Phoenix Island, page 18
Parker said, “You get no breakfast today.”
Everyone groaned.
“Lock it up,” Parker said. “We want you motivated. Always, always, always. First group to reach the finish line gets extra chow at dinner. The last group goes without again. Hooah?”
“Hooah!”
“Now that’s motivation. And here’s some more: first group back pulls no guard duty this week. Last group back covers their shifts. Hooah?”
Everybody sounded off, Octavia included. For extra food and sleep, she would run the stupid course. Besides, they’d studied map reading and compass use. That stuff was easy.
“One more thing, orphans. Commander Stark is looking for motivated orphans who can listen to orders and get tough when they need to. Someday, some of you might be invited to join Phoenix Force. That’s the varsity team, hooah?”
They sounded off louder than ever. She didn’t give a crap about Phoenix Force—the day she turned eighteen, she was out of here—but she yelled just as loud as everybody else, dreaming of food and sleep.
“Great balls of fire, orphans, what have you been eating, whiskey and gunpowder?”
“Straight meat, Drill Sergeant!” they yelled—just one more stupid response Parker had hammered into them.
“Hooah! That’s what I like to hear. Now lock it up, because most of you have about as much chance of making Phoenix Force as I have of becoming the Queen of England.”
There’s an uncomfortable image, Octavia thought.
“These are your groups for land nav. Group One . . .”
Here we go, she thought. Her stomach clenched.
“Decker . . .”
No, no, no, no—
“Funk, Chilson, and Stroud.”
Decker and his toadies cheered.
She relaxed. She wasn’t with them.
“Group Two,” Parker said, “Gregoric, Ross, and Medicaid.”
Group One roared with laughter, and Parker paused to find Octavia and give her a big smile. She looked away. So be it. He’d paired her with Ross, who currently looked like he should be in the emergency room, and Medicaid, who always looked like he should be in an emergency room—or a mental hospital. So friggin’ be it. . . .
When it was time to group up, Ross found her. “Sorry about the face,” he said. “I left my real one in the barracks. . . . Uh . . . it hurts to smile.”
She looked around. “Where’s Medicaid?”
Ross shrugged. “We’re screwed. Having Medicaid on your land-nav team is like having an acrophobe on your rock-climbing team.”
“Where is he?”
“See, that was a joke. An acrophobe is somebody who is afraid of heights—”
“I know. I get it. Look, Ross,” she said, putting a forceful hand on his shoulder. “I don’t care if we have to take turns carrying Medicaid, we’re going to win this thing.”
“Win it?” He looked at her like she was crazy. “It’ll be a miracle if we don’t come in last.”
“Win it. I want that extra food and rest.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Serious as a ten-car pileup. Let’s go find the third musketeer.”
CARL PUSHED OUT ANOTHER REP and set the barbell on the rack.
“Good form,” Stark said. “Rest for thirty seconds. Then you’ll do one more set. That’s all, though. You have a big day in front of you.”
Carl nodded. It was amazing. Even after two weeks of training, working out several times a day—mostly boxing, cardio, and what Stark called combatives, which was basically mixed martial arts and gymnastics—he felt zero fatigue.
“Three, two, one, go,” Stark said.
Carl racked out a dozen reps, focusing on form and breathing, just as Stark had told him. With each rep, his muscles swelled. By the time he finished the set, his chest muscles were massive and rounded, twitching for more work.
“Great work, Carl.” Stark slapped his hands together. “My turn. Give me a hand.”
Carl’s mind conjured an image of Ross making one of his lame jokes: Stark asking for a hand, Ross shrugging and applauding with a little golf clap. . . .
He missed the little weirdo. Stupid jokes and all.
Octavia, too. He wondered if she knew he was all right. He wondered if she cared. The last time he’d seen her, she was pretty mad at him. That had been a long time ago—jeez, probably a month.
Other than missing and worrying about his friends, life was perfect. The weeks he’d spent here as Stark’s apprentice had been truly awesome. The man was amazing—smart and strong, cool and interesting, upbeat and encouraging—and life had been a blissful collage of top-notch training, reading and discussing books, and endless conversation, all of it fascinating. He encouraged Carl to embrace “self-efficacy,” which he said was the key to long-term success. Self-efficacy meant having absolute faith in your mission and yourself, so much that it freed you from worry or overthinking, allowing you to live in the moment and concentrate on whatever action you were supposed to be doing at that very second. In Carl’s situation, it meant unwavering faith in his abilities, their work together, and his destiny. Forget the past, don’t question the future, and focus on the moment at hand.
Carl loved his new freedom. Stark allowed him to choose his own books, and Carl’s questions drove their reading discussions. He had a voice in which training to do when, and Stark allowed him to come and go as he pleased on solo runs, so long as he promised to avoid other trainees. He even had his own bedroom in the hangar, complete with a small bookshelf and a minifridge stocked with good food he could eat—without asking permission. Life was great.
Or was, anyway, until he pictured Octavia’s eyes or imagined Ross impersonating Rivera. Then all the happiness whooshed out of him. But what was he supposed to do? Quit his apprenticeship and head back to Blue Phase? That wouldn’t do anybody any good. As soon as he could help them, he would. Until then, it was best to embrace Stark’s self-efficacy and focus on the moment at hand.
Distracted by these thoughts, Carl moved as mechanically as a robot, helping Stark load heavy plates onto the bar. Only as they slid the final plate into place did the reality hit him. “That’s a lot of weight.”
“Seven hundred pounds,” Stark said, lying down on the bench and squaring himself beneath the bar.
“Really?” It made no sense. Seven hundred pounds . . .
“Really. On three. My count. One, two, three—” The bar flexed as Stark lowered it smoothly to his massive chest and pushed it up again with seeming ease.
“Awesome!” Carl almost yelled.
Stark pumped out seven more reps before racking the weight. He didn’t need a spot.
“That was amazing!”
“Thank you,” Stark said. There was no show, no roaring, no flexing, nothing. He acted as calm as someone who’d just done eight push-ups. “Last month, I maxed out at nine hundred and eighty pounds. I’m only ninety-five pounds under the world record.”
“That’s crazy.”
Stark smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. In a couple of months, I should be able to beat it, too. Not that I care about the record books. I want strength in case I need it. If a mission goes hand-to-hand, I want to be able to punch a hole through the enemy’s chest.”
“Or rip his arm off and beat him with it.” Carl couldn’t imagine fighting Stark. It wasn’t just the power. The guy was sharp and fast and threw smart punches. He could kick or grapple, and probably knew how to use every weapon in the world.
“You’ll be just as strong,” Stark said.
Carl laughed.
“I’m serious. I wasn’t born at this level. You’re eating what I eat, taking the same supplements I take, training like I train. You’ll be squatting Humvees in no time.” Stark crossed the room to a set of scales. “Let’s check your height and weight, get a baseline.”
Carl stepped onto the scale. Stark checked his height first. “Five eleven. Congratulations, you’ve grown two inches since coming to Phoenix Island.”
Carl couldn’t believe it. He was nearly six feet tall. . . .
Stark adjusted the balances atop the scale. “One hundred and eighty-seven pounds,” Stark said. “And I’d guess you’re at about six percent body fat, if that. Six percent is good. Go much lower, and you’ll cut into your energy reserves.”
“Unreal . . .” Carl wondered aloud. He stepped off the scale and flexed. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“You’re not finished growing yet. You’ll get taller, heavier, and stronger. I’d rather not pack a lot of excess muscle on you, but your genetics might have something to say about that.” Stark uncovered a freestanding mirror beside the scale. “See for yourself.”
Carl turned toward the mirror. He’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t really looked at himself in weeks. His reflection didn’t seem real. He looked like a smaller version of Stark. He raised his arms and flexed. “Those shots we were getting back in camp, those were that stuff? HG-whatever?”
“HGH, human growth hormone. And yes—you and a few others received it. Not everyone. HGH is expensive, after all, and let’s face it: it would be a waste on many of them.”
“But I did. . . .”
Stark laughed. “Carl, I’ve had my eye on you for a long time. I have employees throughout the juvenile justice system. Think of them as talent scouts. Counselors, probation officers, judges. For cash under the table they identify at-risk youths who display considerable potential. The names come to me, and I conduct research. Your name came to me shortly after you’d won your boxing titles.”
Carl started to laugh—this had to be a joke—but stopped as he remembered his file, the handwritten note, National Boxing Champion, beneath his sixth-grade photo. “But that was . . . years ago.”
“Indeed,” Stark said. “Several years. I kept track of you, and when the time was right, I made the proper arrangements.”
A feeling was building in Carl, something like getting punched, like getting nailed with a shocker of a right hand you hadn’t seen coming, but in very slow motion. “Wait.” He pictured the summary sheet he’d found in his folder, the strange note about Idaho and North Carolina, the date that he’d assumed was an error. “You’re serious?”
Stark smiled. “Completely.”
For a stunned moment, Carl could only stare. It felt like his brain had turned to stone. “So you’re saying . . . that you—”
Stark waved dismissively. “I can’t take all the credit—your choices and actions led to each move, after all—but I made sure that your path led here.” He laughed again. “Didn’t you think it bizarre, getting moved all over the country? Idaho? North Carolina?”
“Yeah,” Carl said, his own voice sounding strange to him, distant, the rock in his skull crumbling now, falling into dust, “I guess I did.”
Stark half turned and started sliding the cover over the mirror again. “Well, I had to get you away from home, break old ties, and eventually wrap you around to one of my judges. I have a couple dozen friendlies spread from Alaska to Florida, and they keep me in business, without ever really knowing what they’re doing.”
The debris of Carl’s crumbled brain now whirled around his skull in a tornado of confusion. All these years, Stark had been watching him, waiting, pulling strings to bring him here? It called a lot of things into question. That gray-haired judge back in North Carolina, sitting there joking with the cop . . . he’d just been following Stark’s orders? Implications shuddered through him. “Did you put me places where you knew I’d slip up?”
Stark laughed. “You make me sound like the villain from some crazy conspiracy theory.”
“Am I right?” Carl asked, his knuckles starting to ache. “Did you set me up?”
“Set you up?” Stark asked, almost like he was hurt by the question. All at once, his smile died, and his eyes went dark. “I saved you.”
In that moment, everything changed, Stark’s anger clicking into place with the simple efficiency of a cocked hammer. Like it was always there, at the ready when he needed it. Carl tensed, certain he’d just crossed a very dangerous line. He had to deescalate this before it was too late.
“Tell me,” Stark said, taking a step closer. “If I hadn’t set you up, as you put it, where would you be now? More to the point, what would you be?”
I’d be living my own life, Carl thought, but with caution lights flashing in his mind, he kept that thought to himself and simply shrugged as if he was unsure and open to Stark’s opinion.
“I’ll tell you what you’d be,” Stark said. “Without me, you’d be the neutered pup of some suburban foster family that would pump you full of happy drugs twenty-four/seven. Would you like that?”
“No,” Carl said, telling himself, Fix . . . this . . . now. . . . “I wouldn’t like that at all.” He shook his head for effect.
“I didn’t think so,” Stark said, and leaned back a little. “I only want what’s best for you, Carl. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Carl forced a smile onto his face. “I know. Thanks.”
Stark smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “My decision to facilitate your direction might seem bold, but that shouldn’t bother a person like you. Life is a series of choices. People pretend these choices are simple—right versus wrong, good versus evil, heads or tails, take your pick—but in the real world, we face dilemmas. No simple answers. Nothing black or white, everything gray. You and I both know it.”
Carl nodded, thinking, Keep nodding. Keep him happy.
“Boxing success brought your name to my attention,” Stark said, “but it was your handling of dilemmas that won me over. A single charge, repeated ad infinitum.”
Carl stiffened. The exact phrase he’d seen in his folder . . .
Stark started pacing again. “When you saw bullies picking on someone, you acted decisively, intervening even though you knew it would bring you trouble. Even as boy, you were a man of action.” He grinned.
Carl looked at the ground. “They made me mad.”
“Understandable,” Stark said, “Anger is a natural response to a world gone mad, where schools fearing public opinion claim ‘zero tolerance’ for bullies, then punish a boy for showing that exact lack of tolerance, the same world where a government fearing global opinion declares a ‘war against terror,’ then betrays an elite soldier who actually tries to wage that war.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
But Carl could see that Stark was lost in his speech and didn’t seem to hear the question. “The world needs us, Carl, needs us to set things right. We don’t hesitate during dilemmas, we act—decisively—because we understand and accept that the price of progress runs high at times. That’s what we do: we affect progress, making the world a better place, even if that means breaking rules, even if the price runs high at times.”
Carl nodded again, feeling like a puppet on a string.
“No matter how you got here,” Stark said, “you’ve come to the right place. Phoenix Island is the heart of a much larger organization committed to making the world a better place. We have additional operations, albeit cruder ones, all over the world.”
“Wait,” Carl said, rattled out of the nodding routine. “There are more places like this?”
“Many,” Stark said. “We have facilities in Africa, Asia, Central and South America, the Middle East, and the former Soviet Union. The best children end up here, though, where I train them as Phoenix Force troopers.”
Carl tensed, remembering Eric’s journal. Phoenix Force, the Old Man’s killers-for-hire. But he just said, “You train Phoenix Force?”
“Abso-hooah-lutely,” Stark said, beaming with obvious pride. “I’m company commander, the father of this organization. That’s why they call me the Old Man.”
THE JEEP DROPPED THEM a couple of miles from camp. Thick forest hugged both sides of the road. A little way back, they had driven over the big swamp. Octavia opened the map.
Ross, pretending to call after the jeep, said, “On second thought, I’ve changed my mind. Drop me off in Massachusetts instead.”
The guy never quit with the jokes. Here he was, with a face like a train wreck, stuck out in the woods, still joking around. In a way, it was pretty cool. In another way, not so much—and Octavia hoped she could control her temper.
You will, she told herself. You will do everything you have to do because you’re going to win this thing. She had to get these guys on board.
“All right,” she said, “Medicaid— Uh, what’s your real name?”
Medicaid looked at her and laughed. A light breeze passed, and Octavia smelled urine.
Lord, give me strength, she thought. “All right, then. We’ll just continue with Medicaid. Go on over to that checkpoint. They said there should be some paper in the box.”
To her surprise, Medicaid went straight to the post, pulled out the paper, and brought it to her.
“Look,” Octavia said. “We can do this, guys. I mean it. We might not be the most athletic group, but we’re smart. Map reading was easy. I liked it.”
“Stockholm syndrome,” Ross said. “You’re going native. Next thing you know, you’ll develop a love for camouflage, plan a wedding dress in green and black.”
“Ross, for as much as I admire your spirit, if you don’t stop screwing around, I’ll strangle you.”
“Whoa—” Ross said, putting up his hands. “I’m all for trying to win, but don’t ask me to stop making jokes, like, ever.”
“Whatever. Just take a look at this map, okay?”
They flattened the map on the ground, took out the compass and a pencil, and got started. Medicaid scuffed around on the road, talking to himself, while she and Ross plotted the course.
“That’s where he got it,” Ross said, pointing to the right side of the map, which showed the outline of the island but no detail, just dark cross-hatching, save for a single, short phrase she couldn’t understand.
“That’s where who got what?”
Ross glanced over his shoulder toward Medicaid. “Nothing. I saw another map, and it used this phrase, hic sunt dracones—here are dragons. It’s a figure of speech—an old one—meaning an uncharted area, maybe dangerous, maybe not. Besides, whatever’s on the other side of the island, there’s a fence between it and us.”
