Highway to Vengeance: A Thomas Highway Thriller by Brian Springer Page A
Authors: Brian Springer
Tags: thriller, Mexico, Action, Hardboiled, Revenge, terrorist, conspiracy, seal, San Diego, vengeance, vigilante, Navy SEALs, Covert, covert ops, drug cartel
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trying to disrupt class cohesion. It’s
meant as an introduction to combat stress, a shock to the system.
It works perfectly.
Twenty minutes later, 57 of the original 114
of us who haven’t yet quit are collected on the beach, in our boat
crews. But we were too slow, too unorganized. We’re sent to the
ocean for surf torture.
Next thing you know you’re lying on the
beach, arm-in-arm, your body immersed in the 58 degree water,
wearing only a T-shirt and fatigues. Cold, wet sand against your
back. Feet towards the ocean. Each wave that rolls onshore sends
water up your nose, into your mouth, covering your face, freezing
you further. Your teeth are chattering, your body is shivering
uncontrollably. Fifteen minutes later, you’re done. On to rock
portage.
The night is pitch black. The moon hiding
behind the clouds. The only illumination is one hand-held
flashlight and glow sticks tied to your hat. The waves are huge.
Ten feet. At least. You are on a bank of rocks, trying to get your
boat and crew into the water. A wave comes, crashes into your boat,
sending you slamming against the rocks. Instructors screaming to
not let your body get in between the rafts and the rocks. As if
that’s possible. Finally we’re all in the raft. We paddle out,
desperate to not get turned over by the waves. We succeed. But on
the way back in we get flipped. We come in last place. More surf
torture. Then rock portage again.
The next evolution is a four-mile timed run.
In 32 minutes. Nobody makes it. More surf torture.
Then comes raft races. One mile. Winners get
a 30 second break with the raft held above their head. Everyone
else gets 50 pushups and wet and sandy. On to another race. More
pain. More punishment. Then another race. Two hours later and
you’re done with this evolution.
It’s now 6AM. You’ve been at it for twelve
hours straight. Eight men have already quit this morning. It is
only the beginning.
Next comes an ocean swim. One mile long. In
57 degree water. Without wetsuits. Your limbs are frozen, barely
moveable. But you press on and finish the swim.
After an hour break for a shower, medical
evaluation, and a meal of cold field rations and water, it’s almost
noon. Time to go back to work.
Log PT. Two hours.
Surf passage. Two hours.
The grinder. One hour.
Raft races. Two hours.
The sun goes down. Seven more guys quit. The
only thing that sucks more than being soaked and freezing and
miserable is being soaked and freezing and miserable in the dark.
Another rationed meal and it’s back to the ocean.
Rock portage.
Surf torture.
Raft races.
Log PT.
It is now 2AM. Time for something different.
You are told to take off your boots and get into the 54 degree
ocean water barefoot. You wade out until the ocean floor is well
beneath your feet. Then you tread water for twenty minutes. Out of
the water to do more physical activity: push ups, pull ups, sit
ups. Then back to the water. This time stripped down to your
underwear. Twenty minutes in. Twenty minutes out. Over and over.
Each time in the water weighs on your mind more than the last. The
pain is nearly unbearable, but you press on. At this point, it’s
all mental. Your body can take it. Your mind just needs to learn
how to push past the barriers it thinks exist.
Thirty-eight hours after breakout, you get
your first hot meal and 30 minutes to eat. You spend it trying not
to think about what’s to come. Live in the moment. It’s the only
way to survive. You still haven’t slept since Hell Week has
started. Thirty-five men have quit. Only 22 remain.
After the meal, it’s back to the beach.
More of the same evolutions. All night long.
And then all day. Non-stop. Fifty-two hours in and the evolutions
become more simple, but no less intense.
At midnight on Wednesday, 78 hours into Hell
Week, we get to play in the mud. Two hours of rolling around in
mudflats, following the instructors directions. Feet. Back.
Stomach. Face in the mud. Back. Stomach. Somersaults.
meant as an introduction to combat stress, a shock to the system.
It works perfectly.
Twenty minutes later, 57 of the original 114
of us who haven’t yet quit are collected on the beach, in our boat
crews. But we were too slow, too unorganized. We’re sent to the
ocean for surf torture.
Next thing you know you’re lying on the
beach, arm-in-arm, your body immersed in the 58 degree water,
wearing only a T-shirt and fatigues. Cold, wet sand against your
back. Feet towards the ocean. Each wave that rolls onshore sends
water up your nose, into your mouth, covering your face, freezing
you further. Your teeth are chattering, your body is shivering
uncontrollably. Fifteen minutes later, you’re done. On to rock
portage.
The night is pitch black. The moon hiding
behind the clouds. The only illumination is one hand-held
flashlight and glow sticks tied to your hat. The waves are huge.
Ten feet. At least. You are on a bank of rocks, trying to get your
boat and crew into the water. A wave comes, crashes into your boat,
sending you slamming against the rocks. Instructors screaming to
not let your body get in between the rafts and the rocks. As if
that’s possible. Finally we’re all in the raft. We paddle out,
desperate to not get turned over by the waves. We succeed. But on
the way back in we get flipped. We come in last place. More surf
torture. Then rock portage again.
The next evolution is a four-mile timed run.
In 32 minutes. Nobody makes it. More surf torture.
Then comes raft races. One mile. Winners get
a 30 second break with the raft held above their head. Everyone
else gets 50 pushups and wet and sandy. On to another race. More
pain. More punishment. Then another race. Two hours later and
you’re done with this evolution.
It’s now 6AM. You’ve been at it for twelve
hours straight. Eight men have already quit this morning. It is
only the beginning.
Next comes an ocean swim. One mile long. In
57 degree water. Without wetsuits. Your limbs are frozen, barely
moveable. But you press on and finish the swim.
After an hour break for a shower, medical
evaluation, and a meal of cold field rations and water, it’s almost
noon. Time to go back to work.
Log PT. Two hours.
Surf passage. Two hours.
The grinder. One hour.
Raft races. Two hours.
The sun goes down. Seven more guys quit. The
only thing that sucks more than being soaked and freezing and
miserable is being soaked and freezing and miserable in the dark.
Another rationed meal and it’s back to the ocean.
Rock portage.
Surf torture.
Raft races.
Log PT.
It is now 2AM. Time for something different.
You are told to take off your boots and get into the 54 degree
ocean water barefoot. You wade out until the ocean floor is well
beneath your feet. Then you tread water for twenty minutes. Out of
the water to do more physical activity: push ups, pull ups, sit
ups. Then back to the water. This time stripped down to your
underwear. Twenty minutes in. Twenty minutes out. Over and over.
Each time in the water weighs on your mind more than the last. The
pain is nearly unbearable, but you press on. At this point, it’s
all mental. Your body can take it. Your mind just needs to learn
how to push past the barriers it thinks exist.
Thirty-eight hours after breakout, you get
your first hot meal and 30 minutes to eat. You spend it trying not
to think about what’s to come. Live in the moment. It’s the only
way to survive. You still haven’t slept since Hell Week has
started. Thirty-five men have quit. Only 22 remain.
After the meal, it’s back to the beach.
More of the same evolutions. All night long.
And then all day. Non-stop. Fifty-two hours in and the evolutions
become more simple, but no less intense.
At midnight on Wednesday, 78 hours into Hell
Week, we get to play in the mud. Two hours of rolling around in
mudflats, following the instructors directions. Feet. Back.
Stomach. Face in the mud. Back. Stomach. Somersaults.
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