Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,16

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.

The SEALs lived and died by headcount. It had been ingrained into their leaders, who had to be tougher, faster and better than any of their subordinates to even make the cut, that it was the most grievous of infractions to leave a man behind.

He had emphasized to the class to get muster right, keep him informed and they would all avoid as much punishment as possible.

Their LPO, or Leading Petty Officer, Seamus Hollister, was another story. He was stocky, lazy and often relied on paying his fellow students to do his dirty work. They all called him Blue Smurf, not in relation to their already blue skin, but because he always had a hang-dog expression on his long face.

“Push ‘em out.”

“Push-ups,” Lane yelled. He started counting, and they started pushing them out. After twenty, Lane called out, “Instructor T!” returning to leaning-rest. The class repeated his preferred name and a slight smile slipped across Instructor T’s lips. He looked off in the distance as if daydreaming while the class waited. After five minutes, Hemingway’s arms and shoulders were starting to burn, but he resisted twisting and turning like others around him, trying to ease the pressure. Sweat slipped off his forehead into his eyes, making them sting, but he couldn’t wipe them away. If he broke ranks, they would all pay. It was a good lesson in making a trainee think about how his actions affected everyone on his team, and for all intents and purposes, this class was his team.

“Push ‘em out,” he ordered again and as they counted, he yelled, “If you can’t get a simple name request right, this is going to be a long day. I’d suggest you get your shit together because it’s not going to get any easier. This is orientation, the simplest part of BUD/S, and I say that with the utmost