Camp Pendleton, CA

April 1st, 2018

1425U

Jawa POV

"Hernandez?"

"Sir?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a menace?"

"I've heard that before, sir."

"No, I mean in the past twenty-four hours."

"I've heard that before, sir."

That was the exchange between me and Special Warfare Operator 2nd Class Danny Hernandez, one of my fellow SEALs in Bravo Platoon of SEAL Team 3. Combined with Alpha Platoon and a small group of explosive ordnance disposal technicians and Air Force combat controllers, we made up Task Unit Archangel.

Our area of operations was going to be western Mexico, specifically the coastal area. In conjunction with the Mexican Navy (particularly their Marines' Fuerzas Especiales), we were going to conduct counter-narcotics, amphibious reconnaissance, and limited direct action missions—basically running in, killing/capturing enemy personnel, and running out. Our limited DA capability was due to the strict rules of engagement we were operating under, which basically had TU Archangel focus on intelligence gathering and security force assistance—in other words, the Mexicans were taking the lead while us Americans provided support.

We need to have some American boots on the deck... and we're going to have some American boots on the deck... only question is how many and what can they do?

It was definitely a bit unnerving going back to Mexico after the calamity that was Operation Fox Hunt—remember, I got shot five times and thrown out of a collapsing building—but since nobody else knew that, I could only grin and bear it. We had a job to do, after all.

Just as long as they don't court-martial us for shooting back at sicarios.

We were in Camp Pendleton to train with a Marine Raider team and Force Recon mobility team, who were to share their expertise in driving and better prepare us for our deployment. The Raiders gave us knowledge regarding more covert circumstances, training us on a number of civilian and military vehicles. Despite some of the junior guys in TU Archangel (myself included) coming in somewhat shaky, we'd significantly improved over the last few months.

The FORECON men, meanwhile, trained us on all-terrain vehicles, utility task vehicles, dirt bikes, and other off-roaders, with us surprisingly having an easier time with those (save for the dirt bikes). The training often turned into competitions—everything from regular races to shooting and scooting (we did that on a range with safety in mind). And I was quite pleased with the direction we were going.

So far, the only real issue had been my platoon commander—Lieutenant Jack Koenig—getting a really, really bad case of diarrhea, with the doctor informing me that it was likely due to food poisoning... which most likely came from Pendleton's mess hall (I blame Sodexo). But as the assistant officer-in-charge, I was now temporarily commanding Bravo Platoon until we deployed, at which time LT Koenig would be cleared for duty.

However, as I would quickly realize, that temporary command came with a great deal of bullshit, much of which came in the form of SO2 Hernandez.

Now don't get me wrong, Hernandez is a fantastic SEAL, and this was his third platoon, so he had more experience than me. However, he inconceivably managed to get into some of the craziest messes I'd ever seen in my brief time in the Navy—which was due to a healthy mix of bad luck and his daredevil attitude. In the six-ish months I'd known him, I'd seen him flip off an airplane (no, not the middle finger) while parachuting; he blew up a car with so much explosive, a chunk of debris landed on a crackhead carjacking an old lady half a mile away; and as a serial prankster, he'd done everything from planting stink bombs in another platoon's lockers to trapping an admiral's car in its reserved parking spot... with construction contractors.

To be fair, that admiral was one of the biggest jerks I'd ever met—a stereotypical Ivy League-educated, social science/arts degree-holding motherfucker—with the bonus of being an officer with stars on his shoulders. Only the men of Alpha, Bravo, and Echo Platoons ever found out about Hernandez's involvement in the trolling, with Team 3's leadership turning a blind eye, as they hated the asshole admiral too.

But this...

"How?" I exclaimed. "It... it doesn't make any sense. This has to violate the laws of physics!"

... this took the cake.

"That's Hernandez for you, sir," Chief Special Warfare Operator Lassard—my platoon chief—replied with a smile as we looked up at the aftermath. "That's Hernandez."

You see, Hernandez was driving an ATV on a closed course with instruction from the FORECON guys. Being the cocky bastard he was, he said that he was good, so the Marines challenged him and a few other guys from Bravo to a race. And I won't deny Hernandez's skill, considering that he nearly won... the operative word being nearly.

Why? He'd been ridiculously fast and the accelerator got stuck, so when a sharp turn came up, he couldn't slow down. The hill adjacent to the turn became a ramp and the ATV went airborne, with one Marine estimating that it went at least 65 feet up. Hernandez bailed out right as it jumped, escaping with minor injuries. The ATV, meanwhile, landed atop a nearby two-story building that housed vehicles, parts, and tools, flipping over. It was still stuck up there thirty minutes later, wheels spinning like crazy.

"Sir, I dunno if the engineers even have a crane," the FORECON team leader told me. "I mean, I made a call to higher headquarters. We might just have to get some construction contractors to bring a crane out here."

"Staff Sergeant, have you seen shit like this before?" I asked him, still aghast over this whole thing.

"I know, I know... I'm sorry, sir," Hernandez sighed, sounding exasperated as the rest of the platoon continued to either murmur in shock or laugh their asses off.

"No, sir. Not at all," the staff sergeant answered. "Fuck, you told me this shit was gonna happen today, I woulda laughed in your face... respectfully, of course, sir."

"Well, your respectful laughing would be duly appreciated, Staff Sergeant," I sarcastically replied, my eyes still locked on the upside-down ATV trapped on the roof. "What a fucking shitshow this is."

"Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph," a hoarse voice quietly said behind me, its owner being none other than Tanner, the gruff, grizzled, Okhlahoman command master chief of SEAL Team 3. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Afternoon, Master Chief. What are you doing here?"

"Had a meetin' with 3rd MRB's (Marine Raider Battalion) sarn't major, sir. Next thing I know, this shit reaches him an' me. Just had to see for myself."

"Yup."

"Who did this?"

"Uh... me, Master Chief," Hernandez nervously admitted, stepping forward. I had to admit, despite him being a serial prankster and all-around dumbass, he at least had some integrity... that, or Tanner scared the ever-loving dogshit out of him. Which, to be fair, was completely understandable. The command master chief not only looked fearsome, but had a distinguished combat record and was a legend in Team 3... nice enough man, but exactly the kind of guy you didn't want to piss off.

"Hernandez, ain't it?" CMDCM Tanner asked.

"Yes, Master Chief."

"Well then... sir, were you able to get anythin' out here?"

"That's a negative, Master Chie—" I began, before being cut off by the Raider team commander.

"Actually, we just got some civilian construction contractors on the horn," the Marine officer interrupted. "Yeah, they'll be here in twenty."

"... well, belay my last, Master Chief."

"Understood, sir... you mind if I steal Hernandez over here?" CMDCM Tanner asked.

"Have at it, Master Chief," I sighed, not really wanting to deal with the man at that moment. I was a hair away from having an aneurysm—THE WHOLE THING VIOLATED THE LAWS OF FUCKING PHYSICS! "If you gotta issue a correction... please do."

"Say no more, sir. Hernandez, meet me over in the quad... bring a water source," CMDCM Tanner ordered.

"... aye, Master Chief," Hernandez sighed in resignation, slowly walking off with the command master chief leaving after giving me a nod.

"Well... he's fucked," SOC Lassard said once the two SEALs were out of earshot.

"Good. I was this close to having a goddamn aneurysm," I grumbled, holding my index finger and thumb an inch apart, like I was signaling 30 seconds on a plane or helicopter. "Say, Chief?"

"Sir?"

"How often does this shit happen?"

"Well, sir, every platoon has its Hernandez. So it's only a matter of time 'til the commander has to deal with him. Sure, the chief's gonna get involved, but remember: commander's the man who takes responsibility with everything that goes right and wrong with the platoon."

"Yeah..."

"You looking forward to running your own platoon, sir?"

"When you put it like that, Chief, it's 20% 'hell yeah' and 80% 'fuck no.'"

"Welcome to the Teams, sir," Lassard chuckled as he turned back towards the rest of Bravo. "Okay, boys. Let's run it again. Hernandez will catch up. Sir, Staff Sergeant, we good to go?"

"My guys are ready," the Raider team commander replied, with the FORECON team leader nodding assent. "Lieutenant, let's keep going."

"Aye, sir," I acknowledged, helping Lassard and my leading petty officer to corral the men and refocus, while a few Marines sat back and kept an eye on the still-running ATV. The construction workers would arrive around three hours later, getting up on the roof and shutting down the vehicle before utilizing their crane to bring it back down on the deck. We then continued our tactical driving training, minus one Hernandez.

We did some other kinds of training over the next several hours: fast-roping, shooting, room-clearing, and a little bit of Spanish speaking during breaks. Once it was all said and done, we ended up having dinner with the Marines in the mess hall. About fifteen minutes into us chowing down, Hernandez staggered in, plopping down at the table, caked in dirt and grime while smelling awful.

"What the fuck, dude?" one of the junior SEALs asked.

"Master Chief's a hard motherfucker," Hernandez mumbled as he shoveled chili into his mouth. "Made Instructor Stevenson look like a pussy."

"Wait, you mean Darnell Stevenson?" another junior SEAL asked. "Shit, I had that bastard in BUD/S! Crazy little fucker, he was!"

"Oh-ho-ho, let me tell you about this crazy bastard of a DI (drill instructor) I had in bootcamp," the FORECON team leader said. "Basically the real-life Gunny Hartman... PT'd us until we were on the brink of death. Damn good DI, though... though I swear I experienced some PTSD when he became my sergeant major in 2/7."

And thus continued the men bitching—albeing lightheartedly—about the instructors and senior enlisted men (usually E-9s) they experienced in the past, while I listened from the other end of the table, more focused on the conversation between the SEAL task unit and Raider team's leadership, with the Marines providing more suggestions on what to incorporate into TU Archangel's workup.

But what ultimately dominated my mind was the desire for Koenig to recover faster and return to his billet as platoon commander. As much as I liked and respected Hernandez as a SEAL... that dumbass was going to give me an aneurysm... and Lassard would probably be too busy laughing his ass off to save me.

The only easy day was yesterday... whoop-de-fuckin'-doo.

As much as I write grimdark content—with @GavinSmith382 hilariously pointing it out (hence the meme in Chapter 10)—I think it's really fucking stupid to write only that. It has its place, but doesn't need to take up a whole book. Like I said, I don't want to turn into another dystopian YA author—they're so edgy even the most hardcore metalheads are telling are telling them to calm the fuck down and touch grass. Seriously, the human mind can only handle so much negativity... hence this chapter and others that you've seen and will see (we need more good humor in this world). I hope you enjoyed it.

Poor Jawa, just trying to manage his platoon while his commander is shitting his brains out... and Hernandez decides to be a menace and yeet an ATV onto a two-story building. Good thing a command master chief was present to issue a correction. May God have mercy on that poor bastard, for the command master chief will not. And does anyone know which deployment Jawa's preparing for? Hint: I've already written a story that involves it!

Now, on a serious note, this chapter is dedicated to the servicemen and women who've died in the line of duty. Some may find it odd to dedicate such a goofy part of the story to those that made the ultimate sacrifice—and understandably so—but my way of seeing it is that, at the end of the day, these men and women are people just like us: humans with families, friends, lives outside of their military service. And it matters not whether they were combat arms, combat support, or combat service support; whether they were the tip of the spear or the shaft supporting the head; they gave it all to serve and protect the United States of America.

Memorial Day is a day of remembrance. Let the warriors be remembered, so their stories may be immortal and known by generations to come.

Peace to the fallen.