He donned his white briefs, undershirt, then the jumper or tunic and pants. He adjusted the black neckerchief until satisfied, grabbed up his cover—the Navy’s term for the iconic sailor’s hat—along with his duffel and checked out of the motel. He got into his car and drove to the base, entering through the main gate. He was directed to the Bucklew Naval Special Warfare Center.
Another flash of pleasure snapped through him as he parked. The memory of The Babe kissing his neck, collarbone, the softness of her mouth. Her aggressive biting flashed in his brain. He took a breath. Dammit. Why couldn’t he push her to the back of his mind or forget all about her? He had some serious business to attend to, and he couldn’t have his focus fragmented.
There were no cheat codes in BUD/S. He was in this on his own, voluntarily playing the game and keeping his focus on the ball.
BUD/S would be a tough endurance fight against…himself.
He intended to win.
He got out of the Gladiator and went inside, took care of the admin stuff where he signed a paper listing all the things he couldn’t have at BUD/S including over-the-counter drugs, caffeinated products, multivitamins, pain-killers or anti-inflammatories and headed back to his vehicle. Taking a deep breath, he drove back toward Silver Strand Boulevard and across to the BUD/S training area on Trident Way.
Still in his uniform with his duffel slung over his shoulder he headed to muster at the infamous BUD/S Grinder. It’s where they would spend the first three weeks considered Basic Orientation or BO doing PT and generally getting a beat down by the instructors. He felt a chill go down his spine when he stepped onto the frogman hallowed ground.
The courtyard was a square expanse of black asphalt where generations of sailors had ground sand into many parts of their bodies while performing PT soaking wet. Around several sides were the pullup bars and the notorious bell where candidates would ring out when they quit.
He wasn’t going to touch the polished brass bell but gave it the respect it was due. When a student DOR’d or Dropped on Request, he must ring the bell three times to show that he was a quitter, then place his helmet to the left of the bell. Hemingway was in this for the long haul and nothing was going to get him to quit. He was not ringing that bell.
As in any introduction to a group, there was a jumble of faces, but Hemingway realized right away these would be his “teammates” through this ordeal. There would be time to meet them and get to know them later, especially when they were assigned their rooms.
He got into line, setting the soles of his polished shoes over the painted white frog feet with the rest of the class, standing at parade rest as the third sailor in from the left in the second row.
An instructor stood on a raised platform of wood. His order was loud and harsh through a bull horn. “Dump out your duffel.” Hemingway didn’t pause, he reached down and dumped as he was told, the feeling of urgency in everything he did. The items were read off: inspection uniforms, Underwater Demolitions Team or UDT khaki shorts, knife, mask, UDT vest, fins, wetsuit, articles of underclothing and boots. There was also his green BUD/S helmet stenciled in white with the class number. A few trainees had additional items not on the inventory list, and the instructors scowled as they dumped the contraband in the trashcan.
Once that was done, they were given their barrack assignments. They would have Friday night and the weekend to get squared away, including stenciling their gear with their names. Hemingway broke ranks when the order was given. After stuffing everything back into his duffel, he headed toward the barracks, a squat long building behind the grinder.
The door opened and men came shuffling in carrying their duffels. Hemingway chose a bunk nearer the head and stowed his gear in the box at the end of the lower of the two-man bunk. A guy passed him and took the next lower bunk. He was just a bit shorter than Hemingway’s height, with the same lean build and a shock of sandy brown hair.
“Hey,” he said, setting down his duffel and reaching across the expanse. “Milo Prescott.”
“Atticus Sinclair,” Hemingway said, shaking the guy’s hand and noting his strong grip.
“Like the book?”
“Yeah, my dad loved To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Mine, too. Sad she wrote so little, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re like the moral hero?”
“I’ve got my principles,” Hemingway said. “And what’s a hero anyway?” He shrugged.
“A dumb fuck who runs into all kinds of danger when it matters?”
Hemingway laughed. He had a feeling he was going to like Prescott.
More guys filtered in. A dark-haired guy took Prescott’s upper bunk. He was taller than Prescott, but a tad shorter than Hemingway. He eyed the two of them, then broke off contact as he snagged the bunk. He didn’t say anything to them as he started to unpack his duffel. Hemingway exchanged a look with Prescott, who grinned, then said to the guy, “Milo Prescott and Atticus Sinclair.”
The guy glanced at them and grunted, “Daniel Wilson.”
Suddenly there was a press of bodies and a guy stumbled and rammed into Wilson. “Oh, sorry,” the guy mumbled.
Wilson shoved back, sending the guy and all his stuff toward the floor. Hemingway reached out and caught him before he could fall.
“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Wilson growled, then seemed to settle himself as if he was surprised he’d had such an outburst. Without an apology he went back to his rack and unpacking.
“You like to make an entrance,” Prescott said good-naturedly. “The cranky guy is Daniel Wilson. I’m Milo Prescott and this is Atticus Sinclair.”
“Like the book,” the kid said, and Hemingway could see he was young—a baby-faced, blue-eyed kid.
“Yeah, like the book.”
“William Brown, but most people call me Will. Sorry for being so clumsy. I’m not the best coordinated guy, but I don’t let that stop me.” He took the upper bunk above Hemingway.
“Hoo-yah.”
After his bunkmates had stowed their gear, they went to chow, then back to the barracks. As the lights went out, he, Prescott and Brown were getting to know each other better, but Wilson wasn’t interested and spent most of his time either with his head down or in a book. Hemingway had to wonder how this guy even got into the training when he was clearly not interested in bonding with anyone.
As far as Hemingway was concerned, he intended to crush all the evolutions to the best of his ability. Getting by wasn’t in his DNA and having a couple of SEAL teams full of guys who knew the score training him had made him understand how much more he wanted to become a part of that brotherhood. Especially after experiencing his time with Dodger.
As he was drifting, his thoughts involuntarily wandered to The Babe. He had to admit that even throughout the day, she was a soft presence in his mind, one he’d tried often to push out, but she refused to go.
He figured he would only find her in his dreams.
Shea curled into the couch with the instructions for the camera. She read it over for the fifth time to make sure she knew how to operate it, so she didn’t make a fool of herself. Tomorrow, she was supposed to report to the base to be introduced to the class, and it was game on. She had to be ready. Her cell phone rang, and she looked down to see it was her brother. She didn’t hear from him often since he was in the Marines.