J. Curtis: Calexit: The Anthology

Mike winced, “Admiral, that’s a helluva load to add to our ongoing…”

“Understood, but it’s not an option. If I had my way, we’d be at Charlie for force protection already, and ready to go to Delta in minutes. I think we’re going to be there before long, anyway. I’d also recommend married folks look at getting dependents out of California sooner, rather than later.”

Everyone looked at each other in silence for a minute, then Captain Ackerman said, “Is it really looking that bad?”

The admiral scrubbed his face, “Yeah, it’s really looking that bad. I’m hoping… Well, I’m hoping it doesn’t get to that.”

Captain James leaned back in his chair at the head of the conference table, and sipped his coffee thoughtfully, “Anybody else?”

As if on cue, the secure phone at his elbow rang, and he looked down at it in surprise, before picking it up, “Group One, Captain James, may I help you? Yes admiral, I’ll wait.”

People started picking up their notebooks and coffee cups, but Mike said, “Hold on. Let’s see what this is about.”

The phone finished going through the security routine and he said, “I show you secure, sir. What can I do for you?” Shifting the phone to his other ear, he quickly wrote on the pad at the phone, listening for a couple of minutes before finally saying, “Yes, sir. We’ll look at that again. I know the report was sent up through channels.” A moment later he replied, “No, sir. It was filed the next morning. They were coming back from San Clemente after weapons training.” Another pause, “Yes, sir. We’ll open a formal investigation. Thank you for the heads up, sir.”

He hung the phone up gently, and rubbed his face with both hands, before looking at the groups around the table, “Well, the Brownies have filed an attempted murder charge against person or persons unknown on Navy warship number seven for attempting to murder innocent fishermen who were attempting to get a disabled boat to shore last Friday evening.”

CDR Simmons rolled his eyes, “Oh for fuck’s sake… Those assholes attempted to land by the bunkers in the middle of a night training op for the latest BUDS class.”

Mike held up a hand, “I know, I know.” Glancing at LCDR Villanueva, he continued, “Ramp up the legal side. This will be a full blown investigation. Get with SURFOR and see if you can get a senior officer and senior enlisted craftmasters for the team. Talk to EOD and get one of their weapons guys too. I don’t want any SEALS or SWCCs [3] Special Warfare Combatant-Craft operators involved. Make sure they get copies of all the videos, and set up for them to observe the original, plus interviews.”

LCDR Villanueva looked up from his notes, “Got it, sir. I’ll get right on that.”

Looking at CDR Simmons, he said, “Pull that crew and cadre off rotation, and put seven boat in the shed for now. Make sure the guns are the same ones that were on it that night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scrubbing his face again, he said, “Okay, I guess that’s it. Back to the salt mines folks.” Picking up his coffee cup and notepad, he walked out of the secure conference room and leaned against the master chief’s desk. Glancing around to ensure they were alone, he asked, “You getting anything on this shit going on with the Brownshirts and La Raza ?”

Master Chief Cameron leaned back, “Nothing but rumors that they’re tied together at the hip. Can’t get any proof, but the Brownies seem to show up just about any time La Raza or the illegals throw a pop up riot.”

“You got Dot out, right?”

“Yeah, remember Senior Chief Menendez? Married the little Viet girl?”

“Craftmaster? Wasn’t her name Anna or something like that?”

“That’s him. He left a couple of weeks ago, heading to Houston. ‘Pears her family has shrimp boats down there, so they hauled butt. I sent Dot with them, in my truck, loaded with the important stuff and my guns. Their boy helped with the driving, and she drove on into Stone Mountain the next day. I told her not to plan on coming back. You been able to…”

Mike waved his hand, “No, Trish isn’t leaving, and Mikey wants to finish school here. But come June, I’ll take them out myself if it comes to that.”

“Smart move. What’s this about murder charges?”

“That boat crew that ran off the idiots trying to beach down by the bunkers. Apparently there is now a dip protest and they want people arrested and tried for murder, for firing ahead of the boat.”

Master Chief Cameron laughed, “I take it you never saw the video then.”

“Video?”

“Yeah, one of the cadre filmed the whole thing. If you’ve got a minute…”

“Shit… Yes, can you put it up in the conference room?”

“Sure.” Hopping up, the master chief led the way back into the conference room, went to the computer on the side desk, and brought it up. Hitting the overhead projector control, he turned the volume down, “Gets a tad noisy when the fifty goes off.”

Twenty minutes, and a number of reviews and zooms later, Mike was shaking his head, “Unbelievable. Fishermen my ass. The video shows bolt cutters, a cutting torch, and who knows what else. They were either going to rob a bank, or try to crack a bunker. We should be giving them at least a letter of commendation. They didn’t believe them after the first set of warning shots, and the gunner only ate up a few inches of the front of the boat. There wasn’t anybody within four or five feet of those rounds.”

The master chief laughed, “And did you notice how they left under full power? I think that Brownie had brown stains in his pants, too.”

“Probably…”

Mike and Trish sat in the stands as the last half of the last basketball game of the year got underway. Coronado versus Chula Vista was usually a pretty good game, and tonight was proving to be no exception. The lead had never been more than two points in either direction. What was unusual was the number of police, Brownshirts, and other LEOs in the gym. The crowd had been separated from the git go, with officers directing people in one door or the other at the start. They had even opened two concessions to keep the crowd apart, and a line of officers stood behind the Coronado bench to keep the Chula Vista fans from hitting or throwing things at them. Mike spent more time watching the crowds than he did the game, even when Mikey got in the game at the end of the third quarter. Coronado was up by four points, and it was starting to get ugly.

He heard Trish gasp, and yanked his attention back to the court, as Mikey went diving after a ball on the sideline and ending up in the Chula Vista crowd. One of the police officers hauled him out, and they saw blood streaming down his chin. Mike started up, but Trish grabbed his arm, “No, sit.” Mike sat back down grudgingly, as Mikey walked back to the bench, blood dripping between his fingers. A medic came in from the hall, took one look, and led him out of the gym.

Mike and Trish got up and headed for the exit, brushing by the policeman standing at the door, “That’s my son. I want to know what is going on.” Outside they found Mikey sitting on a stretcher, tears in his eyes, as another medic looked at his lip. Mike walked up, “That’s my son. How bad is it?”

The medic stood up, “He’s going to need stitches. It’s a puncture, all the way through, just under the lip. Couple of teeth are loose. We can take him to the hospital…”

Mike shook his head, “No, I’ll take him to Balboa.” Looking down at Mikey he asked, “Where is your stuff?”

Mikey, spitting blood, said, “Locker room.”