Chasing Horizons



Chapter Three

DISCLAIMER :: This tale is relative to Captain Marvel from the comics, movies, and television from Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. There are some glaring differences, so this is a derivative work rather than straight-up fanfiction.


Author's note: Haven't been feeling great, lately. This almost didn't get posted, today.

The next three weeks were a logistical nightmare. I procured three short-sleeve khaki shirts, two pairs of service trousers, a service cover, three sets of MCCUUs, three white shirts, three green shirts, three warm-weather combat boots, two pairs of oxfords, two garrison covers, and an assortment of PT gear. Replacing an entire wardrobe is a real pain in the ass, especially if that wardrobe is primarily professional uniforms worn on a near daily basis. While things like the PT gear were “unisex”, I couldn’t just wear what I already had because my entire stature had shrunk. Everything had to be brand new. I also had to be fitted for and put in a requisition for a new flight suit as well as a helmet. Nothing fit anymore. The most painstaking of all of them was my Dress Blues. I had to be measured meticulously and the alterations would take forever to finish.

Thankfully, all I had to do was go down to the MCX and grab some PT gear off the rack. Service uniforms were the same story, but with the added steps of pinning on all the adornments. It only took a few days to get my utilities with patches in the proper places. I already had the subdued rank pins. The next hurdle was my flight gear, so I couldn’t touch my aircraft for two weeks until that came in. The last to arrive were my Dress Blues. I also grabbed the friggin’ neck tab women have to wear and a Service Alpha coat, just in case. All that fussing over uniforms didn’t allow any time for civilian attire, not that I was ready for that anyway. Once I had my flight gear, I was ready to resume my duties in the squadron.

Only one problem with that: psychological evaluation. Within a day of being discharged from the hospital, a psychotherapist showed up at my BOQ wanting to talk. While the doctors had poked, prodded, and evaluated me at the hospital, the psychotherapist wanted to do the same to my brain. I’ve never been “in therapy” before. Never needed it. The order for a psych eval probably came from someone higher up the food chain than Lt. Col. Cobb. With the therapist showing up and sporadic inquiry from medical personnel, I was starting to smell a rotting fish. I played along, but reinforced the notion that I was mentally and physically capable of continuing my job.

Not only did I have to chat with the therapist practically every day, but I also had to check in with sick bay every other day and I had to work with the Squadron Sergeant Major. Dealing with the therapist was exhausting enough. Getting blood drawn so often, I was drinking a lot more water. With the Sgt. Maj., I had to go to an enclosed facility and basically run the Physical Fitness Test every three days. By week two, I was running the Combat Fitness Test as well. Only once a week, but still a lot. We usually only have to do the CFT once a year. I was noticing eyeballs on me that were attempting to remain clandestine but failed miserably.

The therapist knew I was holding back a great deal. I’m a guarded person that compartmentalizes a lot of things. I had to learn a lot of that compartmentalization after being deployed in combat so many times. I don’t really “do” emotions all that much. At least, not the deep ones she was trying to get out of me.

The Squadron Sgt. Maj. and I, however, had a rapport from the beginning. He already knew how deeply I respected him. He was as annoyed as I was over the insistence that I run the physical tests so often. To be honest, they were a bit different. I wasn’t just breezing through them like nothing. It was readily apparent that this new body was taking some getting used to and its capabilities needed to be evaluated by not just the Sgt. Maj. but by me as well. I need to know I could count on my body and my mind… and so did DARPA, apparently.

Three men in lab coats hooked me up with those little diode things they stick to various parts of your body and had me doing some crazy things. First, they had me run for as long as I thought I could. To my amazement, I’d made it somewhere in the vicinity of twenty miles before I got tired of going in circles. I wasn’t fatigued, either. Next, they had me run an indoor obstacle course as many times as I thought I could. I did that about thirty times. Next, they put me in a room with an assortment of weights and asked me to lift whatever I could. I lifted all of them with no problem. Logically, I knew they were champion weightlifting caliber but they felt like lifting paper. Seeing this, they parked an Amphibious Combat Vehicle near the indoor facility they were using and politely asked me to lift it. Initially, I scoffed knowing those things weighed more than thirty tons. They insisted. I did my best… and lifted it over my head. Granted, it was a challenge to do so, but the fact I could lift thirty-five tons over my head was definitely something I couldn’t do before I found myself in the hospital.

The last test they put me through was a breach and clear exercise. Again, it was all indoors. They had built a facsimile of a small city block, gave me a paintball gun, didn’t allow me to wear combat gear, and asked me to clear the block. I stood at the starting point in my utilities, cover included because I was armed. Even before the buzzer signalling the start of the exercise sounded, I somehow knew there were sixteen hostiles I would have to eliminate and their exact locations. Having done several breach and clears in Afghanistan and Iraq, I knew one should really only ever attempt such an operation with a minimum four-man fire team. Executing this exercise by myself was unfamiliar territory.

The buzzer sounded and I lifted my weapon into position before advancing. I did do a perimeter scan like I was trained even though I knew no one was in a position to flank me. As I moved along, I quietly vocalized commands we would typically use like “stack up” before setting myself into a tactical position at the hatch. Being right handed, that meant the Point position on the left side of the hatch. The first target was to the left of the hatch, but I checked the right side and passageway forward anyway. One pop from the paintball gun and “tango down” meant I took out the first target. The paint splattered right in the middle of his forehead. I qualified Expert in rifle quals all the way back in recruit training and have recertified several times since. One shot, one kill. Oorah.

Foothold secured, I quickly and methodically moved through the one-story, five room building that was my first ingress point. Knowing exactly where everyone was made this process a lot easier and I actually moved faster than I ever did back when I was an enlisted marine. Three more targets in the building were eliminated. Opting for the high ground, I used the ladder well to the roof of the first building to take out a sniper and two sets of two-man patrols—all headshots. There was a plywood “bridge” from the roof of the first building to the three-story second building. Opting for a top-down approach, I cleared each room and floor by taking out five more targets. Three left. All outside. They were all positioned relatively far from my position, I had to wait for just the right moment to strike. Eventually, all three were domed with paintballs. Seconds after the final target was eliminated, the lights brightened all around me. Exercise complete. Sixteen targets, sixteen rounds.

The participants who had been my targets grumbled about the likelihood of forehead bruises, but were good sports about it. The DARPA boys in the lab coats said nothing other than to excuse me. The whole situation did not feel right. Taking full advantage of the dismissal, I took my leave and headed back to my quarters. The least annoying thing was the increased MP presence aboard the base. I knew I was being subjected to a heightened level of scrutiny and being watched around the clock. My quarters was the only place on the whole base where I had a modicum of privacy.

Finally, the day came that I could report to my CO. All of my uniforms had been meticulously collected and adorned as necessary. After doing my PT solo, I showered and dressed in my Service Alpha uniform, opting for the garrison cover versus the bulky barracks cover. It absolutely floored me when Rambeau told me women were permitted to wear the short-sleeved or long-sleeved khaki shirt with the coat. Men are only permitted to wear the long-sleeved khaki shirt. I opted for the short-sleeved shirt because it’s southern California in May. I had my hair trimmed the day prior so everything was as perfect as I could make it. I would arrive at the office of my commanding officer at precisely 0600. As per customs and courtesies, I would not remove my cover until I had fully reported in with my commanding officer. Beyond the core values, those things were a marine’s bread and butter.

Checking my watch—which was also a new purchase—to time everything properly, I knocked politely on Lt. Col. Allen Cobb’s hatch at 0600. A moment later, he responded with “enter” to usher me inside. Ceremony took over when I opened the hatch. My movements were sharp and crisp from a little over two decades of refinement. He sat behind his desk looking over something on his computer screen while dressed in Service Charlies. In front of his desk, I snapped to POA and saluted.

“Captain Samuel Danvers reporting as ordered, sir. I have procured all requisite uniforms necessary to perform my duties to the squadron, sir.” My voice still sounded alien, even after a month in this state, but it still carried professionalism.

“At ease, Captain.” He ordered calmly. I lowered my salute and adopted a parade rest stance while he continued talking. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, Danvers. First…” He tore his focus away from the screen, stood, and approached me to inspect my uniform. His gaze was very meticulous, making sure everything was not only in place but in its proper place. “Your uniform is squared away expertly, Danvers. I didn’t expect anything less from you. Capt. Rambeau seems to have been quite the guide for you.”

“Thank you, sir. Capt. Rambeau was an invaluable source of knowledge, sir.”

He nodded, finishing his inspection. “Good. Have a seat, Danvers. We’ve got a lot to discuss this morning.” He rounded his desk again to sit in his own chair whilst I complied. He let out a sigh before speaking. “Seems we’ve hit a squall, Captain. The storm is raging. There’s no good news today, I’m afraid. For starters, you’re medically grounded. Indefinitely.”

“Honestly, sir, given the multiple batteries of testing I’ve endured the last three weeks, I’m not surprised. Hurt, but not surprised.”

“It’s not fun for me, either. I’ve got one bird that can’t move off the tarmac because the pilot had a freak coincidence happen to them.” He growled and rubbed his temple. “That’s not the worst of it. I submitted the papers for your promotion when we returned from leave after the OEF-HOA. You’ve been denied the selection board. They’re not going to give you your gold leaf, Danvers.”

“What? We deployed to Africa and spent six months out there, which delayed my promotion, now this? They sat on their hands for almost five months just to deny it? That’s bullshit, sir.” I almost growled.

“Right there with you, Danvers. You’re not going to like the ‘why’, either.” Again, he let out a sigh. “The reason my superiors have given me as to why you’re not getting your promotion to Major is because there’s been a MEB initiated concerning your case.”

“Medical Evaluation Board? For me?”

“Yes. Commenced last week. They’re going to recommend you retire, Danvers.”

The color drained from my face. “Retirement? It’s not in my career plan to do that for another seven years, sir.”

“That doesn’t matter now, Captain. They’re going to force it on you. Executive Order 14183 dictates that they do. I don’t understand why it’s coming into play because you’re not transgender. You just rolled some bad cosmic dice, that’s all.”

More color drained from my face. “You’re telling me that their justification for shoving a retirement down my throat is because they don’t like trans people? All due respect to you, sir, but that’s the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“I agree, Danvers, but it’s still happening. We’ve already lost a few marines aboard as it is. Worse is that there’s no guidance from Quantico, so I’m not even sure what channels I have to fight this for you.” He opened a drawer, searched for a moment, and pulled out a gray 3x5 card before handing it to me. “I know you can’t make any calls right now, but put that in a pocket or your oxfords. She worked as a Junior Associate at my wife’s firm for about a year out of law school. I hear she’s as tough as any marine without serving a day in her life.”

Glancing at the card, it read: Jocelyn Hogarth, Attorney at Law. I found my uniform lacking in pockets, so I stuffed the card into the bottom of a shoe. “A lawyer, sir? What’s your play?”

“Do you expect the JAG to have your six to appeal a bad retirement call? No, Captain. You’re going to want to talk to her sooner rather than later. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” I sighed. “So, how quickly are they going to fuck me over, sir? Is there going to be lube involved?”

“I don’t expect them to be gentle because it’s your first time, Captain. This administration is building a reputation for brutality. I’d expect your papers to come to you soon.” He leaned back in his chair and looked like he wanted to throw in the towel right then and there. “They’re going to make me read the order to you and do the shotty ceremony right here in this office. You don’t deserve that, Danvers. You deserve full honors and a full dress ceremony for the service you’ve given your country over the past twenty-three years. My hands are tied and I hate it.”

“Sentiments noted, sir. For what it’s worth, thank you.” I breathed out quickly. “Does that mean the pile of shit that’s been dumped in my lap this morning is complete, sir?”

“It is, Danvers. Sorry it’s such a big one.” He sighed heavily. “You’re expected to conduct your duties, sans touching the stick of your bird—”

“Delilah.” I interjected. “Her name’s Delilah.” I don’t know why, but tears started building in my eyes. The only thing I did know is that I’d probably never fly her again.

He nodded. “Sans touching Delilah’s stick because you’re grounded, you will go between your office, the hangar bay, the flight line, the chow hall, the MCX, the barber shop or salon, and your BOQ but nowhere else. Is that clear, Captain?”

“Crystal clear, sir.” The first tear rolled down my cheek. “Permission to go about my day, sir?”

He nodded firmly and spoke somberly. “Permission granted.” He slipped a piece of paper across the desk toward me. “Bring those orders to your AAMO. You’re dismissed, Captain.”

I stood, snapped to the POA, and saluted. “Aye-aye, sir.” I first took the piece of paper, then stepped back, executed an about face, and exited through the hatch.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that much shit to be dropped in my lap before 0700. Feeling the need for a cup of coffee, I stopped in at Starbucks before the daily maintenance meeting. I was not a fan of the way some of the men around me were looking at me. Frankly, it made my skin crawl. After the news this morning, the last thing I needed was an excuse to knock someone’s teeth in. Taking my coffee, I made a tactical retreat out of the building.

Getting back to the hangars, I wanted to slip in unnoticed but that was never going to happen. First, nobody wears Service Alphas anywhere near the flight line. Second, there were many glances toward my rank insignia followed by looks of confusion. Cover sitting on my lap and coffee in hand, I sat near the back of the room and watched how my AAMO picked up the slack in my absence. He’d been my wingman for a couple of years and was good at his job. My faith in him was confirmed as he reviewed the issues with each aircraft. The enlisted mechanics and technicians, the backbone of the squadron, were well engaged and treated him with all the respect they would show me. He didn’t come from a mechanic background like I had, but he knew his stuff. He was holding his own.

In the middle of the meeting, my warrant officer, CWO3 Louis Bagley, approached me. He was a good guy that I got along with really well. I came up working on the CH-46 while he was a CH-53 guy. He didn’t have that with the other officers in the squadron. They weren’t old mustangs like me.

He whispered politely but firmly to me. “With all due respect, ma’am, who are you and what are you doing in my squadron maintenance meeting?”

I smirked. “Steady, Gunner. The coveralls are the same color. Just working with a different set of tools. We’ve got bigger birds to get airborne. Understood?” There was hope my mechanic lingo would spark recognition in him.

His eyes shot wide open. “Captain Danvers?”

“With some un-field-approved airframe modifications, pretty much.” I groaned. “Can’t complain about the sheet metal work, but I am not cleared for this aircraft.”

He let out a laugh, which halted the meeting. The AAMO turned his attention to us. “What is so funny you’re interrupting, Gunner?” He blinked at me, noticed my senior rank, and shouted. “Attention on deck!”

The entire room jumped to the POA, causing me to stand up while rolling my eyes. “As you were, Marines. I was merely trying to observe.”

The enlisted sat back down while my AAMO looked at me with confusion. “What is your purpose on this deck, ma’am?”

I trudged to the front of the room, coffee and cover in hand. “Merely trying to watch how you’ve been handling the maintenance of this squadron while I was on liberty and bring myself up to speed, Lieutenant.”

His eyes widened at the realization. “Captain Danvers?” With that question, the rest of the room’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is that really you?”

The room was abuzz with reactions as I handed the piece of paper to my AAMO. “Orders from Lt. Col. Cobb, I suspect. I didn’t read it.”

He unfolded the paper and then read through it while the room’s buzz continued for another minute or so more. When he was finished, he raised his eyes to meet my own. “It is from Lt. Col. Cobb. He states plainly that the person who presented me with this communique is, in fact, Captain Samuel Danvers. It says that he is not at liberty to discuss the situation and leaves the explanation in your hands, sir—er, ma’am—er, what do we call you?”

“Hopefully, not late for chow.” I shrugged while the room chuckled. Taking a spot behind the podium that seemed to be taller than I remember, but I could still see and speak over it. “Lock it up, Marines.” Everyone stopped talking. “From this moment forward, refer to me as ‘sir’ or ‘Captain Danvers’ as you always have, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The entire room chorused.

Letting out a sigh, I considered the best way to describe to a bunch of MV-22 Osprey mechanics and technicians the weight of what had happened to me. I needed to convey the severity of what had happened to me and what was likely going to happen to me in the future. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this: I took multiple bird strikes in heavy fog. One of the proprotors was damaged beyond repair and I had to order a new one. There was extensive damage to the port nacelle. We’re not just talking cosmetic, here. We’re talking structural integrity. After the bird strikes, enemy fire struck my aft elevator. It took some doing, but I landed her on the deck just fine. My bird has been pulled off the flight line and into the hangar. She’s leaking oil and hydraulic fluid all over the deck. She is to be grounded for an indefinite amount of time. She may end up being decommissioned and sent to the boneyard.” Taking a deep breath. “The Knightriders have the best mechanics and technicians in the fleet, but I don’t know if even you guys can save her.” After giving a moment’s pause for the news to sink in, I looked at my AAMO and stepped away from the podium. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

That was all I had to say. My people had a good idea of what was going on. I was back from liberty, but things were definitely not up to specs.

For two weeks more, I served as the Aviation Maintenance Officer for the Marine Medium Tiltrotor Squadron 164, the Knightriders. I bounced between utilities and Service Charlies, depending on the day. I avoided glancing at the flight line because I couldn’t look at the aircraft with my name under the starboard cockpit porthole without feeling the loss. If the squadron performed flight ops, there was always one bird left on the flight line. I spent most of those days in my office.

My commanding officer called me to his office on Friday, 6 June 2025. I was ordered to be in full Service Alpha uniform. He said I could invite some people. I asked my co-pilot, my crew chief, and Capt. Rambeau to join me. My family members were in the midwest and I couldn’t burden them with this on short notice. I complied with the order and reported in, no matter how much I disagreed with what was about to occur. My case had gone through the MEB and IPEB process and I was being forced to retire by technicality. It was my so-called “medical retirement”. For everything to go through and be finalized in a month was blindingly fast. I wasn’t even offered a PEBLO.

Lt. Col. Allen Cobb presided over my retirement ceremony like a champion. We all hated being there and he made it known that he disagreed with the order. He got angrier with each sentence of the retirement order he read aloud. The range of emotions flowing through me were too many to mention accurately. It was readily apparent that the entire process was politically motivated. Lt. Col. Cobb handed me my certificate, retirement lapel pin, and retirement flag. There was no letter of appreciation from the President, as might be customary—not that I wanted it, regardless. My CO made an inspiring statement about my twenty-three years of dedicated service and recounted my history. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room, including his. When it was my turn to speak, I thanked my CO and asked him to thank the men and women of my squadron for me. I only made one request: to see Delilah one last time. He granted it without hesitation. Tears flowed down my face as I accepted his final salute and concluded the ceremony.

After the ceremony, he only told me one thing: call the lawyer.

Returning to my quarters, I knew I had ten days to clear out but I wouldn’t need it. Everything I owned fit into my seabag and a duffel bag. I donated everything else to the Pendleton Community Service Fund. Maybe a fresh enlisted Marine would receive my television, gaming console, and computer with all the furniture as well as what few civilian clothes I had lying about. I didn’t have any need for any of it. Having no civilian clothes that fit, I simply wore my PT clothes, bomber jacket with a few morale patches sewn onto its surface, and some go-fasters. By the time everything was packed up and all the calls were made for donations, the sun had set. I put my seabag and duffel in the back of my Toyota 4Runner TRD Pro and headed for the parking lot next to the tarmac.

Speaking with the MPs on the deck, I was granted access to the flight deck. I knew her tail number by heart. She was a little deep in the lineup. I stopped short of her stern and just let my eyes wander over the details of the aircraft: the 38-foot proprotors that can fold for carrier ops, the nacelles housing the 1,200hp Rolls Royce engines, the wings that can twist for a compact profile aboard carriers, the pear-shaped fuselage with all its quirks, and the rear hatch. Walking around to the starboard side revealed the Crew Chief hatch with Squeaker’s name on the fuselage next to it. Finally, I came to the cockpit portholes. Under the starboard side was my name and rank, Capt. Samuel Danvers. Under the forward porthole was my callsign, “Vegas”. I got choked up and tears formed. I lay my hand on the fuselage and caressed my bird. The likelihood I’d never see her again weighed heavy on my heart.

“Be a good girl, Delilah.” I spoke aloud, choking back sobs. “Treat your next pilot just as well as you did me. We went through some shit, you and I, but you always got me home. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see you again. I’ll miss you.”

My hand remained on the fuselage while tears rolled down my face and sobs escaped my lips. I can’t remember ever crying like that before. I even walked off the flight deck still crying. I looked back no less than three times. I climbed into my truck and sat in the dark crying for an amount of time impossible to calculate.