Camp Valor

by Scott McEwen

  “He’s an excellent chief of security. But there’s a reason we keep him in a cave,” the Old Man said. “Come on.”

  Wyatt followed him into an adjacent room, the “hot” room. It was like the “control room” out of a war movie—computer screens on the walls, the screens showing data flows, maps, and camera feeds.

  The Old Man turned. “Wyatt, as you have no doubt surmised by now, Camp Valor is not your average summer camp.”

  “Campers running around with bazookas and flame throwers cleared that up for me,” Wyatt said with a smug grin. “I get the feeling we won’t be learning many arts and crafts.” Wyatt laughed at his own joke and immediately regretted speaking.

  “On the contrary.” The Old Man leveled a serious look at Wyatt. “You will be learning arts and crafts. Martial arts mainly, and tradecraft. The only difference is the stakes for not learning here are absolutely catastrophic to you and to our country.” The Old Man’s look softened. “Would you like to know why?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt said, feeling the “sir” come naturally.

  “Good.” The Old Man nodded to Hallsy, who clicked a remote at the screens. “Here is a little teaser we put together, to help you get a sense of what to expect here.” Pump-up music played while the screens showed a video: a plane barrels across the sky, a teenage girl back-flips out of the plane with a knife in her teeth wearing a winged suit, a motorcycle is chased through a city, a boy—he must have been eleven—covered in blood, butchers and eats a sea lion on the edge of an ice floe while his mates scuba dive beneath the ice.

  The Old Man paced. “Camp Valor is a top-secret training facility. You will not find it on a map, and no aircraft—except our own—will even fly overhead. Outside of our ranks, our existence is known only to the president of the United States, the director of the CIA, the SecDef—or secretary of defense—and a few partners of ours in the special forces community.”

  “Why the secrecy?” Wyatt asked. “What’s the training for?”

  “Good question,” the Old Man said. “At Valor we identify at-risk youths who have the right mix of intelligence, talents, taste for danger, grit, and”—the Old Man paused and chose his next word carefully—“motivation…”

  Hallsy chimed in, “Meaning, what Valor offers you is a chance to get out of jail free. We want young boys and girls here who understand that failure is not an option. That’s what he means by motivation.”

  “Thank you, Hallsy,” said the Old Man. “Yes. We find people with the right mix of skills and motivation to become assets for the U.S. government. And then we train them to do that.”

  “Excuse me.” Wyatt suddenly felt timid. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Isn’t an asset like a”—Wyatt paused to think back to a hazy discussion of economics in middle-school Government class—“couch or your house or a financial instrument … or a bulldozer, isn’t that an asset?”

  “Yes, those are assets. But in our business, so is a spy, or an assassin, or an operator capable of carrying out varied assignments. Someone who, when trained and supported properly, can be of vital use to his or her country.”

  “An assassin?” Wyatt asked, involuntarily stepping back, heart rate rising. “You mean I’ll have to kill people?”

  “We didn’t say that.” The Old Man held up his hands in a mollifying gesture. “Not now.”

  “Then what will I be asked to do?” Wyatt could feel himself panicking, taking another step back.

  “You’ll do whatever we ask.” Hallsy leaned in and blocked the door.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the Old Man said. “Either of you.” He gave Wyatt and Hallsy pointed glances. “Sergeant Hallsy, why don’t you describe the summer program to Wyatt, to give him a little more idea of what to expect?”

  “Sure. The summer will be divided into three phases: Indoctrination, Live Learning, and Reality-Based Instruction and Practice, or RIP.

  “Phase One, Indoctrination, is exactly what it sounds like. It means we get you processed and indoctrinated into camp life. Because you were in solitary confinement, you missed Indoctrination.” Hallsy nodded in the direction of Avi’s lair. “Which is why Avi had his knickers in a twist.”

  “Yes, and you will have some catching up to do, but,” the Old Man said, “if you’re capable of learning at the rate we expect, that should not be a problem. We’ll get you indoctrinated while you are engaged in Phase Two.…”

  “Phase Two, or Live Learning,” Hallsy continued, “is when we begin to prepare you mentally and physically to operate while providing basic weapons and combat training along the way. It’s similar to basic training in the military but deeply accelerated, and we emphasize the learning component. We are not just ‘training’ you tactically but teaching you how to think like an operator.” Hallsy paused for emphasis. “We can teach you how to complete almost any task, but we want you to understand why and be able to solve problems on your own. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so,” Wyatt said. “It’s kind of like what my dad used to say, like the difference between teaching someone how to fish, not just how to eat.”

  Hallsy grinned. “Exactly. So that’s the Learning component. The ‘Live’ component refers to environment. First, we train you within the confines of the island and then we put you out in live environments where we begin to remove the safety nets. All the while, we will work hard to make this training safe, but make no mistake … we have lost campers.” Hallsy paused to let this sink in. “Live Learning starts tomorrow. Let me ask you a question. Wyatt, are you familiar with the SEAL BUD/S program? And the activities conducted during their Hell Week?”

  “I’m not even sure what BUD/S stands for,” Wyatt said, a little embarrassed. “Should I?”

  “BUD/S stands for Basic Underwater Demolition Training/SEAL,” the Old Man said. “And it’s better you don’t have a reference point. Suffice to say, our program is equally as challenging, perhaps more so. During our Hell Week, it’s likely your class will be reduced by half at least.”

  Wyatt shrugged, nonplussed. “No offense, sir. I just came from hell. It’s hard to imagine anything worse than what I just experienced.”

  Wyatt noticed the Old Man and Hallsy share a smirk. “Well,” Hallsy said. “Should be no problem for a tough guy like you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, if I gave the wrong impression,” Wyatt said as his mind flashed back to solitary confinement. “I didn’t mean to say I am tough. It’s just hard to imagine something more, well, hellish than what I just experienced. I’m never going back.”

  “Fair enough,” the Old Man nodded. “And if you perform, we’ll do everything we can to make sure you don’t go back. At Valor, we will challenge you, push you, and shape you. You will grow in infinitely more ways than you did in the CYDC. Or locked in a hole.” The Old Man went on, “Those experiences are meaningless. The suffering at Valor has purpose. Should you make it past Hell Week, you will be both stronger and more capable than you ever thought possible. And you will begin to form unbreakable bonds with your fellow Valorians.”

  Wyatt raised a hand. “What do you mean ‘make it’?”

  The Old Man looked at Hallsy. “Did you tell Wyatt about quitting?”

  “No,” Hallsy said. “Technically, you are only a candidate until you pass the Hell Week. As such, you are free to quit at any time. To quit, all you have to do is sound a horn and camp will end for you. You can do it anytime, even after Hell Week, though once campers make it through that, they rarely drop out. Like Navy SEALs, or any elite military training program, we only want people who want to be here—and want it as badly as we did.

  “Wait,” Wyatt said, “you were campers once? Both of you?”

  “Of course.” The Old Man smiled mischievously. “All of the instructors were.”

  Wyatt blurted out the question burning in his mind, “Does that mean both of you have been to jail?” Seeing their surprised reactions, he rephrased, “I mean,
were ever arrested or … in trouble?”

  Hallsy and the Old Man looked at each other. “The details of how we came to Valor are not relevant,” the Old Man said. “And they’re confidential. If you want to learn about us, the only way you can do so is by getting the proper security clearance that gives you access to that information. But for now, what’s critical to know is that we will never ask you to do something we haven’t done ourselves. Remember that, Wyatt. Because you will be asked to do some scary things.”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “And it all has a purpose,” the Old Man said. “All of your training ladders up to Phase Three: Reality-Based Instruction and Practice. Or RIP. This is when we teach you how to become an operator. We will give you high-level skills and tradecraft training and work to put it to action. You’ll learn key skills known only to members of Navy SEALs, DELTA, and the CIA. Should you be invited back next year, you would attend Group-B, learn higher skills, and the following summer, you’d move into Group-A.”

  “Group-A?” Wyatt said. “What is that?”

  “Group-A is where you want to be,” Hallsy said. “The As are almost entirely operational for the duration of the summer and the school year, meaning they run missions repeatedly and only return to Valor for brief rest, equipment fixes, and any training augmentation that can occur.”

  The Old Man added, “You may have noticed them with me earlier—the group that flew me in on the helicopter. Those were all members of Group-A, the most elite warriors we have here.”

  Wyatt recalled the bubble gum–chewing pilot who looked like she needed a stack of phone books to sit on to fly the chopper. The Old Man continued, “This summer, there are five As in total—three boys and two girls—and they are in constant rotation, usually deployed in small teams, almost always in RIP phase. As Hallsy mentioned, the goal of every camper here, and our goal as instructors, is to make sure you make it to Group-A. And we will show you why.” The Old Man nodded and Hallsy clicked the remote again.

  The screens in the Hot Room showed a map of the world becoming increasingly studded with red dots. Hallsy pointed to the screens. “The U.S. government and our allies track tens of thousands of potential plots daily: from terrorist cells to gangs to cyber-criminals to rogue nations. Occasionally, we identify a threat, or a target, or a questionable group.”

  The screen flashed to a shot of a high school with grainy surveillance footage showing two shadowy teenagers. One, a nerdy kid with a bag, meeting another student wearing a University of Michigan sweatshirt outside the school.

  “The kid with the bag is part of a cell we had tried to infiltrate. The kid with the University of Michigan shirt was from last year’s Group-A.” And then he added cryptically, “A very high performer.”

  The video was grainy security footage to begin with, but to Wyatt it seemed like a digital blur had been placed over the face of the boy with the U of M shirt. “Is the boy’s face intentionally blurred?” Wyatt asked.

  “Good observation,” the Old Man said. “Yes, that young man has moved on from Valor and is now fully operational with another three-letter agency. Once again, until you get clearance, we can’t show you his identity.”

  Wyatt nodded and kept watching. In the video, the halls are filled with students. The nerdy kid carrying the bag makes a move to remove something from it, and the other student strikes him lightning fast. So fast that no one sees. The nerdy kid appears to pass out and falls directly into the arms of the boy in the U of M sweatshirt, the boy who hit him, the boy from Group-A. Another student, a girl, comes up quickly and takes the bag. Her face wasn’t blurred and Wyatt immediately recognized her as the pilot. “She’s the pilot from earlier.”

  “Yes,” Hallsy said. “She was an A last year but did not graduate, so she’s back again.

  The girl sprints out of the school with the bag. The nerdy kid who had the bag originally is dragged toward an office, where Hallsy steps out, dressed like a teacher, and ushers them into a room, presumably for medical help. The door closes, and the screen cuts to a shot of the bag in a safe room. The camera angles into the bag. It’s filled with automatic weapons and hand grenades.

  “Notice the flawless execution. The teamwork,” Hallsy said. “None of the bystanders noticed the action. The three operators had removed the threat in a matter of seconds.”

  Wyatt marveled at the swiftness. It was true—no one in the crowded hallway was aware of what happened.

  The screen cut to black. “That was a simple mission,” Hallsy said, “but that event, had it continued,” Hallsy paused, “could have resulted in the death of dozens, maybe hundreds of students. But we stopped it, broke up the cell. And no one knows about it.” Hallsy looked straight at Wyatt. “Missions like those are why we are here.”

  “You see, Wyatt,” the Old Man joined in. “Some threats are simply better dealt with by one or a handful of teenagers, like the ones you see here, who are better suited than even well-trained adult operators or the police or the FBI. The techniques Valor uses are varied but extremely potent and, when executed seamlessly, effective. Sometimes, there are plots carried out by children and teenagers who operate under the radar in schools and colleges here and abroad, and the only way to get close to those kinds of targets is to become one of them. Other times, a cell or threat is comprised of adults, and the best way to infiltrate it is with a child who will not draw attention.”

  “And sometimes we’re just better,” Hallsy added. “Sometimes the best person for a job—period, regardless of age—is right here on this island.”

  The Old Man nodded. “Often the right solution is pairing resources with the proper attitude. Wyatt … we like rule breakers, people who, at an early age, think differently. The crazy ones who do things their own way. The ones who bend the world to them. That’s what we have here at Valor. That’s who we want.”

  “Sounds like criminals,” Wyatt blurted out.

  “Yes,” the Old Man smiled, “just like you, and perhaps most of us at Valor. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Hallsy?”

  Hallsy crossed his massive tattooed arms. “I’d say there’s an outlaw gene that runs in all of us.”

  * * *

  Before leaving the cave complex, Wyatt had been issued a rucksack, sleeping bag, emergency thermal blanket, wool sweater, tin plate, topographical map, fork, flashlight, matches, compass, basic toiletries, and water bottle. He slung the pack on his back and followed Hallsy out of the Caldera back toward base camp.

  Once again, they missed a meal, but Mum had been warned ahead of time, so she left foot-long submarine sandwiches with turkey, gravy, stuffing, and cranberry sauce all jammed into hero rolls. Hallsy slipped his sandwich into his own rucksack and when Wyatt did the same, Hallsy stopped him. “I can wait to eat. You can’t.”

  “I’m okay to wait,” Wyatt said.

  “No. It’s already lights out. You and the rest of the candidates are supposed to be in bed.”

  Wyatt unwrapped his dinner, and as quickly as he could without hurting his tooth, he ate the giant sandwich.

  “Hallsy,” Wyatt said as they headed toward the cabins. “Does my mother know I’m all right?”

  “She thinks you’re still in jail.… So you tell me, does she think you’re all right?”

  Wyatt didn’t answer. As they neared the cabins, he saw Dolly and Cass standing in the middle of the field with another boy, conferring. The boy looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, with jet-black hair and pale skin, and he watched Wyatt carefully as he and Hallsy made their way toward the cabins marked “C Boys” and “C Girls.”

  “Sergeant Hallsy, is that the last Group-C candidate?” the boy called out.

  “Yes. Why don’t you come get him settled,” Hallsy said, and the boy started jogging their way.

  Wyatt nodded at the boy and said to Hallsy, “I thought it was lights out.”

  “Dolly and Hud are the ‘Blues’ for Group C.”

  “What’s a ‘Blue’?”

  “A Blue is l
ike a team captain or an officer. Dolly is the Blue for the girls, and Hud—short for Hudson—is the Blue for the boys. They are your contemporaries and are part of the same group, but they attended a more junior program at Valor last year. So they know the ropes more or less. And we give them some extra privileges and responsibilities, like role call, which is why they’re still up. Most important, Blues are meant to help you—especially at first. When you start the summer, everyone needs help. Isn’t that right, Hud?” Hallsy asked as Hud came jogging up. “You are here to help?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course,” Hud said. Wyatt now noticed Hud had one green eye and one blue eye. They were wolf eyes and they narrowed in on Wyatt. “Follow me,” Hud said and set off toward the cabin. Wyatt walked next to Hud. Beyond him in the distance, he could see Dolly walking back to her cabin. She looked too beautiful for Valor.

  “Do you know what she did to get here?” Wyatt asked Hud when they were out of Hallsy’s earshot.

  Hud’s two-tone wolf eyes flashed at Wyatt. “That’s not something you ask. Not day one.” Hud’s eyes shifted down to the knife on Wyatt’s belt. “And it’s too early for that, too. You don’t deserve that until you make it through Hell Week and qualify.”

  “I didn’t ask for this. It was given to me.”

  “Exactly.” Hud strode up onto the porch and pushed the door open. The cabin had looked quiet from the outside but now Wyatt saw it was packed with bunks and teeming with activity. Only a quarter of the boys in the cabin were in their sleeping bags. The rest were hanging about.

  A big Middle Eastern kid was playing dice with a wiry, backwoods boy. The pale kid was shirtless, had white-blond hair, and had a tattoo of Kentucky on his right pec. A black kid, who looked like he could squat the entire cabin, was doing push-ups. And almost everyone was talking. Wyatt did not see an open bunk.

  “Where do I sleep?”

  “Floor,” Hud said and then shouted, “Listen up!” Hud walked toward the middle of the room and everyone quieted down, everyone except an Asian boy who appeared to be bragging to a pair of slack-jawed, scrawny twins.