Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

Everyone here had been on the circus list at least once—Owen more than most. Even though he often performed well—especially in the obstacle course, where he was among the top few—Rogue Instructor simply didn't like him. His name was regularly added to the circus list without cause.

Owen endured it in silence. Over time, however, he noticed a benefit: he was getting stronger. His flexibility had improved too. Those extra two hours of training each day exhausted him, yes, but they also hardened him.

The instructors—loathed by every trainee—stood high above, mocking their incompetence, telling them to quit and go home, deliberately shaking their confidence with smugness and swagger. But deep down, each instructor wanted the trainees to endure and break through their limits. After all, they had once stood on the same sand, facing the same trials.

Yesterday, Owen finally earned Rogue Instructor's recognition when he broke the SEAL obstacle course record.

In the final weeks, other training modules had been added, and the obstacle course appeared less frequently—maybe twice a week. The course had 25 obstacles, but the most difficult was the escape rope.

At one end of the obstacle was a 30-foot, three-story tower; the other end, a one-story platform. A 200-foot rope stretched between them. Trainees had to climb the tall tower and, once at the top, dangle below the rope and use alternating hands to pull themselves across to the other side.

That record had stood for years—seemingly unbreakable—until Owen tried something different. Instead of dangling below the rope, he climbed atop it and essentially "ran" across, like skiing.

It was risky and looked downright foolish. One slip and he could have fallen, likely injured, and been eliminated. But Owen didn't hesitate. He charged ahead, balancing atop the rope. Dangerous? Absolutely. But it was also fast.

He completed the course in half the usual time—and shattered the record. From then on, the instructors saw him in a new light. They had once endured BUD/S themselves. In this regard, Owen had outdone even them.

Beyond this, new modules had been added—bay and deep-sea swims, beach landings with inflatable boats, and water survival training. The repetition of other drills served a purpose: to forge muscle memory. In real combat, there's no time to think.

Some trainees fought, struggled, pushed past their limits. Many chose instead to avoid further suffering and quit.

The instructors added a new drill called "surf torture." Trainees locked arms and sat in the crashing surf behind the barracks. The waves pounded against the line of men. If they didn't hold each other tight, the water would topple them.

The instructors, gloating, yelled through megaphones: "You'll sit here until someone quits!"

It sounded sadistic. But the trainees encouraged each other, teeth gritted in determination—until two eventually broke, stepped out, and laid their helmets at the bell. The instructors smiled like devils.

Water training was typically done in teams of seven, each with an inflatable boat. They paddled for hours through the surf zone. When transitioning from one mission to the next, they carried the boat on their heads.

Classroom sessions were rare breaks from the relentless grind. Instructors taught tactical knowledge in an indoor classroom, and everyone was grateful for a reprieve from the elements.

But let your guard down? A bucket of seawater to the face. Once, a guy nodded off and had a tear gas grenade—with the pin already pulled—shoved into his hands. He had to hold it tight to prevent it from releasing. That didn't stop him from dozing again. Owen and the others were chased from the classroom, eyes burning.

Time passed quickly. Finally, they reached the infamous "Hell Week"—the last phase of basic training. It began at midnight on Sunday and ended at the last moment of the following Saturday.

Everyone knew Hell Week meant only four to five hours of sleep—for the entire week. They thought they were mentally prepared. Owen quickly realized he had underestimated what "hell" meant.

That night, just after they had finally laid down to rest, they were jolted awake at midnight by a barrage of simulated grenades, flashbangs, and machine gun fire. In thick smoke, amid fire and ice sprayed from hoses, the fully geared instructors roared them awake.

They scrambled to gear up and form ranks while being bombarded with rapid-fire commands and bizarre dress codes. Hell Week had begun.

It was the most notorious phase of SEAL training—designed to break minds, not bodies. More candidates quit during Hell Week than any other time. Those who remained would be called "born warriors."

Stumbling out onto the parade ground, the trainees saw simulated artillery, M-60s blazing, smoke machines billowing, green flares lighting up the sky, hoses spewing icy water, and the air thick with the stench of gunpowder.

It looked and sounded like a battlefield. But the roaring AC/DC track "Highway to Hell" from the loudspeakers gave it away—this was just the beginning.

The realism scared some trainees stiff. In the first few minutes, bells rang out across the base—trainees quitting. Owen found it funny: Nothing's even happened yet. But he soon understood.

One drill involved "playing dead" in the water.

Wearing full uniforms and barefoot, they had to float face-down, unmoving. Breathing had to be stealthy—inhale quickly, then return to "dead." If their bodies sank too much, they could kick once or twice to float again, but otherwise had to remain perfectly still.

Some couldn't handle the icy water and swam back. Instructor Lamb shouted, "If one more person rings the bell, the rest of you can get out. There are warm blankets and hot chocolate waiting in the ambulance."

Eventually, someone caved. Bells rang. The others rejoiced—until the instructors said, "Strip your pants and lie on the sand. If you're not wearing boxers, even better."

It was freezing. Owen felt like he was lying on a block of ice. The instructors sprayed them with cold water. The shivering was uncontrollable. They were told this was only the first stage of hypothermia.

The trainees huddled closer, trying to stay warm. Nothing helped.

Then, Mike had to pee. White, lying beside him, stretched out his hands: "Dude, aim it here."

The warm stream hit him. White shivered—but grinned. It felt… amazing. Dignity, shame, pride—none of it mattered anymore. In that moment, only one thing did: survive. Keep going. Don't quit.

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