Suffer in Silence Read online

  The eerie silence of the pool gave way to the heckling of instructors as he drew in several ragged breaths. This is going to suck. He allowed himself a few more seconds on the surface, then dove below and executed his second knot. Redman nixed his first bowline, forcing him to try again. As he carefully worked the soft knot line into the appropriate configuration, he began to chicken-neck, instinctively gulping and thrusting his head forward. By the time he reached the surface, he was on the edge of panic. Hypoxia was on the way.

  The third knot went perfectly. It helped that a half hitch was an easy knot. However, by the time he reached the surface, he was once again dangerously short of breath. He still had to execute a becket bend, a bitch of a knot.

  Redman looked like the picture of stoicism as Grey swam to the bottom. His arms were folded across his chest, and he sat nearly motionless. Grey started his becket bend. His fingers worked frantically, and his heart surged as he presented the completed knot for inspection. The cross-legged instructor examined it, then shook his head. No good. Grey felt a warm cloud of urine escape his UDT shorts as his bladder released its contents.

  I’m finished, I’m finished. Dead. Dead. Dead. The knot refused to come together. The chicken-neck dance began in earnest as Grey fought to stay focused. He felt as if he would explode. Panic had set in, and there was little he could do to hide it. He finally managed to complete the knot, and he thrust it toward Redman urgently. The instructor took his time, tugging at the knot, examining it. Blackness started to creep in from the corners of Grey’s eyes. His field of vision was shrinking rapidly. Redman looked at him expectantly.

  The okay sign. Grey formed the signal with his right hand. Redman promptly returned it. Without wasting a second, Grey thrust out his thumb, requesting to surface. Redman held out a closed fist. Is this some kind of sick joke? Fuck this! Grey violently pushed off the bottom, his eyes fixed on the surface. Suddenly his upward acceleration stopped. Redman had him by the ankle and was dragging him back to the bottom. Once Grey’s face was level with his own, he stared into his eyes and extended his thumb. Grey shot to the surface, kicking with all his might. Fresh air rushed into his empty lungs as he struggled to regain his composure. Redman surfaced a short while later.

  The two eyed each other for several seconds. Air was still sawing in and out of Grey’s lungs. Redman breathed quietly.

  “Pass.”

  That was all Grey needed to hear. He swam to the side of the pool and slowly pulled himself out. His head spun crazily as he stood up, causing him to totter dangerously and nearly fall backward into the pool. Chief Lundin rushed over and took Grey by the arm.

  “Steady there, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Lundin said quietly. “It makes me look bad.”

  “Right.” Grey slowly regained his balance.

  “Go join the winners.”

  Walking slowly, Grey joined the two students who sat facing the chain-link fence. As he gingerly sat down, he looked over and was pleasantly surprised to see Rogers’s pensive face staring back at him.

  “Not nearly as bad as I expected,” Rogers said quietly. “Not bad at all, really.”

  “Sure thing, champ,” Grey said. “Who’d you have? Heisler?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Try it with Redman next time. I almost drowned.”

  “It was that bad?”

  “Worse.” Grey looked over his shoulder and saw a lone student climb out of the pool and assume the push-up position. “Who is that?”

  “Jones.”

  “Jones?” Grey shook his head. He hated to see any of his men fail. Damn it.

  “Do you realize this is as relaxing as BUD/S will ever get?” Rogers was smiling. “I mean, how often are we going to get to sit here and bask in our success? This is paradise.”

  “You worry me sometimes, Socrates.”

  “Oh, come on, Mark, lighten up.”

  They sat quietly for several minutes, enjoying the unusual silence. Grey had just closed his eyes when an instructor jumped into the pool and dragged Murray out.

  “Breathe, you asshole, breathe.”

  Murray got on his hands and knees and puked a stream of water onto the concrete.

  “Get up, you turd.” It was Furtado. “Don’t play sick with me. Get in the push-up position.”

  A shaky Murray assumed the position as the cluster of winners grew steadily bigger. By the end of the test, only twelve students had failed, a remarkable showing for a class that still had close to a hundred people.

  “You have two minutes to get dressed and get out of here,” Osgood told them. “Don’t be late.” With a snap of his fingers the instructors began moving between the rows of frantically dressing students, tossing any loose articles of clothing they could find into the pool. Students raced across the concrete and launched themselves headfirst into the water.

  “Just put on anything!” Smurf yelled. “I don’t care whose it is!”

  Grey wound up wearing a camouflage top from one of the smaller members of the class. He couldn’t button it, and it only came halfway down his stomach. Worse yet, the boots he pulled on were several sizes too small. Smurf was frantically rolling up his pants legs when the instructors called time.

  “Not even close,” Osgood observed angrily. “You’ll pay later. We’re running behind schedule. Take a chilly dip, then form it up on the beach for a conditioning run.”

  The class jumped into the pool then squeezed out the gate and fell into formation on the road. They ran until the diesel trucks crammed with instructors rumbled past, then stopped and quickly exchanged boots. After the flurry of activity, Grey found he had been jilted. The boots he held definitely weren’t his. They felt a little better, but they were still at least a size too small. Tough shit. The class started running as Grey finished tying his boots. By the time they reached the beach, hot patches had popped up on his feet, a sure sign that blisters were on the way.

  “We don’t have any time to waste,” Smurf said as they stopped on the sand. “If you’re wearing someone else’s boots, give ’em up.”

  Grey stepped forward and pulled off his boots, which were clearly stenciled ROSARIO on the back in big white letters.

  “Rosario!” he yelled.

  “Here, sir.” A lean Hispanic petty officer meekly took the boots and passed over the ones he’d been wearing. His manner was polite, almost deferential. Grey almost forgot he was at BUD/S.

  “Thanks.” Grey pulled on his own boots and stripped off his camo top. Standard running gear consisted of pants and an undershirt. Just as Grey began to relax, two diesel trucks roared through the gate to the compound and parked themselves on the beach. Three instructors followed behind: Chief Baldwin, Instructor Heisler, and Osgood. Chief Baldwin was notorious for his runs. He didn’t look exceptionally fit, but rumor had it he would run the pants off anyone. And Osgood—well, Osgood was said to run a brutal goon squad, an unfortunate collection of students who just couldn’t keep up.

  “Form it up!” Osgood yelled. After a short pause he added, “Too slow. Hit the surf, wet and sandy.”

  The class charged into the frigid ocean and then rolled in the sand.

  “Too slow. Do it again.”

  After four trips to the ocean, Osgood tired of his game. Either that or Chief Baldwin got sick of waiting. Without warning, the lean chief took off down the beach at a full sprint.

  “Better keep up,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Grey smirked as he sprinted to the front of the pack. He was in a terrible mood, but at least running was something he could handle. Quiet arrogance was the attitude Grey preferred when his running skills were put to the test. His determined eyes bored holes in Baldwin’s back as the instructor took off over a sand berm. I’ll take you any day. You’re nothing.

  The diesel trucks gurgled at the back of the pack, and after a few minutes of berm running, a steady stream of encouragement spouted from the trucks’ PA systems.
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  “Just give up. You’ll never make it.” It was Furtado. “If GI Jane can do it, so can I,” he squealed sarcastically. “Never give up. Never surrender.”

  Chief Baldwin took a turn onto the hard-packed sand and proceeded south along the water’s edge. Grey was surprised at the old man’s speed.

  “You realize you don’t have to be here, don’t you?” Furtado said. “Didn’t you know you can get your SEAL diploma over the Internet? All you have to do is fill in your name on an online form, and the next day you get your official SEAL diploma in the mail.”

  The voice coming from the truck loudspeaker grew fainter and fainter as the pack spread out along the beach. Grey ran directly behind Chief Baldwin, his eyes glued to the instructor’s back. He felt strangely alone. The pack was several strides behind him and falling back by the second. Chief Baldwin kept increasing the pace, pushing on, dragging Grey in his wake.

  The chain-link fence that surrounded the demolition pit was visible a quarter mile ahead. Grey knew Baldwin would stop there and wait for the class to catch up.

  “C’mon. Pick it up.” The words slipped out of Grey’s mouth before he could censor himself.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Chief Baldwin looked over his shoulder.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing my ass.” Baldwin picked up the pace. “If you can stay on my shoulder for the next minute, I won’t beat the shit out of you. How’s that for a deal?”

  Grey didn’t answer. He focused every ounce of energy on the considerable task of matching the instructor’s stride. The chain-link fence danced toward them as they accelerated into an all-out sprint. Baldwin opened a gap of several feet for a few seconds, but Grey threw in a surge at the last minute and closed the distance. After slowing to a jog, the chief turned and regarded Grey with one raised eyebrow.

  “You run in college?”

  “Marathons,” Grey answered, “and triathlons.”

  “Not bad. You’re safe—at least for now. But you sure as hell better keep up on the way back, because I’m not tired.” Baldwin stripped off his shirt, revealing the lean chest of a runner. Ghostly white skin stretched over his ribcage. “You better take off your shirt, too, sir. It pays to be a winner.”

  Grey peeled off his shirt and watched as his class struggled toward the demolition pit. Jones was the second student in. He ran like a wild man, arms windmilling out of control, head titled back.

  “You! Get over here.”

  Jones came to a sudden halt at Baldwin’s feet.

  “Where you from?”

  “Tennessee,” Jones drawled.

  “You hunt?”

  “Sure.” Jones rested with his hands on his knees. “Got a couple of hounds.”

  “No kidding?” Baldwin smiled, and his brown eyes danced. “I have a soft place in my heart for backwoods freaks like you. I think every class needs a bona fide hillbilly, don’t you, Mr. Grey?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” Grey said. “Jones is the real deal.” He winked.

  “Yup. Real deal, that’s me. Hillbilly born and raised. Yes, sir.”

  “Jones, I almost don’t want to hurt you,” Baldwin said. “That’s a compliment, in case you were wondering. You’ll be the cutoff today. Take off your shirt.”

  Jones stripped off his shirt, revealing a build similar to Baldwin’s.

  “Stretch out on your own. This might take awhile.” Baldwin jogged north as the bulk of the students approached. He cryptically held out an arm and pointed toward the ocean. The students dutifully charged into the surf. Fifteen minutes of lunges, squats, and assorted physical activity followed. Osgood took a particular liking to Smurf Jacks, which consisted of doing jumping jacks in a full squat position. Students fell over, students collapsed, students retched. It was a mess.

  “It sure is good to be alive, ain’t it, sir?”

  Grey looked over at the Tennessee Wonder and laughed. “You’re so goddamn positive, Jones. Can’t you let me stew for a while?”

  “And what good would that do? I know what’s troublin’ you. Dang, I like Ramirez as much as you do, but you got to realize there ain’t a damn thing you can do. At least his heart’s still tickin’ and his brain’s buzzin’.”

  “Still…” Grey’s voice trailed off. He sifted a handful of sand through his fingers. “I’m gonna go see him tonight in the hospital, if he’s still there. You want to come?”

  “’Course I do.”

  They sat and stretched in silence, gazing at the blue ocean, trying to ignore the grunts of pain that came from their classmates. Eventually Baldwin whistled and pointed north. By the time they started running, the fleet-footed chief already had a sizable lead. Grey relaxed and let his legs fall into their natural rhythm. Disassociation was a trick he had learned as an endurance athlete. Running was the only BUD/S activity solitary enough for it to have a real effect. He let his cheeks slacken, relaxed his hands, opened up his stride, and let his breathing flow naturally. His vision blurred slightly as he shifted his attention inward, retreating to the shelter of his mental fortress. Vanessa danced at the water’s edge, laughing, spinning, her brown skin shining in the afternoon light. The water sprayed up around her knees as she twirled in the shallows. Grey reveled in the image, impervious to the lactic acid building up in his legs.

  “Hey.” Baldwin thrust an arm in front of Grey’s chest. “I need some space, champ.”

  Vanessa disappeared in a snap. He backed off, allowing Baldwin to run a few paces ahead. Fire spread through his legs, and his breath became uneven. They were almost to the dive tower. Surely Baldwin would stop there.

  “You up for another mile?” Baldwin asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  Grey smiled weakly.

  “Good.” He picked up the pace even faster.

  Fighting the urge to fall back proved nearly impossible, yet somehow Grey managed to stick with the instructor. Several hundred yards later, Baldwin stopped abruptly and started jogging in place.

  Thought you could break me? Grey allowed himself a small dose of pride. Think again, Chief Twizzelstick. I called your bluff.

  Baldwin eyed Grey warily, opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it. He simply pointed at the section of beach where the class had left their uniform tops and their canteens. Grey walked away in silence. After unscrewing the top from his canteen, he greedily poured a thick stream of water into his mouth, spilling the cool liquid down his chest in the process. Jones joined him moments later.

  “That Chief Baldwin sure is a fast one.” Jones was breathing heavily. “I bet he’s surprised as hell you kept up. I would be.”

  “Thanks.” Grey plopped onto the sand and started stretching his hamstrings.

  “I’d give him a run for his money back home, out in the mountains. This sand is new stuff to me. It just sucks the energy right out of my legs.”

  “You ever go to the beach as a kid?”

  “No. It ain’t exactly next door, sir.”

  “When was the first time you saw the ocean?”

  Jones snorted. “About three weeks ago, give or take a few days.”

  “And here you are.”

  “And here I am.”

  * * *

  Grey stood at rigid attention, dripping sand and salt water onto the grinder. Instructor Osgood had assembled the class for a special occasion. He paced back and forth in front of the students, stroking his mustache. Suddenly he stopped and leaned in close to Murray.

  “Quit.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Osgood yelled. “Is that all?”

  “No, I will not quit, Instructor Osgood.”

  The stocky instructor spit at Murray’s feet. “You will.” He moved down the line, picking out individual students, harassing them. Suddenly a trainee broke from the ranks.

  “I want to quit,” he said softly. It was a young kid, fresh out of high school.

  Osgood threw an arm around the student’s shoulder, acting like an old chum. He walked away with
his new friend, talking quietly. The student disappeared into the First Phase office. Osgood came back smiling.

  “See, it’s not so hard. Just say ‘I quit.’ Just say ‘D-O-R.’”

  Chief Lundin walked past them, then stopped and retraced his steps, a mischievous smirk on his face. “As a class, spell Dorito,” he commanded.

  About half the class chanted, “D-O-R—”

  “Ha!” Lundin yelled. “Got you! You just asked for a Drop On Request!”

  The class groaned. Lundin walked away chuckling to himself.

  “In all seriousness, if you’re thinking about quitting, now is the time,” Osgood said. “I’m about to beat the shit out of you, and I really mean it. Spare yourself the pain. Why suffer? So you can spend your entire career away from home, getting shot at, sleeping in the mud? It’s only going to get harder from here on out. That’s a promise.”

  Another student stepped forward, then another, and another.

  “Good. Keep it coming, gents. There’s no shame in what you’re doing.”

  Yet another student stepped up, and another, and finally one more. Apparently the knot tying and the run had taken their toll. Osgood had run a particularly mean goon squad. A good quarter of the class had lost their lunch while performing muscle-melting calisthenics at one of his famous “rest stations.”

  “Just one more, and I won’t beat the class.” Osgood was beginning to sound like a used-car salesman. Just one more, and I’ll even throw in a free set of tires.…

  Another student stepped forward.

  “Two more, and I’ll give you all your BUD/S diplomas right now.”

  “Bullshit.” Murray’s voice was scornful. “Why don’t you just beat us and get it over with?”

  Grey felt a rush of pride. Murray was deflecting the attention away from Osgood’s propaganda in an attempt to stem the steady flow of quitters.

  “You’ll get a beating, Murray. Don’t you worry.” Osgood turned his attention back to the class. He wasn’t playing along. “Just two more…”

  The general aura of desperation had passed. There were no more takers.

  “On your backs!” The command came quickly, violently.

  The class dropped onto their backs.