That afternoon, my driver pulls the truck up to the firing range. It is located in a large, open, grassy field leading up to the side of a snow-capped mountain on the outskirts of Fort Sturm. As I open the passenger door and step down, I remark to myself how picturesque this place would be if weren't for the constant sound of gunfire.
When I hit the ground, I put on my dark protective sunglasses and make the necessary adjustments to my helmet and body armor. The equipment is hot, heavy, and uncomfortable. I absolutely hate wearing this stuff, but it's required safety gear for the privates so I know better than to not be caught without it. Whatever you make subordinates do, you do yourself: that's what expected from a real leader.
Alpha company has already begun their training for the day. Target frames with human-shaped plastic silhouettes are set up twenty-five meters from the firing line. About thirty soldiers are lying in the prone position behind sandbags trying to place accurate, tight groupings of shots into the targets to confirm that their rifles are properly zeroed to their sights while a group of sergeants supervises.
"Need anything else, Sergeant Major?" my driver, Private Weaver, asks.
"No, you're good, Weaves," I say reaching into my pocket for my little leather pouch. I point over to an open spot of ground a few dozen yards away. "Just pull the truck around over there and stand-by."
"Roger," she says with quick nod of her head and then she's off.
As I walk over to Alpha Company's leadership, I open my pouch, take a big pinch of tobacco leaves between my thumb and index finger, and mindlessly put them in my right cheek. It's a filthy habit that I managed to kick during my pregnancy but have picked up again since becoming a Sergeant Major. When Lieutenant Colonel Bixby first saw me do it, he turned a little green and remarked how "un-lady like" it was…much to my annoyance. I failed to mention how the stresses of working for him were one of the main contributing factors. After that day, I made a practice of spitting in front of him more often.
At the firing line, Alpha's first sergeant and company commander walk over to greet me. They both give me the standard speech about how their training is proceeding. First Sergeant Lamplighter is an enlisted soldier who I control, but Captain Greenly is an officer that technically outranks me. However, he knows that I have the ear of the Battalion Commander so he gives me the proper respect. Little does he know that I like him a lot more than his boss.
"Will the Battalion Commander be joining us today?" he asks hoping to shine a little for his upcoming evaluation report (I don't really blame him for this, even good officers have to suck up a little at his rank to advance).
"Afraid not, Sir," I say a little dejectedly. "Something came up…"
"Roger that, Sergeant Major," Captain Greenly replies shaking his head. I know he understands that the "something" means that Bixby wasn't in the mood to get hot and sweat in the sun.
Halfway through the standard training brief that I've heard a million times before, something in the corner of my eye catches my attention.
"What do we have here?" I mutter quizzically as I notice a group of sergeants huddled around a private at the end of the firing line. All of them are pointing and laughing, making the private very upset. First Sergeant Lamplighter looks over and tries to explain.
"Oh, that's Private Finch, Sergeant Major. He has a severe case of CHS today. Don't worry, his NCOs are taking care of it."
"Really?" I say raising my eyebrows behind my sunglasses (CHS stands for Can't Hit Sh.. for you non-military types). "I think I'll check this out for myself." I start to walk down the firing line towards them. First Sergeant Lamplighter and Captain Greenly try to follow, but I wave them away. I want to handle this alone.
When I approach the group, the Sergeant First Class in charge sees me and calls
"At Ease!" the rest of the group snaps their hands behind their back. Finch tries to climb to his feet.
"Stay the hell down there, Finch," I say firmly. He drops back down to the ground. I see one of the other sergeants has a pair of binoculars which I motion for. He hands them to me and I take a closer look at Finch's target. The few bullet holes in the target are spread out over the entire torso. "Having some trouble there, Private?" I ask not taking the binoculars down from my face.
"It's the rifle, Sergeant Major," he says exasperatingly. "I think it's messed up."
"Sergeant Major, He's just…" the Sergeant First Class in charge starts to say before I cut him off.
"I believe I was talking to Private Finch, Sergeant."
"Yes, Sergeant Major," he says sheepishly as I pass the binoculars back to his partner.
"Let me see that rifle, Finch." He nervously hands me his weapon. I give it a once over, make sure the sights are firmly attached and not loose, and make sure the buttstock is solidly locked in place. Then, without warning, I chamber a round, raise the rifle to my cheek, and fire three shots in quick succession.
"Rifle seems fine to me, Private," I say matter of factly as I hand the weapon back to him. The sergeant with the binoculars raises them to his eyes and sees three small holes almost touching each other in the head of the silhouette. The other NCOs are speechless.
That's when I get down on my knees next to Private Finch and start to calmly coach him.
"Alright, Finch, take a deep breath. It's all about the technique. First, put the weapon firmly into your shoulder." He silently follows every one of my commands. "Good, now rest your non-firing hand on the sand bags and get a good, solid platform….that's it. That's good right there. Now, look through the sights and get your point of aim. Don't move the sights from that point and firing at it every single time. Do you have your point of aim?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major," he says not moving from behind his weapon.
"Alright," I say not taking my eyes off of him. "Now, pay attention to your breathing. Don't hold your breath, ok. Breathe in, then breathe out in a pattern. Halfway through your exhale, fire off your shot. Squeeze the trigger smoothly, don't jerk it or pull it. Got it?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major," Finch says with a new calm in his voice.
"Ok, fire when ready." He pauses for a few seconds, then suddenly fires a bullet toward the target. "Good, again." Another short pause, then another shot. "One more time." A final pause, then a gunshot.
I hold out my right hand and the sergeant with the binoculars immediately hands them to me. I take a look and see three holes almost as tightly grouped as mine right in the center of the target.
"Would you look at that, Finch?" I say with a grin. "The rifle magically fixed itself."
"Yes, Sergeant Major," he says with a chuckle as I give him a firm pat on the shoulder. I slowly pull myself to my feet before motioning to the Sergeant First Class with my right index finger.
"Sergeant, a word if you please," I say harshly. He slowly follows me to just outside of earshot of everyone else. I stare him directly in the face and slowly cross my arms. I must cut an interesting figure in front of him. He's easily a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than I am, but he still cowers like a puppy when he sees my expression. "Were you ever a private, Sergeant?"
"Of course, Sergeant Major…"
"Were you an expert shot when you came into the Defense Forces?"
"No, I'd never fired a gun before…"
"That means you probably had a sergeant who taught you how to shoot?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major."
"So, why the hell didn't that soldier receive the proper training before he came out to this range and started wasting the rounds paid for by the hard-working tax-payers of Panem?"
"Sergeant Major, I thought…" the sergeant first class says nervously.
"You thought?" I say cutting him off sharply. "You thought what? That he would just know what to do?"
"No, Sergeant Major…" he says getting even more nervous now. Without warning, I reach up and grab the shoulder strap of his body armor. I pull him down to my level, just an inch from my sunglasses.
"Train these men…properly, Sergeant. You never know if Private Finch will one day have to fire the shot that saves your life in combat. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major!" I spit a large puddle of tobacco juice right next to his boot. He jumps backward and I let him go.
"Good," I say before turning around back towards Weaver and the truck.
The sun is long gone when I finally get back home. I open the kitchen door, step inside, and pull off my beret. I release my hair from the tight bun that's been causing me a headache for the past hour and let it down so it falls in a mess down past my shoulders. The smell of dinner still lingers in the kitchen as I throw my bag in the corner. The sound of the television drifts in from the living room. I strip down to my black t-shirt and throw my uniform jacket across the back of one of the chairs. I'm about to go join Clint on the couch when I hear him call, "Boots!" in a loud and annoyed voice. "I just cleaned the floors today and I won't have you tracking half of Fort Sturm all over the house!"
"Dammit," I mutter as I take a seat and strip down to my bare feet as well. Finally, I walk into the living room and plop down on the couch next to my husband. I cuddle close to him and rest my head on his warm shoulder. He turns his head and plants a big kiss on the top of my head that causes me to squeak a little bit with contentment.
The television announcer is talking through the steps of how to reassemble the exhaust manifold of an antique truck.
"How can you watch this?" I ask with a yawn.
"Once a mechanic, always a mechanic, Babe," he says without missing a beat. "How was your day?"
"Long, and nerve-racking. Had to lay into a couple of folks who need to pick up their game."
"The job of a good Sergeant Major…" he says, not taking his eyes off the screen. The announcer has moved on to how the drop the engine back into the chassis. "One of those folks wouldn't happen to be your boss would it?" Clint is no stranger to hearing me complain about Lieutenant Colonel Bixby.
"Unfortunately, no," I say wrapping my arms around Clint's waist. He responds by putting his arm around my neck which causes me to pull even closer to him. "The tongue biting on my part continues."
"We were spoiled by our last boss, Liv," he says resting his head against mine.
"We were indeed…" I respond feeling increasingly safe and secure. After a quiet pause, I change the subject. "How was your day? Did Rori behave herself?"
"Oh she was a little angel," Clint says before letting out a big sigh. "Until she tried to play ball with a couple of the neighborhood boys…"
"What happened?" I ask concerned.
"Well, they wouldn't let her play because she was a girl. So, our five-year old daughter grabbed the ball away from the biggest boy who was almost seven and threw it as hard as she could into his face. His nose swelled up to twice its size and he ran home crying to his mother. Aurora was very confused when I put her in time out." A huge smile creeps across my face.
"That's my girl," I say with satisfaction as I pull close to Clint again.
"I thought you'd approve," he says annoyed, "but if it's alright with you, I'd prefer not to raise the child that all the other parents on the block are afraid to let their kids play with."
"She'll be fine," I say, "She's just got a lot of Mason in her."
"That she does," Clint replies.
"The hellion already in bed?"
"Yeah, I tucked her in about an hour ago." I hate missing saying goodnight to Aurora, but unfortunately my job necessitates it more than I'd like to admit. Another pause. "You want some dinner?" he asks. "I'm keeping it warm in the oven."
"Later," I say quietly. "Actually, speaking of dinner…"
"Yes?" Clint says nervously.
"How would you feel about having a few people over tomorrow night?" Clint bolts up.
"Olivia, we've talked about this! If you're gonna have people come over I need to know a few days ahead of time." I've gotten in trouble more than once for having guests from work come over without warning.
"I know, I know," I say trying to explain, "but would you make an exception for…"
"General Snow, Lizzy, and the kids?" Clint says interrupting me. A big smile creeps across his face.
"How did you know?" I say playfully slapping him on the shoulder.
"Lizzy called me this morning. The President called General Snow to the Capitol for a meeting at the Ministry of Defense and they're taking the train here tonight on their way back east. The whole Snow clan is going to have dinner with us tomorrow night. All the arrangements have already been made."
"I have the most amazing husband ever," I say before giving him a kiss.
"I know you do," he replies. Both of us laugh.
After a quick bite to eat, I tiptoe upstairs to Aurora's room. I open the door as quietly as I can and sneak inside. She's curled up under her covers, sound asleep. In her arms, she's cradling a stuffed white rabbit that General Snow and Lizzy (or Uncle Ares and Aunt Lizzy as Aurora calls them) sent her for her third birthday. She immediately named it, "Ears" and refuses to sleep without it.
I stare down at my sleeping daughter with such a sense of wonderment. I'm just amazed that someone as rough and damaged as me could make something so sweet and incredible. It wasn't until I had her that I finally understood why my mother was so protective of me. I slowly reach down to her pillow and run my fingers through her golden curls as gently as I can without waking her. She briefly stirs and I quickly pull back, but she just sighs and silently rolls back over.
Softly, I sit down next to her bed and rest my head next to hers. The sound of her tiny breaths in my ear sets all my other cares and concerns at ease. For a few minutes, I just lay next to her in the darkness. Finally, I climb to my feet, place a gentle kiss on her tiny, tired forehead, and whisper into her ear,
"I love you, Baby. It's ok to be a Mason. You come from a long line of survivors and someone's got to show the rest of the world how to fight."
Then, without another word, I turn and walk back downstairs, closing the door behind me.