Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,36

looked up, his eyes sad. “Once the memorial was in place, my family and I traveled to New York City each year and honored him on September 11th. We visited the firehouse where he worked, and I got to know some of his colleagues. All of them were touched by what happened that day. It gets into your gut and the fabric of your skin, deep into the place in your head that tries to make sense of horror and shock.

“Those firefighters aren’t Navy SEALs, but they put their lives on the line every day. I had a great childhood, loving parents, and amazing opportunities, but none of it satisfied me. There was always this…desire to do more.” He took a breath and closed his eyes. “I quit school and gave up a Rhodes Scholarship to pursue this for the memory of my uncle and to make a difference in terror, in people’s lives, in the world as a whole. Instead of words and academia, I will do it with action. Hoo-yah.”

“Hoo-yah,” Hemingway said, already liking and trusting Professor. His words only made that bond tighten.

Lane, Hitchcock and Brown echoed the word.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” Her voice was soft and her eyes moist.

“They need to pay for what they did that day,” Wilson said, materializing next to Shea and her attention swiveled toward him standing at her left elbow. “We might have cut the head off the snake, but the fight is still out there and as SEALs we can make a difference.”

“Did you also lose someone?”

“No,” he said and looked away. “What difference does it make?” His dark eyes fixed. “We’re all in this together, right?”

“Form up!” came the command, and they had to get ready for the jog back to the compound and the four-mile timed run on the beach.

Before Hemingway could step away from the table, Shea touched his arm. “Can you manage to come by tonight?”

“It will be late.”

“That’s okay, I’ll have a snack for you and a rub down. You will need it.”

He smiled and reached out to squeeze her hand. “Then I will be there, tired, sore, and ravenous.”

When they got back to the compound, green helmets were lined up to the left of the bell. Two men broke off and headed in that direction. Without saying anything to anyone, they rang out, the last of them setting his helmet next to the previous two.

Their class was now down to one hundred and thirty-eight.

Being a long-time resident of San Diego, Hemingway was a son of the sea. He loved the water and the fact that SEALs spent a lot of time in it didn’t bother him a bit. One look at the conditions told him that it was going to be hard on any man who didn’t live by the ocean, who hadn’t been running in soft sand to condition their ankles, calves and thighs. It was high tide which sucked. Navigating the dry soft sand and the harder wet sand of the surf area was going to be a bitch. They would be doing this evolution in wet fatigues and boots.

After stretching, they took off. Hemingway paced himself, adept at finding that sweet spot between the upsurge and the soft dry sand. Along with Professor, Hemingway finished the run five minutes before the allotted time, while the majority of the class straggled in. As they stretched, the slow runners had to do push-ups, bear-crawl into the surf, and endure surf torture by linking arms and lying down in the breakers.

Mad Max and the other instructors kept track of the time the trainees were immersed on their watches with the corpsman, Rick Baxter keeping an eagle eye on them too.

“It pays to be a winner,” Cheezer said to the trainees in the surf, and there was a loud hoo-yah.

After that, there was an introduction to log PT. The seven members of their boat crew did well, but by this time, Hemingway was beginning to feel the effort deep in his muscles. The two-hundred-and-fifty-pound log took a toll, even when the members worked together. It made him understand even more the value of teamwork.

Lane was outstanding with his support and encouragement and the other guys on his team were of the same mindset. Hemingway enjoyed this while it lasted. As men rang out and the class dwindled, most likely his boat crew would be shuffled. He hoped not, but it was part of reality.

Then it was chow time again, after which they