Atlas (12 page)

I could smell the greasy good scent of the cronuts on the breeze. And the steak too. Well done, just the way I liked it. With barbecue sauce. I could even hear it sizzling on the grill.

But I didn't get up and quit. To this day I'll never know if there were actually cronuts and steak up there, or if it was only the power of suggestion that had conjured those scents in my desperate, cold-weary mind.

What I did know was that three guys got up and quit right there.

After another fifteen minutes we were ordered out
of the ocean and the Weavers moved between us, inspecting us for signs of hypothermia. While the robots did this, the rest of us waited on the beach with our arms out, letting those industrial fans seep away whatever heat our bodies managed to generate, as the instructors decreed.

Haywire was standing right beside me, struggling along just like the rest of us. Abruptly he put his arms down.

"I'm done," he said to no one in particular. "That's it."

"Haywire wait," I said. "What about the pact? You're our leading petty officer. You can't quit."

"You two!" Instructor Piker said. "What are you doing? Get your arms back up!"

Haywire stepped forward. "I quit, sir."

Piker nodded curtly, and called over another instructor to escort him away.

"No you don't!" I said, stepping between Haywire and Piker. "He doesn't quit. We made a pact. Enough people have quit. Good people."

"Let him go, boss." It was Alejandro. He'd stepped out of line too, and he rested a hand on my shoulder.

Haywire abruptly ran past me to the pick-up truck on the beach where the flint stone had conveniently been relocated. Haywire sprinted up the ramp, picked up the gavel and struck the flint three times, hard. The sparks flew. "I quit! I quit! I quit!"

Haywire slumped. He dropped the gavel and, sobbing and hanging his head, staggered down the ramp and let an instructor escort him away.

I was just stunned. He had sworn to see this through to the end. How could he walk away from it all?

Piker had watched the whole thing unfold with an open mouth, but when he looked back at me his face screwed up into a snarl. Before he could say anything another instructor intervened.

"Once they get it into their heads that they're quiting, there's nothing you can do to stop them." It was Instructor Reed, our class proctor. I hadn't even noticed his presence until now. He nodded at Piker, who backed off. "Even when you give the student a second chance, he'll always quit in the end. Always." Instructor Reed studied me for a second. He must have seen the heartbreak on my face, because he asked, "Do you want to quit, too?"

I staggered over to the truck and stumbled up the ramp. I picked up the gavel, and ran my hands over the flint stone. All I had to do was swing the gavel against the stone three times, cause a few sparks, and I'd be out of here.

"Do you quit, sir?" Instructor Reed had joined me in the truck bed. I glanced at him. Alejandro and Tahoe stood behind him. They'd come too. My faithful companions to the end.

"I ask again," Instructor Reed said. "Do you quit?"

Behind him, Alejandro shook his head. Tahoe frowned.

I stared at the gavel. It would be so easy to give up. To throw it all away. To give in and be released from all pain.

I felt like a man standing on the roof of a building, staring down at the traffic going by far below. Three small steps... three small taps...

No.

I wasn't going to even let the
idea
of quitting enter my head. As Instructor Reed said, that was the path to failure.

I refused to give in.

I refused to throw away everything because of some momentary lapse in judgment, some weakness of the moment, because I was experiencing a little pain, discomfort, cold, and humiliation. I could get a juicy steak and cronut any other time of year. But if I quit now, I could never do this again. I'd be rolled back, and have to do this all over again, and I'd probably quit again.

No, I had to continue onward.

I'd once told Shaw and Ace how resilient the human spirit was.

I wouldn't quit. I was stronger than that.

I had to be.

The flint stone reminded me of how easy it was to get out of here. It reminded me that yes, there was an easy way out, but I'd never take it. It reminded me that anything of value in this life was worth fighting for.

I wasn't going to quit.

Not now.

Not ever.

I hurled the gavel so hard that sparks flew when it struck the pickup bed.

I turned toward Instructor Reed. "That's a big fat
negative
, sir!"

Instructor Reed grinned widely. "Then get back to the others, Mr. Galaal!"

"Wooyah, In-struc-tor!"

That was my turning point. That's when I knew: I was going to become a MOTH or die trying.

* * *

We didn't sleep. All through Sunday evening, to Monday morning, to Monday evening, to Tuesday morning, the instructors hounded us. PT, sea immersion, s
oft sand runs, PT, bay swims, mud crawls, more PT, Gingerbread Men, O-Course, ATLAS PT, inflatable boat races, pipeline crawls. Did I mention PT? The instructors swapped out in eight hour shifts that coincided with our meal breaks, so they were always fresh and ready to give a good beating.

Tuesday proceeded much the same. No sleep. Brutal PT.

I focused on getting to the next meal. If I dared look past those meals, at the upcoming days of endless, backbreaking, sleepless work, I'd quickly become dispirited. I had to dismiss those thoughts, and concentrate on the next meal. I'd get to that next meal, dammit.

I'd make it.

I thought of a quote I'd read by Winston Churchill, from one of the books on the recommended reading list.
Never give in—never, never, never, never. If you're going through hell, keep going.

I thought of Shaw, and remembered what she had told me.
Remember me in the deepest, darkest hours. When you think you can't go on. When the training is too much. Hold on to the moments we've shared. Hold on to last night.
And I did. I held onto that night we'd shared, let me tell you. I held on for dear life.

I heard the gavel striking the flint stone nearly every hour, sometimes twice an hour. I'd hear the sound, see the flash from the sparks, and know that another good man had fallen. No one deserved to be sent home now. But there it was. Men giving up, even though we'd done this all a hundred times before. The exhaustion had finally broken them. I understood now what Bowden had been trying to tell us in Basic. You'll leave MOTH training as a broken man, he promised. Well, those who quit were certainly broken. Maybe irreparably so.

But honestly, for me, hearing that sound of the gavel striking the flint, and seeing those flashes, only strengthened my resolve. I wasn't going to be one of those who tapped out. I wasn't going to be one of the quitters.

Wednesday p
roceeded much the same as the days before it, though we were finally given permission to sleep around noon. We slept right there, on the beach. I was rudely awakened an hour and a half later, feeling groggier than I'd felt my entire life.

The whole class stumbled all the way back to the grinder, and judging from their sluggish movements, I wasn't the only one who felt far worse than before I'd gone to sleep. We worked through it. We had to.

I noticed something as the day wore on.

People had stopped tapping out. I hadn't heard the gavel ring against the flint stone, seen the flash of a spark, since early morning. This was the homestretch. It had to be. I was training with the people who were going to be MOTHs.

We were all brothers now.

That night Alejandro was sent away in an ambulance and returned a few hours later. He confided in me that the Weavers had treated him for a prolapsed rectum. "I'm going to have stories to tell to my kids,
hombre
! When I was in bootcamp, the training was so bad that my intestines fell out. I literally got my ass kicked out of me!"

By Thursday I couldn't keep any food down. I vomited blood too, and couldn't hold my bowel movements worth a damn. I was taken away to the medlab, where a corpsman strapped me down to a Weaver. The robot forced one of its telescoping fingers down my throat.

"Just hold still, let the Weaver apply its laser to your ulcer," the corpsman told me.

When the robot was done, the corpsman jabbed a funnel down my esophagus and force-feed me a concoction he called the Green Goddess. "Just a little gastrointestinal martini I came up with," the corpsman said. "It has an antacid to stop the heartburn, lidocaine to stop the diarrhea, and an anticholinergic to paralyze your peristaltic muscles and prevent you from vomiting. Good stuff." He followed that up with a liquid meal replacement, you know, the kind they force-fed prisoners on hunger-strikes. My stomach rumbled and gurgle, but I kept the food down.

Friday morning finally came.

I remember the sun coming up, and Instructor Piker saying, "Well, seeing as it's a bright and shiny Thursday morning, and you got another 24 hours of Trial Week ahead of you, might as well let you chow down. After some ATLAS PT first, of course."

Thursday
morning? I don't know how I'd come up with Friday. Honestly, I'd completely lost track of the days by then. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, it was all a blur of sameness to me.

I just had to last one more day.

Just one more day.

At breakfast, we weren't even allowed to eat. The moment we sat down, the order was given to leave. We all had plates full of bacon, eggs and toast, and had to throw everything out in the trash. What a waste.

After we ported—or rather, zombied—our ATLAS 1s back to the beach, we found Chief Adams waiting to orchestrate our torture this morning. This was somewhat of a surprise, because he was usually on the afternoon shift.

"Time to begin Thursday's evolutions!" he said cheerily. "We have so much to accomplish today. But first, sea immersion, gentlemen!"

"Wooyah," a few people managed. Not me. All my joints were throbbing, and I hurt all over.

Just one more day.

We marched forward. The waves were coming on strong and I knew we were in for a beating. So cold, so damn cold. I was shivering before even stepping into the water. The sun was well away from the horizon by now, and its rays reflected blindingly from the ocean. It didn't warm me.

Just one more day.

We stepped into the surf and locked arms.

Before we sat down
, the Chief said into his megaphone. "Actually, Class 1108, there's no other evolution. Seems I was mistaken. It's Friday after all, not Thursday."

I exchanged a confused glance with Alejandro. Was this another cruel joke?

"I'm serious, gentlemen," the Chief continued. He was calling us gentlemen, I noticed for the first time, not
children
. "You made it. Congratulations. Trial Week secure."

I turned around. Ashore, all thirty instructors from the beginning of the week stood on the sand berm.

They started clapping.

I fell to my knees right there in the water. Beside me, Alejandro and Tahoe were weeping openly. I staggered upright and gave them both a hug.

"We made it," I said.

"It's over," Alejandro sobbed. "I can't believe it."

I hugged groups of the other students. It was over.

We'd done it.

We helped each other ashore and over the sand berm. It was like the inner resolve that we'd built up all this time abruptly seeped out, and we dropped the facade of strength we'd put up. Our shoulders slumped. Many of us walked with a limp—I did. More than one man staggered and fell flat on his face.

But another man was always there to pick him up.

Always.

I have zero recollection of what happened the moment after I crossed that sand berm at the end of Trial Week. All I remember is waking up Saturday morning in the barracks at 1300, with all my joints swollen beyond recognition. There was a box of stale pizza on the floor beside me, untouched.

When I reported in to the Weavers, I found out I'd lost twenty pounds. I also had pneumonia.

A Weaver fixed up my lungs, then drained the fluid from my swollen joints. The robot applied an antibiotic ointment to my knees and elbows (which were scraped raw) and sent me on my way.

They said Trial Week took ten years off your life. I believed it. I guess I'd just have to book a couple of rejuvenation treatments at some point, though I'm not sure if it would help.

I found Alejandro and we walked (very leisurely!) to the mess hall. There we ate, and ate some more. When I got back to the barracks, I ate the stale pizza that was still beside my bed.

The rest of that weekend was spent eating, and sleeping.

Twenty-six students were left at the end of Trial Week, out of the forty-five who began it, and the one hundred eighty-two who had first reported at Orientation.

I felt privileged to be one of those who had made it.

In the coming days, we had some moderately useful classroom learning sessions. The PT was still pretty brutal, but never quite as intense as Trial Week—most of us were still recovering. It had become more conditioning than elimination at this point. Still, the qualifications themselves remained tough, with a particularly vicious qualification five days after Trial Week.

All of us had gathered on the black asphalt of the grinder in our swim trunks. We knew something was up, because not only was Chief Adams here today, but Captain Lindberg himself, the man in charge of BSD/M training this year. He was the O6 who ran Naval Special Warfare Group One (which oversaw MOTH Teams One, Three, Five, and Seven) at the amphibious base where the spec-ops school was held. His hair was gray at the temples, and his face was all stony planes and hard angles, covered in weatherworn lines. Despite that face, he had the hard body of an athletic twenty-year-old.

Standing beside the Captain were two men dressed in the same blue and gray digital camos as him. These men were introduced as Petty Officers First Class Gains and Tavies. They didn't look any different from the average gym-going citizens, but in their eyes was this knowing glint, like they knew something no one else did. Their movements were confident and controlled, as if every action were carried out for a very specific reason. No wasted energy. Like a caiman stalking its prey. I knew they were MOTHs.

Both of them stood before a pile of ominous looking canisters placed near a six-foot tall metal bullet catch. The wide surface of the catch was pocked with so many bullet dents that it looked like some lunar landscape gone bad.

A quiet, serious-looking man with a holstered hand pistol watched everything from the sidelines. He was wearing a working uniform with a woodland digital pattern, and he had green camouflage paint on his face. He had a darker complexion, and remained very still, as if used to spending hours motionless in the field. His eyes never moved from the bullet-ridden catch. A whisper passed down our ranks that he was a full-blown MOTH sniper, and a few people joked that he was here to shoot anyone who made a mistake.

With six Weavers and two human corpsmen on standby at the edge of the grinder, I could very well believe it. Other than Trial Week, I'd never seen so many medical robots outside the clinic.

Not a good sign.

"Greetings, sirs," Captain Lindberg said. "Today is a very special occasion. A little over five days ago you secured Trial Week, and that's no easy accomplishment. But that only means we have the real men among us now. And so the qualifications get a little more real. Some of you are still going to wash out, unfortunately. But I hope not today." Smiling widely, he surveyed our ranks. "Today is your Combat Resiliency Qualification. First you're going to get shot. Then you're going to fight. Then you're going to get sprayed with OC-40. Then you're going to fight again."

He let those words hit home before continuing.

"As MOTHs, you are sent on some of the highest-risk operations in the galaxy, into danger zones that make Mongolia look like a cakewalk. It is inevitable that you will be shot in combat. Absolutely inevitable. We always prepare our teams for inevitabilities." The Captain glanced at the MOTH sniper. "We're going to have an expert marksmen fire at a non-vital area of your body. Trace here is one of the best we have. He can hit a target five miles away with ninety percent accuracy. But I have to warn you, though you're in the hands of one of the greatest living marksmen, bullets sometimes do strange things. Like when they hit bone. If you're shot in the arm, depending on your body structure and bone placement, that bullet can deflect, and may not travel clean through. Maybe it'll travel lengthwise to other parts of your body, zipping through your intestines, or even your heart. This is why it is imperative that you remain absolutely still when the marksman fires. I say again, it is imperative that you remain absolutely still. Even so, some of you may suffer severe, life-threatening injuries. If you choose to quit now, no one will think any less of you. Indeed, you've completed Trial Week, come further than most trainees every dreamed of. You're men. If you want to quit, that's your own personal choice. None of you has a thing to prove at this point, not to me, nor yourselves."

No one quit.

Captain Lindberg nodded slowly. "All right. Good. Now, in the course of the line of duty, you may be exposed to chemical weapons. The most common used in military situations is OC-40. Basically pepper spray with some extra ingredients. That's easy, you're thinking. Just pepper spray. You've all been through the Confidence Chamber in Basic. Petty officer lights a vomit gas tablet, you take off your mask and shout your rank, name and Id. Well I hate to break it to you, but vomit gas doesn't even come close to the potency of OC-40. The OC concentration is forty percent in this stuff, about triple what's allowed to the local law enforcement agencies. About eight times as potent as the vomit gas tablets you endured in Basic. Think about that for a second."

He casually took one of the canisters from PO1 Gains. Captain Lindberg studied it, pursing his lips. Then he turned the nozzle toward his head and sprayed himself square in the face. He opened his eyes a few seconds later, blinked rapidly, and inhaled.

"Did you know the 'hot' sensation is caused by the Capsicum binding with the pain and heat sensing neurons?" His face was starting to turn red. He continued to blink, and his voice sounded strained, but he didn't stop talking. "I'd tell you that the pain was mostly in your mind, an illusion, but that's not true. I'm not going to lie to you poor sons-of-bitches. OC-40 is an inflammatory agent. It boosts allergic sensitivities, irritates the eyes, bronchial airways, the stomach lining—whatever it touches. Even if you've built up a tolerance to the stuff, like myself, you're going to feel this, trust me.

"We're going to give you a light dose to start with, enough to give you a fighting chance to complete the resiliency part of the Qualification, then we're going to spray you until you go down. Don't get up unless you want to get sprayed again." He smiled wryly. "Though I suspect a few of you suckers-for-punishment are going to get up anyway. By the way, if you have any medical conditions the entrance processing scans didn't detect, you better let us know
now
. It's far better to leave the MOTHs because of a medical problem, than to leave because you died. We have Weavers with us, but sometimes even Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation fails."

He walked in front of our assembled ranks, holding his hands behind his back. His face was a dark crimson by now, but he'd stopped the rapid blinking. "When struck by a bullet, and sprayed with a chemical weapon, you must be able to respond. You must not let anything incapacitate you. Being able to fight back may save your life. So. Who wants to go first?"

The Captain ran his gaze across us. I purposely didn't meet his eye. Don't stand out, don't draw instructor attention. That was one of my rules.

"There's no one among you brave enough to take the challenge? No one with heart?"

That got me.

Despite myself, I raised my hand.

"Mr. Galaal!" Captain Lindberg said, no doubt reading the name on my embedded Id with his Implant. He gave me a fatherly smile. A parent inviting his son inside for a beating.

Lindberg positioned me in front of the metallic bullet catch.

The sniper, Trace, finally moved. He literally flowed forward, taking up a position opposite the bullet catch, about five paces from me. 

"Do you have any medical conditions or injuries that would preclude the discharge of a live round into the region just below the mid-ulna of your right forearm?" Trace said.

"No." I had no idea what an ulna was.

"Are you ready to receive a level one ballistic wound?"

Hell no. "Yes."

One of the corpsman came forward, and passed some kind of scan device over my forearm, then he marked an X on the skin with a felt marker before pulling away.

Trace lowered a pair of goggles over his eyes, and he lifted the pistol.

"Rotate your arm outward slightly," Trace said.

I did.

As the sniper aimed, I had the distinct impression he was staring right through my skin to the bone underneath.

"Don't move, Mr. Galaal," Captain Lindberg said. "Don't you move."

I don't think I could have moved if I wanted to. I was petrified with fear, the deer-in-the-headlights kind, as I stared down that tilted gun barrel.

Don't miss. Don't miss.

Then I heard the shot, followed by the ding as the bullet struck the concrete behind me—I didn't actually hear it hit the metallic catch.

It felt like someone had poked me really hard, at first. It took a few seconds for the actual pain to kick in, then I experienced an excruciating, burning sensation in my forearm, in the exact spot where the corpsman had marked the X. Hot blood gushed down both sides of my arm. The rest of my body seemed strangely cold.

The corpsman hurried to my side. He checked my wound then shouted, "Clean!"

He wrapped my forearm in gauze. A little tight, I thought. The whole area throbbed with every heartbeat.

When he was done, the corpsman retreated. "Secure!"

PO1 Gains stepped forward.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" PO1 Gains said.

I felt faint, but so far I was still relatively lucid. "Three."

"Good."

He held up a padded strike shield. "Punch!"

All I could think was that I'd just been shot. I started to lift my uninjured arm, but a wave of nausea passed over me.

"Punch!" PO1 Gains said.

I squeezed my good hand, and punched the padded shield. Two times.

"Come on, what kind of man are you? Use both hands. Both hands!"

Clenching my teeth, I punched again, this time in sequence. Right, then left. Right, then left. I flinched with each left-arm strike, feeling like the wound was tearing wider each time. I couldn't really form a proper fist with the hand of my injured arm. It just hurt too much.

PO1 Gains lowered the shield slightly. "Knee strikes," he said. "Knee strikes!"

I was feeling quite nauseous now, and had stars floating across my vision, but I grabbed the top of the strike shield with both hands anyway. I raised one leg and kneed the padded shield. Again. Again.

"You're the man, Rade!" Alejandro shouted encouragement. "Keep it up bro!"

"Done. Back away!" PO1 Gains said.

I released the shield, but lost my balance and tumbled forward. The corpsman rushed to my side, and shined a light in my eyes.

"I'm okay," I said, blinking away the stars. "Just a little dizzy."

"Clear!" the corpsman shouted, retreating.

"Pass part one!" PO1 Gains tossed aside the strike shield, then grabbed a canister from the pile.

He moved me back in front of the bullet catch, then looked me in the eye. His expression was blank. "Do you have any medical conditions or injuries that would preclude the discharge of OC-40 into the facial region?"

Only that I'd just been shot. "No."

"Are you ready to receive level one contamination?"

No. Definitely not. "Yes."

"Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Close your mouth."

I did all three.

I felt liquid splash my face. It didn't hurt. Not right away.

After a few seconds the burning kicked in and I forgot all about the gunshot wound in my arm. In fact, at first I thought I'd been shot again, because my whole face was
on fire.

"Open your eyes."

I did, but closed them right away. It felt like there was sandpaper under my eyelids: A thousand little needles pressing into my corneas at the same time. My nose was running. Just plain running, like a waterspout had opened up in my sinuses.

The inside of my
nose burned, and my trachea ached too, but that was nothing compared to the intense pain in my eyes. Even the burning in my face didn't compare. The eye pain just took the fight right out of me and all I wanted to do was drop down and die.