Chapter 1: Para Bellum

Southern California

Large unmarked vans, towing cargo trailers, rolled up to the March air base transient aircraft ramp. An interesting mix of civilians, soldiers, sailors, and Marines filed off the C-17. The two lieutenents, Staff Sergeant O’Brien, and the army ranger master sergeant had been ‘in conference’ for the most of the 25 hours of travel time and were still talking as they exited the aircraft via the aft cargo ramp.

Last off the aircraft were Pistochini, Vera, and Starling. Vera and Starling had become Pistol’s de facto security team and body men. They had been physically close to Pistochini the since their arrival at Germany almost two weeks ago and refused to leave his proximity.

O’Brien instructed Sgt Starling to have the troops unload the aircraft and to pack their stuff onto the vans and trailers for the short trip to Camp Pendleton.

As O’Brien assembled with Garza, Hoerner, and Chapman next to a van, “So where’s home, sir?”

“Area 43.”

“ ... Area 43? That’s Pulgas, sir. Small area with much activity and traffic. We gonna let the rangers check the site out first?”

“Too late. We’re committed. It is the only piece of dirt that the base commander is willing to give a spook-run dark unit. The SeaBees have already built most of the compound, and we’ve established access and movement protocols with the base CG and the area commander. Its about a click northwest of the center of area 43 build-up. Good site. Many surrounding trails through the hills for PT and training, plus all the comforts of home.”

O’Brien nodded an affirmation to his boss. “Sounds good, sir. Anything in particular that should go on the training schedule for the next thirty days?”

“Myself and the Agency have the training schedule. And the rangers will have to provide at least a security protocol brief. I’m going to have...” Garza paused to point to the ranger officer, “ ... Lieutenant Chapman arrange some sessions on ranger tactics. Yourself and Cheeseburger and Digger spoke well of the soldiers when you were attached to that ranger company in Afghanistan, so we are going to get the recipe for their magic sauce.”

The four senior members of the new organization joined the troops in the lead vehicle for the caravan to Camp Pendleton.

Cpl Higgins drove the length of Vandegrift through the breadth of Camp Pendleton with authority. The southeast side of the base was mostly officer housing and non-tactical support facilities; O’Brien never had an occasion to be in the area, thus his need for a driver.

“You certain ‘bout this Higs?”

“No problemo, staff sergeant. Its about a click before the San Luis gate. My wife used to work at the stables. So why is the LT sending you to the PMO?”

O’Brien shook his head at his armorer, pointing to the army master sergeant in the rear of the hummer.

“Actually he’s sending the top. He’s gonna pretend to be the adult supervision. Pistol and me are just along to visit our buds and talk to the vet.”

“Here’s la policia, boss.”

“You’re with me, O’Brien.”

“Aye, top.”

The front counter to the base ‘police’ was staffed by two civilians in blue uniforms. The only visible Marine was a staff sergeant MP stationed at a desk, engrossed in the paper shuffling of military law enforcement. The two big guys waited in line, working their way to the front. Their arrival caused pause by the civilian police officer.

“Can I help you, master sergeant?”

“I have a Notification Form 39 to base security. Please note the FPCON level for the designated structures in Area 43. There are two copies, one for receipt, and one for your reference.”

The civilian policeman was was essentially an armed clerk. He had no understanding of the Marine’s ThreatCon system.

“Uh, doesn’t this have to go through the base commander?”

Top Hoerner produced a copy of a second notification, signed by the I-MEF CG and countersigned by the base CO.

“Hang on there, top. I’ll be back.”

O’Brien knew that it was about to get escalated, when the Marine MP was seperated from his pile of papers.

“Howdy there, master sergeant. So you people operating your area at FPCON charlie?”

“That’s affirmative, staff sergeant. Need someone to sign the notification reciept.”

“That’s mighty interesting, master sergeant. So its in Area 43? Does the area commander know about this?”

“Local commands have been informed. This is more of a courtesy call, and not a formal notification. The CG of your MEF is not asking, sergeant. He is telling you that this area is operating at FPCON Charlie.”

“I’m gonna need a PMO officer to look at this. My captain will be here sometime after 1500. I’m sorry, but can’t sign it.”

“I understand.”

The Marine and the tan-beanie soldier exited the base cop shop in resignation.

“Told ya, top.”

“You have a big PMO shop with no officers on site. Just an E-5 and two civilians?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell ya, top. The Marine Corps is small and is cheap; we’re talkin low-rent. NCOs run the nuts and bolts of this rodeo, not officers. I’ll call the boss...”

“Hell with that, call Acorn.”

“Aye, top.” O’Brien pulled his ‘magic’ phone from his pocket. “Wanna see my two buds, now that we’ve crashed and burned here?”

“Yeah, why the heck not?”

O’Brien and Pistochini walked by the animal facilities office and directly to a small circular corral having three donkeys and a horse. The smaller donkey, upon smelling and seeing his favorite human, emitted a screeching bray while galloping to the fence line. Another donkey, walking rapidly in a more dignified manner, hurried to greet his besty human. Hoerner was taken with the ridiculous show of affection between donkey and human.

O’Brien wrapped an arm around the Spock’s neck, stroking his head.

“You boys look good. Livin the good life?”

Spock answered O’Brien’s question with a series of excited snorts as he rubbed against his human. Troi acted with a rather unseemly display of riotous affection towards Pistochini.

The site manager saw the four men approach the corral through the front office window, deciding to watch the ‘unusual’ group from a more close vantage.

“Never seen them do that. You know these animals, staff sergeant?”

“Yes ma’am. My LT had ‘em brought back from Afghanistan. They’re both combat veterans.”

“I wondered about that. Everybody loves these two. They have been perfectly receptive t the trainers and cadre. In fact, they’re gonna be pulled out of the training cycle because the Marines treat them like pets.”

“Yeah? What y’all gonna do with ‘em?”

“I am not certain. Doctor Bowen said we cannot do anything with them. But that they are both fully funded.”

“What does that mean, ma’am?”

“Not certain, but we’ve seen the same funding programs used for working dogs that served with spec ops. We exercise them, feed them, house them, and wait for them to be shipped off to where ever.”

The woman paused to look at MSgt Hoerner, noticing his tan beanie and his ranger and airborne tabs.

“Are you people special forces? Is that what these animals did in Afghanistan.”

“No, ma’am, I’m just infantry. I was a grunt with 2/3.”

“Just come back?”

“Yep, for a little while.”

The stable manager abruptly stepped away from O’Brien and Hoerner, moving closer to Pistochini, Pistochini observed the exchange as he gently stroked Troi’s face, noting that the woman had instinctively moved towards, at least per her perception, the least threatening personage of the four men.

Once the woman moved within a detectable range, Pistochini quickly surmised that woman did not trust her present company. A few more seconds and Pistochini knew that the woman’s bullshit detector had been pegged. What Pistochini did not know was that her husband had been attached to 2/3 when that battalion deployed with members of CLB 3, but they had been deployed to Iraq. She was guessing that they were MARSOC or of some dark ops units, thus hiding the true area of operations.

O’Brien saw another window of opportunity, deciding it was time to, once again, exercise the magic of his CIA-issued blackberry phone.

Hoerner and O’Brien had determined that the unit had less than four months to mentally and physically prepare their troops for Project Hornblende. The training schedule had the rigors wide scope that army rangers and Marine sniper excepted as the norm.

After two months without any major problems with his Marines, O’Brien was hoping that, somehow, that their joint training activities had succeeded in containing his Marines’ more base tendencies.

“Marc? Your boys want some serious trigger time today? My shooters are done and we have the range for one more day. Want my boys to set your people up at 600 to 1000 meters?”

“Appreciate that, Juan. My people would definitely like to give your M40s and 82s a test drive.”

“Doc, would you retrieve O’Brien?”

“Aye Aye sir.”

Sanders trotted out the inflatable tent to find his boss.

“Yo, Opie.”

“Hey doc. How life with the officers?”

“Painfully boring. Last week, I couldn’t take it anymore - they had been talking about the economics of new electrical appliances for almost three hours when I left to see Pistol. I took Cheeseburger’s SOG watch to escape the hutch for a day.”

“Sounds like the head-shed needs more work.”

“Yeah. I agree. Meanwhile, your boss desires your presence.”

“Good afternoon, sirs.”

“Hello, staff sergeant. Do not release range 117 tomorrow. We are going to let the army take a spin past 500 meters with our rifles. I will suggest Malone and Hartman to be on the line with the rangers, assuming them to be your principle team leaders. She asked, so its okay to take Sergeant Adrianakis if you approve.”

“Okay with Lieutenant Stevenson, sir?”

“Ada says her people are good to go.”

“No problemo, sir. I think Addy has been itching for some quality trigger time. I’ll need Army on the deck by 0600, sir. Full gear and rifles. We’ll carry the ammo and the M40s and M82s in the safety vehicle.”

“Why do the rangers need their rifles?”

“Gonna start them at 300 or 500 meters with something they are familiar with, sir. Is the lieutenent gonna join us?”

“Uncertain. Acorn and some JAG people wanted Lieutenant Chapman and myself at a meeting tomorrow. I might wander onto the range after 1100.”

“Aye, sir.”

Las Pulgas and Range 117A, Camp Pendleton, Ca

O’Brien waited for the ranger master sergeant to form his troops. When Hoerner had assembled the formation, the top asked O’Brien, “Staff Sergeant, please take us up to the range.”

“Aye, top ... Cheeseburger, take the guidon position. Set the pace.”

The Army master sergeant marched the formation of soldiers and Marines through the fence gate and a row of concertina wire and past the barricades, put the formation on the road, then gave the route-step command. Cheeseburger took off at force-march pace. The army rangers easily maintained the pace and proper spacing. After the formation was down the hill and had turned on to the blacktop, O’Brien went to the rear of the column and told Addy to get into the safety vehicle.

As the column crossed the road to turn into range 117A, sudden and sharp metallic crunching and vehicle impact noise caused the formation to break ranks and run off of the shoulder of the road. O’Brien looked down the line of vehicles stopped on Bassilone road and saw that a civilian transport rig had plowed into a POV that was stopped while waiting for the formation to cross the road.

O’Brien, closely followed by Addy, ran to the crumpled SUV. Addy pulled out two children, handed them off to the rangers, then made haste to the opposite side of the vehicle to help O’Brien remove the driver. O’Brien pulled his curved Iraqi combat knife, sliced through the seat belt in two places, then pushed the partially deflated air bag away from the driver.

“He safe to move, Addy?”

“Don’t know, Opie. Stand aside. Need to look at him.”

Sergeant First Class Adrianakis checked vitals, and examined what was obvious. She decided that she did not want to move the man. Addy noted the man was starting to fade. She needed him conscious.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Huh?”

“Your name. Tell me your name.”

“Mike Chesterly”.

“Tell me how you feel, Mike. What is hurting?”

“My legs feel like shit. Have a hell of a headache ... shit, and I’m already late...”

“Opie, he stays where he is. We’re going to wait for a back-board. I’m guessing a concussion, neck contusions, a broken left femur, and probably his right leg is also broken, but cannot see it or get to it...”

“Don’t worry about it Addy. The meat wagon will be here in less than five mike. I’m gonna set range security before we get too many looky-loos in the area.” Addy returned to engage the traffic accident victim.

O’Brien trotted off and found the troops in a gaggle, half way onto the road. O’Brien was not impressed.

“Get the fuck off of the road. Every-fuckin-body! Fuckin Now! ... Cheeseburger, get the hummers past the tower and out of general sight. Higgins, take the duty weapon, stay outboard of the tower and do not let any non-emergency vehicle park here. And get the flag and put it up. It’ll give us a reason to restrict access.”

O’Brien yelled at the two army ranger sergeants. “Go direct traffic until the MPs get here.”

The two soldiers hesitated. O’Brien growled using his ‘command bear’ voice, “fuckin now people. Get this traffic moving.”

The two soldiers jumped, went to opposite ends of the crash and crumple gaggle, then started sending groups of vehicles around the wrecked mess while the other held the oncoming traffic. After a short time, the army sergeants were replaced by MP Marines to direct traffic.

O’Brien pointed to one of his troops loitering about, “Hangnail, I need you to stand with Corporal Higgins. Keep people out of the range. Only allow emergency vehicles to park, and keep them outboard of the tower.”

Beeman stood for a second or two with a blank stare, looking at O’Brien, than quickly walked to Higgins. O’Brien noted that Hartman had been shadowing him.

“Cheeseburger, find the master sergeant then take the two vehicles and the rest of the group up to the 500 meter line and stand watch. Don’t do the safety brief or anything. Wait for everyone to return.”

“Aye, staff sergeant.” Hartman trotted off towards the gaggle of four army rangers.

O’Brien sighed as he pulled his ‘magical’ phone out of his pack to call in the latest developments to his boss.

Range 117A, Camp Pendleton, Ca

“ ... Ready on the right ... ready on the left ... The firing line is ready ... With a magazine of ten rounds, lock and load ... Place your selector on single and commence 500 meter slow fire when ready. There is no time limit for this string of fire.”

O’Brien was kneeling next to the army master sergeant, spotting with his binoculars.

“Good group, top. Adjust your sights one right.”

The master sergeant selected safe, adjusted the M16’s rear sight for windage, and resumed his string of fire. O’Brien smiled at the top’s subsequent 15cm group.

“Looks damn good, top. Why no optics?”

“Your boys do it at 500 meters, so figured that I should at least try it.”

“Yep. That’s true top, but we’re allowed to use scopes to qualify these days. But Odin loves you for it, and you’ve earned Chesty’s respect.”

Hoerner rolled his eyes at, yet another, of O’Brien’s references to the various Marine demigods.

O’Brien stepped back from the firing line to scan the area. He had changed to RSO mode. The shooter on the starboard flank had raised his hand. O’Brien yelled at Digger to go see the man. Walking a quick pace behind the shooters, Digger suddenly stopped short of the right-most shooter, and turned towards O’Brien to give the cease-fire signal. O’Brien picked up the bull horn to stop firing.

“Cease fire. Cease fire. Clear and safe all weapons.”

O’Brien walked down the abbreviated six-position firing line, verifying weapons were safe as he made his way to Digger.

“Boss, we got a cluster-fuck of several rattlers in front the last position.”

O’Brien stepped forward to see a gaggle of about half dozen snakes in a bowl-shaped depression about 2m in front and to the right of the shooter’s position. O’Brien laughed, and motioned for the army ranger to verify his weapon was clear and get up and step away from the line.

“Digger, get me your stupid nine-iron and one of the brass-collection buckets. Take another pass down the line to make sure the line has cleared all weapons.”

Ranger Sergeant First Class Everton stood on the firing line observing the snakes with interest.

“Damn. Can’t believe the any wildlife would hang out in front of a firing line.”

“Wildlife on Pendleton will adapt and react differently than other places. Marines tend to coddle any critters found in their area. Our platoon had a dumbshit Marine in Iraq that kept camel spiders as pets. Jarheads love their critters. So some animals on Pendleton get used to being in close proximity to people with minimal fear.”

Digger handed a brass-collection bucket and his golf club to O’Brien.

“Digger, tell Cheeseburger to call Long Rifle and have them send a game control officer or one of the base eco-nuts.”

Verifying that all shooters were clear of their firing positions, O’Brien approached the cluster of snakes. Each snake was methodically placed in the bucket. O’Brien carried the bucket to the safety vehicle and covered it with an MRE case. “Digger lets walk the area in front of the firing line to verify no other surprises.”

Having verified that all of the rangers had solid marksmanship skills after an additional three strings of fire, O’Brien called a cease fire.

“Let’s get the next set of targets up and let’s break out our rifles set up an 800 meter firing line, then break for chow.”

“Call Long Rifle, boss?”

“Nope. Let’s keep the range hot. Don’t wanna deal with range control delays and all of Long Rifle’s other weird problems that they’ve been havin.”

Cheeeburger pointed back to the range access road, “wildlife dweebs coming. And it looks like the LT just pulled in.”

“Digger, get the snake bucket to wildlife people. Make sure we get the bucket back. Cheeseburger, lets go stand up the second set of targets.”

The wildlife biologist was a tall, intense reddish-blonde that had experience dealing with Marines.

“Who put the snakes into the bucket?”

“Staff Sergeant O’Brien. He’s downrange setting up targets.”

“Where did you find them?”

Digger led the biologist to the depression in front of the firing line.

“They were all stuffed in that, ma’am.”

“When is O’Brien returning, corporal?”

“Another ten minutes or maybe more, ma’am. We’re going to set up about 300 meters further down, ma’am. So you need to move your truck north of the safety vehicle if you want to wait for Staff Sergeant O’Brien.”

The firing line at 800 meters had been set up by the time O’Brien and Hartman trotted back to the safety vehicle.

“Digger, go relieve Higgins for chow, and tell Hangnail to get on the firing line.”

“Staff Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

“How did you transfer the snakes to the bucket?”

“Lifted them with a golf club.” O’Brien noted that Lt Garza, Mr. Acorn, and a JAG Lt had walked up to position themselves behind the biologists.

“You have experience handling rattlers?”

“Some species.”

“I see. Were you the Marine that identified that sick bison about four or five years ago at Case Springs?”

“Probably.”

“Tell me about your wildlife experience.”

Garza made himself known. “Why are you questioning this Marine? Did he violate any regulations?”

The startled biologist paused, “no lieutenant. If he is the person I think he is, we will be talking to the base commander or his commanding general about a transfer.”

Acorn snorted a short laugh. “Lieutenant Masterson, you want to take this?”

O’Brien rolled his eyes at Lt Garza. He knew what was coming. And all because the bitch could not mind her business and just do her job. O’Brien surmised she was full of self-importance, inflated from the years that the base commanders had allowed the wildlife people free reign, desperate to avoid loss of training areas. She was used to being imperious and having her way.

O’Brien noted that most of the rangers had gathered around to listen to the discussion, as they were concerned that O’Brien was ‘surrounded’ by unknown civilians. The JAG officer (Lt Masterson), after asking O’Brien to call the PMO, addressed the biologist.

“Per title five, the Patriot Act, you are now in federal custody to further investigate your intelligence-gathering activities on a classified military unit. You will be detained in lieu of reading the Miranda warning until further notice.”

When the PMO vehicle arrived, the two LTs and Acorn left the two wildlife people in the ‘custody’ of the rangers.

O’Brien half smirked, followed by a frown. He offered the biologist some parting wisdom, “Ma’am, you’ve stepped dead into a pile of dogshit. These people are not fucking around. Be very careful.”

O’Brien walked away from the gaggle of rangers and wildlife people to watch the huddle formed by the PMO major and an MP staff sergeant, the two lieutenants, and the CIA agent. Once they broke the gaggle, the PMO staff sergeant quickly walked to the gaggle and cuffed the two wildlife people without any exchange of words. They were placed in the rear seat of the PMO vehicle.

O’Brien, facing the JAG lieutenant, dramatically removed his cover, scratched his head, followed by a question, “Sir, I’m just a dumb grunt, and not a lawyer, but aren’t you gonna have sixth amendment problems with this? Ya know, all of that Massiah Doctrine shit?”

Lt Garza gave O’Brien a droll look. One of Lt. Garza’s great and ambitious dreams for the future of the unit was that his troops would not take such great pleasure in trolling ‘authority’ figures. O’Brien recognized his boss’s expression and offered a semi-respectful shrug of his shoulders to his Lt.

“In the short term, neither Miranda nor Massiah have much affect on the detention of someone held for national security reasons for suspected acts on a federal military reservation. On another subject, the base PAO is getting a lot of pressure from the local news media to reveal the identity of the people that rescued the victims from the crash ... So who could recognize yourself or Sergeant Andrianakis?”

“The two children we pulled from the SUV, perhaps their father, an MP corporal, and perhaps the first few drivers in the column of vehicles that were headed west and stacked up behind the wrecked rig and SUV. The MPs never interviewed me, they only talked to Addy and one of the rangers. So they may not have my name. I dunno, sir.”

O’Brien stepped away from the JAG officer to set his stage. “In any case, the rangers they doth call forthwith, so it is my urgent reply that the rangers know what they are, but know not what they may be. As such, nothing is, but what is not. For the rangers but only see and dream to snipe, they see no future of oldness.” O’Brien rotated in an ‘about face’ movement and fast-marched to the firing line.

Marcus Chapman gave an incredulous look to Garza, “What the hell was that, Juan?”

Suppressing a grin, Lt Garza provide an incomplete response. “Staff Sergeant O’Brien likes to bend Shakespeare to troll others. Do not think about it, Marcus - you may not like the message.”

Cheeseburger had set up two white boards and was distributing the hand-outs to the rangers and the corpsman when O’Brien stood in front of the group.

“Welcome to the pleasant part of my world. This firing line, 800 meters, represents an idealized range for the my shooters with M40s or M14s. The 800 meter distance is sufficient to make counter-sniper actions difficult, and is a range where the 7.62 round still has the energy to reliably kill a human with a center mass round placement. It also offers another facet not available to the army sniper using the Lapua round, the bullet becomes subsonic between 700 and 800 meters, so no supersonic crack. Conversely, the army’s Lapua-based systems enable superior ballistic performance for all ranges and wind conditions. Which, both tactically and strategically, makes sense. The army is tasked with missions that require control and denial of large areas. The army, with the exception of special forces and rangers, typically operate at the battalion or maybe company level. Marine infantry often operates at the squad or platoon level and have smaller AOs.”

“Your shooting discipline and technique should not change when using an M40 or any other long-range system. Its the same process but using a more accurate weapon and better optics. The scopes you’ll use today are set up for no wind and 800 meters and flat plane shooting.”

“The first two pages are the ballistic tables for the ammo being used. Let’s go to page three and look at the optics and how to adjust holds for the influences of range and wind...”

O’Brien was, once again, impressed with the army master sergeant. The ranger had good groups, and he knew how to read the flags to determine windage holds. And his form was excellent. O’Brien moved down the line to where Malone was working with two rangers. After Digger got one soldier on the paper, he turned to the other soldier. Malone could see the impacts behind the target, but he was not certain why he was pulling to the port.

“Staff Sergeant, could you watch him shoot while I spot?”

“You got it, Digger.”

O’Brien corrected the cheek weld and leg placement, but subsequent rounds did not make any holes in the paper.

“Digger, shoot the weapon. Let’s verify the rifle first.”

“Aye, boss ... Sergeant, please safe and clear your rifle then set it down. Let’s be certain we don’t have an equipment problem.”

Digger verified the scope settings, loaded three rounds, and quickly put all three on the paper in a group under 10cm. “Matches the flags, boss. Windage offset is about right for four to five knots.”

“Ok. Dial it into the scope so he doesn’t have to hold. One less thing to think about.”

“Shooter, resume your position.”

The army sergeant first class ‘re-built’ his pack support and sling setup.

“Your position looks good, soldier. Load three rounds and fire at target number two when ready. Aim dead center.”

The ranger slowly fired three rounds. One hole appeared on the left side of the paper target, well outside of the black. O’Brien was standing on the opposite side of the shooter to watch closely.

“Holy shit, batman. you’re pushing the scope against the sand bags. Digger, pull those fuckin sand bags away from the shooter. If he’s using his pack, he doesn’t need those bags.”

Albeit 25cm groups, the army sergeant was back on paper, and mostly in the black. Another problem solved. O’Brien decided to visit Addy’s position. Pulling out his binoculars, he was happy to see consistent 15cm groups, all on paper, on all three of her targets. O’Brien had been uncertain of her desire to participate in missions as both a corpsman and spotter, but he was now somewhat more confident of his decision to at least allow her to train up as a spotter.

“Boss, Long Rifle wants to talk to the RSO.”

“Ok, got it Cheeseburger.” O’Brien sat in the hummer and called range control.

“Long Rifle, this is 117 alpha RSO, over.”

“117, say status, over.

O’Brien paused, and looked at Lt Garza, “What the fuck, sir, we’re fuckin shootin on a rifle range. Has the LT ever been asked for ‘status of the rifle range, sir?”

“Do not remember. What the heck. Just tell them that.”

“Uh, long rifle, range 117 alpha is hot at this time. Live fire. Over.”

“117, what rounds are being sent downrange.”

“Long Rifle, we were shootin 5.56 until about 1215, and have been shootin 7.62 since about 1300, over.”

“Roger that, 117. Long rifle out.”

“That was fuckin weird. Whatever. Sir have another M40 in the trailer. Does the LT or Mr. Acorn wanna shoot?”

“No. And Harry had to leave. Want to ask Navy?”

“That’s a negative, sir. Don’t want that JAG fuckface on my shootin line. And why are we always gettin navy JAG? What about Marine JAG?”

“Do not know. That is probably a question for Harry Acorn ... So how goes it with the rangers?”

“Some of them have never qualified past 300 meters with their rifles. This is their first time with M40s and shooting at 800 meters. Considering that, they’re doing damn good, sir. I like how the senior ranger NCOs are hands-on types. And we have one soldier that could probably make it through our S/S school; at least the shootin part.”

“That is interesting. If we have the time, perhaps we can train the rangers as shooters. I’ll ask Marcus Chapman how far he wants us to take this.”