Core of Steel

by J. B. Havens

  Phillips was frowning as hard as I’d ever seen him, putting his face closer and closer to his target. I peered around him and saw what he was staring at so intently. He had an excellent grouping, maybe two and a half inches, but one hole was just to the right with a tiny space of paper between it and the other shots. Lost by an eighth of an inch. Poor bastard. I gave him a pat on the back, which he shrugged off, making me laugh. He sure could pout with the best of them.

  Next up was Jordon. I broke into a smile at seeing his target. Perfect. A text book two-inch group, dead center.

  “Excellent job, Corporal. Let me know how watch is tonight, though.” Surprise flashed on his face as I pointed to my own target. I untacked it and placed it over top of his lining up the black circles perfectly so they could all see that while Jordon’s group was perfect, mine was better, smaller by almost a half inch. Not much in general, but when you’re talking thirty rounds in the same place, it may as well be a mile.

  “Fucking hell,” he whispered almost under his breath.

  “I told you man, Mic is the best shot we have besides Jones. She could be a sniper if she’d sit still long enough,” Pierce said, clasping Jordon, who was still shaking his head, on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, our Mic has to be in the thick of the action. Crazy broad,” Flynn added.

  “You know it, Flynn. Someone has to watch your ass,” I said, grinning.

  “You just like checking me out,” Flynn said, as he stuck his butt out and shook it back and forth.

  “I’m going blind!” I yelled, covering my eyes in fake horror. Pierce almost doubled over laughing until Flynn shoved him and he fell over.

  “That’s enough, boys. Everyone police your brass.” We all went back to the firing line and picked up as many empty shells as we could find.

  “Why didn’t you go with the M4 Jordon?” Phillips asked him, piling his handful of brass onto the table in front of him.

  “The MP5 is lighter and I didn’t think I’d need the infrared battle sights.” He wiped a rag over the barrel and trigger guard. “I like the forward-mounted sights and the rear-mounted combat sight; but for training, I figured the MP5 was going to be the better shot. Its removable suppressor and compact design made it the obvious choice for me.”

  “What you need is one of these.” Flynn un-holstered his Sig Sauer and handed it to Jordon, butt first. “See the engraving on the side? It’s my name and rank, along with the Steel insignia. We all have one of these babies. Mic got them for us last Christmas. Our pervious mission had gone totally FUBAR; I almost crashed the fucking Black Hawk. We all made it home alive and she made sure we had these beauties under the tree.”

  “May I?” Jordon went into a standard firing stance, aiming at the closest target. I looked him over; he was balanced on the balls of his feet, elbows bent at about ninety degrees in opposite directions. His shoulders were hunched over, putting the side arm close to his center of gravity. Textbook form.

  Flynn nodded. “Sure, Jordon. Go for it. When you get a hard-on, we’ll be nice and not pick on you about it.” Jordon didn’t respond, just took a breath and fired. Hitting the target with deadly accuracy.

  “Nice shot, Jordon,” I told him, pulling my M9 quickly and firing as well. I fired three shots as fast as I could pull the trigger, each round hitting the target, forming a neat square with the holes.

  “The Sig Sauer is amazing; but I like my M9, its fits my hand better than a Sig.” The M9 is pretty special. Not only is it nearly impervious to heat, cold, water, and sand; it also has interchangeable parts. If you’ve got three different M9’s you can disassemble them, mix up the parts, let them sit on the ocean bottom for a week, reassemble them and still fire accurately.

  “Fucking Mic, always showing off,” Phillips said as he pulled his shotgun off his back. He jacked a shell and blew the whole target into little paper bits, which were quickly scattered by the wind. Rubbing his hand over his perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, he smirked at us.

  “Fucking Phillips, always over-compensating,” Jones chimed in, right on cue. Extending the bi-pod legs on his sniper rifle, he propped himself on the wooden bench in a prone firing position. Sliding back the bolt, he loaded a single round.

  “This has turned into a major dick measuring contest, hasn’t it?” Pierce commented.

  “You’re just upset that you fall short,” Jones said over his shoulder before taking aim and blowing a giant hole in a tree. The tree gave a loud creeeek…and promptly fell over.

  “Can’t compete with a sniper on the shooting range. No fucking way,” Pierce said, rubbing both hands over the dark fuzz that was his excuse for hair.

  “Ah Pierce, don’t take it to heart buddy. Do you need a hug?” Flynn moved to Pierce, arms wide as if to grab him in a giant man hug.

  “Fuck off, Flynn. Take your hugs somewhere else.” Pierce shoved Flynn hard enough that he landed on his ass in the dirt.

  “Pierce! Don’t deny our love!” Flynn whined with his hands held over his heart, his bright blue eyes pleading in a way that would put a puppy to shame.

  “Enough,” I tried to sound stern but laughter was leaking into my voice. “Gather up your shit, let’s head back. We’ll have dinner, then I have a meeting with Jackson.”

  ****

  We arrived back at base more of a team than when we had left. Trooping into the hangar, we set our rifles aside for cleaning after dinner and loaded the rest of our gear back into our lockers. I looked around at my unit. The jokes never stopped with these guys the same way brothers constantly jab at each other, which was fitting because brothers is what they were. Flynn and Pierce were pushing and shoving like always. Phillips was leaning against his locker, arms crossed over his barrel chest, shaking his head like a father does when his children misbehave. Jones sat in a folding chair picking non-existent dirt from under his fingernails with a knife. Jordon was organizing his locker, taking it all in.

  “Jordon, come here for a minute” I said, as I finished putting my gear away.

  “Yeah, Mic?” He was more relaxed now and it showed in the way he addressed me.

  “Listen up a second and look around you.” I sat on the bench in front of our lockers, patting the seat next to me. “We don’t have the luxury of families or loved ones, so we are our own family, a family you are now part of. Having people important to us on the outside of this unit is dangerous, and unfair to them. We are a secret military unit, we don’t exist except here in front of each other.” I let my words sink in for a moment. His attention was focused on me, his eyes not wandering away like most people do when hearing a speech. The others continued with what they were doing, though I knew they were listening intently.

  “On paper, our files are blacked out, only able to be seen by the top brass in the Pentagon or the President himself. We are ghosts, black-ops, spooks, operators, whatever you want to call us; we are the barely-heard whispers in the night, so quiet you think it’s your imagination. The brave ones who sacrifice our lives, families, and homes for the opportunity to do what no others can. We have the skills and the balls to sneak behind enemy lines at great risk to ourselves to gather intelligence that saves the lives of countless fellow soldiers. If one of us falls in battle, there is no grand military funeral with a twenty-one gun salute; just a quiet grieving by the men in this room, and a lone star on the wall. We have no dog tags, unit number, or identifiers on our uniforms beyond name and rank. We are not Army, Navy, Marines, or Air Force, we are all of those and none of them. We are Steel.”

  “That’s quite a speech, Mic,” Phillips said from the other side of the lockers. “She’s right, Jordon. Do you understand what she’s trying to tell you?” He raised a dark eyebrow, waiting for Jordon’s response.

  “Yes, I do. I’m happier than I can ever fucking express to be here. I won’t let you down, any of you.” Jordon nodded to the men. I stood and offered my hand. We shook and welcomed him into our family.

  ****

  Back in the mess hall,
I took my usual seat next to Jackson. Watery mashed potatoes and mystery meat greeted us.

  “This is getting ridiculous, Master Sergeant. Any news on a new cook yet?” I let potatoes fall off my spoon onto the plastic tray in a sickening plop.

  “Don’t do that Mic, it just makes it worse. Relax your throat and swallow,” Flynn shouted from the other table.

  “That’s what she said!” Pierce shouted back, high fiving Flynn like a frat boy.

  “Shut the fuck up, you two.” Jackson’s booming voice cut through their laughter as easily as it cut through machine gun fire.

  Trying, but failing not to laugh, I took Flynn’s advice and managed to swallow a bite.

  “How did it go today? Jordon measuring up to your standards?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes. The boys started up a contest on the range. Best grouping gets out of watch tonight. Jordon almost won.” I took a drink of my iced tea, one of the few things around here they don’t manage to screw up. “He didn’t, of course.”

  “Jones?”

  “No, we determined he was ineligible on the grounds he’s over-qualified and has an unfair advantage.” I smirked, because I had a pretty good idea what Jackson was going to say.

  “So do you. And you know it. As do the men.” He frowned at me.

  “Well, I couldn’t let him win, now could I?”

  “I suppose not.” He laughed. “What else?”

  “I took him with me through the Panic Room. He got through, no problems. He’s got determination running thick through his veins. He’s going to be a good fit, once we finish hazing him in.”

  “Glad to hear it. Anything else?”

  “Nope. We’re good to go Master Sergeant.”

  He left me alone at the table. The boys were settling into the chairs and couches. Kicking back. Jordon was standing behind the couch, watching Flynn and Pierce play a video game. He was shifting his weight around, back and forth, from foot to foot, looking nervous and out of place. We would fix that soon enough.

  ****

  Inside my cabin, I kicked off my sweat-soaked fatigues and walked to my bedroom in just my bra and panties. Out of all our cabins, mine was the smallest. Just inside the front door was my living area and small kitchenette. A short hallway past the kitchen led to my bedroom which was just big enough for my queen bed, and the bathroom was directly off the bedroom. I headed there to strip completely and shower. With a grimace, I noticed that the laundry was piling up. I wouldn’t have a day off to take care of it for a while, so I’d try to beg a favor from the kitchen staff, though I’m sure the guys were all doing the same thing.

  After showering, I dressed in black linen cargo shorts and a neon pink sports bra with a loose fitting white racer-back tank. I tied my Converses, gave my hair a squirt of gel and a finger comb, and I was good to go. I packed a small cooler with some bottles of water and a few peanut butter sandwiches, before bungee cording it down in the back of my jacked-up Jeep Rubicon. I needed to let off some steam that firing on the range just hadn’t taken care of. Maybe bouncing up and down some mountain jeep trails would do the trick.

  Our cabins are located to the left of the hangar, set up in rows, with the men having the front three, and Jackson and myself in the back. I was farthest from the hangar. Besides being surprisingly homey, there is also room for us each to have a vehicle. We don’t get to go to town much, but when we do, we arrive in style. Being black-ops comes with a hefty pay check, one of the few true perks.

  I strapped myself in and started her up, hearing a chugging rumble that never failed to heat my blood and get my adrenaline pumping. I glanced over at the other cabins and noticed Jordon on the small front porch of the one he shared with Phillips and Jones. He was sitting in a folding camp chair that was the twin of the one I always kept in the back of the Jeep. He was shirtless, and as best I could tell, barefoot. He was sitting forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. It could be sheer exhaustion or it could be something else. Only one way to find out.

  I pulled over to him and had to honk to get his attention. The look on his face as he looked up was exactly what I was feeling. Tense, with no real outlet.

  “Grab a shirt and shoes, Jordon. We’re going for a ride.” He nodded and stood. “The chair too!” I yelled at his retreating back. He did no more than wave over his shoulder, before loping into the cabin.

  He was back in less than two minutes dressed much as I was, black shorts and a white t-shirt instead of the tank top. His tattoos peeked through his shirt like it was a veil.

  Jordon walked around the hood of Phillips’ Dodge 2500 and Jones’ Silverado. Both blacked out and sporting lifts, they looked as bad-ass as their drivers. The sun glinted off the gleaming stacks shooting up from the back of Phillips’ truck, hitting me directly in the eyes.

  “Where to?” He asked, climbing up, and strapping himself in. “And why do you need a five-point harness in a Jeep?”

  “You’ll see.” I gave him a tight smile. Dropping my Ray Bans on from off my head, I pressed the clutch and shifted into gear.

  “Which question did you just answer?” He was fighting a grin now himself. We passed Pierce, who was outside, washing his already pristine Hayabusa. He liked bombs and speed, go figure. He was flinging bubbles onto Flynn’s cherry red Z-28 every chance he could.

  “Knock it off fucker, unless you want to drown in that bucket!” Flynn shouted, storming down the porch steps, his voice fading as we drove past.

  “Both,” I said, shifting my attention back to Jordon. Reaching down, I switched on the radio and The Rolling Stones were singing Sympathy for the Devil. A favorite song of mine, I tapped my fingers on the gear shift to the beat and gripped the wheel tight with my other hand. I headed out past Compound Two to the Humvee tracks. It started out with just hills but soon enough there would be ditches, huge rocks, and small streams to cross; my idea of a great time. The lift kit made it so I could easily go just about anywhere I wanted to, without worrying about knocking a hole in my oil pan.

  “Why did you ask me to come?” Jordon managed to get out, as we went over a rough patch that had our teeth rattling and our bodies bouncing around. I adjusted one of the straps that was cutting into my breast, noticing that Jordon’s eyes followed the motion of my hand.

  “This is my idea of fun. You looked like you could use an injection of fun,” I explained. “Also, we only have two weeks to get to know one another.” In that short time, not only did he have to be carved into our unit, but I had to be able to trust him forward and backward.

  “You’re not wrong, Mic.” He gave me a startled look as if he expected me to dress him down for using my name instead of rank.

  “It’s ok, Jordon,” I said laughing. “No one is going to bust your balls for calling me by my name. We’re more casual then regular military units.”

  “Good. Then you should call me by my first name. I’ve never liked being addressed solely by my last name. Rare, I know for someone in the military.” He gave a shrug.

  “Alright, Chris. First names it is. At least while we’re on the compound. When we’re in the field, we use rank and last names.”

  “What’s yours? Brittany?” I choked on a laugh and shook my head.

  “What is it, then?” He looked at me intently. He really wanted to know, not just for the sake of conversation.

  “Bea. My first name is Bea. No one calls me that, though. It’s been Michaels or Mic for as long as I can remember.”

  “Maybe it’s time that changed then, Bea.” He smiled and turned to look out the window. Unfortunately, at the same moment, I drove over a huge rock, which caused us to tip sideways. Chris smashed his head against the door frame with a sickening crack, ending his not-so-subtle attempt at flirting.

  “Fuck me!” He cursed and clutched his head. I was laughing so hard, I needed to stop once we got to the top of the hill before I really hurt us. We crested the hill and I pulled off the trail onto an even, grassy spot and let loose wi
th my laughter.

  “Think it’s funny do you?” He growled at me, clutching his head. Fierce as a bear, this one. If bears had smoking hot bodies and eyes so green you could lose yourself in them like a spring day.

  “Yes, yes I do,” I said still laughing as I wiped tears away. “You should see your face.”

  He had a huge lump forming on the side of his forehead and temple. It looked like someone had whacked him with a two-by-four.

  “So funny. Ha-ha. Laugh it up at the rookie. Not like I haven’t been hearing shit all day since I grabbed your ass.” He could really pout with the best of them.

  “I knew they told you to do something, but not what. It was the last thing I expected, honestly.” I unbuckled after wiping more tears of mirth off my face and walked to the back of the Jeep to get us each a water. Before handing him his bottle, I held it against his face to try and soothe both his bruises, the one his face and the one to his ego. I leaned my arm against his open window and stared out at the view before us: rolling green hills dotted with farms and corn fields all the way out to the mountains on the other side of the valley. The mountains in the distance were blue-tinged with humidity. The late afternoon sun touched everything with a golden glow as if the whole valley wore a halo.

  Stone farmhouses were scattered around near fields of corn, soy beans, or tobacco. As far as you could see there was nothing taller than a church steeple or a grain silo. Occasionally, there was a larger than life oak or maple tree smack in the middle of a field; giant branches arching upward, creating deep shadows twisting around in the crops. The farmers found it easier to work around the trees, rather than cutting them down and digging out the stump. I liked to think that the farmers found them too peaceful and beautiful to fell. The fields themselves from this height were a thing of beauty; neat rectangles or squares, sectioned off by fences made of field stone. The corn was beginning to yellow as it neared the end of the season; soon the air would be full of the sound of giant diesel-powered tractors and harvesters.