GSgt Mike Hefner

To add to Marx's post, few Medal of Honor recipients are awarded them while still alive. It is more common that those who receive them died during their acts of courage and sacrifice. Today, Army Staff Sgt. Salvatore Giunta became the first living service member to receive this country's highest award for heroism in the war in Afghanistan. In his words, "I just did one step in a number of steps, and mine wasn't even the greatest step - it was just another step. I will receive the Medal of Honor for it, but it's for everyone that I've ever served with because they're out there still doing it today.... It was what is asked of us to do every day.... This medal is for everyone. This medal isn't for my actions. That's for everyone out there, every day, fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, fighting every single day. It's about all of us. About the 173rd.... I cannot receive [it] alone."

Any of you out there who are familiar with the story of Lt. Michael P. Murphy, US Navy Seal and who gave his life to save the lives of his teammates when they were pinned down by insurgents in the mountains of Afghanistan might want to check out Lone Survivor - the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10, his story told by the only man who made it out, PFC Marcus Luttrell. Lt. Murphy was awarded the Medal of Honor - posthumously. With that in mind, a generous donation by the class of 2011 at Mikey's Alma Mater, Penn State University, has made possible The Lt. Michael P. Murphy/ Penn State Veterans Plaza. Semper fi, Mikey. Look forward to visiting that site.

Training Two kinds of training came down the pike when it came to combat. The usual took months. It was intense, but slow and intricate. Classroom sessions followed by drill followed by weeks of down and dirty field work with the occasional break for sack and chow. It broke the mold of individuality, stripped the recruit of all vestiges of past comforts and blended him or her into a team mentality. Rapid-fire training, what produced a 30-day wonder, was a more intense in-your-face approach. Rapid-fire training was more commonplace since the Soltan took out too many bases to count and destroyed training facilities, not to mention half the Corps and Fleet. It gave just as much training in a fraction of the time and was designed to deliver a functional Marine to the front lines yesterday. This method didn't set well with anyone - the DIs or the recruits - mostly because it produced more of a half-baked Marine than a fully-trained one. But Gunny Hef and the rest of the instructors figured they were ahead of the game as far as half-baked was concerned. On Agincourt they were not dealing with raw recruits. Fed regs, strategy, chain of command - no problem. But, in the Colonel's words, "We don't have three months to do this," - that was a problem. Training in explosive munitions couldn't be done effectively in a few days, so, as reluctant as they were, training had to be short, clipped, and direct - in-your-face. Which, of course, resulted in quite a few minor injuries. Acceptable for a Marine. Apparently not acceptable for Fleeters. Or the doctor. Given the circumstances and the number of wrenched shoulders and bruised elbows he'd seen, it wasn't all that surprising to be interrupted in the middle of one of the best sack-outs he'd ever had on the coveted NNC couch. "I need to have a word with you Sergeant. Either find your way to a private room or come to my office." Doc Trenral didn't sound too pleased over the comm, and for the kind of conversation Slick imagined would follow, he figured her office was the best place. In less than a minute he was standing at attention in front of the doctor's desk. And no, she didn't look too happy. "At ease, Sergeant. As much as I want to yell at you I won't. I'll preface this by saying I appreciate the work you've been doing with the training." Okay, so he wasn't exactly expecting that lead-in. Standing at full parade rest, he settled in to get her take on the situation. Never hurt to learn the opposite side, especially from the Fleet doctor. If nothing else he'd know which buttons not to push next time. "However. I need to remind you that Starfleet is still an exploration branch of the Federation and the "squids" as I believe you call them, are not made of your hardy stock. We've had 82 cases of shoulder bruising of various intensities, and we've been going through anti-inflammatories like they're breath mints. We don't have unlimited resources here. Therefore, in any further training exercises I expect there to be shoulder pads available to those that choose to use them. Understood?" Eighty-two? "Yes, ma'am." Seems like they had more raw trainees than that. Who'd they miss? Follow the strict rules of reaming - eyes front, look sharp, listen, and do not make excuses. Forget that shoulder pads would probably not be available in a real combat situation. "Now, since you look like day old gagh standing there you're to get at least eight hours undisturbed sleep, excepting an issuance of battlestations, using whatever means you deem necessary. We need you sharp." "Yes, ma'am." Doc Trenral was on the right track, so he took a chance. "With your permission, ma'am? It was understood from the beginning that there would be physical problems during training. Our main objective was not only to teach the proper use of those weapons but to see who would survive in a battle situation. And who would not. Our training... and the bruises you patched up, ma'am? They were to prevent worse injuries in the field. And deaths." "Which is precisely why I waited for that phase of the training to be over before bringing this up, Sergeant. But I can't have cross-department training eating up sickbay resources and potentially causing a loss of efficiency in other departments. So, in the future, anyone that proceeds is to have the option. If they want to swap over to a gray uniform they're more than welcome to pound their flesh to dust. Now go get some rest, I expect you to blow apart any Soltans that pop up so I don't have to use that damnable firearm." "Understood, ma'am." Taking that as a dismissal, the Gunnery DI snapped back to attention and took a sharp 180 on one heel for a formal exit. His estimation of the doctor was up a notch. Maybe a few. Direct and thorough, she seemed to look at both sides of the coin. Look like day-old gagh? Hell, he felt like day-old gagh. 'Course, a few days in the field followed by long hours on the firing line gave a person a certain ripeness that was the hallmark of a Marine. Judging from the looks he was getting and the lack of willingness of others to step into the lift with him, he figured it was time.

Learning Curve A Will, Junior, Taelya, and Slick Log Finding a low-tech, completely non-electronic projectile weapon - never mind a sniper rifle - in the 24th century was like finding a double eagle in a pile of horse hockey (a long story involving a stupid prank, a feed sack, a corral of unbroken horses, and a bunch of eleven-year-olds so tight they'd rather comb through a dung pile than rat or fess up). But Mike and Veras had decided on sniper rifle training to begin with, reason being that it's best to take 'em out from a distance if possible. And the Kid was right, Soltan infection being what it was. But, as always, every high-tech company imaginable had all fingers plus thumbs in the weapons pie. No matter where you turned there was at least one component that depended on it. A strip down of Mike's choice K103 - a light-weight full-balance, with ultimate stability and firepower, easily concealed, easily packed, easily deployed - showed more than one tiny chip buried in its configuration waiting for an EM pulse to take it out. Even as far back as WWIII, the favored Aztek 84 long-range assault rifle had something that would feed an EM pulse. Upon reflection, the Gunny wondered why the hell other enemies hadn't thought of taking them out with a pulse. But then the enemy would have taken out their own weapons as well, so there you had it. Like hobbling all the horses and forgetting one of 'em was yours. Following the Kid's lead, the search backed up several centuries, to a time when a weapon was a weapon that depended on the operator's gray matter, training, and gut instinct to sight a target and send the round. As far as Marine training was concerned, basic weapons had always been there, mostly because of a few accidents in their history that knocked out phasers and other electronics. In addition, traditional forms of hand-to-hand and non-combustible weaponry - knives, bows, bat'leth, and what have you - added to the mix. There'd been recon and first contact missions that demanded issuing older weaponry, so most Marines had at least a working knowledge. He couldn't speak for the Fleet, though, and that was just a tad bothersome. Some of 'em were starting from square one. Two positions held no rank - corpsmen and instructors. On the firing line, colonels and privates got the same treatment; the instructor was the only one with any say. Everyone knew laser weapon safety and regs. Acquainting them with a weapon that was never "off" unless it was unloaded, cleared, and cracked was another story. The Marine live fire simulation past, Mike had shed his full combat gear in favor of basic firing range protection over his BDU*. One thing at a time, he figured. New personnel already had enough to think about. They'd get the full course if and when they could handle the weapon. Caine and Taelya's weapons training took them to positions at the far end of the range, well out of the line of fire from the NGs*. Mike took the lead at the other end with the last group and started from scratch, clearing and handing out weapons as he spoke in automatic clipped instructor bursts. "You are being issued the standard MC-24Kz assault rifle, modified from standard M24 sniper." He held one, demonstrating as he spoke. "Bolt-action, it fires a 7.62 by 51mm NATO* cartridge at twenty rounds per minute, two thousand five hundred eighty feet per second, max effective range of eight hundred meters. Its telescopic sight has a backup iron sight, effective up to maximum range depending on the expertise of the rifleman. This weapon will be used during a Soltan encounter to minimize contact with the Soltan and therefore minimize the chance of infection." He tossed it to the first in line, whose reaction told Mike he was not quite prepared for its heft. "This weapon is considerably heavier than a phaser or a phaser rifle." Toss. "Get used to it." Toss. "The MC-24Kz is your life. When on a mission you will carry it at all times. You will eat with it. You will sleep with it." Toss. "You will never. Ever. Bring it to ground unless in an unavoidable combat situation. Dust... dirt... and moisture... are enemies to your weapon and to you. They cause jamming, misfires, backfires, and explosions." At that, Caine came into his peripheral vision, giving her security NGs the once-over with her practiced eye. Mike figured she'd be the one to parcel them out into units if need be, and that was good enough for him. Judging by some blank expressions, he'd lost a few already and he hadn't even scratched the surface. Looked like it was going to be a long session and, for some, a steep learning curve. Kansas 'Will' JoNs had been watching the last half hour of the weapons training from the NNC observational control room, and for the most part the lieutenant colonel was pleased overall with the current training session. Now, she slipped quietly into the training area proper, the NCC CR entry way door to the course sliding shut behind her with a whisper and shutting away the technicians, officers and volunteers on duty in the control room. The felinoid stayed behind the training group at large, with the NCO trainers facing her from their vantage point in front of the gathered trainees; she stood quietly, her paws clasped behind her back in a standard parade rest stance. JoNs wore the typical on duty black uniform trousers and gray jacket of a senior line officer, but also sported the black standard issue tactical helmet and torso vest. The training zone had of course been designated as a live fire zone, all trainees and trainers wore the protective gear, and there were standing orders from the command staff to never remove either the helmet or vest while in the zone. Also, Mother (and Left Ear JoNs) did not raise a fool - observational status aside, JoNs wore her protective equipment as a flat out precaution, and to drive home the point as a senior officer: it only took one freak mistake, or one random act of stupidity, and a live round could cut loose and nail someone in the brain matter or chest cavity. JoNs had never witnessed such a training course tragedy in her career, thank the gods, but she was determined that the Agincourt would not become a statistic with regard to ship board training accidents. The leonine felinoid was included on the training rosters as well, and would train with the MC-24Kz rifle that Gunny Hefner was currently barking on about at the troops. As a backup hand weapon, Will had chosen to train with a handgun of Human origin, known as the Glock GT34, complete with a GTL 22 light and laser sight scope attachment that both worked on a rather quaint concept known as lithium hypo "batteries". At five foot three inches and coming in at about one hundred and thirty one pounds and average strength for a Cait female, JoNs was a bit of a "light weight" to go along with the Light Colonel. It was logical to choose a lighter revolver handgun design that wouldn't compromise her aim or carrying capacity, and she had appreciated the fact that the Glock model could carry seven to twenty rounds as opposed to the five to eight rounds of the revolver weapon designs. It seemed to be a lot of prep work and training to go through when one had access to and some form of training to all of the modern weapon and defensive conveniences that the 24th century had to offer...but the Soltans had other plans. Anything projectile weapons based or hard contact "distance" weapons such as cross bows that could be used against the Blue Bellies and not put officers and crew in contact danger was being explored. Her fluffy tail twitched and her sharp eyed gaze wandered over to the far side of the firing range, where the equipment and storage racks displayed the weapons that were to be used by the various officers and crew that had registered to train with the pieces over the next several weeks. Sure, she understood the defensive and protection reasons, but it still looked very odd to see a Human handgun that hadn't really changed much design-wise since its inception in the the Earths 20th century placed side by side with an ancient to modern era Bajoran cross bow on the weapons rank. Will's attention snapped back towards the group as Hefner started (gently) bawling out one of the trainees regarding weapons readiness and procedures with the typical marine drill instructor tone designed to brook no nonsense and commanded the full attention of a recruit; you really had no choice but to listen. A small smirk lit across her muzzle, and though the tempered orange helmet visor covered about half of her upper face, she was careful to hide the expression behind a paw. DI's, as a general rule, were hell on recruits and trainees; but better to get in someone's face in training then have them end up hurt, dead, or worse due to not fully understanding the weapon they were to be handling on some future battlefield. And, from a personal standpoint, JoNs sure as heck didn't want to be leading from the front and have someone in the rear guard who didn't know how to aim a rifle. With that said, the Light knew that she wasn't perfect and there was always room for improvement; she had scored in the seventieth one percentile during her last preliminary weapons session, and intended to work on her overall performance to at least try and cap her training score off in the lower to mid-eighties. Caine, for her own part, had fallen into line quietly and was hefting the rifle carefully, testing the weight against her last memory of training with such a gun some years before. She was here, in her mind, for a twofold reason. First of all, she was not quite so arrogant as to think that she knew everything; twenty-seven years was a long time, and while it meant she could "sight-read" more useful weaponry than the average bear, it didn't make her an expert in the current subject matter. All "good policy" aside, it was just stupid not to listen when someone who knew better than you was telling you about the gun you meant to use to save your own life, and the lives of those around you. Second, however, she was here to set an example and to get the lay of the land among her teams. She had (mostly) every confidence that they (most of them) were capable of taking on this sort of new task with equanimity; however, she already knew there were a few troublemakers in her ranks, mostly among the younger ones, for whom a new bit of technology still overwhelmed the seriousness of war, for whom being trained by a marine was an assault to dignity, or for whom it was simply impossible to keep still. It was important for them to learn, but it was also important for her to learn -- who to use and who to keep back. The stakes were too high for democracy in this sort of thing. For the moment, she stood balanced across the balls of her feet, the new Andorian ensign (an unknown quantity but so far relatively stable) at her elbow, and listened to the conversation. Hefner's eyes drifted across her and she nodded soberly, completing her tactile investigation of the equipment and bringing it to a solid parade rest. "Like deer in the headlights, huh?" she murmured just loud enough for him to hear as he swung past her, a grin twitching gently at the corner of the Vulcan frown. "More like blind as a bat at this stage," Mike muttered, only half joking, over his shoulder as he led his group towards the ammunition holding area. "Better now than later," Caine said with a faint shrug. She didn't get the impression Mike was on the end of a short fuse with the newbies -- which was a good thing. A steady hand would make more progress, especially given the uncertainty of the situation for most of the trainees. "Let me know if you need a hand." Mike had to agree, though he didn't have the time or the inclination to verify audibly. Giving a thumbs-up to Caine, he returned to square one in projectile munitions. As an observer and the XO, JoNs was also looking for any signs of problems that would prevent an individual from moving forward. The cross-departmental training -- and no dept was exempt -- worked on two levels: individual, and as a whole. The individuals would be trained, but as a whole, the department officers and crew would need to come together, use the training in real time practice, and employ the "archaic" projectile weapons to defend the ship if it came down to some sort of Soltan incursion; it would take everyone working together, and it started right here on the firing range. Taelya paid little attention to the whispered conversations around her, focusing on the directions given by the Marine instructor to the other group. Projectile weapons , especially of human fabrication, were not something she had been extensively trained with and even though she had confidence in her marksmanship skills, she knew better than to turn a deaf ear to explanations and wise recommendations. She enjoyed learning, then mastering new weaponry, in that order . As such, the proverbial "boys with toys" look some of her new security colleagues were sporting as they were handling the sniper rifles didn't not make her feel entirely confident at the prospect of having to go war with them. She shot a side look in Caine's direction, not feeling entirely comfortable yet to make a comment about it . Caine caught the glance and one eyebrow quirked up as she followed the Andorian's gaze toward the younger officers. It didn't take much effort to guess at what Taelya was thinking. "We were all there once," she said casually, cocking her shoulders back under the weight of her rifle as she nestled it into the rest position. "They simply don't have the luxury of peacetime...they haven't been weeded down yet. They'll learn." She could see Jacob Spencer pulling his usual gags near the front of the line and snapped him a displeased look; he desisted rapidly enough but she made a mental note to speak to him later. "Or we'll find other work for them. Not to worry." Taelya simply nodded in response to Caine's comment, before straightening her posture and her antennae as she re focused. She grinned almost imperceptibly, as she noticed a young ensign, down the line, cringing at the barking tone used by the instructor. To her, it felt familiar. She felt more in her element, here in this training session, getting barked at, on a ship she was newly assigned to, then she had ever felt since she joined the Fleet. Taelya knew she made the right decision to request this front line posting. The weight and shape of the MC-24Kz were staring to feel more familiar. The security officer was not entirely satisfied with the result of her preliminary "field test" with the rifle, even if it was better than some of the officers from her group, she had not yet managed one of those more precise head shots. She made a mental note to request more training time on her off shifts. The lieutenant colonel continued to watch the various interactions among the trainee crew; posture told a lot to an observer, and most were as comfortable as they could be around a course cleared for live fire. She could deliniate fear in some stances, but not much. Determination in others, such as the new Security ensign, Taelya. The consummate watchdog professionals, such as Hefner and Varos. A walking problem waiting to happen, a gold plated goof off by the name of Spencer, though the leonine officer noted that his chief, Caine, silenced him quickly and stopped his nonsense with just a look. She reached a paw into a trouser cargo pocket and withdrew a data PADD, making a few quick notations for a report to the CO. ===================== NG - New Guy, modified from its original acronym for all audiences. BDU - Battle Dress Uniform NATO - A pre-Federation 20th and 21st century alliance of nations called the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, it lasted until WWIII.

"Colonel? Got a minute?" Major Akio Haruto paused in the doorway to Lt Colonel JoNs' office, left open as usual. Well aware of her open door policy, he still wasn't the kind to walk in without asking. Kansas 'Will' JoNs glanced up from the computer console flat screen mounted on her desktop, and waved a paw at Haruto. "Come on in Major. What can I do you for?" After thirteen plus years serving in the Starfleet, the Caitian feline had picked up certain Human phrases and jokes. The Lieutenant Colonel had shucked her gray toned uniform jacket, and it lay neatly slung over the back of her office chair. With the black short sleeved uniform undershirt and matching trousers, the dark color was a contrast against her golden fur. "It's the Gunny, Colonel," he said hesitantly, as though he might be interrupting. "He's on a roll and I said I'd bring it to your attention. He has a point. Might be worth while looking into." "You're speaking of the proposed weapons training memo? Aye, just as the three day staggered leave and shift rotations started, the Gunny had sent myself and the Cee Oh a brief heads up regarding the plans that were percolating among the enlisted guys. The Colonel gave the go ahead during our AM business meeting, so the Marine Department as a whole will be moving forward with projectile weapons and hand to hand combat readiness and training as applied to the Blue Bellies. Once the Marines -- and Security -- work the bugs out of the system, all Departments will be incorporated into the routine. I'm drawing up the 'heads up' memos now along with general ships business directives." Kansas indicated her console with a wave of a paw, and then the felinoid leaned back in her office chair and regarded the male human of Earth Asian descent. "You have the particulars you want to discuss?" The Major's expression sobered as he advanced in the slow, measured gait of the Samurai, which spoke of his family's ancient traditions. Upon reaching the proper distance he gave a respectful bow. "It seems, Chuusa, that you have everything well in hand." After this the brief display he relaxed to his former posture and gave a smile for good measure, as though waiting for the Lt Colonel's expected head tic at the formality of his greeting. Haruto was a good sort, an excellent combat marine, and JoNs had been benefiting from his example these last few months...even when that guidance was a bit more forthcoming due to certain events. At a second wave of her paw to grab a seat, he reversed a chair to straddle it in front of her desk. "Particulars? I know the Gunny's idea of a projectile weapon is somewhere between a standard double ought shotgun and a KC 95. I was thinking we might want to broaden the category to include, say, Private Karo's bow as well as more culture-specific weapons - Klingon, Bajoran, Ferengi? Maybe... Xenexian?" He cocked his head to one side, inviting comment. "We have options to choose from, that's for sure Major. Even if we concentrate -- as an example -- on only three or four combat weapon offerings from certain cultures, we'll be able to prep for all possible contingency plans. It's best to keep options open and pick and choose from the cultures. The Great Hunter knows that we have enough species to choose viable close quarters combat weapons from." Will sighed inwardly, but not from annoyance at the conversation. This was the sort of conversation that she could handle; talking shop with one of the commissioned officers about weapons readiness, or in this case, thinking outside the normal comfort zone with regard to alternative personal defenses in case conventional weapons were to be taken out by the Soltan. It would also be a welcome change of place talking alternatives with the major as opposed to dealing with a triage snafu that had wrangled about half the medical staff. She cocked an expressive ear to one side, breaking the stride of the convo to touch on another topic no less important, but still very much on the radar of the crew at large. Her green eyes showed curiosity as she asked the question of the major. "I'm guessing that word has spread about the incident down in the medical quarantine zone? How's the battalion and squad reaction overall?" Her tail swished lazily behind her, occasionally popping up above the level of the desk top before swooshing back down. In her opinion -- everyone has one, eh? -- JoNs had been doing her job as the XO to check out any possible hostile environment and shouldn't have to apologize to anyone for performing her duty. The CMO (another Cait, gods save them from clash of the felines) maintained that the senior medical officer on site held the automatic authority position with any sort of medical lockdown, and JoNs shouldn't have entered the quarantine triage area in the first place without asking for clearance. In theory, the CMO in charge of a quarantine lockdown worked from an administrative standpoint. Tensions on all sides had been running high, which had not helped the situation cluster frag as it played out. Haruto eyed her a minute before responding, checking her feline body language, weighing what he should say and what was better left unsaid. Mentioning Cait fight put too light a tone on it - or too derogatory a tone, depending on her mood. Either way, the term didn't fit well in the present discussion, despite the number of times he'd heard it in passing. And it was definitely more than a Cait fight, more than posturing for position, and more than squid vs jarhead - something else he'd heard tossed around. "Truth be told, Colonel?" he began with a slight shift of his position, carefully choosing his tone to get the point across without crossing the lecture line. "Tension ran high for a while, expecting to find you mired in medical quarantine - and that's something no marine aboard wants to see. Doctor Trenral has that option, Colonel. As much as we don't want to admit it, and Caitian aside, she's top dog aboard ship and has the power to remove anyone from duty, regardless of rank. And if she even suspects you've been infected?" He leaned back, splaying his hands in resignation then dropping them to his thighs in a loud slap. "So... how's the battalion reaction? Deep sigh of relief that you're still in position. Otherwise..." he raised a surly brow as he bent forward to cross his arms over the back of the chair, "..they'd have to deal with me." The light colonel had made the decision to pay a visit to the medical bay in order to smooth things over with CMO Trenral and her lead shift doctor, Vaughn; JoNs recognized that an apology was due with regard to common sense and to smooth over working -- and personal -- relationships among the senior ship's line officers. ...Marines were sooooo much easier. At the finish of the explanation, Kansas glanced away from the human Asian man for a couple seconds, her sharp gaze looking out through the clear picture window of her office and at the expanse of the NNC beyond. Soldiers and specialists moved across the area, either going about their duties or enjoying some brief time off in the lounge. The battalion as a whole would still support their light colonel even if she had gone all ramrod during a touchy medical situation. ...Marines were also loyal. Even if their junior commanding officer did run off at the muzzle and get her ire up for certain situations. JoNs turned her attention back to Haruto, gave a quick nod of understanding that also effectively dismissed the sideline topic of conversation, and went back on the primary topic. "I know that Private Karo was taking an, ah, informal verbal poll regarding who has what training among the marines. That needs to be expanded to include all departments. So, where does the crew stand right now? Who has what projectile training or hand to hand combat training with blunt weapons? Any one Department we should be aware of, either they need the training or have a few officers that can handle themselves in archaic combat practices?" Only years of practice with young senior officers allowed the major to let the word archaic pass without a grimace. Archaic or not, ancient martial arts were just as effective now as they were several thousand years ago. Modern hand-to-hand tactics were rooted in them. But in the grand scheme, the word didn't matter so he let it slide. "The list will be on your desk as soon as we have it finalized, Colonel. We're digging out all the weaponry we can find, including some that's been hidden since deploy. You know how that is - bordering on illegal? At this point we're not worried about legal or illegal, we're only concerned about defensive capability. But you know how hard it is to convince some aboard that we're on the up and up." "Major, I really don't care if someone has a air powered nail gun. If it works, and a situation calls for it, we can use it." The young Caitian's tail continued to twitch, now low, now flitting above the desk. In Akio's brief time aboard Agincourt, the Major had learned to read the Light's moods pretty well, and this one wasn't good. Whether it was the entire situation or something she wasn't able to tell him, if that agitation rose any more he'd start to worry. A certain amount of agitation made a better Marine. It raised adrenaline to acceptable levels, aiding reflexes and concentration. Too much agitation led to mistakes and a dead Marine. The Lieutenant Colonel purred a bit, the trilling sound carrying within the confines of the office. "You can just as easily eyeball this info by pulling my service jacket Major, but let me save you the effort; I've been trained in a variety of small arms projectiles, mostly pistols, sub-machine guns and the sniper rifle. The training -- and practice -- was with energy, projectile energy, and honest to goodness hard ammo. As with the weapons, I'm a little rusty, but I can also hold my own with the bo staff in close quarters combat. I'll get some time in on the practice range and be good to go, so you can add me to the defensive training roster right along with everyone else." He gave a smart nod while standing to reverse the chair. He'd seen her in action; no problem there. But her command confidence seemed to have wavered since the last blue episode. She was young - by both Human and Caitian standards - but she'd surprised him more than once in the past few months. When push came to shove, he hoped she'd be ready. Will JoNs stood as well, out of respect and upbringing. She offered a big golden paw to the male Human. "Thanks for the confab Major Haruto. Pleasure doin' business with you." She grinned, exposing her fangs, and gave a smart nod in his direction. "Always a pleasure, Colonel," he said with a grin. He gave as firm a shake as he could, hand to paw, then steeled his expression. Slapping his right fist into his left palm he gave a sharp formal bow, then spun on one heel to exit. The fangs said it all. She'd be ready.

GSgt Mike B. Hefner, SFMC, Retired Lone Tree, TX, USA, Earth October 10, 2427 About the Survivors "About the survivors? Yeah, we had survivors. But sometimes it's better not to survive, if you know what I mean." The interviewer was young, but Mike had to hand it to him - he didn't have the cockiness about him - or the eagerness - that some of the others had. Eager to hear the stories, the nitty-gritty, the blood and guts parts that you didn't want to remember. Thirty years after the fact you'd think that someone would forget most of what'd happened in a lifetime. But there're some things you just can't forget; the image burned into your brain like old time negatives. But the kid just sat there. Waiting. His expression was passive but sensitive. His baby blues had misted over a bit at the mention of the Soltan's destruction of the fleet, but he kept it in check. He'd been trained pretty good. "'Course you know Marines don't really have medics?" A question, but not a question. When the kid nodded, Mike continued. "But in our business we got all kinds of training 'cause you never know what you're coming up against, who's goin' to be around, what the circumstances're goin' to be. Specially if you're out there on your own, or with a small team, we look after each other, depend on each other, and that means doing what we have to do..." He was getting way off base, so Mike reined in his thoughts, trying to keep them focused, blocking out all the other missions he'd been on, who'd survived, who'd not survived, who'd died in his arms... "...so we're trained in field medicine." Mike leaned forward for a second, letting the west Texas late afternoon breeze ruffle his thinning hair as a redtail hawk caught a thermal just beyond the barn. "Basics, but everything from patching 'em up to deliverin' a baby." Mike's tight grin released some of his tension. The kid sat back in the rocker, its dry, worn runners creaking on the weathered deck. "Survivors, yeah we had 'em. Beamed 'em into 'Court's gamma section for triage - we had a medical bay in gamma. Since we're only medics we did triage - figured out who really needed the docs and who had papercuts..." Another tight grin. "Trouble is they all pretty much needed attention. Normally the Soltan - the damage they did - they didn't leave survivors. But this time it was more like they wanted to do the most damage they could without killin', like ... sending a message?" The kid stopped rocking, his eyes riveted on Mike, like he was trying to capture every nuance of expression. "I remember this one... a young lieutenant. Not much older than you. She didn't look bad, but she was out cold and materialized in the bay the way she was on the deck in engineering - she was an engineer - could tell from the bits of uniform that melted into her..." Long pause. "She was one of the ones who should have died right out, but like I said you couldn't tell 'cause she was lyin' on her side? And when we turned her over...?" The breeze grew to a sizable dust devil. It caught a few tumbleweeds and bits of over-dry grass that scattered through the corral, swirling everything into its maw to deposit it several miles away when it petered out. The kid coughed a few times, caught off-guard by its sudden appearance. Mike had covered his mouth and eyes within seconds and waited for it to pass. Then he grabbed a piece of straw that stuck in the deck boards and began to pick the head apart, crushing each seed head to the kernel. "What about the others?" he said as the coughing subsided. "Others?" "Were there any who weren't injured that badly? Any minor injuries?" Damned kid hadn't even paused in his note-taking. "Yeah, there were others. Anyway, after we got 'em all tagged - we were still using the old system n'case electronics gave out. Soltan were good at takin' out what you needed - or what you think you needed to survive. Anyway, we tagged 'em all - green for minor, yellow for delayed or not critical, red for immediate or critical, and black for deceased. There weren't many deceased in the bay. Those we beamed over still had life signs. Deceased happened after the fact. "Anyway, we got 'em all tagged. We all had side-arms, but a few teams were assigned to look for blues." "Blues.... as in infected?" "Right." Another long pause while Mike picked some more at the stalk, prompting the young man to ask, "Were there any?" He stopped picking and turned to meet the interviewer's gaze. "You know, we'd been pretty lucky. Boarded several times before, took heavy casualties, but no infections. Well ... there was one and they did their best to cure him, but it didn' work. But by and large we'd been real lucky. This time they succeeded - the Soltan I mean. One sign and wham - instant gamma lockdown, total quarantine. "Worst part is the poor guy didn't have a name, only 'patient 063.' Don't know if it was male or female, only patient 063. Take away a person's name, give him a number, and suddenly he's no longer a person, he's an it. A Soltan. Damned poor system, but it's the only way you can deal with it, know what I mean?" The kid obviously didn't. "'Course you don't." Mike shifted to stare at the hawk, now a speck in the distance, several thousand feet above the far pasture. "And when you're an it, you realize you're one of the ones who should've died."

Happy Birthday, Colonel! Semper Fi!

The informal debriefing that had taken place among some of the key away teams had gone rather well. All of their current problems had not been solved of course, and there was still the matter of several large Rommie ships that were still MIA, but the Agincourt crew at least now had more of a cohesive plan -- warp out and find a rather elusive ship trader by the name of 'Tim' who seemed to be a solid lead in the missing ships case. Lt. Colonel Kansas 'Will' JoNs had retired to her NNC office just after the meeting, and thank the gods that she didn't have to walk very far considering the impromptu gathering had taken place smack dab in Marine central. The simple fact was that Will JoNs was not feeling very willful at this current moment. 'Hung out to dry' was a pretty apt description of her mental state actually. What the felinoid Cait needed was a dose of aspirin, a good meal, about twelve hours sleep, and a good solid workout to smooth out the kinks from that dumbass bar brawl. What JoNs had was several bruises, a bone deep soreness that coursed throughout her entire body, and several data PADDS strewn across her desk that held away team reports, general duty reports, and required her immediate attention for follow up. So, what that all meant was that she would be diverted with some off duty paper work and mission follow ups for the next few hours or so. The golden furred felinoid officer still wore her black duty trousers and undershirt, but had dumped the Marine gray command jacket in favor of a white hooded sweat jacket with the mission symbol of the Agincourt stitched on the left chest area. A large stainless steel mug of tea sat off to one side of the desktop, the feline's poison of choice for data slate diving. The entry way to the XO's office was left open, per usual, and the subdued sounds of Marine command central drifted in through the open doorway every once in a while. Poking his head through the door to LtCol Cait's office in the NNC, Gunny Slick paused. Smell of fresh-brewed tea, industrial shower, battered and probably more than a few bruises under the fur, he wondered if he'd come at a bad time. But the door was an open invite, so he gave two light knocks on the door frame in a questioning way. "If you have time, ma'am, something that's nagging at me about the mission?" he asked when she looked up. One ear flipped back at that statement in mild surprise. Slick Hefner really didn't *do* nagging; when something was troubling the gunnery sergeant however, it was best to lend him an ear. "Aye Slick - come on in and park it." She waved a paw in the direction of one of the two guest chairs facing towards the desk while placing her computer monitor screen on standby with a quick swipe of her other paw across the viewer surface. "Well, ma'am," he began, moving through the door towards the chairs, "it's this whole business we've been working on since we entered Romulan space. All due respect, it just doesn't make sense. Sending a warship like 'Court to hunt down chop-shop hoods, chasin' after buyers, usin' our recon units and puttin' Marines on the line to take care of the Empire's internal organized crime...?" His accent thickened with every word 'til he ended with a tongue-click and twist of his head. "We're Starfleet, ma'am. I'm not questioning orders, mind you, but it seems to me we're off the mark. Okay; that would be Human regional accent on deployment. Humans -- like Caitians when they got agitated and their words and sentences started rolling with even more of the purred inflections and hissing -- tended to go into what regional tonal roots they had been brought up with when slightly agitated. JoNs made a mental note on Hefner's obviously heightened yet controlled state of concern and moved forward with the conversation.Hefner approaching her with a concern over the current mission wasnt at all surprising; there had been various curious grumblings among the crew, and while Colonel Harper was very much approachable on matters such as this, the simple fact was that most crew would follow the CoC and go for the XO first. Will leaned back in her office chair and offered a simple answer to the senior NCO. "Slick, the best way I can answer that is this: the 'Court remains the only warship on record to tangle with the Soltan first hand, which makes us the experts and most likely to be sent into territories to investigate possible Soltan activity." She flipped her ears back and forth like radar periscopes. "And as for playing hide and seek with the missing Rihan vessels....if we were asked to investigate, it must be a more sensitive subject then the public is aware of." "Yes, ma'am," he replied as he dropped into a chair and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, "that's one thing I'm thinkin' of. It's naggin' at my gut. If we're here, undercover, snooping around for Soltan and scouting out the neighborhood, maybe we should be lookin' at the sellers instead of the buyers." He eyed her a minute, as though gauging her reaction before he went on. "If there is a Soltan presence in Romulan space, there might be a Romulan-Soltan connection - like we saw on Corianis and Avaros. And if there is, mightn't we look at who that connection is? "And what if the connection that just might be there is sending us on a wild goose chase, ma'am? It's just.... " he paused, dropping his gaze to the floor as though reining in his thoughts, not wanting to go too far in criticism, just in case. After some hesitant shifting and a headshake he continued in a more conciliatory tone. "It just seems to me that we're lookin' in the wrong direction. All's I have is a gut feeling - somethin' I can't explain - somethin' that tells me that where we are, here and now, is just... wrong." In this case, Kansas didn't mind the tentative criticism; the NCO was honestly seeking out some council from a senior commissioned and it wouldn't due to get in the mans face for 'asking too many questions'. The Cait placed the mug back down on the desktop and cocked her head to once side in a very animal like gesture when her light green eyes snapped back to Hef. "I agree, because the Rihans don't ask for assistance. Very insular, very proud, very secretive. Yet - here we are helping with a search for their property, with the possibility of a Soltan presence being in Rihan space. Doesn't really sit too well in the gut, I agree with you there Slick. All we can do is go about the business that we've been contracted out for and hope nothing bites us in the rear guard." Mike's eyes remained locked on hers for a long minute before dropping with his acquiescing nod. "Yes, ma'am," he said as he stood to leave. "One more question, if you don't mind?" "Did we win?" A hint of a grin played across his face. A couple of years back, Will JoNs might have gotten really embarrassed at the question, or gotten really mad. As it stood now, the young yet maturing XO let loose with a purred jag of soft laughter and flashed a brilliant fanged smile towards Slick. "Mister Slick, no comment."

Shadows He'd had the feeling too many times before. Of being watched. But this time it was different and he almost missed it. Soon after Veras left, Mike found himself engrossed in padd work. Again. Duty reports, readiness assessments, drill logs, personnel reviews. Time off or play catch-up? Hard choice, considering the consequences of facing down and explaining the delay to one willful Cait. The desk in his personal quarters smacked of real work, so Mike hunched over the coffee table in team central, a glass of mineral water by his side, pencil-pushing through the mess that had accumulated since god knows when. He did his best to ignore jibes from passing rivals and tossed out a well-placed counter attack when the occasion warranted, only stopping to swat at a fly that was determined to buzz his left ear. Avaros? Damn, that was three missions ago. He paged down. Sitrep signed, sealed, and delivered. File accordingly. Giving a sub-audible sigh of relief, Mike tapped the padd to slip the report into its appropriate computer folder. 'Course there was an automatic delivery system, but force of habit - and a lot of Marine hardheadedness - made him skeptical of such things. He wanted to know where, when, who, how, how much, and whatever there was. Give him input and he was happy. Until his padd went dead. " 'S matta, Gunny?" SSgt Jigger Grafton dropped into the seat opposite, tossing his padd and stylus onto the coffee table before sprawling his six-foot frame against the back pillows. Mike figured Dan was up to the same thing he was and, knowing Dan, he was probably farther behind. "Padd's dead," he replied to Mike's questioning look. He kicked the padd aside as he popped a foot onto the coffee table. "Third one today. Damned thing won't keep a charge." As quickly as Dan's foot hit the table, Mike swatted it off and grabbed Dan's padd for a look, offering a puzzled, "Mine, too." "Yeah, well, what can I say. Fleet issue," Dan's casual reply was accompanied by a look of annoyance as he swatted his right ear. "Funny thing, though. It was fully charged a half hour ago. Can't say I've had one go that fast... ever. Damn, it's cold in here." He glanced around and shrugged. Mike was busy pulling the padds apart, checking the power supplies, fiddling with both of 'em, but nothing seemed to work. "Kyster!" "Yo, Gunny!" The blond head of a young Talarian private poked around the door frame of the locker room. "Get your brain over here and see what you can do with these." She was already at his side when he looked up to hand her the padd. With great enthusiasm she fingered the board, flipped a few switches, checked the power supply, everything Mike had done already. "Wow. That's just... weird, Gunny." "Define weird, Private." He had a pile of work to do and little time to finish it. Kyster was the best fixer slash hacker in the company - maybe even in the Corps - but she tended to skirt the issue and zone into her own world when technology was placed in front of her - which wasn't often since she was combat infantry. She could field-strip a console faster than she could a phaser rifle and put it all back together before you could fire one. "Well, uh..." she knelt on the deck, strewing the various parts of Mike's padd across the tabletop. Mike ran a hand over the stubble on his head, fighting the urge to groan. "It's weird because this is like the fifth or sixth that's fritzed in the last hour." Kyster also had a tendency to pick up jargon. Took to it like a Gorn to rodents. She sat back on her heels and shrugged. "It's dead." "Dead." She also had a tendency to state the obvious. Mike leaned forward, ignoring Dan's smirk. "Can you fix it, or do I have to get an engineer?" Dan's smirk changed as he grabbed his gut in mock below the belt pain. It took a minute for Kyster to get the point, evidenced by a double-take from Mike to the scattered pieces of padd. "I'll put it back together and get it all charged up for you, Gunny..." she scooped up the pieces and rocked back to a stand "...so you can finish your reports." Before Mike could respond she was at the work table in the locker room. Reports. Right. Not only could she strip 'em but she could read 'em faster than the computer. Then again, all the senior non-coms were doing reports, so.... He shrugged and leaned against the pillows. Dan swatted at his left ear. "Fifth or sixth in the last hour? That is weird. We need to add an enviro control ticket to the tab when we report it, see if we can warm it up in here.... What?" Mike had straightened. His eyes glanced around the room, his face taught. "We're being watched." "Watched?" Dan mirrored Mike's visual, but the normal commotion of team central and locker access hadn't changed since they'd arrived. Everyone seemed to be about their normal business, no one even looking their way. Mike's eyes stopped sweeping and locked on. "The padds are draining. No explanation. This morning I checked power consumption in our quarters. Off the scale. You're cold. I'm cold. No one else is." His hand flicked around the room. "And..." he swatted his ear "...we're not planetside." "Right," said Dan, finally getting the point. "No flies." A tick of Mike's head indicated an adjacent meeting room where, behind the privacy of a closed door, Mike put the pieces together. "Shadow?" Over a period of a few minutes a dark form materialized and hovered briefly, then disappeared. "Shadow, You okay?" No response. "Shadow?" A sound like someone talking into a jar came from the area next to Mike's ear. The back of his neck prickled. "I hear ya, but I can't read ya, Buddy. Ping my ear if you're okay." The fly buzz returned between Mike and Dan bringing a broad grin to both of them. After a while they had pulled together enough information to pass on to JoNs and Harper and to let engineering know that power drains weren't necessarily something gone awry. Unless you had Shadow in that category. Shadow was back. Weak, but back.

He's a Keeper A long, thin tendril caught Rocky's ankle and whipped him around, pulling sweat-soaked fatigues taught. Before he could react another wrapped around his neck and a third around his free hand. Damn. Strung up. Trapped. Knee-jerk response: fight. Bad idea. Tuck. Find the release. With what? A hand brushed the back of his head. The kid. Good. Now! Before.... Blackout. Thick, choking smoke billowed from below bringing with it a sensory cocktail of burning rags, rotting flesh, sulfur, and ozone. Brilliant flashes cut through the darkness in random patterns, rocking the gym, throwing it into chaos. Piercing screams followed explosion after explosion as shock waves jerked at him, forcing the ropes to pull at his body already stretched to its limit. A shoulder popped and sweat poured down his forehead. Then silence. The cords tightened their hold, slithering around his neck with a sentience they shouldn't have, prying, searching for an opening, the barest crack that would allow a dive beneath his chin for a choke hold. Rocky's left wrist began to go numb. The popped shoulder throbbed. Temp at last check was 40c/104f, humidity at 95%, creating a sweaty soup that slowly filled the gaps between his right palm and the rope that was the only thing holding him aloft. He began to slide. Breathe. Relax. Count. His muscles burned, head spinning with the rebreather unable to keep abreast of the choking atmosphere. The hand he recognized as belonging to Veras paused and seemed to shift position. Then it slipped slowly to the nape of his neck. He felt it fingering the cord, searching for....The release. Rocky drew in a slow shuddering breath as the cord fell away. He forced his body to relax as the same hand worked its way carefully down his left arm. Controlled, even breathing came close to his left ear and a thigh brushed his back. Too close, dammit. Too close... With a jerk, the cord whipped off his wrist and lashed behind him towards the intruder. Timing it as accurately as he could, Rocky flicked his hand just as the last tendril released. He wrapped his fingers around it, then jerked it back before it could get a purchase on Veras and he pressed the release. A third body swung by below, deftly hitting the release on his ankle, then swung away silently. Adele. Grafton's team. Fastest, sneakiest damn Marine in recon. Next to the Gunny, that is. Rocky paused, tapped Veras twice for all clear, and moved on. * * * * * * * Major Akio Haruto, Marine recon, entered the Marine gym just as the chaos began. Stopping at a console near the door he logged his presence and pulled up stats on the current training mission. Hefner and Grafton were putting their teams through the wringer, not surprising given their latest objective in Romulan space. And he'd heard the Gunny had a new man. Stats gave him team positions, but he waited for an artillery flash to light the gym so he could get a visual. At opposite sides of the scenario Hefner and Grafton stood at aux consoles, monitoring their recon teams as they worked through the squid at right angles to each other. Grafton's team, Corporals Alena "Chief" Mischevski and Keller "Jack" Frost, swung effortlessly through the maze. They'd been working together for years. The major would expect no less from them. SSgt Pete "Rocky" Petros and Pvt Karo Veras were still getting used to each other, but they were making a good run of it from what little he had seen. He took a few minutes to orient himself to the training mission, then stood back to watch. Named for its resemblance to the cephalopod and its ability to suck the life out of unsuspecting recruits, the squid was the make-or-break of the Boilermaker. The last obstacle in a grueling Marine O course, it came after the log, the high bar, the combination bars, the pit, and the wall. That the name also referred to a Fleeter was an added bonus. If there was any way Marines could stick it to the Fleet they would, and vise versa. From day one the words "navy" and "infantry" just didn't mesh. Still didn't quite mesh centuries later, but at least the rivalry had managed to stay friendly. Mostly. 'Course, if word got around that you fell off the squid, there was Fleet hell to pay. But word never got around, not if the speaker valued his or her life. The gym was closed to Fleet during these exercises. It was also closed to non-recon during intense maneuvers such as were being played out at the moment. An intense dampening field short-circuited the commotion for the crew quarters next door. A mass of ropes dangled in an oval from the rafters 30 meters above the gym floor. Roughly 30 meters long and 20 meters wide, the course was deceptively simple at first, but eventually the ropes snagged, whipped around your body, jerked you upside down and otherwise pulled you from your objective -- survival, in recon silence, to the other side. Their various lengths and widths flowed freely like a squid's tentacles, and just to make it more interesting the computer changed the grasp at random, snaked around arms, legs, necks, torsos, or anything else it could get a purchase on. And it occasionally broke off a section when full body weight was applied. Its objective was teamwork, reflex, instinct, recovery, and endurance. Definitely make or break. It seemed to Major Haruto that Hefner and Grafton were pressing hard. Maybe a little too hard? But the field safeties were on. Any fall would be softened by the cushion field a few meters off the floor. Any injury greater than a scrape, bruise, or minor sprain would immediately terminate the program. He'd rather see that happen here than in the field. He wandered towards Mike and waited for a break in the action. "A little close in here, isn't it Gunny?" "Just a bit, sir," Mike replied without breaking his focus on the squid. As he shifted his stance for a better view, Veras changed position to take point just as Grafton's team weaved their way past from the opposite direction and another massive explosion rocked the gym. "How's...." Haruto paused, mouth open, realizing that he was too loud for the ensuing silence. "... the private working out?" he said in a more confidential tone. "Not bad, sir. Not bad at all." The Major gave a quiet snort. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a damn good." Hefner glanced at Grafton, who gave a nod. The silence continued. The dust settled. The four above signaled each other, shifting positions. They waited, arms and legs wrapped around the ropes securely enough to keep them in position but loose enough to allow movement and vascular circulation. Hefner's console chronometer showed 70 minutes. Haruto nodded to Mike's sideways glance. Five minutes passed. Ten. Thirty-five. At 37 the lights came up and four grimy, sweat-soaked weary bodies hooked up and rappelled to the deck. "He's a keeper." Haruto had been watching the team and wasn't expecting Mike's comment, nor did he really understand it. "Keeper?" "Yes, sir. He's working out." Mike grinned as Haruto nodded semi-understanding. "Good enough. Carry on." Keeper. Interesting. He's a . . . keeper.

Snoop Leader Duty Log 2397.11.18 GSgt Mike Hefner SFMC 139th Marine Battalion USS Agincourt NCC 81762 Boilermaker Sgt Pete "Rocky" Petros was deep in the latest edition of Military NonCom when Gus dragged into the common room and made a beeline for his closet. He'd pretty much figured out what was going on in the gym when he saw Mike with Gus on the boilermaker. The name came from the course's ability to boil you down and eliminate whatever was stopping you from being a Marine. Rumor was that Cmdr JoNs ran it once. Hell, he'd been on the receiving end of it once or twice. Didn't wish it on anyone. Didn't want to watch, so he ducked out and left them to it. Came back to quarters to relax. But as Gus emerged from his room he looked so... so.... Rocky couldn't quite find the words; horrible didn't come close. Like he was fresh from a three-day assault with little-to-no cover, eating Fleet field rations. He opened his mouth to comment but lost the words and dropped it full open as Gus walked towards the 'cycler hefting his favorite pair of boots. Gus gave the boots one longing look and tossed them in. "Staff!" Pete dropped the issue and his eyes widened as the 'cycler whirred, making usable molecules of its contents. "What the hell? I thought...." Gus spun on his heel, taking aim at Pete's forehead with one finger. "That's your problem, Petros. You think too much. Don't...." The finger and scowl vanished when Mike appeared in the doorway. He had that look on his face. The kind of look you got from your dad when you both knew you messed up. The kind of look the DI gave a recruit about to be canned. Kind of sad mixed with concern and... not much sympathy, but still there. Pete glanced from Gus to Mike and back. Suddenly Rocky's issue of Military NonCom got really interesting A tick of Mike's head told Gus to follow. The door gave its customary whoosh behind them. * * * * * * Marine NCO quarters had a bit more privacy than enlisted, and for that Mike was thankful. It saved using someone's office for semi-official talks. A common room branched into private rooms, smaller than officers' quarters but adequate for NCO traffic. Couple chairs, a desk, a bunk. Pretty utilitarian but they didn't spend much time there and they for sure didn't entertain. The setup was perfect for teams, especially with the common room in the center. Ninety percent of Snoop's planning happened over a pint; ten percent in actual session. Mike snagged two electrolyte/vitamin waters from the shelf, lobbed one to Gus, and dropped into his chair. As he flipped the top and took a long swallow he watched Gus fumble at the bottle, then glance around, looking pretty lost even though there was only one chair left for him to sit in. After a minute or two Gus found the chair and slumped into it. Mike took another swallow. "What's goin' on, Gus?" A palm popped the top back on the bottle and he leaned forward, arms resting on his thighs, the bottle dangling casually between his legs. "Huh?" Gus looked up, ran a massive hand through his hair. "Sorry, Gunny. Not sure what you mean." "For starters, you look like something the cat dragged in. Have for a while. Your focus is off. Missed the H-bar twice -- that's two times more than you usually do. Fell off the wall -- hasn't happened since Basic. Dropped off the squid five meters up. Should I go on?" Gus shook his head, hit the top of the bottle against the armrest and popped it open for a swig. They sat in silence for a while, Mike watching Gus and Gus studying the floor. Gus was distracted, disoriented, confused, or all of the above. For the unit to function Mike needed all of Gus all the time. Last in, first out was high risk, no margin for error. In his condition, Gus put not only himself at risk but the team and the whole platoon. "So I'll ask again. What's goin' on?" It was a long time before Gus made any response, and when he did it was nothing more than a shrug and a mumbled, "Don't know, Gunny. Just don't know." "Sleep?" "Not happenin." Gus played with the water bottle, avoiding Mike's eyes. "Eating?" "Stayin' alive." "Using." Not a question. Gus's face flushed instantly. No surprise. Mike had suspected for a while. Most of the platoon used stims during battle. Occasionally. Only when issued by the corpsman. With permission. It was downright obvious that Gus had been using regularly. The reason didn't matter. The fact did. Staff's reaction to the statement brought him -- and the conversation -- up short. "Staff Sergeant Valeri Gustavson." Mike's practiced tone brought the desired gut response. Gus dropped the bottle, jerked out of the chair, squared his shoulders, eyes front. Mike eyed him a minute, half wanting to deck him, half sympathetic to his predicament. Coming to a slow stand he straightened to face him. "You will report to medical immediately for diagnosis and treatment and remain there until discharged or otherwise directed by medical personnel. When discharged we will discuss your future with this unit and the Marine Corps." "Yes, Gunnery Sergeant." Crisp reply. Sharp spin on one heel. Exit. Ten minutes later Mike received notification that Gus had arrived in sick bay and was undergoing diagnosis. It didn't look good. Probably take a while. Five hours to destination and he needed a replacement. Wonderful.

Joint Log Pvt Karo Veras GSgt Mike Hefner USS Agincourt NCC 81762 The room was empty, save for the Veras and Hefner. The two Marines sat on stools opposite each other. The Gunny had just offered the private a chance to join the Agincourt's recon team, an opportunity Veras was more than happy to pursue. "So, what recon experience do you have?" Slick asked the private, leaning back up against the lockers behind him, his look suggesting more than a casual interest. Veras leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well, I was trained by Master Sergeant Ennios," he began. "During training exercises, I usually ran point. Master Sergeant trusted my instincts and such. He liked how I could operate without the use of the high tech auditory and visual enhancement tools that some of the other newer recruits relied upon. . .A product of my upbringing I guess." Veras glanced up at Slick, who was still reclined against the lockers, obviously waiting for more operational experience. Veras took a breath and began again. "My first operational assignment was with the 3/8, Charlie Company. I was placed on the Special Tactics Team within the Recon Platoon. The 3/8 was assigned to Starbase 214 and essentially was responsible for the control and deterrence of pirate activity in the area. Penthara IV was where Charlie Company was assigned. It was located on the fringes of Federation Space, not far from both the Talarians and Cardassians and was prime spot for smuggling both into and out of those territories." "The assignment of the Special Tactics Team was to be the eyes and ears of Charlie Company within the settlement of New Seattle, which was home a major Orion Syndicate smuggling hub. This hub was lucrative enough to warrant the Syndicate to carry its own mercenary militia. It was the job of our team to accurately track the wherabouts and strength of that militia, while working to "discourage" illegal activity by any covert and clandestine needs necessary." "During my 6 month training assignment there, our team was directly responsible for the 'tip-off' of 12 incoming shipments and 7 outgoing shipments to local authorities. While disrupting a total of 5 shipments via. . . .other means. We were responsible for a total of 124 arrests and subsequent deportations and extraditions, which included 5 high ranking officials from various nefarious organizations, as well as the elimination of 47 more criminals, including the superintendent of the Penthara operation for the Syndicate, and a Penthara government conspirator." "Not long after I returned for my graduation, Charlie Company and local officials conducted a simultaneous raid of the Syndicates New Seattle locations, which will effectively hamper their Talarian and Cardassian operations." Mike eyed the young man for a long moment - long enough to call it an awkward silence. Veras didn't flinch. The silence grew into several minutes as Mike passively met Veras' gaze, his breathing slowed to nearly imperceptible. Veras remained immobile, his eyes fixed, his hands relaxed, his breathing slowed. Five minutes passed. Ten. At 12 minutes 23 seconds, someone entered the room behind Veras, crossed to a locker behind him, retrieved something from the locker, then left. Two minutes later Mike leaned forward. "Full description. Now." Veras drew a breath "Subject entered approximately 160 seconds ago from the entrance located over my left shoulder. Subject was male, 6'3 to 6'3 1/2 between 215 and 220 lbs. He was in his standard duty uniform. He pulled an item from his locker, something small, a weapon, most likely a phaser by the sound of it being holstered. As he exited through the same door he entered. Total time elapsed between entry and exit was approximately 45 seconds. Judging the lack of pause in his progress from entrance to exit, this was possibly a staged event, as he did not even give second thought to two men staring at each other for apparently no reason." He managed a smile "That or such moments are exceedingly common here on the Agincourt." "The subject also needs to clean the bottom of his boots," Veras added "He must have been assisting in the cleanup of one of the non-quarantined areas." * * * * * * * * * "Kid's got potential," Mike replied to Gus's query. Stripped to the waist, a slow, methodical hand wrap was preparing them for the upcoming gym session. "Taking him on, then?" "Not my decision." Gus paused in wrapping to give Mike a hopeful glance. "Recommending, then?" "Yep." Mike shifted his weight to grab another roll. He peeled a section off and layered it carefully over the last on his left hand, then took another for his right. "More on-the-job training." Gus sighed, punctuating his non-question by forcefully tearing the last length of wrap off the roll. He tossed the remnants into his locker and kicked it closed. "Only kind we got." Mike's gut knotted. Veras wasn't exactly green, but he was relatively new to recon and really new to Agincourt. Just out of the gate in a manner of speaking. Thinking about losing someone on a mission never set well, and losing someone so young.... he just didn't. Unfortunately, the Soltan situation left no training alternative but the holodecks, and that didn't quite cut it. Mike finished off the last wrap, checked it over, adjusted it a bit, checked his fingers for range of motion, and turned to Gus, giving him a two-count before getting his full attention. "He picked up scent from the boots you used on Corianis," said Mike. Looking like his eyes would come out of his head, Gus gave a hard swallow. Mike's tone and glare shifted his eyes forward and brought him to stiff attention. Gus was regular recon. Didn't have the senses Mike had and for damned sure didn't have the senses Veras had either. Whatever Gus stepped in on Corianis was not going away, and Mike had told him. Telling him twice was totally unacceptable for a Marine. He stepped within an inch of Gus's ear for privacy and intensified his whisper, calculated to cut Gus to the core. "You're a walking target with those on. Lose 'em!" The locker door slammed shut. A brilliant flush crept up Gus's neck. This gym session was not going to be ordinary. "Now move!" * * * * * * * * * Back at his quarters, Veras was finishing the adornment of his walls. It was nothing much, mainly photos of his family. There was one of his little brother Lylo, holding the most recent Springball Championship trophy over his head. The look on his face always brought a smile to Veras. Lylo had found his battlefield, and was one of the best at it. There were photos of his older brother, sister, and himself, taken at their respective graduations, with their parents at their sides. The look on his father's face was the exactly the same in each of them. There was no smile, but a look of pride. His chin was raised, his shoulders were high. It was almost as if he felt honored to be standing next to each of them. The final one was taken of the Panas Resistance cell at the end of the Occupation, with his mother and father kneeling next to each other in front of a group of 20 others. It was old and faded, but its grainy quality added a sense of history and heroism, an epic memoir of a generation past. Veras laid down, looking away from the photos, thinking about the "test" that Hefner had given him in the secure storage room. It ended not long after he gave his description of the fellow Marine who had came in. Afterwards, there was no confirmation, no corrections, no explanation of what the next step would be, just an ever so slight out-of-place blink after his comment about the boots, and the subsequent dismissal from the room. Now, based the rumors floating down from the bridge, they were headed to the borders of the Romulan Empire. Whatever for, Veras figured that he'd learn soon enough. By then, hopefully his roll would be somewhat defined. If not, he would find a way to fit in as best he could, filling in wherever he was needed. He was a Marine, that was Marines do. Yet he couldn't bury that nagging hope. He wanted to be part of the Recon team. His mother and father served in that capacity while in the Resistance. Both his brother and sister led companies geared towards it. While he refused to believe it was his purpose or destiny to serve in Recon, he felt he owed it to each of them. Especially to his father, who had spent years teaching him the value of his senses, and the importance of being consistently aware of his surroundings. At this point, however, he could only wait. He wouldn't dare ask Slick if he passed his test. He wouldn't approach any of the command staff and ask them either. The last thing he wanted to do was earn the call sign of "Nag" because of him asking a bevy of unnecessary questions. He'd find out soon enough. If it was a Recon assignment, he had something to write home about. If it wasn't, he'd take it stride, and do what ever he was told. He was a Marine, that's what Marines do.

On this 234th birthday of the US Marine Corps and on the eve of Veterans' Day in the United States, I pause to reflect on those who proudly serve now and to those who have gone before. I admire their courage, their dedication, their sacrifice, and the sacrifices their families have made in the cause of freedom. To all of you who serve in any branch of the service, I thank you. To all of you whose family members serve, I thank you. Semper fi!

Snoop Leader 2397.10.29 GSgt Mike Hefner, SFMC 139th Marine Battalion USS Agincourt NCC 81762 Aftermath "Nothing. Will ever. Replace. Your ears. And your eyes." Nine years into recon and Instructor MSgt "Hammer" Kravitz' deep baritone still burned in Hefner's ears. "Hefner! Get your head outta the sand! Check your ten o'clock!" Damn! "Alpha three, sniper bearing three zero zero at five hun...." The rest gagged as the sting of sniper kill tore into him inches below and to the right of his left shoulder blade causing more pain than damage. But the real pain came from MSgt Kravitz after the fact in a fifteen mile double-time in full combat gear and 80 pound pack, after which Mike had to report sniper count. Get it wrong and you did it again. And again. And again. Lucky for him, Mike was a quick learner. Once was enough. "Nothing. Will replace. Your ears. And your eyes." When Marine Commandant James Quinlan Tanner created low-tech Force Recon SpecOp Omega in 2383, Mike couldn't wait to sign up. Tanner's argument that technology had become more of a burden than an asset rang true with everyone in Hefner's home town of Lone Tree. Tanner's media statement in defense of his beliefs would be remembered years later with the Soltan incursion. "Technology trails point the way home. Subspace transmissions, encrypted or not, become a beacon for the enemy, a neon sign that flashes You Are Here." Retro became a benchmark for recon. Hand signals all but replaced unit coms, heightened senses processed by gray matter replaced computers, and eyes replaced visual sensors. Up close and personal, it worked exceptionally well and brought home the nitty-gritty of recon. Unfortunately, heightened senses also brought home the nitty-gritty of combat. Mike and Rocky locked down their helmets, flicking their rebreathers to full and leveling their weapons as the door to gamma bridge slid open. Shouts of clear echoed as security and Marine teams moved towards them from opposite ends of the corridor. Keeping Caine between them, Slick and Rocky worked their way through the carnage and debris until all clear sounded throughout the ship. Caine moved on. Mike and Rocky shed their weapons in favor of medical gear secured in their combat vests. Atmospheric reading acceptable, they tossed all but the inner hazmat layer of their helmets to the deck. The immediate sensory assault was nearly overwhelming. Hefner choked back the sickly-sweet smell of Soltan, like burned marshmallow mixed with hot tar. Incendiary chemical burn followed closely by burning insulation and charred flesh forced him to up his rebreather before kneeling to patch up the security officer at his feet. Even with atmospheric scrubbers working at 100% the corridors of Agincourt would hold the smell for days. It seeped into the walls, the carpet, and the upholstery - a constant reminder. As if they could ever forget. A few hours later, Hef found himself giving Private Veras the lowdown on the NNC - what part was accessible. From the Private's uncertainty, Mike figured he had come aboard after the fact. Pushing the question of who Veras was replacing from his mind, Mike welcomed the young man, showed him around, cautioned him on Soltan contact, and excused himself to a small room in the corner for team debriefing. White lie. Rocky and Gus sat facing each other around a small table when Mike entered. Door closed. Here they were free to be what they were besides tough Marines. Marine casualty Honors were a privilege. Lists of the fallen were passed from command to unit leaders who passed them on to team leaders according to team rotation, separated by species to accommodate varying burial rituals. Mike was human and it was his team's rotation. Snoop Team would represent the brotherhood of the Marine Corps. They'd take their brother or sister home. Hand the Marine's remains and personal effects to parents or sisters or brothers. To children who had lost both parents. In person. Face to face. Kids who'd never see their dads or moms again. Kids who were often too young to understand they never would. It had happened far too often lately and it never got any easier. One by one Mike read the names of the fallen, pausing to give the team time to come to terms with their passing, to grieve in whatever manner they chose so they could move on. "Corporal Alejandro Sanchez. Matamoros, Mexico," Mike read. Incendiary bomb; wasn't much left. They called him Andy and assorted other names on occasion. They ribbed him constantly about his accent, though he really didn't have one. Andy took it all in stride knowing they did it to everyone. After a long pause Mike placed an engraved titanium cylinder emblazoned with the Marine Corps logo on the table. It contained Andy's remains, the only way they could safely transport them to earth. Next came Andy's hand-written letter, required of all Marines before a mission. Low tech. No trace. No way for the Soltan to know how many had died or where or how. No way for the enemy to detect their grief and use it against them. Gently, reverently, he lifted the cylinder and placed the letter beneath. "Staff Sergeant Gary McNaughton. Alpha 5." Energy weapon to the chest, allowing his team to escape. Medal of Honor would be little consolation to the grandmother who raised him. Mike stared at the floor, wondering if her heart would stand the loss. He cradled his remains, then placed Gary's letter beneath them. "First Lieutenant Iravan Chandrasekaran. New Channdai, India." Incendiary bomb. Rocky treated him. Survived long enough to suffer. Damn. Mike kept his eyes diverted, giving Rocky privacy. He remembered Van's gentle manner, the tilt of his head when he spoke, his Bollywood smile. His mother's curry, so blazin' hot it would stop a raging bull in its tracks, make it turn and whimper. His father's pride that his son was in the Corps. His beautiful wife and daughter. Mike rested the titanium cylinder gently on Van's letter. The ritual continued for an hour, give or take. Time didn't matter. Then, in silent accord, they stood with practiced precision and came to attention, the remains of the fallen in the center of their circle. "Semper Fi!" Long pause. "Hoo-Rah!" It echoed through the NNC even with the door closed. Outside all life paused. The team appeared, bearing their comrades with slow, measured step to the Wall of Honor in the NNC. Their remains and personal items would be secured in the wall until next Earth fall or, should the ship be destroyed, they be committed to the depths of space. After a long moment of silence before the Wall, the three made a sharp about face, paused, then returned to duty. Some hours later they had stripped to fatigues and donned full hazmat to continue cleanup. Business as usual on Agincourt.

Snoop Leader Duty Log 091020 GSgt Mike Hefner, SFMC 139th Marine Battalion USS Agincourt - Front Line "Come on, boys. Let's have another round." Lt Caine's murmur from Gamma's helm jerked Mike Hefner back quite a few years, but he kept his concentration on the tactical console. Caine had a helluva lot more confidence in the ship than Hef did as she maneuvered it to attack position. A low whistle escaped his lips and he threw a glance at Petros, monitoring OPS, as the ship responded. Rocky tossed his head to the side and gave a click through his teeth, apparently as amazed as Mike. Hefner had flown his share of craft in his time, but flying a battered Prometheus with a damaged nacelle strut seemed more like maneuvering the barn from a detached tack shed. Mike Hefner's introduction to aviation came in the form of paper airplanes tipped with spit wads and aimed at his brother's head from behind the hay mow door. By the age of six he'd graduated to Betsy, his prize winged cardboard carton perched precariously on the corner of the corral fence. Armed with his live oak acorn loaded slingshot, the sturdy airship was poised to repel all intruders and save the universe if necessary. At seven Mike was invited to ride shotgun (officially called the observer) in Daide Walker's tail-dragger Stinson L-5 Sentinel, a pristine vintage plane he kept in a specially built shed on property adjacent to the Hefner's. It'd been passed down from his grandpappy's grandpappy's grandpappy, or some such - Mike didn't know how far back. All Mike knew at the time was that you took better care of it than anything else because it was special, it was old, and it could fly - the most important part being the last. From the very first flight he was hooked, but it took him several more years to grow tall enough to reach the controls for the flaps and rudder. Those were long growing years indeed. Until then he and neighbor Daide flew the fence line, occasionally hopped to the old airstrip outside Lubbock, and buzzed the Hefner homestead, bringing Mike's mom outside. She'd wave her apron and shout frantically that the cow would stop giving or the hens stop laying, but both Mike and Daide knew it scared her to death. They'd wave and feign understanding, then bank towards the Walker airstrip a mile away, waiting until they were well out of range before laughing. After Marine basic, Mike's facility with aircraft became obvious to the Corps. He trained in several atmospheric craft but when it came to piloting shuttles and taking helm, he was shackled. In space there was no sound but engine. No red-tail darted across your path, no concrete compass led you home, no wind whoosh forced your head to tilt to hear. Lucky for him there were plenty of pilots, but not many wanted ground combat, so he transferred and never looked back. In the space of a few seconds the memory flashed by, and it struck him as ironic to the nth degree that he was getting his fill of combat not on the ground but in a wounded Prometheus. Rocky's sharp nod indicated OPS was green; no worries there. Mike's console mirrored the main bridge; he'd stand by in case and watch the tactical readout on Gamma's main viewscreen. "Another round it is, Ma'am."