The instructor, p.4
The Instructor, page 4
“Twice,” Derek replies, downplaying the actual number. “Kinda hard to avoid that in this day and age.”
Gil chuckles. “You know what I think, D? I think that’s a lame attempt at a cover story. You know, like all them spy movies and shit. Guy’s always a radio repairman, and then we see that he’s really Charles Bronson.”
Derek laughs in response. “Nothing like that, I’m afraid. That’s why the movies are the movies. I was just your run-of-the-mill jarhead, and a schoolhouse one at that.”
“Come on. Level with us,” Gil presses. “We’re all friends here. Tell us the truth. You don’t pull that shit off by being in a schoolhouse your whole career. What were you? Raiders? Force Recon? Some crazy Delta Force shit we never heard of?”
A bunch of the men stare at him, hanging on Gil’s words and adding their own anticipation. The mere prospect of him being one of the military’s elite is enough to put stars in their eyes. Derek doesn’t show any emotion, but internally, he’s annoyed at the line of questioning. “Not this guy. Besides, if I were Delta Force, wouldn’t that make me Chuck Norris?” The men erupt in laughter. Derek waits until it dies a little and then redirects. “What about you fellas? What’d you do in your past lives?”
Sebastian is all too happy to chime in. As he spills, Derek throws a glance at Gil across the fire. He stares back at Derek, a smirk on his face that seems to convey he knows more than he’s letting on. Lifting his wrist, Derek looks at the date on his watch.
A few more days to go.
4
At first light on their last day together, Derek has them up and moving. Hastening their trek back to the vehicles, he looks to cash out and bug out. If he can be on the road by eight, there’s a good chance he can make Michael’s baseball game.
The men groggily follow along despite their grumbling mouths and stomachs. He doesn’t provide much in the way of training. Instead, Derek points out when and where the group misses a bush containing some berries or a plant with edible roots. As day breaks in earnest, their eyes rise with the sun. The men incorporate his tutelage with less and less prodding. Derek smiles with a self-satisfied grin. It’s always redeeming to see students putting his lessons into practice.
With the pace he sets, Derek catches sight of the cluster of buildings a little before 7:00 a.m. The men see the shacks through the trees a few moments later, and their talk immediately turns cheerful. He had pushed them hard the last two weeks. Sleeping on a bed of pine needles and pebbles could never be as comfortable as a mattress after a nice shower. As visions of burgers and beer likely course through their heads, the joking that had been ever present in the beginning of their training now returns.
The group enters the clearing amid raised pulses, sweaty brows, and heavy breathing, but the relief at having completed their training is enough to keep the smiles going. A few of them move off to the shacks to gather equipment. The rest start dropping it into the trucks, some shaking hands with Derek first, offering their thanks. He responds in kind, but quickly moves to his own truck. Throwing his bag in the flatbed, he searches out Gil and makes his way to the man.
Gil finishes chatting with Thomas and turns to face Derek. He hooks his thumbs in his belt and smirks with the left side of his face. “Not bad, D,” he says as Derek approaches. “Not bad at all. The fellas are impressed. That’s no easy thing to do with this lot.”
“Thanks,” he returns. “Always great to teach when you have guys so willing to learn. They’re a good group.”
“The best, D. The best.” Gil regards him for a moment that carries on a little longer than it probably should. “Anyway, I suppose you’ll be wanting to get paid, then?”
Derek smiles and resists the urge to look at his watch. “If you wouldn’t mind. I gotta get on the road.”
“Of course I don’t mind, D. It’s what you came up for, ain’t it? We just have to head down into camp proper first,” he says with a nod toward one of the trucks. Gil starts to walk off.
Derek doesn’t follow. “Wait. What do you mean, go into camp?”
Turning back, Gil stares at him with furrowed eyebrows, his face a picture of confusion. “What? When did I ever have a chance to go down there and get the rest of your money? Besides, even if I did have it on me, you think I’m gonna walk around the woods for two weeks with thousands of dollars on me? It was bad enough when I did that our first weekend together, and that was five grand.”
Clenching his teeth, Derek feels a surge of anger shooting up. He takes a breath and hesitates a moment before responding. “This is nonsense. We agreed on Sunday morning, and I met my obligation. It’s time to pay up, so whatever you need to do to make that happen, you’d better get on it.”
“You’re gonna get paid, D. But I gotta take you to see the boss first. Only thing holding up your money is you.”
A few of the others glance in their direction before going back to stowing their gear in the flatbeds. Gil smirks and closes the distance between them. He stares up into Derek’s eyes, suddenly smug and satisfied.
“Guess you’re gonna have to adapt and overcome, huh, Marine instructor? Out there, you might have been the commander, but back here, the only one with more rank than me is Marshal, and I say you got to go see him.”
Clenching his fists, Derek takes a step closer. The two are practically nose to nose, but Gil doesn’t retreat. Instead, his smirk grows into a full-blown smile. Jimmy and Brian turn their attention completely to Derek. They do a crap job of pretending to mind their own business. It’s clear what they’re there for. Derek doesn’t give a shit.
“Listen, you redneck bastard. I’m tired of your little games. You understand? Get me my money or I’m gonna beat your ass.”
An even wider smile. “What? You gonna take us all on? How about getting out of here? Think you can navigate these trails before we’d catch up to you? No, D, your turn to listen. I say you’re not getting paid until you’ve met the boss. It’s not like he ain’t gonna give you the cash. I talked with the fellas, and we all agree that the training was top-notch. Worth every penny. No one’s reneging here.”
Gil playfully claps him on the arm. Derek looks at the appendage and then back at the smaller man, his mouth forced slightly open by indignation. He touches me again, it’s on.
“Not at all. Still don’t change nothing. Now if you want to get in your truck and drive outta here, be my guest. No one’s gonna stop you. Of course, you’ll be out the rest of your money. You want to get paid, you’ll come down to the camp. I promise it won’t take more than an hour.”
They stare at each other. Derek looks over at the men standing nearby, the others climbing into the flatbeds beyond. He glances down at his watch. Gil had taken his time on the drive up. Derek could make up the hour delay on the road. All the practical reasons for going to the camp add up to him doing so, but the principal of the thing fuels a simmering rage bubbling just under the surface.
In the end, ten grand is ten grand. He was in no position to walk out on five thousand dollars that he had rightfully earned.
“An hour. That’s it. I’ll follow you down.”
Gil slaps him on the arm again. “That’s the spirit, Marine!”
Derek resists the urge to punch him in the base of his neck. Storming off to his own truck, he grabs his bag out of the back and brings it into the cab with him. As the trucks pull away, Derek reaches into the top of the pack. He takes out the .40 caliber, digs a little deeper to find his concealed carry holster, and then straps the weapon to his belt.
Heading north, the trio of trucks descends a steep and bumpy hill. The men in the flatbed in front of him cling on for dear life and laugh like they’re on a carnival ride. Derek’s frustration grows with how slowly the vehicles progress down the track. Eventually, the road levels out and banks off to the east, winding and weaving its way through thick woods.
Curving back around to the north, the vehicles enter a wide clearing where several other trucks, work vans, and ATVs are parked. Beyond the improvised lot, the road continues into the woods heading north. An opening in the tree line to the west denotes a smaller trail.
The engines killed, his students spill out and shoulder their bags. Derek does the same. If this ended up being some sort of trap and he couldn’t make it back to his truck, he wanted to at least have his gear with him.
“Come on, D,” Gil says, waving him over to a side-by-side ATV. “There ain’t much room for full-size vehicles in camp. If we stay on the road, it’ll take a bit longer to get there too. The trail is more direct, but it’s still another two klicks at least. This baby will save some time.”
He and Derek ride in silence the rest of the way to the camp. The track terminates at the edge of a moderate clearing. Climbing out, Derek spots another cinder block building off to his right. A quick scan of the perimeter reveals various wooden shacks set back into the tree line. He can hear the running water of a nearby river even though he can’t see it. Saws and hammers ring out over the steady rush. A dozen people are moving about from one building to the next. They throw glances at the newcomer but quickly go about their business.
“I’ll set you up in the mess tent. Most everybody should be out of there by this hour. We start things early ’round here. Darryl can hook you up with a hot meal while I grab Marshal. Be better than those grubs, right?”
“I don’t give a shit about your food, Gil. Or about your Marshal. I want to get my money and get out of here. So whatever you have to do to make that happen, do it.”
The man glares at him, one nostril ticking up in a brief snarl, and then Gil’s face smooths over. “Whatever you say, D. Over here.”
They cut across the clearing, a massive military tent wedged into the space between the trees coming into view as they draw closer. The olive-drab canvas walls wave lightly in a warm breeze. Two smokestacks stick out of the roof on the left side, vacating gray smoke along with the smells of cooking meat and baking bread.
Instincts kick in. After two plus decades of practice, intelligence gathering is as second nature to him as breathing. Derek makes small talk all the while cataloging the responses, indexing them next to the sights and sounds of the camp. “How long were you in?”
There’s a long pause, so long that Derek isn’t sure the man will respond. A few paces past his doubt, Gil clears his throat. “How’d you know?”
Derek shrugs. “Little things, really. Referring to me as ‘commander.’ Ticking off distance in klicks instead of miles. Your knowledge of Special Operations units. Then there’s the way you carry yourself. The way you move. You may be a redneck, but you’re a trained one. That’s for certain.”
Another long pause passes between them. “Eleven years. Plus or minus.”
“You forget how to count?” Derek grumbles.
“Nah, nothing like that, D. Just the last few years I wouldn’t exactly classify as service time.”
“Oh yeah? What would you classify it as?”
“A waste, D. And we’ll leave it at that for now.”
Reaching the tent, Gil makes a mock flourish of bowing as he steps aside and pulls a flap back. Derek ducks through the entranceway and notices a crew of three working at wood-burning stoves and ovens arranged behind the chow line to his left. A beady, balding, greasy skeleton of a man looks up as Gil steps in behind him.
“Hey, Darryl. You got any breakfast still?”
Darryl wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “Gave the rest to the kids to bait with. I can finish up some of this quick. Take a seat.”
“You heard the man,” Gil quips. “Take a seat, D.”
Derek moves over to one of the many picnic benches inside and eases himself down. As he does so, the remaining few people still eating clear their dishes and exit out the back, Gil following close behind. Derek watches as Darryl lifts what appears to be a steak skewered on a fork and throws it onto another part of the grill. Flames shoot up, and Derek can hear the meat sizzling.
He looks around. The tent. The tables. It’s all eerily familiar. Like the chow tents he used to take meals in on deployment. Even down to the arrangement of the napkin holders and Tabasco bottles in the center of the tables. Except they aren’t in some foreign hellhole. They’re in upstate New York. The tent is trying to mimic the military in a place where you don’t need to.
Darryl walks over, steaming plate in one hand, a pitcher of water and a glass in another. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, a quarter inch of ash holding precariously to the edge of it. The man drops the plate in front of him and sets down the pitcher and glass. Reaching into the pocket of his stain-covered apron, he pulls out a set of silverware. Derek looks at the plate. It holds a slab of meat burned to a crisp, still-bubbling beans ladled next to it, and a heel of crusty bread. He looks back at Darryl.
The man stares right back at him. After a few moments, Darryl’s eyes go wide. “Well, boy? Don’t just stare at it.”
“The hell is it?”
“Venison. What else?” Darryl replies, smoke pouring from his mouth as he does so.
“Can you put it back on the grill for me? I don’t think it’s done yet.”
Darryl’s eyes narrow. He reaches up and takes another long drag of his cigarette. The cook lowers his hand and flicks the ash into the pitcher of water. Darryl blows the smoke out while mumbling, “Smart-ass,” as he walks away.
Derek’s tolerance for this place wanes ever closer to him losing his shit. Still, beyond the anger of his delay, there is the necessity of fueling the body. A plate of hot food sits in front of him. Another lesson he learned long ago. Eat when you have the opportunity to do so.
Despite the meat being charred, the smells ignite a deep, voracious hunger. The hunger of not having eaten anything substantial in nearly two and a half weeks. Derek grabs the fork and knife and tears into the venison. After a few bites, he starts shoveling in beans, barely noticing how hot they still are.
Pouring a glass of water, Derek downs it in a few gulps, regardless of the ash floating on the surface. It’s flat and tastes like it’s been purified or at least boiled, but it’s cool as it rushes down his throat. Venison finished, he’s still mopping up beans into his mouth with the remainder of his bread when a figure steps in front of him on the other side of the table.
“Yeah. Darryl can cook, can’t he now?”
Derek looks up.
For a guy that must be in his late seventies or early eighties, the man is built like an ox. He wears Realtree camouflage pants tucked into a pair of hunting boots. His tan T-shirt stretches over a broad chest and shoulders and is tucked in around a narrow waist. A shock of closely cropped white hair rests atop a deeply lined face. Heavy bags sit under the man’s eyes, but the eyes themselves are alive with all the faculties of a man half his age.
A fleeting image of Derek’s father passes through his mind, recognized for what it is and dismissed immediately in favor of the matter at hand.
“Name’s Marshal,” the old man says, extending a hand.
Leaning back, Derek crosses his arms in front of him.
Marshal awkwardly leaves his hand hanging over the table before pulling it back. The old man holds his gaze a bit but then gets antsy. Marshal looks around some, scratches his head, and then looks back. “How about some coffee? I could use a cup. You?”
Derek swallows his last piece of bread. He could not care less about the man’s manners and hospitality. “How about you just explain why you’re holding out on me.”
The cooks behind the chow line pick up their heads and look at the table. Their faces are frozen in astonishment, one of them in outright fear. Marshal’s face remains stoic while a long moment passes between them.
“Afraid we don’t have much to offer in the way of milk and sugar. Plenty of that artificial creamer, though. So how do you take it? Black or full of powder?”
The old man hadn’t flinched at his abruptness, but the reactions of the chow crew were telling. It spikes Derek’s curiosity. “Black.”
The old man smiles and raps his knuckles on the table. “Coming right up.”
Retreating to a small folding table set on the far side of the chow line, Marshal returns a minute later and pushes a steaming mug across the table. He sits opposite Derek and sips on his own cup. Derek takes a swig and then shakes from the bitterness. The shit tastes like roofing tar.
“Jesus. I’ve had some foulness before, but … fuck.”
Marshal grimaces, apparently not pleased with his profanity. Or is it the blasphemy? Or insulting his cook’s coffee? Whatever the reason, the old man keeps it to himself. Derek catalogs the reaction, storing it for later analysis.
Marshal takes another long drink and then leans forward, puts his elbows on the table, and looks him square in the eye. “First things first, son. I’m sorry for delaying you. Truly, I am. I just thought it prudent we meet.”
Derek furrows his eyebrows. “That’s great and all, but we had an agreement, and I have other responsibilities. I don’t have time for this amateur-hour nonsense.”
“You’re upset. I get it. I would be too. Please understand there’s a purpose to all this. Gil is a scary judge of talent and all, but … we don’t bring outsiders into our group too often. Even with his recommendation, before we extend an invite, I … need to be certain about a person.”
“So this was all some kind of test?”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.” The old man scratches his head again, then glances off to the side, looking perturbed. When he looks back, there is some sorrow behind his eyes. “Would you mind taking a walk? I think it might make more sense if I show you what we’re trying to do here.”
The question gets under his skin. He can’t help thinking of the time being wasted. Of the promise he made. Of how late he’s going to be as a result. “Do I even have a choice? I’m not gonna get my goddamn money if I refuse, right?”
The old man looks over his shoulder quickly and then leans in. When he speaks, there is an edge to his voice. It’s still respectful just … harder. “I’m asking, not telling you, son. Fifteen more minutes. Twenty, tops. But if you’re gonna come along, you will stop taking the Lord’s name in vain and hear me out. Do those things and I’ll see you on your way with your money. You decide to keep pushing it, and you can drive out of here with empty pockets.”
