“Get up there! Bow to stern! The whole class hits the surf if you can’t keep up!”
Hemingway suppressed a groan of anguish as the boat continued to slam against his skull. He refused to give into his body’s demand for rest, for relief. This was unreal, unbearable-the strongest form of pain he had ever willingly suffered. Sensing they were reaching their limit, Cheezer steered them behind the chow hall.
“Down boat,” he yelled.
“You all have an extra five minutes for chow thanks to the quitters.”
Inside, no one dallied, and Hemingway ate ravenously, barely pausing for conversation. Vincent rejoined them and everyone welcomed him back.
“Thanks, guys,” he said. “Cracked a rib, but I’m good to go.” He looked at Hemingway. “They told me what you did. Thank you. I would be in worse shape, maybe broken bones, even DOR’d with a medical if it weren’t for you.”
“I did what you would have done, man.” Hemingway offered his hand, and Vincent shook it.
“You’re a standup guy,” Vincent said, then dug into his food.
Hemingway bypassed coffee for simple hot water, and then indulged himself with a hot cocoa later. Shea was absent, and he wondered what had taken her away from the fun and games. He missed her presence. He remembered her gaze, the emotion in her eyes, and he sighed heavily.
He was a goner. But he didn’t get much time to contemplate that. The day shift charged in, consisting of two brutal instructors, Master Chief Kyle Mason and Petty Officer Kurt Vile. The trainees called them The Terrible Two Tag Team of Evil. Three guys up and quit on the spot. The class referred to them behind their backs as Kyle and Vile. It wasn’t that they singled Hemingway out more often than not, they just hated every one of them equally.
“Come on, pretty boy, let’s move.”
After sitting for a bit, Hemingway felt lethargic, and he didn’t move as fast as he should have.
“You ain’t sleeping, are you boy?” Kyle’s twang seemed more pronounced.
“Negative, Instructor Mason,” Hemingway said. After barking orders, they chased the trainees out of the chow hall.
“We have a full, fun day of activities planned,” he said as he followed Hemingway out. “Now would be the time to hightail it out of here. Ring that bell and quit.”
Five more guys threw in the towel, dropping them down from forty-four to thirty-nine. Professor gave Kyle dark looks like he wanted to deck him. Hemingway pretended to trip into him.
“Leave it,” he whispered.
“Up boat!” Vile said.
They hefted the boat back onto their bruised and throbbing skulls and ran in the elephant train to a hygiene check. They would receive a one-minute hot shower, their cuts and abrasions would be examined, and they would get a change of clothes.
After the heavenly hot but way too short shower and dressed in his white spandex shorts issued to all trainees to help with chafing, he was escorted by a brown shirt to the clinic.
Lieutenant Josh Lattimore examined Hemingway. The doc was an older guy, big broad shoulders, silver gray, close-cropped hair, and piercing blue eyes that twinkled.
“Those are bad scrapes,” he said, gesturing to the side of Hemingway’s right leg just below the knee and the back of his shoulder.
Hemingway looked down, dumbfounded. He didn’t even know they were there. The leg wound was red, raw and still oozing a bit. “Must have happened during rock portage.”
“I heard about that. Well done.” The doc bent down and thoroughly cleaned out his cut skin, then the one on his shoulder. When he was finished, he said, “I’m going to prescribe antibiotics. See the corpsman before you leave.”
“You know about rock portage?”
“Everyone’s talking about what you did. It was courageous. You’ve impressed Cheezer.” He grinned, his eyes dancing. “Now you’ve got to live with that.”
Hemingway barked out a laugh. “He hates my guts.”
“He hates everyone.”
Hemingway laughed softly. “Yeah.”
“Hang in there. Only four and a half days to go and at least four of those hours you’ll be asleep.”
“A Navy doc with a sarcastic sense of humor, nice,” Hemingway said. Doc Lattimore laughed. “Thanks for looking out for us.”
On the way out, Hemingway swabbed his groin with A&D ointment and pulled on a penis sock to help with sand and chafing. He left through a side door where two brown shirts waited to disinfect his feet and apply a topical silicone gel. Next to the picnic table was a line of milk crates. Hemingway found his and got dressed.
He made his way around the corner, and Vile was there grinning. “All cozy and dry?” he said with a running hose in his hand and an evil grin. He sure lived up to his name.
Wet again, Hemingway and the class were back on the beach fulfilling the BUD/S trifecta adding in sand and cold.
Shea came through the door at the covert Grove base. She headed straight into their offices.
“So Manning had a juvie record?” Shea asked immediately.
“Yeah, the DNA popped, and we had to dig to find it and get a court order to unseal it, but his DNA is the only one present and the only match.”
“Not Wilson?” Shea mused, her eyes narrowing.
“No. There’s no evidence Wilson was involved. His alibi stands firm. He was on watch duty.”
Something in Shea’s brain just wouldn’t accept that answer. Wilson was involved. She would stake her life on it. But, at this point, she would have to let it go.
“Where is he?”
“At the Woodshed waiting to be questioned.”
Shea started for the door, and Mak grabbed her arm. “You can’t be involved. We need to keep your cover intact.”
“Let me watch.”
Mak looked over at Griff, and he nodded his head. They drove over to the other side of the Grove and stopped in front of the Woodshed. Inside, Griff and Mak headed for the interrogation room where Manning was sitting at a small table. She could see and hear everything from the monitor. Griff and Mak wore earpieces in case Shea had questions.
Shea watched as the door opened and the two agents entered. Mak sat down at the table, but Griff stood near the door with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Manning. It was meant to unnerve him, but it didn’t seem to have an effect on Manning. He slouched back and eyed them not saying a word.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I haven’t got a clue. I’m tired and ragged out from Hell Week, so this better be good.”
“You didn’t go through Hell Week,” Mak said with just enough disdain to prod at him.
His eyes narrowed, flaring with anger, but then he got himself under control. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
“Do you want to know why you’re here?”
He leaned his elbows on the table. “That would be good, then I can get back to my rack.”
“We found your DNA under Seaman Craig Hennessey’s fingernails. Your blood on his knuckles.”
“So, we fought. He was a loser, and I kicked his ass. So what?”
Mak leaned forward and opened the folder with pictures of Craig. “He was beaten and strangled. Murdered.”