Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “UCLA. I have a relationship to patch up before the hell begins. The last thing I need is to go through next week knowing the love of my life won’t be waiting for me when I’m through.”

  “Ah, l’amour.” Rogers sighed. “A romantic journey to the City of Angels to profess your undying love to your exotic beauty. Good luck, Romeo. Don’t forget flowers.”

  “Thanks. See you Sunday morning.”

  “Ciao.”

  Grey jumped in his jeep and sped off base and over the bridge to Interstate 5. Traffic would be horrible, but he didn’t care. Nothing would keep him from Vanessa. His black eye had healed, his hair had grown in slightly, and he looked almost human. As he drove, he ran over the last few weeks in his mind. The fight, the black eye, Vanessa’s disappointment in him. They hadn’t talked much since. Things had continued to slide, and Grey was determined to salvage all that he could from their relationship. Sure, once he was in the Teams he could have his pick of the Frog Hogs, but he wasn’t interested in some SEAL groupie. He wanted his intelligent, incredibly sexy Indian princess back.

  He weaved through traffic, soliciting a few middle fingers and a number of angry horn blasts. Grey always responded the same way—with a friendly wave. It always threw people off guard. Traffic came to a snarled stop in Orange County, and he impatiently watched the minutes tick by. He took the toll road to the 405, and an hour later he was in Westwood, home of UCLA. Vanessa lived in a reasonably nice apartment in a complex dominated by law students. Grey parked his jeep on the street and started toward the stairway that led to the third floor. A man in his mid-thirties raced up in his BMW and jumped out brandishing a bouquet of flowers. He was obviously in a hurry. After brushing past Grey, he jogged up the steps to the third floor. Grey followed. The man stopped in front of Vanessa’s door. What the fuck? Grey started forward, then stopped. The man shot him a confused look as the door opened. Grey immediately turned his back and ran down the stairs. He was horrified. Who is he?

  Grey stopped at a gas station and picked up his cell phone. He dialed Vanessa’s number twice but hung up before she answered. He ran over what he would say again and again in his head. He would yell … no … he would play innocent. On the third try he followed through, and Vanessa’s silky voice answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Vanessa?”

  “Mark?” She sounded surprised. “How are you?”

  “Not bad. And you?”

  “Fine.” There was a lengthy pause. Grey could hear her speaking to someone else in the room. “Sorry. I’m back.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Uh … no … well, yes, actually, it is.”

  “Hot date?”

  “What are you talking about, Mark?”

  “I saw the guy with the flowers. I’m sure he’s a good catch. A lawyer, right?”

  “Mark, what are you doing? Where are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I came to see you, but I guess I picked an inconvenient time. I’ll let you get on with your night. I brought flowers, too, but I don’t think they’re quite as nice as your new friend’s.”

  “Stop it. Just let me explain—”

  “Is he your date or not?”

  “Yes, but it’s not that simple—”

  “That’s all I need to hear. Take care of yourself, Vanessa. Maybe we’ll run into each other someday down the line.”

  “Mark—”

  He hung up the phone. He grabbed the somewhat wilted bouquet he had picked up at the supermarket and walked into the gas station. A middle-aged Hispanic lady with tired eyes sat behind the counter.

  “For you,” Grey said, holding out the flowers.

  “Me?” She looked incredulous. “Sir, I can’t take those.”

  “Please do,” Grey insisted. “I want you to have them.”

  She smiled, showing a mouthful of silver filings. “Gracias. They’re very nice.”

  “You have a pleasant evening,” Grey said. He jumped back in his jeep and fought his way south through the Friday-night traffic. The world flew past his jeep in a blur of artificial light, and Grey felt his eyes tearing up. Must be the wind.

  NINE

  GREY SPENT SATURDAY EATING and drinking as much as he could. In the evening he went out with Rogers and watched a bad movie about some bullshit mission to recover a U.S. space station hijacked by Russian terrorists. Knowing it would be his last night of sleep for a whole week, he naturally couldn’t relax enough to make use of it. After several sleepless hours, Grey pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and stepped into the cool night air. He walked past several quiet rooms and entered the courtyard. The moon shone brightly through a break in the coastal clouds, casting a pale white light across the metal drying cages full of students’ gear. He was hanging from one of the rusty pull-up bars, stretching his back, when a clatter of falling equipment rang out from a drying cage. Murray emerged seconds later with a bulky green seabag slung over his shoulder.

  “Murray, what the hell are you doing out here?”

  Murray visibly jumped. He lowered his seabag to the ground and shrugged. “I’ve got some personal crap I’ve been keeping in the cages. The instructors never search the cages the same way they search our rooms.”

  Grey dropped from the pull-up bar. “You should have just asked me to stow it in my car. That’s the safest place of all. Strictly off limits to instructors.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience.”

  “You’ll always be an inconvenience.”

  “Thanks, boss.” Murray smiled. “And why the hell are you out here, sir?”

  “Can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Hell Week.”

  “Me too.”

  Grey walked over to Murray’s seabag. It was secured with a padlock. “What’s the precious cargo?” He reached for it.

  “Don’t,” Murray said quickly. He blocked Grey’s access to the seabag with his body. “It’s just some seriously hard-core porn, assorted sex toys for the ladies, and a few body parts.”

  “If you say so.” Grey studied Murray’s face. What is he up to?

  “I should get going. My buddy’s going to watch my crap for me. He’s in the Indoc barracks, waiting to start First Phase.”

  “He’s awake this time of night?”

  “Of course.” Murray hoisted the seabag over his shoulder with a noticeable effort. “He’s on duty right now.”

  “And who’s the watch supervisor?”

  “I think it’s Redman. I saw his car in the instructor lot.”

  “You’re out of your mind. If he catches you snooping around, you can kiss your precious seabag good-bye. Not to mention the fact that he’ll kick the shit out of you just before you start Hell Week.”

  Murray displayed the pink scar on his arm. “Blood brothers. I won’t let you down.”

  “Get some sleep when you come back.”

  “I will.”

  Grey watched Murray walk past the drying cages and disappear down Trident Way. He walked back to his door and started to turn the knob, but the ghostly reflection of the sand berm in his window stopped him. He turned and trudged up the sandy embankment, taking a seat at the crest. The ocean was alive, throwing huge waves toward the shore in a thunder of spray and whitewash. Grey imagined landing his boat on a pile of rocks during night rock portage. The crack of each wave as it curled seemed a warning of broken bones and concussions. He studied the heaving sea for a few minutes, then turned and trudged to his room. He tossed and turned all night and woke up in the morning feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

  Toting a seabag full of camouflage uniforms and extra socks, Grey walked toward the BUD/S compound. A red-faced Murray joined him minutes later.

  “What’s up, shipmate?” Grey asked.

  Murray was out of breath. “Trouble, sir.”

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Armstrong,” Murray said. “He’s gone. I can’t get in touch with him.”

  “He’s the retired SEAL y
ou met in Imperial Beach, right?” Grey asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And he’s not answering his phone?”

  “I’ve called him a million times. He promised to be around this morning. I made him swear on it.”

  “Why is it so important to talk to him this morning?”

  “Armstrong’s an insider. He has dirt on Redman, knows something about this arms-smuggling ring in Imperial Beach. After that gun-store owner disappeared, it seems a bit of a coincidence that I can’t reach him, doesn’t it?”

  “This whole thing is starting to smell like shit.”

  “You’re telling me,” Murray said. “I don’t like it at all. But what the hell am I supposed to do now? We’re going into Hell Week. We’re disappearing from the face of the Earth for a week. This isn’t something I can afford to worry about.”

  “It definitely isn’t,” Grey agreed. He walked on silently, turning the situation over in his mind. “I don’t like this whole thing any more than you do, but I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about it. I guess you could contact the police.”

  “And tell them what?” Murray asked. “Forget it. Besides, there’s one thing for damn sure: we can’t afford any distractions during Hell Week. It’s just you and me and the hardest five days of our lives.”

  “And we’re gonna make it.”

  “Damn straight we are.”

  They walked into the compound and into the First Phase classroom, which was already filled with anxious students. Pollock, the new class OIC, stood at the whiteboard and kept track of the muster. He wiped the board clean with his sleeve and wrote 47 in big numbers.

  “That’s it?” Grey asked. “I thought we were still at fifty-four.”

  “We lost a few more over the weekend,” Rogers said as he walked to Grey’s side. “You ready for this?”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you mean, ‘I think so’?”

  “Never mind. I just want to get the week over with.” Grey took a seat at the back of the class and waited for their proctor. Several minutes later Chief Baldwin strolled in and made his way to the front of the classroom.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, stroking his mustache. The class immediately fell silent. “Gentlemen, you are being presented with the opportunity of a lifetime.” He paused for effect, surveying the class with his cold blue eyes. “If you make it through this week, you will have accomplished something that every SEAL holds dear to his heart. Nobody forgets their Hell Week. No one. And more importantly, you will earn a modicum of respect from us, your instructor staff. We’ll still treat you like shit, but you will have proved that you have the tenacity to make it through this program.” He reached into his blue instructor jacket, pulled out a brown T-shirt, and held it up for everyone to see. “You’ll be worthy of the fabled brown shirt. For those of you that make it, we’ll have one waiting with your name stenciled on it. Better yet, I’ll buy each of you a beer.”

  The class cheered.

  “And you’ll have taken one step closer to earning your trident—your passport to pussy!”

  The class cheered even louder.

  “So what’s it gonna be, Class Two-eighty-three? How about a no-bell Hell Week?”

  The class went crazy after Baldwin suggested a nearly impossible feat—a Hell Week with no quitters. Murray and Grey exchanged glances. Murray thumped his hand against his heart.

  “The chaplain wants a word with you. Those of you who are nonreligious or non-Christian, feel free to take your leave. For those of you that stay—don’t get too wrapped up in the whole ‘God is my protector’ bit. If you’re religious, more power to you. Just remember that no one but Yours Truly is going to get you through the shit we have lined up. Just suck it up, guys. That’s all you have to do. It’s simple. Suck it up and shut up. Painful and simple.” His eyes twinkled. “Meet back here in half an hour.” A third of the class got up and filed out the door. Chief Baldwin followed them out, and several minutes later a gray-haired commander walked in. He held himself proudly erect, and his eyes cut quickly back and forth across the room.

  “I’m Chaplain Patstone, to those of you who haven’t met me. I’ve seen twenty-four classes get through Hell Week, so I’m not exactly new to this. What you are about to face, gentlemen, is a challenge that defies the understanding of the outside world. It’s a sacrifice. You will give up all of your strength and all of your courage to see the week to its end. All of you that walk through this door on Friday afternoon will get one of these.” Chaplain Patstone held up a camouflage Bible with a trident emblazoned on it. “Your own personal Bible. You can’t go wrong with the Good Book.”

  “Hallelujah! Praise the righteous!” Jackson yelled, jumping to his feet.

  The chaplain stared at him with thinly masked disdain. “I’m a Lutheran. We don’t do that sort of thing, sailor.”

  A shadow crossed Jackson’s face. “But we both accept Christ as our Savior and King. I don’t think a little enthusiasm will anger the Lord.”

  “That may be true.” He chuckled and smiled, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. “But if you would let me continue…”

  Jackson looked hurt as he took his seat. Rogers leaned over toward Grey. “This guy’s an asshole. I’m out of here.” He stood up and stalked out of the room.

  “I was just getting started,” Patstone called after him. He snapped his fingers, and a frail old woman entered the classroom carrying a huge box. She set it on the ground and started passing out Bibles. “Please open your Bibles to Isaiah 40:29.”

  Grey didn’t need to open his Bible. The chaplain had picked the one verse he knew by heart. Grey recited along with the class:

  He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

  “Beautiful words for a beautiful message,” the chaplain said quietly. “This is your time of trial. Draw strength from the Lord. Trust in him. Let your faith carry you through the impossible moments. I hope you all make it through; I’ll be expecting to congratulate all of you personally on Friday. Normally I would say more, but I have business to attend to. But before I leave, how about the Nicene Creed?” He led the class through the recitation and then smiled graciously and slipped out of the classroom, followed by his waifish assistant.

  Grey lowered his head onto his desk and closed his eyes. Too much to think about. Vanessa, Murray, Hell Week. 120 hours. That’s not so long. Everything will come together. Just survive. Maybe five days of torture would take his mind off his problems.

  The rest of the class filed back into the room, followed by Baldwin.

  “Movie time. You guys brought something to watch, didn’t you?”

  Murray’s hand shot up.

  “Murray?”

  He jumped to his feet. “I brought Carnal Desire and Big-Breasted Babes Who—”

  Baldwin cut him off impatiently. “We have ladies that work on this compound, you juvenile horndog. You can watch all the porno you want next weekend.”

  Murray sat down.

  “Don’t you have something violent and inspiring? Road Warrior? Scarface?”

  “I brought Braveheart,” Warrior called out.

  Baldwin mused, “A little bit of a downer, but definitely some good shit. What do you guys say?”

  The room erupted into a shouting match. Half wanted to watch Reservoir Dogs, half Braveheart.

  “Braveheart it is,” Baldwin said, shutting off the lights. He popped the movie in, and the two televisions in each corner of the classroom lit up. Grey stretched out on the floor. This would be his last chance to relax, and he forced himself to take advantage of the opportunity to grab a little rest. He slept sporadically through the film, occasionally regaining consciousness long enough to watch a severed head fly throu
gh the air followed by a geyser of blood. The soundtrack ingrained itself in his head. The mournful tones of the bagpipes made him long to be far away—somewhere warm—naked, wrapped in a giant blanket with Vanessa in his arms, a fire burning in the hearth, children playing outside in the green hills. Anywhere but here …

  “Freedom!” Mel Gibson yelled in his dying moment. Grey’s eyes snapped open. The class watched mesmerized as the hero’s life ended on the executioner’s platform. The mood among the students was incredibly somber, but Grey could detect an underlying current of determination. Hell Week couldn’t be that bad. Pollock roused the class from their trance and formed them up for a run to the chow hall.

  “Fuck, I’m all fired up!” Murray exclaimed, falling into line next to Grey. The gleam in his eyes told Grey he wasn’t lying. “Just let them try to stop me. Ain’t no way, sir!”

  “I’m already tired just thinking about it,” Grey said. In truth, he was as determined as ever, but the realization that his boat crew would be targeted for “extra love” from the instructors was not pleasing.

  The class ran to chow in silence. The students moved down the road like a giant organic life-form, each part moving efficiently in its assigned place. They were really starting to pull together as a class, and Grey knew that Hell Week would fuse the few trainees who survived into an inseparable unit. The somber mood persisted through chow. Occasionally a student, often Murray, would crack a joke in an attempt to lighten the mood, but most of the trainees kept on their war faces.

  Chow ended and the class filtered out onto the street. The sun, obscured by a heavy layer of gray clouds, slowly slid below the horizon and cast a gloomy shadow over the base. The weather forecast for Hell Week held little promise: cloudy skies, air in the low sixties, water in the upper fifties. The class once again ran in silence, the slap of boots on pavement and the rustle of uniforms the only sound. Because it was Sunday evening, traffic was extremely light. The real people with real lives are home with their families, watching television, cooking dinner, reading the paper. As they ran past the Bachelor Officer Quarters, Grey felt the tug of the good life beckoning him. Hot showers, a comfy bed, no instructors.