Sixteenth Watch

by Myke Cole

  Oliver couldn’t suppress a laugh at the crestfallen look on Okonkwo’s face. “It’s all right, MK3,” she said, “you did right. You should always stray on the side of formality until you get the lay of the land.”

  “The lay of the land,” Ho added, “is that the skipper doesn’t stand on formality. Don’t go calling her by her first name, but no ‘attention on deck.’”

  “Got it, sir,” Okonkwo sounded rattled, “sorry.”

  “Are you apologizing for standing on protocol,” Pervez drawled, “or for hanging up on the simulator hatch?”

  Okonkwo flushed and looked at his feet.

  “He’s not apologizing at all,” Oliver frowned at Pervez, “because he has nothing to be sorry for. That’s what training is for, to iron out the mistakes so that we don’t make them during the real thing.”

  “That’s right, admiral,” Chief said, sounding painfully uncomfortable.

  “Great speech yesterday,” Okonkwo added, then flushed again.

  “Jesus,” Pervez rolled her eyes, “wipe some of that shit off your nose.”

  “Can you please,” Chief sounded exasperated, “let our new CO get her boots on the damn ground before you start embarrassing us? Christ, you are not just filling a role here. You are living up to a legacy!”

  He means Kariawasm, Oliver thought. No, Chief. That’s not going to work on this one.

  “Sorry, Chief,” Pervez didn’t look sorry at all, “just kidding around.”

  Chief opened his mouth to reply, and Oliver spoke over him. “That’s a good choice of words – ‘kidding around.’”

  “Ma’am?” Pervez’s smirk straightened out.

  “Look, I’m not asking any of you to apologize for your performance just now, but you’re the select team to represent the guard at Boarding Action. Millions of viewers. Primetime TV. The reputation of the service. Possible fame for all of you. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m fixing to win this thing. Which is why, while you don’t have to apologize, you do have to do better. Because I watched that evolution stem to stern. And that’s what it looked like – like you were kidding around.”

  All trace of humor vanished, and the entire team snapped their eyes to her.

  Oliver took a small step toward them, raising her chin just a fraction. She hated this brand of intimidation, but the dynamic Pervez had set had to be countered and fast. They had to know that the Widow Jane was not to be fucked with. “Just out of curiosity,” Oliver kept her voice soft, “do you think the Navy is kidding around right now? How about the marines? Because I just came from NCD/0G school, and they sure as hell didn’t look like they were kidding around to me. There’s just two months until Boarding Action, and that’s one hell of an unforgiving timeline.”

  Pervez flushed, forced a ghost of a smile onto her face. Chief almost snapped to attention before stopping himself. Okonkwo looked like he wished he could melt into the deck, and McGrath was as expressionless and placid as ever.

  “No excuses, ma’am,” Chief said, “it’s just… We’ve been trying to adjust. We’re still getting used to one another. After… well, after what happened we had to reform the team. We lost some people. I mean, I know that you lost someone too…” He stammered, running a hand over his shaved head. “Ah, hell, ma’am. I’m making an awful mess of this. I’m real sorry.”

  The man looked so hurt that Oliver had to stifle the urge to bundle him into her arms and tell him everything would be all right. He lost Tom, too. She softened her voice, lowered her chin. “Look,” she kept her voice firm, professional, but took the edge out of it. “Did you not read the email I sent after I got back to Earth?”

  Chief flushed. “Of course I did, ma’am. I’m sorry I didn’t reply, it’s just…”

  Oliver cut him off with a shake of her head. “I don’t blame you for Tom. Nobody blames you. This is the job we signed up for, and nobody knows how rough it is out there better than I do. You did what you could. Looking over your shoulder won’t fix things.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Chief said, “thank you, ma’am,” but he glanced down at the mourning band on his chestplate before he could stop himself.

  “You have nothing to make up to me,” Oliver says, “but if you feel like you want to do something for me, then win this year’s Boarding Action.”

  “We’ll do it for your husband,” Chief said, “and for Kariawasm and Flecha, too.”

  “We will, ma’am,” Okonkwo said, “we just need some time to come together.”

  Pervez rolled her eyes, the move just unsubtle enough to attract Oliver’s attention, but she ignored it for now.

  “I’d like to accelerate that timeline, if I can,” Oliver said. “Any of you ever heard of a contubernium?”

  “A con-tube-what?” Pervez asked.

  Chief turned to upbraid her for not adding “ma’am,” but Oliver spoke first. “The contubernium was the basic tactical unit in the army of ancient Rome. A contubernium ate together, bunked together, ran ops together. Everything – together. In my experience, that’s the best way to make a team gel. You down with that?”

  Pervez blanched, it was the first time Oliver had seen the woman looking something other than smug. “With respect, ma’am, it took me a long time to get my berthing ironed out. I’m not in a hurry to switch it up again if I don’t have to.”

  “Noted,” Oliver put on her own smug smile. “You have to.”

  “Ma’am,” Chief stammered, “may I have a word?”

  “You may,” Oliver replied, “but since we’re a contubernium now, you can have it here and now, in front of your shipmates.”

  Chief looked deeply uncomfortable, “Ma’am, are you sure this is a good idea?”

  Not really, Oliver thought, but I’ve been leading by instinct my entire career and it’s steered me… mostly right so far. “If you’ve got something to say, best get saying it.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve been leading sailors for over twenty years. This crew needs time to gel before we start living on top of each other like that.”

  “I have also been leading sailors for over twenty years.”

  “Ma’am, they’ll be at each other’s throats.”

  “No, they won’t, because they will have an admiral on top of them, 24-7.”

  The crew all looked at her with stunned surprise. Even Ho’s eyes snapped up at that. “I am forgoing a stateroom,” Oliver said, “and berthing with you for the foreseeable future, we are all going to be one big, happy family.”

  SAR-1 berthed dormitory style, in a converted bay which had once stored SPACETACLET’s gardener repair shop. The deck and bulkheads had all been scrubbed clean and repainted, but Oliver could still faintly smell the lingering oil and the high chemical tang of the plasticizers the machines used to 3D print structures. There were two bunk beds opposite a pair of cheap pressboard wardrobes and dressers, college campus style desks with shelving. A stateroom stood to either side, separated by a partition so thin it could only charitably be called a wall. The crew’s nameplates were affixed to the side of their racks, and Chief’s occupied the door to one of the staterooms.

  Kariawasm and Flecha’s portraits, draped in black, hung just below the American flag on the back wall.

  “No bunk for you,” Chief looked so uncomfortable that he was on the verge of crawling out of his own skin, “but you can take the opposite stateroom. You’ll still… be part of the… I’m sorry ma’am, I forgot the word.”

  “Contubernium,” Oliver said. “That will do nicely, Chief, thanks.”

  “Where do I sleep?” asked Ho.

  Oliver looked at him. “You’re my XO. You don’t.”

  “Seriously, ma’am,” Ho said, “there’s no room for me here.”

  “There doesn’t need to be. You can remain in your stateroom. If you really want, you can use mine.”

  “Ma’am, I should be with you.” Ho folded his arms across his chest.

  “To bring me a glass of water if I wake up thirsty in the middle of the n
ight? To be on hand if I run out of toilet paper in the head? Come on, Wen. I’ll ping you when I need you. O-country is just down the p-way.”

  Ho shook his head. “This isn’t right, ma’am.”

  Chief nodded agreement. “Are you sure you want to do this, ma’am? I have to say it’s… unusual having an admiral bunking right next door to a bunch of junior petty officers.”

  “Not junior petty officers,” Oliver said. “This is SAR-1. This is the best the guard has to offer. These are the people who are going to bring us our first Boarding Action victory since we joined the 16th Watch.”

  Chief still looked uncomfortable. “Aye aye, ma’am.”

  “I know it’s a little unusual, Chief,” Oliver made sure to speak loudly enough to be heard by the rest of the crew, milling about uncomfortably by their bunks. “But you’re going to be glad that the old Widow Jane is on the scene when you get to Boarding Action.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to call you that, ma’am,” Pervez said.

  “You’re not,” Ho said. “The skipper can call herself whatever she likes.”

  “We’re already glad you’re here, ma’am,” Chief said.

  “You’re not reading me,” Oliver said. “It’s not just the stellar cut of my jib that’s going to benefit you here.”

  “What then, ma’am?” Okonkwo asked.

  “I went through NCD/0G because I wanted to learn what it was you were going to be doing out here, to make sure I knew intimately what your jobs would be like.”

  “We appreciate that, ma’am. It’s good leadership,” Chief said. “A lot of officers wouldn’t have done that.”

  Oliver had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. “Chief, Christ. I’m not fishing for compliments here. I’m trying to tell you that going to NCD/0G had an unexpected benefit.”

  Chief folded his arms across his chest. “All right, ma’am, I wasn’t blowing sunshine. I really do appreciate that you went through the trouble, is all. What’s the unexpected benefit?”

  “The school is all marines,” she said. “Well, mostly marines. Did you guys know that? XO and I were the only two coasties in our class.”

  Elgin and McGrath exchanged a look. “We’d heard some talk, but that school was a long time ago for us.”

  “I got to see how they train,” Oliver said. “I got to see how they fight. I’ve got the intel, and I’m going to use it to help train you to face them.”

  “You sure those marines are the same ones they’re going to be fielding at Boarding Action, ma’am?” Okonkwo asked.

  “There’s a only one surefire way to find out,” Oliver answered. “Follow me into the ready-room, folks.”

  The duty section ready room was adjacent to the crew quarters. It was spare and functional – a flat concrete pad, desks with terminals and chairs. Cheap metal lockers for hardshells and gear, a dry erase board for making diagrams during pre-mission briefs. A huge plasma screen monitor dominated the room temporarily cleared of the scrolling data on radio calls, vessel status, and surface conditions that normally covered its surface.

  “OK,” Oliver gestured to the monitor, “everybody take a seat. It’s my experience that nothing intimidates more than the unknown. They say familiarity breeds contempt, and we’re going to work to breed a little of that here. But just a little, mind you. We’re going to respect our opponents, but we’re also not going to fear them. So, starting now, we’ll be watching video of Boarding Action’s past winners, in every single event, and making sure we know what we’re up against.”

  Oliver gestured to Ho, who clicked a remote, washing the screen with video of Boarding Action’s familiar logo – two stylized small boats closing with one another against a field of stars, the American flag translucent in the background. TV network logos crowded together in the lower right hand corner. Oliver felt her heart rev a little at the sight. All her life, she’d avoided the public eye. The banner in her first ready-room on Earth had read “SUCCESS IS INVISIBLE, FAILURE UNFORGETTABLE.” Even when ops she ran made the news, it was always the Coast Guard that was credited. That would be the same here too, but the individuals involved in Boarding Action could become stars in their own right, and the TV network logos reminded her of the millions that would be watching.

  The screen then jumped with a slight crackle of static, the product of the hasty editing Oliver had asked Ho to do. It flashed and resolved into what Oliver could only charitably describe as a “glamour shot” of four marines standing, arms folded across their chests in a parody of tough-guy posture. They stood on a reflective black floor, backlit by colored gels, the marine corps logo emblazoned on the wall behind them. UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS FORCES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND – 16TH WATCH (MARSOC16). “Last year’s winners,” Oliver said.

  “And the year before that,” Ho added.

  “And the year before that,” Oliver echoed.

  “And the year before that, too,” Ho added again.

  “Shut up, Wen,” Oliver said.

  The black reflective material of the floor must have been a green screen, because it resolved now into red letters, edged with gold, each “O” the globe-and-anchor of the marine corps’ logo. The letters formed the ranks and names of the four members. 1LT DAVID KOENIG below a broad-shouldered man with a dimpled chin and a craggy forehead that made him look like a Hollywood action hero. “Check out Buzz Lightyear,” Oliver said, “I’m flagging the name, sounds like ‘conehead.’”

  “Pretty sure it’s German for ‘king,’ ma’am,” Chief said.

  “Not while I’m in charge, it isn’t,” Oliver quipped as the letters formed beneath the next team member, a lean Asian woman whose muscles still strained the digital camouflage of her operational uniform – GYSGT MARIA FUJIMORI. The camera panned across her face, showing a placid, almost bored variant of the thousand yard stare.

  “Is she wearing makeup?” Oliver asked.

  “I think they do that for everyone,” Pervez said.

  “Not for you. I am not having my team go out there with eyeshadow on. Absolutely not.”

  “Fine by me,” McGrath said, and Oliver was grateful for the smile she heard in his voice. This was what they needed – to laugh not at their opponents, but at their mystique. She needed the coming event, and its participants, demystified.

  PFC FARAH ABADI. Private First Class Abadi was a hulking monster, easily the biggest woman Oliver had ever seen, dwarfing the other three members of her team to a comical degree. Her uniform included a digital camouflage hijab and niqab, leaving only her eyes visible, threatening slits that glinted under the stage lights. “They feed them well in the Marine Corps,” Ho’s awed voice was barely above a whisper.

  “It’s entirely possible they don’t,” Oliver said, “and she resorted to eating slower marines. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess she’s their boarding officer.”

  “I’d say that’s a safe bet,” Chief agreed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Okonkwo said.

  “Secure that,” Oliver said, “I’ve taken down plenty of people bigger than her on boardings.”

  Okonkwo turned to look at her. “Really, ma’am?”

  Oliver thought for a moment. “No, not really,” she admitted, “but size is only an advantage to a certain degree.”

  “The degree in this case is fucking gigantic, ma’am,” Pervez said.

  “Language,” Oliver said as the words formed under the final member of the crew: PFC DAVID SLOMOWICZ. The video paused.

  He was cartoonishly contrasted with the hulking Abadi, small and gangly thin, his uniform almost hanging on his lean frame. His amused smile matched his eyes, looking huge behind a pair of bottle-thick wrap-around glasses. He held his arms-folded, tough-guy posture ironically. “That has to be their engineer,” Pervez mused.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Chief.

  “I would,” Okonkwo said, jerking his chin at Abadi. “No way that beast is going to be able to scramble under an engine cowling.”

&n
bsp; “Could be Fujimori,” Chief said.

  “Nope,” Pervez said. “She’s the coxs’un.”

  “How can you tell?” Oliver asked.

  “Eyes, facial expression, swagger, ma’am. She’s great and she knows it.” Pervez’s mouth quirked slightly.

  Oliver smiled back. “Sounds like someone I know.”

  “They look pretty badass,” Okonkwo said, and McGrath grunted assent.

  “Looks can be deceiving.” Chief didn’t sound convinced.

  “Well, we don’t have to make assumptions here,” Oliver said. “Let’s see what they can do.”

  “This is from the year before last’s final evolution,” Ho said, clicking the remote and setting the video playing again. The screen jumped once more, bright lines of static where Ho had cut the video resolving into a glittering field of stars with the Boarding Action logo, and the words FINAL EVOLUTION – EVASION, PURSUIT, NON-COOPERATIVE DOCKING – USMC MARSOC16 VS USAF 30TH SPACE WING – SECURITY OPERATIONS. “Oh, wow. I forgot the chair force made it to the finals that year.”

  “The zoomies are surprisingly forgettable,” Oliver agreed. “Let’s see how they did.”

  The screen cut to the two announcers, thick-necked men in suits that Oliver knew only as Don and John – collectively “the Donjohn” – who had been announcing the show for the past five years at least. She knew nothing about them beyond their names, though she could tell by their buzzcuts and parade ground voices that they were veterans. “And here we are,” Don was saying, “the final evolution, and I have to say I’m at the point where I’m yawning at the thought of the marines going all the way for the third straight year.”

  John looked surprised. “Seriously? Surely, they deserve it.”

  “Surely, they do. A stellar performance this year as always, but you’ve got to admit that when a team delivers performances this stellar year after year, it all starts to run together after awhile.”

  “No doubt, but you’ve got to hand it to the corps, Don, they know how to deliver. I feel sorry for the bad guys who go up against them on the 16th Watch.”

  “Well, it’s not bad guys this time, John. It’s the United States Air Force with their incredible upset victory over this year’s favorites, the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, in the ‘Large Hauler Breach and Clear’ evolution.”