<div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/66/YMR.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Alex Macauley, Tactical Officer</strong><br/><br/>Once safely outside the Hawk's cabin, Macauley squared himself against the bulkhead, facing the opposite side of the corridor as he propped his heels against it.  Then, slowly and very deliberately, he banged his head against the wall, grimacing as the grey steel pounded into the back of his skull.<br/><br/>Christ.  They were on a top priority intelligence mission that meant a very long patrol playing grab-ass with the Red Banner Northern Fleet, poking around so close in they could raise the periscope and see Mother Russia.  Close enough that if the Soviets spotted<em>Triton</em>they might very well decide to sink her and apologize to the President afterwards, rather than let her get away with the goodies on their latest and greatest technology.  And the Old Man decides to act like the worst possible combination of Florence fuckin' Nightengale and Captain Bligh.  He could hear one of the girls talking angrily on the other side of the hatch, and that was good for another couple good whacks.  However much he might disagree with the Captain's treatment of the redhead, he'd been aboard<em>Triton</em>long enough to know that butting heads with the Hawk was a losing proposition.  Right now it looked like the best he could hope for was for the girls to learn that without goading the Skipper into doing something over the line...or more accurately, something<em>else</em>over the line.<br/><br/>Oh yeah.  This was going to be an<em>awesome</em>fuckin' patrol.  He could tell.