Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  A start of a smile flickered to Donlon’s lips, then was scotched before it could form.

  “I know I’ve been out of the loop for a long time,” Alex said. “And I know I’m worse off than I was when I came here as a shit-green kid in sixty-nine. What you don’t know is that I don’t want to be here. And I sure as hell don’t want to be working for those clowns in CIA any more than you do.”

  “Then why are you here?” Donlon snapped. “Your brethren at Langley didn’t bother to explain.” He offered Alex a cold stare. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you can’t either.”

  “I’m here because I want to kill somebody, Colonel. And the man I want to kill murdered my wife ten years ago. And he hasn’t been out of the loop all these years. He’s been practicing. And he was better at it than I ever was to start with.” Alex offered a cold smile. “So if you can help me, I’d appreciate it. But don’t stick your CIA hard-on up my ass. It doesn’t belong there.”

  Donlon sat back and shook his head. “So CIA sends an out-of-shape college professor to hit a working pro, while I sit here with a few hundred trained killers who could do the job and be back home having a beer in forty-eight hours.” He tapped his fingers on Alex’s folder. “You want it, Moran. You got it.” He reached out and pressed an intercom button on his desk. “Send Gunderson in here,” he snapped.

  The door opened within seconds, and a sergeant who looked like an NFL linebacker marched in, snapped to attention, then fell to parade rest.

  “At ease, Sergeant,” Dolon ordered. He jabbed a finger toward Alex, and the sergeant turned and stared at him. He was not the kindest or friendliest man Alex had ever seen.

  “This is Mr. Moran, Sergeant,” Donlon said. He handed Gunderson a sheaf of bound papers. “And this is the course of instruction I want him to follow.” Donlon allowed himself his first real smile of the interview. He directed it solely at Gunderson. “And he doesn’t like being called asshole,” he added.

  “Sir, I wouldn’t think of calling this asshole an asshole,” Gunderson said.

  “Good,” Donlon snapped. “Now, work him.”

  Alex got his gear from the quartermaster and lugged it back to an otherwise empty barracks normally reserved for special trainees. It was a long, narrow, single-story building graced only with individual metal-framed bunks, footlockers, and metal clothes cabinets lined along each wall.

  When he had stowed his gear, he sat on the edge of the bed he had chosen, and waited for the next shoe to drop. It took about thirty seconds, then the door opened and Gunderson, dressed now in battle fatigues and “Green Beanie,” as the distinctive berets were termed, walked smartly across the immaculate painted floor and stopped before his bunk. Alex remained seated.

  Gunderson stared at him, from what seemed, to Alex, a great height.

  The man was easily six-foot-four and filled out his fatigues with what had to be 235 pounds of lean, hard muscle. There was a jagged scar on his exposed left forearm and another along the side of his neck. His eyes were a cold gray, and his nearly shaved head bristled along the sides of the beret. Alex stared at the beret’s flash above Gunderson’s left eye, and noted it marked him as a member of 1st Special Forces Group out of Okinawa. He had obviously been recently returned to Bragg himself.

  Gunderson smiled at him with uneven, nicotine-stained teeth. His head was square, almost box-like, and the smile made it look like a death’s head.

  “As far as I know, Mister Moran, we are not related,” he began, his voice almost soft. “I will therefore not be giving you the normal treatment I reserve for members of my family.” His voice changed to a roar. “So get your fucking ass off that bunk and snap to. Now!”

  Alex jumped up, the psychology of where he was and what was in store for him kicking in. He felt immediately foolish, but snapped to attention and held it.

  Gunderson’s voice turned soft again. It was an almost mocking lilt. “Now, if you would be kind enough to change your clothing to full battle dress, complete with unloaded AR-15, I would appreciate it if you would meet me outside in thirty seconds.” His gray eyes practically glittered. “There we will begin a four-mile run through the lovely North Carolina countryside, so I can evaluate”—again his voice changed, this time to sneering growl—“just what kind of overaged, fucking inept piece of shit I have to deal with.” He paused a beat, then snapped: “Do it!” and turned smartly and marched out of the building.

  Alex joined him four and a half minutes later, dressed in full battle gear, his AR-15 held at port arms. Denied the Green Beret he had earned twenty years earlier, he was wearing a camouflage jungle hat.

  “You are very slow, Mister Moran,” Gunderson said. “When I come for you at oh-five hundred tomorrow morning, I do not intend to be kept waiting. I want you to be out here, having taken your full ration of Geritol, and ready for a fun day in the sun. Is that fully understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Moran snapped out.

  “That is outstanding, Mister Moran,” Gunderson said. “Now, if you are sure you are ready, we will begin our run. You will keep up with me, or you will die trying, Mister Moran. If you die, or appear to have died, I will leave you where you fall. Unplanned death is not on your training schedule, so please try to avoid it. It would definitely put an unfavorable mark on my record. And I very much want to avoid that.”

  “I will do my best not to die, Sergeant,” Alex said.

  “I would greatly appreciate that, Mister Moran,” Gunderson said. “Everyone here would be greatly disappointed in me if you did.” He smiled, his eyes narrowing to almost a squint. “Now, if you are ready, we will begin.” With that he turned and began a slow, steady run, and Alex scrambled forward and fell in on his right rear.

  Alex, despite his exercise regimen, had never included jogging in his daily routine. He hated running, and had always regarded those who did it as mindless fanatics. He looked upon the emaciated bodies they struggled to achieve with disdain, telling himself they all looked like recent escapees from autopsy tables.

  They ran steadily, the North Carolina sun beating down and quickly producing a heavy coating of sweat that soaked through clothing, and seemed to carry an airborne filth that coated the body with grime. Alex handled the first mile with a reasonable, tolerable discomfort. The pain began in the second mile, and before it was half over, the heavy jump boots he wore had begun to feel like lead weights strapped to his already hurting feet.

  “You are breathing very hard, Mister Moran,” Gunderson observed without looking back at him. “I see from your file that you’re a straight leg, and therefore have not had the benefit of the excellent conditioning they provide at Fort Benning.”

  “I did my jump training first time around, Sergeant,” Alex wheezed.

  “Oh, I’m aware of that, Mister Moran. But I’m not interested in what you did twenty years ago. And that includes getting your cock sucked by some teenage, mutant cheerleader in the backseat of your car. In fact, you sound like you’re doing that right now, with all that heavy breathing. Is this little run arousing you, Mister Moran?”

  “Yes, it is, Sergeant,” Alex wheezed. “I’m feeling very erect.”

  “Well, be careful, Mister Moran. We wouldn’t want you to fall and impale some innocent forest creature.”

  They continued on, with Alex growing more certain with each stride that Gunderson had mapped out a course that included every hill North Carolina could provide. By the third mile he felt as though he would vomit, and before it was over, he was afraid he would not. The ugly black AR-15 he still carried at port arms, diagonally across his chest, had begun to weigh thirty pounds, and his shoulders and arms were fighting with his back and legs and neck to see which could provide more concentrated pain.

  They turned down a narrow but well-used trail that led back to the camp, and a four-foot snake slithered across the path in front of them. Gunderson simply stomped on the reptile and continued on, leaving the snake writhing and thrashing on the ground. Alex gave it w
ide berth, staggering slightly as he moved to avoid it. The snake was thick-bodied and a mottled brown color, and he wasn’t certain what kind it was. But as the snake snapped its head toward its injured body, he was certain he could see two small fangs in its open mouth.

  “Shit,” he muttered, forcing his pace to regain the ground he had lost avoiding the snake.

  Gunderson pulled to a stop before a small square cinder-block building with black painted windows, and Alex fought to stay erect against the cramping muscles in his stomach. The run would be a daily routine, he told himself, and he would have to live with it every morning until his body adjusted. You can survive that, he told himself. But just.

  Gunderson stood before him, offering a smile that did not carry to his gray eyes. “Delightful, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  “Pure pleasure,” Alex huffed.

  “I’m glad you feel that way, Mister Moran, because we will repeat it again at seventeen-hundred. And tomorrow at oh-five hundred we will do five miles, and repeat that at seventeen-hundred.” He jerked his head toward the bunker-like building behind them. “Inside this building you will find an assortment of weapons, which you will study and field strip over the next thirty minutes. I will return then, and you will tell me about them. Then you will strip and reassemble them blindfolded. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Alex said.

  “Gooood,” Gunderson offered. “I myself am in need of some liquid refreshment. So you’ll excuse me, please.” He turned and started to leave, then snapped his head back toward Alex.

  Alex was still standing in the same spot, trying to think his legs into action.

  “Snap to, mister!” Gunderson growled.

  Alex snapped to.

  The weapons included a Russian AK-47, an Uzi, and an assortment of Swedish, East German, and Czech assault rifles and pistols currently favored by terrorists and guerrilla fighters, along with the Glock and Beretta replacements of the old Army Colt .45. Alex managed most of them reasonably well, except the Glock, which was new to him. Gunderson only sneered and assured him he would have ample opportunity to improve on his ineptness over the next three weeks.

  “Every day, Mister Moran,” he said. “Every single motherfucking day. Until they replace pussy in your nightly nightmares.”

  They left the block house and double-timed to a large gymnasium complex—Alex still lugging the AR-15 at port arms—where Gunderson suggested that his body odor was becoming a problem, and ordered him to shower before dressing in the karate clothing he had been given. Gunderson himself had changed into crisply pressed fatigues.

  “We like our people to be clean, Mister Moran,” he said. “Clean and competent. I’ll work to help you meet our standards in both areas.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Alex said, momentarily hoping the upcoming workout would be with Gunderson, then thinking better of the idea.

  But the workout was not with Gunderson. It was with a small, wiry Hispanic who Alex gratefully noted was about half Gunderson’s size. Gunderson introduced him as Sergeant Mercurio, then grinned, and took a seat off to one side.

  Mercurio led him to a large matted area in the center of the gymnasium. He motioned him to sit cross-legged, then sat opposite.

  “I’m told it’s been twenty years since your initial training,” Mercurio said. “Have you kept current? Practiced the techniques you were taught on any regular basis?” He waited as Alex admitted he had not. “Then you’ll be instructed as if this was a first lesson,” he said.

  Mercurio had soft, almost kind brown eyes and short-cropped wiry hair that indicated some African ancestry. His features seemed soft too, except for the remnants of a once broken nose, and his skin was a smooth, nearly hairless olive tone.

  “The fighting technique we teach in Special Forces has no formal name,” he began. “Although those who learn it call it many things during instruction.” He almost smiled, as if recalling some of the names the training had been called in the past. “We simply call it hand-to-hand, and, as you may recall, it is a combination of judo, karate, wrestling, and boxing. But it is basically close-in, barehanded fighting, and its object is a thirty-second kill, no longer, not under any circumstances. If you cannot kill your opponent in thirty seconds, the chances are you yourself will be killed.”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in. “We don’t teach you to incapacitate, or simply to maim an opponent. These things are possible if you stop at a given point, but we do not teach you to stop. Once you begin, the training teaches you to carry through until the opponent is dead. The techniques are taught over and over again until they are automatic, and you are a machine performing a function. If you are taught properly, you will not even think of stopping.”

  He paused again. “Now, this is dangerous in civilian life, so you are also taught never to attack unless you intend to kill. Do you understand me?”

  Alex simply nodded.

  “Good,” Mecurio said. “We begin.” He rose from the cross-legged position with his hands never touching the floor, and motioned Alex up.

  They faced each other across the mat. “The first technique I will teach you is a variation of what the Japanese karate masters call the kata dan’te, the dance of death.” He reached behind him and withdrew a combat knife from the back of his black belt and tossed it to Alex. “You may kill me now,” he said.

  Alex gripped the knife loosely in his right hand, the flat of the blade parallel to the ground so the thrust would pass through the ribs without jamming. Knife fighting was something that, once learned, was never forgotten. From that point it was a matter of reflexes and will. Alex knew the will was still there.

  He circled slowly, feinting once, twice, then came in low with an upward thrust.

  Mercurio moved to his right, coming inside the thrust, blocking the attack with his left hand and guiding it away, then chopping the wrist with his right and sending the knife harmlessly to the mat.

  “Disarm,” Mercurio whispered, almost to himself, then continued up with the right hand, brushing Alex’s lips and nose, a blow if carried an inch closer, Alex knew, would have smashed his teeth and crushed the nasal cartilage and bone. “Stun,” Mercurio hissed.

  The small Hispanic’s hand continued in a circular motion, the fingers forming a claw, ripping a fraction of an inch from Alex’s eyes. “Blind,” Mercurio said, his voice gaining in excitement as the hand continued its circle, the palm slamming into Alex’s temple with minimal force. “Unbalance,” Mercurio offered. Again the right hand continued its circle, moving down this time, the fingers again a claw as the left hand thrust out in a short, open hook to the throat. “Deflate,” Mercurio said, the fingers of the left hand barely brushing Alex’s windpipe.

  The right hand, still continuing its flowing circle, had reached its low point and now started up, striking the groin in an open-hand slap, the fingers momentarily closing on the testicles, then releasing, the hand shooting up in a sharp, jerking motion.

  Alex bent forward, part from instinct, part from the slight pain the pulled blow had caused. “Your balls are now in my hand,” Mercurio whispered. “And you are on your knees.” The right hand chopped down, where the back of Alex’s neck would have been. “And death,” Mercurio snapped.

  He straightened, looked Alex in the eye. “The dance is ended,” he said, smirking. “Now you try.”

  Alex repeated the technique, badly, then with some improvement over a dozen attempts. Mercurio stepped back and nodded.

  “It will get better in time,” he said. “Now, something less exotic.” He squared himself on Alex. “Now I attack you,” he said.

  Immediately his right hand, fingers rigid, struck out, snake-like, tapping the small curvature of bone at the base of the throat. “A quarter of an inch higher in battle,” he offered. His hand dropped as the other came up, both grabbing the front of Alex’s shirt and pulling him forward. Mercurio dropped his chin to his chest and thrust his head forward in a butt to Alex’s nose, stopping just sh
ort of contact. “Full force,” he said. “The nose and teeth are shattered.” He dropped his hands to his sides, then brought them up, each in a wide circle, the open, cupped palms stopping in a simultaneous strike just before crashing into Alex’s ears. “Your eardrums have burst,” Mercurio said. “The pain is unbearable.”

  He took a quick step back, his right foot shooting up and out to Alex’s groin. “You go to your knees.” He jerked Alex to a kneeling position, and his left hand grabbed Alex’s hair, jerking the head down as his left knee came up to meet his face.

  He pushed Alex back, simulating the way his body would have been forced by the blow, then grabbed his right wrist and straightened the arm, bringing the other knee into the elbow. “Your arm is gone,” he hissed, stepping to Alex’s side and driving a fist into one kidney, “and you bleed internally.”

  He stepped behind Alex, both arms wrapping about his head, one forearm just beneath the chin. He jerked and twisted the head, stopping just short of a broken neck, Alex realized. “And you die,” Mercurio said.

  The small Hispanic glanced toward Gunderson, who was holding a stopwatch. “Time,” he snapped.

  “Nineteen seconds,” Gunderson called back.

  Mercurio faced Alex again. “Now you,” he commanded.

  Alex felt bruised and battered by the time he left Mercurio’s two-hour workout. By the end of the week, he had been warned, he would begin contact work with other students, and he knew their blows would not be pulled, as Mercurio’s had been. He also knew his body was not yet hard enough to take many of them.

  They broke for a half hour for lunch, then moved on to demolition. There the instructor was a sergeant named Wisnewski, a man of average size with steely blue eyes that spoke of someone who knew a mistake could send him to kingdom come in a flash of heat and light.

  Wisnewski was balding, about forty, with a flat, expressionless face and thin lips that seemed to form a rigid line. He spoke in a monotone, pausing for emphasis, or, Alex thought, to await an explosion.