by Arno Joubert
Natalie sighed. “OK, let's try.”
Bruce gripped the knife, pointing it at Natalie.
She held up a hand and knelt down to fasten her boot lace. “Just a second.”
Bruce clicked his fingers impatiently. He stepped toward her. “C’mon, let’s get—”
Natalie bounced up and threw a handful of sand in his eyes. She ducked below his forward lunge, driving her knife toward his ribcage with two hands. Bruce dodged left, too late. She grazed his skin and rammed her head up, toward his chin. He rocked out of the way and pushed her away. She moved like a feral cat, attacking continuously.
He dodged another swipe to his face. She was swinging the knife in short arcs in front of her. He wiped the grit from his eyes, one at a time, then smiled and blew her a kiss.
She roared and leapt forward. Bruce dropped his knife, sidestepped her stab, and caught her arm. He bent her hand back painfully at the wrist. Natalie cried out as he disarmed her. She was caught off-balance, and he pushed her forehead. She landed on her bum.
Bruce grinned. “All right, next we’ll practice wrist locks and disarming techniques.”
“Bastard,” Natalie muttered under her breath as she got up, wiping the dust from her bottom.
Bruce laughed loudly and handed her knife back. “I’m impressed, much better. You caught me off guard.”
Natalie blew away a strand of hair stuck to her forehead. “You wait till I get out of the Legion. I bet I’ll be able to take you then.”
The older man’s eyes sparkled. “We’ll see, Nats, we’ll see. I accept your challenge. It should be fun. But don’t go crying to mommy if I hurt you.”
“Aaargh,” Natalie shouted as she charged at Bruce. She ended up on her backside again.
Ellis laughed, slapping his thigh.
Bruce shook his head. “Natalie, you’re so clumsy.”
She looked up and her lower lip trembled. Then she burst out in tears. “I can’t do this Bruce,” she sobbed. “You’re hurting me. What are the guys in the Legion going to do to me?”
Bruce’s heart melted. He crouched next to her and gave her a hug, her whole body shaking as she sobbed. She looked up at him, blinked the tears away, and smiled. “Got you,” she said, holding Bruce’s knife to his neck.
He lifted his hands and stood up, Natalie holding the tip of the knife to his chin. He pushed her hand away, turned around, and walked away, shaking his head.
“Here’s your knife,” she shouted.
He glanced over his shoulder and waved a dismissive hand. “Keep it. You deserve it.”
February, 2010
French Foreign Legion Headquarters
Aubagne, France
General Alain Laiveaux glanced up as he heard the knock on the door. “In.”
Natalie Bryden walked in, gazing up at him shyly. He stood up and waved to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit down, recruit,” he said and removed two tumblers from the serving cabinet. He pulled the cork from a bottle of Rémy Martin and sloshed two healthy measures into the glasses. He placed one in front of her and sat down. He studied her. She was a pretty girl. Her head had been shaven like the other recruits, but she had her father’s sparkling green eyes. She had freckles on her nose and cheeks, like her mother. If she fattened up a little, she would be a beautiful young lady.
She looked up at him shyly.
“Go ahead, drink,” he said. He tapped a cigarette from the pack and offered her one. She took it and he lit it for her.
“How are you finding the training, my girl?”
She shrugged then took a sip of the cognac. She coughed and lifted her hand to her nose as the liquid dribbled from her nostrils. “Shit, this stuff is strong.” Natalie wiped her nose with the back of her arm. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oops, sorry, General, I didn’t mean to—“
The General laughed. “Don’t worry, my girl.” He looked over his shoulder warily. “No scary general here to discipline you.”
She smiled, her hands folded in her lap, looking down. Her cigarette was smoking in the ashtray. “The training sucks. Luckily Bruce took me through my paces, so I’m not the worst of the recruits.” She looked up, the corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. “But I’m definitely not the best, either.”
Laiveaux waved a dismissive hand. “You are making history, Natalie. Imagine being the first female to ever complete Legionnaire training.”
She nodded slowly, biting her lower lip.
“Come, come, drink up,” he said, refilling his glass.
She sipped the drink slowly then grimaced.
“You don’t like it?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s really nice. I’ve just never had a liking for hard liquor.”
The General tsk-tsked. “We’ll make a soldier of you, yet, my girl.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers into a pyramid. “How are the other recruits treating you?”
“Fine, under the circumstances.”
Laiveaux sat up and slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “I want names. If any one of those delinquents so much as looks at you awkwardly, I will have them whipped.”
Alexa looked down but didn’t say a word.
The general waited for her to respond.
She looked up and smiled shyly. “Thank you for setting up my living quarters next to your office.”
The general grunted. “A woman needs her privacy. How’s the food?”
She looked up at him and smiled. He guffawed and then they both broke out in laughter. He slapped his leg, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Here’s a tip. Scavenge for grubs and insects in the forest.”
She pulled a face.
“You need to keep up your energy levels or you’ll never complete the training. Starvation is a part of the psychological orientation of the recruits.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I cannot afford you any more privileges than you already have.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I know, General. Thank you so much for the opportunity.” She ground the cigarette into the ashtray. She hadn’t taken a single puff.
Laiveaux nodded. “Very well, then.” He stood up. “If there is anything else, please let me know.”
She turned and opened the door to leave.
“One more thing, Natalie.”
She turned to face him. “Yes, General?”
“Grow your hair. Just because you’re training to be a soldier doesn’t mean you can’t look like a woman.”
She frowned. “Are you sure, General?”
He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
She saluted again. “Thank you, General. I think I just might do that.”
She turned around and exited the office, closing the door behind her.
Laiveaux emptied his glass and poured himself another. He had a good feeling about this girl. Her father had been a brilliant man, and her mom was a strong and beautiful woman. She had the right genes. He hoped she was mentally up to the task.
Natalie bolted upright in her bed as the drill sergeant slammed a fist against her door. “Wake up, recruit! We’re having a four a.m. torture session with your name on it.”
She jumped out of bed and pulled on her uniform and boots. She dashed to the parade ground while tucking her shirt into her pants and fell in with the rest of her platoon. The men were still sleepy, wiping the grit from their eyes and yawning.
“Look lively, dammit,” the sergeant commanded. “We’re going to complete obstacle course three. Whoever doesn’t make it back by —” he checked his watch, “—0600 is out of the program.”
Natalie dashed away without waiting to be dismissed, the other men following behind her. She needed every second she could spare.
Course three was known as the widow-maker. Thirteen miles of undulating dirt track with a variety of obstacles. Her previous best time ever had been a touch over three hours, and now the sergeant wanted them to do it in two.
She stopped and unbuttoned her thick cotton shirt and tossed it on the g
round, then she sat on it and pulled off her boots and her pants. The men trundled past, casting appreciative glances her way, some giving her wolf whistles.
She slipped her boots back on and jumped up. She needed to be as light as possible; mud tended to get stuck on her clothes, weighing it down. She caught up with the men and started passing the straddlers. One man slapped her bottom as she jogged past. “Come on, Bryden, how can you expect us to concentrate when we have to look at your pretty ass?”
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Consider it motivation; try and keep up.”
The men chuckled and picked up the pace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Natalie arrived back at the parade ground an hour and forty minutes later. Her hair was matted and caked in mud and she had various rope burns and scratches on her stomach and legs. She bent over, holding onto her knees, then went down on her hands and knees and started puking. She wiped her mouth and collapsed onto her back, sucking in rasping breaths. “What time is it?” she asked the drill sergeant.
He checked his watch. “0538,” he answered. “Where are the others?”
“On their way,” she said in between breaths.
He removed his jacket and folded it over her. “I like the way you think, Bryden. Survival means everything. It’s even more important than being shamed.”
She pushed herself up and wrapped the jacket around her shoulders. “Thanks, Sergeant,” she said and stood up on shaky legs. She breathed deeply, waiting for her heart rate to steady, then walked to the garden hose and started spraying herself clean. The first men started arriving five minutes later.
Legionnaire Headquarters
Aubagne, France
Natalie woke up at four, sweating feverishly. She rolled her aching shoulders and groaned. She slowly swung her legs out of the bunk bed and laboriously pulled on her pants. Her entire body throbbed; it felt like every sinew in her body was about to tear apart. She dressed with difficulty, tossed her meager belongings into her backpack, and then made her way to the men’s compound.
The lights were already on. She knocked on the door. “Is everybody decent?”
She was answered with a variety of grumbles and groans and a couple of suggestive remarks. Some men chuckled. She went inside and gazed around the sleeping quarters. Filthy, dirty uniforms and socks were tossed on the ground, and bloody bandages that had been ripped off and rolled into balls lay strewn across the floor.
“C’mon, we need to get this place tidied up. We have inspection in less than an hour, and I’m not willing to be drilled to the edge of my life because you men were living like a herd of pigs.”
“When did Laiveaux leave and appoint you the new supreme commander?” one of the men mumbled, his arm over his brow.
Natalie sauntered to him and stood beside his bed, her hands on her hips. “How are you feeling, Latorre?”
“Swell,” he mumbled.
She touched his brow. He was burning up. She removed a plastic container containing her secret sauce. They weren’t allowed any pain medication, so she had manufactured a concoction containing camphor leaves, soap, vinegar, and cooking oil. “Sit up,” she ordered. He held out a hand and she pulled him up, then she slopped some of the mixture onto his shoulders and started massaging it into his muscles.
“Thanks, Florence Nightingale,” he groaned as she worked the concoction into his muscles.
She slapped his shoulder. “Done, now clean this place up.” She glanced around the room, holding the container in the air. “Who wants some?” She had made an extra batch and had enough to go around.
There were some more below-the-belt remarks, but the men stood up slowly and waddled to her, lining up to receive some of her magic potion. When she had emptied the last bit of her ointment into the final man’s hand, she started picking up the clothes and folding them up, placing them on their beds. She looked around, her heart going out to the sorry bunch.
The men sat there, massaging the ointment into painful shoulders and aching calf muscles. She had lost all sense of time; the day’s toils were fading into painful weeks and months, the monotonous daily grind never-ending. Of the original two-hundred recruits, only eighty were left.
It felt like the pattern would continue for the rest of her life, the daily physical grind followed by cramp-filled, feverish nights.
“OK, inspection is at 0500, so you better be ready,” she said.
The men groaned, but they started making up their beds.
“Drink lots of water, the next meal will only be at 1500.”
“You didn’t by any chance bring some of those tasty grubs along that I saw you collect in the forest?” Reg Voelkner asked, rubbing his neck.
She fished another large container from her rucksack and tossed it to him. “There’s three for each one of you.” She turned to go.
“Bryden,” Latorre called.
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
She smiled.
“Bryden.”
“Yes, Voelkner?”
“Your hair looks pretty like that.”
She smiled and self-consciously pushed her bangs behind her ears. “Thanks.”
He smiled then stood up slowly. He glanced around the room then clapped his hands. “All right, men. You heard the lady, let’s chow and then get this place tidied up.”
Natalie exited the dormitory and pulled the door closed behind her. She rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen her stiff joints. Physically, the exertion didn’t seem to take its toll on her as severely as it did with the bigger men. Many quit after collapsing during a strenuous day. Others were admitted to sick bay, never to return again.
She realized she had a much higher pain barrier than the men when it came to prolonged exertion. She was thankful to her female body, her Y chromosome aiding her tremendously.
She cared deeply for these men. They had been through a lot together, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would be willing to sacrifice her life for them. Well, most of them, anyway.
She sauntered to the mess hall; she needed some caffeine. There always had to be an exception, didn’t there? And his name was Benedict Pascoe.
It had been another excruciating session. Men were falling like targets on the shooting range. Natalie had been spraying herself clean with a garden hose, trying to get rid of the caked mud on her boots and uniform. She was three months into her training, another month to go before being accepted as a Legionnaire, and it felt like the physical torture was intensifying on a daily basis. She turned around and saw Pascoe leering at her, scratching his balls.
“Hey, mademoiselle, I love dirty women.”
He was a short, tattooed Italian with shifty eyes topped with a unibrow. People said he joined the Legion to get away from the cops. He had apparently murdered his fiancée.
“I don’t have time for this, Pascoe. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” She turned around, planning to ignore the loathsome dick. “Leave me alone.”
Pascoe ambled closer and put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her around to face him. “I’m only saying, if you want a good time, you only need to ask.” He cupped his sack. “Pascoe has been known to cause many a lady to die of pleasure.”
Natalie turned her back on him again. “Only dictators and schizophrenics talk about themselves in third person.”
He grabbed her neck from behind. His other hand started to fondle her breasts. He was quick.
“Don’t get smart with me, mademoiselle. You might end up in a—what do you say?—a compromising situation.”
“Let . . . go . . . of me,” Natalie hissed through clenched teeth, trying to pry his arm loose. He stank of onions and sweat.
“Oh, but I can think of so many nice things to do with you, mademoiselle. No one will care.” He breathed into her ear, touching it with his lips. “You shouldn’t be here, you little cunt. You’re out of your depth, bad for morale.” Pascoe slid his hand down her stomach and started undoing her belt. “
Everyone will thank me for breaking your scrawny little neck, dispatching the little temptress to the choir in the sky.”
She gasped as he tightened his grip around her neck.
She swallowed hard, stomping her heel down in the general direction of his foot, connecting on her third try. His grip slackened as he yelled out in pain, which gave her enough leverage to smack her head back into his nose. He let her go and clutched his bleeding face as she spun around to face him.
She finished him off with a kick to the groin. He went down into a pitiful, moaning heap.
She left him convulsing in pain. She was a big girl and she had expected this to happen sooner or later.
“You watch your back, bitch,” Pascoe shouted as she marched away.
CHAPTER THREE
Becky22, Zach’s scouting program had lost all traces of his daughter. Total communications blackout. Natalie Bryden, AKA Rebecca Cohen, had disappeared.
It hadn’t stopped searching though. The botnet was more than three million computers strong, and analyzing vast amounts of data took only a fraction of a second to process. After four months it found a positive match. A voice message to a certain General Alain Laiveaux, division head of the French Foreign Legion, Geneva. It said:
“Hi, General, this is Dessetaux from Home Affairs. Natalie Bryden’s identity has been discontinued. French citizenship is confirmed, her new persona is Alexa Guerra. I’ll mail you the background. Has she sworn the oath yet?” The voice went silent and papers shuffled in the background. “OK, I’ll need the paperwork from your side please. I’ll mail you the passport; it should arrive in two weeks or so. Good luck, and we’ll talk soon.”
A day before her fourth month in the Legion, Natalie was summoned to Laiveaux’s office. She stood briefly in front of his office door, checking her uniform and composing herself. She rapped her knuckles on the door.
