Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

At 4 a.m., while everyone was still deep in sleep, a thunderous voice burst into the tent, shouting at full volume.

"Get up, you lazy pigs! You think this is a hotel? Want me to make you breakfast? Fuck that! Get your asses out of bed! Didn't you hear what I said?!"

Owen was jolted awake only to be yanked off his bunk by the instructor, landing face-first in the dirt. The area around him quickly became ground zero for the instructor's early morning rampage.

"Listen up! You've got 40 seconds to clean up your quarters. If you're not at the wash station by then, congrats—you're leaving Coronado today!"

It was barely dawn and he'd already been assaulted for no reason, but Owen didn't dare say a word.

Last night, David had shared a wealth of insider tips, and one of the most important was this: sometimes the instructors deliberately stirred up trouble. But no matter what, you had to keep your mouth shut. Show even a trace of disrespect, and you could start packing your bags.

Owen scrambled to his feet and threw on his white T-shirt and shorts, rushing toward the wash station. The instructor who'd been yelling at them was none other than Instructor Rogge—the same guy from the podium yesterday, and not exactly known for being gentle.

Bleary-eyed and half-dressed, the recruits stumbled like sheep toward the wash station, only to find the other two instructors, Brown and Lamb, waiting—each armed with high-pressure hoses.

Before they could react, Lamb blasted the first row with a freezing cold stream.

Screams erupted instantly.

The icy water struck like needles, shocking Owen to his core. The high-pressure stream stung his skin and stripped away the last remnants of sleep. 

"HA! How's that for a wake-up call?" Instructor Brown shouted, clearly deriving perverse joy from the torment. He and Lamb attacked the crowd with their hoses like madmen, while the soaked recruits huddled together for warmth and mercy.

Owen shivered uncontrollably. It was still pitch black outside and freezing cold. The seawater felt like liquid death on his skin. 

Eventually, after ensuring not a single trainee had a dry patch left, the instructors finally relented.

A group of miserable, dripping recruits stood together like drowned rats, trying to soak up body heat from one another. Owen thought this must be some kind of initiation ritual—but soon learned that, no, this was the first of many "morning routines."

Then came more shouting from Rogge as they were herded back to the beach.

"Take a look at your quarters! It's a fucking pigsty—I almost died just walking in there. And you think you're SEAL material? SEALs don't live in filth like this!"

He pointed back toward the tents. "You've got 10 minutes to make those beds look like they did yesterday. One guy screws up, the whole platoon gets punished. You've got 9 minutes left! What the fuck are you still standing around for?! MOVE!"

Chaos erupted. Everyone bolted for the tents, determined not to screw up.

Owen didn't know how the U.S. military folded their blankets, but it wasn't a problem for him—he'd done military drills in his past life and could fold a blanket into a perfect square block. American standards couldn't be too far off.

He watched how others arranged their gear and mimicked the layout. Within minutes, his bed looked nearly identical to how it had when he arrived.

At the 10-minute mark, everyone stood at attention beside their beds, ready for inspection.

The three instructors walked through the rows, inspecting each bed and hurling insults as they went.

Finally, Instructor Brown found his victim. One recruit had failed to smooth a corner of his bedsheet.

"What is this shit?! You want your mommy to come make your bed, princess? What unit are you from?"

The poor recruit flinched but responded bravely, "Sir—Guam Naval Base, sir!"

He tried not to wipe the spit off his face as Brown leaned in and let loose.

"Disgraceful! You're the shame of the Navy. How do they even let someone like you stay enlisted?"

Lamb chimed in with equal venom.

"Four crisp corners, smooth sheet, pillow dead center, blanket folded precisely under the shelf—that's a bed! What you've got is a pile of shit!"

Just when they thought the storm was over, Rogge screamed, "FUCK THIS! Fifty push-ups—NOW!"

Groans echoed across the tent. No one even knew that guy. But it didn't matter—they all got punished together.

One… 

Two… 

Three… 

Four…

Before they even hit fifty, Lamb found another mistake—someone's blanket wasn't stored in the right place. The insults rained down again, and the punishment jumped to 100, then 150, and eventually 200 push-ups.

No one dared talk back. Instead, they silently cursed every female relative the instructors might have.

After the push-ups, they were sent running three kilometers along the beach, "so you remember this lesson," Rogge yelled.

Any misstep meant more punishment—uneven formation, falling behind, even talking out of turn could result in an extra round of hell. Sometimes, it seemed like just existing earned their wrath.

By 8 a.m., they'd done between 700 to 800 push-ups, run seven kilometers, and spent an hour on stretching exercises. Everyone was soaked, coated in sand, and completely exhausted.

Running on the beach was no joke—sand filled their boots, their clothes clung to their wet skin like glue. Misery dripped from every pore.

At last, breakfast was announced. Their stomachs growled with hunger, but they still had to run 1.6 kilometers to the mess hall—and had only five minutes to eat.

Owen and the others figured their food would probably be fully digested by the time they ran back.

And this was just the morning of the first day.

Already, some guys were sneaking glances at the bell.

After breakfast, they braced for another round of hell, but surprisingly, the three instructors disappeared. In their place, two veteran SEALs showed up to guide them through the training grounds.

They walked the group through all the obstacle courses: rope nets, triple-step hurdles, trench jumps, wall scaling, balance beams, high platforms, crawl nets, tunnel slides, wall climbs, rope descents.

Each maneuver was demonstrated clearly by the SEALs, with step-by-step instructions.

Most of the tasks were basic. Nearly everyone had seen them in their original units. Owen was already familiar—FBI SWAT training used a lot of the same elements. Back then, these were his daily drills.

Later, the SEALs took them to where the rubber boats and logs were stored—equipment that would become their daily tormentors soon enough.

Once everything had been demonstrated, the instructors left, and the rest of the time was given over to self-practice. Though basic, these courses could be dangerous—one wrong move could mean a serious injury, or worse.

Owen wiped the sweat from his forehead, thinking back on the morning's chaos.

And this… this was just the introduction.

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