The change in Sergeant Voss was subtle, but to men who lived by reading his moods, it was as obvious as a thunderclap. The mind-breaking harassment had eased, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. His criticisms were no longer about their worth as human beings, but about their efficiency as soldiers.
"The free ride is over, children," he announced one morning, his voice cutting through the crisp air. He stood before the platoon, a detailed holographic map of a rugged valley shimmering behind him. "This is the Devil's Anvil, a live-fire training ground. For the next 48 hours, your fireteams will be tested. You will be hunted by veteran units playing the role of Vorlag hunters. Your objective is to navigate to the extraction point, here." A red dot glowed on the map, ten miles through dense woods and rocky outcrops. "There are no rules of engagement. Only survival."
A nervous energy crackled through the platoon. This was it. The final exam.
Fireteam 7-Alpha was dropped at the edge of the training ground at dusk. The air was cold, and the forest was a wall of impenetrable shadows. The moment the transport truck's taillights disappeared, a profound silence fell, broken only by the wind in the pines.
"Alright, listen up," Rourke said, his voice a low rumble. He'd naturally assumed the point position, his large frame tensed for a fight. "We stick together. We move fast."
"No," Leo said, his voice quiet but firm. Everyone looked at him. He was kneeling, his palm pressed to the cold soil. He looked up, his eyes meeting theirs. "The ground is soft here. We'll leave tracks. We move slow. We move smart."
Rourke opened his mouth to argue, but Finn, the scout, nodded in agreement. "Leo's right. I can already hear a patrol to the east. They're not even trying to be quiet."
Leo pointed to a rocky, less-traveled ridge. "That way. The stone won't hold our prints." It wasn't a guess. He could feel the solidity of the bedrock beneath the topsoil, a firm roadmap only he could sense.
They moved out. Leo, with his innate sense of the terrain, guided them. Finn flitted ahead, his slender form disappearing into the shadows, returning with silent hand signals that warned of enemy positions. He was their eyes and ears.
They found a defensible position for the night, a shallow cave. As the others set up a watch rotation, Kael, the would-be medic, noticed Colm favoring his ankle. Without being asked, he was there, inspecting the swelling with surprisingly gentle hands. "It's just a twist. I can bind it." He used strips from a spare shirt to create a makeshift brace. He was their caretaker, his nervous energy channeled into focused, practical help.
The next morning, their progress was halted by a simulated enemy checkpoint blocking the only pass. Two veteran "Vorlag" soldiers manned a heavy machine gun.
"We can't go around. It'll cost us six hours we don't have," Lysander said, his jaw tight.
"Then we go through," Rourke growled, hefting his rifle.
"That's a suicide charge, you oaf," Tomas, the marksman, said from his perch in a tree. He hadn't spoken much, but his eyes were constantly scanning, calculating. He was lying prone, his scoped rifle resting on a branch. "I have a shot on the gunner. But it's 400 meters. Crosswind."
Jax, the communicator, was already fiddling with his gear. "I'm picking up their comms chatter. They're expecting a relief patrol in fifteen minutes."
They all looked at each other. This was the moment. Their roles clicked into place with the precision of a well-oiled bolt.
"Alright," Leo said, the plan forming in his mind as he spoke. He wasn't the loudest, but his calm certainty drew their attention. "Here's the play. Tomas, you're our 'Headshot.' You take the shot when I give the signal. Lysander, you're our 'Boomer.' As soon as the gunner is down, you put a smoke round right between them and the machine gun. Jax, you keep listening. Warn us if that patrol comes early. Colm, you're with Rourke. You two are our 'Berserkers.' The second the smoke pops, you charge. Not to kill, but to create chaos, get in close where that big gun is useless. Finn, you watch our flanks. Kael, you're with me. We'll move up to support."
There was a moment of stunned silence. It was the most anyone had heard Leo speak, and it was a real, tactical command.
Rourke broke into a fierce grin. "I like it. Let's do it."
They moved into position. Leo watched Tomas become a different person. The quiet boy stilled, his breathing evening out, his entire world narrowing to the crosshairs. He was a predator.
"Ready," Tomas's whisper came over the radio.
Leo looked at Lysander, who gave a determined nod, his launcher loaded. He looked at Rourke and Colm, who were coiled springs of violence, ready to unleash.
"Do it," Leo said.
The shot was a single, sharp crack that echoed through the valley. The gunner's helmet sensor lit up, signaling a kill. Before his partner could react, WHOOMF. A smoke canister from Lysander landed perfectly, billowing grey smoke.
"FORWARD!" Rourke bellowed, and he and Colm exploded from cover. They were a whirlwind of controlled aggression, closing the distance in seconds, their simulated bayonets making short work of the disoriented enemy. It was over in less than a minute.
They regrouped, panting, but with a new light in their eyes. They had functioned as a single entity.
"That was… effective," Finn said, a rare smile on his face.
"Damn right it was," Rourke laughed, clapping a massive hand on Leo's shoulder, almost knocking him over. "The farm boy has a brain!"
They reached the extraction point with hours to spare, one of only three fireteams to complete the exercise without being wiped out. As they sat in the transport truck, caked in mud but buzzing with adrenaline, Sergeant Voss climbed in.
He didn't look at the group. His eyes were on Leo.
"Vance. A decent showing. You used your resources." His gaze then swept over the others. "Miller. You're a blunt instrument. But sometimes, that's what you need. Albright, you see what others miss. Croft, you hit what others can't. The rest of you… you didn't get in the way."
It was the closest he would ever come to praise.
As the truck rumbled back towards camp, the reality of their situation settled over them. The training was over. The roles were set. They were no longer just recruits; they were a squad. A Sniper, a Bomber, a Berserk, a Scout, a Communicator, a Medic, a Rock, and a Leader who spoke with the voice of the earth.
And they all knew, with a cold, certain dread, that the next time they were in a truck, it wouldn't be heading back to camp. It would be heading to the front. The Anvil had been forged. Now, it was time to see what it would break.