Chapter 13
The sun wasn’t just beating down on the training field—it was sitting on their backs like a smothering weight, baking the dust into their boots and raising shimmering waves of heat from the hard-packed ground.
Talon could taste iron and grit on the air and smell the tang of oil from the SRF’s rifles baking in the sun.
Beside him, Jug adjusted his headset, the thickset Guardian’s eyes scanning the layout below. The training village—mock walls, door frames, and alleyways of plywood—looked crude, but it was perfect for the day’s work: Close Quarter Clearing, or CQC, under pressure.
“SRF Team One is stacked at the breach point,” Wolf’s voice came over comms from his perch in the overwatch tower. “They’re holding good spacing.”
“That’s a first,” Hammer muttered, leaning against the rail next to Talon.
Talon’s lips ticked up faintly. “We’ll see if it lasts.”
Down below, the SRF squad leader, Captain Mbeki, gave the hand signal, and the first man hit the breach.
The comms crackled with the team’s internal chatter, which Dude funneled into Guardian’s channel just enough to follow their orders.
“Breach, breach. Going left!”
“Clear left, moving. Watch your sector!”
Talon’s eyes tracked them through the first two rooms. The team moved fast, a touch sloppy on their corners, but faster and more decisive than the week before.
“Clean entry,” Jug commented. “Two weeks ago, they’d have bottlenecked.”
Hammer’s deep voice came over the channel. “SRF Four almost tripped his tail. Needs to watch footwork.”
Stryker’s voice was dry from his position shadowing the rear element. “At least this time, nobody tried to take the long way around the wall.”
Talon keyed his mic. “Copy that. Let them keep running it. We’ll hit them in the after-action report.”
The team flowed into the next structure.
“Contact left!”
“Suppressing fire. Move up!”
Rounds from the SRF’s simulated munitions cracked in sharp bursts. From above, Wolf called in, “Good bounding. Their cover is clean. They’re using the walls this time.”
Talon felt the shift in their work. There was a subtle pride in seeing raw muscle finally take shape. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress, except for one.
Sergeant Kabila.
Kabila was talented, no question. His aim was precise, his footwork clean, his reflexes sharp. But his headset might as well have been disconnected. Every command from Captain Mbeki was ignored.
Talon’s jaw tightened as he watched Kabila blow past his point man at the door of the next building. He kicked it in before the stack was set.
Wolf’s voice came sharp over comms. “SRF Six is freelancing again.”
Jug muttered, “That dumb bastard’s gonna get someone killed.”
In the plywood village, chaos bloomed. Kabila cleared the room solo, shooting every target, then waved the rest of the team in like he’d done them a favor.
The stack hesitated—confused, off balance—and the simulated enemy in the corner “killed” half the team.
Talon keyed his mic, his voice flat. “Reset the scenario. Pull SRF Six out of the stack.”
On the ground, Mbeki’s voice carried, sharp with frustration. “Sergeant Kabila, outside, now.”
Talon was already moving by the time Kabila had reached the Guardian observation platform, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat running down his face.
The man tried for a half-salute. “Sir—”
Talon cut him off. “You think you’re faster alone?” His voice stayed calm, quiet, but each word carried weight.
“Yes, sir. I can—”
“You just got your team killed because you don’t trust them to do their job.
” Talon stepped in close enough that Kabila had to tilt his chin up.
“Teams don’t work like that. SRF teams can’t work like that.
If you can’t function as part of a team, you’re not an asset.
You’re a liability. And liabilities don’t last here in training or the real fucking world. ”
Kabila’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.
Talon let the silence stretch, hot air shimmering between them. “You want to show me how good you are? You do it inside the team. You make your point man better. You keep your tail alive. You follow the damn plan.”
Back on the comms, Wolf’s voice was low as he said, “SRF guys are watching. They needed to see this.”
“Yeah,” Hammer added. “Make the example now, or it’ll fester.”
Talon keyed his mic without looking away from Kabila. “Jug, slot him back in. Next run, Mbeki’s in charge. SRF Six follows every command, or he’s out of the scenario and the class.”
Jug’s reply was short. “Copy.”
Talon stepped back, letting the SRF sergeant return to his team. The other men’s eyes tracked him, sweat-streaked faces a mix of curiosity and relief.
The next run started.
Mbeki called the stack, the breach went clean, and Kabila, for once, waited for the signal before moving. The rooms cleared faster, smoother. No bottlenecks. No “kills” in the tally.
Wolf’s voice carried a faint smile over comms. “Looks like he’s learning.”
Hammer’s chuckle was low. “Or at least pretending to.”
Talon watched the team flow through the final door, sweat soaking their uniforms, the smell of hot dust and cordite, the smell of spent simulation ammo, hanging thick in the air. They weren’t perfect, not by a long shot. But they were better.
And better meant fewer real deaths when it mattered.
The plywood village sat quiet now, the echo of simulated gunfire gone, leaving only the tick of heat off the metal roofing.
The SRF team filed in under the shade tarp set up at the edge of the training field, sweat-soaked, dust-caked, and quiet. Stryker passed out water as they entered. Mbeki’s men knew the drill. Nobody talked during an after-action report until Talon or Jug started it.
Talon let them settle, standing at the front with Jug beside him, Hammer leaning against a support post, and Wolf and Stryker off to one side.
He scanned the faces. Most of them were looking up, while a few stared at their boots. Kabila stood stiff near the end of the line, jaw set, not meeting Talon’s eyes.
“All right,” Talon started, voice even but carrying across the space. “Today’s run was better. Not perfect. But better.”
Jug stepped in, arms crossed. “Stack discipline was good on the first entry. Nobody tried to sprint past their point man”—he cut a glance toward Kabila—“most of the time.”
A ripple of quiet chuckles broke the tension.
Talon continued, “Rooms one and two were clean. You cleared corners; you kept your sectors. Wolf?”
From the sidelines, Wolf spoke clearly, “Bounding between buildings was tighter. You used cover instead of sprinting in the open. That’s an improvement from last week.”
Hammer’s gravelly voice rumbled in. “But some of you are still dragging your muzzles when you move. You sweep your teammates again, and I’ll pull you out myself. Clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” answered back.
Talon let the acknowledgement settle before shifting his tone. “Now, mistakes.” He gestured toward the plywood structure at the far end of the range. “Building three. Contact left. You hesitated.”
Mbeki straightened in his seat. “We were confirming position, sir.”
“Good instinct to confirm,” Talon said. “Bad execution. That pause gave the enemy three seconds to adjust. In a live scenario, that’s three seconds to kill you. Next time, you need to communicate while you move.”
Jug added, “Your radio discipline was better today. But better isn’t good enough. Call what you see and call it fast. Don’t make Wolf or your sniper guess what he can’t see from above.”
Talon turned his focus deliberately toward Kabila.
“Sergeant Kabila,” Talon said, voice steady. “You made your point today.”
Kabila’s shoulders squared. “Sir.”
“You’re fast. You’re clean. You’re dangerous in a fight.
” Talon let that sit for a beat. “But this isn’t a one-man show.
You broke stack discipline, ignored your team leader’s orders, and as a result, half your team died in that run.
You want to work alone? You don’t do it here. Not in this unit. Not on my field.”
Kabila’s jaw flexed, but he gave a short nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Talon’s gaze swept the rest of the team. “Because every one of you should understand this. Individual skill doesn’t win the fight. Teams win the fight. You move together; you survive together.”
He stepped back slightly, letting his gaze take in the whole SRF squad. “Today was an improvement. But improvement isn’t the goal. Competence is the goal. You don’t train to be better than yesterday. You train so you don’t die tomorrow.
“Run your drills tonight. Hydrate. Be back here at 0700. We’ll run it again tomorrow. Cleaner. Faster. And this time, nobody freelances. Dismissed.”
As the SRF men broke, Mbeki caught Talon’s eye and gave a small, respectful nod. It wasn’t gratitude, but it was acknowledgment. Progress had been made, and Talon’s message had landed.
Beside him, Jug grinned faintly. “Think he’ll keep Kabila in check tomorrow?”
Talon’s lips curved just enough to be noticeable. “If he doesn’t, we’ll yank him.”
“Should be a fun day.” Hammer’s chuckle rolled low and approving.
The SRF squad had cleared the range, trudging back toward the barracks with gear slung and sweat-dark uniforms clinging to them.
Talon ran a hand across the back of his neck to work out the knots left by hours under the relentless sun. Beside him, Jug leaned against the plywood railing, watching the last of the SRF men disappear.
“They’re getting there,” Jug said, tone grudging.
Talon gave a short nod. “Yeah. But not fast enough.”
Jug’s brows lifted. “You worried?”
“I’m cautious,” Talon said. His eyes tracked the empty range. “They’ve got the muscle. Some of them even have the discipline. But if we had to field them tomorrow …” He shook his head.
Jug grunted. “Half of them would be in body bags.”
Talon didn’t argue.
Hammer’s voice cut in from below, the man heading toward the equipment shed. “We’ll grind them until they’re ready. They’re learning.”
“Some of them,” Jug said pointedly.