Tiger's Claw: A Novel

Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and weed out those who didn’t possess the physical conditioning, attitude, or aptitude to make it through the next four years of intense academic training to become career Air Force officers. In just two weeks, he would begin his military and professional education in one of the top ten colleges on planet Earth, completing a million-dollar education paid for by U.S. taxpayers . . .

. . . as some would say: shoved up your ass a nickel at a time.

Brad extracted his thumb from the barb, then shook the muzzle of the M-16 rifle free of the wire as well. Bradley James McLanahan was on his back slithering through four inches of mud and dust, just below several strands of barbed wire arrayed above him. On either side of him were other Basics—candidates for admission to the Air Force Academy—navigating the obstacle course of “Second Beast,” the three-week field encampment that preceded the start of the freshman school year. Occasional explosions and firecrackers erupted all around him, especially around the cadets having any difficulties crawling under the wire. Bradley was tall and thin, so normally getting under the mesh of razor wires should be no problem, but for some reason those pesky barbs reached out and grabbed anything they could latch on to—his uniform, his rifle, his thumb, his very soul.

“Sir,” Brad shouted, “I have extricated myself from the obstacle, and I am proceeding . . .”

“Don’t tell me—show me, Basic!” the instructor shouted. Cadet Staff Sergeant William Weber was a second-class cadet at the Academy and a well-seasoned and experienced instructor at Cadet Basic Training, his favorite summer assignment. Rather than going home or doing any other activities during the summer break, Weber always signed up for Cadet Basic Training so he could lock his claws into the very new, raw persons making their way into the Air Force Academy. No one proceeded past this point without getting past Weber . . . no way. Weber stepped over to Bradley and bent down, face-to-face to him. “What are you doing, Basic?”

“Sir, I am proceeding on the obstacle course and . . .”

“You aren’t doing crap, Basic!” Weber shouted. “Get moving! What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, I am . . .”

“Didn’t we teach you about controlling your muzzle and your trigger, Basic?” Weber shouted, grabbing Bradley’s M-16 before it could swing all the way toward Weber’s face. “You are not controlling anything! You get snagged with your muzzle and then you get snagged when you move to release another snag. Are you dense, Basic? Do you want to take all morning to complete this evolution, Basic? I’ll tell you right, now, Basic: I’m not going to wait around for you to finish a simple task. Now get your rear in gear and finish this evolution!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Bradley shouted.

Weber went off to yell at some other Basic, and Bradley was grateful for the break, but as soon as Weber was out of the way, some other second-class blasted a fire hose into the pit to maintain a nice deep level of mud. It was late July in Colorado, and even in early morning the air was warm and dry—the afternoon runs with full packs, with temperatures approaching ninety degrees, would be murder.

Bradley knew all about Basic Cadet Training, the Confidence course, and Jack’s Valley—all this was no surprise. Once he had been selected for admission—his appointment came from no less than then vice president Kenneth Phoenix, who was now the president of the United States—he had to attend dozens of Academy prep courses taught by liaison officers, listen to guest speakers describing their adventures and problems, have his grades scrutinized constantly and schedule refresher and reinforcement classes with volunteer tutors, pass a grueling fitness test once a month even tougher than the one they would have to take every semester at the Academy, and watch hundreds of videos covering every possible aspect of life as a fourth-class cadet. The Academy and its graduates did everything they could possibly do to prepare a potential cadet for what he was about to face. None of the “Beast” was unexpected—in fact, they had built a “mini-Beast” Confidence Course near the youth correctional facility in Carson City, Nevada, so all the area Basics chosen to attend the Academy could practice.

The first three weeks of BCT were at the Academy, learning how to salute, how to march, how to wear a uniform, and basic military customs, along with intense physical conditioning. Since Brad had spent so many years in the Civil Air Patrol teaching all that to CAP cadets, he was way ahead of most other Basics, and he had a relatively easy time—he had even been asked by a few first- and second-class cadets to help a few of the other Basics. As a high school football player, Bradley knew how to stay in shape, so the long runs, rope climbing, and calisthenics were all second nature.

Maybe that made him feel a little overconfident, even a little cocky—because the second half of BCT, “Second Beast,” was in the field. No more dormitories, no more chow halls, no more comfortable PT outfits and clean uniforms—this was down and dirty in the woods and mountains for the final three weeks. Although Bradley was qualified in several CAP field emergency services, his real soul was in flying. Let the nonrated kids do ground searches, first aid, and direction finding—he belonged in the sky.

“State the Core Values of the United States Air Force, Basics!” the guy with the fire hose shouted.

“Sir, integrity first, service before self, excellence in all we do, sir!” Bradley shouted for the umpteenth time that morning. He finally wriggled clear of the barbed wire, but got his pants caught as he was trying to get on his feet.

“You will state the Core Values together, or don’t bother saying them at all, Basics!” the cadet trainer shouted. “You will learn to live, work, train, and fight together, or you do not belong at my beloved Academy! Now, again: What are the Air Force’s Core Values?” Bradley started to respond, but he was hit in the side of his Kevlar helmet with a jet of water from the fire hose and was knocked off his feet again by the blast. He couldn’t hear anything except the hammering of the water against his head.

“I think Basic McLanahan here forgot the words to our Core Basics,” Weber shouted, materializing as if from nowhere. “Get on your feet, Basic McLanahan!”

That was the first time, Bradley thought as he struggled to his feet, that he had heard his last name here at the Beast while in field training—up until now, they were all simply “Basics.” His eyes were stinging from mud, but he dared not try to wipe them clear. He faced in the approximate direction of where he thought Weber was standing and brought his M-16 rifle up to port arms. “Sir!”

“The breech of your weapon is closed, Basic McLanahan,” Weber snarled. “You had better clear and check that weapon before you stand in front of me, and do it now.”

Now Bradley rubbed the mud out of his face, then made sure the muzzle of the M-16 rifle was pointed straight up away from the cadet instructor, pulled back on the charging handle, and peered into the chamber. He couldn’t see that well, so he wasn’t sure if there was anything in there, but they had been issued no ammunition so everyone was safe. He let the handle go, then went back to port arms. “Sir, my weapon is clear, sir!” he reported.

“Your weapon is a filthy mess, McLanahan, that’s what it is!” Weber shouted. He motioned behind him, and a split second later the fire hose was unleashed on him again. “Keep that weapon out of the water, McLanahan!” Weber shouted. “That weapon is your lifeline in the field!” Bradley raised it above his head as the water surged over his body, threatening to topple him in its powerful stream. “What is the Cadet Oath, Basic?”

“Sir, the Cadet Oath is: I will not lie, cheat, or steal . . .”

“Wrong, McLanahan!” Weber interrupted. “Try again!”

Bradley swallowed hard. “The Cadet Oath is . . .”

“You had better address me as ‘sir,’ Basic!”

“Sir, the Cadet Oath is: We will not lie, steal, or cheat, nor tolerate anyone among us who . . .”

“McLanahan, you are just plain dense this morning,” Weber said. “One more try, McLanahan, and if you screw it up, you go back to the beginning of the Pit to think about it some more. This is the most important phrase in the Academy, Basic, the very basis of who we are, the one thing that every cadet is sworn to uphold and protect. You’ve had three weeks to learn it. Go!”

Bradley’s arms, still holding the M-16 over his head, were beginning to shake, but he took a deep breath and uttered, “Sir, the Cadet Oath is: We will not lie, steal, or cheat, nor tolerate among us anyone who does.” Bradley saw Weber’s eyes flaring in anger and quickly added, “Sir!”

“About time,” Weber growled. He stepped closer to Bradley and said in a low voice, “Maybe you McLanahans