by John Brown
“Are you guilty?”
“Everybody’s guilty of something.”
“Just answer the question, Benson, yes or no. Are you guilty?”
“Do you mean guilt in a literal or a figurative sense? There is the guilt we feel over things we’ve done or left undone — but that would require a conscience. You wouldn’t know anything about that. There is the guilt about violating common moral standards — but that would presume not being a psychopath. There’s guilt by association, but that’s only circumstantial. Then there’s guilt in a legal sense — but that requires a proper judge and jury, the presumption of innocence, and the rules of evidence. You wouldn’t know anything about that, either.”
Agent Reed, silent to this point, motioned Malloy to the rear of the room with a slight nod of his head. They spoke in hushed tones.
“I dunno,” Reed whispered, putting his hand on Malloy’s shoulder and leaning in close. “Not convinced, you know?”
“I told you it doesn’t work,” Malloy agreed, shaking his head. “Let’s conference with Dr.—”
“Excuse me over there! Sorry to interrupt your heart-to-heart,” yelled Benson, “but does it bother you that there’s no proof of your goofy plot? Does the truth count for anything anymore?”
Dr. Gannon stomped over to the agents, fuming.
“You stupid, stupid knuckledraggers!” he hissed in a low voice. “Birdbrains! You are ruining the examination. The interview process is most delicate, you muscleheads. You must let me run the interview! I must insist.”
The agents returned to Benson. Malloy still held the photograph, studying it for a moment.
“Well, Mr. Benson, you were in a position to cause harm. We’re not working with formal guilt after the fact. That’s too late.”
“That’s right,” Reed said. “We find dangerous fanatics and flush out their sleeper cells before they act. That’s preemptive war.”
There was a pregnant pause in the room, and then Benson burst out laughing. The agent’s demeanors went from serious to steamed in an instant.
“You couldn’t preempt dick, you pathetic losers. The only thing you’re flushing is the toilet.”
21
I’ll Prove You’re Wrong
“NO SHOVING, PLEASE! MOVE ALONG QUIETLY!” barked the military police.
The long line crawled. The young men came in all sizes and shapes, from the athletic to the ungainly, and from every social, economic, and ethnic demographic. The female conscripts ranged from the fashionably clad to the frizzy and the frumpy. Once inside the doors of the Military Entrance Processing Station they submitted their forms and supporting documentation and were checked off, one by one.
They lined up for their fish kits of camouflage pants, jackets, shirts, boots, toiletries, and other items of clothing and supplies, all stacked neatly in gray plastic bins. The men passed through a team of barbers, given identical buzz cuts, and shorn of any mustaches and beards. The women had their hair cut to a uniform length and pulled back into small ponytails. The floor was piled with clumps of hair of every color and texture. Earrings, tongue studs, nipple and genital piercings, eyebrow clamps, nose and lip rings, navel jewelry, and other such adornments were removed and placed in clear plastic bags with their names and numbers on preprinted labels for retrieval at some later date.
The recruits changed into their uniforms and assembled in the adjoining gymnasium. With its wood floors and high ceilings, the room greatly amplified all the nervous chatter. Master sergeants went through the groups, checking off their lists. Once it was all done, the women went off to another gymnasium, led by female sergeants. The men were ordered to line up. Some stood stiffly at attention, much as they had seen it done in the movies, while others slouched. The noise died down.
A drill sergeant moved up and down the lines, coming to stop in front of Daniel, staring up and down at this boy with oversized fatigues hanging off his skinny frame. The sergeant slowly circled Daniel and came back to face him, looking directly into his eyes, just inches from his face, scowling.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
The sergeant yelled loud enough so that everyone could easily hear.
“Benson,” Daniel said, staring straight ahead, scared to death of this badass. “Dan Benson.”
The sergeant looked this Dan Benson over with deep disapproval. He glowered, his dark eyes boring into Daniel, who struggled against his instincts not to look back.
“Benson, sir!” the sergeant screamed into Daniel’s ear, giving him a start. “Gimme 50, you pussy!”
With extreme effort, Daniel struggled to perform a few feeble pushups.
The sergeant stepped lightly on his back with one boot.
“Listen up, you dumb rocks!” he yelled at the assembly, paying no mind to the exhausted weakling below him. “You’re gonna be killin’ ragheads ’n a few months, you worthless bunch a’ cherries. And this,” he stared them down, hands on his hips, “is Day Zero!”
The sergeant glanced down as Daniel continued without success to overcome the minor weight on his back. His arms trembled, his hips sank to the floor, and his face flushed a deep red. Finally, he collapsed in a heap, intensely humiliated, his head pressed sideways on the hardwood floor, puffing hard.
Distaste written on his face, the sergeant looked at the recruits, his boot planted squarely on Daniel’s back.
“I sure ain’ got much to work with, but you’re gonna be tough sumbitches or die tryin’.”
The sergeant looked around the gym.
“YOU HEAR ME?” he bellowed, in a sudden rage. “I — will — not — tolerate — shitbaggers!” he said slowly, each word emphasized, at the top of his voice.
“AM I CLEAR?”
“Wake up, cherries,” the drill sergeant sang out with exaggerated sweetness.
He had quietly entered the barracks where the men were still sleeping. It was just before dawn. Standing in the middle of the room, feet widely planted, he surveyed the slumbering recruits from beneath the broad brim of his hat.
“Rise an’ shine, sweethearts!”
The men stirred lightly on their beds.
“Move!” he screamed. “When I give a comman’ you will hustle! Now line up!”
Daniel picked his head up off the pillow, groggy. His neck and back ached from the hard, thin mattress. It was only 0545 hours and they’d hardly gotten any sleep.
“Welcome to Hell Week.”
The sergeant said it as a threat, in a low growl. The recruits didn’t know what it meant, but they struggled off their beds and stood in formation in their T-shirts and briefs.
“I am Sergeant Shultz.”
He walked slowly down the line. The men stood rigidly, staring straight ahead.
“Did I hear me a snicker?”
Schultz came to an abrupt stop.
“Someone find that funny?”
All was silent. Schultz stared down a poor recruit, yelling an inch from his face.
“Was that you, shithead?”
“N-no-no sir!”
He went over to Daniel.
“Now how ’bout you?” His hot breath assaulted Daniel’s face. “You already made trouble for everyone here an’ we hardly got goin’. I don’ like you.”
He circled around Daniel, glaring at him.
“No, I don’ like you at all. You find my name funny?”
“No sir!”
“I don’ like liars. The truth must count for somethin’. Liars do not belong in my corps,” he shouted at the men.
“Am I clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” the men shouted back.
“You will become motivated, disciplined, physically an’ mentally fit.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Shultz moved up and down the line as he spoke, staring down each recruit in turn.
“You will learn to take pride in yourself, in the corps, an’ in your country, but right now you got nothin’ to be proud of. You’re dirt — you’re even lower ’n dirt
. Am I right?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Get down on the floor! Kiss it! That’s where you belong. You ain’ accomplished nothin’ in your short, miserable lives, you’re all a bunch a’ soft pansies, afraid to get your little hands all dirty. You ain’ never worked hard a day in your goddamn life. Am I right?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“You’re spoiled little brats, you been coddled your whole life. You don’ even know the meanin’ a’ hard work. You don’ belong here with real soldiers; you ain’ fit to be in their presence. You ain’ fit to lick their boots, you ain’ earned the privilege. Am I right?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” they yelled from the floor.
“I didn’ tell you to stop, now did I? Keep kissin’ the floor.”
Schultz was silent for a few minutes.
“Stan’ at attention. Move it!”
The men stood ramrod straight, puffing their chests out.
“You will become American soldiers, sworn to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign ’n’ domestic. You will defend your country’s freedom. You will be capable of defeatin’ any enemy on any battlefield. Am I clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“I said, am I clear?” he bellowed.
“SIR, YES, SIR!”
Minutes later, the soldiers were jogging slowly down a dusty road. Shultz led the company, trotting along easily. He pulled back to let them run past.
“Tighten up over there! Nuts to butts!”
He began singing, in time with his steps.
“A yellow bird with a yellow bill,”
“A yellow bird with a yellow bill,” the men repeated.
“Was sittin’ on my window sill.”
“Was sittin’ on my window sill.”
“I lured him with a piece a’ bread,”
“I lured him with a piece a’ bread,”
“Then I smashed his fuckin’ head.”
“Then I smashed his fuckin’ head.”
They arrived at a clearing dominated by a wooden tower topped by a small cabin high above the ground. Thick, knotted ropes hung from beams secured to the cabin. The recruits climbed the ropes and then shimmied down clumsily, standing in formation when done, their chests heaving, sweat running down their backs. Not a few had enormous difficulty making it up and down, reducing the movement of men to a near standstill.
“Too goddamn slow!” Shultz yelled, pacing back and forth with a grim look on his face, his assistant following closely at his heels. “I coulda shot your flabby asses on that rope like fish ’n a barrel. You’re so goddamn slow you couldn’ get outta your own way. My old grandma could kick your fat, swollen asses on this little bitty course.”
He spat on the ground.
“No, I ain’ got much to work with, that’s for dang sure.”
Sergeant Schultz led the men to an open field studded with old tractor-trailer tires. Daniel spent the next half hour pushing one of the huge truck tires end over end, dropping it on the ground, picking it up, and repeating the exercise. It took every last ounce of his willpower to hoist the massive tire and heave it over. All around him, the men grunted and strained, pushed to their limits. Schultz blew the whistle; the men stopped instantly with intense relief. They drank from a water fountain and rested in the shade of some trees.
Daniel perspired freely, taxed physically and mentally to the hilt. He’d never worked so relentlessly hard in his life, but now, at rest, he felt a strange feeling of satisfaction at having pushed himself more than he ever knew that he could. He had overcome a challenge that he would have thought impossible a few hours ago. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Sir,” Daniel said, instantly arousing the wrath of the sergeant with his impudence. “When’s breakfast?”
“Breakfas’! How do Belgian waffles an’ apple crepes with whip cream sound? Maybe some fancy expresso to go with it. One sugar or two? You shitbagger! This ain’ no summer camp, college boy. You gotta learn to run on empty.”
He shook his head at Daniel’s audacity.
“Nap time’s over!” he barked to the whole company, in a foul mood. “Get up, keep movin’!”
Daniel labored with all his might to lift a big sandbag. Sergeant Schultz watched impassively as Daniel quivered and shook under the load. He had gotten much stronger since he had arrived at boot camp, but he couldn’t quite heave the bag higher than his head, no matter how dogged his determination.
Without warning, Schultz wheeled around and punched him in the stomach.
“Drop that bag an’ you jus’ bought 50 a’ those lifts, you hear me, boy?”
Daniel keeled over and fell to his hands and knees, vomiting.
Schultz watched him with outright contempt.
“You don’ got what it takes, college boy,” he said, looking away. “You thought you were better ’n everyone. Got some news for ya.”
He squatted down. Daniel was still retching in the dirt.
“You ain’ no man. You ain’ no part a’ no man.”
Daniel hacked at the ground on his hands and knees.
“You’re wrong! Sir.” Daniel turned to face the sergeant, his face bright red and wet with cold sweat. “I’ll prove you’re wrong.”
Schultz stood and surveyed the surroundings.
“You do that, boy. You jus’ do that.”
“Double time, march!”
The heavy packs bounced off their backs as they ran under the hot sun. Each step felt like a mile. Daniel was utterly wretched; his sweat-soaked fatigues clung to his body, chafing his skin with every stride. He desperately yearned to stop the suffering but wouldn’t permit himself to let go and give up.
Sergeant Schultz jogged at the front of the pack, dropping back to the middle to inspect his recruits.
“The moral of the story is,” he sang, in time with the even rhythm of his steps.
“The moral … of the story … is,” the men sang between strained breaths.
“To get some head you need some bread.”
“To get some … head … you need … some bread,” the recruits sang out, puffing furiously.
“Sound off! One, two.”
“Sound off … one … two.”
Daniel grew lightheaded. Spots danced before his eyes and the tips of his fingers tingled. His field of vision closed in, his breathing became shallow, and his ears clogged up.
“Company, halt! At ease.”
Daniel crumpled where he stood, resting on top of the pack strapped to his back, fighting the almost irresistible urge flooding over him to roll over and black out. His ears rang with a shrill buzz; nausea rose in his throat. He broke out in a cold sweat, feeling chilled despite the heat. The sergeant was saying something to the men but he couldn’t make any sense of it in his misery and confusion.
He breathed deeply, willing himself to remain conscious, focusing on a nearby tree. In a few minutes, he started to come out of it. The spots in his vision went away and his ears began clearing.
“An’ now, you dumb cherries, you know the meanin’ a’ hard work,” Schultz was saying. “Intensity a’ effort in trainin’ will keep your sorry asses alive in battle. But your own sorry ass ain’ important, it ain’ worth shit. Only the company’s important. You are individuals no more; you are a team. You will think as one, you will act as one, you will stay together as one. You will leave no one behind, no matter what.”
Sergeant Schultz moved over to Daniel, squatting down to evaluate his condition. His stern face, for once, betrayed no hint of anger, but of concern.
“I expect this level a’ effort ever time. Am I clear?”
The men nodded, understanding all too well.
“I said! Am I clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
22
Building a Shared Vision
THE SIDEWALKS WERE FILLED WITH PEDESTRIANS, mainly office workers out for lunch or just breaking free for a stroll on a pleasant day. A man struggled to park
his ancient station wagon on the tree-lined street of outdoor cafes. The car’s rear sagged from the heavy load in back. There being no other suitable spots on this block, he shoehorned his car in between the others parked on the curb. Backing up, he looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that he hadn’t shaved in a few days. A patchy gray growth covered his lined face. He reversed slowly until he bumped the car behind.
He pushed against his door to get out but it was battered and sagging and wouldn’t easily yield. He threw his weight against it until the door creaked open on its rusty hinges. Exiting the car, he shuffled as fast as he could down the sidewalk, looking behind every few steps and bumping into people. He had almost reached the end of the block when he was forced to stop and catch his breath. Wheezing, he looked back at his car, confused. His mind was whirling.
Months earlier, he had met two men. They had approached him just as he was most down on his luck, utterly without hope or purpose. He had no money, no job, and no friends. His English was bad. Yet, they had encouraged him, bought him things, kept his company, and slowly won his trust. They provided training and sophisticated military-grade equipment. They even paid him handsomely. These strangers, his new best friends, had given him a reason to live. He must now, they strongly urged, serve a cause greater than just himself. He would finally have “some skin in the game,” as they had put it.
It had seemed almost too good to be true; the fulfillment of his deepest prayers. Now he wondered if they knew what the hell they were doing. After all, he didn’t really know them too well, only a few months. They weren’t of his people, either. And where were they now? What skin did they have in the game? Perhaps he had foolishly trusted them.
Sauntering back cautiously, cursing them under his breath, he circled his car and peered inside. He couldn’t see much through the filthy glass. He went around to the rear, trying to open the station wagon’s tailgate, but his car had locked bumpers with the one behind and he had great difficulty reaching the latch. He put a foot on the other car’s bumper for balance, and, struggling for leverage, pulled open the tailgate.
The blast was deafening, a hurricane of force, destroying the shops and restaurants down the whole block and most of those on the opposite side of the street. People in the immediate vicinity were blown to pieces, scattered about in the street and sidewalk. Those further away from the explosion lay at crazy angles on the ground, coming to rest at whichever way they were thrown, their limbs twitching amid sparkling glass shards. The horrified and paralyzed survivors stared dully at the charred carcass of the burning wagon.
