Political Suicide Read Online Free PDF Page B

the chill, when the door to the large, rough-hewn cabin swung open and, preceded by two aides, the legendary Major Charles Coon strode out onto the parade ground, his breath swirling out like a fighting bull’s. Second in command to Colonel Wyatt Brody, he was solidly built, with eyes that glowed like the business end of an acetylene torch.
    As one, a hundred eager marines snapped to attention—rows of wooden planks dressed in camo, eyes fixed forward, expressions blank as virgin slate. Had it been demanded of them, they could have remained in that position almost indefinitely. They were trained to endure discomfort. For them, this was the norm. They made even severe pain look manageable.
    Coon slowly walked the line, probing the men’s faces as if betting with himself which of them would make the cut.
    “You are the elite of the elite,” he said finally, his voice a mix of gravel and thunder. “Out of seven hundred Mantis warriors, you are the final one hundred to make it this far. Two thirds of you will not be chosen for Operation Talon. Many of you will consider that a failure.” Coon paused here, but never turned his back on the men, and never lost eye contact. They might not be his equal, but they had earned his respect. “You will not have failed. None of you. Just getting to this point means you have succeeded. Delta Force can’t tell you about the Big Hurt, and neither can the Rangers or the SEALs. That is because they have never run this course. Thanks to the vision of your leaders, this experience is reserved for Mantis only. It is the exclusive property of the best of the best, the bravest of the brave. You are Mantis!”
    “Whatever it takes!” one hundred men shouted in perfect unison.
    Whatever it takes, Townsend thought as he readied himself for the start.
    Despite what Coon had proclaimed, failure was not an option. He would make the cut. He would be one of the men selected for Operation Talon. Of course, he still had almost no clue what the operation entailed. He knew only that it was high priority, high profile, and high prestige—his kind of work. He had come a hell of a long way from being a dairy farmer’s kid in Muskogee, Oklahoma.
    Mantis—the most decorated unit in the United States military.
    I’m proud to be an Okie from Muskogee.… The Merle Haggard song ran like a tape through his mind, as it did whenever he was keyed up.
    “Team One, are you ready to commit?” Coon shouted at Townsend and Morales. His stentorian voice roused a crow from its tree. It took off with an irritated caw.
    “Sir, we are ready to commit. Sir!” Townsend and Morales shouted in unison.
    Townsend saw a thin smile crease the man’s chiseled face. “Gentlemen, this is what you’ve been working toward. This moment. We are alone out here on this course, but believe me, whether they can see you or not, the country is watching you.”
    Coon fired his starter pistol, and the duo sprinted off, their heavy black combat boots crunching through the rime. A Mantis instructor indicated the first obstacle, labeled in crudely painted blue lettering on a board nailed to a tree.
    BELLY FLOP.
    The Big Hurt, the men had been told, was not designed to test a soldier’s orienteering and navigation skills. It was about strength and grit—getting up, over, under, and through the toughest obstacles the military had to offer. Belly Flop was a fifty-yard crawl inches below barbed wire, through mud and frigid groundwater.
    Twenty yards into the test, Townsend’s muscles felt on fire, twitching as he clawed his way commando-style through thick, muddy clay. He rose up to negotiate a depression and tore his forearm through his sleeve on the teeth of an unforgiving strand of razor wire. The pain barely registered. There were medics along the course route, but to seek help meant automatic disqualification.
    Whatever it takes, Townsend chanted to himself, grunting as he scrambled out of the mud. I’m proud to be an Okie from