Chapter 30 #2
Fly and Than stood out immediately, easy to spot as they moved through the chaos with efficiency that bordered on unfair.
Smooth. Controlled. Damn it, Bear and the team had done their work.
The two of them hit the surf hard, came back sugar-cookied to hell, sand ground into every seam, then sprinted the berm and poured onto the grinder like it was just another evolution.
“Drop and push them out until I tell you to stop!” Easy shouted.
Bodies hit the asphalt in a wet, uneven rush. Groans followed. Shamrock walked the line, boots pacing, eyes scanning for slop. He stopped beside one candidate who was already cheating depth.
“I’m going to say this once,” Shamrock said quietly. “Get your ass down and keep it there. If I see you breaking form again, you’ll be cleaning latrines with a toothbrush.” The man corrected without lifting his head.
Shamrock’s gaze slid back to Fly and Than. They were already locked in, bodies rising and falling together, breath synced, faces blank with concentration. They weren’t just doing push-ups. They were communicating. Making a statement. Taking the hit and returning it with control.
After fifty more, Easy barked, “Feet.”
Some candidates popped up fast. Others dragged. Surf and Easy were on them instantly, voices sharp, calling out the laggards, shredding excuses before they formed.
Fly’s eyes flicked up. A small, almost imperceptible thing. He met Shamrock's eyes. There was no fear there, just a familiar, challenging glint.
Shamrock's jaw tightened. He walked right up to him. He stepped in close. "Are you bored, Candidate?"
"No, Instructor Kavanaugh!" Fly shouted, but the challenge was still there.
“Good,” Shamrock said. “I’d hate for you to get bored. Drop.” Fly folded without hesitation.
Shamrock turned to Than. “You too. Your boyfriend looks lonely.”
Fuck. The word slipped out in his mind. It felt so wrong. So weird to see Than, the quiet, grounded rock of their trio, being ordered around by him. Than just complied, his face a mask of concentration. He didn’t give Shamrock the satisfaction of a reaction.
That's when Shamrock realized this was going to be harder than he thought. It was all about the fact that they were letting him. They were accepting his authority, and in doing so, they were forcing him to accept this new reality, too.
He turned back to Fly, who was still knocking out push-ups.
When he was done, he rested there. Shamrock realized he was waiting for his next order. Clever little bastard. He was good.
“Feet,” Shamrock growled.
Fly and Than rose, his blue eyes flashed. Fuck if there wasn’t a spark. "Aren't you forgetting something, Sham?"
Shamrock froze. Was that deliberate? Said loud enough for a few nearby candidates to hear. A mistake. A test.
Shamrock felt a slow smile spread across his face, a private, predatory thing that none of the candidates could see. He had been waiting for this. Waiting for them, and now, the real work could begin.
His voice dangerously low, he said, "That's Instructor Kavanaugh to you. Push out twenty for forgetting that."
Fly didn’t miss a beat, dropping back down counting off his push-ups, waiting again. Every eye was on him. Fucking Gallagher. He was already commanding the space.
“Feet,” Shamrock said, this time with less bite.
"Sorry, Instructor Kavanaugh, but your order wasn't quite correct."
Shamrock's teeth ground together. "Excuse me? Are you questioning me?"
"Always," Fly replied, and Shamrock saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
He snapped, "What exactly did I forget?"
"Sir. Instructor Kavanaugh. You forgot sir."
Easy and Surf chuckled. “He schooling you, Sham?” Easy asked, the two of them thick as lethal frat boys.
The words hit him like a punch. Fly was right. He forgot his own protocol because Fly got under his skin.
"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.
They dropped into push-ups, sand grinding into skin. Than knocked them out cleanly, breathing steady, eyes forward. When they lifted again, Murphy’s hands shook uncontrollably.
They got three steps. Murphy sagged. Than didn’t hesitate. “Drop the boat,” he said.
They did. Murphy stared at him, panic breaking through. “I’ll get it right.”
Than met his eyes. “You know better,” he said. “You’re not cutting it.”
Murphy looked at the boat. At the crew. At the surf beyond. He rang the bell twenty minutes later.
Boat Crew Three didn’t talk about it. They lifted again when ordered.
Adjusted without being told. Moved cleaner.
Lighter without being easier. Santos found rhythm.
Harris settled. Rowe stopped overthinking.
Keene nodded once at Than and went back to work.
No one thanked him. No one blamed him. That wasn’t how this place worked.
Later, in formation, the weight sat heavy between his shoulders. No one got carried here. Not if the boat was going to survive.