Stealth

3

Stone slept soundly, dreamlessly, until a loud bell rang for about thirty seconds. By the time it had stopped he was half dressed. He carried his overcoat, gloves, and a knitted cap as he went to the dining room. Once there he was handed a tray containing a plate of fried eggs, boiled potatoes, and buttered toast, along with a glass of orange juice and a mug of black coffee.

He found a seat at a table with others, and everyone ate hurriedly and silently. Finally, a man in battle dress with sergeant’s stripes stood up and yelled, “Follow me for our morning run.”

Everyone got into their outer gear and into line, shuffling toward a door where the sergeant waited. Then they were running, faster than a jog. Stone reckoned they ran a mile, slowing to a five-minute walk at the halfway point, before finishing fast. Then they found themselves at a shooting range, with a row of tables waiting for them. Each table held a semiautomatic pistol and an assault rifle, plus magazines and ammunition for each weapon. The sergeant spent a couple of minutes demonstrating how each weapon was to be loaded, cocked, and placed on safety. Then he ordered them to fire the weapons — first the rifle, then the pistol — on his command from various positions: prone, kneeling, and standing. Another sergeant walked behind them, offering advice. No one said anything to Stone.

After they had fired from each position, their targets were lowered into a pit, where patches were placed over the holes they had made. Stone’s sergeant stepped behind him. “Alpha,” he said, “you are an excellent shot with the rifle and a poor shot with the pistol. You will need extra pistol training.” The sergeant yelled out for another run, and everyone but Stone and one other trainee ran off. The two of them then got another half hour of training with the pistol, and Stone’s marksmanship with the handgun improved markedly. He was glad to be firing, instead of running.

“Now,” the sergeant said, “follow the corporal for your run.”

Stone sighed and did as he was told.

They finished up in a gymnasium with a thickly matted floor, where another sergeant gave them knife training, pointing out that the knives employed were neither rubber nor wood, but steel, and that they should try not to kill each other, as there was a lot of paperwork involved if that should occur.

Then another run, and back to the gym for unarmed defense training. The NYPD police academy had given Stone a grounding in this, and he was told that he excelled. Then a man shouted at him, “Heads up! Knife attack!” Stone looked up to see a middle-aged but fit-looking man walking toward him with a knife. “I don’t have a knife,” Stone said.

“Never mind,” the sergeant said. “All you have to do is stop him from killing you.” His assailant was already starting to wave the knife around. Stone managed to avoid a lunge at his throat, but the tip of the blade drew lightly across his neck as it passed, so Stone redoubled his efforts to not be killed. During another pass, he managed to get hold of his assailant’s wrist and twisted the knife from his grasp. The man fought back, but Stone managed to get him onto the mat with his arm twisted behind him.

“Alpha,” the sergeant said, pulling him to his feet by his collar. “See the soldier at the end — the one with the medical kit — for treatment.”

The bleeding had been stopped in short order, a topical antibiotic was applied, and his slight wound was bandaged. “He missed your jugular by a quarter of an inch,” the medic said.

They had a lunch of beef sandwiches and beer, then started training again. By the time Stone reached his quarters late in the day, all he could do was throw himself onto his bed and sleep, fully clothed, until the dinner bell rang. Then he pulled himself together, got a quick shower, and made it to the dining hall before the spaghetti and meatballs ran out.

The rest of the week was filled with more training, physical and mental, combative at times. By the end of six days, Stone felt the way he wished he’d felt upon his arrival.

On the morning after his last day of training, Stone was packing his things and getting into civilian clothes when the sergeant came into his room and tossed him some keys. “Alpha, yours is the Aston Martin, I believe.”

“Right, Sergeant.” Stone put the keys into his pocket.

“Why don’t we give you a bit of a time trial?” he said.

“In the car, I hope?”

“Don’t worry, mate, you’ve had your last run.” He took a map from his pocket and explained the route, which was mostly a perimeter road around the camp. “Leave your gear here. We’ll pick it up later.” The sergeant led the way out of the building to a parking lot Stone had not seen before. The Aston was waiting for him, looking as if it had just been hosed down. He got in and started the engine while the sergeant walked to the road and beckoned for him to follow. Stone drove up to him and waited for instructions.

“Got your route memorized?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Try and get it done in under three minutes. I’ll be here.” He held up a stopwatch. “Ready, set, go!”

Stone already had the car in gear and accelerated like a rocket up the road. He tracked the turns, hitting every apex, and reckoned he was halfway around the perimeter when he saw a landmark, a bridge over a roaring river, with a turn just before it. He shifted down for the turn, then accelerated, then something went wrong: there was a noise, the car drifted right and struck the embankment beside the river, then it left the ground, still turning. The car struck the river upside down.

It took Stone, hanging by his seat belt, a moment to reorient. It wasn’t hard, because the top of his head was wet, and water was pouring in from the broken passenger window. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud to himself, but his brain wasn’t fully working yet, and it took a face full of water to get him moving. He tried and tried to escape the cabin, but nothing electrical was working, and the car’s roof had been smashed down on him. And the windows were too small for him to get through. He was having to hold his breath and grab more air in the moments the car was rocked by the current.

Stone began to flag, and there was no one to help.