by Zoe Dawson
Instructor Nathan Walker stood on the rocks, while medical personnel poised for injuries. Instructor Hal Cheezer stayed on the beach with a clipboard. Her heart lurched as the nose of Hemingway’s IBS collided with the rocks, then he was out of the boat as his crew paddled vigorously to keep the boat from surging back away from the jetty.
He wrapped a line around his waist and shouted above the crashing surf. “Bow-line man secure!”
Six male voices echoed his words.
“Watch out,” Professor shouted as a breaker tossed the stern of the boat, nearly capsizing them. The back surge tried to carry them seaward, but Hemingway was strongly braced.
“Paddles!” Lane screamed as they all echoed his order, and Brown exited the boat with the paddles, deftly scrambling over the rocks, running to the beach to set them down in the sand, then heading back to the crew to assist his departing crewmates in hauling the IBS onto the rocks.
“Bow-line man moving!” Hemingway yelled.
While the crew fought to hold the IBS, Hemingway scrambled forward to a new position in the rocks.
“This is the make it or break it moment,” Max said, his voice low and tense, keeping the seven men below them riveted.
A huge breaker swamped them, the candidates visibly bracing against the massive waves. The guests watching released a collective gasp, and Shea tensed, her body fighting the surf with the struggling trainees, her heart with the man who anchored them all. “You’ve got this!” she shouted.
Several men turned to look at her, but she was so caught up in their struggle, she barely noticed. Pride in them washed through her, making her feel part of this in an active way. They all worked for DOD. They did it for different reasons and motivations, but in the end they all were one.
That meant something she wasn’t sure what to do with right now, but she tucked it away to examine later.
“Bow-line man secure!” Hemingway shouted as the water receded back into the turbulent Pacific.
Lane yelled, “Ready!” and the response from the crewmates was resounding. “Hoist!”
With Lane shouting for them to get set and then move the IBS, his voice never wavering, they hauled the boat over the hazardous and slippery rocks toward the beach. With mighty heaves against the ocean trying to reclaim the boat and its sailors, the men fought to crest the rocks, giving the powerful ocean not only their respect but refusing to be dominated.
“High and dry! Bow-line over,” Lane ordered.
“Bow-line over!” Hemingway replied and returned to the boat. He threw the bow-line into the boat and helped his crewmates heave the IBS down the rocks to the sand.
“Halt here, men,” Instructor Walker said.
Lane and his men complied immediately as Walker navigated down from his vantage point.
“Competent job, guys. Not bad for the first round,” he said, “Bow-line man, solid work, but if you open your stance just a bit wider, it’s going to give you a stronger base and better balance. Mister Lane, loud and concise commands, but you don’t have to rush it. Make sure you take it fast, but at a measured pace. You got that?”
“Hoo-yah, Instructor Walker.”
“I’m passing you on this first try, but I want to see you refine it. Next time, I won’t be a mister-nice-guy.”
“Hoo-yah, Instructor Walker!”
“Make it efficient on your next try and less rushed. Report to Cheezer.”
“Hoo-yah, Instructor Walker!” The crew moved off the rocks to the sand. Once on the soft sand, the crew recovered their paddles and waited for Cheezer’s inspection.
“Drop,” Cheezer ordered, his attention on the next set of candidates.
Lane and his crew set their toes on the tube of their IBS and pushed out the required number.
“What’s the word, slipknots?”
“Pass, Instructor Cheezer,” Lane said. Cheezer made a mark on his clipboard.
“Recover and see Instructor Manchester.” Hemingway shot her a soft look, and she couldn’t help smiling back at him. The crew grabbed the handles and low carried the boat at a jog to where Manchester was standing. For them all, it was back into the surf for two more tries to improve on their performance for a final assessment.
“Daylight wasn’t bad, but night…that’s a bitch,” Max said.
Shea had no doubt they would pass.
“I thought Cheezer was going to drown me in lifesaving,” Professor said, rubbing at his neck. “That guy is a freaking bear.” Hemingway had noted the bruises on Professor’s throat, shoulders and collarbones. He had the same ones mottling his skin.
Lifesaving practical had been the previous evolution and everyone who wanted to be a SEAL had to pass. Basically, this class was a condensed Red Cross advanced course. A piece of cake for Hemingway, as he had worked as a lifeguard since his freshman year in high school.
At least that part of it had been simple, with the instructors pretending to be drowning victims and the trainees having to rescue them, while they basically resisted to the point of bloodshed. It had been a brutal contest where the instructors fought their rescuers like the enemy.
Hemingway nodded. Pairs of swimmers along the beach, clad in wetsuit tops and their UDT shorts, were all doing the same. This would be their last timed swim before Hell Week which had to be performed in under ninety-five minutes.
They’d lost two more guys to medical and another five candidates between rock portage and lifesaving, dropping them down to ninety-six remaining trainees.
“I thought I was going to gak,” Brown said. His black eye looked better today.
“My nose still hurts,” Hitchcock said, the bruising on his face matching his other bruises. Cheezer had caught him with an elbow, giving him a bloody nose. The sound of a diesel engine rattled in the distance. That was their cue to get prepared for the instructors, as moments later the truck with the loudspeaker roared onto the beach.
Wilson had been called in to talk with the instructors. Things with him only seemed to get tenser, and Hemingway had to wonder what they had planned. So far Shea had told him the request for Wilson’s DNA had been denied.
Shea was filming not far from the group of men with Wilson, but he knew she was keeping an eye on them. They had closed ranks since Hennessey’s death. Against his will, Hemingway’s gaze drifted to Shea, at her softly parted lips he’d kissed often and wanted to kiss again. He ached with it. The ocean breeze ruffled loose inky-black tendrils of her hair, which had blown free from the tight braid. Ignoring the heat settling in his groin, he focused on fastening and securing his life vest. He’d enjoyed every minute with this woman. She was definitely a woman who could hold her own with words and comebacks, and he found their relationship easy.
With his anger and resentment regarding her job gone, he’d found that a few of his guarded walls had crumbled. A smart move or a stupid one—he wasn’t sure which, yet—but he believed Shea when she said she respected him and his feelings when he’d discovered she was an undercover NCIS agent.
Professor leaned over and coughed, the sound rattling in his chest, breaking into Hemingway’s thoughts. Was he coming down with a cold or worse…pneumonia? Professor moved to his knees in the sand, holding his sharpened knife in his left hand, his CO2 cartridge in his right, his fins propped against his thigh. “How do I look?” he asked.
Hemingway checked him out thoroughly. All it took was one twisted strap to fail inspection, and that would mean grief for everyone. “You’re good to go. How do I look?”
“Squared away.” He pulled at one of Hemingway’s straps and lowered his voice. “Even though you were preoccupied,” Professor said, looking over at Shea and coughing again.
Brown glanced over at Professor, shooting Hemingway a concerned look.
“You doing okay?” Hemingway asked, feeling protective of his roommate and boat crew member.
“I’ve got this, worrywart. You can spoon feed me chicken soup in bed after we’re done.”
Hemingway flashed him
a grin. “You asshole.”
“Will you kiss my boo boos, too?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hemingway said and shoved his shoulder.
Professor braced himself against the sand, laughing.
“You guys are always having a good time. This isn’t summer camp. Maybe we’re not hammering you enough,” Cheezer said, materializing into a crouch beside Hemingway.
Farther up the beach, Instructor Walker yelled, “Corpsman! Water temp.” Two students ran to the surf and quickly returned with a metal thermometer and handed it to Walker. He consulted it and shouted, “Fifty-four degrees! Neoprene stays on, guys!”
“Let’s take a look, boys,” Cheezer said as he inspected life vests and dive knives. Taking Hemingway’s knife, he ran it along the hair on his forearm, the blade slicing easily. It was sharp enough for Cheezer as he returned the knife to Hemingway and moved onto the next man, his voice raised as he dished out harassment like candy.
The group screwed in their cartridges and pulled up their wetsuit hoods. “Hit the surf,” Walker yelled and all of them started for the ocean.
The icy water burned as it moved up his legs, the pain culminating when the frigid ocean smacked into his balls. Together he and Professor sat down in the surf to put on their fins.
The swims were nothing but mind over matter, and he had one of the best swimmers in the class as his swim buddy.
“Ready?”
“Hoo-yah,” Professor said, pulling on his mask.
They side stroked through the surf, diving for the bottom when a breaker rolled in. Hemingway fell into a comfortable rhythm. Swim pairs were required to stay close together, demanding a mutual understanding of pacing, and a healthy dose of courtesy. If the lead swimmer was pulling away, he would back off the pace a little, and if a swimmer wanted to change sides, he would tap his partner on the shoulder. They fell into a groove as they reached the orange buoy that marked the starting line.
As they bobbed in the current, Professor said, “Go for first?”
“Hoo-yah!”
“Go,” Instructor Manchester said from the boat, and Hemingway stroked strongly with his fins, Professor keeping pace beside him. They swam north toward the turnaround buoy that would mark halfway. With each stroke and kick, Hemingway corrected his angle to make sure to stay on course and to preserve energy. The sky and the murky ocean seemed to merge as he propelled himself forward, the briny smell of salt water mixed with gasoline.
They moved around the buoy and headed back toward the instructor. They reached the boat easily under the time.
“Get me something nice from the bottom.” Manchester smirked. “Cheezer said you were having a barrel of fun on the sand.”
“Hoo-yah, Instructor Manchester,” they said in unison. Diving down, Hemingway went for a rock on the sandy bottom. When he emerged, Professor was handing over his.
“Get back to the beach.”
They turned over and swam on their backs, riding the swells and resting. Once they hit the edge of the sand, both of them stood.
“Brown!” Hitchcock yelled beyond the pounding breakers as, all of a sudden, they were picking up, the surf hiking. Hemingway turned toward Hitchcock’s voice, and it was clear he was alone.
“What the hell?” Professor said.
“He’s lost him. Let’s go.”
They fell back into the water and headed toward Hitchcock, who surfaced and looked around frantically. “I can’t find him! We were together and then he was just gone.”
“Okay. Professor, stay with Matt. I’ll look for him.”
“No fucking way. You’re my swim buddy, and we’re not separating.”
“Fine. We’ll go together.”
They slipped below the surface. Hemingway immediately started kicking, struggling against the buoyancy of his wetsuit top. Visibility sucked with the capping waves churning up the bottom and making it very easy to get turned around and disoriented.
He refused to give up even when his lungs started to burn. Then he saw Brown, floating with the movement of the waves. Kicking hard with his fins, Hemingway torpedoed toward the motionless man.
Grabbing the back of his life vest, Hemingway swam for the surface, Professor right beside him. When they emerged, two corpsmen were there in a boat, and they reached for Brown, his temple bleeding from a gash. Together the four of them hauled Brown into the boat, and then motored to shore. There was already an ambulance waiting on the beach.
Together with Hitchcock and Professor, Hemingway made it to shore. They removed their fins and walked out of the surf.
“You three, over here!” Walker screamed. They double timed it to Walker and came to attention. Walker looked like he could chew glass. “What happened? Who is Brown’s swim buddy?”
“I am, sir. I lost him in the surf. The waves took him, and I looked for him, but couldn’t find him.”
“And, you two?”
“We went to help. Matt was exhausted, and we didn’t want him to go under too. Never leave a man behind.”
“You stuck together?”
“Yes, sir. Every step of the way. It looks like Brown hit his head on the bottom from the power of the crashing waves, and they kept him under. It was an accident.”
Walker stood there for a moment looking past them to the huge breakers. “All right. Get to decon and then it’s the O-course.”
The rest of the day went off without incident. Lane notified them that they were keeping Brown overnight for observation, but as far as they could tell, he didn’t have a concussion.
After Lane left, Professor said softly, “You saved his life. That’s something bro.”
“We saved his life. It was a team effort.” They bumped knuckles, and Hemingway was relieved Brown was all right.
Mad Max stood in the hallway outside the conference room where the First Phase Review Board had convened. They met to review individual trainee performance and in addition to their physical performance standards, they had to show teamwork, professionalism, and a no quit attitude.
There were seventeen men who would be assessed, and either be rolled back or removed from training and sent back to the fleet to reapply for BUD/S at a later date. He was surprised to see Hemingway there. He’d passed all his evolutions, some earning him the respect of the instructors.
“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked Max after the last of the seventeen students had gone through the door. He was dressed in starched fatigues, his boots polished to a spit shine.
“No, but I wouldn’t worry about it.” It was Max’s job to usher in each of the trainees, starting with the worst performers. They got an earful of reprimands and asked to speak to their deficiencies. Max could see on each face that their SEAL dream could end right here.
Finally, Hemingway was called, and Max walked him into the room.
“Seaman Atticus Sinclair reporting as ordered.” He carried his green BUD/S helmet under his arm.
All the First Phase instructors were there, seated at a long, polished conference table. Nathan Walker said, “At ease.”
Hemingway relaxed.
“We wanted to bring you in for a formal commendation for your quick reaction in pulling Seaman Brown out of the surf. You saved his life, and we all think it was well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You went to college and got your bachelor’s degree, Sinclair,” Cheezer said.
“Yes, Instructor Cheezer. I went to Stanford. I was accepted at the Naval Academy and my brother-in-law Petty Officer Ashe Wilder insisted I go. He didn’t win.”
“Stanford, right with a double major in computer science and international relations with a minor in Middle Eastern language, literature and culture.” He set down the file. “Why didn’t you attend the academy?” Cheezer asked as if he was really interested.
“Stanford was only seven miles from San Diego and Annapolis was all the way across the US. When I become a SEAL, I’m going to be deployed a lot. I may even end up on the East Coast. I want
ed to be close to my family, Instructor.”
Cheezer’s expression softened, then he cleared his throat and said, “Why didn’t you come into BUD/S as an officer? You certainly have the physical and mental capacity to succeed there.”
“With all due respect, I wanted to be on the teams for the long term. Officers have a short shelf life, combat-wise, and are required to move on. As it should be. The teams need good leadership as well as tough, tactical minds. Also, I want to be a SEAL more than anything and my chances of getting a contract were better as an enlisted member.”
“So you did it the SEAL way, eh?” Cheezer sat back and a couple of the instructors nodded. “Well, we’re all in consensus. You would make a fine officer, but as enlisted men ourselves, we respect your motivations. Keep up the good work.”
Max could barely contain the pride he had for Hemingway. They had mentored him and believed in him, and he was doing an exemplary job. Max beamed.
But Hemingway and the rest of them were going to be tested. Hell Week was next and it would weed out the mentally and physically weak, leaving the strong and worthy to move forward as SEALs.
Max had no doubt Hemingway would be one of them.
“Nothing will ever prepare you for what you’re going to go through,” Ruckus said, lifting the beer bottle to his mouth. The guys around the table agreed with nods and a knowing look in the eyes. Something Hemingway realized was happening to him, a shared experience among the elite forces that worked undercover of secrecy to protect the US every waking moment. It was a heavy burden to bear and everyone at this table had gone through it.
During BO, the trainees had been cautioned about going to any of the SEAL bars downtown, but Hemingway had been invited by Mad Max.
“Nothing. The only thing you can do is dig deep for who you are and hold onto that. If you never quit, you’ll never know how to.”
