Naval Base Coronado, San Diego, California. January 2017.
Master Chief Petty Officer Michael Brenton, a caucasian man who had just turned 40 years old recently, sat comfortably on his swivel chair. He had shaven his hair completely bold and a rather thick beard that was dark brown with specks of grey on the edges. With dark eyes. He was dressed in a pair of military combat shoes, cyre combat pants and a black jacket, with his left sleeve having a patch E9 on it. This man was Echo 1, from Echo Team.
He swirled on his chair some more, as everybody else was engaged in conversation about who got to pick who.
"What's the word, Mikey?" Senior Chief Petty Officer Richard Turner asked, leaning into Michael's ear. Richard was a black man who was still in his mid-30s. He had short black hair that was styled into a low fade, with a trimmed and well kept beard. Dressed in standard military garb: combat shoes, cyre combat pants and a cyre shirt that was form fitting, tucked into his pants, his E8 patch on his left shoulder. He was the right hand man of Michael, Echo 2.
Currently, the small meeting that was taking place in the office was about the recent graduates. Many people didn't know this, people weren't just placed wherever command felt like or that they got to choose their own team. No.
The teams themselves looked at the graduates, looked at their records, got to speak with their instructor and then the team's would choose who got to be on their team. Right now, they had first round draft pick. Each year, a different team got first dibs, and that normally meant they got to choose the best before anybody else.
Michael shrugged, looking at the wall of several young men's pictures. He really had no idea who to pick. The best of the class, according to Chief Instructor "50. Cal Al" Allan Smith, was some kid named Fernando Mendez. Had the best scores over majority of his classmates, but Al mentioned he wasn't much of a team player. The kind of kid who found the "I" in "team". He didn't want to deal with that, he had outlived that sort of patience to deal with the bullshit of these kids.
But as it was, it was already slim pickings, from a class of 198, only 12 had passed.
"I don't know, who're you feeling, Richie?" He asked casually, leaning into whisper into Richard ear.
Richard was quiet for a moment, turning to look back out at the photographs of the men.
"8." He said simply, crossing his arms as he lent back into his chair.
"8?" Michael asked, looking at Richard a little sideways. The kids were arranged in order of the best to worst, 1 being the best and 12 obviously being the worst. While 8 wasn't exactly the dead last of the class, he wasn't exactly prom king for anybody.
Michael looked at the wall with the photos with the numbers under them, he looked for the kid at number 8, they all had their names above their picture.
"Bartman?!" He whispered harshly to Richard, "As in Senator Bartman's kid?"
Richard simply shrugged, "I had a conversation with the kid during his BUD/s, seemed decent enough, no smart mouth from what I saw, and he scored better than the top 5 in team exercises." He explained, "Nothing like Senator Ronald Bartman." He finished his analysis.
One of their privileges as SEALs, was they got to see the training of potential SEALs. So a senior looking at, and talking to, potential juniors, wasn't anything new. And when he spoke to the kid, he seemed genuine enough. A little quiet, sure. But he had his head on right, was polite and seemed to be a better team player than the other candidates.
"Besides, it'll be great to not be the only sniper on the team." He said with a laugh.
Richie was Echo's lead and only sniper, while they could all act as a sniper, only He was actually trained in being a sniper. Michael smirked a bit, shaking his head, he looked at the photo once more, before he looked back at Richie.
"Do you really want a Senator's son on the team?" Michael asked, while he trusted Richie's judgement, Michael wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of dealing with all the politics that came with having the child of a United State's Senator on his team.
All it'd take is one phone call and all of a sudden he might be fighting for his career just because he pushed the kid too hard, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to deal with the trouble of having the kid on his team.
Once again, Richie shrugged, "Are you gonna blame his son for him being an ass?" Richie asked.
Senator Ronald Bartman was a somewhat difficult person, in Richie's humble opinion. The man had been involved in several budget cuts that had definitely affected the way they operate. As elite operators, they were supposed to have the best gear, weaponry, vehicles, equipment, training and more at the ready for them always. And that was earned, they were SEALs that executed sensitive operations, how could you expect them to perform at their best with subpar equipment? And it wasn't only the SEALs that felt it, Marsoc, Rangers, Berets... every operator felt it on missions when they couldn't get their best/favorite gear.
Senator Ronald Bartman believed soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines alike didn't need the budget that they worked with, ridiculous considering the amount of conflicts that the US government decided to get involved with. Normally, he'd agree that the military didn't need the budget they had, but if every other month you were in conflict with somebody new, somebody old or even just wanted to see what the neighbors were up to, then their large budget was warranted.
But Richie wasn't gonna blame this Jonathan kid for his dad being an ass.
"Yep, pretty much." Michael said, popping the p. Michael planned to retire in 4 year's time, after reaching his 20 years in the Navy, then he could start living off his bird, so he could spend some more time with his family and seeing the world outside of war, not as Echo 1, but as Michael. But before that, he wanted to leave Echo team in top condition and well oiled for Richie to take over, he didn't want to deal with any drama somebody who looked problematic would bring.
"Oh come on Mikey-" Richie rolled his eyes, "When have my instincts ever been wrong?" He asked, crossing his arms.
Michael groaned, "Fine, but the kid'll be your responsibility." He said evenly, he trusted Richie's judgement, but if the kid brought trouble, Michael wasn't the one who was going to deal with it.
"50. Cal, Echo will take number 8." Michael said, already regretting the words as they left his mouth.
Allan Smith, a middle aged man with a grey beard and black hair that had grey spots, dressed in military garb similar to Richard, without the form fitting shirt and a more loose fitting one. He had a prosthetic left leg, from the knee down, so his left pant leg stopped at his knee and tucked into the sleeve of his prosthetic, so the prosthetic was visible. He also had a little bit of a beer belly, while still holding a somewhat muscular frame, clearly he let himself go when he was injured. Not that anybody blamed him.
Allan had a look of momentary surprise, "Bartman's kid?" He asked, it was almost a well known fact in their community that Michael wasn't a fan of politicians, so he was the last person Allan expected to take Jonathan Bartman.
"Don't make me change my mind." Michael groaned
Allan smirked, before chuckling, "Whatever you say Mikey." Allan said, writing down Petty Officer Third Class, Jonathan R. Bartman under "Echo".
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Jonathan's eyes flickered open as the first light of dawn seeped through the blinds, casting soft rays across his bedroom. The familiar blare of his alarm clock cut through the quiet morning, and with a groan, he reached out to silence it. The screen read 5:00 AM.
He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking a moment to adjust to the early hour. His room was neat, almost meticulously so - everything had its place. Back in basic, they grilled it into you about keeping a tidy quarters. A disciplined home life, lead to a disciplined work life.
They really made sure to beat those, "Early bird gets the worm" bullshit into him.
Jonathan began his day with a quick workout, starting with a series of push-ups and sit-ups before moving on to shadowboxing. The rhythmic motions helped him wake up fully, his muscles remembering the routine as he focused on his breathing. After about 30 minutes, he moved on to a short run around his neighborhood. He'd normally run around 8-12 times around the neighborhood.
By 7:00 AM, Jonathan was back home. He showered quickly, the hot water a welcome relief to his muscles. Once dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans and a plain t-shirt, he made his bed with military precision.
In the kitchen, Jonathan prepared a simple breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, and a cup of black coffee. He ate in silence, mentally preparing for the day ahead. His phone buzzed on the table beside him, and he picked it up, looking at the caller ID for it to show that it was a military number.
He answered the phone, and a voice he wasn't familiar with spoke.
"Petty Officer Bartman, you're needed at Coronado this morning. Report to the base by 0900 hours. You've been assigned to a new team. Details will be provided upon arrival." The distinct feminine voice said.
Jonathan could only respond, "Yes, ma'am." He answered in turn.
The call ended, he leaned back into his chair, placing the phone down on the counter. A small smirk came to his face.
Show time.