Session #11 pt.1
Trace Coburn
BattleTech Starfighter Analyst
- Location
- NDBBM, New Zealand
TWITTER: twitter.com/planefriend
ARCHIVES: LOOK THEM UP YOURSELF I'M FUCKNIG LAZY
THREAD:
>Actually check your e-mail. Elephants, ignoring, etc. Goto's sweet story be damned; the CNO has probably penned you a personal letter of death, mayhem and demotions. The Chief of Naval Fucking Operations does not e-mail many one-star admirals personally – you're under a fucking microscope, here, and you dun goof'd in his eyes.
It's only a quarter till 9 – or 0845, if you want to be a pencil-pushing dildo about it – and the sidewalks of Yokosuka Naval Base are already hot enough to cook an egg. The air conditioning units on the roofs of the scattered administrative buildings are laboring away against the intense heat of a southern Japanese summer; bright rays scorching hot from a blue, cloudless sky.
You limp away from your conversation with Goto as your anger spins in quick little circles, looking for something to bite. You went into Goto's office rigged for depth charges; ready to take your lumps, and instead he side-tracked you into things nobody really wants to think about; things nobody can really DO anything about. Then he baited you into revealing too much while Arizona was listening against the door -
- god dammit. You come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, squeezing your head in your hands. God damn it. What were you thinking? Goto's still pretty much a total stranger to you. What the hell possessed you to talk to him about things you wouldn't even discuss with Hate?
... Hate knows most of it, of course. Or he's guessed. But there's no need to confirm those things. That comfortable vagueness of having someone who knows you well enough to give you advice when you most need it, but with the credible potential that they don't know *too* much, in too much detail to threaten your sacred secrets... that's the way to handle these things.
Not what you did. Not what you just did.
Yokosuka has benches here and there near the more generously landscaped parts of the base – all of them in Officer Country, of course, nowhere near the rough-and-ready dock facilities – and at one of those places you find a concrete bench that enjoys the shade of a cherry tree. You brush some stray sakura petals off the seat, mindful of your uniform pants, and plop down as you fish your smartphone out of your pocket. You take a deep breath and open up your e-mail app. You're terrified of what's in there... but you're also expectant. You want to take your lumps and get it over with, the sober reckoning that Goto denied you, and an e-mail fron the CNO with the subject "ALL YOUR SHIT" and a body that says "IN A BOX ADDRESSED TO YOUR CIVVIE ADDRESS, BY TONIGHT" will certainly provide that.
Your finger trembles a little before you manage to tap the icon for your e-mail app.
... aaaand there's nothing. Nothing in the inbox from a .mil domain. You let out your pent-up breath, and scroll through the rest of the messages.
>An e-mail from your mother – probably another youtube link she thought was cute.
>An e-mail from Mare Island Naval – wait, what? A google address? Are they going to give her a museum berth after all?
>An e-mail from Corporal Hate
Vote for ONE. You'll get to read them all, this is just picking the order.
>An e-mail from your mother – probably another youtube link she thought was cute.
After a second's hesitation, you click the one from your mother. Sure, she still thinks those e-cards are clever and she's prone to forwarding bullshit stories without checking snopes.com first (no matter how many times you reply with the relevant debunking link) but it IS your mother, and you could use a private moment right about now.
As you suspected, it's another youtube link. You turn up the volume on your phone and listen to the tinny speakers as the video begins to play:
Four minutes later, you mute the volume and look at your phone thoughtfully. You're a Captain, a Skipper, and now you're an Admiral. And Big Admirals Don't Cry. But... you tap a few buttons and forward it to Corporal Hate. It's probably barking up the wrong tree (ha ha) but it doesn't hurt to try.
Now what?
>An e-mail from Mare Island Naval – wait, what?
>An e-mail from Corporal Hate
>A new e-mail that just arrived: "Please come pick up your sailor," from the yokosuka domain – the hell?
>An e-mail from Mare Island Naval – wait, what?
While you're procrastinating, you may as well procrastinate a little longer. You ignore the new e-mail and tap the one from "Mare Island."
"To Admiral Settle, Rear Admiral, USN:
It is my pleasure to inform you that Mare Island Naval Shipyard is preparing to accept DDG-76 in graving dock #2 within the next week. We will proceed with the standard seaworthiness evaluation and forward our repair quote to Navy acquisitions as soon as possible. Your colleagues at the San Diego Naval Base have stressed that you take a keen interest in the fate of DDG-76. As a government contractor, we are now authorized to release the pertinent information to you as soon as possible.
DDG-76 is a landmark event for our company. We are proud to have received the contract for her evaluation and possible repair, and the eyes of America are on her – and us. We are eager to validate their expectations.
Sincerely,
John M. Baker
Contract Negotiations/Public Relations
Mare Island Dry Dock LLC
You sit there for a few seconds, stunned. You've heard nothing of your boat's fate for sixteen long months – rusting away somewhere in a ignored anchorage in San Diego as more seaworthy ships (damn near any of them) received priority at the US Navy's few drydocks. And now – Mare Island Naval Shipyard? Shut down in '96, along with a few zillion other bases?
The news may not be good – you know that damn well. She might be a total loss. And even if she's not... you've got a new job, now.
But it's more than you had yesterday. You type a quick thank-you reply and e-mail it off. And even if she is totaled... well, this war will end sooner or later, and she'll already be parked at (what WAS) a naval museum. And depending on the attention span of the reporters and the public, well... maybe she'll get that museum berth after all. That, at least, would be something good to come out of LA – old girl getting the respect she deserves.
>An e-mail from Corporal Hate
>A new e-mail that just arrived: "Please come pick up your sailor," from the Yokosuka domain – the hell?
>An e-mail from Corporal Hate
You eyeball the e-mail from the local address and scowl at it. One more e-mail before you've got to go back to the lunatic asylum that is now your life. You tap on it. It proves to be a short note jotted out rather quick – you're surprised he didn't just text you. He was probably at his computer last night and didn't want to cross the room for his phone.
"Find me sometime today, I have to give you something."
That's... ominous. Well, you still have that missing lower to hold over his head, if you really have to. On to the business at hand: you open the last e-mail.
"Admiral Settle: please stop by the base brig and pick up your charge. She's started in on the bars, and shooting her with rubber bullets just makes her angry. Please come. Please come. Please come. I need to pee and I can't leave the desk without her seeing me, and then she'll add me to her list. Please come. Please co"
... hmm. Sounds like a job for somebody with less rank thank you.
>Call Hate, send him over
>Pick her up yourself, you need all the points you can get right now
>Call Hate, have him meet you there
>Call Hate, have him meet you there
You're halfway to the brig when you belatedly remember that you gave one of your wee boats a personal escort – her own flotilla. Retrieving your phone, you dial up Hate. It doesn't finish the first ring before he picks up.
"Ayo, Skipper."
He's always fast on that – he must have a custom ringtone; he doesn't take time to read the screen. "Hey. Can you meet me at the brig? I might require your unique skills."
"That kind of thing is better done at night."
"Just a light asskicking. No need to dispose of bodies."
"Oh, in that case, I'll be right along." He hangs up.
The Yokosuka Naval Base has a decent-sized brig; it houses miscreants from every visiting ship of both navies as well as the various servicemen who had a little too much fun in town and walked counter-clockwise around a shinto shrine or something. According to them, at least – it's always the Japanese being Very Unreasonable And Quite Stuck-Up, imposing on the virtuous sailors who Defend Their Freedoms from the Chinese Scourge. A tale as old as time, a lie as old as rhyme, etc. You enter the small lobby/processing area, where a bored-looking desk clerk points you to the rear hall without a word. You stroll back towards the rear, where there's a little booth with cameras and a phone – a monitoring station for a hallway worth of small, clean cells. You find your e-mailer cowering in it, the keyboard in his hands, peeking up at the LCD screen above him.
"... hello?"
The man twirls in a circle, presses his finger to his lip and frantically signals for silence.
"AAAAH HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA," comes Sammy's familiar bright voice down the hallway. "AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Skipper?"
You turn to find Hate behind you. "Good timing."
Another mad skirling whirl of laughter comes jangling down the hall. "Oh." He looks down at the terrified-looking MP. "When did she stop swearing and just start laughing?"
"About five m-minutes ago," he says, his eyes popping out of his head.
From down the hall comes the unmistakable sound of hardened steel groaning as it's bent.
"And... you didn't just go in there and hose her down or something?"
"Oh fuck no," the MP says. "I SAW that movie. We got nothing to shoot her with. Besides, the damn dogs hold you off before you get close enough!"
Hate seems to be hovering between an "I told you so and this all your fault," and "god dammit, I have to do something again." He settles for asking the MP a question: "You can open the cells electronically, right?"
He nods.
"Cool. Pop the one directly across from hers. Do you have to close them electrically, too?"
"Just roll it shut and it'll latch."
"Good." Hate takes point, leading you down the hall. True to form, you're not halfway down the narrow hall before Sammy's quintet of escorts come barreling towards you, barking like mad and farting little phoot phoot phoots – she must've fed them french fries. Again. They see Hate and come skidding to a halt, their little tails wagging like mad as they plop on their rumps and watch him attentively.
"Their vision," Hate says quietly. From his back pocket he slowly removes his hand with a flourish – revealing a small red super ball. He slowly waves it left, then right, watching as the Corgis track the motion intently.
"Is based on movement," he finishes, and flicks it expertly. The Corgis explode into motion; an outlashing of furry fury; dogs ricocheting off bars and floor as they trip and soar and dive around each other in pursuit of the madly rebounding ball. They chase it down the hall, skidding into an expert drift as they round the last corner and surround the elusive prey in the open cell. Hate dashes forward and slams the bars closed on them, but they're too occupied with their new toy to care.
"AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAAHAHAHAHA!"
You and Hate exchange a Glance, and then slowly turn to look at Sammy. She's made decent progress on the bars; another hour and she'll be able to make an opening wide enough to squeeze herself through.
Hate crosses his arms and moods at you – he's done his part. This one's up to you.
>Write-in!
You scratch your head and stare at Sammy, who's now saving her breath for another session of bar-bending; her little hands wrapped around the steel bar that's slowly yielding to her inhuman wrath. You need to get through to her somehow.
"Sammy... how did they even freaking catch you?"
It works. You see her eyes slowly come into focus. "Cheating. Cheating! They ganged up on me!"
"How many?"
"How many shit-kicking MPs does this shithole have?" she asks you.
You open your mouth-
"BECAUSE I'M ABOUT TO REDUCE THAT NUMBER BY ONE!" she snarls, and from down the hall there's a clatter of plastic on linoleum as the poor MP's finally breaks, sending him fleeing for safety.
"So... what did they even do?"
"They were waiting for me," she snarls. "They set a trap. I don't know how they knew... but they knew." She glowers, her brow furrowing as the bar bends in her hands a little further with a long, alarming creak of tortured metal. "I was running radio silent. It must've been a spy. A filthy Jap spy. There were like a jillion of them!"
"Did they taser you?"
"What's that?"
"Uh, what did they use-"
"These stupid-looking clear shields," she grumps. "They circled around and fucking ni-"
"Oooooh," you say politely, cutting that one off early. "Try not to use that term."
"Then what the fuck am I supposed to call it when twenty zillin douchenozzle dillhole fuckwanks-"
"Yooooo!" you say in alarm – the girl must be hell-on-wheels at sea scrabble. "Nobody likes MPs, but is that really necessary?"
"MARINE MPs," she damn near spits, and from the look on Hate's face, he shares the sentiment. Navy MPs are simply dildroids; the same problem in the same uniform with a different hat and a little stick, but Marine MPs are traitors. "So yeah, what you you WANT me to call it when those shitbirds form Mount Asshole with me on the goddamn bottom?"
The word rolls off your tongue without hesitation. "A dogpile."
You duck just before Hate's hand makes contact with your uniform hat, trying not to snigger. He gives you a glum look that tells you that shit really wasn't necessary. You don't care. With a nod at the control station, you send Hate off to open Sammy's door, while you stand ready to intercept her.
"So, did you get that out of your system? Clear your sinuses?" you ask Sammy as the door opens with a long BRRRR! Or tries to; her efforts ensure it jams half-way open. She skips out and is waiting when Hate opens the cell opposite; her little flotilla of corgis leaping to her side to swirl around her feet in a nonstop floor-halo of doggy joy. Sammy looks down on her minions imperiously, then pouts up at you.
"I'm hungry."
>To the officer's mess!
>Screw base food and screw that place, I think it's cursed with shipsluts. Lets go somewhere off-base for a change.
>Other?
>To the officer's mess!
"Sure," you tell Sammy. "Let's hit up the mess."
She scowls. "Base food is always crummy. Can't we go out?"
"We're going to the officer's mess," you inform her. "I dunno what crap they've been feeding you, but the food there's actually decent."
"Hokay," she says nonchalantly. She stuffs her hands in her pockets – as she does at nearly every opportunity; you think she favors that big jacket because of the nice, conspicuous pockets – and saunters out of the brig to your left, with Hate bringing up your right.
For a change of pace nothing untoward happens on your way to the eats – the door guard doesn't even blink when he sees Sammy at your side. She skips ahead immediately, heading for the food. You catch up to find her standing on tip-toe, trying to fish some bacon out of the back corner of the buffet bar's tray.
"Grrrrrngh," she mutters as she strains to reach. The tip of the tongs just barely brushes one strand of bacon. "Dammit!" She brings her little fist down on the edge of the tray, hard, and the remaining bacon goes flying and bouncing off the sneeze-shield. Thus redistributed, she's able to take her share and proceeds to build two huge... they started as BLTs, but when she got to adding the meatloaf on, you had to look away. At least the mess hall meatloaf has the kind of consistency required to stay on a sandwich – god knows it's good for little else. Except for shoring up battle-damage, perhaps. You begin to load a plate – Kongou's toast wasn't sufficient for the "excitement" you're likely to enjoy today – and follow in Sammy's wake. She's got a hand atop one huge sandwich each, pressing down to hold them together and to exert enough force on her tray to slide it to the end. She reaches it and pauses uncertainly.
"Here," Hate says nonchalantly, producing two big pins with circular ends decorated with red tape. She holds the dagwoods still for him to spear them through – they're just the right size. No mortal toothpick can contend with Sammy B's appetite. Destroyers were always big fuel hogs in the steam days – and Sammy wasn't much better.
Your happy little duo of lunatics finds a table in the corner and settle in. You pick at your mashed potatoes while Hate guzzles down his coffee – you see he's taken the whole carafe from the machine. Back to old habits already. You can't blame him; the tiny little white mugs they give you here are awful. After downing about half of it, he turns his attention to the Corgis, who are watching him intently. With a big, dramatic sigh, he swivels around in his chair and picks up the plate he set aside just for them. "And to thee, I do grant Holy Communion," he mutters as he begins doling out the bacon strips, one at a time, working clockwise through the dogs that have taken up solemn station around his chair. "One for you, my son.... one for you, my son..."
"Admiral, could you get me some chocolate milk?" Sammy asks. "I couldn't reach those dangly-doodangs."
"Is it really a good idea for you to have sugar?" you ask warily.
"Biff muh," she murmurs around half of the huge sandwich. You watch in awe – you think she might've unhinged her jaw to fit it in – then you rise and head for the milk machine.
You're not halfway there when a flash of white hair framing a youthful face catches your eye. You glance sidelong to see -
- yes, that's Shoukaku on an intercept course.
>DAMN THE SHIPSLOOTS, FULL SPEED AHEAD!
>ADMIRAL CALLS FOR AID!
>LA LA LA I CAN'T SEE YOU
WRITE-IN: Stop, look at her, and ask what she wants.
You slow to a halt, letting Shoukaku come to you. The memory of your fantastic fuckup yesterday is vivid in your mind – especially the part where you tore out of Shoukaku's grasp so you could rush in and stick your foot in the bear trap that is Kaga. She's actually sane – and demonstrably smarter than you, for that matter.
So you come to a halt, and politely wait for her to approach you. You haven't seen much of her – yesterday was the first time in person, you think – so you take the opportunity to study her. She moves with uncommon grace, her long skirt hardly seeming to move as she seemingly glides towards you. The dark metal "chestpiece" that seemingly all the Japanese carriers wear is notably heavier than Kaga's and Akagi's, and she seems to... displace more than either of them, too. Her skin is surprisingly pale and clear; her face sweetly, softly shaped. Limpid light-brown eyes sparkle in the light; shining like amber past stray strands of silver hair that decorate her face just right.
"Admiral?"
You come to your senses with a start. "Uh. Hello, Shoukaku. Can I help you?"
Shoukaku's eyes fall to the floor, and you notice her hands are clasped in front of her. "Yes... about yesterday..." A small sigh escapes her. "I'm sorry."
You process that for a second. "Beg your pardon?"
She looks up in confusion. "But I'm begging *your* pardon!"
"Uh, I mean, please repeat."
"I'm sorry about yesterday," she repeats, holding your gaze steady now. "I shouldn't have let you face Kaga alone."
You squint at her. "But I-"
"You couldn't have known," she insists, gentle, yet firm. "Kaga..." her eyes drop to the floor again. "Kaga-san is in pain," she whispers. "She was of an older class... less protected than me. Still, she... she blames herself." She captures your gaze again. "I should have known things would go poorly. I should've tried to convince you."
"Shoukaku-"
"I was right there," she insists. "I'm in the same division as Zuikaku, I know how she can get – how Kaga gets when they start into it. I knew, Admiral."
"You did try," you point out. "And I'm thankful for that."
She shakes her head, that silver (how could you ever see it as white?) hair seeming to shimmer around her face as she does so. "Please, Admiral. Let me apologize properly. Nobody's even welcomed you to the base yet, and now we've gotten off on the wrong foot."
"Well, it'd be nice to make my introductions in a *formal* fashion-" you begin.
"Good!" Shoukaku says cheerfully. Her entire face seems to radiate light when she smiles. She reaches out and captures your free hand in both of hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Join me for dinner tonight. I'll tell you all about the base and the ships we have here."
"Sure," you say politely. She gives you another lovely smile, and then she's gone, gliding away for the door. You marvel over the brief conversation as you fill a few plastic cups for Sammy – her fault? Really? The number of people willing to make excuses for you on this base is – scratch that. The number of people with delusions of responsibility on this base are alarming. Or maybe it's that Japanese thing, where you take responsibility for the failures of a superior, and thus gain... shrif-gor? No, that was from that book. Virtue? Nah, that's Buddist... or Hindu. Whatever. You limp back to the table and water Sammy, who's already polished off her dagwoods.
"So, what was all that about?" Sammy asks.
"Nothin, she just wanted to Express her Regrets about yesterday," you said. "Wants to introduce me to the base good and proper and all that."
"What, they're throwing you a welcome party?" Hate and Sammy are overcome by identical expressions of glee. "Will there be cake!?" they sing-song in unison.
You snort. "Nothing so extravagant. She just asked me to dinner tonight."
The destructive duo's happy expressions seem to freeze, then shatter.
".... what?" you say as you swirl the last of your rather-dense meatloaf around your plate.
Their eyes widen as one, a pair of cold, dead stares that bore into you. You peer back at them quizzically, trying to figure out -
- "fuck ME."
>There is no fucking way this is happening. You guys are wrong. You're wrong in all the ways.
>What the actual how shit does these what how in the literal fuck?
>Hate, I require an emergency tonight and I require it FAST.
>other?
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