[center][h1]Vekta Prime Orbital
127-7-11
17:30 hrs[/h1][/center]

“All passengers on Shuttle No. 545 connection to Vekta Prime Orbital, we are now docking. Please prepare to collect all your belongings and exit the craft in an orderly manner.”

The intercom had stirred him to life, the monotone voice of the announcer stirring him from a not particularly deep sleep. His eyes had not even completely opened before he was being ushered from the door onto the platform. But now he was here. He had a good half-an-hour before his interview. Plenty of time to check into his room, drop off his luggage, and have some coffee.

He swaggered around in his pressed service uniform, medals lined on his left breast and a rank flasher of an eagle with wings spread visible. His hotel was not far from the terminal, a prime decision in its choosing, his stiff, old legs feeling as if they should be making a shrill creak with every step.

He adjusted his peaked cap as he toted his duffel bag across his back, feeling slightly overcome with the certain weariness from travel in such a small vessel over such a distance. Warp lag, they called it, an unexplained weariness after a long traversal across a section of space. He simply couldn’t wait until he could seat himself and have a nice cup of steaming coffee. For now, he ambled up to the door of his room, swiping a card swiftly and smacking the button which operated the door. As he made into the room, he shrugged the duffel off his shoulders, and slumped into the first chair he saw.

[hr]

Carson had taken his time, had his coffee, and walked, all with a good five minutes to spare. He entered the elevator, recalling the room he had been provided. Ah, yes, Floor 3, Room 12, he remembered, swiftly tapping the button for Floor 3. The elevator ascended briefly, before the doors opened again, and he stepped out, making for the door. Sixth door on the right is what he came to, marked 3-12, and he fished his Naval Fleet ID out of his breast pocket, pressing it to the reader before entering as the door whirred open.

The door opened to a room dimly lit from a single light source above, a table and two chairs visible, giving an air of it being an interrogation room rather than a standard interview room.
A middle aged woman with silvery hair kept in a short bob cut sat at the opposing seat. She stood up at the sight of the commander.
“Welcome, Commander Carson.” Her voice was brief, firm and sharp. Someone clearly used to being in command of others. Without hesitation, she extended her hand across the table for the customary handshake.
The back of her hands were showing the wrinkles of her age if the crow’s feet around her eyes and the clefts at the corners of her mouth didn’t already, but what was more telling is that in an age where all these could easily have been rectified with all manner of procedures, she still opted not to partake in them. She was beaming with confidence regardless.
A well-tailored black suit dress with what looked like a women’s cravat, likely authentic velvet. It all gave her an almost venerable air.

Carson pivoted front and center, eyeballing the room closely. He’d been in places like this before, too many one-on-one debriefs and clearance checks during his time. However, it didn’t mean he didn’t feel put off, the experience perhaps making the anxiety even worse. Regardless, he focused himself, and as he was welcomed, he replied. “Thank you, ma’am.” He extended his own hand across the table promptly, shaking her hand. He wasn’t exactly uneasy at the shows of age. He certainly wasn’t spry himself, and had thus far refused any implants or medications save for that which was necessary, rationalising it as a stain on his record should he give in. As he retracted his hand, muscle memory took hold, swiftly taking a hand to remove his peaked cap from his head, taking his hands to clasp behind his back with the cap secured between, with his legs giving right around ten inches between his feet, standing at a crisp parade rest.

“Take a seat, please.” She motioned at the chair and promptly took a seat herself, wasting no time in producing her folder, sliding the finger down along its length and removing what could only have been authentic, printed paper and a writing instrument.
“I’ll not mince words, Commander.” She began in an almost dry tone. “You have quite an extensive record, but what we’re interested in today is what’s [i]between[/i] the lines.” The she made a mark on the paper to make sure the instrument would write. It was short, precise, almost forceful.
“Let’s start from the beginning. You’ve freshly graduated from Aldenhold Naval Academy. You were given your command of Platoon D, 2nd Battalion, 14th Marines. Then, during Operation Safeguard you’ve sustained some injuries as part of your command. Tell me about your time there, particularly the challenges you’ve faced in establishing and maintaining command.”

“Ah, yes. I was an Ensign, then. Cusp of Lieutenant. The first thing you must understand, the first thing that I had to understand, is that Marines are rather simple creatures. They’re human, they have their emotions and thoughts and such, no doubt, but every Marine that passes through basic or the Academy has the singular, driving motive, a compulsion to, at any length, kill, break, or impregnate anything they see. Harnessing these compulsions is to establish command, to establish command is to command respect. As an Ensign, I didn’t think much of it, but it matters a whole hell of a lot what those men with their rifles think of you. Could be a matter of life or death if they don’t feel the particular obligation to follow an order of a particularly hated officer. So I did just that, I showed my men that I was as much of a Marine as they were. If they ate MREs, I did. If they slept in soggy tents in a swamp with knee-deep mud, I did. And it proved crucial.”

Carson continued, trailing off. “During Safeguard, the 14th Marines were the leftmost unit ordered to secure a beachhead via aerial assault. I dropped in with the rest of my company, under heavy fire from multiple fortified positions of pirate irregulars. Whole OP lasted a good three days, clearing foxholes, tunnels, pillboxes. I was there for about half of that. We, uh, we were clearing a tunnel. I had my command team, first squad, and third squad on a perimeter, with my second squad heading into the tunnel system. I accompanied, of course, with nothing but a pistol and my flashlight. By God, first thing I see when I’m about twenty feet down, a flash from further down, and then a dull rumble. Of course, the rest of the insertion squad had the sense to scramble the hell out of there. But not me. I was at the lead of the slow column, and I turned. Shrapnel tore my bodysuit on my lower back, left side. I think they ended up pulling forty individual pieces of metal out of my back. Needless to say I was out for the rest of the OP.”

Carson was idly feeling about the area of his back he described had been injured. “My second. Staff Sergeant Ortega. He was a Godsend. They sent me to the rear on a bird so a MASH unit could pick shrapnel out of me, and Ortega was the only thing holding the unit together. He was the senior enlisted of my platoon, and he knew the Marines of that platoon better than anyone. He drove them double time up the rest of the beachhead and cleared every last foxhole and tunnel in that AO.” Carson stopped, not making any further statement, already realising that he was trailing on.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an.. interesting expression, Commander -Godsend.” She began taking a few, brief notes. “Would you consider yourself a religious person?”

“I’d like to think me and God are on good terms. Does it impact my work? Perhaps. But any soldier, sailor, or Marine who’s ever been in the field and under fire has begged the forgiveness of some deity or another.” Carson explained, darting his eyes around.

The woman nodded and finished her notes. 
“There are two patterns I continue to observe in your career, Commander: Passages on good conduct and sustaining injuries. Would you care to elaborate on these two for me? Specifically, I would be interested in events that inspired these quotations and the... [i]worrying[/i] frequency of injuries and personal danger you’ve found yourself in during your command.” She put a special emphasis on that word. Worrying. The woman was hardly animated, remaining stiff throughout the exercise. She diligently made her notes as she addressed the question, pausing in it to make eye contact with Carson intermittently.
She would occasionally quickly scan-read the notes she’d made thus far to ensure everything was following what could only be inferred to be an overall intention to the whole process.

Carson replied quickly. “You needn’t worry. The only major injury I have truly sustained was the first during Safeguard. Meerkat’s injury was by no means major and more of circumstance than my own desire to lead from the front. There, I was leading my own company as a Captain. We’d set up a FOB on a ridge after landing to eliminate the ground operations of the pirates, and they started dropping mortar shells on us. Shrapnel, HE. We hadn’t even pitched tents or put up hescoes, let alone mortar shelters. Lot of kids got hurt much worse than I did after two hours of bombardment. I was lucky. Only got the wind knocked out of me and a piece of metal in my shin.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve listed planetary operations. Have you had any encounters or experiences with ship-to-ship or ship-to-station boarding operations as well?” The woman arched an eyebrow while simultaneously keeping her eyelids low. She was clearly expecting something.

“Ah, yes. Once, at least in notable terms. Believe they call it the O’Hannigan Incident these days. A station, called O’Hannigan Station. Used to a big spacer stop and an even bigger smuggler stop. Of course, I was with the UNSF [i]Ramillies[/i], commanding a detachment of the 14th Marines. The 14th were the GCE of the Ramillies Battlegroup at the time, split into about a company per vessel. Of course, we were slotted for a stop at O’Hannigan for a two-day shore leave. By God if we didn’t arrive and it felt like the entire station was out to kill us.” Carson chuckled, continuing.

“It was a whole lot of waiting for the first half hour or so. It was a lot of trading shots. They’d send shots at us, the shots would deflect off the shields or the hull, and we’d shoot back. Eventually, the [i]Ramillies[/i] eliminated the pirate corvette that was in port defending the station, then the station’s kinetic batteries were taken out with care to not compromise the station’s hull. Too much collateral to break the thing apart. Then the [i]Ramillies[/i] pulled to dock and me and my one-hundred or so Marines inserted via the main docking umbilical. and two squads of our MEU’s EVA-A platoon inserted with their boarding craft.” Carson reminisced.

“Now if there’s anything about pirates to say, it’s that they aren’t well-equipped and they sure as hell aren’t well-trained. But with nowhere to go, those fuckers fought like cornered lions. Not that it made much difference in hallways three meters tall and one and a half meters across. Needless to say, the casualty figures were two-hundred-sixty-two pirates dead or wounded, thirty captured, and only four Marines dead and seven wounded.” Carson concluded, looking to the interviewer with hands clasped.

“Quick and brutal as fights go.” She observed. “It is a shock to most people, even veterans, just how quickly the wounds and casualties can mount in a high-stakes situation over such a short span like that. How did you keep your- and your men’s heads in that situation?”

Carson pondered, beginning to answer. “Communication and division of responsibility, primarily. Divide and conquer. Say, there were about six primary hallways split from the main terminal. Put about two squads, about 24 men, under a Lieutenant or senior enlistedman, you have an effective plan. But it isn’t always the plan. With shock and awe, all six teams pushed in, but it all came down to effective allocation of staff and communication. Three men hit in the port hall? Send in six from your reserves. Seven pirates captured? Three from your reserves. It’s all about communication and knowing what’s happening at any given moment, and then responding accordingly. I credit that philosophy to keeping my head and, by extension, the heads of my Marines, across my career, especially so during the O’Hannigan Incident.”

“And what about the receiving end? Have you ever had to defend against boarding attempts, especially in situations when your person was also at risk?” She took notes throughout, paused to review them before adding “when stationed on a warship, repelling boarders may be in the cards”.

“Truthfully, nothing notable. I’ve received all the up-to-date simulations and exercises, but not yet has a vessel or station I have been stationed on been boarded.” Carson stated, clasping his hands as he adjusted in his seat.

“No one hopes to witness one during their career, I can tell you that much.” For the first time in the entire exchange, she smiled. It is somehow not a comforting smile. “This will conclude your interview, Commander Carson.” She finished her notes and filed the papers away, snapping the folder under her shoulder in one motion with her standing up from her seat.
“Thank you for attending. I wish you good luck in your assessment.” She extended her hand one last time for the parting handshake, the look in her eyes different somewhat.

Vernon bade his own farewell, shaking her hand and turning to leave.