Bottom Feeder Page 29

  Dom’s pages are filled with a little bit of advice, a little bit of his daily life, and a lot of how much he loves and misses me.

  I place the letters in a neat stack inside a plastic container at the bottom of my wall locker. I cherish them like rare artifacts.

  My first phone call is to Dom. My heart races with anticipation of hearing his voice.

  “Hey, Maddy,” Jackson answers. “Beraz is on a jump today. He gave me his phone in case you called.”

  “Oh.” I try not to pout about being unable to talk to Dom for at least another week. “How are you?”

  “Good. How are things there?”

  “I’m not sure if I should change my name from Maddy to Cupcake, but other than that, things are good.”

  He chuckles. “Cupcake, huh? It’s better than some of my nicknames.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “One minute!” DS Sanchez yells.

  I sigh. “One minute.”

  “Yeah, I heard. I’ll go. Any messages for Beraz?”

  I laugh. “I’ll spare you the corny lines.”

  “I miss you,” he says and quickly adds, “Er, that was Beraz’s message. He says he misses you.”

  “I miss him, too.” I pause. “Thanks for being such a good friend and giving me a head’s up on all this. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  White Phase

  In order for us to get used to the weapon, our rifles are strapped to our back during PT. Yesterday we learned how to assemble, take apart and clean our M-16 rifles. The sound of the magazine loading and the bolt pushing forward is both extraordinary and startling.

  The click-clack is the sound of power, defense, offense, survival and demise all in my hands. It scares the crap out of me. It tells me I am part of something bigger than myself. Bigger than anything I’ve ever done. Bigger than pain and secrets. Bigger than panic over what happens next.

  Being successful here makes me feel like I can take on Cordell, Larry, and whoever else he may send after me next. Putting on the uniform every morning gives me a confidence I cannot explain.

  The three badges of marksmanship are Marksman, Sharpshooter, and Expert. Although I am uninterested in standing out, succeeding is essential. For my personal goal, I aim for Expert.

  “Prone position!” DS Downing yells.

  Prone position is holding the weapon while lying on your stomach. Cordell used to take me to the shooting range in one of his smaller warehouses, but I’ve never shot lying down.

  I drop to my stomach and prop on one elbow to aim my weapon at the target.

  There’s a pause on the exhale, Jackson said in his last letter. That’s when you shoot. Don’t hold your breath. The concentration on not breathing takes away from the concentration of hitting your target. Relax. You control how the weapon reacts.

  I wait for the go-ahead to begin and follow Jackson’s instructions.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  The racket soon becomes white noise in the background of what sounds like chaos. By the time we leave the shooting range I have achieved my goal of Expert. Another step of success. Another mark of panic off my list.

  Blue Phase

  FTX: Field Training Exercise.

  Four days, three nights in the woods of South Carolina.

  We are waiting for a group of soldiers to infiltrate our perimeter. Along with our regular uniform, we are dressed in laser gear that makes an annoyingly loud sound if we are hit. The sensors beep until the drill sergeants find us and stop the noise with a key.

  I am ready. We are ready.

  DS Downing raises her hand. We spring from prone position. She pushes her hand forward. We move. She lowers her hand. We drop.

  We do this all day. Keep moving. Keep dropping.

  September in South Carolina is hot. The heat lingers long after the sun goes down. Sand flies are in relentless pursuit of the shampoo and soap of my battle buddy, which means they hover in and around my sleeping bag. I shower with unscented bar soap and my hair has not seen shampoo in eight days. I would rather have oily hair than attract critters. Some of the insects here are the size of a small puppy. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but they are huge and I don’t want them on me.

  The other recruits laugh when I gather leaves and pine needles to use as insulators between myself and the ground. I don’t care, though, because even the dirt and sand are hot. DS Downing looks at me with a mixture of disgust and respect.

  Two a.m. Most everyone is asleep. I am wide awake because something in my gut tells me I should be. Some people call the FTX “playing war”. Although the threat of violence or death isn’t real, my fight or flight senses say it is.

  Positioned on my stomach, my weapon is raised at an awkward angle that I have grown accustomed to. My rifle does not touch the ground. Ever. So I settle for an immeasurable amount of time watching. Listening. Waiting. I zone in on the sounds around me, or any shift in the smells, and the chirping of crickets. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  But if there’s a sniper, he wouldn’t be close enough to . . .

  Beepbeepbeepbeep

  The screeching sound of sensors emanating from one of the soldiers assigned to watch for potential danger shatters the silence. For his sake, I hope he was not sleeping.

  Sensors echo from various distances around the camp. Soldiers shout. Recruits shout. Drill Sergeants shout. For the next who-knows-how-long, everything is a blur of focused confusion.

  In the midst of the confusion, myself and another recruit, Bethea, are the only two who have not attempted to add ourselves to the chaos of center camp. Everyone who runs through there is quickly added to the list of beeping sensors.

  I point up. Bethea nods. We climb the south side of a tree in order to take out invaders. Here, not far from the camp, is where I see the gleam of the sniper’s scope. I nudge Bethea, tilting my head toward the seat of trees. He nods and climbs down. I follow, staying low to the ground along the perimeter. Once we are behind the sniper’s hidden position, we separate—Bethea goes left, I stay straight-ahead. Dropping into a low-crawl, I silently proceed toward the sniper. Bethea takes out the shooter’s guide, temporarily distracting the sniper. Remaining on my belly, I raise my weapon silently. The blanks in my rifle hit him square in the chest, setting off the loud sensors.

  Graduation

  I really wish someone would memo the Department of the Army and inform them that no one under sixty-five wears pantyhose anymore. Especially in the middle of September in South Carolina. To quote Violet, it is hotter than fried hell out here. The urge to tug off these atrocious things and wipe away the sweat trickling beneath my polyester skirt is almost too much to bear.

  Our Company stands in a tight formation, waiting for our turn to march across the field where we will recite the Soldier’s Creed, receive our ribbons and awards, and be sent off to the next phase of job training. This time tomorrow, I will be on a bus to San Antonio.

  “Forward . . . March!” DS Downing yells.

  I move in step with Bethea, matching his movements without glancing at my feet. Being the last person in the first row of four recruits, I do not want to mess up. Even now, ten weeks later, I do not want to stand out here.

  After a long introduction from the Commander and repeating the Soldier’s Creed to Drill Sergeant Downing, the awards ceremony begins.

  “For attaining the highest score on the Army Physical Fitness Test, scoring three hundred out of a possible three hundred points: Private James Bethea from Oak Grove, Kentucky.”

  Although I scored two points under Bethea, I am still in the same line as the other three recruits who have won awards. Have they made a mistake about my place in line?

  I fight the urge to fidget.

  “For demonstrating superior performance of duty, the outstanding Soldier of the Cycle for Company B is Private First Class Madelyn Carrington from Tybee Island, Georgia.”

  Without hesitation, I salute the presenter of my award as applause erupts in the crowd. I glimpse
Dom, Jackson and Terrance on their feet, whistling and cheering my accomplishment.

  DS Downing blocks the view of my cheering section. “It’s okay to smile, Soldier,” she says.

  I smile. Not because of my award. She referred to me as Soldier instead of Cupcake.

  After my reunion with Jackson and Terrance, Dom pulls me aside and slips an envelope in my hand. Before leaving New York I asked him to safeguard the envelope given to him by Cecilia’s mother. The thought of what Agent Mace might have discovered was too much for me to handle, good or bad. I wanted to go into Basic Training without the sealed contents clouding my mind.

  I sit on my bunk for the last time, bracing myself for a traumatic revelation. On a plain sheet of printer paper in bold, twelve-point Times New Roman, the three words send shivers throughout my body.

  Alive. Location unknown

  Acknowledgments

  I owe many people many thanks for their unwavering support of my nagging, endless emails and text messages.

  God is my foundation for everything. I fall often, but He is always there to catch me before I hit the ground.

  To my husband, simply for being you. The world is a better place because you’re in it.

  To Mama and Daddy for never censoring the books I read.

  Virginia, Christina, Adrienne, and Juana. Y’all see me at my best, my worst and everything in between. Thank you for not telling the world I’m insane.

  To the soldiers who answered countless questions about the legitimacy of my story. Any mistake or discrepancy is my own. Although Bottom Feeder is a work of fiction, I did not want to disrespect any branch of service in any way. I can’t thank each of you enough for your patience and willingness to talk to me about your experiences.

  Reaver 6-1, Special Operations Command. Your writing, humor, and sacrifice amaze me. Thank you for taking the time to write something for a no-name author.

  My fellow nerd fighters. You are my heroes. Keep flying your nerd flag proudly and fight the good nerd fight with your best weapon: your mind. Wars are always won on the foundation of strategy.

  To all our troops past, present, and future. No matter the cause, no matter the war, no matter why you are where you are. Thank you for your sacrifice.