by Robert Cook
A slight roll stretched the dress at the waistline, which flared into substantial hips. Her lower legs appeared to be her best feature, showing slim calves and ankles beneath her hem. She held his hand as they were introduced, being obvious about her slow gaze from his face down across his shoulders and chest, pausing for a second at his groin and then moving down his legs. He felt his face flush and the blood began to rush to his groin.
“You call this a little brother, Elena? I think he is absolutely gorgeous. I can’t believe he is only seventeen, and already a marine.” She reached and squeezed his bicep, moving closer. Her touch felt strangely hot. He could smell cheap perfume and stale cigarettes on her breath.
“It’s nice to meet you, Linda. I don’t want to interrupt your talk with Elena, and I gotta go inside and get dressed for dinner,” Alex stammered, his face flushed purple, as he stepped back from her touch. He saw her eyes drop to his crotch, then widen as she saw his newly stretched and tented shorts.
He walked quickly—almost ran—into the house and up the stairs to his room. He closed the door and spun the flimsy key in the lock, then grabbed some tissues and pulled off his shorts, his erection almost painful. He wrapped his fist around it and began to pump furiously. After a few moments, as his erection slowly drooped and his pulse began to drop, he slumped back onto the bed, spent and depressed. He thought that he and Eric Magnusson were the only two guys in his platoon at boot camp who had never been laid—and he wasn’t sure about Eric.
Linda was laughing as she sat back down on the swing beside Elena. “That’s some little brother you have there, Elena. I can’t believe he is only seventeen!”
“He’s a good kid,” Elena said. “Now we just need to make sure that some scheming woman doesn’t decide she wants a cute marine for a husband, and goes after that the old-fashioned way. Mom’s a bit worried about that too. Alex is pretty naïve, or he was when he left here a few months ago.”
“He just needs to spend some time with an experienced woman, teaching him the ropes,” Linda said with a slight smile. “Maybe it will be easier for him to avoid that kind of trap, when life is not such a mystery.”
“Oh no,” Elena said. “You keep your claws off my little brother!”
“Hey, no problem,” Linda said with a shrug. “He’s a bit young for me that way, but I could use some muscle to help me do some things around the house while I have time off from work. Alex appears to have plenty of muscle, and can probably use the money.”
Linda glanced at her watch, then stood up from the swing and said, “Gotta run, my sweet. My ex will have the kids back in a few minutes. He’s taking them to Myrtle Beach for two weeks tomorrow, and I have to get them ready. The cheap shit never took me to the beach for even a week.” She hurried down the steps to her car, and called over her shoulder, “See you soon.”
Audley
DINNER was a great change from “dining” at the Farm. His mom had made stuffed pork chops, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and a pecan pie for dessert. They drank the wine Alex brought, and talked long into the evening. He showed his father the Quran that Abu Kufdani had sent, and all admired the quality of the ancient binding. They talked of Christ and God, and about Mohammed and Allah.
When Alex and Mick were alone later, sipping on the port Alex had brought, Mick said quietly, “Are you working for MacMillan now?”
Alex nodded, a little uncomfortable with where this discussion might go.
“That figures, I guess. Your hair is a little too long for the corps. ‘Nuff said about that. Maybe it’s good,” Mick said with a whimsical grin. “That bunch has always been nuts about security. The good news is that they spend so much money training their people that they hate to lose them; it’s hard for them to make their numbers work if they lose too many expensively trained workers. That makes working for them a bit safer than being a gunny in a line combat unit. Even if I’m just a cynic, there is no downside to that view for you and for me. I imagine you’ll find time to read and study as well; use it.”
“I’ve heard that training-cost argument, and I’ve already been reading and studying a bit. More to come, I hope.” Alex said, as he leaned forward in his chair. “You’re still a legend in the corps, Pop. Your name is on every glory wall I saw at Parris Island. Any advice for me? Anything you’ve learned that would give me an edge? What does a marine with the Medal have to tell his son about combat and life?”
“There are a few simple rules I think you should follow,” Mick said quietly. “Some may not make sense for a while.” He raised his right hand and extended three fingers, then folded the first one down and said, “The most important rule is ARF, always retaliate first. Don’t hesitate and wait for the bad guy to start the fight. End it before it starts, and err on the side of being too violent.”
Mick folded the second finger down and said, “When you’re in combat, everyone on the other side is the enemy. If they brought their women and kids to the battlefield, they’ve made them the enemy. Kill them all, first chance. The first corollary to the Kill Them All rule is don’t leave witnesses behind. If witnesses don’t shoot you in the back, they’ll find a way to make your life miserable by talking to others.”
The third finger folded down, Mick said, “Finally, be ready mentally and physically. Work at it. Be better, stronger, faster, and nastier than anyone else.”
Alex looked a little troubled as he considered his father’s words, then shrugged and nodded. He’d think more about it later. “Tell me a little more, Pop. Be a little more specific, with maybe some examples.”
“It all sounds a little harsh, I guess. Most of us who have that little blue ribbon with the five white stars are dead, but I’m not yet, so I looked into things a little by reading a lot to supplement what I learned in the corps. I’ve had a lot of time to do that, unfortunately. I’ve learned that wars have been going on for a few thousand years to no good effect, except to protect those at home from some real or imagined threat.
“On the imagined threat, I’ve learned that some number of politicians everywhere tend to feather their own nests on the bodies of patriots. I’ve searched desperately for a better political system than ours and found none, as Churchill predicted. But what does one do with all of that philosophical bullshit that tends to send kids off to get killed to get an extra few votes or the favor of their leaders, and then ties the kids’ hands with rules of engagement that the bleeding hearts demand? I’d say be careful when dealing with politicians, and avoid them when you can. Do your job quietly and well, and of course, never volunteer. A lot of what combat troops do is worthwhile for our society, so it has to be done—and right now. Other times the reason for the combat is stupid. You don’t get to make that decision. That’s the way our systems works, but I think my few rules add to the chances for your survival and for your buddies too.”
Mick shifted a bit in his chair and looked off into space for a while, then said, “Anyway, back to thinking and expanding a little on the three rules. When you’re out there in the middle of a firefight, there is no time to ponder a philosophy of life. You must have made up your mind, long before the first shot is fired, what you are willing to do, and why. Then just do it. A half-second hesitation on coming back on the trigger or driving a knife home can be fatal to you—or maybe worse—make you responsible for getting your buddies killed. That’s the easy part.
“I think the hardest thing is dealing with civilians in a combat op; you hesitate to kill a kid who may be a threat, and then he pops a grenade or blows himself up and your whole crew with him. Civilians are part of the problem, and they shouldn’t be there maybe, but civilians get killed in every war. If they are there and with the defined targets, they’re targets; there is no time to sort out the good from the bad. Don’t let anyone stab or shoot your back—kill them all. Kill them all before they can kill you. The bleeding hearts here who worry about civilians and how nice we should be to them have never been shot at by a kid or a woman—or lost a son to them.
“And always be in the best physical shape you can be. Exceed your own expectations. Physical exhaustion can kill you by forcing bad decisions in that draining, panting fog. Be sharp, alert, and able to function; that takes preparation and forethought. If you have to sprint for a hundred yards, then drop and shoot, you should not be out of breath and unable to function, but that’s not a decision you can make at that moment. You have to be physically ready, early and always. There are times when you need to be able to kill with your hands or using other physical skills, but if you can shoot or knife a bad guy, don’t punch him or do a cute spin move and kick his head in. He probably has a buddy a half-second away who will kill you while you’re sucking your bleeding knuckles instead of spinning with the slack out of your trigger to search for him, the next one. MacMillan will make sure you learn and use the mental preparation needed, I’d imagine. He was a helluva warrior.
“In Vietnam, the NVA and the VC would sometimes cut off the balls of a captured GI, stuff them in his mouth, and let him choke to death on them, then drop him where he’d be found,” Mick continued. “It wasn’t to punish him, I’d guess, but probably done on an order to send a fear message to their enemy—to make him less effective. That cruelty had a political purpose, and that is the kind of thinking you will face from the other side. They won’t hesitate to march an army of kids in front of them in an assault, or to clear a minefield the hard way with them if they’ll gain an advantage from your unwillingness to shoot a child or a woman.”
“Jeez, Dad!” Alex said. “That’s tough to think about. What the heck?”
Mick shifted in his chair and grimaced a little. “I guess I’m saying the nobility concept is bullshit when things are busy and lethal. Don’t be noble in combat; the enemy will take advantage of you if they find that most of what you worry about is this concept of nobility. Figure it out before you get dead, sort of by accident, while you worry about the meaning of life for the innocent women and children in the combat zone, as folks are shooting at you. Think things through. Survive. Kill the enemy efficiently and without conscience. You should also never brag or fess up to anything; keeping your mouth shut is almost always the best way to act. If there are no witnesses to a situation, tell the simple lie that works best. But don’t confuse a combat op with politics, and avoid politicians.”
Mick and Alex were both silent for a while. Finally Mick said, “I guess that’s the big picture the way I see it after all of this time. You’ll have to figure things out as they happen.”
Alex nodded, considering.
“I’m fading,” Mick said. “Think about what I say. We’ll talk again sometime, maybe, about all of this. Right now it’s enough that you love me and I love you, son.” He spun his wheelchair and pushed off to his room.
Audley
Dawn
ALEX awoke at 0500 from force of habit. There was only a hint of dawn in the sky, and not even the birds were awake. There was no sound in the house when he went into the kitchen, drank a quart of milk from the refrigerator, tossed the carton into the trash, and walked into the street, wearing his running shoes, an old red and gold marine corps T-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and back, and the gray cotton workout shorts—this time with a jock under them.
He started out at the six-minute-mile pace that he had been using every day for more than four months. At first he looked around the neighborhood, trying to figure out what was different than when he left, almost a year ago. When he came up with the answer—not much—he let his mind begin to wander. He reflected a little on what he had learned at the Farm, so much disciplined violence and so much skill training, all so he could do a good job at killing people for Uncle Sam. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to stay with this life for too long, but had no idea how he would get out of it or what he wanted to do. Mac had told him he could have an appointment to any of the service academies, because his dad had the Medal, but he didn’t think he’d do too well in the academic structure of a service academy, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be an officer.
He let his mind wander to Linda, and the way she looked. The fact that she was fat turned him off a little, and he thought she wore too much makeup. He also thought that he did not give a rat’s ass about any of that; he was clearly going to work his butt off to see if she would let him bang her brains out, however you did that. He thought for some reason that she might. He thought for a while as he ran about her enormous boobs and then about her big butt, and planned his approach to convince her to sleep with him. It did not occur to him to think about whether he or Linda would be in control of the tactical situation.
After an hour of steady running, Alex moved smoothly down the street toward his family’s house. His cropped hair was matted wet against his head, his shirt soaked, and the shorts streaked with sweat. He felt good. He was thinking about where he could find a decent place to work out when it occurred to him that the gym at the high school was pretty good, and that Coach Webb might arrange for him to use it. He picked up his pace and turned at the big sycamore on the corner, away from his home, hoping to catch the coach before school. It was only a couple of miles; he should be there by six thirty at the latest.
The school hadn’t changed much either, Alex noticed as he slowed near the door to the gym. The door was ajar, and he went inside. He could hear coming from the weight room the distinctive clang of a weight stack coming together. The coach was just standing up from the seat on the lat pull-down machine when he looked up and saw Alex walk in.
“Can I help you, son?” he said. Alex looked at him and grinned. “Well, if ain’t Alex Cuchulain,” Webb said in amazement. “I thought you were off in the marine corps or something. You’re looking good, though; put on a little weight, it looks like. Been working out? Doing any wrestling?”
“I’m just here on leave for two weeks, Coach,” Alex said. “I’ve been doing some working out, but haven’t done any wrestling for four months or so. I did a little in Parris Island and got to like it a lot—you were right about that. I thought maybe you’d let me use the gym while I’m home, for old time’s sake.”
“Sure, Cuchulain, no problem. I’ll be done here in ten or fifteen minutes, and then I’ll spot for you. How much time do you need?”
Alex thought for a second and looked around the room at the equipment. “I guess about forty minutes,” he said.
“I don’t have a class until ten. Do you wanna wrestle a few falls when you’re done?” The coach grinned. “I’ll take it easy on you. I just want to find out if you learned anything about wrestling from those jarheads. What do you weigh now, about one eighty? I’m about one seventy-two or so.”
“Coach, I got some real bad news for you,” Alex said mockingly in a semi-stern voice, “I’m about two hundred oh two right now, and the man don’t live that can give me thirty pounds on a wrestling mat and think about winning even a single fall. You being an old man and all, I would have taken it a little bit easy on you, but you’ve disparaged the image of the United States Marine Corps, and I’m gonna have to punish you a little.”
Webb grinned at him. “Well, you just get your blocks or something, sonny, while I finish up here. I will then give you a hand with your puny weights prior to commencing wrestling classes for the United States Marine Corps’ finest.”
Cuchulain walked to the pull-up bar, reached up, and hung for a minute or so, twisting this way and that, stretching his lats and back. He then started to pull himself up slowly until his chin was over the bar, and then lowered himself even more slowly until his arms were again fully extended. The next repetition was pulled until the back of his neck touched, and again lowered slowly. After each set of two, Alex moved his hands a little wider on the bar. When his hands were three feet or so apart, he began to move them slowly back together with each set.
The coach watched in awe as he went over thirty repetitions, still showing no sign of strain or stress in his face. He knew he was probably watching the strongest person he had
ever met. He was sick with the thought of how much ass Audley High School could have kicked if he had been able to keep Cuchulain. He was also beginning to suspect that he had his work cut out for him on the mat.
Later, they worked Cuchulain quickly through the weights, each exercise a casual demonstration that Webb was witnessing a rare physical phenomenon. There was no way that a two-hundred-pound man should be able to lift this much weight, Webb thought, let alone a seventeen-year-old kid.
They walked from the weight room to the wrestling mat in the corner of the gym. “You take the top first, Coach,” Cuchulain said, and Webb went to his hands and knees with Alex beside him. When the coach said “Go!” Cuchulain vanished under him in the wrestling move known as a switch, spinning fast to the right under Webb to reach behind his right shoulder and under with his right hand, getting his palm on the back of Webb’s left inner thigh, with his long fingers reaching across the hamstring. He squeezed hard, and with his back arched, leaned against the grip as he ran on his heels to get behind Webb, at the same time forcing the coach’s shoulder to the mat with the leverage. When he was behind, he drove his arm between Webb’s leg and grabbed his right bicep near the shoulder, squeezed to immobilize it, then rolled him up and over until his shoulders were flat upon the mat. His body weight kept Webb there as he struggled, and then relaxed in submission.
After the first pin, Cuchulain allowed the pace to slow, working at whatever level the coach chose. Webb was amazed at how much Cuchulain had learned about wrestling over the past year. He knew someone had been teaching him, because moves like Cuchulain did not come instinctively. As they worked, the coach found himself enjoying wrestling for the first time in a long time. He was also miserable, because he didn’t think there was a college wrestler in the East who could touch Cuchulain at his weight, and he would only be a junior at Audley! Twenty minutes later he called it off, exhausted, but content. Cuchulain was on his knees, relaxed, drenched with sweat, but breathing normally.