by S. M. Nolan
Morton gave a toothy smile, “Not the same as live-fire, but I assume you can handle your nerves enough to stay alive.”
Maggie thought of the alleyway and tunnel afterward. “Uh…”
He thought on something, then shook it off, “We'll do a break-down first.”
For the first few minutes, he held the weapon up, named each part, then disassembled it to illustrate its mechanisms. He rebuilt it again with astounding speed.
“If it jams for some reason—not uncommon in dusty areas—best bet's to exchange it for your pistol. When you get to safety, break it down and clean it out.”
He broke the weapon down again to give maintenance tips, rebuilt it a second time before allowing her an attempt. She flew through the orientation, breathed relief after a successful breakdown and rebuild.
The Quartermaster seemed satisfied with her mechanical understanding. He shifted his instructions as he illustrated the firing and safety switches, “I wouldn't go full-auto—waste of ammunition. In these situations accuracy's more important.” He handed over a set of earplugs, fitted his own with a thumb. He projected to be heard, “It gets loud in here. The sound-waves have nowhere to go.”
He shouldered the rifle. Maggie thumbed in the ear-plugs.
He flicked the safety off, shouted, “Plant your feet! Shoulder the rifle. Take aim. Exhale. Squeeze.” He fired once. The sound startled Maggie's heart into a sprint. “You may need a few breaths before creating a proper rhythm to fire in succession.”
He fired several more times. Each round jolted her body less as her mind honed its control over her nerves. She overrode her natural fears with the desire to live, blocked out distractions as she'd been trained to.
“One more thing,” he said, holding the rifle at ease. “This weapon's no more deadly than when you're not paying attention to it. Just walking somewhere can kill someone if you trip and your finger's on the trigger, so hold it like this.”
His right clasped the four-finger grip, his index finger pressed firmly above the trigger. The fore-stock rested in his relaxed left hand, the barrel pointed at an angle toward the floor.
His face drew sympathy, “I know it's a lot to take in, but we don't have much time. Believe me, if given the choice, I'd never send you e into the field without proper training.”
Maggie was visibly appreciative of his candor, “Thanks.”
He passed the rifle over, “We'll try a few magazines with this, then test your side-arm.”
He stepped aside. She took a deep breath, raised the rifle, finger poised. She took aim, sighting a hanging target down-range. She breathed, fired once. The weapon recoiled as the bullet tore the target's edge.
“Little firmer on the grip,” he instructed, better positioning her. “Relax slightly. Too rigid and you won't absorb the recoil. Too loose and you'll lose control. Try again.”
She relaxed, breathed, fired again. The force quickly dissipated through her.
“Better. Finish the mag.”
Her tension lessened, nerves steeling against the rifle's barks. When the magazine clicked empty, she felt the spark within her. It had been present since she'd first held the TRP. It flickered somewhere deep, ignited an ember as if fueled by the oxygen of her breath.
Morton's words drew her away, “Change mag.”
She released the empty magazine, exchanged it for a full one, and racked a round. She exhaled, expended the second magazine with speed. Each round fed the ember, billowed more air to keep it alive.
The weapon clicked empty again and Morton drew back the target, exchanged it for a fresh one. He pointed out the two rounds he'd placed in the corners. The rest edged nearer and nearer to center-mass.
He was impressed, “Better than I've ever seen for a first timer—Hell, I know people who've been shooting all their lives and still can't pull that off.”
Maggie shrugged modestly, “Accuracy's important in my work.”
He laughed, “Just stay down, and only shoot when there's a clear chance. Most people killed died are too anxious to take a shot.”
“Stay down. Wait for the shot,” Maggie repeated feeling the inner-ember glow warm.
He smiled, “Now for that hip-cannon.”
She set the rifle aside, unholstered the TRP. As before Morton ran through the pieces, broke it down, then rebuilt it. He handed it over, the cold, stainless-steel heated the ember hotter.
She broke down the TRP, rebuilt it. The ember flared. He positioned Maggie's hands and body into a firm stance. Inner-flames sparked kindling as she was let loose on a fresh target. Each round came with a breath that fanned the fire. It burned hotter, stronger.
The weapon clicked empty. She reloaded, sent a second magazine sprinting from the barrel. Round-after-round ejected with a furious war-drum. The kindling became enveloped in flames, ignited by the pin-point precision tearing of paper. She felt the new fire sputter for life, coddled it with rhythmic breaths.
The TRP clicked empty a second time and she released the magazine. The Quartermaster reeled in the second target, in awe of its missing center-mass markings, “Christ, I ought'a frame that one.”
“Good?”
The Quartermaster laughed, slapped her on the back. She slid another magazine in with a smile, warmed by the fire growing within. It incubated something still dormant inside, but put her at ease. He loaded another target and she took aim again.
Across the airfield, She-La briefed Russell on the Omega strike-force in something reminiscent to a field pre-op. They were always a contrast with the laid-back briefings on the force; a dozen or so guys in a room sucking down coffee like water.
In war, the distant sounds and smells of death ever-infected the dry air before an insertion. A part of him wondered if he'd ever see the former again when She-La laid out five portraits in a line.
She-La focused his attention on the first picture; a blonde-haired, heavily jawed man, “Theodore Kurst. German National and former drifter-turned-thief before being jailed in the Czech Republic. Omega paid his way out in exchange for recruitment. His speech is limited to German, but—”
She Shifted to the next picture, an older-looking black man in a foreign military dress uniform.
She-La continued, “This man is his translator. Leftenant Robert Hoff. Born to a prostitute and a traveling business man whom took the boy from Amsterdam to England. He joined up with the Special Air Service after a brief stint in the Regular Army.
“British spec-ops,” Russel thought aloud. “Great.”
“Hoff was recruited by Omega after an early retirement from the S-A-S. He cites the cause as disloyalty from his Commanding Officers after misleading operational-Intel killed his team.”
Russell's eyes darted along a massive scar spanning left to right over Hoff's face, “Loyalty issues and now he works for shadows.”
“The irony is not lost,” She-La replied. She pointed to the next picture in line; a mugshot of a platinum-blond young man with a scowl, “Raiden Thorne. Chief technician and technical operations adviser. We suspect he heads their counter-intelligence and cyber-sabotage operations as well, but we have never confirmed it.”
He noted Thorne's expression, “Looks like a brat.”
She-La agreed, “His father is a political science professor and his mother has been in and out of jail for activism his whole life. I see nothing wrong with her views, but the way in which she's raised her son makes me question her true motives.”
“A radical?”
“Yes. Patricia Thorne is infamous in the mid-west for radical activism, but Raiden's recruitment leads one to question where her loyalties truly lie. Raiden was taken on after hacking the CIA's mainframe and replacing their personnel I-Ds with pornography.”
“You're kidding?” He asked seriously.
“No,” She replied with a stern face. “Do not let his obvious mischievousness fool you, he also stole several dossiers on deep-cover agents working against domestic terrorist groups which he intended to sell on the da
rknet. He is smart. Very smart. He was fifteen when he hacked the CIA's mainframe and was arrested by the FBI to be tried for treason in a closed court. A few months later, he escaped the juvenile detention center after his therapists admitted he might never re-enter society.”
Russell shook his head, “I'm guessing the story doesn't end there.”
Her head tilted, “Shortly before his trial, he escaped by hacking and remove himself from the federal databases, then returned home.”
Russell was skeptical, “That's it?”
She-La added with a scowl, “He also had the agent responsible for arresting him taken in on child-pornography charges—Images he remotely downloaded to the agent's P-C through the FBI's own servers. Needless to say, detection was swift.”
His face drew disgust, “Fuckin' prick.”
“To say he is petulant would be an understatement.” She pointed to the next image; a dark haired woman with a heavily muscled body. Her long figure and ample chest curved well beneath a tight, black t-shirt and baggy cargo pants tucked into combat boots.
“Sgt. Stephanie Reese: raised in Harrison, Ohio, joined the army through a falsified D-O-B at seventeen, discharged at twenty, and officially missing. Her parents were found murdered two years ago. She resurfaced for the funeral, but her status was never reconciled. She fights with an explosive temper, but seems the least personally invested in Omega. She is an expert marksman and enjoys the adrenaline of hand-to-hand combat.”
He shook off fatigue from the long day, “Just what I want to hear.”
He wanted it to end, wanted sleep, but the battle was just beginning. He would once more have to force his body to keep moving despite exhaustion and despair, fall back into his old mindset of survival, objectives, hardship.
It was his own fault it felt so difficult; he'd become too accustomed to civilian life. He identified as a Detective, not the eternal solider he was—the guardian sent where needed and “at-ease” otherwise. He'd joined the force to “protect and serve,” help the people. Maggie's presence was a direct result of it.
None of that could ever change his status as a guardian, a protector.
She-La placed her finger on the final image of a man from a downward angle, holding a rifle, “Strike-Commander, Lieutenant Sean West. A former Marine with a penchant for violence. Mentally disturbed. He was dishonorably discharged for assaulting a superior officer… three times.”
“Christ. 90 days in a holding cell, plus a court-martial—and a beating if you're on the wrong side of the argument.”
“He was,” she assured. “Omega presumably recruited him because of this. Little is known of his childhood. West was raised in an orphanage until he joined the Marines—which may have something to do with his heavy stimulant use. He is likely on amphetamines or cocaine. His appearance suggests a similar deterioration to such substances. His bearing in battle also supports this; I've personally seen him block-out multiple gunshot wounds. So long as he is regularly supplied by his handlers, he remains in control. Otherwise, he is a loose cannon.”
Russell understood, “A junkie looking for a fix.”
“Precisely.”
Maggie and the Quartermaster emerged from the shooting range as She-La crossed her arms at the table, “There is one other man we know of involved in Omega's dealings. Unfortunately, we know next to nothing about him.”
Russell straightened, hands on his hips, “Anything useful?”
“He goes by Mr. Black. We have no further identification available. He relays orders over a voice-modulated satellite uplink. We've intercepted the line but have never been equipped to track it. We suspect a major source of Omega's funding goes into maintaining these communications, so any information on him is of the highest priority.” Her voice darkened, “Should you come in contact, eliminate him at all costs.”
Russell saw in her eyes how deeply she meant it. He nodded slowly. Maggie appeared and She-La motioned the pair into the shack. The small building was crammed with lockers and tech-gear.
She-La fished through a locker for a stack of clothing, tossed it over before producing a pair of radios. Each was attached to small, curled wires with ear-pieces at their ends. Another wire split off for two, small speakers on an elastic band.
Russell recognized the contraptions, “Lash?” She-La nodded.
Maggie eyed the tangled masses, “What are they?”
“Radios,” Russell said. “Whispers are as loud as normal speech. It's useful for stealth. You slip it around your neck, and your voice-box vibrates the speakers.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
He agreed, “Most things are.”
“You will be using them from here on out,” She-La said. “Get dressed. You must depart soon.”
She left Russell and Maggie together. He cleared his throat awkwardly, “I guess I'll just turn around while you—”
Maggie was already down to her bra. The sight of a massive, brightly colored dragon on her back captivated him as it stretched and flexed over her muscled back. The dragon's face pulled taught between her shoulder blades, its tongue running up the edge of her neck toward her pony-tail with a sensual daring.
Maggie glanced back, “Oh grow up.”
“What?” He shook off a dull look. “No, I wasn't—I was looking at the art.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I mean—”
She bent to untie her shoes, “Russell?” He gave her a curious look. “Get dressed.”
He slipped from his clothes into a pair of black, cargo fatigues. Maggie finished dressing by sticking her arms through a pocketed, mesh-vest. She placed a black combat-boot on a chair to lace it up, caught sight of Russell's figure in her peripheral vision.
He stretched to retrieve his shirt, a muscled chest shining through above a slight paunch that had formed. A twinge of excitement trickled through her, but she swatted it away to evaluate a swatch of ink on his sculpted shoulder. She stepped over to examine it, stopped his progress with both hands that stretched the fading tattoo.
He shot her a look, but she was focused on the design: An eagle in attack-stance, its wings outstretched and its claws open with a set of dog-tags in its beak. The whole thing hung before a coat of arms with two crossed rifles beneath that framed italicized script.
She read it aloud, “Enim Pietasque et Humanitas.”
She ran a finger over the tattoo as Russell spoke, “For Duty and Humanity. Our unit motto.”
Maggie's professional curiosity got the best of her, “Who did it?”
“Guy in the unit worked on them before he enlisted,” he slid his arm away and into his shirt.
She straightened, stepped back, “You need to see him about a touch-up.”
“I would,” he draped a tac-vest over himself. “But he was killed during a patrol.”
Maggie's face blanked, “Oh. Sorry.”
“It's alright, I wasn't there. From what I was told, there was nothing that could've been done anyhow,” he said, seemingly at peace.
“I never expected to see ink on you.”
He adjusted his vest, “Most don't. But most people don't know what to make of me.”
“You ever want a touch up, let me know.”
He managed a smile, “Maybe I'll do that.”
“Maybe if we survive, I won't charge you,” she joked dryly.
She headed outside, her clothes in her arms and her pack on a shoulder. She met She-La beside the table, tossed her clothes in her bag, and dropped it on the ground.
“Are you prepared?” She-La asked, arranging magazines into separate stacks on the table.
“I don't know if yes is technically accurate.”
She-La sympathized, “I felt the same when I first joined.”
“How did you end up in all of this?”
She did her best to reply succinctly, “My parents are investors in military technology. It brought them into the fold.” She hand-loaded rifle-magazines from boxes across the table. Maggie helped intuitiv
ely. “Many years ago my father's ethical integrity was questioned. Most of his peers had become convinced he was a warmonger.”
“He's not?”
“No,” she replied monotonously. “My father emigrated to America to invest in pharmaceuticals. After he amassed a fortune, he turned toward long-term investments; weapons-manufacturers, technological innovators and the like.”
“Like National Defense contractors,” Maggie guessed.
“Somewhat. By the mid-eighties, computers had already been integrated heavily in civil defense. My father's foresight made him billions. It is how he met Ryusaki, but I digress.”
“I'm guessing that's when the character-assault began?” Maggie asked, finding tranquility in the mind-numbing task.
“Yes.” The shack opened and Russell threw his duffel bag beside the table, tossed aside his empty pack. “With money came the image of malevolence. Under this impression, Omega attempted to recruit him. He declined and they sent an assassin after him.”
“But the Order intervened.”
“Yes, and as the only child not to follow my father's footsteps, my mind is not clouded with greed.”
Russell caught wind of the conversation and the women's task, began loading magazines.
“So the Order recruited him?”
“Yes, but not as with us,” She-La replied as she started on a second stack of rifle magazines. She passed a stack of pistol magazines to Russell, “My father's money is of great use to the Order. We rely on information trading to procure supplies and equipment—things that require incalculably vast sums at times. My father, like others, willingly funnels money to the Order in exchange for protection. These various transactions appear in company records, but occasionally disappear immediately after. He knows nothing of the workings of the Order beyond what I have told him.”
“So, how'd you end up involved?” Russell specified.
“As I said, my mind is unclouded. While running book-keeping for my father, I saw that large sums had disappeared. I confronted my father and accused him of embezzlement. In order to clear his name, he told me what he knew. Later, Miramoto came to me, recommended by my father, and involved me as Ryusaki has you. I was given a choice to join the Order or be killed for what I knew.”