The instructor, p.17
The Instructor, page 17
What the scent, real or imagined, can’t make him ignore is his burning hatred for the man walking at the head of the column.
Bringing up the rear of their march, Gil can see the other eleven members of the security team lined up ahead of him. Laden with their packs that had somehow been brought out to the bog, the men had been marching today for hours.
Gil spits and glares. A final test. The goddamn Army loved to tack a goddamn road march onto the end of everything. Gut check time. Let’s see that intestinal fortitude. Can you persevere? Can you endure, even when the chips are down?
Get bent, he thinks. I really shouldn’t be so surprised that the Marines would do the same stupid shit.
He hopes that this is the end and not another one of D’s mind tricks. When he brought them back to the pens after the first round of interrogations, it had crushed morale. Hell, it had nearly broken Seb. That poor bastard howled day and night after he was thrown back in the cages. The man had his issues—who among them didn’t?—but claustrophobia? Who knew?
Up at the head of the column, a few of the men laugh. Derek, walking to the right of the group on the trail’s edge, says something that Gil can’t quite make out. The men burst out into hysterics. Derek joins in the laughter.
Gil scowls at them. Don’t they realize what’s going on? How can they be joking around right now? The man is literally walking with his muzzle pointed in their direction. His finger is poised over the trigger well, Gil is certain of that. Yet these idiots are laughing with him.
Don’t they see? D had flipped them over and turned them inside out. Names. Personal histories. He knows each of them through and through. This man is now very, very dangerous to their group. And the fact that he’d done it so effortlessly. Like the way he’d gotten them to turn on Thomas after all D used him for was chores around the camp the first few days while the rest of them were tied to trees. It fuels Gil’s rage even more.
The team crests another hill and starts to make its way down the other side. Gil thinks he knows the trail for certain now, even if he’d only been on it a few times himself. Their land is so damn massive, and this far north into it, not even the tourists or hikers come around.
D had ranged them out farther and farther from the pens. He hadn’t lied about pushing them. They crawled through mud and brambles and bush so thick it tore at their skin. Sleep was a luxury that came minutes at a time, not hours, if it came at all. It was hard to sleep when you were crouched under a pricker bush or chest-deep in a muddy bog.
The man knows his stuff, Gil has to give him that. Not just his HUMINT. It seems like D can walk into the woods with nothing and not only disappear but live for years. He is a master at foraging, stalking, evasion, and bushcraft. Probably why the others have started to take to him so much. Even in light of their pain and hunger, no one can deny the skills. If they continue to perfect them—and Gil has every intention of making sure that they do—the men will be a formidable group to go up against in these woods. Once they get the tactical component, of course. According to D, that is still weeks away.
What he has to make sure of is that this tilt D’s way doesn’t become permanent. Gil can’t let the infatuation with D get to the point where the men question his orders. Or Marshal’s, for that matter. Especially Marshal’s. D isn’t a part of their group. The guy doesn’t even bother to hide his disdain for them. But given the amount of credibility he gained with the men in such short order, he could cause serious problems if left unchecked.
It is something to keep an eye on for sure and work against the moment they get back to camp. Still, there are other issues. More pressing ones that the training has revealed. They will need to be dealt with. Quickly.
The men laugh again. Gil spits. Fucking officers. They’re all the same. Even Warrants. All they ever do is swoop in and take the credit. Never get their hands dirty. Never do any of the heavy lifting. Just ride the people below them until they get their big payout or their big promotion. Gil is the one who painstakingly put this team together. Who brought them into Marshal’s fold. How quickly the group is forgetting that in the face of D and his fancy Special Operations title.
Gil swallows hard and frowns, looking off to the side of the trail and letting the rhythm of the march propel him forward. That self-righteous rat bastard D. Leaving him tied to a tree like that. All alone with nothing but his thoughts and memories.
It had triggered Gil, and suddenly he was there again. Upside down in their vehicle, covered in blood and limbs from the men who moments earlier had been his crewmates. All four of them, blown to shreds by the IED that flipped their Humvee as easily as if it were a pancake on Sunday morning. The forensics later said that his seat in the right rear, along with their bodies accepting the blast, had been what spared his life.
He wished it hadn’t. Trembling and trying to get out of the mangled wreckage of the truck, Gil had to listen as the rest of his platoon fought off the ambush. Cocksucking hajji had set off three IEDs daisy-chained together so that the first, second, and fourth vehicles all got disabled. The remaining truck had to not only repel the blistering wave of incoming bullets and RPGs but also tend to three other trucks’ worth of wounded.
Eventually, someone got hold of battalion, and a quick reaction force was sent. Gil was told, much later after the shock had worn off, that two Apaches had screamed overhead and put the nail in the coffin with a couple of rockets. But in those minutes, those long, disgusting minutes, Gil heard it all.
He listened while men openly wept and screamed for their mothers. He heard the animalistic, unintelligible cries of human beings dying in excruciating pain. He smelled the fuel leaking. Felt it soak into his uniform. He lived in absolute fear, knowing that a single spark from the firefight going on around them would burn him alive. Gil vividly remembers pissing himself when that realization hit. When they finally got him out, all he could see was body parts. Body parts of soldiers. Everywhere. Discarded like Popsicle sticks. And blood. So much blood it had softened the hard-packed earth.
And what had it all been for? The lieutenant had told their captain. Protested, even. The farmland was too open. The gullies and wadis were perfect cover. The intel reports had said that IED activity had been extremely high in the region lately, and there hadn’t been enough reconnaissance resources to go around. The enemy had been scouting, and planning, and digging with practical impunity. And their commander sent them up that road anyway.
Because he was going to get promoted. No matter what it took to do so. Maybe not the very next rank. Major was somewhat automatic, from what Gil understood. But your service record had to be impeccable and filled with overachievement if you ever wanted a star. That’s what their captain was chasing. He had stars in his eyes. All officers did, whether they admitted it or not.
And that’s why Gil had smashed that arrogant prick’s skull in. Had the men in the CP not gotten hold of him when they had, Gil would have dashed his brains against the wall. His only regret was using the pry bar instead of the pickax. He would’ve driven the spike into that bastard’s worthless brain.
They round a bend in the trail. Gil knows exactly where they are now. Unless D is going to let them see the camp and then force them to about-face, they will be home soon. That would be so fucked up, Gil has to admit. If that is to go down, he’ll have to put up a fight.
The notion dawns on him that he is going to have to anyway. D can’t be allowed to blow them all up. Not with the information that he has. Not with his desecration of loyalties. Gil won’t let him. They’ve come too far to let another officer in power somehow throw their lives away with what he thinks he knows. Gil will make sure of it. Hopefully with Marshal’s blessing, but if not …
As they slide down a saddle from one trail to another, the banter among the men picks up. They realize now what Gil just picked up on a moment ago. This is the main trail, somewhere between the outbuildings and the camp proper. Elation and adrenaline partially washing away their fatigue, the security team picks up their pace while laughing and joking all the more.
As they continue down the hill toward the camp, the smell of lunch stew fills their noses while a voice carries through the air. It’s Marshal, annunciating with vigor and panache. Gil catches a glimpse through the trees. The whole camp is gathered in a large semicircle around the man in the clearing. A row of children sit while their parents stand behind.
“And so, my children, it is what the good Lord has told us. The promise that He has made! ‘Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. And thereby put me to the test, says the Lord of hosts.’ Have we not brought our tithe in?” Many in the crowd nod in agreement. “Have we not given? I know we have, my children! All of us. Each and every one of us has given. More so than most!”
“Yes!” someone in the crowd extols.
The men come farther down the hill. Marshal’s voice becomes clearer.
“But the Lord has promised us! In that very same passage, He gives us proof that our sacrifice is not in vain. That all we have given, all that we have been put through, is for the greater good! ‘I will rebuke the devourer for you, so that it will not destroy the fruits of your soil, and your vine in the field shall not fail to bear, says the Lord of hosts. Then all nations will call you blessed, for you will be a land of delight, says the Lord of hosts.’ Malachi, chapter three, verses ten and eleven.
“You see? You see, my children? Our time is nearly at hand! The time to rebuke our devourers! We shall be called blessed, and after our rebuke, we will inherit the land of delight!”
The security team comes to the bottom of the hill. Many of the faces in the crowd, only a moment earlier hanging on their leader’s every word, take notice and light up. Marshal spins around. His face beams. He spins back to the group.
“Behold! Our deliverers! Remember, my children. Remember verse twelve! ‘And all nations shall call you blessed, for ye shall be a delightsome land.’ Remember! We shall reclaim our nation! Our nation will see the error of its ways after our message has been delivered! Now go! Go and rejoice and welcome your sons home!”
The camp lets out a tremendous cheer and rushes forward. The QRF breaks formation and runs into the clearing. Families reunite. Hugs and handshakes. Gil notices more than a few looks of shock on the family members’ faces at the sight of their dismal condition. These quickly turn to scowls aimed at Derek. D walks through it all unabashed. He meets up with Marshal, and the two talk while the reunions continue.
“Holy shit, Gil. What the hell did he do to you guys?”
Turning, Gil sees Ronald, the camp blacksmith, standing next to him. His arms are outmatched in thickness only by his beard. Like Gil, he’s one of many that is unmarried in the group.
Gil turns his attention back toward Marshal and D. “Wasn’t no picnic, I can tell you that much.”
“Shit, anyone can see that. We’ve been hearing stories. Did he really tie y’all to trees and lock you in cages?”
Gil gives the man a dismissive glance and looks back. Marshal is nodding thoughtfully. Gil inclines his head toward the two. “When he start preaching again?”
Ronald puts his hands in the small of his back and arches. Gil hears several of his vertebrae pop in quick succession. “Oh, I’d say about three or four days ago now. Each time he comes back from his visits with you boys in the woods, he seems more … I don’t know. What’s the word?”
“Energetic? Invigorated? Enthusiastic?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whichever one you want, that’s what he’s been.”
Over at the discussion, Marshal appears to argue a point only to relent a moment later. The old man goes back to nodding. Gil gets a sinking feeling.
“Excuse me, Ron. I gotta go give my report to Marshal.”
“Shit, ain’t that what he’s doing?” Ronald says, pointing at Derek. “I mean, ain’t he in charge of y’all now?”
“No. He ain’t,” Gil replies as he walks away, his voice dripping with disdain. Fucking moron. Go sit on your hammer. As Gil approaches, D squares to face him.
“Zero five tomorrow morning. Lead them through PT. I want them up and down that hill at least three times in an hour.”
Gil turns back, looking at the hill they just came down, then turns and gives Marshal a look. The old man returns his gaze expectantly. “What? Running? Man, some of these guys are in their forties. Gerry is pushing fifty-five, I think.”
D just shrugs. “These are the ones chosen to protect the camp. They need to be in shape to do so. Breakfast at seven and then the depression to the northwest at zero eight. Full packs, rations, and gear. Weapons too, but no ammo. That’ll be brought out later. Make sure they eat well. You’ll be doing manual labor most of the day. Marshal will fill you in on the rest.” He turns to the old man. “I’ll be ready to head into town in about fifteen minutes.” He starts to walk away.
“Yes. I’ll have your money and driver ready,” Marshal calls after him. “If you’re available for a meal or a nip later, let me know. I’d very much like to hear about our next steps.”
D doesn’t acknowledge Marshal’s invitation but instead looks directly at Gil. “That reminds me. I don’t mind the men taking a drink or two tonight. They’ve earned it. But it stops at that.”
“Listen here, D. We all had to follow your commands out there, but we’re back in camp now. You think you’re gonna tell me or anyone else that we can’t drink, you’d best unfuck that shit right now.”
Their stares stay locked and linger. D finally gives a small nod to his left. When Gil turns to look, he sees Sebastian already with a beer and a bottle of scotch in either hand. The man hasn’t even taken off his pack yet.
“You want your freedom, Lieutenant? You got it, but now it’s on you. As soon as you hit PT tomorrow, you’re training again, and that means your asses belong to me.” He steps in closer to Gil and lowers his voice so only the three of them can hear. “And mark my words, Gil. You all turn up drunk in the a.m., not only will I drag every last one of you back to the pens, but I’ll see to it that you personally experience the ramifications of your inability to lead.”
D stalks off without another word. Halfway across the clearing, the kid Bobby runs up alongside him. The two exchange words, and Derek laughs. They talk a bit more, and then the boy dashes out fifteen yards. Bobby throws his football to D, who, carrying his rifle in his left, performs one-arm catches with his right. He curls the ball and pitches it back underhand. The two continue their catch until the man reaches his cabin. D throws the ball and waves to Bobby’s parents. They wave back.
Gil looks at Marshal, who raises his eyebrows in response. Gil tries to soften his tone as much as he can for the old man, despite his seething. “You started preaching again, Marshal?”
The old man’s face breaks into a smile from ear to ear. “What can I say, Gil? I feel the Lord’s message flowing through me! It’s as if He’s signaling that our time is near. That our cause is just!”
“Yeah,” Gil says, loosening the quick-release tabs on his shoulder straps. “About that. You really think it’s a good idea and all? Saying such stuff around him? D ain’t exactly part of the family, Marshal. You see what he did to us. What he’s continuing to do. He hates every bit of being here, and the only reason he’s doing this is because of the money you promised him.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marshal says, moving around behind the rucksack and helping Gil get it to the ground. “I think Derek might come around. There’s so much similarity between him and the others here. Even you. Maybe my preaching now is what will finally open his eyes.”
That motherfucker ain’t nothing like me. Gil bites the inside of his cheek. “Still, it’s an awfully big security risk. The man is a trained intelligence officer. Think of all the information he’s been privy to since he got here.”
“True, Gil,” Marshal says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Everything you say is true. But I can’t ignore the feelings. It’s like the Holy Spirit is confirming that Derek has been sent to us. That he is meant to be here. Through the Lord’s words, spoken by my tongue, I know he will join us.”
Gil looks down to hide his grimace. God didn’t send him. I found his ass on YouTube. Still, he knows when Marshal gets like this, there is little he can say to convince him otherwise. He moves on. “What’s this shit about the depression to the northwest?”
Some of the glimmer vanishes from the old man’s face. “Derek said he’s moving the group into firearms training. He called the lane we use to zero our scopes inadequate for what he has in mind and asked if we had anything resembling a range.”
Gil already knows where this is going. “Marshal. There’s some decent-size trees in that depression. It’ll take us a week to clear that space out and shape it up.”
The old man shakes his head vigorously. “Don’t worry. I’m rededicating the camp to the task. Once everyone else has had a chance to rotate through chow, they’ll head out to help with the clearing. Should only take the day if everyone pitches in.”
Something grabs Marshal’s attention. Gil twists and sees Sebastian taking a belt from the bottle and then chugging the contents of his beer to chase it. The man crushes the can and throws it down, immediately demanding another from his wife.
“You’d better get a handle on that, Gil. Cut off the head of the snake before it bites you in the morning.”
Gil sighs deeply. He leans in to speak in his leader’s ear. “Putting D aside for the moment, there are other things that need to be rectified. In the most immediate sense possible.” He pulls back out.
The flash. That intensity. The corner of Marshal’s lip lifts in the quickest of snarls. From singing with the angels to dancing with the devil. The old man can switch on you in a heartbeat.
“Let’s you and I sit down later tonight. I want to hear what you have to say. We’ll draw up plans for the now,” Marshal looks back at Derek’s cabin, “and make contingencies for the later.”
