by Ginger Booth
Clarke shook his head. “I get rid of anyone I can’t work with. But I get emails from Captain Stevens every day, the MFT. He says my platoon is beneath quota at ‘culling.’ I wish he’d stop calling it that.”
That’s what they called the American death toll from the first year of the Calm Act. ‘Culling the population.’
“Agreed,” Emmett hissed. “That wasn’t my question. Are you willing to work with these kids? Help all of them make it to Basic, if you can?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Clarke said. Calderon nodded emphatically beside him.
“Why?”
Clarke was silent a moment. “Working off karma,” he murmured.
“That one?” Calderon jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the door Panic departed through. “I like her for Corps of Engineers, sir. Never gonna pass that ruck march, though. If I – Well.”
“What, sergeant?”
“I get what General Houston is trying to do, sir,” Calderon continued his thought. “Hundreds of thousands of candidates, we could pick all Army Rangers. Kind of an insult to the rest of us, though. Even special ops – they didn’t pass selection at eighteen. They were grown men. Did any women ever pass selection?”
“Just a few. I agree. We’ll keep up the fight.”
“I hope so, sir. Because when I tell that little slip of a girl, yeah, sure, I can teach her to pass the ruck march?”
“Yeah, that’s gotta suck,” Emmett agreed.
Lt. Colonel Carter Newsome, the training brigade commander, waved Lt. Colonel Emmett MacLaren to a seat, with a professionally bland smile. “Place hasn’t changed much since our time, eh, Emmett?”
“Chapel’s seen better days, Carter,” Emmett returned. The impressive stone cadet chapel was half destroyed during the brief Penn War. “Used to love that chapel.”
Newsome himself still looked like the linebacker he was as an upperclassman, during Emmett’s plebe year at the Point. Lest that point be missed, a framed photo of the football team hung behind him on the wall. Army beat Navy that year.
“To what do I owe a visit from the wildly famous Savior of New York City?” Sour grapes oozed from Newsome’s voice.
“Word on the street says things aren’t going so smoothly.”
“Emmett, we started operations two weeks ago.”
“Understood. But this is important to the Apple Zone, Carter. Those are our little chicks you’ve got under wing. We have a need to succeed. And I think we’ve done you a disservice.”
Carter Newsome couldn’t agree more. Emmett and his cronies had sent him dregs. “How’s that?” he asked cautiously.
“I think we assumed too much about the army fitness train-the-trainer program. Take a pudgy teenager, ride him into shape, is a totally different problem. The usual approach is to break down the ego. Cut calories. Make him try harder. These recruits need the opposite. Process horrific trauma. Medical attention. Eat more. Slow, disciplined, systematic exercise. Highly individualized programs, build up their egos from the start. They’re all over the place in readiness.”
“Not really,” Carter said. “Jesus, Emmett, none of those kids are fit to be here.”
“They are, Carter. They’ll make good soldiers. What I propose is to glean our experience from the quarantines. Provide that background to your drill instructors and Master Fitness Trainer. I might be able to get some people up here who worked Camp Suffolk. Expert consultants.”
Newsome frowned. “Why Suffolk? Camp Yankee and Camp Upstate quarantines were right around the corner.”
MacLaren shook his head. “No experience with teenagers. Long Island put everyone through quarantine. But we didn’t resettle this age group from the cities. Not adoptable.”
“Well, can’t blame you. These recruits are a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Thank you for not trying to foist them off on Upstate. But why the hell are you foisting them on the Army?”
Emmett held his eye coldly. “Survivors, Carter. Not delinquents.” He broke eye contact and added more casually, “You’d be surprised. Talked to one recruit today – she would have been a shoe-in at MIT or Columbia. If life dealt her a different hand.”
“Who’s that?”
“I think she’d prefer I not say. Teens can be brutal on a ‘brain.’ ”
Carter sighed. “Yeah, I’m sure we both remember that.”
The old West Point offered a completely free education at one of the finest liberal arts colleges in the country. Two alumni might confidently assume each other was a straight-A student in high school, as well as a top-notch athlete. Neither was true in Emmett’s case – he was home-schooled on a remote subsistence farm in the Ozarks. Emmett let it slide.
“So you’ll accept our consultants?”
“I don’t think so, Emmett. I’ve got a perfectly good MFT, Captain Stevens.”
“Not what I’m hearing, Carter.”
“Now I’ll insist on names.”
“I don’t think so. Look, Carter, first day of training was a cluster-fuck. My recruits are good Hudson voters, prime candidates for this program. He ran them into the ground, with injuries. They’re here for six weeks of rehab before they can handle Basic. And instead some charlatan stages an old-style West Point R-Day for them. Carter, do you remember R-Day? How tough it was for us? These recruits weren’t up for that. And your MFT didn’t even check them out first, before doing that to them.”
The brigade commander scowled at him. Belatedly, Emmett wondered if the resurrection of West Point Reception Day was Newsome’s own bright idea. Oops. Carter always was an ass. And come to think of it, Emmett didn’t recall Carter serving as a cadet officer for Cadet Basic Training, or R-Day. Emmett himself served year after year during his tenure at the Point.
“I won’t have you harassing Captain Stevens, Colonel MacLaren.”
“I’ll send you consultants, Colonel Newsome.”
“I won’t accept them.” Belatedly, Newsome considered just how much influence MacLaren might bring to bear, and backpedaled. “Look, Emmett, we will adjust. Every new program is bound to have a few rough edges. Frankly, I think your visit today is premature.”
“Tonight is Governor Cullen’s Christmas party,” Emmett explained. Carter was susceptible to name-dropping. Emmett hoped Sean Cullen didn’t invite the clod. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Judging from Newsome’s deeper scowl, no, he wasn’t invited.
“Carter, I’m hearing that your noncoms are being pressured to ‘cull’ my recruits. That’s not acceptable.”
“Not up to you, Emmett. This conversation is over.”
“We’ll see,” Emmett said. He rose and rapped the desk with his knuckles. “Good to see you again, Carter. You haven’t changed a bit.” Sadly.
“You have. You were a modest little snot, who knew his place.”
Emmett saluted sourly, forcing Carter to return it.
16
Interesting fact: In the U.S. Army, by the rank of lieutenant colonel, it was customary to serve 6 years between promotions. If an officer was not favored for promotion, he had to retire. Hudson broke with tradition. Instead, mid-level officers were eligible for promotion based on merit after four to eight years in grade. After that, they were not forced to retire, but were ineligible for promotion, and effectively lost any seniority over younger officers of the same rank.
The music video of the recruits dancing like fools in Arvin Gym, was a hit. Emmett MacLaren’s wife, Dee Baker, had it professionally polished for a Project Reunion News special report.
The dancing was interspersed with introduction and talking heads. All three Apple Zone Rescos – MacLaren of North Jersey, Cam Cameron of Long Island, and Ash Margolis of the Apple Cities – spoke about how important this initiative was for their districts. They explained the demographic disaster that left hundreds of thousands of orphaned teens. Governor-General Sean Cullen even made a brief statement, recorded at his nearby Christmas party that night, expressing his admiration for the recruits themselves
, striving to build new lives for themselves.
The talking heads only took one edge of the screen. The video featured non-stop dancing. If Dee and her volunteer crew missed a single recruit, it wasn’t for lack of trying. They managed to catch most of the instructors, too. The sergeants brought their phones along, and contributed more video. There was plenty of footage to work from.
Ava belly-danced between Dima and Fox, the black Jersey girl Ava met exhausted on the stairs that first day of official training. They stripped to sports bras and low-slung exercise shorts, or gi pants in Ava’s case. Dima and Fox twined jewelry around their midriffs, while Ava used her karate black belt criss-crossed, long hair whipping from a high ponytail. The guys from Ava’s table followed. Yoda, Doc, Fakhir and Fang mimicked the girls. Marquis, Puño, and Sauce tried for a Chippendale stripper act. The platoon’s five noncoms appeared later in the broadcast, doing synchronized push-ups in T-shirts to show off their buffed physiques. Fox recorded that using Singh’s phone, with loving attention to sexy angles.
Dee Baker and Emmett MacLaren appeared briefly, swing dancing in their Christmas party finery just before they left for the day. No other West Point officer above lieutenant dared get caught on video. They had a fair idea how Dee’s initiatives would be received by the MFT Captain Stevens, and Lt. Colonel Newsome, the training camp commander.
On Sunday, a couple days before the special report would be broadcast to the public, Ava’s company leadership showed a big-screen preview to the recruits after supper in Washington Hall. Other company staff presented the video in the other dining hall wings. They often watched Project Reunion News broadcasts after supper this way, just as many of them had in cafeterias back in the villes.
Captain Deluca presided, the officer over five platoons including Ava’s. He helpfully pointed out the video time readout. His executive officer, XO, Lt. Janette Mattey, and the company first sergeant Walker, Clarke’s boss, smilingly handed out sheets of paper and pencils, for each dining table to take notes. They played the video at half speed, so the recruits could jot down timestamps where they appeared, to mesh Cocos and friends back in the Apple Zone.
Poor Captain Deluca was increasingly puzzled by the response of his recruits. At first, the ‘men’ were all excited, yelling out time stamps and names, teasing each other. The dining wing was louder and more boisterous than the instructors had ever allowed before. Deluca didn’t play the soundtrack, of course, with the video playing slow.
But something happened, and the recruits gradually quieted. Near the video’s end there was barely enough talking to accomplish the task at hand in hushed voices. Names and time stamps were noted. The other two wings of the dining hall, dominated by Long Island recruits, remained loud. Deluca could tell when the pure-LI wing reached the end, with cheering, whistles, floor-stomping, and thunderous applause.
But his own wing, all from urban Jersey and the city boroughs, met the closing credits with stony silence.
Deluca shot a frown at his first sergeant. Walker gazed around the hall of long faces, and shrugged. “Encourage the men, sir,” he murmured. Walker didn’t understand what was going on, either.
“Men!” Deluca boomed out. “You looked great in the video! Give yourself a round of applause!” Drill instructors stood and clapped. A ragged response slowly built as recruits stood and half-heartedly followed instructions. The sound of chairs scraping the floor was louder than the clapping.
“Guys!” Deluca threw arms wide in entreaty. “What, are you city slickers too dignified to cheer? Come on! You heard Long Island in the other wing. I want you louder! On three, Hoo-ah! One, two, three – Hoo-ah! One, two, three – Hoo-ah!”
The cheer caught in Ava’s throat, her Hoo-ah barely a whisper. They started to stomp, but there’s only so loud a ninety-pound girl can stomp. Especially when she felt like crying.
There was no way in hell Ava would cry in the dining hall.
Deluca glanced at Walker again, who shook his head microscopically. “Alright! Guess you guys are in too big a hurry to get back to barracks and mesh your friends back home. Dismissed!”
They filed out defeated.
Ava and Dima’s latest third room-mate, Long Washington, was softly snoring by a half hour to lights-out. A long skinny bean-pole of a guy from Newark, his bare black and pink feet dangled out the free end of his top bunk. Disambiguation dubbed the platoon’s two Washingtons as Long Washington and Other Washington, promptly shortened to Long and Otter. Long needed to make the bed the opposite direction Lotus had, with his head at the enclosed wall end. He represented stage one of integrating the male and female recruits – one male to two females in a room. Soon they’d play musical chairs again and every girl would share a room with two guys.
Their phones buzzed. Dima checked hers. “Marquis sent our time stamps,” she reported.
Ava nodded without enthusiasm.
“You look like I feel,” Dima said softly. “Are you going to mesh your boyfriend?”
Ava took in Dima’s expression, and closed the room door for the night. “Ex.”
“I could mesh the other gardeners,” Dima said. “They’ve never seen me without hijab.”
“I can mesh Guzman. Tell him your time stamps too. Everybody from Soho Village.” Ava sucked in her lip. Songkram and Tyrone might care. The librarian Samantha. “Don’t know many mesh id’s. Just used them for work. Ville business. No friends.”
“Going home for recess is going to suck,” Dima whispered.
“You could wear hijab again.”
“No.”
Dima still hadn’t worn her scarf since the MFT tore it off her that night. Ava wasn’t sure what that meant. But her room-mate’s personality changed with the clothes and the name. The new Dima was harder, no longer wore a kindly people-pleasing face. Though Ava suspected she was still kinder than most, inside. Kinder than Ava, at least.
“Were you in a gang, Dima?”
“Soho Jihad, bottom of the harem. Escaped to the ville first chance I got.”
Ava winced. Under the leadership of Ava and Frosty, White Supreme policy was that nobody touched the girls without consent. Of course it happened anyway. But there were consequences if a guy got too rough. And as Ava so vividly demonstrated, young girls were off limits. From people inside the gang, anyway. No one escaped getting raped by outsiders.
“White Supreme treated girls better than most,” Ava said.
“Ava Panic, the good queen bee.”
“I tried,” Ava hissed defensively.
“I know. Sorry. Thank you for trying, for somebody.”
Somebody not Dima. No one had protected her. With the grossly disfiguring burn scars, she wasn’t even pretty. Ava wondered if she got enough to eat. Well, no. Nobody got enough to eat. Dima was more meaty than Ava now, but she’d been in the ville twice as along.
Ava scrunched her eyes for tear control, facing her own wall. “You need to talk more?”
“No. Say hi to Guzman for me.”
Long groaned and shifted on the bunk above Dima. He did that all night. Growing pains, he told them. His bones ached. He got up several times the night before to use the bathroom. He tended to absent-mindedly scratch his balls after he changed into dorm pants for bed. For a nearly silent room-mate, he took up a surprising amount of psychic space.
“You ever get horny, Dima?” Ava asked. She’d left Frosty months ago. Surely she should want a new boyfriend by now. The thought just made her think of the last good time she’d had with Frosty.
Dima’s voice was quelling. “No. Good night.” The soft sound of phone tapping came from her low bunk.
Ava managed to mesh Guzman before lights-out. When she was sure Dima was asleep, she moved out to the hall to mesh Samantha and Songkram and Tyrone.
Sergeant Awalo collected her into the common room since she wouldn’t go to bed. She sat at the back composing and re-composing a brief text to Frosty and Maz. They’d enjoy Puño and Doc and Fakhir dancing. And she had to admi
t, she was thinking of Frosty as she tied her black belt around her bare waist and undulated for the camera. But she danced between Dima and Fox, dusky and black. Did Frosty even have access to Internet? He could wander into the library at Midtown or Soho Ville to watch the video. He hadn’t done so before she left him, so far as she knew.
In the end, she simply reported the time-stamps when she and Chelsea Free danced, and their sergeants with their push-ups, without further comment. She attached the Hello from Hogwarts dining room postcard. And she meshed Frosty and Maz together, not a private text.
Guzman wrote back that he looked forward to seeing it. The others were probably asleep by the time she finished texting them. She turned off the phone, sighed, and looked around. No stories or readings tonight, at least not until later. The half dozen recruits in the common room were either asleep or fidgeting with their phones.
Awalo settled in beside her. “Still can’t sleep with the new room-mate?”
This was Long’s third night with them. This was her third straight night in the common room. Ava winced. She wished the white Michaelson had asked instead of black Awalo. But Michaelson wasn’t around.
“Has he done anything?” Awalo pressed.
“No. No, he’s…fine.”
“I think I’m gonna push you on this tonight, Panic,” Awalo said. “You need sleep. In a bed. If you’re afraid of another recruit, we need to deal with it.”
“It’s not that. Our first night, someone came into our room. I jumped him, before I woke up.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter. We solved it. But I’m afraid I might kill him, just because he gets up in the night. Like, before I even wake up.”
Awalo considered the diminutive girl skeptically. “You’ve done this before? Sleep murder? Like sleep-walking, only different. Fast asleep, and you take down a guy with your bare hands. A guy a foot taller than you. Fifty pounds heavier.”
Ava covered her mouth with a hand to smother a snicker.
Awalo drew closer to whisper, “So how badly should I fear for his life? Are you bigger, when you sleep murder? Your subconscious thinks you’re ten feet tall?”
