Clark stood before the assembled officer cadre of the 49ers. So far, he’d been pleased with their progress. Many of them had struggled initially with finding themselves losing the Century, and also finding themselves in a newly-formed regiment which completely broke any form of tradition.

‘I have some news, and I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad,’ he knew there was no point in sugar coating it for them. ‘As you know, we’re now considered to be airborne.’

He paused as some of those assembled gave a typically British cheer. Muted, and somewhat self-conscious.

Brits never are good at blowing their own trumpet, he thought ruefully.

‘Quite,’ he said using a hand to shush the officers. ‘However, we’ve been given another task. To qualify as commandos.’

‘Isn’t that a job for the Royal Marines sir?’ he didn’t catch who asked but didn’t mind as it was a good question.

‘It was. Let me give you a quick history lesson. Back at the start of the 20th century, British forces fought the Boers in South Africa. The Boers formed units of men called commandos, and they fought an irregular, asymmetric, highly mobile war. Come to World War 2, and the British army formed commando units. As did the Royal Navy and the RAF.’

He blink-clicked a menu choice and a hologram of a World War 2 commando appeared. ‘As you can see, their kit was somewhat rudimentary. And, once it got wet, incredibly heavy.’

Clark waited until all of those present had had a chance to take a good look at the rotating image of the soldier.

‘For some reason, they were never formed into a proper regiment, which mean that all of their troops were still considered to be members of their original units. And, unlike us, they were all volunteers. At the end of the war, the British army disbanded them. The only units that remained as commandos, were the Royal Marine Commandos, even going so far as to their original unit designations, such as 42, or four-two commando.’

‘So why are we being tasked with this sir?’ this time he did see the speaker. She was young with closely shorn brown hair, a jack in the side of her head indicating she was a hacker.

‘Commandos have a reputation for getting jobs done. No matter how hard. And the Prime Minister and War Cabinet feel that we are particularly suited to this sort of no-holds-barred warfare. We’ll be tasked with raiding enemy position, reconnoitring, intelligence gathering, and all out dirty fighting. And,’ he held up a finger, ‘we’ll get an additional badge, a dagger.’

Another hologram appeared, this time it was a Fairbairn-Sykes dagger. ‘We’re not going to use the original World War 2 badge, rather the more modern version. The Fairbairn-Sykes dagger was issued to commandos and the Special Air Service.’

With a gesture, he brought up an ancient black and white video of a bespectacled man in World War 2 British army dress. It was silent, and the man went through different motions with the knife. He would stab, slash, swap it between his hands, flip it, roll it.

‘Like the commandos, and now like us, Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife is designed purely for surprise attack and fighting. The blade is sufficiently slender to enable it to easily penetrate a ribcage, or enter a kidney, stab through a throat. If you look at the handle, a so-called vase handle, it’s designed to be easily gripped with just a few fingers. You don’t hold it in a vice-like grip, look at the video and how lightly he’s holding it.’

All present craned forward to watch the man – Fairbairn – go through the motions again. Clark blink-clicked another selection.

‘This is taken from his book, Get Tough! It was written in 1942. And another thing you should remember is that the knife was designed following hard-won experience gained on the streets of one of the toughest, roughest, cities in history. Shanghai. I’ll be quiet for a second, let you read what he had to say.’

He took the time himself to read it once again. Get Tough! was going to be mandatory reading for every member of the 49ers.

In close-quarters fighting there is no more deadly weapon than the knife. In choosing a knife there are two important factors to bear in mind: balance and keenness. The hilt should fit easily in your hand, and the blade should not be so heavy that it tends to drag the hilt from your fingers in a loose grip. It is essential that the blade have a sharp stabbing point and good cutting edges, because an artery torn through (as against a clean cut) tends to contract and stop the bleeding. If a main artery is cleanly severed, the wounded man will quickly lose consciousness and die.

‘Once qualified,’ he said once he’d finished reading the hovering text, ‘you’ll all be issued with a Fairbairn-Sykes knife.’

‘What do we have to do to earn it sir?’

‘iRegimental Sergeant Major Menefee has the perfect presentation for you.’

*

‘I don’t care if I get this badge or not,’ puffed Windsor as she tried to keep up with the rest of their huffing and puffing platoon. I just want this to end.’

Hotston didn’t reply, he couldn’t. It was all he could do to breathe in and out. They’d been running up and down the same hill for the last two hours. And, whilst he was the fittest he’d ever been – virtually at least – he was also carrying a 30kg pack, a full combat load, and his pulse rifle.

‘And walk!’ barked Patterson, sound suitably out of breath. Mush to Hotston’s satisfaction. The platoon slowed to a fast walk, every member counting the steps until they reached five paces, each pace being counted when the left foot hit the ground. At reaching five, they trotted another five paces, and then back to the walk. According to yet another one of the history books they’d been forced to read, it had been developed by the 95th Rifles back in the time of the Napoleonic Wars. The pace allowed the original unit to cover 250 miles in just six days.

‘Clark’s taking everything he can, from every other special unit in history, to make us the best we can be,’ gasped Hotston. ‘Trying to keep us alive.’

Something which he appreciated when he was lying in his bed. Not so much whilst out on the training ranges.

‘Double-time! Assault course three!’ Barked Patterson. No one protested, they’d learned the hard way that complaining about training resulted in more training.

*

‘Assault course three, gentle beings,’ Patterson sneered as he said that last, looking over at Windsor. ‘As you can see, there are both obstacles, and targets. This is your final test. Hit a minimum score of 100 and you earn your dagger, patch, and the right to wear a green beret as well.’

Hotston was too busy sucking air through his arsehole to even give a shit about such things. Other members of the platoon were busy throwing up their full-English breakfast. Patterson, always a sadist, had told them to eat heartily as they would only be on the ranges that day due to a mix-up on the schedule.

Fucking bastard did us over, Hotston thought bitterly as he remembered how the NCO had let them finish their breakfasts before bursting into the canteen and screaming at them to get ready for qualification. It’s like he actually wants us to fail.

Why the NCO would want his platoon to fail he had no clue. The only reason he could come up with was that the NCO hated them so much he’d happily fail himself, to see them fail, and have them go through training all over again. It was psychotic, and very much like Patterson.

‘Oh, and there’s a time limit. Five minutes.’

Hotston rolled his eyes as he looked over at Windsor. ‘Good to go?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she panted, utter misery written across her face. ‘Gorillas aren’t built for that sort of running. He’s done this so that every Gorilla in the platoon fails.’

Hotston took a moment to think that through. And it made sense. Patterson hated Gorillas with a passion.

‘Well,’ he said as he slowly straightened. ‘I’m looking at one Gorilla that will bloody pass this qualification course if it kills me.’

*

Looking at the course laid out before them, he was pretty sure that getting Windsor through the course after the running session Patterson had forced them to do was indeed going to kill him. She wouldn’t have a problem with the six foot wall, or even the 12 foot wall. But in between them were sprints, crawls, tunnels, and winding obstacles designed by an utter sadist. All of which would sap her strength.

‘Ready, ape?’ Sneered Patterson.

‘Ready sergeant,’ Windsor replied in a far calmer tone than Hotston thought he would have managed. Every fibre of his being wanted nothing more than to smack Patterson in his smug, hateful face. But he held back. Because Patterson scared him. He was utterly unhinged, and why he hadn’t been medically discharged and locked up into a mental institute was beyond him.

‘Go,’ ordered Patterson.

They went. A ten metre sprint to a six foot wall. Windsor bounded over the obstacle as if it wasn’t there. He took a little longer, just a couple of seconds, but it gave her a good head start to the next obstacle. Monkey bars.

Taking the piss, he thought as she launched herself onto the bars and swung across them as easily as she’d crested the wall. There were only ten, spaced about a metre apart, but the additional weight he was carrying made it seem much further.

‘Cocky cow!’ he laughed as she did a back flip and landed in a superhero pose whilst looking over her shoulder at him.

Landing, he shouldered his pulse rifle as they entered the first combat zone. It was a street lined with the facades of ruined dwellings. Debris littered the road they had to move down, allowing for pop-up targets to deploy.

Merely a warm up for when they deploy NPCs for us, he barely finished the thought before a pop-up depicting a ChinKor soldier appeared from behind a couple of oil barrel. Laying his reticle over the centre of its chest he fired a three-pulse burst.

KILL!

+5SP – BATTLE RIFLE

The notification lacked Development Points as it wasn’t a true enemy. Skill Points could be earned any time a skill was successfully performed, but to earn ranks one had to kill real enemies.

Windsor’s burst was a fraction of a second behind his, each shot striking the ChinKor in the face. At no point did they stop moving, the whole course being timed.

‘Contact right high!’ he twisted his upper torso, scanning for the target. It was a sniper, just the head peering out around a window frame. Windsor’s shots hit first, and he cursed as only two of his struck home.

KILL!

+5SP – BATTLE RIFLE

Two more targets popped up ahead and to the left, the movement catching his attention through the corner of his eye.

‘Contact front! Twenty metres left! Low!’ He fired, his first burst missing. Four shots had missed so far now, and each one would be a point off the maximum score of 200. Adjusting, he quickly sent two bursts home, drilling the targets. And like that they were clear.

‘Moving!’ he didn’t wait for her answer, knowing that she’d be quick on his heels. Popping his battery magazine out, he pushed it into his drop bag, replacing it for a full battery, then slung his rifle as he came up to a net obstacle. It was low to the ground, forcing him to slide to his knees to lift it before he started crawling as quickly as he could.

It became noticeable easier when Windsor’s bulk lifted the net up high. She was gasping, her frame not built for crawling around on the ground. Getting clear, he turned and lifted the net as high as its weight allowed him.

‘Thanks,’ she panted as she got up. ‘Fuck.’

“Fuck,” was right. They had a 300 metre run ahead of them. Filling the lane was a series of low obstacles and trenches that they would have to jump over, jump into and out of, and slide under. Nothing so simple as a straight forward run for them.

‘Move,’ he didn’t need to tell her how much time they had left, as it was clearly displayed on their retinal monitors. ‘Keep it steady, some of those trenches look really deep. She didn’t answer, just grunted as she started running.

*

300 metres might not seem that far to the average human. Even 300 metres interspersed with over 20 obstacles if they could take it at their own pace might not seem that far. Unburdened. But add a full combat load, a weapon which seemed to exist only to snag onto everything and anything it could, as well as a hard morning’s exercise, and it was utterly exhausting.

‘Last one!’ Windsor gasped out as she pulled him out of the last trench. ‘Kill house.’

‘Stack up,’ he ordered, placing his shoulder against the building’s wall, trying to get his breathing under control. ‘I’ll breach, you throw a grenade, then I’ll follow you in.’

‘Roger that.’

The words were barely out of his mouth before he slammed a boot into the door sending it crashing open. He cleared the space, allowing Windsor to throw the grenade and move himself out of the line of fire of any enemy soldiers.

‘Shit!’ Stun pulses filled the air where he’d been standing bare milliseconds ago, and Windsor snatched her hand back as a near miss singed her skin.

A pause, and then the grenade detonated. Dust and bits of NPC blasted through the door. Shouldering their rifles, they entered the room. Windsor went left, Hotston went right. He ignored the shots coming from behind him as he swept the room for targets. A wounded NPC tried to lift their weapon, falling back as he blew their skull to pieces.

KILL!

+5SP – BATTLE RIFLE

‘Clear!’ called out Windsor.

‘Clear!’ he replied, unable to find any more targets. There was another room, the door gone, replaced with sandbags a metre or so high. ‘My turn.’

Pulling a grenade from his combat vest he tugged the pin free, watched the spoon tumble away, then threw the grenade.

MULTI-KILL!

+25SP – GRENADE

‘Room’s packed,’ he warned as screams filled the air close on the heels of the blast. Windsor nodded, spraying a burst through the opening before hopping over the sandbags. She fired again as he followed, cursing his own clumsiness as he fell over the obstacle.

A pulse shot cracked past where his head would have been, saving him a day’s worth of stun bolt migraine. Rolling, he tried desperately to find the enemy firing at him. They were in the corner, peppered with shrapnel, barely able to stand. He fired, pulse burning through armour and flesh.

KILL!

+5SP – BATTLE RIFLE

Windsor was also firing, and he got a couple of KILL ASSIST notifications as she finished off a couple he’d wounded with the grenade.

‘Got stairs, top left corner,’ she called out. Hotston looked over, trying to ignore the stench of burnt flesh and voided bowels. Death was never as a clean as it appeared to be in even the goriest films.

‘On me,’ he ordered, moving to the base of the stairs. He took a quick peek. Just a bob of the head, blink-clicking a snapshot of what lay in wait. Looking at the image, he could see nothing and no-one. Then came the unmistakable ‘ping’ of a grenade spoon.

‘Grenade!’ it came tumbling down the stairs, bouncing end over end as he threw himself as far away from it as possible. There was no time to try and pick it up, its shape defying any ability to judge where it might next bounce. Landing, hard, he grunted, putting his feet towards where the explosion would come from. He didn’t have long to wait.

It was just as bad as he vaguely remembered from other grenade-related deaths. A memory tickling at the back of his mind as the blast crashed over him. Heat seared any exposed flesh, and he cried out as he was peppered with red-hot shards of shrapnel.

And then it was gone. A split-second of hell, leaving him with ringing ears.

‘You okay?’ he croaked, his own voice dim as his ears rang. Not waiting for an answer, he rolled onto his back, just in time to shoot the first of the NPCs charging down the stairs into their room.

KILL!

+5SP BATTLE RIFLE

Windsor’s pulse rifle leant its support to his fire, dropping a large NPC NCO to the ground, smoke steaming from the holes burnt through their flesh. More followed, firing as they came, aiming high, not realising he was on the ground. His next shots took an NPC in the throat, blasting their head from their torso.

KILL!

+5SP BATTLE RIFLE

Windsor went fully automatic, raking their attacks, screaming as one of their shots hit home.

He rolled onto his knee, waiting for more attackers to appear.

ENDEX!

FINAL SCORE 179

NEW TITLE – COMMANDO!

UNIFORM UPDATED

He looked down, underneath the ‘Airborne’ patch on his right shoulder had appeared a black shield with a red dagger pointing upwards. An option to change his beret from maroon to green had also appeared, but he left it for now, preferring to wait to see what the CO needed.

Patterson appeared, clapping slowly.

‘Bravo, Tarzan and Ape Girl,’ he sneered. ‘You both passed.’

‘Yeah, the notifications told us, but thanks for the congrats,’ Hotston replied, smiling broadly. ‘Always nice to hear praise from our esteemed NCOs.’

Windsor giggled, and Patterson’s face snapped to a visage of utter rage before suddenly calming again. It was utterly horrifying, and Hotston felt ice water wash over his back, and a sudden urge to piss. Windsor’s giggle died.

‘Get the fuck off my range,’ he ordered, voice a dull monotone.

‘Happy to,’ replied Hotston, hoping his voice wasn’t too shaky. ‘Come on Windsor, first pint’s on me.’