A New Beginning (5)
After practically living at the shooting range for a week and getting my marksmanship to a decent level, the morning curriculum changed. Remember that light aircraft I flew in on? They decided to use it for airborne training. I protested vehemently. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn't imagine a future where I'd ever need to jump out of a plane. That was when I learned that desperation can make a man fluent. My Spanish hit a career high that day. Still, the training was systematic—starting with short-distance rappelling and gradually increasing the difficulty. I never expected to end up in a military helicopter. A creeping dread settled in as I began to suspect someone was trying to turn me into a living weapon.
Mornings were spent on airborne drills, afternoons on urban combat training—which mostly meant shooting and hand-to-hand combat. Evenings brought classroom theory. That wrapped up week thirteen. I didn't expect anything special afterward, certainly not another round of combat rations, so I was genuinely surprised when kimchi jjigae appeared. I sprinted over like a madman. Apparently they'd flown it in from a Korean restaurant in Cancún. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. "Gracias! Gracias!"
The following week brought a welcome sight: the Trio brothers arrived. The moment I saw them, I got hit. "Why are you smiling?" "Because I'm glad to see you." I must have grown attached without realizing it. The urban combat drills changed again—this time into 4v4 survival games. I still don't understand why a "game" had to draw real blood. Mostly mine. They even issued proper gear. "Roger." "Johnny, cover A-line." What? That voice came through my earpiece. Maybe this was why I'd taken such a beating back in week three. Communication is essential for any operation. The sound of rubber bullets echoed around us. The training zone had expanded to five times the size of last week's mock city. Open ground, crumbling walls, obstacles—everything. Observation towers stood at both ends.
I was already out, watching from the sidelines. The Trio brothers had briefed me on the new rules the night they arrived, and I'd memorized them while getting beaten. The map was divided into A, B, and C lines from left to right. B ran straight through the central open field, while A and C could feed into B, though any encounter there meant a 1v1 duel. On day one, the Trio and I got completely destroyed. The eldest brother's eyes were still blazing hours later. He must have been furious. The starting point was an observation tower with three levels: the first floor led outside, the second offered a limited view of roughly the map's midpoint, and the third overlooked the entire field—including the enemy tower's second floor. We could see their third floor from our second. I climbed up without thinking and got shot out immediately by someone on the opposite tower. The broadcast announced my elimination. The Trio's expressions that moment are burned into my memory forever.
After the game ended, I received punishment drills and studied late into the night. Later I learned the instructors were apparently on the same "family" level as the Trio brothers and their peers. Losing must sting. We received intensive strategy lectures and suffered three straight defeats before scraping a 4-3 victory on the fourth day. The ruthless Trio brothers used me as bait. Surprisingly, it was fun. The tactics were engaging, and watching the brothers charge into melee once the rubber bullets ran out was something else—UFC had nothing on them. They fought with such intensity that the referees broadcasting eliminations didn't even call fouls for a couple of hits. One mistake and you were pinned; only when you declared surrender did the broadcast announce your "death." It was chilling.
By day five, our team burned with the same desperate fire as a team one game away from the World Series. We couldn't afford to lose. The eldest brother spoke with fierce resolve in Spanish. "We will win. We can't lose to those bastards." Then he gaslit me. "Pay attention, maknae. Do it right." At some point I'd become the Trio's youngest member. "Si." Today I was the spotter. From the tower's third floor, I lay prone and scanned the front. "One on A-line, one on C-line, two on B-line." How did I know? Before each line entered the open ground, there was a three-meter stretch where any movement gave them away. You had to stay sharp—the instructors moved fast enough to miss if you blinked. I asked why we didn't just snipe them when we spotted them. We could, but sniping required committing to one line, and we didn't know which they'd take. Information on their movements mattered more, so we observed instead.
On day two, all three enemies rushed B-line and overwhelmed us so quickly the tower was "destroyed." It wasn't actually blown up—just a button on the first-floor door that triggered a one-minute detonation timer. The moment we confirmed each line, the leader's voice crackled through the radio. "GB and Johnny, break through A-line." "Roger." I leapt from the tower and linked up with Johnny on A-line. Johnny was the second brother; Denny had been the youngest of the original trio, but the eldest never shared his name. His callsign was simply Leader. He signaled for me to move out. I really didn't want to get shot. Moving in a crouch, I heard a soft laugh and the impact of a round thirty centimeters in front of my face. I scrambled back and reported. "Enemy spotted on A-line." "Hold." Thirty seconds later, Leader made a bold call. "A-line, provide covering fire then link with B-line." "Roger." In urban combat, you never questioned the leader—hesitation slowed you down and clouded judgment. I signaled Johnny to lay down covering fire first. Once he turned back, I followed, firing as I went. The enemy side answered with the same. We sprinted back to the tower, then swung into B-line. I assumed we'd push B-line four-to-two, but suddenly we looped around to A-line instead, hit them from behind, and raced back to defend the tower. Just like that, the score became 4-3. The enemy on A-line must have warned their teammates, because B- and C-line enemies charged the tower—only for us to flank them. No one on our side was eliminated. The tower was saved. A perfect victory.
The next day I boarded the light aircraft for the first time and prepared to jump. The survival games had ended yesterday. The Trio brothers were heading back to town, though they seemed in good spirits after our final win. Even if the score was 3-2 in their favor? I'd done low-altitude jumps from the ground and helicopters, but a plane felt excessive. Still, I didn't want to get hit, so I prepared. At least the first jump would be tandem. Thank God. In the morning we unpacked the parachutes again, checking for holes and tangled lines. Most malfunctions supposedly happened during packing, which was why even Korean special forces kept dedicated personnel for inspections. There were strict rules; break even one and the lines could tangle on deployment. It took two hours to memorize them—while getting beaten. Worth it. If the lever didn't deploy the chute, I'd be dead anyway.
The weather cleared in the afternoon, so we could jump. The jump instructor noticed my tension and kicked me. The nerves vanished instantly. He made me recite the checklist: check the altimeter, confirm position, emergency procedures, how to locate the drop zone if things went wrong. Every stutter earned another kick. Violence had become routine. I boarded the plane and took off from the dirt runway. The higher we climbed, the more claustrophobic it felt. Five minutes later, the instructor and I jumped as one. That terrifying moment when nothing touched my feet—then the rush of freedom seconds later. It was incredible. The freedom was followed by impact. He kicked me again to snap me out of it. The radio crackled: call out the altitude. "Three thousand feet." He signaled to deploy. I pulled the lever as instructed, steered toward the drop zone, and landed cleanly. My first flight was a success. We immediately drove back to the runway for a second jump—solo this time. Then a third. Solo again. I hadn't realized how different each altitude would feel.
The next day the jump felt different from the start. Checking the altimeter, I saw we were at ten thousand feet. The air was thinner; breathing grew difficult and dizziness crept in. I endured through sheer willpower until the order came to jump. "GB, focus! Focus! Deploy the parachute!" The words barely registered through the wind. I yanked the lever on instinct. That day I watched the instructors' tanned faces turn pale. Week fourteen came to an end.