The Black Guard: Book II: Evolution (Black Guard Series 2)

by C. R. Daems

  "They're ready, Captain."

  I nodded to Currin and Bittner and walked through the open bay.

  A door to the inside corridor banged open and a man with an Mfw in his hands stepped through.

  I fired, hitting him in the faceplate before he could bring his weapon to bear on me.

  The barrel of a gun poked past the edge of the door.

  I waited until a head peeked from around the corner, and hit him in the head with a shot. I ran to the door and scanned the hallway. It was empty.

  "What now?" I asked the two men behind me. They looked at the two raiders with their faceplates splattered with paint and then at me with open mouths. Finally Currin spoke.

  "Normally, we would go first and the troops would provide us cover."

  "All right, go. I'll provide your cover," I said, stepping out into the corridor. Currin and Bittner slid in front of me and began a slow walk while scanning the area with handheld devices.

  About thirty meters later, the barrel of a weapon poked through an open door.

  "Stop," I said softly in my headset. The two froze. I waited patiently for a head to appear. When it did, I fired, scoring a direct hit. No one else appeared. I walked to within several meters of the door, then ran past the door, firing two shots at the two individuals I could see as I passed.

  They fired, but only after I had passed the door. It takes the mind a second or two to react, even when you are prepared to act.

  Before the referee could check the two I had fired at, I slid into the room and shot the man who it looked like I might only have wounded.

  He fired at the same time I did but waist high, hitting the referee in the chest.

  I rose while the referee, a sergeant, was shouting at the corporal who shot him, and waved Currin and Bittner forward.

  They dismantled two traps as we moved through the crews' quarters. When I entered the weapons compartment, it appeared empty, but there was a lot of equipment and partially hidden areas.

  I was about a quarter into the room when four men rose, standing some five meters apart.

  I didn't attempt to move, just fired at them from left to right. I hit all four in the kill zone, but the last one managed to shoot simultaneously with me and two of the five bullets from his spray hit me, one in the arm and one in the kill zone.

  The referee noted the kills, then pronounced me alive again.

  Bittner found a trap just before the entrance to the environmental section, which left us exposed in the hallway.

  As he worked on dismantling the device, two men rushed into the hallway. They were dead before they could bring their weapons to bear on me, but one did manage to fire a burst and one pellet did strike my leg. A third man's hands appeared with an Mfw.

  Thinking he was just going to spray the area and hope to get lucky, I shot his hand and the weapon with two successive shots.

  The referee ruled I hadn't been killed this time, only wounded.

  I killed two more as we continued working our way through mostly empty sections. I estimated there were six more waiting in the merchant's cargo area, based on the number I had encountered so far.

  When we reached the entrance, I signaled to Bittner to open the door, and I flung one flash star after another into the room and turned away and covered my eyes. I smiled at the cacophony of weapons firing simultaneously and the impact of paint bullets hitting walls, doors, and occasionally a person. On the count of five, I slid into the room, located individuals, and delivered killing shots to the head. I had received paint splatter but no wounds or killing shots.

  "That's damn sneaky, Captain," Sergeant Nagy said with a toothy grin. "I want a case of those on our next boarding. I still can't see clearly."

  "Don't rub your eyes. It will wear off within ten minutes so long as you don't rub them." I followed the referee back to the bay and out. When I walked out with my uniform splattered with color, I got a lot of laughs and clapping.

  When everyone had assembled, the referees recounted the action in each section and the kills.

  "That was certainly impressive, Captain. Is the Talon class supposed to teach the candidates how to shoot like the Black Guard?" Colonel Odelia asked. I had the feeling he was playing devil's advocate, stating the question everyone had on his or her mind.

  "No. Although it's possible, it would take years of practice. No, I would like to change the present mindset from spray-and-hope to one-shot-only."

  "What do you mean?" Alaniz asked.

  "Today when you qualify on the range, you shoot in bursts. If one of the ten bullets hits in the kill zone, then you consider that a hundred percent. I want Talons to consider they missed nine times out of ten."

  "Why? They killed the opponent."

  "If the opponent is willing to stand still and not fire when you shoot at him, then yes you will have killed the opponent. But your opponent is moving in and out of compartments and shooting back. In that case, only the first bullet or maybe the second count. The other eight or nine are a waste of ammo. And if you are both shooting, the winner will be the one whose killing bullet is the first of the burst of ten. For the army fighting out in the open, bursts are adequate. But inside a building or ship, only the first bullet counts. If you miss, your enemy gets a turn. I want Talons to consider the first bullet the only one that counts."

  * * *

  I stood with Colonel Berger in front of one hundred marines from the third Airborne Marine Division, which Berger commanded.

  "This is Captain Sapir of the Black Guard. Most of you know her or are familiar with her or have heard stories about her. She will be certifying ten of you to be on the first Talon Team—the team that enters the enemies' ship first and kicks ass. The program is voluntary, so those that aren't interested in proving they are the best of the best can leave," Berger said to hoots and laughs. He then nodded to me.

  "We're not looking to create an old Japanese Kamikaze group to storm the enemy ship in a suicide frenzy, but an elite group with special training to help minimize injuries and deaths. We will start with a competition to select the twenty who will constitute the first class from which the first team will be selected."

  I clicked on my Mfi and sent a list with each individual's scheduled times.

  "Your communications should have the times for each of you to report to the firing range this afternoon. There will be three rounds. The first round will be untimed shooting at standing targets. Those judged qualified will go to the second round, where the target will be moving or partially hidden and the exercise will be timed. The third round will be a combination of standing, partially hidden, and moving targets—but with you shooting from the hip or waist. The best twenty or so will start class tomorrow."

  The smiling faces had disappeared for the most part as they realized qualifying wasn't going to be easy.

  * * *

  "I'm embarrassed," Berger said, shaking his head. "We're so used to automatic weapons delivering bursts of ten projectiles per second that people have forgotten to aim. They watch the stream of metal and direct it to the target. Most are having a terrible time hitting the target."

  "It's a mentality that I need to change for the Talon team. In the open, firing in a burst works, but inside a structure with doors and rooms it means you miss a lot, so your opponent gets more opportunities to shoot back. It's just fortunate your opponent is also relying on bursts."

  Berger laughed. "This is long overdue, Sapir. General Lerman is right calling you the agent of change. I hear we are going to get Black Guard shuttles to maintain and crew for you."

  "Yes, maintaining, flying, and operating the systems is more your expertise. No reason for us to try and develop it any more than marines should train to guard clients inside buildings."

  "Or out," Berger added. "Inter-group cooperation. Maybe the idea will catch on. General Isaac certainly likes it. Why shooting from the waist?" he asked, shaking his head as he watched projectiles hitting almost everything except the targets.


  "Takes less time. If a person peeks out of a doorway, by the time you raise your weapon his head is gone."

  "Makes sense. Let's get something to eat and drink. It's going to be a long night grading those targets."

  Berger was right. It took us over twelve hours to select the twenty-two I felt had the potential to qualify, which at this point I had no idea what constituted qualifying. In fact, the twenty-two candidates would determine that—the best ten would be qualified.

  * * *

  "You have been determined to be the best of the hundred, but before you pat yourselves on the back, the results weren't impressive."

  "I guess you can do better," a staff sergeant said with a sneer.

  Berger looked ready to say something but stopped when I shook my head.

  "That is not a criticism of you as individuals but of your qualifying criteria, training, and automatic weapons. We're going to start by developing qualifying criteria."

  "You don't have qualifying criteria? Sounds like you don't know what you're doing," said a master sergeant.

  Berger looked ready to skin him alive but said nothing.

  "I know what I'd like, but it is going to depend upon what I can reasonably expect from you. Follow me and I'll give you an example of what I mean."

  I led them to the firing line, where Yarden had set targets based on a configuration I had outlined. The targets ranged from fifteen to thirty meters away; none of the targets had more than parts of bodies showing; half were stationary and half bobbed in and out.

  The candidates stood there with their mouths open, eyes wide, and deathly quiet.

  "In the ideal, qualifying should require you to hit each target in the kill or disable zone with no more than a two-second delay between targets."

  That produced groans and mumbling to the effect of that's impossible.

  "No, that is not impossible, and Colonel Berger should expect the Talon team to achieve that result in a year or two." I waved toward Yardan, who smiled. "Captain Yarden has created a timed exercise which he hasn't shared with me. When …" I looked around and pointed. "Master Sergeant Sayre waves to him, he will start the routine." I nodded to Yarden and all the targets lit.

  When I stepped to the firing line, the lights went off. I waited, my mind quiet. A light flashed on one target some thirty-meters away and a second later, a man's head and shoulders appeared with an Mfw. I shot him in the head. Two seconds later, a target fifteen meters away lit. It had an automatic weapon and a hand sticking out from a door. I shot the hand. The exercise continued for less than a minute and included fifteen targets. When I finished, I let the group walk around and inspect the targets.

  "Do you really expect marines to duplicate that performance?" Berger asked.

  "I expect the First Talon team to work toward that goal. It may take a year or two, but that is the goal."

  * * *

  The group had target practice every morning, and in the afternoon we spent time talking about their boarding experiences, and I talked about various methods of entering a room or area. Most of the options were team efforts with two or three members involved. Three weeks into the training, I introduced them to our flash stars.

  "You have to do more than just close your eyes. The light from one of these will burn through your eyelids and blind you almost as effectively as if they were open." I said, knowing at least half of the remaining fifteen candidates didn't believe me. We were currently inside a large compartment on a merchant ship.

  "Close your eyes and count to ten." I threw a flash star at the wall as I turned away and covered my eyes with my arm. I counted to ten. "Open your eyes, but don't rub them. Rubbing makes it worse." I watched everyone blinking their eyes and wanting desperately to rub them as water streamed from them. "Sorry, but better here than when you are facing an enemy."

  Two weeks later after a meal at the officer's club, I was half way to my assigned quarters when six marines suddenly confronted me.

  Staff Sergeant Fierro stepped forward.

  "Recognize me, Captain?" he said, his lip curled in a sneer. "I'm one of those you didn't think good enough to be in your teach the marines to be men class. Personally, I think the Black Guard are cowards who were scared to be marines, so they kissed the instructors' asses so they would be transferred to the Guard. Why? So they could stand around guarding doors and hallways and shoot innocent intruders rather than have to face them in honest combat. In fact, I've bet these real marines a thousand credits I'm right."

  He waved at the three men and two women standing a few meters behind him.

  The looks on their faces varied from excited to curious to nervous.

  I had expected something like this and had felt fortunate that to date it had mostly been snide comments and even those had lessened over time. But Staff Sergeant Fierro felt insulted when I had dismissed him and two others. They were too aggressive which caused them to be careless and to rely on firing in bursts to hit the kill zone.

  "Since I imagine the wager is one way—you agreed to pay them if I'm not a coward—why don't I just admit I am and you win?" I said, wanting to get back to my quarters and to bed. The training exercises each day were long and tiring.

  "See! She's dying to draw her weapon but knows she can't. She's scared shitless." He laughed, his voice growing excited. "Here's the deal, Captain." He reached down and drew out a standard twenty-five centimeter survival knife out of his boot and took a crouching stance. "You either engage me hand-to-hand proving you aren't a coward, or you draw your laser and prove you are." He stood there waving the knife back and forth and smiling, eyes wide with excitement.

  I emptied my mind as I did for a Wuji match, with no thought of winning or losing.

  He approached slowly; his smile fading as he neared and I hadn't moved. He gave two quick slashes toward me—face then chest—which I ignored as they were obviously feints several centimeters short of touching me. As the slashing across my chess finished waist high, he stopped the downward strike and lunged at my groin.

  As he did, I twisted right. My right arm extended downward to keep his thrust from changing direction.

  But he moved with the speed of a seasoned marine. His knife ripped through my clothing and would have cut me if it hadn't been for my protective underwear.

  As I twisted right, my left fist slammed into his temple.

  His momentum carried him forward two steps before he stumbled to his knees.

  I picked up the knife he had dropped when he fell.

  "Tell Sergeant Fierro he can retrieve his knife from Colonel Berger in the morning," I said as I continued walking toward my quarters.

  The five parted quickly to give me free access.

  * * *

  The months came and went without further incident. At the end of three months, I got with Colonels Berger and Odelia and Captain Yarden.

  "I believe the current twelve candidates have passed the class and qualify as a Talon Team. They need improvement, but that will come with practice and time. I've put together a manual of the training and think Captain Yarden and Gunny Alaniz could teach the next course. And I think Commander Wexler would be willing to send down a Black Guard to do the shooting demo for the candidates."

  Berger and Odelia agreed and invited General Lerman down for a demo the next day. And that night the First Talon Team threw me a going away party—more like a roast where they shared their thoughts and comments and curses during the training. It was a fun time. They had become close family over the months.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Draco: The War Games.

  "General Lerman and the JCC are very pleased with the First Talon Team, FIST for short, and the class you developed. Everyone agrees it will save lives. The JCC has authorized a FIST on each Jax cruiser. From some of the comments I've heard, it has also eased some of the natural tension marines have toward the Guard." Wexler sat back, awaiting my response.

  "I just hope it saves lives. The boarding teams are courageous and talented, b
ut they rely too much on automatic weapons and overwhelming force. It works but results in too many casualties."

  "Yes, it's too easy to dismiss the casualties as necessary because it achieves the goal. Even I questioned your separation of duty and tradition." He smiled, then handed me a folder. "These are the specifications for the new Black Guard shuttles. Captain Blatt wanted you to review them before he gave them his final approval. I think the Black Guard shuttle is a perfect show of inter-service cooperation: the navy will maintain it, the marines will crew it, and the Black Guard will use it." He laughed. "He knows you were involved in its design with his and Colonel Gerber's people but felt you should have one last chance to comment before it went into production."

  "Have you reviewed it, sir?" I asked, feeling he should be the one to approve it, not me.

  "Yes. I like it. A wolf hiding in sheep's skin—comfortable but deadly."

  "If you have no objections, I'd like to discuss it with the other dragons. They might see something I missed."

  "Good idea. Never hurts to get as much input as possible."

  * * *

  Hada was on assignment, but Tzadok and Dobrin loved the idea and dubbed it the Black Widow. They had a few suggestions which I thought were useful. Not only wouldn't they impact the overall design, but they also would be easy to incorporate.

  After Hada and my last after-action leave, I had taken to exchanging video messages with the monk Abhaya and decided to spend a few days with him in Tagar City where he presided over a Buddhist Church. I wasn't sure what I hoped to accomplish or what I was searching for if anything, but I enjoyed my conversations with Choje Abhaya. He had a serenity that I could feel when in his presence.

  "What are you seeking, Rivka?" Abhaya asked as we sat eating a vegetarian meal he had prepared for us. I had attended his daily services and spent hours talking with him about life.

  "I think I'm seeking to see life clearly, to be at peace with the world," I said, not sure what that meant exactly. It was just a feeling.

  He laughed.

  "Sorry, I'm not laughing at you. I think that may be every Buddhist's dream—to be enlightened. You walk a difficult path with some dexterity, Rivka. Before meeting you, I would have said it was impossible for someone in the Jax military to be a Buddha—enlightened—yet you are making remarkable progress."