Pitbull let go of his daughter Samantha’s hand and wrestled a bit with Jugs. Dragon was carrying Ceri, and he set her down next to Samantha. Ceri picked up the ball and threw it. The dog bounded after the bouncing rubber. “This isn’t some backyard, young lady.”
Samantha looked sheepish and smiled winsomely. “She’s just a little girl,” she said, a tiny perfect mini-SEAL protecting her teammate. Murphy gave her a knowing look, telling Sam that she wasn’t moved by cute and adorable…much. Murphy finished up the bandage and headed for the door. “Not too long,” she said, tousling Samantha’s soft blonde hair as she left the room.
“That woman scares me,” Dodger said, coming over to the bed.
“Me too,” Fast Lane said, and everyone laughed.
“She’s all bark and no bite,” Max responded as his other teammates crowded around the bed.
2-Stroke set down the bag on the rolling L table and started passing out breakfast burritos. Max took one and said, “I’m starving. The food in here sucks.”
“Give me MREs anytime,” Saint said.
“Yeah, peanut butter and jelly,” Dodger said. “Good stuff.”
“Not as good as the real thing, but pretty darn close,” Saint agreed.
Samantha climbed up onto the edge of the bed, pulling Ceri up with her. “We did your pony profile, Uncle Max.”
Pitbull chuckled, and Dragon grinned.
“You what?” Max said, not sure he’d heard her right and maybe his meds were mixed up.
“P-o-n-y p-r-o-f-i-l-e,” she said again more slowly, as if that was going to help. “You go first, Ceri.”
Ceri shrugged off a small backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a tablet. She turned it on and consulted it. “Your pony name is Music Lightning. You are an earth pony born in Ponyville.” She gave him a cute smile. “You are the luckiest pony this side of The San Palomino Desert! Your best friend is a bunny named Snapper.”
Sam pulled off her backpack and rummaged inside to come out with a bunch of papers. She handed him a drawing in crayon of a strong pony with a black mane and tail. “Your cutie mark is paw prints because you love Jugs.”
On his flank was a set of black pawprints against his green coloring. Beside him was a rabbit with attitude. He laughed and then winced. “Thanks, Sam and Ceri.”
“He’s ponylicious,” Dodger said, and everyone laughed.
“I have one for you too, Uncle Oliver.”
His teammates laughed even harder.
Pitbull cleared his throat. “She has one for each of us.”
“Even Fast Lane?” Saint asked.
“His is the best because he’s so fierce,” Sam said. “Daddy said you’re a tough so and so.”
Fast Lane gave her his sternest look. “Let’s have it, young lady.”
“Coco Hazel. You are a crystal pony born in The Crystal Empire. You are the most soft-hearted pony this side of the Everfree Forest. Your best friend is a buffalo named Whizz.”
At first there was nothing but the rustle of paper as Samantha handed over his drawing.
He had a flowing deep purple mane with orange through it, his body a pristine white with dark splotches of black.
“Don’t leave us in suspense, LT,” 2-Stroke said. “What’s your cutie mark?”
Max coughed and worked at keeping his laughter under control but sobered when he saw his usually stoic commander’s face was moved by the girls. “It’s three tattered pink hearts.” Max looked at Samantha. “Why are they so ripped up, Sam?”
“Because he has to see hard things, do hard things, and make all the hard decisions. It hurts his heart.”
“But he has his guys to help him,” Ceri said. “Just like the ponies. Friendship is magic.”
Out of the mouth of babes. Max pulled both of them into a hard hug. Yeah, that was one thing he could agree with. “Hoo-yah, ladies,” he murmured as all the guys echoed his sentiment.
Then Fast Lane hugged them, and Pitbull and Dragon took them over to the corner to pass out the rest of the pony pictures.
“How are you doing, Max?”
“I’m great, LT. It was a through-and-through, going to be some pain, but no nerve or muscle damage. Might as well have been a flesh wound.”
“But it wasn’t, and I’m not going to downplay this incident as humble as you are. You saved Mak’s life by catching those rounds in your vest. Your back has to be bruised and sore, so let’s cut the crap.”
“She’s one of the team,” he said, thankful that Mak had survived with such a minor injury.
“Yeah, well command disagrees. You’re on medical leave for a bit. They need an instructor over at BUD/S. You report there after you’re discharged.” He lowered his voice. “Keep your eyes peeled. We’ve got ourselves some slime that might have slipped through the cracks. Bring your mad skills to our up and comers.”
Max remembered the sight of the O-course from the open helicopter doors. “I’ll plug up the cracks, sir.”
“Hoo-yah,” LT said with a knuckle bump.
The last evolution of BO came early. A powdered haze hung over the Naval Amphibious Base on Coronado as a chill air mass snuck in from the Pacific, smothering the stars. The lights along Guadalcanal Road were fading, golden light melting into harsh day. The base was eerily silent. The hands of the clock on the cinderblock slipped to 5:00 a.m.—0500, or zero five hundred, in military lingo. Hemingway pressed his damp chest to the back of the man in front of him as they all huddled for warmth on the concrete pool deck, everyone fresh from a shower. Behind a chain-link fence slatted with diagonal privacy strips, his class waited with bated breath for it to finally begin, the test of their lives. There was only one thought in each of their heads. Stay the course. Precision rows of duffel bags stuffed with uniforms, boots, and training gear divided each line of human muscle. The pool—officially called the combat training tank, or CTT—had already been prepared for this trial.
“Feet!” The barked command sent every student upright into groups made up of seven BUD/S trainees. The chill air robbed Hemingway of the warmth that had helped to keep the shivering at bay.
“Instructor Taylor,” the class leader yelled. In BUD/S all instructors were identified by name when they gave an order. If the class leader got it wrong, there would be payment.
“Hoo-yah Instructor Taylor.”
“Wrong, sir!”
Training had begun and the class leader had forgotten that Instructor Wyatt Taylor wanted to be called Instructor T.
“Assume the position, gents,” he said into the pin-drop quiet as many of the men realized their leader’s gaff was going to cost them all. “Count them out. Music to my ears.”
Hemingway battled for the real estate to perform his push-ups in the press of male bodies. Assuming the position meant they would hold their bodies in leaning-rest, plank straight on their arms and toes waiting for the command to start. Any violation, big or small, would get them push-ups and the day would grind out either with the class performing well or screwing up. He bet their class leader, Ensign Adrian Lane was kicking himself right now.
They’d all met over the weekend to practice muster and headcount. Hemingway could tell right away that the big Texan from San Antonio was brilliant. He was calm, collected and soft-spoken, with a twang that Hemingway found good-ole-boy easy. The guy was married to his high school sweetheart for God’s sake. That impressed Hemingway, as he’d never been able to plot his path forward while handling a relationship.