J. Curtis: Calexit: The Anthology

CDR Gunn, the cadre commanding officer asked, “Captain, you want to pull any cadre to support CARAT this year? We have done that in the past…”

Mike shook his head, “No, I don’t want to pull anybody out of cadre right now. Y’all are busy enough with the additional support and security requirements. Speaking of security, I did get a call back on the incident where boat seven got involved in stopping that beaching last month. Admiral Clayborn called yesterday afternoon, he had the captain in charge of investigation for SDPD and the sergeant assigned to the case meet with him and the JAG yesterday morning. Apparently the boat the sergeant was shown was not the one in the video, and it had some thirty caliber holes in the middle of it. And the icing on the cake was the complainant never said there was a Brownshirt on the boat. So our folks are free and clear, and the JAG delivered a pretty strong message about our security forces being fully authorized to take action to protect our assets.”

Chuckles around the table, and a thumbs up from CDR Simmons made Mike smile, and he finished with, “Keep doing what you’re doing. Let’s hope things don’t go to shit, but I want everybody ready if it does. That’s all I’ve got.”

Master Chief Cameron followed Mike into his office, quietly shutting the door, “What the fuck? Guam? Now?”

Mike held up his hands pleadingly, “I know, I should have given you a heads up, but dammit Jimmy, I do need to get out there. I should have gone last month. At least this way, I get a free ride out on the C-17. I don’t plan to be gone more than a week, and the XO is up to speed. Besides, I’m counting on you to herd him in the right direction…”

“Dammit Mike, I should be going with you. I can handle stuff here, and I’ll keep an eye on Trish and Mikey, but…”

“Sorry. That’s all I can say, I’m sorry.”

Somewhat mollified, Cameron said, “Well, don’t let it happen again.”

Mike groaned and stretched as the aft ramp on the C-17 started down. Looking over at LCDR Villanueva, he said, “Not one word. Don’t say a fucking thing…”

Villanueva grinned, “Me, Captain? Say anything to disparage my commanding officer? How could you possibly think…”

“When you get to be my age, you’ll be feeling it too. Trust me.”

LCDR Schultz, Platoon Two’s commander, strolled up the aft ramp, looking tanned and fit, “Captain, Ramon, glad to see y’all. We’ve got billeting arranged, and Captain, I got you in the VIP quarters over at the sub base. Got you a truck too. Commander Fischer is coming in from Seventh Fleet on Monday.”

Mike nodded, “Sounds good. What have you got laid on for tomorrow?”

“All hands at zero eight, Turnover brief at zero nine hundred for, you, Ramon, and the team chiefs. The SWCCs rolled two weeks ago, so they are good to go, and I’ve invited their OIC and chief to the brief. It’s a down day otherwise, since it’s Sunday.”

“All your people back?”

“I’ve got six coming back today, a fire team, and a sniper/spotter team that were on a MIO det. They’re due in from the PI at sixteen hundred.”

“Okay. I’ve got a meeting Monday morning with the SUBRON Fifteen commodore to talk about scheduling and getting y’all on and off their boats.”

Shultz rolled his eyes, “Good luck with that one Captain. Their schedule is even more fucked up than ours is. Half the time, we’re chasing the boats trying to find them to load aboard.”

Mike shook his head, saying under his breath, “Oh lovely.” Out loud he asked, “Anything on for tonight?”

Shultz smiled, “Sleep. Five hour time difference, plus the flight screws us all up.” Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a truck key and a key card, “Here you go, sir. I’ll take care of getting Ramon over to billeting and get his folks in.”

The roar of a skid loader blocked any further conversation, and Mike grabbed his bag and briefcase, walked down the forward stair, found the truck, and drove over to the sub base. Food or sleep… Damn, I’m getting too old for these flights. Fourteen hours in the air, a three hour stop in Hawaii for gas and a new crew, fuck it, shower and bed. I’m done.

Mike woke up at four in the morning, flipped and flopped for a half hour, and finally got up. Putting on his gym clothes, he headed out for a run, and about two miles into it remembered why he hated Guam. He was sweating like a hog, felt like he was breathing water, and he hurt all over. Oh well, this is payback for not doing enough exercise at home. Like they say in BUDS, the only easy day was yesterday… Glancing at his watch, he figured he was on a seven or eight minute pace, and decided to do five miles and call it good.

By six, he was dressed, had handled the morning, well really, the evening emails, and was hungry. Loading the briefcase back up, he picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Trish, UP AND ABOUT. HEADING IN TO WORK. LOVE YOU. Thirty seconds later, she replied, LOVE U TOO. QUIET HERE. MISS YOUR WARM BODY. He smiled as he headed for the truck.

Driving toward the front gate, he saw lights on in the galley, and decided to see if he could eat there, rather than the McDonald’s off base. He pulled into the parking lot and walked in, getting in line behind six or eight submarine sailors, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes. He finally got to the head of the line, and said, “I don’t have a chow pass, and I’m an officer. Can I pay for a meal?”

The bored Guamanian glanced up, then referred to a printed sheet, “Four seventy-five.” He handed her a five, and she gave him a quarter back, “Sign in.” He signed in, thinking, Damn, not a lot of personality in this one. I hope she’s not a total bitch to all the sailors.

He got in line for the omelets, and the young sailor in front of him gave his order to the mess specialist behind the counter. Mike followed him, and thirty minutes later was out of the chow hall, and wondering what to do next. He headed over to the SEAL’s compound, found a coffee pot and a computer drop, and worked until it was time for the turnover brief.

Four days, a trip to Manila, a side trip to Saipan, and an eight hour out and back on a sub, combined with the lack of sleep, had Mike woozy with fatigue. Walking into the OIC’s office, he saw that Villanueva was now behind the desk, indicating the platoons had officially turned over. Schultz was sitting at the side of the desk as they reviewed packout and equipment that needed to go back to San Diego. They popped to attention when they realized he was standing there, with Villanueva said, “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you come in.”

“No problem. What’s the schedule for the C-17?”

“It’s supposed to be here Sunday, we’ll load out Sunday afternoon, and launch for San Diego Monday a.m. I saved a seat for you, Captain.”

Mike sat down with Villanueva and reviewed the upcoming schedule after the various meetings. He finally leaned back, “I think you can handle it with your platoon, assuming nobody gets hurt. But, if you have issues, I need for you to let me know.”

Villanueva nodded, “I will, Captain. I’ve got no problem calling for help if I need it.”

“Okay, I’m going to call it a day.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good evening.”

Mike came wide awake, wondering what was going on, when he realized his phone was ringing. Fumbling for it, he hit speaker, “’Lo?”

“Mike? It’s Jimmy.”

A chill ran down Mike’s back, “Jimmy, what… What’s up?”

“Trish and Mikey aren’t answering their phones. And there was a riot down in Harborside this morning.”

“What?”