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Lieutenant Haley Reardon, U.S. Coast Guard, was halfway through the final hour of the two-and-a-half-hour drive from her duty station at the Coast Guard Sector Office in St. Petersburg to a meeting on Patrick Space Force Base just south of Cape Canaveral. The order had come down yesterday from the Seventh District Office—she was to report to a building associated with the 45th Operations Group in her tropical blue uniform at 12:30. There were no other details, and Haley’s mind whirled at the possibilities as she drove her blue Miata along the flat and straight four-lane through the alternating open fields and pine woods of the Tosohatchee State Preserve. The oppressive heat and humidity of the Florida summer were finally showing signs of breaking, and she longed to have the Miata’s top down in the bright, warm sunshine. But she had spent enough time getting her shoulder-length black hair into a tight regulation bun before leaving the apartment this morning, and she did not want to deal with it again at her destination.
Just past her twenty-ninth birthday, Haley was a taller-than-average five-foot-eight with superb all-around fitness. She had been an all-state track and field star in high school in Rhode Island with scholarship offers from Brown, Bryn Mawr, and Princeton. But she loved competitive sailing growing up. After a visit to Newport by the Coast Guard’s “tall ship” Eagle, Haley had opted instead for military service via the tiny Coast Guard Academy, to the mild disappointment of her well-to-do father and absolute fury of her socially climbing stepmother. Still, the passion for fitness stuck with her, and, short of being at sea or flat on her back sick, she was at the gym for one to two hours every day.
Haley was two years into her tour in the Law Enforcement Section in the Response Department at Coast Guard Sector St. Petersburg. It was her first ashore job since graduation from the Academy seven years ago, having been assigned first to the large National Security Cutter Wasche out in Alameda, California, for two years, then as Operations Officer of the Fast Response Cutter Joseph Napier in San Juan, Puerto Rico, for three years before coming to St. Petersburg. Haley appreciated the need for diversity in assignment experience, and, as she freely admitted after two afloat tours, it didn’t suck to be ashore on liberty almost every night. But, like most junior officers, she longed for the opportunity of her own afloat command with its associated excitement and a career boost. Haley had been quite successful in her assignments and had plenty of confidence in her abilities. Still, she was anxiously awaiting the Junior Command Screening Panel results, due out later that month, determining whether she would have a chance to wear the moniker “Captain” in her next assignment or stay another junior officer in the mix.
Glancing at the navigation display, Haley noted she would be at her destination with an hour and twenty minutes to spare. She also noted that automated navigation systems tended to go wonky on military bases with their seemingly random building numbers. It was best to have a time buffer to allow for the search at the end. Additionally, her route included a seventeen-mile stretch on Interstate 95, a nexus of stupidity where just about anything could happen. Haley did not know what lay ahead of her, but she infinitely preferred to be waiting around for it to happen to being late.
As it happened, the I-95 stretch was an uneventful fifteen minutes, as was the short drive on 404 through Palm Shores, across the Indian River, and through South Patrick Shores to the Patrick SFB South Gate. After a brief wait in line, she presented her CAC to a Specialist4 in combat utilities and held her sunglasses up while he compared the image on his scanner to her face. Satisfied, he returned her card and said, “Welcome to Patrick, Lieutenant. Are you carrying any weapons today?”
As she always did when asked this question, Haley suppressed a smile and answered, “No.”
The specialist rendered a crisp salute and said, “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Haley replied with a nod as she drove through. I wonder if anyone ever answered, “Why, yes, I am!” to that question. The navigation system worked this time, and she quickly located the 45th’s HQ building and the associated parking. She glanced again at the clock: 11:13. Where’s the Exchange? There’s plenty of time for a salad at the inevitable Charley’s to hold down the stomach growls.
After a quick meal at the Base Exchange, Haley returned to the 45th HQ, parked, and presented her CAC at the checkpoint. The Technical Sergeant manning the desk scanned the card and returned it with a visitor’s badge. “Please wear this above your waist, ma’am. If you have any smart devices, drop them off before entry, please,” he said, gesturing to a set of lockboxes on the wall. “Specialist Jinks will escort you to the room.”
“Thank you,” Haley said as she attached the badge to the pocket flap of her light blue uniform shirt. After dropping her cellphone, Fitbit, and key fob in a lockbox, she followed the young specialist through the security door. After a short walk, she was shown into a small room with a round table and four chairs.
“Bathrooms are down the hall to the right. Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?” the specialist asked.
“No, thank you very much,” Haley replied and then sat at the table as the specialist closed the door behind him on leaving. The room had the usual décor proper to the service, in this case, the Air Force: large pictures of aircraft and rockets lifting off on standard military cream-colored wallpaper, with the standard military Berber carpet and 12:19 displayed on the standard military twelve-hour clock in the center of one wall. Oh, good. At least eleven more minutes to wonder what this is about.
It was actually eighteen minutes later when the door opened after a brief knock, and a woman in her mid-forties, stoutly built and one or two inches shorter than Haley, with short graying brown hair, stepped into the room. She was wearing the same Coast Guard tropical blue uniform as Haley, except for the four stripes of a captain on her shoulder boards. Haley jumped to attention and said, “Good afternoon, Captain!”
The woman waved her hand and said, “Carry on, please.” She held her right hand out and continued, “Lieutenant Reardon? Jane Mercier. It’s good to meet you.”
“Likewise, ma’am,” Haley said, shaking her hand. The District Chief of Staff? What the Hell is going on here? She instinctively completed the flash scan of the captain’s uniform all officers did on their first meeting. Mercier had aviator wings above a stack of ribbons topped with the Legion of Merit, Distinguished Flying Cross, and Meritorious Service Medal, over her left breast pocket with a Command Ashore pin on the flap.
“Please, have a seat,” Mercier said, sitting in one of the chairs. After Haley was seated in the opposite chair, she continued. “I’m sorry for all the close-hold associated with this trip. I imagine you’re wondering WTF, am I right?”
“Something like that, ma’am,” Haley replied with a smile.
“I think you’ll be happy to hear you are being considered for a mid-season transfer to your own patrol boat command. The selection is outside the normal command screening process because of the time element and the unique mission profile of the boat. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
Haley’s heart skipped a beat—a PB command! “Hell, yes! Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“No, that’s OK,” Mercier replied. “You don’t have to decide at this moment. In fact, we dragged you over here for some frank talk about this unit and to observe an awards ceremony for the crew. After that, if you have reservations, you can turn this down with nothing going on the record.”
Uh-Oh. “Captain, what unit are we talking about here?”
“Kauai,” Mercier replied, staring intently into Haley’s gray eyes.
Ka-thunk! Haley tried to maintain an indifferent expression as her heart fell. Talk about a poisoned chalice! A beat-up old one-ten consigned to be range safety cutter at the Cape until they could shitcan her? A mid-season assignment, too—they’re probably yanking the CO for cause. Awesome! “Um, ma’am....”
“Hold on a bit,” Mercier interrupted. “I can see in your face that you’ve heard things, and I’ll start by saying that there are official and unofficial versions of this boat’s history.”
“Yes, ma’am?” Haley said. My God! Could it be worse than everyone says?
“I’ll start at the beginning. A couple of years ago, Kauai was a troubled unit with a buttload of discipline and operational issues. We finally relieved the CO after he almost lost the boat in a mishap on a routine migrant operation. It was quite a mess, and we considered washing our hands of her and advancing her decommissioning date. But she was in pretty good material shape, and with the FRC deliveries going slower than we hoped, it was killing us to give up a viable hull voluntarily. So, we decided to try something wild. We put on the best guys we could find for CO and XO—the previous exec was injured in the mishap—and let them build a solid team with the good folks they had and swap out the deadbeats.
“After a few months, the new cadre had completely turned things around, and Kauai was the go-to boat for any really outside-the-box stuff that could come along. The first test of that capability came last January. I can’t give you details of that mission—there are only about a dozen people in the world who are totally in the loop on that one. All I can tell you is in the aftermath, both the officers ended up with the Coast Guard Medal, Kauai got a serious upgrade paid for by the Director of National Intelligence, and four of her crew got special combat tactical training.”
Haley’s earlier gloom vanished. “What sort of upgrades, ma’am?”
Mercier smiled at the change in Haley’s expression. “She already had a prototype installation of the new Mod 2 Mark 38 twenty-five-millimeter gun we are putting on the FRCs. We updated the command-and-control systems and sensors and rehab-ed the Bridge. The existing diesels were swapped out with a diesel-electric-battery plant that supports the increased electronic load and silent operations for short periods. Round that off with the addition of some light armor and stealth coatings, and you have a hull resistant to everything short of twenty-millimeter with the radar cross-section of a Response Boat, Small.”
Haley leaned forward. “So, I take it the range safety cutter stuff is just a cover, ma’am?”
“No, if there’s a launch from the Cape, Kauai is honestly doing that job. At other times, though, she is doing more-or-less normal PB operations, with the caveat that she must be made available immediately whenever needed for any ‘off the books’ operations. As a result, we keep Kauai within a radius that will allow us to turn her around quickly onto anything hairy that comes up.”
“I see, ma’am. And has anything really hairy come up?”
“Yes. Last April, we sent her on a mission off Honduras, another hyper-secret one. You’re about to get what details can be shared at the Top Secret level in the awards ceremony. The rest is codeword-classified.”
Haley blinked in surprise. Codeword-classified referred to information and programs so secret that access could be granted only to specific individuals on a case-by-case basis after special vetting and read-in. She had worked at the highest classification levels on Wasche but saw no codeword-classified material there. The idea of a tiny one-ten caught up in a codeword program was mindboggling.
There was just one more thing, and it could make the difference between Haley stepping into an elite team or a demoralized mess. “Ma’am, why the hurry of a mid-season relief? Is there a problem with the current CO?”
“On the contrary,” Mercier replied. “He has just been deep-selected for lieutenant commander and advanced to the top of the promotion list. No, this one is weird because of his and the XO’s arrival timing. Do you remember I said they came on together to replace the old command? That would be two years ago in January. We don’t want to pull them both simultaneously—we want continuity in the command. We also don’t want to leave the XO on there for three or three-and-a-half years because it might hurt him professionally. Finally, the CO has been in commission for eight years, six-and-half at sea and four in command. And the last two years have been hard, first pulling that crew out of the crapper and then putting them in harm’s way big time. In that last mission, he had two wounded, one of them the XO, who damn near died and is a close friend.
“In short, we need to give the man a break and a reward for what he’s done. We swung a Command and Staff Course slot for him at the Naval War College starting in January. It will do him right professionally, and Newport is close to his and his wife’s families, so big win.”
Haley was about to respond when there was a knock at the door, and Specialist Jinks poked his head in at Mercier’s bidding.
“Excuse me, Captain. You wanted to be informed when the admiral arrived,” Jinks said.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Specialist. We’ll be right along.” After Jinks departed, they both stood, and then Mercier turned to Haley. “Have you met Admiral Pennington?”
“No, ma’am.” Haley hadn’t thought her mind could spin up any further. Wrong. The Seventh District Commander traveled from Miami to Patrick Space Force Base to decorate a patrol boat crew for a mission so secret its name could not be spoken aloud? Incredible!
“Well, he’s the real deal. He knows why you are here and wanted to speak with you about this after the ceremony. He wants to make sure that you go in with your eyes open if you take this job,” Mercier said as she led the way down the hall. “Oh, and close-hold on everything we have discussed regarding the CO coming off—we have not told him yet. We’ll duck out at the end of the presentation, so you don’t get buttonholed by anybody.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all Haley could say. Holy Shit! was all she could think.
***********************
When Mercier and Haley entered the reception area, two men in Space Force utilities were chatting with a third in a Coast Guard tropical blue uniform with an admiral’s all gold shoulder boards. Rear Admiral Horatio Pennington, U.S. Coast Guard, was commander of the Seventh Coast Guard District, which included all the units in South Carolina, Georgia, the Florida peninsula, and the Caribbean basin. He had only been in the job for a couple of months, taking over when his predecessor had been disabled in a car accident. Haley had not met nor seen the admiral before, but Pennington had a reputation of being one of the smartest and best leaders in the service. In his early fifties, he was of average height and build, with a full head of close-cropped graying hair and brown eyes looking through round, silver-rimmed glasses.
Pennington turned as they approached as said, “Ah, Jane. And you must be Lieutenant Reardon.” He held out his hand. “I’ve read a lot of good things about you.”
Haley flushed at the compliment and shook his hand. “Thank you, Admiral.”
After introductions between the new arrivals and his Space Force companions, Pennington said, “Gentlemen, could you excuse us, please?” After exchanging salutes and handshakes, the two men departed, and Pennington turned to Mercier and Haley. “I am glad you could attend, Lieutenant. Do you go by Haley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. As I was saying, I am glad you’re here. My aide is getting things set up right now. Did Captain Mercier tell you I want to chat with you afterward?”
“Yes, she did, sir.”
“Right. How do you feel so far?”
“Pretty damn psyched, if you’ll pardon me saying so, sir.”
Pennington’s smile broadened. “You might change your mind once you hear what’s involved, but I like the enthusiasm.”
Before Haley could reply, a young Coast Guard lieutenant junior grade wearing the gold aiguillette of an admiral’s aide on his shoulder came through one door and said, “They’re ready for you now, Admiral.”
“Thank you,” Pennington said, then turned to follow with Mercier and Haley in trail.
After a short walk, the four turned into an alcove leading to a small briefing room where a dozen Coast Guard personnel stood in line in front of a podium. They all snapped to attention as Pennington came through the door when the aide shouted, “Attention on Deck!”
Pennington announced, “Thank you, rest.” Pennington continued after the people in line came to parade rest, with feet slightly apart and hands behind them. “The best thing about being a flag officer is the chance to shake hands with courageous people and award them the recognition they deserve, not just for special actions, but for being there every day at the tip of the spear. This is one of those times, and I want to say how proud I am to be here and of you. I’m sorry your families can’t be here to see this and hear what I have to say to you firsthand. The nature of your work, important as it was to both the nation and world, is too sensitive to release, and I appreciate your discretion.” He turned to his aide and nodded.
“Attention to orders,” the young man said, and while everyone else in the room came to attention, Pennington and Mercier walked to and stood before a Seaman at the far left of the line. After they exchanged salutes, the aide continued reading from a folder. “Citation to accompany the award of the Coast Guard Achievement Medal to Seaman Mitchell L. Pickins, United States Coast Guard. Seaman Pickins is cited for exceptional performance of duty while serving on board USCGC Kauai on the night of five to six April in action against armed terrorist forces on the island of Barbello, Honduras....”
The awards were presented by the increasing precedence of the medal and increasing rank of the awardee. Haley noted that the most senior member of the award party, a lieutenant, presumably the CO, was third from the end on the right. To his left stood a diminutive female wearing second class petty officer collar devices and a coxswain’s insignia that marked her as a boatswain’s mate and a lieutenant junior grade Haley guessed was the XO. Through the award narratives, Haley could piece together the story of the action:
Intelligence sources had detected a weapon of mass destruction on a boat seized by a terrorist drug cartel and moored at their island stronghold off the coast of Honduras. The nature of the weapon and its origin were not revealed, which Haley deduced was the codeword information. The need to secure the device before it was moved and maintain secrecy prevented the assembly of a strong military force—the job fell to Kauai, supported by a small SEAL team and air force reconnaissance aircraft.
While the SEAL team stealthily seized control of the vessel, Kauai penetrated the harbor under cover of a rainstorm. The XO led a boarding team of four to rig a towline and manage the boat under tow during the escape. The rain had passed by the time of Kauai’s egress, and the cartel forces detected and engaged the cutter with rockets and machine guns. Kauai was hit by a rocket, causing minor damage and wounding one crewman. Shortly afterward, the towed boat was hit, parting the towline and imperiling both vessels. The female boatswain’s mate went into the open during the firefight to cut away the towline wreckage with an ax, saving the cutter.
Meanwhile, the XO’s boarding team restored and started the seized boat’s engines, which the cartel had disabled. They safely cleared the island, but the XO was felled when a stowaway cartel member emerged and opened fire as the vessel was about to be scuttled in deep water. The officer had suffered a near-fatal brain injury and had to be evacuated by helicopter to a Miami hospital.
Bronze Star Medals were awarded to a boatswain’s mate first class who took over the boarding party after the XO was wounded, the chief operations specialist who helped plan the assault and conned Kauai during the action, and the CO for his leadership during the raid. The boatswain’s mate second class and the XO each received the Silver Star Medal for their efforts, and the XO and a boatswain’s mate third class received the Purple Heart Medal for the wounds they suffered.
Haley was amazed by the citations and awards, and for the first time, she was experiencing personal doubts about this assignment. How in the hell will I have any credibility with these people after what they have been through?
As Pennington gave his closing remarks, Mercier turned to Haley and said, “Why don’t you push off back to that conference room? The admiral and I will join you as soon as I can pry him away.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Haley said, then stood and quietly left the room. She had never been as conflicted as she was at this moment. Haley wanted this command more than anything in her life, yet, could she lead this elite of the elite teams? She had fifteen minutes to stew on it before Pennington and Mercier arrived in the room.
After they were seated, Pennington smiled at Haley and said, “Now’s your chance, Haley. You have the complete picture now, and if you would like to pass on this, it goes no further than this room.”
“Admiral, may I speak freely here?”
“Of course.”
“I really want this command, but I am not sure I am the right one for this.”
“Your record disputes that, but I’m interested in why you think that might be the case.”
Haley swallowed and pointed at her ribbons, the highest of which was the Coast Guard Commendation Medal. “How do I go in there with this and command people with Coast Guard Medals, Bronze Stars, and Silver Stars?”
“The same as any other lieutenant in the Coast Guard. You go in with orders to command, and you command. If the criteria for selecting a new CO were a personal award as high or higher than anyone else on board, we would be out of luck because there isn’t a lieutenant in the Coast Guard with that qualification. Is there anything else?”
Haley shifted in her seat. “There is just one other thing, sir. It’s a question of leadership style. I’m effective, but, to be frank, I’m not much for the touchy-feely stuff.”
Pennington sat back. “You won’t need to be. They needed that personal touch a couple of years ago, but they’ve grown beyond that. Sam Powell did you a big favor there. Moreover, you don’t want to be. You can expect the missions to become more, not less risky, and the risk calculus will be based on national defense, not SAR or law enforcement. In those cases, there are acceptable losses on a successful mission. Getting too ‘touchy-feely,’ as you call it, would be too hard for you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The sobering thought brought a quote from World War II to Haley’s mind. “Yes, sir. When they get in trouble, they send for the sons of bitches.” Pennington’s eyes widened in surprise, and Haley thought, Oh, shit! Now you’ve done it.
To Haley’s relief, Pennington laughed and said, “Well, I would like to agree with that in concept, but would not apply that term to you.”
“Yes, sir. Not the ‘sons of’ anyway.”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Mercier growled.
“Sorry, sir,” Haley said contritely. Yes, there was a line you don’t cross.
“That’s alright. So, would you like some time to think it over?”
“No need, sir. I can do the job for you if you still want me.”
Pennington smiled and nodded at Mercier. “I guess that’s it then. You can expect orders shortly.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Mercier said.
“Excellent.” They all stood, and Pennington offered his hand to Haley again. As they shook hands, he said, “Thank you, Haley, and good luck!”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Haley replied.
After Pennington departed, Mercier turned to Haley and said, “I’ll give your CO a call and explain the situation. You should expect orders within a week to kick off the transfer process. We’ll do our best to get you out on Kauai for at least one patrol for familiarization before the handoff, so be flexible.”
“I will. Thank you, ma’am.”
Mercier started to leave and then paused. “One more thing. The admiral is a kind and patient man, virtues I do not share. If you pull any of that wiseass shit in front of me again, I’ll squash you like a bug, clear?”
Haley swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
***********************
There was no way Haley would head back home without taking a peek at her prospective command. She punched “Coast Guard Station Port Canaveral” into her GPS and was immediately rewarded with a display of the route up A1A via Patrick’s North Gate. Haley put the top down on the Miata and headed out. Traffic was heavy through Cocoa Beach, and she was cursing her poor judgment for not opting for the longer, but probably quicker, I-95 route when the traffic thinned. She followed A1A in a gradual left turn to the west, then took the exit for 401.
After passing the cruise ship terminals on her right, 401 curved to the east, and she exited on the side streets leading to the Coast Guard station. As Haley pulled up to the sliding security gate, she had a clear view of the station’s pier. One of the new Fast Response Cutters was moored, but she could not see a one-ten.
Huh. Where the hell is she? Haley pressed the call button on the gate’s control box.
“Quarterdeck, Seaman Davis, may I help you?” said a disembodied female voice from the speaker.
“This is Lieutenant Reardon. Could you tell me where to find Kauai, please?”
“Yes, ma’am. She ties up in the East Basin now, and you’ll need to go through the gate at the Space Force Station. It’s just half a mile east on 401.”
“I see, thank you,” Haley said. I should have known there’d be some sort of Batcave for a secret squirrel unit like that. She backed out of the driveway, hit the accelerator, and headed to the highway with dust kicking up from her spinning back wheels. The pantomime at the Space Force Station Cape Canaveral security checkpoint was the same as Patrick’s gate. After avowing the absence of weapons, Haley proceeded through and onto the station.
About one thousand feet past the gate, Haley turned right onto South Petrol Road and, a few seconds later, cleared the trees on her right, revealing the East Basin of Port Canaveral. There, moored with her port side to the north end of the massive Trident Submarine Wharf, lay the Coast Guard Cutter Kauai. Haley’s pulse quickened at first sight of the white-painted patrol boat, and she slowed to a stop on the roadside and stepped out to look, pulling on her white and blue combination cap.
There was no activity visible on the boat, just the U.S. flag drooping lazily from the flagstaff at the stern and the union jack similarly lolling on the bow’s jackstaff. Haley could not see any significant difference in appearance from conventional one-tens resulting from Kauai’s special modifications, although she admitted it had been years since she had seen one of the older patrol boats. She longed to go aboard for a close look inside and out, but was still bound by Mercier’s instruction to avoid disclosing her status as the prospective CO.
Haley was lost in thought, staring at her new command, when a voice from behind startled her.
“Ma’am, please keep your hands at your sides and turn around slowly.”
Haley momentarily froze, then pivoted slowly to see a man in combat gear, hand resting on his sidearm, his partner standing behind him next to their vehicle with his M4 carbine unslung in the ready carry position. Between her captivation with Kauai and the harbor noise, she had not even heard the security vehicle arrive.
“I’ll need you to pull out your ID, ma’am. One hand and nice and slow, please.”
Haley reached into her left breast pocket and held out her CAC. The guard stepped forward, took the card, and scanned it with his handheld scanner. After verifying the image on the card and his scanner matched her face, he handed the card back.
He saluted and asked, “Can I help you find something, Lieutenant?”
Haley returned the salute and replied, “No, thank you, officer. I’m just looking at the boat.”
“Ma’am, there’s parking at the docks. Please don’t stop along the roads unless you want to draw attention to yourself and a visit from us.”
“I’m sorry, officer. I should have known better. Won’t happen again.”
“No problem, ma’am. You have a nice day.”
After another exchange of salutes, Haley pocketed her CAC and turned to her car. The two security guards watched as Haley climbed into the Miata and started to the station exit. After clearing the station boundary, she pulled off onto the asphalt apron next to the rocket launch viewing area, shifted into park, and laughed until she was almost in tears. That would have been the shortest command on record. She tried to picture Captain Mercier getting a call to bail Haley out of a Space Force jail just an hour after smacking her down for being a smartass in front of a flag officer. Hell, even I would say, “Just keep her!” and hang up.
Haley wiped her eyes, shifted to drive, and headed out on the first leg of the long return drive to St. Petersburg.
