The Grave Diggers

by Chris Fritschi

  "Private Cooper," said the sergeant major. "If you're looking for the door, it's located behind you. Otherwise, if you have a question, ask it."

  Cooper nearly stuttered as his mind grasped for something to say. In the end, he only sat there, staring at Tate like a deer in headlights.

  Tate was puzzled by Cooper’s sudden appearance of doubt. He knew the private was green and needed training, but he was certain Cooper was a good fit for the unit; the private was struggling with something, and Jack was beginning to doubt his own judgment of Cooper.

  Either way, this wasn't a therapy session. Either he was in, or out.

  "Private Cooper, either you're trying to work up the courage to ask me out, or you believe I can read your mind. The answer to both is no."

  Cooper grouped for an excuse, and threw out the first thing he could think of.

  "Sorry, Sergeant Major. I'm not sure if my training is up to the types of missions I'm getting myself into," lied Cooper. He was scared; he knew what he was being forced into, but his self-doubt began to question if he could do it.

  "No, Private. Before we go on our first mission, you're going to get additional training that's going to make boot camp look like nursery school."

  Cooper mentally sighed with relief as another soldier raised his hand, shifting Tate's attention away from him.

  Tate acknowledged the soldier, who stood. "Sergeant Major, if we're only fighting Victor Mikes, what's the big deal? We got all the training we need for a turkey shoot."

  Tate walked to the front of the room and sat on the edge of his desk. "The training you got at boot was fine for doing janitor work, and that's what you've been doing, cleaning up the world’s garbage. There's a back log of people waiting to sign up for that kind of duty, because they suck at life and think this is an easy way to make a buck using the system. They think all they have to do is slog through the jungle and shoot Vix. Three of four months later, half of those new grunts are dead from predators, snakes, poisonous spiders and frogs, infections, and disease. That uniform you're wearing makes you as much of a real soldier as a cape makes you Superman."

  Jake Tate looked around the room with a mixture of melancholy and disappointment. His thoughts were never far from his fall of once being part of an elite combat unit to... this.

  "You've never been in combat, or fought for your life. You have zero concept of how crippling stress under combat can be. Your training will prepare you to operate under the demanding conditions we can expect while in the field."

  "Sergeant Major?" asked another private, visibly concerned. "Are we going to be in combat? Like, are we going to be shot at?"

  Tate glanced at the name tape on the private's jacket.

  "No, Private Fulton, but you will be trained to operate under stress. It's unpredictable out there. One minute, you're on a normal patrol, and the next minute, it's Oscar Sam Tango."

  That got a chuckle from some of the seasoned grunts in the room, and helped break some of the tension.

  "Oscar Sam Tango, Sergeant Major?" asked Fulton.

  "It stands for 'Oh shit thirty', Private. It's a time you'll never see on a watch, but you'll know it the instant the second hand hits. Vix don't shoot back, but they're dangerous. You won't get combat training, but I'll give you training you can trust in."

  Tate paused, giving everyone in the room time to ask other questions. "We start tomorrow at zero five hundred. You're dismissed."

  Cooper stood to leave, and Tate walked over to him.

  "Private Cooper, something is troubling you. If you're having self doubts, this is the time to leave them behind. If you can't, then this isn't the place for you."

  Cooper instantly looked uncomfortable. "Yes, Sergeant Major," he said. "I, uh... Some of the guys in the room looked hard core. I'm just a rookie. I don't want to let them down."

  "If you perform in the field like you did in that fake Vix attack, you'll fit in here," said Tate. "You can put on a uniform and sit behind a desk, but my guess is you wanted to be a soldier. A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are made for."

  Cooper relaxed a bit, and smiled at the sergeant major. "Yeah, makes sense."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN OR OUT

  Cooper put on his cap and sunglasses as he stepped out of the briefing room, into the bright sunlight. The hot, moist air brought beads of sweat to his face almost instantly.

  He started across the compound, scanning for any familiar face, pleased that only a few people were outside, and all of them strangers. Being out in the heat was something everyone tried to avoid when possible. Tarps and camo netting were hung up as cover, to shade the most often used pathways, and allowed Cooper to see who he may run into.

  Glancing to see if he was noticed, he headed to a cluster of barracks a short distance away. Satisfied nobody was watching, he went inside the nearest barracks door, checking that it was empty.

  Cooper took out his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. There was an audible click as the connection went through.

  "Mr. Red, it's Jared Cooper. I'm in."

  "I know who it is," said the person on the other end of the line. "Was there any trouble?"

  "Trouble? No. Why do you think there was trouble?" Cooper tried to sound confident, but he was anything but.

  The voice over the phone turned cold. "Don't lie to me! You want me to special delivery another piece of your sister? What aren't you telling me?"

  Coopers face lost all color as he flashed back to the day his family disappeared. He came home, finding only a note and a small white box on the table.

  He would never be able to erase the image of the pale, bloody finger as it rolled in the box. The almost surrealistic candy-pink nail polish his little sister loved magnified the hideousness of the dark-red stub and white bone.

  "No, don't do that." Cooper was overcome with guilt and despair. "I told you, it's fine. "I followed the instructions you gave me."

  There was only silence on the other end of the line.

  Cooper took a breath before going on. "It's fine," he said, sounding calmer. "I got into Sergeant Major Tate's squad."

  "Good. His people aren't stupid. It's not likely they'll do anything when you're around until they get to trust you. Regardless. Give me daily reports on Tate, and any mention about your missions. You stick to the plan, and everything, and everyone, will be fine."

  "I might not be..." A click told Cooper the other person had hung up.

  He put his phone away, and looked around to reassure himself nobody had heard him.

  The barracks was cooler inside, but Cooper was sweating more now than he'd been outside. He took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes before stepping outside.

  * * *

  The next morning, Cooper arrived at the armory. As part of his assignment to his new unit, he needed a weapon.

  He showed his requisition orders to the clerk. After checking the form against his list, the clerk unlocked the door and let him in.

  "You're authorized for one rifle," said the guard, "from racks 'J' to 'L'. You can select a sidearm from rack 'O' and 'P'. Edged weapons are on rack 'W'. Got it?"

  Cooper nodded to the guard and went inside. The darkness blinked away as florescent lights flickered on, revealing row after row of weapons.

  Cooper lingered, admiring some of the sleek, modern rifles with their laser sights, scopes and night vision optics, but his smile wilted when he reached the weapon rack marked 'J'.

  Lined up in the rack were rifles that looked like something out of an old World War II movie; most had wooden stocks, that were scuffed and dinged from hard use. There were even bolt-action rifles, which Cooper had only seen in history books.

  He picked up one of the rifles and blew on it, sending a fine cloud of dust curling into the air. He shook his head in disbelief that somewhere in the Army, an officer, who probably never even saw combat, would consider sending a soldier into harm’s way with this museum relic.

  "F
inding your way around, Private?"

  Cooper flinched, startled by the unexpected voice. He fumbled with the rifle, nearly dropping it; a cardinal sin in the army. Luckily he recovered it at the last moment.

  He spun around to find Sergeant Major Tate behind him.

  "Sergeant Major," said Cooper. "Good morning."

  Tate him a good natured smile. "Good thinking getting here early, before the good ones are gone.”

  "Good ones, Sergeant Major?" said Cooper. "These weapons are junk. Why can't we get a newer weapon?"

  "According to command, those are for real combat soldiers. Our role isn't deemed hazardous," said Tate sourly. "We sweep and clear an adversary that doesn't shoot back, so..."

  Cooper looked at the rifle in his hands with doubt. "I've heard stories about guys getting ripped open because their rifle jammed and they got swarmed."

  "Let me see that," said Tate, gesturing to Cooper’s rifle.

  Cooper handed it to Tate, who inspected it with crisp movements, like it was second nature.

  "This is a Colt Bushmaster Gen-4. With this one, they finally worked out the touchy receiver. I don't think you'll have any trouble with jams. Whoever had it before you, took pretty good care of it. It's old, yeah, but it's light and easy to carry. It'll do the job."

  Tate handed the rifle back to Cooper, who eyed it with new appreciation. "Thanks, Sergeant Major."

  "Sure," said Tate. "See you at training."

  Cooper took his rifle to the front desk, leaving Tate among the racks of near relics. He passed a few rows to the modern rifles, admiring the quality and design only a tested warrior could appreciate in a tool of combat.

  He reached for one, but stopped himself, knowing it wasn't his to take.

  "Not hazardous enough, they say. How would they know what hazardous is?"

  * * *

  The new unit was ending their second week of training, with Sergeant Wesson running them through their paces.

  She didn't expect that she'd be running the training, but when Tate showed up two hours late on the first day, indifferent and with lukewarm energy, she realized that nothing was going to change.

  She was confused and disappointed with Tate, because when he first approached her about joining the team he made it sound like a great opportunity to learn more skills, get away from the boredom of tedious patrols, and maybe springboard to another branch of the military; but two weeks later, and it was the same old Tate.

  Wesson had more experience and field craft knowledge than the other team members, but not enough to fill an entire training course, and it was showing.

  The training was becoming repetitive, and the unit was getting bored and losing focus. Wesson was spending half her time training, and the other half barking at someone for screwing around.

  Tate wandered the training area with mild interest, giving someone a pointer or a bit of advice; he didn't see the harm in the team clowning around. They were just blowing off steam.

  That night, Tate couldn't sleep. In the two years since his precious little girl was slaughtered, he had never told anyone about it until his encounter with Hewett at the Blue Orchid.

  The memory of her innocent face hung like a loadstone around his neck; the weight of it had crushed his spirit. The irony of her death was sharp and achingly bitter. He'd devoted his life to protecting those he loved by defending his country, but when it mattered the most, he wasn't there for her. The knife bit even deeper, because he knew as he held his wife, racked with sorrow, he had nothing left to give, and he wasn't there for her, either.

  He walked the darkened base until he finally felt his mind had quieted; maybe now, sleep would come.

  Walking back to his quarters, he saw a light on at Wesson's apartment. Curious, Tate walked up to her door.

  She'd thrown herself into training the new team, and it occurred to Tate he hadn't told her what a good job she was doing.

  He thought he heard the television, and leaned his ear closer to the door. It wasn't the TV. She was crying. He knew what he was hearing, but he was so shocked it didn't seem real; he'd known Lori Wesson for the better part of a year, and he'd never seen her cry.

  He stood there, lost in confusion, trying to figure out what was going on. Then, realization hit Tate with icy clarity.

  It was him. He had neglected his responsibility of training the team, and let her carry the full weight on her shoulders until it had broken her to tears.

  Once again, someone had relied on him, and he wasn't there for her. He stopped himself before his thoughts took him down that path for the millionth time.

  He struggled for something to say, but no words came to his mind. After a moment, he turned away from the door and headed home, knowing he wouldn't find any sleep tonight.

  Sergeant Wesson hoped the morning air would help clear her groggy head. Just to be sure, she'd swung by the base coffee shop.

  The corporal on duty clearly appreciated the importance of coffee at four in the morning, and made it strong enough to beat-up a triple espresso and take its lunch money.

  Wesson was sipping at her coffee when she arrived at the training area, and stopped in her tracks. Everywhere she looked, the team was hard at their exercises, with a seriousness she hadn't seen before. She did a double take, thinking she was in the wrong place.

  "Good morning, Sergeant," said someone behind her.

  Wesson turned, surprised to find Tate standing there. His PT uniform was already damp with sweat, and his face red from exertion.

  "Did you have breakfast, yet?"

  Wesson stammered as her answer and questions clashed over which would be spoken first. "No, Sergeant Major. What are you... I mean, why are...?”

  "Get something to eat," said Tate, with a pensive smile. "You're going to need something besides that battery acid to get you through your training today."

  Before she could reply, Tate walked into the training area, where a couple of team members were struggling to climb over an obstacle wall.

  "Rosse, are you trying to climb my wall, or hump it?” yelled Tate.

  "Climb it, top," puffed Rosse. "No way I work this hard to have sex with anything."

  Wesson puzzled over Tate's change, but only briefly. Her own training soon occupied her full attention.

  He wasn't perfect, at first. Tate hadn't undergone some amazing transformation, but little by little he worked himself into the role of Instructor, and in time their training improved.

  Because they wouldn't be in combat, Tate's focus was on things like jungle field craft, squad communications, both verbal and in hand signals, and team building. Several of the members were from Tate's original squad and knew some of this, but all of them went through it so they could mentor the fresh recruits, adding a smack to the back of the head or a chewing out when needed.

  Being rough on recruits was a tradition as old as time, and recruits, the smart ones, knew to accept it with a shut mouth.

  Something that Cooper hadn't learned.

  The team had been running a 'move and shoot' exercise for several hours. The exercise was set up to create a frantic and rapidly changing situation that required members to move together, while shooting pop up targets placed in every direction around them, and communicate and acknowledge each other’s actions.

  The exercise mirrored the stress and chaos that caused soldiers to become overwhelmed and get tunnel vision, or worse, mentally shut down.

  The practice would start off fine, but as the intensity turned up, Cooper kept losing focus; making stupid mistakes. Each time they'd have to reset and start over.

  It was their fifth time though it. The targets were springing up faster and closer to them as they tried to reach a safety zone.

  One of the veterans, Specialist Brian Alkins, was on Cooper's right, calling out his right flank was blocked; they'd have to sweep left to avoid being cut off.

  Cooper didn't respond, and stayed in his position. Frustrated with Cooper screwing up the exercise again, he shoved
Cooper to clear his path.

  Snapped out of his tunnel vision, Cooper flailed as he fell, catching Alkins by the belt.

  Alkins tried to catch himself, but overbalanced and fell with Cooper into a tangled heap. Furious, he got up and yanked Cooper to his feet.

  Cooper's bad performance in the exercises wasn't by accident. If he could get kicked off the team, he'd be useless to Mr. Red; there'd be no reason to hold Cooper's family. They'd be free, and he'd be free; as long as it didn't look like he quit, he'd be home free.

  His thoughts were broken by Alkins yelling in his face.

  "Open your damn ears when I'm talking to you," shouted Alkins, and slapped Cooper upside his head.

  It wasn't a hard hit, but for Cooper it amounted to the final straw. Months of living in fear for his family, guilt and frustration boiled over, and Cooper saw red.

  He drove at Alkins with everything he had, who deftly turned away his attack.

  "You want to think twice about doing that again, buddy." Alkins was thoroughly capable of beating Cooper to a pulp, but Cooper didn't care; he was desperate to stop feeling like a victim.

  He launched himself at Alkins, when someone grabbed his shirt from behind and wrenched him off his feet.

  Cooper landed on his back with a grunt, having the wind knocked out of him.

  Tate stood over him, leveling a hard look at Alkins. "I think we're done here, Specialist, don't you?"

  Alkins shifted his glare from Cooper to Tate, then let his hand relax from the white-knuckled fist he was about to use on Cooper, and dusted himself off.

  "Kick him, Top. He’s gonna get someone killed... if he don't die first." Alkins left, and the rest of the squad went back to training, leaving a lot of space between them and Tate.

  Cooper got up slow, feeling the ache of a hard landing.

  "I'm sorry, Sergeant Major. I screwed up. Maybe Alkins is right."

  If Tate didn't know better, he thought Cooper sounded relieved. There was something going on deep below the surface with this private.