I never would have guessed that I’d find myself in Captain Rickman’s office so soon after our last meeting, but here I am with Baker and the rest of the top five students standing in front of his desk. His look is less mad, and more troubled . . . maybe resigned than last time, but the other four probably haven’t seen him as inconvenienced as I have.
“Students, Naval Reactors called and said they need volunteers with a tenacity for excellence. What I have is you five. It seems that there were some recent changes to Copernicus and Genesis requirements that left the US with less qualified Sailors than our quota. If you accept, you’ll get on a plane no later than tomorrow morning for a Saturday afternoon briefing at the Pentagon where you’ll be given the full story and schedule.
“TLDR: You will be on a recklessly accelerated prototype program with the same requirements to get your operators certificate to be ready for the start of the next Genesis class in February. To qualify for the program, you will need to pass testing requirements next week and if you pass you will be locked into an attempt to qualify in half the time it normally takes. The drawbacks are that if you fail, it’ll look like a normal failure and it could affect your future chances to qualify for space. Additionally, you’d be rolled back into the next normal class, and more than likely missing your chance to be on the maiden voyage of these vessels. Since the tour length of these ships is 3-5 years, there’s no guarantee you’d be called up from standby anytime soon. Specific benefits will be discussed during your meeting with Naval Reactors. Questions?”
“How long can we think about this?” A skinny teen with glasses asks.
“Until I kick you out of my office. Each one of your current orders are laid out before you. You can pick up that piece of paper, walk out and pretend this never happened.”
“If I pick up that paper, does anything negative happen?” Martin asks.
“No. You’ll still have a better than average chance to make it on the Gallileo before she leaves orbit if you continue to excel.”
Martin comes to attention, grabs his orders, “Thank you Sir,” executes a snappy about face and marches smartly out of his office. I nod at that. He’s not in a hurry and he doesn’t need any extra hardships. I can respect that.
I, however, am buzzing in my damn skin I’m so excited. If I succeed, I get to board a space ship equipped with my lovely baby girl a year or more early? Baby, I’m comin’. Mama’s gonna see you soon. Rickman raises an eyebrow at the grin on my face before Poindexter steps forward to take his orders.
“Thank you Sir.” About face, and he too smartly marches out the door.
The CO eyeballs us one last time before standing up and ripping up the papers laid out on his desk before individually handing us new ones. “You three will walk out to the travel officer that is expecting to arrange all of your details with the expectation to get you on a plane tonight.”
Oh my god. Is this really happening?! I’m getting a chance, a difficult one, but a chance none the less. Up yours academia and your delicate egos. You have to sacrifice and work on other projects before someone will work on yours. Oh? You had a great idea? You have to pay a tithe an be the second name on your project because you haven’t published yet. You’ve published? But you don’t have a name that gets funding, you have to help a name that gets funding to stay relevant before you can get a name that garners funding, it’s just how the game is played.
TO HELL AND MEDIOCRITY WITH THE LOT OF YOU. I scream at the ghosts of my past.
“You need a reason to leave, Mercer?”
Crap. Internal monologue takes external time. “No sir. Just reveling in the majesty of this opportunity.” I snap to attention, “Thank you sir!” I march out to find three impatient people waiting for me.
“About time. Follow me to my office and we’ll set things up before you pack.”
Turns out, Lieutenant Beechum is on the fast track to nowhere. He made some mistakes in his youth and is being out processed as a Second Lieutenant. That’s some stinky cheese, but it is definitely not my fault. In any case, Beechum knows the travel system and the phone agents and has all three of us on a plane and into hotel rooms well before lunch, leaving us time to pack before we need top report to the airport.
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I pack my happy ass into a duffel and rush to the airport to use my travel per diem for lunch and a beer. I text Alvarez and Peters that I’ll be gone for a week, and that I have to bail on the date I had with my former instructor. She had some objections to it being called a date but I tease her about it anyway. There’s a better than solid chance that whatever was bothering her this week, would continue to bother her, and whatever chance we had of being friends was thrown out with the dishwater.
I pack my dress uniform and two working uniforms and the ever present jeans and t-s for my week-long trip to DC along with every pair of underwear I own. Like, all 10 pairs of them. What, after boot camp I threw a lot of stuff out and I have no need for pretty underwear at the moment. Yeah, yeah. There’s a small chance the hotel I’ll be in is hookup central, but that’s altogether unlikely.
The flight is short, South Carolina to Virginia isn’t far and I clear baggage claim around dinner time. Ah back into the veritable vipers nest, how I loath you, your traditions, and your politics. One of the few things I’ve appreciated about the military so far, is the “you don’t have to like it, you just have to do it,” mentality. Of course, in power school, doing it exactly the way you were told was more important than getting the right answer, but by and large getting the right answer without harming anyone was good enough, no matter how you got there. This is what’s keeping me from exploding at people, so I have to maintain this delusion for twenty more years or so, no big.
I wait in the taxi line for a few moments before the twenty minute or so ride to my 3-star accommodation. Once I tip and slide out of the cab, I look up to my accommodation and wonder why they have a bunch of enlisted folk stashed in an officer hotel. I cannot imagine that the Bachelor Enlisted Quarters are full on any number of bases in the DC area, nor can I imagine why they have us staying so far as Alexandria. Well, feet, time to learn something and meet some folk.
I check in with my orders and reservations, the man behind the counter telling me that I have one other guest in the same room. Rickman warned us about that, and it’s no different than any barracks-style lodging—though these are much higher quality trappings.
The electronic lock to my room whirrs to life after showing me a green light to let me in. There’s a small sink and bathroom to the left with a short hallway slash closet that leads to a pair of twin beds and a small shared table with a mess of short, floppy auburn curls perched on top of a large baggy sleeping shirt with shins bursting out the bottom. My roommate is reading what seems to be an info packet with another open on the table facing her.
“So, curiosity won out over privacy, hey roomie?” I quip, walking up to her, still not able to see her face.
“Naturally. We’ll be living together for a week. Knowing your schedule before hand allows me to adjust my movements based on my ability to tolerate you as you inevitably wear on my patience.” Her tone is clear but softer than a whisper, leaving little character to reach my ears.
“Fire control or Logistics?” the packet in her hand lowers an inch. Ah, one of the two then. “don’t answer that, instead, have you eaten and do you want order in?”
The curls bob as some list item was checked in her brain. “I have collected take out menus and organized them from most to least preferred.”
I chuckle. Wow, if I didn’t also feel this way sometimes, I might be offended at the casual dissociation going on. I’m tempted to order from the hotel restaurant, second to last menu on the TV stand just to spite her, but Thai and hot wings are in the top half, so I circle what I want and put numbers for how many and slip the menu on top of my info packet she’s still holding.
“If you order, I’ll step out for drinks and wait for delivery?”
She bobs her curls again. “Agreed.”
I grab my backpack and pull up my hoodie while walking to the door. “Thanks LS3 Curly. See you in 20 to 30.”
I hear her mutter, before I close the door, “It’s LS2. Is three orders enough?”
I can’t tell if she was asking me or herself that last part, but I was too busy laughing that she was bothered by the rank error and not the silly nickname. This arrangement could still be a nightmare, but so far it’s merely been odd and not particularly painful. Nothing more to judge before dinner I suppose.
My phone tells me there is a convenience store not too far from here, so I walk to peruse their beer and wine selection. Not that I was drinking wine on the reg, but maybe my tribble roomie likes it? I didn’t want to spend more time asking questions when she’d be a captive audience after I got fed and boozed. Plus, I get to judge her selections by presenting her with options I like and go from there.
This shop has a walk-in beer fridge. What the glorious fuck is the place? I prance through the hop haven snagging pilsner and IPA 6-packs as well as a sturdy 4-pack of imperial stout. Now stouts aren’t the best with Asian food, but that’s discounting the burger I might have tomorrow. I prefer to enable future choices instead of limiting them, thank you. I round out my choices with an amber and a red before snagging a pack of hard lemonade on my way out of the spacious fridge. Look, this is for multiple days, okay. Don’t judge me.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, I only had to wait five minutes for Jared to deliver an unwieldy amount of food. We’re talking a Costco lettuce box full of takeout and I may be in love with my hotel mate before even seeing her face. She must have asked for one of everything to see how I’d react. Or, did what I did and ordered a bunch of extra of what she likes to see what I’d be interested in. Sneaky, sneaky.