by Britt Ringel
You can do this, Caden. This time will be different. The pressure began to build.
“It’s time,” Pagnosky announced. “OT Twist, report Flight Three-twelve’s arrival to the dining director.”
Chapter 3
Twist lifted the guidon off the ground and marched away from his flight. He carefully gauged the distance and direction to the chow director and meticulously timed his final, ninety-degree turn to line up perfectly with his objective. As he marched the final meters to the doorway, he belatedly realized he forgot to check his watch for the current time. Just estimate it, Caden. Adapt, overcome.
After coming to a stop, he moved his left hand sharply to bring the first joint of his forefinger to touch the staff of the guidon. His fingers and thumb were extended and joined, palm down, wrist straight and forearm horizontal to the ground. The chow director returned the guidon bearer’s salute with a proper Brevic salute, prompting Twist’s reporting statement.
“Good morning, Chow Director!” he greeted loudly and enthusiastically. “The time is…” Our window started at twelve-twelve and flight dining windows are three minutes long. So, pick a time between twelve-twelve and twelve-fifteen. We were early so don’t pick twelve-fifteen. Figure it took me less than a minute to reach the director but don’t say twelve-twelve in case his chronometer is a touch early. That leaves twelve-thirteen or fourteen.
“What time is it, OT?” screamed an MTL who had seemingly materialized behind him. The thunderous voice caused Twist to flinch, setting off a chain reaction that allowed the guidon to slip off his shoulder and slightly behind his body.
“Dammit, OT, are you trying to hit me with that standard?” the non-commissioned officer bellowed.
The NCO’s voice was so loud, so grating, Twist was unsure of the gender of its owner. Looking back and breaking his position of attention would be catastrophic. “No, sir!” he squawked as he grappled with the stray guidon, still trying to regain his composure.
Twist felt the standard savagely ripped from him by a second MTL. The sharks were finished circling and coming to feast.
“Does that First Hat look like a male to you?” screamed a third MTL into Twist’s left ear.
“You just gonna let me steal this guidon from you, OT?”
The questions mercifully had the same answer. Had each demanded a different response, more pain would have ensued. “No, sir!” responded a trembling Twist. “The time is…”
Thirteen or fourteen? Wait, after all this, I need to go with a later time now…
“What damned time is it?” the trio of MTLs shouted in near unison.
Twist froze.
The initial MTL circled around him. She pecked her head as she screamed, using the brim of her hat to punctuate her words onto Twist’s forehead. “Damn it! How are you going to lead me in a war if you can’t even read a watch?” she spat while savagely thrusting a hand toward a twenty-meter square pit of sand. “Grinder!” She glanced upward to steal a look at the guidon now carried by the second MTL. “Flight Three-Twelve, Grinder!”
Twist broke out at a dead run for the pit. Dashing into the soft, deep sand, he stood in the middle at attention as his flight mates rapidly filled in around him.
The first MTL, her immaculate uniform distinguishable from the other MTLs only by the black belt she wore around her waist, approached the edge of the pit. Twist knew that the fine grains of sand in “The Grinder” which clung to any surface like powdered sugar would not be a barrier to an MTL. He had heard of one that entered the Grinder and performed one hundred “burpee” exercises in half the time of the flight being “instructed” early in the training cycle. After completing the exercises, while the flight was still struggling with burpee fifty-nine, the sand-covered MTL had casually walked into the dining hall. Before the flight had completed its quota of pain, the same MTL astonishingly emerged from the facility wearing a spotless uniform. The tale of this miracle cemented the mystique of every Military Training Leader’s omnipotence.
“Pushup position!” screamed the First Hat from the pit’s perimeter.
Twist dropped into the sand. Shirt and trousers joined his formerly shined shoes in befoulment.
“I want twelve sets of twelve. Can you guess what time it was now, OT? Begin!”
The entire flight pushed themselves away from the sand to begin the steady rhythm of exercises that would supplant their lunch. Each officer trainee would still receive their quota of three glasses of water, regulations forbade an OT from missing them, but the dream of spaghetti and meatballs had disappeared like a mirage in the desert.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Twist entered a classroom with his head down. “I’m sorry, everyone,” he mumbled for the fifth time.
Pagnosky walked by and placed a grimy hand on Twist’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Caden. At least we’ll stand out this afternoon.” He gestured to his sandy, sweat-saturated blue uniform.
Every member of Flight 3-12 was in similar disarray. The remedial training had lasted twenty minutes and the MTLs had combined enough pushups alternated with leg lifts to ensure both the front and back of each OT’s uniform was equally trashed. The time spent in the Grinder meant the flight could not risk marching to the dorm to change uniforms or they would be late for afternoon classes.
“He’s coming,” Conrad alerted while ducking into the room.
Twist and his flight mates quickly lined up near the door and braced for impact.
“Room, Tench-Hut!” Conrad commanded as Lieutenant Boslet strode confidently into the room. He appeared to be wearing a slight grin. The full lieutenant casually walked past Pagnosky, who boomed, “Flight Three-twelve is ready for inspection, sir!”
Boslet ignored the man and continued toward the front of the classroom. “As you all know, at thirteen-thirty we’re supposed to make our way to the main auditorium for the official announcements of each of your designators.” The naval officer glanced down as the muscles in his jaw tightened to prevent a smile. “Does anyone know what time it is now?”
Twist felt a torrent of heat rush to his face. “Sir, OT Twist reports to make a statement.” The mandate of making reporting statements in the classroom had long since been relaxed but Twist knew when the wind had shifted to stricter protocols.
“Report.”
“Sir, the time is twelve-fifty-six.”
The corner of Boslet’s mouth finally curled upward. “I trust that you will be able to duplicate that process the next time you are at the chow hall, OT.”
“Yes, sir!” Twist barked enthusiastically while realizing that of course the MTLs would have warned Boslet that they were returning a thoroughly gigged flight to him. His eyes cast downward. “I’m, I’m sorry, sir.”
Boslet nodded and grinned a little wider. “Then I think we can skip this afternoon’s SOB regarding principles and history and take a detour to your dorm on our way to the main auditorium.”
* * *
The trip to exchange uniforms had taken a mere fourteen minutes. Pagnosky had marched them across the campus at double time, both ways, and the entire flight had long ago become masters at changing uniforms quickly.
Twist sat with the combined 95-05 OTS class in his assigned seat inside the largest auditorium at the training facility. They were familiar with the spacious room, attending roughly a third of their lectures here rather than as individual flights in the smaller classrooms. Already warm, the hall would only get hotter with nearly six hundred bodies in attendance. The auditorium was one of the few places where OTs were allowed to rise from their seats without permission and stand at the back of the room in order to prevent themselves from falling asleep.
There was little chance of that now, however. With the class just days from becoming upperclassmen, this afternoon held one of the most anticipated events for every lower class. On the stage, the three squadron commanders stood stoically, including Twist’s Commander Hailey. The group commander, Commander Marks, spoke to the class
.
“Your training has been excellent and I’ve been impressed thus far with how each of you has responded.” He glanced to his right, at nearly two-hundred officer trainees sitting to one side of the room. “I’ve been especially impressed with our concurrents.” He offered a congratulatory nod toward the separated group. “Although you started with over twice your number, those of you remaining have proven yourselves and truly earned this afternoon. Not only have you demonstrated excellence with your normal OT studies but you’ve also adapted well to the added pressure of aviation training. You are just the second class in Republic history to accomplish such a formidable task, yet it will be the least of what the Republic will expect from you.” Marks walked with a measured pace to the very front of the stage. “Without further ado, Class Ninety-five, Oh-five, I present to you, your naval designations.”
The entire auditorium erupted into cheers. Over the next hour, each officer trainee would learn precisely what their professional job would be inside the navy. A four-number label awarded to each OT would designate the job they would fulfill. Coveted “1” positions of sensor, operations and weapons officers were the dream of nearly every trainee while less glamorous “2” and “3” positions in logistics and support constituted the bulk of the Brevic navy. The numbers for more peculiar designations, including those in intelligence and special warfare, were so far beyond most OTs that their codes were rarely committed to memory.
The wall screen projected a single name at a time in alphabetical order. To the right of that name, the assigned naval designator appeared. A voice echoed the list over the auditorium’s speakers. Commendation, ranging from polite applause for a trainee allocated to support functions to wild adulation for a trainee’s assignment to weapons, sounded with each proclamation. Scattered among the usual naval designations were many that Twist did not recognize. The most common yet unfamiliar designators, “1310” and “1320,” were obviously aviator-related. Each time the disembodied voice announced a name attached to those numbers, the concurrents burst into frenzied cheers. Several candidates even stood and slapped hands to congratulate their friends for reaching the midpoint in the program. The exaltation of the concurrent trainees was unmatched by the “regular” OTs.
It’s understandable, thought Twist, utterly devoid of envy. Those OTs are trying to survive not only Officer Training but Flight Training as well and if they succeed and graduate, they get the dubious honor of being some of the Republic’s first space aviators. Unlike many in Twist’s flight, he held no appetite for such a treacherous position.
The cadence of names cycled through the alphabet. The declaration of Vix Kirkpatrick’s 1211 designation signified Operations and drew thunderous applause while Pagnosky’s atypical designation of 1131 drew inquisitive looks from the people around him. “Special Warfare,” he explained matter-of-factly.
Twist waited nearly fifty minutes for his name and number. When they appeared, the accompanying voice announced, “Twist, Caden. Three, One, Oh, One.” A round of light applause scattered through the hall, terminating quickly at the announcement of the next OT on the list.
Kirkpatrick, seated next to Twist, grimaced faintly. “Aww, man. Hey, don’t sweat it, Caden. Logistics is an important function.” He forced a smile while adding in a consoling tone, “Hey, we’ll be counting on you to resupply us after every battle. That job is every bit as critical as Operations.”
Twist struggled to remain impassive. He nodded as if convincing himself before replying. “I know. We can’t all be glory hounds like you. Someone’s got to run the navy while you’re out trying to make a name for yourself.”
Kirkpatrick smiled wider, turned away from Twist and applauded enthusiastically at the announcement of a future navigator.
Twist relaxed his struggle to keep from smiling. I got it! Waves of relief were still washing over him. I can’t believe I got my first choice! He brought a hand to his cheek, ostensibly to scratch an itch but to help conceal his growing grin. I can do this, he told himself confidently. I know I can. I’m going to be the best logistician the Republic has ever seen!
Kirkpatrick leaned toward his friend and asked, “Hey, is your mom going to be okay with it?”
The question immediately grounded Twist’s soaring mood. She would not. The only question was how poorly would she take the news.
Chapter 4
Flight 3-12 was back from dinner. The local time was approaching 20:00 and another rigorous training day had been completed. As New London’s brighter star chased its little brother below the horizon, Twist sat back in his desk chair and reviewed the newly recorded message he would send to his mother. It was a bare-bones missive, simply stating he had been slotted into Logistics and, after graduation, would be traveling back to Thalassa for his technical training.
Back home, he thought dreamily. He looked forward to seeing his father during those six weeks of training in his new field. Perhaps even his mother would take time away from Bree and visit their home while Twist was in-system attending the Core Logistics Training School. Once again, he basked in the knowledge that he would be entering his chosen field. Such moments of joy were few in OTS and Twist knew that his self-indulgence needed to end quickly if he were to memorize the next day’s SOB. It was difficult to focus, however, and instead he fantasized about the complex logistical problems he would be tasked with solving in a wartime environment.
“Caden.”
Twist jumped slightly and looked away from his desktop toward the calling voice. OT Roy Bell was standing in the little room’s doorway. Like all of the squadron’s members, Bell wore the orange physical training uniform of sweatpants and t-shirt. It was a simple act of preparation that saved half a minute each morning when rising from bed and filing into formation within the few moments allotted to the OTs each dawn.
“We’re studying in the common room tonight,” Bell said while pointing down the hall.
Twist snatched his datapad and followed Bell from his room. They walked down the narrow hallway, past the rooms of the other 3-12 trainees and away from the portion of the dormitory that felt like home.
Bell took the upcoming corner leading to the common room at the usual OT pace—urgently. He nearly collided with an upperclassman who was, inexplicably, standing in the middle of the hall. Twist had enough time to slam himself against the wall and come to attention. Bell, still recovering from the near collision, did not.
“OT!” thundered the upperclassman, similarly garbed in orange, “why aren’t you at the position of attention?” The young man took a step to come within a meter of Bell. “Do you not know who I am?” he screamed.
Kind of hard to know your name when you’re just wearing a t-shirt, Twist thought in bitter sympathy for his friend. However, Twist had seen this upperclassman “correcting” the lower class with a peculiar glee on numerous occasions. When I’m in his position, I’ll make sure I correct the mistakes of lowerclassmen but I will never degrade myself with simple hazing.
The upperclassman fiercely gestured toward the wall. “Get on the bike, both of you!”
Twist felt his heart sink. He was hoping to be spared from punishment but, as was often the case, guilt by association seemed to rule the dorms. He broke his position of attention to place his datapad on the deck. He then pressed his back against the wall while coming to a sitting position, except without the chair. He immediately felt the stress in his thighs. It would only get worse. Both OTs raised their arms ninety degrees from their bodies, as if hanging onto the bars of a gravcycle.
“Accelerate!” commanded the upperclassman.
“Vroom, Vroom!” Twist and Bell said in unison as they flexed their right wrists.
It was humiliating but that was partially the point. The rest of the “correction” was building as heat in not only their thighs but also their shoulders and arms.
The upperclassman stood silently for nearly two minutes before ordering once again, “Accelerate!”
“Vroom, vroom.�
�
“Faster!”
“VROOM! VROOM!” they shouted.
The agony increased over time. Entering the sixth minute of their endurance contest, Twist’s legs were on fire. Sweat began to drip down the sides of his face but he was determined to remain stoic. In contrast, he could hear muted grunts from Bell, struggling to retain the proper position against the wall. Twist strained against gravity as his arms and hands trembled violently. What’s the point of this, he asked himself furiously. Roy almost bumped into you, big deal… maybe you shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the hallway around a blind corner. His legs were trembling along with his upper body. Both OTs were fully “riding the bike.”
“You two are pathetic!” the upperclassman raged. “Palms up!”
Twist felt his shoulder muscles revolt against the simple action of rotating his hands. Trepidation crept into his mind. Okay, this is new…
The upperclassman looked between Twist and Bell with delight before bending low to pick up their datapads from the floor. “Do you know how much this equipment costs the Navy?” he asked several decibels higher than was necessary.
Unsure to whom the question was directed, Twist and Bell answered in concert, “No, sir!”
An uncertain look flashed across the upperclassman’s face before he replied. “A lot of credits, more than you two insects make in a month! Now, you wouldn’t intentionally destroy Republic property, would you?”
Twist saw immediately where the detour was headed. “No, sir!” he screamed again, born more out of a growing rage than from the fear or distress his tormentor was aiming for.
“Hands together!” the upperclassman ordered while nonchalantly placing each OT’s datapad on their outstretched hands. Although the device weighed less than four hundred grams, the added weight threatened to tear Twist’s arms from their sockets.
