The simulators looked and felt just like the battle armor, although the weight load could be adjusted. Dean strapped on the heavy simulation vest and started in a crouched position, his back to the enemy, and learned how to use the gun's controls via the battle helmet. It was essential, his trainers impressed upon him, to learn to shoot well in the manual mode. The computer-assisted aiming helped when targeting enemies at range, or in swarming situations, but the computer's capabilities were limited.
"If a damn computer could do the work, we wouldn't need you," said Staff Sergeant Barnes, a marksmanship expert from Texas. His accent was thick. "That little computer in your helmet is no match for the God-given intelligence we selected you for. Use your brain, find the target, make a clean shot, and move on. The computer is only useful in the right conditions, and that means full spectrum of light, and very little outside influence on trajectory. The computer can't make the adjustments on the fly that your brain specializes in."
Dean understood that a computer could only factor certain data. It might be able to read the distance, gravitational rate, wind conditions, etc., but it expected each bullet to be fired from a perfectly still position and for the projectile to fly at optimum specifications every time. Dean understood that just breathing could throw off the computer's aim, and that it didn't take his condition into account when timing its shot.
"Take your time," the instructor insisted. "Take a breath and hold it, then fire. Make every shot count. You may have to wait for a lull in the attack if your enemy is impacting your armor."
The lecture went on as the trainees, nearly a dozen including Dean, fired their simulation rounds at targets using the computerized system. It took Dean all day just to get used to operating the computer controls. He had no trouble seeing and actually shooting static targets, but cycling the different ammunition loads and changing the rate of fire was difficult to master at the level of speed his instructors insisted on.
The next day the simulations increased in variety, with different types of creatures being summoned by the computer for Dean to shoot at. And they weren't static targets, but moving, animalistic aliens. Their growls and yelps could be heard in Dean's battle helmet, as if he were actually being confronted with the extraterrestrial creatures. All the while Staff Sergeant Barnes' voice could be heard giving instruction.
"You have to lead that creature, Blaze. Anticipate its movement."
"You're dead Blaze, and there's a hole in your defensive line. The entire platoon is being slaughtered because you can't choose the right ammunition!"
"Look for the weakness, aim small! You can't take down a creature that size with a single shot!"
The simulations were fun, but left Dean mentally weary. He worked through his frustration and stress by lifting weights. The officers had a much smaller fitness area in their Quonset hut, which Dean was thankful for. Lifting with the Heavy Armor trainees would have been too intimidating. In some ways Dean was a little envious of their oversized physiques, but he knew that keeping up that size, strength, and stamina would only be a burden to him. He had learned enough about his job in OTA to know that a portion of his time would be spent managing his platoon, and sending in regular reports to his superiors on everything from their equipment and supplies to full debriefs after engagements with hostile life forms on other worlds.
By the third day the simulations included the effects of attacks against the Heavy Armor troops. Dean's back plate thumped from projectiles impacting him in the simulation. Some were ejected from the aliens' bodies, while others were simply heavy objects that were picked up and hurled at him from creatures that looked like monsters straight out of a horror film. Dean had to adjust his tactics as the enemies moved around him, some charging, others evading his attack.
There were simulations with large, four-legged creatures that looked almost like elephants. Dean had to change his ammunition loads as a large herd of the creatures moved toward him and his simulated platoon. The basic flechette projectiles could hit the creatures at two hundred feet, but the carbon fiber darts, while able to pierce the creatures’ thick hide, were not able to stop them. The best tactic was hitting the creatures with concussion grenades, which would knock them off their feet and usually resulted in the downed alien being trampled to death by the creatures behind it. Dean then had to switch to the shotgun ammunition as the beasts closed with his platoon. The concentrated blasts of dozens of tiny flechettes with each shot fired at close range tore chunks from the hulking creatures and could be used even when the beasts were trying to run the platoon over. Dean was amazed that his armor could withstand the charging creatures. It wasn't easy, but as the beasts pressed against him, he held his place and continued firing.
"You've had a busy week," Captain Anderson said that evening as he joined Dean for evening chow. "I looked over your performance reports. Five stars across the board."
"That's good," Dean said. "I feel like I'm just trying to keep my head above water."
"Just remember, your goal is to get a good understanding of each specialty. You don't have to master their skills. As long as you know their capabilities, you'll be fine. Think of it as a movie director. It isn't your job to sew costumes, build the sets, set up lighting, or even do the actual camera work. There are specialists for each of those jobs. You have to motivate your men, manage the mission, and carry out your orders. You can do that."
"Yeah, I think so," Dean said. "What's on the slate for tomorrow, more sims?"
"No, tomorrow you have liberty," Anderson said with a smile. "The perks of rank, you know."
"Liberty?" Dean said, not even sure what that was.
"You've been training non-stop for two months," Anderson said with a chuckle. "You've earned a little down time. From 0500 tomorrow until 2300 the following day, you have the freedom to do whatever you want. San Diego is a big place, so be careful."
"Maybe I should stay on the island," Dean said.
"It's your weekend, do what you want. But if you want my advice, Hampton Beach is the place to go. It's a regular hangout for EsDef, and the local girls are very friendly."
Chapter 15
Dean had considered sleeping in, but he was so excited that he was up before dawn and decided to get some breakfast at the officers’ mess before leaving the base to explore his newfound freedom. After eating he was met by an EsDef lieutenant who escorted him to the admin building. In less than an hour Dean was issued an official EsDef personnel fob which showed his rank, current station, and was linked to his official bank account with the Planetary Finance Group, the sanctioning body which monitored currency and exchange rates across all 45 human colonies.
He had money but no clothes for the beach, so Dean set out at a fast walk to the main entrance to the base. There were taxis just outside the gate. Dean climbed into one and told the driver where he wanted to go. Hampton Beach wasn't far from the EsDef base, and it only took the taxi a few minutes to make the trip. Dean swiped his new fob under the reader and paid the fee, leaving a small tip and climbing quickly out of the taxi.
The main road across the island ran behind a string of storefronts that faced the ocean. There was a long wooden boardwalk that fronted the stores on one side and a sandy beach on the other. There were already people milling around the beach, some spread out on blankets and towels, others playing games like volleyball and throwing Frisbees. There were people out in the water, some splashing in the waves, others surfing on long boards and boogie boards. There was a feeling of freedom and fun on the beach and Dean wanted to soak it all in.
He found a swim supply store and bought himself a pair of trunks, flip flops, and a beach towel. The girl working the counter was Dean’s age, with blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a golden tan that made Dean think of suntan lotion commercials.
"You EsDef?" she asked.
Dean nodded as he sat his purchases on the counter.
"What gave it away?"
"The haircut,” she giggled. "And, no offense,
but you're a bit pale for this part of California."
"Maybe I can change that this weekend."
"I'm sure you'll have fun trying," she said. "EsDef gets a fifteen percent discount on all purchases. And we thank you for your service."
Dean smiled and swiped his fob, paying for his swimwear before asking a question.
"Can I change in your dressing room?"
"Please do," the cashier said. "Is this your first time to Hampton?"
"Yes ma'am."
She smiled at his polite reply. "Be sure you stop by Hooties. They have the best shrimp on the island. If you grab dinner there, maybe I'll see you."
"You eat there?" Dean asked.
"I work there. I wait tables."
"Oh," Dean said, feeling a little embarrassed. "I'll give it a try."
After changing he went out onto the beach, reveling in the cool breeze rolling in off the ocean. He found an empty spot and spread out his new towel. He felt a little self-conscious until he heard a familiar voice behind him.
"Ensign Blaze," said Staff Sergeant Barnes in his unmistakable southern drawl. "Your first trip to the beach?"
"Since I was a kid," Dean said.
"Well, you don't have enough time to learn to surf. How about volleyball? You play?"
"A little."
"Come on, we'll take on the locals and show 'em what EsDef officers are made of."
Dean got quickly to his feet and spent the next four hours playing beach volleyball. He wasn't as good as the other officers and NCOs, but their skill made up for his novice abilities. They kept pace with a group of college-age players that were obviously locals. They had much longer hair, lean physiques that were softer than the soldiers’, and dark tans. Dean could tell they were taking it easy on the group from Coronado, but the laughter was contagious and after a few hours, Dean was happier than he had been since reporting for training. There was a bond between the EsDef personnel, a camaraderie that made Dean feel accepted and even a little important.
They bought hot dogs from a cart and drank sodas on the beach, watching the surfers out in the deeper water. Dean was more than happy to just while away the afternoon, soaking in the sunshine and people watching.
There were plenty of EsDef personnel at the beach. Dean soon learned to recognize them. Even the women from the base carried themselves differently, their hair shorter and their swimwear more modest. There were families at the beach as well, the children building sand castles and splashing in the waves. Dean watched them all, marveling at his good fortune. His parents had taken a family vacation to the beach once. It had not been a very relaxing holiday. The hotel was not what it was advertised to be, the beach seemed hard, almost like cement, and the water was brown. The Southern California experience was completely different. The water was beautiful, the people friendly, the beach soft and warm under his feet.
The other members of the small group Dean had been accepted into spent most of the afternoon telling stories. Staff Sergeant Barnes was a former Sniper with eight years of off world experience. His marksmanship caught the eye of someone, who recommended him for training on other specialties, which he excelled at. Eventually he was promoted to senior NCO and given training duties at Coronado.
Lieutenant Becca Hargraves was an Operator, a systems engineer in charge of keeping the simulations used by the Recon trainees up to date. Dean could see that there was more than a little friendless between Hargraves and Barnes. She had cold, gray eyes, and an athlete's build, but she laughed easily and was good on the volleyball court.
Petty Officer Jonas Bergman was on the food development team, creating new recipes for shipboard chow. He also helped to develop the training regime for the culinary services in the EsDef Navy. In some ways Jonas reminded Dean of Orvil, but Bergman was working hard to impress the fourth member of their group and Dean couldn't imagine Orvil having to work so hard at catching someone's attention.
Esma, short for Esmerelda, Dante, was a captain who trained troop transport operators. Where Becca was thick through the shoulders, with narrow hips and long legs, Esma had short, thick legs. Her upper body was full figured but not fat and she possessed long, delicate fingers. She alone of all the officers in Dean's group looked at home on the beach, with naturally brown skin that made Dean self-conscious about his own pale complexion. She had dark hair and brown eyes, with an exotic presence that was undeniably alluring. Dean had to force himself not to stare at the captain. He couldn't gauge how old she was, but he guessed she was at least five years his senior and was the only officer who kept silent about her past. The one thing Dean knew for certain about Esma was that she was a new transfer to Coronado, having only been at the base a few weeks longer than Dean himself.
As evening set in, they watched the sun set into the ocean, then the group set off to find dinner. Jonas was adamant that they try a Thai restaurant that had recently opened, but when Dean saw Hooties he excused himself from the group and went instead into the open-air, pub-style eatery. The hostess was friendly and it wasn't until Dean approached the woman that he realized he didn't know the name of the blond girl who had waited on him at the swim shop.
"Just one?" the hostess said with a frown. "Do you want a seat at the bar?"
"Actually," Dean said, trying not to feel embarrassed but throwing caution to the wind, "I met a girl today. She has long, blond hair. Works at the swim shop up the boardwalk."
"Miranda," the hostess said with a knowing smile. "You want to be seated in her section?"
"If I can, yes ma'am."
The hostess nodded and led him to a table with a view of the ocean. He couldn't see much in the darkness, mainly just the light reflecting off the water as it lapped at the shoreline, and out in the distance the light from freighters. He didn't have to wait long. Miranda looked different in her serving uniform, dark pants, a colorful Hawaiian shirt, and her hair pinned up on top of her head. She smiled as she approached.
"Hey, I know you," she said.
"You should go into marketing," Dean said. "Your recommendation won me over."
"Well, the shrimp really is superb. I like it grilled the best, with spicy jerk sauce and asparagus."
"Sold again," Dean said. "I'll try it."
"You want a beer too?"
"No, just a Coke. I'm Dean by the way."
"Miranda," she said, pointing to the name tag on her shirt.
"Yeah, I know."
"Were you checking up on me, soldier?"
"I may have asked a little bit. I just wanted to make sure I saw you again."
"Well, I may have to throw in a dessert since you're being so sweet."
She hurried off to input his order. The restaurant was busy, but not too crowded. Dean sat back in his chair and tried not to stare at Miranda as she waited on other customers. Captain Parker's words echoed in his mind. They weren't supposed to fall in love, they were the wolf, hunting in the cold reaches of space, guarding the borders of humanity's territory. But there was no rule against having a little fun, even if he knew he might never see Miranda once his training ended.
Chapter 16
Dean stayed at the restaurant until it closed. Miranda had been right about the shrimp, it was delicious, but he finished eating long before the restaurant served its last customers of the evening. Dean kept up a steady flirtation with the girl, smiling and talking whenever she had the time to stop at his table. When he left he went for a walk along the boardwalk, enjoying the cool night air and the feeling of being alone on the magnificent beach. Not that he was alone, there were other people, mostly couples, walking on the beach in the moonlight. Dean couldn't help but look up at the stars in the sky and think about his future. One day, he would be among those stars, facing unimaginable beings. In comparison the ocean seemed small.
When he got back to the restaurant the servers were just leaving, and Miranda saw him. She met him on the boardwalk with a smile.
"You're still here," she said.
"I thought maybe you mig
ht be up for a walk," he said.
"Actually, I've been on my feet all night," she said. "But my apartment has a hot tub that's calling my name. Would you like to join me?"
“Sure," Dean said.
He hailed a taxi which drove them to small but well maintained apartment building. Miranda went up the stairs and changed into a bathing suit, while Dean sat at an outdoor table near the pool. There were no other residents using the facilities and when Miranda came downstairs she was wearing a modest one-piece swimsuit and flip flops. She carried two towels.
The hot water of the spa was relaxing and Dean sat close to Miranda, looking at the palm trees swaying in the wind. He couldn't believe he was actually in a hot tub with a girl as beautiful as Miranda. She had oval-shaped eyes that turned down at the outside corners, and the blue irises seemed to sparkle when they reflected the soft, outdoor lighting around the pool area.
"This is a nice place," Dean said.
"It's not really a happening complex. Most of the residents are older. My parents own it. Along with the swim shop, and a few other businesses around town."
"Wow! That's cool. So you live here for free?"
"Live... work... it’s sort of a family-owned business. My brother is the manager here."
"My parents both work at the local hospital in my hometown."
"They're doctors?"
"My mom's a nurse, my dad's the hospital administrator. It's nothing exciting like on the television shows."
"Well, it seems you're branching out. Are you an EsDef Operator?"
"No," Dean smiled. "Recon."
It was the first time that Dean had ever felt like his job, or anything about his life for that matter, was impressive. Everyone knew the reputation of OWR, they were the tip of the spear, humanity’s warriors. Recon soldiers stood between the unknown dangers of outer space and the rest of mankind.
"Oh, I thought that maybe you were stationed here."
We Are The Wolf: Wolfpack Book 1 Page 8