Suffer in Silence Read online

  “Really?” Furtado pushed through the crowd of students until his face was inches from Grey’s. “You like male asses?” he asked quietly, almost pleasantly. His breath was sickeningly minty, and his tongue stud flashed as he spoke. “I know Mr. Rogers does. He told me so this morning.” He bobbed his head to maintain eye contact as Grey tried to look away. “Who’s your roommate, sir?”

  “Rogers.”

  Furtado was ecstatic. “Would you fucking believe it? It’s perfect.” He turned to the class. “You assholes going to tolerate this? Who lives next door to these fairies?”

  Pollock raised his hand.

  “You ever hear the bed banging against the wall late at night?”

  Pollock smiled. “Negative, Instructor Furtado.”

  “Not at all?” Furtado sounded disappointed. “Maybe a few screams of pleasure? The occasional crack of a whip?”

  “Nothing,” Pollock answered.

  “Well, then. You must be in on it, too. Pollock, Grey, Rogers, and Aniston—drop down for being gay.”

  Grey started his push-ups as Furtado launched into his lecture, “Introduction to Underwater Knot Tying.” The rest of the class took their seats.

  “You all had this class in Indoc, right?” Furtado asked. “This shouldn’t be new material.” He picked up a twenty-inch piece of rope and twirled it. “This shit isn’t rocket science. Hold your breath, swim to the bottom, tie your piece of rope onto the line, wait for the instructor’s approval, then swim to the surface. Easy, right?”

  “Hoo-yah,” the class answered.

  “Good. That concludes my brief.” He flashed a white smile. As an afterthought he added, “Everyone knows the five knots, right? Square knot, clove half hitch, right angle, bowline, and becket bend?”

  The room was silent. Grey shifted weight from one hand to the other at the back of the class.

  “Good. Now let’s talk business. Who has a good story?”

  Murray immediately jumped up.

  “You’re a turd,” Furtado said. “Drop down.”

  Murray dejectedly assumed the push-up position.

  “Who else?”

  “I’ve got one.” A squat kid built like a diesel truck stood up.

  “What’s your name? You bald losers all look the same.”

  “Swenson.”

  “Okay, Swenson, let’s hear it.”

  “All right, so yeah, I was at this bar last weekend,” Swenson began, his gravelly voice the epitome of forced masculinity. “And I met these two chicks—”

  “You’re lying. Drop down. You couldn’t meet anything with that bald melon of yours.” Furtado looked around. “Next?”

  A student with a pronounced black eye raised his hand.

  “Let me guess. You got in a fight?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you won, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “More lies. But I like hearing about fights. Who was it?”

  “Two big ole Marines.” The student stood up and held his hand high above his head. “About this tall, and beefy as all get-out. They started saying shit about the SEALs, so I punched this guy in the face. I had to jump like this to get him.” He sprung into the air and threw a punch at the ceiling. “He was out right away, but the other guy landed me a good one. Lopez over there had my back, and he was about to get in on the action, but the bartender was already on the phone to the shore patrol, so we bolted.”

  “Sit down, Mike Tyson,” Furtado said. “Weak story, but a good delivery. Take your seat.” He addressed the class. “While I enjoy a good bar brawl as much as anyone, you guys need to realize that it can be a career ender. Try to stifle your urge to brag, especially around officers. You never know who might turn you in.”

  Grey felt beads of sweat pop up on his forehead. Maintaining the push-up position was getting old. He wanted to cry out in frustration, both because of Ramirez’s accident and because he had been betrayed by a classmate.

  “Now it’s my turn for a story,” Furtado said. “You better like it.” He got comfortable and sat on the edge of the table. “This weekend I was downtown at Club Safari. By the way—stay away from that place. I work as a bouncer there, and I sure as hell won’t let any of you turds in. Anyway, so I’m working there Saturday night, and these two fine girls stroll up. And I mean, they were built. Perfection itself. You know when girls have that nice, heart-shaped butt?” He sprang to his feet and stepped over to the whiteboard. He pulled the cap off a pen and proceeded to sketch a butt. “Like this.” He stood back and admired his artwork before turning back to the class.

  Unreal, Grey thought. I’m sitting here in pain, and some jackass is drawing pictures of a girl’s butt.

  “They’re both hot as hell—big old titties and everything. So naturally I introduce myself. Unfortunately, I have to work, so I don’t get to chat with them much, but on the way out one of the bitches grabs my ass. This naturally starts a conversation, and within an hour they’re both back at my place, and I’m giving it to them hard.” Furtado thrust his pelvis at some imaginary harlot for emphasis. “We do it all night, and in the morning right before they leave, they let me in on a secret. Yes, gentlemen, they were both porn stars. I boned two porn stars last weekend.”

  Grey felt his stomach turn. And you’re proud of this?

  Murray propped himself up on one hand and raised the other.

  “What?”

  “Instructor Furtado, I’m very impressed by your story. But shouldn’t you also tell us about the consequences of your actions? I mean, the itching and burning must be horrible.…”

  Furtado’s cheerful demeanor melted. His mouth twitched as he struggled for words. Finally he hissed, “You’ll pay, Murray.” He turned and walked toward the door. “You have ten minutes to be at the pool, ready to go.”

  Oops. I guess we fail. Imagine that. Grey’s mood wasn’t improving. It took at least fifteen minutes to get to the pool, and two minutes to change. Ten minutes was an impossibility. Fuck it.

  “Let’s go!” Smurf yelled. “Form it up on the beach!”

  A wave of students poured out the door and sprinted across the grinder. Grey moved through the crowd until he was lined up next to Murray.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Murray flashed his patented, insane smile. “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  “No, seriously. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Someone has to keep life interesting around here, don’t they?”

  “Sometimes interesting isn’t good, Murray.” Grey fell into the formation and took a quick muster of his boat crew. “Surviving is good.”

  “You worry too much, boss.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The class moved out at a fast trot. Their breath came in ragged gasps by the time they reached the stoplight. Once again, the road guards blocked traffic as the class stormed across the street. No one had enough wind for a battle cry. They ran past the base McDonald’s, the Exchange, and several low-slung storage buildings before reaching the pool.

  “They’re not here yet,” Smurf said, encouraging them. “I don’t see a truck.”

  They rushed through the gate and onto the cement pool deck. The class skittered to a stop as the front-runners noticed an instructor perched on the diving platform. Furtado casually checked his watch.

  “Thirteen minutes.” He shook his head. “Close, but no good. Get wet.”

  The class stampeded into the pool like a group of lemmings. Grey felt a foot connect with the back of his head as students jumped farther and farther out into the pool to clear their teammates. The water was surprisingly chilly. The instructors must have turned off the pool heater for their benefit. How touching. In waves of a dozen or so, the students pulled themselves from the pool and lined up next to the chain-link fence that surrounded the facility.

  “Murray, get up here,” Furtado ordered.

  Grey watched Murray climb the steps that led to the three-meter diving platform. Furtado and Mu
rray conversed for a few tension-filled seconds, and then Murray walked to the edge of the platform and stood looking down at the water. He stripped off his top, his boots, his pants, his undershirt, and his socks, leaving only a pair of butt-hugging khaki underwater-demolition-team (UDT) shorts. After mashing his clothes into a bundle, he tossed them toward the class. He walked to the rear of the platform, turned, broke into a run, and launched himself into the air. The class watched in silence as Murray extended his arms in the beginning of a perfect swan dive. At the apex of the dive, however, when Murray should have dropped his head and streamlined his body, he remained stretched out horizontally.

  “Belly flop!” Jones yelled. The class cheered.

  Murray accelerated downward, his head, legs, and arms thrown back theatrically. At the last second he chickened out and rolled into a ball. A geyser of water exploded into the air as Murray’s body broke the surface. Seconds later he swam to the side.

  “Do it again,” Furtado yelled. “And do it right this time.”

  Murray climbed back onto the platform and faced the class. He took a bow as the class shouted encouragement. After rolling his shoulders and neck, he pointed toward the pool and accelerated down the concrete platform. He executed another perfect launch, arcing high into the air. And once again, as he fell, his body remained horizontal. His eyes were shut tightly and his jaw clenched as he made contact with the surface. A distinct crack echoed throughout the complex as Murray disappeared from sight. A long five seconds later, he floated to the surface and took feeble strokes toward the wall. His face was pale and his eyes were wide with pain.

  Grey rushed to the side of the pool to help him out.

  “Get the fuck away, sir!” Furtado yelled. “He can take care of himself!”

  As Grey reluctantly turned away, several diesel trucks rumbled into the parking lot. Smurf quickly called the class to attention. Furtado ran down the diving-platform steps and disappeared out the gate.

  “Call them out for me,” Smurf ordered as he nervously fidgeted in his wet uniform.

  “I don’t know their names any better than you do.” Grey shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just do it.”

  The class tensed up visibly at the sight of Smurf’s insecurity. Seconds later a string of instructors filed through the gate, and Grey started spouting off names, hoping for the best.

  “Senior Chief Ortiz, Chief Baldwin, Chief Lundin, Instructor Heffner, Instructor Furtado, Instructor Redman, Instructor Heisler.”

  Grey allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. It appeared he had correctly guessed the order of seniority—a small miracle. Suddenly the decontamination showers hissed to life. The decon area consisted of ten shower nozzles that shot high-pressure water from three directions. While maintaining the hygiene of the pool was the ostensible purpose behind this torture apparatus, the instructors liked it for one reason: standing under it was extremely uncomfortable. The water was always freezing cold.

  “You forgot me, dipshit.” A short, well-built, mustachioed instructor with a shaved head addressed Grey. “I’m not someone you want to forget. In fact, I’m going to make sure it never happens again. Go stand in the decon, arms extended. I want you to repeat my name a thousand times. When you’re done, you can get out. And don’t even think about cheating.”

  Grey stepped into the path of the blasting water and started chanting, “Osgood, Osgood, Osgood—”

  “Use my proper title. And shout it out,” Osgood snarled.

  “Instructor Osgood! Instructor Osgood!”

  “Louder!”

  Grey yelled at the top of his lungs. The cold water bit into his skin, and in less than a minute he was shaking hard. Five minutes later, when he reached repetition three hundred, Murray joined him. They both checked to make sure the instructors weren’t watching, then hugged each other tightly, striving to conserve as much body heat as possible.

  “Why you here?” Grey asked.

  “Redman.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Grey continued shouting out Instructor Osgood’s name. By the time Grey reached repetition nine hundred, he was becoming deliriously cold. His speech started to slur, and he clutched Murray like a lost child.

  The rest of the class bear-crawled around the pool deck. Instructor Osgood walked behind them, urging the slower students to crawl faster. Red streaks marked the concrete where trainees had left behind skin from their tenderized hands.

  A new instructor walked over to the decon showers and regarded Grey and Murray impassively. Grey was so cold that he refused to let go of his fellow student.

  “Who sent you here?”

  “Instructor Osgood.”

  “Have you been in here since we came?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get out—both of you.”

  Grey gratefully stepped out of the shower. He had never met Chief Lundin, but he could already tell he was a godsend. The man was completely ordinary looking, with a slight paunch, unremarkable muscles, a thinning head of brown hair, and dull brown eyes.

  “Why’d you join the navy?”

  “Excuse me?” The question caught Grey off guard.

  “I said, why’d you join?”

  Grey thought for a while. His teeth were still chattering. “I thought being a SEAL sounded like an interesting profession. Sure beats investment banking, anyway.”

  “Does it?” Lundin asked. “You could be making truckloads of money.”

  “Fuck the money.” Grey looked Lundin in the eye. “My brother went that route. One-hundred-and-twenty-hour weeks and certain heart failure by age fifty. I can think of better lifestyles.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  In the background, students groaned as they completed their third lap around the Olympic-size pool.

  “What’d you study?”

  “History.”

  “Focus on anything?”

  What the hell is this guy up to? “U.S. foreign policy.”

  “And you?” Lundin looked at Murray. “What’s your story?”

  Murray eyed the instructor skeptically. “I grew up in Stockton. High school drop out, vagrant—you know the story.”

  “You realize about half the enlisted men in this class have college degrees—”

  “And?”

  “You’re a little behind the power curve. Not to say you couldn’t catch up, but the only tour I can think of that gives you the time to attend classes is”—Chief Lundin laughed softly—“BUD/S instructor.”

  “I didn’t sign up for the SEALs to get an academic education,” Murray said. “I want to kick down doors. Shoot and loot!”

  Chief Lundin smirked. “Right. You and everyone else. The reality is somewhat different.”

  “What do you mean?” Murray looked confused.

  “Don’t worry about it. Go join your class.”

  Grey and Murray jogged over to the school circle that had formed around Chief Baldwin. He held up a short piece of rope and deftly tied a series of knots, his nimble fingers working from memory.

  “And there you have it,” he said, holding up a bowline. “Instructor Furtado already went over all of this in detail, so I won’t beat the subject to death. I want five lines of students at the deep end of the pool. Each line will be assigned one instructor. When he waves you out, you swim to his position. From there on out, it’s his show. He’ll tell you when to swim to the bottom and tie your knot on the line. Once you’ve got your knot tied, you’ll give him the okay sign. He’ll examine your knot. If he likes it, he’ll give the okay sign back. Then you’ll give him a thumbs up. You will not surface until he returns the signal. Understood?”

  “Hoo-yah, Instructor Baldwin!”

  “What did I tell you about answering my questions? Hoo-yah means nothing to me! Drop down, assholes!”

  The class quickly cranked out twenty push-ups.

  “Now form five lines, and make it quick.”

  Grey quickly glan
ced at the instructors in the water and herded his boat crew toward Instructor Heisler. He had a good reputation, and he generally treated the students with a modicum of respect.

  “Hey, Jeff.” Instructor Redman swam over to Heisler. “I want that group,” he said, pointing at Grey’s boat crew. “Mind if we switch?”

  “Of course not.”

  Fuck. We’re dead.

  “Officers first, sir.” Redman waved Grey into the pool. “Let’s go.”

  Grey lowered himself into the cold water and sidestroked over to Redman. The burly instructor splashed water in his face.

  “Nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit.” Redman splashed water in Grey’s face again. “Here’s the deal: you have micro lungs, I have manly lungs. I’m going to stay on the bottom the whole time. You get to come to the surface between each knot—”

  “What—?”

  “You doubt me?” Redman cut in. “Just do it, dumb-ass. The trick is this: the longer you keep me waiting below, the more upset I’ll get. The more upset I become, the less likely it is that I will approve your sorry little knot. Catch my drift?”

  “Sure.”

  “Here’s the order: square knot, bowline, half hitch, and becket bend. Don’t mess it up.” The hint of a smile formed at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, sir. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Grey exhaled several times, then drew in a huge breath. The surface closed over his head as he lowered himself toward the bottom. A white line ran across the pool several inches from the concrete floor. He swam over to it and started his first knot. Left over right, right over left. Seconds later he had a perfect square knot tied to the line. He gave Redman the okay sign. Seated cross-legged on the other side of the line, the instructor looked like he was meditating. He grabbed the knot and regarded it carefully for a few seconds. He pulled on both loose ends of the line, ensuring that it was snugged down sufficiently, then slowly formed the okay sign. Grey eagerly flashed the thumbs-up and waited for acknowledgment before bolting for the surface.