Page 115 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Somewhere out on the grounds, boots crunched on gravel. Patrol. Tom, maybe. The thought of him made my chest ache so sharply I had to press my hand there.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the dark, to him though he couldn’t hear me. “I’m so sorry.”

At some point, lying there with my heart racing and my breath catching on every inhale, exhaustion dragged me under.

TWENTY-ONE

CARRY YOU

TOM

Ihad the guard detail assembled on the range, fourteen men and three women ranging from career military to local volunteers who'd never fired anything more dangerous than a hunting rifle.

This lot was going to defend against German bombers and potential ground infiltration.

Christ.

“Right,” I said, voice carrying across the cold morning air. “I'm told you're all qualified on basic firearms. We're going to find out if that's true or if you've all been lying on your assessments.”

Nervous laughter. Good. Nervous meant alert.

“Starting today, this estate is a potential target. Which means every person on guard duty needs to be able to identify threats, engage if necessary, and not shoot our own people by accident.” Pointed at the range. “Those targets downrange represent anyone who shouldn't be here. Your job is to hit them fast and accurate before they can do damage. Questions?”

A young private raised his hand. “Sarge, we've not had combat training. Most of us signed up for rear-echelon security.”

“And now rear-echelon security means being ready to defend against enemy action. War doesn't care what you signed up for.” Picked up a rifle from the equipment table, checked the action automatically. “I'm going to demonstrate what standard should look like. Then you're all going to try matching it. Fair?”

Moved to the firing line, sighted downrange at the targets set at varying distances. Standard procedure would be methodical demonstration, maybe hitting three or four to show proper technique.

But standard wouldn't scare them into taking this seriously.

So I did what I'd done for years. Let muscle memory take over. Let training and battle experience transform me into the thing I'd been built to be.

First target at fifty yards, centre mass. Fired. Hit.

Second target at seventy-five, smaller profile. Fired. Hit.

Third at one hundred, partially obscured. Fired. Hit.

Kept going. Smooth, controlled, each shot placed exactly where I intended. No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just the rifle and the target and the space between where physics and skill intersected.

Demonstrated shooting from prone position. From kneeling. From standing with hasty sight picture. Hit moving targets. Hit targets in poor light. Hit targets at distance that made the guards murmur and shift uncomfortably.

By the time I lowered the rifle, they were staring at me like I'd grown a second head.

“That's the standard,” I said calmly. “I don't expect you to match it today. But I expect you to work toward it. Because if we come under attack, hesitation gets people killed. Missed shots get people killed. Panic gets people killed.” Made eye contact with each of them. “Questions?”

Silence. Good silence. Respect mixed with healthy fear.

“Right. First group, take positions. We're running drills until you can hit targets consistently or until your fingers freeze off. Whichever comes first.”

Spent the next two hours drilling basics. Proper stance. Sight picture. Breathing control. Trigger discipline. The fundamentals that separated people who waved guns around from people who actually hit what they aimed at.

Some were hopeless. Flinched at every shot, couldn't group rounds worth a damn, clearly terrified of the weapons they'd been issued.

Others showed promise. Natural steadiness. Ability to follow instruction. The kind of raw material that could be shaped into competent defenders given enough time and pressure.

Wasn't kind about it. Couldn't afford to be. Barked corrections. Pointed out mistakes with the bluntness of someone who'd seen what happened when mistakes occurred in combat. Pushed them harder than they were comfortable with because discomfort in training meant survival in action.