Medic!
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 1
From the outdoor rifle range, Maria Perez stood at the threshold of the shoot house. Her medic bag hung from her shoulder—42 pounds of trauma equipment, field surgical supplies, and emergency medications. Five foot two, 115 pounds, 24 years old.
The SEAL team running close-quarter battle (CQB) drills turned as one, automatic weapons lowering, sweat still glistening on their combat uniforms under the California sun.
“Who called a medic?” Petty Officer First Class Brad Simmons, 6’1” and 210 pounds of solid muscle earned through eight years of SEAL operations, laughed loud enough to carry across the training bay. “We haven’t shot anyone yet, sweetheart.”
Ripples of laughter spread through the group. There were eight SEALs, every single one towering over her by at least six inches and outweighing her by a minimum of 70 pounds. Their gear alone probably weighed more than she did.
Maria set the medic bag on the concrete floor with a heavy thump that silenced some of the laughter. “Hospital Corpsman Third Class Perez, reporting for team integration training.”
Master Chief Jerry Matthews, standing in the corner with a clipboard and the weathered expression of someone who’d seen 30 years of military service, raised an eyebrow. “You’re the new doc? Command said they were sending someone with experience.”
“I have experience, Master Chief.”
“How much experience are we talking about?”
“Eighteen months Fleet Marine Force, six months advanced combat trauma certification.”
Brad crossed his arms, biceps straining against his shirt sleeves. “Eighteen months? Kid, I’ve got boots older than your entire career.” He glanced toward the team leader standing near the tactics board. “Sir, with all respect, we can’t be babysitting a boot corpsman while we’re trying to train for deployment.”
Lieutenant Commander James Morrison studied Maria with the careful assessment of someone who’d learned to read people in hostile environments. His eyes were calm but penetrating—the kind that missed nothing. “Chief Matthews, what does her service record say?”
Jerry flipped through the papers on his clipboard, reading without much interest. “Standard qualifications, medical certifications all current, combat lifesaver instructor rated, rifle qualification...” He stopped, squinting at the page as if the print had suddenly become unclear. “Huh. Distinguished Expert. That’s ... unusual for a corpsman.”
Someone in the back, Seaman Stephen Williams—another corpsman who’d been vocally disappointed when he didn’t get this team assignment—muttered just loud enough to be heard: “Lucky range day. Probably shot it three times before she qualified.”
Maria didn’t respond. She stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind her back, face completely neutral. But her eyes tracked everything with the precision of a targeting system: weapon positions, team spacing, exit routes, blind spots, and the room’s geometry. The observations were automatic, ingrained as natural as breathing.
Morrison stepped forward. His voice carried the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to raise it. “Perez, you’re here to observe integration training. We’re running room-clearing drills for the next two hours. Your job is to stay out of the way, watch how we move, and start learning our procedures. When someone goes down in a drill, you’ll assess and stabilize. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Simmons, get her staged in the observation area. Everyone else, let’s reset for Run Three.”
Brad gestured toward a marked zone along the wall where training observers typically stood—behind barriers, out of the line of fire. “Over there, Doc. Try not to get shot on your first day.”
Maria moved to the observation position, setting her medic bag within easy reach. The team reassembled at the shoot house entrance, checking weapons and adjusting kit. Their movements were fluid, practiced, the kind of muscle memory that came from thousands of repetitions.
The shoot house itself was a maze of plywood walls and doorways designed to simulate urban combat environments. Somewhere inside, training targets waited—hostile and non-hostile scenarios that would test the team’s judgment as much as their marksmanship.
Morrison’s voice cut through the preparation. “Scenario: hostage rescue, unknown number of hostiles, civilian casualties possible. Rules of engagement: positive ID before firing. Thompson, you’re on point. Williams, you’re playing casualty—abdominal GSW, conscious but deteriorating. You’ll be in Room Four.”
Stephen Williams, still smarting from losing the team assignment to Maria, gave her a look that was half smirk, half challenge before moving into the shoot house. “Try to keep up, boot.”
The team stacked at the entrance—Thompson on point with his HK416, followed by Ramirez, Chen, and Morrison himself. Brad Simmons held rear security. Their spacing was perfect, weapons oriented in overlapping sectors of fire.
“Three, two, one—execute.”
They flowed into the shoot house like water finding channels. Maria tracked their movement through the open doorways, noting the precision of their clearing procedures. Each room was systematically cleared—threshold assessment, angular advantage, crossfire avoidance, methodical violence.
Simulated gunfire cracked through the structure. Commands were clipped, efficient.
“Clear left!”
“Moving!”
“Contact right, two hostiles—”
More gunfire. The sharp smell of gun smoke drifted from the shoot house doors.
Then Morrison’s voice, elevated but controlled: “Casualty! Doc up!”
Maria was already moving before the words finished, medic bag in hand, running toward the shoot house entrance. But Morrison appeared in the doorway, hand raised.
“Hold position, Perez. Simmons will extract. I want you staged at the casualty collection point.”
She stopped, acknowledging the order, and repositioned near the designated CCP—a cleared area with good access for simulated medevac. Seconds later, Brad emerged carrying Stephen Williams in a fireman’s carry, moving with the smooth efficiency of someone who’d done this hundreds of times.
He set Williams down in the CCP. “Abdominal GSW, conscious, no airway compromise. He’s yours, Doc.”
Maria dropped to her knees beside Williams, already assessing. The simulated wound was marked with moulage—realistic gore that looked disturbingly authentic. Williams was playing his role, groaning convincingly, one hand pressed to his “injured” abdomen.
“Can you tell me your name?” Maria asked, starting her primary survey.
“Williams ... hurts...”
“I know. I’ve got you.” Her hands moved with practiced efficiency—airway clear, breathing adequate, circulation assessment. She reached for her trauma shears, cutting away the training uniform to expose the simulated wound. “GSW to left upper quadrant, likely splenic involvement. Respirations elevated, skin pale and diaphoretic—clinical shock.”
She was already moving, hands steady and sure. IV access established in seconds—18-gauge catheter in the right antecubital. Fluids started. Pressure dressing applied to the wound with exactly the right amount of force to control bleeding without restricting breathing.
“Heart rate 118, thready pulse. Systolic probably below 90. Starting second IV line, prepare for fluid resuscitation.” Her voice was calm, clinical, the same tone she’d used in actual combat when a nineteen-year-old Marine was bleeding out in front of her.
Morrison and the others had gathered nearby, watching in silence. This wasn’t just about medical skills—it was about how she performed under observation, under pressure, under judgment.
Maria worked through the casualty algorithm with textbook precision. Two IV lines established. Fluids running. Wound packed and pressure maintained. Airway monitored. Vital signs tracked.
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