Duty(50)
I hand it to him, safely back in its envelope. “I did. I think Aaron will like it very much.”
I lead him out of the daycare center, taking his hand and smiling at my son. “It's one of the coolest things I've ever seen, little man.”
Chapter 17
Aaron
It feels good to be out on the range for a change, maybe because it's at least better than being in the motor pool.
Pillman gives all of us the safety brief. He's looking a little nostalgic about it. His time with the platoon is up next month. “Okay, everyone, remember, you keep your glasses on the whole time on the range. Fulsom, that means you too. I don't care if those over glass goggles you have are hot or not. Check your field of fire each time you squeeze a trigger. It may just be a sting in the ass and a laugh now, but remember that in the real world, you just shot your battle buddy.”
There's a titter of laughter. I know the feeling. We're actually 'playing' live. There is an actual chance for someone to get hurt, even if it is with a plastic pellet. I'd prefer paintball guns, but the hoppers on those are just too damn big to give people that real-world feel. Loading the pellets into their magazines is slightly weird, but we are able to at least replicate the feel of having to change magazines too. Overall, the Army thinks that the increased danger from the pellets is minimal compared to the training value gained from them. Still, we're live.
“Everyone clear?”
“HOOAH!” the platoon answers, and I'm looking around, proud of my Regulators. Even Hardy's doing okay, looking a bit antsy, but I guess I can expect that. He hasn't been allowed out of the barracks except for duty purposes since his arrest, a part of the deal we've worked out with the JAG so far while the echelons above me try to decide whether to court martial him or not. He's at least being busted one rank, but maybe he'll stay out of jail.
“Roger that,” Pillman says, turning to me. “El Tee?”
“Thanks, Sergeant. Great brief,” I respond, walking to the front of the platoon. My rifle's over my shoulder, and I look around, ready to play my little role in the pre-training prep. “Okay, Regulators, Sergeant Pillman got to be nice about it. Now it's my turn. Last time we tried this, we ended up with more Regulators 'dead' than what I find acceptable. Of course, the only number I'm accepting is zero. You all know the drill. Nobody here is a wet blanket private. We're going to be starting rotations, Sergeant Pillman's going to be gone by Thanksgiving, and by next summer, I'm probably gone too. So this is your chance to make sure that you've got your shit tight before some f*ck up from Omaha waddles in and makes your job twice as hard! Run your lanes by the numbers, and by the end of the day, I want to see perfection. Got me?”
The platoon's answering roar reassures me, and I nod. “Good. Squad leaders, fifteen minutes with your squads to break it down before we do the walk and talk. Range goes hot at ten thirty.”
Training starts, and I'm encouraged by the work the squad leaders do. I've got good ones, and any officer worth their rank will tell you, good NCOs make your job a million times easier. As wars become more and more decentralized and the individual soldier has become deadlier, decision making has been pushed down the rank ladder, with more stress on the lower ranks. As a platoon leader, I'm responsible for as much firepower and battlefield space as a World War II company, and more than what a regiment would do in the Civil War. And while my higher ups might try and control the battle, facts are that a lot of life and death decisions are now falling on the shoulders of Lieutenants who are barely old enough to legally drink. Thank God I've got good NCOs.
The range is made up of three 'buildings' with two 'streets' in between. It's pretty good, maybe not as good as the FBI’s famous 'Hogan's Alley,' but it's a good system. We go through in fire teams, with me working together with Fire Team Alpha from first squad leading the way. We do well, and we get through building one in less than standard time with no 'casualties' or missed targets. Pausing in the assembly area for the next part of the exercise, we wait for each fire team to go through, eight groups in all.
We go step by step through each of the five zones before taking a break for lunch, MREs for those who forgot to pack a lunch, although I just munch on a protein bar. After the wonderful weekend, I kind of indulged a little yesterday, and I don't want to let it get out of hand and put on weight. Chubby isn't good for Lieutenants, or for boyfriends.
I'm thinking of Lindsey when suddenly, there's a yell from near the toilets, and I rush over to find Corporal Nadar, the fire team leader for Bravo Team, holding his ankle. “Fuck!”
“What happened?” I ask, kneeling down next to Nadar while a bunch of the other troops come running. “Where are you hurt?”
“Slipped on some mud, sir,” he says, groaning and holding his leg. “My ankle . . . I heard something crack.”
“Okay, just relax,” I say, looking around. “Sergeant Pillman!”
“Sir!” He calls back, stepping forward. He kneels down, looking at Nadar. “What's up?”
“Nadar slipped, says he heard a crack,” I tell him, putting my hand on Nadar's shoulder to keep him on the ground. “Call in to the hospital, and take my Hummer. Evac him to get X-rays. I'll notify the CO and take over the range. Keep me in the loop.”