Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

Five minutes later, the group of 150 men had already assembled on the training ground, standing in perfect formation. All were now wearing the standard-issue training uniform: a plain white T-shirt and shorts.

To call it a training field would be misleading—it was essentially a beach. Not far from them stretched the open sea, and a floating pier extended from the sand into the water, swaying with the waves.

Three uniformed soldiers walked over from the camp, forming a stark contrast to the sea of trainees in white T-shirts and shorts. These three were clearly the instructors. Owen noticed the trident insignias pinned on their left chests.

They stopped in front of the formation and stood side by side. One of them cleared his throat and, holding a loudspeaker, began explaining the selection process.

There were no speeches, no welcome ceremonies, not even a proper introduction. Just like that, the SEALs' Physical Screening Test—PST—began.

Anyone eligible to attend SEAL selection had likely been through thorough preparation and already knew about the infamous three-phase process.

But Owen wasn't Navy—he'd gotten in through connections—and hadn't been briefed. Everything he now knew about the "three phases" had been gathered during those five minutes before the lineup.

The SEAL selection process was divided into three main phases:

PST (Physical Screening Test)

BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training)

SQT (SEAL Qualification Training)

PST, the Physical Screening Test, was essentially the preliminary round. Based on what Owen had heard, it sounded simple—just a set of physical evaluations.

Ahead of them, the instructors led the first group onto the floating pier, walking them out to sea.

At the blast of a whistle, the first ten trainees jumped into the water, beginning the first test: a timed 500-meter swim.

The requirement was straightforward—complete the 500 meters in under 12 minutes. Not difficult at all. Even physically fit civilians could do it, let alone trained Navy personnel.

There was no restriction on swim style—freestyle, breaststroke, whatever worked. As long as you finished in time, you passed. Finishing early was even better.

Once the first group swam about 200 meters out, the second group entered the water, then the third, the fourth… Owen was in the fifth group.

He had thought nothing of it—until the moment he hit the water. It was freezing. Only after swimming a few dozen meters did his body start adjusting to the cold.

Even the slowest swimmer wouldn't take longer than twelve minutes. Owen clocked in just over ten—not great, not bad. Average.

The instructor had earlier explained that the PST consisted of five events:

Swim 500 meters in under 12 minutes

Complete 42 push-ups in 2 minutes

Complete 50 sit-ups in 2 minutes

Do 6 pull-ups (no time limit)

Run 1.5 miles (2.4 km) in under 11 minutes

After the swim, they had a 10-minute break before continuing. The next three tests—sit-ups, push-ups, and pull-ups—were completed with ease. Each test was separated by a 2-minute rest, and morale was high; guys were even joking around.

The final run was a bit tougher—not because of distance, but because they had to run on soft sand. Every step sank, and sand kept pouring into their shoes. Still, they got it done.

All 150 men completed the five-part PST in under an hour. For these young men, full of ambition and dreams of becoming SEALs, it was a breeze.

After a 30-minute break, the same instructor returned with the loudspeaker to announce round two. This time, the bar was higher:

Swim 910 meters in 20 minutes

70 push-ups in 2 minutes

10 pull-ups (no time limit)

60 sit-ups in 2 minutes

Run 4 miles (6.4 km) in under 31 minutes

Now it sounded more serious, but with half an hour of rest, everyone had caught their breath. They didn't seem too worried.

As the first group of ten jumped into the water, the second round of PST began.

Group after group entered the water. When it was Owen's turn, he dove in with the fifth group, arms and legs churning against the rolling waves.

But before he could even finish, a voice boomed from a loudspeaker on shore:

"Number 3801, out. Number 5771, out. Number 1455, out…"

The announcements came like hammer blows—trainees being eliminated already. Owen pushed himself harder. The 910-meter swim in 20 minutes was no joke, but he made it.

Dragging himself onto the beach, Owen collapsed into a quick rest. More elimination announcements echoed from the speakers, casting a heavy mood over the trainees.

Ten minutes later came the push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. For Owen, these were manageable—he trained regularly and easily met the required counts.

Still, the speaker kept announcing dropouts. Some couldn't make the numbers. Once your number was called, you were pulled from the test and made to stand aside.

Owen couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for those men. They hadn't even made it through day one.

Soon, both rounds of PST were over. Of the original 150, only 138 remained. Twelve had failed to meet the standards and were immediately dismissed.

They stood off to the side, visibly frustrated. Some looked devastated. They hadn't even slept in their assigned beds before they were sent packing.

No negotiation, no leniency. One failed event—no matter how small—meant instant disqualification.

The group of twelve was led away by an instructor. The rest watched them go, their eyes filled with sympathy.

Failing out of SEAL selection wasn't shameful in itself—the program's elimination rate was notoriously high, nearing 80%. But most of those cuts happened during the grueling BUD/S phase.

To get eliminated during PST? That would earn you some ridicule back at your unit.

Owen didn't dwell on their fate—he was still reeling from the 80% attrition rate.

Eighty percent. That meant out of their original 150, only about 30 would make it through to become actual SEALs. The rest would fail, quit, or get injured.

That trident badge was not easy to earn.

As the twelve disappeared from sight, the remaining men noticed something—at some point, a platform had been erected in front of them. One of the three instructors was now standing on it, surveying the crowd.

The murmuring died down. Complete silence fell.

Then the instructor lifted the loudspeaker and shouted:

"Gentlemen, first of all, congratulations on completing your PST. On behalf of the instructor team, I welcome you to the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training program."

Owen braced himself for a long-winded speech, but the instructor's tone suddenly shifted.

"You all know the truth—no one invited you here. No one begged you to take this course. You volunteered. The SEALs only want the elite. SEALs are the elite.

If you want to stay, know this—what's ahead will be hell. And I mean that literally. You will feel like death would be easier. Some of you will die. We lose men in training every year.

So think carefully. See that office over there? The one with the bell in front of it? That bell can save your life.

Ring it three times. Place your helmet on the ground. And you're done. You're free. You can walk off this island and go back to your unit—no questions asked.

Any time you've had enough, all you have to do is ring that bell."

All eyes turned toward the bell. It stood beneath a small awning outside the instructor's office. No guards. No barriers. Just a simple silver bell on a post.

Three rings and you were done.

Owen stared at it.

A part of him hoped he'd never need to go near it.

Another part knew he might.

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