Point of No Return (12 page)

“Listen up,” an instructor holding an iPad called out. When it was so silent all that could be heard was the hum of ceiling fans whirling the still morning air, he continued. “Today it’s five four-man teams and one three-man. No switching.” He called names and Honey verified the names with those in the roster on her device. She noted six names flagged as foreign nationals. The men found each other and sat in their respective groups. The short, three-man team consisted of the veterans. It was curious the veterans weren’t integrated with trainees. She would have mixed it up. Let the newbies benefit from the experienced men. But then, maybe the vets didn’t want to risk getting shot. It was a live ammo drill.

“Since one team is short”—the older grizzled instructor looked at her—“can I get you to participate, Major?” All heads turned in her direction, waiting for an answer. Some snickered. How easy it would be to show these gentlemen what she was capable of. That was not her job, her mission. “Seeing that I haven’t been in village training in a few years”—true, her experience was in real-world villages—“especially in one as elaborate as this”—more snickers—“I’d love to, but my orders are to observe and not influence the outcome of training in any way.”

“You mean like fail a team or shoot someone?” a voice called out, bringing outright laughs this time.

Honey ignored it. There was nothing in their tone that indicated anything other than good- natured razzing. It was normal to give the new man, or
woman
, grief and was expected in gatherings heavy on testosterone. “When the runs are over and if there’s time, I would like to fire a few rounds at a target. See how rusty I am.”

“Sure.” The instructor smirked. “We’ll let you empty a couple of magazines.” The instructor’s tone wasn’t good-natured.

“Thank you,” she said, fighting the urge to crawl down his throat and chew her way out. “That would be so nice of you.” The words dripped sugar. She’d play along and not give them any reason to complain. “Oh,” she went on, “would one of you instructors please send the link for the team evaluations to my iPad so I can follow along?”

“Sure.” A man sitting with a laptop in front of him worked a keyboard, and a moment later she had the link.

An older man Honey took to be the senior instructor held up an H&K. “Today we’ll be firing the USP tactical H&K forty-five auto.” His voice boomed across the space. Honey loved the Tactical. It was easy to shoot, simple to maintain, reliable, and accurate.

“You’ve been through the virtual simulation five times and evaluated.” He paced back and forth in front of the group. “In the virtual you had a laser gun, fired at bad guys on a screen and no one could get hurt. Over there”—he cocked his head the direction of the buildings—“the targets are flat surfaces, move along rails and pop up. You have a weapon loaded with live ammo that weighs two pounds. Think about mistakes you made in the virtual house and don’t make them today. I’ve never had a casualty on my watch and don’t intend to have one.”

“Will Mr. Bristol be joining us today?” Honey asked an instructor seated near her. The name on his shirt said Wilcox.

“Bristol? Nah, he only likes to watch,” he said. “I was surprised to see him here so early this morning.”

Honey pushed a totally unprofessional double entendre from her mind.

“And so you know, if you want to be notified of training time changes like today’s,” Wilcox went on, “give us a number where you can receive text messages.” He paused. “I’m assuming you didn’t get today’s change.”

“I didn’t.” She nodded.

Group rotation numbers were assigned, and while the teams geared up Honey stepped away to get a look at the village. The main street was straight like a narrow alley running between sun-baked mud buildings. Seventy yards of hard-packed dirt punctuated with two intersections. The targets were well hidden, the only location giveaways being walls peppered with bullet holes from missed shots. It was easy to imagine villagers going about their business and scurfy dogs wandering the street. The only thing missing was the smell. She returned to the pavilion as the first team prepared to go, itching to go with them. Practice was always good. The team entered the complex and the others gathered around the screens. She remained off to the side and watched on her screen. The four men were overcautious. They hit more than 90 percent of their targets but were too slow. The next team overcompensated and blasted away, missing more than 60 percent of their targets. Their methods were sound; it was clear that teamwork was their problem. Whatever their previous jobs or experience, the training these men were receiving was above all standards she’d seen. The setup to watch the street sweep and critique right and wrong immediately was excellent.

The veteran team entered last. They destroyed targets moving through the street at record speed. For all their excellent work, Honey would not want to go into a real-world scenario with any of them. They had the feel of a gang of bullies. The head bully, a big muscular guy they called Bear, looked like a serial steroid abuser. He made a couple of tactical errors that were quickly covered by another man.

The staff gave a thorough debriefing followed with atta boys for everyone. As the men packed their gear into the belly of the bus, they became boisterous. Bear and his two buds ambled Honey’s way.

“If you still want to fire the tech we can set you up for two exterior blocks,” Bear said. The three of them were grinning, glancing at each other like fifth-graders who put a whoopee cushion on the teacher’s chair.

She looked at the man and said, “Sure,” wondering what the hell they were going to pull. She glanced over her shoulder. The other men were drifting their way. She put her canvas bag on the hood of a junked Toyota. The truck added reality to the training and was exactly like the one she’d struggled in a couple of weeks ago.

“I’ll get the gear,” one of Bear’s buddies said.

“She won’t need ’em,” Bear declared. “A
gy-reen
oughta be able to fire a couple of mags without hurting their ears and she’s got on those fancy shades that’ll do just fine.” He referred to her Gatorz eyewear.

“She needs them,” the senior instructor said, heading toward them, vest, helmet and hearing protection in hand. “Rules.” He held them out. Honey took the gear and warily followed Bear and his two partners in steroid use around the corner of the building, half expecting to be hit with water balloons.

“Questions,” the instructor said.

Honey shook her head. Targets were set to pop at random intervals. Pop-ups weren’t always bad guys. The operative was expected to fire a kill shot on the correct target. Not grandma or a child.

“Come on.” Bear waved the other men over. “
Missy gy-reen
is gonna show us how to go through the course.” He paused and gave her a smug look. “Well, you want to show us what ya got or not?” he said way too loud.

“Sure, I’d be happy to
show
you,” she said, shrugging into the vest. They honored her with a helmet and hearing protectors dank and stinking from the sweat of previous wearers. She put them on with no hesitation. “Ready,” she said when everything was in place. She looked around, hand extended. “Gun.”

Bear made a display of holding up an H&K and magazine. “These are real nine-millimeter rounds, not play bullets.” He shoved in the mag and drew back the slide to chamber a round. “Wouldn’t want you to break a nail.” He held the gun by the barrel, extending it her direction. She gripped it knowing full well firing an unknown weapon was asking for trouble. The moment he released the barrel an instructor called out, “You have ten seconds to prepare.”

Honey double-handed the grip, turned to the narrow street, thumbed down the safety, raised the gun to her chin, and saw it. The fuckers had jacked with the sights. Hadn’t even bothered to cover the scratches. She whirled on the three men. Bear stood in the middle and she pointed the barrel at his forehead. Smug looks vanished. Men behind them scattered. She ignored shouts of
Gun, that’s live ammo
and other idiocies. “I’m going to pull the trigger in three.
One.”
Color drained from the ferret-faced asshole on the right. “Depending on how these sights have been screwed with—
two
—a person on one side of you is going down.
Three
.” The asshole to her left squeaked like bad brakes on a worn-out ’64 Falcon, dropped and rolled.

Honey spun back to the street as the first target flew up five yards on her left. An image of a dark-haired, bearded man, holding a blonde child in one hand and a gun in the other. She adjusted for the sight deviation, fired. A hole appeared in the image’s forehead but not center. She adjusted again, fired once, then twice, hitting center. She entered the street sweeping the H&K side to side, shifting her weight carefully, preparing for the next target, and took out a likeness of a man holding an RPG launcher then double tapped a figure aiming a rifle. She ignored Little Red Riding Hood in a window and moved on, also ignoring the next pop-up, the likeness of a man Navy SEALs had taken out some time ago. Her last two rounds were used on the image of a man gracing the terrorist most wanted list. She caved against the wall and called, “Changing.” Before the empty magazine bounced on the hard-packed ground, its replacement was set and ready. Five seconds passed with no more targets. She looked back. The group stared at her. Ten seconds and no more targets. They’d halted the run. She straightened, released the magazine and cleared the tube.

“Clear and secure,” she said from habit and for the benefit of the run boss, then headed back to the knot of men. Bear was her first stop. “Thank you,” she said, deadpanning her expression. Before passing over the gun and magazines, she held up the H&K, making a show of displaying to him no mag and the empty chamber. “It was fun.” She turned to go then stopped, facing him again. “Sorry about, you know . . . before.” She slid her glasses up, winked then leaned and lowered her voice. “So you know, I wouldn’t have fired.” She straightened and offered a hand. “No hard feelings.” He ignored her hand and moved away.

Honey headed for the instructor who’d given her the equipment. “Nice setup,” she said, coming out of the helmet. “While I’m here, if the time works out, I’d like to run the whole route. Go through a practice run with a team.” She shed the vest and handed it over. “On my own time, of course.”

The man nodded but said nothing. The trainees were a different matter. As she went to retrieve her bag, they cleared a way, generously praising her run. Without looking back, she boarded the bus and dropped onto a seat in the second row. The group filed past, staring blatantly. No one sat within two rows.
Fucking assholes
. She felt like standing and yelling,
Yeah, this is how a Marine rolls.
The ride back was quiet and she could feel their eyes boring into her back.

The lead instructor stood as the bus approached the center. “An hour and a half for lunch, then meet up at the cement pond.”

The moment the driver opened the door Honey was up and making her way inside. She had to pee like a racehorse. Thankfully, a head was close to the entrance. Ignoring the two men at the urinals and their protests, she went into a stall and considered the ramifications of her target practice. The way Bristol treated her this morning, he knew she was more than the façade she’d presented. No need to hide who she was anymore. She went to the sinks. The one man at the urinals did a double-take and started his protest by calling her a female dog.

“Deal,” she barked back and gave him the finger. He zipped up and went for the door. “Geeze, man, haven’t you heard of washing?” He gave her the finger. She soaped up, washing the dust
and
that façade away. She wrangled her hair into order, squared away her uniform and left to find food. Damn, she was hungry.

Honey didn’t need directions to the chow hall. She followed the stream of men and the aroma of steaks grilling. By the time she entered the large dining hall her mouth was watering. Men with trays of steak, baked potatoes, fries, and various sides passed on their way to tables. Honey piled her own plate with salad, grilled vegetables, and fruit from the buffet. The guy working the grill dropped a medium rare T-bone on her plate that had to be a pound. She searched for an empty table, found one and headed that direction, until Bristol blocked her way.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing aiming a loaded gun at my best men?” He jabbed a finger at her and she was sure he’d rather grab and shake her.

She shrugged. “I asked a question as to how the sight had been altered so I could fire accurately. I held my firing stance, turned and asked.” She sidestepped Bristol and continued to the table. He stomped behind her.

“Bullshit. I was told you threatened to shoot.”

She sat and tipped her head back. “Shoot?” In her peripheral vision she saw those in earshot watching. “I don’t think so.” She shook her head and transferred her plates to the table. “That would be murder and in full view of cameras. No.” She gave him a smile. “It was good-natured fun. You know, your men give me a weapon with messed-up sights. I have ten seconds to discover how and”—another shrug—“I improvised, adapted, overcame.” She loved using that line. “Watch the vids.”

“My men say . . . you—”

“If those are your best men,” she interrupted his bluster, “and they get that nervous and whiny when a weapon is pointed their direction”—she deposited the tray on an empty chair and noticed the large room had grown considerably quiet—“as a USMC major with considerable field experience, I suggest you rethink your definition of
best men
.”

Bristol puffed up and turned red. Nostrils flared, lips moved with no words coming out. Honey cracked open her water and took a sip. “Would you like to join me? I can tell you how impressed I am with the facility’s training.”

He glared at her, hands on hips. She held his gaze. He’d been so prepared to draw her into a battle. Why? Why did he
want
to do battle? He had a good thing and should be affording her every professional courtesy. All he had to do was let her breeze through, approve everything, and she’d be gone. Bristol’s gazed flicked to a point behind her and his demeanor changed.