by Zoe Dawson
Following the pool evolution, they were once again soaked and cold after a CTT decon area dousing.
“You guys didn’t suck,” Vile said, and Kyle’s cackle made Hemingway want to deck him.
“We’ve got a long night ahead, ladies. Let’s get ‘er done.”
The twins took them on a four hour long walk and most of the class could barely stand when they got back.
“Ready for down boat,” Vile ordered. “Down boat.”
Hemingway’s head stung and burned. But he barely had time to catalog his aches and pains as they had to rig for surf passage. An hour later, they were hefting the boats back on their heads and doing the elephant train for midnight rations, but everyone called them midrats which meant Cheezer and the torture gang would be back.
After chow, six boats and thirty-nine trainees jogged over to the combat training tank for a quick hygiene inspection. It was a miserable cold-water treatment, but they’d all been through it before.
Two more DORs.
From CTT, six boats bounced a few hundred yards to the SDV piers, but BUD/S candidates called them the steel piers due to their structure. The piers had been the training area for SDV Team One boat crew until they moved to Hawaii.
Just off the dock wall, there was a floating chamber with a steep lip. Cheezer ordered them to take off their boots and muster along the edge of the steel caisson. Pausing, he looked them over without saying a word, but Hemingway suspected this was their chance to DOR.
Two guys stepped forward and were ushered to the truck.
“Everyone in the water,” he ordered. The remaining thirty-five members jumped into the dark waters of San Diego Bay.
It started to rain, and Hemingway heard one of the brown shirts say, “Poor souls.” He was remembering his own pier experience.
Then out of nowhere, Professor started comically singing the song “Poor Unfortunate Souls” from The Little Mermaid, including all Ursula’s funny inflections, styled in a combination of Broadway theater with Burlesque, while his teeth chattered. There was laughter all around. There were rounds of a fifteen-minute dip and the removal of articles of clothing until Hemingway shuddered and jerked with uncontrollable shivering in nothing but his white spandex.
After the move from the water to the quay and back again for what seemed like an eternity, they were allowed out, told to dress and given hot chicken broth.
Brown said, his teeth still chattering, “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything taste this much like heaven.”
The rest of Wednesday night and Thursday daylight were a blur of surf torture, running, a soccer match, O-course, escape and evade until they made it all the way around and back to Cheezer. After the last sleep period and another really ugly waking up routine, Hemingway joined his boat crew for the agonizing run to chow.
At the table Professor hacked softly into his napkin, and Hemingway was relieved to see there was no blood. “You hanging in there?” he asked. Shea was a soft warm presence at his side.
“Hoo-yah,” Professor said, shoveling in more food while some of the guys at his table were working hard not to doze off.
“It’s Thursday, right?” Easy said. Somewhere along the way, everyone started calling Hitchcock that. He nudged Brown. “C’mon, it’s Thursday. We’re almost there, man. Stay awake.”
“After Friday noon we’re done,” Professor said, meeting Hemingway’s eyes. Their friendship warmed him during the brief and silent communication.
After a wash down at the clinic and a quick hygiene check, the got ready for the final big evolution—Around-the-World Paddle. The trainees went to the water at the Naval Special Warfare Center, then paddled up the strand, around the northern end of Coronado, and back down San Diego Bay to the Amphibious Base. Everyone was bruised and battered, sleep-deprived, cold, wet and miserable. But Hemingway was bolstered by the fact that they were all going through it together.
Hemingway’s boat crew was the only intact one that had lasted, apart from Babcock’s DOR, for the duration of BUD/S. He was sure that had to do with Lane’s leadership.
Without hesitation, the survivors of Hell Week got into the water just after sundown. The six boats clustered together, their exhausted crews doing their best to make steady progress and stay awake.
They took turns with five men paddling and one dozing in the middle of the boat. They glided through the water, the rhythm of their paddles dipping in and out of the dark water, almost soothing. It was infinitely better than running with the boat on his head.
“What the hell,” Professor said softly.
Hemingway looked over at him. He’d stopped paddling and was looking out to sea.
“What’s up?” Hemingway asked.
“Women wearing skimpy bikinis, reclining in gigantic donuts throwing the donut holes back and forth like volley balls,” Professor said, his voice dreamy. Hemingway figured it was partly a hallucination and most likely a fever from the pneumonia.
Easy snickered. “Typical guy. Women and food on his mind.”
“I wish I could see that,” Lane said with a chuckle. “Back to paddling,” he ordered.
They stroked onward to the north. Then there was movement in the water and Hemingway thought he saw a large fin. He almost yelled shark, but instead it was Dodger. He threw watertight bags of bananas and candy into the bottom of the boat.
“You’re almost there.” Then he was gone.
They cleared the north end of Coronado and the air station and were paddling south. By zero four hundred, six tiny boats passed a behemoth as they stroked by the USS John C. Stennis (DVN-74).
They paddled beneath the graceful arc of the Coronado Bay bridge. Lane guided the boat through a bunch of yachts anchored near shore. The boats bobbed softly, and a muted golden light seeped through the round portholes in several cabins.
“Comfortable bastards,” Vincent snarled.
“Yeah and when we’re done with this, we’re going to be protecting their asses too,” Lane said solemnly.
For some reason that struck them funny, and they all chuckled.
They made it in first place to the boat ramp at the Amphibious Base shortly after zero five hundred. But the sky was still pitch black and dawn elusive.
The chow hall was only a few hundred yards from the boat ramp at Turner Field, but it seemed like ten thousand miles.
After chow there was more boat work as the light of dawn filtered across the Silver Strand, and Vile and Kyle took over, but Hemingway noticed that Mad Max stayed.
“Friday,” Hemingway croaked, and everyone smiled.
But there was still more to do—O-course, surf passage, base tour. This brought them to the demo pits and So Sorry Day. It was a crawling journey through a field of barbed wire. The instructors brought out the artillery simulators for this evolution.
Above the sound of the explosions and the smell of sulfur, the MK 43s sounded off, the smoke adding another element to the chaos as Hell Week ended as it begun.
But there was more to get through before it was truly over, including a rope climb over a pit of water and sand, which no one accomplished, but Hemingway and Professor came close, getting to the halfway point. Then it was cold MREs before going back into the water for surf passage. Some of the candidates could barely walk and were helped by classmates here and there.
There was more surf torture after this as the sun hit its zenith, but Hemingway would do two more days if he had to. He wouldn’t give in, even if he was flagging. He performed the flutter kicks, and then went into deeper water to wash the sand free. He noticed Shea talking to Mad Max as they broke away from the other instructors and left. He wondered where she was going in such a hurry.
Back on the beach, Vile said, “The next evolution is…nah, just kidding. There are no more evolutions. Hell Week is over. You’re all secured.”
Hemingway waited to make sure they weren’t joshing them, but when he saw Cheezer and the other First Phase instructors coming onto the beach, elation wash
ed over him.
“We made it,” Brown said.
“It’s over. Hoo-yah!” Easy shouted.
“We’re secure? We’re secure!”
Hemingway turned to Professor, and they hugged hard, holding onto each other in a shared victory.
There was a hoarse cheer, goofy grins, some even cried a bit.
Nathan Walker said, “You need to remember this moment, because there will never be anything like it in your life again. You finished Hell Week. Not many men can do what you have done. Cherish this moment and your achievement. You earned it.”
There was a resounding “Hoo-yah!”
He gestured for quiet. “You still have the rest of First Phase ahead of you. Then, pool comps in Second Phase and weapons practicals in Third Phase. Stay focused on your training and keep it all in perspective. We’re going to give you a few days to rest and heal up, but you have to be ready to start back on Monday. But today, be proud.”
Hemingway was sorry that neither Shea, nor Mad Max were here, but they must be doing something important. Supporting the guys who were having a hard time moving, they made their way over the berm and past the demo pits.
A lot of them stopped moving when they saw who was waiting for them. Along with the Captain of Special Warfare Training, the commanding officers and command master chiefs of the West Coast SEAL team were lined up, waiting to shake their hands. Ruckus, Fast Lane, Cowboy and Pitbull were all there. As Hemingway walked up to them, they reached out and shook his hand.
“Way to go,” Ruckus said.
“We knew you could do it,” Fast Lane said.
“When you finish, think about our team. We have an opening,” Pitbull said with a grin.
“You’re a tough kid,” Cowboy said.
It wasn’t long before they were all back in the First Phase classroom in warm, dry clothes. Hemingway was proudly wearing his brown T-shirt with his name on it. It was only an inexpensive, military issue brown T-shirt, but it was everything. At least the temperature in the room was more than warm enough. Hemingway was sad to see that Mad Max still wasn’t back. Instead, Cheezer was up front looking more approachable than he had all through Hell Week. “Okay, tough guys, enjoy the pizza and as soon as Doc Lattimore gets here and gives you your medical briefing, you can tuck into your rack and get some much-needed rest.”
Hemingway grabbed a couple slices of pizza and some water, settling into a chair, but as soon as he leaned back, the sound of metal chains rattling against the door handles brought him upright. Then the room was on fire, smoke making it hard to breathe and to see.
He got up and called for Professor, making his way to the door. Pushing hard, he tried to get out, but someone pushed him down.
The doors were locked, and they were trapped.
13
As Shea had watched the weary, battered men move through the last evolutions of Hell Week, she began to get a bad, bad feeling. She hadn’t been able to get it out of her head how many of the men who were on her NWO list had DOR’d. In fact, those men would all be at the Special Activities Training unit. Their barracks were across from the chow hall.
BUD/S trainees were physically at their absolute low, and there were fewer of them to handle. It would be the optimum time to attack them as a whole.
She’d alerted Max, and they had driven over to the barracks. Her hunch was correct. None of the DOR’d trainees were where they were supposed to be.
That feeling got worse. “Max, where are the Hell Week candidates now?”
He looked at his watch. “Being bussed over to the First Phase classroom. We have a skeleton crew over there now. Most of the instructors would have left except Hal Cheezer who’s giving them all an atta boy.”
Shea pulled her weapon out from her waistband and checked the clip, then slamming it home with purpose.
“Damn, you think—”
“Yes. I think they’re going to attack now when the instructors are sparse, and the trainees are sleep-deprived and physically exhausted.” She pulled out her cell phone and contacted Mak. As soon as she answered, Shea explained her theory.
“You think this is happening now?”
“Yes, you, Griff, and Kai get here ASAP. Alert REACT and base security. Max and I are going over to the First Phase classroom. You know where that’s located?”
“Yes, near the grinder.”
“I’ll see you there.”
They got back into Shea’s car and drove over to the classroom. The bus was pulling away, and the students were inside. Shea parked, then she and Max rushed up to the grinder. She motioned for Max to stop and did a quick peek around the corner. Several armed men were standing at the entrance to the administrative offices.
Smoke was billowing out of the doors.
“Oh, God. Max, they’ve set the place on fire.”
“This is not our jurisdiction, but I don’t care. I’ve already texted the guys. They should be here any minute with—”
“Max,” Dodger came up to them in full tack. He handed Max a vest, his weapon, and Juggernaut’s leash. Pitbull, Fast Lane, 2-Stroke, Saint, and Dragon crowded around.
“What do we have,” Fast Lane said as Pitbull handed Max and Shea a headset.
“Approximately ten men, NWO, automatic weapons and the trainees and Instructor Cheezer are in the First Phase classroom.”
“Dragon and Saint go around the front, and on my mark, take down whoever is holding the door. The rest of you with me,” Fast Lane said. “We’ll give them time to get set, then we go.”
“Yes, sir,” Max said.
“LT,” Dragon’s voice came over the mike. “They’ve chained the door. We need a minute to cut it free.”
“Get it done and let me know.”
“Copy.” After a few minutes, Dragon keyed his radio. “It’s done. On your mark.”
“Clear the grinder and then breach the building. Take down anyone who stands in our way.”
“Go!” They entered the grinder. Breaking into two groups, they spread out. Max unleashed Jugs, and he took off at a run, attacking the first guy so that he couldn’t shoot at anyone. He screamed, but Jugs wouldn’t let him go. The haze was thick, the SEALs moving like ghosts. Shots sounded inside the building and Shea’s nerves drew taut. Hemingway. Please let him be all right. Let them all be okay.
Hemingway got up off the floor, making out Wilson in the haze. Wilson reached for a chair and turned toward the front of the room. Cheezer was face down on the linoleum, dazed and coughing, a gash across his forehead. The attack against one of his instructors pumped anger into his system, but he fought it. Blind anger would get him killed. Wilson raised the chair, getting ready to smash it against Cheezer’s skull.
Hemingway’s battered and exhausted body screamed for rest, but he dug down deep for whatever was left and rose, ramming into Wilson while coughing in the smoke. Wilson crashed into the wall, dropping the chair. He came up swinging, and Hemingway blocked the first two punches and slammed his fist into Wilson’s nose, hearing a satisfying crunch as blood splattered.
Damn, NWO was attacking the administration building.
Wilson howled and jumped at Hemingway, taking him down to the floor where they wrestled for control, punching and kicking until Wilson got the upper hand and pummeled Hemingway’s face, his lip splitting, the taste of blood in his mouth. Then Wilson set his hands around Hemingway’s neck and started to squeeze, cutting off his air.
Hemingway thrust up his hips and knocked Wilson off balance, using his arms to break the hold. Flipping Wilson onto his back, Hemingway landed two vicious blows to the face and Wilson was out.
Rising, Hemingway rushed to the door. He rattled it, but there was no getting it open with the unbreakable chains. He ran for a chair and smashed it through the window, venting the room, but feeding the fire that raged in the back. Then he heard the hammering and saw that plywood had been set over the broken window. Fuckers! Same with the other door.
He ran over to the outside window and us
ed the same chair to smash it. But there were NWO just below the window with automatic weapons. They turned at the sound of breaking glass, pointed their weapons at him, and opened fire. Bullets thunked into the wall and ceiling.
Hemingway ducked, but at least some of the smoke cleared. Guys were coughing in the sheer pandemonium. Then Lane’s voice rose above the shouts and coughing.
“Everyone follow my voice and rally to me.”
That’s when they heard the automatic gunfire in the hall.
As the trainees made their way to Lane, he said to them all, “The best thing we can do is stay low out of the smoke.” Then he grabbed Hemingway’s sweatshirt and said, “Is there any way out?”
Hemingway coughed and said, “No, they were prepared and covered the door windows with plywood. Both doors are chained. There are armed men below the outside window. There’s no way out.”
“Fight the fire, then. Grab what you can and beat out the flames.”
Everyone started moving, and Hemingway took off his sweatshirt, approaching the flames. He started to swing at them, smothering them as best he could, the heat intense. His classmates started to help, and they made progress. Several of the NWO who had made it through Hell Week were all subdued.
He heard more gunfire and then sirens. Shea had to be out there. She was coming for him. Mad Max and the instructors would be coming for them. No way were they going to let these bastards attack the BUD/S compound without a fight.
They just had to hold on.
Mad Max held onto Jugs’s collar as the SEALs entered the administration building, the smell of smoke acrid in the air. The base fire team was lining up on the grinder, but they couldn’t let them in until all the NWO students were neutralized. REACT stormed into the grinder as well on the heels of Mak, Kai and one of their colleagues. The NWO students had trashed the helmets and the bell, pulling it down and stomping on it. They were trying to humiliate the SEALs for what they had done to Easton and the original NWO Compound. He gritted his teeth, anger washing through him.
