“Yeah, we’ll have to come up with a way to rate the jobs,” Marc said.
Chapter 7Two Weeks of Hell
“Please have a seat,” Commandant Lewis said to the two cadets who had just snapped off a salute in front of her desk. Both of them quickly and properly took a seat and sat at attention.
“Cadet Miranda Cordova. You’re from the U.S. Naval Academy.”
“Correct, Ma’am.”
“You were a battalion commander before your discharge.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Your story?”
“Ma’am, I was in my senior year when a drunk driver sideswiped my car. I was medically discharged with severe trauma to my neck vertebras. Delphi offered to fix me up, and I’ve always wanted to go to space.”
“And you, Cadet Thomas Jefferson, you were a squadron commander at the Air Force Academy.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I have a similar story. I was in my senior year at the U.S. Air Force Academy. I was skydiving when a freak downdraft collapsed my sail. I got slammed into the ground pretty hard. Broke my pelvis and my back. I got the same offer from Delphi.”
“Both of you have excellent records from your Academies. I’ve spoken to your commandants, and they give you superb recommendations.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
“Cadet Cordova, you are now Cadet Colonel Cordova, and you will take command of the Cadet Wing,” Commandant Lewis said. Then she turned to Cadet Jefferson. “Cadet Jefferson, you are now Cadet Lt. Colonel Jefferson, and you will be her executive officer.”
Both cadets were stunned and neither knew if they should say anything.
“Do you accept?”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
“You both have significant experience in leadership positions. Work with Colonel Harriman and select the other cadet officers. I expect your selections on my desk tomorrow by 1800.”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
“Do you have any questions?”
“I do, Ma’am,” Cadet Cordova said.
“Go ahead.”
“It seems that the trainers have been going light on the Plebes. When I was a Plebe at the Naval Academy, we were pushed much harder.”
“That might be so. I think Commander Blackwood wanted to transition the Plebes. In my opinion, it has been a steep transition, but we have to acknowledge that they’re not coming from the same situation as a typical Academy recruit.”
Cadet Cordova and Cadet Jefferson didn’t say anything, but their faces showed they weren’t buying it.
“One thing you should keep in mind, Commander Blackwood was a Navy Seal. I don’t think he’s taking it easy on anyone.”
“Yes, Ma’am . . . I mean no, Ma’am!”
“Very good. I expect you to work the Plebes hard. We want those that can’t cut it to leave. But, we do not want to lose someone because of carelessness or cruelty. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
◆ ◆ ◆
To Catie, if the first week of the Academy was the sixth circle of hell, the second week was the ninth circle of hell. When the instructors and NCOs stepped back, and the cadets who had previous Academy experience stepped forward, things ramped up to a whole new level.
The senior cadets had spent their first week getting acclimated to the Academy and its unique rules. They’d been put through some minor hell by the instructors, but now they were in charge, and they let the Plebes know it. Where the NCOs could find two or three things wrong with the way you came to attention, the senior cadets could find six. The NCOs had thought an hour of rifle drill was adequate, the senior cadets thought that was just a warmup.
The Alfa, Bravo, and Charlie squadrons were made up entirely of cadets from the various military academies. There were eight squadrons in all. Each of the squadrons was named after a letter from the NATO phonetic alphabet. Once they finished Basic, they would reorganize, and the squadrons would probably pick up nicknames as well.
Each squadron was broken down into six flights of ten cadets each. A second-class cadet was put in charge, a second-class cadet was a junior. A first-class cadet, a senior, was in charge of the squadron, and there was a plethora of third-class cadets for each flight, each of them ready and eager to search out and find errors.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Attention!” Cadet Lieutenant Hoffman yelled; he was now in charge of Foxtrot Squadron, Flight One.
Catie’s flight snapped to attention. They’d had their usual rude awakening at 0430 and were now formed up for PT.
“Make corrections!” Hoffman ordered. His two minions, the two cadet sergeants assigned to Flight One, moved down the two ranks of Plebes formed up in front of Cadet Lieutenant Hoffman. One for each rank.
“Shoulders back! Chin down! Eyes up! Fingers aligned with the seam! Heels together!” The corrections were endless.
“Twenty push-ups!” Hoffman ordered. The flight snapped down to the push-up position and started counting. “Corrections!”
“Fingers together! Upper arms parallel to the ground! Do not pause at the top!”
“When did push-ups become so much more complicated?” Catie thought. “Five!” she counted aloud.
“Now that you know how to do them, give me twenty!” Cadet Lieutenant Hoffman ordered. So they got to start over after already doing seven.
“One . . . two . . .”
“Forty side-straddle hops! Corrections!”
“Your feet need to be more than shoulder-width apart! Clap those hands! Stay in sync!”
“Now that you know how to do them, give me forty good ones!”
“One . . . two . . .”
“Twenty engines! Corrections!”
“Do not bend your arm toward your knee, keep them parallel to the ground! Knees higher, touch your elbows! Shoulders back!”
“Now that we’ve corrected your form, give me twenty!”
“One . . . two . . .”
It went on for what seemed an eternity, mule kick, ski jumps, high jumpers, flutter kicks, swimmers, crunches. Each exercise needing extra corrections as if the NCO instructors had not already corrected every detail.
When they finally finished PT, they got to eat, or at least try to eat.
“Sit at attention!” Cadet Lieutenant Hoffman ordered. “Corrections!”
On and on, the corrections went.
“That is not the way to stand up from the table! Ten push-ups!”
“One . . . two . . .”
“Now try it again!”
After breakfast, they got to endure two hours of rifle drills, followed
