Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

During the second round of the obstacle course, Owen completed every element flawlessly. The rope swing over the water, which had tripped him up before, was no longer an issue. A few unlucky trainees twisted their ankles on the final zipline descent—an injury that would likely get them eliminated.

The medics only responded to emergencies. If you were injured but not dying, you were on your own.

Owen brought trouble on himself by using a flashy parkour move—an aerial flip—while vaulting over an obstacle. It drew some cheers from the other trainees, but it also drew the attention of the ever-agitated Instructor Rogg.

"3367! State your name and rank!"

"Uh... Sir, my name is Steve Owen. I have no rank. I'm a CTU field agent."

"CTU? Oh, right, I remember. You're the connected one. Damn it, you backdoor piece of trash, you think this is a circus act?"

"No, sir, I—"

"Shut your goddamn mouth! Did I give you permission to speak? Disrespecting an instructor? Fifty push-ups. No—make that a hundred. Fifty for opening your trap and another fifty because I don't like you."

"Yes, sir."

Owen cursed the madman in his heart, but he followed orders without complaint. The last thing he needed was to get stuck with latrine duty.

… 

Twenty-three… 

Twenty-four… 

Twenty-five… 

As Owen counted out his push-ups, another trainee nearby was being torn apart by Instructor Brown.

"I don't care if you're an officer or enlisted! Here, you're all the same—rookies! Look at those stiff movements. Even the dumbest goddamn seagull on base has more grace than you. Five laps around the field. Move!"

The three instructors roamed the training ground like rabid dogs, lashing out at everyone. Owen wasn't the only one punished. David had made the mistake of joking with Owen as he passed, and got caught by Instructor Roth. He was now suffering alongside him.

An hour later, the obstacle course was finally over. Exhausted and drained, the trainees lined up—only to be told to prepare for a 10-kilometer run.

In just two days, the three instructors had successfully earned the title of "Most Hated Men on Base." Their names were cursed in every language imaginable. The recruits took turns mentally listing imaginative insults for their female relatives.

The 100-plus trainees ran along the beach, forced to sing military chants despite their exhaustion. Even with burning lungs and leaden legs, they had to stay alert—any missed command meant more punishment.

Owen hadn't known what the devil looked like before, but now he was pretty sure there were three of them, wearing camo and barking orders. The phrase "visages of loathing" came to mind.

Sure enough, the games continued.

Instructor Brown suddenly ordered everyone to throw their hats into the sea with all their might. Then—twenty push-ups, followed by a mad dash into the ocean to retrieve the hats. Those who couldn't find their hats or came back last would be punished.

Owen bolted through the push-ups and sprinted into the water. By the time he staggered back, soaked and drained, he wanted nothing more than to collapse. But he resisted—collapsing meant more punishment.

The slowest ten were sentenced to swim an additional 500 meters. The rest watched in solemn sympathy. The waters off San Diego rarely rose above 15°C (59°F)—hypothermia was a real risk.

While they waited, Owen silently hoped those poor guys would take their time. But they were back too quickly.

And then the instructors' next trick began.

They made the entire group lie in the shallows and let the cold waves crash over them. Then, once thoroughly soaked, they had to roll in the wet sand.

Next came the "sugar cookie." Hands had to be plunged into the sand, pulled out with full handfuls, and tossed over their heads—ensuring sand got into every crack and crevice.

With their soaked uniforms now saturated with gritty sand, they continued training.

Next came calisthenics—like P.E. class, but amped up. When done casually, it was easy. But when done by the book, jumping, stretching, and contorting for thirty minutes in sand-filled gear—it was torture.

The sand rubbed against their skin like razor blades. Cuts became raw, infections inevitable. But no one cared. Unless you rang the bell and quit, no one would tend to you.

By now, Owen understood the strategy. They weren't just exhausting the trainees' bodies—they were slowly dismantling their minds. Physically and psychologically, they were being pushed to the edge.

And it worked.

Over a hundred trainees were now barely functioning. Many silently questioned why they were still here.

Around 4 p.m., training finally ended.

Twelve straight hours of non-stop drills. The moment they returned to their tents, the men collapsed onto their beds like lifeless sacks.

This was only day one.

And they all wondered—how the hell were they supposed to survive the rest?

…

Day two. 4 a.m. sharp. That cursed voice rang out again.

The same chaos followed. Trainees were dragged out of bed and herded to the decontamination room for their daily high-pressure hose "shower." They shivered and trembled, already knowing this would be a daily ritual.

But this time, something was different.

As they formed ranks on the beach, they noticed eight helmets neatly lined beneath the bell.

Eight men had quit overnight, slipping away quietly, unwilling to face their comrades' eyes in the light of day.

No one was surprised. What would have been shocking was if no one had quit.

Some had arrived full of dreams, some saw this as a calling. But laying your life on the line for a dream? That was another story.

Morning drills began again—running, push-ups, sit-ups, and all the basics. By now, everyone had figured out how the instructors operated and tried to avoid mistakes.

Not that mistakes made things harder—the workload never changed. But avoiding error meant less yelling, and the mental relief was worth it.

Day two was mostly a repeat of day one—just more intense. Sometimes they had to wear full fatigues and gear. Other times they ran five-man teams carrying inflatable boats.

Their lives became running, running, and more running.

Running to meals. Running back. Running everywhere.

By day three, four, and five, the pain had become routine.

Survive the first three days, and you didn't get weaker—you adapted. Not easier, just normal.

From the original 150, fewer than 120 remained.

Nearly one-fifth had quit, their dreams of becoming a SEAL shattered with the echo of the bell.

And the real test hadn't even started yet.

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