My Only Familiar Is Me[A Late-Blooming Evolution Story]

The entire male half of P-SWAT reminded me of flies drenched in bug spray. The guys were stumbling around the base in a state of total, groggy disorientation, painfully trying to figure out whether they were allowed to collapse onto the lawn and die without my permission.

The nighttime shake-up had produced exactly the result I wanted. My first move had been to ruthlessly purge the barracks of the local “elite.” A handful of the oldest, biggest, most overgrown guys had banded together into a classic pack, keeping the younger recruits and teenagers intimidated and under their mental control. Sickeningly banal. It was the same pathetic middle-school dynamic, only the scenery had been swapped for military camouflage.

The rookies had barely recovered from the abrupt change in their nighttime routine and shaken off the last traces of sleep when, at first light, before the sun had even cleared the tops of the pines, I drove them through the revamped obstacle course at my own pace. The lawn was slick with heavy dew, their stiff combat boots were already worn, and the battered obstacle course quickly beat every trace of street swagger out of them, along with yesterday’s beer. I personally monitored every movement, every jump over every barrier, never raising my voice but never giving them a second to catch their breath, either.

Now they could barely drag their feet, wheezing through dry, cracked lips, but not one of them dared collapse onto the grass. They all kept stealing frightened glances at me, searching my face for signs of an imminent and inevitable beating. It was an interesting, even strange, reaction. I was not playing the part of some sadistic despot. I did not scream myself hoarse, spit everywhere, or put on a cartoonish Sergeant Hartman routine from some Vietnam movie. I simply followed the rules and pushed their physical training to its absolute limit. Still, their fear suited me just fine. Better to have them nervously breathing down my neck and hating me for their blisters than sitting around the barracks playing cards for their pay instead of training with live ammunition.

After my training session, they were wrung out like lemons under a press, which, in this particular situation, was a massive and indisputable plus. Teenagers trapped behind a closed perimeter were an unstable hormonal time bomb, liable to explode from sheer boredom at any moment. But right now, this platoon had absolutely nothing left in the tank for getting into trouble. Their bodies wanted only carbs, clean water, and a bunk.

My second day at P-SWAT was proceeding right on schedule. Satisfied with the results of the morning training, I turned and headed toward the two-story main headquarters building, straight for Lieutenant Dillon’s office. Under the local idiotic protocol, apparently devised by bureaucratic paranoids, any step I took beyond the base perimeter required his personal signature. Even if I was visiting the adjacent administrative department on official Corps business with a duly authorized request. Written permission. Every damn day. I had not even crossed the threshold of his office yet, and this bureaucratic noose was already getting on my nerves. I would have to streamline the system soon. The Corps had trained me to accomplish missions, not waste precious hours collecting paperwork and bowing to local brass.

On my way to headquarters, I slowed for a moment beside the military infirmary. Two duty nurses in regulation gowns were smoking on the concrete steps, lazily squinting into the morning sun. Fortunately, unlike the local kitchen, which seemed to be run by yesterday’s high schoolers, the medical services here were provided by people with actual degrees.

I glanced up and spotted an open second-floor window. Behind the hospital bars, the same troublemakers from last night were staring down at me, the ones I had put down nine hours earlier. Their faces were swollen and furious, their noses covered in bandages, their hands tightly wrapped in fresh white gauze. The tension between us could have been cut with a knife. The hatred coming from that window was pure and concentrated, undiluted even by hospital painkillers. For a split second, a cheeky thought flashed through my mind: grin as widely as possible, raise my hand, and give them a cheerful wave, just to see the veins bulge in their foreheads. But I forced the impulse down. Too cheap. Too childish. A Corps officer does not stoop to clowning around in front of beaten dogs.

Keeping my face completely impassive, I walked past the infirmary and shoved open the heavy oak door to headquarters. The reception area was completely deserted. There was no secretary, not even a duty orderly at the entrance. Bureaucratic laziness in its purest form. I walked up to the door bearing a peeling brass plaque that read “Lieutenant Dillon” and gave the wood three short, deliberate knocks with my knuckles.

Silence. The only sound from inside was the dry, rhythmic clicking of a computer mouse.

Yesterday’s circus, with its ten-minute wait outside the door and the duty orderly’s incoherent mumbling, was still fresh in my mind. The local big shot apparently hated being interrupted during the serious business of dealing cards in an online poker game. The guys in the barracks whispered that you could grow old and retire standing outside this door before the commander finally finished blowing his latest stack.

I knew the old military rule perfectly well: when you are in someone else’s monastery, you do not bring your own rulebook. And my years in corporate accounting had drilled another lesson deep into my subconscious: pissing off the boss, even when the boss was objectively wrong and a complete idiot, was the fastest way to bury your career and lose your bonuses. But I had one solid argument that burned that fear away completely. Absolute, cold confidence in my own abilities and my value to the mission. The Corps had sent me here to clean up this swamp, not bow to the local kings.

Without waiting for an answer, I firmly gripped the round brass handle, turned it all the way, and walked inside.

The scene was classic for this cesspool. An uncorked bottle of bourbon sat on the polished desk, buried beneath a pile of old reports. A thick, expensive cigar smoldered in a heavy crystal ashtray, while Dillon himself, his swollen hand trembling slightly, moved the betting slider across the monitor. It was ten in the morning, and he was already drunk, his eyes bloodshot. This man wore an officer’s insignia and represented the face of P-SWAT. With a commander like this, it was a miracle his subordinates had not started setting off grenades under their bunks just to keep themselves entertained.

It took some effort to keep my face neutral instead of letting it twist with disgust. A unit commander was supposed to be like a senior instructor or a schoolteacher, someone responsible for setting the standard for behavior and discipline. Here, the only standard was moral decay.

“I didn’t give you permission to come in.” Dillon’s face instantly flushed a deep, ugly red, and his cloudy eyes darted nervously between me and the screen, where the betting numbers were still flashing. “Get the hell out of my office!”

“I don’t have time to wait for you to finish your hand. I need to leave the base before eleven.” I took a quick step forward and pressed the power button on his monitor with a dry click. The screen went black instantly. “And I couldn’t care less about your poker game.”

“You got some fucking nerve, kid!” Dillon practically twisted with rage as he leaned forward, his heavy belly pressing against the edge of the desk. “You’re talking to a first lieutenant!”

“Good for you. I’m an officer too.” I didn’t move an inch. “The difference is, I have a Bronze Star with a V device on my uniform for combat operations with the Corps. What else are you going to pull rank with, Lieutenant?”

His beady eyes darted around in panic. His whole script was falling apart. Dillon was used to throwing his rank around to intimidate nervous sergeants and frightened privates, but this time he had run headfirst into a concrete wall. The rank card had failed. Standing in front of him was a man of equal status, nerves of steel, and a far more impressive service record.

“You little shit!” Dillon started in for a second round, spraying spit as he tried to shout over his own humiliation. “How dare you talk to me like that?! I was defending this country while you were at home eating your mommy’s soup! I lost a hand for pieces of shit like you!”

Deep down, I smiled indulgently to myself. Veteran demagoguery was as old as the hills: when you run out of real arguments, start leaning on age, past achievements, and phantom pain. The funniest part was that this “old man” was two years younger than me. Apparently, the genius hadn’t even bothered to read my file before our meeting. He was just falling back on the same insults he always used.

“Everybody at the Pentagon knows me!” Like any petty little man crushed by fear, Dillon desperately tried to hide behind someone else’s shadow. “All I have to do is make one call, Ross, and you’re finished! I’ll personally bury you under a court-martial!”

“I’ll be the one sending you to a court-martial.” I slowly rose from the chair, straightening my shoulders.

My shadow covered half his desk. One hard look down at him brought his hysterical tirade to an abrupt stop. Dillon choked on his own breath.

“Dillon, you’re not just a bad commander. You’re a disgrace to that uniform and an officer committing a crime right now.”

“What do you mean... a criminal?” The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his head with astonishing speed. His cloudy eyes cleared for a second, suddenly sober and frightened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Drinking on duty, illegal gambling while on the clock, deliberate dereliction of your responsibilities, and creating conditions that directly threaten the lives of underage enlisted personnel.” I enunciated every word, watching his reaction like an auditor conducting a final inspection of a major corporation. “As my good friend Colonel Stewart likes to say, Dillon, you’re a piece of shit.”

“I... I’ll file an official complaint against you.” He recoiled into the back of his chair, breathing heavily like a rat trapped in a basement corner. “I’ve already been told that you beat six of my men last night...”

“Men who ambushed me in the dark and attacked first. The entire barracks will confirm that under oath at the first hearing. You raised a pack of cowardly rats, Lieutenant, and that’s entirely on you. So go ahead. File your report. Let the district commission come down here along with inspectors from the department. Let’s see what they think of this pigsty you’ve turned a combat unit into.”

Dillon fell silent. A suffocating, heavy silence settled over the office, broken only by his raspy, smoke-damaged breathing. Finally, he slowly reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a thick booklet of controlled forms, and tore out a sheet with a crisp rip.

“This is your pass off base,” he muttered, staring at the desktop and refusing to look up. “Give it to the guard at the gate.”

“Give me the whole booklet.” Without waiting for permission, I planted my broad palm over the stack of forms, stopping him from putting it away. “I need to go into town every day on Corps business. Let’s spare each other the questionable pleasure of seeing one another every morning and wasting my time.”

Dillon drilled my hand with a heavy, hate-filled stare for a couple of seconds, then relaxed his fingers. The man still had some sense left after all. His survival instinct won out over the alcohol, at least for a moment.

“Be back on base before lights-out,” he called after me in a dull voice as I was already reaching for the door handle.

Outside, I took a deep breath of fresh air, clearing the lingering smell of booze from my lungs. My feelings were mixed. Dillon was still a rotten, incompetent liability who deserved to be discharged immediately. On the other hand, the confrontation had clearly gotten his rusty gears turning a little faster. I had no intention of babysitting him or trying to set him on the righteous path. The Corps didn’t pay me extra to play preacher. But I’d give the situation a week. If he drew the right conclusions and started getting himself and the base back in order, great. I’d save myself some time. If not, I’d prepare the paperwork for his court-martial myself.

At the gate, I silently handed the form to Private Nelson. The moment he saw me approaching, the kid hurriedly shoved his smartphone into his pants pocket, nearly dropping it in the process, and snapped to attention. His bewildered expression brought a faint smile to my face. Poor bastard had been stuck at the gate for two days and had no idea that a small revolution had taken place in the barracks. Once his shift ended and he went back to rest, a very large and extremely painful surprise would be waiting for him.

My first encounter with P-SWAT could officially be considered over. Time to head to the administrative center. All I could do was hope the bureaucrats were slightly less hopelessly buried in chaos than the soldiers here.