Authors: Russell Blake
“Make it your life’s mission to be the one, not the other nine.”
“So you’re not going to tell me?”
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
She opened her door. Benjamin eyed her as she climbed out of the car. “Everything you need will be inside. Find an available bunk and get some sleep. You’ll go through orientation after breakfast.”
“And you?”
He gave her a dry smile devoid of cheer. “I’ve got a bomber to find.”
“Right. Let me know if you need any help.
Benjamin
,” she said, stressing his name, which she’d guessed by then wasn’t real.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Watch your back, and don’t give your instructors any shit. This isn’t the bush-league training you got in basic. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, and learn as much as you can. It could save your life.”
She threw him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
He watched as she entered the darkened interior of the barracks and shook his head silently. Her test scores had been off the charts, and if he hadn’t watched her take it in front of him, he would have suspected she’d cheated. Whether or not that would translate into usable abilities in the field was another story. He hoped for her sake it would. She was beautiful, highly intelligent, in incredible physical shape; a polyglot wonder with off-the-charts intestinal fortitude, as evidenced by her forays into the West Bank, and perhaps most important, possessed of a seething anger that was just below the surface, but evident to him. If she could learn to channel that rage into something useful…
He put the transmission into reverse and backed away, leaving Maya to her future. He would probably never see her again, and that was as it should be. His job was done, and her real testing was about to begin. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he had to catch the bomber. With the information she’d provided, he’d already moved a score of seasoned operatives into Ramallah, who would start scouring the city in just a few hours. That she’d not only seen the terrorist and the bomber but knew their names had been an unprecedented bit of luck, and he didn’t think it would take more than a day or two on the outside to draw a bead on them.
At least he hoped so. He had absolutely no doubt that Maya’s account was true, and if he failed, he was sure that many would die as a result.
Which was why he wouldn’t fail. He’d be back in Ramallah by first light and, after a couple of hours of sleep, would be directing his group, working behind the scenes to direct Abreeq and Ammar’s apprehension. Or more likely, termination with extreme prejudice.
But first he had an errand to attend to, which would give him no small pleasure to carry out: one Sergeant Kevod, who was about to be stripped of his rank and assigned the most degrading duty the IDF could find.
~ ~ ~
Maya started awake after only three hours of sleep, jarred from her slumber by the sounds of nearby movement. Two women Maya’s age were removing clothes from a row of lockers on one end of the long room. Neither gave Maya more than an incurious glance. Maya darted into the bathroom, braced herself against the assault of needles of cold water, and inspected her arm wound, which was healing nicely. She took a two-minute shower, dried off with a coarse towel, and then hurried to dress. When she reentered the barracks, she saw that one of the lockers had her first name on it, and when she opened it, she found a folded set of black sweats, a rudimentary hygiene kit, a change of underwear and an athletic bra, and a pair of new black running shoes in her size. She slipped into the clothes, ignoring the other women, wondering silently how her first day in the unusual circumstances would go.
At 6:10 a.m. an imposing woman with a long face, aquiline nose and close-cropped hair entered the barracks, her camouflage uniform devoid of any insignia. She eyed the two other women and snapped her fingers.
“You two. You have five minutes to get to the mess hall and eat, and then go to your assigned instructors.” She glanced at Maya. “Ah, and you must be the fresh meat. Welcome. You may call me Zivah. For your purposes, I run this place. I’ll show you where to put your laundry, where to eat, and I’ll introduce you to the instructors. As to the rest of it, you’ll figure it out.”
“Zivah, nice to meet you.”
“You may not think so by the time the day’s over. Come on. I’ll show you around and explain the rules.”
Maya followed her out of the barracks into the crisp morning air and accompanied her to the dining area, a no-frills setup with a row of cafeteria trays. Zivah and Maya scooped portions of food onto their plates and took a seat at a table in the rear of the room, away from the eight men and two women, who were devouring their breakfasts like it was a race.
“What were you told about the training?” Zivah asked.
“Only that it was going to be demanding and that most don’t finish it.”
“For good reason. Better to find out in here that you don’t have what it takes than jeopardize a mission.”
“Makes sense.”
Zivah sat back and appraised Maya. “Now for the rules. First, no fraternizing between male and female candidates. No exceptions.”
Maya nodded. “I understand.”
“This course of training usually requires six months. But you’ve been placed on an accelerated course – call it a pilot program – which will compress it into three. It means you’ll be training for twelve hours a day, seven days a week, instead of the usual eight hours with weekends off. If you can’t handle that, you can tap out at any point.”
“And then what happens?”
Zivah took another bite, chewing methodically. “I wouldn’t suggest doing so.” She swallowed and took a sip of black coffee. “You’ll have several instructors. One will be for hand-to-hand fighting, another for weapons, another for explosives, still another for general spycraft. You’ll start with hand-to-hand today and then progress to weapons, finishing the day with spycraft. Explosives training will begin in two weeks, assuming you’re still with us.” Zivah glanced at the two women on the far side of the room, eating wordlessly at their own table. “When they started last month, there were five in their group. I don’t expect any of you to make it.”
“You haven’t seen what I’m capable of.”
“Right. But I can count. Maybe you’re the exception. I hope so. We want the exceptional candidates, not the merely superior ones. We already know everyone here’s superior – your test scores demonstrate that or you wouldn’t be here. But to make the cut…let’s just say it takes something more.”
“Fair enough.”
“Every morning you’ll be expected to be up by 6:00, fed by 6:15, and ready to train until dark. You’ll get fifteen minutes for lunch, and after training, half an hour for dinner. Three hours of study time after dinner – you’ll need to absorb written material every night – and then lights out. The following day it starts all over again.”
“Is there any time allocated to working out?”
Zivah gave a gentle snort. “Perhaps you don’t understand. You’ll be exercising at least four hours a day with your hand-to-hand training. That will more than compensate for any time spent away from a stair stepper.”
“I like to do pull-ups and sit-ups. Core strength training. And run.”
“Then get up at five instead of six and do your routine. Any time here not spent asleep is committed to the course.”
Maya nodded. “Okay. I presume you know I’ve already had Krav Maga training.”
“You were shown the basics. What you’ll learn here is more akin to a master’s program.”
“Good. But I have a question.”
“Ask.”
“Where are we?”
“Why does it matter? You can’t contact anyone while you’re here.”
“No, it’s not that. I have no family. I was just wondering what base this was…”
“It’s of no concern. You will have no contact with the general population on base. This section is off-limits to all personnel except for carefully screened kitchen and cleaning staff. Make up any location you like, and that’s where you are.”
They finished their meal, and Zivah pushed back from the table. “I understand you had a head injury?”
Maya held her hand up to the back of her skull. “I think it was a rifle butt. I got some stitches.”
Zivah’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not a great sign that someone was able to land a blow, regardless of what it was with.”
“It was dark. There was a firefight. About twenty to one. I was the one. Somebody was able to get behind me.”
“That’s quite a story. But that kind of mistake in the field gets you killed.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I read the report. Your ass was saved by the IDF. If they hadn’t shown up, you’d be roasting on a spit out in the high desert after being passed around for amusement a few hundred times.”
Maya held the woman’s icy glare. “Then it was my lucky day, wasn’t it?”
Zivah pushed back from the table. “Come on. We’ll see whether you still think so by the time the sun goes down.”
Chapter 18
Maya and Zivah marched across a dusty field to the edge of an abandoned obstacle course, where a tent was set up to provide shade. The heat would mount as the sun worked its way across the sky, and Maya was grateful that the most exercise-intensive portion of her instruction had been programmed for the mornings.
A small man emerged from the tent as they neared, also wearing black sweats, his sparse head of gray hair tousled but his posture ramrod straight in spite of age. Maya estimated him to be in his late fifties or early sixties, built like a fireplug. His physique radiated strength, but wiry, like a coiled spring, and his face looked like he’d lost more than his share of fights: his nose was flattened from being broken multiple times, and there were small scars on his cheeks and brow. Zivah stopped in front of him and nodded.
“Gurion, this is Maya. She got slammed in the head with a rifle a few days ago, so bear that in mind for the first sessions.”
Gurion looked Maya up and down and then slowly circled her, as if inspecting a prize horse. He grunted and eyed Zivah. “You never give me the easy jobs, do you? What did I do this time?”
“Maya’s been through the IDF basic training, so she thinks she knows everything about Krav Maga. Isn’t that right?” Zivah asked, her tone taunting.
Gurion snorted. “IDF? That’s fine if you get into a catfight in a grocery store, but it isn’t going to do you much good in the real world.”
“I also trained at a dojo for several years. I know some martial arts. I can handle myself,” Maya said, refusing to rise to the bait.
Gurion frowned. “Famous last words.” He unstrapped his watch, checked the time, and set it on a nearby collapsible camp chair. He glanced at Zivah. “All right, you can leave her to me. Come get the body in four hours, assuming there’s anything left.”
“At least try not to leave another mess for me to clean up,” Zivah said and, with a last glance at Maya, retreated back across the field to the cluster of buildings.
“Okay. Now that’s over, let’s get down to business.” Gurion held up his hands. “Take your best shot at me. I want you to lay me out. There are no rules. Anything goes–”
Before he could finish, Maya was a blur, leveling a sweep kick at his knees to knock his legs from under him. He twisted effortlessly and, with two sharp blows, dropped her flat onto her back in the dirt.
“Not bad. Of course, you’d be dead, but still, I have to admire your instinct to catch me by surprise. There’s no such thing as a fair fight, only a fight you win. Whatever it takes, whatever sleight of hand or misdirection you can conjure up, you should use.” He leaned over and held out his hand. “Get up.”
She tried to get his wrist in a lock, and he slipped aside with a grin. “Good. Never give up. It’s never over until one of you is dead. But for now, stop trying to break my arm and get on your feet so I can lay you out again.”
Maya did as instructed.
“Let’s skip the bullshit, shall we? I read your dossier this morning. You did a couple of years in Ofek before going into an orphanage, and you spent a lot of time in a nearby dojo. Did I miss anything?”
Maya shook her head. “That about covers it.”
His eyes narrowed. “My hunch is you learned a lot more about fighting in Ofek than you ever did in basic training. Am I right?”
She nodded. “Close enough.”
“What’s the worst you’ve ever hurt someone in a fight?”
“With my bare hands?”
“What do you think? No, with a car. Of course with your bare hands.”
“I’ve broken jaws and arms. Cracked ribs. A few concussions.”
He eyed her with newfound respect. “Really? And what about injuries to yourself? What’s the worst?”
“I broke my hand. Fractured two bones punching someone. I was fifteen.”
“So you learned better than to slam your fist into someone’s face.”
“It was a shoulder blade.”
“Fine. My job is to teach you to use every part of your body as a lethal weapon. To do that, you’ll need to know all the nerve meridians, so you can pick and choose the strikes you deliver. What I liked about your approach just now was your speed and that you went for my knees. Knees are particularly vulnerable and a great way to instantly incapacitate someone. The problem was that you telegraphed your intention. I watched your eyes, so I saw where you were going to deliver the kick.”
“How did you know it was going to be a kick?”
“Body language, and because you’re female – your instinct is to use your legs, because they’re much stronger than your arms. My goal is to disabuse you of that habit and teach you to do more damage with the palm of your hand or a few stiff fingers than with a steel-toed boot. That will work to your benefit in a real fight because any adversary will assume you’ll favor your legs.” He paused and looked into the distance before continuing. “I also knew you’d use the right leg, because I can see you’re right handed. You need to learn to be ambidextrous so there’s no preference. When you’re in the field, you’ll inevitably have to use the skills you’re weakest at, so you need to ensure you’re not weak at anything.”
“How do I do that?”
“You work. Constantly. When we’re done here, I’ll give you a rubber ball. You’ll spend every waking moment squeezing it in your left hand, building the muscles in that arm. I don’t even need to test your grip to know that your left is considerably weaker than your right. We’ll compensate for that by working that side harder. Same for your legs.” He stepped back and studied her frame again; she looked back at his tanned, pugnacious profile, a trace of a scar running from his jaw down his neck. “Have you ever heard of parkour?”