Roberts stood outside on the asphalt of the parking lot, glad that the sun was shining. It was still chilly, and the air felt like there wasn't enough of it, but Roberts liked the sunshine better than the ever present fog and misty rain. It was beautiful outside, the mountain covered with pine trees and shrubs, the gray and black rock, with the glacier gleaming at the cap of the mountain.

Everyone was drawn up by squad, the entire Group present for the morning formation. The sun was just rising behind Roberts as he watched Lieutenant Colonel Henry, Sergeant Major Standford stand at the front of formation. He was halfway down the line of the first row of Third Magazine Platoon, which was at the far left of the massive unit. Patch was at the far right of the squad, in the Squad Leader position, with that big diesel dyke standing next to him. Lewis was all the way at the left, last position in the thirteen man squad. Everyone was wearing their mask on their hip, their rifle's sling over their right shoulder, their Kevlar vests and helmets, and their Load Bearing Equipment. While in Basic Training and AIT it had been the belt, the suspenders, two magazine pouches (one on each side of the thick green belt buckle), the canteen pouch on the right hip, and a single field dressing on the shoulder strap of the right suspender, Group apparently had different ideas.

Sergeant Stillwater had two field dressings on the right strap, a compass in a pouch on the left, four ammunition pouches, two canteens, and a camo'd bag at the small of his back. Same as everyone but Roberts, the Marine, and Lewis. Sergeant Stillwater had passed out small plastic containers with earplugs in them, telling the three new people that it went on the first belt loop to the right of the belt buckle.

The other thing that struck Roberts was that most of the squad was wearing jump boots, polished to a high sheen, while Sergeant Stillwater and the guy with the heavy looking radio wore some kind of boot with just a leather toe and heel with green cloth for the rest of the boot.

At the front of the platoon stood Sergeant First Class Battle, who to Roberts surprise was a woman.

"Group!" The Sergeant Major called out.

"Platoon!" the Platoon Sergeants called out in unison.

"Attention!" Sergeant Major Standford called out. There was a shuffling noise as everyone came to attention. Back straight, shoulders back, chest out, heels together, arms straight down the side with fingers curled and end of the thumb pressed against the curve of the index finger.

"Report!" The Sergeant Major called out.

"Headquarters Platoon, all present and accounted for," A woman said.

"Operations Platoon, all present and accounted for," Another woman said.

"Support Platoon, all present and accounted for," A third woman.

"Motorpool Platoon, all present and accounted for," A man this time.

"First Magazine Platoon, all present and accounted for," Another man.

"Second Magazine Platoon, all present and accounted for," Again, a male voice, this one with a Southern drawl in it.

"Third Magazine Platoon, all present and accounted for," This time Roberts's platoon sergeant, another woman, called out.

The Sergeant Major did an about face and saluted Colonel Henry. "All present and accounted for, sir," He snapped out.

"Thank you, Sergeant Major," The big Colonel said, returning the salute. The Sergeant Major didn't drop his salute until after Colonel Henry. Once he did so, he moved around behind the Colonel, who stepped forward. "At ease!" he called out.

Roberts slid his feet shoulder width apart, his hands moving to the small of his back, one over the over, his elbows at forty-five degrees. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Stillwater just let his right arm hang down while his left arm went to the normal position.

"Wednesday Training this week will be weapon zero and qualification," The Colonel said. "Today will also be selection for the crew served weaponry crews and M-203 gunners. Range Control has graced us with three firing ranges, so we won't be out there till Saturday. Headquarters, Operations will be going to Range Nine; Operations and First Magazine will be going to Range fourteen, Second and Third Magazine Platoons will be at Range Five. Support Platoon will break down and attach to their supported elements."

Some people, including several people in the squad with Roberts gave out a "Hooah!" call. The Colonel paused for a second to let silence return. "Additionally, when not on the firing line, I expect all Squad Leaders to give pocket courses. Section Sergeants and all officers will supervise. The ranges will be considered a no saluting no attention zone."

Again, he paused to let the yells of "Hooah!" die down, while he looked over the platoons. "We have over forty new soldiers, who will need trained up and integrated into their squads and Group. Common Task classes are permitted for today."

That got a couple of "Hooah!" calls from the formation.

"Sergeant Major?" The Colonel half-asked half-ordered, stepping back. "Group is yours."

The Sergeant Major stepped up. "Group! Attention!"

Everyone went back to attention.

"Platoon Sergeants, take command. Fall out!" The Sergeant Major said.

The Sergeant Major moved away from the front as SFC Battle did an about face, facing the platoon. SFC Battle was a thin black woman with a narrow face that looked like it had been carved so all the normal curves were sharp angles. She was a tall woman, taller than Roberts, with an Airborne tag over an Air Assault tag riding over her left hand breast pocket.

"At ease. All right, everyone. We all know how much fun this is going to be," She smiled. She looked toward the back of the platoon. "Hand to hand drills are not authorized for training today. That means you, you big thug."

Roberts heard a rumbling chuckle from behind him right before everyone laughed.

"For those of you that are new, we'll be doing classes while you wait for your turn on the firing line. Newbies will all be first, so they can zero their weapons," Battle said. "Now, it appears that Third Mag has a new standard for rifle marksmanship that is voluntary for most of you. Since Sergeant Stillwater forget we're the US Army and grabbed a trio of Marines, we will have a four hundred meter max target range so that the Marines can qualify on their weapons at Corps standard. Those of you who want, you can qualify on that standard."

Roberts wondered why the hell anyone would want to do that. Three hundred meter targets were hard as hell already.

"To give you a little incentive, Colonel Henry has stated that he has authorization to offer additional promotion points for the four hundred meter range based on your score," She laughed. "That should get the Marines some company out there on the firing line."

Roberts could practically feel the excitement from some of the people around it at that last part.

"Well, it's not going to get done standing around. We aren't road-marching the vehicles, so squad leaders move out as available. Platoon," she snapped the last word. Everyone came to attention.

"Squad," All the men and women on the right of the platoon called out.

"Fall out," She said.

"First Squad, with me," Patch called out, limping toward the building. Roberts still couldn't understand why he was stumbling around with that heavy leg brace instead of being in a hospital somewhere.

Roberts followed everyone into the building, up the stairs, and out the CQ Area. They waited for a squad led by the fat woman to join them, then headed out the door and down the sidewalk. Once they hit the road they slowed down.

"What are we taking? It's an hour to the ranges," The big fat girl asked Patch.

"We'll all get in the Gypsy Wagon and Growler. It'll suck, but we need to get the newbies used to it," Patch said, lighting himself a cigarette. "Range Five, I hate that range."

"You hate all the ranges," The fat girl laughed.

"Oh, some of you on Support Squad are going to be qualifying on the M3," Patch said.

"The SMG? When did we get those in?" Cromwell asked.

"Last month. Henry is authorizing vehicle drivers, medics, commo to carry them. He's giving platoons the option to authorize more people, and Battle told me that me and you get to choose people for Atlas," He said.

Cromwell sighed. "All right."

"Foster, you'll still carry your sixteen," Patch said.

The lanky black haired guy carrying the radio just nodded, a cigarette between his lips.

"Ammo rat Marine!" Patch called up.

"Ayut," The Marine said, jogging up from behind Roberts to walk next to Patch.

"You enjoying it so far?" Patch asked.

The Marine nodded. "Yes, Sergeant."

"What did you shoot in Basic or whatever you call it?" Patch asked.

"Expert, Sergeant. Forty out of forty, Sergeant," The Marine said.

"Want a shot at the M-24 sniper rifle?" Patch asked. "Our sniper left Saturday to go to Sniper School at Benning, so we're down our sniper for the next eight weeks," Patch looked at the Marine with what Roberts thought of as a glare. "This isn't lugging the rifle around and standing around with your thumb up your ass. This is an active sniper position. Our sniper left behind their range cards and the other data you'll need. It's all in my office at the site."

"Yes, Sergeant," The Marine said. "You said for an 'active sniper', Sergeant?"

Patch nodded. "Yeah. There's certain rules out there, but anyone who violates them, your orders are to shoot to kill without waiting for me to authorize it," Patch stopped. "We'll talk more, but I need to make sure you know when not to pull that trigger in addition to be willing to take a life."

"I'll do my best, Sergeant," The Marine said.

"Carry on," Patch said. The Marine nodded and kept walking, following the others.

Patch started walking again, staying slow until he was next to Roberts.

"Ever fire the M-60, Ma-Deuce or an M-203 before, Private?" Patch asked.

"In Basic, Sergeant," Roberts answered.

"You want a shot at a gunner position? I've got an open two-oh-three slot and three open M-60 positions, and an open fifty-cal position," Patch told him. "You'll be either primary gunner or assistant gunner, depending on your qualification score, out at a live fire posting. You'll have the weapon with you at all times, well, except for the fifty."

Roberts knew those weapons were heavy. He already had enough gear to lug around, and the idea of having to carry a machine gun or the ammunition for the 40mm grenade launcher seemed like it would just be more to do without any real benefit.

"No thank you, Sergeant," Roberts said.

Patch nodded. "All right," He said, slowing down till he was next to Lewis.

"I've got gunners positions open, Private," Patch said. Lewis looked at him, nervous he'd say something about her split lip and still fading black eye. Patch glared at her. "We've got positions on the fifty and the sixties as well as a two-oh-three gunner slot. If you qualify, you get either the primary or secondary depending on your score."

Lewis chewed her lower lip then winced slightly as she bit the split. She'd gotten to fire the M-60 at Basic, but only for a second.

"Can I see how well I do, Sergeant?" Lewis asked.

"We'll all be firing them, but sure, if you feel confident once you've fired, you can take one of the slots," Patch said.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Lewis said.

"Carry on, troop," Patch said, dropping back again.

"What was your Field Warfare class standing, Marine?" Lewis heard Patch ask.

"Eighth, Sergeant," The Marine said. Lewis noticed that the Marines all gave sharp, snapping replies whenever an officer or NCO spoke to them.

"All right. Are you full armored J-Suit qualified?" Patch asked.

"Sergeant, yes, Sergeant," The Marine said.

"Good. You on the first or second generation Field Warfare Pack?" Patch asked.

"They stated it was the new version, Sergeant," The Marine answered.

"All right. Good. I want you to get with Sergeant Cromwell, go over the side effects you've noticed, like if you grew a sixth toe or your dick shrank or your balls started glowing in the dark. Tell her what your effects were toxing into it, how long it took you to tox in, and any symptoms your fellow recruits suffered that you didn't," Patch said. "Cromwell's the big girl with the sunglasses and the surgical bag on her hip."

"Yes, Sergeant," The Marine said.

"Carry on, Marine," Patch said.

The Marine jogged by Lewis, heading up toward Heather, who was talking animatedly with another woman.

Patch caught back up with Lewis, walking on her left side, lighting a new cigarette. After he put the lighter away and exhaled his first drag, he glanced over at Lewis.

"Hear you're a Thug now," He stated.

Lewis flushed, her fingertips going to her lower lip. "Yes, Sergeant."

Patch nodded. "Good on you. Heard you're a berserker too."

Lewis knew her flush got deeper. "Yes, Sergeant."

"My brother told me you started foaming at the mouth, jumped on his back and tried to chew through his skull," He laughed.

"Um," Lewis could feel her face burning.

"Showed me your teeth marks on the back of his big melon head. Looked like you were doing your best to chew through his skull," Patch laughed. "Well, no worries. I talked to Stokes and Cromwell, as well as Foster. They'll help train you to get control of it so you can use it to fight instead of screaming at the top of your lungs and running at the nearest enemy."

"Sorry," Lewis mumbled, looking down.

She was startled when Patch socked her lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Lewis. Carry on," The one eyed man said, then picked up speed, heading toward the front of the two squads as they rounded the corner.

Roberts noticed that the incline was nearly a forty-five degree angle for quite a ways before it levelled out. On the left the motorpool was full of vehicles and people moving around. The place looked really busy and Roberts could see forklifts like he'd been trained on in AIT. From the 4,000 lb max rough terrain forklifts to ones even bigger than the huge 10,000 pound max lift rough terrain forklifts. He could see cranes, bulldozers, backhoes, three dump trucks, around a dozen ambulances, some M113 APC's, and even a pair of tanks in the flat graded area of the motor-pool off to the left.

"That's the lower motorpool! Unless you've got a vehicle down there, stay the hell out of there," Patch yelled, pointing. "That shack is the POL shed, that'll be the only reason you're allowed down there unless you are PMCSing or drawing one of the vehicles."

Roberts had seen the radioman and three other people jog ahead and wondered if they were down in the lower part.

When the squad crested the incline Roberts saw that it was at least half a football field, fifty meters, to the gate. He was surprised to see that the guards on each side of the gate had rifles on them with a magazine locked in the magazine well. When everyone got to the gate Roberts was even more surprised to see that on the right side of the gate, on the inside of the fence, were two more guards. One with a rifle, one with a holstered pistol and a clipboard. The one with the rifle was checking ID's and calling out the names to the guy with the clipboard.

On the fence were big metal signs with block letters.

SECURE AREA
NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS
HAVE ID AND PAPERWORK READY
VEHICLES AND PERSONS MAY BE SEARCHED
BY ORDER OF THE US DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY
AND THE US DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
LETHAL FORCE IS AUTHORIZED

Roberts managed to get under his BDU top and LBE belt to get his wallet out before he was up.

"ID," The guy with the rifle said. Roberts held his wallet out and the guy sneered. "Take your ID out, asshole."

Roberts flushed, annoyed that the guy with the rifle was only an E-2, the single hashmark on his collar, and had spoken to him like that. Roberts pulled his ID out and gave it to the PV2, who angled it to flash the sun off the laminate, turned it over, repeated it, then looked at the picture before glaring at Roberts.

"Roberts comma James H," The guard said.

"On the list," The guy with the pistol said. Roberts saw E-6 rank on his collar. "He's good."

"Here," The PV2 almost threw the ID at him. "Next time have it out, dickhead."

"All right," Roberts said.

"You fuck with me, I'll have you pulled and searched, dickhead," The PV2 snapped. Roberts wondered what he did wrong this time to piss the other guy off.

"At ease that shit," Patch snapped. "Climb out of my troop's ass or I'll cave your fucking skull in, Anderson."

The PV2 glared at Patch who glared back. "He didn't have his ID out."

"So fucking what. You're only fucking with him because he's new and in my crew," Patch snarled.

"You better watch it, Stillwater, or I'll..." Anderson started to say.

"Or you'll what? See it coming this time so you can't run around whining I sucker punched you," Patch growled, clenching his fists and stepping forward.

"That's enough, you fucking animals! Anderson, get back to work, Stillwater, go find someone to fucking kill or something," The SSG yelled.

Patch just stayed where he was, leaving Roberts and the others to gather up behind him.

When the fat girl, Cromwell or whatever her name was, got to the guy checking ID she handed him the ID and waited.

"Take off your sunglasses," The guy said.

"Get fucked, Anderson," the fat girl said. "You know I've got a profile."

"Her ID doesn't match her," Anderson said.

"What?" The Staff Sergeant said.

"It says she only weighs one-thirty-five, she won't take off her sunglasses, and her picture doesn't match," Anderson said.

"You calling me fucking fat, Anderson?" Cromwell asked.

"Anderson, I swear to fucking God," The Staff Sergeant said. "Give her back her fucking ID."

"We're supposed to," Anderson started.

"Goddamn it, Anderson," The Staff Sergeant yelled. "Specialist Jackson!"

"Yes, Sergeant?" One of the men outside the gate called.

"Trade with dumbass here before someone on Ant's crew fucking murders his stupid ass," The NCO said. "The rest of you fucking Atlas thugs, just go through. Jesus fucking Christ on a fart powered go-kart, Anderson."

"Let's go," Patch growled, heading toward the line of pickup trucks and Blazers that halfway down became a line of 2-1/2 ton and 5-ton trucks.

"What's his problem?" One of the guys Roberts didn't know ask.

"About a month ago Ant caved in his face with one punch at the bar in front of a bunch of German chicks he was trying to impress by fucking with Ant," the big Amazon, Stokes, laughed. "He's been all pissy about it since."

"He's an asshole," One of the women said.

The group stopped in front of a dented and battered looking pickup truck with a brush guard and a winch. Roberts recognized it as the same truck he'd been picked up in.

"All right. Foster, you're on the radio, Groom, I want you to drive, Sawmoth, I want you in the ring-mount. Stokes, you'll be driving Growler. You, BB-stacker Marine, you'll be TC gunner on Growler. Cromwell, Chief Henley and Colonel Henry want you to pull your ambulance. You'll be providing medical at the range. Take your medics and pick two to assist. The rest of you, I want my squad in the back of the Gypsy Wagon, the rest of you in the back of Growler if you haven't been assigned or Cromwell doesn't grab you," Patch called out. "Fall out!"

Roberts climbing in the back of the truck. He sat up by the cab, hoping to avoid the worst of the wind. He noticed that Patch sat all the way against the tailgate, his left arm outside the tailgate, while he stared off into space.

The blonde that had been sitting up at the front when Roberts was picked up at the airport walked around the vehicle, kicking the tires, then pulled the chock blocks from under the rear tires and the oil drip pan from underneath, dropping them in the back. Patch put his leg up on the blocks as the blond walked in front of the vehicle, leading it out of the motorpool. At the gate the driver showed the guard a folder that the guard looked through, called out the vehicle number, CUC-V 15, while the blonde girl got inside.

Once that was done, the driver pulled smoothly out onto the street, heading down the incline and taking a left. Roberts saw the chowhall go by, then the Dispensary, then it was just road. After a little a bit a big 5-ton truck, with 2-19-35 as the bumper number, got behind the CUC-V and followed it.

To Roberts, the ride was boring. The only good thing about being in the wind is it seemed to warm up as they went down the inclines, as well as getting easier to breathe. Roberts was grateful for that part.

At the second gate, where the guards checked the paperwork, called a dispatch apparently, the driver took a right that led past another units barracks, then down another hill, and to Roberts's surprise, into the woods again.

Trees flashed by for almost a half hour before the truck slowed down and took a right onto the dirt road. Roberts saw the sign: RANGE #5.

When the truck stopped, Patch got out, slinging his leg over the tailgate and then climbing out carefully. Once on the ground he motioned at everyone else.

"Gather up by the front of the Gypsy Wagon. Once Growler gets here, we'll wait for whichever officer is in charge of this cluster fuck to let us know when our firing order is. Smoke 'em if you got 'em," Patch said.

Roberts looked around. Most of the area looked overgrown. He had expected bleachers, like in Basic Training, but all he saw was the targets, foxholes, low walls, and some tables off to the left.

"Shit, we're first here," Patch grumbled. He looked around. "All right. You, BB-Stacker Marine, Johnson, and McGruder, you guys check that ammo and get it ready for issue."

The big 5-ton pulled up next, with a CUC-V ambulance right afterwards.

"All right, the rest of you, just hang tight. I better get this organized before an officer shows up and yells at us all," Patch said.

Roberts sighed. It was obviously going to be a long day.