by L. A. Witt
You’ve made it abundantly fucking clear you’re going to do anything you can to save MA1 Anderson’s ass, yes.
But I just ground out, “Yes, Chief.”
“Then why the hell did I just catch you idiots arguing with him about it?” He stepped back and glared at Dalton. “You want to tell me that?”
“It won’t happen again, Chief,” I said.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” He was back in my face again. “The incident is being investigated, MA2. There are people far above your paygrade handling this. You want me to have them investigating you for misconduct and insubordination while they’re at it?”
I gulped. “No, Chief.”
“That’s what I thought.” He glared at me for a long, uncomfortable minute before he stepped back again and jabbed a finger at both of us. “I hear so much as a rumor that either of you have made a peep about the investigation or MA1 Anderson or what happened on the boat, and you’ll both be at Captain’s Mast. Am I clear?”
In unison, we said, “Yes, Chief.”
“Dismissed.”
We left his office without hesitation and, like we had the first time he’d chewed our asses, went to the locker room to cool down. Fortunately, MA1 Anderson was gone.
As soon as the door was shut, I leaned against a locker. “Fuck. That was bullshit.”
“I know it was.” Dalton’s hands were heavy on my shoulders, and his eyes bored right into me. “And I know you’re pissed. So am I. But we’ve got to be the cooler heads on this. Don’t give the command a reason to pull their focus away from the investigation.”
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the locker while I tried to calm myself down. Dalton was right. As much as I’d been tempted to lay Anderson out, that would’ve been an express ticket to me going to the brig and the boat investigation conveniently disappearing. It shouldn’t have been that way, but the investigation had been shady from the start. They wanted to bust Rhodes for breaking protocol? Ha. How about all the investigation protocols that had been bent, ignored, and outright broken from day one?
Fuck. Dalton was right. I’d lost my temper and damn near handed Lasby and his minions a reason to let the Navy “forget” about the boat incident.
I sighed again. “I’m sorry about all that.”
Dalton shook his head. “Don’t be. This is stressing us both out. If I’d been in there with Anderson, I might’ve done more than yell at him.” He smirked halfheartedly. “Remember who’s the hothead here.”
I chuckled. “You haven’t been that way for a long time, though.”
“No, but if someone sets me off . . .”
“True.” I glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. “I better go. My watch starts in ten.”
“Okay. Your place after shift?”
That made me smile a bit. “Definitely.”
Then I stole a quick kiss and headed out to the pier.
Well, at least I had something to look forward to tonight.
The bullshit in the locker room and Lasby’s office were, in a weird way, kind of a blessing. They were almost enough to distract me from how nervous I was going on the water as I went out on my second watch of the night.
The sun had gone down hours ago. If not for the lights around the harbor—basically stadium lights—it would’ve been a big black void around the boat. I kind of wondered if that would be better than being able to see the silver glint of waves, especially since it was windy tonight. Not as bad as the night I’d gotten hurt, but enough to keep the boat continuously rocking even inside the harbor.
I was only half-panicking about the water, though. Sure, I had to do what had become a habit lately—being as subtle as possible about taking slow, deep breaths, clenching my teeth against seasickness that wasn’t really seasickness, keeping a clear path between me and the railing at all times in case it stopped mattering whether or not it was seasickness. I’d be thrilled when the summer got here and the nights were hot and muggy; at least then it would be easy to explain why I was sweating.
But tonight I had other things to crowd into my rattled psyche. Those confrontations from earlier were bad news. Real bad. A sign that even though the command was deftly pushing the investigation off to the sides like a kid pushing vegetables around their plate and hoping no one noticed, tensions were still running hot. Something was going to give sooner or later.
It was only a matter of time before someone else snapped. Everything relating to the incident and its bullshit investigation was wearing me down. It was wearing Rhodes down. I’d known all along it was wearing on Chris too, but seeing him explode at Anderson tonight was unsettling as fuck. Thing was, Chris was about as level-headed as they came, especially for an MA. Our rate was known for its hotheads and even bullies, but that wasn’t Chris. He’d always been even-keeled and calm. Hell, being around him was a big part of why I’d made a point of learning to get a handle on my temper.
So for him to lose it at Anderson . . . Shit. How long before one of us really lost it? I didn’t imagine anyone would get violent, but what if Chris had gone on longer tonight? What if I hadn’t stepped in? What if Lasby had caught them instead of me?
Pushing out a slow breath, I stared down at my hands on the railing, ignoring the sliver flecks of light on rolling waves in my peripheral vision. I swallowed the nausea and concentrated on the situation back onshore. Chris was pissed about what Anderson had done, and he was pissed about the effect it had on me. He’d been angry already when he’d gone into the locker room. Angry because he’d just seen how messed up I’d been after coming in off watch.
I didn’t blame him for being angry, but I was worried he’d finally lose it and say something he couldn’t come back from. Something that could be the end of his career. I didn’t want that on my shoulders.
I closed my eyes and exhaled, pretending not to notice the nausea burning in the back of my throat. Maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn’t as okay as I needed to be. And maybe what I needed was to stop pretending I was before I really did have a full-on flashback or hurt myself or someone else. For my own sake and also for Chris’s, something needed to change.
The Navy wasn’t going to change anything. As it was, they should have been keeping me landside until I’d had a full psych eval. Any chief worth his anchors would’ve pulled me off the boat the first time I’d showed so much as a hint of PTSD. He’d have called bullshit on my “all clear.”
The powers that be at Big Navy had no way of knowing how messed up I really was, and as long as I was out on the boat, as long as my physical and psychological recovery looked good on paper, the incident didn’t look as serious. Chief Lasby could sweep it under the rug even though it was a goddamned Bravo-class incident that was so, so not being handled the way it should be.
There was nothing, however, that said I couldn’t request a psych eval on my own. The results might pull me off the water and shove me behind a desk, and I didn’t like that prospect, but it was better than continuing to sit on this powder keg. Maybe it would kill my career, or maybe it would convince someone on high to transfer me out of HPU. I didn’t want to leave HPU, and I didn’t want to be anything but a coxswain, but the fact was, I had to start thinking about my health. And about not giving Chris a reason to flatten MA1 Anderson. My career was probably toast no matter what. No point in killing his while I was at it.
I opened my eyes and gazed out at the terrifying dark water.
Tomorrow, I’d make a call.
And we’d see where the chips landed.
NAS Adams had a tiny on-base clinic with a few MDs and two psychologists. Usually that meant a hell of a waiting period to see one of the shrinks, but I got lucky—there’d been a cancellation.
Captain Hayley, a tired-looking white lady with a tight brown bun, perused my file while I sat in a chair in her office. She wasn’t wearing blue cammies like I was, so apparently the base was finally getting around to switching to the green uniforms. That, or she’d just transfer
red in from a base that had made the change. The new uniforms were digicam like the ones we already wore, but with a mix of green and light brown. Ugly as fuck if they asked me, which they hadn’t. Maybe these would stick around for the next five years, and I could retire before someone on high decided we needed a whole new wardrobe again. Assuming I lasted that long.
I squirmed in my chair, trying not to think about how my career was hanging by a thread.
Hayley put the folder down and looked at me across her desk. “After everything you’ve told me, and looking over the reports from the incident, I would highly recommend you visit a military medical facility for a complete psych eval and a more thorough evaluation of the traumatic brain injury. This needs to go in your Navy medical file. Not only so you can file for disability if the damage turns out to be permanent, but so the Navy is aware of any limitations you might have now.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I released a breath. It shouldn’t have been so vindicating for the doctor to tell me I needed all that, but damn, it was. “So, how do I do that? The nearest military hospital is . . . hell, I don’t even know where it is.”
“The closest would be either Lewis-McChord or Bremerton in Washington. If you can get yourself up there, I can make some calls and get you in sooner than later.” She paused. “Do you have someone who can drive with you? You’re okay to drive, but a long trip like that . . .”
“I can ask around.”
She nodded. “Let me know if you can’t find anyone. I’m sure the base can arrange some kind of transport.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you again.”
She gave me some forms and dismissed me, sending me to the front desk to have them schedule me in at one of the medical centers in Washington. Once that was done, and my appointment was scheduled for two weeks from tomorrow, I headed out to the parking lot.
I was both relieved and anxious. Of course my command—and the Navy, really—wouldn’t want me to go. If it went in my record that I had any lasting—possibly permanent—effects from the incident, that would mean a disability claim after I was discharged. The bean counters were bitter enough about paying out for vets who’d been hurt in combat. Coughing up even five or ten percent disability for something like this would probably make the assholes break out in hives.
I wasn’t concerned about the money or disability claims. I wanted this on my record. I wanted to make sure the Navy had it in writing that what happened out on the water had caused real, quantifiable damage. I wanted someone to see that they had to take me off the water, at least until I had my head back together. If it killed my career, there wasn’t much I could do, but maybe I could avoid someone else becoming collateral damage.
In my car, I took out my phone and looked up the Bremerton Naval Hospital. About two hundred miles from here. Sweet. My appointment wasn’t on a work night, and the base was close enough that I didn’t need to get an out-of-bounds chit signed off. All I had to do was go.
I would need to give Lasby a heads-up, though, so I headed over to the security building to get that over with.
As I was walking in, Senior Chief Curtis was on his way out. He paused and looked me up and down. “Glad to see you steadier on your feet these days, MA2. How are you feeling?”
It was tempting to tell him the truth, but I just forced a smile and told him, “Much better. Thank you, Senior.”
“Good to hear.” He smiled back, then kept walking.
I watched him go, heart thumping and stomach roiling. I could tell him. I could go into his office, unload everything, and let him know why I had to make my own arrangements for my own psych eval when the command should have been all over this.
But those gold anchors on his uniform meant I couldn’t trust him. My shoulders sagged. I really wanted to like the guy, and I really wanted to believe he was as cool as he seemed, but those anchors . . . Nope. Couldn’t do it. Chiefs looked out for chiefs.
I continued down the hall to Chief Lasby’s office. With my heart in my throat, I tapped on the door.
“It’s open,” he grumbled.
I stepped into his office and automatically went to attention. “Chief.”
“MA2.” The “at ease” was unspoken, but his tone implied it, so I relaxed slightly. He put his pen down and sat back, eyeing me. “What can I do for you?”
I swallowed. “I, um, just came from medical.”
“Oh? And what’s the latest?”
“She’d like me to go to Bremerton for some tests.”
“What kind of tests?”
Technically, I didn’t have to tell him, but part of me wanted him to understand how much the incident had fucked me up. How it wasn’t just something I could sweep under the rug and forget about. “Psych eval. Probably an MRI or a CT scan to see if there’s any long-term effects from the TBI.”
His lips pursed as he nodded. “I see. You have a lift, or you driving yourself?”
“I’ve—” I hesitated. He didn’t need to know I was going to ask Chris to drive me. “I’ll work it out.”
He made a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. “And you’re going when?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow. Since I have the days off. The appointments are on Thursday morning, so I should be back that night.”
He nodded. “All right. Why don’t you go ahead and fill in a leave chit? Put it on my desk before you leave tonight. That way if you get hung up or they need you there longer, I’ve got you covered.”
I blinked, surprised he was being this charitable. “Oh. Okay. Thanks, Chief.”
“Don’t mention it. Have that chit on my desk before the end of your shift.”
“Will do.”
On the way out of his office, I didn’t know how to feel. I’d expected pushback, or at least some annoyance, but . . . nothing. He was completely okay with me doing this. What the hell?
Slowly, cold water spread through my veins. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that Chief Lasby was okay with me going for the eval. He probably didn’t want the incident to look serious on paper, but now that I thought about it, I could see where this might work to his advantage. If I had to guess, he liked the idea of the Navy documenting my TBI so it could be used to question the validity of any statements I made against MA1 Anderson. Fuck.
But the wheels were turning, and even if MA1 Anderson managed to get off with that inevitable slap on the wrist, at least someone could validate my problems. Maybe then someone could help me so I could eventually get back to doing my job.
For now, I needed to arrange a ride. I glanced at my watch. Chris would be out on patrol. I could text him, but he was most likely the coxswain today. No point in distracting him—we could talk when he was back on land.
I had my appointment. Things were in motion. Even if the outcome wasn’t the best thing for my career, or helped Lasby keep Anderson’s career afloat . . . fuck it. I’d be on my way to getting some real useful help.
And I was already starting to feel like I could breathe again.
“MA2 Ingram, can I speak to you?”
Those were not words I wanted to hear from Chief Lasby. Not today. Not any day. Not when I hadn’t even finished pouring myself some goddamned coffee. Especially not when I was still heated over how everything had gone down with Anderson the other night.
Unfortunately, Lasby outranked the shit out of me, so it wasn’t like I could say, No, Chief, as a matter of fact you can’t speak to me. Please fuck off and eat a bag of dicks.
So I set down the coffeepot, picked up the cup I’d just poured myself, put on a face that was as close to professional as I could muster, and turned around. “Sure, Chief.”
He strolled across the main office. “Listen, I need you to do a duty swap. Two weeks from now, I’m sending MA2 Zachary to CMEO training, and I’m going to be down a coxswain for a few days. If you can fill in for her, that’ll give you a five-day weekend.”
Oh. Well. Okay. That wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever asked me to do.
In my head, I ran through my schedule, and I didn’t have anything going on during the days he was asking me to work, so I shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I can swing that.”
“Great.” He smiled. “Thanks, MA2.”
“No problem, Chief.”
He gave a curt nod and headed back down the hall, probably to “his” office. I glared at his back, then rolled my eyes and started mixing sugar into my coffee. The request wasn’t unreasonable. Duty swaps were completely normal. I just hated interacting with that asshole. I’d help any of my fellow Sailors out, especially if they needed a duty swap, but only rank and military bearing kept me from telling Chief I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.
My coffee tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just me. The man was going to drive me insane before he finally transferred to . . . wherever he ended up going. Maybe they’d send him to Diego Garcia or something. That tiny island in the middle of nowhere was where careers were sent to die, and I sure as shit wouldn’t cry if he went there.
A door opened downstairs. My hackles went up, and I listened as boots came up the stairs. Now what?
But as soon as I saw who it was, I smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Dalton smiled back as he headed straight for the coffeepot, travel mug in hand.
“Junkie,” I said.
He eyed me as he unscrewed the lid. “You want to see me without it?”
“No, thank you.”
“That’s what I thought.” He paused to top off the mug. As he put the lid back on, he said, “By the way—are you busy on the sixteenth and seventeenth?”
I sighed. “Actually, yeah.” I gestured over my shoulder with my thumb. “Chief asked me for a duty swap while MA2 Zachary is at CMEO training.”
Dalton scowled. His narrowed eyes cut toward the hallway that led to the locker room and Lasby’s office. “That son of a bitch.”