Valkyrie
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
Basic training at Fort Benning was designed to break down civilian habits and rebuild recruits as soldiers.
For most of Megumi’s fellow trainees, the experience was a brutal introduction to military discipline, physical demands, and mental pressure. For Megumi, it felt like an intensive course in skills she’d been developing unconsciously for years. The physical training challenged her in new ways. She’d always been fit from ranch work, but military fitness required different muscle groups and endurance patterns.
The academic requirements covered topics she’d never studied formally, but understood intuitively, ballistics, weather pattern, recognition, and equipment maintenance. But it was during weapons training that Megumi truly distinguished herself. “Kashuahara, step up to the firing line,” barked drill sergeant Maria Rodriguez, a compact woman whose intensity made up for what she lacked in height. “Let’s see if Colorado farm girls can hang with real soldiers.”
Megumi approached the firing line carrying the standard M4 carbine, a weapon significantly different from her familiar Remington, but operating on the same fundamental principles. Around her fellow recruits struggled with basic marksmanship concepts, fighting their weapons instead of working with them. The target stood at 300 meters of distance, Megumi considered practically point blank range.
She settled into a stable shooting position, adjusted for the slight crosswind and began engaging targets with mechanical precision.
“Cease fire,” Sergeant Rodriquez called after Megumi had emptied her magazine.
“Kashuahara, center your rifle and step back.” The target retrieval revealed something that made several drill sergeants gather at the scoring table. Megumi had achieved perfect scores at a distance where many recruits struggled to hit the target at all.
“You shot expert on the rifle range yesterday. Perfect score.” Rodriguez’s face showed nothing. “First time I’ve seen that from a recruit in six years. Where’d you learn to shoot, boot?”
“Colorado, Sergeant.”
“Colorado, huh? Well, Colorado, let’s see if you can teach these other knuckle-draggers how to hold a rifle without shooting their fuckin’ feet off.”
Megumi considered her answer carefully. “Sergeant, the principles are the same regardless of the weapon. Sight alignment, breathing control, trigger pull, and follow through. The M4 just applies those principles with different specifications.”
Word of Megumi’s shooting abilities spread quickly through the training battalion. By the end of her first week, instructors from advanced programs were reviewing her scores and requesting additional evaluations. Megumi found herself caught between the standard recruit training schedule and special assessments designed to measure her potential for specialized programs.
What followed Was Megumi’s first lesson in leading soldiers. On the range, she found herself beside Private Jackson, a kid from Detroit who’d never held anything more dangerous than a video game controller.
“I can’t hit anything beyond 200 yards,” Jackson muttered, frustration thick in his voice.
Megumi watched him set up for his next shot. “You’re thinking too much about the rifle. Not enough about the bullet.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The rifle just starts the journey. The bullet has to travel through air that’s moving, heating up, cooling down, getting thicker or thinner depending on how high we are.” She pointed downrange. “At 300 yards, that bullet drops about seven inches from where your barrel’s pointing. But if there’s a 10-mile-per-hour crosswind, it’s also going to drift about four inches to the right.”
Jackson’s eyes glazed over. “How do you remember all that math?”
“I don’t remember it. I feel it.” Megumi knelt beside him. “Close your eyes. Feel the wind on your face. Which cheek is it hitting harder?”
“The left one.”
“Good. That means wind from the left. Feel how strong?”
Jackson concentrated, his face scrunched in thought. “Like ... a steady push?”
“About eight to ten miles per hour. At 300 yards, that’s going to push your bullet about three inches right. So aim three inches left of center.”
Jackson’s next shot hit the bullseye. His grin could have lit up the entire state of South Carolina.
“How’d you know that without a calculator?” he asked.
“Practice,” Megumi replied. But it was more than that. In the Colorado plains, she’d learned to read the language of wind and distance, to feel ballistics in her bones the way other people felt music.
“Kashuahara, you’re drawing attention,” said Private Sarah Chen, her bunkmate, and one of the few other recruits who seemed genuinely comfortable with military life. Sarah was a 20-year-old from California whose father had served in the Marine Corps. Good attention, but attention nonetheless.
“Is that a problem?” Megumi asked, field stripping her rifle for the third time that evening to ensure perfect cleanliness. “Depends on how you handle it,
Clement. Some people resent recruits who stand out. Others respect exceptional performance. The trick is proving you’re exceptional without making everyone else feel inadequate.”
Megumi looked up from her weapon maintenance. “I’m not trying to make anyone feel anything. I’m just doing my best.”
“I know,” Sarah said with a slight smile. “That’s what makes it work.”
During the final marksmanship test, she found herself on the 500-yard line with a rifle she’d never fired before and ammunition she’d never tested. The wind was gusting and shifting, the kind of conditions that made even experienced shooters nervous.
Range Officer Captain Martinez called for the relay to begin. Around her, recruits settled into prone positions, checking their data books and making scope adjustments.
Megumi simply lay down behind her rifle and began to read the environment.
Wind from the southwest at about 12 miles per hour, gusting to 18. Temperature around 85 degrees—warmer than the 70-degree standard temperature her rifle was zeroed for, which meant the bullet would fly a little higher. Humidity felt like about 60 percent, making the air slightly denser than normal.
She didn’t reach for a calculator or data book. Instead, she closed her eyes and ran through the mental calculations her father had taught her to make instinctively:
At 500 yards with these conditions, the bullet would drop about 27 inches below her point of aim. The southwest wind would push it about 8 inches to the northeast. The warm temperature would reduce that drop by maybe an inch.
She dialed 26 clicks of elevation into her scope and 3 clicks of left windage to compensate for the drift.
“Kashuahara,” Captain Martinez called over the loudspeaker. “You haven’t looked at your data book yet.”
“Don’t need to, sir,” she called back.
She could hear the murmurs from the other Marines, the skeptical whispers of instructors. Megumi settled into her shooting position and began the breathing routine her father had taught her—not the quick, shallow breaths of excitement, but the deep, controlled respiration that would slow her heart rate and steady her hands.
Box breathing: inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four. Repeat until the world narrowed to just her, the rifle, and the target 500 yards downrange.
As her breathing settled, she could feel her heart rate dropping from the elevated rhythm of anticipation to the steady 60 beats per minute that her father had taught her to recognize. In the pause between heartbeats, when her body was completely still, she would break the shot.
Through her scope, the target looked close enough to touch. She could see the black bullseye clearly, could read the scoring rings despite the heat mirage rising from the Georgia dirt.
The wind gusted, and she waited. Patience—another lesson from the desert. The best shot was the one taken at the right moment, not the fastest one.
The gust subsided. In the relative calm, she took her final breath, exhaled slowly, and in the natural respiratory pause that followed, applied steady pressure to the trigger.
The rifle recoiled against her shoulder, but she maintained her sight picture through the scope, watching the bullet’s impact downrange. Center of the bullseye, exactly where she’d calculated it would go.
Four more shots followed, each one placed with the same methodical precision. When the relay was complete and the targets were scored, Captain Martinez’s voice carried a note of disbelief:
“Kashuahara —perfect score. Five rounds, all in the X-ring.”
The other recruits stared. In three months of boot camp, no one had shot a perfect score at 500 yards without using a calculator or data book.
“How?” Captain Martinez asked as she approached the firing line.
“My grandfather taught me to think like a bullet, sir,” Megumi replied. “Calculate the path in my head, feel the conditions instead of measuring them.”
Captain Martinez made a note in her record book. “Kashuahara, have you given any thought to Military Occupational Specialty?”
“Yes, ma’am. I want to be a sniper.”
“Son of a—” Martinez caught herself. “I mean, that’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”
The advanced marksmanship evaluation came during Megumi’s sixth week of basic training. Instead of the standard training range, she found herself at a specialized facility with distances extending beyond anything she’d experienced in civilian life.
The evaluating team included Master Sergeant Edwards, whom she remembered from Fort Harrison, along with several instructors she didn’t recognize. Kashuahara to Edwards “Today’s evaluation will test your abilities at distances up to 1,200 meters using precision rifle systems. You’ll be evaluated on accuracy target acquisition, speed, and adaptability to unfamiliar equipment.”
The precision rifle was a custom 308 Lapua system with an advanced scope and bipod significantly heavier and more complex than anything Megumi had used previously. She spent 30 minutes familiarizing herself with the weapons feel and function, then settled into position for the longest shots of her military career. The first target stood at 800 meters familiar territory.
Megumi’s shots grouped within two inches of center. The second target at 1,000 meters required adjustments for wind and elevation she’d never attempted with military equipment. Her first shot missed left by six inches. Her second shot corrected for wind struck center mass. Her remaining shots created a group that impressed even the veteran instructors.
“Kashuahara, step up to the 1,200-meter line,” Edwards instructed.
One thousand meters was beyond anything Megumi had attempted even in civilian competition. She studied the target through her scope calculating wind patterns and bullet drop using principles she’d learned through years of practice, but had never applied at such extreme range. Her first shot struck the target eight inches high. Her second shot adjusted for drop hit four inches left of center. Her third shot found the bull’s eye.
“Time,” Crawford called out. “Kashuahara, center your rifle and step back.”
The scoring process took longer than usual with instructors using spotting scopes to verify hit locations and measurements. When Edwards approached Megumi with the results, his expression was carefully controlled. “Kashuahara, your 1200-meter group measured 11 inches. For perspective, that’s within acceptable combat accuracy at a distance where most experienced military marksmen struggle to hit the target consistently.”
Megumi felt a surge of satisfaction mixed with anticipation. “What’s next, Sergeant?”
“Next you complete basic training like every other recruit. But after graduation, you’ll be reporting directly to the Special Operations Training, our course for advanced sniper instruction.” Edwards studied her intently.
“Kashuahara, understand that what comes next will be more challenging than anything you’ve experienced. The training is designed to push candidates beyond their perceived limitations.”
“I understand, Sergeant.”
“Do you? Because once you enter Special Operations training, failure isn’t just poor performance. It’s potentially life-threatening. The skills you’ll learn are intended for combat application against enemy forces who are trying to kill you.”
Megumi met his gaze without wavering. “Sergeant, I’ve spent my entire life preparing for challenges that matter. I’m ready for whatever comes next.”
The remainder of basic training passed in a blur of standard military instruction punctuated by additional evaluations and specialized training modules. Megumi excelled in all areas, but her marksmanship scores became legendary among the training staff. By graduation day, she held the highest shooting scores in her battalion’s history. Her family made the trip to Fort Benning for the graduation ceremony, driving 10 hours from Colorado to witness Megumi receive her military credentials.
Seeing her parents in the crowd of families, Megumi felt the full weight of what she was undertaking. This wasn’t just career training, it was a fundamental transformation of her life’s direction. We’re proud of you, Midori Kashuahara said during the brief family visit allowed after the ceremony. “But we’re also scared for you.”
“I’m scared too,” Megumi admitted, “but I’m more excited than scared.”
Kenji Kashuahara handed his daughter a small package wrapped in brown paper. “From your grandfather’s military footlocker. He wanted you to have it when you were ready.”
Inside the package was a compass, brass and worn smooth by decades of use, with an inscription on the back, “For Megumi, you always find your way home.”
“Grandpa knew?” Megumi asked her voice tight with emotion.
“He said you had the heart of a soldier from the time you were little,” Keni replied. “Said you’d find your way to service eventually.” As Megumi hugged her parents goodbye, she felt the weight of two paths before her, the standard path of military excellence or the shadowy classified world of the Odin program.
By this time tomorrow, she would have to choose which legacy of her grandfathers to follow. And as she watched her family drive away, Megumi realized that no matter which path she chose, she had already crossed a threshold into a world her grandfather had navigated decades before, a world where extraordinary ability carried extraordinary responsibility and where history could be changed with a single bullet.