Page 35 of Duty Preserved

Baraka was working across the tarp from me when he stopped and held up the bolt head he’d just pulled from the carrier.

“These rollers,” he said. “The carbon on them. Does that change how the bolt locks?”

I looked at him. Four days ago, this kid had stood in the muster yard and asked why he should listen to a word I said. Now he was asking a real question about the locking mechanism, and the question was a good one.

“It does,” I said. “Carbon buildup on the rollers keeps them from seating fully into the barrel extension. If the bolt doesn’t lock right, then you get failures to go into battery. That means a round in the chamber and a trigger that won’t break. Your weapon stops working at the worst possible moment.”

Baraka turned the bolt head over in his fingers, studying the rollers. “So when I clean this, I should make sure the rollers move freely every time.”

“Every time.”

He nodded once and went back to work. He seemed earnestly trying to learn, and watching him work through the problem made me feel a bit prouder than I was ready for in that moment.

“Hey, boss.” One of the younger rangers had been watching me work through a reassembly while he waited for his turn. “Can you do that with your eyes closed?”

A ripple of interest went through the group. Heads came up from the tarps.

“Blindfolded,” Andrew said from behind me, because Andrew couldn’t help himself. “He can do it blindfolded.”

“No way,” the ranger said.

“Want to bet on it?” I said.

The yard went quiet. Every ranger was looking at me now, including Zayn, including Jomo, including Baraka with the bolt head still in his fingers.

“Here’s the deal,” Andrew said. He was grinning. “Donovan strips and reassembles blindfolded, and you all get the rest of the afternoon off.”

“And if he can’t do it?” Otieno asked.

“Then you all run the course again. Twice.”

Otieno looked at the others. The others looked at me. The calculation was simple: a free afternoon against two more runs of the course they’d already done five times today. Their bodies wanted the afternoon. Their pride wanted to see me fail.

“Do it,” Baraka said.

Andrew pulled a rag from the kit bag and tied it across my eyes. I heard the rangers shuffle closer. Someone’s boot scraped the tarp.

I reached forward and found the rifle by touch. The receiver was warm from the sun.

This was muscle memory laid down across twelve years and ten thousand repetitions. The rear pin pushed free under my thumb. The buttstock and trigger group separated from the receiver with the solid click of the housing clearing its seat. Cocking handle back, bolt carrier group out, bolt head rotated and pulled free. The firing pin and its spring came next, then the locking rollers, each one placed on the tarp where my hands could find it again without searching.

Parts went down in order, left to right. I worked by feel and by count.

Then I put it back together.

Part by part, the weapon rebuilt itself under my hands. Rollers seated, firing pin and spring home, bolt head locked into the carrier. Carrier guided back into the receiver, cocking handle forward. Trigger housing mated to the receiver, rear pin pressed home.

I pulled the cocking handle back and let it fly forward. It cycled clean.

I reached up and pulled off the blindfold.

The rangers were standing close enough that I could have touched the nearest one. Their faces ran from disbelief to amazement.

Andrew checked the rifle. Bolt, carrier, rollers, firing pin, every component in its rightful place and correct orientation. He handed it back.

“Afternoon off,” he said. “Earned.”

I didn’t have to tell them that we planned on giving them the afternoon off anyway.