Suffer in Silence Read online

  Grey tried to magically narrow his body so that it disappeared behind the student next to him.

  “Grey, you too.” Redman started to walk away when his eyes fell on Rogers. “And you too, Persephone, or whatever your name is.”

  The four unfortunate students ran to the beach together. They lined up and stood at parade rest in front of the sand berm. Several minutes later Redman strolled out.

  “Two officers and two enlisted. Perfect.” The instructor’s enormous pecs twitched beneath his T-shirt as he spoke. “I’m sure you gentlemen are familiar with wheelbarrow races. One trainee gets in the push-up position, the other picks up his legs, and away you go. I bet you guys did this shit all the time when you were Webelos, or Cub Scouts, or whatever the fuck that organization is called.” Redman drew a line in the sand. “You’ll start here, and you’ll finish when I tell you the race is over. Assume the position.”

  Grey dropped onto his stomach. He knew upper-body strength wasn’t Rogers’s strong point, so he took the dreaded bottom position. His triceps burned in anticipation of the beating that was in store. Grey looked over at Murray and smiled when the seaman winked at him.

  “Instructor Redman, can you give us a direction or something?” Murray asked. “For all I know, Rogers might take a turn and race right over the sand berm.”

  “Go straight ahead, dumb-ass. If I want you to turn I’ll tell you.” Redman held his arm up and waited a few seconds. Murray false-started, and when he realized what he had done, he locked his elbows to stop his forward progress. Unfortunately, Jones kept pushing on his legs and unwittingly plowed his partner’s face into the sand. As Murray and Jones scrambled to reorient themselves, Redman dropped his arm to start the race. Rogers and Grey took off.

  “Pays to be a winner!” Redman yelled as he jogged backward in front of the struggling pairs.

  Grey started to falter after a hundred yards. Each time he planted an arm he felt his elbows strain under his weight. Each step was a jarring reminder of how ludicrous SEAL training could be. His bowed back screamed for relief as Jones and Murray caught up.

  “Let’s go, girls! Almost there!” Redman yelled. “Just make it to me!” He stopped ten yards ahead of the racing human wheelbarrows. Grey knew something was amiss: Redman’s tone was far too encouraging. He conserved his effort and let Murray and Jones pass him up.

  “Sorry. Changed my mind,” Redman stated cheerfully as Murray collapsed into a heap, bringing Jones down with him. Grey and Rogers blew by their fallen comrades. With deliberate slowness, Redman cut a path toward the sand berm. He angled up the sandy slope, smiling with delight as Grey repeatedly fell onto his chest as his arms gave out.

  “Just think, gentle ensigns, you could be sitting behind a six-foot stack of paper aboard USS Neverdock right now. Or you could be at flight school, eating donuts and piloting a cutting-edge aircraft. There must be a better life. You don’t need to be here.”

  “Fuck that,” Grey gasped between fiery breaths.

  “What?” Redman asked.

  “I said fuck that!” Grey yelled.

  “All right then, sir. Don’t get your satin panties all in a tangle. Just follow me, if you please.” With a frilly arm movement, Redman bowed in mock deference. He continued up the berm and down the other side toward the ocean. Grey placed one hand in front of the other, willing his drained body to keep up. Shortly after he reached Instructor Redman, Jones and Murray appeared at his side. The defiant smile was gone from Murray’s elfish face. Strings of spittle streamed from his open mouth, and his normally sparkling blue eyes had clouded over.

  “Hydration break!” Redman pointed at the churning surf zone. “Take your wheelbarrows out into the surf, gents. Lubricate those rusty parts with some salt water.”

  Grey and Rogers continued their forward progress. The icy ocean water progressed up Grey’s arms, eventually reaching his chin. He inhaled deeply and held his breath as a large breaker rumbled toward them.

  “And halt!” Redman yelled.

  The three-foot wall of whitewash slammed into the pair, knocking them backward with surprising force. They tumbled a short distance before regaining their footing.

  “Enough practice being a garden tool,” Redman stated. “Let’s practice being icicles. After all, Christmas is only two months away.” He hocked a yellow plug of phlegm onto the sand, then wiped his hand across his mouth. “Take your seats.”

  The four trainees linked arms and sat down. Jones sat to Grey’s left, Rogers to his right. In the last two weeks Grey had learned that you were valued by your fellow students not only for how much you “put out” during team evolutions, but also for the amount of heat your body produced. Strangely enough, some students were virtual heaters while others were cursed with a chilly touch. Grey counted himself among the blessed. Two days ago several members of his boat crew had gotten into a dispute over who got to sit next to him during surf torture. Unfortunately for Grey, the two trainees greedily clinging to his arms at the moment were frigid specimens. They pressed their arms into his torso and exhaled in soft staccato breaths.

  “We’re gonna be here all day, gents. You’ll have plenty of time to consider your options,” Redman called from the beach.

  Jones stared straight ahead as his jaw involuntarily jackhammered. The ghostly sheen of his pale skin gave Grey the creeps.

  “Hang in there, Jones. We all know he can’t keep us out here more than twenty minutes or so.”

  “Yeah, there are specific medical regulations on this sort of thing,” Rogers added. “He knows that surf torture without an ambulance standing by is against the CO’s orders. Besides, he can’t kill—”

  A wall of whitewash rushed overhead, interrupting Rogers’s speech.

  “Oh, yes he can,” Murray contradicted. He coughed loudly before continuing. “He most definitely could freeze our sorry asses, but it would end his career in a hurry. Let’s hope he loves his job.”

  Oh, he loves his job all right. Sick fuck lives for this stuff. Grey closed his eyes and used the sound of incoming surf to time his breath holds. His body grew used to the rhythm of the ocean. The wave lifted his torso as it passed overhead, then pushed him flat against the bottom as the water receded before the next set. Up, down, breathe, hold. If it wasn’t so cold, Grey might have found it relaxing.

  “Feet!” Redman yelled.

  Thank God. Grey slowly stood and tried his balance. He wasn’t nearly as stiff as he expected. Jones was another matter. The Tennessee Wonder stood up, then promptly fell back on his ass. Rogers and Grey each grabbed an arm and helped him to the beach.

  “Well, well, it’s looks like we’ve got a cold one,” Redman said. He stared intently into Jones’s eyes. “You want the silver bullet?”

  “Hell no,” Jones stammered. “I ain’t never takin’ that thing.” The silver bullet was rumored to be an anal thermometer six inches in length and about an inch in diameter—a special treat for hypothermia victims. Rogers claimed it was just another manifestation of the SEAL obsession with homosexuality. References to gay sex were ingrained in BUD/S culture. It was as much a part of life as breathing, and both Grey and Rogers found it a sad display of insecurity. Of course, they could never say that.

  “Hillbilly Bob, start doing jumping jacks! The rest of you get back out there!” Redman yelled.

  As Grey trudged back into the gray Pacific, he could think of only one thing—his gorgeous girlfriend. He let his body go numb as his mind drifted back to his days at Stanford.

  The first time Grey set eyes on Vanessa, he knew he had met his match. She was the sassy daughter of brilliant Indian immigrants—a true New York City girl—and she seemed completely unimpressed by the fact that Grey aspired to be a SEAL. In truth, she really had no idea what a SEAL did. With perfect mocha skin, ebony hair, and almond-shaped eyes, Vanessa was breathtakingly beautiful. Her curvaceous body turned heads, yet she remained oblivious of the stares of her admirers. Grey was instantly charmed. When they first started da
ting, Grey had explained what his career aspirations entailed and hinted that maintaining a relationship past graduation would be difficult at best. But it turned out that beneath all her sass, Vanessa was a romantic, and she proved willing to take a chance on him. All Grey could think about now was curling up next to her warm body.

  Feet. Grey felt a tugging sensation on his arms.

  “Let’s go. He said ‘feet,’” Rogers stammered.

  Grey snapped out of his reverie and into the world of the living. Rogers and Murray helped him to his feet.

  “Goddamn!” Murray yelled. “Isn’t this shit just tons of fun? And just think, we’ve still got a month until Hell Week.”

  Apparently a little surf torture had revived Murray’s spirit. Grey was grateful. A student with his personality was invaluable for two reasons. Not only would he improve morale by keeping things light, but he would also serve as a lightning rod for some of the instructors’ wrath. Although Grey protected Murray from the anger of Papa Smurf as much as possible, like everyone else he occasionally succumbed to the “better him than me” philosophy when it came to the instructors’ attention. Something about being frozen and beaten continuously all week shifted students into their primal survival mode, and Grey was no exception. Earlier in the week Jones had become a class favorite by passing out during log PT, ending the evolution prematurely. The class had been exuberant at this turn of events: martyrdom was fully endorsed by Class 283.

  “No time to waste, ladies,” Redman scolded. “Log PT starts now. Don’t be late.”

  The four chilled trainees broke into a sprint back toward the compound. Rogers fell twice as he struggled to squeeze some coordination into his frozen limbs. Grey yanked him to his feet, and they scampered up the berm together. As they stumbled down the other side, Grey noted with horror that the class had already started log PT. Each boat crew held a telephone pole at extended-arm carry. Grey cursed under his breath as he realized his boat crew was currently making do with four students rather than the usual seven. While Murray and Jones had suffered alongside Grey, the four other members of his crew had been left to hold the log above their heads by themselves. Although he had no idea how long they had been struggling with their log, the pleading looks on their faces suggested they could use a little assistance.

  “And here they are!” Instructor Logan boomed. “Just in time to help out their pathetic boat crews!” A prerecorded cackle burst forth from his megaphone, followed by a high-pitched scream. He spat a glob of sunflower seeds into the sand.

  Grey took his position at the rear of the log and pressed his hands into the splintery wood. He immediately felt the trainee in front of him ease up. He could tell his boat crew was fading fast. The log bobbed unevenly as individuals caved in and released pressure on their arms.

  “Who’s going to be the big loser?” Logan asked. “Who’s going to drop their precious log?” The megaphone emitted another hideous cackle.

  The front end of the log started to drop.

  “Fire it up, Ramirez!” Tate yelled.

  “Fire it up your ass,” Ramirez groaned. “You try being up here. This shit ain’t easy.”

  Teamwork. It was such a beautiful concept, yet so difficult to orchestrate when inordinate amounts of pain entered the equation. Grey watched helplessly as Ramirez lowered the front end of the log onto his right shoulder.

  “We have a winner!” Logan yelled, imitating a circus barker. “If you gentlemen would kindly step over to Old Misery, I believe Instructor Redman is waiting to fulfill your every physical need.”

  “Waist carry,” Grey commanded. His crew lowered the log to waist level. “Right hand starting position.” They dropped the log on the sand. Grey’s stomach dropped as he got an eyeful of Redman standing over the fabled torture device. Old Misery was at least twice as heavy as a standard PT log, yet it was considerably shorter in length. The result was an unwieldy piece of wood that was too thick to get a good grip on and too short to fit everyone underneath comfortably. The cryptic inscription “Old Misery Never Dies” had been gouged into its rough surface, a reference to a favorite BUD/S story. Legend had it a group of vengeful trainees had once floated Old Misery far out into the ocean, hoping they would never see the cursed log again. The next morning, however, Old Misery had washed up on the beach directly in front of the BUD/S compound, soggier and heavier than ever. Since then, Old Misery had commanded a fearful reverence among the superstitious students.

  Instructor Redman sat cowboy style on top of Old Misery and gave it an affectionate pat. “I think it’s time for a ride, Old Mis,” Redman cooed as if he were subduing a horse. “Let’s see what these girls can do.” He waited expectantly. “Well? Take me for a ride, damn it!”

  For several seconds Boat Crew Nine froze in confusion. Grey was sure Redman was joking. They couldn’t be expected to lift Old Misery with an extra 250 pounds tacked on.

  “Don’t test my patience,” Redman warned.

  Grey looked around helplessly. Suddenly a blur of camouflage flashed toward the overbuilt instructor. Murray threw his small frame directly against Redman’s chest, catching him completely off guard. The pair fell backward into the sand. Grey seized the moment.

  “Right shoulder carry.” As the rest of the class looked on in hushed amazement, Grey’s crew hoisted Old Mis onto their shoulders. Meanwhile, Murray and Redman engaged themselves in an all-out wrestling match. Murray was only able to hold off his huge opponent for a few seconds. The instructors laughed hysterically as Redman put Murray in a choke hold. The laughter subsided as Murray’s complexion shifted from an overcooked red to a shade of blue. His mouth worked silently, as if to beg for mercy.

  “Enough!” Instructor Logan barked as he pulled Redman away. Murray gasped noisily for breath while Logan whispered into Redman’s ear. After kicking a cloud of sand into Murray’s face, Redman angrily stormed off the beach.

  “What are you looking at, shit birds?” Logan yelled. “Keep those logs up.”

  A shaken Murray joined Boat Crew Nine as they hoisted Old Mis. Although Grey knew Murray had expected a violent reaction to his playful attack, his manner had changed dramatically. He’s scared.

  “If you’re lucky enough to make it to the end of the day, you sure as hell won’t make it through First Phase,” Logan growled. “You’re one dumb motherfucker, Murray, and I don’t envy you. Redman’s gonna tear you a new one.” He spat seeds and walked away.

  Grey felt certain his back would snap in half at any moment, and his arms weren’t faring much better. Old Mis grew heavier by the moment. Just when he was sure a womanly scream would slip past his lips, the instructors found a new game to play—log push-ups. Boat Crew Nine held Old Mis at a waist carry, crossed their legs, and plopped backward onto the sand. Grey felt his rib cage flex under the weight of the log as they assumed the starting position. The push-ups themselves weren’t overly difficult; it was keeping Old Mis balanced that Grey found terrifying. The log rocked dangerously as they pushed it up and down. Several times the behemoth came close to rolling off of their palms and onto their faces. Grey could handle breaking a rib or two, but contemplating a crushed skull wasn’t pleasant.

  “Coma me mierda, mayate.” Ramirez told Instructor Logon to eat shit through clenched teeth.

  “Chingate.” Jones added a strained “fuck you,” exhausting his knowledge of gutter Spanish.

  Up down, up down, up down. Old Mis worked her magic. Grey felt as if his eyes would pop out from the strain of keeping the log off his chest.

  “Treat your logs kindly,” Logan growled. “Give them the love they deserve. Take them down to the ocean and give them a nice bath.” He spat a gob of sunflower seeds into the wind. “Hell, let’s make it a race. Last boat crew back here gets Old Mis.”

  Thank God, Grey thought. If only they could make it to the surf and back. He winced as his boat crew rolled Old Mis off their chests and down their legs. With a coordinated surge of energy they hoisted the log onto their shoulders
and started up the sand berm. Each step resulted in enormous amounts of wasted effort as their feet slipped backward. White flashes erupted like tiny volcanoes in Grey’s field of vision, and the muted morning light shimmered off the churning ocean. Not a good sign. Suddenly Old Mis grew considerably heavier. Grey turned to yell in frustration and found Murray sprawled out on the sand. In an instant Logan was by his side.

  “Everyone put your logs down and go sit in the surf,” Logan ordered. He led Murray to the back of the white ambulance and pushed him inside. The door slammed shut, and the diesel truck roared off.

  “Get out there and link arms!” His growl had morphed into a full blown yell. “Just because your teammate passes out doesn’t mean training is over!”

  “Oh, yes it does,” Ramirez whispered. “This shit is paradise.”

  Grey waded into the ocean, which suddenly did not seem quite as cold, and happily took his place in the line of students sitting in the surf. He pulled Ramirez and Jones close to either side, basking in the temporary relief from the overflowing lactic acid in his muscles.

  “Thank you, Murray,” Jones murmured reverently.

  Grey leaned forward in the line and picked out Rogers’s face several places down. “How about a poem to commemorate our friend’s noble sacrifice? We need to pay our respects.”

  “Right,” Rogers answered. “Give me a moment.”

  The line of students lurched forward and back as the breakers pushed them into a U-shaped formation.

  “Get back on line, you turds!” Logan kicked sand into the air. “You have ten seconds, or I’ll have you doing buddy carries up and down the beach.”

  The students on either end of the lineup suddenly sprang into life and scooted backward through the water. Miraculously, the line straightened out. Rogers cleared his throat loudly.