The Gauntlet

Rachel Hatch Short Story Three

L.T. Ryan

with Brian Shea

Liquid Mind Media

Copyright © 2020 by L.T. Ryan, Liquid Mind Media, LLC, & Brian Christopher Shea. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously.

The Rachel Hatch Series

Drift

Downburst

Fever Burn

Smoke Signal

Firewalk

Whitewater (pre-order now)

RACHEL HATCH SHORT STORIES

Fractured

Proving Ground

The Gauntlet

The Gauntlet

Hatch tried to stabilize herself against the relentless shaking from the old van's maintained shock system as it barreled down the uneven surface of the road. She sat on the rough corrugated metal frame of the floorboard. There was no bench or seat of any kind. With the van's shocks doing little to mitigate the turbulence, Hatch felt every rock and crag passing beneath the tires.

Moments after departing Camp Mackall, Bennett fastened a hood over Hatch's head and she was shrouded in absolute darkness. The little light that had previously filtered through the heavily tinted windshield was now completely gone. The hood blindfolded her face, obliterating any ambient light from her surroundings. She was in the pitch dark, not that she expected anything less. She knew part of this training was to prepare her mind for the unexpected, and what better way to do that than to take away her senses.

Isolation from sensory input, people tend to let their imagination run wild. It was a tactic Hatch had used numerous times when performing deep-level interrogations of high-value targets for her team. Despite her knowledge of what she was experiencing, its effect was not eliminated.

The longer she sat, jostling in the back of the van in the darkness, the more time her mind had to drift further down the path of self-doubt. In those deep recessed corners of her mind, uncertainty crept in. She replayed that moment on the battlefield outside of the Khost Province of Afghanistan. That morning in the desert sand changed her life forever. It was the reason she was proving herself all over again to a team she wasn't quite sure wanted her anymore.

Each time her mind wandered back to that place, Hatch evaluated her decision to hold her shot. She knew holding her fire to observe the woman in the light blue Pashtun dress with the little girl in tow had led to the devastating IED blast that killed her best friend and teammate, Graham Benson. It was the same explosion that maimed her right arm, leaving it at sixty-percent of its former function. She needed to prove to the Army, but more importantly to herself, that she was still capable of performing at their level. Without the Army, she'd be lost.

Every replay of the event that cost her friend's life left her with the same question. Did I hesitate?

In the hood's blackness, all uncertainty crept forward. The mind when left to its own devices is a savage beast. If not contained, one’s emotions could overwhelm reason. With the Gauntlet about to begin, the recall was almost as intense as the day it happened. Hatch felt her stomach knot and her heart rate increase. In the smothering claustrophobic hood, she fought against the unrelenting physiological reaction to the stress. Deep, slow breaths grounded her mind and brought her back to the present.

Over the years, Hatch had accumulated lots of terrible memories to fill those dark corners of her mind. As the van rumbled onward, she felt all of them jockeying their way forward as she lay in wait for what was coming next.

Hatch felt movement to the right followed by the clamor of somebody moving across the hard plastic liner of the van's flooring toward her. She couldn't make out any features through the hood, but she envisioned the person approaching was Chris Bennett himself. Even though the hood blocked all light, she could feel him edging closer. She could smell him. She waited for him to speak, for somebody to break the silence of the journey, but it never came.

One thing about The Gauntlet is that it was never the same for any candidate. Even though she'd been through it before, Hatch had no idea what was coming.

As if she had asked the question aloud, the answer came in the form of a pin prick in her damaged right arm. The needle entered at the midpoint of her shoulder and felt like a bee sting. The push of the cool liquid made its way inside her body, causing her skin to tingle. She considered fighting back, but at this point, any aggressive move would likely bend the needle inside her arm, exacerbating whatever she was about to experience.

Hatch assumed she'd been injected with sodium Pentothal or some variant. She had used it on snatch and grab missions in the past. It was a near instantaneous way to lessen the fight in the more combative of their captives. It also aided in lowering a subject's resistance, thus earning its nickname, truth serum.

Hatch suddenly felt warm. Her heart rate was slowing. No amount of willpower could resist the drug's influence as her muscles went slack. In the deep dark of her surroundings, the inside of her hood became one shade darker before the drug rendered her unconscious.

* * *

When Hatch awoke, the hood was no longer on her. While in her state of unconsciousness, the corrugated liner of the van had been traded for the hardwood of the floor where she laid. A dash of nausea churned her stomach as her vision came into focus.

Hatch scanned her new surroundings. There was nothing on the walls. There were no windows. The only light came from a single ceiling light in the center of the small room. Above the door, she noticed a solitary rectangular box. It looked like an exit sign, but without the big red “EXIT”.

She had no watch and there was no clock on the wall. Disorientation comes with one's sense of time removed.

Hatch didn't know how long she had been out. She assumed the dosage would have been perfectly timed and that her revival might have been chemically induced as well. The Gauntlet had begun. The standards were known only to the evaluators.

On the floor in front of her was a sealed manila envelope. The dizziness evaporated and, with each passing minute, her head became clearer. She slid her finger along the seal flap, tearing open the packet. Inside was a single sheet of laminated paper and a neatly folded map. Before pulling it out she took a deep breath, knowing that a hidden timeline was already working against her.

Hatch held the laminated page in her hand. On the sheet was a latitude and longitude with the notation next to it that read: Current Position. Beneath it was a second latitude and longitude identified as: Objective Alpha.

She took the map in hand and, using the pencil she found at the bottom of the envelope, began plotting out her position on the map. Plotting two points on the map's surface and connecting them, she used the scale to convert her connecting line into a distance. Ten miles separated her from Objective Alpha.

Hatch looked at the terrain she would be forced to navigate. It was going to be rugged, with up-and-down elevation shifts of five feet throughout. She assumed she was still in North Carolina, but the map had no other features, no man made landmarks to use. The map in hand was terrain features only. Hatch was no longer certain where she was but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered right now was traversing the distance to her first objective.

She looked at her plotline as the last bit of drug-induced fog lifted. Ten miles over that terrain would be difficult under optimal conditions. This was not an optimal set of circumstances. Her body ached, having just endured the twenty-four-day Special Forces Selection course. She eyed her rucksack, which would make those ten miles feel more like twenty by the time she was done.

Slowly rising from the hard floor, Hatch was suddenly grateful for the chemically induced nap she had been afforded. Although she couldn't be sure how long she'd been out, her muscles had a chance to recover slightly, at least for the moment.

Hatch stretched, loosening up before the next daunting task. Those ten miles would bring her one step closer to being back on her team. And to being whole again.

She walked over and picked up her rucksack. It was heavier than she remembered. She opened it to look inside, fishing her hand down through her pack. She found four bricks that had been added to the bottom, which gave extra weight to her already loaded pack. There was also a long 8mm diameter static climbing rope accompanied by a smaller one. Neither item had been in her ruck previously, and she assumed they had been added by the cadre.

She readied her mind for the challenge ahead, as a deafening alarm buzzer sounded. It was loud and momentarily disorienting. But as quick as it had started, it ended.

Now, up above the door, the blank exit sign was now a glowing red digital clock. 70:00 on the clock. The alarm sounded again, and the clock began ticking down. She knew what it meant as soon as she saw it. Things had changed since she had last gone through The Gauntlet several years back. But she knew without any further instructions what the ticking time meant. She had less than seventy minutes to cover those ten miles in mixed elevation across rugged terrain while carrying a rucksack now weighing close to fifty pounds.

That time and that distance would have been a challenge for most. Hatch knew if she were ever going to prove herself to her team, she would not only have to meet every challenge and obstacle they put in front of her. She would have to beat it.

Without wasting any more time, she tucked the briefing envelope with the grid coordinates and the map into the top lip of her rucksack.

She picked up the ruck, shouldering the weight and bringing it up high, she cinched the shoulder straps down tightly. Keeping the weight closer to her shoulders enabled Hatch to better balance the pack. It was a trick known to those who had to move great distances with great amounts of weight. She learned to put that weight up high on her shoulders rather than low on her back. It enabled her to maintain pace while keeping the pressure off her spine. She used the belt straps on the bottom portion of the ruck to tighten it further against her ribs. She jumped up and down a few times ensuring that the load was secure.

Satisfied, Hatch knew she'd have to break a seven-minute mile pace for the ten miles if she were to have any chance of completing the objective and continuing to the next. As Hatch stepped toward the door, she was sure about one thing: this was just the beginning.

She had no rifle, no weapon. Just the pack on her back. It was the one advantage she found in her otherwise dire set of conditions. Not having a rifle meant she could use her arms to help her momentum. Aside from the pack's weight, she should be able to maintain a decent runner's stride. Whoever created this part of the game of The Gauntlet knew well that a rifle in hand would have reduced the possibility of making that time to almost zero.

Hatch looked up at the clock above the door. Without a watch, it would be her last reference for time before she set out. The clock's red numbers taunted her. 69:12.

* * *

The first mile was hard on her body. Each step stung from the lactic acid build up in her quadriceps. But just as a marathoner would go on a recovery run to loosen tight muscles after a race, Hatch knew the longer she traversed this course the less sore she'd become. It seemed counterintuitive, but the years of distance running had taught her the truth of it. She found solace in knowing her body would settle into the run.

Sweat began to pour, saturating her clothes and the strap line of the heavy pack. Hatch could feel her back slick with sweat from where the pack was pressed against her shoulder blades.

At mile two, she found her pace. Hatch's breathing became less raspy and more rhythmic. She then did what she always did on a long run: she let her mind go. It led her away from whatever physical pain she was feeling.

Her father said, long ago, "Once you settle in and find your rhythm, your body will play the music. Let the pounding of your feet and the sound of your controlled breathing become its own melody."

When Hatch was younger, she had tried to run with a Walkman, but found that music made the experience feel foreign and disconnected. She had abandoned music and embraced her own body's rhythmic sound. Hatch knew her pace when she went out for training runs without using a Garmin training aid or watch, because she knew her body well and listened to it. She knew her exact per mile pace by the cadence of her feet and the pacing of her breath.

Today's challenge course would be no different, except there was a mounting pressure to maintain a set pace to keep her on track and make the established timeline. Her first mile took a little over seven minutes to complete. She now had to factor that time into the remaining miles. Her second mile pace was closer to six-minutes and forty-five-seconds.

At mile five, she hit a slight incline which slowed her. She factored this in when she looked at the terrain features on the map before starting. She knew she would have to make up lost time on the downhill.

On the mile six downhill slope she made up the time, closing in on an almost six-thirty per mile pace. Adrenaline carried her forward as she was able to maintain that speed for the next two miles.

With only two miles to go, doubt crept in. Her mind started to play tricks on her and cause her to question if she was off pace. With no watch, and no reference for time except her own body rhythm, she tried to force her mind to ease. But was she right? How much time did she have left on the clock?

Hatch pushed the doubt from her mind and focused on her target objective. She passed by a creek bed. She knew from the map that she had a little less than two miles to go. Without knowing the time, she increased her speed yet again. Hatch listened to the smack of her boots as she moved along the uneven terrain. Her breathing was controlled and attentive. She focused on taking in two breaths through her nose followed by a long steady exhale from her mouth. The breathing technique was similar to the combat breathing she used when firing a weapon.

She knew she had to be at close to a six-minute-mile pace for these last two miles of the run.

There is no way to reserve energy in the tank when trying to navigate The Gauntlet. When one runs the gauntlet, one runs it at one-hundred and ten percent. Every obstacle and challenge needs to be met with whatever amount of energy one has. There is no way to save up and store for what unknown lay next.

If the cadre felt Hatch was holding back, even if she met the time, the cadre could disqualify her. She knew this because she'd witnessed it.

There were many elite class athletes who had come through the Special Forces’ selection process. Many who could do physical tasks that others could not. But when they held back—when their cocky bravado enabled them to feel as though they could hold back and outwit The Gauntlet—The Gauntlet would devour them.

So, Hatch pushed herself to one of the fastest paced ten miles she'd ever run, knowing that, with the objective timeline set, there was a chance her next objective would be waiting for her when she got there.

She also had a secondary purpose for pushing the pace. If she could shave off a few minutes, it might give her enough time to get a heads up on what was coming next. Early bird gets the worm.

Her legs burned and she could taste the metallic flavor of exertion on her breath. Her father would say, "Run through the hurt until the hurt becomes its own comfort." This was his answer to the hard run days. These were the things he would say to push her as a young girl training in the mountains of Colorado. Her father pushed her past her comfort zone and out of her safety net. "Find pleasure in the pain. Find comfort when others are uncomfortable. It will set you apart in life, no matter what path you take." Hatch heard her father's words as loudly as if he'd been running beside her as she pushed toward the end. She saw her end destination marked ahead in the form of a red X spray painted on a tree.

She stopped at the marker. Her breath now had a slight wheeze to it. She spat the taste from her mouth and looked around. No sign of Bennett or any of the other evaluators. It was the first time she'd stopped moving since she began the ten-mile track. Her uniform was soaked as if she had jumped into a lake.

As Hatch's breathing settled and her heart rate lowered, she approached the tree with the red X. No cadre members were present, but she knew they were watching. She'd heard the buzz of a drone when she was running. Hatch hadn't bothered to look up. She'd assisted in other Gauntlet assessments in the past when she was a part of the team. In doing so, Hatch and the other observers watched from multiple vantage points. A camera system was relaying her every move while navigating each objective. The drone was always in place to provide an overwatch.

There would be no direct interaction with any cadre. Every decision was hers alone to make. The evaluation process would test her decision making as much as it would her endurance and tactical prowess. By removing themselves from the field, it added to the isolation. Pass or fail, the weight of it all rested squarely on her shoulders. Shoulders now in agonizing pain from the friction of the weighted ruck's straps.

She unloaded the rucksack and set it on the ground next to a rock beneath a tree. Underneath the rock was another manila envelope. Without opening it, she knew the details of her next objective lay inside.

She looked around for a moment, letting the stillness of the air blanket her as the cicadas in the trees above resumed their song. As nature reset itself, she listened for anything man-made. Satisfied she was alone, Hatch retrieved the packet and tore it open.

This time there was more information about the next objective.

The briefing packet read as follows:

“A small contingent of enemy combatants are holding a civilian hostage at an outpost. Your mission is to navigate down the cliff face to the target location, and effectively neutralize all three enemy combatants. Secure the outpost, rescue the hostage, and await further instructions.”

Simple enough, Hatch thought. For somebody who didn't just run 10 miles and maybe wasn't unarmed.

Hatch knew the rules. Every bit of gear she was given stayed with her. She couldn't ditch her pack. That was part of the game. She at least knew the odds she faced. Three armed men versus her, unarmed and physically depleted. A difficult task under the best of circumstances. Doubt creeped in again and she fought against its nagging question: Do you still have what it takes?

She knew how hard The Gauntlet was. She'd completed it before. Of course, it had been different then. Circumstances were different too. But here and now, less than a year after recovering from the IED explosion that left her right arm at 60% capability, she now was doubting her ability to complete the mission.

The next objective would be incredibly difficult. Unlike the first one, there was no assigned timeline and no ticking clock. That didn't mean she could take her sweet time. But this section of the course was designed to give her freedom so they could evaluate her operational decision-making ability.

Hatch edged herself to drop off the cliff, taking up a crawl as she neared the edge. Peering over, she noticed the cliff face extended down to a thicket of trees. Off in the distance—a couple hundred meters northwest of her position—was a small wooden shack. The roof was barely visible through the dense foliage. From her current vantage point, there were no enemy opposition forces, or OPFOR as she referred to them.

Hatch retreated back to the tree and opened her ruck. She retrieved the longer rope and inspected the length. Her mind did the calculation, comparing it to the cliff’s drop, deeming it enough for her to effectively rappel down.

She then pulled the smaller rope from her sack. Stretching out the length of the rope, from end to end it ran approximately ten feet. She folded it in half, taking the loop's center point and pressing it firmly against her belly button. Hatch then wrapped each end around her back and to the front. She then tied the ends of the rope together as if as if tying a shoelace.

Centering the twisted rope above her beltline, the two ends dangled in front of her quadriceps. Hatch tucked the ends of her rope between the front of her thighs, under her crotch, and around her backside. She ran the ends of the rope along her waist, then squatted down, cinching the rope tight to her body. She then tied a square knot on the left side of her hip, securing it with two half hitches. She tucked the excess rope into her left front pocket and clipped a carabiner to the rope near her belly button. In less than two minutes, Hatch had created a makeshift rappel seat—more commonly known as a Swiss Seat—out of the smaller rope. Unlike a traditional rappel, Hatch decided she wanted to be able to see the bottom more clearly during her descent if any of the OPFOR were lying in wait. So, she did what's called an Aussie-style rappel, meaning she would go over the edge face first. She ran the rope through the carabiner and released the long end of the 8mm climbing rope over the edge.

With her harness set, she tied off the other end of the 8mm rope to the tree with the red X. It was the closest tree to the edge and gave her the most rope length at the bottom. She hoped it'd be enough. Falling and breaking an ankle would take her out of the course. Well, that is, if she told them.

She knew a guy who completed Airborne School with a dislocated knee. She remembered seeing her classmate limping and he explained he'd dislocated his knee after their fourth jump. He didn't want to come back to do it all over again, so he wrapped his knee with duct tape to complete the fifth and final jump.

Hatch closed her ruck and tightened it back down on her shoulders. The straps stung the raw chafed skin of her trapezius. Hatch took a deep breath and moved closer to the edge.

She wasn't a huge fan of heights. Who was really? However, her father taught her a valuable lesson when she was young and forced her to confront her fear. He forced her to attack what she hated most. “Turn your weakness into a strength,” he told her. “Whatever you fear most, you must face it head on. It's the only way to build true character, to truly evolve as a person. If you're afraid of the dark, be in the dark.”

He had asked her what she was most afraid of. Hatch, at age ten, had told her father that her biggest fear was heights. He challenged her to face it by affixing a cargo net to a cliff face in the mountain landscape of her Colorado home and he forced her to climb down. The sheer face of the drop caused her knees to buckle. As a child, she felt her father watching her. His steely-eyed gaze was its own motivation. It had been a daunting task, but the sense of accomplishment upon completing her navigation down the cargo net had forever changed her view of fear. Yes, there were things that Rachel Hatch feared, but there was no fear she wasn't willing to face head on. Today's task would be no different. “True bravery,” her father told her, “Isn’t the absence of fear, but in the measure in which the fear was faced.”

Hatch leaned out over the edge. A moment later, after slowly releasing some of the slack in her brake hand, her 5'10" frame was now hovered in a parallel to the ground one hundred feet below.

The brake hand locked the rope against her chest like a Roman soldier giving a salute. She scanned the ground below, searching through the dense canopy of foliage for any signs of her enemy targets. Seeing none, she committed to the action.

In one swift move, she extended her brake hand, releasing the rope’s tension and allowing her to begin descending. She navigated the face of the cliff like a trail runner would a forest path. Running the rope in front of her and keeping the heavy ruck high on her shoulders, she took each jutting rock edge in stride.

She moved quickly and quietly down the hundred feet of rope. The rope ended ten feet from the bottom. She braked hard with less than a foot of rope left on the rappel line. She remained motionless while she eyed the surface of the ground below. Ten feet wasn't a bad drop, but with the added weight of the ruck, she could easily damage her knees or ankles on impact.

Using her free hand, she loosened the straps of her ruck. After some careful maneuvering, she managed to free the pack and drop it to the ground below. She then released herself and dropped to the soft earth. She landed on all fours like a cat, disbursing the impact and minimizing the noise of her landing.

She scanned the area in the direction of the shed-like hut. It was roughly two football fields away from her current position. A man in a black military fatigues and a matching black hat stood facing away from her. The mission pack said there were three enemies, but only the one was currently visible.

Hatch remained motionless, tucked behind a huge boulder. There was a deep divot in the soft earth behind the oversized rock. She used the depression to maintain a low profile. Her rope lay draped along the cliff's face. The man standing guard near the shed carried a short-barreled AR-15 with a suppressor. The weapon would be loaded with Simunition ammo. The bullets are filled with a colored detergent. The water-soluble, colored marking component would give an accurate indication of where the rounds struck.

Avoid getting killed, Hatch thought to herself. It was the quickest way to get eliminated from The Gauntlet. If she had any chance of eliminating the OPFOR targets, she needed to access one of those weapons. Without it, she'd never be able to finish the objective.

She looked for the best way to approach the solitary guard, who still had not looked her way. While watching him, movement in her peripheral vision—to the right—drew her attention. There, moving along the tree line, and closing in on her area, was a second soldier, similarly dressed.

The second OPFOR soldier moved purposely and quietly toward her. He was closing the gap faster than she anticipated. Hatch grabbed her ruck and, using the cover provided by the boulder, slipped away to the left, near a cluster of trees. Her mind was on fire as she tried to form a plan on the fly. If he were to cross the next hundred feet separating them, he would undoubtedly see the dangling rope. And for her, that would be as good as standing up and announcing herself. He would call the others and within no time she would be overwhelmed by the trained soldiers who outnumbered her threefold.

These were trained operators. But she didn't recognize the faces of the men. Her former team had been decimated during the attack that left her maimed. Bennett had to replenish Task Force Banshee with new members. The team would be composed of highly skilled operators from within the Special Forces community. These were the role play actors in this scenario. All these men were well-trained, seasoned veterans who had seen some of the toughest combat. She knew they would not underestimate her. And the approaching soldier wouldn't miss something like the rope hanging from the cliff face. They would not know where or when she would attack. This would make for a more realistic scenario. Hatch needed to stop the approaching soldier before he could alert the others. Hatch stood. The trunk of the tree obscured her while she thought of a plan. And then it came to her.

A broken branch protruded from the tree’s trunk. Hatch slipped off her ruck. Using the branch, she hooked the ruck's straps to it, then squatted down and unlaced her boots. She took them off and stuffed her socks into her cargo pocket. The cool moist ground on her feet was rejuvenating. She then positioned the boots to extend from the tree's base. Her decoy complete, she low crawled her way back to the boulder.

The OPFOR soldier continued his approach and was now less than seventy feet from her current location. Hatch looked over to the tree. The ruck was slightly exposed, as were her boots. She was impressed at the makeshift ruse. It would look as though she was standing behind the tree, looking toward the shack.

Hatch, now barefoot, tightened her long frame to the pocket of earth behind the boulder. She pressed her body against the boulder’s cool surface, feeling the temporary relief from the heat. The sweat from her ten miles of exertion was beginning to dry.

She heard the crack and crunch of the approaching target's footsteps. He was close now, less than ten feet from her position. She couldn't peek out without risk of exposure. But in the quiet stillness of the air around her, she was able to use the sound of his movement to pinpoint his location. Each footstep brought him closer. Until he stopped.

The OPFOR soldier was now standing on the other side of the rock she was tucked behind. A metallic clink tipped Hatch off to his weapon's movement. She knew he was bringing his weapon up to a firing platform. She hoped that he was pointing it at her decoy and not positioning himself to engage her on the other side of the rock.

Hatch waited, taking in two deep, quiet breaths to steady her nerves. She heard him take another footstep forward. She then realized her closest enemy had made a critical mistake. He didn't call in the fact that he'd found the rappel rope. He didn't alert the others. Hubris would be his downfall. He wanted the credit for taking her out, for ending her attempt at The Gauntlet. It was a selfish move and one, Hatch hoped, that would prove to be costly. Without alerting the others, he isolated himself. Although Hatch was unarmed, one-on-one made the playing field evenly matched.

She separated herself from the rock a few inches. She maintained a low crouch as she stepped soft-footed to the right side of the boulder. Each delicately placed step matched the soldier’s slow steps as he rounded the other side of the boulder.

Hatch got her first glimpse of her opponent. He was taller than her by an inch or so and his uniform was stretched tight enough that his muscles pushed out against the dark cotton fabric. Her confidence began to build when she realized he wasn't trying to sneak around the boulder and was instead edging his way closer to her staged rucksack and boots. He angled himself outward, using a maneuver known as “slicing the pie,” while peering down the rifle's scope. It would enable him to get a clear shot with minimal exposure. Unbeknownst to him, Hatch was doing the same.

She was now completely exposed from the temporary concealment the boulder had provided. She moved forward, slowly closing the distance behind the soldier training his weapon on target, pointing to the location of Hatch's chest if she'd been standing behind the tree.

She was one step behind him. His next step would expose her ruse. The bullets may have been simulated, but any hand-to-hand combat would be no holds barred.

She slammed her left forearm down across the right side of the soldier's neck. It was a precision blow, striking at the nerve that runs behind his carotid artery. The impact was devastating. Hatch held nothing back. The vaso-vagal reaction caused a major interruption to his central nervous system, and she immediately dropped the man.

Wasting no time, she jumped on top of him and quickly dragged him behind the boulder. He wouldn't be unconscious for long. Making quick work of the next task, Hatch stripped him naked minus his boxer briefs. She found a pair of zip ties and secured his wrists. Using the socks from his feet she created a gag. He groaned but was still teetering on the fringe of unconsciousness.

Hatch then untied the Swiss Seat rappel harness and undressed herself. She exchanged her sweat-soaked uniform for his. He was a little taller and bigger than Hatch, but not enough to matter. She tossed her ACU gray digital camouflage on the ground and donned his black boonie hat, tucking her hair up tight. Before picking up his rifle, she stuffed the harness rope into her cargo pocket. She quickly inspected the AR-15 and ensured the weapon was in battery. Never assume. Trust and verify.

She took up the same position the soldier had been in before Hatch attacked him. She then made her way over to where her rucksack and boots were staged. Glancing toward the stationary soldier by the shed, she saw he remained unmoved. Thankfully, her exchange with the first soldier hadn't drawn his attention. Hatch used this opportunity to hide her rucksack and don her boots.

She moved out, continuing to sweep the perimeter in the same arc as the man whose clothes she now wore. She kept her head down, allowing the brim of the boonie hat to mask her features as she snaked her way through the tree line in the direction of the other guard.

Her weapon was held at the low ready as she moved closer to her next target. She moved as quietly, if not quieter, than the OPFOR soldier she'd just eliminated. There was still no sign of the third enemy soldier. This was a problem. Not knowing the third guard’s location made for a risky engagement.

Time was of the essence. She knew there was no way she could close the distance without the other guard recognizing her as a threat. She knew that she would have to take the shot before she got too close.

She continued to move. At about fifty meters away, she intentionally snapped a twig under her boot.

The soldier turned, squaring his chest to her. Hatch watched him from the limited viewpoint of the slightly canted brim. He raised a hand as if to say, "What gives?"

Hatch raised her hand too, but not in the same way. She did it to obscure her face as she brought the rifle up on target. Before the soldier could react, Hatch fired three suppressed Simunition rounds, painting his chest with three bright orange dots. The Simunition rounds landed in a tight group a quarter's distance apart and centered at the man's heart. Death would have been instant had this been a real engagement. And being the good OPFOR actor—even though he was undoubtedly angry at himself for falling victim to her skill—he collapsed onto the ground.

Hatch waited, her head on a swivel. Still no sign of the third combatant.

The closed door of the shack facing her didn't open when the second guard fell. Either her third opponent hadn't heard or, more scarily, he had and was waiting inside. There were no windows to this shed-like hut. There was no way to see inside. The solitary entrance taunted her.

Hatch waited for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of the forest returned after her three subdued gunshots rang out. Make a plan of action and then commit to it. Right or wrong, decide. But when you do, you go full tilt. Her father's wisdom always appeared when facing any obstacle. And his voice boomed inside her head. Move!

She took a low crawl position, closing the gap between her and the downed guard. She lay near him. She could hear him breathe, but he remained with his eyes closed in his simulated position of death. Hatch eyed the door to the shack. Making entry against an invisible enemy would be too risky. She looked from the door to the soldier lying in front of her. And then it came to her.

Removing the rappel harness rope from her cargo pocket, she moved closer to the downed soldier. She rolled him onto his belly. Working as quickly as possible, she used the rope to tie the man's body to hers. He was shorter than Hatch by about three inches. At five foot seven and roughly one hundred sixty pounds, he was lighter and smaller than Hatch. But his dead weight made him difficult to lift. Hatch used the butt of her assault rifle to act as a crutch as she hoisted him into a standing position.

There were less than twenty feet separating Hatch from the shack's closed door. Hatch struggled her way forward as she fought to keep herself upright. Her muscles, still quivering from the ten-mile trek, screamed with each step.

She willed her mind to focus on the basics. She fought to control her breathing while maintaining her concentration down the sights of the rifle. Basics, trained to perfection, allowed her to continue to function regardless of fatigue. It was the basics that made the difference. It was the basics that saved lives.

If you're going to move, then move! Hatch told herself. And move she did. She approached the door quickly, finding herself getting a second wind.

She brought herself alongside the frame of the door, close to the knob. She slowly gripped it and gave a gentle twist. The door was locked. But the construction of the shoddy shed didn't appear as an obstacle she couldn't navigate.

She had learned to shoot with her left side after her right had been damaged. It took time for her shooting to get back to her standard, but it did. Now, with the added weight of the man strapped to her chest, she was worried it would be too difficult to compensate. She stopped second-guessing herself any further and focused on her task.

She took a second to tighten the soldier to her chest one last time. He was a good actor. He didn't grunt. He didn't say a word. He played dead, as she needed him to. She had him tucked up as tight as possible. She adjusted the AR-15 and rested it on the top of his left shoulder, using his body to provide a supported firing position. She felt like a puppeteer and the soldier her marionette. Satisfied she'd stabilized herself as best she could, she squared herself to the door.

She squatted. Then, in one synchronic move, kicked as hard as she could. The bottom of her boot thrust outward, striking flush just above the doorknob. A loud crack followed as the cheaply made shed's frame splintered, and the door flung wide open.

* * *

Hatch already had the weapon up at the ready as her target came into view. In the split second before her finger squeezed the trigger, she saw the third OPFOR role-player seated behind a desk. He had a human shield of his own. Held directly in front of him was a small mannequin, like that of a child.

Hatch felt her stomach turn when she saw the mannequin’s dress. It was the one the little girl had been wearing when her mother detonated the improvised explosive device that killed her teammate and friend. She cleared her mind of the image as she took a fraction of a second to evaluate the enemy target seated before her. A matte black Sig Sauer P230 was pressed to the mannequin's head. The expressionless eyes of the doll stared back at Hatch.

Hatch, in that split second, adjusted her sight picture, focusing on the T intersection connecting the eyes and the bridge of the nose. A perfectly aimed and timed shot was necessary for neutralizing an enemy's ability to pull the trigger. Instant death erasing the ability for them to commit one final act. She'd run the drill a thousand times in training and had, on two rare occasions, been called to use it in the field with success. The third time was not a charm.

Hatch held her breath, not allowing time for the natural respiratory pause she would have used for a longer shot. Quick, controlled breathing was needed for dynamic entry. This was as dynamic as they came. Her breath held, she squeezed the trigger and fired two shots from the weapon in her left hand.

The soldier's face shield was painted in two overlapping orange dots centered between his eyes. He played his part, dropping the mannequin girl to the side and slumping forward over the desk.

Hatch then did a rapid sweep of the small room finding it bare, minus the desk, the actor, and the mannequin. Underneath the slumped soldier's chest lay another manila packet. Objective complete, she thought. Time to move on to the next.

She crossed the room. Her eye caught a glimpse of the mannequin's dress peeking out from the side of the desk. She fought her stare, willing herself to look away and focus. Her mind had other plans and began drifting down the dark path. She knew what lay at the end of that journey. The image of the girl's face appeared again, the way it had before disappearing into oblivion. Hatch had tucked the memory so deep that she feared what would happen if she ever truly let it out.

She uncinched the cord holding her body shield. Feeling the man's weight release lightened her, as he slumped to the ground by her boots. A sudden unburdening, both literally and metaphorically. She felt light, fresh. With the confidence building from having completed her second objective, she moved closer to the desk and grabbed the next mission's packet.

She ran her finger along the lip, just as she'd done with the two previous objectives. As she reached inside, her fingertips touching the laminated slip of paper containing the next set of parameters, an alarm sounded. The same sound she heard in the first room. At the siren's end, she heard over a speaker, The Gauntlet is over. See cadre evaluators for further instruction."

Hatch's heart sank. The third objective mission packet was in her hand still, her fingers still caressing the laminated paper, now halfway in and halfway out of the envelope. Something didn't add up. What did she fail at? What did she do that caused them to terminate her opportunity? Every passing second since the announcement, Hatch felt a distance form between herself and her return to the team she loved most. Her return to doing the thing she did best.

She stood dumbfounded. In the silence that followed the buzzer's end, Hatch didn't bother looking at the next mission objective, because she knew it didn't matter now. None of this did. And everything she’d previously accomplished was suddenly tainted.

There was a sound at the open door, a shuffling of approaching feet. There was no need for any tactical discretion or soft footed approach. The game was over. She turned and saw Chris Bennett walking with another man she didn't recognize.

Since her team had taken heavy casualties the year before, they added new members. Bennett's sidekick was young, in his late twenties or early thirties, and extremely fit. He walked a step behind Bennett, who was approaching her with an intensity in his eyes.

"I don't get it!" Hatch set the rifle down on the desk.

The soldier who'd just played the hostage taker returned to a seated position, as the man used as a body shield stood up.

Bennett walked in with the other man in tow. "You hesitated.”

"What do you mean I hesitated?" Hatch asked, leveling a gaze at Bennett. The exhaustion, both physical and mental, was weighing on her ability to maintain any sense of decorum. She worked hard at restraining herself from jumping across the room and strangling her former team commander.

"We've run this drill a thousand times. You've run it. You know the standard. We know the timing needed for our operators. You know this better than most… and you hesitated. You were two tenths of a second slower than the passing qualification time for taking that shot. In the action versus reaction, both you and that hostage would have been dead."

"But he didn't get a shot off," Hatch said, grinding the words out of her clenched jaw.

"We'll look at that, but it doesn't change the fact that you took too long. And whether his gun had a malfunction—"

"There was no malfunction," Hatch said, cutting him off. "I took my time because I had the time."

Bennett's face screwed up, contorted, showing his confusion that was blending evenly with the rage in his eyes. He never liked to be challenged, especially in front of other team members.

"What do you mean you had the time?"

"Your bad guy's finger was indexed."

Bennet was silent.

"It wasn't on the trigger. It was off to the side. I knew that I had extra time to make sure my shot was true before taking it. Your guy wasn't ready, so his mistake gave me the extra fraction of a second I needed to make sure my shots were true." Hatch pointed to the paint marked face shield resting atop the desk. "Two rounds into the center of his forehead ended the engagement before the hostage was shot."

The man next to Bennett looked over at him and cocked an eyebrow. Bennett seemed bent on trying to ignore the man's look, but Hatch called him out on it. "Looks like he might be in agreement."

He shrugged his shoulders. "We can always just pull the tapes, Chris."

Bennett smiled. He pulled out a tablet that he had tucked under his arm. With a few taps of his fingers, he brought up an image. Bennett was close to Hatch, but the tense energy between them was as thick as a concrete wall.

With a smug look on his face, he pulled up two images. Hatch leaned in and saw the two viewpoints. One camera angled down from the back wall and showed the door from the inside. The other viewpoint came from the camera above the door and showed the hostage taker and doll.

Bennett tapped the screen and both screens played simultaneously.

Hatch watched. Target inside tightened himself against the mannequin hostage. On the screen, the girl in the dress seemed more real. Hatch entered. There was a clock ticking in the bottom of the screen. It was quick. 1.2 seconds from breach to shot. Bennett was right on the time. She was a fraction of a second out of compliance of their standard. But she had a reason for that.

"Take it closer," Hatch said. "Replay it. But this time, can you zoom in on your hostage taker's gun hand?"

Bennett shrugged. "Not sure what you think you're going to prove here, but here we go." He adjusted the zoom on the interior camera. Then, rewinding it with a swipe of his finger, he brought the scene back to the door just seconds before the entry.

Hatch watched and waited.

He hit play again. This time, the solitary image consuming the whole screen was that of the hostage taker's gun hand. The breach of the door could be heard off-camera. The clock started. At 1.2 seconds in, the hostage taker's index finger moved from the indexed position alongside the trigger. It had been moving toward the trigger when Hatch fired her two rounds.

As clear as day, the hostage taker's finger was clearly resting off the trigger. He was not prepared to fire.

Bennett hit pause on the screen and then minimized the image completely, putting the tablet back under his arm. He edged closer to Hatch, nearly pressing his nose to hers. "It proves nothing. All it proves is that you hesitated once again."

"Again," Hatch said. She could taste the bile rising in her stomach. "No bullet that's fired can be taken back. We should always take the time to evaluate our targets, because you must answer for every round that comes out of that gun. And that's what I did here," Hatch unflinchingly met his gaze. "And that's what I did over there. I'm sorry, but I have to be the one that bears the weight of that decision for the rest of my life."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, it's a decision you'll never have to make again. You're out."

Hatch felt dizzy.

"The van's waiting to take you back with your gear. You can figure out where you want to go from here. But I'll tell you one thing, The Task Force no longer has a need for you." Bennett turned and walked away without saying another word.

The man who had been at his side eyed Hatch. "For what it's worth, that was a hell of a show. And I've never seen anybody stand up to Bennett like you did."

"Sounds like it didn't matter much."

"Sometimes the scars on the battlefield run deep," he said and then turned to catch up to Bennett.

As they pulled away, Hatch saw a white van approaching. It was the same one that she'd arrived in.

She got into the passenger seat. The driver didn't speak. She was glad for that. It meant she didn't have to speak either. She was left with her thoughts, which at this point could be equally damning. The van rumbled out of their training area and a half hour later, they were on a dirt road heading back towards Fort Bragg.

* * *

It had taken Hatch an additional two months to complete the medical separation paperwork. Fifteen years and it ends like this, she thought. Without Task Force Banshee to return to, Hatch felt lost.

In her despair, she returned to the doctor who initially advised her to separate from the Army. Two months later, and she had her final discharge paperwork in front of her.

The clerk went page by page through her paperwork. Her entire military career was now enclosed in a military personnel file folder in his hands. He gave her DD 214 extra attention. The form summarized her military service into a sheet of paper, a list of all training, awards, etc.

"Looks like we've got a typo here on your DD 214. I'll have to try to get that sorted out and taken care of," he said, looking down at it through his thick glasses, and then back up at Hatch.

"What's the discrepancy?" Hatch asked.

"It's got you here going to the Q Course, but it has it here twice. It must be a typo."

"It's not a typo."

The man looked again at the dates, seeing that they were separated by several years of service. And then he furrowed his brow and tipped his glasses down to the edge of his nose. And with his brown eyes eyed Hatch, surveying her.

He then looked back down at the paperwork and back at Hatch, as if his brain was attempting to connect the dots. But somehow kept coming up short. "I don't understand," he said.

"I don't know how else to explain it. It's there in writing. I did the Q Course twice."

"You attempted it?"

"I completed it," Hatch said, flatly.

"That's pretty impressive. I've never heard of a female going through the course. I've never heard of anyone doing it twice."

"I guess it wasn't impressive enough," Hatch said. She rubbed at the scar tissue underneath her uniform.

"Well, then I guess everything's in order. I've made you copies, and here is your personnel file and medical records. Not sure if you’re interested, but there are classes available to help you reacclimate to civilian life."

"I'll pass," Hatch said, taking the stack of paperwork from the man and slipping it into her satchel. She shouldered it onto her good arm and turned from the desk and started to walk away.

"Where are you going to go now? What are your plans?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I'm sure I'll find myself between everywhere and nowhere."

And with that, Hatch walked away from the thing she knew best.

Also by L.T. Ryan

Click on a series name or title for more information

The Jack Noble Series

The Recruit (free)

The First Deception (Prequel 1)

Noble Beginnings

A Deadly Distance

Ripple Effect (Bear Logan)

Thin Line

Noble Intentions

When Dead in Greece

Noble Retribution

Noble Betrayal

Never Go Home

Beyond Betrayal (Clarissa Abbot)

Noble Judgment

Never Cry Mercy

Deadline

End Game

Noble Ultimatum (Coming May 2021)

Bear Logan Series

Ripple Effect

Blowback

Take Down

Deep State

Rachel Hatch Series

Drift

Downburst

Fever Burn

Smoke Signal

Firewalk

Whitewater - March 2021

Mitch Tanner Series

The Depth of Darkness

Into The Darkness

Deliver Us From Darkness (Summer 2021)

Cassie Quinn Series

Path of Bones

Whisper of Bones (February 2021)

Untitled (May 2021)

Blake Brier Series

Unmasked

Unleashed (January 2021)

Untitled (April 2021)

Affliction Z Series

Affliction Z: Patient Zero

Affliction Z: Abandoned Hope

Affliction Z: Descended in Blood

Affliction Z : Fractured Part 1

Affliction Z: Fractured Part 2 (Fall 2021)

About the Author

L.T. Ryan is a USA Today and international bestselling author. The new age of publishing offered L.T. the opportunity to blend his passions for creating, marketing, and technology to reach audiences with his popular Jack Noble series.

Living in central Virginia with his wife, the youngest of his three daughters, and their three dogs, L.T. enjoys staring out his window at the trees and mountains while he should be writing, as well as reading, hiking, running, and playing with gadgets. See what he’s up to at http://ltryan.com.

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