Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “I heard him,” Furtado said. “DOR.”

  Baldwin glared at him. “You should have pulled him earlier.”

  “He looked fine to me,” Furtado said defensively.

  Baldwin bent over, then effortlessly slung Rogers’s body over his shoulder. “I don’t want to see anything like this again,” Baldwin grumbled. “If we lose a trainee tonight, we can all kiss our careers good-bye.”

  “Aye, aye, chief,” Furtado said. “Understood.”

  “Redman, you’re in charge,” Baldwin said. “You’re responsible for these two.”

  Redman nodded, his beady black eyes devoid of emotion. Baldwin turned and carried Rogers over the berm.

  Once Baldwin had disappeared from sight, Furtado shattered the silence. “Ding-ding, ding-ding. Socrates, departing,” he chimed.

  Grey clenched and unclenched his fists. He wanted to knock Furtado out, but he knew he lacked the coordination for a well-placed punch.

  “Jones, I suggest you ring out,” Redman said gruffly. “This shit’s about to get ugly, and you might as well spare yourself the discomfort.”

  “Heck no,” Jones drawled. “I ain’t leavin’.”

  “Suit yourself.” Redman nodded toward the surf. “Get comfy.”

  Grey and Jones waded into the ocean and sat down. They linked arms and held each other close. Jones’s quivering voice broke into a quiet rendition of John Denver’s “Country Roads”. After a few verses, Jones’s jackhammering jaw forced him to stop.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” Grey slurred. “Do it for Murray. Stay strong.”

  Jones didn’t reply. The two trainees suffered in silence, rolling forward and back with the surge of the tide, periodically spitting out a mouthful of salt water. Redman watched from his beach chair, and Furtado paced back and forth at the edge of the ocean.

  Grey worked his mouth carefully, struggling to form words. “We were good friends.”

  “What?” Jones chattered.

  “Murray. We were good friends.”

  “You liked him.” Jones drew himself closer to Grey, greedily feeding off of his warmth.

  Several minutes later Redman waved them in from the beach. Once they reached shore, he nodded at the sand berm. “Fireman’s carry, up and down the berm. Go.”

  You’ve got to be kidding. Grey could barely stand, let alone carry Jones on his shoulders while scaling the sand berm.

  “Move!” Furtado yelled. “You heard the man.”

  “I’ll carry first.” Grey clumsily bent over, and Jones sprawled sideways across his back. He straightened out and took a few faltering steps toward the berm.

  “You fall, and you’re going straight back into the surf,” Redman warned.

  Focusing all of his attention on each footfall, Grey carefully ascended the berm. His back and knees shimmered with pain, but he held his course. He descended successfully, and Redman looked away as Grey completed his journey. Jones dropped from Grey’s shoulders and bent over to accept his cargo. They switched positions, and Jones lurched forward unsteadily.

  “Same goes for you, Hillbilly Bob,” Redman said. “You drop, you freeze.”

  Jones groaned beneath Grey’s weight. He wisely cut a diagonal course up the berm, his brow furrowed in concentration. A bony shoulder jutted into Grey’s stomach, making it an uncomfortable ride. C’mon buddy. Don’t drop me.

  “This is the moment of truth, gents,” Furtado said. “Don’t fall on the way down. I’d hate to see you get surf-tortured again.”

  Jones began his descent, and Grey felt him pitch forward dangerously. Grey leaned back to compensate, but he acted too late. The pair plunged headfirst down the sandy slope. Grey rolled over Jones’s head and came to rest at Furtado’s feet.

  “Oh, no, it looks like someone got a boo-boo!” Furtado cried with mock concern.

  Injured? Grey checked himself over quickly. Nothing. He turned his head and looked at Jones. A stream of blood trickled from his friend’s nose and ran into his mouth. Jones didn’t bother spitting it out.

  “Hillbilly Bob, you okay?” Redman asked.

  Jones nodded.

  “The best thing for an injury like that is cold,” Redman noted. “Grey, help him out. Join your buddy in the surf zone. Go all the way out this time. And don’t come back until one of you wants to quit.”

  Grey obediently waded into the frigid sea with Jones at his side. They ducked beneath the whitewash crashing toward shore, only to march onward. They stopped once the water had risen to their chins.

  “Should we swim for it?” Jones asked. “They won’t follow us.”

  “We’re too cold. We’ll die.”

  “I’d rather die trying to escape than spend more time standin’ here.”

  “That’s not the point, Jones. We can leave anytime we want.”

  Jones mulled over Grey’s answer. “Depressing, ain’t it?”

  “How’s your nose?”

  “Hurts like a bitch.”

  Grey turned and faced shore. “We just have to make it until morning. It can’t last forever.”

  Twenty minutes later Grey watched with concern as Jones repeatedly let his head drop. After fishing his friend’s head from the water a half dozen times, Grey crossed his arms over Jones’s nearly lifeless body and pulled him toward shore. This is ridiculous.

  “So who is it?” Redman asked as Grey pulled Jones onto the sand. “Who wants to quit?”

  Grey’s body trembled so severely, he couldn’t respond.

  “Well?”

  Grey dropped to his knees and took Jones’s pulse. Still alive.

  Redman reluctantly climbed out of his chair and strode to Jones’s side. He bent over and slapped the prone trainee across the face. “Hillbilly Bob, you okay?”

  Jones’s eyes moved to Redman’s face, but he didn’t respond.

  “Seaman Jones, are you okay?” Redman repeated. He waited in vain for a response, then turned to Furtado. “He’s done. Carry him to medical. Fire up the hot tub. Make sure he doesn’t die on us. I take his silence as a drop on request.”

  You fucker! Grey grabbed Redman’s beefy arm and shook his head.

  “Ensign Grey, get your hand off me,” Redman ordered calmly. “You don’t want another one of your crew members to die, do you?”

  Grey willed his mouth to work. “No.” He held his head in his hands.

  Furtado grunted as he slung Jones over his back. “Life’s not fair, cupcake. Get over it.”

  Redman returned to his chair as Furtado trudged back to the compound. Grey lifted his eyes to the full moon overhead. This is not my life. This can’t be my life. This is not how it ends. Vanessa … God.

  “Sir, it’s just me and you,” Redman observed. “We’ve got all night. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, and I’m in no hurry.”

  Grey touched the top of his head. A gooey mixture of sand and blood had adhered to his wound. He pulled his hand away and stared at the red smear on his fingers.

  “Sure you don’t want to quit?” Redman asked.

  Grey looked away and extended the middle finger of his right hand.

  “Fuck.” Redman stood up and folded his beach chair. “Get up,” he ordered.

  Grey rose to his feet.

  “Run south.”

  Grey contemplated the order. Redman was luring him farther away from the compound. The few rational cells left in his brain told him to sprint over the berm and find Chief Baldwin.

  “I’ll give you a thirty-second head start.” Redman checked his watch. “One, two…”

  Grey willed his frozen legs back to life. On any given day, he could crush Redman in a footrace. Tonight, however, was a different story. This is it. Grey took a deep breath and ran away from the compound along the water’s edge. With every passing second, his legs loosened and his stride lengthened. Let’s go, you fucking murderer. The reflection of the white moon rippled off the surging tide. Beautiful fucking night. He dodged clumps of kelp, dug deep, and increased his pace.
/>   “I’m coming for you!”

  The yell didn’t inspire fear in Grey’s heart. I’m already gone. He tilted his head back and didn’t fight the tears flowing down his cheeks. Murray, buddy. Murray, why? The obstacle course sped past, then the helicopter wreckage, then nothing but open beach extended for miles. He was alone on the Silver Strand, an instructor hunting him down, breaking him. The lights of Imperial Beach twinkled in the distance. Grey could hear Redman’s ragged breathing behind him. The instructor was closing the distance, wearing him down. Grey felt his mind detach from his body as his legs struggled to maintain their pace. Not done yet. The crunch of Redman’s boots in the soft sand drew nearer. A hand touched Grey’s bare shoulder, and he twisted away. No pain. He accelerated.

  Why did you burden me, Murray? Why the secret? Why the blackmail? We could have made it. We could have made it. You and me. You and me.

  Redman was panting behind him, just out of reach. Grey pleaded with his body, asking for another burst of speed. His legs burned, his pace slackened. No. With a grunt, Redman hurled himself at Grey, knocking him to the sand. The air rushed out of Grey’s lungs, leaving him helpless. Redman kneeled on his back.

  “Stupid shit,” he gasped, struggling to regain his breath. “Where did that come from? Who the fuck are you? No one runs that fast. Not after what I put you through.”

  Grey closed his eyes.

  Redman clamped a huge hand around Grey’s neck. “You…” he breathed. “I’ve hated you right from the start.”

  And I, you.

  “From the first day you showed up, with your fucking perfect PT scores and easy smile. You think this is some sort of grand adventure?”

  Finish me. Finish me.

  “Just another feather in your cap. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you want?”

  Do it.

  “Another bullet on your résumé.” Redman squeezed Grey’s neck.

  Do it. Now.

  The pressure on Grey’s neck let up. Redman climbed to his feet and kicked a cloud of sand into the air. “Fuck!” he screamed.

  Grey slowly opened his eyes.

  “Fuck!” Redman stared down at him, his eyes black as the night sky. “You are the toughest and the fucking stupidest…” He reached down, grabbed Grey by the ankles, and began dragging him toward the ocean.

  Oh God.

  “I don’t think I could kill you if I tried.” Redman released Grey’s ankles, leaving him slumped in several inches of surging water. “Are you ready to listen?”

  What?

  “Are you ready to listen, you stubborn motherfucker?”

  Just talk.

  “Want to know who killed Murray?”

  “You did,” Grey said quietly.

  “Wrong answer.” Redman grabbed Grey’s ankles and dragged him a few feet farther from shore. “One of us killed him, and it wasn’t me.”

  No way.

  “Murray was a stupid son of a bitch. He couldn’t just let things be. I hated him, he hated me. That’s the way things work at BUD/S. I had no reason to kill him.”

  A large breaker rolled into shore, surging over Grey’s face. Redman was still talking when the water rushed away from the beach.

  “—stupid fucker. He tried to set me up, tried to frame me.”

  What? Grey rose up on his elbows.

  “The morning of Hell Week the bastard planted two MP-5s, ten frag grenades, and a few hundred rounds in the trunk of my car. I found the shit that evening, asked around, found out that Team Three was missing two MP-5s. So what did I do?”

  Grey shook his head. He couldn’t believe his ears.

  “I returned the gear. Funny thing, I met up with a few Feds that night. They wanted to search my car. Said they had an anonymous tip. Something about a group of arms dealers in Imperial Beach.”

  Oh God.

  “I consented to the search. They had nothing on me—said it sounded like blackmail. Took me awhile to figure out who did it. Pretty ballsy for a little trainee. I’ve got plenty of enemies, and it wasn’t until I searched the little shit’s room that I figured out it was him. He was stupid enough to keep an article about a murdered gun-store owner in one of his drawers.”

  Grey remembered the article, and how Murray’s room had been ransacked during Hell Week. Murray, you stupid, stupid bastard. Grey remembered how Murray had guarded his seabag the night before Hell Week began. You had it all planned out, thought you could beat the system. Goddamn it, Murray.

  Redman dropped to his knees in the icy water. He grasped Grey’s head in his hands and squeezed hard. “You were in on it, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You obviously knew something. You should have been sleeping, you stupid fuck. You were digging through our files—”

  “Wait.” Grey’s temples throbbed under Redman’s vicelike grip. “Murray claimed he had dirt on you. I didn’t want any part of it. I told him he was being stupid.”

  Redman released Grey’s head and stood up. “I had no idea he had pulmonary edema. I knew he looked like shit, but a few minutes of surf torture shouldn’t kill anyone. His death was an accident, sir. Plain and simple. In fact, if anyone was responsible for his death…”

  “I was,” Grey said quietly. His heart constricted painfully in his chest. I was. I was. I was. The phrase repeated itself in Grey’s head. He looked up at Redman and thought he detected a trace of pity in the instructor’s eyes. Murray, how could you do this to me? Murray …

  “Goddamn right, you were responsible.” Redman crossed his arms over his chest. “Say it again.”

  “I was responsible.”

  “Again.”

  “I was responsible.” Grey felt his eyes well up.

  “Again.”

  “I was responsible.”

  “Stupid fuck,” Redman grunted. “I’ve hated you from the start. Hated you. But you’re one tough son of a bitch. I’ll never like you, sir, but I won’t stop you, either.” Redman gazed out at the ocean as a large set of breakers rolled toward shore.

  Grey’s sleep-deprived mind raced. Full blackmail. God help him. A wall of whitewash pushed Grey flat against the sandy bottom, and his field of vision went black. His insides twisted. I did it. I kept the secret. The water receded, and Grey stared up at Redman’s extended hand.

  “It’s over.”

  Grey reached up and grasped the instructor’s powerful hand. Redman jerked him to his feet.

  “Now run,” he growled.

  “Which way?”

  “I said it’s over, you asshole. Which way do you think?”

  Grey gazed at the dark compound several miles down the beach. “I’m only going back under one condition.”

  “Now you think you can give me conditions?” Redman asked.

  “I’m not going back unless you reinstate my crew. What happened to them wasn’t right. This was between you and me and Murray. They had no part in it.”

  “They quit.”

  “Can you honestly tell me you would have survived this bullshit?”

  “Maybe,” Redman grunted. “Maybe not. I didn’t get caught.”

  Grey turned and looked toward Imperial Beach. “The choice is yours. I know the CO will be confused when I call him from a pay phone. It will make a great story. Two days after Hell Week is secured, a dead trainee’s boat crew dissolves, and his crew leader is picked up at the Mexican border.”

  “You’re a melodramatic little shit.” Redman mulled over Grey’s proposition, then shrugged. “Every class needs a fuckin’ hillbilly, and a preacher, and a poetry-spouting egghead. Only Furtado and Chief Baldwin saw them quit.…”

  “Fine. One more thing: don’t expect any of us until Tuesday. We need a day of sleep. You can explain our absence to Chief Baldwin. He can smooth things over.”

  Redman nodded, and Grey ran north along the water’s edge, coaxing life from his rubbery legs. He embraced the pain coursing throu
gh his body, used it as a scourge to drive the guilt away. Murray dug his own grave. His friend’s big blue eyes and impish smile flitted through his mind. I didn’t stop him. Grey turned inward, oblivious to Redman’s heavy breathing behind him. He flew across the sand, punishing himself with every step.

  * * *

  Grey woke up wrapped tightly in his sweat-soaked military-issue blanket. Rogers sat at the edge of the bed.

  “You’re awake,” he noted.

  “Something like that.”

  Deep blue circles framed Rogers’s sunken eyes. His voice was hoarse. “We need to talk.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll get Jackson and Jones.”

  A fearsome cramp seized Grey’s legs, and he groaned in pain as he struggled to sit up. My God. A lonely beam of sunlight streamed past tattered curtains, illuminating the sand-strewn floor. The pungent smell of sweat and decay filled Grey’s nostrils as he peeled off his sticky blanket. His head ached with a vicious, repetitive throbbing that ran from his temples to the base of his neck.

  Vanessa. Murray. He ached for either one of them. Vanessa for comfort, Murray for a smile, a joke, anything …

  “Sir, reporting for duty.” It was Jones. Rogers and Jackson followed him into the room.

  “Sit down,” Grey said, gesturing at the rumpled bed.

  “Smells like someone died in here,” Jackson noted.

  Grey got straight to the point. “You boys all think you’re done, don’t you?”

  “It’s lookin’ like that might be the case,” Jones answered. “None of us made it through the night, and ’sides, ain’t no way Redman or Furtado would let us continue on.”

  “I think I saw God,” Rogers said. “He had frost on his eyelashes.”

  “Amen, brother,” Jackson added. “Darn near killed me too.”

  Grey examined the back of his hands. “I owe you all an apology.”

  “For what?” Jones asked indignantly. “You don’t owe us nothin’. None of this is your fault.”

  Grey started to speak, then caught his breath. “I…”

  His crew waited patiently for him to continue.

  “It wasn’t what I thought. I shouldn’t have dragged any of you into this. Redman didn’t kill Murray.”

  “Furtado, then?” Jones asked.