Suffer in Silence Page 15

  “Know where you’re going?” he asked.

  “To the Isle of Coronado,” Rogers answered, “where the finest warriors in the land keep their quarters.”

  “Whatever, guy.” The door hissed shut and the bus took off. They collectively decided that the coolest kids always sat at the back of the bus, so they stumbled past a few passengers and took their seats. Just as they were nearing the Hotel del Coronado Rogers suddenly stood up and pulled the stop cable. The bus groaned to a halt at the next stop.

  “But we’re not back yet,” Murray protested. “What’s your deal, Rogers?”

  “Just trust me.” Rogers stepped down onto the street and beckoned for the others to follow. Grey followed Murray off the bus and checked his watch. It was only eleven thirty. A lot had happened in three hours. Rogers led them around the back of the hotel and they stumbled along the umbrella-lined sidewalk. The faint hum of conversing voices rose up nearby. Rogers suddenly stopped and opened a door, and they found themselves staring into a luxuriously appointed bar. With a pompous gesture he brushed imaginary lint from his cheap jacket and made a grand entrance. Grey and Murray shrugged and followed him in. All eyes in the room were on the newly arrived patrons.

  “Can I help you?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes. I’m here to play,” Rogers said in a clipped British accent, pointing at the piano.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you should try back tomorrow. We’re winding down.”

  “No. I must play,” he stated with finality and strolled toward the grand piano at the front of the room.

  The bartender started to pick up a phone, but Murray grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry. We’ll get him out of here. Please.”

  Rogers began to play, and suddenly the room grew quiet. He launched into a difficult piece, his body swaying slightly, his eyes nearly closed. The bartender gaped. Murray stopped breathing for several seconds. Grey felt like he was going to puke. The crowd oohed as Rogers continued his flawless performance. When a scowling security guard stalked into the room and headed for the piano, a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a tuxedo shooed him away. The music was amazing, uplifting, absolutely perfect. Grey bolted out the back door and puked in the flowers. He dropped to his knees on the concrete sidewalk and heaved in silence. The muffled sound of Rogers’s playing floated through the air, and Grey wiped the vomit from his chin and smiled. The music continued for several minutes, surging, pulsing, silencing the crowd. Finally it eased to a stop, and the crowd erupted into applause. Rogers and Murray bolted out the door seconds later.

  “The charm has worn off. Let’s get out of here,” Rogers suggested. They ran past the hotel’s tennis courts and onto the beach.

  “Hold on.” Grey dropped to his knees again and retched. “Better.” He took off his shoes, and they continued out to the water’s edge. The surf roared into shore, surging on the high tide.

  “Look at that.” Rogers pointed at an extensive pile of rocks that extended out into the surf. “Rock portage. We get to land our boats on those beauties.” Just then a wave slammed into the rocks, sending a curtain of spray into the air. “Get caught between your boat and a rock and kiss your legs good-bye.”

  Murray whistled. “That’s some bad shit. Too bad Ramirez isn’t here. He’d eat those rocks for breakfast.”

  “Shut up,” Grey said quietly. He thought of Ramirez in a sterile hospital bed, immobile, alone.

  “I didn’t mean anything bad.”

  “I know. Just shut up.” Grey picked up a stone and threw it into the surf. It made a tiny blip on the surface and then disappeared. “I’m sorry. Let’s go.”

  They turned to the south and moved slowly toward their barracks, occasionally stopping to throw a rock into the ocean. Blip.

  * * *

  A loud knock on the door wrenched Grey from his alcohol-enhanced slumber. His head pulsed and throbbed as he stood up and groped his way toward the door. Clumsily he pressed his eye against the peephole and was shocked at the sight of Vanessa’s grotesquely bloated face peering back at him. Damn peephole. It could even make beautiful people like Vanessa look like trolls.

  “Hi, baby,” Grey mumbled, swinging the door open. The sunlight blinded him momentarily, and he closed his eyes to block out the glare. “What are you doing here?”

  “You look great, honey,” Vanessa said, glancing at Grey’s black eye. “And you smell like a rose.…”

  Grey could only imagine the stench. He didn’t remember brushing his teeth, just crawling into bed. “Sorry. I had a rough night.”

  “Apparently.” She pushed past him and sat on his bed. “Enough of the chitchat. What the hell happened to your eye?”

  “I fell.”

  “Into someone’s fist? Mark, that isn’t like you. You never fight.”

  “I know.” He gestured toward the other bed, where a shapeless lump was shifting groggily beneath the covers. “Rogers isn’t up. Let’s talk outside. Just let me brush my teeth first.”

  He walked into the bathroom and did a double take. The man in the mirror was completely foreign. Grey liked to think of himself as reasonably good-looking. The character staring back at him looked like a neo-Nazi fresh from a barroom brawl. His face was tan, but his shaved head was ghostly white, and his left eye was a swollen purple mess. Jesus. He touched his eye and winced.

  Vanessa was standing with her face to the ocean when Grey stepped outside of his room. Her long black hair was blowing in the gentle breeze, and her stance, arms crossed, legs planted firmly apart, suggested she was either pensive or upset.

  “Hi,” Grey said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey.” She took a step back, forcing him to drop his hand. “Let’s walk.” She led the way, striding swiftly over the sand berm and onto the beach. The briny smell of the ocean was strong, and it made Grey recoil instinctively. The ocean made him think of one thing: cold.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” Grey said.

  “I know. I got the flowers.”

  “And?”

  “I was touched, and I came here to make passionate love to you to show my gratitude.”

  “But?”

  “Well, besides the fact that you smell like puke and look like a battle-worn paramilitary freak, I’m a little concerned about how this place is changing you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Vanessa stopped walking and turned toward Grey. “What do you think? When was the last time you got in a fight?”

  “Sometime about—”

  “I know when. Third grade. I’m just making a point. It’s not like you.”

  “Look,” Grey said, “when we started going out I didn’t hide anything from you. I told you I wanted to be a SEAL more than anything else, and nothing would stand in my way. Right?”

  Vanessa nodded.

  “And didn’t I warn you that I might change during training?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Let me finish,” Grey said gently. “I feel like I have to say this. It’s hard to describe what I’m feeling right now. I’m revolted by the face I see in the mirror, but I have to tell you, knocking that asshole marine on his back was one of the most satisfying things I’ve done in a long time.”

  “Mark!”

  “I’m serious. I really enjoyed it. Fighting for a friend when you know he would do the same for you—it’s an amazing feeling. It’s why I want to be a SEAL. It’s a brotherhood. You suffer together, eat together, fight together.…”

  “C’mon, Mark. You sound like a damn navy recruiter.” Vanessa searched his face. “Where is the boy I used to know?”

  The throbbing in Grey’s head grew more intense. “I’m still here.”

  “Is this going to be forever? This violence thing?”

  “SEALs are trained to take lives, Vanessa. It’s irresponsible to sign up for this line of work without considering the possibility of killing.”

  “But you don’t have to enjoy it.”

  “And you know I woul
dn’t. Just because I threw a punch at some loudmouthed jarhead doesn’t mean I’m on some downward moral spiral. It’s just that I’d give the world for my boys, and if it means throwing a punch, so be it.”

  Vanessa pulled off her shoes and dug her toes into the sand. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

  “What is?”

  “Us. Surviving this thing. Being apart constantly.”

  “But is it worth it to you?”

  Vanessa drew a circle in the sand with her toe. The silence was overwhelming.

  “Is it?”

  “If you can promise me you’ll be the same man I met four years ago when you get out of this place.”

  “You know I can’t do that.” Grey reached out and gently grazed his hand against her cheek. “But I can promise I will always love you.”

  Vanessa stood on her toes and kissed him on the forehead. “I should go.”

  Grey watched her turn and walk back toward the barracks, shoes in hand. He thought about following her and convincing her to stay, but he couldn’t do it. Instead he sat in the sand and watched the angry ocean throw whitecaps toward shore. The urge to cry competed with the urge to hurt something. He picked up a handful of white sand and let it run through his fingers. A seagull landed near his feet and pranced back and forth, strutting fearlessly across the beach. Grey picked up a pebble and threw it. To his surprise it hit the gull’s neck. The bird squawked angrily and took to the air.

  * * *

  “What?” Grey yelled irritably. He had crawled back into bed an hour before, and he still felt horrible. The loud knocks on his door presented an unwelcome distraction.

  “Sir, it’s me.” The voice belonged to Murray.

  “I’m having a bad morning. Go away.”

  “I have something important you should hear about.”

  “Later.”

  “Sir, it will only take a minute.”

  “Make it quick.” Grey strained to pry his eyes open. He squinted against the sunlight that flooded the room as Murray opened the door.“There was a murder yesterday,” Murray stated, waving a newspaper in Grey’s face.

  “Who died?”

  “A gun-shop owner in Imperial Beach. He was out on bail after being arraigned on charges of selling illegal weapons and explosives.”

  “So what?” Grey was more concerned with his splitting headache than a murder in Imperial Beach.

  “Sir, make the connection. Work with me here,” Murray pleaded. “He was found garroted in his own house. It was a clean job. The police don’t have any suspects yet. The guy was selling illegal shit. He had been nailed earlier selling C-4, automatic weapons, ammo. Whoever knocked him off must have either been in competition with him or, more likely, didn’t want him to squeal about something.” He slapped the newspaper against the top of Grey’s head. “This is some serious shit, sir. You think that the inventory problems at BUD/S might somehow be tied to a small-time arms broker? Can you think of a better source of C-4? That shit is expensive as fuck. You could make a tidy little profit selling it.”

  “It’s possible,” Grey admitted reluctantly. He tried to hide from the light, burying his head beneath a pillow. “I think you should worry about making it through training. The police will figure it out.”

  “Fuck the police. I could be done with BUD/S by the time they figure anything out.”

  Grey struggled into a sitting position. “Murray, this whole blackmail idea just reached a new level. The stakes are higher. Leave it be.”

  “I don’t think so, boss. I think I’ll wander down to IB and pay a visit to this gun shop. If it gets too crazy, I’ll back down and forget the whole thing.”

  “You’re a stubborn fool, you know that?” Grey said.

  “Sir, I know my shortcomings,” Murray said. He pulled open the door and stood profiled against the bright morning light. “Get some sleep.”

  “Good luck,” Grey mumbled. “Be careful.” He dropped his head back onto his pillow and fell into a restless sleep.

  EIGHT

  MONDAY MORNING. SIX DAYS to Hell Week. Grey toed the line drawn in the sand and tensed his body in anticipation. He had twenty-four minutes to run slightly over four miles. Redman expected improvement every week, and Grey was feeling less energetic by the day. BUD/S was supposed to make students stronger, but he knew every day he spent in training he lost a little bit of his edge. It was almost as if he were being punished for showing up in exceptional shape. The other students started from ground zero and finished training as decent runners. Grey felt that he started as an unusually good runner but that he would most likely graduate from BUD/S as a mediocre athlete. The daily beat-downs took their toll on his body.

  “I want no failures today,” Chief Baldwin stated. He leaned out the window of the big diesel truck. “Failure means surf torture, and I’m not in the mood to hammer anyone today.” He glanced at his watch. “Ready … go!”

  The line of students erupted into a sprint. Grey never understood why the class always felt compelled to bolt from the starting line when the race was four miles long. He ran in the middle of the pack, pacing himself. The second half of the run was crucial. It wasn’t even six in the morning, so the beach was deserted. Grey occupied his mind with thoughts of Vanessa. He had always worried about the toll BUD/S would take on their relationship. Now it seemed his fears were being played out. He was tired, he was angry, and he was letting the love of his life slip through his fingers.

  “I’m running with you today, boss,” Murray said as Grey moved up to his shoulder.

  “Good. I could use some company.”

  They continued north past the rock pile and the Hotel del Coronado. Murray fell off the pace in a matter of minutes. The white truck that marked the halfway point was parked facing south, and Grey ran around it counterclockwise. Instructor Furtado read off his time: “12:30, slow-ass motherfucker.” Undaunted, Grey picked up the pace. He almost always ran negative splits—the second of half of his run was faster than the first. The rest of the class streamed past in the opposite direction, yelling encouragement as Grey flew back to the starting line. He flashed a smile and a thumbs-up. Several hundred yards behind the pack, a figure appeared, hobbling down the beach alone. Grey recognized the massive shoulders and arms immediately. Warrior.

  “Pick it up, Warrior!” Grey yelled. “You need this run!” He desperately wanted to stop and physically push his classmate down the beach, but he knew that stopping would only make the situation worse for both of them.

  Warrior shook his head in disgust. He was limping badly. Must be stress fractures. They were the bane of everyone’s existence at BUD/S. At least a fifth of the class suffered from them at some point during training. Grey refocused himself as he continued down the beach. The run started to hurt, and he started to feel alive. He tilted his head back, a bad habit he acquired in high school and that he had never been able to shake. The faster he ran, the sloppier his form became. He raced past the hotel and past the high-rise condominiums. A lone jogger clad in a bright blue sweat suit and headband eyed him curiously as he sprinted past. His breath grew ragged.

  Grey felt anger flood his mind like a shot of adrenaline. He was mad at Vanessa, mad about Ramirez and his paralysis, mad at Furtado for being an ass, mad at himself for getting in a fight, mad at BUD/S for making him mad. The anger burned through him, and he punished himself by turning up the pace a notch. He was flying. Redman stood at the finish line, silent, waiting to pounce. Fuck you. You’re not going to get me. Not today. His pace was impossibly fast. Grey looked toward the sky. You better kill me, God, because I’m not slowing down. Arms churning, legs swallowing whole lengths of the beach at a time, Grey flashed across the finish line. He stopped next to an instructor truck and leaned against it for support. Don’t lie to me. I passed that run.

  Redman glanced at his watch and then turned toward the ocean. I passed the damn run. Redman stood in silence, watching the surf. Grey knew this meant he had passed. It was Redman’
s ultimate compliment—no words of encouragement, just silence. Heavy, brooding silence. As suddenly as Grey’s anger had come, it passed. The endorphins crashed in, leaving him elated and dizzy.

  Jones crossed the line minutes later, then Murray, and then the bulk of the class. As soon as thirty-two minutes had passed, Redman sprang back into life. The students unfortunate enough to fail the run ran directly to the surf. Heads hung low in shame, they linked arms in the shallows and lay on their backs. The truck driven by Furtado trailed Warrior down the beach. Furtado had his head out the window and was undoubtedly yelling insults at the limping student. Asshole. Grey ran toward Warrior and stopped at his side.

  “Get out of here!” Furtado yelled. “He doesn’t need you!”

  Grey ignored the comment. “C’mon, Warrior, let’s pick it up. I’ll run you in.” He stayed on the muscle-bound student’s shoulder and gradually increased the pace. They crossed the finish line together.

  “Thirty-seven minutes,” Redman noted. His perpetual scowl dominated his dark face. “You’ll pay for that, you slacker. Hit the surf. Grey, you too. Since you obviously care about your buddy so much, you can keep his worthless ass warm.”

  They ran into the surf together and joined the lineup. The other students were already twitching and shaking, and Grey closed his eyes as the icy water closed over his shoulders.

  “Thanks, bud,” Warrior said quietly. “I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Grey responded. “Nothing at all.”

  They locked arms and wormed close together, conserving as much warmth as possible. As the minutes slipped by, Grey lost track of time. His world was dominated by one thought: cold.

  As the class ran to breakfast, the feeling slowly returned to his frozen limbs. Sixteen students had failed the run—sixteen too many. The tone was set for the day. Punishment would be the theme, and the battered students of Class 283 would be the unfortunate players. Grey could hardly wait to discover what twisted new torture regime the instructors would cook up.