The Missing Stair
The objective lay in front of us, looking exactly as it had in the training simulations.
Squad's feeling the pressure right about now. Time for a pep talk. Ideally... casual, yet focused.
"Arright. That's it, team, right in front of us. That bombed-to-bits old piece of crap the higher-ups have seen fit to call a 'building' is gonna be our forward base. We take it exactly as we did in training; you lot oughta be able to handle this in your sleep at this point."
"'Ey, Johnson! You gonna hit that missing stair again?"
The voice was Watanabe {late twenties, arrogant, responds to social hierarchy and routine}. Normally, I'd stand back from this sort of thing; soldiers in her psych profile performed better the higher they thought they were in the hierarchy, and Johnson {early forties, dull, natural worker: no levers necessary} would most likely ignore the jibe. But a chuckle was already starting to spread, and this casual inability to trust your fellow soldier to watch your back killed ops. And men.
Firm, authoritarian. "Watanabe, get with the fucking program. From now until we're clear, you do not even shit without having practised a hundred times in simulation. You certainly do not fucking talk. You got that?"
Her voice was quiet. "Yes'm."
"Do you fucking copy me, Watanabe?!"
"Copy, ma'am!"
My best gruff voice. "We're doing this now. Squad, swarm, on my mark. ... Mark!"
We swarmed, cutting through the bombstruck city {too much cover, too many lines of sight}. Intel estimated some twenty percent chance of a sniper during the approach {scatter, independent movement, seek and destroy team}, and an additional forty percent for all "similar threats" {contingency plans 18 through 76 ready}, but we seemed to have beaten the odds; we reached the building with no incidents.
We moved straight in, not giving the squad time to get cold feet. I took point {threat assessment: second floor, if there's anything}. On the way up, I dropped a small laser tripwire on the missing stair.
We swept the upper floor incredibly quickly, declaring it "Clear!" within ten minutes. I checked - yes, everyone was upstairs, and the tripwire hadn't fired {Johnson had taken the jibe as a reminder}. I allowed myself a smile, and then -
- and then there was a voice from the stairwell. A boy {???} - what the hell who was supposed to be covering that direction heads are going to roll - was shouting at us {what? what?!} in somewhat broken English {why are you processing that threat assessment: low, ranging to incredibly high if child soldier} and -
and -
And then three things happened.
It took a second, a second I didn't have, to realise that that someone was me.
Squad's feeling the pressure right about now. Time for a pep talk. Ideally... casual, yet focused.
"Arright. That's it, team, right in front of us. That bombed-to-bits old piece of crap the higher-ups have seen fit to call a 'building' is gonna be our forward base. We take it exactly as we did in training; you lot oughta be able to handle this in your sleep at this point."
"'Ey, Johnson! You gonna hit that missing stair again?"
The voice was Watanabe {late twenties, arrogant, responds to social hierarchy and routine}. Normally, I'd stand back from this sort of thing; soldiers in her psych profile performed better the higher they thought they were in the hierarchy, and Johnson {early forties, dull, natural worker: no levers necessary} would most likely ignore the jibe. But a chuckle was already starting to spread, and this casual inability to trust your fellow soldier to watch your back killed ops. And men.
Firm, authoritarian. "Watanabe, get with the fucking program. From now until we're clear, you do not even shit without having practised a hundred times in simulation. You certainly do not fucking talk. You got that?"
Her voice was quiet. "Yes'm."
"Do you fucking copy me, Watanabe?!"
"Copy, ma'am!"
My best gruff voice. "We're doing this now. Squad, swarm, on my mark. ... Mark!"
We swarmed, cutting through the bombstruck city {too much cover, too many lines of sight}. Intel estimated some twenty percent chance of a sniper during the approach {scatter, independent movement, seek and destroy team}, and an additional forty percent for all "similar threats" {contingency plans 18 through 76 ready}, but we seemed to have beaten the odds; we reached the building with no incidents.
We moved straight in, not giving the squad time to get cold feet. I took point {threat assessment: second floor, if there's anything}. On the way up, I dropped a small laser tripwire on the missing stair.
We swept the upper floor incredibly quickly, declaring it "Clear!" within ten minutes. I checked - yes, everyone was upstairs, and the tripwire hadn't fired {Johnson had taken the jibe as a reminder}. I allowed myself a smile, and then -
- and then there was a voice from the stairwell. A boy {???} - what the hell who was supposed to be covering that direction heads are going to roll - was shouting at us {what? what?!} in somewhat broken English {why are you processing that threat assessment: low, ranging to incredibly high if child soldier} and -
and -
And then three things happened.
- The shock wave, the burning hot wall of air, that marked an explosion, from behind. {Trap. Too easy approach, too clear building. Trap. High explosives. They got us good.}
- I realised the boy hadn't set off the tripwire. {He knows of the missing stair. This is, or was, or is, his home. He's shouting about us frightening his mother.}
- Someone leapt to shield the boy, at least. {Not tactically relevant.}
It took a second, a second I didn't have, to realise that that someone was me.