September 12th, 2018

1915Z

[Author's Note: You know how this story is rated "mature?" Well, that means it's going to be inappropriate—not just due to the violence and bad language, but the more suggestive content. And this chapter will have some of that. If you're on the younger side... you've been warned.]

Zoe POV (Fort Jackson)

"Get your ass up there, Short-Stack!" Drill Sergeant Sanchez shouted, invoking her nickname for me as she loudly "encouraged" me to get over the wall. "Amazon, high knees 'til she makes it!"

"Yes... Drill... Sergeant!" I panted as I struggled to overcome the obstacle.

"C'mon, Zibbell! We gotta move!" Adams, my battle buddy, called as she did the high knees exercise on the other side of the wall, likely wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. It was no wonder, though: she was 5'10" and a former collegiate athlete (hence her nickname "Amazon") while I was 5' and not nearly as athletic.

"Okay, okay! Geez!"

My platoon, along with one other, was maneuvering through an obstacle course (O-course)—not quite in full battle rattle, but it felt pretty close: cammies, helmet, Camelbak, Improved Outer Tactical Vest (IOTV; with plates fitted), and load-bearing vest. Oh, and who could forget the M4A1 fitted with a blank adapter slung over my back? All in all, the crapload of gear combined with my small size made it really hard to haul my ass over the wall. To my left, other trainees were getting over much faster, with some dudes and even the bigger and/or more fit chicks leaping over the wall.

Yeah, like that's not demoralizing at all.

But soon enough, I'd made it over, allowing Adams and I to continue the O-course. We came across a sandpit that we needed to crawl across, along with logs to step over, sewer pipes to squeeze through, and yet another sandpit—this time with wires strung low that we couldn't touch while crawling. And in between, all we could do was keep running.

I had an advantage over Adams with the sandpits and sewer pipes thanks to my small size, but the load I was carrying only amplified the problem at hand, with DS Sanchez continually calling for me to move faster.

"It's okay to be small, not slow or weak!" the older woman called. "Short-Stack, I'm lookin' at you! I want a faster run than last time! Learn something from your battle buddy, why don'tcha!"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!" I spluttered out, spitting out the sand in my mouth as I dodged another wire. Upon arriving at the other end, Adams quickly yanked me to my feet and got us going again. But only 75 yards later, we arrived at yet another fucking wall, this one about the same height as me. "Are you kidding me?!"

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" Adams exclaimed, getting the top on her first try before rolling onto the other side. "We can do this, Zibbell! C'mon!"

"Hang on, Adams, hang on!" I groaned as I tried and failed to get myself over the wall, while Adams had to wait for me to overcome the obstacle.

"You got this, Zibbell! Use your arms and legs! Push and pull! It's nothing but military-grade rock climbing!"

Well, I'm glad she has a good attitude, if nothing else... I wonder if all Arizonan rock climbers are like her?

I followed her advice, managing to get my chest up to the top before slipping and falling flat on my back, knocking the wind out of me. I could hear DS Sanchez shouting for me to get my ass up, but my arms, legs, back, and hips were screaming at me to not move a muscle. Adams continued to shout words of encouragement, but those weren't helping either. After about fifteen seconds of me laying there, DS Sanchez came up.

"What the hell, Short-Stack? What's with you?" she asked, looking down at me with a hint of concern in her voice. "You need medical?"

"N-no, Drill Sergeant," I gasped as I turned onto my stomach, slowly getting on my hands and knees and got back onto my feet. "I'm okay... I'm okay, Drill Sergeant."

"You are? Then why'd you let your boyfriend get dirty? You've soiled Mikey, you sad excuse of a woman!"

Oh, shit.

You see, I'd committed one of the cardinal sins in the Army, even for non-combat arms MOSs: letting my weapon touch the ground and get dirty. Sure, it'd gotten dirty from crawling around in the sand "gyno-to-ground" (to quote the anatomy nerd of a trainee in my platoon), but I still somehow managed to keep the muzzle out of the dirt and not let the M4 get too dirty overall. But after falling on my back, it was dirtier than the mind of the average grunt.

Oh, and the "boyfriend" thing? When we first got our M4s, DS Sanchez told us to "give [our] rifle[s] a man's name, for that [was] the only dick we [were] getting during BCT (Basic Combat Training), and [that our] days of jerking off Chad Johnson in the Chipotle parking lot [were] over." We were, in essence, married to our rifles, and were to give them the utmost love and respect. If we took care of them, they'd take care of us. Me, being the sappy lovesick girl that I was, named my rifle "Mikey..." you can probably figure out why.

Somehow, I feel like Drill Sergeant Sanchez got that idea from Full Metal Jacket and not any sort of Army manual... can't blame her, though. R. Lee Ermey was pretty kickass.

"I'll unfuck that, Drill Sergeant!" I promised, making DS Sanchez raise an eyebrow.

"Better damn well, Short-Stack. Get going, c'mon!" she ordered. "I know you got that faster time, so do it!"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

I took another shot at the wall, using every last ounce of strength I had to push with my legs and pull with my arms—which somehow got my back in on the action—miraculously heaving myself to the wall's peak before collapsing on the other side in a heap.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" Adams cheered, reaching down and helping me to my feet. "C'mon, just one more! We can do this, damn it!"

"Ah, just shut up and run!" I hissed, hobbling forward while trying to brush dirt and sand off my M4. Lightly laughing, my tall blonde battle buddy jogged after me, sounding tired but not nearly as winded as I was. Before long, we'd made it to the final section of the O-course: another sandpit with low-strung wires and wooden hurdles (I guess) to go under. Wanting to get this over with, I dropped to my hands and knees before dropping to my stomach, low-crawling through the obstacle. As for Adams...

"AAHHH, MY FUCKING TITS!"

At her pained screech, everyone and everything seemed to freeze, all eyes looking towards my platoon's resident athlete, who lay face-first on the ground cursing loudly. If I had to guess, she dolphin-dived into the sandpit and landed chest-first. Combine that with the fact that IOTVs aren't really that comfortable (for males or females), along with Adams being very well-endowed, I'd hazard that the ceramic plate squished her breasts—and quite possibly the sections with a higher concentration of nerves or more sensitive nerves—in a really, really painful way.

This probably explains why female soldiers and cops sometimes have to get custom body armor... I mean, I know we have some lady-specific issues, but damn.

"Uh... Adams?" I asked. "Ya need something?"

"Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckfuckfuckfuck," she squeaked in a pitch so high, sopranos would sound like basses. Her eyes were shut as she rolled onto her side into the fetal position, sounding as pained as a man who'd been kicked in the balls.

"Well... so much for being a juggernaut," one male trainee joked, eliciting manly giggles from much of his platoon, along with some light chuckles from us females—even I couldn't help but stifle a laugh. Inappropriate and politically incorrect as it was, it was pretty damn funny.

"That's a painful tit-uation!" another threw in, prompting further laughter.

"Adams, don't be so melon-dramatic!" another cackled, eliciting laughs in kind from more trainees, and even one of the drills.

"Well, your screaming broke me out of my dehydrated hallucinations, so... thanks for helping me keep abreast of our present circumstances!" one shouted from the finish line, successfully breaking any remaining stern-faced people. Not a single trainee wasn't howling with laughter at that time, with it only intensifying when Adams held up a middle finger despite still looking in extreme pain.

"MOVE YOUR TAILS, HORNDOGS!" the older-looking male drill sergeant bellowed, obliterating any laughter and prompting the trainees (especially the males) to continue their movement. "Jesus H. Christ, just because you haven't seen a girl in months, you pull this nonsense. God have mercy on us all if your sorry asses continue this shit in my beloved Army. You wanna do this, do it later on your own time! Jerk off in the Porta-John, why don'tcha?!"

"Relax, Sarn't," another male DS said, stifling his own chuckles, whilst I checked on Adams. "Nothin' to worry about. Standard trainee stupidity. Same shit, different day."

"Amazon, enough of your titty tantrum!" DS Sanchez called, eliciting short-lived snickers from many. "C'mon, follow Short-Stack's example and crawl! You better beat your time!"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant," Adams squeaked, beginning to crawl. "Oh, fuuuuuuck."

"You got this, Adams. C'mon!" I encouraged as I scrabbled through the wire-covered sandpit.

"Stupid fuckin' IOTVs..."

"I know, girl... I know."

Upon finishing the O-course, one of the medics came by to check on Adams—who was ultimately okay, just had to deal with the pain—before checking on some injuries other trainees had sustained, while the drills stood to the side having their own little powwow. Both platoons sat in the dirt, hydrating, snacking, and yakking, with male and female trainees alike ragging Adams for her mishap, the males cracking the majority of the breast-related jokes. The tall blonde cussed them out and hurled back some dirty penis-centric ones of her own, which the dudes found especially funny for some reason.

One raised me, one grew up with me, I've known and befriended many... and yet, I don't think I'll ever understand men.

"How's the platoon?" the older male drill sergeant quietly asked, his murmur barely audible over the other noise.

"Same old, Sarn't. But I gotta say... Zibbell's a lot more familiar with some of the tactical stuff than I'd expect a New Yorker to be..." DS Sanchez replied. "Zibbell's the short-stack."

"I figured... blondie's battle buddy?"

"Yes, Sarn't."

"The boys are doin' alright for a buncha goofballs," one of the younger male drills said. "Think we just might have a good batch at the end of this."

"Maybe... maybe..." DS Sanchez replied. "I think this might be the best platoon I've had as a drill yet... though, that ain't sayin' much."

Well, that's motivating... I guess.

Mike POV (Lackland Air Force Base)

BEAST (Basic Airman Expeditionary Skills Training) Week was going surprisingly well. We'd put our weapons training to the test through a series of field training exercises (FTXs). Of the 76 rounds I fired, I managed to get 38 of them to hit their targets... which qualified me as an "expert," apparently, as it only takes 22 to achieve that designation.

Maybe that's why we're called the "Chair Force."

But now, we were entering the FTX of BEAST Week that I was dreading: chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear (CBRN) defense. Long story short, we donned a plate carrier and a shitload of special gear—gas mask, mask carrier, over garments, M9 detector paper, gloves, and overboots—that put us at Mission Oriented Protective Posture (MOPP) Level 4, which is used to counteract all but the heaviest CBRN threats... I think.

"If we aa ur P-E 'elt, we could prolly survive a direc' hit fro' a nuke!" Bryant, my battle buddy, joked, his words muffled by his gas mask.

"Huh?" I asked, garbled by my own mask as I tried to get confirmation.

"Add... P... T... belt... survive... nuke!"

"Oh... yeah, yeah, yeah!"

Ah, the PT belt... guaranteed to protect you from IEDs, UAVs, SUVs, and STDs.

"Hustle, hustle, hustle! Anybody not good to go?!" Military Training Instructor Jefferson yelled at our flight, yanking me from my musings. Met with only silence, he nodded. "Good, now get going! Go, go, go, go, go! Out of my tent!"

"YES, SIR!" we replied. With no time to waste, we quickly grabbed the rest of our gear and ran outside of the tent, being greeted with alarms and smoke everywhere—CS gas—simulating a CBRN attack. Now, we had to run through the simulation like our MTIs taught us too. Mind you, we didn't have to actually "fire" our weapons (M4s fitted with blank adapters), but we had to remain vigilant and secure our area.

We then conducted post-attack reconnaissance of the surrounding area, during which we checked for damage and unexploded ordnance. My primary focus—along with that of a few other trainees—was to hold security while the rest of my flight conducted its recon, with Bryant holding a clipboard to write down information reported to him.

Now, you might be wondering: what the hell is so bad about this? Well, it was a bright Texas day and we were at MOPP Level 4. In other words, while it was mid-September, the 83-degree heat was no joke, worsening by about 15 degrees due to body heat from the protective gear. I continued to maneuver with my fellow trainees while trying not to die from heatstroke or dehydration, whichever came first.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck...

"Brezinki! Brezinki!" another trainee shouted from my right, snapping me from my delirium. "Unexplo'ed or'nance o'er 'ere!"

"Okay, mark the area fo' EOD!" I replied before turning to look behind me. "Bryant!"

"Wha?!" he shouted back, several dozen yards away.

"Unexplo'ed or'nance, Tent Nu'er Fourteen by the Humvee! Ali's marked it wih a red flag!"

"Roger, unexplo'ed or'nance, Tent Nu'er Fourteen by the Humvee, marked wih red flag!"

The post-attack recon went on—with the gas masks continuously hampering our speech—for another hour as we searched and secured the rest of our assigned area, before MTI Jefferson finally announced "endex" and ordered us to gather around. Overall, he seemed somewhat pleased with our performance, though his praise did not come without criticism.

"Ali, your job is to report stuff, so if you must delegate, delegate to the guy who isn't focused on covering your six," MTI Jefferson explained, his speech loud and clear as he wasn't wearing a gas mask himself—the CS gas had completely dissipated by this point.

"Yessir!" Ali acknowledged.

"And Brezinski, this may be a simulated attack, but your focus needs to be on your task at hand. You're putting security for the reporters in case there's a follow-up, not being another reporter. That's why we never fly solo, you get me?"

"Yessir!" I replied.

"Fellas... I think I might just be able to make airmen out of you yet," MTI Jefferson chuckled, a smile growing on his old, weathered face.

I think this is the happiest I've seen him thus far.

"Now... get your stinky selves outta my gear! Go, decontaminate! Go, go, go, go, GOOOOOO!!" he shouted, making us run for the decontamination station—probably the best and worst shower in the history of man—as he transformed from a baseball coach back into the intense MTI we knew and respected (i.e., feared), which he managed without a single curse word (because... regulations?).

Aaaaand, it's gone.

Nate POV (Naval Station Great Lakes)

So here's something interesting about the Navy: those in the ranks E-1 through E-3 are in apprenticeships, acting in one of five general career areas—seaman, fireman, constructionman, hospitalman, or airman (not to be confused with USAF airmen)—while searching or training for a particular rating. At the moment, I was fairly certain that I was a fireman recruit, with my primary job being damage control while waiting for the time to strike SB (Special Warfare Boat Operator).

However, as my recruit division commander, Petty Officer Dixon (a DC1, I think), explained, it's very easy for damage on a ship to become too much for the controllers. As such, all sailors (at least on the enlisted side) receive training in damage control, including firefighting. This meant that in a nightmare scenario in which firemen like myself were overwhelmed, we'd still most likely be taking the lead, but we'd at least be backed up by sailors who had enough rudimentary knowledge and skills.

The RDCs had set up a controlled fire in a compartment. I stood at the front of the stack, holding the firehose's nozzle while ten recruits held the hose behind me, an eleventh on the valve controlling the pressure. To my right stood an identical twelve-man team standing at the ready to extinguish the fire: a flame maybe a foot in diameter and five feet high, coming out of an oil barrel.

"READY!" Stevens, the nozzle-holder to my right shouted, his voice muffled by the self-contained breathing apparatus he wore—basically SCUBA gear, but not underwater, hence the acronym SCBA.

"THREE, TWO, ONE, GO!" I shouted, pulling back the handle to unleash the might of the firehose and twisting the nozzle to better control the flow, Stevens doing the same. For those that don't know, firehoses are not your standard garden hose, varying between 116-290 psi on a normal basis. And while normal firefighters can probably make do with 2-3 per hose, shipboard firefighting has significantly less room for error since... well, we aren't exactly on solid ground, so stability and control are everything.

Utilizing our training and practice, we were able to easily extinguish the barrel fire. However, simulating only what I could assume was spilled fuel and stray sparks, the entire compartment caught on fire and turned into what one could call a naval manifestation of Hell or a very inefficient oven.

Ayo, where the fuck did I come up with those ideas?

Nonetheless, Stevens and I adjusted our hoses appropriately, widening the spread of the water while simultaneously waving the nozzles back and forth to cover the entire room. Shouting wasn't necessary, as we'd trained heavily together in the art of firefighting and—while likely not on par with our civilian counterparts (similarly to how military police are, in many aspects, not on par with their civilian counterparts)—were good enough to put out a dangerous blaze.

Before long, the smoke and fire were replaced by steam billowing from the compartment through the hatch, smothering Stevens, myself, and the recruits behind us. But despite us being blinder than bats, we knew we were successful. And once the steam was cleared, an entry and thorough check of the compartment revealed that the fire was completely extinguished, after which Petty Officer Dixon had us gather around.

"Men, listen up!" he ordered in his hoarse, scratchy voice—a consequence of a lifetime of smoking, as he told us—one we recognized as the sound of doom if we had acted out or failed. But now, after having us for six weeks, he was more relaxed, shouting only to be heard or in the event that somebody messed up big-time. "Firefighting is just one part of damage control, but it is among the most important damage control skills you can learn in RTC (Recruit Training Command). Doesn't matter whether you're a cook or a SEAL, 'cause when all hands are needed, all hands are needed. That aside, your performance was solid. But remember, when making an entry into the damaged compartment, make sure you keep the point-man in clear sight. Don't be afraid to follow and make sure he's okay. Understood?"

"YES, PETTY OFFICER!!" we replied, our voices still muffled by our SCBA.

"Okay, get set up again. Time for something a little more intense."

"AYE, PETTY OFFICER!!"

And so began yet another firefighting simulation, only this time we had to clear two passageways with four compartments each. It reminded me of CQB from Spy School and first-person shooter games, except our enemies were fires and our weapons were hoses. Moreover, to help emulate the stressful conditions of the real thing, the RDCs cut the lights inside the simulation area, turning on the strobe lights and the emergency siren. Hell, all that was missing was the rocking of the seaborne ship itself.

Once again, Stevens and I were the first ones in our stacks. After Petty Officer Dixon started the timer, another recruit opened the hatch and we got to work, beginning with the fires in the passageways so we could have room to maneuver. But then came the hard part: we had to split up, each stack taking its own passageway as it was far too narrow for both of us to move—ever wonder why ships, especially warships, always feel so crammed?

"YOU GOT RIGHT!!" I yelled at my fellow point-man.

"YOU GOT LEFT!! GO GET 'EM!!" Stevens yelled back.

"MOVING!!" we shouted to our stacks simultaneously, stepping through our respective hatches into the damp passageways. Minding the slippery floor, I carefully walked to the first hatch on my left, trying to block out the distracting noise and lights. The steam and smoke weren't making things better, and it even felt somewhat suffocating despite our SCBAs. But my team and I were able to arrive at the first flaming compartment quickly, where I began spraying water once again.

A quick glance to my left revealed yet another reason why we fought fires with such larger teams than our civilian counterparts: more people on the hose made it easier to extend, allowing us to actually maneuver through the narrow passageway and keep the hose as level as possible (water pressure can drop dramatically with even the slightest bend in the hose). After extinguishing the fire from the outside, I entered the compartment and did a double-check, adding some more water for good measure.

"CLEAR!!" I shouted upon confirming that the fire was out.

"COMING OUT!!" one of the guys behind me called, prompting us to join the rest of the stack in the hallway and move on to the next compartment. Behind me, I could just make out the sound of one of my fellow recruits closing the hatch and sealing off the water-saturated compartment.

This same workflow was utilized for the remaining three compartments, as we maneuvered like a well-oiled firefighting machine to control the simulated damage. Before long, we finished the last compartment, sealing it off and moving through the thick steam for the exit hatch, after which we sealed off the entire passageway. Seconds later, the remainder of Stevens's stack made it out of their passageway, after which Petty Officer Dixon stopped his stopwatch and gave us a bright, toothy smile.

"You sonsabitches did it. That's a new division record!" he laughed, making us cheer in jubilation. Was I going to use this knowledge ever again? Likely not, and the same could be said about many of my fellow recruits. But our RDC was proud of us and we got to feel like badasses, even for only a few minutes.

Petty Officer Dixon didn't let us rest on our laurels, however, having us quickly knock it off and get our equipment stowed away. While it was somewhat annoying to be immediately thrown back into the chaos of RTC after only a brief enjoyment of our fabulous victory, it was nonetheless understandable and necessary. Life went on, after all.

Even if it meant prairie-dogging your turd as you hauled ass towards the head.

Once again, I must stress that I am not a military historian/expert/member, and thus have no idea if these bootcamp scenes are accurate to reality. I got some info from the Internet (particularly Military.com and YouTube), but I have no idea if I emulated those events properly or not.

But hey, this is fanfiction written by an armchair commando and not academic literature written by a Potato heaD (PhD), so it should be fine... hopefully. And yeah, with some exceptions, PhDs are Potato heaDs. CHANGE MY MIND.

Welp, now the academics are targeting me too... what else is new? As always, thanks for reading and sticking with me. If you enjoyed it, petition your local Potato heaD to ensure that he or she does not try to send an assassin after me. Seriously, I'm a keyboard warrior, not an actual warrior... though I can walk up the stairs out of my basement and am slowly recovering from being chronically online, so I'm at least better than the average Redditor.

That aside, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the chapter! That's all I've got for you fine people today, so take care of yourselves and each other, and I'll see you in the next one.

Until we meet again,

- ADF-2