Talon keyed his mic without looking away from Kabila. “Jug, slot him back in. Next run, Mbeki’s in charge. SRF Six follows every command, or he’s out of the scenario and the class.”
Jug’s reply was short. “Copy.”
Talon stepped back, letting the SRF sergeant return to his team. The other men’s eyes tracked him, sweat-streaked faces a mix of curiosity and relief.
The next run started.
Mbeki called the stack, the breach went clean, and Kabila, for once, waited for the signal before moving. The rooms cleared faster, smoother. No bottlenecks. No “kills” in the tally.
Wolf’s voice carried a faint smile over comms. “Looks like he’s learning.”
Hammer’s chuckle was low. “Or at least pretending to.”
Talon watched the team flow through the final door, sweat soaking their uniforms, the smell of hot dust and cordite, the smell of spent simulation ammo, hanging thick in the air. They weren’t perfect, not by a long shot. But they were better.
And better meant fewer real deaths when it mattered.
The plywood villagesat quiet now, the echo of simulated gunfire gone, leaving only the tick of heat off the metal roofing.
The SRF team filed in under the shade tarp set up at the edge of the training field, sweat-soaked, dust-caked, and quiet. Stryker passed out water as they entered. Mbeki’s men knew the drill. Nobody talked during an after-action report until Talon or Jug started it.
Talon let them settle, standing at the front with Jug beside him, Hammer leaning against a support post, and Wolf and Stryker off to one side.
He scanned the faces. Most of them were lookingup, while a few stared at their boots. Kabila stood stiff near the end of the line, jaw set, not meeting Talon’s eyes.
“All right,” Talon started, voice even but carrying across the space. “Today’s run was better. Not perfect. But better.”
Jug stepped in, arms crossed. “Stack discipline was good on the first entry. Nobody tried to sprint past their point man”—he cut a glance toward Kabila—“mostof the time.”
A ripple of quiet chuckles broke the tension.
Talon continued, “Rooms one and two were clean. You cleared corners; you kept your sectors. Wolf?”
From the sidelines, Wolf spoke clearly, “Bounding between buildings was tighter. You used cover instead of sprinting in the open. That’s an improvement from last week.”
Hammer’s gravelly voice rumbled in. “But some of you are still dragging your muzzles when you move. You sweep your teammates again, and I’ll pull you out myself. Clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” answered back.
Talon let the acknowledgement settle before shifting his tone. “Now, mistakes.” He gesturedtoward the plywood structure at the far end of the range. “Building three. Contact left. You hesitated.”
Mbeki straightened in his seat. “We were confirming position, sir.”
“Good instinct to confirm,” Talon said. “Bad execution. That pause gave the enemy three seconds to adjust. In a live scenario, that’s three seconds to kill you. Next time, you need to communicatewhileyou move.”
Jug added, “Your radio discipline was better today. But better isn’t good enough. Call what you see and call it fast. Don’t make Wolf or your sniper guess what he can’t see from above.”
Talon turned his focus deliberately toward Kabila.
“Sergeant Kabila,” Talon said, voice steady. “You made your point today.”
Kabila’s shoulders squared. “Sir.”
“You’re fast. You’re clean. You’re dangerous in a fight.” Talon let that sit for a beat. “But this isn’t a one-man show. You broke stack discipline, ignored your team leader’s orders, and as a result, half your team died in that run. You want to work alone? You don’t do it here. Not in this unit. Not on my field.”
Kabila’s jaw flexed, but he gave a short nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Talon’s gaze swept the rest of the team. “Because every one of you should understand this. Individual skill doesn’t win the fight. Teams win the fight. You move together; you survive together.”
