Suffer in Silence Page 7

  “I see you’ve made a new friend,” Grey observed.

  “Unfortunately,” Rogers said. “That guy definitely has a problem. I suspect he was abused as a child. If I was a better person, I’d almost feel sorry for him.”

  “But you don’t,” Grey said. “You want him to go to hell.”

  “Not hell. The man needs to be reformed. I think he should spend some time in San Francisco—you know, the Castro District. I’m sure he’d eventually come around.”

  Papa Smurf limped over to the smiling roommates. His faltering stride suggested he was already suffering from shin splints. “I expect you two to listen,” he hissed. “I’m trying to keep this goddamn class together, and I could use your cooperation.”

  “Can we help you with something, boss?” Grey asked.

  “We’re already late for chow. How about getting your boat crew in line?”

  “Right away.” Grey turned and surveyed the gaggle of trainees loosely clustered in the pit. “Jones!”

  The Tennessee Wonder immediately appeared at this side. “Yup?”

  “Will you help me get everyone in line? We need to get out of here now if we want any breakfast.”

  “You got it.” Jones disappeared into the crowd. Seconds later a handful of the milling trainees snapped into a line. Grey counted their heads. Six. Even Murray was present and ready to move out.

  “Ready to go, sir,” Grey said, turning to Papa Smurf.

  Smurf merely grunted and strode away. Grey gave Jones a thumbs-up and got a wink in reply. He felt his chest swell with pride. He was beginning to love his crew. They were a ragged bunch, but they got the job done. The class started shuffling slowly, but the pace escalated, and they ended up sprinting to make it to chow on time.

  “Hi, Felicia,” Grey said, still breathing heavily from the run.

  “Good morning, sir.” A loose strand of silky black hair had slipped out of her ponytail and rested along her smooth brown skin. She looked radiant as always.

  “Any gossip for me?” Grey asked. “Is Redman still talking trash?”

  “Oh, no,” Felicia said. “Haven’t seen him since last week. Mean man.” She tilted her head downward and glanced up at Grey with her big brown eyes. “Something wrong with anybody who don’t like you.”

  “Thanks, Felicia. That’s nice of you to say.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Grey.” She squirmed nervously. “You better eat. No time to talk today.”

  “Right. See you at lunch.” Grey moved down the breakfast line and grabbed a handful of wrapped cream-cheese cubes. After glancing around to make sure the mess manager wasn’t watching, he stuffed them into the pockets of his camouflage pants. Because he would only have a matter of seconds to sit down and eat, a few hidden slices of toast and some cream cheese would serve as an essential snack on the run back. Sure enough, no sooner had Grey sat down with his tray of scrambled eggs and bacon than Papa Smurf ended chow.

  As the class shuffled back to the BUD/S compound, Grey pulled sandy, salty toast from his pockets and jammed it into his mouth. Next he peeled open the tiny cream cheese cubes and wolfed them down. The gritty combination wasn’t exactly a bagel and cream cheese, but it did the trick. As he chewed, Grey continually readjusted the position of the helmet on his head. It kept riding forward until the front rim rested on the bridge of his nose. Although he was grateful that Murray had lent him the helmet, it was a few sizes too big, and running with it was a chore. Eventually he gave up and ran with one hand against his head.

  “Headache, sir?” Ramirez asked.

  “Nah. Big helmet. Had to borrow one of Murray’s.”

  “Are you telling me my boat-crew leader isn’t squared away?”

  Grey detected a hint of sarcasm in Ramirez’s voice. He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, an ear-to-ear grin dominated the sailor’s face.

  “I thought you officers were on top of things.” Ramirez sighed dramatically. “I should have known better. No wonder us enlisted pukes make everything happen around here. Ay caramba.”

  “You’re right, Ramirez. I’m a dirtbag. I think you should be in charge.” Grey took off his helmet with its distinctive white stripe and passed it back. Ramirez passed forward his own helmet. Grey tried it on and found that it fit much better.

  “How do I look?” Ramirez asked Jones.

  “Dang. I think you just lost a few brain cells. It’s that whole officer thing.”

  “Shit, hombre. I think you’re on to something.” Ramirez grasped his head in his hands and crossed his eyes dramatically. He spit the words out slowly, as if uttering them took all his energy: “Losing common sense, losing brain power … must get helmet off before it’s too late.”

  The trainees running next to Ramirez caught on to his ruse and started shouting encouragement.

  “Fight it! Fight the power!”

  “Don’t sell your soul to the cake eaters!”

  “Keep it real, Ramirez! Fight the man! Get that thing off!”

  Ramirez played along, rolling his eyes and foaming at the mouth. The theatrics continued until he suddenly composed himself and adopted a warbling British accent. “Rogers, fetch me my pipe,” he quipped. “That’s right. Don’t keep an officer waiting. And while you’re at it, fetch me my bathrobe and my slippers. I didn’t attend Stanford for nothing, you know. I’m a gentlemen, and it pains me to associate with you ruffians.”

  “Enough.” Grey snatched the helmet from Ramirez’s head. “You can make fun of me all you want, but don’t knock my alma mater.”

  Ramirez punched Grey playfully in the shoulder. “It’s all love, boss.”

  “I know.”

  Class 283 turned onto the beach, sending clouds of dust aloft on the gentle breeze. A series of explosions rumbled on the far side of the berm as waves crested and erupted into a frenzy of whitewash. The students fell into a hushed silence; they knew boat drills would be dangerous if the sets stayed large. They shuffled into the pit and fell into a rough formation.

  “We have five minutes to be on the beach, standing by our boats,” Smurf yelled. “Make it happen.”

  Grey gathered his boat crew around him in a football huddle. “Ramirez, take Tate, Wallace, and Stevens and get the boat out. Murray, grab seven life jackets. Jones, get the paddles. I’ll find a pump.” He stepped back and the group scattered. Grey snaked through the class and made his way to the drying cage where they stored their gear. The class only had a few pumps, and not every boat crew would have time to use one. Grey knew their boat had a small leak, but due to BUD/S politics, he wasn’t allowed to patch it. He could handle automatic weapons and demolitions, but not quick-drying glue. Far too dangerous. Without some extra air, paddling his boat would be next to impossible. It would drag through the water, and his crew would never get past the breakers.

  Two trainees cradling pumps in their arms squeezed past Grey as he entered the chain-link drying cage. Apparently other boat-crew leaders were also plagued by leaking boats. A lone pump rested against a pile of orange buoys in the corner. Grey quickly moved toward it, but a pair of arms snapped it up before he could get there.

  “Shit!” Grey flung his arms up in despair.

  “You need this?” It was Rogers.

  “My boat’s trashed. I’m dead unless I get some air,” Grey explained. “But you got here first. Fair is fair.”

  “Take it,” Rogers offered.

  “Thanks.” Grey gave Rogers an affectionate slap on the ass as he reached for the pump. He would have refused the favor out of principle, but he knew his boat crew was counting on him. “I owe you one.”

  “You can buy me dinner sometime.”

  “Will do,” Grey said as they exited the cage together. “Anywhere you want.”

  “Shouldn’t have said that,” Rogers warned. “I like French food. Expensive French food.”

  Grey ran to his boat and went to work. Murray held the hose in place as he inflated the main tube.

  “Two minutes!” Smurf yelled
.

  Several crews shuffled past, their boats positioned on their heads. Grey pumped frantically. His progress seemed impossibly slow. Up down, up down. The air wheezed through the rusted pump as he raced the clock.

  “We better go, sir,” Jones said. “Time’s a wastin’.”

  Grey pulled the hose from the plastic valve and set the pump on the asphalt. He moved to his position at the stern of the boat and grabbed a plastic handle.

  “Prepare to up boat.”

  The boat crew leaned over, anticipating his command.

  “Up boat.” In one fluid motion, they hoisted the boat onto their heads. Grey glanced around and discovered to his dismay that they were alone. He didn’t need to say anything. His boat crew sensed the urgency of the situation and naturally started running. The unmistakable rumble of a diesel engine rose up behind them.

  “Fuckers are ten minutes early!” Murray yelled.

  The run escalated into a sprint, and a mélange of curses echoed through the air as the hard rubber boat bounced violently on their heads. Grey gritted his teeth as his already tender scalp took a beating. The gurgling grew in intensity as the truck pulled up behind them.

  “Boat Crew Nine, bringing up the rear.” Chief Baldwin’s voice echoed through the truck’s PA system. He chuckled devilishly. “Down boat!”

  Grey’s crew immediately lowered their boat. They stood at attention, eyes locked on the horizon.

  “Go cool off your slow asses in the surf,” Baldwin ordered. “Stay there a while. We can’t have you turds getting heat stroke.”

  They left the rubber craft lying in the sand and sprinted toward the surf. Grey led the charge, sending a sheet of cold spray into the air as he tromped through the shallows. Once he reached waist-deep water he linked arms with his crew and sat down.

  “Fuck us. We’re fucking cursed.” Murray clung tightly to Grey’s arm.

  “How many times can you say fuck in one sentence?” Jones asked.

  “What? Am I offending your hillbilly sensibilities?”

  “Nah. All I’m saying is you don’t got to swear so much. You know, stay positive. Ain’t that right, sir?”

  “Exactly,” Grey agreed. “Murray, lighten up.”

  “You can all go to hell.”

  Grey was about to respond in anger but caught himself. A glance at Murray’s face tempered his frustration. The wily sailor’s eyes sparkled mischievously. His face darkened as the instructors’ truck pulled up to the surf line.

  “Hide the trainee!” Baldwin’s voice boomed.

  Grey counted to three before lowering his head underwater. A few seconds later he came to the surface, and the heads of his boat crew members appeared shortly thereafter.

  “Not good enough! I want synchronized submarines. If you can all come to the surface at the same time, I might spare you.”

  “How generous,” Murray muttered.

  They tried Baldwin’s game again and failed. Grey still came to the surface before the rest of his crew.

  “You lose. Time to pay. Stand by your boat.”

  They rushed out of the ocean and scrambled to their boat. Grey took his position at the rear of the craft and waited for instructions. He didn’t wait long. Instructor Furtado flung open the passenger door of the truck and casually strolled in their direction. He was clad in blue shorts, combat boots, a blue T-shirt and sported an expensive pair of sunglasses. His curly black hair glistened in the sunlight.

  “Extended-arm carry,” Furtado ordered nonchalantly.

  Grey gave the command and they hoisted the boat above their heads. Furtado watched the crew for several minutes before grabbing a paddle and silently hurling sand at them. Grey looked on with dismay as the rest of the class carried their boats into the surf, marking the beginning of the first race. We’re screwed. The sand continued to fly, and the weight of the boat quickly became unbearable. Furtado whistled a cheerful tune as he flailed away with his paddle.

  “Mierda,” Ramirez cursed. He dropped both of his arms, and the rest of the boat crew yelled at him to carry his weight. The boat wobbled unsteadily. Grey’s lower back flared up, and streams of sweat ran down his forehead. After violently shaking out his arms, Ramirez rejoined the effort.

  “Ramirez, you Mexican pussy,” Furtado yelled. “You better put out. There’s no place for buddy fuckers here.”

  Jones gave out next. “Sorry,” he groaned as his hands dropped.

  “You too?” Furtado walked up to Jones and held up his middle finger. “This is how long you have to get your weak little arms back in action.” His tongue stud clicked against his teeth. “One—”

  Jones quickly put his hands under the boat, but Furtado was unimpressed.

  “Too late. Your boat crew doesn’t need you. Drop down.”

  Jones started doing push-ups as the remaining six members of his crew struggled to keep the boat aloft. Furtado walked underneath the boat and made his way back to Grey.

  “Sir, you think you can keep this thing in the air for five minutes?”

  “Hoo-yah.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.” It was a lie. Grey’s arms trembled violently.

  “We’ll see about that.” Furtado stood with his wiry arms crossed over his chest. As an afterthought, he pressed a button on his watch, emitting a quiet beep. “You’re on the clock.”

  The boat surged back and forth as they struggled to keep it off their heads. Grey felt like screaming in frustration but refused to give Furtado the satisfaction of seeing him upset. The front of the raft suddenly dipped amid a string of Spanish curses. Grey quickly moved forward to compensate.

  “Ramirez, drop down next to Jones. You two are equally worthless.” Furtado smiled at Grey. “Getting pretty hard, isn’t it?” He ran his tongue along his lips. “All you have to do is say, ‘I quit.’ Be honest with yourself, sir. You don’t need this crap.” He checked his watch. “I don’t think you’re gonna make it.”

  Fuck you. Grey repositioned his arms and let his eyes focus on the huge breakers rolling toward shore. With an effort, he tuned out the curses and groans of his fellow boat-crew members. Time stood still as the world swirled in his head and the roar of the surf filled his ears. The greasy-haired instructor with the tongue stud appeared to be shouting, but his glistening lips made no sound. Grey felt his legs wobble. The waves continued to roll toward shore, and the thunderous whitewash roared even louder in his ears. Down boat. Grey felt a hand push against his chest. Suddenly the tumultuous ocean faded into the background.

  “I said down boat, sir!” Furtado yelled.

  “Down boat,” Grey stammered, regaining his senses. No sooner were the words uttered than the boat crashed to the beach. Grey fell over backward and wound up sitting in the sand.

  “Get up,” Furtado ordered. His voice was scornful, but Grey detected an undertone of grudging respect. “Join your class.”

  Murray extended a hand and pulled Grey to his feet. Jones was already frantically shoveling the sand out of their boat with a paddle. The rest of the crew joined in with their hands. The flurry of sand settled back on the beach as they hoisted their boat onto their heads and ran to join the class. Instructor Redman stood on the berm with a megaphone in his huge hands. His scowling face suggested he was in his usual frame of mind—angry. The crew leaders lined up in front of him while the rest of the class stood at attention next to their boats. Grey found a place for his boat, grabbed his paddle, and ran to join the lineup.

  “We have a latecomer.” Redman stared at Grey through dark, narrow eyes. “You feel like reporting, sir?”

  “Right.” Grey stood at parade rest. “Uh, Ensign Grey reporting. Boat Crew Nine standing by, uh—manned, rigged, and ready for sea.”

  Moving with lightning speed, Redman snatched the paddle from Grey’s hand and hurled it over his head. It somersaulted through the air and disappeared on the other side of the sand berm.

  “Next time say it like you mean it,” Redman snarled. He turned h
is attention to the rest of the boat-crew leaders. “Next race—out to the buoy and back. First boat crew to line up on the truck wins.” His brow furrowed as he looked over their heads. Grey knew Redman was surveying the surf; he would time the sets so that the big waves rolled in just as the class paddled out. Several tension-filled seconds passed before Redman yelled, “Bust ’em.”

  Grey swore under his breath as he stormed down the wrong side of the sand berm. He couldn’t start the race without his paddle. The instructors constantly reinforced the notion that a paddle should be treated like a weapon. In other words, leaving one behind would carry dire consequences. Grey leaned over and snapped up his paddle before charging back up the berm. His crew looked helpless as they stood by awaiting instructions.

  “Go!” Grey yelled as he sprinted toward them. They reacted immediately, each grabbing a handle and running the boat into the shallows. Seconds later Grey joined them, pushing against the bulbous rear of the craft.

  “Ones, in!” Grey commanded. The first pair jumped into the boat and began paddling at the bow of the craft.

  “Twos, in!” The next pair jumped in just as a huge breaker crashed toward them. Grey was between the boat and the beach—not a desirable situation. The boat would plow right over the top of him. At the last moment, he moved around the side and grabbed a handle with his free hand. The whitewash picked the boat up and flung it toward shore like an insignificant toy, dragging a sputtering Grey alongside. His fingers burned as he struggled to maintain his grip. Several seconds later the wave released them, and Grey quickly got a muster. Four students lay slumped in various positions inside the boat, their paddles firmly clenched in their hands. Murray clung to the handle next to Grey’s, giggling like a schoolgirl, and the top of Jones’s head was barely visible on the other side of the boat. Seven accounted for.

  “Let’s hit it!” Grey yelled as he eyed an approaching wave. “Everyone in.”

  They scrambled aboard and began paddling as a wall of whitewash rumbled in, carrying two overturned boats along with it. Grey leaned back and thrust his paddle into the water, straining to keep the boat perpendicular to the shore. As coxswain, it was his job to keep the boat lined up. Failure to perform would have disastrous results; his crew could easily end up like the poor bastards bobbing in the surf, watching helplessly as their overturned boats rushed away.