Chapter 5 - The Simulated Firefight
The exercise began under an ominous, pewter sky. Delta Company was tasked with holding an elevated ridgeline known as Hill 214 against an opposing force composed of veteran mechanized infantry playing the role of aggressive insurgent armor.
For the first six hours, the operation went according to doctrine. Kincaid commanded from the high ground, feeling his old arrogance slowly returning as his platoon successfully called in simulated artillery strikes and repelled two light scouting probes. He watched the red digital icons blink on his tactical tablet, convincing himself that whatever Avery Sloan was, she couldn't deny his tactical competence on paper.
"Platoon, this is One-Actual," Kincaid transmitted over the company net, trying to project total authority. "Maintain thirty-meter spacing. Keep your fields of fire overlapping. We hold this crest until eighteen-hundred hours."
A crackle broke over the radio. A calm voice broke into the command frequency—a voice that was not authorized on the tactical channel without battalion override.
"One-Actual, this is Observer Control," Avery’s voice cut through the static with crystal clarity. "Your eastern flank is exposed by three hundred meters. The drainage culvert along phase line Blue has zero visual coverage. You have left your heavy weapon team blind to an enfilade attack."
Kincaid snatched his hand-mic, his temper flaring. "Observer Control, this is One-Actual! My eastern flank is anchored by the rock outcrop. No mechanized vehicle can negotiate that grade. Mind your evaluation parameters and stay off the command frequency!"
Silence lingered on the radio for five seconds.
Then came her voice, cold as liquid nitrogen: "Simulated hostiles don't use vehicles in drainage culverts, Lieutenant. They use sappers on foot. Prepare for breach."
Before Kincaid could key the mic to scream back, the woods beneath his eastern ridge erupted with orange smoke grenades and the deafening clatter of blank machine-gun fire.
"Contact East! Contact East!" screamed Corporal Miller from the outer trench. "We got twenty OPFOR advancing through the creek bed! We're cut off! Sarge is hit! I need support now!"
Panic tore through Kincaid's chest. He looked at his map, but the red icons were already multiplying. "Second squad, shift right! Shift right and suppress!" he shouted into the radio.
"Negative, sir!" his platoon sergeant yelled through the rain. "If we shift right, we give up the road! We get flanked from the north!"
"I said shift right, that’s a direct order!" Kincaid panicked, his voice rising into a frantic screech.
Through the pouring rain, a lone figure walked out of the tree line toward Kincaid’s command trench. Avery Sloan walked upright through the mock battlefield, ignoring the blank rounds cracking around her. She held a hand-held digital beacon in her left hand, its light pulsing green.
She dropped into the mud of his trench, completely unfazed by the dirt spraying her sleeves.
"You just lost your entire squad, Lieutenant," she said calmly, checking the digital timer on her wrist. "In real combat, four of your men would be dead right now because your pride wouldn't let you listen to an observation call."
"This is a drill!" Kincaid raged, stepping toward her, his rifle barrel trembling. "You engineered this ambush to humiliate me! You told OPFOR to hit that culvert!"
"I didn't tell them anything," Avery said, looking up into his furious eyes. "I wrote the OPFOR doctrine five years ago. I know how they think because I built them. But you... you didn't even bother to read Chapter 4 on asymmetrical terrain defense, did you, Mason?"
Kincaid raised his fist, the rage blinding him, the humiliation of the mess hall crashing back into his skull. For a split second, he looked ready to strike her.
May you like
Avery didn't back up an inch. Her eyes locked onto his fist with chilling anticipation. "Go ahead," she whispered. "Finish what you started at the lunch table."
Kincaid froze. The realization of what he had almost done hit him like an electric shock. Slowly, his fist dropped.
