"You bastard! You lying bastard!" I stood up and faced the console. I picked up the microphone and punched for Oakland Air Base. "This is Major Duke Anderson," I said. "Priority message. Supply depot CA-145 has been attacked by renegades. Their main base of operations is . . ." I hesitated only a second, then gave the exact aerial-coordinates. I described the camp in detail, and its armaments. I knew how long it would take the trucks to get back there. "Recommend an air strike at eighteen-thirty hours tonight!"

"Who is this?" a harsh male voice cut in. "How do you know this?"

I cut the connection.

I heard the sound of trucks above.

I waited. A few moments more and I heard choppers.

I wondered if they'd gotten away.

It didn't matter.

I sat down in the chair and stared at the console. I reached out and switched it off.

I'd betrayed my country, and I'd betrayed my family. Who else was left for me to betray?

All I wanted now was to sit here and die. I wouldn't, of course.

I'd been too well trained. But that was what I wanted.

"I did not lie to you," Foreman said quietly to me. "I did not mislead you."

He had one hand on my shoulder and he was looking straight into my eyes and I wanted to believe him more than anything else. I wanted to believe him as much as I had wanted to believe Jason Delandro.

I didn't answer.

"James-if I ask you to trust me, I know you'll be hearing echoes of Jason Delandro. So I won't ask you to trust me. I know that everything that's happening in here looks like a betrayal of the trust you've already given."

I lowered my eyes and tried to figure this out. "This isn't fair," I said.

"Yes, it is," Foreman answered. "If you were sitting out there, knowing that the worst that was going to happen to you was that you would have to watch someone else get his brains blown out, you'd think this was fair. The only person who ever says that this isn't fair is the one who wins the toss."

"So, fuck you. So it's fair-so what?"

"That's right. So what? You're going to die. This process is going to continue until you die. So what?"

"What am I going to do about it? Is that what you're asking me?"

"No." Foreman shook his head. "I'm asking you, 'So, what?' Hang out with it for a while. 'So, what?"'

"It's not going to change anything though, right?"

"There's nothing to change, Jim. The process continues until you die. I can't change that. Once the process begins there is no way to stop it. So, all I can do is ask you to be willing to go through the process. Are you?"

"I'm here."

"No. Your body is here. Your mind is still raging. You passed through denial quicker than most; but, knowing your background, I can see why. Now, you're in anger. And you'll stay in anger until you're through being angry." Foreman's voice was low and careful and patient. "That's fine with me, Jim. You should be angry now. It's normal. It's healthy. It's even right. The point is that there's something that has to happen before the process can end-and that something is that you have to be willing for the process to happen."

"Why? So you can alleviate your guilt?"

"No." It was odd, but Foreman was totally detached from my anger. He didn't react to it at all; he responded to my words, but his emotional tone was dispassionate. "Guilt is not an issue with me. This process isn't about me. It's about you-and when you see that, then you'll also begin to see how appropriate it was that you won the toss. I think you see the irony in it already."

"Irony is not the word I would use," I said. "This is not my idea of a good time. "

Foreman put his hand firmly on my shoulder again. "James, stick with the process."

I don't know why I did, but I nodded. I guess I wanted to see how it ended.

I guess I still wanted to trust someone. Anyone.

Foreman turned to the rest of the trainees in the room. "Who else is angry?" he asked. "Stand up if you're angry."

More than half the room stood up. Foreman waited.

While he waited, a few more people rose. And then a few more. And a few more after that. They just kept on standing.

"All right, let's see how fast we can work this through," he said. "Here are the instructions. Without leaving your seats, I want you to tell me how angry you are. Just shout it out. All at once. Let's hear your anger about death. Not just Jim's death-most of you will get over that so quickly it'll be embarrassing for you and insulting for McCarthy-but for your own deaths. Let's hear it. How angry are you about your own deaths?"

They started slowly. Some were muttering. Some were screaming. Some were raging. Several started calling out curses.

I looked up. I looked out over the room and noticed that there were assistants stationed in the aisles to keep the trainees from hurting themselves, or each other.

Many of them were furious now and unafraid to let it show. Some of them yelled and screamed; others wore hate stares hard enough to blister the paint on the walls. Several were stamping their feet. I noticed a couple banging their chairs up and down, until the assistants came over and made them stop.

"Just scream it out," coached Foreman. "You don't need any props. Just scream out how angry you are."

It sounded like Auschwitz. It sounded like Hiroshima. It sounded like Show-Low.

It sounded like hell. The anger. The anguish.

"I don't want to die!" from all those throats at once, over and over and over and . . .

. . . then it was over. And nothing had changed. The process will continue until McCarthy is dead. "McCarthy, what are you angry about?"

I told him. "Why do you have to draw this out into one long incredibly annoying drama? Why not just shoot me and get it over with?"

"Because, as tempting as that may be, that's not the way the process is done. First, there was denial; we've done that. Now, we're doing anger, and after anger. . . ."

After anger, came boredom.

I was bored with being angry. I was bored with Foreman. I was bored with Mode. And I was tired of having my life threatened. "Let's cut to the chase," I said, letting my annoyance show. "What do you really want of me?"

"Nothing, Jim. Nothing at all."

"No, maybe I didn't make myself clear, Dr. Foreman. There's something you want me to realize, something you want me to say

"No. However you do this process is up to you. The way you do The Survival Process is the way you do The Survival Process. You do it until you're through doing. The process continues . . . "

"-until I'm dead." I finished the sentence for him. "I got all that. But after all the other head games you've played on us, I'd be pretty stupid not to expect another one of your stupid tricks here."

"They aren't stupid tricks, Jim-they're exercises, designed to bring you through the experience of how your mind works. The purpose is to have you become conscious of the operating modes of the mind, so that you can move beyond your present condition of operating in an unconscious mode to one in which you can create truly appropriate operating modes."

"Huh"

"Let me say it again. The purpose of The Mode Training is to have you become conscious of the operating modes of the mind. That's all. You can't change the operating modes. The best you can hope for is to notice when you're in a mode. That, at least, allows you to own it-to be the source of it, to be responsible for it. "