The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara by James R. Pera Page A

drove the jeep over to the ammo shed, where the rest of the crew were looking over the morning report and preparing for the day. As the A-team got ready, the range masters and safeties began the briefing that was required before each live-fire session. Ryan offered to watch theammunition and communications equipment so that Doc Nunes and Communications Sergeant Bradford could attend.
    He looked over the boxes of 5.56 and 9 mm ammo set aside for the day’s close-quarter marksmanship training and qualification. Like most Green Berets, Ryan felt that this type of qualification course was useless. Shooting at stationary targets on an open range was not the type of drill Special Forces soldiers found helpful. It did little to hone their skills to the degree necessary for fighting the war on terror. What was needed were exercises designed to challenge them with simulated combat situations that imitated the types encountered in the Middle East and other lesser-known trouble spots in which Special Operators fought.
    Emphasis needed to be on training the operators to fight their way out of ambushes, breach defensive positions and clear urban areas street by street and house by house. Situations to test reflexes and decision making also needed to be thrown into the mix. Shooting at stationary targets was well below the threshold that these operators required to keep ahead of the curve.
    The only explanation Ryan could think of to explain this total waste of training time and resources was that it probably enabled some rear-echelon desk jockey to get an administrative-excellence rating on his OER.
    Ryan was anxious to get on the demolition range to see what would be used—or, better yet, what wouldn’t be used—in that segment of the training. The rifle and pistol ranges were not where he wanted to be, but he’d have to hang out here until the training moved over tothe other site. He hoped to find some of the items he needed there.
    At 1300 hours, after a brief lunch break with the team, Rosie punched Ryan softly in the shoulder and said, “Get your ass in the truck. We’re going to the demo range.” Ryan was happy the morning session was over. Now maybe he could get what he’d come out to the range for in the first place.
    Ryan gave no hint about his intentions. As far as Rosie and the other operators were concerned, he was just hanging out with an old friend and watching the others train. The last thing he wanted was for any of the operators to be implicated in any wrongdoing if his plans fell through and resulted in a court-martial.
    Ryan and Rosie pulled into the demo range and were met by the range safety master. The range safety greeted Rosie and then broke into a broad grin when he saw Ryan. “Well, if this don’t beat all. When the hell did you pop in, lad?”
    Ryan recognized the voice but didn’t connect it to the face at first. After several seconds, though, he made the connection. He smiled. It was Navarro Rhodes. The two of them had gone through ranger school together when they were just young pups and had served in the Seventy-Fifth for several years before Ryan went to the Special Forces.
    “Hey, Ryan me lad, how about we go out and take a hike up to the top of Mount Yonah after the range closes down?” joked Rhodes.
    “What’s this shit about Yonah? That godforsaken place is in Georgia. We here in the Mojave Desert andno Mount Yonah be out here. So what gives? You two know each other or something?” Rosie asked.
    “Yes we do, my friend,” Ryan answered. “This is Navarro Rhodes, aka Catman. A top ranger and a lover of felines. The only macho gunslinger I know who would rather have a Siamese cat than a German shepherd. But then we all have our quirks now, don’t we?”
    “Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. I didn’t know you was a cat lover, Rhodes. Kind of knocks you down in my esteem. Here I thought you was a big, tough, Clint Eastwood type and you turn out to be Catwoman.” Rosie