The mud pit was exactly as advertised—fifty feet of cold, thick mud under a cargo net.
He watched Zara drop into it, immediately coating herself, and begin pulling herself forward with her forearms, keeping her head down.
His turn. He slid into the mud and the cold shock of it actually helped, temporarily overriding the exhaustion signals his body was sending.
He started crawling, following Zara's path.
"Marcus Webb," he said quietly as he pulled himself forward. "You said genuine loyalty. But his family has connections. What kind?"
"Don't know specifics," Zara responded from ahead. "But I've heard him mention his uncle twice—always in the context of 'what the brass really thinks' or 'what command won't tell us.' Someone in his family has access to inside information."
That matches what Wolfe mentioned—political connections.
"Could be useful," he said.
"Could be dangerous," Zara countered. "Depends on whether those connections are clean or compromised."
He emerged from the mud pit, completely covered, and moved immediately to the barbed wire crawl.
This one was longer—seventy-five feet—and the wire was strung low enough that he had to stay on his stomach.
Zara went first again. He watched her technique—slow, methodical, using elbows and knees, keeping her body as flat as possible.
He dropped down and began crawling. The wire scraped against his back when he rose too high, catching on his gear.
Mud was in his mouth, his eyes, everywhere.
"The figure by the equipment shed," Zara said quietly, her voice barely audible over the sound of other recruits and Kozlov's shouting. "You saw them too."
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," he admitted. "And they left something there. Paper under a rock."
"Probably for you," she said. "Someone's watching you specifically. I've noticed it twice now—once yesterday during your in-processing, once today."
His heart rate spiked. "You saw them yesterday?"
"Glimpse. Could've been Ghost—that's what some veterans call the watcher in old Ranger gear. No one knows who it is. Some think it's a paranoid vet who doesn't trust command. Some think it's security doing unauthorized surveillance."
"What do you think?"
"I think if they wanted you dead, you'd be dead. So they're either trying to help or trying to test you for something."
She pulled herself forward another few feet. "Either way, that note probably has information you need."
He continued crawling, his body moving on autopilot now, mind processing implications.
Ghost was real. Multiple people had seen them. They were leaving him messages.
Halfway through the crawl, his vision started tunneling. The exhaustion was catching up despite the adrenaline.
"Stay with me, Chen," Zara's voice cut through the fog. "You're almost done. Twenty more feet."
He focused on her voice, on the mechanics of moving forward. Elbow. Knee. Elbow. Knee.
Finally, he emerged from under the wire. Zara was waiting, extending her hand to help him up.
He took it. She pulled, and he stood.
"Last one," she said. "Hand-to-hand basics. It's just learning today, no full combat. Corporal Petrov runs it—he'll show technique, we replicate. You just have to observe and follow. Your assimilation thing should help."
She was right.
They stumbled toward the final station where a compact, muscular man with burn scars across his neck was waiting. Corporal Alexei Petrov.
A dozen recruits were gathering.
Petrov's dark eyes scanned the group, landing on Kai. He studied him for a long moment—taking in the mud, the exhaustion, the barely-controlled determination.
"You Chen?" he asked, his accent slight but noticeable.
"Yes, Corporal."
"Knew your father. Briefly." He didn't elaborate. "Today is basic defensive postures and counters. Watch, learn, practice. No need to be perfect. Just need to understand principles."
He demonstrated a defensive stance, then a simple wrist release technique.
Kai watched intently, his rapid assimilation ability cataloging every detail despite his exhaustion.
"Pair up. Practice on each other."
Zara was his partner again. She moved into position, grabbed his wrist firmly.
He executed the release technique—not perfectly, but competently enough that Petrov nodded when he walked past.
"Again," Zara said. "And while we're doing this—Commander Wolfe. You met with her. What's your read?"
He grabbed her wrist, she released. "Complicated. She served with my father, survived the mission that killed him. Gave me access to classified files and the final transmission. Either she's genuinely trying to help me uncover the truth, or she's controlling my investigation by appearing to support it."
"Classic manipulation tactic," Zara agreed, demonstrating the next technique Petrov showed. "Give limited truth to maintain trust while hiding larger lies."
"But if she wanted to bury it, why give me anything at all?"
"Good question." She executed a counter-move. "Unless what she gave you was designed to lead you in a specific direction away from the real truth."
His brain was too tired to fully process that level of conspiracy theory.
He practiced the techniques mechanically, his body learning even as his mind struggled.
After fifteen minutes, Petrov called time. "Dismissed. Clean up, breakfast, then report to your scheduled duties."
Kai stood there, covered in mud, exhausted beyond measure, having somehow survived the morning PT.
Kozlov approached, his pale eyes studying him. "Not bad, Chen. You pushed through when others quit. That matters."
He glanced at Zara. "Good spotting, Okafor. That's what we need—people who support their teammates instead of letting them fail."
He walked away, leaving the two of them standing there.
"The equipment shed," Kai said quietly. "I need to get that note."
"Go now while everyone's distracted heading to clean up," Zara suggested. "I'll create a diversion if anyone looks your way."
He nodded and started moving casually toward the shed, angling his path like he was just taking a different route to the barracks.
As he passed the corner where he saw the figure, he spotted it—a piece of paper held down by a small rock.
He bent down, pretending to tie his boot, and palmed the paper. It was folded, sealed with what looked like old wax.
He pocketed it and continued toward the barracks without looking back.
Inside the note, he knew, might be answers. Or more questions. Or a trap.
But right now, he needed to clean up, eat something, and prepare for Morrison's assessment in less than two hours.