Recruit - Jonathan Brazee (highly illogical behavior .txt) 📗

and to Ryck’s left, while Wagons was in trace of Ryck and behind the other two.  Their first mission would be a simple movement to contact.

“Fire team, you may begin,” a voice told them over their comms.

Ryck didn’t wait for Hodges; he simply stepped off, senses on high alert.

He scanned the area in front of him, trying to see any movement, any tripwires, any sign of danger.  He knew that this could be a simple movement, just to let them get used to the simulation, but somehow, he doubted it.  There would be bad guys out there.

He had been intensely aware that what he was seeing would be on a monitor outside, but he quickly forgot about that.  He had immersed himself in the scenario.

What is that? he asked himself. 

He held up one fist, the ancient hand-and-arm signal to stop, and edged over to look at the ground in front of him.  Something had caught his eye.  It was a stick, but it looked out of place.  Carefully, he pulled back the grass from around it, the front of his mind reveling in the tactile feel of the grass despite the back of his mind knowing there was nothing actually there. 

“What is it, Lysander?” Hodges asked.

“Maybe a booby trap, over,” Ryck responded.

Ryck examined it from every angle possible, wishing his helmet had full capabilities so he could do one of the several scans an operational helmet could make.  Finally, he decided it was just a stick.

He started moving the team forward again.  The terrain seemed to rise as if they were walking up a hill.  Once again, Ryck knew the room was level, but his senses warred with that knowledge.  He wondered at the technology that made all of this possible.  This was head and shoulders above what he’d ever experienced in any game before.

Focus! he reminded himself.  Think about how amazing this is after the exercise!

They continued forward, tension building.  If they were going to be hit, it would have to be soon.  Simple logistics told them that with seven fire teams—four from Fourth Squad and only three now from Third Squad—and the number of runs each team was scheduled for the day, each go-through could only take up so much time. 

Ryck just happened to be looking right at a jumble of logs ahead when the enemy soldier rose and fired.  Instinctively, Ryck pulled the trigger, lifting his M99 from low and left to high and right, stitching a line across his target.  This was a technique taught during the last two days of Range Week, after initial qualification, and Ryck was surprised that it worked just as well in this scenario as on an open rifle range.  The enemy disappeared, whether hit or merely taking cover, Ryck would find out during the debrief.

He half-waited for Hodges to shout out an order, and when nothing was forthcoming, he did what Wagons and he had decided earlier.  Charge the bastards.  They had practiced this during Immediate Action Drills, so Wagons and he thought that would be a good excuse if reacting without orders was considered a no-no. 

He saw movement to his front left, so he went right at it, weapon blazing.  A line of fire reached back out to him.  The helmets didn’t have many of the capabilities of an actual combat helmet, but due to the nature of the training, the ballistic indictor was enabled.  A trace appeared on the visor showing the trajectory of the incoming rounds.  The trace started from Ryck’s right, then began to sweep toward him.   Ryck dove to the deck untouched.  He tried to peer ahead and see who had fired at him.  He had a general idea about from where the rounds had come, but he couldn’t see anything.   An explosion sounded to the front, and dirt and debris fell around him.  Ryck could actually feel the clods hit his body.

By now, Hodges was yammering over the comms, asking for an update.  He sounded excited, but not in a good way.  There was a hint of panic to his voice.  At the fire team level, the recruits could communicate directly with each other.  The fire team comms circuit was open between the four of them. 

“We’ve got at least three hostiles to my eleven o’clock.  I’m gonna shift to the right, so cover me,” Ryck transmitted.

“Roger that,” Wagons’ voice came over the circuit.  “Give me a count, then move.”

“Roger.  I am moving in three . . . two . . . one!”

At “one,” Ryck jumped to his feet and darted to his 2 o’clock—and his helmet siren went off. 

“Mother grubber!” he shouted as he stopped and dutifully got back down on the ground.  He was “dead” and so could not participate in any more action—not that he could even if he wanted to.  Getting killed also disabled his SFA, keeping him from firing any more simulated rounds.

He’d been looking forward when he’d been hit, and he’d seen no trace coming at him.  Still sitting, he looked back.  Hodges was behind him, looking guilty. 

That fucking idiot shot me! Ryck thought.  I’m gonna kick his grubbing ass!

The rest of the engagement didn’t take long.  Wagons lasted the longest at another two minutes.  Once he went down, the simulation faded.  They were sitting in an empty space.  The trees, dirt, smells, enemy: all were gone.

Ryck had been killed, and by friendly fire, of all things.  The fire team had gotten wiped out.  But damn it all, it had been a perking blast!  He couldn’t wait for their next turn in the breach.

“Fire team, return to the front hatch,” came over the helmet comms.

Looking back, an innocuous red “EXIT” sign showed them the way.