August 8, 2005
The halls echoed with loud, crisp footsteps. A figure with a pressed shirt tucked into a pressed pair of pants marched through the building, turning the corner into a large room towards the back.
He stopped at the door, tightened his stance, and folded his hands behind him.
"Everyone up!"
As if a grenade went off, the dozens of recruits bolted up and jumped from their bunks. Within seconds, every last person in the room was standing at attention at the foot of their beds. Meghan stood among them, eyes forward and face stoic.
The sound in the room died, and the drill instructor walked down the lines.
"Welcome to week four. If you know anyone who has been through these halls, they might tell you this is hell week. As you can see, I've woken you up at oh-three-thirty. Is anyone here tired?"
"No, Petty Officer!" One, synonymous shout.
His brows knitted together as he shouted. "I can't hear you!"
"No, Petty Officer!"
"Good! Now get your asses cleaned up and form up for the PFA!"
The physical fitness assessment. She'd passed the first such test with ease, but everyone knew that was easy mode. The second iteration was the first real challenge that Meghan actively worried about in boot. A benchmark that every recruit had to meet, with the knowledge that they were at risk of letting not only themselves down, but their fellow recruits as well.
Meghan was no stranger to putting teams on her back, but this test went beyond her ability to carry. This test failed the whole class if enough participants sank. This test, was on par with Olympic qualifying standards.
It was a topic of no small amount of internal debate if she would be able to kill those particular demons. She knew that her physical and leadership abilities were sufficient, but the mental aspect of the concept alone gave her pause.
She had rehabbed her injury extensively, trained harder than ever before to get back to standard. But that wasn't good enough – she had to be better than standard.
And hell would freeze over before she could be described as standard.
They'll have to create a new precedent.
Meghan stood outside amongst her peers, in PT gear, waiting. She watched as they completed their tests, one activity after another. She'd memorized every one, and the requisite benchmarks.
Sit-reach, curl ups, push-ups, five hundred yard swim.
"Castellano!"
"Sit-reach, let's see it."
She stepped out and sat down, legs extended and knees locked. With minimal effort, Meghan's hands latched to her toes, sticking like glue for the required one second.
Keep goin'."
She arched her legs and crossed her arms. Slow inhale, slow exhale.
"Get started!"
Meghan's body sprang into action, muscles flexing and relaxing in perfect unison. They executed like a well maintained engine, pistons firing perfectly into the cylinders. A trick Jackson had taught her long ago was to think of anything else, to ignore the buildup of lactic acid. Once the subconscious action gets going, the mind wanders to a strong thought. In Meghan's case, it was the primary accelerator in her life.
Motivation.
Her mind went to her high school teammates, and how they would all do anything for each other. The ones who mentored her at the beginning, how thankful she was for their tutelage. The ones she competed with day in and day out, how much she appreciated people to keep her sharp. The ones she taught and praised when she was top dog, how much she loved watching them grow.
"Next exercise!"
In one fluid motion, Meghan pushed herself upwards, balanced her weight on her right arm, and rotated about the planted limb. Her splayed hands and toes of her boots held her weight as she pushed.
She thought about her teachers and coaches, Jackson being at the forefront. How patient he was with her, the extra hours he spent building her up. The techniques, tricks, and tactics he taught her in becoming the state's best swimmer; his constant pushing to make her into a well-rounded individual. A dullness started to creep into her left shoulder.
"Next!"
With a shove, Meghan launched herself up and ran for the track. Her mind shifted to her friends, how much she missed being around them. Laughing at stupid jokes, causing trouble for themselves at school, doing stupid shit in the city that nearly got them arrested. She thought of the high school boyfriend she left behind, how he tried to convince her not to leave because "the military is full of stupid jarheads and cold-blooded killers."
Let me know how working the loading dock at SafeWay works out for you, Tommy.
"Last one, Castellano!"
Meghan jogged to the pool, pulling her shirt and shorts off before diving in.
She closed her eyes as she hit the water, and in her mind's eye only saw one thing.
Red. Anger. A roaring flame stoked by the poker of spite, fed by a gas can full of grudge.
The image of her father played on repeat, flickering like a broken film reel. His doubts and thinly veiled venom drove her muscles like a shot of adrenaline, limbs pumping furiously as she attacked the water.
Stroke after stroke, she went from end to end, once again thinking nothing of the activity. In what seemed to her was the blink of an eye, a whistle blew from the edge of the water, eliciting an involuntary flinch.
Meghan stopped, chest heaving, and hefted herself from the pool. She snapped to attention, holding perfect posture as she awaited evaluation. Her left arm felt pins and needles from trunk to hand, hot spikes slowly pushing into her nerves. She grit her teeth, determined not to show weakness.
The stat keeper looked between the sheet and the recruit, his face never betraying his thoughts.
"Nice job, rookie. Go clean up."
"Yes, chief."
Meghan broke her stance and returned to the barracks, smug smirk on her face.
The results would speak for themselves.
Meghan was no stranger to firearms. Sean, being Marine, had several in the house while she was growing up. He was always hesitant to let her use them, but he always took the opportunity to drill gun safety into her head. The two times he relented and took her shooting, he was stunned at just how well she could operate his guns.
Not that he would ever admit that.
Oh, how fate twists one's expectations.
Meghan steadied her breathing, letting the light breeze on the range siphon the spent air from her lungs. She brought the glow sights to eye level, right hand supporting the weight, and double tapped the trigger. The force from the recoil rocked her arms, but she did not waver. The handgun was holstered and re-brandished, slinging bullets with deadly accuracy.
She flicked the eject lever, letting the spent half-mag fall to the ground and sliding a fresh one into the port. Her grip switched, left hand now holding the gun, and she repeated the process. A pinch hit her forearm, but the chest and head of the wooden three yard target splintered all the same.
The first dummy lowered as the seven yard target sprang up. She fired three two-round volleys, strong hand supporting once again. Starting a ten second timer in her head, Meghan fired twice more, swapped the cartridge, switched to her weak side, and shot two more rounds before sliding the barrel into its holster.
Another timer, eight seconds this time. The barrel found itself pointed at the target and spitting its final two bullets downrange. Like the previous dummy, this one was relieved by a third target, now fifteen yards back.
Meghan drew a deep breath, setting her stance and narrowing her eyes as she took aim. She fired two rounds in just under four seconds and slid the gun away. She dropped to a knee and shot four more before reloading and holstering. Finally, time seemed to slow as Meghan set her last timer – to fire the last eight bullets within eight seconds. The slide rocketed back and forth as a steady stream of brass casings bounced every which way. The barrel smoked after the last round left the chamber, like a wildfire deprived of oxygen.
The final dummy fell, riddled with holes from head to torso. Meghan made a conscious effort not to smirk, expecting an earful if she slipped up. She walked to the range bench and took the barrel in her left hand to extend the pistol to the range master. He nodded at the table, and she placed it down.
"Outstanding, you showoff."
Her arms snapped to her sides. "Thank you, Chief."
"Get your ass over to the next range."
She wordlessly complied, moving with purpose toward the first barricade of the shotgun course. Meghan had to make a conscious effort to steady her breathing, wary of the rugged Mossberg firearm resting in her hands.
She stepped up to the barricade, twenty-five yards from the target, and loaded the five shells laid out next to the shotgun into its receiver, before leaning into the barrier. A shuddering breath left her lungs.
"Begin!"
Five loud bursts rang out, punctuated by rhythmic clicks, and hot casings were thrown to the ground. Meghan stood firm, despite the tremors that tore through her with each pull of the trigger. Each successive target was riddled with pellets, but she knew better than to count.
She marched to the second station, a low barricade at kneeling height and twenty yards from the dummy. As the four shells slid into the chamber, Meghan found herself quietly scoffing at just how shitty the training weapons were. The thing looked like it was fifty years old and felt older than that. She noticed that the ejection port had way too much friction, and wondered how long it would be before the gun jammed on someone.
Meghan shook her head and knelt down, stock pressing into her already-sore muscles, and the second set of targets found themselves just as perforated as the first.
The third station saw her standing with her weapon at the shoulder position at fifteen yards, but minus one barricade to support her stance. She shoved the creeping feeling of dread from her mind.
I'll be fine…
Four shells went in, and she pulled the trigger. This time, Meghan winced as the stock buried itself into the fabric of her uniform. Her body called out in protest at the repeated actions. She refused to think about it, and pumped the shotgun.
Thud. A loud exhale left her flared nostrils.
Thud. Her lips pursed, tightening around her teeth.
Thud. She groaned against her will, angry at herself for letting it happen. The petty officer standing by glanced at Meghan, her pained expressions not slipping by unnoticed.
The fourth station may as well have been a burning room, for all she wanted to do with it. This test would have her load the final three shells and shoot from the hip at ten yards with no barricade. Meghan had an idea of how much force this firing position would put on her bones, and if she were honest with herself, she was scared. If force applied directly to her shoulder hurt like that, what would it be like to have it torqueing her shoulder so aggressively?
She clenched her jaw, leveling an angry stare at the target. The gun coughed a loud burst of pellets, and again Meghan winced. She fired again, earning another flare of the nerves. With a grunt, she adjusted her hold on the weapon. She took the shotgun's forestock in her right hand and forcefully jerked the frame, ejecting the spent shell.
Meghan reassumed the firing stance and pulled the trigger for the final time. She shifted her grasp on the shotgun to the forestock again, and used the prostrated firearm to brace herself as she fell to a knee, breathing increasingly labored.
The petty officer ran to her side, kneeling to her level. "Is everything alright, Cadet?"
"My arm, sir. I'll be fine."
He looked at the targets and saw the collections of center mass shots, before facing her. "Let's go, I'm taking you to Medical. You're done for today."
She accepted his hand and pulled herself up. As they walked from the range, she glared at the shotgun.
Just one more opponent to conquer.
Meghan sat in the Medical wing, running through the list of physical therapy exercises given to her by the camp doctors. She turned to the door upon hearing someone entering the room.
"How are you feeling, Castellano?"
"Never better, doc. Like I told Petty Officer Benjamin, I'll be fine. The shotgun at the range just made me a little sore."
The doctor crossed his arms. "You shouldn't act so nonchalantly about your condition. Times like this, I wonder why they let you in. You're lucky, someone must really like you. You may be in exemplary physical shape, but it wasn't some 'nothing' injury you had."
Meghan scoffed. "You make it sound like I've got the Plague or something. Thanks for the reminder, by the way." She sighed. "Look, doc, I'm not blind to my 'condition.' I know it'll be a bitch to live this life sometimes. Thing is, that makes me even more determined to make it work. I'm willing to put in the extra effort, and I want to be the best I can be despite it."
The man shrugged. "I can't say I don't respect the drive. And, given, your assessments so far, I suppose it'd be crazy to stop you now. I just hope that, for your sake and ours, your body holds up." He turned to leave.
"Me too, doc. Me too."