Highway to Vengeance: A Thomas Highway Thriller by Brian Springer Page B

Face in the
mud.
    A couple minutes by the fire, and then it’s
on to the obstacle course. Then leap frogs and barrel races.
Anything to keep you moving, to keep you awake. At noon comes hydro
recon. Waist-deep in water for thirty minutes. Then more pushups.
Sit-ups. Surf torture. Raft races.
    Finally, Thursday afternoon at 2:30PM, we
get to sleep. A four-hour nap. After being awake for nearly 96
hours straight.
    We’re woken up by a police siren. Getting
out of the cot is hard, but knowing we’re more than halfway through
Hell week makes it easier.
    First evolution after sleep is surf torture.
A shock to the system, but by now you’re numb to the pain. You
begin to react without thinking, to ignore the meager distractions
of pain and discomfort and exhaustion. Some element of weakness has
left your body.
    The evolutions continue for another 36
hours. The grinder. Surf torture. Half-mile swims. Log PT. Surf
passage. You’re cold and exhausted and sleepy but you press on
without thinking. Time passes strangely; the seconds drag on
forever but the hours fly. Before you realize it, Friday night is
upon you. Which means you get two hours of sleep on the beach under
the raft. Pure bliss.
    You’re woken up by the pounding on the
bottom of the rafts with a paddle and the harsh screech of
whistles. You immediately start on the next set of evolutions. The
usual suspects. Raft races. Push ups. Sit ups. Surf torture.
four-mile runs. Surf passage. The grinder. It’s become routine by
now. You’re on autopilot.
    And then, just like that, you’re finished.
120 hours of constant activity interrupted by a mere six hours of
sleep and Hell Week is over. Only 24 more weeks to go until you’re
officially a SEAL.
    Welcome to BUD/S. Hooyah.

 
     
    CHAPTER
EIGHT
     
    I woke up at noon the next day to the sound
of my cell phone chirping. I’d been in bed for the past fifteen
hours, trying to build up my sleep reserves, figuring I might not
have another opportunity to catch any shuteye over the course of
the next couple of days.
    I looked at the readout, saw it was Willis,
flipped open the phone.
    “What’s up?”
    “Not much,” Willis said. “Except, of course,
I’ve got some information that you’d probably be interested to
see.”
    I sat up in bed. “Where are you right
now?”
    “Dick’s Last Resort.”
    I stifled a groan.
    Dick’s Last Resort was a restaurant and bar
in the Gaslamp Quarter of downtown San Diego. It was a unique
place, where the waiters and waitresses didn’t bother with niceties
such as ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and sometimes even avoided
greeting you altogether. They simply barked at you until you told
them what you wanted, after which they grudgingly brought you the
food and then proceeded to ignore you unless you grabbed their arm
as they walked by.
    Dick’s was loud, obnoxious, and bursting at
the seams from the minute they opened their doors until they kicked
everyone out at the end of the night. It was all part of the charm,
or so they claimed.
    I didn’t buy it. I hated the damn place;
just thinking about going there gave me a headache. But Willis
couldn’t get enough of it. And since this was his gig, I told him
I’d meet him there in half an hour.
    Forty-five minutes and three pre-emptive
ibuprofen later, I found myself at the front door of Dick’s Last
Resort, preparing myself for the onslaught. I took a deep breath to
steel myself and walked in.
    I immediately saw Willis sitting alone at a
booth in the far corner of the restaurant and made my way over,
fighting the urge to plow through the 50 or so people crowded
around the bar, each and every one seemingly yelling at the top of
their lungs.
    “What took you so long?” Willis said as soon
as I was within earshot. He had to yell to be heard, yet another
one of Dick’s charms.
    “It’s good to see you too,” I said.
    I sat down opposite Willis just as a tall,
skinny waiter with black plastic-rimmed glasses, a shaved head