Chapter 12

I wound my way through the foggy course, surprising another safety person at the midway point. I was also pleased at how well I could see everything. Even though I could mentally see it already, what I was starting to think of as my “Jim sense” warned me about the trip rope stretched across the trail. I easily avoided it, as well as the sand pit that would have broken my pace and slowed me down.

Finally clearing the fog course and startling the safety person at the end of the course, I faced the next portion of this course. Even though it was still cool, coming out of the fog made the temperature feel ten degrees warmer than it was. The next half-klick run was uphill, ending at a forty-meter-long rope bridge. I switched back to the Marine Hymn as I started uphill. Just after reaching the top of the hill, I met another course observer.

“Up, and across,” he said as he pointed first to a cargo net I had to climb to reach the rope bridge. “Wow, you made good time,” he commented questioningly as he did a double take at the time on his electronic clipboard. I made it up the cargo net with no problem. Don had those scattered between trees in several places on our property and I’ve been up and down them so many times that I felt like a journeyman sailor climbing in the ship’s rigging on an 1800’s wooden ship.

Another course official met me at the start of the rope bridge. “Don’t look down,” he cautioned.

He couldn’t have known that I’d already been across the bridge and back with my consciousness. “You have a frayed rope out there. Fifteenth one on the left,” I warned as I started across.

“What? How could you possibly know that?” he asked.

“Good eyesight and I pay attention to small details,” I replied, although I was already two meters out onto the bridge. I’ve used two ropes before as a bridge, one a little more than two meters above the other, but I’ve never actually been on a V-shaped rope bridge. Even before I was halfway across, I knew that I had to build one of these for my brothers and sisters. I’d just make sure it was much closer to the ground than this one was.

“That was fun,” I laughed to the monitor at the far end of the bridge. “I warned the other guy that the fifteenth rope in on his left was frayed,” I told him. It wasn’t in danger of failing for quite a while, but there was no sense in cutting it too close.

“Rappel down and follow the trail to the next part of the course, the minefield. Don’t worry, they’re all fake, but they’ll click and make a shrill noise if you set one off. Not everything is a mine. We rigged a wide variety of booby traps that we’ve run across in the jungles. There are also two tunnels that you have to locate and make your way through, checking for hidden traps. I guess the brass wants to test your ability to spot and disarm traps because we put out twice as many as we usually do. Good luck,” he said as he helped me get into a harness and attached the ropes to rappel.

“That rope doesn’t look like it’s tied off properly,” I warned. It can take several minutes to check all the gear and the ropes to make sure they’re safe, not worn or frayed. You also need to make sure the rope is tied off securely and your harness is on securely and is snug. Then you need to make sure that the rope is properly wrapped around the carabineer and that the carabineer is locked.

The course monitor or whatever he was grinned when I commented on the rope. “I wondered if you’d catch that. You’ve come through the course so fast that I thought you might be slacking off on safety procedures,” he admitted. He had a second rope already tied to a thick tree. I’d already checked the knot on it when I found that the first one hadn’t been tied properly.

“You don’t want to check the knot?” he teased.

“Already did when I saw that the first one wasn’t tied properly,” I replied as I double-checked everything else.

“One more thing,” he commented way too casually, and with a huge grin. He handed me a magazine for the 10 mm rifle I carried. “This has ten rounds. Rappel to the red line, stop, and fire all ten shots at the three cutouts of people to your right. Then finish your rappel.”

“I wondered why you had me hooked up for a granny rappel,” I replied. “I generally prefer to go down headfirst.”

Once I inserted the magazine for my weapon and triple checked my gear, I leaned out over the edge and hollered “Gator on rappel!” That warned anyone below me that I was coming down. I heard an acknowledging reply from below and stepped backwards off the top of the cliff.

While the cliff might have been natural at some point in time, and that’s debatable, the face of the cliff was now solid concrete with a rough finish for better foot traction. After the first two steps, I pushed away from the wall and slid down the rope for a second until I was near the red line. I walked down the wall the last three steps to the red line before stopping.

Holding the rope against the small of my back with my left hand, I brought the rifle up with my right and aimed, taking a single shot at each of the three targets. After the first shot at each target, I made the other requisite shots at the first target. Firing one-handed while stationary takes longer between shots since your left hand isn’t available to help control the rifle or to help bring it to bear on the target.

With my ammo expended, I secured the rifle and finished my rappel, backing away from the cliff face when I landed, allowing the rope to feed through the rappel device so it came out straight and not in a rat’s nest. “Gator off rappel,” I shouted towards the top of the cliff to let them know I was done, getting a shout of affirmation in return.

“I’ve got the ropes,” the helper at the base of the cliff told me as I climbed out of the harness.

“Thanks,” I replied, and headed for the fake minefield a hundred meters away. I stopped at the beginning to question the course monitor waiting there. “Do I have to disable each mine and booby trap as if my squad were behind me, or can I just avoid them as if I were alone?” I asked.

“I can’t imagine that you’ll be able to avoid many of them but go ahead and avoid them if you can. You do have to stick to the trail,” he reminded me.

“Thanks,” I told him. After swallowing several gulps of the water from the bottle he provided, I set off into the next challenge. The first series of “mines” were about thirty meters into the maze and just around a dogleg to the right. I’d already located them, as well as all the other hidden traps and tunnels. There were three tunnels, not the two I had been told about.

From the studying Don had me do, I knew that these first six mines were Russian designed and were pressure activated. Each mine had a pressure plate in the center, as well as five pressure sensitive spikes spaced evenly around the top that angled out from the middle. There was also a tilt trigger that would detonate if the mine were moved, as in the case of someone trying to defuse the mine. The mines were spaced far enough apart that it was simple to step between them. That only worked because I knew where they were and knew that stepping cautiously between them wouldn’t trigger the mines. Otherwise, I’d have been a fool to attempt it.

The pace through this course was definitely slower than the others because there were times that I had to disarm a mine or booby trap before I could proceed. Still, I managed to climb under, hop over, or tiptoe through about half of them. My favorite consisted of the three trip wires at three different levels, only a few centimeters apart. I jumped and grabbed a low-hanging branch across the trail, swinging over all three since I knew the ground beyond the trip wires was clear of any mines or booby traps.

When I got to the tunnels, the first one was only rigged with four traps. The second one had six. The third tunnel, the one they didn’t tell me about, had ten traps in it, as well as a snare-like trap at the far end. In all three tunnels, I had to drag my pack after me since I wouldn’t be able to maneuver and roll onto my side or back to disarm the traps while wearing the pack.

Once I was out of that challenge, I could see the rat maze ahead of me. The course monitor halfway through the minefield was surprised when he saw me. The one at the end of the minefield just gawked as he handed me a bottle of water. I drank half and poured the rest over my head, anticipating sweating a lot inside the rat maze.

I jogged to the rat maze and the course monitor there told me to follow the arrows as he put a safety harness attached to a rope on me. Just inside the entrance, the arrow pointed up a climbing wall that went all the way to the top. This climbing wall was hard enough that an average climber would have trouble with it. I’d been on one that was harder, and it had taken me multiple tries before I’d reached the top. I went back at least once a week until I could make the climb quickly every time, and then returned once a month to keep in practice.

Once I got to the top, I quickly removed the safety harness and continued with the challenge. There were stationary rings and swinging rings, as well as stationary bars going in the direction I was headed. Some of the courses of bars were angled up or down. There were moving trapeze bars like they have in a circus. Those were constantly swinging back and forth, and I had to time my arrival at each one by swinging faster or slower. There were more climbing ropes and cargo nets to climb, and even a climbing wall that went sideways for twenty meters.

Twice, there were fire poles to slide down. You had to control your descent and stop at the indicated level to continue the maze. If you went past the level, you had to either shimmy back up the pole to the correct level or start the maze over. My favorite part of the maze was a thirty-meter-long section of ropes where I had to swing from one rope to another. The catch was having to move lower on the ropes at the beginning of that part because parallel bars across the top half of the section forced you to get low enough to go beneath them.

When you cleared the parallel bars, you had to climb back up the ropes as you neared the end of the maze to reach the small platform at the very end. Waiting on the platform was a course monitor. “Fifteen meters down. The pool’s five meters deep. The water is 5°C. Enter feet first. Two rescue divers are in the water to help if you need it. One of them will approach you with a rebreather. Use it as you walk or crawl up the incline to the far end of the pool since you won’t be able to swim out in all your gear. From here, you can see the steps across the far end of the pool. You okay?” he asked.

I thought for a second. At 5°, a person would probably last about thirty minutes before lapsing into unconsciousness. Even two or three minutes in the water would chill me severely.

“That water looks inviting after the workout so far,” I replied, grinning. “Can you communicate with the two divers?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Tell them to stay close, but don’t approach with the rebreather unless I motion them closer.”

He passed the info on and both divers gave me a thumbs-up to let me know they had received the message. As short as the pool was, I should easily be able to reach shallow water in less than two minutes. My record for staying underwater while swimming was 3:48, although that water was much warmer than this was.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

I gave him a half-salute and took one final look at the pool below me. Aside from the water being rather muddy, it looked just like the view from the diving platform at the pool in Houma, although this one was five-meters higher. I pushed off from the edge, arcing out over the pool below me. I couldn’t help myself. With as much time as I’d spent using the diving platform in Houma, I did a single front flip. I’ve done numerous double flips and even double flips with a twist from the platform in Houma.

Doing a flip while wearing my full uniform, combat boots, a pack, and a rifle was as far as I was willing to push things. The extra weight and the odd distribution of the weight made even that single flip problematic. I entered the water feet first, but purposely leaning back at a slight angle. I’d love to see how high the water splashed from my entry into the water. From the ten-meter platform in Houma, I managed some spectacular splashes.

Even as I sank to the bottom and the shock from the cold water hit me, I was aware of where I was and oriented myself to the far end of the pool. The two safety divers were about a meter away, one off each shoulder. Once my feet hit bottom I started walking towards the shallow end. When the bottom began sloping up, it was a fairly steep angle.

I exhaled explosively and sucked in a lungful of fresh air as soon as my head cleared the water. Both safety divers were still next to me, although they had scuba tanks and heat-regulated thermal suits. As soon as I was out of the pool, I lay back on my pack and raised each of my feet into the air, draining what seemed like several liters of ice-cold water out of each boot. It also squeezed water out of my pack. The two safety divers were laughing at me because it looked funny. The heat from the sun-warmed concrete deck sure felt good.

Once I felt that most of the water had drained, I started the half-klick run though dry sand, shivering as I began the run. Off to the side of the dry sand course they’d stored a rolled-up tarp like you’d see at a ballpark where they cover the field when it rains. That explained how they kept the sand dry during last night’s rain.

I think the sand run was the hardest part of the entire course to that point, even though I run in the sand frequently. By the time I had started the sand run, I was already cold and tired, more tired than I would usually be because the cold water had sapped my energy. By the time I finished it, my legs felt like lead. The half-klick slog through ankle deep mud was actually preferable to the run through the sand.

Then the really dirty fun began; the two-hundred-fifty-meter crawl through a mud-filled trench. Six times, I had to roll onto my back to crawl beneath courses of concertina wire. Using the rifle to push the wire up far enough to crawl beneath it, I used my elbows and heels to inch forward, having to stop and move the rifle to keep the wire out of my face. By the time I finished the crawl, I had mud inside both the front and back of my uniform, not that it would make much difference in a few minutes.

With my rifle slung on my back, I started up the ten-meter mud slope. Wishing that I had a knife to drive into the soft ground, I improvised and stabbed the stiffened fingers of my hands into the mud to provide leverage, then kicked my toes into the mud to hold myself while I repositioned my hands. I never dreamed that martial arts would prove useful climbing a muddy hill.

Heaving a sigh of relief at the top of the hill, I rolled my legs across the apex, sat on my butt, and pushed off. The hill wasn’t as slick as I thought it would be and I had to push myself several times before reaching the bottom. Five meters beyond the bottom of the hill, the mud-filled trench began. Sitting on the edge of the trench, I swung my feet over into the mud and stood up, the mud reaching partway up my abdomen.

Shit, but the mud was cold. Calling this a mud run was definitely a misnomer. You can’t run in water this deep and mud is thicker than water. The best I could manage was to keep putting one foot in front of the other, all while holding my rifle high enough to keep the mud out of it--well, keeping more mud out of it. I had to wonder how much dust, sand, and mud had already gotten inside, especially when I had to jump into the muddy water.

The cold of the mud trench sapped much of my remaining strength, and pulling myself out of the trench at the far end was no easy task. The course monitor at the end of the trench shook my muddy hand once I managed to stand up. “You made it,” he pronounced with a big grin.

The ten-meter-long shower was only five meters away. Unfortunately, it only washed off the exterior. The mud I wanted washed away was still inside my uniform and made every step uncomfortable. Even before I entered the shower, I began to disassemble my rifle. Everything was already wet so more water wouldn’t hurt it more. I hoped the water would wash away all or most of any sand and mud to make cleaning the rifle easier.

“He’s not afraid of heights, his balance and coordination are outstanding, and he knows how to rappel,” Lt. Palmer commented after watching me finish my rappel.

“The monitor at the base of the rappel says that each of his first three shots hit the throat of the three targets. His next seven shots were all head shots in the first target,” Lt. Commander Ferguson told them after receiving the report.

“Why would he do that?” Lt. Grant wondered aloud.

“He knew the three throat shots were killing shots, but he was instructed to fire all ten shots,” Ferguson replied as he continued to watch Jim’s progress.

“What the hell is he doing?” Lieutenant Grant asked when Jim tiptoed through the first set of mines.

“Looks like he determined a safe way through the first cluster of mines,” Ferguson replied.

“But ... he couldn’t possibly know without checking the mines that the vibrations won’t set them off,” Palmer protested.

“Much better,” Palmer commented when Jim stopped and disarmed the next set of mines and trip wires.

“No fucking way,” Lt. Grant gasped when Jim jumped up and grabbed a tree branch. “He’s barreling through the course like a gorilla and now he’s swinging from tree branches.”

“Keep in mind that he’s avoided or disarmed every mine and booby trap so far,” Ferguson reminded him.

“Interesting,” Lt. Commander Ferguson commented when Jim found the third tunnel. “I had the course guide tell him there were only two tunnels, yet he found the third tunnel all on his own,” he explained to the other two.

“I can’t believe that he made it through,” Lt. Palmer said once Jim emerged from the minefield course.

“Believe it,” Lt. Commander Ferguson replied with a knowing smirk. “And remember, I had them increase the number of traps and mines from forty to eighty. He avoided or disarmed every single one. Nobody has ever managed that the first time through the course, even with only forty.”

“What was that?” Lt. Grant asked gruffly as Lt. Commander Ferguson started laughing.

“If I remember correctly, that yell was the signature trademark of a character in a televid series more than a century ago. He lived in a jungle and swung from tree to tree on vines, much like the ropes Jim’s swinging on right now. Jim’s biological father set up spilon ropes that Jim used to swing from tree to tree all over their family property since he was five years old. Seems that his mom could keep track of him by listening to him yell,” Ferguson explained.

“Biological father?” Grant asked.

“Jim’s biological father was a Marine and died in Myanmar. Don is his uncle and stepfather, although they seem as close as any father and son that I know. Don says he and Jim have always been close and Don taught him to hunt and track starting at age four. Jim knows how to make and use snares, bows, and crossbows. He has used weapons of every caliber up to 15-mm and has quite a collection of 10-mm, 11-mm, and 13-mm rifles that he’s extremely good with, as well as pistols of the same calibers.

“Jim’s dad wasn’t much of an outdoorsman but Jim got his book smarts, common sense, and business acumen from him. That kid may only be sixteen, but he’s already finished four semesters of college and always gets straight A’s. That might explain why he has insights into things that boggle the mind.

“Don says that the recent idea to attack and destroy much of the Chinese rice crop was Jim’s idea. When I checked with Brigadier General Conklin, the man who actually suggested the strategy, he confirmed it. He told me that Jim’s as sharp as they come. Look at the way he managed to keep the submarines from firing the missiles without severely damaging or destroying the subs and missiles, thereby releasing radiation into the environment,” he reminded the two.

“I think he’s enjoying himself,” Palmer commented after watching Jim’s exit from the rat maze.

“That’s definitely a new one,” Ferguson replied. “It couldn’t have been easy to do in uniform and with a backpack and rifle changing his center of gravity. Look, he must have said something to the safety observer at the top of the diving platform. The safety divers aren’t approaching him with the rebreather,” he commented, surprised.

“Not many men have the guts to do that,” Grant chuckled after watching Jim lie on his back and raise his feet to drain the water from his boots. It looked silly, but it was effective.

“Smart move,” Palmer commented, seeing Jim already breaking down his weapon as he entered the shower. “It’s already wet from the plunge, so why not let the water wash away the accumulated dirt?”

The shower did wash away most of the dirt in my rifle, and it was a relatively simple task to clean and dry my weapon. I stood at the table and used the provided cleaning kit. I was afraid that, if I sat down, I might not get back up again. Once I finished, I reassembled it and then tested every moving part of the weapon. When I was done, a surly-looking DI took it apart again and examined it. He scrutinized everything so closely that I was waiting for him to produce a microscope.

“Good job, son,” he said as he handed it back to me. I reassembled and tested it again and then he accompanied me to the yellow stripe at the beginning of the firing range.

I stood at the line, holding the chamber of my just inspected weapon open to show there were no rounds in it. The DI grunted his approval and performed the necessary check, even though he’d just checked the weapon a few seconds earlier and had been by my side ever since.

“Lane 24,” he announced into a microphone pinned to his lapel. The announcement echoed across the empty range as a target popped up two hundred meters away.

“Stand by,” he announced over the loudspeaker system. He handed me a magazine of ammunition and then pressed a button atop what looked like a thick pen in his hand. A loud horn sounded a warning across the range. “Commence firing,” he barked into his microphone as he started a timer.

I ignored the timer and concentrated on the target as the DI peered at the target through a spotting scope. After taking a deep breath and releasing it, I fired the first shot.

“Five, two centimeters high, one centimeter to the left,” he announced quickly.

I adjusted the rifle’s scope, surprised that it was still reasonably accurate after everything it had been through today.

“Five,” he announced after the next shot with no further corrections.

Each of the next eight shots met with the same announcement. “Cease firing,” he barked after the tenth shot. I stopped, put the safety on, removed the magazine, ejected the cartridge in the chamber, and put it back into the magazine. Then I held my weapon up, ready for inspection, with the chamber open to show that it was empty.

“Done,” the DI hollered into the air after his inspection.

“Well?” Lt. Commander Ferguson asked, grinning as he looked at the two men alongside him.

“Despite all of my complaints and protests, I’m impressed as hell,” Lt. Grant replied.

“I still can’t believe half of what he did, but he completed the course with no faults and in a time that I can’t even begin to believe,” Lt. Palmer agreed.

“Let’s get him cleaned up and take him to lunch so you can talk to him. If everyone agrees, we’ll meet with the entire team this afternoon and let him explain about himself,” Lt. Commander Ferguson suggested.

“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s looking forward to getting the mud out of his skivvies about now,” Palmer laughed.

“And other places,” Grant added, joining in the laughter.

“Damn fine job this morning,” the DI said as he shook my hand. I handed him back the magazine of ammo and the rifle. Once he accepted them, he motioned behind me with a nod of his head. I already knew that Lt. Commander Ferguson, Lieutenant Palmer, and Lieutenant Grant were approaching on grav sleds.

“I’m sure that you’d like to get clean,” Lt. Commander Ferguson said with a grin.

“Definitely,” I replied, shaking my right leg as a clump of mud fell out of the bottom of the pants leg. While they laughed, I used the clicker to call my grav sled. Fortunately, the clicker was watertight and had survived my ordeal just fine.

They guided me to a barracks and showed me to a bunk. Within two minutes, I was thawing under the spray of hot water in the shower. Then I started taking off the muddy clothing. It took a while, but I finally got the sand and mud out of places where the sun didn’t shine and where it had been quite uncomfortable. About then, the rest of the team began coming into the shower. A minute or so after the guys came in, the five female members entered the shower, eliciting whistles from many of the guys.

“Relax, we shower together routinely since there’s not much privacy in the field. They have their own facilities they use most of the time, but they give us a treat occasionally and join us in the showers,” one of the men informed me, although it was loud enough that everyone could hear. I learned later that he was Ensign Cooper, second in command of the Blue Squad.

“We wanted to get a good look at the Wunderkind,” one of the women explained, smirking at me. I was a bit embarrassed that I was hard, but noted that all the other guys were in the same condition.

“Look all you want, the tradeoff is worth it,” I replied as I pointedly looked back at her. I’m sure they could see the blush from my face to my shoulders, despite my words. Still, she was gorgeous, nearly 1.8-meters tall, obviously well-muscled, and had large breasts. I learned later that she was Ensign Torres, second in command of the Red Squad.

Everyone laughed and each woman quickly found an unoccupied showerhead--well, all but one. Ensign Torres approached me. “Mind sharing?” she asked, motioning to the showerhead. “I understand you’re used to sharing a shower,” she commented.

“Help yourself,” I replied, “although I’d hardly say I was used to sharing. I’ve only been sharing showers with beautiful women for a couple of weeks.”

When she stepped under the water, I saw the woman under the showerhead next to us and gawked. “What, never seen boobs before?” Torres teased me.

“That’s not what I was staring at,” I replied. “She almost looks like a twin to one of my fiancées.”

“I’m her cousin,” the Helga look-alike commented with a grin.

“Another Valkyrie,” I said without really thinking about it.

“Ooooohhhhh, Valkyrie, I like it,” Torres said thoughtfully as she looked at the woman. “Inga just passed her testing last week and we haven’t come up with a handle for her yet,” Torres explained.

I finally managed to escape the shower without too much more embarrassment. I was half-dressed when the others began exiting the showers. “Damn it,” I hissed when I saw the T-shirts my wives had packed for me.

“Forget to bring something?” Ensign Cooper asked from nearby.

“No, my wives packed my clothing for me and put these in instead of my uniform T-shirts,” I said as I held up one of the white T-shirts that Trudy had silk screened for me with a larger version of the Gator logo she put on my helmet.

“Suarez,” Cooper hollered across the barracks, even though he was laughing. “Let the kid borrow one of your T’s.”

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly.

“Gator, huh,” he chuckled. “Is that your nickname?”

“Yeah, Brigadier General Conklin gave it to me a couple weeks ago.”

“Really?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “How do you know him?”

I explained about the two guys after Juana, and then went on to explain how that escalated into the raids in Atlanta and New Orleans, and our involvement with Brigadier General Conklin and the FBI. I didn’t think he believed me, but I couldn’t do much about that.

“Atten-hut!” someone barked from the far end of the barracks. Everyone jumped and snapped to attention facing the door as Lt. Commander Ferguson entered. Even I snapped a crisp salute, although I didn’t think it was required.

“As you were,” Ferguson said as he returned the salute. “Ensign Cooper, I need our Fire Team leaders and Gator in my office in fifteen,” he ordered.

“Yes, Sir, Fire Team leaders and Gator in your office in fifteen,” Cooper replied. Ferguson nodded his approval and retreated.

“Any idea what this is about?” Cooper asked me.

“Offhand, I’d say it’s to explain more about me or to discuss the mission,” I replied.

“We know something’s up, but haven’t heard anything about a mission,” he replied questioningly.

“Maybe they’ll tell us more at the meeting,” I replied. He gave me a strange look before going to find the requested officers. Fifteen minutes later we all rose and saluted when Lt. Commander Ferguson and the two lieutenants entered the briefing room. Besides the three who just entered, there were the ten Fire Team leaders, including the two female Fire Team leaders. And me.