When the vehicle pulled to a stop and ordered the run to halt, Dacovetti did his best not to show any sign of relief.  He could run.  Really, he typically pulled six to eight miles several days a week, but under no circumstances did he run those miles at any speed approaching six minute miles.   If that is the mean of this group, he is at least one standard deviation slower.  It would have to be corrected.  At least he held the pace for one lap.

And hell yeah, its a "tragically dry Hash run."

Dacovetti doesn't really scope the commander out too much.  He simply offers up a shrug and an "On-On!"  Then after a second or two, tacks on a "Ma'am."

Durand is breathing a little heavier when the run is brought to an end by the arrival of the Humvee, his t shirt bathed in sweat that has turned the grey a much darker shade.  Coming to a halt, he places his hands behind his head so he can breathe in as much oxygen as he can, squints his eyes, trying to make out what detail he can of the female figure, but the headlamps thwart him. He hears a Polish name spoken with an American accent, makes the assumption that she is probably American. It was a NATO tasking but it wouldn't surprise him if an American was heading up the team.

He takes another deep breath as he listens to Bannon.  When the Chief has said his piece Durand simply climbs up into the back of the Humvee and takes one of the seats. Well, looks like we found the girls, now we just need the beer. He's worked with women bosses before, generally found them no different from men, some knew their shit, some didn't. The ones that know their shit he doesn't have an issue with, the ones that don't...well, that's a different matter. He just hopes that Captain Kowalska is here because she knows her shit, and not because someone higher up the chain is trying to make sure they've filled all of their gender diversity slots. From what Maatsen told him about this unit he thought that was unlikely, but you could never be sure, could you?  It sounded like we were headed for the armory, so perhaps he'll soon get an idea of some of her capabilities. He sits back, uses his t shirt to wipe sweat from his face.

Easily pulling onto what passed for a road on this base, Hannah pushed the M1097A2 around a tight turn to bring her and the vehicle inline with the line of jogging (or at least recently jogging) men.  Given the lighting situation, she had a much better view of them then they had of her.

Hannah dutifully revved the engine, both when she was introduced as well as when Captain Kowalska ordered the boys into the back of the Hummer.  The second was a bit louder and more of a throaty growl than the first; however, they both served as satisfying punctuation she felt to the statements being made.

Though the others might not have seen it, the lithe aviatrix frowned a touch when the RPMs doubled.  The engine of the base vehicle sounded a bit rough.  Perhaps she'd take a look under the hood when she got a chance.  She had always felt that one didn't take care of their equipment, it caused trouble down the line.  Something that Hannah was pretty sure that the team couldn't afford.  Not that this vehicle was going to be used in the field, but one just never knew.

People could also be like that.  Calling over her shoulder to those piling into the back of the Hummer, Hannah brushed an errant lock of hair from face and noted, "Hold on.  It might be a bumpy ride..."  Either she knew something about the way to armoury.  Or Hannah didn't necessarily intend to take the beaten path.  She wouldn't disobey orders, of course; but the brown-haired warrant officer preferred to think of it as 'initiative'.  Or maybe a sort of first date.

"Well played, Captain.", James thought. Catch the crew while they're high on endorphins and dripping with sweat; a couple of the guys didn't smell too fresh either. Clear-headed and physically uncomfortable, meeting the new boss. Was this a subtle power play meant to establish dominance, or just poor timing? James' money was on the former. He paused by the shotgun window on his way to the back of the Humvee.

"Nice to meet you, Captain. Say, they wouldn't happen to have showers and a change of clothes where we're headed, would they?"

-

”I’m pleased to meet you as well Special Agent Choi.” Lina said, extending her hand.  After the brief introduction, she followed behind Choi and Crewe, intent on answering his question once they were all in the back of the vehicle.  Lina found a seat across from Chief Bannon, then spoke.

”We are heading to the base kill house for live-fire training.  Chief Bannon has graciously agreed to serve as Range Control for tonight’s exercise.” Kowalska said, nodding to Ted Bannon.  She turned to Choi.

”My understanding is that the range does have a shower room and spare clothing available.  They may even have a cot if anyone needs a nap.  You may certainly take advantage of those if you choose.”  Choi could sense that the Captain’s tone was something akin to a Professor whose University's policies required the option for an open book test.  You could do it and get an A, or keep the textbook closed and earn a B, plus a considerable measure of respect.

”Chief Bannon will be evaluating all of us on entry and shooting technique, weapon control, communication, and other tactical elements.  As she continued, Lina leaned forward.  The team members in the back could see that her hands held something, but it was difficult in the light to see exactly what the Captain was holding.  She continued, ”What I am looking for however is commitment.  The ability to get the job done, even when your body and mind are screaming for you to quit.  Stance and sight picture can be taught, but courage comes from character and belief.” Kowalska words carried an earnest and fervent intensity.

Leaning back, Lina pocketed whatever had been in her hands.  She turned toward the team’s medic.  ”Corporal Crewe, please ensure the range as an adequate trauma kit before we begin tonight.”

With a dissonant chorus of worn parts, Omdahl brings the HMMWV to a halt outside a squat beige cinder-block structure.  Despite being sandwiched between Durand and Choi, Bannon somehow manages to be the first one through the double doors.  In the foyer, he reaches into a pocket and does a one-handed shuffle with a half-dozen ID cards, expertly dealing them out as the team enters the building.  Each one appears to be a standard CAC - a common access card, the universal identification of the 21st-century American military machine.

The two Air Force SFs on the security desk sign the team in.  Each person - even Bannon, whose banter clearly indicates he's known to them - is scrupulously checked against an authorization roster.  Dacovetti merits incrementally warmer attention once the airmen note his affiliation.

Duly registered, the team bypasses the armorer's counter and is buzzed through a security airlock.  On the other side awaits a heavyset Security Forces master sergeant.  "Captain," he greets Kowalska.  Then, to Bannon: "Yo, Ted.  What's the game tonight?"

"Dealer's choice, Frank," Bannon replies, grinning.  "Open up Four-Bravo and Four-Delta, would ya?"

"You got it."  The master sergeant steps into an alcove, swipes his own CAC, and does something to a security panel.  In the dim recesses of the building, a buzzer sounds, followed by the muted clunk of magnetic locks releasing.

Bannon beckons the team to follow and leads them through a maze of equipment cages.  Most of the heavy steel mesh walls are hung with plastic sheeting to hide their contents.  In the farthest corner of the building, obviously underused, fluorescent lights are flickering into wakefulness over a quartet of cages.  Two of the doors are ajar.  Bannon puts his weight against one and rolls it aside.

"There's a rack of flight suits and BDUs in Delta," he advises.  "Boots and boxers, too.  Locker room is back the way we came."  Glancing at Kowalska and Omdahl, he adds, "Captain, Chief, you oughta be fine with what you're wearing, but if you want to change, there's a ladies' restroom one aisle down.  This place was put up before the Air Force started issuing guns to women."  He indicates he direction with a knife-hand gesture.

On first glance, Cage 4D looks like any stateside military-surplus store.  The order becomes clear after a moment, however: clothing to the left, then body armor, then load-bearing equipment.  A rack to the right holds helmets, knee pads, ballistic goggles, and other PPE.  Four rifle shipping cases are arranged into a rough cross in the center of the cage to serve as benches.  A bank of lockers, incongruously cheery yellow with puffy-paint flowers, stands to the immediate left of the door.

Across the aisle, Cage 4B's walls are a 360-degree panorama of weapon racks, broken only by the door and two armorer's benches.  The weapon assortment is much broader than you'd expect for a standard USAF inventory.  Most of the gamut of NATO small arms is available, but there's also an extensive selection - almost a library - of Warsaw Pact export products and a few guns that, if not museum pieces, are at least older than anyone present.

Bannon hooks a stool from one of the armorer's stations, pulls down a heavy three-ring binder marked Inventory Log, and waggles his eyebrows.  "We'll do solo runs first, then pairs, then a full-team evolution.  Long guns or sidearms, your choice, unless the captain prefers otherwise."

OOC: Gear up for your shoothouse runs.  Ammo is stored separately and Bannon will issue it once you're ready to go hot.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:46, Sun 16 Nov 2014.

"Copy that, ma'am," Caradoc responds to Kowalska.  He follows the rest of the team into the armory without further comment.

When Bannon opens the equipment cages, he steps into 4B and murmurs, "Ohhh yes.  Come to Daddy."  He walks slowly down the line of guns, occasionally stopping for a closer examination.  "Sweet Christ, I think this is where they shot that scene in The Matrix."

With obvious reluctance to make a decision, he selects a suppressed Mk 18 with an EOTech sight and a battered Browning HP-35 and places them on one of the armorer's benches.  "I'll be back for those," he advises over his shoulder as he heads for the showers.

”No preference,” Lina said offhandedly about sidearm and longam choices as she looked through the section of Warsaw Pact weapons.  She spotted two GSh-18 pistols and after considering both for a moment, she selected the one that had Воздушно-десантные войска markings.  Moving up from pistols, she searched the SMG offerings, before deciding on a PP-2000.  Kowalska took the minimum amount of PPE required for the range.

Durand walks into the equipment cages with the others, nods appreciatively at the plethora of firearms on offer, suppresses a grin as the Welshman expresses his approval. Durand is more subdued, but no less impressed at the range of weaponry available, including, he notes several examples of le clarion, the bugle, the FAMAS G2 assault rifle that he had used when he had served in the French armed forces.

He passes by les clarions, for where he expects to be going he would prefer not to be carrying something so identifiably French. Noticing what he recognizes as an AN94, he takes it down from the rack, examines it. He's heard about the AN94's allegedly unique two shot burst function, which was supposed to minimize recoil when the second shot was fired, but he's never fired the weapon. He gives the weapon a thorough visual inspection, debates, decides maybe not for a first run through, but he may try it later.

Replacing the Russian gun on the rack, he opts instead for a G36C, the uber cut down version of the G36 assault rifle, complete with the ZF3x4 optic that was standard Bundeswehr issue, combining telescopic and red dot sights. For a sidearm he selects an H & K Mark 23. Following Crewe over to the bench, Durand puts his haul down next to the Welshman's. Deciding to eschew a shower until later - he's been a lot sweatier than this when he's ran through ranges before - he opts instead to grab a set of US Universal Camouflage Pattern fatigues, boots, helmet, and the other assorted paraphernalia that range safety required. Pulling his grey t shirt over his head, he begins to change into the fatigues. Anyone happening to glance in his direction in the time between his own t shirt being discarded and the beige military issue one being pulled over his head would perhaps notice the scar tissue on his upper left bicep, a jagged white gash that stands out against his tanned skin.

James has to suppress a smile when the day's first official activity is announced. The shoot house is as much his element as the running track or the combatives mat. In his experience, however, the old maxim often holds: when something seems too good to be true, it usually is. He mentally preps for the curve ball he's sure must be on the way.

Cage four 4B is a veritable Playboy Mansion for gunbunnies. There's lots of slick gear he'd like to try on for size- the tricked-out G36C carbine is particularly tempting- but James goes for familiarity over flash. He's trained with most of the weaponry on display but he has the most reps with M4s and their clones; he finds an HK416 with 11.5" barrel, fore grip, and Eotech XPS reflex sights and pulls it from the rack. The HRT's special Colt .45s were custom gunsmithed with personalized sights and triggers- James' own carry pistol was locked away in his luggage back at the dorm. The M1911s on hand look to have been issued in that year so he chooses a Glock 23 instead, the Bureau's standard-issue carry pistol for special agents. Moving on to clothing, he finds a one piece speed-suit in his size and takes it off the rack. Body armor, chest rig LBE, a pair of boots, Nomex flight gloves, some knee pads, a bone dome, and ballistic goggles round out the panoply. With a few minor differences, this has been his office monkey suit for the last four years.

He stacks the gear neatly on one of the armorer's tables, announcing "Dibs." Grabbing a fresh pair of skivvies, he makes his way to the showers.

Despite Kowalska's brief motivational talk, James decides to wash off the residue of the last 24 hours- just a quick soap and rinse so as not to put clean clothes on over a dirty body. He more than half expects the gear he's selected to be gone when he gets back from the showers. It's the kind of cheap trick the instructors routinely pulled during HRT selection, upping the stress level to test how the candidates reacted when shaken. It wouldn't be a problem. He'd run the shoot house in his birthday suit with a water pistol if he had to.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 04:53, Mon 17 Nov 2014.

This would be Christmas come early if I were a gun-nut, Dacovetti thinks silently.  Still, he can't help but smile slightly at the arsenal before him.  Electing for a clean towel as opposed to a shower, the Airman quickly assembles a pile of clean standard US BDUs and a pair of side zip combat boots.  Knee pads, elbow pads, and the rest of the standard safety equipment get placed next to the clothes, followed by body armor, helmet, and Nomex gloves.

"Nice," he mutters.  It's almost obscene how much equipment is piling up and he's not even to the good stuff yet.  "Chief Bannon, can I get a PRC-119 in here?" To the sharp looks and unasked questions, he answers: "I'm probably going to have it in the field, I might as well I have it here."

Then Michael crosses to the armory.  MP7A1 with the foregrip assist and the ZF3x4 optic.  Extended magazine, sling, and tactical flashlight too, thanks.  Six magazines and the primary weapon is taken care of.  Another Mark 23 is removed for a sidearm with the accompanying magazines.

The assorted pile of gear is a rough shape, but it is one Dacovetti is familiar with.  What could have been taken for a certain level of OCD is revealed to be a certain methodicalness instead.  Each piece of clothing and put on and tested for proper movement.  Each piece of equipment is strapped into place and checked for proper clearance and protection.  It's a thorough process, but done rapidly without extraneous movement.

Hannah was last out of the vehicle, as though it might be a sort of ritual.  Even if this wasn't a helicopter, she seemed to be running through a post-flight checklist of sort before exiting since this wasn't an emergency ditch.  The brown-haired aviator gave the higher Chief Warrant Officer a curt nod and a soft, simple, "Thank you, Chief." as she accepted the ID from him, clipping it onto her sand colored BDUs.

Following the Captain's lead, Hannah didn't bother to change, but did take a few extra items for personal protection.  With live fire imminent, a helmet with goggles and some torso and joint protection seemed in order.  As she slipped on those items whilst sitting on one of the benches, Hannah watched the others as they made their weapon and armour selections.

For her herself, Hannah went straight for the US Army issue - with only a few light embellishments for night time and her very fresh Green Platoon training.  Plucking an HK MP5K-PDW with some night-sighting and an additional suppressor from the racks, she checked the breach with a simple gesture before slipping on a tactical sling and its webbing for the weapon.  An M9 and its holster gets strapped on to her right thigh as well by the female warrant officer.  Then three magazines for each firearm were requisitioned by Hannah, the first slipped into their respective weapons proper and the others into the holsters and webbing for easy access.  Her gear wasn't flashy and she seemed rather matter-of-fact about their selection and use.  She didn't expect the others to need to use the weapons she had selected, but one never knew.

She indicated her readiness to both Kowalska and Bannon with a nod and a small gesture of her hand.  Of course, Omdahl had the advantage of not having had to shower.

"No CAS in the shoothouse, Sarge," Bannon chuckles, but he picks up a stained beige phone and makes a quick call.  By the time Crewe and Choi return from their showers, the SF master sergeant has delivered a manpack SINGCARS.  He lingers until everyone has finished gearing up, then ensures the equipment cages are locked as Bannon leads the way to the back of the building and out a steel fire door.

Twenty yards away is a windowless two-story concrete building.  Bannon's CAC unlocks its doors, admitting the team into a large vestibule with a bank of lockers, three clearing barrels, a wall-mounted fire extinguisher and trauma kit, and another armorer's counter.  The airman on the far side of the sliding glass shoves a tray of loaded magazines toward the team and resumes cramming 4.6mm cartridges into an MP7 magazine.  Choi, closest to the counter, glances at the pile of empty ammo boxes and notes that frangible rounds are in play tonight.

Bannon does another conjuring trick, this time with an actual deck of cards, and begins shuffling.  "Okay.  Aces high, low card goes first."  He deals out a card to each team member and grins at the round of smirks and groans as they're revealed.

OOC: Sweet, the dice roller has a card draw function!  Order is:

Sebastien Durand drew the single card: 3D using a deck of 52 cards.
Karolina Kowalska drew the single card: 4D using a deck of 52 cards.
Caradoc Crewe drew the single card: 5S using a deck of 52 cards.
Hannah Omdahl drew the single card: 7D using a deck of 52 cards.
James Choi drew the single card: 9D using a deck of 52 cards.
Michael Dacovetti drew the single card: KD using a deck of 52 cards.

"Mister Durand, you're up," the chief intones.  "The scenario is movement through a structure with an unknown floor plan to the notional exit area, which is marked with a green chemlight.  This is a one-vee-ex, unknown number of hostiles, unknown number of no-shoots.  I will be scoring with a standard Vickers count.  For those of you who are unfamiliar, Vickers count is based on your time to complete the course, adding penalty time for inadequate accuracy or engaging no-shoots.  Bypassing a hostile target without neutralizing it will be a fail.  You will receive three magazines per weapon.

"When you are ready, step through the red doors, then load and make ready.  The first buzzer is your 'go' signal and starts the timer.  Consider yourself in play until hear the buzzer again.  When the second buzzer sounds, clear your weapon, exit the range, and join me upstairs in the control booth to watch the rest of the festivities.  Any questions?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:11, Tue 18 Nov 2014.

Caradoc pulls the trauma kit off the wall, rummages through it, and gives Karolina a quick thumbs-up before replacing it on its hook.

Durand listens carefully to the Chief’s briefing. He was quite happy to be going first, if for no other reason than it will allow him an opportunity to observe all of the others from the control booth after he has completed the course. He’s looking forward to watching Kowalska in particular. So far she’s come over as a bit…what? Serious for sure. A hardass? Maybe. Is she trying to assert herself as the Alpha Prime in a group that is by its very nature made up exclusively of Alphas? Time would tell.

When Bannon is finished, the Frenchman gives him a nod. ”I have no questions, Chief. It’s clear” . The casual first naming has been put to the side for the moment. He slings the G36 over his right shoulder, secures the Mk23 in the tactical holster that he has strapped to his right thigh. His heart is beating faster, the adrenaline is beginning to flow, a consequence of the fact that they are exercising with live rounds, which adds a completely different element to the exercise. He places small yellow ear plugs in each of his ears, dons the tinted ballistic protection goggles before stowing his six magazines – three for the G36 and three for the Mk23 - in the ammo pouches attached to the MOLLE webbing on the plate carrier vest that he had taken down from the rack earlier

His expression is a serious one, his earlier joking gone now. Not only is there the inherent risk that is involved with using live ammunition, a risk that proper procedures and training can minimize as much as possible but never completely eradicate, but there is also pressure, for just as he will be watching his colleagues, scrutinizing their moves, he fully expects that they will be doing the same of him, for whilst he doesn’t know them, they don’t know him either. They may not have the advantage of being able to watch him literally, on monitors in the control room, but he’s quite sure that any fuck ups will be noted.  First impressions and all that…

He takes a deep breath. A casual observer might mistake it for nervousness, but it’s just his way of settling his mind. Donning the helmet, the latest US Issue ACH, he secures the straps with his bare hands, having eschewed gloves, then steps up to the red doors.

”OK, let’s do it.” he says, pushing open the doors. If he’d wanted an easy life he’d still be sitting behind a desk in Kourou.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:33, Tue 18 Nov 2014.

Durand steps forward into a small antechamber with a second set of double doors, offset from the first to abate noise and reduce the chances of a ricochet.  As the first pair of doors close behind him, a revolving red light switches on in the vestibule, illuminating a Range Hot sign.

Durand pushes through and finds himself in an open area about five meters deep and seven wide.  The walls are the familiar rubber bullet-stop panels.  Plywood partitions and door frames mark off notional interior walls.  Overhead, steel mesh catwalks span the ceiling.  The lighting is a flickering mix of incandescents and neon tubes, reminiscent of an alley in one of the worse sections of town.  Overhead, Bannon's silhouette looms into view behind the armor glass of the range control room.

Hidden speakers crackle to life with Bannon's voice.  "Ready Player One."  As Durand runs his Mk23's slide, the opening sounds of Five Finger Death Punch's cover of Bad Company come up.

Durand holsters the big .45, preps his G36, and gives Bannon the ready sign.  Bannon makes him wait for it...

The buzzer is piercing.  One second later, the door to Durand's front left slams open on a hydraulic ram and a motorized 3D target - a mannequin holding a dummy AK-47 - rolls into the room.  The door to the right is opening too...

Movement to the left the same heartbeat as the buzzer ceases. Durand is crouching, right hand on the hand guard, finger poised on the trigger, left hand holding the carbine’s foregrip. The selector switch is set to semi automatic. He can see the weapon in the dummy’s hands. Target. He squeezes the trigger. Two rounds fired, two good hits, two to the chest, striking the mass where the heart would be if the target had been a living, breathing person. A kill shot. (T1 down).  Even as he’s firing the rounds he catches the peripheral movement out of the corner of his right eye. He spins round rapidly, to his right. Dummy. Gun. Target. Fire. Two more rounds gone, two more solid hits, one to the upper chest, one in the throat. Another kill shot. (T2 down).  Two down in what must be as many seconds.

The adrenaline is rushing now, pumping through his veins. His heart is pounding as he experiences a rush that is all too familiar. Four shots, no misses, two targets down. So far so good. He hears movement ahead, looks down the sights of the G36, the light secured to the picatinny rail illuminating the source of the noise. A dummy. Civilian. No weapon. His brain screams no target, no shoot; his finger lifts off the trigger. (NS1 ID’d). How long has he been in the kill room? It feels like minutes although it clearly can’t be.

He sprints to the intersection of the room he started in and the hallway that the civilian dummy has come from, flattens against it a moment before he turns into the hallway, going down to one knee as he does so, the light throwing its beam down the hallway. Something coming.. Armed. Another target. The Zeiss optic’s red dot rests on the target’s forehead. Two more shots squeezed off. Two head shots, the grouping less than one inch apart, one shattering the dummy’s right eye socket, the other quite literally between the eyes. Either on its own would have sufficed (T4 down). He doesn’t have time to appreciate the accuracy of his marksmanship at the moment, but when he reviews this later he’ll give a quiet nod of satisfaction when he sees what happened to that target.

He rises up, advances cautiously forward. Measured footsteps carry him down the hall, his weapon poised, ready to engage any hostiles. He pauses at the end junction. His own breathing sounds loud to him, although it’s probably not. He leans forward, glances into the hall, sees the two doors, the green glow coming from under one of them, the one on the right, marking the way out. Six rounds fired. Three double taps. Three kills. He debates reloading, decides against it, concludes that the twenty four rounds remaining should be sufficient.

He’s about to make a move for the left hand door when the one on the right opens. He sees the rifle held in the dummy’s hands as it emerges. Target. Two rapid compressions of the trigger, two more spent cartridge cases ejected, two solid hits to the target’s head.  If that dummy had been a real terr his brains would have been splattered against the wall behind. Durand will be pleased with those shots as well when he sees them afterwards.  (T3 down).

The dummy hasn’t even gone down when he’s continuing his move for the door to his left. Through the door,  the light reveals he’s stepped into  an empty room, a door opposite him, the green glow under it. He crosses the room quickly, his left hand leaving the foregrip of the carbine only long enough to pull the door open. A heartbeat later he’s through the door. Two dummies confront him. One partially shielding  the other. The one at the back is holding a weapon. Target. The one in front isn’t it. Hostage. No shoot (NS2 ID’d). He fires, two quick shots, both strike the target dummy, one to the head, one to the shoulder. The head is the killer. (T5 down).  If the hostage had been a real person he would be walking out unscathed. And five terrs would now be on their way to meet whichever God they believed in.

Durand gives the room one more 360 degree scan, sees no more threats, exhales as he slowly lowers the carbine to point to the floor and walks over to where the chemlight is lying. The buzzer sounds as he reaches it. He takes a few moments to make the carbine safe before slinging it over his shoulder and exiting the range. Once he’s out he removes his helmet, turns it upside down, drops his goggles and ear protectors into it and makes his way to join the Chief upstairs where he can watch the others as they work their way though the same routine. For the moment though it's job done. Ten shots, every one on target, five kills. He’s satisfied with the marker that he’s laid down.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:26, Wed 19 Nov 2014.

Karolina set up her GSh-18 holster and PP-2000 sling for right-handed shooting, but when the buzzer went off, she tucked her right arm close and reached for SMG with her left hand.  She moved quickly through the doorway at an angle, intent clearing the fatal funnel before engaging any targets.  As T1 entered the room, Lina fired off a burst from the PP-2000, but with the sling crossing over from her right shoulder, controlling the SMG left handed was difficult and the rounds went wide (T1 miss).  Recovering quickly, the next set of rounds hit the target center mass (T1 down).

When T2 entered the room, Lina brought the PP-2000 around and fired a series of shots that skirted the edge of the target (T2 miss x 6).  Controlling the SMG left handed proved formidable and as her mental count of available rounds decreased, she realized that she was burning both ammo and time by firing off-hand.  When the final two rounds in the SMG hit the second target (T2 down), she transitioned to right handed Center Axis Relock using the GSh-18.  NS1 comes into view just as she brings the Russian pistol up and Kowalska bypasses it as she continues to move through the shoot house (NS1 identified).

With time against her now, Lina begins pushing through the rooms at an accelerating rate.  Encountering T4 first in CAR high, she fired one round, which went low (T4 miss).  Before she processed the miss, Lina had already brought the GSh-18 up into combat high and snapped off a second round which hit the target in the forehead (T4 hit).  Moving with increasing speed to make up time, she swung right to clear the T intersection in the hallway and popped a target center mass (T3 hit), before clearing the left side of the hallway and moving aggressively into the next room.

Bursting through the final door, Karolina spotted two targets (NS2 not identified) and fired three rounds, missing with one, but catching each target in the head with the other two rounds (NS2 miss, NS2 hit, T5 hit).   Spotting the chemlight, she moved to the exit area, applying the safety and holstering the GSh-18 once she’s there.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:11, Wed 19 Nov 2014.

Caradoc sniffs the air, listens to the faint moan of the ventilation fans, and decides that the airborne lead levels are probably acceptable in here.

He's in motion as soon as the buzzer sounds, breaking for the left doorway even as it opens.  His Mk18 comes up and the suppressor coughs as he double-taps the oncoming target at hip and thorax (T1 down).

He hurtles the falling dummy and braces in the doorway, swinging back toward half-glimpsed motion at the other door.  His first trio of shots are rushed and only the frangible rounds save him from a nasty ricochet off the lock plate.  He puts the EOTech's holographic ring over the dummy's head and recovers, punching two rounds straight into its ocular cavity (T2 down).

Movement to his left brings him around with the taste of iron in his mouth, but a flicker of his weapon's scout light confirms what his intuition already tells him: this is a no-shoot (NS1 ID'd).  He grins beneath his balaclava and follows along in the mobile target's wake.  As it turns right to flee up the hallway, he breaks left, correctly assuming that the hallway is only wide enough for one target and his back is covered.  As he skids across the hall, his movement drags another oncoming hostile into his sights.  He hammers the trigger until it staggers with a half-dozen holes across the width of its torso (T4 down).  Behind it, a fourth enemy rolls into view and he kills it as he maintains forward momentum (T3 down).

Caradoc stops at the T-intersection and wills his heart to stop hammering.  He can see two doors, and little beyond them - but behind the right one is the telltale green glow of a chemlight.  He raises his eyebrows, swaps his partial magazine for a fresh one, and moves carefully to the left.  Sliding through the other door, he finds an unoccupied room with the connecting door he expected.

Having the only suppressed gun in the team comes in handy here - Caradoc's running lighter hearing protection and just barely catches a faint squeak of rubber tires on the floor.  Slowly working the angles of the connecting doorway, he catches sight of two targets as they swing back toward the door to the hall.  Ah, only one gun... got you, Chief, he silently exults (NS2 ID'd).  He lets out half a breath, then surges forward to brace the Mk18 on the door.  The twinned targets are moving back to face him as he shaves plastic from the ear and neck of the hostile.  His third controlled pair catches its shoulder and elbow, sending it toppling to the ground (T5 down).

He walks over to the chemlight, picks it up, and waggles it at the catwalk and the presumed cameras there.  The buzzer sounds and he slings and safes his carbine and claps the no-shoot on the shoulder.  "Right, lad, you're safe now.  The SAS - aw, hell - Task Force Forty-Seven is here!"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:56, Wed 19 Nov 2014.

As the exit door slammed shut behind her, Hannah kicked the chemstick along in pure, unadulterated disgust.  Given the way things had gone she was just thankful the thing had hit her on the way out.  The safety on her MP5K-PDW clicked into the 'safe' position, even as her other hand went to the clasp on her helmet to undo it.  She stood for a long moment, staring at the glowing stick that lay before her as she reviewed what had happened:

---

Even before the alarm went off and the lights illumination, Hannah could feel the perspiration on the palms of her hand.  She had taken a deep breath to try and calm herself, but it obviously had not been enough to do much.  The personal defense weapon felt slightly leaden in her hands, even as she released the safety and braced herself for action.

Then the buzzer had sounded and the entry door swung open.  It wasn't an unusual situation to her, nothing external would account for her poor performance; it was purely internal for her.  It hadn't been a disjointed effort either, Hannah had felt in control the entire time.  And perhaps that been the most disconcerting part of the experience.  She had crossed the threshold into cement walls of the shooting run.  The first target presented itself from behind the door on her left and Hannah depressed the trigger of the MP5K-PDW; she heard the familiar pop and to her chagrin saw the shot go slightly errant (T1 miss), having lead the target too much.  A second squeeze of the trigger, brought a more satisfying shot, finishing the threat with a satisfying thud to the head (T1 down).

The second target had proved to be her nemesis.  Knowing that she was under a time limit, Hannah had whirled to face the second opening door while switching her firearm to fire in a burst.  A staccato burst of the bullets emanated from from the Heckler and Koch firearm the first three of which plowed in to the thick wooden door (T2 miss (x3)).  All at eye level.  Her trigger finger flicked off of burst mode on her PDW, forcing herself to do a quick reset.  She snapped off a more controlled shot and the last bullet, however, found it's mark and was another head shot.  It had only taken four bullets for her to find her mark this time (T2 down).

Another deep breath was taken for just a moment, while she was ensconced against the wall near the corner of the hallway.  She heard movement; so Hannah primed herself, her sidearm at the ready and held with two hands.  Popping around the corner, Hannah tagged the oncoming figured in the arm.  Only then did she realize that the figure was a noncombatant.  A single, softly-muttered expletive in Norwegian was uttered from her lips (NS1 not identified, NS1 down/winged).  She had grossly miscalculated.  And now, some civilian could have paid with their life, if this had been an actual mission.  Sloppy, sloppy work.  Her left hand went to wipe a bead of perspiration from her brow; it was all too surreal.  She gritted her teeth for a moment.  Or too real, much like Mogandishu.

She hadn't much time to dwell on things, though.  Hannah heard another sound and another figured came around the hallway corner at the far end.  The thin warrant officer snapped off a shot which missed to the right of the head of the approaching manikin (T4 miss).  She steadied herself and leveled the PDW one more time.  And with the more aimed shot, hit center mass on the target (T4 down).  She rolled her shoulders gently to relieve some of the building tension as she made her way down the hall.

Three-quarters of the way down the passage, Hannah heard and then saw another bogey flit passed in the cross-passage.  She padded down to the corner at the end of the hall, flicking the firing switch back to burst.  Then the lithe aviator pushed herself around the edge and fired a quick burst.  The three bullets promptly drove together in a tight group into the wall and door jamb that the figure had passed through, throwing concrete pebbles and wooden splinters into the air (T3 miss (x3)).  Shaking her head and stifling a sigh, Hannah pushed quickly into the dust cloud thrown around the door.  Switching her PDW back to single shot, she hit the corner and crouched down.  Peeking around the corner, she snapped off a shot into the head of the figure from her low position (T3 down).

Pulling back for a moment, Hannah took a deep breath and took stock of her situation.  She knew that she had used over half of a magazine, but she also knew she was on the clock.  There should be more than enough for the next room.  Her helmeted head peeked around the corner and tracked two figures standing the middle of the room (NS2 not identified).  Since they were grouped together, she opted to stay on a burst.  The staccato trip hammer blows of the PDW firing reverberated off the walls as she swung around the corner.  The two head-shots and the two pockmarks in the wall beyond, were actually fairly tightly grouped (NS2 down, T5 miss (x2), T5 down).  Of course, one of the targets actually shouldn't have been a target.

A fact which Hannah only realized once once she stood and started to cross the floor towards the exit.  Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, while crossing the room.  Her MP5K-PDW felt leaden once more in her hands...

---

It had cost a lot to get to the exit.  Too much.  She wasn't physically hurt, but her pride was.  Hannah knew something inside that the room had gone horribly wrong: two civilian casualties was an unacceptable statistic.  The thin Army aviatrix gritted her teeth and secured her weapon.  Then with her molded ballistic-grade helmet underarm, she started the long trudge up to the control room.  Hannah was not looking forward to the performance review, even though she knew that it wouldn't be more critical than her own personal assessment.  More than that though, the dark-haired warrant officer was really not looking forward to the fact that her dismal performance warranted a ribbing ... and probably a new nickname...
This message was last edited by the player at 03:50, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

James would have preferred an earlier draw. Going first or second meant the rest of the team would have front row seats for his run. It's not that he's not confident; he is, so much so that he has to take himself down a notch or two lest he fall victim to his own hubris. Truth be told, he wants to make a good first impression on his new team, and this is his preferred operational setting. If the so-called tactical entry expert doesn't produce a quick, clean run, it'll be a disappointment. That's unacceptable. He'd already given enough disappointment to his parents, and that was enough. More importantly, though, a later run would have allowed James to evaluate for himself what his teammates could do in a CQB environment. Now he'll have to count on the instructor's voluntary transparency and/or his new comrades' candor. The investigator in him doesn't relish that.

His GLOCK is cocked and nestled in the drop holster strapped to his right thigh. It'll be his backup weapon. He pulls back the charging handle on the HK416, chambering a round. The red dot of EOTECH and the front post sight are in agreement- the weapon is zeroed for close range engagement. Gear- check. Now, head check. Four deep breaths, at four second intervals- inhale, hold, exhale. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Wait for the buzzer.

GO!

James steps into the room; a man pointing a Tec-9 instantly leaps from a door offset to his left. James didn't expect it so soon. His first two shots miss high, literally by a hair (T1 miss x2). The second double-tap, fired less than a half second after the first, punches two conjoined holes in the bridge of the dummy's nub nose, effecting instant central nervous system shutdown. Target 1 down (T1 hit x2).

Two rounds wasted. He decides then and there to go conservative. Just like that, the early miss is forgotten. Next...

Target 2 arrives just a second after the first. This one's armed as well and so close Jimmy could reach out and touch it. James puts two rounds into its upper chest, right above the collar, stopping its forward momentum. If the tango is wearing body armor, it does him no good. A third round through its forehead seals the deal (T3 hit x3). Moving on...

A third figure charges down the central corridor, heading right for James. Hands clear- non-hostile. If this was a team exercise, the third man in the entry stick would secure the fleeing individual and assure that he/she wasn't concealing a weapon. Jimmy is on his own so he sidesteps the runner, quickly squares up again, and pushes forward, eyes and muzzle acting in unison.
(NS1 identified).

He's got a feel for the weapon now, the sight picture is clear, his confidence restored. He can focus more on his footwork. He's got a lot of building to clear and not a lot of time to do it. He moves purposefully, with urgency, precisely pieing each corner, quickly but carefully sweeping each room. Another armed figure appears, a woman this time, one hand raised at chest level if to say "don't shoot", the other at her hip, pointing a revolver at her would-be savior. He dispatches the duplicitous harpy with two overlapping rounds in the forehead (T3 hit x2). Insta-kill.

The next threat emerges from the shadows at the end of a cross-corridor. This one's toting a Kalashnikov. Jimmy drops him with another two-round head shot (T4 hit x2). He's fired 9 shots so far, he adds three more to his ongoing mental tally just to play it safe. That leaves him half a magazine for the rest of the house. Keep pushing.

The final test is by far the most difficult- the dreaded meat-shield (NS2 identified). The simulated hostage-taker is doing a good job, keeping tight to his hostage, not exposing more than an inch or two of his own flesh. Jimmy smoothly shuffles to his left, firing twice as he does so. Both rounds go wide, shattering against the wall behind the target's head. He keeps his feet moving and squeezes off another two rounds. The second one may have grazed the target's ear (T5 miss x4). Jim's got the angle now. He plants and fires, the fifth and sixth shots hit the hostage-taker just below the right eye (T5 hit x2). It's enough. The final engagement takes just over two seconds, from start to finish.

Fast. Clean. Wasteful.

Shit.

"Clear!"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 04:51, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

If going last is something that bothers Dacovetti, he isn't showing it.  Instead, he waits calmly, sitting on the floor and taking small sips of water to keep his mouth from going dry.  There is a familiar background hum of adrenalin singing along his nerves, but steady breathing keeps it in check.  He watches as the other members of the team gear themselves up and disappear in the live portion of the shoot-house.  He doesn't pass judgement on anyone's pregame.  What would the point be?

When Choi disappears through the doors and Michael finds himself alone, he rises to his feet and straps his helmet securely onto his head.  There is one last check of his weapons, one last sip of water, and the then a simple period of waiting that he spends essentially motionless.  When Bannon gives him the okay, Dacovetti moves into the antechamber and places his left foot forward bringing the small sub-machine gun into his right shoulder.  Both hands grip the weapon lightly, the thumb of his right hand resting on the safety.  The radio is a comfortable, familiar weight pushing down between his shoulder blades.  If he were being honest, he would admit that it is almost a security device.  No CAS in the shoot-house indeed.

Dacovetti trusts his gear.  He trusts his checks.  That is the whole point of his methodical nature.  When it's go time, he's ready.  His thumb flips his weapon to burst and he nods twice for the go.

BANG

The movement to his left is sudden, almost too fast, but the Airman reacts.  Moving his body to the right, into the room, he twists slightly and depresses the trigger.  A three round burst of 4.7mm tears into and through parts of the dummy's throat and face (T1 down).  As much as Dacovetti would like to relax, the door to his right opens almost immediately behind the emergence of his first target.

Swearing would be a waste of time.  Michael brings his body back in line letting another burst out of his weapon, this time catching the target fully in the chest.  The bullets strike solidly, indicating killing shots (T2 down), but he's not loving the idea of not utilizing clean head shots.  He takes a second to breathe and steady his pulse.  The two quick engagements were dealt with, but it was enough to raise his heart rate.

Eschewing the rooms the initial targets emerged from, Michael moves down towards the hallway.  After several rotations, the smell of cordite is hanging heavy in the air over the aging smells of rubber and sweat.  Another burst of movement catches his eyes as another target bolts down the hallway towards him.  The MP7 is brought to bear and his finger begins to tighten on the trigger before the position of the targets arms register in his brain.  NO THREAT. (NS1 ID'd)He can practically hear the voice in his head as his finger lets off on the trigger and he pauses his forward momentum.  The radio on Dacovetti's back thumps him in the back of the helmet from the sudden movement, almost like a slap to the back of the head for being stupid.

"Christ," he mutters as he steps to the side and continues his advancement.  The hallway isn't so long that he's able to get comfortable.  On the positive side, there are few lateral angles for him to get surprised by.  A slight vibration of the wall ahead tells him he's going to have company and another target emerges from the left end of the hall.  The first bullet from his burst goes wide, passing between the target's right arm and torso, but the other two find their range, thumping solidly into the "kill" zone of the target's chest (T4 down).  He'll take it.

As the hallway comes to an end, Michael decides to play the odds and assault to the right.  He pushes himself to the left of the hallway, angling his weapon across to slice the pie of the target area as much as possible and makes his move.  If his intuition is lucky, his shots aren't quite so good.  The target exiting a door at the end of this short hall is caught in the forehead with the middle round of his three round burst, the other bullets striking the door on either side (T3 down).  With his bursts starting to range across his field of fire, Dacovetti decides that control needs to be reestablished and flicks the selector switch back to single fire.

Momentum he tells himself silently.  He advances past this last target an enters the next room.  With the doorway opening against one wall, Micahel clears the first corner before even entering the room.  As he steps through threshold, he orients his back to the cleared wall and angles his field of view and weapon out into the space to engage any hostiles.  Two targets immediately fit the bill.  The first he identifies as a human shield (NS2 Id'd).  The second he engages as a hostile.  One trigger squeeze sends a round glancing across side of the dummy's head.  Dacovetti, not being satisfied, advances on the target, pulling the trigger two more times delivering shots on the spot, both in the face.  (T5 down).

As the range goes safe, the Airman moves to the door, placing his weapon on safe.  His brain is already replaying each of his decision and action points, drawing inferences and making plans to correct.  It wasn't the best showing ever, but for a comms guy who doesn't do the whole operator thing on a regular basis, it's one he can live with.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:26, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

The range control booth is larger than it appears from ground level.  Bannon remains seated at the controller's station as the team adjusts their gear and selects from the mismatched chairs that are scattered around the battered folding table.  "I think we'll take this in reverse order," he says, lowering the lights.  A wall-mounted plasma TV hums to life, displaying a four-way split image from cameras on the catwalk.  In the top left quadrant, Dacovetti is frozen in mid-launch from the starting box.  Synchronized digital timers in each image read 0:00.8.

"Sergeant Dacovetti.  Fast out of the blocks, good hits here and here."  The video feed rolls forward, then Bannon notches it down to quarter-speed as Michael points in on the first no-shoot.  "Your speed almost got away from you here.  Don't fuckin' shoot faster than you can see."  The speed returns to normal as Dacovetti kills T3, blitzes T4, and clears the objective room.  "On target, but you need to tighten up your groups with that gun.  Terminal ballistics suck on that four-point-six round.  It works on the reactives here but you can't count on a single torso hit to drop some smelly bearded motherfucker.  Overall, nice run, and a tough time to beat."  The timer is stopped at 1:01.9.

The screen flickers as Bannon loads the next video.  "Mister Choi.  First pair.  You slapped that trigger like it owed you drug money.  Good recovery, though."  The on-screen HRT agent rotates smoothly and executes a perfect Mozambique drill on T2, then hammers T3 as it rolls into view.  "Nice job on my ex-wife there, and no hesitation on the civilian.  Now, on the last guy... six rounds for the headshot at that range?  It looks like you were expecting a longer zero and holding over for an offset that wasn't there.  Unfamiliar gun, I'll give you a partial pass.  Clean that shit up next time."

Hannah knows what's coming, more or less, but can't completely suppress an involuntary wince as Bannon pulls up her run.  "Miss Omdahl.  Lots of lead in the walls tonight, not so much in the meat."  Four tiny Hannahs illustrate his point, sending plywood splinters flying.  "I don't expect you've had a lot of shoot/no-shoot training in your career, am I right?  Not your fault, and I'll unfuck that for you.  There's a laser scenario system on base, you're gonna get some time on it.  And you eventually did kill all five tangos.  And, uh, the babysitter and the pizza guy, too."  The digital aviatrix deflates slightly as she steps over the fallen no-shoot.

"Now for the guy who's overcompensating because he comes from a county that shanked its gun culture and fed the body to hogs."  Bannon chuckles at Crewe's expression.  "Okay, so you're the only one who ran this suppressed, which means you got a little-bitty advantage.  Number Three there was set to roll out on audible gunfire.  What's this parkour shit in the hall, though?  There's not enough room for you to blow through his field of view before he corrects."  The recorded Caradoc pauses to reload and listen.  "You fucked around too long here.  At least your shooting was mostly acceptable."

Bannon clears his throat.  "Captain.  With respect, ma'am, there is a time and place for training up your wrong-handed shooting, and a timed cold trial probably isn't it."  He lets the video run through Karolina's first left-handed shots with the PP-2000, then slows it down for her transition.  "I want y'all to observe, this is a fast fuckin' transition, and once she takes off the training wheels, she goes like a cat with its tail on fire.  But, Captain, remember what I said to Mike about driving faster than you can see.  You made entry so fast, I don't think you even tried to ID the hostage before you killed the shit out of it."

"And last but not least, old age and treachery."  Bannon, the only one in the room older than Durand, grins at the Frenchman.  Video-Sebastien hammers the first two targets, bypasses the first no-shoot, and clears the hallway.  "Spine.  Head.  Head.  This is some quality fuckin' marksmanship here.   And... head again."  Without further comment, Bannon halts the video.  Raising the lights again, he crosses to a whiteboard and scrawls a set of names and times.  "Ladies, the penalty is five seconds per no-shoot."

Durand 0:59.8
Dacovetti 1:01.9
Choi 1:06.3
Kowalska 1:02.5 1:07.5
Crewe 1:18.4
Omdahl 1:13.8 1:23.8

He folds his arms and leans against the wall.  "Go downstairs, hydrate, reload, reset your gear.  The air cops have a fridge in their office, feel free to raid it.  Then we're gonna run the course with a different target mix.  Rather than solo, I want you in high-low pairs this time: Sebastien and Miss Omdahl, Mike with Crad, Agent Jim with the captain.  Talk to your partners."

Hannah did as she was told, pulling up an old wooden chair to the table to review the group's performance; she settled it backwards, so that she might rest her forearms on the chair back.

The dark-haired warrant officer watch the runs of her teammates with intense interest.  It was a touch disheartening that she had been the only one to tag both non-combatants as hostiles.  But, Hannah knew that was her issue to deal with and no one else's.

She'd been about to note that the fleeing pizza guy might have survived, but caught herself and instead Hannah simply nodded quietly and curtly to Chief Bannon's assessment of her piss-poor run.  There was little to joke about, in all honesty; her performance had been quite abysmal.  It wasn't worth noting that Green Platoon had done similar exercises.  The result was still the same no matter what:  she needed the practice as her previous experience had obviously not helped her in this situation.  Hannah had plenty of excuses available to her ... it was a night shoot, she was jet-lagged, &c.  But none of it made a whit of difference.  So, she simply settled for agreeing to his offer.  "Right, Chief." the thin army aviatrix noted, "I guess we know where all of my free time is going to be spent..."

She felt like a greenie again.  And perhaps she was; it was what her time and performance pointed to.  Hannah pursed her lips slightly when the review was done, pushing back from her chair to stand and get ready to do more runs.  She glanced towards the French national, Sébastien, for a moment; he didn't look like a man that suffered fools to well.  She could only hope that she would slow him down too much.  But, that was more up to her than him; so, she simply strapped on her helmet once more.

Durand had watched each run ‘live’ so to speak, standing over Bannon’s left shoulder, and intently studying the monitors as each person went through. He’d greeted each of his team mates in turn as they’d entered the control room, a quick handshake, a bump of his knuckles against theirs, a good natured slap on the shoulder, no one had came into the control room without some form of acknowledgment from the Frenchman.

When the scores go up he allowed himself a wry smile at Bannon’s remark about old age, but other than that doesn’t give any obvious signs of satisfaction when his name is at the top of the board.  When the Chief announces the pairings for the next exercise and Omdahl rises from her chair he nods to her, gives her a grin. He’s trying to put her at ease.

Once they’re downstairs he offers her his hand, does the formal introductions as they haven’t properly met per se. ”Sébastien Durand. Please, call me Seb, at least until some comedian thinks of something else to call me. Good to meet you.” He grins, his manner relaxed as fetches two bottles of water from the fridge, passing one to Omdahl and  opening the other, taking a drink of the chilled water. He’ll chat quietly to her as they get ready, happy to offer her any advice that he can. There’s no trace of any of the perceived arrogance that he may have displayed to Maatsen when he and the Dutchman had spoken in Paris; his demeanour is relaxed, friendly. If she asks him for his thoughts on her first run he wont patronize her, he’ll give his feedback honestly, constructively, and when they’re up for their next run he’ll give her an encouraging  low five as they step up.”OK, let’s go kick these guys’ asses.” he says, referring to the other two pairs.

He intends to be back at the range himself on a regular basis, as he wants to put some rounds through the weapons that they have here that he is less familiar with, for after all, they don’t know what they might be taking into the field, so once they’re done for the night he’ll make sure that Omdahl knows she is welcome to join him at any time, as are any of the others who may wish to do so.