Lewis had met the spook five years earlier. The Department of Defense had shipped his ODA team off to Pakistan to help the black ops boys from Langley who were trying to train and equip the mujahedeen in the treacherous border region between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Hurley, in his typical gruff manner, had expressed his amusement that the vaunted Green Berets were now attaching shrinks to their units. He wondered if Lewis was similar to the political commissars who were attached to Red Army units, which was not exactly a compliment, since the communist officers were political appointees and in charge of Communist Party morale among the troops. They were also known to ship off to Siberia anyone who did not show absolute devotion to the party. They were feared and despised by their own men.
Lewis had read clean through the rough bravado of Hurley, and rather than take offense, he laughed along. As the weeks passed, however, Hurley began to consult the shrink with increasing frequency. Hurley soon learned the good doctor was a valuable asset to have around. Lewis, he found out, had a gift. He could read people. The doctor was a walking, talking polygraph.
When Hurley was finished giving the afternoon's play-by-play he did not stop to hear the doctor's opinion or let him ask questions. He moved headlong into what he thought needed to be done. "I want you to sit down with him and run him through the wringer. Clear your calendar for the rest of the week if you have to. I want to know what the deal is with this kid. He's hiding something and I want to know what it is."
As was his habit, Lewis pursed his lips and stared off into the distance while he thought about other possibilities. He respected, liked, and felt a sense of loyalty to Hurley, but he was not exactly a well-balanced, mentally healthy adult male. Kennedy, on the other hand, was possibly one of the most measured and thoughtful humans he'd ever had the pleasure of working with. Before he did anything he wanted to hear her side of the story.
"I'll clear my schedule for tomorrow," Lewis said, agreeing without really agreeing. "Let's head inside. I'm starving and I need to use the bathroom."
After Lewis had relieved himself and washed his face, they found Kennedy at the kitchen table reading a file and picking at a plate of noodles. Lewis looked at the uninspired pasta and frowned. One of his passions was cuisine, and it pained him to watch his colleagues put so little effort into something so important. Without saying a word he began searching the cupboards for something, anything that he could use to create a passable meal. Kennedy and Hurley shared a brief smile.
Lewis stuck his nose into the refrigerator, and without bothering to turn around, said, "Stan, would you be so kind as to fetch a bottle of wine from the basement? A Chateau Dominique would be fine." He took out a package of chicken and closed the door. Moving to the sink he paused for a brief moment and then said, "You might as well grab two." When Hurley was gone, Lewis looked over his shoulder at Kennedy and motioned for her to join him at the sink.
"So," he said, "Stan's not exactly thrilled with your new recruit."
"He's not the easiest man to please."
Lewis turned on the water and began to rinse the chicken. With a wry smile he said, "He thinks you set him up."
Kennedy rolled her eyes.
"This is the one you told me about? The kid from Syracuse?"
"Yes."
Lewis splayed the chicken open and let the water run through the crevices. "You never said anything about his fighting abilities."
Kennedy sheepishly shrugged her shoulders and said, "I didn't know he had them."
"That's a pretty big thing to miss." Lewis glanced up at her. "I'm not judging."
"I'm not proud that I missed it, but in the end isn't it a good thing?"
"Maybe ... maybe not."
Kennedy explained what she knew about Rapp, which admittedly wasn't a great deal, but she pointed out yet again that a blank slate was not necessarily a bad thing. That they could mold him into the man they needed. She finished her verbal report as Hurley made it back up from the basement. Lewis asked her to prepare a small salad while he went to work boiling noodles and slicing up the chicken and preparing a creamy white sauce. Hurley was left to open the red wine.
While Lewis put the finishing touches on the main dish, Hurley and Kennedy started up again. They volleyed back and forth, each one putting forth his or her version of what had happened and how the other one had screwed up. Like any good shrink, Lewis was a good listener, and he played his part. It helped that these two were rarely boring. Hurley was a once-in-a-lifetime patient, the kind of man who was so outrageously entertaining that you sometimes felt you should pay him rather than the other way around. Sure, there was a flourish of exaggeration here and there, but Lewis had witnessed several of his exploits firsthand and knew the stories to be for the most part accurate.
Kennedy was very different. There was no cussing, or anger, or animated hand gestures accompanied by thespianlike facial contortions. There was just a calm, analytical, intellectual way about her that put you at ease. Her answers were never rushed and almost always thoughtful. She did not participate in personal verbal attacks or attempt to sway opinion by exaggeration. Wildly different, in almost every way, they did share a few qualities that served to exacerbate the situation. Both were deeply suspicious of everyone they encountered and did not find it easy to admit they were wrong. On top of that, their long history and familiarity served to bring both the best and worst qualities to the surface in a very raw way. Lewis would never admit this to them, but it had become one of his great clinical joys watching these two argue: It was verbal combat at an Olympian level.
The table was set, the wine poured, and the food dished up. Kennedy picked at her salad while Hurley and Lewis devoured both the salad and the chicken and tomato fettuccine. Lewis ate in near silence while he watched the two joust. He interrupted on three occasions, but only for clarification. When he'd cleaned his plate and poured himself a second glass of wine, he pushed his chair back and was ready to give them his take on the matter. One of the things they had decided at the formation of the group was that they wanted Lewis to have full operational input. Hurley was in charge, but there was some apprehension in Washington over his cowboy attitude. Hurley, to his credit, understood that he had certain weaknesses. Rather than cop an attitude about Lewis's role expanding beyond weeding out the whackjobs, Hurley had told him, "I don't want any bullshit, PC, shrink stuff. You're paid to voice your opinions. Not give me an endless stream of what ifs."
With that in mind Lewis put his glass down and said, "Two mistakes were made and you both know what they were."
Kennedy nodded, while Hurley said, "I can think of one. Her not doing her due diligence. What's the second one?"
"You can't think of a single thing you did wrong today?" Lewis asked.
"I'm not perfect, but this one's not my fault." Hurley pointed at Kennedy. "I am busier than shit trying to see which one of these boys has the right stuff. I'm not responsible for the turds she dumps in my lap."
Lewis was suddenly resigned to the fact that he would have to box Hurley in a little tighter. Clearing his throat, he said, "We're left with two options. Either this kid is really good or you're losing a step." Lewis took a drink and asked, "Which one is it?"
Hurley's jaw tightened. "I haven't lost a step!" In a slightly embarrassed voice he added, "I just underestimated him, that's all."
"And that's what worries me the most," Lewis said in an accusatory tone.
"Don't worry ... I won't let it happen again."
"I'm afraid that's not good enough."
Hurley lit a cigarette and casually said, "Let's not make this into something bigger than it needs to be."
"Bullshit!" Lewis said with genuine fury.
"Come on..." Hurley said trying to shrug the whole thing off.
"Don't 'come on' me--you fucked up today, and you fucked up big-time."
Kennedy leaned back, her eyes wide, unable to hide her surprise at Lewis's strong condemnation.
"Let's not overreact," Hurley said e
asily, trying to take some of the heat out of the conversation.
"Overreact." Lewis leaned forward. "I'm not sure it would be possible to overreact to this situation, and what is really bothering me is that you know it, but you're too pigheaded to admit it."
"It's not the end of the world."
Lewis's indignation was growing with each denial. "You're supposed to be infallible. These guys are supposed to fear you, loathe you, hate your fucking guts, but the one thing they are never supposed to do is lay a shiner on you." Lewis pointed at Hurley's swollen eye. "And they definitely aren't supposed to beat you ... especially not five minutes after they've walked through the gate."
"He didn't beat me," Hurley growled.
"Well ... that's debatable. From what I've heard he had you beat and the only way you got out of it was by cheating."
"Yeah ... well, life's not fair."
"At this stage, Stan, these guys are like young pups. You know that. When we lay down the rules we can't break them. It sends the wrong signal."
Hurley leaned back and stubbornly folded his arms across his chest. "I was suckered into this thing."
"I'm not sure you were, but for a moment, I'll go along with you." Lewis paused briefly and then said, "You're not supposed to get suckered. You're supposed to run these dogs until they're so tired they can barely stand. You're supposed to watch them go after each other ... get a sense of what they're capable of, and then you're supposed bring them into that barn and smack them down, just like when you and I went through boot camp. This is delicate work, God dammit, and you know it. There's a reason why we do things the way we do them, and your ego has no place in the decision process."
"My ego has nothing to do with this," Hurley shot back with a sour look on his face. "I just let my guard down. That's all."
"No," Lewis shook his head, "I'm inclined to agree with Irene on this one. You still see her as a little girl, and you don't give her the credit she deserves. She shows up with this new recruit and because he doesn't fit into your little box of where these recruits are supposed to come from, you decided to skip steps one, two, and three, kick his ass, and send him packing." Lewis sat back, took a drink of wine, and then in a calmer voice asked, "Does it mean anything to you that Thomas signed off on this?" Lewis was referring to the deputy director of operations.
Embarrassed, Hurley said, "I didn't think of that."
"Do you understand the situation you've created?"
Hurley didn't react at first and then very slowly he began to nod.
Kennedy was feeling better about her position, but she wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about and asked Lewis, "What do you mean by situation?"
"These things have a way of spinning out of control," Lewis said. "One recruit has some success putting a shiner on an instructor and all of the sudden the rest of them think that maybe they can take a shot. That these guys are human. Throw in the fact that Stan here had to cheat to avoid losing, and we now have a potentially dangerous situation."
"How so?" Kennedy asked.
"Do you think it's in our best interest to train your boy, send him off, and have him decide that when things get tough, the rules don't really matter?"
Kennedy now saw the point.
"Fuck," Hurley mumbled to himself. "What do you want me to do?"
"You're going to get the hell out of here for about five days. I want you to heal up. You let me and the others run these guys down ... I'll get a better sense of this Rapp kid and his full potential."
"And then?"
"You come back here and you head into the barn with him and you beat him fair and square."
"And if he can't beat him?" Kennedy asked.
Lewis and Hurley shared a look. They were in unchartered waters. Lewis finally looked at Kennedy and said, "That would be a nice problem to have."
CHAPTER 11
THE first night didn't go so well, at least as far as sleep was concerned. Victor had kept all of them up telling outrageous stories of his sexual conquests, each one more graphic and bizarre than the already twisted story he'd just finished. After an hour or so he ran out of steam and called them all a bunch of faggots for not reciprocating. Victor then proceeded to launch into a symphony of unabated flatulence for a quarter of an hour before eventually falling into a deep, snorting slumber.
Rapp placed his pillow over his head and tried to block out the noise, but it didn't work. It was in those much-needed, sleepless hours just after midnight that Rapp began to explore the idea of getting rid of Victor. At first he considered getting up and throttling the idiot, right then and there, but knew it would only result in further punishment from the instructors and disdain from his fellow recruits. Still, the thought of spending the next six months with the lout was something that presented a very real problem. A guy like Victor could easily drag someone down with him, and Rapp had an undeniable feeling that the two men were on a collision course. And not one of those collisions that could be avoided if one or both of them changed their behavior. It was inevitable. It was the kind you needed to brace yourself for. Either drop your hips, lower your shoulders, and make the other guy feel more pain than you, or he would do the same to you and you were toast.
There was something undeniably odd about the man. The idea of his participating in a covert op was preposterous. If he could ever walk among the enemy undetected it would be a miracle. Rapp wanted this new vocation with every fiber of his body, although he was smart enough to know that saying he would never quit and actually never quitting were two very different things. He also knew he would be tested in ways he'd never imagined. He'd be pushed to the full extent of his physical and mental abilities, and it was likely that at some point, when he was really in the hurt bag, that pang of doubt would creep into his mind. Could Victor create a climate in which, at his lowest point, he might consider quitting?
Rapp didn't want to find out. Somewhere in the middle of the night, as he was lying on his back watching bats dart around the rafters of the barn and listening to the snorting Victor, Rapp decided the moron would need to quit, and if he didn't do it on his own, and do it quickly, Rapp would have to find a way to subtly nudge him in the right direction.
They were up before the sun. Two of the instructors came in and cursed, yanked, kicked, and slapped them out of bed. Luckily for Rapp, he was half awake and heard the door open. His feet were on the floor before the DI could dump him out of his cot. He'd guessed this was how the morning would start, but the yelling was nonetheless unsettling. In between the barking and smacking Rapp tried to make out exactly what it was that he was supposed to do. Somewhere in the middle of it he heard the words, line and PT. He threw on his workout gear and running shoes and was out the door like a shot. The lawn was covered with a thick morning dew and the sun was only a gray veil in the east. They weren't allowed watches and there were no clocks in the barn, so Rapp guessed that it was somewhere in the vicinity of 5:00 A.M. The air temp had to be in the midseventies and the humidity was pasty. It would be another hot one.
As Rapp came to a stop on the line he was aware that he was the first and only one out the door. He figured to start with, there were certain things where it was smart to be first and others where it wasn't. Getting out of bed and getting on the line was an area to be first. Hand-to-hand combat and fighting drills he would never hold back on, but the endurance stuff like running and PT he would. He needed to stay healthy and hold some things in reserve. These guys didn't need to know he could run like the wind.
As he waited for the others, he caught a whiff of coffee and turned to look at the house. There, standing on the porch, was a new face, a blond-haired guy who looked to be in his midthirties. The man was staring intently at Rapp. Rapp returned the stare and even at a distance of several hundred feet noted the blue eyes. The guy was in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He was leaning against one of the porch columns sipping his coffee and making no effort to conceal his interest in Rapp. There was something different about the g
uy. Rapp could tell he was in shape, but he was way more relaxed than the other DIs who were marching around and that sadistic little cuss who'd tried to neuter him.
One by one the guys tricked out of the barn and fell in. Victor was last, which was becoming a common theme. Sergeant Smith was walking quickly beside him giving him an earful in a hushed voice. They had all been warned that there would be no yelling on the line. This wasn't the only place on the lake, and voices carried across the water. Inside the barn with the door closed, however, the decibel level went through the roof. Victor fell in at the far end from Rapp.
Sergeant Smith stepped out in front of the seven recruits and with a clenched jaw said, "You puds better get your shit together, or I'm gonna start knocking some heads. I've seen Cub Scouts do better than this. This is damn sloppy. It shouldn't never take you morons more than sixty seconds to get your ass out of bed, dressed, and on the line. When you go to bed, you make sure your shit is ready. You lay it out on your footlocker so it's ready to go. We start PT at five every morning."
Rapp watched the DI's eyes shift to the opposite end of the line. He leaned forward and saw Victor had his arm raised.
"Sarge, when are we supposed to take a piss? I gotta go so bad I'm about to drown."
Sergeant Smith walked over to Victor and got in his face. "Maybe if you had gotten your lazy ass out of bed when I told you to, you would have had time to piss." He stepped back and looked down the line. "We're going to do a quick warm-up. As much as I hate you idiots, the powers that be don't want you ladies getting hurt until they see if you've got some potential. I have tried to dissuade them, as you are the biggest collection of shitlickers I've seen come through here in some time."
"Sarge, I gotta go real bad," Victor whined.
"Then piss yourself, you big idiot." His head snapped to the group. "If you can't take care of your business and get out here in sixty seconds, I'm going to have to treat you like a bunch of toddlers ... so go ahead and piss yourself, Victor. The rest of you who need to go I suggest you wait until we head out for our run. You can pull over on the trail and take care of business. Now drop and give me fifty, and if I see any of you pussies cheating we'll start over."