by John Murphy
“Oh, without a doubt,” the general said.
“And that’s where you come in, General,” Barrett said cheerfully. “I’d like to get him involved with more of an elite group. To excel at checkers is one thing. To excel at chess is entirely another.”
The general leaned forward and furrowed his brows. “And how would you like me to help?”
“It’s my understanding that you have knowledge of certain groups within the military—a certain exclusive group that could provide the kind of competitive environment in which he can excel. The military’s ultimate chess players, so to speak.”
“You mean our Special Tactics Units?”
“No, no, no. Something more…exclusive,” Barrett said.
The general sat back. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Mr. Vice President. The STU is the best of the best. It’s six months of extremely rigorous training. He’d have to be in peak physical and mental condition.”
“No, no, no. That’s just a more brutish band of armed thugs. I’m talking about something more elite. Think chess—with weapons.”
“Hmm…I don’t think I understand,” the general said.
“I think you do, General.” Barrett’s tone had lost some of its congeniality.
“No, I don’t,” the general replied, equally gruff.
“Come now, General Sominian. We both know that, despite the Global Alliance decree, we have maintained an elite covert group—a black operations force.”
The general sat back in his chair. “Well, sir, that is news to me. Since I retired five years ago, I haven’t paid much attention to military matters.”
“Pish tosh! You and I are the same kind of animal. We can’t just close up shop and go home. You have too much of your soul invested in your baby. Surely you yearn to weigh in on matters from time to time?”
“You’ve got me figured out, do you?”
“No figuring is necessary, and I don’t need to waste another breath arguing with you about how alike we are.”
“Thank you for sparing me,” the general said, his irritation growing.
The vice president smiled to himself. “The funny thing about bank accounts is that security stops unknown people from withdrawing funds from one’s account. Yet there is nothing preventing the deposit of funds or who does the depositing.”
It took only a moment for the general to realize the vice president’s intent. “You wouldn’t be threatening to frame me for taking treasonous bribes, would you?”
“No, no, not at all. But charities often have anonymous donors of rather large gifts.”
“I see.” Sominian fumed. “Show me a sword and tell me that you’ll scratch my back with it.” He stood up. “Look, Mr. Vice President, you and I are no longer part of the same food chain. I am happily minding my own business, and I’ll ask you to do the same.”
Gizzelda returned with a silver tray bearing coffee and tea.
Barrett stood, exuberant. “Oh! My dear, Gizzelda! Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to enjoy it. I have so many things to tend to, and I must be going.”
The general followed as the vice president moved to the foyer. Grumman opened the front door.
As he was about to cross the threshold of the front door, Barrett turned halfway, held up a finger, and spoke over his shoulder. “Oh, there’s one more thing. There is another young man—a charity case, of sorts. He has recently come to my attention. He’s in the midst of recruit training at the moment. It seems his parents were old friends, an ambassador. The poor boy is now an orphan and…” Barrett waited for a somber moment to pass. “He’s probably good at chess.”
CHAPTER 9
Twelve weeks later
US Military Basic Training
Modesto, California
December 19, 2074
1 year, 11 months, 6 days from Day Zero
“I BELIEVE IN THE TEAM because the team believes in me!” A large group of eighteen-year-old males and females jumped and cheered, waving arms, high-fiving one another. The eighty recruits in the training platoon wore drab olive T-shirts and enormous running shorts, soon to be sweat soaked and dusty. After ten weeks, goofing around was rampant, and many of the male recruits cheered in high-pitched screams, hugged one another, and air-kissed, much like the females did in earnest.
Killian stood on the outskirts of the mandatory motivational cheer before PT began, watching what the recruits alternately called a “moto-hug” or “mando-love.” He clapped his hands but didn’t jump, cheer, or hug anyone. It was as much motivation as he was willing to muster. He gritted his teeth and smoldered, looking away.
“I see you’re being true to the bitter end,” Drill Sergeant Patinka said, surprising him from behind. “Mr. ‘I’m too special to participate.’ Yeah, I’m talking to you, Private Killian.”
Killian dropped his arms to the side and stared forward, standing straight, but not rigid. Patinka’s smooth black skin, plentiful ivory-white teeth, and petite frame were in contrast to her enormous voice and even bigger attitude.
“Considering this is your last week and your final physical fitness test, I would think that you would be excited and choose to participate…for once!” She stood in front of him looking up to his face, her hat brim nearly touching his chin.
“What’s it going to be, Private? You gonna show a little team spirit today?”
Killian said nothing.
“Maybe you aren’t feeling well enough to participate in the PFT. Do you need to sit on the side and take a nap?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“No, what?”
“No, Drill Sergeant, this recruit is feeling fine. I’m excited to participate in today’s PFT,” Killian said. The final physical fitness test score was critical. It would be the only record of his physical excellence during basic training. He had to get a perfect score if he wanted get noticed by whatever mysterious group had rescued him from Bangkok.
“How about you convince me with some team spirit, then.”
Killian’s eyes darted from side to side, noticing others staring, giggling, and mocking. He jumped up and down, saying, “I believe in the team because the team believes in me!”
“What was that? I can’t hear your unmotivated little voice!”
“I believe in the team because the team believes in me!” He jumped with more vigor and waved his arms.
More giggling, pointing, and mocking from others. Some of the males imitated him by using exaggerated arm movements, bobbing heads, and air-kissing. Patinka turned quickly, catching them in the act.
“Stop the silliness or you’re going to wind up with nap time, too!”
The others ceased their mocking and moved toward their positions in the exercise formation.
“Time to show some love out there, Private. Get in formation.”
Killian bolted and got in position in the third row of squad four.
Basic training had felt more like summer camp—there was the “harassment” using uninsulting insults; endless classes on interpersonal communication, conflict resolution, and emotive therapy; and required demonstrations of false enthusiasm. The dominating theme throughout had been “feelings.”
There had been no combat training at all. There had been no punching, ground fighting, or breaking of arms, legs, or necks. Half a day was spent on the rifle range, and recruits were permitted to shoot only ten familiarization rounds each, with no regard for accuracy. The recruits handled their rifles as if they expected the weapons to explode on their own. Killian had to feign absolute stupidity that day and handle his weapon like everyone else. Revealing his deftness with such a familiar tool would draw a great deal of unwanted scrutiny.
The only time anyone had seen blood was when one of the recruits, Swanson, had broken his nose running into a post on the O-course. The pan
demonium that had ensued was absurd.
Killian held out hope for infantry school.
The leaders from each squad, teasingly called moto-leaders, stood facing the group on broad raised platforms at the front. Each was female and got her position, Killian was certain, because of her ability to mirror Patinka’s enormous voice and attitude.
Drill Sergeant Patinka shouted, “Squad leaders! Lead your teams in this morning’s exercises!”
In unison, the moto-leaders called, “Daily seven warm-up exercises! Beginning with jumping jacks, count of four for twenty repetitions! Begin!”
“One, two, three, four. Two, two, three four. Three…” the recruits called as they performed.
The synchronization of the group was flawless, unlike the first weeks of basic.
They changed to windmills, then to push-ups. Drill Sergeant Patinka meandered through the rows with her hands clasped behind her back.
When Killian had first showed up at the Compulsory Service Induction Center after two weeks of mending at a veterans’ hospital, he was still emaciated. He was assigned a double rations card, which he presented at the chow hall. Disgusted by the thought of becoming fat and slovenly, he spent nearly every night after lights-out performing exercises on his own: push-ups, lunges, bends, and thrusts, 300 of each. Every barracks had a pull-up bar in the common area, and he did as many as he could, his count reaching fifty at a time. At first, other recruits complained to him, but his rhythmic movements and breathing soon became background noise, lulling the others to sleep. Between his high caloric intake and his own rigorous regimen, he put on muscle like crazy.
Killian did push-ups with ease and doubled the pace, while some recruits still struggled.
Midway through the set, spit-shined boots appeared in his view as he faced the ground.
Killian immediately changed to keep pace with the others.
“Are you deaf?” Patinka asked.
“No, Drill Sergeant.” He could tell she was bending over him.
“Then why aren’t you keeping in time with your squad leaders?”
He said nothing and kept exercising.
“And, I don’t hear you calling cadence like the others. I must be in the presence of ‘Mr. Special,’ ‘Mr. Show-Off.’ Is that what it is? Are you ‘Mr. I’m Better Than Everybody Else?’ Do you need a nap?”
Killian could hear snickering coming from the other male recruits.
“Stop acting like children,” Patinka shouted to the others, “or I’m gonna come kick dirt in your face. You don’t want to run your PFT with dirt on your face, do you?”
She moved on as the set finished and everyone stood.
The platoon completed the warm-up exercises. They formed up into four rows of twenty and jogged over to the obstacle course. Squad leaders sung a cheery cadence, and Killian made sure to sing loudly.
When they reached the O-course, the formation broke, and the faster recruits moved to the front of six lanes. Others stepped aside for Killian, who was by far the fastest, and who typically lapped the rest of the platoon several times. Recruits were permitted to perform extra PT. Several recruits, Killian included, would perform the two-mile run twice, while others struggled to finish once. It garnered him the nickname “the cheetah,” which Killian didn’t mind until others started to cheer him on: “Go cheetah! Go cheetah!”
The O-course was individually timed, and consisted of going through the obstacles once, then back.
From the front of his lane, Killian turned his head to see several drill sergeants looking at him. He grinned slightly. There was little opportunity to stand out besides the O-course. He was going to try for eight laps. He could do it, he figured, at two and a half minutes per lap in the time set aside for the platoon on the course. The first time through he had to keep to his own lane. On subsequent laps he would have to go to whichever lane’s obstacle was unoccupied.
He looked briefly to the sky, as he always did, as if his mystery rescuers might be observing him from above.
The six front-runners posed, ready to sprint to the first obstacle, twitching their fingers and coiling their springs.
“Private Killian!” Patinka called. “You’re looking a little tired. Back of the line!”
Killian’s concentration broke, as did the others’. They looked at him in confusion.
He looked back, uncertain of what he’d heard.
“That’s right, ‘Mr. Special.’ Come get at the back of the line so you can rest up.”
Killian flushed with anger as he made his way to the back.
“Welcome to the hippo crew, cheetah,” Swanson said from another lane.
Swanson was four inches taller than Killian and heavier by fifty pounds. He was the slowest in the platoon, both physically and mentally.
The other drill sergeants snickered and elbowed each other.
Shit, Killian thought. They weren’t there to assess his agility. They were there to watch his humiliation.
Hands on his hips, Killian turned side to side, occasionally kicking at the dirt. Then he wrung his hands. Being held back like this was painful. Only three in his lane had started. He would have been on his second lap by now. He glanced periodically to the drill sergeants, who were joking around with one another, occasionally glancing back at him.
How was he going to stand out? He’d have to try for two and a half, maybe three laps on the run. He’d save his energy to make this his fastest time on the O-course.
After the faster recruits had made it through and back, and had gotten their times, they assembled next to the group still on the course and cheered.
“Come on! Go, go, go!”
“Good job, soldier!”
“Good job, warrior!”
“Valiant effort, hero!”
Killian folded his arms, kicked the dirt, and swore through grinding teeth. It occurred to him that if he were to be deployed to Bangkok with his current platoon, they’d be as slothful and clumsy as the Global Alliance soldiers. From his view inside this band of ineptitude, he could imagine how terrified they’d be of the ruthless rebels skulking in the night, always planning an attack. Their cheering wouldn’t even make it out of the crates for the terror. The thought of someone like him springing out of the darkness with wild eyes and a knife unnerved him, yet made him proud. He wasn’t sure that he could turn this platoon of blubbering goofballs into ruthless killers, but he could make certain they’d be better prepared for combat.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. “Good job, hero! How’d you do?”
Killian turned. Peterson, a rival he usually left in the dust, grinned at him. Peterson was one of the fast recruits and already through.
“I haven’t started,” Killian murmured.
“What’s that? I thought you’d be on lap fifty-bazillion by now.”
Others chuckled.
Killian was being punished for some unknown reason. However, he was going to excel despite the setback. He had to. It was his last chance.
It took forever for his lane of recruits to go through. Two more to go before he could start. Swanson, the last of his lane, lumbered off the line and struggled to get over the first obstacle, then the second. Normally Killian had already flashed past the others and had missed how much everyone else thrashed about. Killian was astounded to see how poorly Swanson was doing. How could such a lummox even graduate?
Killian finally made it to the line and was ready to spring, determined to make this his best time ever. He had to wait until the recruit in front of him was at least three obstacles ahead. He almost lost his balance in his coiled stance. He was the last of the last.
“Go!” a lane corporal said.
Killian launched. He took three steps to the high bar and lunged upward, his hands gripping, his body pulling, and his momentum flipping him underneath, up, and over. It felt like it took f
ewer than three seconds. Then came the low crawl for ten yards under logs. Next, he flew over sixty feet of raised, zigzagging logs at almost a full sprint. He passed the recruit in front of him in the open span before the next obstacle. Another recruit was in his lane trying to climb the ten-foot wall with a rope. He wasn’t allowed to attempt passing anyone actually on an obstacle. He had to wait. It was chewing up his time. Swanson was on the wall in the next lane, clutching the rope, his feet sliding off, unable to pull himself up. Killian bounced impatiently. He’d never had to wait for anyone before. He spotted an opening on the third lane. Instinctively, he went for it. He was over in two seconds.
On the other side was Patinka.
“You gotta stay in your own lane, Private Killian! Go back around the wall and stay in your own lane!”
Shit! She was shadowing him, waiting for him to screw up.
Killian dashed back around the wall. Now he had to wait for the recruit he’d already passed. Swanson was still struggling, groaning and whimpering in frustration. Other recruits came to Swanson’s aid and pushed him up.
Killian’s lane opened up and he scrambled up and over.
Again, Patinka. “Did you help your fellow soldier? I don’t think so. Go back to the beginning!”
“What?” Killian stood, outraged.
“You heard me—go back to the beginning for lack of teamwork!”
“Aghhh!” Killian growled, then raced back to the start.
Why was she doing this? She’s being outright vindictive.
He ran back to start over. Killian looked at the lane corporal. “You’re going to restart my time, aren’t you?”
“Nope,” the corporal said.
A burst of laughter came from the group of drill sergeants.
The recruits who’d finished chanted, “Go cheetah! Go cheetah!”, mocking and laughing. If they only knew the truth, he fumed. He could imagine the look on everyone’s faces if they learned he’d killed thirty-three soldiers, Global Alliance no less. They’d wear the same look of horrified disbelief as those he’d killed. Even the attitude-infused “tornado of petty insults” that was Drill Sergeant Patinka would be wide-eyed and dumbstruck with fear.
