Sixteenth Watch

by Myke Cole

  Donahugh pushed a button on her phone, and a few minutes later the adjutant entered with another officer, with the crossed sword and quill pen on his lapel that marked him as a JAG officer. Both took their seats off to one side, silent, but conspicuously visible. Donahugh steepled her fingers. “I want you to know that my corpsmen are going to take good care of your man. As soon as I have a report, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s much appreciated, ma’am,” Oliver said. “So, how’s it lay now?”

  “The Chinese don’t want to make an issue out of this anymore than we do. It’s not going to be another Lacus Doloris. From what I can gather from Admiral Sheng, they’ve been trying to keep the Shui Fong from spreading to the Moon since they got here, and they’re embarrassed that they’ve failed. They don’t want this going public, and I’m inclined to let them have that.”

  “As am I,” Oliver agreed.

  Donahugh met her gaze silently, her expression reading I didn’t ask, so loudly she may as well have yelled it. “Anyway, the PLAN is taking custody of the ship and the prisoners. General Fraser’s team is already back aboard the Obama. This won’t make the press as more than a routine boarding.”

  “That’s good,” Oliver said.

  “But we have two matters to discuss, admiral. Firstly, you arrested an officer carrying out orders assigned from this very office.”

  “I arrested him under proper authority for breaking international law.”

  “I’ve reviewed the logs from our launch. Lieutenant Junior Grade Scott was outside the Chinese EEZ.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, I am confident in my own instrumentation and that assessment is incorrect. Your team was a half-klick inside the EEZ, and Scott’s arrest staved off what I am certain would have been a dynamic and potentially lethal situation.”

  “I wonder what kind of tune you’ll sing when word of this hits the press, Admiral Oliver. Face matters in standoffs like these. It affects the delicate political calculus. We looked like fools, thanks to your intervention.”

  Oliver shrugged. “I guess. You’re the politician. I’m just here to enforce the law.”

  Donahugh’s face colored, but she didn’t take the bait. “I appreciate your transferring Lieutenant Scott to my command. I am having the charges dropped. I will not prosecute a man for following orders.”

  Oliver shrugged again. “That’s your call. It’s my intent to enforce the law to the utmost of my ability. Orders or no orders, one of your people breaks it, they’re getting collared. End of story. I will report this incident accurately up my chain.”

  Donahugh said nothing, and the silence dragged on. At last, she inhaled and said, “That’s just the first incident. The second is this… confused interception. This could have gone a lot worse if we hadn’t arrived on scene. And the PLAN sure as hell isn’t happy about your intercept. This is twice in a single day they’ve gone guns up with the Coast Guard. You’ve certainly caused quite a stir.”

  Oliver was conscious of her shabby underlayer, the sweat still not fully dried, surrounded as she was by Fraser with his shirt stays and the Navy officers in their crisp whites. “I prefer to think of this as a logical evolution of the Coast Guard’s expanding mission in protecting lunar traffic. And the fact remains that while we are grateful for the Navy’s assistance here, the Coast Guard had a rapid response force inbound that was practically shouldered by your team.”

  Donahugh’s smile reminded Oliver of the way she would look at Alice and Adam when they talked back to her. “That’s not the story I’m hearing from Lieutenant Koenig and his team. As with the arrest, this intercept underscores that you fail to appreciate international relationships are based largely on rapport built over a long period of time. The PLAN knows me and my people. They had no idea who they were dealing with when they rolled up to find a bright orange small boat tied up to one of their national’s vessels.”

  “Sounds like a great opportunity for us to get acquainted.”

  “I have the Commander of the People’s Liberation Army Navy on the line in my CIC. Also, the Commandant of Coastal Troops of the Russian Federation. As soon as we’re done here, I have a call with the Secretary of the US Navy. This could go very badly for you.”

  Oliver gave an exaggerated shrug. “I’m breathing, those thugs are in custody, and that arms shipment didn’t make it to Earth. I’m feeling pretty good about today.”

  “Those thugs are in the custody of the PLAN, admiral. And one of your people is in my sickbay with a hornet round wound.”

  That made her gut clench. If McGrath was seriously injured, she would never forgive herself. No. Don’t let her get to you. McGrath was doing his job. He knew what he’d signed up for. She pushed the worry off her face. “Yeah, well. He gets shot a lot. Seems to me you should be taking that up with the asshole who pulled the trigger.”

  Donahugh leaned forward, putting on a conspiratorial smile. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do here, but you have to realize that we have the same goals. We both want to see settlements on the Moon stabilize without any deterioration of relations between the United States and China. Russia also has a dog in this fight. And you have to realize that the approach you’re taking is undermining that.”

  “I believe I’m speaking for my Commandant,” Oliver said, “when I say that I don’t believe a warfighting agency is best positioned to meet that goal.”

  Donahugh’s cheeks colored. “Need I remind you, that without General Fraser’s task force, this could have gone a lot worse?”

  General Fraser looked at Oliver and raised an eyebrow.

  It was meant to lighten the mood, but Oliver’s voice went serious. “I want you to know how incredibly grateful I am for General Fraser’s support, and I intend to highlight his role when I return to Mons Pico and write my report. I will also be sure to highlight that his support would not have been necessary if my own team was permitted to respond. It also wouldn’t be necessary if your instrumentation errors didn’t result in you stationing military units inside foreign territory. I’ll add, ma’am, you’re not going to secure peace through superior firepower here. It’s the Commandant’s view that deescalation is needed, and the Coast Guard is in the best position to deescalate. Look, I’m thrilled the Navy showed up when you did. You saved our butts and no mistake. But this was a high seas pursuit, and under that doctrine, we could have held out for our LSST. The Coast Guard is the right authority for this incident.”

  “Admiral Oliver, the Coast Guard is a warfighting branch of the military, same as the Navy. You think that just because you also have a SAR mission you’re somehow better equipped to take on China?”

  “Be fair, ma’am. We do lots of other things. Break ice, scrub decks.”

  Admiral Donahugh’s cheeks reddened. There. Finally got to her. She glared, but said nothing.

  Oliver smiled, spread her hands. “What can I say? We’re awesome.”

  “I find it ironic,” Admiral Donahugh sighed, “that we rescued the great deescalators from a full-on gunfight.”

  “I don’t share your sense of irony, ma’am,” Oliver said. “You stepped into your appropriate role once that role became appropriate, but if my LSST had been permitted to deploy, perhaps they could have resolved the issue before the PLAN arrived. Gunfights with foreign powers is your job. Catching quarantine-runners is ours. Now, respectfully, ma’am, if you have nothing further, I hope that, in the future, we can arrange a more coordinated effort, so that the Coast Guard, as the supported command in this instance, can call on support when we’re overwhelmed in the future, after we’ve exhausted all of our own measures to resolve the problem. And I’ll remind you to have your technicians triple-check your instruments before deploying troops close to the EEZ. I catch anyone in there without hot pursuit authority, they are going to jail. End of story.”

  Fraser did his level best to control his expression, but Donahugh went pale as she caught the ghost of his smile before he locked it down. “I’m going to
ask the Secretary of the Navy to speak with the Secretary of Homeland Security when I return to my ops floor,” she said, standing up. Fraser immediately followed suit, but Oliver remained seated, holding the vice admiral’s gaze. Donahugh stared at her, and Oliver imagined she could at least feel the struggle to control her temper that didn’t reach her expression. “I suggest you prepare your response,” Donahugh finally said. “I hope we can find a way to coordinate operations more effectively in the future.”

  Now Oliver stood. “Thanks for looking after my ME3. If you don’t mind, I’d like to remain aboard until he’s discharged.”

  Donahugh looked like she’d swallowed sour milk. “Of course.”

  The adjutant who escorted them in conspicuously made no move to escort them out. Fraser waited until they’d walked out of the office, and several feet down the passageway back toward sickbay before he burst out laughing. It was a rich sound, deep and genuine, and Oliver felt the tension of her exchange with Donahugh unknot in her gut as she waited for him to finish. “You’ve finally lost it.”

  “No,” Fraser clapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll make it, I think. Man. I like you.”

  Oliver blinked. “You do? I thought I was making your life miserable.”

  Fraser laughed again. “You don’t have the power to make my life miserable. I like that you stuck to your guns in there. You’d have made a good marine.”

  “That… that’s high praise.”

  “It is. Heartfelt, too. You’re a straight shooter, and it’s clear that you give a damn about your people. That’s rare among the political animals that usually become flag officers.”

  “Does this mean that Donahugh thinks I’m a straight shooter, too? That she secretly admires me and wishes I were Navy?”

  “Hell, no,” Fraser laughed again, “that woman is sharpening her knives as we speak. You have made a very powerful enemy.”

  “Meh. I was almost turned into a pile of bubbling lipids and superheated plasma an hour ago. It’s gonna be tough to rustle up fear of a kind old lady in an ice cream truck driver’s uniform.”

  “Jesus, you’ve got brass balls, Jane. That woman is going to pull your legs off.”

  “But you like me.”

  “I do.”

  “So, what’s your professional advice?”

  Fraser paused, stroked his chin. At last, he turned to her. “Let me show you something.”

  Without waiting to see if she would follow, he turned and made his way down another passageway, Oliver followed as he moved abaft, and then through another zigzag of passageways that she realized was crossing the Obama’s keel. After a few minutes, he paused at a long bay window that Oliver could tell overlooked the launch bays on the opposite side of the ship. He leaned against it, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary, arms folded across his chest. As she approached, he jerked his chin toward the scene below. “See for yourself.”

  Oliver joined him, looked down.

  The launch bay had been cleared and recommissioned as a training range. One side was lined with popup targets, pinned to posts rigged to blade or move at the instructor’s command. The range was backstopped by the open void of space outside the launch bay’s open doors. Three small boats were up on pylons further along, the hulls in various states of perforation where teams had practiced cutting, shooting and setting charges. Tether pegs were set at regular intervals on the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Oliver could tell the bay was kept open at all times and never spinning, ensuring the occupants were constantly combating the rigors of micro-gravity.

  She could see the Marine Corps team drifting in as she looked down, unmistakable by PFC Abadi’s massive bulk. They locked their tethers in place, testing the slack, then turned to face Koenig, who was gesturing to one of the dummy small boats as he doubtless radioed them on their private channel. Oliver doubted they’d had time to strip out of their hardshells and shower, or even grab a meal. They’d probably come straight from the fight to the training bay, unwilling to miss a second.

  “That’s my crew,” Fraser said. “I didn’t tell them to get back on the stick after that fight. This is how they do it, all day, every day. They live for this.”

  “You must be very proud.” Oliver’s throat was dry. She thought she’d been pushing her people hard, thought she’d been working through the issues, making the smart bet on getting them out into the field, that it would somehow give them an advantage over dedicated professionals. But she looked down on the team in that bay, already running gear checks on gear that had just been in an actual firefight, and realized with a final heave of her gut that these were more than professionals. These were prodigies, these were talents, these were singular beings.

  Oliver knew that any enemy could be beaten, but watching the unflagging energy the marines below her showed as they bounded to their armory table to load up gear, she began to wonder how. She knew that kind of doubt was poison, that letting it reign even for a moment would erode her ability to lead the team to victory. Poor morale was as airborne as a flux. Everyone around you could feel it, and if they could feel it, it could infect them. She felt the twinges of despair, tried to step on its head and kill it before it could breed, failed utterly. Her gut coiled in on itself, and she could feel Fraser standing beside her, watching her reaction. He could feel it. She knew he could.

  “This is your crew for Boarding Action again this year? You don’t think maybe they could do with a break? They look a little worn out to me.” She was grateful Fraser didn’t laugh, let her have her feeble attempt to hold the line of her flagging morale.

  But she could see Fraser’s grin out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, I’d say they’ve got another run in them yet. Not sure they’d do too well back out in the regular fleet anyway, what with them being big time media celebrities and all.”

  “Wait,” Oliver tore her eyes away from the MARSOC16 team and looked back at Fraser, “you said they train in a separate facility on the far side of the Moon!”

  Fraser smiled. “I lied. Why would the corps shell out all that money for a top flight orbital training center when we can just use the Navy’s flagship?”

  “A marine, lying. I’m going to have to adjust my world view.”

  “Pretty sure it’s authorized under certain circumstances in the Drill and Ceremony Manual. I’ll have to check the chapter on dealing with troublesome coast guards.”

  They watched in silence as the MARSOC16 crew below finished gearing up and Koenig ran through the mission brief. They stood, heads together, helmets touching. The radio made it unnecessary, but Oliver could tell the bonds ran deep enough that they drew strength from it.

  “They’re impressive, aren’t they?” Fraser asked, as the crew finally pounded fists and stacked on the entry for one of the dummy boats.

  “You know they are,” Oliver replied. “What’s the point to all this?”

  “Navy has six times our budget and almost double our personnel. Worse, they’re more connected in Washington. Eight US Presidents served in the Navy. You know how many served in the marines?”

  “None. Same as the guard.”

  Fraser nodded, “It would be beyond easy for them to sideline us if they wanted to, put the SEALs in instead.”

  “So? Why don’t they?”

  Fraser gestured at the marines training below them. “Because we’re the best at what we do. Not the close second, not pretty good, not even great. The absolute best.”

  Oliver nodded, taking his meaning. She tried to focus on the team below, gathering intel she could relay to her own people, but it was impossible to concentrate over the pit yawning in her stomach, the voice whispering in the back of her mind, over and over again, that McGrath’s injury aside, there was no way in hell her team would ever be able to win.

  CHAPTER 13

  For science fiction fans, and finally the public at large, the colonization of the Moon was supposed to be a second chance. It was humanity’s opportunity to start with a blank slate, to transc
end the mess we’d made of earthbound geopolitics. It was difficult to describe the heady optimism of just a decade ago when the SpaceX purse reached the tipping point that sparked the Space Race. In just a few short years, that optimism is hard to remember. The slog on the Moon mirrors the slog on Earth. The same environmental degradation. The same power dynamics. The same pall of fear drifting down from rattling sabers in constant orbit over the lunar surface. The Moon may have been a blank slate, but human experience is millennia old, and we bring that baggage with us no matter where we go.

  MEET THE NEW WORLD, SAME AS THE OLD WORLD

  OP-ED IN THE NEW YORK TIMES

  It took another Earth day for the Obama’s medical team to clear McGrath and discharge him. Oliver tried to send the rest of the crew back to Pico, and was not remotely surprised when they refused. Ho practically begged to be allowed to come out and join her on the Obama, but Oliver insisted he remain to make sure she had a reliable set of eyes at SPACETACLET in case there was fallout from her meeting with Donahugh.

  As she sat in one of the Obama’s two MWRs, watching her crew relax, she tried to put the conversation with Donahugh out of her mind. It was difficult at first, but she found she could manage it by focusing on what SAR-1 was doing. They’re safe. Whatever happened yesterday, your people are OK.

  Pervez remained parked in front of a video game console the entire time, completely absorbed in muscle-car racing games while Okonkwo sat in a corner, knees drawn up to his chest, leafing through a well worn copy of the King James Bible. When Oliver checked in on McGrath, she found Chief at his bedside, the two of them sitting, mirror images of one another with arms folded across their broad chests, listening to the Irish punk rock McGrath favored. “I will never,” Elgin shook his head in disbelief, “understand what the hell it is you like about this shit, ME3.”

  “One more song, Chief,” McGrath smiled, scratched at the sutures beneath the bandage over his ribs. “This is the one that’ll convert you.” It wasn’t, of course. Nor was the next one, or the one after that, and the two were still arguing about the definition of punk by the time the shuttle arrived from SPACETACLET to take them home.