The Rift by Bob Mayer Page B

with a stroke of his pen. He walked with an odd gait, which meant one of his legs, if not both, were no longer flesh and blood, a common occurrence nowadays with those no longer physically fit for deployment duty and slotted to faculty positions.
    “Waiting, Master Sergeant Twackhammer,” Roland said. “The wall’s a bit crowded at the moment.”
    “Get your asses off that log!” Twackhammer yelled.
    They got to their feet.
    “Drop right where you are and give me forty.”
    The four looked down. They were standing in a couple of inches of mud. If Ms. Jones and Moms had wanted to humble the four, they’d succeeded. Being treated like newbies—when they’d all gone through several training programs like this years ago, served in elite units in combat, and were now Nightstalkers, the best of the best, et cetera, et cetera—was hitting home. It was obvious Twackhammer had no clue who they were. The major, on the other hand, had his head cocked to the side, evaluating.
    The major was no fool. He could see the clear difference between these four and the younger men flailing away at the wall, trying to get to the rope, their ticket to the other side of the wall. Besides the obvious scars on Roland and Eagle, all four were older and held themselves differently. Other services and agencies and even foreign governments sent people to go through the Q Course at Bragg, the Special Forces Qualification Course, but even those people were usually younger and more enthusiastic about the opportunity. And most bypassed SFAS, going straight to the Q.
    They dropped down and began doing push-ups, but in a way that said “yeah, yeah” rather than the anxious desperation of a candidate. Any Spec-Ops person who had been through a selection and assessment course, and especially if they’d ever been cadre in such a course, understood the reality of what was going on. Certainly it was important to weed out those who didn’t belong and to evaluate the candidates, but much of the screaming and the yelling was by rote, a routine that can begin to numb one out.
    So they languidly did their push-ups, except Roland, of course, who was done first, knocking them out without even breathing hard. He snapped out five more, just for shits and grins, then hopped to his feet.
    Eagle was last, and he was breathing hard.
    The major ambled over, obviously not worried about getting his feet wet and muddy since he didn’t have feet. He smiled at the four. “Welcome, gentlemen. Someone named Ms. Jones says hi. And gung ho.”
    Then he moved away.
    “What the frak was that about?” Mac asked, wiping a hand across his forehead, which only served to move mud around. “We know Ms. Jones sent us here. She’s rubbing it in.”
    “Gung ho,” Eagle repeated. “That’s it.” He nodded at the other three. “It’s an American version of two Chinese words that were appropriated during World War Two. Gong , which means ‘work,’ and he , which means ‘together.’ In China it was actually the name of a corporation, but a marine major named Carlson decided to use it as the motto of the Second Marine Raider Battalion. Now everyone’s heard of it.”
    “You are just full of arcane stuff,” Kirk said.
    “Huh?” Roland said.
    “Great history lesson,” Mac said. “Couldn’t she have just told us to work together?”
    Kirk spoke up. “How well do words work on you, Mac?”
    Mac bristled for a second, but then his shoulders lumped. “Yeah. I get it.”
    “I work with everyone,” Roland said.
    “Maybe that’s the problem,” Kirk said. “You all did the unauthorized mission to help me in Arkansas. And you”—he indicated Roland—“did an unauthorized mission with Neeley in South America. I think Ms. Jones is trying to get us to stay on the reservation.”
    “ This ain’t the reservation,” Mac said.
    The cluster of candidates still hadn’t defeated the wall. Some were arguing with each other now, teamwork breaking down in the face of