Beyond the Point(49)
In other news . . . I got a really crazy assignment today from my boss’s boss. It’s going to start in the spring, and I can’t really e-mail about it because it’s classified (what?! Who am I??)—but the good news is, it’s here in Fort Bragg, so I’m still not going overseas for a while.
What about you, Hannah? Have you heard anything about deployment dates for your unit?
ALL HAIL THE CULT,
Avery
12
Summer 2004 // Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri
A fist slammed into Hannah’s face, hard. An African-American soldier named Private Daniel Stanton stood in front of her, his red boxing gloves drooping at his sides. Her vision blurred and suddenly, all of the sounds in the gymnasium were submerged in water. She swayed.
The next thing Hannah knew, she awoke on the ground, staring at a ceiling of fluorescent light. The scent of old wrestling mats and sweat assaulted her nose, and she tasted metal in her mouth. When she touched her fingers to her nostril they were covered in blood.
Things were not going as planned.
When she’d arrived at Fort Leonard Wood for Sapper School, Hannah knew the odds would be stacked against her. In the history of the Army, only twenty-three females had ever attempted the highest training school available for combat engineers—and of those, only nine had graduated. Hannah wanted desperately to be number ten. In the past eight weeks, she’d built helipads, jumped from a moving helicopter into open water, and, just the day before, scored full points rappelling from a cliff with a 220-pound soldier strapped to her back. All of it without a single complaint. Not even a groan.
There was only one test left. If Hannah could just wrap Private Stanton’s hands behind his back—if she could just achieve the clinch—she would graduate, the tenth female Sapper in history. All she had to do was step to her six-foot-three attacker, drive her head into his neck, push his arms out to the sides, and pin his arms around his back. But so far, every time Hannah stepped closer to him, all she got was Stanton’s fists in the face.
“All right, boys, I think I found our weakest link.” A shadowy figure leaned over Hannah’s body until his face was just inches from hers. The barrel-chested NCO, Master Sergeant Moretti, had yellow teeth and breath that smelled of weak coffee. He flapped his clipboard over Hannah’s face. “Come on, get up, Nesmith.”
Stilted laughter pounded against Hannah’s ears as Moretti offered her his hand.
“I’m all right,” she said, forcing herself to stand without his help.
Moretti rolled his eyes and inspected her face. “It’s broken.”
“I’ve had a broken nose before,” Hannah said. When she was six years old, her sister, Emily, had accidentally thrown an elbow in her face while they were playing freeze tag. “I’ll be fine.”
“Stanton, hold her head still,” Moretti yelled to Hannah’s opponent.
Stanton’s palms pressed against her sweaty hair while Moretti placed both of his hands on either side of the bridge of her nose, like he was praying. He paused. “This is going to hurt.”
“Just get it over with,” Hannah muttered. She closed her eyes and braced for the pain.
With one swift motion, Sergeant Moretti slammed his fingers against the right side of her nose, snapping it back into alignment. A shock of blue light flashed through Hannah’s brain. An involuntary shout emerged from her lungs. Hannah chewed on her lips to keep from crying, then walked a few paces to regain her breath.
“None of us enjoy watching you get the shit beat out of you,” Moretti said. He’d followed her to the side of the gymnasium and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m thinking it may be time to call it quits. Come back next cycle. Try again.”
Hannah forced herself to breathe. She didn’t want his sympathy. She hadn’t stumbled into Sapper School by mistake. Couldn’t he check his clipboard? Wasn’t it just that morning that she’d smoked them all on the six-mile run? But there was no way around the fact that Stanton’s fists flew faster and harder than she’d expected. He was denser than she could ever be. And the way he looked at her, with some kind of perverse hunger, it was like he wanted to break not just her nose but something deeper. Hannah had been one of the highest-ranking cadets at West Point—guy or girl. Now her ovaries were a flashing neon sign to everyone in the room that she couldn’t keep up. All around, men crossed their arms over their chests, waiting. Some looked bored. Some looked concerned. Most looked amazed that Hannah was still standing.
With a fresh wave of nausea, an echo of words swirled in Hannah’s mind, a phrase she hadn’t considered in some time. It’s not a matter of capability.
What if her grandfather had been wrong? What if she really couldn’t keep up? What if he’d been right, that she shouldn’t be here?
Tim had warned her of this. That summer, after graduation and their wedding, Hannah, Tim, and a dozen other class of ’04 grads had flown to Rome and boarded a cruise ship that had transported them between six different Mediterranean cities. While their friends drank themselves silly, Tim and Hannah had secluded themselves as much as possible, knowing it was the closest thing they’d get to a honeymoon. They were lounging on the deck of a ship, a few hours before it docked in Florence, when Hannah told Tim that she’d been given a slot at Sapper School, starting in the middle of August. He’d raised his aviator sunglasses and his eyebrows.