by David Reid
Grey thought about it. “Camaraderie. The chance to prove to myself that I could hack it.” He smiled. “And of course, to blow shit up and kick down doors.”
“That’s more like it. You were scaring me for a second.”
“What about you, Murray? Why the SEALs?”
“To kick ass, plain and simple. To kick fucking ass and take names. To be the best. And of course, to go back to my high school reunion and have all those chicks who ignored me line up for a piece of my Johnson.”
The whole boat crew erupted into laughter.
“I didn’t even think of that one,” Larsen said. “Damn, that’s good. There’s no way I’m ringing out now. I can already see all those skanks lined up on their knees.”
Jackson shook his head. “A little graphic, brothers. I’m no angel myself, but could you spare me the details of your white-bread honky fantasies?”
“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t think about that,” Murray scoffed. “You’re full of shit, Reverend.”
“I’m just saying I don’t need to hear it. I’m trying to live a good life.”
Silence overtook the boat crew as they focused their attention on paddling. They were almost there; Big Blue sat in plain sight at the edge of the amphibious base. After reaching the shallows, they jumped out of the boat and pushed it to shore. Instructor Barefoot accosted them the moment they stepped on dry ground.
“Extended-arm carry!”
They hoisted the boat above their heads.
“Don’t move.” Barefoot walked away and climbed back into the truck.
“I knew we should have dumped boat,” Murray grumbled. “This thing is heavier than shit.”
“Shit’s not heavy,” Rogers corrected.
They held the boat up for several minutes before breaking down and taking periodic rests. They repeatedly lowered the boat onto their heads, stored up energy, then pushed it up again. Barefoot was bound to notice eventually, but Grey knew they simply couldn’t keep the waterlogged craft in the air for any length of time.
“You guys are letting me down,” droned a sarcastic voice. “This is not acceptable.”
What? Grey was sure he was hearing things. He searched the darkness for several seconds before he noticed a figure squatting next to a pile of rocks, perfectly motionless, watching.
“You don’t want to play Barefoot’s reindeer games?” The figure stood up, and a familiar face emerged from the shadows. Chief Baldwin pointed toward the bay. “Get out there. I don’t want to see any part of your body but your eyes and your mouths.”
“Cold.” That was all Jackson could say after half an hour of immersion in sub-sixty-degree water. A deep blue tint had crept into his full lips. He clumsily formed them around the word again. “Cold.”
“Bring it in, gents.” Chief Baldwin waved them back to shore.
Grey helped Jackson out of the water. The Reverend leaned heavily against him, knees buckling and arms twitching sporadically. Chief Baldwin took one look at him and summoned the corpsman. A moment later the ambulance whisked Jackson away.
Why? Heavy-hearted, Grey watched the red taillights fade into darkness.
“Drop down.”
Grey stared ahead blankly.
“I said ‘Drop down,’ sir!”
Grey snapped out of his trance and assumed the push-up position. He only managed sixty before his arms gave out. The rest of the crew didn’t fare any better. They lay sprawled out on the crumbling pavement, shivering, hoping Baldwin would ignore them. For once, he did.
“Get up.” Barefoot climbed out of Big Blue. “Go get wet.”
They ran to the bay, dunked themselves, and ran back.
“Get wet.”
The drill continued until the last boat crew emerged from the darkness of the bay. Barefoot glanced at his watch and ordered the class to line up for an elephant run. Grey’s tenderized scalp screamed in protest as the boat settled on his head. Barefoot trotted away, and the class followed. They wound through the amphibious base, finally lurching to a halt in front of the chow hall. It was time for midnight rations, the much-anticipated fourth meal of the day. The director of the chow hall allowed the SEALs use of the facilities late at night during Hell Week. The mess specialists simply scraped all their leftovers from dinner into containers and stored them for later use by the instructors.
Grey was working on his third cup of hot chocolate when Jackson hobbled in the door accompanied by the corpsman. He made a beeline for the leftover chow. Several minutes later he appeared at the table with a plate full of steaming food.
“Good to see you back,” Grey said.
“Thanks.” Jackson’s voice was weary. “The docs wanted to roll me back to the next class, but I convinced them not to. They said if I got hypothermia again, I’d be a goner for sure.”
“They’d roll you just for getting cold?” Rogers asked incredulously. “It’s not like getting cold is an accident. The instructors have complete control over how long we’re in the water.” He shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“My core temp was ninety degrees,” Jackson explained. “Anything below ninety-four is a one-way ticket to a world of trouble. I was on a downward spiral.”
“Still…”
“Don’t worry, brother,” Jackson said. “I just thank the Lord for giving me another chance. Let’s just hope I can keep my body temp up. The doc said I needed to eat a lot and drink a lot to keep the fire inside raging.” He patted his stomach with one hand as he forked meatloaf into his mouth. “God willing, this will all be a bad memory someday.”
“Bad memory?” Murray raised an eyebrow. “Hell, this will be a fucking great memory. What other excuse do I have in life to sandwich myself between sexy men like you guys to keep warm?”
“Fag,” Larsen grumbled. “Keep your homo tendencies to yourself.”
“You’re just jealous that I’m not giving you any love.” Murray’s smile faded as he hacked violently and spat into his napkin.
“Just stay away from me.” Larsen scooted his tray over and shifted seats.
Grey sat quietly, cupping his mug of hot chocolate in both hands. His body trembled gently. The damn ceiling fans whirred away, pushing cold air all over the room. Grey had only been up for about thirty-six hours, yet he was already finding his eyelids impossibly heavy.
TWELVE
THE MIDNIGHT CREW STORMED in, jolting Grey out of his daze.
“Get the hell outside!” Osgood screamed. “Move, move!”
Grey jogged through the door, his crew at his heels.
“Get your boat at extended-arm carry! Keep it up there!” Redman, Heisler, and Osgood moved through the ranks like wolves through a herd of sheep. In the background, Furtado’s cynical voice echoed through the truck loudspeaker. Tired. Tired. Want to go home. Sick of it. Sick of it. Leave me alone. I’m gonna quit. I’m gonna quit. The recruiter lied. This sucks. This sucks. I could be somewhere safe and warm. I could be on USS Neverdock, whacking in my rack. I could be spanking, but I’m cold. Never gonna end. Never gonna end. The harassment came to an abrupt halt as Osgood strode to the front of the class.
“Time for a little more land portage, ’cause I know you shitbirds love running. The next evolution is called the base tour. I’m feeling gracious tonight, so I’ve decided to be your tour guide. I’m going to point out certain landmarks on this fine base, and I expect you to remember them. There will be a test later in the week.”
Osgood darted away on his stumpy legs. Boats bounced against one another as the class fell into line. The tour led them all over the amphibious base. Osgood stopped at various buildings and shouted out the location. Personnel Services Division. Post office. Base library. Helicopter pad. SWCC building—Special Warfare Combat Crewman—the SEAL junior-varsity team. Base theater. They flew along the deserted streets, boats bouncing, heads and necks aching. Finally Osgood steered them back to the empty sports field next to the bay. The moment they lowered their boats, Osgood ordered them i
nto the water.
“No, brother,” Jackson pleaded, grabbing Grey’s arm. “Please.”
“Don’t look at me,” Grey said helplessly. “I hate this crap, too.”
“Please.” His deep brown eyes were wide. “Please.”
Grey waded into the mucky water, dragging Jackson alongside him. They settled in among the slimy tendrils of sea grass that peppered the mucky bottom. Grey pulled Jackson close. They were both shivering in a matter of seconds, as much out of reflex as the actual cold. Murray moved in close on Jackson’s other side.
“Wow.” Jackson managed a weak smile. “I think the water got warmer.”
“Naw,” Murray laughed. “I’m pissing on you.”
“Well, just keep right on pissin’, brother.”
“I got you covered next,” Grey said. He waited a few minutes, then positioned himself even closer to Jackson and emptied the contents of his bladder.
“Yeah,” Jackson moaned. “Oh, yeah.”
“I can’t hardly believe this,” Jones drawled. “My brothers would take me out back and beat the livin’ daylights out of me if they knew about this—if they knew I’m buddies with a bunch of guys who piss on each other to stay warm.”
“Desperate measures for desperate times,” Rogers chattered. “I think it’s beautiful, really. Just think about it.”
“I’m thinkin’, and I don’t see no beauty in it. I don’t know about you Princeton types, though. If you get excited over this kind of thing, I guess that’s okay by me.”
The mood lightened considerably. Grey could tell Jackson was distracted; he didn’t have the lost look in his eyes that signaled trouble. If a little piss was all it took, Grey would save it all for his hypothermia-prone buddy. They shivered together long into the night. Osgood periodically brought them out for a few minutes of calisthenics, then ordered them back into the bay. Delirium set in. The cold and the sleep deprivation started to take their toll on the students of Class 283. Four trainees bolted for the safety of the instructor truck, leaving the class total at thirty-four.
Grey shivered as dark thoughts wormed back into his head. A familiar scene unfolded. He floated above the Arctic, looking back down on his blue-skinned body immersed in the dark ocean. What little hair he had was frozen solid; his eyes were red, unfeeling, cracked. His chest moved up and down gently, his body past the point of shivering. Boats. A fleet of inflatable boats drifted toward him. Boats. Thank God.
“Get under your boats!” Osgood yelled.
“Sir!” Murray yelled impatiently. “Let’s go!”
Grey stumbled to his feet and slogged out of the bay. Jackson and Murray stuck close to his side. Osgood approached the trio and studied them. He looked Grey in the eye. Grey did his best to stare back confidently.
“Fucking cold, isn’t it?” Osgood asked.
Grey nodded.
“I asked you a question, dipshit.”
“Yes, it’s cold, Instructor Osgood.”
“How’d you like to go back in?”
“I would like that very much, Instructor Osgood.”
Osgood grinned. “Sir, you’re full of shit.” He stared Grey down for a few intense seconds before turning and stalking away.
The class lifted their boats onto their heads and followed Osgood to chow. All Grey could think of was a nice steaming cup of hot chocolate. He could already feel it warming his numb fingers, could feel the cup against his cheek, could feel the warm liquid sloshing in his stomach.
“Morning Felicia,” Grey croaked.
Felicia’s mouth dropped open. “Sir! Mr. Grey! What they do to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look bad. You look very tired.”
“Felicia, it’s Hell Week,” Grey explained patiently, “and it’s only Tuesday. Wait until you see me on Friday.”
Felicia shook her head sadly. “Why a nice man like you do this?”
“Why does a good-looking girl like you do that?” He nodded toward the cash register. “Aren’t you headed for Hollywood?”
“As soon as I learn to speak English good.” She glanced over at the instructor table. “You better go.”
“I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Eat lots.”
“I will.” Grey moved down the line, paying little attention to the food that the cafeteria workers slopped on his plate. He could only think of the hot chocolate. Glorious hot chocolate. Grey filled a cup with steaming water, grabbed two pouches of powdered cocoa, and marched over to a table. He sat next to Murray and immediately pressed the cup against his cheek. Yes.
“Eat, sir,” Murray mumbled between mouthfuls of egg. “It’s more important than that shit. Calories, sir. Calories.”
Grey reluctantly put down his cup and forked hash browns into his mouth. The crew ate in silence, intently focused on the act of shoveling food down the hatch. Osgood wandered between tables, searching for sleeping students. Fear kept them awake. It was clear no one wanted to experience the Osgood Tabasco Treatment. Chow ended and the class waddled outside. After sitting soaking wet in his plastic chair, Grey was incredibly stiff. The skin between his legs was raw despite the Hell Week–issue spandex. Osgood took a few minutes to reorganize boat crews. Grey’s crew remained unchanged with six members. The other five boat crews merged into four, and the instructors strapped the extra boat to the top of Big Blue. Grey was now the lead officer of Boat Crew Five.
“Saddle up, dipshits. Time for a run.” Osgood took off down the road.
Grey chanted an old mantra in his head with every step. Pain. Pain. In my head. Pain. Pain. In my feet. Pain. Pain. In my legs. Pain. Pain. In my knees. Despite the dark message, Grey found the chant soothing. Anything to keep his mind occupied. The class stumbled to a halt on the beach behind the BUD/S compound.
“Shower time!” Murray exclaimed. He hacked violently then danced a little jig. “Shower time, baby!”
“Where do you get the energy?” Rogers asked. “It baffles me.”
Larsen scoffed, “It’ll be gone tonight. Just wait. Steel Pier will get him.”
Grey stripped off his soggy uniform and walked into the barracks. A windstorm generated by a giant fan greeted him as he navigated the passageway and stepped into the bathroom. The shower felt too good. Grey couldn’t bring himself to leave. He tried to hide in the corner, but a brown shirt caught on and called him out. The warm water evaporated under the blast of another fan, and Grey resumed shivering as he trudged toward the medical clinic.
“Any problems?” Doc Anderson asked, giving Grey the once over.
Grey simply shook his head.
“Let me see those cuts.” He pulled on a latex glove and poked around Grey’s oozing leg wound. The red skin around the gash exuded heat. “Not good. I’m going to put you on antibiotics.” He scrawled something on a tab of paper, ripped off the top sheet, and handed it to Grey. “Bring this over to the corpsman. He’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks.”
“Hang in there, ensign.”
Grey walked across the smooth clinic floor and stopped at the corpsman’s table. He handed over his prescription. The corpsman, a weasely little man with thick glasses, snatched the slip from Grey’s hands without an upward glance. Seconds later his hand reappeared cupping two large pills. He jerked his head toward the water fountain.
Instructor Petrillo had already positioned himself next to the crates of dry uniforms and was hosing them down. He whistled merrily as he watered his new garden. Grey leaned over his crate and felt a cold stream of water run down his back.
“How’s it going, sir?”
“I’m alive.”
“Nasty cuts you got on your legs there.”
Grey shrugged. “Rock portage. I’m on antibiotics.”
“Got a girlfriend?”
The change of subject caught Grey off guard. “Yes. Well, no, I guess not.”
“Sir, that doesn’t sound too promising. She screwing around behind your back?”
“
I don’t know.”
“Let her go,” Petrillo advised. “You don’t want a girlfriend in the Teams. Trust me. It’s nothing but a heartache. Nothing but a shitty sex life because you’re traveling so much. Nothing but a waste of your precious energy, sir.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Just looking out for you,” Petrillo said. “Besides, Team guys get more pussy than rock stars. It’s hard to be exposed to that and not get a piece for yourself.” Petrillo continued whistling as he sauntered down the line, casually hosing students as they frantically pulled on their camouflage uniforms.
Murray appeared at Grey’s side. “They don’t have a clue.”
“Who?”
“Medical. They have no idea I’m on the verge of coughing up a lung.”
“And this is a great accomplishment?”
Murray smiled. “It will be a great accomplishment when they secure Hell Week and I’ve survived five days of this shit with bleeding lungs.”
“Is it getting worse?”
“No.” Murray slapped Grey on the back. “A little blood never hurt anyone, did it? This isn’t preschool, sir, this is a SEAL breeding ground.”
“If you say so.” Grey finished tying his boots and helped dazed trainees find their gear. When Logan rounded the corner, all the students who had finished dressing sprinted toward the beach. They didn’t need any verbal encouragement. Grey arrived at his boat to find a skinny instructor known as Batman sitting on the main tube, paddle in hand. Instructor Batman was a Second Phase instructor, meaning he had volunteered for Hell Week duty. Rumor had it that Instructor Batman thought his chosen name made him more intimidating. Grey thought it was comical. To make matters worse, Batman always sported a pair of trendy sunglasses that hugged his narrow face. Batman stood up, stretched, flexed his tiny muscles, and regarded Grey coolly. Without a word he dug the paddle into the sand and started filling up the boat. Grey grabbed another paddle and scooped the sand out as fast as he could. The two of them worked quickly, but Batman had an advantage. Every third stroke he would aim a paddle full of sand at Grey’s face, blinding him for several seconds. Grey would stop, blink rapidly, then resume his digging.