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“NOW!”

It’s as if her voice has the power to seize direct control of his body, because Private Geer drops to the floor and begins to do push-ups. It clearly surprises even Private Geer.

“Are you telling me you consider that a push-up?” Sergeant Mackie demands after Geer has done three. She shakes her head in sincere disgust. “Eyes on me.”

This last is an entirely unnecessary instruction since thirty-six pairs of eyes are already glued to Mackie. Well, thirty-five, since Luther Geer is staring at the floor and laboring to perform his fourth push-up.

“You,” she says, jerking her chin at Rio. “Count them off.”

The sergeant falls to the floor in a single swift motion, lands on her palms, and, stiff as an ironing board, begins to perform push-ups as Rio says, “One! Two! Three!”

Now Geer is challenged so he tries harder, but Mackie is at ten before he reaches six, and at twenty-five when he’s gasping and shaking to make it to fifteen.

At eighteen he tries to give up. Sergeant Mackie is not having it.

“Give me one more, Geer. Nineteen. One more. Come on, one more. Push, push, push . . . twenty.”

They go on like that until Private Geer is as pink as cotton candy, sweat drenched, and trembling like a man with fever chills.

When done he stands at attention, sweat stains spreading from his armpits, and he is no longer smirking.

Rio expects Mackie to berate the boy, but Mackie is smarter than that. “Don’t you worry about it, son, by the time we’re done with you you’ll be doing twenty-five without even breathing hard. Because you”—she takes a beat on that word, making it specific—“are going to be a soldier.” She pushes his shoulders back, with the heel of her hand positions his head, and with her boot kicks his feet into proper alignment.

She steps back smartly to where the entire barracks can see her without craning their necks and can witness the fact that she has not a hair out of place or so much as a bead of sweat on her olive skin.

“I won’t lie to you, people. This is going to be the hardest thirteen weeks of your life up to this point. But in the end, if I am not forced to spit you out, you will be soldiers. Answer ‘Yes, Sergeant.’”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“Ninety percent of what you will say over the next thirteen weeks will be those two words: yes and sergeant.”

Rio has no confidence that she can do three push-ups, let alone twenty-five. And that is nothing compared to what might come next. She has thus far focused all her thoughts on the job of enlisting without giving a lot of thought to the question of whether she can get through training. And as much as she is worried about her own abilities, she worries still more about Jenou. Jenou, despite her curves, is built on a strong enough frame, but she is no athlete, and unlike Rio she has never slung a bale of hay or hauled a sack of fertilizer.

“Your lives are now under army control,” Mackie says. It isn’t a threat, just a statement of fact. “You will fall out at 0600 every morning. Not 0615. Not 0610. Not 0601. You will dress in fatigues, stand ready, and be marched outside for PT at 0615. There the other NCOs and I will endeavor to train your bodies for the hard work ahead. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“After PT you will shower and shave and stand ready to be marched to chow at 0730. At 0800 you will begin the day’s assignments. You will learn drill, weapons handling, small unit tactics, and battlefield first aid. PT will get tougher with each day. Training will become more difficult with each day. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” There’s a slightly desperate sound to that affirmation.

“Lights out will be at 2100 hours. That’s nine o’clock p.m. for those of you who don’t do so well at math. From 2100 hours until 0600, you will not smoke, talk, read, or move from your bunk e

xcept to use the latrine, which you will do one at a time during the night. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“If you are still awake at 2200 hours I will have no choice but to feel ashamed. I will be ashamed because it will mean that I have not worked you hard enough. That may happen once. I assure you it will not happen twice.”

She walks now in that measured, deliberate way, that pace that evokes radio plays of supernatural terror.

“The curtain separating male and female will be drawn one hour before lights out. Anyone crossing that line will be guilty of a court-martial offense. Anyone harassing a fellow soldier will be guilty of a court-martial offense. Anyone fraternizing in an improper way with a fellow soldier will be guilty of a court-martial offense. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“But before you have a chance to whine and beg for mercy in front of a court-martial, you will have to deal . . . with me.”

She stops in front of Private Timoteo “Tilo” Suarez, a dark-haired, sly-faced, sensuous-eyed city boy. She pivots so her face is within six inches of his and says, “Do you comprehend, Private Suarez?”