Chapter 4: A Gathering of Cannons

Chapter 4: A Gathering of Cannons

Captain Anna Reed’s office was a sanctuary of quiet contemplation. The walls were lined with books—theology, history, philosophy—and the air was still, smelling of old paper and lemon polish. It was a space designed for solace and reflection, a stark contrast to the maelstrom raging within its sole occupant.

She sat behind her large oak desk, the fury she’d felt in the hospital corridor now cooled and distilled into something far more dangerous: purpose. The glacial rage had not thawed; it had been honed into a weapon. On her desk lay the base directory, open to the highest echelons of command. Beside it was the chapel’s appointment ledger from the previous day.

Her finger traced the entry for 1400 hours. Seaman William Jensen. A neat line had been drawn through his name, and beside it, Petty Officer Miller’s tidy script noted: Cancelled. Pt. stated he is feeling much better.

“Feeling much better,” she whispered to the silent room. The words were a vile perversion, a lie forged in terror that had almost cost a young man his life. She closed her eyes, reconstructing the narrative not with spiritual guidance, but with the cold, methodical logic of a battle plan.

Element one: A bright, motivated sailor with a valuable skill set, pushed beyond his physical limits. Element two: A documented injury, confirmed by a medical officer. Element three: A direct medical order for light duty, a lawful command within the military structure. Element four: The order is not just ignored but contemptuously destroyed by a senior Petty Officer. A direct subversion of the chain of command. Element five: The sailor, his body broken and his official protections stripped away, seeks the final, confidential refuge of the Chaplaincy. Element six: He is intercepted and intimidated into severing that lifeline.

That was the critical failure. That was the unforgivable sin. They hadn’t just abused a sailor; they had sabotaged the very system designed as the ultimate safety net. They had stood between a desperate soul and her office. They had declared war on her flock, on her authority, and on the fundamental covenant of her corps.

Her eyes snapped open. The time for contemplation was over. She picked up the phone, her movements precise and deliberate. She didn't dial a subordinate. She didn't call the legal office. She bypassed layers of command, leveraging the unique, almost untouchable authority of her rank and position. Her finger pressed the digits for the one office on base that answered to no one else.

“Admiral’s office, Yeoman speaking.”

“This is Captain Anna Reed,” she said, her voice perfectly level, betraying none of the fury that fueled it. “Please inform the Admiral that I require a meeting. Immediately. It concerns the welfare of a sailor and a critical failure in the command structure.”

There was no question, no suggestion. It was a summons cloaked in the language of a request. A Chaplain Captain invoking a "critical failure" was the five-alarm fire of military bureaucracy. It promised scandal, investigation, and the ruin of careers.

“Yes, Captain,” the yeoman said, his voice now laced with urgency. “Stand by.”

While the Chaplain loaded her cannon, the gunpowder was being gathered in a much less opulent setting.

Seaman apprentices Davis, Chris, and Peterson were pulled from their morning class by a grim-faced Petty Officer First Class they’d never seen before. “The Chief wants to see you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for questions. “Now.”

They were escorted to the Chief’s office, a cramped, utilitarian space that smelled of stale coffee and stress. Chief Miller sat behind his metal desk, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with the frustrations of managing two hundred young, foolish sailors. But today, the usual frustration was gone, replaced by a tense, focused severity. He looked like a man who had just been screamed at by someone very, very important. The shockwaves from Captain Reed’s call were already rocking the foundations of the command.

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to three hard plastic chairs. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I’m going to ask you some questions about Seaman Jensen. I want the truth. I want details. And I want them now. Don’t leave anything out because you think it’s minor or because you’re worried about getting someone in trouble. The time for that is over.”

The three friends exchanged a nervous glance. The Chief’s intensity was unnerving, but beneath it, they sensed an opportunity—a demand for the very truth they were desperate to tell. The guilt from their inaction, from those ignored phone calls, had festered into a burning need for catharsis.

Davis spoke first, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “It was Russo and Cole, Chief. From day one.”

And then the dam broke. It wasn't a trickle of information; it was a flood, a barrage of testimony delivered with the raw fury of eyewitnesses who had been forced into silence for too long.

“They called him nerd, fatty, worthless,” Chris said, leaning forward. “Every single PT session, they were on him. It wasn’t training, it was… it was torture. They made him run until he puked.”

“The day he hurt his knee,” Davis cut in, the memory sharp and vivid. “Russo was riding him, screaming at him. We all heard the pop when his leg gave out. He was on the ground, crying, and Russo told him to ‘walk it off.’”

“He got a light-duty chit from the clinic the next day,” Peterson added, his quiet voice shaking with indignation. “We saw it. Bill showed it to Russo at formation.”

The Chief’s pen scratched furiously across a notepad. “What did Petty Officer Russo do with the medical order?”

“He tore it up,” Davis said, the words exploding out of him. “Ripped it into little pieces and threw it on the ground. He called the doctor a pencil-pusher and said his orders were the only ones that mattered. Then he… he made Bill low-crawl on the grinder. For an hour.”

“We saw him afterward, Chief,” Chris continued, his voice cracking. “His elbows were bleeding. His uniform was torn. He couldn't even walk straight. His knee was swollen up like a damn melon. That wasn’t training, that was assault.”

The Chief’s expression was grim stone. He knew what they were describing. Not just hazing, but a litany of offenses that would fill a prosecutor’s dreams: dereliction of duty, failure to obey a lawful order, assault, conduct unbecoming.

“He tried to get help,” Davis said, his guilt returning. “He made an appointment to see the Chaplain. Captain Reed. The day after, he cancelled it. He wouldn’t say why, but he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Russo and Cole had gotten to him. They must have.”

They recounted everything. The constant verbal abuse, the deliberate physical targeting, the public humiliation. They detailed how Bill had withdrawn, how the bright, optimistic kid they’d met on the first day had devolved into a haunted, limping shadow of his former self. They unknowingly laid out the entire chain of events, providing the factual ammunition to back up the Chaplain’s moral crusade. Each memory, each detail, was another cannonball added to the arsenal.

When they finally fell silent, the air in the small office was thick with the gravity of their words. They had done more than just report bullying. They had provided sworn testimony that would incinerate two careers.

The Chief stopped writing. He looked down at his notes, then up at the three young sailors. He saw the guilt and fear in their eyes, but also a fierce, protective loyalty to their fallen friend.

“You’re dismissed,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Go back to your classroom. You will not speak of this conversation to anyone. Is that understood?”

They nodded and filed out, leaving the Chief alone with a notepad full of damnation. He picked up his phone and dialed his Division Officer.

“Lieutenant, it’s Chief Miller. You need to come down to my office. We have a serious problem. No, sir, worse than that.” He paused, looking at the damning list of transgressions. “It’s a massacre.”