Streamline (38 page)

As he listened to tiny groans and gasps, Leo felt a smile threaten to break through.
Here we go
. A thrilling energy coursed through him.

“Following our little workout this morning, we’ll dress in our whiteworks for more training,” Company Commander Nevington continued. “I’d like to introduce your platoon commanders and squad leaders who will oversee your conditioning. To my left…” Leo felt his skin tingle as it did on the starting blocks. He couldn’t wait to get this party started. But this was an endurance test ahead.

Chill out, amigo
. He was a sprinter, and making it through Plebe Summer would be more like a marathon. He needed to rein in his excitement if he wanted to last through the next six weeks.

“Mr. Sour’s the leader for the Third Squad,” Ms. Nevington announced. “We have a storied history in Second Company, and you plebes are privileged to be part of it. I know I’m honored to be your commander, and we’re excited to have you on board. We’ll begin with jumping jacks.”

She had a platoon commander demonstrate the proper count for jumping jacks, and soon the company moved in unison. “One, two, three, ONE, one, two, three, TWO…” The breathing was much louder by the time they reached fifty.

Leo snuck a glance at Benito, who was moving his feet but keeping his arms by his side, trying to avoid jarring his shoulder. Sour snaked his way back toward them as a platoon commander demonstrated proper push-up technique. On cue, the company dropped to the grass.

Benito balanced himself on his right hand, and Sour’s feet halted near his head. “Keep doing one-armed pushups, Midshipman Dulce,” Sour ordered. “Spread your feet out wider.” Leo held his body motionless as Nevington cal ed out instructions. Counting out fifty, Leo was shocked to hear the grunts of worn-out plebes as bodies hit the dirt. Hadn’t his classmates taken the warnings seriously? They’d just be plain stupid to show up out of shape. His roommate’s situation, on the other hand, wasn’t due to a lack of planning.

Benito muscled through about ten one-armed pushups before he fell on his right side, exhausted. Sour screamed in his ear until Benito tried again, only to crumple to the ground. Seeming disgusted, Sour moved on to yell at another plebe for collapsing, and Benito stayed down, panting and sweating.

Meanwhile, Nevington told the plebes to hold the upright pushup position. Leo focused on his breathing as he held his arms locked straight at the elbows with his chin slightly raised. As the seconds ticked by, plebes fell to the ground, where their squad leaders advised them to stay. Leo trembled but held firm.

“Only ten plebes still up, Leo,” whispered Benito. “Good job.” A violent tremor ripped through Leo’s torso, burning his abdomen.

“Only four left,” Benito urged. “You can do this. You’re a badass swimmer — these
putas
don’t have a prayer against you.” As ten more seconds passed, a trickle of sweat dripped off Leo’s chin.

Benito’s voice took on an edge of excitement. “It’s down to you and one guy to your right! C’mon, Leo, just a little more. Only a few strokes to the wall,
amigo
. Bear down. You want it.” From within the throes of involuntary tremors, Leo noticed a pair of running shoes in front of him. His company commander?

He clenched his teeth as salty sweat slid into his mouth.

“The other plebe just went down!” Benito hissed. “You won, Leo!” Then Leo heard a female voice. “Well done. You can stop at any time, Midshipman.”

Oh, how he wanted to just let go and fall to the ground, stop the tremors. But he wouldn’t let himself. CS would’ve never let him off that easy. He hadn’t passed out or vomited yet, so he still had something left.

She finally ended it. “Ten, hut!”

Leo wearily drew himself up, his muscles quivering.

“What’s this plebe’s name, Mr. Sour?” Ms. Nevington asked.

“Midshipman Scott,” Sour replied.

The entire company went silent as his commander hovered at his left. Her voice dropped to the softest whisper. “Impressive start, Mr. Scott. Let’s see how you finish.” His chest burst with pride, elated to be recognized by his CO so soon.

She then stepped over to Benito and ordered him on his feet as well. Benito didn’t rise as quickly.

“Midshipman Dulce,” Sour supplied, and Nevington nodded.

“Mr. Dulce, how could you show up to Plebe Summer in an arm sling?”

“I’ll be out of the sling in a week, ma’am.” Fury cut through her voice. “There’re only four answers a plebe should ever give: Yes, ma’am; No, ma’am; I’ll find out, ma’am; or No excuse, ma’am!”

Benito sounded panicked. “No excuse, ma’am?” Nevington turned to Sour. “Whiskey, why’s he doing PT? Get him set up with marching tours in T-court.” Sour spoke softly, but Leo could hear what he said. “This MUFFIN’s a swimmer. He can handle this.” When she didn’t budge, he sighed and nodded. “Let’s go, Mr. Dulce.” As they departed, Nevington ordered everyone else on their feet.

They endured more grueling exercises, pausing twice for water breaks, before a platoon commander took them on a run along the lengthy seawall.

Leo had a feeling he’d get to know the seawall quite well by the time he’d become an ensign. Eight-minute miles were a pedestrian pace for him, but other plebes began falling to the wayside after the first twenty minutes, where squad leaders screamed at them to move it.

Nevington surveyed the sweaty, shell-shocked company back at the PT field. “We obviously have some work to do before you
pathetic
losers are worthy of a Navy uniform. But we have to start somewhere, so go change into your whiteworks then report to the p-way for breakfast.”

Plebes jostled Leo in their tight formation as they jogged inside Bancroft Hall. Soon he’d get some food. He was repulsed by his own smell, and his muscles were already shaky and sore, but he’d made it. He survived his first PT.

Fifteen minutes later, when Leo realized his roommate was the one plebe late to breakfast, he cursed under his breath. Benito hadn’t arrived to the room by the time Mr. Sour had corralled them toward King Hall, and it must have taken him a long time to change into his uniform with one arm. Everyone stood at attention around the dark wood tables, and Leo’s stomach wasn’t the only one growling.

“Midshipman Dulce!” Sour boomed when Benito finally slunk into the cafeteria. “Front and center.”

“Yes, sir.” Benito scurried over to his squad leader.

“What’s today’s breakfast menu, plebe?” Sour asked.

For a moment there was only silence.

“I’ll find out, sir,” Benito finally said.

“All midshipmen besides Mr. Dulce will give me ten pushups.” Leo hit the deck, squeezing in with prone bodies everywhere to carry out the punishment. When he popped back up, Whiskey had moved on to his next question. “What is professional knowledge, Mr. Dulce?”

“Sir, plebes will be able to summarize three newspaper articles, recite facts about the fleet, aircraft, weaponry, and the, uh, Marines, and recite the menu for each meal if asked by an upperclassman, sir.”

“That is correct, Mr. Dulce. So why don’t you know the breakfast menu?”

“No excuse, sir.”

“Also correct. Give me another ten, plebes!” Leo dropped, ignoring the protests of his classmates.
Poor Benito
.

Leo made a mental note to memorize the lunch menu so this would never happen to him.

By the sixth round of pushups for Benito’s failed menu guesses, Leo’s sympathy began to wane.

Sour was relentless. “What’s the breakfast menu today, Mr. Dulce?”

Benito looked around wildly. “Um, grits, sir?” Sour burst out laughing. “Why on earth do you think we’d have grits?”

“It’s a delicious southern dish, sir?”

“We’re not in the south! Where are you from, Mr. Dulce?”

“New Jersey, sir.”

“We were on the same side for the Civil War, idiot. Drop and give me ten, plebes!”

Finally Benito guessed scrambled eggs, sausage, and biscuits off the menu, which also included yogurt, bananas, oatmeal, and orange juice, and the famished plebes began shoveling down food.

After their huge breakfast, Second Company gathered again in the quad.

The hot sun bounced off the sea of white uniforms as the plebes repeatedly rehearsed proper saluting technique. Leo thought his long-sleeved tunic and round “Dixie cup” hat looked rather dorky compared to traditional whites worn by the upperclassmen. He knew Audrey would make fun of him when she visited in August — if he made it until then.

After they’d practiced saluting and standing at attention for longer than an invitational swim meet, their company commander explained the leadership structure of the Academy: the Superintendent was a three-star Vice Admiral and beneath him, the Commandant of Midshipman was Captain Sean Tracker. One of Captain Tracker’s staff members served as the company officer for Second Company: Lt. Darnell Keaton.

That name sounded familiar to Leo, but he couldn’t place it.

Nevington told them they wouldn’t interact with these officers unless they’d “screwed the pooch,” so Leo determined never to meet them.

Sour reviewed the Honor Concept of the Brigade of Midshipmen.

“Offenses like stealing, lying, and cheating can result in separation from the Navy,” he told them. “Midshipmen are persons of integrity.

They stand for that which is right.”

“Midshipmen are persons of integrity,” the plebes repeated in unison. “They stand for that which is right.” Following lunch, the plebes had four hours of instruction in small arms and first aid. Leo’s heavy eyelids were much lighter once he held an M-16 rifle. The smooth, gleaming metal felt formidable in his hands, and it was frightening at first. The instructor informed the plebes they’d get to know their issued rifles very well as they spent time marching in formation with them.

Just when Leo teetered on collapse, Nevington dismissed the varsity athletes to meet with the athletic director while the remaining plebes practiced that marching with those rifles they’d just learned about.

The AD was a civilian who punctuated his speech with rousing shouts of “Go, Navy! Beat Army!” Most of them wouldn’t be practicing their sports during Plebe Summer, they learned, but they’d have three hours a day during the school year for practice with their team.

“I’m won’t lie to you,” he said. “Varsity athletes have it tougher than other plebes. Division I student-athletes are often exhausted from the rigorous schedule, and you have all your military duties piled on top of that. You won’t catch a break from memorizing professional knowledge, preparing your uniforms for inspection, shining your shoes, hitting the barbershop, or drilling in formation.

It’s not an option to miss class or practice. The only break you will get is eating evening meals with your teammates, who typically don’t harass plebes as much.”

After evening chow, the plebes’ grueling day was final y complete.

Leo and Benito sprawled on their racks after showering.

“Is nine too early for bed?” Benito moaned.

Leo chuckled. “That’s twenty-one hundred to you, my man. Just think, once the school year starts we’ll be in the middle of study hall this time of night.”

“Ohhh…” Benito groaned and reached under his bed for something. He popped a pill then took a swig from his water bottle.

“What’s that?” Leo asked.

“Percocet. I haven’t taken any in a while, but my shoulder’s killing me.”

Leo suddenly felt hot. He rolled over to face the wall.

“You okay?” Benito asked.

“Yeah. I’m, uh, I’m just thinking about how all this will start over again tomorrow. It’ll be a long six weeks.”

“Sí.
I guess we’ve been fully inducted into the Navy,
amigo
.
”
Leo rolled back over and grinned.
“Bienvenido
to the jungle, baby.”

From the driver’s seat, Audrey glanced at Mrs. Scott.

“I’m glad you could join us for dinner,” Leo’s mom said. “I want to thank everyone for helping Leo get to the Academy. At times I wasn’t sure he’d make it.”

“I don’t know how much help I was.” Audrey sighed. “I didn’t really want him to go.”

“You’re always a big help to my son. You’re his
raison d’être.”

“His
what?
I only speak Spanish, sorry.”

“His reason for being.”

Audrey blushed.

“I know you miss Leo, but financially he didn’t have much choice.

I’m hoping the Academy will work out for him.”

“He seems to like it. His letters make those PT sessions sound almost fun.”

“He
is
a bit warped, isn’t he?” They shared a grin as Audrey parked, but she winced when she noticed she hadn’t left much room for Mrs. Scott to maneuver her canes out of the vehicle. Thankfully Leo’s mother didn’t comment.

Inside the restaurant, they found Mr. Shale and Matt already waiting for them. Mr. Shale held out a chair for Leo’s mother, and Matt did the same for Audrey, who giggled.

“I got us a table for five, right?” Matt asked, returning to his seat.

Mrs. Scott nodded. “Yes. Jason and Cameron can’t make it.”

“Amy will be here once she finishes up at a crime scene,” Matt said.

Mrs. Scott’s face lit up. “You’ve been dating Detective Easton over a month, Matt! What’s that, a new record for you? Tell us the juicy details.”