JACK’S VALLEY, COLORADO

THAT SAME TIME

“What do you think you’re doing, Basic?” the cadet technical sergeant instructor screamed. “Get moving, now!”

“Oh, Christ,” Bradley McLanahan muttered for the umpteenth time that morning. The muzzle of his M-16 rifle had—again—snagged itself in the barbed wire under which he was crawling. He reached out to clear it, but only ended up puncturing his finger with a mud-covered barb. “Shit . . . !” he shouted.

“You will not use foul language on my confidence course, Basic!” the cadet instructor shouted. He was a tall, wiry, weaselly looking guy from Alabama with thick horn-rimmed sports glasses, and he definitely knew how to shout. “If you are having difficulties negotiating the course, you will resolve the obstruction or request assistance from your cadet instructors. Which is it, Basic?”

“I don’t need any help,” Bradley said.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“I said I don’t need any help!” Bradley shouted.

“Are you dense or just feebleminded, Basic?” the instructor shouted. “When you address me, you will preface and end your reply with ‘sir,’ do you comprehend? Now state your deficiency to me properly, Basic!”

Bradley took a deep breath and fought to control his anger. This was the fourth week of Air Force Academy Basic Cadet Training, or BCT—known to all as “The Beast,” and now Brad knew why they called it that. Six weeks of some of the most intense physical, psychological, and emotional cadet training in the U.S. military, the course was designed to teach military customs, courtesies, and culture to new candidates to the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and weed out those who didn’t possess the physical conditioning, attitude, or aptitude to make it through the next four years of intense academic training to become career Air Force officers. In just two weeks, he would begin his military and professional education in one of the top ten colleges on planet Earth, completing a million-dollar education paid for by U.S. taxpayers . . .

. . . as some would say: shoved up your ass a nickel at a time.

Brad extracted his thumb from the barb, then shook the muzzle of the M-16 rifle free of the wire as well. Bradley James McLanahan was on his back slithering through four inches of mud and dust, just below several strands of barbed wire arrayed above him. On either side of him were other Basics—candidates for admission to the Air Force Academy—navigating the obstacle course of “Second Beast,” the three-week field encampment that preceded the start of the freshman school year. Occasional explosions and firecrackers erupted all around him, especially around the cadets having any difficulties crawling under the wire. Bradley was tall and thin, so normally getting under the mesh of razor wires should be no problem, but for some reason those pesky barbs reached out and grabbed anything they could latch on to—his uniform, his rifle, his thumb, his very soul.

“Sir,” Brad shouted, “I have extricated myself from the obstacle, and I am proceeding . . .”

“Don’t tell me—show me, Basic!” the instructor shouted. Cadet Staff Sergeant William Weber was a second-class cadet at the Academy and a well-seasoned and experienced instructor at Cadet Basic Training, his favorite summer assignment. Rather than going home or doing any other activities during the summer break, Weber always signed up for Cadet Basic Training so he could lock his claws into the very new, raw persons making their way into the Air Force Academy. No one proceeded past this point without getting past Weber . . . no way. Weber stepped over to Bradley and bent down, face-to-face to him. “What are you doing, Basic?”

“Sir, I am proceeding on the obstacle course and . . .”

“You aren’t doing crap, Basic!” Weber shouted. “Get moving! What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, I am . . .”

“Didn’t we teach you about controlling your muzzle and your trigger, Basic?” Weber shouted, grabbing Bradley’s M-16 before it could swing all the way toward Weber’s face. “You are not controlling anything! You get snagged with your muzzle and then you get snagged when you move to release another snag. Are you dense, Basic? Do you want to take all morning to complete this evolution, Basic? I’ll tell you right, now, Basic: I’m not going to wait around for you to finish a simple task. Now get your rear in gear and finish this evolution!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Bradley shouted.

Weber went off to yell at some other Basic, and Bradley was grateful for the break, but as soon as Weber was out of the way, some other second-class blasted a fire hose into the pit to maintain a nice deep level of mud. It was late July in Colorado, and even in early morning the air was warm and dry—the afternoon runs with full packs, with temperatures approaching ninety degrees, would be murder.

Bradley knew all about Basic Cadet Training, the Confidence course, and Jack’s Valley—all this was no surprise. Once he had been selected for admission—his appointment came from no less than then vice president Kenneth Phoenix, who was now the president of the United States—he had to attend dozens of Academy prep courses taught by liaison officers, listen to guest speakers describing their adventures and problems, have his grades scrutinized constantly and schedule refresher and reinforcement classes with volunteer tutors, pass a grueling fitness test once a month even tougher than the one they would have to take every semester at the Academy, and watch hundreds of videos covering every possible aspect of life as a fourth-class cadet. The Academy and its graduates did everything they could possibly do to prepare a potential cadet for what he was about to face. None of the “Beast” was unexpected—in fact, they had built a “mini-Beast” Confidence Course near the youth correctional facility in Carson City, Nevada, so all the area Basics chosen to attend the Academy could practice.

The first three weeks of BCT were at the Academy, learning how to salute, how to march, how to wear a uniform, and basic military customs, along with intense physical conditioning. Since Brad had spent so many years in the Civil Air Patrol teaching all that to CAP cadets, he was way ahead of most other Basics, and he had a relatively easy time—he had even been asked by a few first- and second-class cadets to help a few of the other Basics. As a high school football player, Bradley knew how to stay in shape, so the long runs, rope climbing, and calisthenics were all second nature.

Maybe that made him feel a little overconfident, even a little cocky—because the second half of BCT, “Second Beast,” was in the field. No more dormitories, no more chow halls, no more comfortable PT outfits and clean uniforms—this was down and dirty in the woods and mountains for the final three weeks. Although Bradley was qualified in several CAP field emergency services, his real soul was in flying. Let the nonrated kids do ground searches, first aid, and direction finding—he belonged in the sky.

“State the Core Values of the United States Air Force, Basics!” the guy with the fire hose shouted.

“Sir, integrity first, service before self, excellence in all we do, sir!” Bradley shouted for the umpteenth time that morning. He finally wriggled clear of the barbed wire, but got his pants caught as he was trying to get on his feet.

“You will state the Core Values together, or don’t bother saying them at all, Basics!” the cadet trainer shouted. “You will learn to live, work, train, and fight together, or you do not belong at my beloved Academy! Now, again: What are the Air Force’s Core Values?” Bradley started to respond, but he was hit in the side of his Kevlar helmet with a jet of water from the fire hose and was knocked off his feet again by the blast. He couldn’t hear anything except the hammering of the water against his head.

“I think Basic McLanahan here forgot the words to our Core Basics,” Weber shouted, materializing as if from nowhere. “Get on your feet, Basic McLanahan!”

That was the first time, Bradley thought as he struggled to his feet, that he had heard his last name here at the Beast while in field training—up until now, they were all simply “Basics.” His eyes were stinging from mud, but he dared not try to wipe them clear. He faced in the approximate direction of where he thought Weber was standing and brought his M-16 rifle up to port arms. “Sir!”

“The breech of your weapon is closed, Basic McLanahan,” Weber snarled. “You had better clear and check that weapon before you stand in front of me, and do it now.”

Now Bradley rubbed the mud out of his face, then made sure the muzzle of the M-16 rifle was pointed straight up away from the cadet instructor, pulled back on the charging handle, and peered into the chamber. He couldn’t see that well, so he wasn’t sure if there was anything in there, but they had been issued no ammunition so everyone was safe. He let the handle go, then went back to port arms. “Sir, my weapon is clear, sir!” he reported.

“Your weapon is a filthy mess, McLanahan, that’s what it is!” Weber shouted. He motioned behind him, and a split second later the fire hose was unleashed on him again. “Keep that weapon out of the water, McLanahan!” Weber shouted. “That weapon is your lifeline in the field!” Bradley raised it above his head as the water surged over his body, threatening to topple him in its powerful stream. “What is the Cadet Oath, Basic?”

“Sir, the Cadet Oath is: I will not lie, cheat, or steal . . .”

“Wrong, McLanahan!” Weber interrupted. “Try again!”

Bradley swallowed hard. “The Cadet Oath is . . .”

“You had better address me as ‘sir,’ Basic!”

“Sir, the Cadet Oath is: We will not lie, steal, or cheat, nor tolerate anyone among us who . . .”

“McLanahan, you are just plain dense this morning,” Weber said. “One more try, McLanahan, and if you screw it up, you go back to the beginning of the Pit to think about it some more. This is the most important phrase in the Academy, Basic, the very basis of who we are, the one thing that every cadet is sworn to uphold and protect. You’ve had three weeks to learn it. Go!”

Bradley’s arms, still holding the M-16 over his head, were beginning to shake, but he took a deep breath and uttered, “Sir, the Cadet Oath is: We will not lie, steal, or cheat, nor tolerate among us anyone who does.” Bradley saw Weber’s eyes flaring in anger and quickly added, “Sir!”

“About time,” Weber growled. He stepped closer to Bradley and said in a low voice, “Maybe you McLanahans have difficulties learning about lying and cheating.”

Bradley suddenly forgot about his aching, rubbery arms. He looked up at Weber, who was about a half head taller than Brad. “Sir?”

“Are you eyeing me, Basic?” Weber shouted. “Cage your eyes!”

Brad stared at a spot straight ahead, away from Weber’s angry gaze. “Sir, begging the cadet instructor’s pardon, sir?”

“What?”

“Sir . . . sir, did you say something about McLanahans, sir?”

Weber smiled evilly, then waved at the guy with the fire hose to turn it on someone else. “Looks like I got a rise out of you, didn’t I, Basic McLanahan?” he observed. In a low voice, he said, “Everyone here knows who you are: son of the great General Patrick McLanahan, the hero of the American Holocaust, space hero, the greatest strategic bombing expert since General Curtis LeMay—or so he thinks. You’re the guy who got his Academy appointment from the president of the United States himself, served up on a silver platter, thanks to your daddy.”

He stepped even closer to Bradley, then added, “But my father told me who your daddy really is: a lying, cheating, thieving loose cannon, who flagrantly disobeys orders and does whatever the hell he feels like doing, and screw the chain of command and the Constitution. Now he thinks he can get his stuck-up son into the Air Force Academy with just a phone call to his pal in the White House, and you’ll just sail right through because of who your daddy is. Let me be the first to tell you, Basic: that’s not the way it’s going to work. My mission, and the mission of most of the second- and first-class, is to see you get booted out soonest.”

Weber stepped nose to nose with Bradley. “I worked my butt off for three years to get into the Academy,” he growled in a low, menacing voice. “I broke my ass in stupid sports I didn’t like, volunteered for the most ridiculous positions in the most ridiculous service clubs, took the SATs eleven times, and wrote dozens of letters to congressmen I didn’t even know to get an appointment. After all that, I didn’t get one, and I had to spend a year as a Preppie. And then, here you are. You get to just waltz in here and think you have it made.” He lowered his voice even more. “Well, let me tell you, McLanahan . . .” Weber took three fingers of his right hand and punched them into Bradley’s chest, “ . . . you’re history here. I’ll see to it, personally.”

Now Bradley’s entire body began to shake, not just his bone-weary arms. That made Weber smile and nod in satisfaction. “I knew it,” he said. “Your daddy never taught you how to deal with the real world, did he? That’s because he never dealt with it himself. He had his underlings do all the real fighting for him while he just sailed away safe and sound high above the fighting in his supersecret bombers.” He chuckled at his own insight, then said with a smirk, “Well, stop your crying and sniveling and go back to the beginning of the Pit. You still have . . .”

And to his surprise, Bradley let the M-16 rifle fall from his hands behind him into the mud.

“Pick that weapon up, Basic!” Weber shouted. “Are you insane? Pick it up, now!”

“Take it back, Weber,” Bradley said flatly.

“What did you say, Basic? Did you just address me by my last name?”

“I said: take it back, Weber.”

Weber’s eyes were bulging in complete and utter disbelief, and he stuck his face close to Bradley’s once again. “You will address me as ‘Sir,’ Basic!” he shouted, louder than Bradley ever remembered him doing so before. “And you will not direct me to do anything! I give the orders here!”

“I’ll tell you once more, Weber: take back what you said about my father,” Bradley said.

“Getting rid of you is going to be easier than I thought, McLanahan,” Weber said, his incredulous expression replaced by a broad, satisfied smile. Bradley’s eyes met his, which turned Weber’s expression back to one of red-hot rage. “You’re one step away from a board of review, maybe even an on-the-spot dismissal. Get your eyes off me, Basic!” But Bradley didn’t look away. “How dare you mouth off to a second-class, Basic? How dare you look me in the eye? Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a candidate here, McLanahan, a wannabe. The only way you survive to attend my beloved Academy is to obey your superior officers, and that’s me.” And he punctuated that last sentence with another punch in Bradley’s chest with three fingers of his right hand . . .

. . . except the jab never landed, because Bradley swatted his hand away.

“You just laid a hand on me, Basic!” Weber shouted, his voice just now beginning to grow hoarse. “That’s an automatic trip to the squadron commander. You’re one step away from going home to your daddy. Get your eyes off me, Basic!”

“Take back what you said about my father, Weber,” Brad repeated, then added, “or you’ll be sorry.”

“You’re threatening me now, Basic?” Weber exclaimed, his eyes bulging in anger and disbelief. “If you want to go home to your daddy so bad, McLanahan, why don’t you just ring out? It’s easy. I’ll take you to the squadron commander, and you tell him you want to go home, and that’s it.” Bradley said nothing.

Weber moved face-to-face with Bradley. “But if you want to stay—if you’re afraid of getting rejected by your own daddy by going home before you even begin fourth class—then this is what you have to do: you apologize sincerely for touching me; you promise to uphold the basic principles of the Academy; and you agree to assist me in all my additional duties for your entire fourth year, in addition to all your other requirements. If you agree to all these things, I’ll omit filing a report on you for your breaches of conduct in this evolution, and you can continue Second Beast.” Weber nodded. “You did very well in First Beast, McLanahan, and even though your M-16 is lying in the mud right now, you haven’t done anything more egregious than what a lot of dipshit Basics do in Second Beast. You can still pull this out of your ass if you choose to do so. What say you, McLanahan?”

Bradley didn’t take his eyes off Weber, but looked him straight in the eye . . . for just a few moments, before caging his eyes, looking straight ahead at nothing, then said, “Sir, Basic McLanahan begs the cadet sergeant’s indulgence and sincerely apologizes for his inexcusable insubordination. Basic McLanahan was completely out of line, promises never to touch or threaten an upperclassman ever again for any reason, appeals to the cadet sergeant’s mercy to allow him to continue the Second Beast, and humbly requests the cadet sergeant’s permission to be his undergraduate assistant during the fourth-class year. Basic McLanahan also promises to completely honor, uphold, and defend the principles of the Air Force Academy to the complete satisfaction of the cadet sergeant.” Bradley closed his eyes, filled his lungs, then shouted, “Sir!”

Weber nodded and smiled with smug triumph. “Very good, Basic,” he said. “We might make a fourth classer out of you yet. Now pick up your rifle, then return to the beginning of the Pit. On the double.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Brad responded. He turned and stooped down to pick up the M-16 . . .

. . . and as he did he heard Weber say in a low voice, “Now if we can just get your whack-job daddy to apologize for the mess he’s caused our country, we’d all be in real good shape.”

Brad couldn’t describe what he was thinking about at that moment, or why he did what he did. All he knew is in a split second he had tackled Weber and was on top of him in the mud. He remembered getting two good punches in on Weber’s face before he heard several whistle blasts and shouts and felt hands reaching for him from behind . . .

. . . and he knew those whistle blasts signaled the end of his attendance at the U.S. Air Force Academy, and probably the end of any career in the military as well.