Gosport

Harrison and Senior Chief Petty Officer Chen Sam (Chuck) Lee stood outside the main operations center, alongside the helicopter pad. They squinted their eyes and furrowed their brows as they stared into the rising morning Sun, watching for the small black dot to appear on the horizon.

“Why do they always bring those things in from the direction of the sun?” Chuck asked Harrison, unsure if there was any real answer. “It’s bad enough that we have to stand in this snot-freezin’ cold. I know it’s the admiral’s personal plan to inconvenience me whenever and wherever possible.”

“They have to. Helo pilots think they own the sun,” Harrison answered. He used the familiar term “helo,” which is Coast Guard speak for the helicopter. The term is so widely used that to pronounce the word in its entirety is sure give-away of a green recruit.

“They're all cowboys,” Chuck said, with contempt.

Harrison turned his back to the wind, which had begun to pick up a little speed as the Sun rose higher in the sky. He thrust his left arm out from the cuff of his pea-coat to check the time again and then returned to squint towards the East. Word had been passed to Harrison and Senior Chief Denton from the Communications Control Room that the District Commander, a two-star admiral, was flying in from District HQ in Boston for a top-secret briefing and would be arriving within 15 minutes. This visit was no ordinary drop-in, Harrison knew. For one thing, District Commanders, nor any other admiral for that matter, would fly in to attend a routine status briefing. Whatever had the admiral’s panties in a bunch must have been a humdinger.

“Here we go,” Chuck said with a tone of both relief and excitement. “I can see ’em now.”

A small black dot had appeared in the sky, just to the right of the sun, as the Jayhawk grew closer.

“You must have the best vision in the entire Guard,” said Harrison, and then with a pause, “too bad you can use that fine vision to spot better lookin’ women,” for which Chuck gave him a quick sideways glance, opting to leave the remark alone.

“Nevermind that, you’d better start sucking that gut of yours in now, so you’re ready when they sit that bad ass down. You don’t want the Admiral to see that those 12-pack abs.” Harrison’ midriff was anything but flabby, and Senior Chief “Chuck” Lee knew it. But he also knew the jab would fester in Harrison for the rest of the day.

As the deep thump of the rotor beat through the air, growing louder, Chuck remained fixed on the white and orange helo beating in from just above the water.

“Hey, listen, you’re behind the times Popeye, I read in Men’s Health that we no longer call them abs. We call it the core, now.”

“Fine. Your core is hanging over your belt…sir.” Chuck added the respectful sir, even though in private company he knew he didn’t have to. Senior Chief Chuck Lee and Lt. Harrison Caine had been long time career fiends and confidants. Without the presence of others, Chuck and Harrison dropped all formality. They’d been through plenty and never questioned the true respect each had for the other.

The rotor thump was loud enough now that neither man could hear what the other was saying, even from inside the protective glass windows of the communications watchtower. As the white and orange Jayhawk drifted over the landing zone markings, they looked down upon the pavement and watched as the rotor wash scrubbed the tarmac clean of all loose items -- pebbles, shell fragments left over from ravenous gulls, and even a no-parking sign that set in a solid cement base.

The pilot gently set the craft down on the pad, setting the three wheels down nearly at the same time, the rotors began to slow and the engine and wind wash began to ebb. The Jayhawk's sliding door opened without delay and a member of the flight crew stepped out first, followed by the admiral's aide and the admiral, the district commander.

As the flight crew member assisted the admiral and his aide with the removal of their flight gear, Lt Caine, and Senior Chief Lee stepped out from the ground level door of the watchtower and approached the landing party.

Caine and Lee both approached and stopped short to salute. The admiral squared off with the men and returned the salute.

"Harrison, great to see you again. You look great," Admiral Dane said warmly. The Coast Guard is the smallest branch of the American Armed Forces. It's not uncommon for members to know one another from prior assignments. Harrison knew Admiral Dane from when they both served on the USCG Cutter Escanaba, a 270-foot medium endurance cutter that cruised the Carribean on drug interdiction missions.

Harrison was a lieutenant, a junior officer in the ranking scheme. He earned that rank by rising through the enlisted side to the senior rank of Chief Warrant Officer. From there he took advantage of the Coast Guard’s Warrant-to-Lieutenant program whereby warrant officers could earn an officer’s commission, advance to a higher stature, and grow into a greater leadership challenge.

Harrison had arrived for quarters a few minutes early so that he could take a minute and think about his day ahead. Quarters is another obscure naval term for debriefing, or even more simply, a meeting. Since the US Coast Guard is always on duty, 24 hours per day, all year long, there is never a moment of downtime, 365 days per year. The crew is divided up into duty sections. Each duty section has the watch for a given period, which is often about 48 hours. When the switchover occurs between the section coming on duty and the one about to be relieved, a quarters session is held where all pertinent information is passed to all personnel, or more affectionately, to all hands.

Harrison entered the room a few minutes early, just to be sure he would be able to get his coffee and a seat at the back of the room. His preference had always been to sit toward the rear so that he could not only listen to the information being passed but also to watch the body language of all the men and women in the room.

“Good morning LT,” greeted a young seaman who was preparing the room. Quarters is held in the Command Briefing room. The room was not a large room. It held a dozen people comfortably but in this age of risk preventing and protecting the homeland; there were always a few sister agency representatives attending as well. The room was carpeted wall to wall in a dark blue and gray mixed pattern. The walls, of course, were institutional government beige. Cork ceiling tiles were suspended overhead with recessed fluorescent lights that filled the room with harsh light and hum that reminded you not to get too comfortable because this room was for working. At the front of the room was a podium with the Coast Guard emblem – two anchors crossed -- and two whiteboards that side by side filled the front wall.