Tasmanian SFG: Welcome to Hell

by C. R. Daems

  “You won’t survive. Eventually your weakness will cause you to fail. The Tasmanians are for men—strong men who aren’t afraid of getting dirty,” he spat out with a divisive laugh at the end, clearly having overheard my refreshing swim remark.

  “See you back at the start,” I said as I walked away. I didn’t care what any of the others thought or did. I noticed Paul had followed me.

  “Ignore Kurt. He and some of the others don’t like the idea of a woman in the Tasmanians. They want it to be uniquely a men’s club. And you beating his time to the finish line didn’t improve his mood.” Paul laughed good-naturedly. “You going back the same way?” he asked.

  “The shorter trail is easier going back as the terrain is slopped toward the main fort. We are about fourteen hundred meters higher here. But then I’d miss my bath,” I quipped, which elicited a snort from Paul. I liked him. He had a sense of humor and wasn’t overly impressed with himself, although he finished fifth while taking the more difficult route.

  * * *

  After studying the map for a long time, I packed my bag with the same energy bars and my two canteens and wandered over to the other side of the small town where a mill had been built when the town was first settled—a sawmill powered by the river that passed to the west side of town. I spent an hour testing the speed of the river, reviewing the projected weather forecast for the next several days, and studying the map. Having made my decision, I followed the river for a kilometer before I found what I wanted—several logs which I bound together into a small raft and one I fashioned into a crude paddle. I walked back to town and found Shirley and let her inventory my knapsack.

  “Leaving without a rest?” She sounded concerned.

  “Thought I try and beat the boys back but if I’m wrong I’ll need the extra time. Short naps work well for me.”

  “Good luck, Jolie. We’re all rooting for you.”

  I walked back to my raft, stripped out of my uniform, packed everything in my empty knapsack, and pushed off. According to the map, the Snake River fed Lake Mirror and continued on to Crystal Lake and then flowed past Fort Shiva. At roughly ten-plus kilometers per hour, I could reach the fort is just under twenty-four hours. That allowed a lot of time for problems or a good rest if I encountered none. I pushed my raft into the water.

  Six hours later, my raft was swept into Lake Mirror. I decided to cross to the other side before resting and finally made camp two hours later. So far, I was pleased with my decision. The river remained wide enough for my raft, and the current was consistent except for a few minor rapids. I ate two energy bars, drank my fill of water and refilled my canteens, took a two-hour nap, and was off again. Seven hours later the river emptied into Crystal Lake and two hours later I lay at the mouth of the Snake River, which flowed south to Fort Shiva. After eating and a two-hour nap and a refreshing swim, I pushed off for Fort Shiva and arrived six hours later—tired but far from exhausted. After dressing, I found the finish line, but no one was there. Deciding to get a real meal, I made my way to the mess hall, a small narrow wooden building which sat some fifty meters from the barracks. Inside I went through the line collecting scrambled eggs, bacon, beans, toast, and three cups of milk. I scanned the room which had mostly Rangers. Not too surprising as Fort Shiva also hosted the Rangers school, and they provided the support services for the Tasmanian school. I saw Clare and Shirley at one of the tables and approached.

  “Can I join you, Sergeants?” I asked, not sure if candidates were allowed to eat with staff or if they even wanted company. They had appeared friendly both times I saw them. Both women jerked up so violently their drinks splashed onto the table.

  “Did you opt out?” Clare asked, clearly confused.

  “What are you doing here?” Shirley asked at the same time, frowning as her eyes scanned me.

  “No one was at the finish line so I decided to get a decent meal while I waited,” I said hesitantly as I wasn’t sure why they were so agitated.

  “You finished in,” Shirley looked at her watch, “thirty hours. How?”

  “I made a raft and floated down the Snake River. It flows directly from Sunrise City to Fort Shiva,” I said, putting down my tray and sitting when Clare waved at the empty chair next to her.

  “The colonel is going to be… something,” she finally said. “When he found out you left early without sleep, he told us to alert the rescue teams. He thought you would be found half dead somewhere on the trail.” They laughed off and on through my entire meal.

  The colonel and the chief joined us ten hours later. We were sitting in chairs near the finish line. I had slept for eight hours, washed, and put on a clean uniform before joining Clare and Shirley.

  “What time did Miss Luan arrive back?” he asked, after hearing I had used the river.

  “Zero six hundred hours, sir,” Shirley said.

  “Over the years, six other candidates have used the river on the return leg. Luan’s time is the slowest of the six…but I assume she wasn’t concerned with her time and rested periodically,” he said while looking at me. I nodded agreement. “The school is looking for candidates who are talented, difficult to break, and capable of being inventive. So we give only one path to the finish line. It helps us get to know our candidates. We now know Miss Luan is talented, inventive, and a risk taker. It remains to be seen whether we can break her.” All four individuals were staring at me as if the answer were tattooed somewhere on me.

  “I’m as interested as you are,” I said as the first—well, second—returning candidate crossed the finish line and extended his backpack. He smiled at me. It was Paul.

  By the end of the day, there were twenty-eight candidates remaining. Although fifty-two had met the time restriction, eleven knew they couldn’t repeat the return trek in the required time and voluntarily opted out and took the bus back. One had abandoned part of his trash somewhere on the trail and was disqualified, and twelve failed to return in the time allotted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Planet: Delphi: Fort Shiva: A So-Called Rest Week

  We were told the next seven days would be a rest period to recover from our initial exercise. But the days had been anything but restful. We were required to run a five-kilometer obstacle course twice each day in addition to weapons familiarization and target practice. The worst part was that none of us had attained the time required to pass the test at the end of the month.

  Weapons were interesting. Each Tasmanian carried a carbon steel combat knife strapped to his right ankle and several throwing knives strapped to the left ankle. A nine-millimeter Jericho 941 semiautomatic handgun with suppressor on the right thigh and a Tavor X95 bullpup assault rifle strapped to his back. Each Tasmanian needed to be an expert with all the standard weapons.

  “Over the next couple of months, I’m going to attempt to teach each of you to use the standard weapons,” said Chief Simon, “because by the end of this course you must be able to prove to me you can be trusted with them. And you must each demonstrate a competency in a secondary specialty: field medicine, long distance sniper, demolition expertise, or radio and electronics skills. It tends to be a bit difficult in the field to call for help. The army types usually don’t like to go where we’re sent, therefore Tasmanians need to be relatively self-sufficient.” He looked around the group and his eyes settled on me.

  “Luan, Slater, step forward,” he said and lobbed a knife in each of our directions. I caught mine by the handle. It turned out to be a rubber knife colored to look real. “I’m going to pair each of you to practice a series of knife attacks and defenses. You will practice them until you can perform them in your sleep or passed out drunk.” Chief Simon proceeded to show us a pattern of knife attacks and watched until we could repeat them, if a bit slower. We worked all morning on the techniques. After a fifteen-minute lunch we were taken to an area that had posts with standard bull’s-eye targets attached.

  “A Tasmanian can put a knife in the center of the target every time at fifty met
ers. Those targets are at fifteen so you can warm up. Luan.” He waved me forward and handed me two throwing knives. I turned them over in my hand, feeling the weight and balance.

  “They are beautiful,” I said, referring to their quality as compared to the ones my father had available to train me.

  “Beautiful! You throw them at the enemy, Luan. They are for killing, not hanging on the wall,” he shouted to a chorus of laughs as he threw one, which hit the center of the target on the post fifteen meters in front of us.

  “Yes, Chief Master Sergeant,” I said and threw mine, which landed side-by-side with his. “I was referring to the quality of the blades.”

  He looked at the candidates staring at the target and waved them back. “Pick a post and wait for Sergeants Damon and Martin to show you the technique before you start practicing.” He turned to me and waved for me to follow him out of hearing range. “All right, Luan. All of these candidates are Rangers and have served in other branches of the army, so I have a folder containing their background and service history. I have nothing on you. We all see a good-looking woman who wants to be a Tasmanian but who doesn’t look particularly strong or scarred to indicate she has seen combat, yet you’ve had training based on what I’ve seen so far. Can you explain.” It wasn’t a question.

  “It’s not a secret, Chief. I was adopted by Master Luan when I was seven. He found me in the street dying from a gang beating. He raised me and passed on his knowledge to me.” I went on to explain my life with Luan and gave an overview of my training.

  He was silent during my talk and afterward. Eventually he laughed. “I guess you aren’t going to be as easy to get rid of as the colonel and the clowns who wanted to make an example of you thought. You can probably teach half our classes… But that wouldn’t be a good idea, and you need to learn the Tasmanian way of doing things.”

  “If I’m going to be a Tasmanian, I’ll need to perfect your techniques,” I said, wanting to fit in as one of the team and not as an outsider.

  “Good. Let’s see how different your father’s style is from the Tasmanians’.”

  We spent the next seven days working with knives.

  * * *

  “This week it’s all about guns and since all of you know which way to point it the week should be mostly practice so you can hit what you aim at—all the time with a minimum of ammo. Although Tasmanians carry lots of ammo, it’s to kill a lot of combatants and not to be wasted on one or two. Take a shooting lane but wait for Sergeants Damon and Martin before you start.” He gestured to me. “How good are you?”

  “Like the others, I know where to point it and can hit a stationary target if given time,” I said, followed by a shrug.

  “Show me,” he said and led me to a shooting lane. After a half hour of shooting he took the rifle from me. “You need practice with the Jericho and the Tavor. You’re too slow aiming, but I think you may do well as a sniper, unless you would prefer medical or explosives as a specialty.”

  “I know a little about medical. Enough to make temporary repairs until someone qualified can fix the problem, but it wouldn’t be my first choice, nor would explosives. Besides, I think I would be too slow in the field. I’d prefer sniper.”

  “After you qualify with the Jericho and Tavor, I’ll let you try the CheyTac M200 sniper rifle we use. Slow and methodical are good qualities for a sniper,” he said and grinned.

  Over the next few days, I found if I took time to vanquish my apprehension and distracting thoughts the Jericho and Tavor came easily—like pointing my finger at the object and pulling the trigger. By the end of the week, the chief checked me out on the CheyTac and started me on five-hundred-meter targets. The days were long because after practice we were required to take the weapons apart, clean them, and put them back together—in a given number of seconds; another requirement for which I had yet to qualify.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Planet: Delphi: Fort Shiva: Orders Are Orders

  “Barclay, this is no longer amusing.” General Neville, chief of the army, said. His craggy square face stared at Barclay’s face on the monitor. “You told me she would drop out the first day when she found out there’re no facilities for women. Then you told me she would fail the first exercise. Then you predicted the other candidates would drive her out. Her success is going to encourage hundreds of other women to apply to the Tasmanian school. This is your fucking mess, Barclay, clean it up or your career is over. The Tasmanians are intended to be an elite men’s unit.” The monitor went immediately blank as Neville cut the connection.

  Barclay sat staring at the blank screen for a long time, wondering how his clever plan had gone to shit. What woman wanted to sleep, bathe, and use the toilets in the same barracks as the men? For that matter, it was amazing there had been so few incidents with a woman sleeping and bathing in the barracks with the men. Well, there had been several incidents, but Miss Luan had canceled their admittance ticket to the Tasmanian school by breaking bones, which made it impossible for them to continue. That seemed to earn her acceptance as one of the boys. Barclay smiled; he was tired of waiting for Miss Luan to fail on her own. He picked up his Comm unit and punched in Zimmerman’s number.

  “This is Colonel Zimmerman,” the voice said.

  “Colonel, this is General Barclay. I assume Miss Luan is still an active candidate,” he said and waited, hoping she had finally done something to fail.

  “Good evening, General Barclay. Yes, sir, she is still an active candidate,” Zimmerman answered cautiously, knowing the senior officers were not happy with her in the program and desperately wanted her to fail. Although he sympathized with them and was officially the head of the Tasmanian school, he couldn’t fail her without cause without opening Pandora’s box and potentially creating a scandal that would taint him, the school, the Tasmanians, and the army.

  “She cannot qualify for the Tasmanians,” Barclay said with the unmistakable tone of an order to a junior that would result in a court-martial or worse if not obeyed—illegal or not. “Of course, if you don’t think you can do that, we can assign a new head of the Tasmanian school and I’ll reassign you to someplace with less responsibility, like Surbaya.”

  “I’m sure she won’t qualify, sir,” Zimmerman said. Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as he thought. Just a little push in the right area.

  “Good, because hoping and crossing our fingers hasn’t worked well. I look forward to hearing from you soon,” Barclay said and cut the connection.

  * * *

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Tasmanian Smitty said as he entered Zimmerman’s office and assumed a parade rest stance. Tasmanians were a unique unit, having been granted separate rules and conventions because of their high-risk assignments. For example, Tasmanians saluted no one and no one saluted a Tasmanian.

  “Yes, Smitty, I understand you’re a team leader for the upcoming interrogation exercise for the current Tasmanian candidates,” Zimmerman said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you think of Miss Luan?” Zimmerman asked, watching Smitty’s face for a reaction.

  “Don’t know her, sir,”

  “But you’ve heard of her, right?” Zimmerman pressed.

  “I heard there’s a woman candidate this year.”

  “Well, the army’s senior officers believe it would degrade the Tasmanians’ image if a woman qualified. Not to mention the chaos if hundreds of women applied for admission to the Tasmanian school if she were to succeed,” Zimmerman said but noted no reaction from Smitty. “What do you think, Smitty?”

  “That’s way above my pay grade, Colonel. Besides, she hasn’t qualified yet.”

  Zimmerman smiled. “True, Smitty. And I want you to make sure she doesn’t.”

  “Is that an order sir?” Smitty asked, frowning.

  “From many pay levels above you and me,” Zimmerman said, implying he was merely a messenger. But in reality, he agreed with the order.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Planet: Delp
hi: Fort Shiva: Welcome to Hell

  “Now that you have had two weeks to rest, we have another exercise which should give you a feel for the life of a Tasmanian.” The chief’s smile was a sure indication it was something no one was going to like no matter how clever. We were loaded onto two combat shuttles and given a map. “The map shows your drop location and your extraction point. You have three days to get there or be left to find your way back to Fort Shiva,” the chief said after handing out the waterproof maps. “You can go it alone or partner with someone or join a group.” He looked to be straining not to laugh. Just then someone touched my arm. I reflexively grabbed the hand but released it when I saw it was Paul.

  “How would you like to partner with me?” he asked. “Two heads are better than one.”

  “Sounds like you don’t think the chief’s telling us all the good stuff,” I said, knowing they were planning something we wouldn’t like.

  “I think that’s all he told us. It’s the bad stuff that worries me.”

  “I think the bad stuff is the object of each exercise. The object is to see who they can break.”

  Paul nodded. “Interested?” he asked.

  “Sure. Although this time, I don’t think it will matter what we do. They aren’t looking for smart.” We sat in silence studying our new map. The elevation appeared flat with multiple streams and what might be small lakes.

  “It’s a swamp,” Paul whispered, leaning closer. “With lots of bugs and snakes and other not so nice things.”

  I nodded agreement. Those were exactly my thoughts. But that wasn’t enough to stop us, as the swamp looked like it could be crossed in a day if one wanted, but they were allowing three. “Traps and combatants,” I whispered. “They have no intention of us making it to the extraction point.”