Either way, Terrell refused to find out.
He forced them to head back home.
twenty-eight
GREG HELD THE .45 pistol with both hands and fired off a shot. Another hole busted through the center of the paper man’s chest. The next station required him to lie flat on his stomach and shoot a moving target.
Loud background noise roared in his giant headphones, making it sound like he was in the middle of a battle zone. Only it wasn’t just cannons and gunfire. People screamed, women and children. Commander McCormick wanted more than great shooters. He wanted soldiers who could shoot straight in the middle of chaos. But the cries for help sounded real enough that Greg’s nerves were strung tight. To calm himself, he envisioned Carrie bringing flowers to his mom, the two of them chatting like school girls. Then he found the small red dot in the paper man’s chest and obliterated it.
He glanced at the next station, did a double take, and lay right back on his stomach to perfect the current one. The paper man flew back and forth in front of him. Greg aimed over and over, enlarging the hole in the guy’s chest as the war zone sounded in his ears.
It was crazy how quickly he’d become accustomed to technology again. Headphones. Real guns. Even small things like air conditioning, ice cubes in his drinks, and a computer tracking his progress to the hundredth percent. He was up to 93.23% accuracy. Not bad considering the short time he’d tried this sub compact. All his training until this unit had been with full assault rifles, but he liked pistols—this Glock in particular—better than his slingshot back home. It felt more natural in his hands.
Maybe too natural.
He still wasn’t positive what this small unit was training for, but he and the twelve others hadn’t mixed with anybody else in the compound. They all wore black like Commander McCormick. The uniforms looked heavy and bulky but felt lighter and more breathable than his former green garb. Technology again. Greg’s hunch told him they were on the path to becoming patrolmen, and yet he doubted even Oliver had this kind of specialized training. They’d spent a full day on survival skills alone, starting fires with wet wood, collecting drinkable water, and finding shelter in a storm—all things Greg knew a thousand times better than the teacher. Why would a patrolman like Oliver need to know those things?
Somebody kicked his leg softly. Commander McCormick.
Greg jumped to his feet, pulled off his safety goggles and earphones, and stood at attention. The world went silent until his ears adjusted to the normal sounds of the firing range.
“Why are you still on this station, Pierce?” Commander McCormick asked. “You’re supposed to move on.”
Greg stole a glance sideways. Oshan had finished the next station a few minutes ago, leaving it vacant. But when Greg caught sight of the target, his stomach churned again.
“I haven’t perfected this one yet, sir.”
Commander McCormick eyed the gaping hole in the paper man’s chest. “We don’t have time for perfection. Hit the target and move on. 80% accuracy is good enough. Understood?”
Greg didn’t move.
In his teen years, he’d played plenty of video games, even violent ones he shouldn’t have, but the next station felt different. Wrong on many levels. The next paper human was half the size of this one and the undeniable shape of a child, maybe three years old. Like Little Jeffrey. The child was poised in the act of running after a ball in the yard.
All Greg could think was: What’s wrong with these people?
He should have asked as much, but sadly, he liked Commander McCormick. He hadn’t planned to. He wanted to hate everybody and everything here, but Commander McCormick treated the thirteen of them like fellow comrades in arms, like they not only had strength but brains as well. If their group ever went into real combat, Greg figured they’d watch each other’s backs, the commander included. Commander McCormick had a sense of humor, reasonable expectations, and Greg even sensed a layer of contempt when he spoke about President Rigsby, as if McCormick thought the president was some punk kid running rogue. Greg liked that. He was the kind of commander Greg could envision following into battle.
But still…
A child?
The soldier behind Greg, a guy named Burke, tapped his gun impatiently, waiting for his turn to shoot the paper man.
Greg set his gun on the table. “I’ve found my weapon, sir. With my accuracy, I believe I’ve mastered target practice. I’m ready for the next task.”
McCormick scowled. “You’ve not mastered it until you finish all the stations.”
The station after the child was a paper outline of a bird in flight, whirling across the dark background. The targets were getting smaller and faster. The last one was probably a dime whizzing through the air. Greg could have hit them all with his slingshot, maybe even with this new Glock. But a kid? Unlike the outline of the adult male, which had the circular target on the chest, this red dot was where the child’s face would have been, directly between the eyes. It was beyond disturbing. Greg couldn’t stop picturing Little Jeffrey running from some patrolman someday. Would that patrolman really shoot him? What happened when that patrolman was Greg? Suddenly the station felt less like target practice and more like a test of obedience.
His new commander eyed him, waiting.
It’s just paper, Greg told himself.
Stepping up to the station, he put the earphones back on and cringed against the sudden roaring chaos. He unfocused his eyes until the paper child was nothing more than a blur of white. Unfortunately, that made the red circle on the child’s head disappear.
You’re a Pierce, Carrie whispered from his memories. They’re fighters, remember? She insisted he wouldn’t forget who he was, and that gave him the courage to change aim.
He pulled the trigger.
The bullet slammed into the wood to the left of where the paper child’s ear would have been.
McCormick folded his arms. “Again!” he shouted over the screams in Greg’s ears.
Greg raised his Glock. That time he missed on the right side.
“Again!”
Greg went back to the first spot. Any closer and he could have pierced the child’s ears.
“Again!” McCormick yelled.
The other guys stopped to see what caught the attention of their commander. Greg stood, arms straight in front of him, ready to give in. It was just paper. But within the chaos in his earphones, he heard children screaming.
Something was seriously wrong with these people.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the next target. Turning slightly, he blew a hole through the bird’s head. Stepping down the line, he found the next target, a small moving dot just as he predicted, and shot a hole through the center of that. Once finished, he set his gun down, took off his headphones, and stepped back.
“I’m done, sir.”
“I am not amused,” McCormick said, seething. “Why haven’t you followed protocol?”
“I shot to the best of my ability, sir. I believe even within the required 80% accuracy.”
Greg saw the tiniest flash of emotion. Respect maybe? At least he hoped the commander hated President Rigsby enough to loathe this part of his job. Whatever it was vanished in the blink of an eye.
“How stupid do you think I am, Pierce?” McCormick snapped. “Why did you purposely miss this target?”
Greg’s mouth set in a firm line. It wasn’t a target. It was a child.
The muscles in the commander’s neck tightened. “I asked you a question, soldier?”
“I didn’t think it necessary, sir.”
That was the wrong response. McCormick motioned to the next guy. “Burke, show him how it’s done.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Burke had no problem shooting the paper child between the eyes and making Greg look like a fool. And deep down, Greg felt it.
Commander McCormick turned back to Greg. “Now you.”
Greg stared at the target. It’s just paper. Just paper.
And yet…it wasn’t.
He stood at strict attention. “I did the best I could, sir. If you have a complaint with my performance, maybe I shouldn’t be in this group.”
The second he said the words, he regretted them. This group was a thousand times better than the last. He felt like a person again and not just a robot trained for blind obedience—at least, not until this moment. He didn’t want to lose this unit, this reasonable commander, but neither would he blast a hole through a child’s head, regardless of the reason.
“Perhaps not,” his commander said darkly. Then he moved. It was a tiny flick of the hand, but the message was delivered.
As one, Burke and three other guys jumped Greg. They got in a few punches before Greg reared back. He shook off one guy, dropped, kicked, and brought down another. Somebody got him in a headlock, and another guy punched his gut. The world spun, his lungs burned, but Greg grabbed the guy’s arm, lifted his legs to kick another, then dropped hard, swinging the guy behind him up and over his back, dropping him with a thud.
Burke came up, fists swinging, nose bleeding, when McCormick jumped between them.
“Enough!” McCormick shouted. “I said enough! Pierce, follow me. The rest of you, finish up!”
Greg stayed crouched low, breathing heavily as he waited for the next attack. When it didn’t come, he wiped his mouth, hand coming back bloody, and followed Commander McCormick out of the firing range.
twenty-nine
PULSE ROARING, GREG TRAILED McCormick into his office. He hadn’t been beaten since he’d changed units a few weeks ago. The old bruises were gone, and he’d almost forgotten what they felt like. Now his left side was tender and throbbing. They better not have cracked a rib. His upper lip felt swollen and tasted bloody.
The second the commander entered his office, he whirled on him. “Why wouldn’t you shoot that target?”
Greg refused to answer. McCormick already knew, and Greg couldn’t forgive him for ordering the attack.
Swearing loudly, the commander said, “It’s your job to obey me, regardless of the task!”
“By shooting a child?” Greg challenged.
“By obeying a direct order!”
“Technically, you never ordered me to shoot that child.” He refused to add sir to the end of his sentence. Any respect he had for the commander was long gone. Based on the commander’s reaction, he was surprised that smoke didn’t come out of his ears.
“You think you’re cute, Pierce?” the commander hissed in his face. “You think you’re funny?”
Greg glared right back.
Swearing again, McCormick stormed over to his office door and slammed it shut, rattling the windows in the room. That was expected. But locking that same door, locking himself and Greg inside, wasn’t.
Greg felt suddenly uneasy. His eyes darted around the small office.
When McCormick sat back on the corner of his desk, his expression did an about-face. In an instant, he looked amused, almost friendly. And Greg went from uneasy to downright terrified.
“Take a seat, Pierce.”
“Sir?” Greg said, too shocked to say anything else.
“Pull up a chair. I want to have a frank discussion with you, but you’re far too defensive. So sit. Breathe. Relax.”
McCormick motioned to a chair off to the side. Glancing at the locked door again, Greg grabbed the chair. He sat rigidly in front of his older, pudgy commander, unsure how else to present himself. Sitting made him feel weak and unprepared for whatever was coming.
“How’s the lip?” McCormick said.
Greg wouldn’t have answered, but the commander gave him an arched look.
“Fine,” Greg said.
“Where else did they get you?”
“I’m fine.”
McCormick’s expression hardened. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Ribs,” Greg said.
“Any broken?”
Greg took a slow, deep breath. It hurt, but not unbearably. “No.”
“You mean, no, sir?”
Greg ground his teeth. “No, sir.”
“Good.”
Good? Greg wanted to yell. You ordered the attack!
His commander regarded him another moment before he clasped his hands on his lap. “Alright, Pierce. Here’s the deal. You and I are not having this conversation. Anything we discuss will be kept to this office. Am I understood?”
Greg nodded warily.
“Good, because I think you’re ready.”
“Ready for what, sir?”
“The program.”
Greg’s eyes widened. The last he’d heard about a “program” was in his former sergeant’s office, the first time he’d seen Commander McCormick. Greg still hadn’t shaved, giving him a thick, dark beard which he loathed, but he figured this new program with thirteen guys was what his sergeant had meant. Apparently not.
“Which is…?” he prompted.
“I’m going to make you one of my special operatives in a new program created by the federal government.”
That didn’t answer Greg’s question, at least not completely. “And I’ll be doing…?”
“Clan infiltration.”
It took Greg a second to understand. “You want me to spy? On illegals?”
“We prefer the term infiltration, but yes. This program is an experiment of sorts. You won’t just be watching the illegals. you’ll live as one of them. President Rigsby requested that our unit take the lead on this since the civil dispute started in Chicago. I’m determined to not let him down.”
Greg’s mind raced. He would be living in a clan again, only trying to weed out the revolutionaries. He should dread this assignment, but he was too excited by the possibilities.
“Do I get to choose which clans I infiltrate?” he asked.
“You really hate that beard, don’t you?”
Greg dropped his hand, realizing he’d been scratching it. Recent habit. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, it works for where I want you, so you’ll have to keep it a while longer. We’ve been running the program for a few months, but unfortunately, it hasn’t gone well. I’ve already lost several men, so I’m changing my strategy.”
“Lost?” Greg repeated.
McCormick nodded. “So I can’t just have any person on this assignment. Since its inception, I’ve been searching for a specific kind of trainee. Yellow card citizens who come in here don’t know how to hide or blend in. Blue card citizens are too beaten down to strike out on their own. And government workers with green cards are arrogant and even more clueless about how to hide and survive—plus they’re trigger happy. It would be like asking a pit bull to blend into a herd of deer.”
He clasped his hands. “Ideally, I’d have someone who has lived as an illegal, who knows how to hide, blend in, and become invisible. But as you know, recruiting illegals is next to impossible. Any we manage to catch either swear allegiance to the rebellion or pretend not to and switch mid-assignment, causing us more grief than they’re worth. But I’ve found a way around that with you, Pierce. You’ve lived life as all types of citizens, am I correct?”
Greg was stuck on that phrase: I’ve found a way around that, and he found a new reason to hate the commander. True illegals didn’t have loved ones back home with names and addresses in township files. He was tempted not to answer, but they already knew his past.
“I only lived as a blue cardie for a couple weeks in Raleigh, and I received my yellow card just a few months ago. The rest of the time, I’ve lived as an illegal. I haven’t owned a green card.”
“Yet,” McCormick corrected. “We’re issuing you one tomorrow, only it’s better than typical green cards. It will grant you special clearance to things other green card citizens don’t have. Speaking of which, if you ever run into any problems, or if you’re accidentally arrested, flash your new card and it will alert me immediately.”
It was coming too fast. Greg couldn’t keep up.
“So,” McCormick said, “this combination, this past of yours, puts you in a unique position that, frankly, I’m going to exploit. But…” His voice lowered, and he leaned closer. “It’s not just your position and your past experience that put you here. It’s your view on the rebellion.”
That he wanted to join it?
Greg thought back to the firing range and nodded slowly. It really had been a test, only not the type he thought. And somehow he’d passed?
“You didn’t want me to shoot that paper kid.”
McCormick eyed the locked door. “Again, this conversation never happened, but no, I didn’t. I agree with many things our president is doing to handle this civil dispute. However…there are areas in which the president and I disagree.”
Greg nearly leapt from his chair. I knew it!
“I’d like to preserve freedom for our citizens at the same time we preserve human dignity. I need someone on this mission who still has a conscience, who won’t go blasting through the illegals with a search and destroy mentality just because we’re at war. President Rigsby might feel differently, but in my view, these rebels were American citizens six short years ago. We need to take out the worst of them, and then we’ll be able to restore peace.”
Preserve human dignity, Greg repeated to himself. Restore peace. Had anybody in Rigsby’s regime ever uttered those words?
He caught himself returning to the dangerous territory of liking Commander McCormick.
“So I’ve been waiting for someone with the skills, strength, and background I need,” McCormick continued. “But more importantly, I’ve been searching for someone who knows when enough is enough. I’ve trained over fifty men. Do you know how many refused station number four?”
Greg shrugged.
“You,” McCormick said. “Others initially refused, but the second I pressed, they gave in.”
Greg almost had, too. Now he was glad he hadn’t.
Maybe.
“What will my duties be, sir?” he asked.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 62