Chapter 5: Judgment of the Anchors

Chapter 5: Judgment of the Anchors

The air in the Hospital Commanding Officer's office was still and heavy, smelling of lemon-scented wood polish and institutional power. It was a space designed for intimidation, from the polished mahogany desk that sat like a judicial bench to the American and Navy flags standing sentry in the corners, their gold tassels gleaming under the recessed lighting. For Dr. Alistair Finch, however, it was supposed to be a sanctuary, the final bastion of the officer’s world where his side of the story would finally be heard and understood by a peer.

He stood at a rigid parade rest, his service white uniform starched to perfection, his shoes reflecting the overhead lights like black mirrors. He felt a flicker of annoyance at being made to stand, but he was confident. The past two weeks had been a living hell. The constant appearance of those vulgar, cheap coins had eroded his authority and turned his workplace into a theater of silent mockery. But now, the childish rebellion had finally forced the command’s hand. He was here to see the mutineers punished. He was the victim, after all.

The door opened, and Captain Eva Rostova entered, followed by the Command Master Chief. Rostova was a small, wiry woman with steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She didn’t offer Finch a seat. She simply moved behind her desk and stood, her hands resting flat on the blotter. The Master Chief, a man whose forearms were covered in faded naval tattoos, took a position just behind and to her right, his face an unreadable granite slab.

"Lieutenant Commander Finch," Captain Rostova began, her voice calm and devoid of any warmth. "We are here today for a Captain's Mast. You are aware of the reason for this proceeding." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Captain," Finch said, his tone crisp and professional. "I am here regarding the campaign of harassment and insubordination I have been subjected to by certain enlisted personnel."

Captain Rostova’s eyebrow arched a single, critical millimeter. "That is one interpretation of events." She slid a piece of paper across the desk. It was a high-quality printout of his "Gospel," the graphic Leo had created, complete with his sneering photo and the title THE GOSPEL OF A TIN GOD. "The proceeding is actually to address the charge of Conduct Unbecoming an Officer, Article 133 of the UCMJ. The charge is that you, through your written words and subsequent actions, have brought disrepute upon this command and have failed to maintain good order and discipline."

Finch’s confidence wavered for the first time. This wasn't about the enlisted. This was about him. "Captain, with all due respect, those words were from a private conversation, taken completely out of context and illegally disseminated."

"Dr. Finch," Rostova cut in, her voice sharpening slightly. "I am not a tech blogger. I am not interested in your privacy settings. The United States Navy has been made to look foolish because of this 'private conversation.' Navy Times has called my public affairs officer three times. An entity calling itself 'The Enlisted Deviant' has made this command the laughingstock of the Pacific Fleet. Your context is irrelevant. Your impact is what matters."

She let the words hang in the air. Then, she reached into a drawer and placed something on the desk. It landed with a heavy, definitive clink.

The Coin of Contempt.

Finch stared at his own twisted, metallic face. "That... that is the harassment I'm talking about, Captain! These have been appearing everywhere. It's a coordinated effort to undermine my authority!"

"I have one in my own desk drawer," Rostova said flatly. "The Master Chief found one in the Goat Locker. Your 'authority,' as you call it, was undermined the moment you wrote that letter. This," she flicked the coin with her fingernail, sending it spinning, "is merely the echo."

"I was trying to instill discipline! To maintain the necessary distinction between officers and enlisted!" Finch’s voice rose, his composure beginning to crack under the weight of her cold disapproval. "It is a vital component of military structure! I was acting in the best interests of the Navy!"

For the first time, the Command Master Chief spoke, his voice a low rumble. "Sir, the best corpsmen I ever knew could run a trauma bay with nothing but a roll of duct tape and a foul mouth. They didn't need a PhD to tell them how to save a life. They just needed respect."

Finch shot a venomous glare at the Master Chief before turning back to Rostova. "I will not be lectured on leadership by a man who..." he trailed off, realizing his mistake too late.

"A man who what, Doctor?" Rostova’s voice dropped, becoming dangerously quiet. "A man who came up through the ranks? The same way you did?"

The blood drained from Finch’s face. The room felt suddenly airless.

"I read your service record quite thoroughly, Dr. Finch," Rostova continued, leaning forward slightly. "United States Army. Specialist. Combat Medic. It seems you conveniently forgot that part of your history when you were pontificating about the 'limited breeding' of enlisted personnel. You were one of them. You stood in their boots. And you have the gall to call their service an escape from a bleak future?"

It was a killing blow. She had taken his deepest shame and turned it into a weapon against him. His entire worldview, his carefully constructed persona of inherited superiority, shattered under the weight of that one simple fact. He had no defense. Arrogance was the only armor he had, and she had just pierced it.

"You don't get to burn the ladder you climbed and then curse the people still on it, Doctor. Leadership in the Navy is a sacred trust. You are entrusted with the lives and careers of your sailors. You have betrayed that trust. You took your rank not as a responsibility, but as a privilege, and in doing so, you have lost the single most important tool an officer possesses: the respect of their subordinates. You are no longer an effective leader. You are a liability."

She stood up straight, her hands clasped behind her back. The judgment had been made before he had even walked into the room. This was just the sentencing.

"Lieutenant Commander Alistair Finch, I find you guilty of Conduct Unbecoming an Officer. Effective immediately, you are relieved of your duties at Yokosuka Naval Hospital. You will have a Letter of Reprimand permanently placed in your official record. Your next fitness report will reflect this judgment. I am recommending you for administrative separation from the United States Navy."

Each word was a nail in the coffin of his career. Relieved of duty. A bad FITREP. AdSep. It was over. Everything he had worked for, the status he had craved, was gone. He was being cast out.

"Master-at-Arms will escort you to your office to collect your personal effects. You will then be escorted off this base. Is that understood?"

Finch could only manage a choked, strangled nod. He felt hollow, his rage replaced by a vast, empty humiliation.

The Master-at-Arms, who had been standing silently by the door, stepped forward. "This way, sir."

As the petty officer led the now-broken doctor out of the office, Finch’s eyes caught a final detail. On the edge of the Master-at-Arms’ own desk, placed neatly next to his coffee mug and a stack of papers, sat another Coin of Contempt. It wasn't there as a taunt. It was just there, a part of the landscape now, a silent, ubiquitous testament to the fact that his judgment hadn't come from the Captain alone. It had come from the entire tribe he had so foolishly despised. The flock had a voice, and it had been heard.