<strong>Alex Macauley</strong><br/><br/>Macauley followed her into the stateroom and locked the door.  Inside were a pair of stacked bunks, a folding desk and washbasin, and barely enough room for the two of them to stand.  Macauley was wedged against the door, with Mari backed into a corner of the room against the bunks.  It didn't leave a lot of room for things like breathing, and Macauley found himself forcing down a hot rush of blood to his groin, willing himself not to get hard.  He leaned back as much as he could to draw his body back from Mari's, focused his eyes with an effort, then spoke, quickly and quietly.<br/><br/>"Allright, Miss Prescott.  Now listen.  You are currently thousands of miles from shore, out of communication with the rest of Western civilization most of the time, and sealed in a steel sewer pipe with a few hundred men who will go along with any story the Captain tells them to as long as it gets them a piece of ass.  So regardless of right or wrong, you're in a very poor negotiating position.  He could give your friend to the crew to buy their silence, fire the rest of you out of torpedo tubes, wipe the logs, and nobody would ever know different.  I don't know if he's capable of it but...let's just say he's been full of surprises lately.<br/><br/>"We've got a saying around here that there are three ways to do anything- the right way, the wrong way, and the Hawk's way.  And like it or not, as long as we're out here, things will get done the Hawk's way, one way or the other.  After we get back to port is probably going to be another story, but that's if we get back to port.  Which kinda leads us to my other point.  Where are you from, Miss Prescott?"