Camp Valor

by Scott McEwen

“I am Lebanese,” Raquel said. “But I left several years ago. Now I live in Panama.”

  “Oh?” Pablo asked, curious. Panama was once a regular stop for Pablo.

  “Yes, my guardian works in the tech industry. He owns a Panamanian gaming company. They make what’s called ‘massively multiplayer’ video games. You know, like World of Tanks?”

  Pablo shook his head. “I’m not following.”

  “Massively multiplayer means games that lots of people can play at once, for free. Like millions in one game.”

  “For free?” Pablo asked, as if insulted. “How does your guardian make any money?”

  “Data … information,” Raquel said. “He learns things about the people who play his games. And then he uses that information to … well … make them pay.”

  “Much of technology confuses me. But what you are talking about sounds like good old-fashioned blackmail. That I can understand,” Pablo said, laughing.

  She shrugged and smiled demurely.

  “You said the company is from Panama, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Though it has been many years, in my youth, I traveled to Central America quite a bit. I didn’t know there were many start-ups in Panama.” He threw the word “start-up” in there like he used it all the time; he was feeling cool and hip and current. “You are a long way from Panama. What brings you to Monaco?”

  “I’m here with my guardian, who is here to settle an old business debt.”

  “Is your guardian from Panama?” Pablo asked.

  “No. I think he was born in Honduras, but he was raised in the U.S.”

  “Makes sense,” Pablo said, growing more curious. “How old is this guardian of yours? I did a little business myself in Honduras. I know it fairly well. And if I may flatter myself by saying, I was a pretty well-known businessman in the region.” Pablo straightened up, puffing his chest. “Perhaps I know him.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Raquel smiled. “You are so clearly a great man. And my guardian was a nobody. Here we are,” she said as the Maybach pulled up to the grand entrance of one of Monaco’s grandest hotels. A white-gloved bellman opened the door for Raquel. Pablo’s mind raced for an excuse to join her, to spend just a little more time with her, but then to Pablo’s surprise, the girl gave him an opening.

  “You seem very curious about my guardian. If you would like to meet him, you can come up into the hotel with me.” She stepped out of the car, teasing Pablo with her long, tan legs. “Maybe we can all have a bite to eat later.”

  “I would be honored,” Pablo said, grinning deeply, dentures gleaming as he strained to pull himself from the car.

  * * *

  They took a private elevator to the third floor. On the short ride up, Pablo stared at Raquel, crazily drawn to her. He could smell her perfume and her shampoo, and he imagined he could taste her lipstick, red and freshly applied. He could also smell the stale cigarette smoke Dimmy had breathed all over her. That mildly dampened the mood, but still Pablo salivated. Had there not been an elevator attendant—a zitty eighteen-year-old smirking in a starchy tuxedo and white gloves—Pablo might’ve hit the emergency stop button and attacked her right there.

  The doors opened to nearly complete darkness. Raquel stepped from the elevator, but Pablo hesitated. “Why so dark?”

  “My guardian is sensitive to light, so we blocked out all windows. And dimmed all other light.”

  “But what about the other guests on the floor?” Pablo peeked out. “Don’t they complain?”

  “We have booked the entire floor. So we can work. My guardian never stops working, and he brings a coterie of employees wherever he goes. And, like all game designers, the workers here stare at screens all day long, so they work in darkness. It’s very common. It makes it easier for them to see what is on screen.”

  Pablo blinked and he now could see faintly glowing screens dotting the cavelike hallway. “Not the job for me,” Pablo joked.

  Raquel laughed, and slipped her hand into Pablo’s. “Come with me. Don’t worry, your eyes will adjust.”

  They stepped off the elevator into darkness, which became even darker as the elevator doors closed. Pablo’s eyes strained to see but were slow to adjust. Temporarily blinded, he felt a twinge of fear, perhaps for the first time since he was a young child. He pulled back on the girl’s hand, legs wobbling slightly.

  “Are you okay?” Raquel asked.

  Suddenly Pablo felt old, very old. “Yes, but I cannot see.”

  “How about now?” A light cut through the darkness. The girl’s cell phone. She took his hand again and they moved deeper into the space. Doors to the suites on each side of the hallway were open. Thick black plastic was taped over the windows, and cheap cubicles were set up like honeycombs inside the luxurious suites. Hundreds of people seemed to occupy the floor, typing. The rhythmic clacking of keys sounded like chewing, like thousands of creatures feeding in the darkness.

  The employees were not the kind of people Pablo was accustomed to in Monaco. Gone were expensive suits and skimpy dresses and the occasional Hawaiian shirt donned by some boneheaded tourist. All around Pablo were pale boys and girls, covered in tattoos and piercings, sporting hairstyles that looked like they belonged on insane vagrants, not on the heads of young men and women. The rooms and hallways smelled sour, like the floor, and everyone on it, could use a power washing. All the employees wore the same black hoodie with GLOWWORM GAMING INC written on the back in glow-in-the-dark lettering.

  “There are more people in here than I expected,” Pablo said. “You said all of these people are in your guardian’s employ?”

  “Yes. But you should see the headquarters back in Panama,” Raquel said. “We have an entire building, like a skyscraper.”

  “It must be very difficult for your guardian to travel.”

  “It is. He has a 747 to transport him, and getting to and from airports without exposing him to light is a challenge. So he rarely leaves Panama. He will only do it if he feels he must.”

  “You said he was here for a business debt. Must be a big one.”

  “Yes, a very big one. An old debt. One of his earliest.”

  Raquel led Pablo to the largest suite on the floor—the double doors leading into it were tented in red velvet to provide extra protection from light. As they pushed through the velvet curtains Pablo identified the source of the sour, rotting stench. The suite was hot and reeked like a cross between an armpit and a butcher shop. Pablo felt like he was being swallowed by a dying creature.

  As they entered, something in the back shuddered and scurried.

  “My eyes! Cut off the light!” a voice rasped with a hint of a Honduran accent and a strange slurp.

  Raquel retracted the curtains and shut off her phone. Nearly complete darkness subsumed them.

  Pablo blinked. Straining again to see large computer screens across the room, their luminescence set so low they looked like blocks of ash against charcoal. The luxurious bed and other furniture had been pushed to the side of the suite to make room for the computer gear. Black garbage bags had been stapled to the windows and then covered again by velvet.

  “Better,” the voice said from behind a high-backed office chair that was silhouetted by the dim light of the screens. “Is that you, Raquel? You should know better.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have someone who’d like to meet you. He lives here in Monaco but he knows Honduras well.”

  “Oh, how nice,” the slurping voice said. “I wonder if I know him.”

  “Actually,” Pablo coughed. “I don’t think it’s likely.”

  “Well, let me be the judge of that,” the voice said as an ergonomic chair began to turn. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  July 2017

  Camp Valor

  After completing the obstacle course, the twelve remaining Group-C candidates ran up the steep bank of the Caldera on a jog that would leave the Sugar Bowl and continue down to the d
ock, followed by a swim to Flint Rock and back.

  They’d just eaten lunch an hour prior. The sun hung high and hot. Wyatt and Dolly jockeyed for the second and third spots near the front of the pack, Samy kept pace not far behind, and Hud, naturally, had the lead. Coming in second or third was getting old for Wyatt. He had just logged his best time on the obstacle course and was damn proud of it. But he was still seven seconds slower than Hud that day, and it wasn’t even Hud’s best time. First on a swim, first on a run, first to pop up from the endless up-downs. Hud took to the shooting range like Chris Kyle, the legendary Navy SEAL sniper. When they wrestled, Hud dominated. He even chopped wood better than anyone else, banging out clean, crisp billets. Wyatt had to grudgingly admit, the bastard was good. Surly and arrogant. But good. Damn good.

  Even though he was the Group-C Blue, Hud was not entirely Machiavellian in his quest for survival at Valor. Sure, he’d wanted Samy to wash out early to make it easier for the group, but now, almost a month later, Wyatt had seen enough kindness in Hud to at least leave him confused. Sometimes he was a total jerk and other times he was, well, a hero. Witness the Log Challenge.

  Each member of Group-C was supposed to drag a 150-pound log from the beach to the rim of the Caldera. For many, to complete this feat alone was not just hard but simply impossible. After all, the log outweighed over half of those in Group-C, including all the girls. But that was the point. The instructors at Valor wanted to make it impossible for most candidates to complete the challenge alone.

  The twelve lined up, staring down at the logs, each of which had a name carved into the trunk.

  Hallsy paced along the sandy beach. “The first candidate to reach the top of the Caldera will be given a full day of rest, the second will be given the afternoon off, and the third will be given an ax during Hell Week. The rest of you will spend the remainder of the day in PT. The last person to carry their log across the line will do an additional three hours of PT after lights out.”

  No one groaned, but all twelve candidates slumped a little. Not an easy day ahead for eleven of them, and for the twelfth, it would be a day and a night of hell. And to earn rest would require an exertion that only the strongest could push out. The prospect of rest was vastly more appealing than anything that Valor could have offered the Group-C candidates. A day or even a half day to recuperate was akin to collecting health tokens in a video game—a chance to fight longer.

  And then Hallsy stuck the knife in deep and twisted it. “There will be one final challenge. This event will be timed. Anyone who fails to complete the challenge in under three and a half hours will be washed out. The event begins now.” Hallsy drew his pistol from its hostler and unloosed a round into the air.

  The strongest candidates in terms of pure brute strength—Samy, Ebbie, and Hud—sprinted forward, tipping up the logs so they could get partially underneath them, and began dragging them uphill.

  “Hud,” Dolly said as she tried to drag the log. “I’m not going to make it. I need your help.”

  Hud, who was already fifty yards along, called back, “Soon as I get to the top, I’ll come back for you.”

  Wyatt considered this. If there ever was a Group-C candidate who’d want to get all the benefit for himself it was Hud. Still, for Hud, Dolly mattered, perhaps more than himself. Even though dating was not allowed at Valor, Wyatt had heard that Hud and Dolly had had a relationship the previous summer. Dolly had cut it off, but Hud, clearly, was still in love. Hud now surged forward with renewed vigor.

  Wyatt was able to get his log moving, but would be hard pressed to make the two-hour cutoff. To reach the top of the Caldera under normal circumstances took at least a half hour at a slow jog. With the log in tow, it would be close. And one look at Rory told Wyatt that the event would likely wipe out most of the class. And certainly most of the girls.

  Rory, the smallest and lithest in the group, wrapped her arms around the truck and pulled with every ounce of pressure her sinewy frame could exert. The log didn’t even shiver. She tried again and again. No dice. She put her hands on her hips and just stared at the impossibility of what had been asked of her. “There’s no way. I’m done.” It wasn’t that she was too tired or weak or lacked will. It was just impossible.

  Wyatt dropped his log and ran back to Rory. “If we are all going to make it, we’ve got to divide up.” And then Wyatt realized something. “And the strongest need to be paired with the weakest. Dolly, you need to get Hud. He will only listen to you.”

  “He’s going to come back for me,” Dolly said, though Wyatt sensed a hair of doubt. “Not everyone is going to make it, Wyatt. That’s the way it works here.”

  “No. It’s not,” Wyatt said. “You’re missing it. Yes, Hud will be able to drop off his log and come back to save you—but that’s not what the challenge is about. It’s not about passing a few strong candidates on their own. Think about it—there are twelve of us. We have three and a half hours. If we break into groups of three, we can bring four logs up at a time. That’s three trips—one and a half hours up and back for the first two, and one hour for the last run. They want us to make it, they just want us to do it together.”

  Dolly stared at Wyatt, processing, but she took no action. He urged her. “There’s no time to waste. Get him now.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to convince Hud. Meanwhile, the weakest should catch up with the strongest, who are already making progress. Rory, you come with me. We’ll pair you with Hud. Kat, you go with Ebbie. Emmerson”—Dolly turned to a tall but soft California surfer—“you go with Samy. And Wyatt—”

  Wyatt knew who was left, the Amazonian huntress, Annika, and scrawny Kentucky boy Sanders. “I got it.” Wyatt nodded and moved to find the others.

  And like that, they divided and raced into action.

  Fortunately for the group, Hud not only saw the logic and listened to Dolly, but once they had divided up and decided everyone was going to make it under three and a half hours, he threw himself into the task with astonishing single-minded intensity.

  Hud had already made it halfway up the Caldera on his own by the time Dolly and Rory caught up to him. He, Rory, and Dolly raced back so quickly that they were actually able to lap Wyatt’s team on their second trek up the mountain. On the third run, Wyatt realized that his team was so far behind that unless they started jogging, there was no way the log was reaching the top. To make matters worse, the last log they carried had his name carved into it.

  Sanders didn’t mince words: “Wyatt, we’re goin’ as fast as we can, but I’m not sure if we’re gonna get you there.”

  “Just keep moving,” Wyatt said. “We’ll get there.”

  By the time Wyatt, Sanders, and Annika were dragging his log toward the finish line, Wyatt could see he was the only one of the twelve campers who had not gotten his log to the top of the Caldera. He had five minutes to get the log up ten minutes of hill or he’d be washed out. And all three campers were completely wiped out. Nothing left in the tank.

  “Run!” Hud came from out of nowhere and bounded back down the hill toward them. He took position at the rear of the log and Wyatt felt half the weight lift.

  “Let’s finish this,” Hud said, and Wyatt, Sanders, and Annika pumped their legs and raced forward as fast as they could until they tumbled across the finish line with one minute to spare.

  Wyatt, Sanders, Annika, and Hud lay on the ground, gasping. Hud pushed himself up, his arms and legs bleeding. Take a rest, show-off, Wyatt thought to himself.

  “Good work, team.” Hallsy came over, clapping. “There is only one log left. Only one of you might not make it.”

  “But I’m over the line!” Wyatt yelled. It was bad enough that he, who had just finished last, would have to do PT for three hours after dinner, but now he was being challenged on completing the event. He pointed to the end of his log, a good eighteen inches beyond the finish line marker. “My log is clearly beyond. Whatever—” Wyatt said, pulling himself up. “I’ll pull it further.”
r />   “Not your log,” Hallsy said.

  Wyatt was confused. Then he saw Hud limping back down the hill. Wyatt’s mind spun. He had counted eleven candidates on the top of the Caldera, including himself. Everyone was on the top. Who was Hud going after?

  Then Wyatt put it together. To the side of the path, out of view of the rest of the candidates, was the last remaining log, the only one to not cross over the finish line—Hud’s. Hud had not taken his log over the finish line, and Wyatt immediately knew why. He was the strongest. Of all twelve, he was the one who could handle the extra PT.

  The group watched as a bloody, raw, dirty Hud dragged his 150-pound log alone, crossing the finish line with ten seconds to spare.

  * * *

  Looking back on this a couple weeks later while jogging next to Wyatt, Samy shrugged off Hud’s heroic effort. “Don’t fall for it. Guy is just brown-nosing. He’s trying to un-douche himself. To wash off the taint for what he did to me. Plus, did you see how Dolly looked at him at the end of the log haul? He was just looking to impress.”

  Wyatt had in fact noticed Dolly staring admiringly at Hud after the log event, but he wasn’t so sure Samy’s read was right. Certainly Hud was trying to atone for prior ruthlessness and wanted to look good for Dolly, but who didn’t? All the guys at Valor secretly wanted to impress her. Wyatt included. She had that mix of beautiful and indifferent that guys always fell for. The beautiful part really being the key ingredient in the love potion. But still Wyatt thought he saw something else in the Log Challenge. Wyatt liked to believe that maybe Hud was changing.

  They all were changing, and the skills and strengths they brought to Valor were becoming clearer. For example, Samy was not yet a “good” swimmer, for sure, but a few weeks in and he had become a rising star, one of the strongest candidates. For such a large, rangy dude, Samy performed well on the obstacle course and on jogs. Anything that required strength was a breeze for him. Swimming was still his weakest physical activity, but he had improved dramatically after he’d been taught how to swim. Samy consistently beat Wyatt when wrestling and grappling, but he also had Wyatt by about forty pounds. On the range, he wasn’t a bad shot. And, of course, there were skills that would become valuable later on that didn’t matter in PT. For example, Samy was the son of an Afghani interpreter and a Palestinian mother. He spoke English, Arabic, Pashtu, and Urdu, and claimed to speak Spanish, but there was no proof other than that he looked vaguely Latino.