The Towel Maker spat a belt of ammo and rounds snapped through the air overhead. The gunner had reloaded and once more opened fire on the advancing cadets.

Red Field dove into a crater. The small bowl was just deep enough to allow him to hide and Red Field pressed his body to the ground. The topmost edge of his rump stood above the edge of the crater and he quickly flipped himself over. For ten long seconds the machine gun fired over the dunes. The machine gun quieted and he heard the clink of belted ammo as the gunner reloaded.

Red Field was the explosives carrier. He’d been given that job so that he didn’t fuck anything up. Carrying a satchel stuffed with plastic explosives was the least demanding or risky position of the operation of the day.

They had undergone another two days of UAT training since the night Red Field nearly got Chevron and Lithgow killed. The Suburbanites had performed aerial extractions, overrun a small outpost manned by a group double their size, and had a total of six hours of sleep. An unseen specter of sleep stalked each pony and caught them whenever they stopped moving.
Red Field was only awake long enough to make sure he wasn’t going to get shot, then passed out.

The story behind the exercise went that they had been on their way out of an operation, then their chariot had come under fire and they’d been downed in the Neigharan Desert. They were scattered, given a few magazines of ammo and some explosives and told to eliminate the threat of the MG nest inside of the bunker of the shooting range. Three hundred meters, near total exhaustion, and a lack of planning stood between them and the PMG-47. The Suburbanites had progressed fifty meters in twenty minutes.

“Red? Red?” The rectangle of his radio stirred him and Red Field shook the sand off of his face as he opened his eyes to the scorching sun above.

“Affirmative.” He said, blinking away the sleep.

“We’re getting ready to push on the right side, can you see the gunner from where you’re at?” Chevron had become the acting leader of the Suburbanites. Red Field poked his head up and peered through the swirling mirage to the bunker.

“Uh, yeah. He’s-” The paint-filled bullets reached him an instant after the report of the revived machine gun. Two puffs of sand jumped up before his snout. “Fuck.” Red Field writhed deeper into the crater. “He’s firing on me.”

“All right all right, keep your head. I’m going to ready up everypony over here, you tell me when he stops focusing on you.” The barrage of fire continued to eat away at the sand in front of Red Field’s shelter. Red Field closed his eyes and fell back asleep, even as his heart pounded.

“Red? Red? Goddamn it, where the fuck are you?” Chevron shouted.

“He’s not firing.” A light layer of sand had covered Red Field and he shook it off as he awoke and listened for the Towel Maker.

“Yeah no shit, he’s reloading now. Get your shit together Red, we need to know where he’s focused.” Chevron said. Red Field heard the whizzing and snapping of direct fire through the radio.

“He’s shooting at you.” Red Field said, still half-asleep.

“What? Jesus Christ Red, get your shit together.” Chevron scuffled a bit. “Hey! You two, get ready to move, he’s firing short bursts.” Red Field blinked away some sleep.

“If he’s firing lower pressure paint rounds then he’ll be able to fire longer without changing barrels since it’s less powder and heat.” Red Field said distantly.

“What? Oh, shit, you’re right. Okay, new plan. Hey, Barn Stormer, get back, he can still-” Red Field heard a decidedly loud series of thuds. Somepony shouted and he heard Chevron panting. “Shit! Need a medic, anypony got medical?” Red Field’s eyes opened. Thus far nopony had been injured “Yeah, Storm is hit, left shoulder. Goddamn, there’s an instructor coming out here.” The Towel Maker ceased fire and Red Field heard nothing for a few moments. “What? Yeah, left shoulder. Yes sir.” Chevron said.

“All right! Back at it!” Shouted Midlothian from the bunker. The Towel Maker resumed fire.

“Fuck, Red, we got to move, now. We have a bleedout timer on Barn Stormer and we can only add two minutes with medical. That gives us seven minutes to take out that MG and pop a flare for extraction.” He shouted an order for everypony to get away from the top of the foxhole. “Goddamn it I don’t know what the fuck we’re supposed to do.”

The sun heated away what little water was left in Red Field’s fatigued body, and he was running on the very last of his adrenaline. Yet Red Field experienced something beyond the hallucination he was expecting. He saw the long stretch of sand between them and their objective, he saw their position, their speed relative to the reflexes of the gunner and the accuracy of the weapon at that range coupled with its underpressure ammo.

“Flank hard right, tell everypony on the left side of me to flank hard left." Said Red Field. "Tell everypony to spread out and throw up as much dust as they can. We need to divide his attention and space out his targets.” He peeked up at the bunker.

“Red we have no cover.” Red Field undid the bandolier from his chest. He again peeked over the side of his cover. He saw a bit of mane standing out from the sand about twenty meters to his right.

“I’m going to throw you some explosives and a detonator. Use the charges to make craters to use for cover; don’t use the dust cloud to advance. Once you blow the charges, he’ll focus on the explosion and assume you’re going to run for it so let the left side move.” Red Field hurled the bag of charges to toward the mane.

“How are we going to breach the bunker?” Asked Chevron.

“We’re not.” Red Field checked the MG nest again. “We’re going to pop the flare on the roof and shoot anypony who tries to get out.” The Towel Maker saw the black mane standing out and directed its fury at him. Red Field slunk down the bowl. “Let’s move.”

“Copy that.”

At first the plan worked. In three minutes they’d covered two hundred meters. Then they ran low on charges.
Red Field laid in the deep bowl created by one of the chunks of explosive. With him were two of the other Suburbanites. They’d consolidated their groups and now two squads of ponies were taking diagonal routes toward the machine gun.

“Red, we’re running out of time.” Chevron said. “I’m gonna throw my last one and make a smoke screen to cover a run on him.”

“He’s going to read that.” Said Red Field.

“We’ve got nothing else.” Said Chevron. Red Field sank down in the bowl. He felt over his vest for his combat knife.

Red Field pushed the blade into the final block of tan explosive and cut a third off of the block.

“Chevron!” He said into the radio.

“Right here Red.”

“We’re going to run that plan of yours. Only you need to wait to see where he’s shooting. If you’re under fire, don’t move.” Red Field turned to the ponies that sat with him. Apple Core and another pony named Win Mag were his squad. Both were crusted with sand that had turned a dark brown from sweat. Both of their faces were taut with stress and exhaustion.
“Stay with me, we’re going to make a run for it. Chevron, throw your charge in five seconds.” He stuck a detonator into the larger of the two blocks.

In a moment he lobbed it up and out of the crater.

The two charges detonated almost simultaneously. The desert grew momentarily quiet as the pattering rain of sand and pebbles filled the air. Red Field heard the ripping noise of Towel Maker.

He didn’t wait to hear Chevron shout he was under fire. Red Field bolted out of the crater and into the open desert. He saw the cloud of sand churning in the air fifty meters ahead of him. He heard the hoofbeats of Apple Core and Win Mag behind him.

The gunner, wary of the pair of smokescreens, turned and fired a burst into the cloud that Red Field charged toward. A few rounds zipped past Red Field and he heard one hit somepony.

They hit the crater and everypony dove into the belly of the indentation. Win Mag shouted he’d been hit.

Red Field threw the next charge with all of his might. The lump stuck to the face of the bunker like a spitball, just under the smoking barrel of the PMG. Red Field detonated the charge as he got to his hooves.

The tiny explosive had only cracked the thick wall, but it had thrown up a cloud of sand that now obscured the view of the gunner. The Towel Maker threw four rounds before the belt ended. The bolt dropped against an empty chamber as Red Field reached the bunker.

His head knocked against the concrete and the sand whirled around him. He walked to the door on the side of the bunker. The coldness he’d felt during the sandbag test returned, unexpectedly. Red Field turned and stood beside the hinges of the door before banging on it.

The door popped open and a burst of fire from a KKAT greeted the open air. Red Field stood waiting behind the opened door like a peculiar sort of surprise guest. He stood on two hooves. The cage of the rifle’s flash hider pivoted curiously around the door toward him.

Red Field shoved the barrel of the rifle downward with his left foreleg, before pulling the gun toward himself. Reflective Belt lost his balance as Red Field yanked his rifle. He took a staggering step out of the doorway to keep from falling. Reflective Belt looked up at Red Field as Red Field’s hoof caught him under the chin.
Red Field couldn’t feel how much strength remained in his body. He felt his hoof crack and Reflective Belt fell forward into the sand. Red Field tore the rifle from him and entered the bunker.

The rest of the Suburbanites were galloping toward the bunker. The sand fell away as they were still forty meters from the gun. The gunner of the Towel Maker drew back the charging handle and shouldered the machine gun.

It was Midlothian.

The paintball exploded on his temple in a burst of bright pink. Midlothian yelled in pain and grabbed at his face. Red Field swung a foreleg around his neck, pulling Midlothian off of the gun. Red Field started to tighten his grip when Midlothian’s thick hoof caught him upside the chin. The blow nearly knocked Red Field out and he fell onto the floor.

“Fuck!” Midlothian still held the side of his face. “What the fuck?” Lithgow and a few other Suburbanites peered in the door.
“I’m dead goddamn it!” Shouted Midlothian. He held up his other hoof against the impending hail of paintballs.

“Clear the rest of the bunker.” Chevron said as he bolted inside. “Somepony pop the flare on the roof, we’re almost out of time.”

Red Field was still lying on his back. His head pulsated from the blow. Black spots swelled in his peripheral vision and he heard his wheezing breath echo through the bunker.

“Goddamn it.” Midlothian wiped some of the paintball off of his face. “Most snipers know a target is dead after being shot in the head.” He looked down at Red Field. The pink paint ran off of a purple welt. “Also, did you fucking forget about the standoff range? No kills at less than three meters.” Midlothian gave one of the crates of ammo a sharp kick as he nursed his face. “Where the hell is Reflective Belt?” The other instructor lay face down in the sand and his hooves were just visible through the open door. “What the fuck did you do to him?” Midlothian ran out of the bunker.

Reflective Belt came to after a few seconds.

He looked around and Midlothian asked him if he was all right. Reflective Belt nodded but couldn’t speak, and Midlothian turned on Red Field.

On two hooves, Red Field was nearly as tall as Midlothian. He held Reflective Belt’s rifle at his side.

“Should I have gone easier on you?” He asked. Midlothian stared at him for several seconds, his tiny eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. Red Field stared back.

Midlothian burst out laughing. He laughed for a couple of seconds, before rubbing his temple and swearing in pain.

“Well shit, you sure didn’t seem like a UAT pony.” He held out a hoof to Red Field. “You’re getting a pass from me.” He looked back at Reflective Belt. “I think he’ll make a good sniper.”

Red Field brohoofed Midlothian and went back into the bunker. The other Suburbanites were sitting around a picnic table loaded with fresh hay and sports drinks. Bombs Away stood behind them and welcomed them into the fraternity of the deadliest ponies in Equestria. Midlothian slapped Red Field on the back and said their new sniper was up to the job. Red Field smiled and put away the knife he held under the stock of the KKAT. He didn’t know when he’d drawn it, or even why.

Red Field slept for twelve hours after UAT basic. He’d collapsed in the shower and had required the assistance of the other cadets to carry him back to his barracks. Chevron told everypony that Red Field alone had brought them through their last test.

As he regained consciousness, Red Field took several seconds to get his bearings. Once his head began to clear, a hunger tore through his stomach with such ferocity he feared he might not have the strength for the walk to the mess hall. The wall clock gave the time of 1830 and the evening air was still and warm within the barracks. Red Field found a packet of dried hay under Black Rain’s bed and sat chewing while he tried to recover. His memory of the last day or two of UAT training was gone.

Red Field was finishing the last of the hay when Bren entered the barracks.

“Oh shit, you’re up.” Bren walked to the bed and held up his hoof. “Nice job.”

“Uh, thanks.” Said Red Field.

“Brohoof?” Asked Bren after a second. Red Field held out his hoof and Bren gave it a firm clop. The clunk of their hooves stirred Red Field’s mind. “I know you’re not into showing a lot of emotion, but you have to be excited.”

“Yeah.” Red Field sat up a bit. “I guess I am.”

“Comes with a pay raise.” Red Field had forgotten he was getting paid. “Plus you get to shoot all the cool guns.” Red Field nodded. “So I saw you’ve been teaching Siplinski electrical stuff; that’s pretty cool.”

“How did you know?”

“Came home early a while back when you were reading to him. I didn’t come in since he’s all paranoid about his dad not wanting him to be an electrician.” Bren shrugged. “But you know more about that than I do. Anyway, I’m glad somepony can teach him.” Bren paused. “Rain found out about you being UAT.”

“How did he take it?”

“Dunno.” Bren shrugged. “He hasn’t said anything, I just know he noticed you were gone a lot. He went around asking everybody at every post where you were.”

Siplinski pushed open the door with his horn, he carried a plate of steaming food in his mouth. He saw Red Field and his eyes widened.

“Mph!” He rushed over to his bed and laid the plate on his bedspread. “Red! Why are you here?!”

“I was sleeping.” Said Red Field.

“No, like why now?” Siplinski looked at his watch. “You’ve got like four minutes to get to the meeting.”

“Meeting?”

“The UAT meet and greet thing. I don’t know what you guys do but I know it’s a big deal and you’re supposed to be there right now.” Siplinski pointed to the door.

“Where?” Red Field scrambled off of the bed.

“The mess hall!” Said Siplinski, laughing a bit. “Damn, you nearly missed it!” Red Field yanked on his uniform and tried to sprint to the mess hall. Having just awakened from the slumber of half a day, Red Field’s muscles also needed to rouse from slumber and he toddled as fast as he could.

Red Field burst into the mess hall and felt the shame of somepony causing a lot of noise in a room of quiet. The other Suburbanites were grouped by the door and looked back at him as he entered. Everypony looked back at him. The room was full of groups of uniformed stallions, about fifty in total, sitting at the tables around the room.

“And our final guest decides to show up.” Bombs Away stood in the center of the room, atop a table. The stocky stallion stood stalwart, surveying the small squad of Suburbanites. Red Field took his place with his training mates. “That will conclude the pleasantries. When I call your name, head to your Urban Assault Team; Chevron, team one.” One of the groups of UATs gave a cheer and Chevron, who looked like he’d just awoken himself, walked briskly to his team. Bombs Away shouted the next name.

“High Speed, Team Two. Low Drag, Team Two.” Red Field glanced around the room. Save for the one brief moment in the first wargame, he’d never seen UAT ponies. The seated stallions looked eerily serious, and he looked to his hooves as a few matched his gaze and stared him down. “Red Field, Red Field.” He looked up. “Recon.”

“Uh yes sir.” Red Field said nervously.

“Win Mag, Team Four. Apple Core, Team Four.” Nopony had called to Red Field and he glanced around the room in search of his team. The UATs continued to look for their new members and paid no attention to him. The last few Suburbanites walked away from the door, leaving Red Field alone.

Bombs Away was rereading his list, the other ponies were settling into their new teams, and the room was starting to grow noisy with the low, rumbling talk of the soldiers. Red Field had tracked the entire room. Most of the teams had ponies, and the ones that didn’t were joining those that did.

He heard snickering behind him and somepony poked his shoulder.

“Hey, right here.” Behind him sat four stallions. Two of them were chuckling to one another. The pony who’d poked Red Field motioned to a seat. “We’re your team.”

The chuckling stallions were a pair of black and white unicorns. One of them whispered to the other as Red Field seated himself. The pony who’d poked Red Field put out his hoof for a friendly brohoof.

“I’m Chesterfield.” The off-grey pony’s voice had a simple, country intonation. Red Field brohoofed him.

“I’m Blackout.” The black unicorn placed a thick hoof on his chest. “Second in command and support gunner.”

“I’m Wildcat.” The white pony sounded the oldest of the three, though all three were probably within five years of Red Field’s age. “Medic.”

“I’m usually assigned to navigation and LRRPs.” Said Chesterfield. “So we’ll probably-”

“And turkey shooting.” Said Wildcat. Chesterfield chuckled in embarrassment to this.

“That too I guess.” He added. The final pony, a light tan unicorn, pushed himself off of the wall.

“Locked Breech. Captain of Urban Assault Team Recon.” Red Field saluted him. “You’re Red Field.”

“Yes sir.”

“Tell me why you should be on this team.” Locked Breech sat back against the wall. Red Field laughed, then realized he was serious.

“We all know your training results; this is an interview.” Blackout said. He motioned to the seated ponies. “We all have to agree on you before you join.”

“Well.” Red Field hadn’t considered that he would need to be accepted by his new team. “I am intelligent.”

“Yeah, sure are.” Wildcat nodded. “We noticed that on your file.”

They had a file?

“I’m fit to perform all of the duties of a UAT member.”

“So are about a million ponies.” Said Locked Breech. “I can tell you haven’t done this before. Tell me something about you that makes me want you on my team.” He sat back against the wall.

“I can analyze situations effectively.”

“The hell does that mean?” Wildcat laughed as he spoke.

“I find the most efficient methods of accomplishing goals and take into consideration factors that others don’t notice.”

“You sound like a handypony.” Said Chesterfield.

“Sounds like a sniper.” Locked Breech again leaned across the table toward Red Field. “Tell me, how does your mind work under pressure?”

“It works, sir.”

“I was reading in your training report that you used explosives to create a smokescreen during your downed chariot exercise.” Said Locked Breech. Red Field’s pride swelled.

“Yes sir.”

“Do you think your mind could work that fast when somepony is actually bleeding out?” Asked Locked Breech.

“Yes sir.”

“You know, there’s about a thousand times more risk operating with UAT than with Cavalry.” Said Blackout.

“Yes sir.”

“That’s about a thousand times more risk of getting killed.”

“Yes sir.”

“So what makes you so comfortable with all of this risk?”

“I believe in myself.” Red Field hesitated. “I believe in this team, you seem capable. I believe that there’s nothing a well-organized group off ponies can’t accomplish.” He folded his hooves. “I can bring a level of watchfulness to your team that will keep everypony much safer.”

Team Three looked at one another. Blackout seemed to want to ask another question but Locked Breech got to his hooves and motioned for the rest of the team to do the same.

“Your training results are good. If Belligerence signs off on you, then you have a place with us.” He said.

“Yes sir.” Said Red Field.

“Good meeting you Red Field.” Chesterfield gave him a polite pat on the shoulder.

“Tip for making us like you,” Blackout flicked his head at Red Field, “Bring something useful to the table. Make yourself indispensable.”

“If Belligerence passes him as a sniper, then he’ll be indispensable to us.” Said Locked Breech.

Day one of sniper training began at a comfortable 0900. Red Field donned his uniform after a relaxing meal in bed, then strolled over to Belligerence’s house. He allowed a group of jogging Airborne Pegasi to pass in front of him. After so many days of training, he took deep, relaxing breaths of the humid air as he walked at his own pace. Red Field stretched his legs out as he waited for the elderly pony to answer the door.

“Oh, Red Field. You’re early.” Belligerence held a steaming mug of coffee and his mane was flattened and uncombed.

“Oh.” Red Field had arrived at 0900 exactly, but knew to humor his teacher. “Sorry.”

“Well hey, come on inside.” Belligerence stepped aside. Red Field hesitated at the informal invitation, then entered.
The house smelled like wood varnish and Red Field saw a chair standing atop a blanket of newspapers in the adjacent room. The wood was half-treated and a can of varnish stood beside the chair. Belligerence ambled to the kitchen and Red Field followed him.

“I’ve been so busy with my grandkids’ letters and birthdays that I barely remembered the hobbies that are supposed to keep me from doing my work.” Red Field realized this was a joke and laughed accordingly. Belligerence seated himself at the dinner table with a groan. “Been, oh, at least a decade since I trained Midlothian.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Hope I can remember everything.” He added with a wink.

“I’m sure you will sir.” Red Field was still standing and Belligerence looked at him. Belligerence didn’t say anything and Red Field grew uncomfortable. “So, what, uh, are we doing today?”

“Oh, lots of stuff.” Said Belligerence aimlessly. He sipped his coffee. “Probably shoot some stuff, maybe talk a bit.” He looked over at the chair in his living room. “You ever do any woodwork?”

“No sir.”

“Ah, well, I never did and now I’m trying to figure it out in my old age.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it sir.” Said Red Field.

“Now, help me remember, was recoil your problem back in Beast?”

“Uh, yes sir, the recoil of the rifles was the main factor causing a flinch in my shooting.” Said Red Field. Belligerence nodded as he took another sip of coffee.

“Well, I suppose the easiest thing to do would be to take out the factors that cause a flinch.”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“Son, you need to get a personality. Ponies without personalities scare me.”

“Sorry sir.”

“Not your fault. Everypony has a personality, we’ll get to yours in time.” Belligerence issued another groan and stood. “In the meantime you can head over to Site at the armory and ask him for a full-size can in .343.” Belligerence set the mug in the sink. “I have to get my ruck together. I’ll meet you at the chariots in ten minutes, sound good?”

“Yes sir.”

“Full size, .343.”

“Yes sir.”

Red Field still wasn’t sure what he thought of his teacher. Belligerence genuinely seemed like a dull old pony, and not a sniper instructor. Red Field had spent three months surrounded by shouting, swearing stallions that were thick with muscle and generalized, omnidirectional anger. And now the pony they all alleged was the deadliest out of everypony was attempting to take up woodworking and was probably fighting arthritis.

Red Field also didn’t know what a can was.
He’d gone over a few different possibilities in his mind before he reached the oversized shed that was the armory. The shack had no window on the door and Red Field could hear and feel the vibrating buzz of some power tool from the inside. He knocked. In a second the buzzing stopped and the door cracked open a bit.
Site’s bearded countenance peered out of the dark shack at Red Field.

“Need something?”

“Uh, yes, my name is Red Field. I’ve been sent over by Belligerence for a full size can in .343.”

“Sure, I can see what I’ve got. Come on in.” Site opened the door and Red Field stepped into the warm workshop.
The workshop was a controlled mess. A long table ran along the opposite wall, covered in a blanket of parts and tools.

About a dozen KKATs were stacked against the wall, a single Towel Maker was propped up on a shelf, and countless hoofguns littered the table. Site stepped around a few ammo crates to a bin that sat in the corner. No music played in the machine shop and the room fell silent as the gunsmith dug through his workspace.

“Three forty three you said?” Site pulled a case of plain, metal cans from the bin. All were painted either a flat black or flat dark earth.

“Yes, he said full size.”

“Good, my last compact got mangled and I still need to piece the core back together.” He tossed the cans back into the bin and walked back to Red Field with one of the longer black tubes. “This should do the trick.”

“Thank you sir.”

“So you’re the new sniper.” Site leaned against the table.

“Yes sir.”

“Didn’t we meet back on like the first day of Beast?”

“I think so.” Said Red Field. Site squinted and cocked his head.

“Don’t remember what the context was.” He said distantly. “But I don’t remember you pissing me off.” He looked down at Red Field. “I’m sure Belligerence has told you by now not to piss off your gunsmith.” Red Field had heard no such thing from anypony and had no idea why it mattered what Site thought of him.

“Uh, yes of course.”

“Well Red Field, looking forward to getting to know you while I build your rifle.” Red Field didn’t know Site would build him anything.

“Me too.” He said, giving a firm nod.

“Oh hang on.” Site took the can from Red Field. He held it like a jar of mayonnaise and twisted one end. “Yeah, that should hold.” He said after a moment. “Can’t have a round take the whole thing downrange.” He held the can out to Red Field.

“Haha, course not.” Said Red Field.

Red Field left the armory with the device in his backpack. Apparently Site would build him a rifle, and “cans” could get shot during routine usage, and one should never antagonize their gunsmith.

Red Field reached the fenced lot of chariots and saw Belligerence loading a thick rucksack into one.

“Did he give you a hard time?” Asked Belligerence, inspecting the can. “I remember him and Midlothian butting heads occasionally.” Red Field shook his head and Belligerence tossed the can into the back seat of the chariot. “You ready to become a sniper?”

“Yes sir.” Replied Red Field.

“Well all right, let’s get it done.” Belligerence climbed into the driver’s seat of the chariot and took off.

Belligerence had carelessly placed his cap atop his head. The hat slumped a bit to the side as he set his rucksack atop one of the shooting benches. A burning desert wind licked the tops of the dunes and blew sand around the pair’s hooves. Belligerence whistled to himself as he unzipped the bag and pulled out the old rifle Red Field had seen hanging in his basement.

“First thing a sniper should know is his equipment.” Belligerence held the rifle out to Red Field. “What can you tell me about this?” Red Field took the rifle and eased open the bolt to check if it was empty. Belligerence gave an approving humph.

“Well, it appears to be a basic Wilhelm action.” Red Field knew a little about the old rifle, but most of the books in Mr. Whittaker’s collection had been written on the Storm Rifle and not the archaic firearm before him. “Integral box magazine, five rounds.” He ran out of things to say and looked at the scope. “Um, three to nine power scope.”

“What don’t you see on that rifle?”

“Um.”

“Crap.” Belligerence took the rifle back and set the buttstock on the table. “I call this rifle Fudd. Back before the bans, this rifle would have cost you a few days’ worth of work and it shoots like it too. This is a cheap piece of sporting equipment. It’s quality made, but it’s nothing that it doesn’t look like and it sure as heck doesn’t put the fear of God in anypony when they look at it.”

“Yes sir?” Said Red Field. Belligerence set the rifle on the shooting bench and looked around.

“Oh heck, must be inside. Follow me.” Red Field followed Belligerence into the cool sanctuary of the bunker. Belligerence walked to a locked trapdoor hidden by the wall of the concrete cavern. He unlocked it and led Red Field down a clammy set of concrete stairs and into a chilly underground chamber. He flicked a switch and the pale ambience of a few old light bulbs lit the room. They’d entered a supply closet. It was filled with stacks of metal and plastic crates. Belligerence set
“Fudd” down on one and began digging through the piles of boxes.

“That’ll do.” Belligerence slid out a crate labeled “DMR” and clicked the latch open.

The rifle that Belligerence pulled from the crate looked like a Christmas tree of death. Long, black and polymer, it resembled a KKAT variant, but it sported a lengthier barrel that ended in a spiked flash hider. A long tube of a scope with four to five dials was clamped atop the receiver. A spring loaded bipod sat beneath the barrel and the tiny TV screen of a red dot sight was mounted at a forty five offset to the scope. The L shaped stock adjusted for comb height and length of pull. Even the trigger was customized with a thin cushion taped to the center of the bow.

“Now this,” Belligerence slid back the charging handle and checked the chamber, “is more of your generation of weapon.” He held it out to Red Field. The DMR sank down in Red Field’s arms and he stepped forward to accommodate the weight. “Comes with this.” Belligerence lifted a scratched black calculator out of the box. He looked at the calculator, then tossed it to Red Field. “Does everything for you. Calculates holds for wind, drop, barometric pressure, then some stuff that I’ve never heard of.” Belligerence picked up Fudd. He clopped a hoof against the laminated grain of Fudd’s wooden body. “There isn’t really a competition between these two. Yours does everything but make a cappuccino and it’ll outshoot mine every day of the week and even on Sundays. Stock’s a lot better and you can put a can or a brake or whatever you want on it.” He pointed at Red Field. “One of the worst mistakes a sniper can make is caring too much about his equipment. Fudd here did its job when it needed to.” His laugh echoed up the stairs. “Nowadays you colts are shooting from mountaintop to mountaintop with all of your new gadgets. But you’re going to be dead real fast if you think anything but your training and your brain are what make you effective.”

“Yes sir.”

“You see that rifle as the tool of your time. It’s no different than Fudd and you need to know everything the system will and won’t do. Only difference between that rifle and mine is in the metal, not the pony behind it. A sniper changes his rifle to suit him, the rifle never changes what it means to be a sniper.”

“Yes sir.” Said Red Field.

Belligerence chuckled.

“Call me by my name Private, it’s just going to be the two of us for quite some time and I’d like to get started on that personality of yours.”

“Okay.” Red Field winced internally at the strange intimacy. “Belligerence.”

“Good, now let’s go shoot some stuff.”

Belligerence sat the DMR down on the bench. He’d just returned from setting up targets at a hundred meters and wiped a layer of sweat from his wrinkled brow.

“Lord, that desert’s a killer.” He fanned himself with his cap. “Feel free to start wailing away at that target on the right. Try a couple rounds then we’ll check out your group. Let’s start by getting on paper.” Red Field nodded and picked up the box of cartridges. He began loading the magazine.

“Oh, hang on.” Belligerence knelt beside Red Field. “Should have made this lesson number one.” He picked up the magazine and a few rounds. “You don’t load like that, you’ll cut up your fetlocks and it’s ten times harder than it needs to be.” He held up a round, then pressed it between the feedlips of the magazine without sliding it.

“Yes sir.”

“Belligerence.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir.” Belligerence chuckled again as he seated himself at the adjacent table. Belligerence’s method of loading was easier and Red Field paused after loading ten rounds. “Uh, how many sir?”

“As many as you see fit Red Field.”

Red Field clicked the steel square into the gun and racked the charging handle. The stock of the DMR was immensely more comfortable than that of either the Towel Maker or KKAT and Red Field could clearly see the tiny X printed in the center of the bullseye through the clear scope.

He’d forgotten about recoil and the thin rim of the scope bit into his head upon his first shot. He immediately set the rifle down and held his hooves to his brow. He waited a few moments before he looked up at Belligerence. Belligerence glanced over at him with an expression of unwavering and uninterested patience. Red Field waveringly picked up the DMR again. He fired six more shots before he said something.

“Sir?” Belligerence had started to chew a few sunflower seeds and his munching countenance was the same as it had been seven rounds prior.

“Red Field?” Said Belligerence. Red Field dabbed at the trickle of blood that ran down his forehead.

“I feel that this might not be a productive exercise.” Said Red Field. Belligerence nodded and stood.

“Well, I suppose you are right.” Belligerence walked to his bag and took out the can. Without a word to Red Field, he knocked the magazine free from the rifle and racked the charging handle. He caught the jettisoned round and set it back on the table. Leaning toward the muzzle of the DMR, Belligerence slid the can over the spiked muzzle brake. The can clicked and he tugged it a bit to ensure it was seated.

He walked back to his seat and pulled a few more seeds out of the bag atop the table.

“Go ahead.” He crunched his next mouthful of seeds as Red Field nervously shouldered the rifle. Red Field stared at the “can” hanging off the end of the barrel. He really didn’t want to make a mistake and shoot it off. Red Field raised the scope to eyelevel and began to squeeze the trigger.

The rifle gave a hollow “thonk”. The gun shoved back into his shoulder, but the quietness of the report somehow made the rifle’s kick more manageable.

“Sir?”

“Yes Red Field?”

“I think there’s something wrong with the rifle.” Said Red Field. Belligerence started to chuckle. “Sounded like a squib round.”

“What if somepony affixed a device filled with a series of baffles designed to slow the release of gas at the muzzle end of the weapon? Without a flash or a bang, a gun and its recoil become a lot easier to handle.” Belligerence fanned himself with his cap and Red Field looked back at the black tube. He was still studying the suppressor when Belligerence got up and stood beside him. “I think our first lesson of is going to be that there’s always a way to make a shot. Shooting like this is a lot like solving a puzzle, you need to plan with the goal always in mind. You need to know there is a solution.” Red Field began to thank him but Belligerence held up his hoof. “We’re going to retrain everything about you, starting with what you call me.”

“Thank you Belligerence.” Belligerence replaced his cap and pointed out to the targets.

“Why don’t you start on that one on the left side? Let’s get you some practice on a rifle that doesn’t scare the stuffing out of you.”

“Yes,” Red Field caught himself, “Belligerence.”

Red Field spent the rest of the afternoon shooting. He’d fire five rounds, Belligerence would gaze through the spotting scope, then advise Red Field on what he was doing wrong.

“The barrel heats up on every gun, no two barrels are the same, but after a certain number of rounds your group is going to start stringing and you’ll think you’ve got the shakes. Never treat any respectably accurate rifle like a bullet hose. A cold bore is an accurate bore.”

“You’re pulling left, you’ve got a flinch from the first shooting you did. Keep the fundamentals in your mind every time you pull the trigger and tell yourself the gun’s not going to hurt you. What your mind thinks, it feels.”

“You always need to keep the basics in the back of your mind whenever you take a shot: ‘What’s my ammo? What’s my distance?” Belligerence motioned to the suppressor. “Is there something hanging off the end of the gun that will shift the point of impact?’”

Belligerence taught like no one else at Gale Force. He would stop Red Field to explain something and paid close attention to how Red Field mastered the concept. They stopped for water whenever Red Field wanted to, although Red Field took some coercion to even admit his thirst. Belligerence did have Red Field change out the targets because the sun was such a killer, though he loaded Red Field’s magazines while Red Field was out taking down the papers.

At 1500 Belligerence instructed Red Field to stand. He took the rifle and attached a black sling to the forend and stock.

“Most ponies think snipers are always laying down when they shoot.” He picked up the rifle and slipped his foreleg through the sling. “And I guess that’s true enough. But a lotta times you don’t have the space or the time or the terrain to set up a nice mat.” He shouldered the rifle, his supporting hoof bent into the length of the sling and the strap grew taut. “Looks goofy as all getout but you can hit stuff way out there and nopony expects you to do it standing, unsupported.” He pulled his hoof free and held the rifle to Red Field. “Give it a try.”

“Like this?”

“No.” Belligerence adjusted Red Field’s grip. “There.” Red Field’s hold slackened and he let the sling grow tight. He looked down the scope. The reticule was bobbing and twitching faster than it had on the bench, but it was steadier than Red Field expected.

“Let your body do the work, don’t force yourself to go rigid. It’s got to be a natural position, like sex, you know?” Red Field gave a polite laugh and nodded. “You haven’t had sex.” Belligerence said without sounding insulting. “Good for you. Colts these days are all about instant gratification.” He shrugged. “That’s not a good quality for a sniper. Don’t suppose it’s a good quality for anypony.” Red Field’s cheeks burned and Belligerence waved him on. “Go ahead, fire away.”

At 1700, Belligerence called it a day. He swept up the countless brass casings covering the concrete floor while Red Field took down the last few targets. Red Field paused before each of the papers.

He still wasn’t shooting very well. His best group was four MOA at least and many were much worse. He was in the process of stuffing the targets into the trashcan when Belligerence told him to stop. He lifted out one of the papers and smoothed it.

“You can always learn from these.” He read the tiny pattern of holes punched around the bull’s eye. “I’d say you need to get more trigger time.” He smiled as he shoved the target back into the can. “We can do that.”

They walked back to the chariot in silence. The baking sun was still firing rays down into the sand and both ponies were covered in a slick layer of sweat as they climbed into the chariot. Belligerence tossed his rucksack and Fudd into the backseat.

“Red, do you really want to be a sniper?” Red Field had already taken his seat at the back of the chariot and waited to take off.

“Uh, yes, of course Belligerence.” He said. Belligerence pursed his lips.

“I know you’re an introvert but so was Midlothian and even he talked more than you on the first day. Do you mind humoring me and letting me in on the reason for your silence?”

This question was completely rational and even expected, yet for some reason Red Field couldn’t think of an answer.

“I guess I don’t really talk much because I don’t see the need to. I’ve never had anypony want to know my thoughts.”

“All of that grey stuff in there and you’ve never had ponies want to know what you think of something?”

“No sir.” Red Field said, recalling every instance anypony could have asked him something in Rockvale.

A dusting of sand blew into the floor of the chariot from a nearby dune.

“Well.” Belligerence turned the key and the chariot began to growl. “We’ll add talking to the list of things you’re going to need to retrain yourself on.”

“Yes Belligerence.” They were up in the air when Belligerence spoke again.

“You ever think it was just a matter of being in the wrong place with the wrong ponies?”

“Yes.”

They got back to base and Belligerence bid Red Field goodnight at the gate to the chariots. He reminded Red Field to “come a little less early” the next morning. Red Field agreed.

The light odor of fresh hay hung in the air as Red Field entered the mess hall. He was early and the bins of hay had not been set out yet. He stood at the start of the counter for a couple seconds, trying to decide what to do. Did they at least have any water?

“Excuse me.” Flashpoint was standing behind Red Field. Flashpoint held a tray and looked into the kitchen. Red Field took a few steps away from him. He hadn’t seen Flashpoint since the incident with the Towel Maker.

One of the bearded cooks exited the kitchen.

“I’m here.” Said Flashpoint. The cook grunted and walked back to the kitchen as if they had an unspoken agreement. “And,” Flashpoint pointed to Red Field. “Please serve him as well.” The cook grunted again. “Private Red Field, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I trust you have nowhere to be at this moment?”

“No sir.”

“Good, it should only take a little while.” The cook returned from the kitchen with a pair of plates. Flashpoint took his and thanked the pony. Red Field hadn’t taken a tray and Flashpoint offered him one. “Over here.” He pointed to an empty seat at one of the nearby tables.

Red Field sat across from Flashpoint.

“Did you already eat?” Asked Flashpoint.

“No sir.” Red Field picked up his fork and started to eat.

“I have just completed the paperwork for your transfer to the UAT sniper program.” Flashpoint said. “Belligerence has spoken with me regarding his hopes for your advancement through the program.”

“Yes sir.” Red Field looked down at his plate as he ate.

“Private.” Red Field realized that Flashpoint had stopped eating. He looked up, meeting the excruciatingly cold gaze of Flashpoint. “I would be hard pressed to find a more suspect candidate than you for one of the most vital positions in Gale Force Company. I want you to be aware of the fact that your provisional continuance has been extended through your sniper training.”

“Yes sir.”

“Private, understand me when I say that I will tolerate nothing from you.” Flashpoint came as close to interrupting Red Field as was possible and Red Field repeated himself. “Thank you for your time Private.” Flashpoint resumed eating. He took a few bites then spoke, this time without looking up. “I have an appointment in a few minutes and I’ll thank you to leave me.”

“Yes sir.” Red Field stood and carried his tray to the discard station. He looked back. Flashpoint was setting up his chess set.

Red Field would eat every meal early, so as not to risk getting into any conflicts. He could easily spend the rest of his time in the barracks. In any case, he’d stay away from Flashpoint until the officer no longer had the ability to remove him.

Red Field entered Barracks Six, still thinking of ways to minimize the risk of committing any offenses. Siplinski was laying in his bed with a notebook.

“Oh hey Red!” He jumped out of bed and blocked Red Field’s path to his bunk. He held out his textbook “Ready for another lesson?”

“Yeah, sure.” Teaching became exponentially easier after UAT training and Red Field often enjoyed learning the basics of electrical engineering along with Siplinski. He took the book and jumped up into his bunk.

“I wrote down all of the terms in the back and I was working on the definitions. I was thinking we could do like a quiz or something?” Said Siplinski, holding up his notebook. Red Field paged to the glossary. It contained four hundred and fifty-eight different terms.

“You, wrote all of these down?” Siplinski offered the notebook. Nearly every page had been filled. “Damn, well-”

“I have ‘A’ through ‘C’ written down.” Said Siplinski quickly.

“Well then, what’s a conduit?” Asked Red Field.

The test went on for seven minutes. Siplinski had scored eighty-four percent when Red Field interrupted the test.

“You could probably get into trade school no problem.” He said. Siplinski had been studying his notes and looked up with a giddy grin.

“What? Are you serious?”

“Of course,” Red Field pointed to his notebook, “You study quite well. If your problem is with reading, you can find a tutor who specializes in that kind of thing and get that remedied. But in any case, you’re more than capable.”

“You’re not shitting me right?” Asked Siplinski. Red Field was about to ask Siplinski why his father hadn’t just taught him when the door banged open. It was thrown open so hard that it struck the opposite wall.

Next Chapter: Chapter 14 Estimated time remaining: 9 Hours, 19 Minutes