“Yes. Is that so hard for you to comprehend?”
Veritas did not answer her. Instead, he tilted his head, nearly imperceptibly, as if he were puzzled. Or sizing her up. Then he looked again to that faraway place—the one beyond the walls of captivity.
“I miss the smell of a fresh rain the most,” he said. “I spent more time in my life living outdoors than in. Now I never see the sun or the rain; two realities I took for granted.”
“Tell me why.”
He locked horns with her gaze, perhaps the smallest bit annoyed. “I picked you because of Emily.”
Francis Constantine looked down, the levy that retained a torrential ocean of mourning tears, depended upon too long to support her dry, emotionless façade, suddenly threatening to burst apart, washing away the illusion of the past being endured and forgotten.
She opened a fresh notebook, wishing her shorthand were better. The prison forbade any recording devices whatsoever and would not be swayed by any deals made with the District Attorney. Lengthy and unlimited visitation had already pressed the limits of the warden’s ego.
“Your given name—” she began, but he waved her off.
“Takes me back to a time I choose not to remember and is off the table as far as the interview and the story.”
“It’s not like you’re Batman; the name is public record.”
“And anyone that wants to know badly enough to petition the County Clerk in Waco, Texas can have it. But not your readers. And not for the price of a biography.”
“I have to say it again: your story isn’t fully told if you leave out the beginning of your life.”
“What you mean are the reasons, and that’s not where you’ll find them. My story—my life—began the day I turned eighteen and walked into the recruiter’s office for the United States Army.”
“You’ve got to give me something.”
“Off the record: my father died when I was too young to remember and my mother remarried twice. I was not abused, I did not hate my stepfathers, and I loved my mother. The reason I changed my name had nothing to do with hating my family and everything to do with the angst a teenaged boy feels when he wants to begin a life for himself. Honestly, if I could travel back in time and tell that kid to suck it up and keep the name of the father he never knew, I’d do it. But I’m forty-seven, I am who I am, and the world is never going to think of me as anyone but Shale Veritas. So that’s where the story begins.”
“So did you always know you were destined for Special Ops?”
“Three days into Basic Combat Training—the first part of what most people call ‘boot camp’—I didn’t even think I was destined to remain in the Army.”
“Then things changed?”
“Things began to come naturally. I was a good shot. I got into shape for the first time in my life and discovered I had decent hand-eye coordination. I’d never been into athletics; always preferred reading in solitude. But it turns out beneath all that apathy and complacency was a pretty decent athlete. Hand-to-hand combat came easily to me. I scored high on all the psych and intelligence and proficiency exams. After BCT came Advanced Individual Training. I was selected to train at the JFK Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg.”
“Airborne.”
“Eventually.”
“And when were you approached regarding Delta Force training?”
“I was promoted to E4 Corporal ahead of those who joined rank and file alongside me. I earned my stripes, but as it happens, I had spent more time than I knew under the eye of Colonel Franklin Treanor. He was the commander of Delta during my time at Bragg, but I came to discover he’d rooted through my test scores and proficiency ratings and had observed me as early as those first burgeoning weeks at Basic.”
Corporal Shale Veritas was quietly attending to chow when the most feared and respected man on base sat down across the table from him. Veritas looked up and hesitated for only an instant before leaping to his feet and standing at brisk attention.
“Sit down, soldier,” Col Franklin “Cobra” Treanor said. “At ease.”
Veritas noticed the rest of the table had deserted him. “Yes, Colonel.”
“That name. You going for the Jungian duality thing, like in Full Metal Jacket?”
“Sir?”
“I love that movie. Please tell me you’ve seen it, or our conversation just might be over.”
“I’ve seen it, Colonel. One of my favorites. It’s just that—that—”
“Shale being made of stone, yet treacherous. Slippery Truth, as it were.”
“Well, yes, sir. I’m just not sure I put that much meaning into it at the time.”
“You trying to make my line of questioning difficult for me, son?”
“No, Colonel.”
“I think you put plenty of thought into everything you do.”
“I chose the name based on a literary character I’d read about who wanted his own identity and changed his name the day he turned eighteen, sir.”
“A new beginning to the story?”
“Something like that, Colonel.”
“I confused things with their names: that is belief.”
“Sir?”
“Jean-Paul Sartre.”
“I haven’t studied, o-or read him, sir.”
“Just as well; he was a Marxist. Brilliant man, nonetheless.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to apply for Delta consideration,” Treanor said. “And by that, I mean apply for Delta. No duality. No metaphoric substance. Just git ‘er done, Corporal.” He then stood and departed before Corporal Veritas could answer, much less muster and rise from his seat.
Back at the barracks Veritas lay on his bunk in total silence, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. It was difficult to fathom, the visit from what amounted to the most senior officer on premise. The base commander was a Brigadier General, but there wasn’t a soldier at Bragg (the General included) who would not acquiesce to Colonel Cobra Treanor as the most senior and revered presence in perhaps all the Army.
But Delta? Veritas was only halfway through Ranger School. Of course it was true that he was mastering his classroom exams and was first in platoon in all physical, combat soldiering, intelligence, and paratrooping endeavors. Of course Delta had always been the dream. Few entered into Special Forces without thinking of the Seals or of Delta. But Veritas preferred to be ready when he made a move, and if he were honest with himself—despite the enormity of the personage who had made the declaration that he submit—he liked to make his own decisions.
That said, at least in his own mind, he could never disobey even a soft order from a man like Cobra Treanor. He might just as well file his dishonorable discharge papers and apply at the carnival as the World’s Greatest Coward.
The next morning Corporal Shale Veritas double-timed it to the Office of Administration to complete the application for Delta consideration; an official request to enter into—no, to be considered for entry into—the training regimen of the most prestigious unit in the Army, and, inarguably, equaled in all the military only by the Naval unit, Seal Team Six.
When he arrived at the clerk’s desk, however, he found there was already a prepared application with the “Referred Recommendation” section completed and signed by Treanor himself. All that the clerk required of Veritas was his signature, which he gave through the fog of elated disbelief and more than a twinge of terror.
“Pretty impressive,” Francis Constantine said, still trying to catch up with her dilapidated shorthand. “Have you spoken to the Colonel since—” the words trailed off as she realized she’d not been planning the words but rather blurted what was on her mind.
“You’re wondering if he disowned me,” Veritas said.