Lines of Duty Page 3

  “We protect everything.” Gaines shook his big blond head, not understanding.

  Tang took off her aviators. “Son, you are NO-GO. Take solace in the fact it was never gonna work. The world needs good bouncers, though.”

  Gaines pulled off his academy sweater and threw it on the ground. “This is bullshit! It’s Corus’ fault. He told the sad horse story.”

  “Corus rooked you?” Tang shot him a dirty glance. “I should have known he was a Blue Falcon.”

  Gaines stormed off.

  After seeing the first ejection from the class, the chatter on the monkey bars died out. They hung in stillness, until the inward groans of pain became unavoidably audible. Once Cadet Sawari dropped, many others fell in quick succession, as if they’d merely not wanted to finish last.

  That left Corus and Chu, plus Cooper, Owens and Dagostino.

  “What happened after?” Chu asked softly.

  Rivulets of sweat had formed on Chu’s forehead, and a tremor ran through his arms. Normally, Corus would have been happy to keep to himself and outlast everyone else, but now that Chu had lasted far longer than expected, he wanted to help. Maybe because he liked an underdog, maybe just curious to see where the man’s limits lay.

  Corus cleared his throat. “I scrambled back uphill, checked my weapon for damage, then led the rest of the pack horses up to the fire base. We spent the night. Then hauled ass back down the mountain.”

  Chu examined him. “It did something to you?”

  “Don’t know what to tell you. I don’t like seeing anyone get hurt. Animals, either.”

  “But you’d seen worse…”

  “That’s not quite it.”

  Chu raised his brows expectantly.

  Corus scrunched his eyes shut. “When that sniper shot at the horse… He was missing, probably because he was out of range, just keeping an eye on us. But once that horse fell, he felt compelled to help from a half-mile away or more. He probably lived in that terrain. He probably used horses just like us. Maybe he’d lost horses from falls. He fired.”

  “He had to try. He had to put the horse out of its misery.”

  “When that horse went silent, when the shots stopped echoing, when I came back down that mountain, I knew I was done. With war, with the Army, with all of it. They offered me a signing bonus, a promotion, the works. But I was done.”

  “Why police work?”

  Corus looked down at the bark. “As I hang here, clutching an egg between my knees, I’m wondering the same thing.”

  “I don’t got all day,” Tang said. It had been about twenty minutes all told. “Come on. Drop, you babies.”

  “I can’t feel my arms,” Chu gasped.

  “Don’t talk about it.”

  Cooper cried again. “Why do I love horses so damn much? Maybe I’ll get a horse ranch someday. Maybe I’ll be a mounted cop. Sergeant Tang? Do they have mounted police in Seattle?”

  “We got all kinds of cops.”

  Dagostino dropped, bent at the waist, cradling both arms. He stumbled away from the bars and lay on the grass in agony.

  “I can’t do it,” Chu said.

  “It won’t be long, now. Hold on. Dig deep.”

  “I’m starting to see who has grit and who does not!” Tang called out. “Gotta tell you worms, I’m surprised. Cadet Chu here is drafting off Cadet Corus. You can copy his style, but can you hang tough?”

  “Harden yourself,” Corus said. “You can take more than you think.”

  Cooper tried to adjust his grip and dropped but kept his egg from breaking. He showed it to Tang as if to impress her, and she smashed the dowel down onto his palm with lightning speed, splattering him with egg and leaving a searing welt on his hand.

  “Something’s not right,” Chu said. “I think my arms are gonna fall off. Or I’m going to fall off of my arms. Two little arm stubs still hanging on the bar.”

  “Nothing’s falling off,” Corus said.

  Owens had turned sideways like them, attempting to figure out what they were doing. “Yo, man. How’d you get your hands clasped like that?”

  But they’d done it when their muscles were fresh and their palms were dry. When Owens tried to interlace his fingers, he slipped, lurched back and landed on his ass in the bark with a painful thud.

  Chu finally dropped, too.

  Corus locked eyes with Tang. She swung her dowel at the ground, showing no emotion, no approbation on her face.

  Corus let go with one hand, grasped the egg, then dropped down on the bark. As he lowered his arms, the blood rushed back into them. Corus’ pain tolerance was no better than anyone else’s. When he gave himself permission to relax, he felt all of it at once. Fire raced across his back and down both limbs to his fingertips, where tiny needles danced and dug in his flesh. He dropped to his knees, arms out before him as if holding an invisible stack of firewood. He gargled and spat in pain, so overwhelmed he didn’t care how he looked.

  “Corus here is your winner,” Tang spat. “You can thank him privately for making you all look bad. Take fifteen and regroup inside.”

  Corus tried to shake his arms out, but the fire persisted. He could barely open his hands which had curled inward like the legs of a dead spider. He looked over at Chu who’d gone ghostly pale.

  “Ice,” Chu croaked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Ice.”

  Davies stood over Corus and pointed at the egg he still clutched. “You gonna keep that?”

  FOUR

  Corus iced his arms all weekend, but at PT on Monday morning, his shoulders and elbows still ached. A few others were similarly afflicted, but Chu seemed to have it the worst. He could barely complete three push-ups and yelped in pain at the merest touch in their combatives section.

  During their ten o’clock break, they changed into their academy uniforms for their second live fire drill. Corus sat on a bench in the men’s locker room and ate a banana, watching Chu struggle with the mundane acts of changing into his white undershirt and dark blue uniform polo.

  “Need help?” Corus asked.

  “How are you able to move your arms?”

  “It’s possible that eight years in the army left me in slightly better shape than the fitness regimen you’ve been on.”

  “What happens in the army if you can’t move your arms?”

  “They give you Ranger candy. Giant Ibuprofen pills.”

  “What if you’re in training?”

  “If pills don’t work, you get recycled.”

  “Does that mean you have to start all over again?”

  “Depends on the length of the course and how far you’ve progressed. At this academy, I’d guess it’s a full redo.”

  Chu threw his head back in despair.

  Corus popped the last of his banana in his cheek. “Chin up. Gotta keep your focus.” He gave Chu a pat on the back and left him to finish changing.

  While walking out to the range, Dagostino and Owens fell in beside him.

  “You see the poor shape that Chu guy is in?” Owens asked. “I’m glad I dropped when I did. Better to suffer the scorn of Tang than jack your body up.”

  “The problem isn’t in his arms,” Dagostino said. “It’s in his mind. That guy is a chump, a total weakling.”

  “He’s just a little nerdy,” Owens said. “So am I.”

  “Yeah, you’re a nerd, but you’ve got what it takes. People like Chu, you gotta stay away from them. You hang around weak people, you become weak.” Dagostino elbowed Corus. “Tell him, man. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Corus grunted. His first instinct was to defend Chu because he was harmless, and he’d shown some kind of mettle on the hanging bars. Then again, Dagostino was probably talking about a real phenomenon. He’d certainly experienced it in a positive sense. The special operators Corus had worked with in Afghanistan weren’t all geniuses and high school quarterbacks. They came from all walks: athletic, brainy, cowboys, city kids. The thing that made them elite operators was a kind of durability and hardiness, not the smartest or the most athletic, necessarily, but the best at performing mentally and physically under harsh conditions. Getting to live around and work with them enhanced Corus’ skills, of course, but also his overall mentality.

  “And before you say I’m being a dick,” Dagostino went on. “It’s not ego or an I’m so great, thing. I know I’m not the best at anything here.” He cut a hand through the air. “That’s why I stick around Corus. He’s a winner. He’ll make any team he’s on a winning team, and each person will be better for it. See? I’m not being a bully.”

  “I think you’re making too big a deal about it,” Owens said. “Not that Corus isn’t a winner.”

  “Enough armchair psychology, you goons.” Corus forced a smile and a little bravado to change the subject. “Let’s shoot some bad guys.”

  The range master was a thick-armed former Marine named Debbs. He had a Wild West mustache that looked odd on a rosy-cheeked man Corus’ own age.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen. You have practiced trigger and muzzle discipline, target selection, simulated fire and live fire. But today you enter the octagon.” Debbs patted the pressboard wall obscuring the shooting lanes from view. “This is a timed live fire exercise with both enemy and civilian targets. You will complete the first course in fifty seconds or less, or you will start over. If you finish the course, you will immediately be instructed to move into the Cover Obstacle Firing Course, where you will shoot around and through various simulated impediments like windows, car doors and trees. At each station, a sign will tell you to shoot from standing, kneeling or prone position. Failure to shoot from the proper position will result in a restart. You have three chances to complete both courses back-to-back.”

  The consequence for such a fai
lure was left unsaid. No-Go.

  Tang spoke from behind them, grabbing their attention. “You’re gonna get shot at. We need to know you can shoot back. Do not fail.”

  The training weapon was the Glock 17. In Corus’ mind, it was the Honda Civic of pistols. Ubiquitous, reliable, no frills. He’d shot the Beretta M9 his entire military career and had only encountered Glocks after getting pulled from the grunt ranks into contact with special ops soldiers, many of whom preferred them. This group clashed with the faction of operators who steadfastly defended the military issue M9. Hearing gun talk in the military was a given, but the special ops guys had argued so incessantly about the versatility, stopping power and capacity of various rounds and pistols, he’d come away not knowing what to think.

  In practice, the most noticeable change from the M9 to the Glock 17 was the lack of a safety. Or rather how the safety was incorporated into the trigger. He found it baffling at best. Slowly other annoyances cropped up. The pull of the trigger felt oddly soft, like pressing on a gummy worm compared to the single/double action M9. The mag release was fine, but the slide release wasn’t as intuitive and graceful as the M9.

  The M9’s grip was a little bigger, which suited Corus’ hands, though others in the service had complained about it. The Glock’s grip was slightly smaller, but very ergonomic with a better texture that would preserve aim in less-than-ideal shooting conditions. In the Seattle area, where it rained all the time, that was all the wiser. Corus found the Glock’s U-shaped sights to be a little easier for the newer shooters to master, but once mastered, the M9’s three dot sight was more accurate.

  He’d been apprehensive to say the least — and it had taken some getting used to — but overall he was pleasantly surprised with the Glock. The ones he’d fired for kicks in Afghanistan had all been tricked out by their owners with aftermarket or custom slides and triggers. That was the key to making it truly outperform the M9. For training purposes, though, using a stock Glock was smart. If Corus and the others could perform with them on a difficult live fire course, they’d only perform better after customization.

  Now that Corus was familiarized with the quirks of the standard Glock 17, he felt confident about passing the course. When his turn came, he settled into an intensely focused calm.

  “Go!”

  Corus darted into the course and angled into the first shooting lane.

  Center of mass.

  Fire.

  Next shooting lane.

  Center of mass.

  Fire.

  Even with the added pressure of the clock, Corus didn’t worry that it felt like he was moving in slow motion. In training and combat he’d internalized the mantra that “Fast is slow, and slow is fast.” When he felt the world slow down as if he were underwater, and his movements took on the silky elegance of choreographed intention, he knew he was in the zone. And in the zone, he could make up for his measured pace by anticipating threats. In combat, he’d experienced moments of deja vu, checking his six for a threat and finding one, not because he’d become aware of it, but because he remembered, as if it had all happened before.

  And so it was in the shooting lanes.

  In the threat/non-threat course, targets didn’t pop out like a shooting gallery. Each target was stationary and only became visible once the shooter turned into the shooting lane. Targets stood anywhere from two to twenty-five yards away. Though they had practiced on the course, each lane could change according to Debbs’ designs.

  Corus zig-zagged down the course smoothly. When he fired his last shot, he ejected the mag, racked the slide and set the weapon down on the designated table.

  “Time! Pick up your weapon and advance to the second course.”

  Corus popped in a fresh mag and blew through the COF course. As he wandered back to the waiting area, his hyper-focus went dull, and he became more aware of his surroundings, similar to waking up out of a dream. He wiped a hand over his face to clear his head and walked back to the milling group of cadets.

  “Course record,” Debbs announced.

  “For which course?” Tang shouted.

  “Both.”

  “I thought you weren’t timing the second course.”

  “I’m always timing,” Debbs said.

  Tang groaned in a singsong way as Corus passed her. Other cadets clapped him on the arms and whistled, and Dagostino socked him right above the elbow, sending a jolt of pain through his sore arms. He winced, shaking off all the compliments and derision in equal measure.

  “Good job, Corus,” Chu said.

  Corus had been averting his gaze, trying to make the attention stop, but now he saw Chu and took in all the little details of his face, the round cheeks, the dark brown eyes, the arched eyebrows.

  “Go get ‘em, Chu.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Corus eagerly awaited Chu’s turn, but Chu found a way to go last.

  Corus bit a knuckle as he watched the diffident, round-shouldered man ready himself at the starting line, looking tense.

  “Loosen up,” Corus whispered.

  “Go!”

  Chu ventured forth into the course, now visible only to Debbs on his six, and to the spotters in the range tower.

  The point-blank range targets were paper but the targets further out were iron, registering a satisfying ping when struck by a bullet. Corus heard one too many shots before Chu hit the first iron target, but a single miss didn’t spell doom.

  Corus jogged up two flights of steps into the range tower to get a vantage down into the gauntlet.

  Davies and Stocker held binoculars, one pointed at the left-hand targets and one pointed at the right.

  Chu was halfway through with Debbs on his heels, but he wasn’t moving quickly enough. Corus couldn’t identify the reason, until he gauged Chu’s speed between lanes, finding it adequate.

  “He’s not pulling the trigger,” he muttered.

  Even when the target was a close, obvious threat, Chu hesitated a half second before firing. All those half seconds added up, and Chu finished the course but in fifty-nine seconds.

  “Slowest run of the day,” Davies grumbled, marking it on a clipboard.

  “Run it again,” Debbs boomed.

  Chu cleared his weapon and walked back around to the starting line where he reloaded.

  Debbs readied his stopwatch. “On you.”

  Chu took a few moments to focus before crossing the start line. This time he moved with greater speed from lane to lane, but still hesitated to make decisions even though he’d seen the course already.

  “Fifty-two seconds,” Debbs called at the end. “Run it again, cadet. Last chance.”

  Corus wanted to call out some advice but knew it would be frowned upon during an exam.

  “Come on, Chu,” he muttered.

  This time, Chu got off to a better start, hesitating noticeably less. Just after the halfway mark, he emptied his weapon, and as everyone had to do, he dropped his mag, reached for his spare and jammed it in the receiver. When he went to chamber a round, however, the mag slid out and fell to the ground, as he hadn’t seated it properly. He bent and grabbed it, blowing on the top round, then inserting it more carefully, hitting it twice with the butt of his palm before pulling the slide back. He then shot a non-threat target on the very next lane, but Debbs let him continue.

  “Fifty-four seconds and a penalty. You are No-Go.”

  Chu hung his head after he cleared his weapon. Once free of Debbs and still out of sight of the other onlookers, except those in the tower, Chu ripped his ear and eye protection off his head and bent at the waist like he was about to be sick. He didn’t vomit, nor did he wail. He stood straight again and tilted his face to the sky, mouth and eyes bunched.

  Corus walked down the steps and watched Tang as she conferred with Debbs. She made a note on her clipboard, then walked past Chu.

  “Everyone form up by the classroom.”

  Corus kept an eye on Chu on the walk back and fell into formation beside him.

  Stocker and Davies stood at parade rest facing the cadets, and Tang paced before them.

  “One hundred and ten hours of weapons training. Eighty hours of police tactics. Sixty hours of legal, civil rights, and community relations training. Forty hours of combatives, and more. In college, a course with so many hours might take three years. That’s a goddamed degree. CJTC does it in four and a half months. We do it in eight weeks.” Tang scratched her jaw and removed her sunglasses. “No one likes this part, but it’s a high speed, low drag operation.”