Ready to Roll

by Suzanne Brockmann

  They sat in silence for a few moments after that.

  Danny was the first to speak up. “So now what?” he asked.

  “I need you to trust me,” Ben said, and the two Gillman brothers sat there, gazes locked.

  “I trust you,” Jenn said.

  “We do, too,” Eden spoke for herself and Izzy, reaching over to take her husband’s hand.

  But Izzy wasn’t one for staying silent. “We’re the cavalry,” he said. “We should set up a code word. Pizza. No, we use that too often. Pterodactyl. Yeah. If you call and say something like, Man, these mosquitos are as big as pterodactyls tonight, we’ll know you need us to come running, you know, to help. However we can. Including extracting you from whatever goatfuck you’re mired in.”

  Even Dan laughed at that. “Do your best to stay out of any and all goatfucks,” he told Ben.

  “I will,” Ben said, adding. “Thank you.”

  Dan shook his head. “High school drama shouldn’t be this dangerous.”

  Izzy nodded at that. “Your mouth, my brother, to God’s ear.” He slapped the tops of his legs as he looked around the room. “Who wants pizza?” He looked at Ben and laughed. “See what I mean?”

  * * *

  Izzy had to go back to the base.

  He’d left for his emergency Ben-meeting before Grunge had arrived, and he knew that the LT wouldn’t want to wait until the morning for Izzy’s official report on the Seagull’s kryptonite.

  Izzy found the SEAL candidates enjoying the fiery sunset down on the beach, doing another round of log PT. Grunge was standing off to the side, arms folded as he watched the boat squads doing synchronized sit-ups in a line—each team had their arms wrapped around their very own three hundred pound telephone pole that rested on their chests when they reclined.

  Boat Squad John, however, were lying in the sand, most of them sound asleep. Apparently, they’d earned themselves another rest. If a boat squad did something really, really right during Hell Week, they’d win fabulous cool prizes, the most coveted being five minutes of blissful unconsciousness.

  “Squad John’s got a good little listener,” Grunge told Izzy, in the place of a more traditional greeting.

  Izzy nodded. He’d made note of that, too. And log PT was a time during which ability to listen to instructions really paid off.

  The boat squads were given orders like, “Pick up that telephone pole, run down the beach two clicks, then run back and do fifty sit-ups while holding that log!”

  But sometimes the order was: “Down the beach, two clicks and back!”

  And after two or three days of no sleep, the majority of candidates didn’t listen well and notice the lack of mention of the log. So most boat squads ran two clicks and back while carrying three hundred pounds that they didn’t need to carry.

  Boat Squad John, however, paid close attention. Every single time.

  “The other squads get the triple-lutzing-idiot award for failure to learn from Squad John’s shiny example,” Izzy commented.

  “That, too,” Grunge agreed. “Schlossman was listening this time, but it’s definitely a learned skill for him.”

  “Jackson did the listening this afternoon,” Izzy reported.

  Grunge glanced at him. “But…?”

  “Livingston’s the mastermind,” Izzy said what he knew Grunge, too, had already figured out. “He’s particularly crafty, because he’s not taking credit. He’s gaining… something by letting some other guy be the hero.”

  “Team cohesion,” Grunge said.

  “Yes, definitely, but it’s more than that.” Izzy looked over to where John “Seagull” Livingston was sprawled in the sand. He had that boneless, childlike look that some guys got when they were sound asleep. Kudos to him for being able to relax and recharge so completely.

  “Go on,” Grunge ordered.

  Izzy glanced over to find that the LT was giving him his full attention.

  “So, yeah,” Izzy continued. “I also think this is related to Seagull’s kryptonite. I don’t know why—I haven’t figured that part out yet—but I think he needs Hansie Schlossman to stay in. Timebomb Jackson, too, but I’m pretty sure that’s swim-buddy loyalty. I don’t know what it is with Schloss. Anyway, Gull’s working to make sure they don’t ring out. Along with the team cohesion thing—that’s intentional, too. But of course one thing builds on the other. If Boat Squad John stays solid, Jackson and Schlossman are less likely to quit.”

  “Schlossman hates Seagull,” Grunge said.

  “Yes, he does.” Izzy had made note of that, too. “And the Seagull knows that, too.”

  “What the fuck?” Grunge’s question wasn’t merely rhetorical as he struggled to understand Seagull’s need to keep a man who hated him from ringing out of his boat squad. “Is it nerd-love on Seagull’s part? Adoration of the allegedly cool kid—cool kids, plural, because he’s showing the same love to Jackson. But at least Jackson doesn’t return the favor with a verbal punch in the face.”

  “Used that way, nerd-love’s kind of an offensive term, playing into stereotypes,” Izzy said faux-sternly. “I mean, I’m a nerd, self-professed, so I can imply whatever I want with it, but—”

  “Call it whatever you need to, but explain to me what I’m seeing here,” Grunge demanded. “Because right now it feels like Livingston’s about to crumple to the ground and break into a resounding chorus of As Long As He Needs Me.”

  Izzy laughed in delight that Grunge would compare the Seagull’s behavior to that of the character of Nancy in the musical version of Oliver Twist. After being literally hit by her nasty-ass BF Bill, Nancy delivered a plaintive song, explaining why she couldn’t leave. “If you are lonely, then you will know,” Izzy sang. “When someone needs you—”

  “That is such crap!” Grunge finished, using the tune for the remaining lyrics, which were a bewildering you love them so!

  “How do you even—” Izzy started, but he didn’t have to get the whole question out.

  “I saw Oliver! around a hundred times. Three months of rehearsals. High school girlfriend was a Thespian,” Grunge admitted. “Capital T. That was the name of the school club. The Thespians. I stage managed.”

  “Dude,” Izzy said, grinning broadly. “That means you were a Thespian, too. File that under Things I did not know about you.”

  “Lisa made Mr. Jimenez—the director—put a full page ad with info about domestic violence and a hotline number in the program.” Grunge smiled, temporarily back in his past with his ex-girlfriend. “She was… pretty amazing.”

  “And you broke up with her because…?” Izzy asked.

  “Life got in the way.” Grunge put a very definite period on the end of his sentence and brought them back to Seagull. “At the risk of being offensive and playing into stereotypes, I’m going to use the term nerd-love as short-hand.”

  “I think you’re allowed to use it because anyone who’s seen Oliver-Exclamation-Point! that many times qualifies at least as an honorary nerd.”

  Grunge was wearing his waiting-impatiently face.

  “Okay, yeah, so there can be elements of abuse in the kind of nerd-love you’re talking about,” Izzy told him. “We don’t always choose our heroes wisely, but I really don’t think that’s what happening here. Nerd-love can include shades of Mighty Mouse. You know, Here I come to save the day! But if Seagull nerd-loved Schlossman and Jackson, he’d take the credit for listening during the drills. He’d want to be the hero for earning the squad the R-and-R—in hopes that they’d love him back.”

  “But that’s not what he’s doing,” Grunge said. “What the fuck.”

  “Sir,” Izzy said. “I do believe you are attempting to make simple sense of someone who is, in truth, a very complex little tadpole. If you really want to hurt Livingston? Break up Boat Squad John.”

  Grunge was silent for a moment, as Carlos-of-the-bullhorn woke the sleeping SEAL candidates. “Surf torture time! Hoo-yah! Up and at ’em, gentlemen!”

  Seagull w
as instantly on his feet, and as Izzy and Grunge watched, he held out a hand to help up Timebomb, who was clearly groggy and disoriented. “We got this! We can do this!” Seagull told his swim buddy.

  And then all of the SEAL candidates plunged into the surf. Izzy shivered as the evening breeze kicked up a notch.

  But that was when Grunge spoke. “I believe I no longer want to hurt him.” He sounded a little surprised at his own sentiment, but then shot Izzy a look. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not going to help him.”

  Izzy smiled at Grunge. “My admiration for you, sir, shines endlessly on.”

  “Jesus, you really don’t need to call me that.”

  “Sir?” Izzy asked. “Oh yes, I most certainly do. Sir. My own nerd-love for you demands it.”

  Grunge laughed. “Get the fuck out of here. Better yet, get your ass to OTS.”

  Officer Training School. Where servicemen and women went in enlisted, and came out officers. From E to O in twelve short weeks. Grunge had done it. He’d wanted Izzy to go with him. And he’d hammered him about it relentlessly, ever since.

  “Never gonna happen,” Izzy said. “It’s really not for me, bro. Honestly. I’m happy exactly where I am. You might have better luck, though, with young Seagull. He’s a good team leader.”

  “You are, too,” Grunge said.

  Izzy put his hand on his chest as he Yoda-ed, “Make my tiny nerd heart swell with renewed love, you did.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Grunge said again, and this time Izzy got.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday

  The next morning, Ben strolled over to Wade’s house and found him out in his driveway doing hard labor—no doubt—by washing his older brother’s truck.

  Wade’s car—a dilapidated pale blue Dodge Dart that had been new circa season one of Mad Men—was parked out on the street.

  As he’d worked, Wade’s T-shirt and knee-length board shorts had gotten soaked. His clothes clung in places to his hard-muscled body and Ben could, theoretically, understand Ryan’s attraction. At least the physical part.

  Wade greeted him with a disbelieving scowl. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thanks to you, I find myself with time on my hands. Going to the park’s out, since the bruises and scrapes on my face frighten small children.”

  “Get the hell away from me.” He shot a glance back at the house.

  “Your brother home?” Ben asked.

  “Cody’s sleeping,” Wade said. “But if he wakes up and sees you…” He broke off but the dot dot dot was heavily implied.

  “Then let’s do this quickly,” Ben said. “You owe me an explanation.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “No, that part, I understand. You made that very clear,” Ben said, “right before you got me suspended. Again. It’s the why that needs clarity, Wade. You said you needed a few days off—presumably not merely to wash Cody’s truck.”

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” Wade said. “I have to… be somewhere.”

  “Great. I’ll come with.”

  Wade laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t be seen with you. Get out of here before my brother kills you.”

  Hose in his hand, Wade turned and stomped away from Ben, toward the open garage. But then, almost as an afterthought, he turned and hit Ben with the full spray, right in the face.

  The water was cold, and Ben jumped back. It didn’t last long. Wade released the handle and dropped the hose with a thunk and headed into the garage.

  “Very mature,” Ben called after him, mopping his face with the driest edge of his now-sodden shirt.

  Wade just kept going, holding his middle finger up as he went through the door that led into the house.

  Wisely, Ben didn’t follow.

  * * *

  SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class

  John “Seagull” Livingston:

  Late afternoon Wednesday was when the hallucinations started.

  You know what SNAFU stands for, right? It’s military jargon from World War Two or maybe even One, although I’m guessing they had a similar saying all the way back to the days of the Roman Empire, too.

  Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

  What happened on Wednesday was normal for BUD/S. It was right on time. The instructors were obviously expecting the SEAL candidates to start losing it, and we didn’t disappoint.

  It didn’t happen to me, thank God. I mean, yes, at the very end of the week I started seeing Mr. Spock—my dog. My parents’ dog, really. We adopted him from a shelter when I was fifteen. He died a year ago, which really sucked because of course I wasn’t home when they put him down, so I didn’t get to say goodbye.

  But there he suddenly was, in my peripheral, you know, just that flash of (in a dog voice) I love you so much. He was a lousy Vulcan, but a really great dog.

  Anyway, yeah, you want to hear about the events of that particular Wednesday during BUD/S training Hell Week. (sighs)

  I still feel bad about it.

  I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what I could’ve done differently.

  I mean, Boat Squad John took a bad hit, and that hurt. But not as much as it had to have hurt Jake Harris, and…

  Okay. It’s Wednesday afternoon. Sun’s out, which is good. Hell Week’s nights were the worst. But it was daytime.

  The guys in Boat Squad John were doing great, so great that we were on track to be the team that secured early. When you’re told you’re secure, that means you’re done with Hell Week. It’s over, and you made it through.

  See, there’s always one team that’s declared secure at least a few hours before the rest of the class, and believe me those last few hours matter.

  So even though we started the week as the underdogs, we’ve been doing everything right—or at least as right as we possibly can, considering.

  But on Wednesday, Jake started struggling to keep up.

  We tried to help him, because guys can bounce back. You hit these waves of fatigue, and your brain starts shutting down, but if your team has your six, you’re gonna be okay. Eventually you get a second wind—a fifty-second wind when it comes to Hell Week—and then you’re pretty much good to go. At least for a little while, until you hit the next wave.

  So we were trying to do that for Jake—get him through his current brain shut-down.

  We were executing an Around-the-World. We knew it wasn’t the last time we’d be doing this. Usually the instructors have us finish the week with a quick trip—less quick when you’re good and tired—ending with dreaded rock portage, which is a whole nother thing and…

  Okay, right. Around-the-World is where you finally make use of your IBS, your inflatable boat comma small. You spend all this time during Hell Week carrying your rubber duck on your head, but here’s your chance to sit in the son of a bitch. So hoo-yah, we were finally sitting down. And hoo-yah, sun’s out and even though the breeze was cold, we were dry enough, so we’re warm.

  Except along with being warm, dry, and sitting down, we’re also paddling as fast as we can, completely around Coronado. It’s an island. Well, mostly. It’s not a very big island, but when it’s you and five other guys in an IB, small? It’s pretty frigging huge.

  Don’t get me wrong. We were all out there together—the whole BUD/S class. It’s not like they send us off on our own. The instructors and medical teams are always nearby. And they’re not in tiny inflatables, they’ve got real boats—Zodiacs, and even a Mark V.

  But you stop seeing ’em. It’s more than tunnel vision, it’s tunnel everything, and it really feels like it’s you and your team and the duck out there alone on the water.

  Of course, like everything else during Hell Week, this boat trip around Coronado was a race.

  So we were moving pretty fast and we’re out in front, and most of us were in this place where all that exists is now. And now. And now. You dig that paddle in as you exhale, you release as you inhale, and just like the way your heart is beating, you r
epeat and repeat and repeat. You’re right there. You are in it.

  And I think, in hindsight, that that was my mistake.

  I thought it would help Jake if we let him rest while we did the work. Kinda like, “Okay, bud, just hold that paddle and doze. We’ll wake you when we get there, and you’ll feel better and be good to go.”

  Instead… (sighs)

  I think he lost his link to us. To the paddle, to the water, to the boat, to the team. He lost that connection. And when he lost that, he went, and he went hard.

  I can only guess what it looked like from where the instructors were sitting.

  But Jake suddenly stands up—which isn’t easy to do in an IBS, let alone one that’s moving as fast as this one is, and he starts screaming that he’s on fire.

  Of course, he’s not. He’s hallucinating.

  Everything happened really fast then. We’re all shouting that he’s okay, he’s not on fire, but he starts waving his paddle around, and Timebomb and Schloss, who’re closest to him, are getting the hell out of his way because the dead last thing you need during Hell Week is to have your freaking skull cracked open.

  So yeah, the laws of physics take control and we capsize. The water is cold, but not cold enough to shake Jake loose from whichever demons have their claws in him.

  He drops his paddle and starts swimming like a mother, but not toward Coronado. Nope. He doesn’t aim for the shore. He’s beelining it for the open Pacific.

  Have I mentioned he’s an Olympic class swimmer? (laughs)

  So, yeah. That happened.

  I yell for ’Bomb and Schloss to get the rest of the squad back into the boat and then follow me, while I went after Jake.

  I didn’t want to let him out of my sight—God forbid he goes under and drowns. No way am I gonna let that happen—not to Jake, and not to Schloss. It’s bad enough when your swim buddy rings out. Can you imagine going through BUD/S and having your swim buddy die?

  I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

  * * *

  Wade’s ancient car smelled like sweaty socks and spilled beer.