I roll out of my bed a full hour-and-a-half before my usual, lazy time. My muscles don’t ache anymore. It’s been too long since my last workout. I wheeze as I clamber down the coffin racks. The Undes girl who sleeps below me is already gone for the day – thank the gods.
I hack up a lung before I get the chance to brush my teeth. I push my face into my towel, hoping to both muffle the sound and prevent the spread of this terrible plague. The girl who sleeps across from me whines in her sleep.
I arrive on the mess decks and grab a bowl of cereal. I need at least some form a brain food. All the other third-classes are already there; plates of eggs and pancakes already devoured. I settle across from my division mates at the combat-systems table. They glance up at me with bleary, sleepy eyes.
“You nervous?” FC Chief asks, slapping a hand on IC3 Childstasche’s shoulder. He looks at the group of us. Beaver sips her coffee, grimaces, but refuses to respond. IC3 plasters one of his usual I-give-no-fucks smiles on his face.
“What’s there to be nervous about?” he asks. A too-giddy laugh escapes him, revealing the truth.
FC Chief looks at me, questioning me. I cough into my already snot-covered coveralls. His nose wrinkles in disgust.
“Well, good luck, you guys,” he says, shaking everyone’s hand but mine. I don’t take offense – I wouldn’t shake it either.
The mess deck slowly fills. As the first classes and chiefs separate divisions and friends so they won’t cheat, nervous eyes begin to dart around the room. The guy who took Beaver’s seat’s leg bounces as he watches the minutes tick by. IC3 lets out another nervous laugh and his head twitches to the side.
I feel nothing.
I feel nothing other than the annoyance of my persistent cough. My napkin is practically shredded from use by the time they start reading out the instructions. I’ll need someone to get me more. More annoyance. Nerves? Nothing. I have total apathy for the advancement exam.
I have no intention of passing.
It’s a hard concept to explain to people. My scattered, foggy brain keeps thinking about bears in the Russian launching tubes. Not that there really is any (so they want us to think), but it would be an interesting concept. How terrifying would it be to have an enemy cannon shoot a bear onto the flight deck? So, with these thoughts coursing through my head, explaining that as a new arrival to the fleet, I shouldn’t be making rank, well, that’d be nearly impossible.
The argument of, “Don’t you want more money?” keeps cropping up. Of course I do! Do I think we have ranks for a reason? Yes. As a brand new, fresh-out-of-the-box ET, being a second class would completely undermine the system. As a second class you have a little bit of power. You are no longer bottom of the food chain. You are expected to be a leader. I barely know my own gear at this point, let alone everything I need to know to be a supervisor.
As a second class, you have E1-E4s looking up to you. They see your crows and expect you to know a thing or two. If you are a second class and you know nothing, all respect for you is gone (trust me, there are a few of those here already). I would rather be a third class for a little longer and earn my way up, than be one of those good test takers who make it on their first go.
As I am still sick, this may still only make sense to me.
After the test, after comparing notes and trying to figure out just how many we all got wrong, we throw our legs up and relax. We chit-chat about whatever when the subject of the Russians comes up. Or possibly, it only comes up in my head.
“You know, they still use typewriters on the Russian ships,” I say, my words slurring. “And they don’t have email, they have carrier pigeon. And instead of tomahawks they have bears in their VMS…VLS….tubes…”
“What?” Beaver asks.
“You realize most of what you said makes no sense, right?” ET3 Bodybuilder says (he was busted down).
“Why would they have bears?” Someone else asks.
“Think about it,” I grumble.
I trail off, no further explanation given. Although, in my mind, no further explanation should be necessary. Why wouldn’t the Russians have bear missiles?
“She’s dying,” ET2 says, waving off the others. “Let her be.”
And with that I coughed and have no idea what happened from there. Probably more coughing. At some point I went to medical.
It turned out that the last ship that went to the Ukraine
