Chapter 4: The Switch

Chapter 4: The Switch

Qualification day dawned cold and gray, a damp chill clinging to the air that promised a miserable day on the firing line. The atmosphere was thick with a unique blend of nervous energy and bored resignation. For the infantry Marines, qualification was a point of pride, a test of their core competency. For the POGs—the People Other than Grunts—it was an annual chore, a box to be checked before they could get back to their real jobs of turning wrenches, pushing papers, or, in some cases, writing tickets.

The air smelled of dew-soaked grass and the faint, ever-present tang of CLP gun oil. A hundred Marines, a motley collection from across the base, were arranged in neat lines on the gravel behind the 200-yard line, their M16A2s held at port arms. The low murmur of their conversations was a nervous buzz, punctuated by the metallic clack-clack of a bolt being checked for the tenth time.

Sergeant Hawk Riley stood apart from the other coaches, a thermos of black coffee in his hand, his campaign cover pulled low. He wasn't a talker on days like this. He was an observer. He watched the shooters, categorizing them with a glance. He saw the twitchy ones, the overconfident ones, the ones who were just trying to get through the day without being noticed. His eyes swept the formation, a patient predator scanning the herd.

And then he saw him.

Lance Corporal Vincent Gallo stood near the middle of the formation, but carried himself as if he were at its head. He wasn't wearing his MP brassard today—on the range, everyone wore the same green utilities—but the arrogance was an invisible part of his uniform. He was laughing with a fellow MP, his head tilted back, the picture of a man without a care in the world. He treated the rifle in his hands with a casual disdain, as if it were a cumbersome prop he was forced to carry. He was in Hawk’s world now, but he was oblivious to the fact. He still thought he was playing by his own rules.

Hawk took a slow sip of his coffee. The heat of it did nothing to warm the icy calm that had settled over him. The memory of Gallo's smug grin, illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights of his patrol truck, was as clear as if it had happened five minutes ago. The quiet threat, could have implications for your career, echoed in his mind, not as a source of anger anymore, but as a promissory note he was about to cash.

The senior range NCO, Staff Sergeant "Top" Miller—no relation to the Corporal from that night, just a common name in the Corps—barked out the lane assignments. "Listen up! When I call your name, sound off and move to your assigned firing point! Adams, lane one! Baker, lane two!"

Hawk watched as Gallo was assigned to lane fourteen. A perfectly anonymous spot in the middle of the line.

He waited until the formation had dispersed and the shooters were settling into their positions, laying out their magazines and checking their gear. Then, he approached a fellow PMI, a stocky Sergeant named Diaz who was assigned to coach lanes ten through fifteen.

"Diaz," Hawk said, his voice low and even.

"Hawk. What's up?" Diaz was adjusting the spotting scope on his tripod.

"I need you to do me a favor. Take my block of shooters, one through five. I'll take yours."

Diaz paused, looking up at Hawk. He saw the utter lack of emotion on the man's face, the focused intensity in his eyes. NCOs in the Fleet Marine Force developed a sixth sense for things left unsaid. Diaz didn't know the story, and he knew better than to ask. He just knew that when Hawk Riley made a request this specific, this quietly, there was a damn good reason. It wasn't about convenience; it was about purpose.

"You got it," Diaz said with a simple nod. "No sweat. Something I should know?"

"Just a little... personalized instruction is required on lane fourteen," Hawk said, the words as cold and precise as a machinist’s tools.

Diaz glanced over at the cocky-looking Lance Corporal setting up at firing point fourteen. He looked back at Hawk's stony expression. A slow understanding dawned on him. "Say no more."

The switch was made. No paperwork, no fanfare. Just a quiet agreement between two NCOs. One professional extending a courtesy to another. That was all it took. The trap was now set, the gate silently closed.

Hawk moved down the line, his jungle boots silent on the gravel path. He walked past lane ten, eleven, twelve, his presence a fleeting shadow. The Marines in those lanes felt the pressure of his proximity, straightening their posture, double-checking their sight picture. He was a legend on the ranges for a reason.

He came to a stop directly behind lane fourteen.

Gallo was on his knees, adjusting his sling, completely absorbed in his own world. He hadn't noticed the change in coaches. He probably didn't even care. To him, one Sergeant was the same as another—just part of the scenery.

Hawk waited, letting the silence stretch. He let his shadow fall over the unsuspecting MP. Gallo, feeling the sudden absence of sunlight, finally looked up over his shoulder, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

"Problem, Sergeant?" he asked, the words edged with impatience.

Hawk knelt down, bringing his face level with Gallo’s. He pitched his voice low, a confidential murmur that was somehow more terrifying than a shout amidst the range's growing noise.

"Do you remember me, Lance Corporal?"

Recognition did not come at once. Gallo’s eyes scanned Hawk’s face with dismissive unfamiliarity. He was used to seeing Hawk in the dark, framed by a car window, a victim of his authority. Here, under the flat gray sky, wearing a campaign cover that shadowed his eyes, Hawk was just another face.

Then, Hawk’s eyes—the sharp, piercing eyes that missed nothing—found his. And in that moment, Gallo remembered.

The change was instantaneous and profound. The smug confidence evaporated like mist in the sun. The blood drained from Gallo's face, leaving his skin a pasty, sickly white. His jaw went slack, and the punchable grin was replaced by a mask of pure, unadulterated dread. He saw not a range coach, but the ghost of a career he had tried to ruin.

"You..." Gallo whispered, his voice cracking.

"Me," Hawk confirmed, his voice a flat, dead thing. "Today, I'm your primary coach. That means my only job is to watch you. Every breath you take. Every time you blink. Every twitch of your trigger finger."

He leaned in closer, the brim of his cover almost touching Gallo's forehead. The smell of stale coffee and cold fury washed over the terrified Lance Corporal.

"You are going to shoot a perfect course of fire. You will not have a single alibi. You will not have a single misfeed. Your weapons handling will be a textbook example of the art. Because if you make one mistake... one. The smallest, tiniest, most insignificant fuck-up... I will personally see to it that you are disqualified. And I will make it my personal mission to explain to your command exactly why you are unfit to carry a rifle, let alone a badge."

Hawk stood up, towering over the now trembling Marine.

"You have one time," he said, his voice returning to its normal, commanding tone, but laced with a promise of absolute ruin. "One tiny mistake."

Just then, the voice of the Tower NCO boomed over the loudspeaker, a disembodied voice of God.

"THE FIRING LINE IS NOW READY! SHOOTERS, ON YOUR BELLIES! PREPARE FOR THE 200-YARD SLOW FIRE!"

The command was a starting pistol. For everyone else on the line, it was the beginning of a test. For Vincent Gallo, trapped in the dirt on lane fourteen, it was the beginning of hell. He looked down the range at the distant black circle of the target, but all he could see were the burning high beams of a truck in his rearview mirror.