Nobody’s even close, Gaia thought excitedly. The nearest trainee she could spot was still quite far behind. I’m the fastest, she realized, experiencing another rush of the joyful adrenaline she’d encountered all along this vaulting, twisting pathway.
But the last leg would be brutally hard, she could see. The webbed grid of ropes continued horizontally, forming a bridge. It was clear what she had to do: hang suspended beneath the ropes, pulling herself hand over hand while risking a twenty-foot drop into a not-very-soft-looking muddy field. Then it got even more fun: at the other end she would have to climb down a structure made of rough-hewn wooden logs … and then sprint up a rocky incline to a wide, grassy hilltop where a neon orange rope had been strung waist high. The finish line.
Nobody ahead of me either, Gaia confirmed as she swung under the ropes and started moving. She could see nothing but converging strands of rope and the muddy fields and the sky. I’m going to w—
Suddenly the ropes flexed wildly, making her bounce in place and almost lose her balance. Someone had just swung down beneath the bridge right behind her.
“Comin’ through,” sang out a cheerful male voice.
Gaia struggled to keep her grip as the bridge bounced up and down. To her dismay, Farm Boy pulled into view, his tanned face streaming sweat, his upper arms flexing like powerful tree trunks as he easily pulled ahead. He even smiled at her pleasantly as he passed, as if they were strolling along an avenue—and continued on his way to victory.
Without thinking, Gaia pulled herself upward and started clambering along the top of the rope bridge.
“That ain’t going to help,” Farm Boy yelled cheerfully. “You’re wastin’ too much energy on the lateral vector.”
Show-off, Gaia thought furiously. I already can’t stand this guy, and it’s only been ten seconds.
As it turned out, Farm Boy was right—it was nearly impossible to do. It was clearly not the way you were supposed to run this particular course. But, Gaia realized, as she tilted perilously to one side and then the other, somehow managing to keep her grip, it could be done.
“You’re wasting too much energy on … talking,” Gaia managed to wheeze. It wasn’t a very good comeback, but she was determined to show him that she wasn’t too exhausted to talk. Behind her, she realized, other trainees were catching up, moving onto the ropes, making them shake even more.
“Nice … try,” Farm Boy gasped as he pulled himself ahead even faster. Somehow he had enough breath to taunt her while the muscles in his arms corded and bunched, pulling him forward. “Second … place.”
“Two minutes fifty,” Sergeant Conroy yelled, his voice distorted by the bullhorn. Gaia could see him now on the other side of the finish line, watching the trainees’ progress.
“If they have an ‘annoying’ competition … you’ll win easily … but not this …” Gaia puffed.
The ropes were swinging up and down like plucked guitar strings as Gaia climbed neck and neck with Farm Boy. She could barely see his face staring up at her as she clambered past his fists, moving on all fours like a spider navigating a web. “Nooo—” a female voice called from behind them—the ropes pitched madly upward as someone lost her grip and fell to the muddy ground below. Farm Boy was losing his grip, too—Gaia could see his knuckles whitening with the effort.
Gaia finally made it to the end of the rope bridge. She let go, dropping to the grass with a heavy thump just as Farm Boy dropped behind her. Somehow he landed on his feet—Gaia could only see a blur as her own sweat streamed into her eyes—and now they were running up the grass hill toward the orange rope. It was three paces ahead, shimmering in her vision.
Gaia dug down deep, and with the last of her strength she dove forward, toppling onto the hard ground and pulling the rope with her. Sergeant Conroy’s whistle blasted in her ears as she rolled onto her back, her entire body in pain, the sun dazzling her eyes.
A dark silhouette blotted out the sky as she lay there, panting.
“Here—stand up,” Sergeant Conroy’s rough voice barked out. Gaia could see his face upside down—and his hand reaching down toward her.
“Three twenty-three,” Conroy said, his weather-beaten face barely registering a ghost of a smile as he looked at his chrome stopwatch. “That’s a record.”
Beside her, Farm Boy was doubled over, his hands on his knees, looking like he might throw up. He raised his eyes, gazing at her, and Gaia could read his expression as easily as if it were a roadside billboard. He didn’t like to lose.
“Good-good job,” Farm Boy wheezed. His chiseled face was soaked in sweat, as was his T-shirt. Gaia could see the veins popping on his neck muscles. Behind him, Peter Pan Girl was leading the rest of the recruits up the hill, brushing mud from her shoulders, recovering from her fall.
“Thanks,” Gaia said. A strand of hair had dropped over her face and she pushed it out of the way. “You too.” She tried to keep the triumphant smirk off her face—and she succeeded. Mostly
“Cut the chatter,” Sergeant Conroy snapped at them. “Start running.”
Start running … ? Gaia was sure she’d heard wrong. He might as well have asked her to start flying. But the drill sergeant was pointing past the top of the hill, indicating the beginning of a dirt track that led off across the Virginia grass and out of sight.
“Yes, sir,” Farm Boy said, having recovered his breath. “How far, sir?”
“Five miles,” Conroy said, in a tone that suggested he could barely tolerate the question. He raised his voice to include the other recruits, who were streaming over the finish line behind them one by one. “Five-mile run, people,” Conroy yelled. “Follow the track. Uneven ground. Finish at the firing range.”
Farm Boy didn’t need to be told twice. He was already sprinting ahead, his shoes kicking up clouds of dust from the dirt track. Gaia firmly ignored the screaming pain in her legs and ran to catch up. Peter Pan Girl and two other trainees were right on their heels.
“Your luck’s … about to change,” Farm Boy whispered as they ran side by side. Incredibly he was pacing her. He’d recovered his breath as quickly as she had.
Gaia didn’t answer. She couldn’t come up with anything clever fast enough. She just pulled ahead.
SUMMARY
All twenty-three Special Forces trainees reported for duty on time, in their required attire. Under my supervision the trainees began the endurance/stamina/problem-solving exercise (“obstacle course”) at 0900 EST. This was immediately followed by a single lap on the grounds’ dirt running track (“track #1”), constituting 5.24 miles of uneven terrain.
Following the run (which lasted 45 minutes), the trainees reported for examination at shooting range 6, where they each performed in a standard GX-1 handgun training exercise. This occurred nearly without incident (see below).
At 1100 hours EST the trainees were released from duty for lunch. The remainder of the afternoon is designated an off-duty period of “free play” to be followed by the introductory trainee dinner and briefing in preparation for the commencement of “practical applications” tomorrow morning under the supervision of Special Agent Jennifer Bishop, ID code G44.
NOTES
All trainees performed adequately to exceptionally. The winner of the ES/PS obstacle course was trainee Gaia Moore (F), who set a time record of 3:23. She was followed in an extremely close second place by William Taylor (M) at 3:24, in what appeared to be a closely fought personal competition. Other trainees did equally well, although Moore and Taylor’s time was not matched; only one trainee (Perkins, M.) failed to complete the obstacle run and is being recommended for dismissal (see attached file).
Competition between Moore and Taylor continued into the five-mile run with interesting results (see below). However, events in the firing range drill were problematic for Ms. Moore. It is my recommendation that a psychological profile report be made on Ms. Moore as her behavior during the commencement of the FR drill may warrant further examination and appraisal.
PERFECT BULL’S-EYES
The sound hit her first. That sound.
She thought she was ready for it. But she wasn’t. And because of that, she almost lost the race to that irritating Farm Boy with his blond crew cut and self-satisfied smirk.
It was that unmistakable noise, that concussive, flat, dead boom that meant someone was pulling a trigger and a bullet was being unleashed, about to smash through flesh and bone and blood and change things forever. There was just no mistaking that boom.
Boom. Boom. Bullets were flying. Ahead of her guns were going off; there was no doubt. And despite the heat and the pounding exertion of the run, Gaia felt cold.
Because somehow she’d managed not to think about this eventuality since it first came up in her interview with Malloy. Until right now, as she and Farm Boy led the pack of trainees through a hot dust cloud toward the Quantico firing range, their shoes pounding the dirt track as they paced each other.
The firing range was a wide, shallow field divided into parallel tracks, almost like an outdoor bowling alley. At the end of each track was a motorized steel mechanism holding the customary paper targets with their segmented silhouettes of menacing figures. The gunfire was coming from a single figure at the nearest track: a young woman with fiery red hair, dressed in a pair of blue overalls with a bright yellow FBI insignia on the back. She wore enormous black ear guards as she fired a series of perfect bull’s-eyes, and the sound got louder and louder as Gaia approached.
“You realize …” Farm Boy began, panting with exertion, “we’re not supposed to be racing….”
“Who’s racing?” Gaia said. She didn’t look over at him; she just gazed ahead at the rapidly approaching firing range. “… Just … faster than you, that’s all….”
“Slow down,” he panted.
“You first.”
But Gaia was slowing down and not only that; she realized she was shaking. Boom, boom went the gun. Stop, she wanted to shout. Stop shooting.
That was when Gaia lost her balance.
Her feet had caught on a flat rock in the dusty track, and before she toppled to the ground, Farm Boy had caught her, but then he lost his balance, too, and they both tumbled to the ground. Farm Boy was on top of her for just a moment, his weight pressing her down before he rolled easily to one side and sprang to his feet.
“You all right?” Farm Boy asked in his too-perfect southern accent.
“Fine,” Gaia muttered, ignoring his outstretched hand and climbing to her feet. Her face was burning with embarrassment.
The other trainees were approaching behind them, and Gaia wasn’t sure whether they were squinting at her or not. Had they seen her fall? Gaia didn’t want to think about it.
Gaia
I don’t mind making mistakes. I’ve made a lot of them, and Tm sure I’ll make many more.
I don’t even mind falling down like some kind of clumsy jerk just when I’m winning a footrace. It’s not that. It’s losing control. A few weeks ago I successfully argued the point against Agent Malloy. But he was right. He had a good point. I didn’t want to admit to him what it was like seeing that picture of myself fighting in the park back in the old days. But he had my number completely.
Out of control. And what’s worse, emotionally out of control. Enjoying the fight and letting that emotion rule my actions. Prowling Central Park for petty criminals just to make myself feel better. Pretending I don’t know what drives a junkie or a desperately hungry homeless kid or a borderline mental patient to attack innocents in the park. Turning myself into judge and jury just to rid myself of that awful, powerless feeling.
I swore I’d never go back. I told myself I could live a disciplined life. If it meant being alone, so be it. There are worse things. When you’re alone, you’re safe. Without anyone close to you, you’re that much more invulnerable.
I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
And now here I am at the ultimate temple of discipline and control—the paradigm of playing by the rules, of leaving the law in the hands of those who should administer it. Of enforcing the law. And what happens?
First, I get drawn into a stupid competition with a kid from the Farm Belt just because he’s spent too much time building up that upper body he’s so proud of. Just because I want to smack him, I have this urge to knock out those perfect teeth of his, and it has nothing to do with him. I’m just angry because I couldn’t deal with the sound of gunfire and he saw me lose control.
The rest of that hour is difficult to remember. I was determined to get my feet back on solid ground. I stood there breathing regularly and waiting in line with the other trainees and when my turn came, I stepped up to the range and took the gun.
It felt awful.
I hated that dull metal weight in my hand. I hated the slick, oily sound of the safety catch being released, of the clip locking home, of the slide notching backward.
But the funny thing was, something else seemed to awaken inside me. Old physical memories of target practice with my father back in the Berkshires. And suddenly I remembered what it felt like to shoot.
Before I knew it, I was in the right stance, with my arm flexed, and without flinching I began squeezing off shots. And when the gun smoke cleared, I realized that I was hearing the sound of the other trainees applauding, and when I peered at the target, I realized that I’d emptied the entire clip into the bull’s-eye.
Was it just to put Farm Boy (whatever his name is) into second place? Maybe. (And he didn’t like that one bit—I could tell from the sour look on his face, even though he tried to cover it over with that grin of his.) The acrid smell of gun smoke made my eyes water, and for a moment I was back in that kitchen. That kitchen, where my mother died.
The other trainees were staring at me as we all lined up for Agent Donat’s speech. She talked about weaponry and about what we’d learn in the weeks to come—ballistics, hidden holsters, all the tricks of the trade—but I have to admit, I was barely listening. I was confused.
Tomorrow you’ll begin practical applications, Donat told us, her red hair shining in the sun. Sleep well tonight—you—re going to need it And congratulations on your first day at Quantico.
And when she dismissed us and all the trainees walked back toward the dorms together, I actually had a moment when I felt like part of something. Not an outsider, but an insider—a team member.
I hate guns—but I shoot really well. Is that why I’m here? Am I facing every contradiction in my life, really facing them all for the first time? Not whining and running like a teenager, but actually dealing?
Maybe I am.
DON’T BE FAKE
Gaia hadn’t known what to expect from FBI dorms. She had images in her head of military barracks—gleaming white cinder block walls, army trunks, tightly made bunks you could bounce a quarter on. So she had been mildly surprised the night before to find more or less conventional dorm rooms. They weren’t that different from the single rooms she’d occupied all three years at Stanford.
Except that this wasn’t a single room. It wasn’t just the two beds that filled Gaia with trepidation as she dropped her luggage and accepted the keys from the assistant. It was the evidence of life—the traces left by her roommate. The other occupant (Sanders, Catherine according to Gaia’s computer printout) had already arrived. The other bed was made (bright orange bedsheets and a quilt) and there was a poster up (a Claude Monet poster, reminding Gaia of the Metropolitan in New York with a sudden pang) and one of the desks now bore an iMac and a stack of books with titles like Learning JavaScript and Intermediate UNIX.
After her flight and all the paperwork and fingerprinting associated with her arrival at Quantico, Gaia had been too tired to deal with the mysterious Catherine Sanders, art lover, computer hacker, fancier of the color orange … whoever she was. Gaia wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. Why couldn’t she have a single room? Her experiences in shared rooms—the “residency halls”
and other temporary housing in New York, filled with students whose parents were “absent” for whatever reasons—had never been good. All she wanted was to sleep and get ready for her first training day.
But Catherine Sanders never showed up that night.
Now, approaching her dorm room door, with the smell of gunpowder on her hands and every muscle aching from the morning’s exertions, Gaia glanced down at the brushed steel doorknob, reaching for her keys—and saw that the door was open.
“Hello?” Gaia pushed the door inward, entering the room. The lights were out and the shades were drawn—it was difficult to see.
When her eyes adjusted, Gaia saw a figure stretched out on the other bed. At the sound of Gaia’s entry the girl stirred, raising herself on her elbows to look at Gaia. She had dark hair in a pixieish Peter Pan haircut. Gaia recognized her.
“Hey,” Catherine said. She sounded surprised. “I didn’t know you were my roomie.”
As she moved closer, Gaia saw that the girl hadn’t changed her clothes—there were traces of dried mud on her FBI T-shirt. Catherine reached to shake hands. “Catherine Sanders—how are you? Don’t call me Cathy.”
Fair enough, Gaia thought.
“,Gaia Moore.”
“Gaia Moore from New York City, right? I never would have guessed. I had you pegged as a West Coast girl all the way.”
“Um—” Gaia wasn’t sure what to make of that. I’m doing real well in the conversation department so far, she thought. “Stanford. I went to school in California. But I’m from Manhattan originally.”
“No kidding.” Catherine winced in exaggerated pain as she moved to sit all the way up and turn on a lamp. The light illuminated her pretty face, her dark brown eyes, and her black hair. “I visited New York once. I can’t imagine living there.”
Kill Game Page 5