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GWOT V - Familiarization
Dec. 22nd, 2019 05:12 pmGWOT V - Familiarization
There wasn't much for anyone to tell the differences between the four of us at the rental car stand at Monterey Airport. Four California Republic officers, all in uniforms with ranks and name tapes.
We'd completed our two weeks of 'military courtesy' and 'inbriefing' … processes that in an ideal world took anywhere from eighteen weeks to four years, to make someone into a military officer.
Our eyes told the story. We'd walked through fire and swam rivers of blood. So memorizing chains of command, orders of battle and rank tabs was just a click-through.
Only two things about our two weeks at Sacramento that had surprised me. The Governor had personally taken the time to meet with our class (of forty). Pat had waxed briefly poetic about our duty to keep Californians safe.
I'd had a personal interview with a clinical psychologist. I nearly walked out; then a command officer walked in and briefly explained in the form of an order that I could stay or resign my commission.
So I stayed. What the psychologist and I discussed is my business, and the Republic's. But I can forgive him for asking why I had an issue with him on contact. I explained my view of predators with titles starting with 'P' … and he asked me to briefly humor him by just chatting with him about whatever. We spent the rest of the hour talking about the Age of Sail and the 19th century Royal Navy.
At the end, I asked him if he'd seen my file, and knew what I'd been doing for the Republic prior to my reassignment. He nodded, said "Thank you for your service at Alviso," and bid me a good day.
Fucking psychs.
I'd half expected to be sent directly to an infantry unit in the Sierras. Maybe as a private. But instead I'd gotten orders to start an 'orientation tour', a flight to Sacramento and instructions to meet three other officers in training here at Monterey Airport.
The California Republic isn't much of a nation, the American propaganda tells us. We're not poor, exactly, but we have a lot of people to feed and clothe and house and not much left over for uniforms. So each of the five armed services can wear BDUs or ACUs of any color as long as they have the California Republic patch, the appropriate name tapes and rank tabs.
I will draw a merciful veil over our luggage, except that each of us had the one bag permitted by regulations.
I wore urban camo ACUs. The young tough Latino in the black BDUs shook my hand.
"Captain 18. Captain Alvarez. Thank you for what you did at Alviso."
Getting a little sick of being thanked for Alviso, but OK.
The short fat blonde had found BDUs that fit her, in blue, probably from some pre-War law enforcement stock. "Ensign Fletcher," she said briefly. Her name tape said "CA MILITIA" instead of "CA REPUBLIC" like ours.
The one of us who was closest to actually being in a uniform that fit was wearing former US Army ACUs, from which various non-California details had been removed. "Booker," he introduced himself. He looked like a preacher who had been defrocked, and he was not well shaved. But his eyes said player and his rank tabs Major.
Of the four of us, only I was armed. Yes, I had flown armed. No, no one had cared. This was a very, very different world from before the War.
The clerk at the counter finally found the keys and walked us out to our battered sedan.
"Officers, please take care where you park, return the car fully fueled. Drive safely and thank you for your service."
Ensign Fletcher matter of factly took the keys.
"Where are we going," Booker asked, as if mildly.
"Presidio Monterey," she replied.
I found myself sitting driver's side rear. Habit. This put me next to Alvarez. Booker took shotgun.
The front gate of the Presidio was tighter than a virgin gnat's ass. We were immediately muzzled by heavy machine guns as soon as we committed to the clearly labeled "MILITARY VEHICLES ONLY" exit from the freeway.
This was my first close look at Republic Marines.
They were dialed in and sharp. We dismounted while a dog team went over car and baggage. Our orders were inspected by an NCO. Because I was armed, a very polite Marine was half a turn and half a twitch from blowing me in half at any instant.
"Report to Building 101 for checkin, pass and quarters assignment. First left at the gate. Do not proceed in any other direction but that first left."
The NCO saluted and we went on our way.
This was the main naval base of the California Republic. No ships were docked here, there was no fixed wing airstrip. But when we had landed at Monterey Airport, we had seen the four fighters on strip alert with ordinance uploaded under their wings. And on top of the high rise building to our right, the air search radar twirled unceasingly.
"In the event of attack, unaffiliated personnel will follow the yellow arrows to the nearest shelter. Do not, I say again, do NOT cross a red line at any time or you will be fired upon."
I was handed a special list of instructions and a form to fill out. I read it carefully, keyed a phone number into my burner phone, under supervision cleared my firearm using the barrel provided, took a photo of it and allowed the base to take a photo of it, filled out the serial number on the form, and re-loaded it and returned it to holster.
The second line on the list of instructions advised if I were to lose control of my firearm, I would be subject to summary court martial.
We were then walked to the high rise building, to the elevator, cleared through the lobby and to the top.
The office door read, "Captain Of The Fleet."
"Welcome to California Naval Militia, Base Monterey," the fresh faced aide told us. A civilian, and therefore outside military courtesy. Actually, with respect to visitors like us, well above it.
"In your three days here, we will familiarize you with the maritime capabilities of the California Republic. If you have an interest in Naval Militia service, express it during this visit. Each of you will have a ship tour, a CIC exercise, if possible a backseat ride in a fighter, and go through the water helicopter crash simulator. Are any of you pilots?"
We shook our heads.
"Too bad. We don't have much time. Please follow me."
The Captain of the Fleet stuck his head up, looked at each of us. Clearly he knew Ensign Fletcher. He didn't know Booker or Alvarez and more importantly, didn't care. They were ground combat officers and he could read it on their faces and bodies.
"Captain 18. You are in command of a LIDES that has just torpedoed an American freighter. The freighter crew abandons ship and is in the water. They have no lifeboats but have survival suits and EPIRBs. They may have radios. What do you do?"
I ran through the question. I knew the answer he was looking for. It was legal. It was also abhorrent. I decided to stall.
"Are enemy antisubmarine assets in range?"
"Assume yes."
"Submerge according to the tactical situation and proceed to my next target."
"You do not rescue them?" he asked, accusingly.
"No, Captain. Nor do I machine gun them. The fact that I sank the freighter is obvious, so my vessel's position is compromised, and killing the sailors would not materially improve my situation, in addition to being legally shaky under Geneva. Taking them aboard, if I could do so safely, would be humane and help gather intelligence - but a Goddess class LIDES has a crew of twenty seven, and I don't know how much extra life support we have, and don't care to risk a takeover attempt. Also I don't want to loiter near a ship I've sunk. My first duty is to my own ship and crew."
"Very well. Ensign Fletcher?"
"Captain?"
"You are in command of an ASW aircraft prosecuting a hostile submarine contact in the vicinity of a sunk California freighter. The freighter crew is in the water. MADS indicates that the hostile submarine is under the crew. Your lookout spots a periscope. You have two ADCAPS. What do you do?"
Her face is stricken.
"Drop, sir."
"Drop what?"
"Drop both torpedoes."
"You _will_ kill the men in the water."
"That submarine is about to kill _me_. American submarines are anti aircraft missile capable. And if I let it go, how many more freighters and crews will it kill?"
"Very well. Major Booker. You are in command of a platoon sized VBSS making a hostile boarding on a refugee ship. The bridge and engineering spaces are held by terrorists who hold female and child refugees hostage. What do you do?"
"No hostage policy, sir."
"Spell it out."
"Take the bridge and engineering spaces. Try not to kill any refugees. Accept that most will be murdered. After processing the terrorists for intelligence value, if the tactical situation permits, hang them, otherwise shoot them."
"Very well. Captain Ramirez. You are in command of a two squad Bear Force operational cell aboard a California Republic flagged merchant vessel carrying cargo and passengers. The captain informs you of an apprehended state of mutiny aboard and instructs you to arrest and execute the offenders. What do you do?
"Take the offenders into custody with whatever force is required. Request clarification of the necessity and lawfulness of executing the mutineers."
"The Captain refuses to clarify and orders that you kill them, or you will be a mutineer yourself."
"Respectfully inform the Captain that I am unable to obey unlawful orders."
The fleet captain's face starts to purple.
"Who gave you the authority to make that determination? And how dare you sit in judgment of your superior officer?"
"As an officer of the California Republic, it is my own duty to evaluate the lawfulness of any order I am given, at my very real peril. 'I was following orders is an indictment.'"
"Very good, Captain Ramirez. I will warn you, however, a Marine officer's answer would have been very different."
His gaze sweeps all four of us.
"We can teach any idiot to kill and die. As California Republic officers, you are the guardians of the Republic's honor, as quaint and obsolete as the concept may seem. We have plenty of sailors and soldiers and technicians who can do things. You are the ones who tell them what to do, and more importantly what not to do. And write the letters to their families. And someday your family gets a letter, too.
"Ms. Jones, please convey the officers to their next station on the tour. Captain 18, a moment."
As ordered, I linger behind.
"I want you to know two things, Captain. The first is that events at Alviso Prison are being studied very widely, perhaps far more widely than you realize. The second is that killing is addictive. If you have this addiction, overcome it at once. That is an order. Dismissed."
I complied with the dismissal.
I'm still struggling to this day with the addiction.
There wasn't much for anyone to tell the differences between the four of us at the rental car stand at Monterey Airport. Four California Republic officers, all in uniforms with ranks and name tapes.
We'd completed our two weeks of 'military courtesy' and 'inbriefing' … processes that in an ideal world took anywhere from eighteen weeks to four years, to make someone into a military officer.
Our eyes told the story. We'd walked through fire and swam rivers of blood. So memorizing chains of command, orders of battle and rank tabs was just a click-through.
Only two things about our two weeks at Sacramento that had surprised me. The Governor had personally taken the time to meet with our class (of forty). Pat had waxed briefly poetic about our duty to keep Californians safe.
I'd had a personal interview with a clinical psychologist. I nearly walked out; then a command officer walked in and briefly explained in the form of an order that I could stay or resign my commission.
So I stayed. What the psychologist and I discussed is my business, and the Republic's. But I can forgive him for asking why I had an issue with him on contact. I explained my view of predators with titles starting with 'P' … and he asked me to briefly humor him by just chatting with him about whatever. We spent the rest of the hour talking about the Age of Sail and the 19th century Royal Navy.
At the end, I asked him if he'd seen my file, and knew what I'd been doing for the Republic prior to my reassignment. He nodded, said "Thank you for your service at Alviso," and bid me a good day.
Fucking psychs.
I'd half expected to be sent directly to an infantry unit in the Sierras. Maybe as a private. But instead I'd gotten orders to start an 'orientation tour', a flight to Sacramento and instructions to meet three other officers in training here at Monterey Airport.
The California Republic isn't much of a nation, the American propaganda tells us. We're not poor, exactly, but we have a lot of people to feed and clothe and house and not much left over for uniforms. So each of the five armed services can wear BDUs or ACUs of any color as long as they have the California Republic patch, the appropriate name tapes and rank tabs.
I will draw a merciful veil over our luggage, except that each of us had the one bag permitted by regulations.
I wore urban camo ACUs. The young tough Latino in the black BDUs shook my hand.
"Captain 18. Captain Alvarez. Thank you for what you did at Alviso."
Getting a little sick of being thanked for Alviso, but OK.
The short fat blonde had found BDUs that fit her, in blue, probably from some pre-War law enforcement stock. "Ensign Fletcher," she said briefly. Her name tape said "CA MILITIA" instead of "CA REPUBLIC" like ours.
The one of us who was closest to actually being in a uniform that fit was wearing former US Army ACUs, from which various non-California details had been removed. "Booker," he introduced himself. He looked like a preacher who had been defrocked, and he was not well shaved. But his eyes said player and his rank tabs Major.
Of the four of us, only I was armed. Yes, I had flown armed. No, no one had cared. This was a very, very different world from before the War.
The clerk at the counter finally found the keys and walked us out to our battered sedan.
"Officers, please take care where you park, return the car fully fueled. Drive safely and thank you for your service."
Ensign Fletcher matter of factly took the keys.
"Where are we going," Booker asked, as if mildly.
"Presidio Monterey," she replied.
I found myself sitting driver's side rear. Habit. This put me next to Alvarez. Booker took shotgun.
The front gate of the Presidio was tighter than a virgin gnat's ass. We were immediately muzzled by heavy machine guns as soon as we committed to the clearly labeled "MILITARY VEHICLES ONLY" exit from the freeway.
This was my first close look at Republic Marines.
They were dialed in and sharp. We dismounted while a dog team went over car and baggage. Our orders were inspected by an NCO. Because I was armed, a very polite Marine was half a turn and half a twitch from blowing me in half at any instant.
"Report to Building 101 for checkin, pass and quarters assignment. First left at the gate. Do not proceed in any other direction but that first left."
The NCO saluted and we went on our way.
This was the main naval base of the California Republic. No ships were docked here, there was no fixed wing airstrip. But when we had landed at Monterey Airport, we had seen the four fighters on strip alert with ordinance uploaded under their wings. And on top of the high rise building to our right, the air search radar twirled unceasingly.
"In the event of attack, unaffiliated personnel will follow the yellow arrows to the nearest shelter. Do not, I say again, do NOT cross a red line at any time or you will be fired upon."
I was handed a special list of instructions and a form to fill out. I read it carefully, keyed a phone number into my burner phone, under supervision cleared my firearm using the barrel provided, took a photo of it and allowed the base to take a photo of it, filled out the serial number on the form, and re-loaded it and returned it to holster.
The second line on the list of instructions advised if I were to lose control of my firearm, I would be subject to summary court martial.
We were then walked to the high rise building, to the elevator, cleared through the lobby and to the top.
The office door read, "Captain Of The Fleet."
"Welcome to California Naval Militia, Base Monterey," the fresh faced aide told us. A civilian, and therefore outside military courtesy. Actually, with respect to visitors like us, well above it.
"In your three days here, we will familiarize you with the maritime capabilities of the California Republic. If you have an interest in Naval Militia service, express it during this visit. Each of you will have a ship tour, a CIC exercise, if possible a backseat ride in a fighter, and go through the water helicopter crash simulator. Are any of you pilots?"
We shook our heads.
"Too bad. We don't have much time. Please follow me."
The Captain of the Fleet stuck his head up, looked at each of us. Clearly he knew Ensign Fletcher. He didn't know Booker or Alvarez and more importantly, didn't care. They were ground combat officers and he could read it on their faces and bodies.
"Captain 18. You are in command of a LIDES that has just torpedoed an American freighter. The freighter crew abandons ship and is in the water. They have no lifeboats but have survival suits and EPIRBs. They may have radios. What do you do?"
I ran through the question. I knew the answer he was looking for. It was legal. It was also abhorrent. I decided to stall.
"Are enemy antisubmarine assets in range?"
"Assume yes."
"Submerge according to the tactical situation and proceed to my next target."
"You do not rescue them?" he asked, accusingly.
"No, Captain. Nor do I machine gun them. The fact that I sank the freighter is obvious, so my vessel's position is compromised, and killing the sailors would not materially improve my situation, in addition to being legally shaky under Geneva. Taking them aboard, if I could do so safely, would be humane and help gather intelligence - but a Goddess class LIDES has a crew of twenty seven, and I don't know how much extra life support we have, and don't care to risk a takeover attempt. Also I don't want to loiter near a ship I've sunk. My first duty is to my own ship and crew."
"Very well. Ensign Fletcher?"
"Captain?"
"You are in command of an ASW aircraft prosecuting a hostile submarine contact in the vicinity of a sunk California freighter. The freighter crew is in the water. MADS indicates that the hostile submarine is under the crew. Your lookout spots a periscope. You have two ADCAPS. What do you do?"
Her face is stricken.
"Drop, sir."
"Drop what?"
"Drop both torpedoes."
"You _will_ kill the men in the water."
"That submarine is about to kill _me_. American submarines are anti aircraft missile capable. And if I let it go, how many more freighters and crews will it kill?"
"Very well. Major Booker. You are in command of a platoon sized VBSS making a hostile boarding on a refugee ship. The bridge and engineering spaces are held by terrorists who hold female and child refugees hostage. What do you do?"
"No hostage policy, sir."
"Spell it out."
"Take the bridge and engineering spaces. Try not to kill any refugees. Accept that most will be murdered. After processing the terrorists for intelligence value, if the tactical situation permits, hang them, otherwise shoot them."
"Very well. Captain Ramirez. You are in command of a two squad Bear Force operational cell aboard a California Republic flagged merchant vessel carrying cargo and passengers. The captain informs you of an apprehended state of mutiny aboard and instructs you to arrest and execute the offenders. What do you do?
"Take the offenders into custody with whatever force is required. Request clarification of the necessity and lawfulness of executing the mutineers."
"The Captain refuses to clarify and orders that you kill them, or you will be a mutineer yourself."
"Respectfully inform the Captain that I am unable to obey unlawful orders."
The fleet captain's face starts to purple.
"Who gave you the authority to make that determination? And how dare you sit in judgment of your superior officer?"
"As an officer of the California Republic, it is my own duty to evaluate the lawfulness of any order I am given, at my very real peril. 'I was following orders is an indictment.'"
"Very good, Captain Ramirez. I will warn you, however, a Marine officer's answer would have been very different."
His gaze sweeps all four of us.
"We can teach any idiot to kill and die. As California Republic officers, you are the guardians of the Republic's honor, as quaint and obsolete as the concept may seem. We have plenty of sailors and soldiers and technicians who can do things. You are the ones who tell them what to do, and more importantly what not to do. And write the letters to their families. And someday your family gets a letter, too.
"Ms. Jones, please convey the officers to their next station on the tour. Captain 18, a moment."
As ordered, I linger behind.
"I want you to know two things, Captain. The first is that events at Alviso Prison are being studied very widely, perhaps far more widely than you realize. The second is that killing is addictive. If you have this addiction, overcome it at once. That is an order. Dismissed."
I complied with the dismissal.
I'm still struggling to this day with the addiction.
