Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “You’re going to love this,” he said, flashing a toothy grin. He reached into his bag and pulled out six plastic pouches the size of his palm. “Just break the seal on the packets by twisting them, and voilà, you have heat.”

  Grey urinated in his pants. The thought of heat was so attractive he just couldn’t help himself. He passed out the packs and then turned to thank the swimmer, but the mysterious figure was gone.

  “Hallelujah,” Jackson said, and he breathed. “Check this out.” He cracked the pack and dropped it down his pants. “Oh baby! Warm balls!”

  “Good idea,” Jones said as he did the same. He smiled broadly. “You should try this, boss.”

  Grey cracked his pack and thrust it down his spandex underwear. The heat was delicious, almost overwhelming. The whole crew stopped paddling and basked in the luscious warmth.

  “God bless SIN,” Jackson murmured.

  “Do you realize what you just said?” Rogers asked. “The irony is beautiful. An organization named SIN just brought us comfort, and you gave it God’s blessing. God bless sin. The intersection of the divine and the earthly. Ingenious. Remarkable.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Whatever you say, sir. I just like the heat.”

  They tore the wrappers from the candy bars and gobbled them down. When the last bit of food was gone, they reluctantly paddled onward. The heat in Grey’s groin slowly faded. The immense bulk of an aircraft carrier loomed overhead for several minutes as they paddled past. Grey turned the boat to the west, guiding them past the North Island Air Station.

  “Look,” Jones drawled, pointing at the shore. “See the light?”

  “I see it.” Grey barely made out the shape of two instructors standing on the rocks. One of them held a flashlight. They bobbed closer, and Grey recognized Redman’s massive body. The instructor glared at him as they pulled their boat up on the rocks.

  “I’m saving you shitheads a little effort,” Redman growled. “Instead of paddling all the way around the jetty, you turds get to rock portage about fifty yards and save yourselves an hour of effort.”

  They dragged their boat up and over the jagged boulders that lined the shore. The instructors had stationed themselves on the northwestern corner of the air base at the intersection of two poorly paved roads. Grey’s crew lifted the boat and trudged to the south.

  “You turds are in third place,” Redman said as he walked next to Grey. “You’re already in deep shit. Just don’t lose. I’ll personally kill all of you.”

  And he means it, murdering bastard, Grey thought. Suddenly his foot struck something hard, and he fell to the pavement. His crew members lost control of the craft, and it crashed down on Grey’s head.

  “Clumsiness is no joke,” Redman said. “You’re just like your friend Murray. Too clumsy to be an operator.”

  Yeah, and that’s why I’m the fastest guy on the obstacle course. Grey pushed the boat off his back and stood up.

  The other instructor stepped out of the darkness next to Big Blue. It was Furtado. “You’re a fucking klutz, sir. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and ring out? They’ll eat you alive in Third Phase.” His tongue stud flashed in the darkness. Grey desperately wanted to yank it from his mouth.

  Grey and his crew hoisted the boat back onto their heads and walked down to the west, facing shore. They lowered their craft into the water and climbed in.

  “Look for headlights about a mile down the beach,” Redman ordered. “That’s where you may or may not get midnight rations. Judging by the way you’re performing, my guess is that you’ll go hungry.”

  Grey pushed off from the shore and they paddled to the south.

  “He tripped you,” Jones muttered angrily.

  “Who did? Redman?”

  “Yes, sir, none other. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I saw it, too,” Rogers said quietly.

  Motherfucker’s going down. Grey wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to share his dreams of revenge with his crew. Someone had to answer for Murray’s death, and Grey was sure it would be Redman. At this point, though, he knew it would be foolish to involve the rest of his crew and arouse any extra attention.

  They continued their ritual of paddling and sleeping until Grey spotted a pair of headlights blazing from the beach. They stroked for shore, timing their approach carefully to avoid being caught in front of a large wave. A whitecap rose up in the darkness behind the boat.

  “Keep it steady,” Grey ordered as he leaned back against his paddle. The wave caught them, and they slipped down the face. They started to veer heavily to the starboard side, but Grey leaned even harder against his paddle and managed to straighten their course. Heisler waited on the beach, arms crossed, a scowl upon his face.

  “Drag your boat clear of the water,” he ordered. “Then get your sorry asses back in the surf. I heard rumors that you were sleeping. Time to pay the man.”

  Grey and his crew dragged their boat several yards up the hard-packed sand, then turned, linked arms, and marched back into the surf. Grey shuddered. Even after four and a half days of constant immersion in freezing water, the bite of the ocean took his breath away. Heisler kept them in surf for a few minutes, then ordered them to join their class.

  A large white diesel pickup filled with boxes of MREs sat on the beach. Heisler climbed into the bed and hurled unopened packets at them. How generous. They would eat after all.

  “Anyone want to trade for beef franks?” Jackson asked.

  “Nice try,” Jones said. “I ain’t trading my ravioli for nothin’.”

  They sat cross-legged on the beach and devoured their meals. Grey managed to get sand all over his food, but he ate it anyway. Along with several packets of food and basic condiments, every MRE contained a packet of coffee grounds. Grey stuffed the cheap stuff in his mouth in hopes of regaining even a fraction of his former alertness. His mind skipped like a damaged record, flashing to other places, other times. Strangely, he kept thinking about sex. He knew he didn’t have enough energy to complete the task, but the thought of making love to Vanessa was more appealing than ever. Maybe it’s the warmth. Not that it would happen anyway; not at the moment.

  Redman and Furtado roared into the makeshift camp in Big Blue. Eyes flashing, Redman jumped from the cab and kicked sand all over their unfinished meals.

  “Snack time is over, girls. Your voyage isn’t done. You have two minutes to get through the surf zone. And if you aren’t back at the compound in two hours, I’ll rip your head off and piss down your throat.” He belched loudly. “That’s a promise.”

  Grey jumped to his feet and rushed to the boat. He was joined by Jackson, O’Patry, Rogers, and Smurr. Jones. Where’s Jones?

  “Get started,” Grey ordered. “I’ll catch up. I have to find Jones.”

  His crew ran down the beach with the boat while Grey frantically scanned the camp. MRE wrappers littered the beach. A few brown shirts moved slowly across the sand, picking up trash. Redman and Furtado glared at him from their truck. Where the hell are you? He squinted into the darkness. There. Jones lay nestled at the base of a sand dune, deep in sleep. Grey sprinted over and walloped him in the ass with his boot.

  “Ow,” Jones complained. “Didja have to kick me, sir?”

  “We’re late. Get up.”

  Jones scrambled to his feet and took in his surroundings. His eyes widened in panic as the rest of the class paddled through the surf zone. Sprinting at full speed, Grey and Jones flew across the beach and into the ocean. The other four crew members sat in the boat and held it steady in waist-deep water. Grey pulled himself in and took his position at the stern. After a flurry of energetic strokes, they glided past the breakers and turned south.

  “Sorry,” Jones muttered, addressing the whole crew. “I’m real sorry.”

  “Forget about it,” Rogers said. “We can hardly blame you for feeling sleepy.”

  “Yeah, no sweat, Hillbilly Bob,” Jackson added. “Ain’t no thang.”

  “Thanks
,” Jones murmured. He looked genuinely relieved.

  They paddled south, guiding off the lights of the Hotel del Coronado. No one spoke. They rhythmically dipped their paddles into the black ocean, creating a steady splash and swish that was only interrupted when someone fell into a microsleep and let his paddle drag. The minutes turned into an hour, and the Hotel del Coronado slowly slid past. The moon had nearly completed its journey across the sky by the time they turned toward shore to make their approach to the compound.

  They landed without incident and pulled their boat from the water in last place. To their astonishment, the instructors didn’t harass them. Heisler simply instructed Grey to position his boat at the back of the elephant train. Still wet from the waist down, they began what Grey knew might be the last chow run of Hell Week. He wouldn’t miss the journey. He particularly hated the traditional sprint across the highway, which always managed to strip another clump of hair from his pulverized scalp.

  “You gonna make it, Mr. Grey,” Felicia cooed. “You need sleep.”

  “I know, Felicia. I think you’ve mentioned that before. I’ll be sound asleep in less than twelve hours.” Less than twelve hours. A quick rush of elation coursed through his veins as he contemplated finishing Hell Week, but his enthusiasm died as he thought of Murray.

  “I proud of you, Mr. Grey,” Felicia said. She flashed her award-winning smile. “I know you can make it. I never understand why, but I know if anyone can do it, you can.”

  “Thanks.” He was genuinely grateful for Felicia’s support, but he found responding to her compliment difficult. He pressed his hand against hers. “You’re the best.”

  Grey filled two mugs with steaming water and grabbed two packets of cocoa powder. For the first ten minutes of chow he ignored his plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns. He cupped his mugs, one in each hand, and savored the warmth that spread from his palms. It was unlike any comfort he had experienced before, a comfort only someone who had been on the edge of hypothermia for five days could fathom.

  “Like the little match girl,” Rogers said quietly.

  “What?” Jackson said. “You okay, sir?”

  “It’s like the little match girl, the way Grey holds those two mugs, feeling the heat run out of them. You know the story. The girl has to sell books of matches or she can’t come home. One night when she can’t sell a single book, she is forced to stay outside and light the matches for warmth. Just look at him.” Rogers smiled and nodded at Grey. “It’s tragic. Beautiful and tragic.”

  “You and your dang beauty,” Jones muttered. “I swear, you’d think this place was some kind of artsy-fartsy academy.”

  “Beauty is everywhere,” Rogers said. “And it’s definitely here, in the suffering, in that cup of hot cocoa. This place is sinister and beautiful. I’m definitely writing a poem about this week. It’s epic, really”—he smiled sheepishly—“when you think about it.”

  “Okay. Let’s not push it,” Grey interjected. “Epic or not, I want it over with.”

  “Amen to that,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, no joke,” Jones drawled.

  “And what about Murray?” Grey asked. “What in the hell is the beauty about him dying on us?”

  Rogers’s smile faded. “I said beauty is everywhere, not in everything. Murray was a free spirit, a true man’s man, and a good friend to you. That’s beautiful. His death isn’t.”

  The table fell into silence. Grey knew everyone was thinking about Murray. The situation reeked of foul play, but unlike him, they didn’t have anything to base their gut instincts on.

  The morning crew filtered through the door to the chow hall. Logan ushered them outside and led the class down to the edge of the bay by the playing field.

  “Get wet,” he ordered.

  The students dropped their boats and waded into the bay without complaint.

  “Out of the water,” Logan ordered seconds later. “I like a quiet class. Instead of freezing, you’ll do a little paddling. You tired fuckers would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Grey considered the proposition. His hands were bright red and spotted with painful blisters. He could hardly hold a paddle without wincing. Still, it was better than the cold.

  “I want you to paddle south along the bay, but instead of going all the way to the mud flats, I want you to stop at the marina just to the north. Everyone know the place I’m referring to?”

  The class nodded absentmindedly. Grey had no idea. He counted on following the other boat crews. He knew it was poor leadership, but at this point he didn’t give a shit.

  “Then get going. Remember, the week’s not over, gents. If you don’t keep the energy level up, I just might volunteer to stay here until Saturday. I really don’t care. I’ll do it. You know I’m that crazy.”

  Yeah, we know, Grey thought. He pushed their boat out into the smelly bay water and climbed in behind his crew. They paddled slowly down the bay, squinting against the glare of the morning sun on the still water. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Grey could hear Murray calling cadence. Stroke it, pet it, touch it, feel it. He burst out laughing. His crewmates shook their heads sadly and continued paddling.

  They trailed the other boat crews, unconcerned about the punishment a late arrival might bring. The week was almost over. Although it wouldn’t be enjoyable, Grey knew they could all bear another round of surf torture.

  Logan yelled at them from the bed of Big Blue as they rounded the corner of a cove and paddled into a marina full of sailboats.

  “Everyone out of the boat!”

  Grey’s crew obediently rolled over the side of the craft and into the bay.

  “Dump boat!”

  Fucking idiot. In order to dump his boat, Grey needed at least two people to stay inside, a detail Logan had missed. Grey nodded at Jones, and they both climbed onto the main tube. They reached across to the far side of the boat, grabbed the nylon handles anchored to the main tube, and pulled backward. The boat rose up onto its side, then crashed over backward.

  “Now, Mr. Princeton, you bathrobe-wearing, poetry-spouting, intellectual pig-fucker, climb up there and assume the George Washington position.”

  Rogers pulled himself onto the flat bottom of the raft and crawled to the bow. He stood and raised a hand to his brow.

  “The rest of you shitheads—give me a storm. Start shaking that boat. I want monster seas.”

  The rest of Grey’s crew latched onto the side of the boat and pushed and pulled, jerking the craft up and down in the water.

  “Now give the thing a little forward propulsion. We don’t have all day.”

  They kicked hard and slowly moved through the water.

  Rogers smiled as he tried to maintain his historic pose.

  “Dump him!” Logan ordered.

  “I will not surrender,” Rogers yelled back. “I will not let you and your Hessian dogs snuff out of the seeds of true freedom. You can not suppress the rights of men any longer, you imperial bastards!”

  “Dump him!” Logan’s voice was joined by other instructors and students in the class. “Dump him!”

  “Sorry, Rogers,” Grey said. “This is a democracy, and the overwhelming vote is against you.”

  Jackson and Grey heaved on one side of the boat, while Smurr, Jones, and O’Patry worked the other side. The boat rolled mightily, and Rogers tumbled headfirst into the bay. The beach party cheered.

  Rogers rose to the surface sputtering. “You just killed the American dream.”

  “Yeah, sorry ’bout that,” Jones drawled. “I guess you just don’t have the makin’s of a president.” He flashed a smile, then added, “No offense intended.”

  “None taken.”

  They pushed their boat to shore, and Heisler immediately ordered them to the rear of the elephant train. Logan ran them across the highway, then turned north along the soft sand. They bounced along at a quick pace, finally stopping next to the demolition pits. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the pits. They dropped their boat next to the fe
nce and followed Logan through the gate.

  “You remember whistle drills?” Logan asked.

  “Hoo-yah,” the class responded.

  No sooner had the cry left their lips than a deafening explosion rocked the enclosed area. Grey dropped onto his stomach and covered his ears. Chief Baldwin stood twenty yards away, just beyond a dozen strands of barbed wire strung less than a foot above the rocky ground. The corners of his brown mustache twitched as he placed a whistle between his teeth. Two shrill blasts rang out in the morning air. Grey crawled toward Baldwin on his stomach, grinding his legs and arms into the gravel as he snaked forward. A strand of barbed wire caught his shirt and tore his uniform. The rest of the class followed on his heels, urging him on. Periodically a high-pitched whine grew in intensity for several seconds, followed by an ear-busting explosion. The students tried to anticipate the explosions, crossing their legs and covering their ears moments before detonation. Baldwin continued moving backward, leading the class under more barbed wire and across an endless stretch of thorns and gravel. Grey’s elbows and the inside of his knees became tenderized within minutes. Three flares dropped onto the sand upwind of the students, and a nauseating sweet green smoke rolled over them.

  Mass chaos, Grey thought. Nicely done. He couldn’t see a thing, his ears rang, and instructors with bullhorns barked unintelligible commands. He continued to follow Baldwin, who finally stopped next to a three-foot-diameter cement tube that protruded from a gentle hillside. Baldwin pointed into the tube. Grey crawled in, and the explosions became even more deafening. The tube slanted downward at a fairly steep angle. Grey slid forward on his stomach. Several seconds later the tunnel came to an abrupt end, and he found himself lying in the most putrid puddle of water he had ever encountered. It was chocolaty brown, and little bits of plant life and dead insects floated on the surface. Two thirty-foot lines ran across the pit. The top line was positioned about four feet above the lower one. Logan stood at the upper lip of the pit, firing blanks from his massive M-60.