Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 3

---

They sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the harbour. It was a perfect West Coast summer night, the sky overhead filled with stars. There was a full moon and a cool breeze blew inland from the Strait of Georgia.

The smell of salt, fish, and hemp, the hundreds of smells that mark any port city or town combined to give the small port city a distinctive air, the smell of the sea. The harbour lights, the lights from the small boats and ocean trawlers anchored in the bay, shimmered and sparkled across the dark waters of Comox Harbour. In the middle distance the lights of Aurora shone faintly. Above them the red aircraft warning light atop the Mast flashed on and off.

The sound of a bugle drifted on the light breeze wafting across the harbour and, as the last, sad, note of the "Last Post" reached them as they sat at a table on the terrace of the shore side café, the hundred points of light that marked Aurora began to blink out one by one. The Gunner looked at his watch, looked at the distant lights disappearing, nodded slightly, and returned to his food.

Joel sighed softly. He had not planned to say anything until he left on Sunday, but after seeing that look, he thought now was as good time as any. "I'm leaving for Seattle," he said bluntly.

The Gunner gave him a quizzical look and placed his fork on the table. "That's pointed, if I may say so," he said quietly. "May I ask when, and why?"

Joel looked directly at him. "When is soon." He pushed his plate of half-eaten food away and looked across the table into The Gunner's hazel eyes. "As to the why of it?" He smiled ruefully. "I could lie to you and tell you that it was because my parents are becoming suspicious and it's best if I left town for a while."

"Are they?"

Joel shrugged. "Probably. I am 28 years old, Stevie, which is old for a Chinese male to be unmarried. My brothers are all married and breeding, even Timmy, and he is only 23. I cannot use the excuse that my cousin Michael has used for years and say that I am waiting for the right dynastic match. Eventually the right family will come along and before I know it I will be engaged and on my way to the altar!" He grinned self-consciously. "I am a catch, Stevie. I am a scion of a family of Mandarins, aristocrats. My mother is a Chan, sister to Uncle Harry Chan, and auntie to Michael Chan, who is the Viceroy."

"The what?" The Gunner was intrigued and surprised. "I've heard of Uncle Harry Chan, who is dead! I've never heard of Michael Chan. And how is he a 'Viceroy'?"

"Michael Chan was Uncle Henry's heir and successor. When the old boy kicked off Michael became the Viceroy of Chinatown. He runs the family businesses and that means he runs Chinatown. He is royalty, Stevie."

The Gunner had not been aware that Joel was so well connected. "Royalty?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Joel nodded forlornly. "The Chans are Mandarins of jade rank." He gave The Gunner a weak smile. "The Chiangs are mere cousins, remittance men. We have family connections with Michael, who is the most powerful Chinese from British Columbia to Ontario in the East. Michael's business interests include ties to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and San Francisco. The Chiangs are not a part of his business interests and he does not approve of me."

"So, because of your family ties, because of the power your family represents, or has access to, you are on the auction block." The Gunner laughed quietly. He looked Joel up and down. "I can see where you would command a more than decent dowry."

"Please, Stevie, it is not funny!" Joel's face darkened. "You do not know my family and you do not know what could happen to me if my parents ever found out that I am gay. If that happens I am dead." He saw the shocked look on The Gunner's face. "In my culture being gay is an abomination, even more abominable than in yours. A gay son is a terrible shame, a great loss of face. It would not be so bad if it was just my family, but it is worse because a Chinese family is everybody who has any claim to blood relationship. Not only would my father lose face, but all his male relatives would lose face, my brothers, my uncles, my cousins."

The Gunner raised an eyebrow. "Including Michael Chan?"

Joel nodded. "Most definitely Michael Chan! And believe me when I say it, you do not want to be the cause of him losing face. In some ways Michael is very traditional and causing him to lose face would bring out the traditionalist in him." Joel lapsed into silence. He dared not go any further.

"You could marry," suggested The Gunner softly. "I know men who hide their true selves in marriage. They maintain discreet relationships and nobody is the wiser. It happens all the time."

"It happens because those men are willing to live a lie," responded Joel tartly. "I am not. It happens because those men are willing to sublimate their urges, or confine themselves to what you call a discreet relationship with another man. I cannot do that!"

"Why can't you?"

"Because, Stevie, I love men. I always have. I have been sexually active since I was nine! I was blowing my cousins, and two of my brothers, when I was 12! When I was in high school I sucked or fucked my way through every senior class for three years. The only reason I stopped was because Michael was going to the same school and put a stop to my activities."

"So, Michael knows?"

"Yes, Steve, he knows." He looked knowingly at The Gunner. "He will never expose me."

"You slept with him," said The Gunner. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Joel smiled, but did not answer. "From high school I graduated to the undergrads at UBC, to the sailors of Wreck Beach and the denizens of the bathhouses of Vancouver. To put my character and conduct in perspective, and in language that even you can understand, I am a slut for cock!"

The Gunner's jaw fell open. It was a long time before he could speak. "Joel, I love you!" he declared.

"No, you do not!" returned Joel, a flash of anger blazing in his dark brown eyes. "You think you do, but you do not! And even if you did love me, I could never love you!" A sad, desperate look came into Joel's eyes. "I cannot love you the way you want to be loved, Steve. I could never be faithful to you. I would see a man, a boy, whatever, and if I wanted him I would go after him. You want commitment and I want freedom. I need to get away from you or I will lose that freedom!"

"I have never stopped you from doing anything you wanted to do," protested The Gunner. "Have I ever made any demands on you?"

Joel shook his head. "No, but there is something about you, something that changes the man you are with, something that makes that man want to be as much like you as possible. There is also the fact that while yes, in your own way you are in love with me . . ."

"What do you mean, in my own way?" interrupted The Gunner angrily, the colour in his face rising.

"Please, let me finish!" Joel gripped the arms of the chair. "It is not that you do not love me, it's that you love something more." He waved his arms toward the few burning lights of Aurora and pointed. "You love that more than me. You love that more than life." The Gunner opened his mouth to speak but

Joel motioned him to silence. "I do not mean just that place over there. I mean the whole ball of wax, the guns, the ships, the uniforms, the flags, the camaraderie, the fucking exclusiveness of the Navy. You would cut off your balls before you would betray something that would, in a New York minute, cut them off for you and feed 'em to the fishes if it knew what you were."

He took a deep breath and continued on. "I've seen you," Joel said with emphasis, "I've seen how you react when the Navy is mentioned. I've seen how your back gets just a little straighter when the band plays 'Heart of Oak'! I've seen you get all misty-eyed when you hear the 'Navy Hymn'!"

The anger, the frustration, that had been bubbling acidly deep within Joel for months, spewed forth. "I've seen the look of pride and arrogance in your eyes when you see those cadets over there!" Again he thrust his hand toward the lights of Aurora. "I've seen how you react when you see the cadets marching, doing what you think is the only thing to do. It's your life but it is not my life, and it never will be." He stood up abruptly. "Let's get out of here. Let's walk."

The Gunner threw some money on the table to pay for the food and followed Joel out of the restaurant.

They walked around Harbour Square in silence, and then stopped and leaned on the railings overlooking the water. "If I live in fear it's the price I have to pay," began The Gunner. "I have to pay it because the Navy will not change, and I cannot change."

"I know," sighed Joel. "And neither can I." He ran his hand down The Gunner's back. "I know what I am, Steve, and I admit it. You want a monogamous relationship. You would be faithful to me and I would betray you with the first sexy piece of ass that took my eye." He picked up a pebble lying at his feet and skimmed it along the water. "When you see a sailor walking down the street you check him out. So do I, but where I am trying to figure out how to get into the guy's pants, you are checking the press of his trousers, the shine of his shoes, checking whether or not his hair is cut to regulation standards!"

Stooping, Joel looked for another stone to toss. Finding one, he straightened and flung it into the dark, cold waters of the harbour. "You're Navy, Stevie. I am not and I never will be. You love the Navy. I do not. I hate it for what it's doing to you. You deserve better, Steve." He hugged The Gunner, and then pulled away. "I've thought about us for a long time, and I decided long ago that even if I wanted to be with you I would not. I cannot compete with your damned Navy. If it was another guy I might have a chance, but I cannot compete against the Navy."

"Joel, it's my world. I have lived in it since I was 17."

"It is not my world." Joe replied, his voice full of the sadness he truly felt. "What you need is someone from your world, someone who loves you and the Navy, someone who thinks and talks and acts like you do. I truly hope you find him."

"I thought I had." The Gunner put his arm around Joel's shoulder. "I cannot talk you out of it?" he asked, hoping his tone hid the desperation he felt.

"No." Joel shook his head. "I need to get away, Stevie. I have to get away. Seattle is where my work is and I need to be there."

"So, it's over for us?"

"In a way, yes." Joel turned and started to walk towards The Gunner's Land Rover. "We'll still see each other, if you want. I would like to see you because, to be honest, you turn me on. But if I meet someone, or you do, it's over." He waited until The Gunner unlocked the car, and then got in. "Please try to understand, Steve."

"I understand, Joel," replied The Gunner, turning the key and starting the car. "Maybe not all of it, but enough." He turned the wheel and started for the apartment.

******

When they arrived Joel pleaded a headache and went to bed. The Gunner sat up, marking test papers. The cadets were examined every day and expected their marks to be posted when they arrived in their classroom the next morning. When he was finished he poured himself a generous glass of red wine. Another difference he thought. He liked the good stuff; Joel had more plebeian tastes, and would have downed a beer. As he sat and drank The Gunner considered his position and his options.

A long time ago, when he was barely 18, freshly graduated from HMCS CORNWALLIS, the RCN Recruit School in Digby, Nova Scotia, and struggling with his homosexuality, Steve Winslow had made a terrible mistake. He had fallen in love with the wrong boy. He had compounded his mistake by declaring his love and suffered the consequences.

Terribly hurt in the way that only teenage boys can be hurt, the young seaman vowed never to let such a thing happen to him again.

The beating he had received was nothing compared to the feeling of rejection and disgust he felt for being what he was, so much so that he deliberately avoided forming close friendships with any of his shipmates.

For the next four years The Gunner had remained true to his personal vow, lonely, celibate, and full of fear that his terrible secret would be discovered. He served in several HMC ships, traveling to foreign ports, always avoiding situations that would in any way compromise him.

All that had changed when Able Seaman Winslow was drafted to HMS EXCELLENT, the Royal Navy School of Gunnery then established on Whale Island, a convict-built isle in Portsmouth Harbour. There he had met, and been seduced by, his tall, dashing, and extremely handsome Term Lieutenant, who had taught him how to love. The Gunner could have loved his Term Lieutenant, but neither really wanted it. He had left England wiser and no longer ashamed of who or what he was.

For the next few years The Gunner had played the Game, pretending to be the straightest thing on two feet. He dated girls when he had to, he told anti-gay jokes, drank with the boys and never allowed his personal feelings or his needs to in any way impact on his life or his burgeoning career, assuming a public persona that belied his inner self.

The public Steve Winslow never condemned, never commented when a shipmate or a barracks stanchion, with the subtle hints that The Gunner had come to recognize so well, showed that he was interested in a special friendship or suggested a late night shower together. He avoided entanglements and close friendships.

The private Steve Winslow lived the double life of a homosexual man in a hostile heterosexual world, finding occasional solace with anonymous civilians he met in grotty, anonymous bars such as the one he had discovered in Vietnam when serving as a member of the UN Observation Team, a small bar in a fetid alley in Cholon, a bar frequented by the last remnants of the ANZAC Contingent. Like him, the Aussies and the Kiwis were playing the Game to their mates but in the bar they were themselves.

The Gunner had also met an American who was stationed at the Embassy. They became fuck buddies, nothing more and nothing less.

In retrospect The Gunner thought that Joel was only doing what he himself had done, although Joel did not have the same restrictions, nor the worry of possible discovery that every gay male in the military had and, at the end of the day, Joel was only doing with men what so many of The Gunner's shipmates were doing with women. The sexes might be different but the principle was the same: getting laid.

The Gunner had served with men whose first thought the moment the gangway was down was to get ashore, get a drink, and get laid. He knew men who had been laid in every port they ever visited, men whose prowess was legendary. He knew men who boasted that they had never paid for it in their lives, relying on the fact that in every port there were women, some professionals, many not, who loved a sailor. What was it the old song said? Ah, yes. All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a tar, for there's something about a sailor, and you know what sailors are!

The Gunner snorted and laughed quietly. Nice girls, bad girls, it made no difference to a sailor, who was basically a man in a funny suit with a hardon. His messmates bragged of their conquests and the Navy, being the Navy and wise to the ways of sailors, neither encouraged nor discouraged the men.

The powers that were recognized that man was essentially polygamous, and prone to taking advantage of any situation that would allow him to couple with any female willing to lie down and spread her legs. The Navy was worried about disease however, and the matelots were constantly bombarded with films and lectures about the diseases that could be contracted if a man failed to protect himself and while the Navy was not at all concerned about the health of the young women who gave themselves so freely, it was concerned about the health and welfare of its seamen.

So concerned was the Navy about the health of its sailors that in the drawer of every Quartermaster's desk in every ship there were foil packets of condoms, free for the taking. Contracting a venereal disease was a serious, chargeable offence, a self- inflicted wound, and grounds for a court martial.

The Gunner returned to his small kitchen, switching to rum. He drank slowly. Joel was a normal, unexceptional male who satisfied his needs where and when he needed. Unlike the friends of The Gunner however, Joel had no wife, no partner, to go home to, which the married ones always did. They went home to wives or sweethearts who either did not know, or chose not to know, what their husbands and lovers were doing in foreign climes. They loved their men, would stand by them, and so long as they came home to them, what they did when away was never questioned.

Joel was a creature who craved men, many men, and he would never change. The Gunner did not flatter himself that he could ever change Joel, just as Joel could never change him. But was that a good reason to simply give up, give up the happiness they had had together? To give up the happiness they could have together?

The more he thought the more The Gunner was determined to do whatever it took to keep Joel with him. He would make no demands and if all Joel wanted was sex, then he would have it. The Gunner had decided he would be waiting when Joel came home. No matter how many men Joel slept with, no matter how many dicks Joel sucked, The Gunner would be waiting.

I understand where Joel is coming from, The Gunner thought. I cannot change and he cannot change me, but if he thinks I am just going to roll over and forget about him, he has got another think coming. If I go down, I go down with Battle Ensigns flying and all guns firing.

******

Joel lay in bed staring into the blackness and listening to The Gunner as he moved about in the kitchen. He heard the sliding door to the lanai open, and then close. He sighed heavily, for he knew exactly what Steve was doing: rationalizing and plotting to keep him. Again Joel sighed. Why could the man not understand that their affair was over? It had never been anything but an affair and now Joel wanted out! He understood all too well what it was that The Gunner wanted. He wanted a lover, a partner, a mate and Joel was none of those. He was not prepared to be something he did not want to be.

Pounding the mattress in frustration, Joel growled his mild disgust. Damn the man! Why could he not understand that there were men out there who had no intention of nesting, of setting up housekeeping or being domesticated? He liked trolling Wreck Beach and ogling the smooth, young bodies on display. He adored wandering the narrow, murky passageways of the bathhouses, peering into the small rooms at the hard-bodied men who wanted one thing and one thing only, to fuck and be fucked. They did not want to be made love to, and neither did Joel.

Why could neither Steve, nor Michael before him, understand that? Joel smiled grimly. It was no wonder that neither Steve nor Michael would understand. They were both honourable men, conservative men who insisted on living in a straight world, who lived ordered, disciplined lives.

They were men who never allowed public displays of affection, men who demanded discretion in all things, men who would never be caught dead lying naked on any beach, or wandering the corridors of some grotty bathhouse. They were men who never fucked. They made love.

Joel snorted in disgust at the thought. Instead of being repressed, unsatisfied and unhappy, both Michael and Steve could have been the happiest faggots in the world. They did not have to go looking, to troll the beach or haunt the out of the way hiking paths of Stanley Park. Both men had an ample supply of luscious, willing young men if only either of them would bother to look!

And such men! Joel almost salivated at the thought of the young men Michael could take advantage of. The troglodyte Tsangs had been dismissed and exiled to their hovels and chickens even before Uncle Henry's oversize casket had been lowered into his tomb. In their place was a small army of handsome, slim, wasp-waisted young men, some imported from Hong Kong, others from the UK and America. Joel could not help thinking of the young men who now guarded the Viceroy of Chinatown. He slipped his hands down the front of his underpants and fondled the spongy head of his penis. Not one of those young men would ever find his way into Michael's bed, for Michael was a honourable man.

The Gunner was as bad as Michael. He was assigned to something called the Small Boats Unit, and seconded to the Sea Cadets as a Gunnery Instructor. In the former he trained Naval Reservists, lithe, strong young men. In the latter he trained Sea Cadets.

There were 18 Naval Reserve Divisions scattered across the Dominion of Canada and every summer upwards of 1,500 virile men, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, were rotated through CFB Esquimalt for training, young men at the height of their beauty and sexuality, away from home and parental control, living in a world of men where any lingering doubts about their sexuality, or fantasies, could be dispelled or fulfilled, living in a world of men where booze was cheap and inhibitions quickly lost. Joel would have jumped the bones of any one of them at the least provocation.

Equally delicious were the cadets. Not the younger boys, the 13, 14, 15 and 16-year-olds, who were secure in their innocence, but the older boys, the 17, 18, and 19-year-olds who filled out their uniforms, their tight, bell-bottom trousers, trousers that showed off their round, firm butts and well packed baskets and skin-tight jumpers that seemed etched with every muscle in the chests! Joel moaned with desire and his hand slipped lower, his fingers finding, and rimming, his puckered anus.

Here was The Gunner with hundreds of young men, handsome, prone to hero worship and he does nothing! And why? Why because it would compromise his integrity! It would destroy the trust placed in him by his superiors. He had a duty to perform! Joel rolled his eyes and concentrated on pleasuring himself. Let Michael and Stevie keep their honour. He would enjoy life and to hell with them both. Joel was so engrossed in what he was doing he did not hear The Gunner come into the room.

He walked into the bedroom. Joel was lying on his side, facing away from him. The Gunner got into the bed, lying as close as he could to Joel, moulding his body to his lover's. He reached over and put his hand down the front of Joel's briefs, fondling his genitals and chuckling softly at his tumescence. "Been having a little fun?" he asked.

Joel rolled over to face The Gunner, their foreheads touching. "I had to do something, seeing as you were busy in the other room sulking," he complained. He could feel The Gunner's hand squeezing his balls and his dick started to throb with desire. Joel grinned wickedly and said, "You just cannot help yourself, can you?" He put his hand into the fly of The Gunner's boxers and squeezed his hard penis, rubbing his thumb along the curving glans.

The Gunner groaned and kissed the back of Joel's neck. "That feels good. Can we keep on doing it?" He sat up abruptly and began to slowly pull down Joel's briefs. "I need you, Joel, just as much as you need me."

Joel ignored The Gunner's comment. "I'm still leaving in the morning," he warned. "And I am still going to Seattle. Nothing is going to change, Steve." God did he want to get laid! He raised his hips, allowing The Gunner to pull his briefs off his body. His hard penis, rosy red above the deep brown circumcision ring, bounced slightly and then flopped against his stomach. He pulled his legs back and spread them. "Tonight, though, I want you in me!"

"I'm not giving up on you," growled The Gunner. He bent down and his tongue traced the throbbing vein than ran along the underside of Joel's penis. "We can work this out."

Joel groaned softly as The Gunner's tongue ran along the spongy head of his hard penis. He wanted to stop but could not. His mind reeled with conflicting emotions. He wanted The Gunner. He cared for The Gunner. But he could not live with The Gunner. He reached down and pushed his erection forward, presenting it to his lover. Joel gasped as The Gunner's mouth engulfed his turgid organ. "Make me cum, Stevie," he whispered harshly. "Fuck me! FUCK me hard!"

The Gunner, lost in desire and lust, failed to recognize Joel's words.

******

The Phantom awoke shortly after one o'clock in the morning. He yawned, stretched, and then reached down to scratch himself. "Hell and sheeit," he thought, as he felt his dick and balls hanging out of his boxers, "I hope nobody came in to check on me." He got out of bed and stripped off the boxers. It was time to go visiting.

He began his meticulous preparations. First he showered, using an unscented soap. His father, who had served in the Airborne and never let anyone forget it, had told him that a good soldier never used perfumed soap or after-shave. One who did usually ended up dead. The enemy could smell him coming a mile away.

The Phantom gave himself a quick jerk in the shower. He noticed that he did not cum as much as he had earlier. Good. He wanted to go in with empty balls. By jerking off now he would be able to visit three, perhaps four, boys before his testicles ached for release.

After ejaculating, The Phantom rinsed his body in clear water, drying himself with a clean, freshly laundered towel. In his room The Phantom began to carefully dress for his visit to the cadets of Aurora. As he laid out the clothing he would wear tonight The Phantom paid heed to the lessons in the art of camouflage taught to him by Sam's father.

Never, the experienced woodsman and hunter had warned, wear anything that will draw the game's attention to you. Dress for the terrain, move slowly, and you brought home a buck. Fuck around, don't pay attention to the little details, and you eat beans.

The Phantom checked the clothing he would wear. Every item had been laundered in clear, warm water. All he could smell was clean.

He began dressing, first slipping on plain, navy blue briefs with no visible waistband. Next, a black T-shirt, then black socks, followed by a pair of black chinos and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, dark navy, The Phantom pulled on black leather hiking boots. The rest of his gear, a black ski mask and gloves, were in the saddlebag on his bike.

Sitting at his desk, relaxing, The Phantom read through a small pile of notes and papers he kept in the top drawer.

Sam's father had said that to catch a monkey you had to learn all about him, where he lived, where he slept, what he ate, where and when he shit. It was easy to hunt for a monkey. It was a hell of a lot harder to catch one.

The Phantom had learned all about the particular habits of one species of monkey, Sea Cadets. They were, first and foremost, creatures of habit and routine. Their lives were ruled by Navy time, Navy tradition, their days divided into Watches. He had been around long enough to know that in their tightly structured lives each cadet had to be at a certain place, at a certain time, every day, in class, on duty or in his rack. There were variables, to be sure, but The Phantom had prepared for these as well. He first considered getting onto Heron Spit, which was relatively easy.

The roadbed of the causeway that led to the treasure houses of Heron Spit was raised a good four feet above the high tide marker, and there were clumps of sea grass all along the roadbed, which made for good cover from Comox Road all the way down to the Mess Hall. The first hurdle to be overcome was the Duty Watch in the guardhouse, which was located directly opposite the Mess Hall.

Knowing who were the Officer of the Day, the Duty Petty Officer, and the Roundsmen on duty was important. Some duty personnel were by the book, or "Pusser." They patrolled at random intervals, never to a pattern, every hour on the hour, in accordance with Standing Orders.

A Pusser Duty Officer stayed in the guardhouse, or patrolled with the Duty Petty Officer. He was supposed to make rounds at least once during his watch, and could do so at any time. While there was a small sleeping cabin off the main room of the guardhouse, a Pusser, by the book officer, never slept in it.

The Petty Officer of the Watch was the linchpin and a keen Petty Officer made sure that the Duty Quartermaster and the Boatswain's Mate were up and awake. He made sure that Rounds were conducted on time, and in the correct sequence. He never slept during his watch.

Then there were the slackers, the barracks stanchions who more or less just went through the motions. They made rounds once, usually at the beginning of the Watch, getting it over with. The slack Duty officer slept in his private cabin for most of the Watch. The Duty Watchmen would play cards, doze, or read, just passing time with as little effort as possible until it was time to shake their relief.

Knowing who was on duty was one of the easiest things in the world to find out. Each day the Ship's Office published Routine Orders which, amongst other things, detailed who was on watch and when. The Phantom picked up today's Routine Orders and saw that Little Big Man was the Duty Petty Officer. Not good, but not bad either. He was fairly predictable in that he could be counted on to do a good, thorough inspection. He could also be counted on to do it at the beginning of the Watch.

The Phantom considered the events earlier in the day and smiled slowly. Little Big Man would be paying particular attention to the Twins, who were on Defaulters and confined to barracks. Little Big Man would be sniffing around the Staff Barracks most of his Watch, which was fine by The Phantom. He had no intention of going anywhere near the Gunroom.

He consulted Routine Orders again and saw that the Duty Officer was Sub-Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent, a good kid, but an unknown since this would be his first time as Officer of the Day and a variable that had to be considered. The other Watchkeepers were a mixed bag of Sea Puppies and seasoned cadets.

Reading the names, The Phantom considered that he would have to be careful tonight. The seasoned cadets were supposed to train the Sea Puppies and although they usually kept to a pattern, starting with Barracks No.1, the Cooks Barracks, and the closest block to the guardhouse, then on to the Band barracks, then the others until all four H-shaped barracks blocks had been inspected, he could never be sure.

Timing had to be considered. The watch closed up at 2345. Around 0030, after reading any special orders, talking shop, and taking a piss or a dump, the Roundsmen would start their routine. With luck most, if not all, of the watchmen would be dozing, and off guard around 0200. At 0330 the Roundsman and the Boatswain's mate would go into the barracks to wake up the next Watch.

Knowing which cadet was duty during the Morning Watch would determine the amount of time The Phantom could spend in each barracks, or one barracks. It varied day to day. At 0400 the oncoming Watchmen were mostly Boatswains and Gunners. This was good in that tonight he could visit the cooks, in Barracks 1, and the buglers, in Barracks 3. The cooks were shaken at 0400, the Duty Bugler at 0530. The cadets would be sleeping soundly and there would be no worries about someone barging in to wake his relief.

There were other barracks he would like to visit. Barracks 2, which housed the Storekeepers and Bunting Tossers, and Barracks 4, which housed the Bandsmen, contained some very tasty morsels. He did not consider visiting Barracks 5 and 6, which housed the New Entry and General Training Cadets. These barracks he would avoid as the cadets were far too young for his tastes, the oldest being perhaps 14, the youngest 12 years and six months, this being the minimum age for a cadet to attend any camp. To The Phantom's mind these cadets were little boys and he had no interest in them.

Barracks 7 and 8, which housed the Boatswains and Gunners, were definitely worth a visit. These he would visit later in the summer, when not so many of them were Duty. The other barracks blocks, the Chiefs' Mess, the Gunroom, the Petty Officers Mess, and the barracks housing the Chippy-Chaps and the Stokers were all grouped at the far end of the parade square. Getting to these barracks would be time consuming, and there was a lot of open ground.

While the Phantom had no doubt that he could do it, he hesitated. There were shadows, and buildings that he could sneak behind, but there was also the barrier of the dusty, beaten-earth parade square, wide, open and without cover of any kind. Thinking, The Phantom decided against crossing the parade square. The tasty, ripe specimens of the Lower Camp would never know his visits.

Having decided which barracks to visit, he now considered which cadet he would help make it through the night. He did not want to repeat the experience of his very first visit. Light sleepers, no matter how tempting, had to be avoided. Heavy sleepers were a different matter. He knew from health class when sleep was deepest. The best time was between two and three in the morning. Not a problem.

The Phantom sniffed derisively. His teachers could teach him all about sleep patterns, but ask about jacking off, or knocking a girl up, and he got detention. Finding out which cadet was a deep sleeper was perhaps the easiest thing of all to learn for all he had to do was listen to the cadets grumbling. They moaned and complained constantly, about their routine, about who had smelly feet, or who wore the same pair of underpants for days on end.

The cadets complained about their lack of sleep, and they complained about one another, constantly harping when someone who should have gotten up to relieve them did not, or were late.

Sleep was a precious commodity to the cadets. They were on the go from 0600 until 2230. They attended classes, drilled, and stood watches, which meant some of them got up at six and went to bed at four the next morning. The only time off they had was on Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday, and sometimes not even then. For good reason some slept like the dead, which made waking them up difficult. Harry for instance, was almost impossible to wake up.

Thumper, Little Big Man, and a host of others, were notorious for the difficulty in waking them up. They had to be shaken hard, always on the shoulder, or have their feet almost pulled from their ankles (touching below the waist or above the knees was not allowed), before they woke up. Someone was always complaining about them.

Others, on the other hand, were light sleepers. The Twins always awoke at the slightest touch, as did Two Strokes. Just by listening to the idle chatter of the galley cadets as they worked told The Phantom that Sandro and Ray were heavy sleepers.

Knowing that the tobacco smoke would seep into his clothing and linger on his breath, The Phantom resisted the urge to have a cigarette. He took no chances even though he knew that the smell of tobacco smoke was not out of place in Aurora. The cadets were not supposed to smoke, but many of the older boys did anyway and were always sneaking off to do the guy thing and have a quick smoke in some out-of- the-way corner.

As he rose from his desk The Phantom glanced at his watch: 0130. A smile of intrigue, danger and lust crossed his face as he left his bedroom. As quietly as he could he left the house and took his bike from the garage. Before mounting he checked and made sure he had the rest of his gear. Satisfied, he mounted his bike and peddled off into the night.

******

The Phantom's house was only a short dogleg away from the road leading to Aurora, which was ill lit and rarely, if ever patrolled by the local constabulary, or by anyone else for that matter. The local police tended to concentrate downtown, where the bars and the tourists were. It was a joke at Aurora that the MP's from CFB Comox only came by once a week or so to make sure that the place was still there.

As he expected, The Phantom passed no cars, and saw no one. The road was almost always free of traffic. Except for Paymaster-Lieutenant Dickensen and Kyle, all the other high-priced help lived either in Comox, as did Number One and The Gunner, or Courtenay, where the Commanding Officer lived. Except for the morning and evening "rush hours" most, if not all, traffic was confined to the daylight duty hours.

The Phantom stopped a short distance before the causeway curved to enter Aurora, dismounted, and pushed his bike a hundred yards into the woods that lined the road. Here, well hidden by the knee-deep undergrowth and closely growing trees was a small shack that he and Sam had discovered on one of their rambles.

It was weather beaten, and the roof leaked, but the building was basically sound. Whoever had built the shack was long gone and when the boys had found the place it was evident that no one had lived in it, or been near it, in a long time.

They cleaned out some of the critters that had taken up residence, swept the earthen floor of most of the filth, and hung an old blanket over the only window. They had installed an old bed and mattress they had found at the city dump, hoping to make the old shack one of their jerking places.

The Phantom sat on the ancient bed and pulled on his mask, then his gloves. He looked around and surveyed the broken down bed and the rickety table standing against one wall. He smiled tightly. Sam and he had christened the bed and that was all they had done. Two days later Sam had fallen victim to one of his periodic fits of morality and never returned to the little hut. Now the only beating off in the old shack was when The Phantom stopped by to relieve himself after visiting the cadets for he would never have made it home without a quick wank.

He left the shack and walked to the road, checking left, and then right. Nothing. Walking quickly The Phantom crossed the road and entered the high scrub grass. He walked on, stopping frequently and checking for traffic. He heard nothing.

Following the curve of the causeway and keeping clear of the well-lit sign announcing the entry to Aurora, The Phantom swerved to walk across the cadets' swimming beach, reduced now, with the tide in, to a narrow strip of sand, and then crept along the narrow pathway leading towards the base. Just before the last hurdle, the small, open parking area beside the Mess Hall, The Phantom paused, looking ahead, and then to his right.

Across the dark waters of the harbour were the lights of Comox. To his left the roadway leading to the guardhouse was only a few feet above his head. It was well lit so he ducked down, keeping below the level of the roadbed. He saw that the beach ahead was narrowing, as the tide flowed into the harbour. By the time he returned this way it would be on the ebb and he would have more room to navigate.

The landmass in front of The Phantom began to widen as it formed the training base and as he neared the Mess Hall, and the guardhouse, he heard voices. He stopped and looked over the lip of the roadbed and saw Little Big Man and Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent. They were just entering the guardhouse, which meant that luck was with him. They had just finished Rounds. Had they been going the other way it would have meant that they were just starting on their patrol and The Phantom would have had to find a place to hide until Rounds were over.

Crouching low, The Phantom watched the cadet and the officer enter the guardhouse, then scrambled up the bank and slipped around the end of the Mess Hall. There was only one light burning dimly over the stairs leading to the galley.

Keeping to the shadows as best he could, The Phantom moved past the first set of dark barracks. He stopped in the wide space between Barracks 2 and 3 and listened. Except for the noise of the night insects, and the soft sighing of the tide seeping slowly up the beach, he heard nothing. Hunched over, he rounded the corner of Barracks 3, mounted the concrete stoop, stripped off his gloves and entered.

The Phantom waited for his eyes to adjust to the soft glow of the red emergency lights. He heard the sounds of sleeping boys, soft snores, snorts, an occasional rustling of sheets as one of them turned or tossed as he slept. From the far end he heard a soft, incoherent mumbling. Someone talking in his sleep. Everything was normal.

Slipping past the sleeping Sylvain and André, The Phantom headed for the blond-haired drummer boy he had not visited the evening before. The cadet lay under a window, midway down the mess, shadowed by the bunk above.

The Phantom knelt beside the bunk and slowly pulled down the sheet that covered the sleeping cadet until it was just below the boy's knees. As he expected, the cadet was wearing only the ubiquitous white briefs and The Phantom could see the outline of the cadet's short penis and tightly packed testicles under the thin fabric of the briefs. In the dim light he examined the cadet, who was about 15, promising tallness. The boy had thin, not quite fully formed arms, and good, muscular legs, with just the barest hint of blond peach fuzz dusting them. His face was unblemished, with a strong jaw, with just a touch of delicacy that many young boys had before all their hormones kicked in. The young drummer's hair was blond, and long on top, which he normally teased into a widow's peak.

The Phantom reached over and pulled down the front of the boy's underpants. The cadet's circumcised penis rested against his thigh. His testicles, the size of large eggs, were contained in a low-hanging sac that hung between his half-spread legs. Surprisingly, for the boy's body was completely hairless, he had a thick, dark bush at the base of his penis.

With his free hand The Phantom slowly stroked the soft flesh of the cadet's testicles, then his penis, which stirred and began to stiffen, thickening under his touch, rising up, a shaft of smooth, satin-covered steel, twitching as The Phantom stroked it gently, a small drop of pre-cum oozing over the darkened glans. The Phantom felt the boy's testicles tighten under his fingers.

On a whim The Phantom replaced the cadet's briefs, hiding his glory under the white cotton. He began to slowly stroke the hard flesh hidden by the white briefs with his hand. He felt the boy's testicles tighten against his body, held in place by the tight fitting briefs. His penis lay hard against his abdomen with his clearly defined mushroom just below the wide elastic band of his underpants. The Phantom stroked slowly up and down, applying just enough pressure to friction the drummer's erection with the cotton fabric. He felt the vein on the underside of the boy's cock thicken under his touch and his finger felt the dampness caused by the precum oozing from the softly curving helmet. He slowly stroked up and down the thick length of flesh.

Stimulated and excited the boy slowly thrust his hips as The Phantom stroked upward. The Phantom smiled as the boy shuddered and thrust again, his body responding to the approach of his orgasm, his cock trembling under The Phantom's touch. He was getting close and his breathing, which until now slow and steady, quickened. The Phantom watched as the cadet worked his mouth, his tongue darting in and out, licking his lips.

Concentrating on the tender skin on the underside of the boy's mushroom, The Phantom watched as the young cadet's face contorted with the pain and pleasure of nearing orgasm. A soft moan escaped the cadet's lips. He thrust his hips higher and his dick pulsed violently under The Phantom's touch. His balls expelled a huge wad of spunk, which was quickly absorbed by the cotton fabric of his briefs. The cadet's dick pulsed again, then again, and each time he thrust just a little higher, moaning softly as the warm, thick, river squirted from him.

The Phantom continued to stroke the squirming boy until his penis began to soften. He felt the thick layer of semen squishing under the boy's briefs, then lifted his fingers to his nose and smelled the distinctive, pleasant odour of fresh sperm. Pleased, The Phantom drew the sheet over the sleeping cadet and silently slipped away.

******

Keeping his hands in his pockets rather than putting his black gloves on, The Phantom retraced his steps and entered the Cooks Barracks where the darkness of the long mess deck was made darker by the high wall of the Mess Hall next door. He located Sandro first. The Russian boy was sleeping on his stomach, in a top bunk, his curving melon-shaped butt a tempting sight.

A frown of disappointment crossed The Phantom's face. He had been looking forward to doing Sandro. The cook had told him about his upcoming surgery and thought that it might be nice to give the young Russian something he would not be able to give himself for a long time. I would like to be around when that happens, thought The Phantom. He ran his hand along Sandro's firm backside, and then went in search of Ray.

He found the young cook in the lower bunk beside the wide doorway leading to the dimly lit heads and washplace that formed the double barracks into an H. Ray was lying on his back, his right arm raised, shielding his eyes from the light filtering from the open doors of the shower room. His legs were slightly spread, his left arm lying at his side. Ray's body, from mid-chest to his feet, was covered with the light, blue-checked coverlet that was issued to all cadets.

The Phantom moved into the shadows on the other side of Ray's bunk and pulled down the coverlet, revealing Ray's well-formed, boyishly muscular body, which was clad in the expected white briefs. His hairless chest rose and fell gently as he breathed. For some reason The Phantom was very attracted Ray. He could not explain it; all he knew was that he wanted to have him. He stroked Ray's tight package, and felt the young cook's penis harden.

Pulling down Ray's tight underpants, The Phantom cupped the young cook's smallish testicles, which were contained in a tight, smooth feeling scrotum. Ray's hard penis was five inches long, the upper quarter and his helmet a delicious dusky pink, gently rising and lowering in time with his never changing breathing.

Ray's sleek circumcised penis intrigued The Phantom. He wondered what it tasted like, so he bent down and slowly licked Ray's firm, engorged knob, which tasted wonderful, clean and light. He then kissed Ray's pee slit, which tasted just as fresh and clean as the part he had just licked. Much to The Phantom's surprise as he withdrew his lips Ray raised his hips slightly and held them up, offering his dick.

The Phantom slipped his hands under the waistband of Ray's briefs, slowly drawing them down, feeling Ray's smooth, taut ass cheeks as he did so. Not until The Phantom had pulled his briefs down around his knees did Ray lower his hips.

For a few moments The Phantom hesitated. He was somewhat at a loss. He had never had this happen before. Except for his hip movement Ray had not made any other movement. His breathing was just as steady as it had been before The Phantom stroked him to life.

Accepting Ray's reaction, and pleased at his gentle offering, The Phantom lowered his head and gently kissed the tender underside of Ray's gloriously pink helmet, and then did what he had wanted to do for a long time. He opened his mouth and slowly took Ray's mushroom into his warm, eager mouth, gingerly working his lips down the firm, thin shaft, stifling a gagging feeling in his throat, until his nose was buried in Ray's curly bush. He sucked at the base of Ray's cock and then moved upward; holding and sucking just the top half of the sleek, sweet-tasting tube of warm, firm flesh.

******

Ray had been drowsing in the half-world between sleep and wakefulness when he heard the door open and, for a while, he thought that the Roundsman was patrolling the barracks. The lack of further movement surprised him, however. He had expected to hear the clomp of heavy boots on the tiled deck as the Roundsman walked the length of the barracks. Then Ray snuggled deeper into his warm bunk, dismissing whoever it was from his mind.

It was not important. Someone was always shuffling about the barracks in the middle of the night, guys going to the heads for a pee, the Quartermaster waking the relief for the Duty Watch, Watchmen going on watch, Watchmen coming off watch. There was always movement of some kind or another, just as there was always a muted undercurrent of noise, the sounds of guys sleeping, or trying not to strangle themselves as they clenched their teeth when they orgasmed, which happened every night.

Ray always knew when Sandro was choking his chicken by the gurgling noises the Russian made when he shot his load. For his part Ray never beat off in bed. He was always up before the other cadets and took care of business in the showers, with no one the wiser.

As he began drifting deeper into sleep, Ray sensed a presence. His mind, befogged with sleep, registered a slight scent, clean and crisp, a scent that he had smelled before. His nose twitched slightly as his brain tried to identify the odour when suddenly his heart skipped a beat and his brain cleared. There was a hand, a finger, something, stroking his penis.

Ray could feel his dick hardening as his underpants were pulled down. He felt a hand cupping and fondling his balls, rolling them slowly in the soft bag that contained them. He stifled a groan of pleasure, willing himself to give no hint that he was awake. He neither knew nor cared who it was that was playing with him, caring only about the wonderful, glorious waves of divine pleasure rippling through his body.

His heart skipped another beat as warm, wet lips pressed against the underside of his dick, then gently kissed the tip of his enraged penis. Whoever it was wanted his cock and he raised his hips in offering. He had heard of such things happening and now they were happening to him!

Ray felt his briefs being pulled away and then his eyes flew open as his entire cock was engulfed with warmth! His fingers balled into tight fists as he fought all his instincts to groan and moan and bellow his delight at what was happening to him. Someone was sucking his dick!

******

The Phantom could not believe that he was actually sucking a cock. It tasted wonderful and felt natural. He loved the taste of it and, wanting to make it last, he sucked very slowly, moving his head up and down Ray's thickened erection, laving the raging head with his tongue. Fucking hell, thought The Phantom, This is wonderful!

He instinctively kept his teeth well away from Ray's sensitive skin, sucking gently, totally absorbed in his first taste of cock. He felt his own hard dick bucking in his tight pants. His balls were tight against his belly, and he could feel his seed boiling. He was getting close to shooting.

Ray lay there, breathing heavily, as The Phantom sucked him. The Phantom did not know if Ray was asleep or awake. He did not care. He just wanted to suck this magnificent specimen. Suddenly Ray gave a slight thrust, and his dick pulsed and a river of thick, warm liquid filled The Phantom's mouth, oozing out of the corners of his lips as he sucked.

The Phantom did not know what else to do with the glorious cream filling his mouth so he began swallowing greedily. As the first taste of Ray's semen set his taste buds on fire The Phantom blew, his dick pumping a massive load, spasming and thrusting against the fabric of his briefs. The Phantom, his mouth full of sweet cock, and sweeter tasting sperm, vaguely realized that he was cumming in synchronization with Ray. As Ray's ejaculation ended so did The Phantom's. He continued to suck and clean Ray's dick, which was beginning to shrink in his mouth. When he had swallowed every drop, and licked Ray's dick clean, The Phantom withdrew. He stood up and gazed at the now soft cock he had drained.

"Hell and sheeit," he whispered as he slowly drew the coverlet over Ray's flushed body. I've sucked a cock! he thought incredulously. I've actually sucked a cock. I've actually tasted another guy's cum!

Leaning down, The Phantom gently kissed Ray's slightly open mouth. He had never kissed a boy before, but this was a night for firsts and the feel of Ray's warm lips against his was intoxicating. But not as intoxicating as the feel of his dick in my mouth, he thought as he slowly pulled away

Slightly dazed, still overcome with the pleasure his body had given him, and the pleasure Ray's body had given him, The Phantom left the barracks. He recovered himself enough to make his way safely to the shack where he retrieved his bike, mounted it, and pedalled rapidly towards home, not realizing until he reached the road leading to his house that he still had his mask on.

The Phantom ripped his mask off, a broad smile of pleasure and satisfaction creasing his face. All he could think about was sucking Ray's dick. Hell and sheeit!

He stored his bike and all but glided up the stairs and into his room, where he stripped. He lay on his bed, his cum soaked briefs in his hand, every so often raising them and drinking in the odour of his fresh juice. Hell and sheeit! He breathed silently, pressing the damp cotton cloth to his nose, inhaling deeply the strange new odour, the slightly acrid, ammonia-like scent of himself. sucked a cock. I actually sucked a cock! Hell and FUCKING sheeit!

Holding out the cotton briefs, The Phantom wished that they were Ray's. He smiled and laughed quietly as he brought the scummed pants to his nose again. He was soaking his senses in his own effluent when what he really wanted to smell was Ray! He wanted more than ever now to wallow in smell of Ray. He had tasted Ray, a fleeting moment of almost indescribable wonder to him. He reasoned that if Ray's taste was glorious, why his odour, his scent, could hardly be less!

He would return to Ray and he would once again taste the nectar that flowed from Ray's penis, and he would return with a memory and a remembrance. He would hold Ray's sweet flesh in his mouth and when the moment of glory overwhelmed them both he would . . .

The Phantom gasped loudly as his body jerked and orgasm overwhelmed him, his hips thrusting upward as penis throbbed and pearl drops of warm semen were spattered across his chest.

He gave himself over to the rampaging feeling of ecstasy that rolled through his body. Ray had done it to him again!

******

The waves of pleasure, in small, diminishing ripples continued to course through Ray. His whole body was flushed and his mind was reeling. His tongue flicked rapidly around his mouth, searching for yet another taste of his semen. He was exhausted, sated, spent with delight.

"He sucked my cock!" Ray gasped quietly, still in the thrall of his first encounter with another boy. "He actually sucked my cock!" he whispered quietly as a huge grin spread across his face.

******

The Twins awoke only minutes before the bugle sounded "Reveille". They tossed their covers aside, got up, and walked out to the small concrete stoop to begin enjoying what promised to be a perfect day.

The early morning sun was warm on their golden bodies, and they stretched and scratched happily. Cory, well rested after a dream-free night, was in a playful mood. He goosed Todd, who smiled warmly. Cory's funk was gone, and he was his old self again. He jerked his head toward the mess deck. "It's awfully quiet in there," he said with a mischievous grin.

"We can fix that," replied Todd. "Let's get 'em up."

They grinned broadly at each other, then charged into the barracks where they began causing as much trouble and inconvenience as they could, pulling feet, throwing pillows, and making as much noise as possible as they shouted the age-old wake up ritual.

"Wakey, Wakey, Wakey," the Twins shouted at the groaning boys, "The sun's up, I'm up, you're up." Todd smacked Jon on his behind and Cory gave Alfie's foot a hard yank. "Let go your cocks and grab your socks. Wakey, Wakey!"

The cadets snarled and swore at them, not appreciating the Twins adding insult to the bugler's injury. The Twins pounded the table and stamped their feet, swearing back and chucking shit at everyone in sight. They spotted Chris climbing out of his bunk; the front of his briefs tented by his morning woody, and extravagantly complimented him on the length and girth of it.

As Chris passed by them on his way to the heads Cory reached out and gave his nicely rounded bum a soft caress, which caused Chris to blush furiously and rush into the shitters where he locked himself in a cubicle and beat off furiously into a wad of toilet paper. Chris was so overcome by the unexpected attention and the bum pat that he orgasmed after barely a minute of frantic pumping.

Seeing that Alfie was still curled under his bed covers, Todd poked the handsome black Crusher's ample behind with a bayonet scabbard. Alfie leaped like a seal and threw one of his boots at Todd, who ducked and turned, heading for Two Strokes.

"Touch me and die!" the thin, dark haired Two Strokes warned grimly as Todd approached his bunk.

Todd flipped Two Strokes the bird and they wheeled and stood at the foot of Harry's bed and ostentatiously snickered and pointed at the large stain marring Harry's otherwise pristine white briefs. Todd observed that Harry must have shot one hell of a monster load to get through all the cloth he had stuffed down the front of his drawers.

"Fuck you!" snarled Harry as he crawled out of his bunk. He took a menacing step towards the Twins.

"Not in your lifetime," retorted Todd, stepping back to join his brother in retreat from Harry's wrath.

"Or with your dick," finished Cory.

Todd and Cory moved back to their own bunks where they scooped up their towels and shaving gear. The Twins shaving was a standing joke. What little beard they had was so fine as to be almost invisible, and grew so slowly that they shaved only once a week, when they remembered. But they thought that since today was Friday, and Captain's Rounds, they had better make the effort in case Father decided to give them the once over.

When the Twins entered the washplace they saw Jon, who was bent over the sink, busily brushing his teeth, his tight, bubble butt bouncing enticingly.
Cory could not help himself. He reached out and pulled the back of Jon's briefs open, exposing his creamy, white buttocks. Todd quickly inserted his can of shaving cream and pressed the nozzle, filling Jon's butt crack with thick, foaming soap and then, with the last hiss of foamy soap, Cory released the elastic of Jon's briefs, the wide band snapping back sharply against the pale tan skin of Jon's waist.

Jon, after disengaging his toothbrush from his tonsils, slapped his behind, covering his butt cheeks with Gillette Foamy. He swore at the Twins and then groaned. "Fuck Todd, these are my last pair until I can do a laundry."

"You can borrow a pair of mine," offered Todd.

"Or you can have these," said Cory helpfully, as he began to push his boxers down towards his knees.

"No I can't," returned Jon over his shoulder as he beat a hasty retreat. "God only knows where they've been," he finished ungratefully.

Ignoring Jon's ingratitude, the Twins forgot about shaving, showered, and returned to the Gunroom where they could hear Val, the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor yelling at the other cadets to get their asses in gear.

As they passed down the short corridor that led to the Gunroom they saw Val standing in the doorway of the Chiefs' Mess wearing only a pair of blue and white tartan boxers, his hair tousled, his firm jaw dark with stubble. The Twins smiled sweetly and sighed loudly and as they passed Val Cory copped a quick feel. "Good morning, Gunner," both Twins chorused.

Val jumped back and quickly slammed the door. He flopped down on his bed. "Jesus, Tyler, I hope those two fuckers are only playing silly buggers!" he groaned at the untidy pile of sheets and blankets on the other bed in the room.

The Master-at-Arms poked his head out. "Don't bet on it," he said sourly.

******

Across the harbour, barely a mile from where The Phantom slept blissfully, one hand cupping his parts, the other clutching his sperm-stiffened briefs, The Gunner awoke. It was 0600.

As quietly as he could, not wanting to waken the still sleeping Joel, The Gunner quietly left the bed and walked into the small kitchen, turned on the coffee maker, and then went into the bathroom where he shaved and showered.

Returning to his bedroom, The Gunner donned a clean, dark green uniform. He was not overly proud of the synthetic cloth and plastic rig, but, like it or not he was required to attend Divisions at 0800 and, today being Friday, Captain's Rounds, and that meant full rig, with medals, for those who had them.

Dressed, The Gunner went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of the strong, black, witches' brew he called coffee, and then began making breakfast.

Lured from his bed by the smell of cooking, Joel shuffled into the kitchen. Since he was as naked as a jay he gingerly positioned himself in one of the four cane-bottom chairs surrounding the table. The Gunner told him that if he sat there long enough he would end up with a crisscrossed ass. Joel, not being a morning person, grumped that it was his ass, thank you very much, and could he have a cup of coffee, please?

The Gunner put a plate piled with food in front of Joel who, after four sessions of lovemaking, and only a half-eaten dinner many hours before, was ravenous. He dug into the eggs, bacon and hash browns on his plate. The Gunner then placed a cup of coffee beside the plate of food, and sat down opposite Joel who took a tentative sip of the coffee and grimaced. "Is this coffee or paint remover?"

"Sorry, I forgot you don't like it too strong."

"You have not forgotten I am taking the early ferry from Nanaimo?" Joel reminded The Gunner casually.

"No, I have not forgotten," sighed The Gunner.

"Good. And do not start with me," Joel said between bites. "I'm going to Seattle. Maybe for a week, maybe forever. I do not know for how long. I only know that I am not going to make a move until I am sure of what I am doing." He looked steadily at The Gunner. "And you can stop staring at me with that hang dog look on your face."

"Actually, I was thinking."

"About?"

"Us, me, you, a lot of things. Mostly about us." The Gunner leaned forward and took Joel's hand in his. "My enlistment is up next year. December, I think. I am not all that happy in the Service anymore. I guess I am just an unreconstructed Blue Navy sailor. I do not like the way things are going. Maybe you are right. Maybe it's time to get out, time to think about the future."

"Am I included in your future?" asked Joel, knowing the answer to his question. He squeezed The Gunner's hand, not really meaning it.

The Gunner nodded. "I hope so. I want to think about it some more. I am not going to do anything until I am sure of what I want to do." He kissed Joel's hand. "I want you in my future, Joel, but until I make up my mind. I cannot promise you anything." He held up his hand before Joel