It's dawn, not yet six in the morning, as I trudge over open desert to the range. There are ten narrow lanes marked by metal fencing, with various people-shaped targets positioned at the far end. This is not virtual training. These are real targets and real weapons for the real world that is out there, on the other side. At the entrance, a private, hand on her hip, talks to a tall sergeant. He's in black fatigues, which makes him Special Forces. When the sergeant turns to look my way I recognize him from the rooftop last night. He’s got his arms folded across his chest and he says something to the private as he watches me approach. He makes me nervous, which ticks me off, and I’m not sure what I should say. Before I reach them he turns to leave, and I scope him out as he walks away. His pants are belted low, so they hang off his narrow hips. He has this long, ground-eating stride that makes his movements seem effortless, and makes it difficult for me to look away. It turns out he’s even better looking in daylight than he was in the dark.
Somehow I’m both relieved and disappointed that he’s walking away.
“Jackass,” I mutter, which makes me feel better.
“You Grant?” the private asks, sizing me up as I approach. I nod, warily. “I'm Sheree LeSalle, your new battle buddy,” she announces.
This is weird, and I'm a little scared. It’s the girl who cut in line last night to steal apples.
She's very pretty, and something in her attitude makes her seem kind of tough. Her light brown hair is pulled back, like mine, but she makes it look good.
“Let's practice,” she says. She sounds cheerful about it.
She walks like a cat, quick, but not in a rush. Her hips sway, even with combat boots on. It's just the way she's built. She must drive the boys crazy.
We proceed down the range to number six, and she stops.
“Let me see what you've got,” she says bluntly.
I reach for the ear protection, and she rolls her eyes.
“You know they don't hand those things out when it's time to shoot for real, right?” she deadpans.
I stare at her for a moment and toss them away, which produces a little smile on her face.
“Are you here to kill me?” I ask.
Her big eyes open wider. “Now why would I want to do that?”
Hmm. Because you were talking to the guy who doesn't want anyone to know I saw him last night, and now I'm conveniently on a firing range with lots of loaded weapons that could “accidentally” go off.
I shrug and remind myself that I wasn't there last night, and neither was he.
I get into position and aim my pistol at the target. My hands are a little sweaty. Everything is uncomfortable. I take a deep breath and squeeze. Nothing happens. I look at my weapon curiously and hear a big sigh.
“So you got a No-Go, did you? That's really surprising.”
I could get annoyed, but she's kinda funny, in that sarcastic-but-not-mean way I'm used to from Jay. I might be starting to like her.
She steps over, pushes me to the side. Her hands glide in one smooth movement to get her pistol in place, and squeeze off two shots to the heart, one to the head. The sound makes me jump, but she is rock solid.
“That is what you should be trying for, but let's start with firing a bullet from a weapon,” Sheree says. “Use your middle finger for the trigger so that your index finger is aligned with the barrel. You are now pointing at your target, increasing accuracy. Point and shoot.”
She demonstrates and tells me to try again. The bullet exits, but it’s not what you’d call an accurate shot.
“Like my daddy says, if you’ve got to kill a man you’d best kill him quick, and if you want to be sure he’s dead, you’d best be dead sure. So. You want to stop the breathing, start the bleeding and induce shock. That makes your targets the brain, the heart and the spine.”
Sheree shoots them on the target in quick succession to punctuate her words.
“Now, that means the kill zone on the human body—front or back— is about 36 inches long and six inches wide, from the top of the head to the groin. One bullet, anywhere in that zone, will incapacitate the target. Two is better.”
I spend four hours with her. She’s surprisingly patient. There’s still no way I'm going to get a Go. I'm seriously worried. I have to qualify for firearms; that one is non-negotiable if I'm going to make it. And I should have used protection—my ears are ringing.
As I head over for chow, I spot Sheree with the tall sergeant again. He's rubbing his chin, and she's shrugging and shaking her head. They’re up to something. Then she cuts in line and tells me that my weapons qualification has been pushed back, so I have one more day to practice.
“What's going on? Who was that sergeant?” I ask her as I look around, but he’s gone.
She shrugs and loads up her pockets. I'm grateful for the extra day, but this is just downright weird. I mean, what’s it to him?
—
Somebody shakes me awake. I'm confused, but jump up and stand at attention, thinking it's a middle-of-the-night locker check. When I finally focus, it's Sheree, gesturing to keep quiet and follow.
Now what?
Apparently I had three hours of sleep, and she says that's enough. I'm back at the firing range at zero dark stupid o'clock. Sheree sets me to work. I know I need the practice, so I go along, but I use the ear protection this time. I watch the moving target, bite my lip, and squeeze. I might have hit it!
“It is difficult to hit the head when you're in actual combat,” Sheree explains. “As your heart rate increases, your motor skills diminish. In order to inflict extreme violence you require an inner calm to do it with any accuracy. That's why you use the double-tap tap. Two rapid shots in the heart, one in the head.”
“The target could be wearing body armor, so the double-tap to the heart is to focus you, then you only have to raise your rifle by a hair for the kill shot.”
Sheree demonstrates the double-tap tap and steps aside. I imitate her and yell “Heart! Heart! Head!” as I shoot. I don't hit the heart, or the head.
I have aimed at every kind of target—stationary, moving, simultaneous engagement of multiple targets—and from every position—prone, crouching, behind barricade, single-handed, low light. I still have terrible aim.
Now it's grenades. Sheree reminds me that, without the firing pin, the grenade is not our friend. Grenades sound easy.
“Buddy, cover me while I move,” I say.
“Gotcha covered, buddy,” Sheree replies.
I go through the steps, say them in my head.
Proper grip.
Thumb to clip.
Twist, pull pin.
Sneak a peek.
“I'm up,” I yell as I throw it. “I'm down.”
“You did it!” Sheree says in exaggerated disbelief.
I stick my tongue out at her, but I’m pleased. I want to go back to bed now, but I have pugil fighting. All the platoons are together for the pugil fighting, and I'm desperately hoping to see Jay. It's only been three weeks, but it seems like three months.
—
I pull on the hard jacket, the helmet, and the groin guard and get fitted with the big gloves. There are four combat areas, marked by low walls made from piled sandbags. The sun is already too bright, and it's only eight in the morning. It goes fast. I bash about with the giant padded stick for three rounds, and it's over.
I make eye contact with Jay and he grins back at me. He looks fantastic, even with his buzz cut. He motions to me and we sneak to the back of the watching crowd, where we won't be seen. I jump at him, arms around his neck, fat wet kiss on the cheek. Jay gives me a little swing around, tells me how terrific I look.
I do? I haven't seen a mirror since I got here, part of that losing our personality thing. We catch up quick. He, of course, is qualifying at expert level for everything. I tell him about my terrible aim. Jay says I have to pretend I'm shooting at Blake. I give him another hug and feel a prickle on my neck. I turn to see that sergeant, leaning lazily against some sandbags, watching me. My eyes skid over to his and then away.
I guess he meant it, about keeping an eye on me. But why? It makes no sense and I wish he’d just go away. I turn back and give him my best glare.
“Jess.” Jay nudges me. “Something's up.”
Four jeeps and a tank come tearing across the desert toward us. The soldiers on board are all whooping and hollering like mad, one of them is pounding the SAW, the machine gun, shooting at nothing. They've come back from a mission, Jay tells me. Everyone around us cheers them on as they make a wide arc in front of us.
“How many skids they got?” a boy in front of us asks as he goes up on his toes for a better look.
A thick metal chain hangs from the back of one of the jeeps. A cold, awful, wave of revulsion runs through me when I see what that chain is dragging across the desert. Bodies. Their arms are stretched out above their heads, bound to the ankles of the body behind them. A mangled, monstrous, human daisy chain. There are seven of them. The first one in line, with his legs bound to the metal chain, has one arm stretching at an impossible and unnatural angle behind his head; it is going to rip right off. I hope they were dead before this grotesque parade started.
I bite down hard on my lip and I look away, wondering why those two officers that were just here have disappeared. That sergeant is still here, he’s moved up a bit. He's watching with crossed arms, and his face is set in a hard expression. He’s not cheering them on. That makes me like him a bit more. Not that I already like him. I don’t even know him.
—
After the horrific scene in the desert I took an extra-long shower but still feel dirty. I walk toward the psych-testing building to check on my score. It's blistering hot out and the sun beats down, but I try to recapture my good mood. I anticipate excellent results. I locate my access code and pull up the report. I have to go back to the beginning to make sure it's mine.
My stomach drops about a mile. How can this be?
I look around, confused, and look it over again. I scored forty out of a possible fifty points? I know it is wrong. I ask the clerk who I can speak to about this. She makes a call and tells me Sergeant Anderson will see me. She sends me to the office at the end of the hall. The door is closed, but I march in without knocking and stop dead.
Oh, come on.
It's him, of course. That sergeant. He comes from around his desk.
“Please. Come in. Don’t let my closed door deter you in the slightest,” he says. “Since you are such an unusually loud girl I heard you coming, and had time to put away all that pesky top-secret stuff.”
He’s making fun of me?
Don’t. Throttle. The sergeant.
He leans back against the desk, his long legs stretch out in front and cross at the ankles, his hands splay out behind him. He looks too casual. I'm a bit disconcerted. This is not normal protocol.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“My score is wrong,” I insist. “My access code is Triple-Three Charlie Eight Foxtrot Tango.” I make extra sure not to eyeball him, but I'm fuming as I add, “Sergeant.”
When he says nothing, I look up at him. He has a lazy kind of smile that starts on one side. One corner of his mouth twitches a little when he’s trying to hold the smile in. Like now.
I suddenly think I must be the victim of a practical joke, and suffer a wave of embarrassment. My mouth goes dry as I look around. Is someone watching? I look back at him, eyes narrowed. He looks way too young to be a sergeant, eighteen or nineteen, maybe twenty.
“The report stands,” he says with confidence.
Before I have a chance to object, a quartermaster warrant officer around my mother's age walks right in. Warrant officers rank between officers and enlisted, and the quartermasters control everything considered a necessity. Fuel, clothing, transportation, where you sleep and what you eat. Everything.
She has a matte grey gauntlet on her left forearm that extends from wrist to elbow. Known as the Master Sleeve, it’s more commonly called the Slave Master. She controls it, and it controls inventory. So if you know what’s good for you, you never want to piss off a quartermaster.
“There you are, Matt. I've been looking for you,” she scolds him, and taps air with her fingers, sending internal commands to the device on her arm. She flicks her hand, a virtual requisition appears, and she extends her arm to Matt.
“Approvals, please,” she says, clearly not expecting him to question her.
“Hello Joan.” Matt slides his index finger into a depression near her wrist and tilts his head toward her. “Glad you’re in your usual cheery mood. And I’m well, thank-you for asking,” he chides her in a slow drawl.
She gives him a scowl that turns his smirk into a sheepish grin that immediately disappears.
This isn't a joke, but it’s all too casual and friendly to be army. No one is saluting, and she called him Matt. At least I have a name now, Sergeant Matt Anderson
Joan gives her arm a shake, the requisition disappears, and she walks smartly out the door. Matt looks at me as if he's surprised I'm still here.
“The report is wrong. My score was better than that, and I want it changed.” Now I'm mad, and I glare at him. “And I think you had something to do with it,” I announce.
“And I think you shouldn’t do so much thinking,” he warns. “You’re already troublesome enough.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“As I said, the report stands. Hit some of those targets tomorrow and you'll be fine,” Matt says.
A door on my right suddenly swings wide, accompanied by a loud, deep laugh. The laugh belongs to a very tall, redheaded boy with wide shoulders and lots of freckles.
“If it's stupid, but works, it isn't stupid!” he yells over his shoulder as he enters. “Hey Matt, I've got a line on some—” he says, but stops short when he sees me.
Matt sighs and says, “Boyd.”
Boyd looks sheepish and comically takes giant steps backward through the door. Matt pushes himself away from the desk and takes a step toward me.
“Did you know your eyes turn greener when you're angry?” he says, and follows Boyd out the door, pulling it closed behind him.
I stand alone in the office, totally bewildered and thoroughly ticked off.
Why would he say something like that? You can’t be all arrogant one second, and then tell a girl you noticed her eyes.
Honestly.
I stomp out to the clerk, and ask as nicely as I can if Matt is actually a sergeant.
She laughs and tells me that, yes, he is indeed a sergeant; in fact, he’s the recipient of the Army Distinguished Service Cross for extreme gallantry and risk of life in combat with the enemy.
“Well, that explains everything,” I tell her as I leave.
—
I finish hand-to-hand-combat qualifying.
No-Go.
No surprise, either.
I don't need hand-to-hand to work in Intelligence, but I need to find someone else to talk to about my psych score. I head over for chow even though I’m not hungry.
“Matt!” I hear someone shout. It’s a kid, maybe nine or ten, tearing along ahead of me. And there he is. Matt. My feet slow as I watch the kid jump onto Matt’s back and they wrestle around. Matt is laughing and acting goofy and it makes me smile. I guess he’s not Mr. Arrogant with everyone. Just me.
I’m not following them; I’m just going in the same direction. They jump into a jeep and the boy is whooping at something Matt said. The tires spit gravel as they take off. I miss Jay.
—
It's the last day. No matter what happens, I will be extremely happy to get out of this barracks. It's loud, it stinks of teenage-boy sweat, and although no one has tried to pull anything on me, I'm done with the short sheeting and other pranks.
Today, tactical is first, lots of “buddy, go buddy” stuff and I manage to get a Go.
Firing range next. I can already feel the beginnings of a muscle spasm in my right calf as I wait for my turn. I make my shoulders fall, trying to relax them as I adjust my sweaty grip on my rifle.
It hits me, like a punch in the stomach. This is it. There are no more chances after this. The next hour will decide if I’m in Special Forces or not. And this wouldn’t be such a close call if my psych score hadn’t been tampered with. My guts clench painfully at the thought of failure.
“You'll do good,” Sheree says from behind me.
I’m disoriented, my heart is racing. Where did she come from? It's as if she appeared out of nowhere. My name is called, so I don't have time to say anything. I try not to think and just do what I practiced. As it turns out there is no time to think, so it's not a problem. The whole thing is a mad jumble of loud noises and moving targets and a charley horse in my leg.
Heart, heart, head.
At least I know how to fire my rifle now.
I'm breathing heavily; it's loud in my ears as I wait to hear my score. I need twenty-three to qualify. I'm not going to make it. I know it. I feel numb. My eyes widen as Sheree emerges from the course and stands beside me with a wink.
“Grant!”
I step up to the qualifying sergeant with a lead weight in my belly. He says, “Twenty-nine, you're a Go.”
I absorb the word Go, and the relief hits me like a wave. Except I think I might puke.
“Harnett,” the sergeant calls, and Sheree steps forward. Harnett is not her name. “Seventeen, you're a No-Go.”
She grabs my arm and steers me outside before I can react.
I don't know how, but it's obvious the scores were switched.
“I was the one who got seventeen, and somehow you only got a twenty-nine, Harnett,” I say accusingly, knowing she should have had a perfect score. I'm all topsy-turvy as I struggle to figure out what this means.
“Look, I was following orders. And it was kinda fun to miss all those targets,” she says happily.
I guess if she did hit all the targets, they'd never believe it was my score when she switched them.
“See you in Special Forces.” Sheree waggles her fingers at me and strolls off.
I want to chase after her, but my feet won't move. None of me will move.
I made it.
I'm going to be in Special Forces! A grin spreads across my face, and I look around for someone to tell.
Sigh.
—
I'm in d-fac with Jay and two of his platoon buddies. Everyone who made it is here tonight and a celebratory mood is the air.
I filled Jay in about my qualifying, and he’s just as stumped as me about why Matt would sabotage my psych score, but then get Sheree to qualify me on the firing range. Because I’m pretty sure that’s what he did, and I have no idea why. I’m keeping an eye out for Sheree so I can corner her.
Jay tells me a joke that is very funny… if you are Airborne. I can't quite stifle a yawn.
“It wasn't that bad,” Jay complains.
I yawn again, a whopping wide-open one this time. Jay teases me, says I'm acting like a civilian and I should suck it up. But I’m honestly dead on my feet, and tell Jay I'll see him in the morning.
“Um, do you think you could leave already? I want to talk about you behind your back?” Jay urges me.
“Har de har har. You’re just a laugh a minute, aren’t you?”
“It’s one of my more endearing qualities,” he declares.
I wrap an arm around his neck and give him a kiss on the cheek.
As I turn to go I see Matt, so naturally I freeze. I'm hit with a fierce rush of anticipation, and I have the urge to talk to him. Or kick him. I can't decide.
He saves me the trouble. He strolls over, and one of Jay's buddies says, “Oh, hi, Matt. Do you know Jay? And that's Jess.”
Matt nonchalantly nods to Jay, who stiffens when he realizes who Matt is.
“J. Grant,” Matt says to me as his gray eyes meet mine.
I'm suddenly incapable of speech. My catatonic state has returned.
Matt leans in to me a bit. “You’re unusually quiet,” he murmurs.
And he winks at me. He winks and strolls off.
Kick him. I most definitely want to kick him.