by Zoe Dawson
Those words stuck in Hemingway’s head. Getting prepared to go through Hell Week was just about accepting it was going to suck big time and then giving all he had to give. Part of him was apprehensive about what he was up against and the other half of him was psyched to see exactly what he was made of. If all the preparation and the work would lead him past this first major obstacle to realizing his goal, the trident and admission into one of the most elite fraternities in the world would be his. It wasn’t a matter of if his body would hold up, it was a matter of whether his spirit was strong enough.
Then, as if the floodgates opened, there was a rash of BUD/S stories from the fifteen men seated around the big table. Kid Chaos and Dodger had the funniest stories. As for Dodger, he said, “Some wanker kept thinking I was Australian, and he had nothing but Crocodile Dundee in his head. That’s what he called me all the time…Croc. He’d adopt this terrible Australian accent just to cheese me off and kept asking me when I was going to put shrimp on the barbie.”
“Knucklehead,” Fast Lane said. “No one messes with Dodger.”
“What did you do? Because I know you did something,” Hemingway asked, on the edge of his seat.
“I know—”
“—this guy,” everyone said in unison and Dodger grinned.
“I do. I know this bloke at the San Diego fish market.”
Everyone laughed and gave him a hard time.
“He got me a chockablock load of shrimp and barbequed it his way. He delivered it to me at the SEAL compound, and I dumped all of it into this wanker’s rack. He stopped calling me Croc. Everyone in BUD/S knew it was me, including the instructors, but they got such a kick out of it, they left me alone. At the end of BUD/S, our class donated a shrimp plaque and it’s hanging there still.”
He leaned back and Hemingway had to admit that he was glad to be back in their company, especially Dodger, who seemed to always move with a languorous grace as if he was adapted to living in a liquid form that defined their elite branch, as if air was thicker to wade through than water.
After that, the group broke up, and Hemingway and Dodger walked out together. “Thanks for the encouraging texts. It helps.”
“It’s a ballbuster, that’s for certain, mate, but it’s a rite of passage. We’re all pulling for you.”
Hemingway nodded, the sense of community with these guys a warm glow in his gut.
“How’s your sister doing?”
“Recovering and enjoying her daughter and her husband.”
“Kid is an experience. That is for sure. And your dad? How is he doing with you becoming a SEAL?”
“He’s proud of me.”
“Brilliant. Sounds like you have a good base of operation. Keep a stiff upper lip and you’ll come through.” He punched Hemingway lightly on the arm. “The most important things to remember are to eat as much as possible on Sunday. Just graze all day, mate.”
“The other?”
“You gain a team of men that will never let you down, will always have your back, share a special bond and greater strength as a team than you could ever find as an individual. We live, train, travel and fight as one. We’re together more than we are with our loved ones. We are each other’s family.”
“Hoo-yah,” Hemingway said softly, his throat a bit tight. He’d been in touch with his family as much as he could. They were happy for any word from him on the progression through BUD/S.
From downtown he headed to Shea’s condo and the woman he hadn’t been able to get off his mind. Along with thinking about training, she occupied a lot of mental real estate. He wanted sex with her, that was a given, but it was the comfort of her body, the female feel and taste of her he craved—a softness in his hard world.
When he entered, she was sitting on the floor with her laptop and a slew of files. She barely looked up when he came in, she was so preoccupied with her job, weeding out the bad apples in their BUD/S barrel. Her dedication and commitment to the mission only made him want her more.
“You narrowing it down?” he asked, and she nodded, closing her eyes and arching her back, giving him a view of pure, unadulterated heartbreak.
“I think so.”
How could she not know his mind had been on sex with her since the last time he’d left here? Even in the bar with the guys, part of his horndog mind was on her and getting inside that beautiful body, twisting himself around her.
“My list holds twelve names, and all I have to do is get one of them to break on the others.”
“You have a primary target?”
“Well, to be honest, Hennessey was at the top of my list for being torn between his loyalty to NWO, and his newfound connection to actually becoming a Navy SEAL. I had been working on him every day once I discovered he was wavering. I think I could have broken him.”
He let her talk as he moved closer. She had no freaking clue she was being stalked.
“His link to NWO was weaker than his moral conscience would allow. He couldn’t betray the men he’d worked and suffered alongside.”
“That’s a pretty sexy brain you got there.”
She looked up at him. Maybe it was his husky voice, or she finally picked up the heat he was generating. She stared at him, meeting his gaze directly as he stood there taking her in.
“Right back ‘atcha,” she murmured, reaching up to his hand. It was all it took.
An hour later, they were snuggled together on the couch, both of them naked and too sated to make it to the bed. He clenched his jaw against the tumbled emotions rifling through him.
He was falling in love. This is what it felt like and it was overwhelming, more than he could ever imagine. He was starting to feel uncomfortably vulnerable, something he would have thought would have taken a major threat, not this kickass woman who had taken his heart by storm.
“So what happens afterwards?”
“Afterwards?”
“The job.”
“Oh.” She yawned, her warm breath against his skin, and he gathered her closer. He felt her shrug. “I’ll go onto the next one. Probably halfway around the world.”
“But San Diego is your base of operations, right?” He tried to sound casual, but he was sure she could hear the rhythm of his heartbeat jump.
She was silent and still for a moment, then she lifted her head, her eyes sad. “I’m rarely here. I’m like you, or what you will be experiencing. Deployments and missions that take me all over the place. Wherever they need me.”
“Sure,” he said, again working at keeping it cool.
“We’ll both have adventures. It will be exciting, right?”
He nodded and forced a smile. She snuggled back down against him, but he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not. Was she holding him a little bit tighter?
11
The door crashed in, and Hemingway went from a deep sleep to chaos. Men stormed into the room, some firing from the hip, others shouting at the top of their lungs.
“Hit the deck. Keep those heads down! Incoming!”
The lights went off. All the gunmen started firing, spraying the room, the sounds of the weapons deafening. Hemingway knew they were blanks, but the noise was disorienting. Suddenly, another door was kicked open and three more men barreled inside. The confusion got worse with loud blasts of whistles only adding to the pandemonium. They had been taught that when the whistle sounded, they were to grab some real estate, cross their ankles, and cover their ears with their palms, leaving their mouths open.
Hemingway reacted immediately, but his hands only muffled the cacophony.
“Welcome to Hell, gentlemen,” Mad Max shouted.
The thunderous gunfire went on for some minutes, broken only by the shouting and the whistles.
“Out! Everyone move! Get out! Get moving!”
Hemingway jumped to his feet, jostling bodies in front, sides and back of him, all seventy-nine of them who had passed First Phase. Of the seventeen trainees who had been assessed by the board, five of them had been rolled back to the n
ext incoming class, and the others had been let go, leaving them at their new lower count.
Before this training was over, they would lose more, many more.
The gunfire continued endlessly, the barrels around the edge of the grinder mimicking artillery blasts.
It was as if they were in a war zone and that was the drill. A drill, Hemingway said to himself. As soon as he hit the grinder, high pressure water slammed into his chest, knocking him down along with the men around him. The chaos was complete, with the battlefield whistle drills, resounding explosions, and bellowing instructors, water everywhere.
He couldn’t see anything or hear anything above the small-arms and artillery fire, which only added to the mass confusion.
“Keep your goddamned heads down! Crawl to the whistle! Crawl!” That was Cheezer’s voice, and he remembered that the man’s compliment really meant nothing right now. He wasn’t going to go easy on Hemingway because he thought he’d make a fine officer, because of his performance at BUD/S. That was all in the past anyway, and they were onto the toughest week of their lives.
“Bring it on,” he murmured. Cold water sluiced off his face to pool under him on the smooth black surface where numerous men, like him, had faced this challenge.
So many of them were exhausted, beat down after the hammering of BO and First Phase. But the instructors knew that, and it only added fuel to their fire to get whoever didn’t have the mettle to be here to quit. Hell Week was all about weeding out the men who couldn’t hack it when it got tough. No Navy SEAL wanted a man on his team who would quit when it got rough.
“The bell is waiting for anyone who wants out! That’s all you have to do, gents, and three ringy-dingies later, you’re dry, belly full, warm and settling that tired body down on a soft mattress to sleep as long as you want. There’s a donut and hot coffee in it for you if you listen to that voice inside you telling you to give up.”
He lay there in the dark anarchy, ice cold, soaked to the skin, not able to stand up, refusing to even think about ringing out. There would be no bell for him, no warm bed, no hot shower, no out except on a stretcher or body bag.
“No takers?” Cheezer said, “I guess we have nothing but ballbusters here. Up and at ‘em and into the surf!”
Hell Week started in earnest, as Hemingway immersed himself in the fifty-something degree surf. He was already wet. What was another dunk in freezing water? The whistles started blaring again and instead of being forced to crawl on asphalt, he was now moving on his belly in the soft sand. Blast after blast, he had to change direction to follow the sound. Soon his elbows and knees were getting raw, but he ignored the pain and kept crawling.
Then it was back into the surf, the saltwater stinging against abraded skin. Linking arms was the usual drill until there were more whistles, and he was back on the sand crawling as if his life depended on it.
It was endless, the whistle drills, the cold water, flutter kicks with his face toward the waves, more crawling, more cold water and flutter kicks.
“Immerse everything but your eyes and mouth.”
Hemingway slanted his head back until he was looking directly up. The ocean closed over his ears, filling his head with the quiet surge of collapsing waves. Without verbal stimulus and with nothing but the gloom to stare at, Hemingway battled to keep his mind off the debilitating cold. He thought about his cute little niece, about his sister and how much he wanted her to be proud of him. He fantasized about Shea, thinking there was more there than either one of them were acknowledging.
Suddenly the male links rippled. Hemingway lifted his head and watched as three guys broke free and were splashing out of the water. One of them was an officer, a strong runner, a great swimmer, and one of the lead swim pairs. The quitting was in full swing. Soon the entire chain was wobbling. The shocks created by dozens of trembling bodies raced up and down the line. Hemingway locked his jaw tightly and stretched his leg muscles to stop them from twitching.
There was silence from the instructors for a moment, then it passed. “Heads back in the water. This ain’t no show, slipknots. And lock those arms. Get cozy.”
The class moved to comply as quickly as they could. Hemingway reformed his hold with Professor and Hitchcock, basking in the warmth from their bodies. The night was coal black, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. The instructors, meting out the punishment, were murky purple and gray shadows.
Hemingway locked eyes with Professor, and he shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said. “Don’t you quit on me, Atty.” He tightened his arm.
“Not on your life, Milo,” Hemingway said.
“Now let me see some pretty flutter kicks. Don’t skimp! We want them to be the most amazing flutter kicks in BUD/S history! Count them out!”
His abs were burning by the time the whistle blew again, the water feeling even colder than when they first went in. He was up and moving back to the sand, his elbows and knees almost numb to the pain from the immersion in the water. Six guys quit, running for the truck, and already after just a couple hours they’d lost nine guys.
Hemingway wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like they hadn’t gone through this before. It was just more of the same from First Phase. Then he thought maybe it was because these guys hadn’t really heard Mad Max when he said try not to think of Hell Week in one chunk. Get through it, evolution by evolution. Maybe these men let their dread overtake their ability to embrace the suck.
“Grab the boats and hit the surf!” Walker screamed. He wondered if the instructors ended up hoarse after Hell Week. Fact of the matter was, Mad Max, Cheezer, Walker, and all the night shift instructors would leave, and a fresh set of instructors would come in. They would be rested while the trainees were going without rest or sleep.
They attacked the surf like hungry sharks, paddling like hell, dumping the boat, righting the boat, switching life jackets, swimming the boat, walking the boat, running with the boat, sit-ups with the boat on their heads. Then, in a sadistic move, they had to take the boat over the obstacle course.
“Who’s the sick fuck who thought of this jacked up shit!” Hitchcock said. “Fuck!” He grunted as they pulled the two-hundred-pound boat across the Burma Bridge. Two more men quit, and one went to medical when he fell from the slide for life. They were down to sixty-four.
Then around midnight, it was log PT in the surf. Exhausted muscles ached and throbbed in every part of his body, his elbow and knees bloodied. They all struggled against the two-hundred-pound log, agony alive in every nerve ending and cell.
His mind fogged over with the excruciating pain and fatigue until they were live things beating at him with hammers, and his muscles protested with each movement.
“Stay with me, Atty,” Professor said through clenched teeth. Then he looked at one of their crew. “I swear, Babcock, I will choke you out if you keep ducking.”
“And when he’s finished, I’ll choke you out, you fucker!” Hitchcock said.
“This isn’t helping,” Hemingway said. “Come on, Babcock. Think about why you’re doing this. Think about the next rep and nothing else.”
“I can’t make it,” Babcock rasped. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Hemingway said. “You can and you will, Babcock.” But Hemingway’s heart sank. Already, Babcock was giving over to the idea of quitting, and it would be a matter of time.
Cheezer knew it, and like a shark smelling blood in the water, he called for another set of twenty sit-ups. On the heels of Cheezer’s order, Babcock shouted, “I quit. I’m not doing this shit anymore.” He scrambled out from under the log, and the rest of them groaned as the log sank back against them without Babcock’s support. The instructor sent him up to the truck, and with a somber look on his face, Babcock never even glanced back at them.
“Can’t even acknowledge that he let us down,” Brown said.
“He’s a no-load,” Hitchcock said. “Ignore him. We are six strong, and we can do this.”
“Hoo-yah,” they all
said in unison.
Damn, not only were they losing one of their boat crew, dropping them down to six, but the log felt ten times heavier without Babcock, even if he had been ducking some of the load.
“Do I have any more quitters?” Cheezer yelled, but no one said anything or got up. “That’s too bad. Log PT builds character, I guess, and everyone wants to do more.”
“Hoo-yah,” was the class’s response.
“Don’t give me that bullshit answer. I know there’s more of you dirty, low-down, no-load quitters lurking out there. I tell you what. If one more quits in the next five minutes, I’ll give you those five minutes back during chow.”
Cheezer looked at his watch and the seconds ticked down. That was a luxury to have five more minutes without yelling instructors, five more minutes without a boat banging on their already tender scalps, five more minutes of warmth, five more minutes of sitting and resting, and five more minutes of anything hot he could consume. He wanted those five minutes and justified his desire in seeing another man quit by realizing if the man was going to quit down the line, why not just get it over with now?
Hemingway glanced around at his boat crew, but their faces were grimly set. The next quitter wouldn’t come from them.
“One more minute. C’mon guys, just one more no-load, slipknot, quitter.”
Down the line a man got up and headed for the truck. It was like the floodgates opened and nine more trainees were gone. The bell rang for a long time as they pushed out their sit-ups, a man down.
“Damn,” Hitchcock said, “We’ve only been at this for three fucking hours, and we’re down to fifty-four guys.”
“Good riddance,” Brown said.
Hemingway was doing everything in his power to keep up the brutal PT. Finally, the instructors had them lay down their logs. Hemingway thought that was just one more evolution done in this long chain evolution called Hell Week.
His thoughts were interrupted when they were ordered out of the surf and told to remove their T-shirts and uniform tops. His unresponsive numb fingers stumbled over the easy task. The directive to separate at arm’s length and keep their arms extended was nothing but another instructor mind trick. Unbearable and steady cool ocean breezes swept over them, their wet skin magnifying the effect. Without the body heat of his fellow classmates, he especially felt the chill in his armpits as his body immediately started to jackhammer.
