New Sheriff in Town

Posted on Fri Dec 20th, 2024 @ 2:34am by Gunnery Sergeant Randall Whistler & Lieutenant Colonel Savannah Sorrel

3,261 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: New Crew, New Mission
Location: Marine Deck
Timeline: Current

With meeting the captain out of the way it was now time to inspect marine country and get to know the marines under her command. Many would not yet be on board but she hoped to at least find a few already on board of the ship. So she went in search of the marine command centre and what would basically be her office.

Entering the Marine barracks on the USS Iroquois was like stepping into another world—one that Starfleet Command would likely prefer not to know existed. The moment the doors swished open, the first thing to assault the senses was the sound: a chaotic medley of music from across the galaxy blasted from various corners of the room. Klingon war chants clashed with the smooth, sultry tones of a Bolian jazz singer, and somewhere in the background, someone had synced a risqué Ferengi jingle to the pulsing bassline of Tellarite techno.

The lighting was dimmer than regulation allowed, with mismatched strands of decorative lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, flickering intermittently like a starfield gone haywire. Posters plastered the bulkheads, each one more vulgar or irreverent than the last. A cheeky Risian pin-up posed seductively next to a sarcastic recruiting poster that read: "Join the Corps! Travel the stars! Die horribly in places you can’t pronounce!"

In the center of the barracks, a lewd hologram strutted and twirled—a humanoid figure with exaggerated curves, clad in a parody of Marine combat armor that left nothing to the imagination. The hologram carried a tray of refreshments and paused occasionally to toss flirtatious winks at passing grunts, who either jeered or laughed as they passed. The fact that the hologram doubled as the barracks’ primary replicator interface only added to its absurdity.

The air smelled faintly of sweat, cleaning solvent, and something suspiciously like grilled targ strips. Several Marines lounged on bunks in various states of disarray, some in partially donned uniforms, others in workout gear, and a few in nothing but boxers or tank tops with snarky slogans. One Marine was arm-wrestling another on a table that looked like it had been patched up more times than a shuttlecraft’s hull, while a small crowd egged them on.

At the far end of the barracks, Gunnery Sergeant Randall "Randy" Whistler stood leaning against the bulkhead, a cigar clamped between his teeth despite the no-smoking regulations. He was a burly, grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual scowl that suggested he had long since given up trying to rein in the chaos around him. He barked a laugh at a crude joke someone had just told, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

Then the doors opened again and Whistler nearly spat out his cigar.

“COLONEL ON DECK!” he bellowed, his voice like a thunderclap. He put out his cigar into his palm.

The barracks exploded into a chaotic flurry of activity. Marines scrambled to stand at attention, shoving personal items under bunks and throwing on whatever uniform pieces were within reach. One hapless grunt tripped over his own boots, landing face-first on the deck before clawing his way into formation. Another tried desperately to shut down the hologram, but instead of disappearing, it froze mid-dance, one leg raised high in a pose that could only be described as obscene.

Whistler stalked through the room, barking commands like a drill instructor possessed. "You call that a salute, Private? Straighten up before I twist you into a pretzel! Miller, get that uniform zipped up! And someone kill that damn music before I kill the lot of ya!"

The music stopped abruptly, leaving an awkward silence broken only by the faint hum of the hologram, which continued to stand there frozen like a monument to bad decisions.

Whistler snapped to attention in front of Savannah, his posture perfect, though a bead of sweat trailed down his temple. "Gunnery Sergeant Whistler reporting, ma’am!" he barked. "Barracks are... uh... operational!"

Behind him, the Marines stood in a crooked, mismatched line, several of them clearly struggling not to laugh at the absurdity of the scene.

"Really gunnery sergeant." She raised an eyebrow as she walked past the disheveled ranks. "How long have you been aboard? One day, two days and you already managed to turn this nice ship into a pigsty." Sav stopped next to the sergeant and looked him in the eyes without blinking. A tall woman it was easy for her to manage.

Whistler straightened to his full height as Savannah loomed next to him, though the cigar stub still clamped between his teeth undermined the effect just a touch. His salt-and-pepper brows furrowed, but his lips quirked into the ghost of a smirk—just enough to suggest he was about to toe the line in the way only a seasoned Gunnery Sergeant could.

"Well, ma’am," he began, his voice a deep rumble with just the right amount of insubordinate charm, "I like to think of it less as a pigsty and more as... a free-range leadership experiment. Y’know, give the grunts a little space to roam, stretch their creativity, maybe figure out what happens when you leave a Risan pin-up poster too close to the environmental controls."

He removed the cigar from his mouth and gestured broadly to the barracks. "Course, there’s always a transitional period when you move into new digs. Some might call it chaos, but I call it the prelude to victory. Like making sausage—you don’t want to see how it’s done, but you sure do appreciate the results."

Whistler leaned slightly toward Savannah, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. "And speaking of sausages, ma’am, I’d say we’ve got one hell of a mixed grill here. That hologram? State-of-the-art morale booster. The music? Cross-cultural enrichment. The posters? Well, those are... motivational, in their own way." His grin widened, flashing teeth that somehow managed to shine despite their proximity to the ever-present cigar.

He straightened back up, placing the cigar behind his ear like a pencil, and fixed Savannah with a look that was all business—or at least what passed for it in his world. "But, if the colonel feels we’ve been too free-range and not enough pen-raised, I’ll make sure these fine Marines learn the difference between pigsty and parade ground by the time you can say ‘inspection-ready.’ Just say the word, ma’am, and I’ll have them tighter than a Tellarite at happy hour."

Sav had been around the block too often to know that troops needed to blow off steam when not on duty, but on this ship that could be a problem given her fist interactions with the XO so she had to thread carefully here. "Gunny, the next time I come here I want the appearance of order and decorum." She continued to look at him. "Are you understanding me. We have to maintain the honour of the corps for these navy types we have to share the ship with."

"Fuckin' Fleeters," Whistler said with a spit on the deck. "Begging your pardon, of course, ma'am."

Whistler straightened his posture, wiping his boot over the spot where he’d spat as if that made it more acceptable. His hazel eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and begrudging respect as he addressed Savannah.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he repeated, this time with a little more feigned contrition, “but I’d argue that a little chaos is part of the Corps' charm. Keeps us sharp. Keeps us... adaptable. But if you want this place polished up for the benefit of the Fleeters, I’ll make it happen. Hell, I’ll even make it shine so bright they’ll think we’ve got the Admiralty comin’ aboard.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “But seeing as how you know as well as I do that the boys and girls need a place to let off steam, we gotta' give them some play. Keep ’em too tight, and they’ll snap when it matters most. So how ’bout this—as First Shirt, I’ll make sure everything looks shipshape when you’re around, and in exchange, you give me a little leeway to run things our way when it’s just us grunts.”

Whistler gave her a crooked grin, his cigar back in its rightful place behind his ear. “You keep the Fleeters happy, I’ll keep the Marines ready. Deal?”

"Deal gunny." She said with a slight smile. "I knew I could count on you. Now show me what we have to work with here, I just came on board myself."


Whistler gave a sharp nod, his grin widening just enough to show he appreciated the confidence Savannah had placed in him. He turned on his heel, gesturing for her to follow as he started toward the back of the barracks.

“Well, Colonel, lemme give you the rundown,” he said, his tone slipping into the smooth cadence of a seasoned NCO giving a briefing. “We’ve got three squads assigned to this ship. Delta, Echo, and Fox. Delta’s supposed to be our heavy hitters—specializing in breaching and assault scenarios. They can clear a room faster than a warp core breach, though, to be honest, most of ‘em wouldn’t know a breaching charge from a doorbell if it wasn’t for constant drills.”

He smirked, shaking his head slightly as they passed a few bunks adorned with makeshift storage for equipment. “Echo’s our recon and stealth boys. Got the best scores on sensor evasion simulations you’ll find this side of the quadrant. Though...” he glanced over at Savannah, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “that might be ‘cause half of ‘em hack the holodeck systems to pad their results. I swear, these kids got more time on their PADDs than their boots.”

Whistler reached the back corner of the room where a cluster of lockers stood. He tapped one with his knuckles as if to punctuate his next statement. “And then there’s Fox Squad, our jack-of-all-trades. Solid enough when you need ‘em, but let’s be honest: they’re more like a jack-of-some-trades, master-of-none. Good for mop-up duty, not so much for the front line. But hey, they show up on time and don’t ask too many questions, so there’s that.”

He sighed, leaning against the locker as he turned back to her. “Truth is, Colonel, these squads ain’t bad, but they ain’t great either. Starfleet hasn’t had a proper war in thirty-five years, and it shows. These grunts think a ‘combat scenario’ means sparring in a holodeck. No sense of decorum, no real grit. They’ve never been bloodied, and it’s a damn shame. Makes ‘em soft.”

Whistler paused, his hazel eyes narrowing as he studied Savannah with a mix of appraisal and mischief that only a Gunnery Sergeant could get away with. “Now you, Colonel…” he started, his tone taking on a gruff, almost conspiratorial edge. “You might just be the kind of badass this unit needs to make it through an extended ground fight. Someone who can keep ‘em sharp, disciplined, and motivated when the boots hit the dirt and the shots start flying.”

His gaze flickered downward for just a split second—just long enough to suggest he wasn’t just talking about her leadership skills. A sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he added, with just enough innuendo to raise an eyebrow, “The question is, Colonel... are you the kind of badass these boys’ll actually follow? Don't worry about me, I'm right behind you. Just getting a fix on your leadership style for the rank and file.”

Her grin widened as well now. "Read my record, gunny? I am not known to be too soft on my troops. Hard but fair, I hope. How about I play badass while you are the one they can turn too to complain about the mean colonel?"

Whistler’s grin widened into a full-on wolfish smirk, his hazel eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and audacity. The fact that Savannah hadn’t reprimanded him only emboldened the seasoned Gunnery Sergeant to push the boundaries further. He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like they were sharing a secret.

“Hard but fair, huh? I like the sound of that, Colonel,” he said, his tone dripping with suggestive charm. “I’ve always had a soft spot for hard women. Keeps things interesting. And if you want me to play the good cop while you’re the mean one, well... that sounds like a fun arrangement. Let ‘em cry on my shoulder, then send ‘em back out for you to straighten up. Hell, it’s practically a dance.”

He tilted his head, letting the grin linger just a second too long before continuing. “But, uh, speaking of arrangements... I wouldn’t mind earning a little of that hard treatment from you in private, ma’am. Y’know, maybe exchange some punishment techniques and all.” Whistler crossed his arms with a casual air that didn’t quite mask the mischievous glint in his eye, as though daring her to call him out—or call his bluff.

Sorrel turned to stone. She did not like where this was going at all. Before she had given the gunny leeway as she knew the vast knowledge these NCO's carried and how important they were in the command structure, but there was a line and he was toeing it. "Shall I pretend I did not hear that gunny? Because if you even look at me funny again you are not going to like the consequences. Am I making myself very very clear, mister?"

Whistler’s smirk vanished instantly, replaced with a look of wide-eyed innocence so exaggerated it teetered on the edge of parody. He straightened his posture, clasping his hands neatly behind his back as though he were a cadet standing inspection.

"Hear what, ma’am?" he asked, his voice a perfect blend of sincerity and confusion. "I’m not sure what you mean. We run a tight ship here, Colonel—tight as a Tellarite’s purse strings. Absolutely no swearing, drinking, or fraternizing on my watch. You can bank on that. Uh—metaphorically speaking, of course. Banks don’t exist on Earth anymore, but you get the principle."

He gave a quick nod, his hazel eyes darting briefly to her expression before snapping back to the middle distance like a soldier trying to avoid a superior’s ire. “Nobody screws around on duty, and off duty? Well, that’s their business, so long as they stay out of sight and don’t make a mess. Call it a don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t get caught kind of policy. Keeps the grunts in line, ma’am.”

As he spoke, his hand casually reached up to adjust the cigar tucked behind his ear, pushing it further out of view as though its mere presence might undermine his argument. "I take my responsibilities to the Corps seriously, Colonel. Real seriously. You won’t find a Marine under my command stepping out of line without getting read the riot act."

Whistler stood at attention, waiting for her to respond, while silently praying the subject wouldn’t come up again. That cigar was too good to waste, and he wasn’t about to toss it unless absolutely necessary.

"As long as we understand each other, gunny. I know you are not stupid." She gave a nod showing that that was the end of the conversation where she was concerned. "Now if you could show me my office."

Whistler’s grin faltered for the briefest of moments, and a faint flicker of panic danced behind his hazel eyes before he caught himself. Straightening, he gave Savannah a sharp nod and a loud, “Aye, ma’am,” but not before jerking a nearby private by the collar with a grip firm enough to make the young Marine wince.

"Private Jenkins, a word," he muttered through clenched teeth, dragging the hapless grunt close enough for a whisper. "Clear the Colonel’s office now! I want that space cleaner than a Vulcan's conscience before we get there—or so help me, you’ll be cleaning latrines with your hairy tongue till retirement."

Jenkins stammered a frantic, "Yes, Gunny!" before scrambling away like his boots were on fire.

Turning back to Savannah, Whistler plastered on his best poker face, clapping his hands together as though they were about to embark on a grand tour. "Right this way, ma’am. You’re gonna love the layout of this deck. Real cutting-edge design. Top-notch Starfleet ingenuity."

As they walked, he began pointing at completely mundane ship features with the enthusiasm of a Ferengi trying to sell a warp coil. "See that conduit panel there? State-of-the-art isolinear relays. Absolutely indispensable for, uh… power distribution or something. Keeps the lights on."

A few paces later, he froze in his tracks, his head snapping to the side like he’d heard something alarming. His brow furrowed, and he held up a hand to stop Savannah. "Did you hear that, ma’am? Sounded like—" He paused dramatically, listening intently. After a long moment, he shook his head with a sheepish grin. "Ah, must’ve been my imagination. Thought it was a red alert. Happens sometimes after too much ship coffee. You know how it is."

But they were already at her office. The doors slid open to reveal a half-dozen Marines hauling oversized lounge pillows, empty drink cartons, and what was unmistakably an oversized hookah pipe out of the room. The faint, lingering scent of spiced smoke wafted into the corridor.

Whistler’s eyes widened in mock surprise, his jaw dropping for effect. "What the hell is this?!" he bellowed, his voice booming enough to make two of the Marines jump. "Who turned the Colonel’s office into a damned hookah lounge? Jenkins, was this your idea?"

"No, Gunny, I swear!" Jenkins squeaked, nearly dropping the hookah in his panic.

"I don’t want excuses, I want results!" Whistler barked. "Get this shit cleaned up and report for extra PT at Oh-Dark-Thirty. And if I catch any of you fuckin' around in here again, you’ll be using those pillows as body armor in live-fire drills. MOVE IT!"

The grunts scrambled out, leaving the office marginally cleaner than it had been moments ago.

Whistler turned to Savannah, offering a lopsided grin that practically screamed please don’t kill me. "There you go, ma’am. Good as new. Just a little... miscommunication among the men. Won’t happen again, you have my word."

He stepped back, standing at parade rest with a hopeful side-eye toward her reaction.

Sorrel was very fast losing her patience with her marines. She could not understand how they could have made this much of a mess in such a short time. "Things are going to change around here, gunny. I want marine country spick and span and shining when I next come in here. And that is going to be very early tomorrow. Also I will be joining that extra PT session in the morning and if anybody is not in the shape I expect my marines to be, there will be more words. Dismissed gunny!" Sav finished before she exploded.

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" Whistler clicked his heels together and got the hell out of there.

 

RSS Feed