Bottom Feeder (43 page)

“
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.

When you exhale, there is
a pause,
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 lay 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, Ace, Juana,
Trina, and Amy: Thank you for providing me with a million laughs,
even more ideas, putting up with emails, text messages and
constant, “Can I use this in my book?” questions. Y’all have seen
me at my best, my worst and everything in between, yet you still
won’t tell anyone I’m insane. Thank you for that.

To all 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.

To the amazing people on Twitter,
Facebook, and Instagram. Thank you for your encouragement,
hilarious wit, and for understanding my awkwardness.

To my fellow nerd fighters. You are
all 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.