Target Engaged by M. L. Buchman

though it felt like more. At first, moving step by step with lights on and firing Simunitions that did little more than sting and leave a red-colored dot. Then in pairs, finally as a full team. One terrorist, two, five. Then the same progression but with live ammo. Living room, airplane, ship’s bridge, tunnel-and-cave system…they’d done them until the scenarios had oddly all become the same.
    The environment controlled what was possible, but not what was required. Each scenario became simply another integrated layer of possible actions, practiced until the varying terrain could be addressed without thought and thus the targets could receive her full attention.
    The colonel led them to the far end of the concrete hallway, where they could still hear the echoes of the surprised murmurs of the recent graduates. Last door on the right led them into the nose of a 747. The front hundred feet of an old 747-100 had been put here. They climbed the stairway to the first class lounge.
    Duane dug water bottles out of the steward’s station and began tossing them around. They all dropped into a group of deep leather airplane seats facing one another.
    * * *
    Kyle rolled the water bottle across his forehead. The action phase was measured in seconds and the overall operation itself in mere minutes, but that didn’t make it one bit less of a workout. He knocked back half the bottle and inspected his team.
    He wasn’t the leader, not really. They were five individuals who were exceptionally good at working together. Drop in another operator or take two away, which they often did during training, and it didn’t matter. Delta was flexibility. Not about flexibility, rather something they simply were . Yet he’d be sorry if this team split up. Not just he and Carla—which was a horrifying possibility that they’d only been able to tolerate discussing once—but this whole team just plain hummed.
    Chad was their hammer. His blond good looks and cherubic smile hid a Detroit street fighter who’d clawed his way out of the gangs and would have your back until hell froze over. He was pretty much as sharp as Kyle on tactics. Kyle often used him to lead the other group when they split the team; Chad always knew what to do with them. They tried tagging him with “Farm Boy” for his Midwestern Scandinavian looks, but it hadn’t stuck until the day Kyle had watched him during a rapid-fire practice and tagged him “The Reaper.”
    In contrast, his best buddy, Duane, came from a privileged Atlanta background. He was milder, funny, but no less dangerous when cornered. Carla had called him rock solid once, and he’d been called “The Rock” ever since because it fit him so well. Duane was a really straight-ahead thinker, but he really got it done once you had him aimed in the right direction.
    Richie was their boy genius. He was Kyle’s age, but it was as if he was walking the planet for the first time. He overanalyzed the shit out of everything, served up exactly the information you needed, and then threw himself full tilt into any situation. His shortcoming was that he often overthought things, but knowing that, he let himself be guided into action easily when needed. He was a huge James Bond fan, so that tag of “Q” had been inevitable.
    There’d been an early tendency to put Carla on a pedestal, but she’d slammed down the kibosh on that. Kyle had managed to compartmentalize and only worship her in the bedroom. The rest of the time he simply respected the hell out of her.
    Over the months, the team had eventually looked to him.
    He didn’t really take command, but he could see from an overview level what was needed and lay it out for them. By the time OTC was over, he could do it with three words and a couple gestures. He knew exactly how best to deploy the team’s strengths. He’d often assign someone to their weakest skill to get practice in