"Get down and give me one-hundred, sir. Count them out." He looked at Than. "You, too, sir."
He stood over them, the megaphone trembling slightly in his hand. He was the instructor. He was in charge. But as he watched his two brothers, his two best friends, count off push-ups, he had never felt more displaced in his life. But adapt and overcome.
Days collapsed into cold, noise, and repetition, and Than stopped measuring time by hours. Dawn meant movement. Hesitation meant punishment. He learned quickly where eyes went when a boat lagged, when a paddle stroke weakened, when a man started to cheat depth or pace. Weakness didn’t hide here. It surfaced fast, and when it did, everyone paid.
They ran everywhere, boots slapping pavement, lungs burning before the sun cleared the horizon. The surf swallowed them again and again, ripped heat from muscle and bone, packed sand into skin and seams until nothing stayed dry. Boats went overhead, shoulders screaming under the load, hands slipping, feet tangling as instructors circled and corrected without explanation.
Than adjusted instinctively, shifting position, tightening cadence, setting pace because this was what spoke to him. Logs dug into collarbones. Sand ground sand into places that never healed.
Than ended up in Boat Crew Three. Six men. Himself included. Murphy, Harris, Rowe, Santos and Keene.
He carried a different mindset now, and he knew where it had come from. Shamrock had shown him that this place, this training, didn’t care who you had been before you crossed the line. Shamrock wasn’t the man who had stood with them in grief. He was an instructor at BUD/S. Not a friend. Not a buffer. A force meant to strip everything down to what worked.
The first time Than heard the bell, something opened inside him. They had planned for this for four years. It had always been assumed. But assumption and reality were not the same thing.
God, he wanted it.
Not for Fly. Not for Bear. Not for anyone else.
For himself.
Shamrock had made that clear without ever saying it out loud. To get this, Than would have to be the leader these men needed. Nothing less, but something more.
They lined up on the sand with the Inflatable Boat Small or IBS overhead, shoulders already screaming from the last evolution. Than took half a second to clock them the way he always did. Not names yet. Mechanics. Breath. Eyes. He’d learned early that leadership started with noticing what other people missed.
Murphy was long and rangy, too light under the load. Santos was compact and strong, good engine but sloppy timing. Harris burned hot, powerful but already spending too much. Keene moved clean and quiet, conserving without looking like it. Rowe held himself tight, jaw locked, brittle in a way that worried Than.
Than slid under the boat and took the back right position. This gave him an unobstructed view. The crew adjusted automatically. He felt the alignment settle and knew, with the same certainty he’d felt on a wrestling mat years ago, where this was going.
In high school, I’d pull Murphy aside.
He’d done it a hundred times before. One-on-one. No audience. Technique first. Conditioning second. Pride managed, not crushed. As wrestling captain, he’d built champions by being relentless and exacting, not kind. He’d won state titles that way, and the Academy stayed undefeated under his guidance. Demanding more than his teammates thought they had and refusing to accept excuses dressed up as effort.
This wasn’t that.
Surf barked, “Up.” They heaved. The boat came overhead, sand raining down, the weight biting into bone. “Forward.”
Than set the cadence immediately. Short steps. No surge. No wasted motion. He felt the hitch almost at once, the uneven pull that meant someone was off.
“Murphy,” he said, voice flat. “Match pace.” Murphy did for a few steps. Then the drag returned. “Murphy,” Than said again. Louder. “You’re late.”
“I’m good, sir.” Murphy gasped.
Than ignored the words and watched the feet instead. Watched shoulders rise unevenly. The boat dipped. Everyone paid.
In the Academy, I’d correct him again.
You got more reps there. More time. More margin. He could afford to coach and re-coach because failure didn’t drown five other men. Here, it did.
“Stop,” Than said. They froze under the load. Sand burned. Arms shook. Murphy’s turned just enough to for Than to see his face, red and strained, eyes already bargaining. “You’re costing the boat,” Than said. No anger. No volume. “Fix it.”
Surf was watching now. Easy too, farther back. Than felt it and didn’t care.
They stepped off again. Twenty yards. The drag came back. Than didn’t raise his voice.
“Murphy,” he said. “Get it right or get out.” Murphy stumbled, recovered, then sagged again. The boat lurched hard. This wasn’t a team you cut. This was a team you survived.
“Down,” Surf yelled.
