TWENTY
CHASE SECURITY TRAINING CENTER – DC
The warehouse smelled like cordite and cold sweat. Dante stood in a line of six, dressed down in a black long-sleeve tac shirt, combat pants, gloves, and body armor so tight, it felt stitched to his ribs. His rifle hung low, safety off. His comms were wired in. No one spoke a word. His left arm and butt cheek ached from the shots.
Bravo Team didn’t do introductions. They didn’t even glance sideways. He’d shaken Paulsen’s hand out in the gravel lot half an hour ago, and that was it. No orientation.“Full kit. Training starts now.”
The concrete walls around them were peppered with scorch marks. The shoot house was laid out like a rat maze with shifting doors, cleared zones, and blind corners. Paper targets popped up randomly, some armed, some civilian. You hit the wrong one, you heard about it. You hesitated, you didn’t come back.
Paulsen stood outside the range tunnel with a tablet in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. The man hadn’t raised his voice once since Dante arrived.
“Stack up,” the team lead barked. “Room three. Live ammo. Flash clearance only.”
Dante slotted into the third position behind two Bravo vets. Their faces were expressionless, visors down. The breacher moved. The charge went.
Boom.
The room lit white. Smoke billowed. They went in low and fast.
Dante tracked right as per protocol, his rifle up, corner cleared, IDed the target, too late.
A second pop fired in the far corner. It was a pressure flash, simulating return fire.
Heat skimmed his cheek as the sim target triggered an auto-detonation burst. Just a pulse. Enough to sting and enough to punish. He spun, dropped, covered the flank and fired twice. “Target down.”
“Room cleared!” the point called out.
Dante stood in place, weapon up, breath slow. The air stank like magnesium and nerves.
Paulsen’s voice finally filtered in through comms, “Olivetti.”
“Copy.”
“You slow or you indecisive?”
“Split second on my right pivot. Target obscured.”
“Burn your jaw next time; it won’t be split.”
“Understood.”
There was no further commentary. The team moved out. No one patted him on the back. No one asked if he was good. They just restacked. That was the test. Not the run, but what you did after it.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set over the range. Paulsen didn’t stop him. Didn’t offer notes. Just looked at him once, head tilted, unreadable.
Dante walked past, sweat clinging to his spine under the plate carrier. He didn’t limp. He didn’t touch his cheek. He didn’t flinch, because if they were watching him—and they were—that was the first mark.
Can you get burned and still walk forward?He could, and he did.
FORT NOVOSEL
The simulator smelled like warm plastic and static, sterile and used, like every other box in the bay. Shannon sat still, strapped in, her boots flat and her hands light on the controls.
Chief Marston’s voice crackled through the headset. “Johnson. Hover test. Three inches. Ninety seconds. Crosswind variable.”
She flexed her thumbs once. No nerves, just the checklist. Throttle. Pedals. Trim. She lifted the bird smoothly with no bob and locked in. The fake horizon pulsed beyond the canopy showing a flat field and painted sun. She held.
At fifty seconds, wind simulation kicked in with a shove from the left. She corrected. Barely moved. Outside the sim, Rhodes watched with arms crossed. Marston didn’t blink.
