The Hammer's Christmas Carol
Colonel Buck “The Hammer” Thomas did not hate Christmas.
Hate required emotion, and emotion was a liability best managed by people in public affairs or junior officers still learning the cost of sincerity. The Hammer did not hate Christmas. He regarded it the way a brigade commander regarded a four-day weekend: a predictable spike in risk masquerading as a morale event.
The roastery was quiet. Not the good kind of quiet. Not the earned quiet that followed a long day of competent work. This was the kind of quiet that came from permission being granted too broadly and then immediately abused. The Hammer stood just inside the door, hands clasped behind his back, letting his eyes adjust and his irritation warm up.
Empty.
No staff duty desk.
No runner.
No sign-in log.
No single individual whose sole responsibility was to sit, observe, and prevent nothing from becoming something.
The Hammer frowned. Deeply. The sort of frown that had once shut down a battalion command-and-staff meeting without a single word being spoken.
“Unsecured,” he muttered, though he was not entirely certain which regulation applied to civilian coffee operations after hours. He was equally certain that one should exist.
He was no longer in the Army. This had been made clear to him, gently at first and then with increasing firmness. This was Mike’s roastery. Mike’s business. Mike’s choice to allow his employees to go home and “be with their families” during Christmas week.
The Hammer did not approve of this phrasing.
Families were fine. The Hammer had nothing against families. He simply believed the Army was your primary family and all others were supporting elements. The Army fed you. The Army housed you. The Army gave you purpose. The Army, if led properly, never stopped needing you. Anyone who claimed otherwise was either lying or recruiting.
He began a slow circuit of the floor, inspecting equipment he did not operate and processes he had not designed but absolutely would have improved if asked. He stopped at a table, nudged a chair into better alignment, then nudged it again, just to be sure.
Mike had said it would be quiet.
Mike had said nothing would happen.
Mike had said, “It’s Christmas, man.”
The Hammer had said nothing in response, which was how one handled statements that did not merit debate.
Christmas was not a justification for reduced presence. If anything, it demanded more. Leave. Alcohol. Travel. Families. Decorations. These were classic contributing factors. This was when people made mistakes. This was when buildings burned down because someone thought shortcuts were acceptable in lieu of standards.
The Hammer paused near the front window, peering out at the street. Lights were strung everywhere. Decorations glowed. Civilians walked past laughing, carrying drinks that were neither black nor hot nor corrective in any meaningful way. Someone wore a sweater featuring a reindeer in a Santa hat.
The Hammer assessed the sweater as a failure of command climate.
“This is how standards erode,” he said aloud. “Slowly. Cheerfully.”
He checked his phone. No alerts. No notifications. No crises. This disturbed him. The absence of problems suggested a lack of vigilance. He considered creating a logbook retroactively, just to document that nothing had happened yet.
As if summoned by irritation alone, another thought surfaced.
Army had lost to Navy.
Again.
The Hammer’s jaw tightened. Rivalries were not entertainment. Rivalries were about discipline, preparation, and institutional pride. Losing to sailors introduced unacceptable variables. It raised questions about offseason conditioning, leadership emphasis, and whether anyone had properly explained to the team that this game mattered on a moral level.
He made a mental note to be angry about it later. Possibly all year.
He poured himself a cup of coffee that had clearly been sitting for too long and drank it without complaint. Cold coffee was still coffee. If you needed warmth to function, you were already compromised.
The chair he sat in squeaked.
The Hammer froze.
He stared at the chair, disappointed. Chairs should not squeak. Squeaking suggested poor maintenance, weak joints, or both. He made another mental note to tell Mike to address it, preferably in writing.
“Mike should have a staff duty roster,” The Hammer grumbled to the empty room. “At least one person. Just sitting. Watching. Writing things down.”
He pictured it perfectly. A folding table. A clipboard. A rotation schedule. Someone tired but accountable. Someone holding the line while everyone else celebrated traditions that would not remember them in return.
Instead, the roastery hummed quietly, machines idle, lights dimmed, as if it believed that closing was the same thing as being secure.
The Hammer leaned back, arms crossed, cataloging deficiencies the way other men counted blessings. Too much leave. Not enough oversight. Seasonal complacency. Sports disappointment. A general lack of respect for presence.
Christmas wasn’t the enemy.
Christmas simply revealed who believed standards were optional.
That was when the smell changed.
Not dramatically. Not enough to trigger alarm. Just enough to register. The faint, unmistakable scent of something that did not belong to this time or place. Not coffee. Not metal. Something older. Something familiar.
The Hammer straightened slowly.
He had not heard a door. He had not heard footsteps. He had not heard anything.
And yet, he was no longer alone.
The lights did not flicker. The machines did not start. Nothing announced itself. Which meant whatever was here knew better than to do so.
The Hammer did not turn around.
He reached for his watch, checked the time, and spoke calmly into the stillness.
“This better be important,” he said. “Because I am not in the mood for surprises.”
Behind him, a voice cleared its throat.
Not loudly.
Politely.
To be continued…
