When Tarasov gives one of the machines a closer look, he realizes that what looks like an old-fashioned computer actually is one—built probably decades ago but still in perfect condition, even though they appear to be no longer in use. In contrary, the computers on the central terminal appear as state of the art as it gets with their large flatscreens displaying maps and muted news channels. He is surprised to see that the screen closest to the technician manning the terminal has a chat channel open.
“What the hell is that guy doing on AK47.com?” Pete asks. “And what’s this place, anyway? An old stage set for Starship Enterprise?”
Taking a sheet of paper from the Second Lieutenant, the Top goes through the long list of names printed on it. “Outstanding… outstanding.”
“Sir… permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Speak your mind, Stone.”
“Sir, during the last recruitment you promised me an assignment to the Alamo. I want to fight our enemies at last!”
“Forget it. Are the recruits ready?”
“Sir, the first dozen recruits are already lined up.”
The Top ignores the disappointment in the female officer’s voice.
“Let me see them. Sergeant Polak, Sergeant Hillbilly, you know the drill.”
“Sir!”
“I’m going to see the recruits. You guys can join me if you wish,” Hartman tells his companions.
Following the ’brothers’, Hartman enters a smaller room where a dozen of young men are lined up in the middle. Judging by the fitness machines pushed into the corners to make space, the room serves as a gym and the faint smell of sweat tells that it is intensely used on other days.
The recruits are lined up in the middle of the room, with their backs to two closed doors where Polak and Hillbilly stand.
“Ten-hut!”
All men stand stiff when Hillbilly barks the command to stand still and the Top enters the room. It becomes instantly obvious who among them had ever served in any armed force.
Hartman looks over the men. “At ease. In the Tribe, they call me Sergeant Major Elliott Hartman. For you dewy-eyed manchildren my name is Sir Yes Sir. I don’t care about knowing your name, because for me you are nothing but raw meat and raw meat has no name. The Tribe, my Tribe will be the meat grinder that will break your bones, squeeze your flesh and turn you miserable manchildren into warriors. And then, maybe, I say: maybe one day you’ll have the unequaled honor of calling our Colonel your leader.”
The Top looks around at the men.
“You look like a bunch of parasomniacs who in their sleepwalk got to the wrong place. Let me make one thing clear — you are about joining my Tribe. You can still change your mind. If you’re getting cold feet over it, now’s the time to leave.”
Seeing that nobody moves, the Top carries on.
“Looking at your bunch of baby-faced manchildren, I’m sure only very few of you will actually make it. Those who do will leave everything behind. You will forfeit everything about your pathetic life outside — social security numbers, passports, nationality, family ties. You will disappear from this world. Once you join us, there will be only the Tribe and we want men who want nothing but the Tribe. Your umbilical cord will be cut for a second time and I will be the Ka-bar slashing it. By the time you will make a Tribe warrior, you will forget about alcohol — you will get drunk on our enemies’ blood. You will forget about hamburgers because you will eat the meat of mutants you kill…”
“Such a liar,” Pete whispers to Tarasov. “As if he wouldn’t be burger addicted.”
“Can’t blame him,” Tarasov breathes. ”They do eat mutant meat over there.”
“The thought makes my stomach turn.”
“It’s not so bad. Nooria knows some good recipes.”
“…and you will forget about TV because the glorious shine of swags will make you forget about your hopeless little screen. Do you think you are up to it?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Even a litter of starving desert mice sounds more convincing!”
“Sir yes sir!”
“I don’t want to waste more of my Tribe’s precious time on you manchildren, so let’s get this over as soon as possible. You! First in the line from the right! Step forward!”
“Sir!”
The first recruit to be mustered is a brawny, young Caucasian male with a shaved head, wearing fatigue leggings and a white t-shirt.
“Why do you want to become a Tribe warrior?”
“I want to kill sandniggers, sir!”
“That’s good for a start, but exactly why do you want to kill sandniggers?”
“I hate’em, sir!”
“Why do you hate sandniggers?”
“For everything, sir!”
“In particular?”
“Nine-Eleven, sir!”
“And what about the cholos?”
“I hate’em too, sir!”
“All of them?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“And what would you do if you are given an order by a Lieutenant called Ramirez?”
“Follow it, sir!”
“What would you say if a black gunny called Anderson asked for your helmet to puke in it?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“I’ll give you a chance to prove that. Left door!”
The recruit turns around. He is about to walk to the door guarded by Brother Polak when the Top sees a tiny double-8 tattooed on the recruit’s nap.
“Back to me, double time!” he shouts.
When the bald recruit stands still in front of him once more, Hartman grabs his tee shirt and tears it off him. The recruit’s bare skin reveals a huge swastika tattooed over his heart.
“What the fuck do you think that is, manchild?”
“The sign of the brotherhood of all white men, sir!”
“Wrong! It’s a sign saying ‘watch out, asshole approaching’! It’s stinking skin disease! A disgusting birth defect! I’ve no need of mouth-breathing, basement-dwelling, white supremacist scumbags in my Tribe! Get outta my sight and take the right door!”
Brother Hillbilly opens the door and follows the failed recruit out of the recruiting hall. The door shuts behind him. After a few seconds, the sergeant is back and resumes guarding the door, standing at ease but with a face as hard as cast iron. Meanwhile the Top steps to the next recruit, a thin youth with a pale face, and gives him a stern look.
”Give me twenty push-ups, manchild!”
The recruit eagerly assumes a prone position on the floor and starts doing push-ups. His breathing becomes heavier with each push. At the eighth his arms begin to tremble. When it comes to the twelfth he gives up and stays prone.
“Get up,” Hartman sneers. “Who the hell has let you into my recruiting hall? Or did you got lost on the interstate on your way to Disneyland?”
“No, sir!” the recruits replies. He has sweat all over his blushing face.
“Where do they breed such a miserable stock of fish-eyed half-human beings like you?”
“Sir, I am from Iowa, sir!”
“You lie! The Hawkeye State would never produce such a walking inventory of failed genetic experiments! You better come up with a super-convincing reason about why you want to join my Tribe!”
“I hate Iowa, sir!”
“And what’s your problem with the great and noble state of Iowa?”
“It is boring, sir! The whole US of A is boring, sir!”
Hartman glances at the list of recruits in his hand. “Your file says you’re a nerd. Can you hack computer networks?”