The Final Line (3 page)

Master Sergeant Whitfield was already there, dressed in full utilities and cover. He was an older Marine, combat hardened in the first Gulf War and Somalia. He was several inches shorter than Corey but still bulky with firm muscle.

Corey wore his black PT shorts and the black T-shirt that proclaimed him an instructor. Today, he and his fellow instructors would begin the three month task of turning men from Marines into Recon.

The rest of the instructors assembled quickly, some dressed in utilities, others in PT gear like Corey. It was easy to remember nearly six years earlier, when Corey had come to this same pool as a boot PFC, eager to become a Recon Marine.

“Staff Sergeant Yarwood,” Master Sergeant Whitfield barked. “You’ll stay on the deck today, since this is your first class. Keep an eye out for ones going under and haul them out.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” Yarwood answered sharply.

He listened as Whitfield handed out the rest of the assignments for the day. There were three Navy Corpsmen at the pool today, ready to treat the Marines who needed it. They would also have the final say on whether some of them continued on in training or washed out.

Sixty five Marines, officers and enlisted, humped into the pool area chanting the cadence called out by one of the sergeants in the class. The instructors lined up against the fence as the master sergeant ordered the Marines to attention in two lines.

Whitfield outlined what the Marines could expect to endure over the next twelve weeks. Corey knew that no explanation could ever come close to accurately describing the hell of the Basic Reconnaissance Course.

Next, the Master Sergeant introduced the course instructors. He saved Corey for last.

“Staff Sergeant Yarwood. He might be a brand new Staff Sergeant. He might be the newest instructor here. Do not make the mistake of thinking he is anything other than a battle-tested Recon Marine.” Whitfield’s words surprised Corey. “He’s seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’s received a Purple Heart and earned the Bronze Star in defense of this great country of ours. He has served with Recon Marines who are fucking legends. He’s a goddamn hero.”

Corey leaned tensely against the fence. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over the scar in his hair. It was his souvenir from the concussion he’d received when he’d been blown up and shot at while serving with Jonah Carver, trying to protect Kellan Reynolds. They were the legends the Master Sergeant had mentioned.

The students were ordered into the pool, still wearing full utilities and deuce gear. They’d been allowed to remove their boots but it was a small help. Corey paced back and forth along the edge of the pool in his go-fasters as he watched for Marines to give in or go under, as they tread water for 45 mikes.

Corey remembered his own time in the pool under these circumstances. This had been child’s play for him. It wasn’t until the 30 yard, under water swim that he’d begun to wonder if he was cut out for this.

Ten minutes in and one Marine was swimming to the side and pulling himself out of the water. Corey went over to make sure he was all right.

“I can’t do it,” the Marine gasped.

Around the pool, instructors began to jeer the Marine.

“Are you quitting all ready?” Corey shouted, still looking for signs of ill health and seeing none. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

The Marine stood. Corey saw bars on his collar. Shit. He reminded himself it didn’t matter. He got in the Lieutenant’s face. “Are you quitting?” he yelled.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said, still out of breath.

“Say it again!” Corey shouted. “Say it so I can hear you, are you quitting?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.” The Lieutenant’s voice cracked as he tried to shout his reply.

“Get out of my pool!” Corey pointed toward the pool gate where a sergeant stood ready to record the names of the Marines who quit or were eliminated. “Get the hell out of my pool.”

Corey went back to pacing the edge of the pool.

“Good job, Staff Sergeant,” Master Sergeant Whitfield said quietly as he walked by, arms folded over his broad chest. “You didn’t let the bars intimidate you.”

“Thank you, Master Sergeant,” Corey replied, proud that he’d gotten off to a good start with Whitfield.

Forty-five minutes later, Corey and his fellow instructors dropped several eight-pound simulated M16s into the water, letting them sink to the bottom. A few of the more experienced instructors stripped off their shoes and shirts before looping buoy ropes around their chests and going into the water with the class. Corey stayed at poolside.

The tired Marines were ordered, one at a time, to retrieve a rifle from the bottom of the pool. They then had to pass the rifle from Marine to Marine, while still treading water. There were some Marines who had no trouble retrieving and passing the rifles. Others struggled. The safety divers stayed close, ready to intervene if needed.

Corey kept his eye on a PFC treading several feet from where he stood. The Marine passed off the rifle too quickly, always going under briefly when he did. He surfaced gasping and coughing. Corey was going to have to toss him from the class, he was struggling too hard too early. That didn’t mean the kid didn’t have heart, though.

This time, when he handed off the rifle, the PFC came up choking on water and swimming for the edge of the pool. Corey met him there, helping the Marine to climb out of the water.

“On your side, Private,” Corey said firmly, kneeling beside him. “Lie down and catch your breath.”

One of the Corpsmen, HM2 Carville, came over to evaluate the Marine as he coughed and gasped.

“You gave it a good try, Private.” Corey helped the PFC to sit up when the doc declared him winded but otherwise fine. “You’re just not cut out for Recon.” He helped the kid to stand and gave him a gentle shove toward the pool gate.

At the two hour mark, more safety swimmers went into the pool, some in wet suits and snorkel gear, as they gathered the nearly exhausted Marines in the shallow end of the pool. Corey kicked off his go-fasters, knowing a lot of water was going to splash up onto the deck and he might very likely have to go into the pool himself.

“Be ready, Yarwood,” Whitfield said as he strode by the deep end of the pool. “A lot of them are gonna need to have their asses hauled out.”

“I remember, Master Sergeant,” Corey replied. “Shallow water black out.”

“You made it on your first try, didn’t you, Staff Sergeant?” Whitfield asked.

“I touched the wall on my first try, Master Sergeant,” Corey answered. “But I don’t remember surfacing.”

“That’s why you’re here now, Staff Sergeant.” Whitfield clapped him on the shoulder. “You give all you got and keep on pushing.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant.” Shame swamped Corey. Would he even have this job if anyone knew he had to drink himself to sleep every night?

The first two Marines who tried didn’t make it across the pool. They got sent back to the shallow end to try again. A third surfaced halfway across, held up his fingers in the ‘okay’ sign and recited his name.

“I’m okay, Staff Sergeant,” the Marine called.

“What do you mean you’re okay?” Corey shouted from the pool deck. “You only made it halfway. Get back there and do it again.”

Corey stepped to the edge of the pool as a Marine drew close to the wall near where he stood. As the Marine’s head broke the surface, Corey bent over to evaluate him. The corporal lifted his hand with a circled thumb and forefinger. Whatever he said to Corey was unintelligible.

“Slow down, say it again,” Corey said, watching closely for any signs the Marine was going to black out and slip under the water.

“Lopez, Alberto, I’m okay, Staff Sergeant,” the Corporal gasped.

“Very good, Corporal, out of the pool,” Corey told him, moving to the right to monitor the next Marine nearing the wall.

When the Marine, a Sergeant, surfaced with a gasp, he didn’t lift his hand or speak. Corey was aware of a safety swimmer, the corpsman, and another instructor coming toward them. He watched as the Marine slowly sank down into the water.

“Get him!” Corey cried, even as his own fingers closed around the collar of the sergeant’s deuce gear. He stepped back and hauled the limp body from the pool, getting a little help from the safety swimmer and his fellow instructor.

The sergeant surfaced from the shallow water black out almost as soon as Corey had him on the deck. He was breathing and griping immediately. Helping the sergeant to sit for the doc to evaluate him, Corey went back to the pool edge. As long as the corpsman cleared the sergeant, he was still in the program.

“Staff Sergeant Yarwood,” Master Sergeant Whitfield barked.

Corey turned and the Earth fell out from beneath his feet. Standing with Whitfield was Jonah Carver, dressed in his full service uniform, mirrored aviator glasses beneath the low brim of his barracks cover.

“You have visitors, Staff Sergeant,” Whitfield called. He turned back to Jonah and shook his hand. He also shook the hand of the man standing behind Jonah before he walked away.

Corey crossed the pool deck toward Jonah, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt under dressed and grungy, in his PT gear, with Jonah looking so tall and handsome in his olive green uniform and polished brass. Corey swallowed hard when he realized the man with Jonah was Kellan Reynolds.

Kellan wore a tailored suit that was nearly the same color as Jonah’s uniform. He was just as handsome as Jonah. It was easy to see why Jonah had such strong feelings for Kellan. Corey wanted to hate him. He would hate him, if Kellan wasn’t such a likeable son-of-a-bitch.

He came to a stop several feet in front of Jonah and saluted. It wasn’t required but Jonah was a fucking First Sergeant now and Corey would always have a deep and abiding respect for him as a Marine and as a man.

Jonah returned the salute before his face split into a wide smile. “Knock off the formal shit, Yarwood,” he said, extending his hand.

Corey shook Jonah’s hand vigorously. “It’s great to see you again, Top. I had no idea you were even on this coast.”

Kellan stepped forward, his own hand extended. “Congratulations on the promotion, Staff Sergeant,” he said as he and Corey shook.

“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds,” Corey said genuinely. “I’m under no illusion that your letters to the Corps didn’t weigh heavily in my favor every time I was up for promotion.” Corey had received four increases in pay grade since he’d been on the periphery of Kellan’s investigation in Iraq.

“Letters I wrote because you deserved them, Staff Sergeant,” Kellan replied.

“Honored you feel that way, sir.”

“Look at you now,” Jonah said as he surveyed the Marines in the pool, “an instructor at BRC.”

Corey shrugged. “I think they want me here just because I served with the two of you.”

Jonah rounded on him sharply. “I call bullshit. I know what medals you’ve been awarded.”

Corey shifted his weight uncomfortably. Some of those medals had been awarded after his last deployment to Afghanistan. “So what brings the two of you to California?” he asked. “Last I heard, Mr. Reynolds had a fancy new job with the Department of Defense and you were his Military Liaison.”

“Oh, we’ve been
promoted.
I am now the Senior Enlisted Advisor for the Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Strategy, Plans and Force Development,” Jonah said with both formality and disdain. It was so very like Jonah.

Corey laughed. “Congratulations?”

“Unfortunately, this isn’t a social visit for us,” Kellan said, suddenly solemn.

“I didn’t suspect it was, sir,” replied Corey, anxiety knotting in his gut.

“The Ghazni City Council has filed a formal complaint with the Marine Corps over the events of the battle there.” Kellan broke the line of his suit jacket by burying his hands in his trouser pockets.

“I’m aware of that, sir.” Corey remembered the hours of questioning and the nights he’d gotten drunk to forget the memories those questions had dredged up. “I cooperated fully.”

“The conclusion reached by the NCIS investigation is not being accepted. The Afghan government has gotten involved and they’ve provided additional evidence.” Kellan spoke carefully, as if he wanted Corey to understand what he wasn’t saying, as much as what he was.

Corey knew it would be easier to read Kellan if he weren’t wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. “Are you here to investigate that supposed evidence and determine if there’s been a cover up?”

Kellan gave a sharp nod. “We are.”

“You’ll have my full cooperation, sir.” Corey may not like the memories but he had nothing to hide.

“We’ve read your reports on the incident and the notes of your interviews during the previous investigation,” Jonah said. “Is there anything at all you want to change? Anything you remember differently than you did before?”

“No, Top, there’s not.” Corey’s chest tightened. He didn’t like the implication of that question.

Kellan and Jonah exchanged a look. With a glance at Corey, Kellan said, “It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Staff Sergeant.” He turned and left the pool area.

With a tilt of his head, Jonah led Corey farther away from the other instructors. “There are gaps in your story,” he said quietly. “Events you make no mention of, that are reported in detail by other Marines.”

“I’m aware of that, Jonah.” Corey folded his arms over his chest, even knowing it wouldn’t protect him from Jonah’s words.

“If you’ve remembered anything new since the event, or if you’ve remembered that you left something out of your initial report, let us know now.” Jonah’s voice was kind and soothing, it held no accusation. “Kellan can protect you if he knows going in that your reports need to be amended.”

Corey stared tight-jawed at Jonah, wishing he could see pale blue eyes behind the mirrored glasses. “I haven’t remembered anything new.”

Jonah sighed explosively. “If Kellan finds the other reports to be accurate, it’ll call into question your command of the detachment. You didn’t participate, but it was your duty to know what your men were doing.”

“I had men in two different locations.” Corey repeated what he’d been saying ever since that fucked up day. “I was with the group that had the greater need. I wasn’t derelict.”