Lilith
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9: Passing the Torch
FORT BENNING, GEORGIA
JANUARY 2016
The C-17 touched down at Fort Benning on a cold January morning. Shira stepped off the aircraft onto American soil, no longer a student or a deployed warrior, but something else entirely: a combat veteran returning home.
The base looked the same—red clay Georgia dirt, pine trees, training ranges in the distance. But she was different. She’d left here a year and a half ago as a brand-new graduate. She was returning as Staff Sergeant Shira Abrams, two combat deployments, 96 confirmed kills, Silver Star recipient.
Staff Sergeant Daniel Warren was waiting at the airfield, just as he’d been when she’d passed through after Iraq.
“Abrams,” he said, returning her salute. “Welcome back. Or should I say, welcome home?”
“Staff Sergeant Warren.” She shook his hand.
“I heard about Afghanistan. The Chinook ambush.” He studied her face. “Eight positions under fire. That’s the kind of thing they’ll teach in this school for the next twenty years.”
“Just doing the job you trained me for, Staff Sergeant.”
“There’s that line again.” He smiled slightly. “Come on. Battalion commander wants to see you, then I’ll show you your new office.”
“My office?”
“You’re an instructor now. Senior sniper instructor, actually. You’ve got more combat experience than half the cadre combined.” He started walking. “How does it feel to be on the other side?”
“Strange. I don’t feel old enough to teach.”
“You’re 23 with two combat deployments and nearly 100 confirmed kills. Trust me, you’re qualified.”
BATTALION COMMANDER’S OFFICE - 0900 HOURS
Lieutenant Colonel Hayes—the same officer who’d fast-tracked her to Sniper School and overseen her Iraq HVT mission—stood when she entered.
“Staff Sergeant Abrams, at ease.” He gestured to a chair. “Good to have you back at Benning. Your reputation precedes you—both deployments were exceptional. Iraq, Afghanistan, consistently outstanding performance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll cut to the chase. We want you as a senior instructor for the U.S. Army Sniper Course. You’ll teach advanced marksmanship, field craft, and real-world applications based on your combat experience. You’ll also mentor students, particularly female candidates—we’re getting more applications from women after your success.”
He slid a folder across the desk. “This is your assignment. One year minimum, potentially extended if you choose. You’ll work directly with Staff Sergeant Warren and the other cadre. Questions?”
“When do I start, sir?”
“Next course begins in two weeks. Until then, get settled, decompress, and prepare your curriculum.” He paused. “One more thing. Your Silver Star ceremony is scheduled for February 12th. Your family’s been notified. It’ll be a formal post ceremony—the whole garrison will attend.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed. And Abrams? It’s good to have you here. These students will learn from the best.”
INSTRUCTOR QUARTERS - AFTERNOON
Shira’s new room was in the NCO barracks—private, larger than deployed quarters, with actual furniture and a window overlooking the training ranges. She unpacked methodically: uniforms, personal items, the photos she’d carried through two wars.
Ari smiling on the Golan Heights. Her parents at their Vienna townhouse. A group photo of Third Platoon from Iraq. Another of Second Platoon from Afghanistan.
And one new photo: her and David, taken at FOB Lightning two days before they’d left. Both in uniform, mountains in the background, looking tired but happy.
She set that one on her nightstand and pulled out her phone. Found David’s number, hesitated, then called.
He answered on the second ring. “Shira?”
“Hi. I’m at Benning. Just got assigned as an instructor.”
“That’s wonderful! How are you feeling?”
“Strange. Disconnected. Like I don’t belong here anymore.”
“That’s normal. You’ve been deployed for over a year—it takes time to adjust.” She heard noise in the background—hospital sounds. “Sorry, I’m at Hopkins. Between rounds. When can I see you?”
“I don’t know. I’m here for at least a year. You’re in Maryland. That’s—”
“Four and a half hours by car. Completely manageable.” His voice was firm. “Shira, I meant what I said in Afghanistan. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll make this work.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all I get?”
She smiled despite herself. “Okay, David. We’ll make it work.”
“Better. I’ll drive down this weekend. We’ll figure out a schedule—maybe alternate weekends, holidays, leave time. People do long-distance relationships all the time.”
“Do they work?”
“When both people want them to, yes.” He paused. “Do you want this to work?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then it will. Now go settle in, prepare to terrify some poor students, and I’ll see you Friday night.”
After they hung up, Shira sat on her bunk, phone in hand, feeling something she hadn’t felt in years: hope for a future beyond the next mission.
SNIPER SCHOOL - FIRST DAY AS INSTRUCTOR
JANUARY 25, 2016
Forty students stood in formation on the first morning of the new course. All male, all experienced soldiers, all believing they were ready.
Shira stood with the other instructors—Warren, two master sergeants, and a captain. She was the only woman, the youngest by at least five years, but her rank and decorations spoke for themselves.
Warren stepped forward. “Welcome to the United States Army Sniper Course. I’m Staff Sergeant Warren, senior instructor. Over the next seven weeks, you will be trained in advanced marksmanship, field craft, and reconnaissance. Most of you will fail. Not because you’re bad soldiers, but because this course demands perfection.”
He gestured to the instructors. “These cadre members have extensive combat experience. They will teach you skills that save lives—yours and your teammates’.” He looked at Shira. “Staff Sergeant Abrams will be teaching advanced long-range techniques and real-world applications. Staff Sergeant Abrams, introduce yourself.”
Shira stepped forward. Forty sets of eyes tracked her—some curious, some skeptical, all assessing.
“I’m Staff Sergeant Shira Abrams. I’m 23 years old. I graduated this course two years ago. Since then, I’ve completed two combat deployments—Iraq and Afghanistan. I have 96 confirmed kills across both theaters, including engagements from 400 to 1,850 meters. I’ve been awarded the Silver Star for actions under fire.”
The formation was dead silent.
“I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to teach you to stay alive and do your job. If you think being a sniper is about being the best shot, you’re wrong. It’s about patience, discipline, judgment, and accepting that every decision you make can save lives or end them.” She paused. “Any questions?”
One student—a sergeant, mid-twenties—raised his hand. “Staff Sergeant, with respect, you look really young. How do we know you’re qualified to teach?”
Warren started to intervene, but Shira stopped him.
“Fair question, Sergeant. Here’s your answer: I can outshoot any student in this formation. I’ve made shots in combat that most snipers will never attempt. And I’ve kept multiple Ranger platoons alive through sustained operations.” She met his eyes. “If that’s not enough qualification, feel free to drop from the course. No one’s forcing you to be here.”
The sergeant dropped his gaze. “No, Staff Sergeant. That’s sufficient.”
“Good. Anyone else?”
No hands.
“Outstanding. Get to class.”
After the students dispersed, Warren approached, grinning. “That was perfect. You just established dominance without being a jackass about it.”
“I learned from the best, Staff Sergeant.”
“Damn right you did.”
FEBRUARY 2016 - TEACHING
The rhythm of teaching was different from combat but satisfying in its own way. Shira taught ballistics, wind reading, range estimation—all the technical skills. But she also taught judgment, patience, and the weight of taking a life.
In the classroom, she used her combat experiences as teaching examples:
“In Iraq, I engaged a target at 1,847 meters—over a mile. Why was that shot possible? Not because I’m special, but because I did the math. Calculated every variable. Trusted my training. The fundamentals don’t change at distance—they just matter more.”
On the range, she demonstrated techniques:
“Watch your breathing. At extreme range, even your heartbeat affects the shot. You need to fire between beats, during the natural respiratory pause. Like this.”
She fired at a 1,000-meter target. Hit.
“Your turn.”
The students struggled initially, but improved. She was patient, correcting stance, grip, breathing. Teaching the same way her father had taught her in the Golan Heights—repetition, precision, no shortcuts.
Some students washed out. Some excelled. A few showed real talent.
One student—a specialist named Garcia—approached her after a range session. “Staff Sergeant, can I ask you something personal?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Do you ever think about them? The people you’ve killed?”
It was the question everyone wanted to ask but rarely did.
“Every day,” Shira said honestly. “Every single one. I remember distances, conditions, how the shot felt. Some I remember more than others.”
“Does it get easier?”
“No. But you learn to carry it. And you remember why you did it—to protect the people who depend on you.” She looked at him. “If killing ever becomes easy, that’s when you need to stop.”
Garcia nodded slowly. “Thank you, Staff Sergeant.”
SILVER STAR CEREMONY
FEBRUARY 12, 2016
The entire garrison turned out for the ceremony. Soldiers in dress uniform, colors posted, brass in attendance. Shira stood at attention in her dress blues, feeling exposed and uncomfortable with the attention.
Her parents sat in the front row—Simon with his cane, Miriam with tears already in her eyes. David had driven down from Maryland, sitting beside them in civilian clothes.
Lieutenant Colonel Hayes read the citation:
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