It took a few days for everyone to come out of the haze, the bits of plane and human debris seared in everyone’s mind like the charred holes in the ground. Even with the threat of Encyte looming, the newly formed Group-A could do nothing until authorized, so each day they waited for the call. And while they waited, Wyatt kept his group busy by preparing to find Hallsy.
From the outside, Wyatt’s handpicked team didn’t look like the warrior core one would expect to go after a Rambo turned serial killer. Wyatt himself, though physically hard and wiry, still had the brooding, shifty-eyed look of a juvenile delinquent or a professional dirt biker.
Then there was Samy, a huge figure with gangly limbs, who dressed like a cross between a genie and a rapper. He might have been mistaken for a Palestinian card shark, except for his constant joking.
And Rory—thin, diminutive, quiet. With her pale skin and innocent puppy-dog eyes, she was far more punk-rock pixie than predator.
The new members, for their part, didn’t make the group appear any tougher. Pierce Grant, the dark-skinned pretty boy, might’ve been able to trek from Juneau to Nome, Alaska, living off the land, but in his flip-flops and polo, he looked like the kind of kid who summered on golf courses, letting his caddy carry his bag. If anyone in the group had the potential to be physically commanding, it was Mary Alice—tall, blond, gracefully assertive, she’d shine in any organization; however, based on appearances, you’d sooner think Junior League than military. And yet, the five of them were highly experienced operators and stone-cold killers. In one firefight alone, Wyatt and Samy had dozens of kills apiece. Rory had also been a critical player, providing cover and intelligence via unmanned drones. And Pierce, though he’d never felled a human, had killed all manner of big game, from bear to elk to deer, using rifle, crossbow, arrows, and even a knife he’d made from flint.
Mary Alice, too, had taken lives, though in a more indirect manner. Before her fifteenth birthday, she’d poisoned two men: a Russian spy and a Saudi royal who’d been funding terrorism. Her third kill was a female Chechen rebel, responsible for dozens of bomb-related deaths. Mary Alice dispatched her while on a ski trip in the Dolomites when she used a small, carefully placed explosive to create an avalanche that buried the legendary bomb-maker alive.
Finally, there was Jalen. Though not officially part of Group-A, he was pulled out of the Rovers to do one-on-one language immersion with a CIA language instructor they had flown into Valor. Immediately, Jalen’s training with the Rovers was modified to provide more time with Group-A, and Cody’s scowl deepened, as Wyatt stole more and more of Jalen’s time away from the Rovers.
The team, which Wyatt dubbed “the War Dogs,” began training immediately. After nine months away, the skills acquired over the previous summer, or summers, once razor sharp, had now dulled.
“What we do,” Wyatt told his team as they lined up at the shooting range, “is art and skill. But it’s also sport. So we gotta be on point in the field.”
“I am on point,” said Samy.
“Your gut is on point and poking out,” cracked Rory.
“Who cares about my Buddha.” Samy rubbed his belly. He’d put on a good twenty-five pounds since last year. “I can shoot just as good with a paunch. Gun don’t care. We all rarely miss a beat.”
“Rarely isn’t good enough. Not for Hallsy. We’re like the gifted pianist who plays perfectly at a recital. But then he takes a few months off and plays again. Sure, a layman won’t be able to tell he’s off, but another virtuoso could,” Rory said.
“Huh?” Samy said.
“I’m saying, Hallsy is an expert. Hallsy trained most of us.”
“Can we stop talking and start shooting?” Mary Alice was wearing tennis whites and holding an M16.
Wyatt motioned her forward. “After you.”
Along with sharpening skills, there was, of course, the physical training. (Samy discovered quickly that his “Buddha belly” didn’t seem so benign on his first ten-mile jog.) Finally, there was the most challenging task: integrating two new members into a core of three and having all five operate like an organism with one mind.
To meet these challenges, Wyatt and Eldon, with input from the rest of the senior staff, designed a program of training that focused on tactical skills like shooting, driving, hand-to-hand combat, and bomb disposal. There was also a strict PT regime with running, swimming, and obstacle course work, as well as situational group training such as group reconnaissance and close-quarters combat, or CQC.
The tactical training, PT, and group reconnaissance were relatively easy to implement. Valor had the facilities for shooting, the planes for jumping, and some pretty fast cars. The driving was actually a blast. These kids, who were much too young to ever stand in line at an American DMV, were driving modified versions of some of the newest, fastest cars coming out of Germany and Italy. And instead of using a racetrack, the camp halted planes flying in and out of the airstrip and used the runway to practice driving in reverse at 70 miles per hour and forward at 140, all the while developing both evasive and chasing skills. If they were lucky enough to find Hallsy, a car chase of some variety would be likely, and given their experience last summer, Wyatt, Rory, and Samy knew firsthand that driving skills can save your life.
Close-quarters combat created more unique challenges for the team as they progressed as a unit. Under a staff’s supervision, they performed CQC drills in Valor’s custom-built “kill house,” by training in three phases.
Phase One involved using electronic SIM, or simulation, rounds. Here, the team used laser beams and gears in the kill house in what looked like an elaborate game of laser tag. Both groups wore bodysuits that recorded hits on target (lethal areas) and “flyers” (when a round hit a buddy).
In one particular hostage-recovery scenario, Samy, carrying a SAW (a heavy machine gun with SIM rounds), rounded a corner and opened fire on Mary Alice, pumping her full of thirty rounds of harmless laser beams.
“Samy,” Mary Alice screamed. “If these were real bullets, you woulda cut me in half!”
“I’m sorry,” said Samy, unusually cowed.
“You better be! Sharpen it up! I don’t want to get killed one day—or lit up with plastic pellets moving hundreds of feet per second—because you think you rarely miss a beat.”
“I’ll do better next time.”
The nonlethal pellets Mary Alice referred to were used in Phase Two of SIM training, in which the team ditched the laser beams for something more realistic—guns that shot actual rounds of ammunition, albeit nonlethal rounds. Though the hard plastic pellets didn’t kill, they hurt like hell, even with armor. The addition of the actual fire, the sound of gunfire, and smoke increased the reality of the exercise, introducing pain, heightened confusion, and blurred senses to the kill house.
For the final phase, live rounds were fired at targets in the kill house. In Phase Three, a flyer would not be tracked on your buddy’s bodysuit or helmet but would blow her face off. Safety, precision, and teamwork were life-and-death requirements. Fortunately, three weeks in, the ragtag War Dog team had risen to the occasion, operating flawlessly in their first live-round CQC.
Jalen was also pulled into tactical training as often as Wyatt could work it in. The rest of the Rovers might not have thought much about it, but when Jalen came back covered in dirt, sweat, and something that smelled like cordite, it was obvious to Cody that something was up.
He cornered his brother one day at lunch in the lodge. “Wyatt, what are you doing with Jalen?”
“Language school.”
“My ass. He’s getting kinetic with you guys. Tell me what’s going on,” Cody said, trying to keep his voice down.
“Dude,” Wyatt said. “It’s need-to-know, and you don’t need to know.”
“The hell I don’t. I’m the Blue for the Rovers. I’m the leader, and I’m your brother.”
“I need him,” Wyatt said. “You got that, brother?”
Cody shook his head. “Who are you, Wyatt? That need-to-know as well?”
Wyatt laughed. “Yeah. Now let me eat in peace.”