Edward Crichton - To Crown a Caesar

I had already graduated from Officer Candidate School, and had thought that Special Forces training for the SEALs would go easier because of it. Boy was I wrong. Officers had to endure more hardships, face tougher challenges and be brought that much closer to the breaking point than anyone else. A common foot soldier who lost his cool got himself killed, but an officer could get everyone killed. The instructors made sure to stress that point thoroughly which, when combined with everything else, resulted in the dozen officers in my class dwindling to only a few on graduation day, a testament to the BUD/S drop out record, which they were damn proud of.

Of course, it could have just been the warm, female body lying next to me that did it.

Either way, I awoke a few hours after nightfall and patiently waited for Galba to return. When he did, he came through on his promise of bringing us some food. Helena and I ate quietly and listened to Galba update us on what was happening in the camp.

He reported that camp morale was high. No surprise. I still remember the first time we walked into the XV Primigenia ’s camp five years ago and how the men reacted to Helena’s presence. Sure there had been a few bad apples, but most went well out of their way to impress her, and efficiency in the camp comically improved. I could only imagine their reaction to Agrippina.

The legionnaires didn’t seem overly concerned about her taking overall command either, but then why should they? They were in awe of the beautiful head of state, and had no doubt her ability to command was equally matched by her appearance. It made me sick to my stomach. The next time I saw her would be too soon, and judging by how I predict events will play out, probably even sooner than that.

An hour later, Galba went to bed early, well before midnight, so unable to go anywhere for another hour or two, Helena and I donned our combat fatigues and gear, sat against the cabinet and waited.

For situations just like this, I’d taught Helena how to play evens/odds a few years ago, so we wasted our time playing that. The game was one of random chance, yet she still managed to beat me nearly every time.

Sometimes I swore she could read my mind.

I always suspected women could do that.

At 0200, we decided the coast was as clear as it was going to be, so after a day cooped up in Galba’s tent, we ventured out into the clear night sky. It was an unusually muggy night, warmer than it had been in days, an early indication of spring’s arrival. I sent Santino a quick message to let him know we were inbound and slipped out of the tent. We retraced our steps back to the wall, scaling the fortification quickly, maneuvered around the guard easily, slipped over the outer wall, and donned our ghilli suits. The rest of the trip was slow but likewise uneventful. When we reached the tree line, we removed our camouflage and looked for Santino.

He was nowhere to be seen so we crept around the edge of the woods, our rifles scanning for potential threats, when a dark figure emerged from a shrub. Santino’s face was obscured by his night vision goggles, the only part of him visible being two small, green circles around his eyes, a result of the backlight from his NVGs. The eyes were very unsettling, and the bad guys reacted to it fearfully every time.

“Old McDonald had a farm,” he said.

“What?” I asked, perplexed at the comment.

“Old McDonald had a farm,” he repeated more insistently.

I looked over at Helena, but she didn’t seem to have any idea what he was talking about either.

“What the hell are you babbling about?” She asked.

Santino stood straighter, and pulled up his NVGs to reveal his frowning face. “Old McDonald had a farm. What’s the counter signal?”

“We don’t have one,” I replied. “Never have.”

“No counter signal?” He said sadly. “What kind of spy movie is this?”

Santino hadn’t sat idle while Helena and I had vacationed in Galba’s tent, a fact he couldn’t help but bring up over and over again. He’d crept along the tree line during the day towards the Rhine and took a few photos of Agrippina’s pleasure barge. As I suspected, Santino’s initial report was confirmed to be mere hyperbole, but the size of the ship was still impressive. It was extravagantly large but still buoyant on small inland rivers, and the Rhine easily accommodated its presence. It was a wonder of Roman engineering.

After scanning the photographs, our first objective was to plan our insertion.

Over the years, Santino, Helena and I had taught each other key skills one of us possessed but the other didn’t. Helena had taught Santino how to be an effective spotter, teaching him what to look for in shapes, colors and movement in objects to help discern their threat level. She would place small, nearly invisible objects for him to try and find from a distance, and record how many he could. It was a training method used during sniper school, but Santino’s lack of patience made him a tough student.

As for Santino, he had taught me some of the finer points in tracking, scouting, and silent movement, as well as some pointers on knife fighting. I had become pretty good at sword play over the years, but what he taught me was how to go head to head with nothing but a dagger or a boot knife. We’d received dozens of cuts on our forearms as a result and I had grown a resounding fear of ever having to put it to use. Hollywood had done a disservice to the fighting style because it wasn’t easy and it was extremely terrifying.

Finally, I had tutored Helena on underwater demolition work. SEAL training emphasized a multitude of underwater combat techniques, and rigging ships with explosives was an important one. It wasn’t an easy job, and I figured it might be worth having someone else who could assist me with it one day. We had waterproof explosives in our supplies, but knowing where and how much to use took a skilled hand, and the psychological battle alone deserved respect.

The prospect of maneuvering beneath a hulking ship, with nothing but the deep dark water beneath you was one that broke plenty of spirits in BUD/S. Helena and I had spent many warm summer days swimming in the rivers and lakes of the Roman Empire, sometimes frolicking, but most of the time performing extensive training.

With those skill sets in mind, the plan we developed was simple. Phase one called for Helena and I to slip under the boat and plant enough explosives to do nothing but distract the barge’s inhabitants. All I wanted was to cause enough damage to confuse and distract those on board if we had to cut and run. If I knew Roman’s like I knew I did, their engineers would have constructed the ship so that a few holes wouldn’t sink her.

To put it simpler: the Titanic would not have sunk had the Romans built her.

Santino would spot for us during phase one, but for phase two, Helena would hang back and provide sniper support while Santino accompanied me aboard. That put those who were best at their particular jobs in all the right places. We’d probably sneak around for the better part of the morning, but when we found Nero, we’d take him. If we found Agrippina, maybe we’ll stop by for a chat.

We still had another day of recon before Helena and I began phase one.

Badass Entry #4

Lt. Jonathon Archibald Santino III

Vindonissa, Germania Superior — April, 42 A.D.

This journal is lame

The story is pathetic. The plot is slow. There’s no nudity. The writers are just… well, you know… pathetic mostly.

We need some more testosterone around here. Good thing I’m around.

Still, I love those guys. They’d do anything for me, and I’d throw myself in front of a bullet for either one of them… so it’s nice that there aren’t many bullets flying at us these days.