Always Vigilant, a ncis fanfic

Always Vigilant

Evan Eriksson was a solidly-built, stocky boy, of average height, and he was easily one of the most respected boys in the Class of 2016. Not the most well-known, but everybody who did either liked him or knew better than to trifle with him. He was even-tempered, difficult to make angry, but the mere threat of his anger was nearly always enough to make the one it was directed at reconsider. Eriksson was a Cadet Staff Sergeant, a squad leader within Charlie Company, and he was working on a history class assignment in his room during 1st CQ, Call to Quarters or simply study hall in civilian terms, when Nicholas Golan came in.

Blond, green/gray-eyed and standing at five-foot-nine, Nicholas Golan might not have been the strongest member of the Corps of Cadets, but he was beyond a doubt one of the smartest. He was well-known for his idealistic, emotional embrace of the military lifestyle, and he was an outspoken, tenacious opponent of bullies in the barracks. He had first come to prominence in his first semester three years ago, when he had squared off with a football player a foot taller and considerably stronger than he was.

The football player had been cruelly mocking a skinny younger cadet in a side room under the main administration and mess hall building, Collins Hall, knocking the boy's head against one of the vending machines while two of his buddies looked on, laughing.

Up till then, Golan, leaning up against the wall near a window, had gone unnoticed. He was the only other boy in the room, and he hadn't even merited a glance when the three athletes had come in.

But the blond had pushed off the wall, crossed the room in an incredibly short time, and placed one outstretched hand against the lead athlete's shoulder. The taller boy was considerably stronger, and yet Golan had caught him off guard and pushed plenty hard enough to send him staggering- he almost fell down.

And when the big football player, standing less than a foot from him and flanked by two of his friends, had begun to bluster and make threats of what would happen if Golan did that again, Golan stared up at him, hands on his hips, looking him straight in the eye. And he'd said, "You'll have to kill me to mess with that kid again."

It wasn't something you heard a teenage boy say every day. The incident had been heard of by practically every one of the one hundred and fifty boys there that summer, and it had made Golan famous within their ranks overnight. Like it or not, he had suddenly become a public figure, a boy every other cadet knew. He was all over the school in a day, it seemed, and never failed to step in when he felt something needed to be done.

Many younger cadets loved him, and barracks bullies soon found it much more convenient to pick on somebody when Nicholas Golan wasn't in the room. Golan could be difficult to get along with, and he had fewer friends than the typical cadet did. But he was generally respected, and his good relations with the faculty and staff made him difficult to touch, though Golan wasn't seen as a teacher's pet or a snitch. He was just someone the staff liked and most cadets respected, and if that came at the price of being a little distant compared to the other boys, that was fine. In fact, Golan preferred it that way.

Tonight, wearing his blue-gray Class B service uniform, Golan came into Eriksson's room without hardly making a sound. He weighed 155 pounds and stepped lightly; he sometimes startled even staff members by how quietly he could come into the room. It wasn't even intentional much of the time; Golan just stepped with a light foot. Eriksson noticed him, though; with the lights in the room and in the hallway on, filling the whole barracks with white light, it was hard to sneak up on anybody.

Golan walked over to the first desk, dropping easily into the padded wooden chair Eriksson's roommate usually occupied. He held a textbook in his hands, and smiled at Eriksson as the stocky boy glanced his way.

"You busy right now, Eriksson?" he asked.

"Working on this paper for Major Harrison," Eriksson answered, somewhat hoping Golan wouldn't take too much time with whatever he wanted. And he did seem to want something; his eyes were alive, dancing with an oddly intense energy; it was a look he only got if he had something on his mind that really, really interested him.

"Well, actually," Golan answered, taking a moment to check for dust on his black cloth shoulderboards, each bearing the three silver discs of a Cadet Captain, "It was Major Harrison I wanted to talk to you about. Sort of."

Giving up on his writing for the moment, Eriksson set down his pencil, brown eyes regarding Golan's green/gray ones. "So what's up?"

The blond threw a glance back toward the door. "Mind if I close that?"

"It's second CQ's, man," Eriksson answered. "Captain Finch isn't gonna go for it."

"Well, good thing I asked Captain Finch about it when I stopped by the Commandant's Office after 3rd Mess this afternoon," Golan grinned, winking. He got up and closed the door, came over to the chair he'd been sitting in and sat back down.

"Seriously, man," Eriksson said, a little patience starting to slip. "I got homework I gotta do. What's up?"

"Oh, don't worry," the blond answered quickly. "I won't take much of your time." He paused, staring at the floor for a moment. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, and glanced up at Eriksson.

"You like Major Harrison, Eriksson?"

"Sure. He's pretty cool."

Golan smiled. "I think he is, too. He's so smart, man, knows his shit like nobody else, but he's never boring. I like history, I'm into that shit, you know I am. But even if I fucking hated it, he'd make me love it."

Eriksson smiled, laughing a little. Golan could be pretty good with words sometimes. "True enough."

Another pause. "Did you know he's writing a history of the school?"

Eriksson shook his head. "Nah."

"He is," Golan nodded. "And he's working through it right now. Probably be publishing it pretty soon. He's saying he might be sending a complete draft of it off to the printers before we graduate this summer."

"Sounds good," Eriksson said with a shrug. "Sorry, man, but why should I care about this?"

Golan leaned forward just a little more, lowering his voice. "He's got this section in it, man. A footnote in one of the chapters. And he's got some stuff in it that…" Golan trailed off, looking away. He laughed. "Dude, it isn't true at all. But Major Harrison, somehow or another, he's convinced himself it is. And if he publishes this book with that little sub-chapter in it, man, he's gonna look like a fuckin' idiot." Golan paused again. "Okay, Eriksson. Here's… here's what I need. There's some cadets at this school, guys I know. We really respect Major Harrison, you know? We admire him. And we don't wanna see him embarrassed, especially not with his first book."

Another pause. "Eriksson, there's a letter, okay? In his office, in the second drawer on the left side of his desk. Supposedly it's a letter from one Remington grad to another; it talks about some fucking-" Golan laughed again- "secret society of cadets!" He shook his head, laughing again. "Well, that letter's bullshit, man. I know. I've done as much research as Major Harrison has, and that letter's a fake. You know some guy wrote a letter to the London police way back, claiming he was Jack the Ripper? A while later they proved it was fake. This is the same thing."

Quietly, Golan looked intently at Eriksson and began to speak. "I need you to do me a favor, man. You don't have to if you don't want to. But me, some guys I know, we're trying to help Major Harrison and there's only one way we can do it. If you can find an excuse to get out of the barracks next Thursday, I think you'll find the door on the far south end of Kusinis Hall unlocked. Janitor forgets to lock that one sometimes, you know. Go up to Major Harrison's classroom, go in his office, second drawer, left side of the desk. He keeps his papers for his book in there. That's where the letter is. You'll know it when you see it. Trust me."

Raising his eyebrows, the dark-haired Eriksson looked at Golan. "So… you want me to destroy this letter?"

Eyes suddenly jumping wide with alarm, the blond held up his hands. "No!" He lowered his voice, took a moment to calm himself. "No, don't do that. It's, uh, better if you bring it to me. Next Thursday's my shift for duty down at the TAC office. I'm gonna be out of the barracks that night. My room'll be open. Just leave it in the drawer for me."

A long pause. Golan looked curiously at Eriksson again. "So. You think you can do it?"

"Sure."

Golan looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yep. Sure. I'll do it."

The blond cadet grinned, taking his textbook in one hand and getting up. "Great, man. Really, I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Golan paused at the door. "Oh, uh, you do this, man? Some guys at this school are gonna be real happy with you. Just think about that, okay?"

The following Thursday, after sitting at a desk and pretty much just shooting the bull with Captain Finch and Master Gunnery Sergeant Thompson for an hour and a half, Nicholas Golan gathered up his notebooks, binder and textbooks, stuffed them in his backpack and headed back to Singer Hall barracks. His cramped- but single bed- third-floor room was indeed open. Golan had deliberately forgotten to close it completely when he'd left for 3rd Mess formation at 1700. Since only other Battalion Staff cadets occupied the narrow confines of the 3rd floor of Singer Hall, little mistakes like this, rare as they were, usually went unnoticed and unpunished.

It had been an exciting day. Ordinary in all respects, except for one thing, and that one thing was enough to keep the blond teenager practically bouncing on his feet from Reveille to clear through the rest of the day.

And as he entered his room, closing the door shut behind him, Golan's heart-rate picked up as he crossed the room and flicked on the lamp at his desk. Its low buzz filled the otherwise silent room- silent, that is, except for the Battalion XO's contraband stereo thumping down the hall.

Finally, unable to take the suspense any longer, the blond seventeen-year-old reached down to his simple, aging wooden desk and pulled the drawer out. He saw a single white envelope sitting on top of his notebooks and paper, and as he picked the envelope up and looked at it, Golan smiled.

The envelope was there. Eriksson had done just what Golan had asked. Inside were the Remington graduate's letter, and a draft of Major Harrison's chapter on Honor Corps. Too curious not to, the blond took out and unfolded the draft sheet and began to read.

On the outside, an extremely short haircut is rarely something that draws positive attention. It makes people nervous, especially when the individual concerned is a physically fit young man. People will think of rebels, of "skin-heads", neo-Nazis and fascists, individuals with little discipline, no respectable occupation or role in society. No matter what term is used, what label applied, the connotations of a next-to-nonexistent haircut are nearly always negative in the civilian world.

In military culture, however, the complete opposite is true. New recruits of all services go through basic training having their hair routinely cut down to nothing, and some keep it that way even after graduation. Drill instructors and special forces operatives will sometimes go for the look.

And in the world of the military school cadet, the story is much the same. Among cadets, teenage boys who in most cases are not happy about being there, the common sight is someone trying to break haircut regulations any way possible. To rebel against the rigidness of life at a military boarding school, to regain their lost freedom. Equally common is a cadet staying within regulations, his hair shorter than average but still plenty visible.

But at many a military boarding school, there is a clear sense of pride among those boys who specifically ask the barber to cut their hair shorter than is even required. These are the rarest of the rare. The boys who have either accepted and even come to enjoy their new life despite being forced into it, and the volunteers- boys who actually asked and in some cases even fought to convince their parents to send them to a military boarding school.

They wear their hair as short as possible, and even among the most disgruntled cadets it has a clear symbolism- embracement of the school's military lifestyle. The shorter your haircut, the more dedicated you are. Though unpopular among the rebellious and dissatisfied cadets that comprise a good portion of the Corps of Cadets, these boys are often left alone, for a few reasons.

They are often in good shape, able and willing to defend themselves in a scuffle. Those that are not have friends willing to help, as such boys all know one another. They are loyal to their school and to the highly-charismatic war hero, the colonel or general who typically leads it- some to the point of fanaticism. But at a Tiverton, Rhode Island school called Remington Military Academy, there is one other reason.

The boys with the shortest hair are, more often than not, members of the Honor Corps.

Rumors, myths and barracks legends of the Corps have existed for most of RMA's history. They are said to be the unofficial, ghostly MPs of the school, "policing" the barracks and dealing with the most rebellious and unrepentant boys. Coming up with ways to get rid of them, make them examples, 'encouraging' everyone else to shape up.

One of the most persistent rumors is that Honor Corps are always among the top 10% of a given graduating class. The most physically and mentally fit, militarily and academically proficient, loyal cadets in the school. They are connected, influential, and each new generation of alumni brings them greater strength in the world outside of Remington.

If one assembles enough of the pieces, lists each rumor and each claimed fact, a remarkably detailed picture of a supposedly-nonexistent organization appears. The first rumors date back to 1941, when-

"Fucking bullshit," Golan hissed, tearing his eyes away and crumpling the paper. Major Harrison was a good man, but he was too fucking smart for his own good. And for somebody who was as accepted and liked by the cadets at Remington as he was, Harrison sure didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. Or when not to ask questions.

The blond shoved the draft paper of Major Harrison's book chapter in his pocket and pulled the actual letter itself, dated September 1st, 1957, out of the envelope. It was pretty interesting, and unsettling when you looked at how much crap this Class of 1951 grad had gone and written down. Definitely against the rules, and at the same time a nice piece of source material for somebody writing a book.

But suddenly, with no source, with no physical evidence to show or present, Major Harrison would be left without a choice. He'd have to cut his brief, mostly-speculative but much too accurate 'history' of the Honor Corps out of the upcoming "Years of Change, Years of Growth: A History of Remington Military Academy 1973-2013".

Because it would just be unprofessional, sourcelessly talking about something that already didn't exist.

The boys attending Remington today liked Major Harrison. He made history class interesting, made it personal. He could make you feel what it was like to have been on General Lee's staff when he commanded the Army of Northern Virginia- the endless supply, manpower, and strategic problems you would've faced. He could tell you not just how many bullets an AK-47's magazine carried or how fast and far it could shoot- the facts- but the personal stuff. Its toughness, its near-flawless reliability. How it inspired confidence, gave strength and courage to entire armies of rebels and professional fighting men alike. The personal things, what you'd have seen, thought and felt if you were actually there.

But the old men who had gone to Remington in years past, men like Golan's father- they didn't know Major Harrison. There were wealthy, successful, influential men among them, men who simply wouldn't care how nice a guy Major Walter Harrison was if he published a book with lying, slanderous bullshit in even one chapter of it. Some of these men would not be amused, would be much worse than just not amused. Losing his job here so abruptly would be a personal loss for Major Harrison, and a blow for his career. Yet the boys had been deadlocked when a Formation was called; nobody could make up their minds about what action to take.

So together with a fellow Battalion Staff member, a boy named St. Esprit, Nicholas Golan had acted instead.

He'd asked a friend of his, a potential candidate for initiation before the end of the year, to help. All the help that was provided to him in turn was a few unlocked doors, courtesy of an arranged extra paid week's vacation for Mr. Gordon, one of the janitors. And that had been achieved with just a little forged paperwork, slipped into the Operations Officer's mailbox. A risk, a pretty significant one when you considered the entire thing wasn't at all sanctioned by the Honor Corps, but it had paid off.

Both individuals had come through magnificently.

Puzzlingly, though, when Golan paid him a visit that night just before "Taps" and thanked him, Eriksson declined the offer to "meet some guys I know," as Golan had put it. He'd been polite in saying no, but hadn't really given a reason. Why did he say no, though? Golan knew Eriksson was a smart guy, as smart as he was. Eriksson had to know what the blond had 'really' been offering him there.

How could anybody say no to that?

Assignments, successfully carried out, were often used as… tests for the deemed-worthy. A final, sure-fire way of making certain that they had the right stuff. Met all the criteria.

And yet this time, somebody had declined. Odd, unfortunate, but hardly a big deal. Eriksson was not an idle talker; there was no reason to worry about him saying anything. So he'd go his way and Golan would go on being friends with him. But Golan and his *other* friends would go their way, and find someone else.

They would go on looking out for this school, being its last line of defense. And someday, when enough support was gathered among the alumni and enough friendly voters existed on the Board of Trustees, the girls' barracks would be quietly done away with. Those still here would be passed through, but no more would come in behind them. And that would be that. Tradition would have its say again.

Letting girls in had been a desperate measure due to falling enrollment in the Vietnam era, but it had never amounted to much. Female cadets were few, and the need for a separate barracks and all the upkeep that demanded was at least as much as the tuition and board money they brought in. With the school on stronger financial footing again- even with the PR crap going on now- there was little reason to keep it up much longer.

Nicholas Golan stripped, wrapped a towel about his waist, and headed off to the showers. He fake-lunged at Lucas Craig as they passed in the hallway, and laughed when the other boy jumped.

Craig might have been Cadet Colonel and Battalion Commander, but he was also in some deep shit. At an emergency meeting called yesterday, one week after those nosy motherfuckers from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service- the goddamn Navy Department's cops, for Chrissakes!- had finally left and Lieutenant Colonel Tanner resigned, the BC had been put in the hot seat in the middle of the room and got ripped a new one for the better part of an hour.

Nicholas Golan had enjoyed every second of it.

The boys were all furious. After weeks of straining to hold up their academic, athletic, military and social lives, after weeks of going short on sleep so they could make life a living hell for Christine Sanders as ordered, they had found out it was all for nothing. Nicholas Golan had paid a visit to each of them, let them know, and now they were out for Lucas Craig's ass. None of the boys had ever imagined they'd be sent after someone for so petty a reason dating issues.

Nicholas Golan, just back from attending the ceremony in which his father, Mark Golan, had been promoted to brigadier general in the United States Air Force, sat there for quite a while, off to the side, just letting the other boys vent their frustration and anger. They were furious that they had been used, furious they had been lied to, furious that all their trouble had been a waste of time. Eight angry boys criticized and condemned Lucas Craig, often with several of them speaking at once. Craig couldn't get a word in, and when he tried, they just shouted him down.

Finally, after letting it go on, Nicholas Golan stood and called for order. He had long since gained the loyalty of the other eight boys, and turned them against Lucas Craig. They fell silent as soon as he told them to.

"I can't fucking believe we backed this shit with Sanders, guys," Nicholas said. "Look, I'll be the first one who says girls got no fucking place here. It goes against tradition, and nobody honors that more than us. But, uh, what was she again, Craig? Your would-be girlfriend?" He snorted in disgust, his tone and expression making it clear what he thought of that.

The blond stood up, pacing the room slowly. "We're at a moment of truth here, guys," he said quietly. "We got some choices to make. Because when a cop like DiNozzo comes in here, and challenges us like we're nothing-" He furiously kicked Craig's chair for emphasis- "There's something wrong!"

The room was silent as Golan paced, the other boys all regarding him from their fold-up chairs. Craig didn't dare speak; it had been made pretty clear early on that his opinion wasn't going to be asked for much this Formation.

"And you know what, guys? I think I know what's wrong here. It's us."

That broke the silence of the room, save for a single overhead light dark as a crypt. The other boys, even Craig, began whispering and talking, some sounding surprised, others angry, some agreeing with Golan's assertion and others disagreeing. One voice abruptly rose above the rest, addressing the blond now.

"How come we're wrong, Golan?"

The blond seventeen-year-old held up a pair of fingers. "Two reasons."

He resumed his pacing, circling around Craig, in the space between him and the boys sitting in a ring around him a few feet away. Golan's mirror-shined leather dress shoes hardly made a sound as he walked.

"First, we've been stupid. We've been getting sloppy. It's that simple. And we better get our shit together."

There were some more murmurs, some more quiet talking at that, but finally there were agreements and nods of assent.

"And second, we let one of our own take us way outside what we do and what we're about and what we do." Golan glared at Craig again as he walked. "Honor Corps has been keeping the numbers on female cadets down for years, Craig. Trying to get the girls' barracks closed. And now, thanks to you, one of them's killed herself." He paused, holding up his hands in a half-shrug. "Who knows what that could mean for us?"

"Sanders was not my fault-" Craig started, but Golan cut him off.

"And you had better be grateful Caroni found out you'd lied to us before I did!" the blond hissed furiously. He addressed the other boys again. "This shit is unacceptable, guys. We never get involved in things like we just did. You guys know that."

A boy sighed, frustrated. "You fucked with her just like the rest of us, Golan."

The blond nodded. "Yeah, I did, Porter. Because I thought the reason for it was legit. Then I found out I was being lied to, and here we are. All of you know the score. We can't afford this. We keep doing shit like we just did, letting ourselves get led into something, word is gonna spread. Cadets, staff- they'll all realize they don't have to take us seriously anymore. And Honor Corps will be history."

Golan made sure to pause there, giving each of the boys a few moments to take that in. To imagine what could happen if they didn't correct their mistakes now.

"Now we can handle the news about Cantor going to prison- and he's gonna go to prison-his scholarship getting shut down, Lieutenant Colonel Tanner resigning. We can handle that because some powerful alumni are gonna weigh in. Cantor is gonna go up against the best prosecution money can buy. Someone else will take up the torch and replace his scholarship. Tanner's gonna be forgotten next week. Like I said, we can handle this shit. But we can't fucking handle this group turning into some shitty little gang, which is apparently exactly what Special-fucking-Agent DiNozzo thinks of us."

Golan paused once more; the blond continued to circle Craig, shifting his gaze between the nervous, sweating Battalion Commander and the others boys, all of whom were looking back attentively. Golan was a talker, was more eloquent than some teachers, and when he really got going you couldn't help but be impressed.

"You know what I think? Maybe he's right." He paused again, taking in a breath.

"I move that the Commandant be relieved of command. And I volunteer myself to take his place."

There was a stunned, jaw-dropping silence that lasted perhaps ten seconds. Then the room spontaneously combusted into argument. But the arguing didn't last that long. The boys bickered and fought, and Nicholas let them do it. He waited, and he watched. And in the end, they came around and gave him everything he wanted. Nicholas Golan had walked out of that room feeling like a fucking god.

"Come on, Craig," Golan laughed, turning back to him. He shook a finger in mock admonition. "No complaints, huh? You're lucky, man, lucky as hell."

Craig's face twisted in disgust. "You fucking dick."

He turned and walked away, but the blond just laughed and headed on to the showers. Craig was just mad because he'd been fired as Commandant. Nobody had really wanted him as Assigner, either, not after the shit he'd gotten Honor Corps in. As Golan had just not-so-subtly reminded him, Craig was lucky he'd been included at the Funeral. And that he was still "in" at all.

The reorganization of Honor Corps was Nicholas Golan's pride and joy, an effort he had been working towards ever since Lucas Craig got picked for Commandant over him. Staging a coup like this was ballsy as hell, and to Nicholas' knowledge no one had ever done it before. Honor Corps was even more strict about obedience, discipline and the unbreakable chain of command than the regular Corps of Cadets ever was. The alumni were not gonna take it well, no matter what the reason for it. Nicholas knew he was in for a fight. But he had planned and prepared for this, and he was confident he could win it. He had a bold vision to keep this group alive going into the future.

No, not just keep it alive. That implied that mere survival was the goal, when it wasn't that meager at all. Honor Corps had controlled everything that mattered at Remington Military Academy since December 10, 1941. They owned this school. The school newspaper, the alumni newsletter, all press releases and media of any kind, the top administrative posts. Members of the Honor Corps had graduated and gone on to become many of RMA's most distinguished alumni. Generals, Senators, coaches, CEOs. War heroes and athletes of unparalleled drive and skill. Honor Corps alumni were influential in the Rhode Island state government and legislature, and donated substantial funds to any campaign or official that was favorable to Remington and its interests.

With Nicholas elevated to the position of Commandant, leader of the members of Honor Corps for this school year, he was now able to present his vision directly to these men. He would make them understand that Lucas Craig was an idiot, and that he, Nicholas Golan, deserved to be the boss. He'd handle those old traditionalist bastards. He'd win them over like he did everyone else. Nicholas Golan would win this. He always did.

Unconcerned for now about what came next, Nicholas whistled "Dixie" all the way to the shower. Hanging his towel up and turning on one of the showers, the lean blond stepped in and started using the soap bar, letting the water run through his hair- what little there was.

"Hey, Golan," Ryan St. Esprit said with a grin as he passed him and turned on one of the other showers. "You're a fucking asshole, man."

"Yep, I am," the blond teen agreed, smiling back. "And I just don't know any better."

They both grinned at each other and laughed. It was a pretty heady feeling, being the very last and yet also the very first of something. Being the Commandant and the Assigner, best friends who'd spent over a year working their way up and getting in place to take the job.

"Hey," St. Esprit said casually, "You really think they'll end up closing the girls' barracks?"

"Just a feeling," Nicholas replied, winking at his friend. He shrugged after a moment. "Look, man, it's gonna happen. It just is. This place was all-male for fifty-five years before they let girls in. Doesn't matter what you think, or I think, it's about tradition, man. Boys-only is the way things are at places like this. It's the way it's always been. We gotta respect that."

"Goddamn, boy, you even make speeches in the shower!" St. Esprit laughed, and Nicholas reached out and neatly smacked him on the back of the head. When the brown-haired boy smacked him back, Nicholas held up a hand. "Hey, hey! Wanna box tomorrow after class, instead of breaking one of our necks in here?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. You hear me, though? What I said?"

"Yeah, man, you know I do."

Nicholas grinned. "Of course." He was not much of a boxer, but his father was constantly pushing him towards it- to get practice in before it became mandatory when he went to VMI. And besides, anything- even something you weren't too crazy about- was always better when you did it with your best friend.

The blond found it easy to feel good right now, and he could see clearly that the new way of things was going to last a long time. The rules had changed, new guidelines and a code hammered out and memorized. Clearer parameters were set for what kind of shit you did and didn't do, what was and what wasn't appropriate. And above all, the Honor Code was in full effect within though you could make exceptions as needed without.

A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, nor tolerate those who do.

It was the old West Point code, the one held sacred by boys and men alike for generations. It took the boys and made them into men, and once they had grown it guided them for the rest of their lives.

The President of RMA, Brigadier General Donald West, US Army retired, had a saying he was fond of. "Men may make history, but we make the men." Behind him in doing this stood a cabal of his most loyal admirers. They were making a transition right now, going through some challenging times. But when it was all over, the General's truest followers would still stand firmly behind him- whether he even knew they existed or not.

The blond smiled, carefree as he rubbed shampoo through his hair. It was good weather out, a calm, easygoing night. Perfect for the two teenagers' current moods. Golan and St. Esprit had united to conquer the Honor Corps, and they'd done it. Within the halls of Remington, that was like taking over the world.

The blond smiled again as he lay down on his bed ten minutes later, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the slanted ceiling. He was such a slick bastard. He really was. Nicholas had dodged John Wallis when the latter had come back to RMA, looking for answers and an ass to kick. He'd pointed Wallis to Lucas Craig, then fucking vanished. Then, he'd done the same thing when that chump DiNozzo showed up.

Nicholas Golan had seen DiNozzo when he was here on post, though the agent hadn't recognized him. The blond boy knew about him. He knew that name, that face. Mark Golan and Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. had gone to RMA together, back in the 1980s. Nicholas Golan knew that his father and DiNozzo had been enemies, and that DiNozzo was a smart and capable man who didn't think much of chivalrous codes of honor or of military discipline and tradition. Nicholas also knew that as a Naval Criminal Investigative Service agent, DiNozzo held a lot of power, and the blond youth had stayed far away from DiNozzo during the man's visit to Remington. It was too bad. He'd ended up missing some of the best parts of the show.

From what Craig had said- he'd been plenty eager to tell the other boys everything said between himself, Special Agent DiNozzo and his partner when they'd barged into his room a second time, something Golan understood his being upset about- this man had no idea what Honor Corps was about. No understanding of its purpose. Some people, for all their education and experience, simply could not understand.

But the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The Honor Corps was going through the aftermath of its first coup, and the alumni would surely bitch on all the official-yet-unofficial channels. But Nicholas was confident he would win them over. The fact that he planned to keep many things the same would help soothe a lot of ruffled feathers. Additionally, it would surely help when they saw what how much good the boys in cadet gray were doing at Remington. How brilliantly clever they were under the new leadership, how well-informed and well-organized. How much they were doing to help the school through the difficult times it was facing.

Major Harrison was just one example, one feather in the cap of the new boys running things. He didn't know it, would never understand it, but he was being protected. That letter would be made to disappear, vanished like smoke blown away in the wind. It wasn't being done because Nicholas Golan was a loser, desperate to prove anything or be a part of something. It was being done out of respect for Major Harrison, for his reputation. It was being done for his own good.

That was the basis of Honor Corps. That was what it had been founded on. Silencing a few voices for the good of the many. Censoring writings and publications for the good of the many. Protecting this school, its traditions and its identity, so that its graduates could continue to go into the world, well prepared for success. All the while, behind the scenes, Honor Corps would continue to function. It would guard tradition and honor at Remington, and on the national and international scene, many of its alumni members would serve as America's sword and shield, as they had ever since 1941.

In Nicholas' opinion, this whole business with Frederick Cantor murdering John Wallis had the guys, the alumni, the staff, pushing panic buttons for nothing. A mentally imbalanced old man had killed a young man who was threatening to try 'exposing' an organization that didn't exist. He had no evidence, he had nothing. Not so much as a fucking Post-It note.

Even if he'd gone public and started carrying on, the few waves Wallis would've made and the problems he would've caused would not have amounted to much. Anybody who seriously thought going to the papers about Honor Corps without a shred of evidence was going to make any difference was just kidding himself.

Yet that didn't mean there was nothing to be worried about, as much as Nicholas hated to admit it. One Remington graduate murders another in an argument over the school. A female cadet commits suicide on campus. Two dead altogether, one killed by the third. Not exactly good PR. It could've been worse, though, and all the guys knew it. That was why they had rallied behind Nicholas, with his promise to get things under control. And he would. He was going to do that, and God help anyone who got in his way.

There would be limits, though only a few. There'd be no more incidents like Christine Sanders. Running scum out of the school was fine, but dead cadets was bad PR. And besides, it was unnecessary. Half the time, you could get the lousiest kids expelled if you arranged for their room to be turned upside down at just the right moment. You didn't need to kill anybody, and certainly not over trivial, would-be romantic crap. That was a total no-no and the time Lucas Craig pulled that shit would be the one and only.

Word would have to go out to the alumni, too. There could be no tolerance for men like Frederick Cantor. You couldn't tolerate that kind of shit. There was little hope of controlling the actions of every single living graduate or former cadet- nor was there much point in trying. But the ring-wearing graduates needed to know: If you murder someone on 'behalf' of RMA for the weak reasons Cantor did, you had better have money for a good lawyer. Because the alumni will not be backing you up.

In fact, it would be better if killing was, altogether, declared off-limits- really, you'd have thought that went without saying. It was morally wrong, and when the connection to RMA was discovered it would make the school look bad. There was no need to kill anyone on the rare occasion some guy thought he was gonna make trouble for the school. You'd just call in favors, use connections, and make the man look as ridiculous as possible. Stack the deck against him and eventually whoever it was would just give up and go fuck off somewhere. Much easier for all involved.

There was Nicholas' father, though. Nicholas knew sooner or later he'd have to answer to him, explain what he'd done and why. But if he'd been able to sway all the other current members of Honor Corps his way, surely Mark Golan would understand- and in turn help to persuade the other Honor Corps alumni. And besides, that was something to worry about later, not now. That was tomorrow.

Some staff members- a rare few- had the sense to appreciate the "influence" certain boys seemed to have. The way that all kinds of juicy intel just seemed to fall into their arms. And those rare few could expect the help of those boys at a time like this, with the school's reputation taking a blow. A storm lay ahead, but it would be weathered, however difficult it was to do it. Captain Finch, for one, was a smart enough man that he'd actually talked to Nicholas alone the other night. In a very roundabout way, he'd affirmed their professional, yet friendly relationship, and… very vaguely… asked Nicholas for help.

The blond grinned as he gazed up at the ceiling of his room in the dark. Difficult times like this were tailor-made for smart, well-organized cadets who loved Remington. You could get quite a lot in return if you showed them you really could offer them something. And Nicholas Golan could. He would help. His friends- and defeated rival- would help.

The Honor Corps- his Honor Corps- would help.

A/N: 11-5-2017.

I decided to rewrite my first NCIS story, "Semper Vigilans", because there were some flaws I realized about it. SV was a rebuke to some things I disliked about Season 12, Episode 14: "Cadence", but what I did not recognize back then was that some aspects of it did not need to be corrected, because they should not have existed at all.

Members of the Honor Corps are shown, but in 2015 and in the 1980s, as wearing a gray armband that, apparently, indicates membership. WHY? There is no logical reason. The whole point of being a secret society is that you don't wear anything that declares you as a member. If only a few cadets ever wear these armbands, even some of the time, people would inevitably figure out what that was about and thus, they'd know who the members were.

Similarly, the flashback of Mark Golan and a few comrades of his confronting Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. in the basketball gymnasium does not make any sense. Why would a member, especially an important member, of a secret society like Honor Corps walk right up to another cadet and reveal himself as a member? What good would that possibly do? As a member of a group like Honor Corps, Golan would have a lot of ways to get a message to someone like DiNozzo, none of which would involve revealing himself. Even if DiNozzo strongly suspects Golan as a member, it would be important never to say so. That is very important to the whole "secrecy" thing.

In the original story, Nicholas Golan corrected the issues I saw with Honor Corps by disbanding it and replacing it with The Vigils, a similar organization that took its name from "The Chocolate War" by Robert Cormier. As I said, I have since realized this would not have really been necessary, given that no actual secret group would have been so clumsy and obvious as HC is shown as being. So I changed it to emphasize how Nicholas Golan deeply resented being passed over for the top position in Honor Corps. He plotted and schemed and, when the time was right took advantage of Lucas Craig's incredibly stupid decision to have Honor Corps go after Christine Sanders.

Think about that. The head of a (presumably) elite secret group of cadets gets turned down for a date, and he sets the group after her like they're a pack of dogs? There is NO way that was the kind of thing the group was meant for. And there is no way the other cadets in the group would agree to do it unless they were lied to, and thus believed there was a legitimate reason for it. Legitimate as far as they are concerned, anyway.