“If I ever see that herpes-riddled rectum of a man, I’ll kill him.” I growl into my coffee, trying to ignore my friend Juan Alvarez laughing at me from across the table. I know why he’s laughing, every third enlisted Sailor has something to say about their recruiter and maybe one in ten would punch them in the face if given the opportunity.
“I’m sorry, you know that for someone that could probably teach the nuclear and alternative power track at ‘A’ school, you really are stupid sometimes. I mean, not researching the available ratings before enlisting?” he chuckles, “at least you tested high enough to get into the Nuke track. Imagine how mad you’d be if you on regular ships?”
I met Jamal at recruit training center Great Lakes with a gaggle of other machinist mates and assorted ratings for our boot camp class. I had expected some hardship, knowing that an overweight thirty three year-old scientist had some fitness hurdles to overcome, but I was determined to make it back to working with my baby, that sexy, sexy new engine installed in the new flight of exploration ships.
I’ve been told that I’m difficult, headstrong, and not a “team player” and most of the theoretical physics community agrees. My biggest problem is that most cutting edge physics experiments are being run by people who think so too--maybe to a degree that I’ve been blacklisted.
“You do realize that people have to like you to get a slot stationed on one of the four space frigates right?”
“You keep hinting at that, but from what I’ve read, the top ten percent get to choose what slots they want. I just have to be better than everyone else—how hard can that be?” I mean, I have a Ph.D. in Aeronautics and Astronautics and a masters in Physics, what are they going to surprise me with?
“I’m going to see if I can get everyone to call you Chip. Or perhaps Nacho. You know full well that literature and rumor aren’t all the facts. Why don’t you wait until we step foot into the schoolhouse before you start putting gold stars on your chest.”
“I hate you Alvarez,” I really don’t, but they way he insults me without actually insulting me is infuriating.
“You’d miss my enchiladas though,” he smiles smugly as he stands to throw his breakfast trash away.
“I’d miss your Tia’s enchiladas, but yours will have to do.” I stick my tongue out at him. I’m a big girl, yes I am. Alvarez pulls his cap out of his belt and pulls it tight over his slick Chicano haircut. I sigh, knowing that I need to stop bellyaching and just get through this crap so I can get to a ship and back to my steel and plasma girlfriend.
Alvarez barely tolerates me as is, so the frown he’s wearing is one I see often. All back one third. “Sorry man, I get a little too far into my toddler brain sometimes.” One of his eyebrows disappears beneath the bill of his cap. “Fine, a lot of times, but thanks for putting up with me.”
“Yah, remember that gratitude when I’m asking you to help me study.”
Now I remember why I don’t feel bad annoying him. Bastard latched onto me when he heard that I was on the same track as him and that I already had a degree in science. Well everyone knew about my PhD as our drill instructor liked to yell that all that fancy learning didn’t help me run faster. Asshole.
My school and lab years had not helped my fitness one lick, but Alvarez stuck by me and made sure to encourage me as often as he could. I lost me some weight during boot camp, but I’m still a chubby white girl. The flared out blouse the Navy issues women, one that we don’t have to tuck in, hides my lumpy middle enough that I don’t think about it. Not that I spent much time thinking about how fat I was, my brain was and is always occupied by science, and the Annihilation Propulsor that me and my team built six ago. Okay, it wasn’t my team, but the tech that was used to build the engine came from my thesis work, so it feels like its mine, damnit.
Tired of waiting, Alvarez turns around and starts walking toward the school house, silently threatening to leave me behind. I pull my cap out and pull it over my forward slanted bob cut, the tips just barely in regs for not having to pull it back to a pony nub, and hurry to police my trash and catch up so I don’t have to walk to our classroom alone.
Naval Nuclear Power School (NNPS) Charleston is located in Hanahan, SC, at the end of a long road stuffed with payday loans and car dealerships opportunistically situated to separate newly independent children from their disposable income. The base itself is spacious and pretty with trees, parks and peaceful parkways leading to family housing. Single Sailor housing is barracks shaped like a hotel, sleeping four to a room with a communal area per floor. Okay, its better than a barracks because no one’s banging trashcans a foot from my head in the middle of the night. That and significantly more personal space—I have a little desk. The walk from the barracks to the school or the mess hall is really short, so no complaints on that part, but today Alvarez swung by early on his way from family housing so we could bullshit a bit longer in the mess hall before school. It’s nice to be able to chat at breakfast instead of cutting unto your shower and facilities time.
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“So, how many of the other ratings are we going to be in class with?” I ask, catching up to my buddy.
“If you had read your packet, you would know, that the nuclear ratings have separate “A” schools, even though some of the electronics topics overlap a little. I hear we don’t really start mixing until prototype. You better start paying attention.”
“Yes Papa Alvarez,” I say, rolling my eyes. He hits me on the shoulder.
We enter the building with the other dozens of Sailors walking to and fro, trying to make it to their classrooms before they’re late. When Alvarez and I walk in to ours, thirty other Machinist Mate-Nuclear 3rd Class (MMN3) Sailors are seated in a class room with two columns of long tables and a podium in the back for those who have trouble staying awake. Too bad the tables nearest the podium are taken as I’ll likely be back there later.
“ATTENTION ON DECK” a Sailor in the front yells and all thirty two of us turn forward and snap to attention.
The Navy Captain walks in with a strong jaw and a tight-cropped afro, followed by a thin, middling height woman in a plain navy suit.
“Welcome Machinist Mates. I’m Captain Barnes, the Commanding Officer of NNPS Charleston. This is Senior Chief Rickman and Miss Peters from Naval Reactors. They will be your instructors for the next eight months. Senior Chief will be you point of contact for all Navy admin, protocol, and housekeeping matters, and Miss Peters will be your go to for schoolhouse matters.
Now, I know most of you are fresh out of boot camp, but being on the nuclear track, you are not only under more scrutiny for medical, but also your general behavior. Competition can be stiff, so anything that can differentiate candidates for a “best fit” for our newest ships, especially our Copernicus-class Starships, will be taken into account when you graduate from prototype a year from now. Lets hope none of have to see me again before graduation. Senior Chief.”
Rickman nods to the CO then faces the class as Peters follows the Captain out the door. “Congratulations Sailors, you are now amongst the busiest bastards in the Navy. You will work hard and everything that breaks in the engine room is your fault, or an ETN’s fault.” The class chuckles halfheartedly.
“Alright, you have me for an hour while we go through the logistics portion of this schoolhouse. If anyone hasn’t been to the mess hall, there’s a map of campus at each entryway. Find it. You’re enlisted and don’t get extra money for subsistence. If you are not on their list of check-ins, raise your hand.”
This admin crap continued for berthing, and family housing. It would be two to four weeks before any pay discrepancies could be worked out, but he told us to keep a diligent record. He also warned the class against buying a car or using payday loans. Any issues that required either service, Senior and counsellors could assist in directing us to the appropriate non-scammatory service. Long story short, don’t make the CO get involved in your foolish debt. Do contact Senior if you’re having issues with base facilities or pay.
“You’ll find that the Navy portion of the brief gets repetitive throughout your career. Schoolhouse-wise, this is where you learn. You need to study, you do it here. You can’t take material home, you lock your issued books and notebooks in your locker when you leave. Leaving unsecured material is bad for your security clearance, so don’t do it. Twice and you get a buddy to inconvenience. Three times and you get remedial security training and get bumped to the next class. Get bumped a second time and get reassigned as a regular MM and lose out on your space fantasy. Put your hands down, we’ll talk about that space shit at the end of the period if I have time.” I scoff at that. That’s clearly all I care about, and he’s staring straight at me as he says it.
“You’re here for six months. Your first exam is in a week. Individual subject exams last up to ninety minutes and comprise twenty percent of your grade. Wait, here,” he hands a stack of papers to each row and tells them to pass them left until they run out. “Your subject schedule and exam schedule are laid out plainly in the syllabus, but know that not all subjects are created equal. You will have four comprehensive exams lasting four hours each, worth twenty percent each. Can you slack off and just aim toward doing well on the comprehensive exams? Sure, if you want pain for five months and be at risk of not getting the duty station you want.
Get below a 2.5 on any exam? Mandatory study time. Your cumulative grade drops below 3.0 mandatory study time. Minimum cumulative to graduate is 2.8, but the Captain likes to make sure that if people fail their own goals, they have room to pass our requirements. Top thirty percent of graduates are likely to get the prototype location they want. Prototype will have a similar grading system. Why does it matter if you do well as long as you pass? US Navy only has five MMN3 slots this year for the Genesis Training Program. AKA interstellar engine training. Any questions?” He looks up and sees five hands up, including mine, grunts and continues, “Aww, hour is up. Time for you all to drink from the firehose,” he chuckles darkly.
Peters and Senior Chief perform an excellent hand-off where she steps in just as he leaves. I’d like to say that she walks in with some excellent teacher glasses and lets her hair down in a movie swish with a time-slow gimmick, but alas, the room is quiet and the sound of her platforms thunk against the linoleum as her pale green eyes send lasers through the classroom.
“As the commanding officer said, I’m Miss Peters. I’ll be your instructor for the next six months. I’m not allowed to coach you on how to take these exams. With the exception of the Genesis Module, the coursework was written before I was born and only the reactor design elements have changed. That being said, I was hired and trained by Naval Reactors to teach you the fundamentals of all the reactor systems that we use, with ship specialization and qualification occurring after you arrive and qualify on your specific ship’s machinery. My required time in this building ends at 5pm. I’m available for tutoring appointments periodically and my schedule is posted outside my office. If time-slots fill up, they’re full. Write-ins will be ignored and not pushed to the next available time. If you fail to appear at a time you’ve scheduled, you are hurting other students, but I still get paid.”