by Zoe Dawson
“I did what you would have done, man.” Hemingway offered his hand, and Vincent shook it.
“You’re a standup guy,” Vincent said, then dug into his food.
Hemingway bypassed coffee for simple hot water, and then indulged himself with a hot cocoa later. Shea was absent, and he wondered what had taken her away from the fun and games. He missed her presence. He remembered her gaze, the emotion in her eyes, and he sighed heavily.
He was a goner. But he didn’t get much time to contemplate that. The day shift charged in, consisting of two brutal instructors, Master Chief Kyle Mason and Petty Officer Kurt Vile. The trainees called them The Terrible Two Tag Team of Evil. Three guys up and quit on the spot. The class referred to them behind their backs as Kyle and Vile. It wasn’t that they singled Hemingway out more often than not, they just hated every one of them equally.
“Come on, pretty boy, let’s move.”
After sitting for a bit, Hemingway felt lethargic, and he didn’t move as fast as he should have.
“You ain’t sleeping, are you boy?” Kyle’s twang seemed more pronounced.
“Negative, Instructor Mason,” Hemingway said. After barking orders, they chased the trainees out of the chow hall.
“We have a full, fun day of activities planned,” he said as he followed Hemingway out. “Now would be the time to hightail it out of here. Ring that bell and quit.”
Five more guys threw in the towel, dropping them down from forty-four to thirty-nine. Professor gave Kyle dark looks like he wanted to deck him. Hemingway pretended to trip into him.
“Leave it,” he whispered.
“Up boat!” Vile said.
They hefted the boat back onto their bruised and throbbing skulls and ran in the elephant train to a hygiene check. They would receive a one-minute hot shower, their cuts and abrasions would be examined, and they would get a change of clothes.
After the heavenly hot but way too short shower and dressed in his white spandex shorts issued to all trainees to help with chafing, he was escorted by a brown shirt to the clinic.
Lieutenant Josh Lattimore examined Hemingway. The doc was an older guy, big broad shoulders, silver gray, close-cropped hair, and piercing blue eyes that twinkled.
“Those are bad scrapes,” he said, gesturing to the side of Hemingway’s right leg just below the knee and the back of his shoulder.
Hemingway looked down, dumbfounded. He didn’t even know they were there. The leg wound was red, raw and still oozing a bit. “Must have happened during rock portage.”
“I heard about that. Well done.” The doc bent down and thoroughly cleaned out his cut skin, then the one on his shoulder. When he was finished, he said, “I’m going to prescribe antibiotics. See the corpsman before you leave.”
“You know about rock portage?”
“Everyone’s talking about what you did. It was courageous. You’ve impressed Cheezer.” He grinned, his eyes dancing. “Now you’ve got to live with that.”
Hemingway barked out a laugh. “He hates my guts.”
“He hates everyone.”
Hemingway laughed softly. “Yeah.”
“Hang in there. Only four and a half days to go and at least four of those hours you’ll be asleep.”
“A Navy doc with a sarcastic sense of humor, nice,” Hemingway said. Doc Lattimore laughed. “Thanks for looking out for us.”
On the way out, Hemingway swabbed his groin with A&D ointment and pulled on a penis sock to help with sand and chafing. He left through a side door where two brown shirts waited to disinfect his feet and apply a topical silicone gel. Next to the picnic table was a line of milk crates. Hemingway found his and got dressed.
He made his way around the corner, and Vile was there grinning. “All cozy and dry?” he said with a running hose in his hand and an evil grin. He sure lived up to his name.
Wet again, Hemingway and the class were back on the beach fulfilling the BUD/S trifecta adding in sand and cold.
Shea came through the door at the covert Grove base. She headed straight into their offices.
“So Manning had a juvie record?” Shea asked immediately.
“Yeah, the DNA popped, and we had to dig to find it and get a court order to unseal it, but his DNA is the only one present and the only match.”
“Not Wilson?” Shea mused, her eyes narrowing.
“No. There’s no evidence Wilson was involved. His alibi stands firm. He was on watch duty.”
Something in Shea’s brain just wouldn’t accept that answer. Wilson was involved. She would stake her life on it. But, at this point, she would have to let it go.
“Where is he?”
“At the Woodshed waiting to be questioned.”
Shea started for the door, and Mak grabbed her arm. “You can’t be involved. We need to keep your cover intact.”
“Let me watch.”
Mak looked over at Griff, and he nodded his head. They drove over to the other side of the Grove and stopped in front of the Woodshed. Inside, Griff and Mak headed for the interrogation room where Manning was sitting at a small table. She could see and hear everything from the monitor. Griff and Mak wore earpieces in case Shea had questions.
Shea watched as the door opened and the two agents entered. Mak sat down at the table, but Griff stood near the door with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Manning. It was meant to unnerve him, but it didn’t seem to have an effect on Manning. He slouched back and eyed them not saying a word.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I haven’t got a clue. I’m tired and ragged out from Hell Week, so this better be good.”
“You didn’t go through Hell Week,” Mak said with just enough disdain to prod at him.
His eyes narrowed, flaring with anger, but then he got himself under control. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
“Do you want to know why you’re here?”
He leaned his elbows on the table. “That would be good, then I can get back to my rack.”
“We found your DNA under Seaman Craig Hennessey’s fingernails. Your blood on his knuckles.”
“So, we fought. He was a loser, and I kicked his ass. So what?”
Mak leaned forward and opened the folder with pictures of Craig. “He was beaten and strangled. Murdered.”
Manning’s eyes flicked down to the photos then back up at Mak.
“Did you do this, Walter?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
Griff surged off the wall to Manning and pushed his head down, making him look at the dead man. “Did you kill Craig Hennessey?”
Manning wanted to throw him off. Shea could see it in every line of his body, but his self-discipline kept him stationary.
“No!” He clenched his jaw at what looked like a punishing hold. “I was in my rack. You can ask any of my roommates.”
Shea knew as well as Griff and Mak that all of Manning’s roommates were on Shea’s list as possible members of NWO. They had covered their tracks well. Manning’s DNA and his bloody knuckles could all be explained away. Wilson conveniently had watch duty where several men saw him, but Shea would bet a month’s pay, Wilson had been involved in Hennessey’s death too. They had no probable cause to arrest Manning or Wilson. Manning knew it, and he was playing it out.
“What do you have planned, you little weasel?” Shea asked as Griff let him go.
“I have a cracked rib, you asshole.” Manning said, clutching his side. “I had to medical DOR, but Hennessey was a no-load, boat-ducking crybaby. I didn’t have a thing to do with his death, and you can’t prove I did. DNA or not.”
The only bright side of this whole scenario was that Wilson’s group of buddies were dwindling down to only a few left on the list. Soon they would be shipped out of BUD/S to different parts of the fleet. Also, not ideal. She didn’t want these bastards in the Navy at all.
Griff and Mak exited the room. Griff rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “He killed Manning, and we can’t do
anything about it.”
“Not right now,” Shea said. “But they are planning something. I just don’t know what. All I can do is remain vigilant and undercover. They have no idea there’s an NCIS agent among them.”
“Atticus Sinclair knows it,” Griff said.
“He’s not one of them,” Shea said, stiffening. “Don’t question me on him again.”
Griff held up his hands apologetically.
“Sniping at each other isn’t going to help,” Mak said. “Shea’s right. She’s the best weapon we have against them right now. We’ll have to see how this plays out and try to prevent anything from happening to those men.”
Shea nodded. “I’d better get back.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Mak said, following her. They walked in silence for a few minutes. “Don’t let Griff get to you. He’s frustrated.”
Shea nodded. “I know.”
“How’s Hemingway holding up?” Mak asked. “I’m married to a Navy SEAL. I care about what happens to them. Errol would be devastated if Hemingway was hurt. He was amazing during that op we all pretend he wasn’t on.”
“He’s battered, bruised, sleep deprived and hammered. I don’t know how he’s moving, let alone doing PT and running with that damn boat.”
“He’s tough, Shea. As tough as my husband and his motley crew. He’ll be all right.”
Shea mulled over Mak’s words. It was true. Hemingway was tough in a deep, quiet way. She would never forget how he anchored the boat, hefted his crewmate on his broad shoulders, and remained to help them get the boat ashore.
He would be all right.
She wasn’t sure, without him, she would fare so well.
She got back to them while they were in the water. She heard Vile shout gleefully, “Hide the trainee!” and heads disappeared below the surf. Then they were ordered out and had to perform push-ups. This went on for two hours. Finally, Vile said, “I’m so bored. If someone entertains us, we’ll knock off early and get you all to chow.”
Professor stood up.
“Prescott. What do you have for us?”
“A song.”
“A song?” Vile scoffed. “Okay. You impress me, and you guys are secure,” he said with a grin. Shea could tell that he had no intention of being entertained. This was just another one of his mind games. He’d get their hopes up, and when no one impressed them, they could continue to hammer them.
Even though she’d been there through the humorous rendition of Professor’s “Holding Out For A Hero” she wasn’t prepared for his performance of “Sounds of Silence” as the words started soothingly low and deep. He had a rockstar rasp that was sexy as hell.
He sang without music, backup, or lyrics. He knew the song by heart and performed it flawlessly with every ounce of strength in his body. When he got to the end, his voice deepened into a gravelly rasp that sent shivers down her spine. Vile’s mouth dropped open a bit and Kyle’s scowl melted away.
With a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, she heard Vile say “Secure” like his piehole was full of crow.
Hemingway wrapped his hands around the steaming mug of hot water and sat for a few minutes absorbing the warmth. Several trainees cheered Professor as they walked by with overloaded trays.
Shea settled next to him and gave Professor a full, pleased smile. She leaned over. “You wiped those smug looks off those evil twin faces. That was beautiful to behold. You could become a rockstar with that voice. Ever thought of doing that with your life? Posh hotels, money, warm clothes, soft beds, fame and fortune, adoring fans, anything you wanted.”
Professor laughed softly. “No one shooting at me? Doesn’t sound like fun to me.”
She laughed, and he grinned.
“Maybe after my tour is over, I’ll think about it.”
She beamed and turned to Hemingway. “You look like hell.”
He barked out a laugh. “You look stunning.”
“I set my looks to stun this morning,” she sassed. He liked it. Kept him on his toes. Beneath the table, she squeezed his thigh. “I wish I could give you my energy,” she whispered. He wanted to kiss her here and now—in the chow hall, at the beginning of the worse and best week of his life. He might be getting hammered, but this big evolution would pass, and he’d be one step closer to becoming a SEAL.
As the warmth from the mug and Shea’s presence seeped into him, his hunger returned. He ate everything on his plate.
“Let’s get you some more hot chocolate,” she murmured, and they rose and walked over to the drink area. “It was Manning’s DNA under Hennessey’s fingernails,” she said, keeping her voice low. “But he came up with a story that they got into a fight. He denies killing him.”
“He’s lying.” He grabbed a cup and filled it with hot water, reaching for a cocoa packet. “So, you can’t arrest him?”
“No, but we’re still digging. We hope to find something more concrete. I would bet my badge on Wilson and Manning tag teaming that murder. Wilson was there. I just can’t prove it.”
“Sinclair!” Kyle called out. “Medication.” The instructor might be a douche normally, but he was vigilant on everyone’s pills.
Unable to help himself, he leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. This was about the cleanest he would be for some time. Her mouth was soft and warm. She caught the back of his head and kissed him back.
“You two need a room?” Kyle said with a chuckle, and it almost seemed as if he was human…almost. He handed Hemingway the pills, and he washed them down. Then the instructor did something even more out of character. “Keep both of your heads in the game. You’re almost there.” He slipped Hemingway a Snickers.
Hemingway chuckled softly. Maybe Vile and Kyle were such big assholes during BUD/S because they only wanted the men who could tough this out in the teams and at their backs. Maybe. The jury was still out on that one.
“Okay, you’re done. Let’s move, ladies!” Vile called out.
Hemingway sprinted out of the hall to where his boat crew was mustering. “Up boat,” Vile said. “Keep up no-loads!” He took off at a run, the class sprinting to catch up with him, their train momentarily derailed. He moved south along the water’s edge. With every step, pain jolted through his scalp and down his back, his knees protesting, his hip flexors stiff. Lights in the distance grew brighter as the class limped toward Imperial Beach.
“Time to act like piggies,” Vile said with an evil cackle. The laugh track from Big Blue complemented his joyous outburst.
“Mudflats,” Brown said with dread.
“I don’t know, man. You look like you could use a facial,” Hitchcock said.
“Shut up,” Brown snapped.
Hitchcock laughed.
Vile looked back. “You guys are always having so much fun. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He increased his speed and the class sped up. When they reached a large tunnel that went under Silver Strand Boulevard, the thunder of a multitude of rubber soles on concrete resonated in the closed, dank passageway. The headlights from Big blue pacing them danced ominously against the grimy walls. Vile sprinted through the tube and disappeared on the other side. As they lurched back onto the sand, Hemingway immediately saw Vile at the bottom of a gradually declining hill. He knew what they were in store for as he looked out over the still, dull flats.
The instructors lived up to their names. They kept them in the mud for an hour and a half running all kinds of races, wheelbarrow, relay, leapfrog, fireman’s carry, crawling on their stomachs, facedown.
Winners got to sit by the fire and losers had to race again. Hemingway lost some of his lunch, but it didn’t slow him down. Professor was coughing again, and Hemingway looked over at him.
“I’m fine.”
“What did the doc say?”
“A little pneumonia.”
“What?”
“I’m fine. I’m going to do this or die trying, Atty. There’s no turning back for me.”
“Milo—”
“Ju
st support me like I support you, and we’ll get through this together. We’re swim buddies, roommates and crewmates. I won’t let you down.”
“I won’t let you down either.”
The rest of the day they were doing surf immersion drills, and with Hitchcock helping, they did their best to keep Professor between them for warmth.
They had been up now for thirty-six hours straight.
Wednesday morning dawned with the threat of rain and most of what they had done for the rest of Tuesday night was a blur of cold, wet, and sand. Hemingway’s scalp was raw, his back aching, leg infected, skin chaffed, lips chapped, his junk tenderized, but there was only one clear thought. Get through it. It seemed like nothing but harassment, but BUD/S was a sorting process to identify those who have a will to win—to win under any conditions.
They were ordered to the tents and like zombies they shuffled inside, Hemingway choosing a cot in the corner. He lay down, so exhausted he slipped into sleep immediately. He woke in pain but found Shea beside him, massaging the leg that was cramping. There were two brown shirts inside as well. They were working tirelessly to support the class. If it wasn’t slipping food to them, it was encouragement and that was worth so much more than the food. They were survivors of Hell Week. They were moving on, and Hemingway wanted to be where they were.
“Anywhere else you’re hurting?” she asked.
He chuckled, and she shook her head. “Pervert,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
When the blast of a whistle woke him from a sound sleep, it was the worst wakeup call of his life.
“Into the surf, sleepyheads.”
Guys groaned, but they all started to move, some classmates crawling out of the tent, over the sand berm and into the surf. Surprisingly, there were no quitters. They got surf tortured for fifteen minutes, then head-carried their boats to chow.
More of the same evolutions, and after the evening hygiene inspection at the CTT, they got to do pool games. The water was a balmy seventy degrees, and Hemingway was never so thankful in his life.
