Chapter 15
WHEN the sun rose for the fifth day they were one man short. It was Dick. Rapp didn’t know the guy’s real name, much less where he was from or where he was going, so it was hard to feel too bad when the guy stepped out of formation during a grueling set of up-downs in the hot afternoon sun. He simply approached one of the instructors, announced his intention, and the two men shook hands. Just like that the guy was done. Free of the pain, the sweating, the burning muscles, the tired eyes, and the battered ego. It all seemed too easy, and that’s what scared the crap out of Rapp.
It made him briefly wonder if he was capable of pussing out. All it would take was a down moment. A bad spell, a cold, or a fever or another sleepless night. One misstep and he could be the one shaking hands and packing his bag. While falling asleep that night, Rapp focused on the positive. There was one man fewer to compete with. They kept saying it wasn’t a competition, but Rapp wasn’t so sure. If it wasn’t a competition, why did they count or clock everything they did? The image of the fellow recruit bowing out after five days put Rapp on guard against a moment of personal weakness. It refocused him by showing just how rapidly this journey could come to a very unsatisfying end.
Rapp awoke tired but ready to push ahead. He was the first one on the line and was stretching his neck and shoulders waiting for the others when he noticed the two instructors having what looked like an unpleasant conversation. When everyone was finally on the line, Sergeant Jones stepped forward and with a disappointed look on his face said, “One of you screwed up real bad last night.”
Rapp began racking his brain trying to think of any mistakes he’d made.
“We have rules for a reason. At this point you don’t need to understand these rules, you just need to follow them.” He paused to look each of them in the eye. “You have all been repeatedly warned to not divulge any personal information. Now … we’re realistic enough to understand that you boys will discover certain things about each other. Some of you have a slight accent, so it’s pretty easy to figure out what part of the country you come from. As far as prior military experience, we haven’t busted your balls over debating the healthy rivalry between the services, but last night, someone crossed the line.” He stopped and looked at the ground. In a disappointed voice he said, “The one thing you are never supposed to do is tell someone your real name.”
Rapp heard someone farther down the line mumble something under his breath, but he couldn’t tell who it was, and considering the mood of the two instructors, he didn’t dare look.
“You are all smart enough to know this, and you were all warned what would happen if you slipped up on this one. This isn’t a f*cking summer camp. This is serious shit,” Sergeant Jones said in a disappointed voice. He looked to the far end of the line and said, “Bill, pack your shit. You’re gone.”
The man they called Bill, whom Rapp had pegged as the hot-shooting Navy SEAL from Texas, took one step forward and shook his head at the harsh punishment he’d just received. He looked as if he was going to say something and then caught himself. Sergeant Jones started moving and told Bill to follow him back to the barn. Sergeant Smith stepped in to lead them in PT, but before he could start Bill turned back to the group.
“Victor, you’re a real a*shole. I told you I didn’t want to talk, but you just wouldn’t leave it alone.” Looking at Sergeant Jones, he asked, “Why isn’t he getting the boot as well?”
“Keep moving. We’ll talk about it in the barn.”
“This is bullshit. He told me who he was and where he was from. Same as me,” Bill complained.
Victor laughed. “I gave you a fake name, you stupid hick.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” one of the guys farther down the line asked Victor.
“A*shole,” someone else grumbled.
“You guys should all be thanking me,” Victor said in an easy voice. “One less guy to worry about.”
Sergeant Smith silenced all of them with a growling order to assume the position. “The next one of you who opens his pie hole is gone. Now push ’em out.”
Rapp dropped his chest down to the dewy grass and pushed straight up, quietly counting out each push-up as he went. He’d done so many in the past five days that they were becoming second nature—almost like breathing. Somewhere past number forty and before number fifty, Rapp began feeling some serious ill will toward Victor. If only the big jackass would stumble and break an ankle. He was too risky to have around. For the rest of the morning, as they ran from one thing to the next, Rapp couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Victor were on a collision course. With Dick quitting and Bill getting the boot, that meant two fewer people to run interference. Victor could focus more of his time on pestering Rapp.
The long run was actually nice, since Victor was the slowest of the group. They were spared his running mouth. When breakfast rolled around they all gave him the cold shoulder. It didn’t matter to Victor, though. He stayed chatty, continuing to dole out insults and the occasional wise-ass comment that the instructors seemed to take better than they should have. They spent an hour on the obstacle course and another hour on the pistol range before heading back in for lunch. The attitude among the recruits was decidedly sour. It was as if they had a traitor in their midst. After lunch they went over field-stripping various handguns, and then it was announced that they were heading into the barn for a little hand-to-hand combat.
For Rapp it was his first time back on the mat since the day he’d arrived. He had wondered where the mean old cuss had gone, and had almost asked Sergeant Smith, but the guy wasn’t exactly keen on sharing information. Jones and Smith paired the men up. Since there were five, someone had to be the odd man out and it turned out to be Rapp. The rules were simple: no blows to the head or groin. Choke holds were encouraged, but they warned the men to be careful not to crush anyone’s larynx. If you wanted out all you had to do was tap the mat. Right before they started the blond-haired shrink quietly slipped into the barn.
The first two men up were Roy and Glenn. Rapp hadn’t figured out where either of them was from, and wasn’t about to ask. Like all of them, the two men were dark-featured, with black hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. Roy was five-ten and Glenn was perhaps an inch taller. Rapp guessed they were both around twenty-seven. He was not overly impressed with their fighting styles. They both used standard judo techniques. Lots of holds and throws, but nothing that could be used to incapacitate an enemy in one quick flurry. Technically, they were sound, and they were both tough enough, and in good enough shape, to draw out a lengthy, tiring, boring match.
After about four minutes they ended up in a sweaty tangle in the middle of the mat and Sergeant Smith stepped in. Victor and Fred were up next. Fred was six feet tall and about 175 pounds, and had done a really good job of keeping to himself. He finished in the top three on every run, handled the obstacle course with ease, and was the top marksman after Bill. Victor, at six-two and 220 pounds, was by far the biggest of the group. His neck was nearly as thick as his thighs, which meant, as Rapp had noticed when he met him, that he would be really hard to knock out with a shot to the head. From all of the talking he’d done, Rapp half expected to the see the second coming of Muhammad Ali.
Victor bounded across the mat, shadowboxing as he went. “You ready to get your ass kicked, Freddy?”
Fred said nothing. He walked to the center of the mat in his bare feet and took up his fighting stance. Rapp pegged him for a wrestler by the way he moved. Victor was such an oversized peacock that it was impossible to tell what he was capable of. Most guys his size were not boxers, but he did move pretty well on his feet. Sergeant Smith dropped his hand and the two men charged at each other. Fred went low just as Rapp expected him to. Victor tried to sidestep him, but his right leg got looped by his opponent. Fred hooked onto Victor’s knee and pulled it tight to his chest. He stayed low and kept driving with his legs, trying to tip the bigger man over. Victor hopped back on his left leg and started delivering punches to Fred’s back. The first few were misplaced and lacked power. Rapp watched Victor lose his balance and begin to go down. He changed his tactic and smacked Fred in the back of the head with a closed-fist punch. Fred appeared to slow for a split second, but he didn’t lose his grip.
Victor went down and rolled immediately onto his stomach. He flared his arms and legs out so he couldn’t be flipped. Fred scrambled over the top of him and shot his right arm under Victor’s neck. He wrenched the bigger man’s head back and placed his left forearm across the back of Victor’s head. The hold was commonly known as the sleeper hold, and if it wasn’t broken in short order it performed as advertised. Victor got hold of a couple of Fred’s fingers and twisted with everything he had while turning into the man. Victor used his strength to reverse out of it. At first it looked as if he was getting the upper hand, and then Rapp saw what Fred was up to. He had allowed Victor to think he was initiating the move, but in truth it was Fred’s idea. Once on his back, Fred wrapped his legs around Victor’s waist and clamped down with a vicious scissor lock. Victor only made things worse by trying to pull himself up and away.
As Rapp had learned the hard way, the best way to get out of that hold was with a well-placed elbow to the inner thigh. Earlier in the summer, his instructor had put him in the same scissor lock and made him pay dearly. By pulling away you stretched out the torso, which allowed the person initiating the hold to clamp down even tighter. Then you emptied your lungs to take in a big breath, and the person squeezed even tighter. The next thing you knew you were desperately in need of oxygen, writhing in pain and genuinely concerned that you were about to end up with a broken rib or two.
Victor made that mistake, and it was obvious by the worried look in his eyes that he knew he was in trouble. He swung hard, trying to hit Fred in the solar plexus, but the blow was blocked. Next he tried to twist away, which only allowed Fred to tighten his hold a few more notches. Victor’s face was beet red. Rapp knew it would only last a few more seconds, and he was silently hoping to hear a few ribs pop between now and then. It looked as if Victor was going to quit. He started to wave his left hand, and then just as Fred relaxed a touch, Victor brought his big right fist smashing down. The blow hit Fred square in the face. His head bounced off the mat, and he released his legs. Then blood began to pour from his misshapen nose.
Rapp took a step forward, ready to kick Victor in the head. He was on the verge of delivering the blow when Sergeant Smith stepped onto the mat and began barking orders. Rapp took a step back and watched as Victor rolled off Fred, flopped onto his back, and began laughing.