“Every day? I can’t train every day. I’ve got—”
“Every day, McLanahan,” Wohl said. “You will train each and every day, rain or shine, sick or well, exams or dates, or I’ll send you back to your father, and he’ll happily lock you away inside the red rocks of southern Utah. You’ll do weights and cardio for physical fitness; Cane-Ja and Krav Maga for self-defense; and classes and demonstrations of surveillance, countersurveillance, investigation, observation, and identification techniques.” He made that evil smile once more, then added, “You thought Second Beast at the Air Force Academy was tough? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, bubba.” Wohl’s smile disappeared, and he wore a thoughtful expression. “The first thing we need to do is give you your call sign,” he said.
“A call sign? What do I need a call sign for?”
“Because I’m tired of calling you ‘McLanahan”—too many syllables,” Wohl said. “Besides, McLanahan is definitely your father until he kicks the bucket, and I don’t think that’s going to happen for a very long time.” He looked at his teammates in the conference room with him. All three of them were tall, square-jawed, and heavily muscled, the Hollywood version of a Navy SEAL, which Brad thought they probably used to be. “What do you boys think?”
“p-ssy,” one said. He was the biggest of the three, well over six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds, with a thick neck, broad shoulders tapering to a thin waist, enlarging again to thick thighs and calves, then tapering again to thin ankles. He looked like a professional bodybuilder, Brad thought. “Better yet, just give him to the chief. He’ll chew him up and spit him out, the general will send him to St. George, and then we don’t have to f*ck with him.”
“Flex, we got a job to do,” Wohl said. “Keep your opinions to yourself. Dice?”
“Doughboy.”
“Geek,” said the third.
“Be nice to the young man,” Wohl said, wearing that malevolent smile again. “He’s had a most traumatic experience, and besides he’s a hardworking engineering student.”
“A brainiac, huh?” the one named Dice asked. “My kid used to watch a brainless cartoon called Dexter’s Laboratory on TV, where this really smart kid gets bushwhacked by his dumb sister all the time. Let’s call him ‘Dexter.’?”
“I still like ‘Doughboy’ better,” the third said.
“?‘Dexter’ it is,” Wohl announced.
“That’s a lousy call sign,” Brad said. “I’ll pick my own.”
“Dexter, call signs are earned, and they are picked by your teammates, not by yourself,” Wohl said. “You haven’t earned anything yet. But call signs can change, for the worse as well as for the better. Work hard and maybe we’ll give you a better one.”
“What’s your call sign?”
“For you, it’s ‘sir’ or ‘sergeant major,’?” Wohl said, looking at Bradley with serious menace. “You’d better get that right the first time.” To his men in turn he said, “Dice, find us a safe and securable hotel to stay in, in San Luis Obispo, close to campus. Flex, get in contact with Chief Ratel and ask if he can set up a martial-arts, countersurveillance, and firearms training program for us ASAP.” To Brad he said, “Let’s see your shooting hand.”
“Shooting hand? I don’t have a shooting hand.”
“Then which hand do you pick your nose with, Dexter? C’mon, we don’t have all day.” Wohl grabbed Brad’s right wrist, and Brad opened his hand. “Jeez, tiny little hands just like your father. That’s probably why he joined the Air Force—he didn’t have hands big enough to hold even a friggin’ girl’s gun.” He held the hand up so the third team member could see Brad’s hand. “Rattler?”
“Smith and Wesson M and P .40 cal,” the third team member said in a low, growling voice. “Or a peashooter.”
“Forty-cal it is,” Wohl said. “Get to it.” The three team members pulled out cell phones and got to work. “One last thing, Dexter.”
“I hate that call sign already,” Brad said.
“I hate that call sign already, sir,” Wohl corrected him. “I told you: do something worthy for the team and yourself, and you might get a better call sign. And start showing some respect for your superiors around here. I should’ve kicked your ass across the hangar for the way you spoke to President Martindale yesterday. I will next time, I promise you.” Brad nodded and wisely said nothing.
“Now, we can do several things to help you detect and defend against danger, but we can’t do very much for your friends,” Wohl went on. “We’ve noticed that you don’t really hang out with anybody but your research team of nerds on that Starfire project, which is good, but I want you to limit your time in public with anyone. If a hit team starts to target your friends to get to you, it could spell real trouble for everyone that we could not contain. Understand?”