Reveille came in the form of an electric buzzer, the kind associated with a cheap alarm clock. That was good news. No bugle – he hated bugles in the morning. Like most professional soldiers, Chavez knew the value of sleep, and waking up was not a cause for celebration. Bodies stirred around him at once, to the accompaniment of the usual wake-up grumbles and profanity. He tossed off the blanket and was surprised to learn how cold the floor was.
“Who’re you?” the man in the next bunk said while staring at the floor.
“Chavez, Staff Sergeant. Bravo, 3rd of the 17th.”
“Vega. Me, too. Headquarters Company, lst/22nd. Get in last night?”
“Yep. What gives here?”
“Well, I don’t really know, but they sure did run us ragged yesterday,” Staff Sergeant Vega said. He stuck his hand out. “Julio.”
“Domingo. Call me Ding.”
“Where you from?”
“L.A.”
“Chicago. Come on.” Vega rose. “One good thing about this place, you got all the hot water you want, and no Mickey Mouse on the housekeeping. Now, if they could just turn the fucking heat on at night -”
“Where the hell are we?”
“Colorado. I know that much. Not much else, though.” The two sergeants joined a loose trail of men heading for the showers.
Chavez looked around. Nobody was wearing glasses. Everybody looked pretty fit, even accounting for the fact that they were soldiers. A few were obvious iron-pumpers, but most, like Chavez, had the lean, wiry look of distance runners. One other thing that was so obvious it took him half a minute to notice it. They were all Latinos.
The shower helped. There was a nice, tall pile of new towels, and enough sinks that everyone had room to shave. And the toilet stalls even had doors. Except for the thin air, Chavez decided, this place had real possibilities. Whoever ran the place gave them twenty-five minutes to get it together. It was almost civilized.
Civilization ended promptly at 0630. The men got into their uniforms, which included stout boots, and moved outside. Here Chavez saw four men standing in a line. They had to be officers. You could tell from the posture and the expressions. Behind the four was another, older man, who also looked and acted like an officer, but… not quite, Chavez told himself.
“Where do I go?” Ding asked Vega.
“You’re supposed to stick with me. Third squad, Captain Ramirez. Tough mother, but a good guy. Hope you like to run, ‘mano.”
“I’ll try not to crap out on ya’,” Chavez replied.
Vega turned with a grin. “That’s what I said.”
“Good morning, people!” boomed the voice of the older one. “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Colonel Brown. You newcomers, welcome to our little mountain hideaway. You’ve already gotten to your proper squads, and for everyone’s information, our TO and E is now complete. This is the whole team.”
It didn’t surprise Chavez that Brown was the only obvious non-Latino to be seen. But he didn’t know why he wasn’t surprised. Four others were walking toward the assembly. They were PT instructors. You can always tell from the clean, white T-shirts and the confidence that they could work anyone into the ground.
“I hope everyone got a good night’s sleep,” Brown went on. “We will start our day with a little exercise -”
“Sure,” Vega muttered, “might as well die before breakfast.”
“How long you been here?” Ding asked quietly.
“Second day. Jesus, I hope it gets easier. The officers musta been here a week at least – they don’t barf after the run.”
“- and a nice little three-mile jog through the hills,” Brown ended.
“That’s no big deal,” Chavez observed.
“That’s what I said yesterday,” Vega replied. “Thank God I quit smokin’.”
Ding didn’t know how to react to that. Vega was another light infantryman from the 10th Mountain, and like himself was supposed to be able to move around all day with fifty pounds of gear on his back. But the air was pretty thin, thin enough that Chavez wondered just how high they were.
They started off with the usual daily dozen, and the number of repeats wasn’t all that bad, though Chavez found himself breaking a slight sweat. It was the run that told him how tough things would get. As the sun rose above the mountains, he got a feel for what sort of country it was. The camp was nestled in the bottom of a valley, and comprised perhaps fifty acres of almost flat ground. Everything else looked vertical, but on inspection proved to be slopes of less than forty-five degrees, dotted with scruffy-looking little pine trees that would never outgrow the height for Christmas decorations. The four squads, each led by an instructor and a captain, moved in different directions, up horse trails worn into the mountainside. In the first mile, Chavez reckoned, they had climbed over five hundred feet, snaking their way along numerous switchbacks toward a rocky knoll. The instructor didn’t bother with the usual singing that accompanied formation running. There wasn’t much of a formation anyway, just a single-file of men struggling to keep pace with a faceless robot whose white shirt beckoned them on toward destruction. Chavez, who hadn’t run a distance less than three miles, every day for the last two years of his life, was gasping for breath after the first. He wanted to say something, like, “There isn’t any fuckin’ air!” But he didn’t want to waste the oxygen. He needed every little molecule for his bloodstream. The instructor stopped at the knoll to make sure everyone was there, and Chavez, jogging doggedly in place, had the chance to see a vista worthy of an Ansel Adams photograph – all the better in the full light of a morning sun. But his only thought on being able to see over forty miles was terror that he’d have to run it all.
God, I thought I was in shape!
Hell, I am in shape!
The next mile traced a ridgeline to the east, and the sun punished eyes that had to stay alert. This was a narrow trail, and going off it could involve a painful fall. The instructor gradually picked up the pace, or so it seemed, until he stopped again at another knoll.
“Keep those legs pumpin’!” he snarled at those who’d kept up. There were two stragglers, both new men, Chavez thought, and they were only twenty yards back. You could see the shame on their faces, and the determination to catch up. “Okay, people, it’s downhill from here.”
And it was, mostly, but that only made it more dangerous. Legs rubbery from the fatigue that comes from oxygen deprivation had to negotiate a downward slope that alternated from gradual to perilously steep, with plenty of loose rocks for the unwary. Here the instructor eased off on the pace, for safety as everyone guessed. The captain let his men pass, and took up the rear to keep an eye on things. They could see the camp now. Five buildings. Smoke rose from a chimney to promise breakfast. Chavez saw a helipad, half a dozen vehicles – all four-wheel-drives – and what could only be a rifle range. There was no other sign of human habitation in sight, and the sergeant realized that even the wide view he’d had earlier hadn’t shown any buildings closer than five or six miles. It wasn’t hard to figure out why the area was sparsely settled. But he didn’t have time or energy for deep thoughts at the moment. His eyes locked on the trail, Ding Chavez concentrated on his footing and the pace. He took up a position alongside one of the erstwhile stragglers and kept an eye on him. Already Chavez was thinking of this as his squad, and soldiers are supposed to look out for one another. But the man had firmed up. His head was high now, his hands balled into tight, determined fists, and his powerfully exhaled breaths had purpose in them as the trail finally flattened out and they approached the camp. Another group was coming in from the far side.
“Form up, people!” Captain Ramirez called out for the first time. He passed his men and took the place of the instructor, who peeled off to let them by. Chavez noted that the bastard wasn’t even sweating. Third Squad formed into a double line behind their officer.
“Squad! Quick-time, march!” Everyone slowed to a regular marching pace. This took the strain off lungs and legs, told them that they were now the custody of their captain, and reminded them that they were still part of the Army. Ramirez delivered them in front of their barracks. The captain didn’t order anyone to sing a cadence, though. That made him smart, Chavez thought, smart enough to know that nobody had enough breath to do so. Julio was right, probably. Ramirez might be a good boss.