Sixteenth Watch

by Myke Cole

  “Abadi is considerably larger than me, ma’am,” Okonkwo pointed out.

  “Still a human,” Oliver said. “She poops and farts just like you do. Anyway, you’ve all heard of imposter syndrome, right?”

  The looks on their faces told her they hadn’t.

  Oliver sighed. “OK, imposter syndrome is the idea that you’re not good enough to do great things. We’re all raised to be self-effacing, so when we accomplish something extraordinary, our brains short circuit. We can’t let ourselves acknowledge the possibility that we actually did it, because our brains interpret that as egotistical. So, we feel like imposters. Like it couldn’t possibly be us who did this amazing thing, and we keep waiting for everyone around us to realize that we’re actually frauds and take away whatever accolades we’ve earned. What’s that Mandela quote, XO?”

  Ho answered with a speed born of constant repetition. “You mean the one you use in pretty much every graduation speech? ‘Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’”

  “Thank you. This is my point. You’re asking yourselves right now – ‘who am I to go up against a crew of such dedicated professionals, such obvious naturals, and actually win?’ Well, I am telling you that you are the best the United States Coast Guard has to offer. I’ve run ops with two of you, and I can already tell the other two are up to snuff. You can beat these people. And once you have beaten them, I’ll send you off to see the wizard to help get you through the imposter syndrome. But first, we beat them. So, we’re going to watch this video again. And again. And again. And we’re going to keep watching it until it no longer impresses us, until we are able to see the mistakes in their TTPs. And once we do, we’re going to start training on ways to exploit them.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am,” Chief breathed. “So, when do we start?”

  “Right now,” Oliver said. “XO, let’s run it again.”

  The team loosened up their shoulders and settled into their chairs as the video rolled again. Oliver could tell they were less impressed by the third run through, and by the fifth they had the bored look of concentration she had come to expect in those handling a routine task. That was good, the awe was mostly gone at least. Chief had produced an old school scratch-pad and was taking notes with a pen.

  Oliver turned back to the video, watching Koenig make his acrobat’s leap to the six-pack for the sixth time. She prayed that Chief was spotting those flaws she’d just mentioned, and would highlight them to the rest of the crew.

  Because after watching the video as carefully as she could six times in a row, Oliver could find none. It was the most flawless, matchless, perfect boarding, executed by the most gifted, dedicated crew she’d ever seen, in all her years on Earth and the Moon combined.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Peter Principle is insidious in any environment, but it is particularly pronounced in the military due to our organizational culture. We naturally promote those who are most competent in core operational roles. The problem is that all promotions eventually lead to staff, administrative and instructor positions, which are the polar opposite of operational – tying officers and senior-NCOs to desks, and the stage. There is a statistically significant correlation to increased instances of depression and anxiety in many of these cases, usually beginning at around O5 and E7 respectively. A lifelong ship captain or infantry commander isn’t always the best candidate to run purchasing or write training manuals for a service. It’s a persistent problem in the armed services, and one that urgently needs to be addressed.

  MAJOR WENDELL MARCHEAUX “THE PETER PRINCIPLE AND MENTAL HEALTH”

  PROCEEDINGS OF THE UNITED STATES NAVAL INSTITUTE (USNI)

  The following Earth day, Oliver ran them through their first simulated boarding since she’d taken over. Ho’s eyebrows continued to rise as she told him her plan until they were in danger of crowding onto the top of his head. He was still arguing as they both suited up to run it.

  “Boss,” Ho said as he lifted his helmet out of the hardshell case. “This was dangerous as hell when you did it.”

  “That’s right,” Oliver nodded, “and I’m a withered old lady without a fraction of the sea time as this crew.”

  “That’s not true,” Ho shook his head. “Christ, ma’am. You know that’s not remotely true.”

  Oliver waved the objection away. “OK, whatever. I didn’t really mean sea time. I meant space time. I’ll go toe-to-toe with any sailor on blue water boardings. I’ll give you that. But there isn’t any damn water out here. They’re the best we have. They’ll be fine. Just run it by the numbers. I need to see how this crew comes together under real stress conditions on an actual boarding. I can’t get the measure of them watching them run simulations all day.”

  “This is still a simulation,” Ho said. “Heck, Boarding Action is a simulation.”

  “A more realistic simulation. Wen, you watched that video same as I. You know what we’re up against here. I’ve got less than two months to make sure this crew is ready. We need to push them hard, and that means I have to figure out just how hard I can push them.”

  Ho sighed. “You want it just as it ran with us. Garbage ejection and everything?”

  “Wen. I did not stutter. In all your years working for me, have I ever backed off an idea once it was fixed in my head?”

  “I was kind of hoping old age would mellow you.”

  “Death. You’re describing death.”

  “That’s an extreme interpretation of what I was describing.”

  “Just shut up and get it done, XO.”

  “Aye aye, admiral.” Ho slapped his helmet on his head and nodded to his crew, climbing into the battered longhorn that would serve as the simulated quarantine evader.

  Oliver waved, then turned and ducked through the hatch that led her to the adjoining bay. SAR-1’s vessel was visible through a window in the opposite airlock. The duty crew had relocated it to the executive pad on her orders, the one closest to the Boat Maintenance Facility’s airlock, and usually intended for shuttles carrying VIPs like… well, her actually.

  The SAR-1 crew was already suited up into their hardshells, Chief checking the seal indicator lights on each one before waving them into the longhorn’s open hatch.

  Oliver faced the airlock as the duty crewman sealed her helmet in place, checked the indicator lights and flashed her a thumbs-up. She stepped into the narrow chamber, just big enough to accommodate a crew of four with hardshells and gear, and flashed a thumbs up of her own. Her radio was set to external audio, and she heard the thud of the door behind her, the whoosh of the venting atmosphere, and then the eerie silence as the far portal swung soundlessly open. She stepped out onto the regolith dusting the concrete pad, marveling at the crunching feeling, like freshly fallen snow.

  She allowed herself a quick glance overhead, a move she knew would mark her as a newbie to the 16th Watch, but was powerless to stop. The towering jetties for the Constellation Class Cutters rose above her, looking so thin from the surface that Oliver wondered how they could possibly support such massive ships. Beyond them there was only the sprawling emptiness of space, stars spraying across it like a field of ground glass. She felt a brief sense of vertigo, as she had beneath the big sky driving Interstate-15 from Utah to Nevada in Tom’s Jeep, her hand resting gently on his over the gear shift, on their way to let an Elvis impersonator do the honors at the Graceland Chapel. The wrenching sense of unmooredness, of her seatbelt being the only thing keeping her from tumbling out of her seat and into that vast open blue had been so overwhelming she’d had to rip her eyes away and fix them on Tom’s reassuring smile. Space was black, not blue, but the sensation was almost exactly the same. Oliver wrenched her eyes away, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach as she met the faces of the crew, turning at the crackle in their comms units as Oliver bridged to thei
r radios.

  “Good morning, everyone.”

  “Morning, ma’am,” Chief said, “you’re suited up.”

  “Sure am. Figured I’d bop along.”

  “You’re… joining us? Ma’am, our OPlan is based on a crew of four.”

  “Just as an observer. I want to see how my best and brightest perform. You won’t even notice me. I’ll just be your garden variety admiral and commander of this entire facility just sitting right behind you, staring at the back of your heads.”

  Pervez actually chuckled at that, but the others just stared.

  She swept her glance past them and settled on the boat they were prepping for launch. She noted its old, familiar angles, comfortable in dear to her…

  Too old. Too familiar.

  “Hey, why are we in a longhorn?” she asked. “I thought this platform is deprecated. Why aren’t we flying the rhino?”

  “It’s the platform I came up on,” Pervez said, adding a quick “ma’am” even as Chief turned toward her. “Figured I’d play to my strengths.”

  “It’s also the platform we ran at Lacus Doloris, ma’am,” Chief added. “There’s a compelling legacy there.”

  McGrath grunted approval. “Boarding Action rules don’t specify the boat class, ma’am.”

  “Sure, but the rhino is faster and handles better,” she said.

  “Not for me, it doesn’t,” Pervez said. “Ma’am,” she added after a pause.

  “Look,” Oliver said, “I appreciate the need for comfort and familiarity, but you’re going to fight like you train.”

  “That’s right, ma’am,” Pervez said, “and this is the boat I’ve trained on.”

  “It’s not so different that you can’t get used to the newer platform,” Oliver said.

  “I don’t need fancy bells and whistles,” Pervez raised her chin. “I know the longhorn. It’s an extension of me.”

  “Ma’am,” Chief’s voice sounded pained. “You don’t understand. This is the boat we were in on Lacus Doloris.” As if that explained everything.

  Oliver knew she could simply order them to change platforms right then and there, but she could also feel the tension rising in the crew. Even McGrath’s normally solid and quiet presence felt roiled, and he looked at her from beneath his brow, jaw tight.

  She could sense the morale crisis and mentally filed the question. She was coming in new to a team that had been working together for some time. She didn’t want to start out by moving the goal posts on their first run out together. Pervez had a point. She radioed Ho on a private channel. “XO, make a note for us to talk about SAR-1’s choice of the longhorn. Not sure how I feel about that.”

  “I’ll add it to the docket, ma’am,” Ho replied.

  Oliver turned back to Chief. “Well, both the longhorn and the rhino are rated for ten. One more body won’t slow you down. Let’s get moving.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am,” Chief said, motioning them all into the hatch.

  Inside, Oliver positioned herself on the “casualty” bench where the crew would lay out the injured so they could perform emergency medical care. It put her between the two rear seats, McGrath occupying one, and Okonkwo the other. Both men kept their eyes forward, and Oliver could tell they were grateful for the hardshell’s limited peripheral vision.

  She listened to the radio as the crew performed boat checks, McGrath inventorying the weapons, Okonkwo the engines, and Pervez everything else. Elgin supervised it all, finally turning to the crew – “Operating conditions are near perfect. Radiation report is low, traffic normal. Crew fitness is high. GAR score is well within green. Pervez, call it in.”

  “Just a sec, Chief,” Pervez said, “there’s a few factors you haven’t accounted for.”

  Chief sucked in his breath, unsuccessfully kept the frustration out of his voice. He outranked Pervez, but as the boat’s coxswain, she had a right to question the GAR score, and a good leader listened to their subordinates. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got two factors here. One impacts crew fitness, and the other our operational planning,” she raised one gauntleted fist, counting off on the articulated fingers. “For planning – this is an unknown training evolution. We won’t get orders until we’re underway. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us up there. For crew fitness,” she jerked a thumb at Oliver, “we have the skipper sitting two feet away from us. Now, I don’t know about you, but that makes me nervous as hell. That’s going to impact performance for sure. I move to submit an amber score to account for these discrepancies.”

  “BM1,” Chief’s eyes were steady, but his tone rolled them plenty, “if we submit amber, we’re going to have another thirty minutes of checks before we can launch, and another hour when we tie back up. I agree those are discrepancies, but they’re minor.”

  Pervez’s shrug was exaggerated enough to be clearly visible through her hardshell. “You’re the one who always says we operate safe or we don’t operate.”

  Chief turned to Oliver, but she spoke before he could open his mouth. “I’m here as an observer, Chief. Make the call.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Chief said. “I’m used to a bit more flexibility in my crew.” He means Kariawasm. Her eyes flashed to Pervez and saw the split second of a shadow across her features.

  Chief turned to Okonkwo and McGrath. “Any thoughts on this?”

  Okonkwo visibly blanched. “I’m good with whatever you decide, Chief.”

  McGrath only shrugged. “Let’s get going.”

  “OK,” Chief couldn’t resist an uncomfortable glance at Oliver. “Call it in green and take us up.”

  “Aye aye, Chief,” Pervez made no effort to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Control, control, this is CG-31118 requesting designator.”

  “CG-31118, this is control,” came buzzing back, “31118 is designated Search-And-Rescue-One for mission duration. I say again, 118 is SAR-1. Skipper’s orders, whatever boat your duty section is on is designated SAR-1 until further notice. No need to request future designator, SAR-1. Request GAR score and status for launch.”

  The crew all turned to look at Oliver.

  “That’s right,” she said, “you all are the great hope for this organization. And I want everyone in this command to know it. While you’re working together as a crew, you, and only you, will be SAR-1.”

  The crew looked briefly at one another before facing forward again. Oliver couldn’t tell if the move had stiffened their spines, but she guessed time would tell.

  “Boat checks are green. Ops normal,” Pervez radioed back to control. “Go when ready.”

  “You might want to hang on to something, ma’am,” Chief radioed Oliver on a private channel, “we’re practicing contingency launching. We’re going to jump hard.”

  Oliver just had time to grab the handles over her head before control radioed back, “SAR-1, launch.”

  Pervez punched the belly thrusters so hard that Oliver felt the longhorn flex as it rocketed straight up. Oliver felt her stomach pressing into the bottom of her abdominal cavity, her vision momentarily blurring with the rattling of the small boat’s frame. The radio crackled as it desperately toggled between antennae arrays, trying to keep pace with the vessel’s sudden acceleration. The altimeter spun desperately, finally flipping past its maximum range before it switched over to “range-to-target” measurement.

  Oliver knew enough about the longhorn’s controls to understand that this much belly thrust should have made the boat unwieldy, as likely to flip over on its back as to roll uncontrollably to either side. But Pervez’s control over the lateral thrusters was masterful. Oliver could see the contrails of controlled burns to either side in her peripheral vision, and the boat balanced perfectly, rising straight up, bow slightly tucked to give Pervez and Chief a clear view of what was in front of them. Holy shit, this woman is good.

  At last, the boat leveled and Oliver’s stomach settled, and she opened a private channel to Ho in the training boat, which had launched at mu
ch more measured pace, and was only now slowly rising to its station keeping position just below them. “All right, Wen. Call the tune when you’re ready.”

  “I don’t like this, ma’am.”

  “If you know a better way to get us ready to take on Fraser’s MARSOC bubbas in less than two months, you be sure to let me know. We fight like we train.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am,” there was a click as Ho toggled over to SAR-1’s shipwide channel. “SAR-1, SAR-1, this is head boat. STARTEX. I say again, STARTEX. Check your transponder for orders.”

  Chief glanced down at the transponder. “OK, BM1 – Chinese-flagged vessel DIW in US territorial space. Distance – one nautical mile, azimuth six degrees, elevation 22 degrees. Come right to heading two-two-zero. Come to elevation -22 degrees.”

  “Heading two-two-zero, elevation -22 degrees aye,” Pervez said, her hands gently twitching the joysticks, the small boat spinning smoothly until it was pointed directly at the head boat. The boat had killed its thrust, was drifting slowly on its x-axis, twirling in a gentle circle. Ho had even gone so far as to kill the interior cabin lights. The effect was eerie, the craft a pale white and orange blot against the pocked gray surface of the Moon below.

  “McGrath,” Chief said, “guns up.”

  “Aye aye, Chief.” McGrath had transferred the gunsights to the monitor mounted in the back of Chief’s seat, and brought up the controls now, the targeting reticle blossoming on the screen. Through the front glass, Oliver could see the autocannon barrel swiveling to track the head boat. Oliver’s stomach clenched as she realized she hadn’t checked to see if they’d loaded live rounds for the exercise. How have they been training out here?

  “Hail ’em,” Chief said.

  “Chinese-flagged vessel,” Okonkwo’s voice crackled over the shipboard hail, “Chinese-flagged vessel, this is the United States Coast Guard. You are DIW in US territorial space. Bring your engines online, station keep and state your intention.”