(Near a river, 0900 Hours)
Sean stretched, taking a break by the river. He glanced around, looking for his third checkpoint.
It was a modest looking field tent, with a table that has a KAC SR-25 rifle placed on it. This is the standard issue designated marksman rifle (DMR) of all UNSSD forces. Though that is not Sean's favourite platform, it is still one he is familiar with.
Sean then found himself staring at a rusted red barrel with a small laminated card clipped to it.
"Observe your surroundings. Plot your next movement to the structure 300m east. Once there, follow instructions exactly. Do not deviate. This is a live-fire simulation. Your weapon and training ammunition have been staged."
"Ok, we playing the fun stuff now," muttered Sean, loading the SR-25. He advanced uphill, sweeping the surroundings with a trained eye. The 'structure' was a half-demolished concrete building, a simulated urban strongpoint commonly used in special forces trainings.
"Really? This is so expected, can't you all get more creative with the set up?" he remarked, full of snark.
Arriving at the door, he saw another laminated card that tells him the task. He is to engage targets with the DMR, red targets being hostile, blue targets being hostage targets. If he even nicks one of the hostage targets, the checkpoint is a failure.
Sean double checked the zeroing in on the SIG Tango 6T 1-6x LPVO optic mounted on the SR-25. He entered the compound low, hugging the shadows. He mentally counted every step as he flowed through the space. Two corners, an entry point, and a stairwell that led up.
Scanning the area carefully and pivoting the as if he is doing CQB, Sean entered the range, setting up his SR-25 rifle and disengaging the safety.
Soon, in the opposite building, three targets appeared. One in kneel, two standing, all having rifles shouldered, all 3 marked in red. There is a blue marker on trembling figure seated against a wall.
Sean breathed, holding his breath and slowly breathed out. This is to control his heart rate, allowing him to aim better and have better shots.
He aimed the SR-25 in rapid succession, and pulled the trigger.
Headshot, torso shot, another headshot. Puffs of yellow smoke rise.
"Tango down," said Sean. His voice was low but firm. His posture perfect. The hostage actor exhaled—she had been holding her breath.
Then it happened.
A target on the ground, marked in red, suddenly twitched, playing dead. There was no yellow smoke emitting from him. Sean had in fact missed, hitting the actor in a nonlethal area, and had confused another target's yellow smoke for his as well.
Sean flinched. Just for a fraction of a second, as he recounted him missing that shot in Canada 3 years ago, which haunted him until today.
His finger didn't move. His muzzle tracked… and paused. His finger then slipped, causing an accidental discharge, which "killed" the last actor.
A buzzer rang. Herbert stepped into the room from behind a movable wall, clipboard in hand.
"Scenario ended," said Herbert flatly. "Not too bad Number 9, you eliminated all threats, marks deducted for not taking out all 3 quick enough, as you missed one shot."
Sean nodded, standing in silence, putting the rifle down after removing the magazine and clearing the gun, engaging the safety.
"But why the hesitation?" asked Herbert.
Sean stood silent.
Herbert sighed. "You're not the first to mess up," he added. "You are however, the first to hesitate that long after messing up."
Sean looked away; eyes unreadable. Then he gave a half-hearted chuckle.
"Guess I'm getting soft."
"Continue land nav" Herbert said, tone neutral. "Don't let this set you back, Number 9," he said, in a rare moment of softness for this tough South African instructor of the Angel subspecies.
But Sean didn't respond as he left the range. His memory had already taken him elsewhere.
To Canada, to Katya.
As Sean moved toward his next nav point, he muttered, "Could've gone cleaner."
But after a few steps, he grinned to himself. "Still in the game though. That counts for something."
Then he vanished into the terrain again, one step at a time, like a shadow from the past, walking toward the next challenge.
(At a campfire, 1800 hours)
Giorgio panted, seated at a campfire, warming his hands at the fire that he had started by throwing a fireball into a pile of dried leaves and twigs.
Sweat plastered his hair to his antlers, mud streaked across his cheek like war paint. His breathing was steady, boots slick with magical dust and trench filth, but his pace never broke. Even when exhausted, he moved like a man with a rhythm in his bones.
He is taking a short break, after trekking for one whole day in this land navigation course and barely eating anything outside of whatever rations he had when he set off, and whatever edible stuff he had found on his way, and that calorie intake definitely is not enough to sustain such a long-distance movement in a complex terrain. He won't starve to death, but that's pretty much it.
"Ok, focus, break time's over, lets continue" he muttered, hitting himself in the face. He put out the small fire by stepping on it, the continued walking.
Soon the sky turned completely black, and after a few more minutes of walking, he saw his next checkpoint.
A folding field table under a canvas tarp, bathed in afternoon sun. Laid out across its surface like a forbidden altar were trays of hot food; steaming pasta, sautéed vegetables, and to top it off, a bottle of sparkling water that is definitely chilled.
Giorgio approached the table slowly, cautiously examining everything. He noticed a laminated card placed leaning on the plate of pasta:
"No one is watching, why not?"
Giorgio gulped, swallowing his saliva. For a starving person like him, seeing such a feast is enough for him to forsake all dignity, ethics and morals. After all, it's just good old instinct, and anyone can cross that line.
So did Giorgio, who immediately sat down, took a fork—
And paused when he saw what the pasta actually was.
Chicken Alfredo.
And the cream version, not the authentic and traditional Italian version where the sauce is made with butter and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.
Giorgio's blood pressure rose. He pushed the pasta around once. Twice.
"No. No. No, signora, what is this?!" he exclaimed, standing up at once, knocking the chair over.
This culinary betrayal hurt him so much that he snapped back to his senses, and looked up, knowing there is likely a drone observing him or something similar.
He brushed 4 fingers against his chin, a hand signal that the French refer to as "la barbe", which signals disagreement and dismissal. This is also used by Italians.
"You put chicken… in Alfredo?! Where is the parmigiano?! THIS IS WAR!" he ranted, to an unseen audience that he knows is watching. "This isn't food. This is a WMD! A Weapon of Mass Disgust!"
"I had enough, ENOUGH!" said Giorgio, his antlers shimmered brighter as he subconsciously increased Cosmic Energy intake from his emotional distress. "I would rather do a field amputation than seeing this! Because at least I am saving a life, not torturing someone! SHAME ON YOU!"
"IT'S NOT APPROVED!!" roared Giorgio as he stepped away from the table, continuing on his land navigation, happy with himself that he had resisted temptation to break rules, and upheld the Italian soul.
(A tent, 1000 hours, the next day)
Eddie blinked, looking at the instructor in his latest checkpoint, wondering how did he end up here.
After a day of trekking, barely eating anything and having a short sleep with sleep quality as good as sleeping on needles, Eddie's brain is on the verge of being fried.
Hence, the Lita's brain literally short circuited for a brief moment when he heard the task:
"Number 74, You will spell ten words. Miss three and you continue your next leg with an extra 10kg. Begin."
"The first word is Reconnaissance."
Eddie gulped, forcing his hungry, sleep deprived brain to work.
"R-E-C… wait ah, is double N or not ah?" he asked sheepishly.
"Next word is Psychology."
"Aiya this one easy," said Eddie confidently, spelling out the word with confidence.
Time passed on, and soon Eddie has cleared to the 9th word.
"Spell Maintenance"
"Easy," grinned Sean. "M-A-I-N-T-A-I-N…oh f***, the word structure changes…"
He slapped himself in the forehead, realising he made a mistake. This left with him with only one chance left between failure and success.
As if on purpose to disgust him and make him screw up, the instructor gave the last word:
"Croissant"
Eddie instantly panicked, because while that is a word he can speak and use confidently daily, he just realised to his horror he does not know how to spell it other than that it starts with C and ends with T. Worse, he cannot derive spelling from how it sounds, because it's not a native English word, but loaned from French.
"Wah lao eh, why must English be like that one? Borrow all over the place," he muttered.
Just then, he remembered a certain Lita cadet numbered 42 — a Francophone Cajun. He concentrated, trying to remember the moments he spoke French in their bunks, and how he pronounced Latin alphabets in French.
"C-R-O…I-S…S-A-N-T?" he answered hesitantly, sweating from nervousness and fatigue.
"Correct number 74, proceed with land nav" said the instructor, leaving Eddie there.
Eddie heaved a sigh of relief. This means that he does not have to carry a weight penalty, and can carry on the course as per usual.
He stood up, taking his map and plotting the course, while muttered.
"Wah heng ah, luckily I got a French buddy."
(At an open field, 1300 hours)
Clara marched through the knee tall grass of the South African wilderness, arriving at her second checkpoint for the day. She looks like a proud Lin woman on a savannah trip, if you do not see her white dragon tail that is dipping in fatigue.
At the checkpoint, Clara finds a heavy rucksack. It feels around 45kg, and is unbalanced, unevenly loaded. A note clipped to it reads"
"Hoist this. Sprint 2km uphill. Then engage all targets with live rounds in under 90 seconds. Scoring is based on your speed and accuracy. Time starts now when you hear a beep."
A beep went off.
She doesn't hesitate. She slings the rucksack with a grunt and takes off. The pack is intentionally sabotaged, having minor imbalance, off-centre weight. Not enough to make her fall, but enough to throw off her breathing rhythm and mess with her shooting stability if she doesn't correct.
When she got to the range, she put down the rucksack down, panting. Her heart is hammering as she reached for the HK-416A5 rifle placed on the table. To her surprise, the instructors were kind enough to put on a Holosun 403 red dot sight on it. This makes aiming much easier than using iron sights. She promptly loaded the rifle and disengaged the safety.
She lined up the reticle of the optic at the targets that appeared, firing.
"Bang!" the bullet whizzed past the target, slightly off centred to the left.
"What the?" muttered Clara. She has recovered and controlled her breathing, and the target is a mere 100m away and is stationary, something she can easily hit.
Realisation soon struck her— what she thought was a kind move by the instructors was in fact a trap: the red dot sight was not zeroed properly, meaning that where she is aiming is not where her bullet will land.
She quickly adjusted her aiming, making up for the wrongly zeroed optics, firing the rifle, hitting the remaining targets.
She finished shooting, and turned on the safety, checking if the gun is empty. "Clear," she said.
The instructor doubling as the range officer nodded, calculating her scores.
Clara stood there, rifle still warm, her chest heaving. She stared at the silhouette of the first target, still untouched.
"Unacceptable," she muttered.
"Proceed with land nav," said the instructor.
(Observation base)
Jay took notes of Clara's performance.
"Candidate 101 completed the sprint 12 seconds early. Missed one shot, realised the issue was with the optic, adjusted, recovered, showing her resilience. She is indeed as tough as granite," he commented. "And that she is able to apply coherent, logical problem solving under stress."
Franz narrowed his eyes. "She paused mid-run to rebalance the pack. Indicates strategic thinking under fatigue. High marks for recovery, but note reaction to error: self-blame."
"What about it?" asked Jay.
"She has a perfectionist streak. That is potential for burnout under extended ops. Monitor closely," said Franz.