“Nice little suits ya got there, boys.”
Dr. Mark Murphy’s proud shoulders slumped and Eric Stone blushed beneath his heavy olive-colored makeup.
Murph was the Oregon’s chief weapons officer and one of the youngest members of the crew.
He was doubtless the most brilliant, earning two PhDs before the age of twenty-five.
Stoney was his best friend, and the Oregon’s chief helmsman.
“Thanks, Chairman.” Eric flashed a mouth full of sharpened teeth, his voice altered by one of Nixon’s patented voice synthesizers. “We just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Was that how the Klingons say it?”
“Actually, Klingons don’t wish each other happy birthday,” Murphy said. “So I said, ‘If a warrior ignores duty, acts dishonorably, or is disloyal, he is nothing.’ ”
“That’s actually way cooler. Thanks.”
Murphy and Stone straightened up and beamed proudly, and wished him happy birthday again before marching off toward the pastry bar.
A few minutes later Cabrillo stood alone fetching a cup of coffee.
Kevin Nixon sheepishly meandered over, his spurs clinking with each step.
He was one of the few Oregon crew members that wasn’t former military.
After his sister was killed in a terrorist attack, he decided to take a stand and left Tinseltown in search of a more significant life.
Technically, it found him—a billet on the Oregon, deploying his special talents.
“Happy birthday, Chairman,” he said, offering his hand.
“Thanks, Kevin. Nice shindig.” He glanced around the room still buzzing with party energy. “You went to a lot of trouble to do all of this.”
“Just my way of saying thank you,” Nixon responded.
“For what? Getting older is like falling off the back of a turnip truck. It kinda happens all by itself.”
“I turned fifty last month,” Nixon said.
“Quite a milestone.”
“I’ve been reflecting on my time on the Oregon. Without a doubt, these have been the best years of my life.”
“Not a lot of starlets and after-party shenanigans around here.” Cabrillo held up his empty plate. “Though we’ve got some pretty mean cheesecake.”
Nixon blushed. The brilliant special effects artist had worked with some of Hollywood’s most famous actors, directors, and executives.
They were the beautiful people with all of the money and power and privileges the industry could afford.
But none of them had ever impressed Nixon the way Cabrillo did.
“I don’t miss any of it. Besides, it almost killed me.
” He touched his finger to the side of his nose and sucked air through it like a vacuum cleaner, an embarrassed nod toward a prior affection for illicit drugs.
Nixon stood tall and trim in front of Cabrillo.
In fact, the two men were about the same size.
But when Nixon first came on board he was a physical wreck and weighed over three hundred pounds.
Dr. Huxley had put him on a strict diet and exercise regimen, literally saving his life.
Cabrillo smiled. “You’re a great addition to the crew. Your services have been invaluable.”
“I used to be wrapped up in my own career and my own vanity, but the war on terror woke me up. I just didn’t know what to do about it.
You gave me a place to use my skills. I’ve seen and done things I never could have imagined, and all in service to my country.
” Kevin gestured toward the crowded room.
“This little ‘shindig’ was my way to thank you for the opportunity to serve my country and this crew. You’ve given me a life with purpose—a life worth living. ”
Cabrillo was moved by Nixon’s heartfelt words and saw the deep emotion in his eyes. He knew it took a lot for Nixon to express himself this way.
“Every time you do your thing, you serve this crew and me. That’s thanks enough.”
Nixon reached out with an awkward hug and whispered in Juan’s ear. “You gave me my life back. I can never repay you for that.”
“You don’t have to.”
Kevin stepped back. “I’ve seen you risk your life for this crew time and time again. Just know that wherever you lead, we’ll all follow—even through the fiery gates of hell.”
Cabrillo saw the fierce determination in his eyes.
He believed him.