Doom Fleet:  The Boot Camp Years

Going Down

By Cheezey

 

Target practice was always one of Cossack’s favorite drills in boot camp.  Hotheaded and impulsive as the young officer was, he never minded being on duty when it involved taking a shiny, high-powered weapon and firing rounds repeatedly at a target.  Not only was it great stress relief—which he undoubtedly needed after a few hours of Lieutenant Vardash’s nasally whined orders, but he was good at it.  Cossack had a naturally sharp eye and good aim as it was, and with a short time in practice his skills honed more finely each time and earned him plenty of complements and accolades from his unit mates and whatever superiors happened by that he had not managed to rub the wrong way… which unfortunately for him left out his direct ones.

 

The unit had been assigned to the range for the afternoon and had been left pretty much to their own accord with only minor supervision from the officer in charge of the range and a couple of lieutenants from Captain Mogor’s unit that wandered around.  Their own lieutenants were at a meeting elsewhere and their direct superior, Force Captain Yurak, was holed up in his office several buildings away from the range.  Mogor himself was also present, as his unit was also utilizing the range for the couple of hours or so, but he was in one of the nearby offices catching up on some of his reports while his men trained.  Cossack did not particularly care one way or another, for while he did not find Mogor nearly as annoying as Vardash or as critical and uptight as Yurak, he did find Mogor a little too quiet and no-nonsense for his liking.  He was not sure he’d ever seen the man crack a real smile or even display genuine anger or frustration.  Instead he always seemed to just stand there staring—and sweating.  Mogor sweated so much that his bunkmate Yaklitz had once remarked that his unit ought to sneak in and spray him with an industrial strength anti-perspirant in his sleep, and Cossack was inclined to agree.  He did not know if it was a weird physical disorder or just that Mogor’s fleet uniform was a little too thick for Doom’s weather, but it creeped him out slightly regardless. 

 

One of the lieutenants of Mogor’s unit called out to their men to finish their rounds and prepare to move out.  Those in Yurak’s unit gave only passing attention to the command, but they noticed a few transport scooter crafts coming in to land nearby and realized that the shift was probably changing and their own lieutenants were coming back.  Standing in the station beside Cossack, Yaklitz glanced up and frowned as he took a moment to reload his weapon.  “Vardash is heading back… and me without my flask,” he grumbled aloud.

 

“From what I overheard this morning they’re supposed to meet up with Yurak and check up on us when they get here,” the soldier on the other side of Yaklitz, a private named Sortan, volunteered.  “Maybe they’ll keep it short and let us get back to blowing stuff up.”

 

“Vardash keep his mouth shut when he’s got Yurak here to impress?” Yaklitz retorted, and put his hand on his hip in an unflattering imitation of their prissy lieutenant, assumed an equally uncomplimentary impression of his voice and said, “Oh I don’t think so, private.”

 

Overhearing the exchange and his bunkmate’s subsequent mocking of Vardash, Cossack let out a hearty guffaw just as he pulled the trigger to fire.  The shot flew wildly off target and into the air above, and both Yaklitz and the other soldier burst out laughing.  “Nice shot, Cossack… I think you hit planet Gloom that time,” Yaklitz said with a snarky grin, leaning over the divider into Cossack’s station.  “And I thought you never missed,” he said with sneering sarcasm.

 

Cossack set his weapon aside and straightened to face Yaklitz and his chuckling neighbor with assured confidence.  “I don’t,” he informed them smugly, “I always hit what I’m aiming for.”

 

Yaklitz snorted at his smart-assed bunkmate.  “Right, so you tried to hit planet Gloom?”

 

They were cut off when another soldier at a station farther down the line shouted in shock, “Holy shit!  Which one of you shot Vardash?” 

 

Immediately several sets of eyes left their targets and looked up at the sky where the personal transport crafts were making a landing.  The one piloted by Vardash, recognizable as they were not that far off the ground, was sputtering out of control and their less than loved lieutenant was having obvious difficulty controlling it with one of the back propulsion units taken out.  He was steering it awkwardly trying to maintain balance, slamming his fist on the panel angrily, and having little luck getting it to the designated landing pad.  The entire unit watched in a mixture of amusement and horror—for it was quite entertaining and satisfying to watch, but they also knew that they would inevitably hear about it and pay for it later—as Vardash’s craft sputtered and dropped a bit too fast to the ground in the muddy field beyond the landing pad in a rumbling crash.

 

The lieutenant was not injured, for like all fleet personnel he was trained as to how to handle a craft out of control, even one as minor as the personal transport units, and he landed with little more than his ego bruised in a spectacular splash into a muddy puddle.  Even from the fair distance they were away they could hear the frustrated snarl in his distinctive voice on the wind although they were too far to make out his words—which was just as well, considering that they were obscenities directed at the unit as a whole.

 

Smiling smugly at Yaklitz after observing the scene for a moment, Cossack casually reloaded his weapon.  “Like I said, I never miss what I aim at.”

 

“You did that?” Sortan exclaimed, more in admiration than anything else.

 

Yaklitz burst out laughing.  “Not that I’m going to say anything, but he’s going to whip your blue ass purple if he ever finds out that was you,” he said, and raised an eyebrow, “And we all know you don’t want Vardash anywhere near your ass.”

 

“Who does, other than Yurak?” Cossack retorted. 

 

“Was that a disrespectful remark about your superior officer I just heard, private?” a new voice sounded from behind them. 

 

Immediately the trio turned around and saw Captain Mogor approaching.  Although Mogor was also the head of a unit, being only a captain his rank was not quite as high as Yurak’s but it was still well above theirs, and they knew enough about Mogor to know that he tended to follow regulations rigidly.  Shifting slightly where he stood and hoping he did not look like he was sweating like the captain addressing him, Cossack attempted to keep his expression neutral.  “What did you hear, sir?”

 

Mogor’s eyes narrowed sternly.  “I thought heard an indecent remark about Lieutenant Vardash and your force captain’s… hindquarters, private,” he stated, and then stared at Cossack for an answer.  “Repeat it.”  His tone made it clear that no questioning of the order would be tolerated.

 

Relieved that Mogor seemed to have missed this unit mates’ praise of his aim for the unofficial target and had only heard the tail end of the conversation, Cossack stood to attention and faced him respectfully.  “I was merely agreeing with Private Yaklitz’s keen observation that unlike us, our force captain is quite comfortable with Lieutenant Vardash’s ass-kissing, sir.”

 

The frown on Mogor’s face deepened.  “Private… Cossack, is it?” he started, making sure he had the right name.  When Cossack nodded, the captain continued.  “Private Cossack,” he began again, “I should not have to point out that such remarks about your superior officers are highly disrespectful and insulting to the integrity of his highness’ fleet as a whole.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Furthermore,” Mogor continued, “to imply that any respectable member of the fleet such as Force Captain Yurak would favor or promote another officer on no other merit than being a sycophant is to make a mockery of the discipline and structure the royal fleet is based upon.”

 

“In all fairness, sir, I never said that Force Captain Yurak would promote Vardash for kissing ass, just that he liked his attention,” Cossack clarified.  “For all I know, they keep their business and personal relationship completely separate.”

 

Mogor took a step toward Cossack and stared intently at him, and Cossack noticed a fresh bead of sweat forming at the top of his head.  “You dare to imply that something completely inappropriate and against all military regulations is going on between your superior officers?”  The captain’s tone had a warning growl of severe disapproval.  “Heed some friendly advice, private, and refrain from spouting that sort of nonsense about your honored fleet officers.  As you can clearly see, you never know who might be listening, and others might not be as willing to overlook your brazen rudeness as I am, in light of the fact that you are only a fool private in boot camp and born in a toad pond that does not know better.”

 

Cossack swallowed and nodded in deference to the captain.  “Yes, sir.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“Good,” Mogor replied sternly, and then stiffly walked off.

 

Once the captain was out of earshot, Yaklitz turned toward Cossack and chortled.  “Maybe I’m wrong, but shouldn’t he have laid into you a bit worse for what you said about Yurak and Vardash given his rank and the stick wedged up his ass?”

 

With a shrug, Cossack picked his gun back up and smirked.  “Maybe he doesn’t like Vardash either.”

 

* * *

 

Across the field and decidedly less happy, Lieutenant Vardash stomped huffily through the muddy field leaving his downed transport craft behind.  With each step in soft ground a fresh squirt of mud and dirty water splashed onto his pants and boots, spraying new and different patterns onto his already filthy dress uniform.  Swearing under his breath at whatever fool was a poor enough shot to accidentally hit his ship—and he refused to even entertain the notion that it might not have been accidental, for no one would dare show him such disrespect—the chubby officer checked his timepiece only to see that he had exactly three minutes before he was due in Yurak’s office to give his report.  That left him no time to change, which meant that he’d have to see the force captain in his muddied uniform, wet underwear and all, since he knew that one of his superior’s pet peeves were those who were not punctual.

 

He made a mental note to find out what idiot was responsible for his predicament, and not only have them publicly lashed with a whip but also assigned to the most repugnant duty he could think of.  If the unit failed to rat out the one responsible, then he would find something distasteful to assign all of them to for a week or two.  Perhaps Yurak would do it for him.  It was his unit, after all, and Vardash did serve him well in keeping it in order.  Surely he would want to see them punished for such a grave insult to his favorite lieutenant.  At least Vardash liked to think he was Yurak’s favorite lieutenant.  After all, Yurak was definitely his favorite force captain.  Not only was he a brilliant strategist and an excellent soldier, but he looked so good in uniform, and those ears…

 

Grumbling as he realized he was becoming distracted, Vardash quickened his pace and strode into the building, leaving muddy boot prints behind him, and he took an extra thirty seconds to duck into a bathroom long enough to towel some of the mud off of his hands and other exposed skin so that they at least would be clean even if his clothes would not be.  Hastily he tossed the towels in the trash and with another glance at his timepiece he broke into a run toward Yurak’s office.  He slowed his pace right in front of the door, however, and walked in assuming a calm, cool, and collected air.

 

A short way down the hall and only a few moments after Vardash’s hurried rush to meet with the force captain, Mogor walked into the building holding a folder, also bound for Yurak’s office to speak with him about some business involving both of their units.  Mogor was somewhat preoccupied, and privately amused to an extent, although unlike the immature fools at the range—as he had mentally categorized them—he was respectful enough to the honor of the fleet’s image to keep it to himself. 

 

Contrary to what Cossack had assumed, Mogor had overheard the tail end of their conversation that sounded to him like one of the trio of privates had been responsible for shooting Vardash’s craft.  The captain had no idea which one, and certainly had no idea that it was intentional.  If he had he definitely would have said something, but as things stood and having known Vardash for a few years Mogor felt no real need to share the information.  Vardash would only overreact and lay into the private with bad aim and severely punish and humiliate him, which would serve no practical purpose of discipline other than to inflate the lieutenant’s already over-inflated ego further, and on a more personal note, Mogor found it pleasing to see Vardash humbled in such a way.  Just because he had spoken up in his defense behind his back to the wisecracking privates out of duty did not mean that he liked him.  It merely meant that he did not approve of decorated officers being spoken of in such sordid terms by their subordinate soldiers.  To think that someone like Yurak would not only condone shamelessly sycophantic behavior in his officers was bad enough, but to imply that he was in an illicit relationship with one?  Such a thing was absolutely ridiculous, in his opinion.  Completely and utterly ridiculous.

 

Frowning at the muddy footprints on the floor and wondering idly what housekeeping slave had slacked off so badly in the proper cleaning of a building housing the offices of force captains and admirals, Mogor made his way through the corridors toward Force Captain Yurak’s office.  When he approached the door he slowed, hearing raised voices inside and seeing through the translucent privacy glass of the office window the outline of Yurak’s silhouette standing staunchly facing a somewhat humbled-looking larger outline that Mogor recognized, especially when he heard the nasal voice, as Vardash.

 

“How dare you come to see me looking like this?” Yurak’s authoritative voice demanded harshly of the quivering lieutenant in front of him.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Vardash replied, his voice taking on an apologetic and whiny edge.  “It’s just that I know how much you hate it when I come late.”

 

Mogor paused mid-stride when a very wrong thought occurred to him in light of their conversation.  No, the captain told himself, those fools in his unit that I confronted have got my mind in the gutter beside theirs, that’s all.

 

Yurak was not appeased by the excuse, and raised his arm, his hand balled into an angry fist.  “Of course I want you on time, Vardash, but the least you could have done was remove that filthy soiled uniform first.”  The force captain’s tone was laced with irritable disgust.

 

Taking another step closer to the door, Mogor raised an eyebrow when he heard that remark, but he proceeded anyway.

 

Vardash’s silhouette meanwhile bowed its head lower.  “I’m very sorry, sir, you know I would never want to disappoint you.  I’ll take it off right now if that would please you, sir.”

 

It’s all a misunderstanding.  It has to be, Mogor assured himself silently, although he did start to see where some of the men in Yurak’s unit might get a hint of a wrong idea if such exchanges were frequent—if they were drunk at the time or a fool anyway, at least.  Of course, he was too rational to jump to such wild conclusions…

 

“You can change when I’m done with you,” Yurak responded with an irate growl.

 

“Anything you wish, sir!” Vardash said back in a pleading tone.  “I’ll make this inconvenience and insult up to you by serving you in whatever way you deem fit.”

 

Mogor had just laid his hand on the door reasserting to himself that he had to have it wrong, that the privates in Yurak’s unit had to have it wrong, and that somehow he misunderstood and nothing inappropriate would be evident when he walked in.

 

Oblivious to the presence of the captain on the other side of his door, the displeased Yurak took a step toward the lieutenant he was in the midst of dressing down, and pointed at the floor in unquestioning authority.  “You can start by getting on your knees… now!”  There was no challenging the demanding growl in the force captain’s voice.

 

Immediately Vardash’s shadow dropped several feet in height and the stunned Mogor thought he heard the lieutenant’s nasally voice breathe, “As you command, sir.”

 

Unable to reasonably explain that away, Mogor’s hand dropped from the doorknob as a mental image he most certainly did not want crystallized in disturbing detail.  “Think I’ll deliver these later,” he murmured to himself, even though no one else was there to hear, and quickly turned on his heels and strode back down the hall at a fast clip.  Perhaps Private Cossack was not so off base about this one after all, Mogor thought as he hurried down the stairs out of the building, intent on telling anyone that asked that he had never been there at all.

 

Meanwhile, back in Yurak’s office and completely unaware that he’d almost had a visitor and most certainly not knowing that said visitor had gotten a completely wrong idea, the force captain casually walked back over to his chair and sat down, his intense gaze fixed upon the muddy lieutenant kneeling in on the floor of his office in respectful submission before his superior officer.  “Now that you’ve apologized, Vardash, stand up and tell me what happened.”

 

The End

 

 

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