Boilermaker

[GSgt Mike Hefner 0]

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.