“It’s probably going to be none of us. In all likelihood, we’re going to get to sit back and watch someone else do it,” reasoned Carl.
The rest of the meal Carl suffered more macho teasing, dirty jokes, and Maddox impersonations, but the whole mess hall was buzzing with anticipation as to who was going to be voted to participate in the competition tomorrow.
Carl wasn’t worried as he was mediocre in relation to the rest of the group in GFT. He was certainly not the best, but he was also not the worst. He didn’t stand out at all, which was the way he liked it. That was how one got along in Basic Training. One didn’t stand out. One did his best to stay in the middle of the group. You didn’t show the others up, and you didn’t hold them back.
During personal time, following drill sergeant time, Carl attempted to raise Peter on his com unit in the dark, Spartan barracks, but Peter was not answering. He figured his brother was engaged in something important.
He felt a little guilty about his enlisting, but he now believed that he could relate to his big brother for the first time. They were both army. Now he knew what his brother went through, which gave him a newfound respect for the guy (not that he didn’t respect him already).
That evening Carl was on Fire Guard with Cartieras, who was quiet as ever. So Carl was left to his own thoughts. He thought about home. He thought about his father and his mother.
He wondered if his mother was proud of him. More importantly, he thought he was finally proud of himself. He was no longer a part of the “Boomerang Generation” mooching off his parents. He was his own man, carrying his own weight, and performing a valuable duty to his country.
Was he scared? Hell yeah. But that was what made the sacrifice so important. Even in this age of rampant unemployment and idle youth, not everyone chose military service.
As they walked in between barracks scouring the grounds for recruits attempting to go AWOL, Carl tried his best to think of this new, strange environment as home. Not that it would be his home for long. When the ten weeks were up, he’d have another home, but he really wanted to embrace the whole experience as his future.
He was not used to the around the clock micromanaging, being told what to do and when to do it, particularly from a sadistic bastard like Sergeant Maddox. Nevertheless, he knew Maddox was doing it for their own good. He had to pummel their softness into hardened resolve. Basic Training was only the beginning. This was just the preparation. There were many wars being waged all around the world, and the list of enemies was growing.
Carl could not help but think of his great, great, grandfather, Lingus Enright, who fought in World War II. From the stories passed down to him, it seemed that in the 1940’s, war permeated all of American life. Everyone was doing their part, and although they were all scared, they knew they were doing right. And they had quite the adventure travelling all over Europe and romancing European women.
Carl tried to think of this time in the same way. The Order for International Liberation was the modern day version of Nazis if one really thought about it, and America needed more soldiers to fight them.
Carl and Cartieras walked their patrol in silence, in Carl’s view, as future heroes of democracy.
***
The next morning passed quickly, and there was a nervous anticipation about the Ground Fighting Technique competition between platoons. Over breakfast, there was much speculation as to who would be chosen. It was like the Super Bowl of Basic Training. Kettle was making the rounds from table to table, whispering in ears. The scoundrel was probably taking bets.
At 08:30, the platoons gathered in the company area by a large set of rubber mats, the likely arena for the competition. Carl knew these mats well. They were rubber, but they were by no means soft. He knew from firsthand experience.
Sergeant Maddox, master of ceremonies, strolled onto the mat, silencing the crowd of recruits. “Alright, fresh meat, listen up. This morning is a continuation of a long-observed tradition in Basic. It commemorates the completion of GFT training. Today, each platoon will select a combatant to represent it, to represent what it has learned. The selected combatants will fight on this mat.”
Carl looked around anxiously. He looked at the recruits in other platoons, and he looked at those in his own. He looked at Fromm. He would vote for Fromm when the time came. Fromm stood the best chance as much as anyone Carl knew.
Maddox continued. “Your selections have been made, and now it is time to announce the lucky recruits.”
What? The selections had already been made? When?
“Our first match will be from the First Infantry…Private Wilkinson.”
Wilkinson stood up, passed through his ranks, saluted, and stood next to Maddox.
“And from the Second Infantry…Private Bates.”
He too stood, saluted Maddox, and took his place on the other side of Maddox.
“Okay, men. Rules…no striking, that’s no punching or kicking, no eye gouging, no fish hooking. You know the drill. First man to submit the other by tap out wins. Take your positions.”
The two men went to the center of the mat and faced each other. They were both of comparable height and build. Carl did not estimate an advantage in either one’s favor.
Maddox blew his whistle, and the two men began to grapple with each other. Carl found the sight to be odd, two men on the same side duking it out, but they were soldiers.
As the two recruits struggled together, Carl thought of tiger cubs he saw on a nature show play fighting. It was practice, and one day they would fight for real…for survival.
Bates put his foot behind Wilkinson’s right leg and shoved hard. Wilkinson was thrown off balance, and Bates was right on top of him grabbing for an arm or a leg. Wilkinson did his best to avoid being caught, but once Bates was on top, it was only matter of time.
Bates eventually got his hands on Wilkinson’s left arm and pulled an arm bar, stretching it out and bending it in a direction it was not meant to go. Wilkinson tapped out quickly and Maddox blew his whistle, and like that, the Second Infantry picked up its first victory.
“Very good, Private Bates. The match goes to the Second Infantry.”
There were hoots and cheers from the Second Infantry. The two men shook hands and returned to their platoons.
“Remember, men, one mistake and you’re toast. And now for the next match…from the Third Infantry…Private Cronos.”
A rather large man from the Third Infantry stood, saluted Maddox, and took his place on the mat. Carl felt sorry for the poor slob fighting him. He looked over again at Fromm and thought he’d be a perfect match.
“And from the Fourth Infantry…”
That was Carl’s regiment.
“…Private Birdsall.”
Carl was stunned. He looked around, unsure if he heard correctly. Everyone was looking at him. It was as if someone read him his own obituary. He looked over at Kettle, who shrugged sheepishly. Asshole. That’s why he was so busy making the rounds. They’d have words at dinner…if there was anything left of him.
Carl stood up, his pulse pounding in his ears, and he saluted Maddox, who remarked snidely at Carl’s hesitation.
“So nice of you to join us, Nancy. Why don’t you go take your place on the mat?”
Carl stepped through the crowd, hearing stifled snickers and feeling his regiment’s gaze upon him. He stood on the mat in front of his monster of an opponent.
As Maddox reviewed the rules, Carl stood there in horror. He expected he’d have to fight sometime, but not against such a goliath. He had sparred many times in GFT. He won some and he lost some, but this was the game. What did he expect to do, use harsh language against terrorists?
Recognizing how ridiculous his terror was, and accepting that he was now indeed a combatant, he calmed down enough to focus on the match.
“…grappling and submissions only. Am I clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Carl and Private Cronos answered in unison.
“Face each
other.”
Maddox blew his whistle.
Cronos and Carl began to circle each other on the mat. Although Cronos was twice Carl’s size and build, he was hesitant, as if he was sizing Carl up.
“Are you two going to dance all day? This ain’t the prom, sweethearts. Engage.”
This tentativeness emboldened Carl and none too soon, because Cronos rushed him. They locked arms.
Cronos was bigger, so Carl attempted to swivel and throw the larger man off balance. To his as well as Cronos’ surprise, it worked, and Cronos fell face first down on the mat.
Seizing the opportunity and feeling increasingly more confident, Carl jumped on his back and sunk a hook under Cronos’ neck while wrapping his legs around his massive torso.
Giving up his back to Carl was a critical error, but Cronos used his size and strength to flip over out of Carl’s grip and land on his back with his legs wrapped around Carl’s waist, restraining him.
Carl was powerless to prevent the transition, and he pressed down as hard as he could to get to Cronos. But Cronos kept him at bay between his legs, holding him away from his body.
Carl knew that it was only a matter of time before Cronos would gain enough strength to turn the tables on him. He tried to pass Cronos’ guard, but Cronos kept him in place.
He was trying to get a hold of one of Carl’s arms. Carl did not want to get caught in an arm bar, so he slipped out of Cronos’ grip time and again. But Cronos was very strong, and he got a hold of Carl’s right arm. Carl struggled to pull it away, but Cronos was shifting his legs to go for the arm bar.
In desperation, Carl rolled to one side of Cronos, but ended up sliding on top of him and giving up his back.
It didn’t take long for Cronos to wrap one of his massive tree trunk arms around Carl’s throat, pressing down on Carl’s head with the other hand, cutting off his windpipe.
It was now only a matter of time. Carl felt his vision blur, and his head swam. He did not want to tap out. He was pissed off at his error and decided to go down with the ship.
Suddenly, a memory from childhood entered his faltering brain. He and Peter were wrestling in their living room as kids. Peter, the older brother, was bigger and stronger, and he put Carl in a headlock. Although they were only play fighting, Peter was getting a little rough, but Carl didn’t want to submit. He held on, pushing with all of his might against his brother, but his mother walked into the room and broke the two of them up.
The memory faded as a sound brought him back to the real world. Sergeant Maddox was saying something to him, but he couldn’t make it out.
Then, just like that, Private Carl Birdsall went to sleep.
***
Carl found himself in “Fat Camp”—formally known as the Fitness Training Company—which also happened to be where injured recruits went for rehabilitation. Since the match, Kettle had been poking around, feeling guilty about his little stunt. Carl had refused to talk to him.
Kettle came in bearing a sanctioned magazine as an olive branch. “Hey, Carl.”
Carl ignored him.
Kettle put the magazine by Carl’s side. “I thought you might need some entertainment.”
Carl could no longer remain silent. “Why, Nolan? Why did you do it?”
“Honestly?”
Carl nodded impatiently.
“Because you’re tough in a way that most people don’t see. You look like a nerd, but there’s this...intensity about you.”
Carl looked at him incredulously.
“If it makes you feel any better, my bet was on you.”
“Ah, the truth. You wanted to bet for the underdog. You figured no one else would bet on me. Nice odds, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, thanks to you, I lost,” Kettle joked. “Are we still friends?”
Carl glared at him.
“I said I was sorry.”
“We’ll see.”
Like all good comedians, Kettle knew when to end on a high note. Encouraged, he smiled and began to back out of the room.
“Thanks, buddy. I knew you’d come around.”
“Get lost, Nolan.”
“I’ll see you later.” Kettle ducked out before Carl could say anything else.
Carl shook his head and picked up the magazine. It was some tabloid rag about the sex lives of celebrities, something a girl or housewife would read. He opened the front cover…
Inside was a Penthouse Magazine.
Carl smiled to himself. “Always the scoundrel.”
Chapter 8
Captain Fiona London was sitting in her office listening to the complaints of yet another soldier in the ID Program. His name was Sergeant Michael Lorenzo. He reported directly to Lieutenant Birdsall.
“Captain…”
“Fiona.”
“Sorry. Fiona, I just don’t know how I feel about this anymore. I mean, something about it just feels wrong, using dead bodies like this.”
The truth was that she was not quite sure how she felt about it herself, but as a psychologist, her values were unimportant. It was essential that she help her patients sort through their values in an objective and supportive manner.
“I mean, it feels like slavery. I know they’re not alive, and they don’t have any souls, but it still feels wrong. I mean, where do we get these bodies from anyway?”
The honest truth was that she did not know herself. Not specifically, anyway. “Michael, just think of them as total organ donors.”
“Yeah, but organ donors choose to donate their organs. Did these folks even have a choice?”
“I’m not privy to that information.”
“Well then, who the hell is? I’m getting nightmares, real nasty ones.”
“Can you describe some of them?”
“Well, where do I start? There’s this one where I’m at a funeral, and right in the middle of the mass in the church for all to see, the body pushes the coffin open, sits up, climbs out, and staggers over to me.”
“And then what happens?”
“It stops right in front of me. And everyone in the church is staring at me, even the priest.”
“Whose funeral is it?”
“I don’t know. Somebody’s. You can’t tell in the dream.”
“Okay, so it stops right in front of you. Then what?”
“It salutes me.”
“It salutes you.”
“Yeah, and then I wake up.”
“There’s definitely an element of embarrassment or shame. That’s why everyone’s looking at you, and it’s making you uncomfortable in the dream.”
“There are other dreams, too. There’s one where I’m in combat, and a couple of comrades are shot next to me. As I’m shooting at the enemy, they rise up and attack me.”
“Really.”
“And that’s not the worst one. There’s one I get every once in a while where I’m holding this baby, and it’s crying in my arms. There are monsters all around us trying to get at the baby. But there’s a staircase in the middle of nowhere, so I climb the stairs and take the baby away from the monsters.”
“Is the baby safe?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
“But that’s not all. Here’s the kicker. I walk down the steps and start walking amongst the monsters. Only, they don’t bother me. It’s like they recognize me.”
“And you find that disturbing.”
“Yes, I do. What does it all mean?”
“I think that you are very conflicted about what you are doing. Part of you is very ashamed about it. You definitely don’t trust the ID, as you shouldn’t. To them, we are all just food. But there’s a positive.”
“Really? And what would that be?”
“The baby. It represents life. You place life above all of this death, hence you placing the baby up above the monsters.”
“Yeah, I guess. But it really bothers me that when I come down the stairs in the dream, they don’t attack me. I’m walking with them.
”
“You are afraid you have become one of them—a monster.”
“Yeah. It’s freaking me out.”
“This is all like the stem cell debates at the turn of the millennium. Everyone knew that stem cells held tremendous, even miraculous potential to cure disease, correct injuries and deformities, so on and so forth.”
“Yeah, that’s a no brainer.”
“Well, it wasn’t back then. The application of stem cells was not what was being questioned. It was the source. In the beginning, a significant portion of stem cells were coming from aborted fetuses, and some found this to be morally reprehensible and any positive outcomes to be tainted.”
“So what happened? I mean, we obviously use stem cells today.”
“Well, there was much debate. The scientific and medical community thought the benefits outweighed any moral questions about where the stem cells came from. To them, their capabilities to heal were everything. Then there were others who thought that if any amount were harvested from aborted fetuses, they should not be used at all. The scientists believed that they were throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”
“I see. So although I recognize that the use of ID is perfect for hunting terrorists in inaccessible landscapes, like in Afghanistan…”
“And their use would save the lives of American soldiers,” Captain London added.
“…yeah…I’m questioning the source. So am I throwing out the baby with the bathwater?”
Fiona hesitated, allowing Lorenzo to draw his own conclusion.
Lorenzo hesitated, mulling it over. “I would like to smoke those bastards out of the caves.”
“Michael, they’ve been hiding, using the terrain, for decades, popping out momentarily to cause trouble, staging attacks in the West. Until now, we’ve been unable to get to them. For the first time, we have a chance to hunt them down and eliminate them.”
Lorenzo nodded uncertainly like a child complying with a parent without yet fully grasping the parent’s rationale. She continued.
“Think of the lives that will be saved. The lives of our soldiers who won’t have to be sent into foreign cave systems and mountains. Think of the victims that will be spared random terrorist attacks.”
I Am Automaton Page 12
