He's a Keeper

[GSgt Mike Hefner 0]

He's a Keeper

 

A long, thin tendril caught Rocky's ankle and whipped him around, pulling sweat-soaked fatigues taught. Before he could react another wrapped around his neck and a third around his free hand. Damn. Strung up. Trapped.

 

Knee-jerk response: fight. Bad idea. Tuck. Find the release. With what?

 

A hand brushed the back of his head. The kid. Good. Now! Before....

 

Blackout. Thick, choking smoke billowed from below bringing with it a sensory cocktail of burning rags, rotting flesh, sulfur, and ozone. Brilliant flashes cut through the darkness in random patterns, rocking the gym, throwing it into chaos. Piercing screams followed explosion after explosion as shock waves jerked at him, forcing the ropes to pull at his body already stretched to its limit. A shoulder popped and sweat poured down his forehead.

 

Then silence.

 

The cords tightened their hold, slithering around his neck with a sentience they shouldn't have, prying, searching for an opening, the barest crack that would allow a dive beneath his chin for a choke hold. Rocky's left wrist began to go numb. The popped shoulder throbbed. Temp at last check was 40c/104f, humidity at 95%, creating a sweaty soup that slowly filled the gaps between his right palm and the rope that was the only thing holding him aloft. He began to slide.

 

Breathe. Relax. Count. His muscles burned, head spinning with the rebreather unable to keep abreast of the choking atmosphere. The hand he recognized as belonging to Veras paused and seemed to shift position. Then it slipped slowly to the nape of his neck. He felt it fingering the cord, searching for....The release. Rocky drew in a slow shuddering breath as the cord fell away. He forced his body to relax as the same hand worked its way carefully down his left arm. Controlled, even breathing came close to his left ear and a thigh brushed his back. Too close, dammit. Too close...

 

With a jerk, the cord whipped off his wrist and lashed behind him towards the intruder. Timing it as accurately as he could, Rocky flicked his hand just as the last tendril released. He wrapped his fingers around it, then jerked it back before it could get a purchase on Veras and he pressed the release. A third body swung by below, deftly hitting the release on his ankle, then swung away silently.

 

Adele. Grafton's team. Fastest, sneakiest damn Marine in recon. Next to the Gunny, that is.

 

Rocky paused, tapped Veras twice for all clear, and moved on.

 

* * * * * * *

Major Akio Haruto, Marine recon, entered the Marine gym just as the chaos began. Stopping at a console near the door he logged his presence and pulled up stats on the current training mission. Hefner and Grafton were putting their teams through the wringer, not surprising given their latest objective in Romulan space. And he'd heard the Gunny had a new man.

 

Stats gave him team positions, but he waited for an artillery flash to light the gym so he could get a visual. At opposite sides of the scenario Hefner and Grafton stood at aux consoles, monitoring their recon teams as they worked through the squid at right angles to each other. Grafton's team, Corporals Alena "Chief" Mischevski and Keller "Jack" Frost, swung effortlessly through the maze. They'd been working together for years. The major would expect no less from them. SSgt Pete "Rocky" Petros and Pvt Karo Veras were still getting used to each other, but they were making a good run of it from what little he had seen. He took a few minutes to orient himself to the training mission, then stood back to watch.

 

Named for its resemblance to the cephalopod and its ability to suck the life out of unsuspecting recruits, the squid was the make-or-break of the Boilermaker. The last obstacle in a grueling Marine O course, it came after the log, the high bar, the combination bars, the pit, and the wall.

 

That the name also referred to a Fleeter was an added bonus. If there was any way Marines could stick it to the Fleet they would, and vise versa. From day one the words "navy" and "infantry" just didn't mesh. Still didn't quite mesh centuries later, but at least the rivalry had managed to stay friendly. Mostly. 'Course, if word got around that you fell off the squid, there was Fleet hell to pay. But word never got around, not if the speaker valued his or her life.

 

The gym was closed to Fleet during these exercises. It was also closed to non-recon during intense maneuvers such as were being played out at the moment. An intense dampening field short-circuited the commotion for the crew quarters next door.

 

A mass of ropes dangled in an oval from the rafters 30 meters above the gym floor. Roughly 30 meters long and 20 meters wide, the course was deceptively simple at first, but eventually the ropes snagged, whipped around your body, jerked you upside down and otherwise pulled you from your objective -- survival, in recon silence, to the other side. Their various lengths and widths flowed freely like a squid's tentacles, and just to make it more interesting the computer changed the grasp at random, snaked around arms, legs, necks, torsos, or anything else it could get a purchase on. And it occasionally broke off a section when full body weight was applied. Its objective was teamwork, reflex, instinct, recovery, and endurance. Definitely make or break.

 

It seemed to Major Haruto that Hefner and Grafton were pressing hard. Maybe a little too hard? But the field safeties were on. Any fall would be softened by the cushion field a few meters off the floor. Any injury greater than a scrape, bruise, or minor sprain would immediately terminate the program. He'd rather see that happen here than in the field.

 

He wandered towards Mike and waited for a break in the action. "A little close in here, isn't it Gunny?"

 

"Just a bit, sir," Mike replied without breaking his focus on the squid. As he shifted his stance for a better view, Veras changed position to take point just as Grafton's team weaved their way past from the opposite direction and another massive explosion rocked the gym.

 

"How's...." Haruto paused, mouth open, realizing that he was too loud for the ensuing silence. "... the private working out?" he said in a more confidential tone.

 

"Not bad, sir. Not bad at all."

 

The Major gave a quiet snort. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a damn good."

 

Hefner glanced at Grafton, who gave a nod. The silence continued. The dust settled.

 

The four above signaled each other, shifting positions. They waited, arms and legs wrapped around the ropes securely enough to keep them in position but loose enough to allow movement and vascular circulation. Hefner's console chronometer showed 70 minutes. Haruto nodded to Mike's sideways glance.

 

Five minutes passed. Ten. Thirty-five. At 37 the lights came up and four grimy, sweat-soaked weary bodies hooked up and rappelled to the deck.

 

"He's a keeper."

 

Haruto had been watching the team and wasn't expecting Mike's comment, nor did he really understand it. "Keeper?"

 

"Yes, sir. He's working out."

 

Mike grinned as Haruto nodded semi-understanding. "Good enough. Carry on." Keeper. Interesting. He's a . . . keeper.