«Are you deaf, old man? I said move it.» The voice, sharp and laced with the unearned confidence of youth, cut through the quiet hum of the naval amphibious base gym. Vernon Ford, his back to the speaker, continued his methodical sweeping, the rhythmic scrape of bristles on concrete the only reply.
He was tracing the edge of the wrestling mats, a place of honor and exertion, now just a space to be cleaned. The young Navy SEAL, glistening with sweat and radiating impatience, stepped closer, his shadow falling over Vernon. «Hey, I’m talking to you.»
«We need this space. Go empty a trash can somewhere else.»
Vernon stopped. He slowly straightened his back, each vertebra seeming to click into place, a process that spoke of age and miles logged. He turned, his face a roadmap of seventy years, his eyes a calm, pale blue. He didn’t speak, just held the young man’s gaze.
This quiet defiance, this utter lack of intimidation, was the spark. The SEAL, used to being the most formidable presence in any room, felt a flicker of something he wasn’t accustomed to: being dismissed.
«What’s your problem? Did you not hear me?» he snapped, his voice rising.
Another SEAL, toweling off nearby, chuckled. The confrontation had an audience now. Vernon’s gaze remained steady, his hands resting on the worn wooden handle of the broom.
The air crackled with an unspoken challenge. The vast difference between the janitor’s quiet stillness and the warrior’s coiled energy created a tension that promised to snap. The young SEAL, whose name was Petty Officer Slate, took another step forward, closing the distance until he was nearly chest-to-chest with the old janitor. The gym, usually a cacophony of clanking weights and grunts of effort, seemed to grow quieter as others took notice.
Slate was built like a pillar of muscle and arrogance, a product of the most grueling training pipeline in the world, and he was used to deference. Vernon, by contrast, was lean and wiry, his maintenance uniform hanging loosely on his frame. He smelled faintly of cleaning solution and old coffee.
«Look, pops,» Slate said, his voice dropping to a low, condescending growl. «This isn’t a nursing home. This is a place for warriors.»
«We need the mat, so take your broom and shuffle off. Now.»
Vernon’s expression didn’t change. He simply blinked, a slow, deliberate motion.
«The floor needs to be swept,» he said, his voice raspy but clear. «Keeps the dust down. Better for breathing when you’re exerting yourself.»
The simple, logical statement seemed to infuriate Slate even more than silence had. It was so civilian, so mundane.
«You think I care about dust?» Slate scoffed, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. «I’ve been in conditions that would make you cry yourself to sleep. Now, for the last time, get out of the way.»
He punctuated the command by shoving the end of Vernon’s broom. The broom clattered to the floor. Vernon looked down at it, then back up at Slate. There was no anger in his eyes, only a profound weariness, a deep and abiding disappointment.
The surrounding SEALs, a mix of young operators and a few more seasoned veterans, were now fully invested. This was a diversion, a bit of casual sport at the expense of the hired help. They saw an old man being put in his place by one of their own, a reaffirmation of the pecking order: the strong versus the weak, the warrior versus the worker.
Vernon bent down, his movements careful and measured, to retrieve his broom. As he did, the collar of his uniform shifted, pulled taut by the movement. For a fleeting second, the skin on the back of his neck was exposed, just below his hairline, and on that weathered skin was a tattoo.
It was faded, the lines blurred by time and sun, but its design was unmistakable to anyone who knew what they were looking for. Slate didn’t notice. He was too consumed by his own dominance.
He saw Vernon’s stoop as an act of submission. «That’s better,» he sneered. «Now you’re learning.»
But someone else did see it. Across the gym, leaning against a weight rack and observing the scene with practiced neutrality, was Master Chief Petty Officer Thorn. He was in his late forties, a command-level operator who had seen more than his share of combat zones and cocky young SEALs.
He rarely intervened in these sorts of contests, believing that a little friction helped forge teams, but as he saw Vernon bend over, his eyes narrowed. He pushed himself off the rack, his own workout forgotten. He had seen that tattoo before, not in person, but in books and grainy photographs from a bygone era of warfare—an era that predated the SEAL Teams themselves.
It was a small black trident, interwoven with a sea serpent, its tail coiled around the base. It was the mark of the Underwater Demolition Teams, the frogmen of World War II and Korea, the progenitors of the very warriors who now filled this gym. And more than that, the specific coiling of the serpent signified something else entirely: a membership in a unit spoken of only in whispers and legends.
Slate, emboldened by his perceived victory, wasn’t finished.
«You know, we should get you a new uniform,» he said loudly to his friends, though his words were aimed at Vernon. «Maybe one with a little bib on the front, in case you drool.»
