decibels. He would have exactly one opportunity to weld these young men and women into a unit. It was their only chance for survival. “Line up for inspection!”
The eight military cadets snapped into line and to attention as if Bolan had cracked a whip. The Executioner rounded on the questioning cadet. “What is your name, Cadet?” It was embroidered on the front of the young man’s uniform jacket, but Bolan demanded it anyway.
“Jovich, Sir! Martin—”
“Don’t you ‘sir’ me, Jock-itch! I made sergeant back in the day! I worked for a living and I still do!”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
The next cadet in line snickered. “Jock-itch…”
Bolan stepped in front of the sneering youth. He didn’t like what he saw. The tall blond cadet was too handsome for his own good and knew it. He stank just a bit of an excess of privilege and a distinct lack of discipline. Unfortunately, he was priority number one, and Bolan knew there was a very good chance that he was going to die for this egotistical cadet. “You got a name?”
The cadet mockingly looked at the front of his tunic. A vague Southern drawl inflected his insolence. “Yeah, Metard, John.”
Bolan smiled. “Full name?”
The cadet bristled. He looked Bolan in the eye and what he saw there snapped his eyes front once more. “Metard…Jean-Marie.”
“Thank you, Meatwad.”
Metard clenched his jaw but kept his retort behind his teeth. Mirth was visibly suppressed up and down the line. Bolan wasn’t surprised to find that Metard wasn’t well-liked by his fellow cadets. The soldier moved down the line and looked at another blond cadet. He was shorter than Metard, but even at fifteen years of age he had the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer. The cadet grinned and stood at perfect attention. “Eischen, Alexander Charles, Sergeant!”
Bolan raised one eyebrow slightly. “Felt the need to sneak that Charles in on me, did you?”
Eischen slid a hostile eye towards Metard. “It’s no Jean-Marie, Sergeant, but we do our best.”
Bolan liked Eischen’s attitude. “Alexander Charles Eischen, fine. Ace it is.”
The female cadet standing next to Eischen gave him an approving look. Bolan stepped up to the lone female in the group. She had dark hair, dark eyes and an olive complexion. She squared her shoulders as she fell under Bolan’s scrutiny. “Shelby, Sergeant! Maria Dirazar!”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Shelby…”
“Most people just call me Shel–”
Bolan lunged in eyeball to eyeball. “Do I look like most people to you, Cadet?”
“No, Sergeant!” Shelby went to ramrod attention. “You are like no man I have ever met!”
“Good answer, Snake.”
Shelby blinked. “Snake, Sergeant?”
“Shelby. Carroll Shelby. Greatest American car designer of the twentieth century. You’ve heard of the Cobra? Super Cobra? Super Snake?” Bolan shook his head with weariness. “You’re Snake, Cadet.”
Shelby’s whisper followed Bolan as he walked down the line. “Sweet…”
Bolan found himself in front of a fifteen-year-old youth who could look him in the eye. The young, lantern-jawed mesomorph in the making stared straight ahead with a grim look on his face. Bolan looked long and hard at the name embroidered on the front of the young man’s uniform.
Hudjak.
“Cadet?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The tall young man was a tower of stoicism.
“I think we’ll just call you Huge.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Until you screw up, Huge.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Next cadet in line was the only black cadet. Except for Huge, he was the biggest in the group. Bolan read his tag. “Johnson.”
“Yes, Sergeant. John Henry.”
“You know the legend of the man you were named after, Cadet?”
“Heard it every day growing up, Sergeant. Told every day it was something I’d better live up to.”
Bolan smelled leadership potential. “Good to know, Hammer.”
Hudjak elbowed Johnson in congratulations as Bolan moved on.
A young Chinese man stood at attention. “King, Donald, Sergeant!” The cadet’s voice dropped low. “Sergeant?”
Bolan dropped his voice in return. “Cadet?”
“Sergeant, please don’t call me Donkey Kong. It takes a fistfight every year at the start of school to scrape that one off.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Cadet. We’ll keep it Don King.”
The cadet looked confusedly for the rub. “But, Sergeant, that’s my name.”
“Don King,” Bolan prompted. “The Rumble in the Jungle? The Thrilla in Manila?”
Cadet King stared at Bolan vacantly.
“The Sign from God hairstyle?” Bolan tried. He was becoming painfully aware of the fact that it had been some time since he had spent any quality time with the latest generation of America. “Fine, what’s your real name?”
“Sergeant?”
“You’re second-generation Chinese.”
“Yes, Sergeant. My parents came from Taiwan.”
“So ‘Donald’ is the American name they picked for you. Chinese put the family name first and the given second. That makes your family name King. What’s your real name, Cadet?”
The cadet sighed painfully. “Dong, Sergeant.”
“Donger, I tried to be merciful.”
Cadet King rolled his eyes. “I knew it.”
Bolan lunged. “I will roll your eyes right out of your head, Donger!”
Cadet King snapped to attention. “Cadet Donger! Ready for duty, Sergeant!”
Bolan came to the last cadet in line. If he hadn’t looked down, he might have missed him. The cadet was clearly Indian or Pakistani. The young man just cracked five foot two, and if he was more than ninety-eight pounds dripping wet Bolan would be surprised. He read the young man’s moniker.
The cadet just barely kept his shoulders from sagging.
Bolan
