“I think some of it is luck, frankly. Some of it indicates you’re remarkably well adjusted. Some of it is probably training,” Barnwell said. “Perhaps it’s not a bad thing.”
“Yeah, I figured that out a while ago. There’s a hell of a lot of guys who would gladly switch places with me, including Frist.”
Barnwell shook his head. “I’m sure he would,” he said softly. “If he still remembered. We’ve undone him. He’s just a soldier now, not a terrorist. As you build that relationship, you will always know what he did, even though he doesn’t.”
Eric leaned back in his chair and regarded Barnwell thoughtfully. “Your point?”
“You have to put that out of your head. He’s a soldier, giving his life to this project. If you focus on who he was before, he’ll know. Subconsciously, perhaps, but he will detect it, in your posture, or the tone of your voice. If you want the project to succeed, you have to believe in him.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then the project will fail.” Barnwell stood and placed his empty coffee cup on the desk. “Thanks for the coffee.” He started to leave, then stopped. “A word of advice. When you’re not working with him directly, don’t ever forget what he did. Always think three steps ahead, because that man has the souls of five hundred and twelve innocent people tipping the scales against him.”
John grunted as he lifted the kettle bells, swinging them up and across his body. The workout area was loaded with benches and power cages, but Eric kept pushing free weights.
The aches felt good, the muscles straining and burning as the weights created micro-tears in the muscle fibers. His mind certainly felt better, clear of the confusion from the previous weeks.
Dr. Elliot watched and took notes on a palmtop computer, along with a pretty brunette nurse named Kara. Occasionally they would present the readouts to Eric, who would holler encouragement.
He liked Eric. He was patient but exacting. He reminded him of his sergeant in boot camp, except Eric was more astute, with a boundless amount of information on guns, knives, close combat— everything but explosives.
He wondered if Eric was afraid introducing explosives would trigger his PTSD. He reassured Eric there was nothing to fear. The bad dreams had subsided, and the memory of the IED faded quickly, a little more each day, until he woke up one morning and realized he had slept through the night.
He found Deion less likable. Certainly less approachable. They were both in ridiculously good shape, Eric all muscle and scars, Deion shorter but leaner, more lithe. The difference was in the eyes. When Deion smiled at Eric, he meant it — when he smiled at John, something was missing.
John thought it was something he might have said or done, some careless word that pissed Deion off. He worked hard to compensate, trying to learn everything they taught, from the hands-on training to the never-ending reading material.
The amount they expected him to read was overwhelming. There was so much information he felt if even one more drop entered his head, it would explode. Then, the next day, a whole new section of reading material would introduce him to new procedures, new strategies, and new tactics.
“Drop the weights and hit the rope,” Eric shouted.
John dropped the kettle bell and picked up the leather speed-rope. He swung, hopping up enough for the brown leather to swish under his feet. He spun the rope faster, the ball-bearings allowing the rope to become a blur. He lost himself in the motion, his body on autopilot, machine-like in its precision.
His mind wandered to the tech in his body. The day before, Eric turned a heat gun on his arm, hot enough to burn but not enough to blister. They activated the pain meds in the Implant and the relief was instant. It felt so cool and sweet he almost laughed. He tried to explain to them how good the meds felt, but Eric just stared worriedly.
If only his parents could see him, maybe his old man would finally approve. A sudden jolt ran through him and he stumbled on the rope. Eric and Dr. Elliot stopped their discussion, but he smiled at them and forced himself back into the rhythm of the workout.
So weird. He remembered the news about their death. A drunk driver crossed the median, just an accident, they were killed instantly. He tried to make it to their funeral. No, he corrected himself, he had made it to their funeral.
The memory was foggy. He remembered the priest, the people. Nobody he recognized, though. Funny, old man Peterson who lived across the street wasn’t there. Had Peterson died? What about his mom’s friend, Pearl? Unless she was dead, as well. Had she died while he was on deployment? Surely his Mom would have mentioned it.
Eric broke him out of his musing, showing him the readout. “You set a new personal best. Go hit the showers, then the cafeteria. You need simple carbs and protein. Kara,” he said, jerking his thumb at the nurse, “will be by after to draw more blood.”
John headed to the showers. He soaped up under the steaming hot shower and let slide the thought of the missing people at his parent’s funeral. It was probably just side effects of the IED.
John stood in the training room listening to Eric’s lecture. Deion watched, his mouth quirked in a barely recognizable smile.
“The thing to remember,” Eric said, “is this isn’t like the training you received in the Army. Your goal is to survive and to kill your opponent. You’ve been in battle. Did you ever freeze?”
He was embarrassed to admit it, but he had. He nodded.
Eric continued. “What did you feel?”
“Fear,” John said. “I aimed my rifle, but when I squeezed the trigger nothing happened. I thought it was jammed. I cleared the chamber and tried again, but it was like moving in molasses. Bullets were whizzing by, I could hear them over the gunfire. It felt like I had all the time in the world, but my hands were clumsy and my fingers felt like sausages. Then it was over. My CO came over and slapped me in the back of the head. I’d had the safety on. Why didn’t I realize that?”
Eric smiled. “It’s a common reaction, John. Millions of years of evolution. You’ve evolved so that when the shit hits the fan, your brain processes all the information right in front of you. They call it tunnel vision. That happen to you?”
“Yeah, like a small circle right in front of my eyes, everything else just blurry, like a fun-house mirror.”
“That’s the brain focusing on the important parts, the visual stimuli. Thousands of years ago, it would have been a snake or a lion. The brain drops away everything except the threat in front of you. Same thing for the clumsiness. The body pulls the blood to your core and your fingers and feet go cold and numb. Audio does weird things. Sometimes you can’t hear anything around you, sometimes you hear things far away. It was really useful then, but not so much now. What we have to do is train you to react to the fight or flight situation so that you don’t lose sight of everything around you. A real fight is short and nasty. You want to kill the other person, not maim or wound them. You want to do a shocking amount of violence to them before they can do it to you and you want to be as quick and efficient as possible. Now, put in your mouth-guard and come at me.”
John nodded. He half circled Eric, then lunged in, swinging for Eric’s solar plexus. Eric side stepped and brought his palm up against John’s throat making him gasp for air, but before he could draw a breath Eric kicked his legs out from under him.
He collapsed and Eric was on top, jamming thumbs into his eyes. He screamed as his eyes watered, curling into a fetal position on the blue padded mat. He felt Eric get up and when he opened his eyes, through the tears, he saw Eric standing impassively.