The Command

He faked left and came out of cover running and firing blindly into the dark. Too late, saw the guy aiming at him from behind a wall. He tried to get his sights around, put fire on him, but instead heard the whap of a solid hit to the center of his chest. Like getting smacked with the tip of a whip — stinging pain succeeded instantly by numbness. Wet droplets sprayed his face. He felt his legs go in shock and surprise.

“Okay, that’s enough.” The range safety officer blew his whistle and stepped out of the corner. “Sorry, that isn’t gonna do it. Let’s try that again.”

And he got to his feet as they lowered their rifles and checked their magazines, pulled paintballs out of their pockets, reloaded. Breathing hard, legs shaking, because it was all just too fucking much like the real thing.

* * *

Gunner’s Mate Senior Chief Martin A. Marchetti had been in the U.S. Navy for seventeen years. He wore his hair buzzed, stood a fathom even, and pressed three hundred pounds. Elaborate Chinese dragons in four colors uncoiled down from shoulders on which every muscle group stood out in relief. He’d brought the guys out today to try out for what various navy pubs called the VBSS, SART, MIB Team, or Tiger Team. The guys who reacted fast, shot straight, and thought ahead, he’d keep.

Getting the ship’s boarding and search team up to speed was part of Horn’s pre-overseas workup. But not a big part, to judge by the training schedule. All the squadron weenies wanted was a couple of boat drills and some paper punched at the range.

Marchetti didn’t think this set the bar high enough. The guys in the black outfits and masks were from SEAL Team Six, based here at Dam Neck. He wasn’t going to get his boys anywhere near their standards, but he could give them some idea of what it was like to get shot at.

They squatted on the grass, listening to the safety officer, Devlin, in a flight suit, black turtleneck, and black ball cap, explain how to take a corner. “A ship’s made out of corners. If you can control them, you’ll win the engagement. This is a game of percentages. You get them on your side — strong side, weak side, cross fire, communication, mindset — you’ll walk out instead of getting dragged out.”

This he could use. But along with listening, Marty was watching the men around him. Who was tuned in. Who didn’t care. Who’d kept up on the run that morning. You didn’t have to be able to run five miles to board and search a ship, but you had to be in good shape. Especially if things went to shit.

Like they had for him, a couple of times.

* * *

At lunchtime Devlin said he was going to the Shifting Sands, did Mar-chetti want to ride over? So he made sure Goldstine had the weapons and ammo locked up — they’d shoot live fire that afternoon on pop-up targets — and sent the rest of them to the mess hall. He got into Devlin’s Ram and they went over to the club.

They were drinking Diet Cokes at the bar, Marchetti admiring the titanium Luminox on Devlin’s wrist, when a hand fell on his shoulder. “Martini Fucking Machete. I thought that was you.”

“Jeez — Zebie?” He flipped the other chief’s lapel. “They making jerk-waters like you master chiefs?”

“Just got to be in the right rate, guy.”

Zebie Chesko was heavier than he remembered. A lot of guys let themselves go once they put on khaki. Marty flashed on a slim youngster smoking a Lucky in front of a five-inch thirty-eight. They’d been seamen then, on the old Albany. He introduced Devlin, told Chesko his division was doing some tactical training.

They ended up at a table, waiting for steak sandwiches and listening to Faith Hill in the beer-smelling dim. Chesko said he was at the shipyard in Portsmouth. He was in Virginia Beach to check out a rental for the last summer his daughter would be with them before she went to Hollins on a basketball scholarship. What was he doing? Marty said Rosa was history. The last he’d heard, she was a receptionist at a funeral home in Chattanooga. Chesko said that sucked. Marty said it actually didn’t, the sex was the same, but the dishes piled up. And he was on Horn, ginning up to head back to the Gulf.

“Horn? No shit, you on the fuckin’ USS PMS?” Chesko put down his beer. “Hey, know why they let women in the navy? So the officers can fuck face to face for a change.”

“Women?” said Devlin.

Marchetti said, “Not in my work center, thank God. They’re mostly in the hole with the snipes.”

“We got them all over the yard now. Hard hats and tool belts and little bouncing cheeks. Their minds are on their fuckin’ wombs, not their fuckin’ jobs.”

“Not like some guys I know, do their thinking with their dicks.” Marchetti toasted him with his burger.

“So, what’s it like?”

“Fuck if I know. They only been there a couple weeks,” Marchetti said. “I don’t think they’re gonna stay, myself. It’s tough duty, destroyers.”