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"And the men who conspired to bring down Pam Am 103?"
Rapp leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and said, "Every last one of them deserves to die."
Lewis looked at the file on the desk and asked, "You're Catholic?"
"Yes."
"So how do you square this with your Lord? Your idea of retribution doesn't exactly conform to the turn-the-other-cheek preaching of Jesus Christ."
"Nice try." Rapp grinned.
"How do you mean?"
"I'll tell you a little secret about me. I'm not the most patient guy. I have a lot to learn, and I'm eager to learn it, so when you start to hit me with selective theology you might get my back up a bit."
"Selective?" Lewis asked.
"Yeah. I've never understood the intellectual dishonesty of people who say the Bible is the word of God and then choose to pull verses only from the New Testament, for example. Turning the other cheek is one of their favorites, and they use it, while ignoring a dozen Old Testament verses and a few New Testament verses that say the men who brought down that plane deserve to die."
Lewis conceded with a nod. "So, if it comes to it ... you don't think you'd have a problem taking another man's life?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Who the guy is, and more important, what he's guilty of."
CHAPTER 15
WHEN the sun rose for the fifth day they were one man short. It was Dick. Rapp didn't know the guy's real name, much less where he was from or where he was going, so it was hard to feel too bad when the guy stepped out of formation during a grueling set of up-downs in the hot afternoon sun. He simply approached one of the instructors, announced his intention, and the two men shook hands. Just like that the guy was done. Free of the pain, the sweating, the burning muscles, the tired eyes, and the battered ego. It all seemed too easy, and that's what scared the crap out of Rapp.
It made him briefly wonder if he was capable of pussing out. All it would take was a down moment. A bad spell, a cold, or a fever or another sleepless night. One misstep and he could be the one shaking hands and packing his bag. While falling asleep that night, Rapp focused on the positive. There was one man fewer to compete with. They kept saying it wasn't a competition, but Rapp wasn't so sure. If it wasn't a competition, why did they count or clock everything they did? The image of the fellow recruit bowing out after five days put Rapp on guard against a moment of personal weakness. It refocused him by showing just how rapidly this journey could come to a very unsatisfying end.
Rapp awoke tired but ready to push ahead. He was the first one on the line and was stretching his neck and shoulders waiting for the others when he noticed the two instructors having what looked like an unpleasant conversation. When everyone was finally on the line, Sergeant Jones stepped forward and with a disappointed look on his face said, "One of you screwed up real bad last night."
Rapp began racking his brain trying to think of any mistakes he'd made.
"We have rules for a reason. At this point you don't need to understand these rules, you just need to follow them." He paused to look each of them in the eye. "You have all been repeatedly warned to not divulge any personal information. Now ... we're realistic enough to understand that you boys will discover certain things about each other. Some of you have a slight accent, so it's pretty easy to figure out what part of the country you come from. As far as prior military experience, we haven't busted your balls over debating the healthy rivalry between the services, but last night, someone crossed the line." He stopped and looked at the ground. In a disappointed voice he said, "The one thing you are never supposed to do is tell someone your real name."
Rapp heard someone farther down the line mumble something under his breath, but he couldn't tell who it was, and considering the mood of the two instructors, he didn't dare look.
"You are all smart enough to know this, and you were all warned what would happen if you slipped up on this one. This isn't a fucking summer camp. This is serious shit," Sergeant Jones said in a disappointed voice. He looked to the far end of the line and said, "Bill, pack your shit. You're gone."
The man they called Bill, whom Rapp had pegged as the hot-shooting Navy SEAL from Texas, took one step forward and shook his head at the harsh punishment he'd just received. He looked as if he was going to say something and then caught himself. Sergeant Jones started moving and told Bill to follow him back to the barn. Sergeant Smith stepped in to lead them in PT, but before he could start Bill turned back to the group.
"Victor, you're a real asshole. I told you I didn't want to talk, but you just wouldn't leave it alone." Looking at Sergeant Jones, he asked, "Why isn't he getting the boot as well?"
"Keep moving. We'll talk about it in the barn."
"This is bullshit. He told me who he was and where he was from. Same as me," Bill complained.
Victor laughed. "I gave you a fake name, you stupid hick."
"Why the hell would you do that?" one of the guys farther down the line asked Victor.
"Asshole," someone else grumbled.
"You guys should all be thanking me," Victor said in an easy voice. "One less guy to worry about."
