Field Commission 8

I am summoned to the CO's office. To my surprise the Brit CO is already there. Ours begins, "no introductions are needed I understand."
"Lt we've been reviewing our recent experiences in Ulster. Now us, been there so long certain patterns seem carved in stone. And so it is, we only gradually realized something. See we are so used to a hundred complaints a day from Prods and Catholics, each claiming their side is unfairly targeted in searches. We just lately realized you Yanks spent a whole summer there, didn't generate a single complaint. People said you were polite, impartial, they liked you."
"I'm not a Yank ma'am, but thank you all the same."
Chuckle, "quite so. To make a long story short, Christmas shopping is always a security nightmare, so many people about with parcels. We are inviting any American units who care to join us. But only if the unit so votes, we don't want anyone to feel put upon. So, your feelings on this?"
"Personally ma'am, I would love to go. It was a good experience. I'm betting 3/4 of my platoon votes yes."
"Well let my know after the vote."
I was wrong, it was unanimous, everyone wants to go.
Same rules as before, no American armor, simply too big to maneuver effectively. 62 American units were polled, all veterans of the summer tour. All 62 accepted.
I triple the time factor on the target range. No I am not being overhyper. The girls are simply bored to death, love the range, and most are already doing a lot more practise than that anyhow.
On the range, we use live ammo. The images that pop up, one by one, are holograms. They don't come at predictable intervals of time and distance of course. The computer scores you, with points based on where you hit, if you hit and how quickly you delivered.
To avoid racial connotations, the hologram appearance is hard to decipher at a distance. That is no obvious Aryans or obvious 100% blacks. Most images could be taken as French/Italian/Afghan; or Americans with about 50-50 mix.
Targets are never children, too demoralizing. To avoid sexism, half of your targets are each. Not in strict alternation, just overall.
I've just finished a round of 50, set down my carbine, grin at Parvana. The computer whirrs and out pops a score card.
She pales, "got unresolved counselling issues?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"Look at that point spread. On male holograms, got 984 out of a possible 1,000 points. In fact, beat anyone else in the unit. Female, scored 612."
I blush.
"Da** well Freudian. You bloody better see the ****ing counsellors before we go to Belfast."
"I should?"
"Two choices pal, either go on your own hoof or I send the score card as evidence," her finger hovers over the button, "we-ell?"
"Ok, you win, I'll go."
Counsellor looks at the card, leans back in her chair, "ok, let's define terms. Overall, your score is remarkably average. But there is no question, when you choose to shoot well, you outdo everyone in the Black Watch. When you don't choose to do well, you're sub-par. So, what do you think this card tells me?"
I blush, "uh well ah ."
"Now look here. Don't for even one moment imagine you can waltz your way outa this with some flimsy excuse. I see two huge problems here. First, if a female terr is carrying a bomb; chances are you hesitate, maybe too long. Second, some poor innocent bystander is likely to get shot, merely because he happens to be male."
"So what do I do?"
"Two options. Either heavy duty psy or bring me a real score card. Get 960 or up on each side and I pass you. Other than that, you're downchecked, outa the Belfast tour."
There is absolute blood in my eye as I pick up the carbine. I hate the entire ****ing world, more than I've ever felt before. Parvana throws the switch and I am ready to kill.
Dimly I'm aware she's taking the carbine outa my hands, "enough, relax. It's done. Your 50 is over, there are no more."
Out pops a card, 993 on male, 999 on female, with the commentary it's a new world record. I don't realize at the time, but my smiling face will grace the pages of Stars and Stripes.
I stroll into the counsellor's office. Comtemptously toss the card on her desk, one word, "happy?"
"My God, I've created a Frankenstein monster. Don't kill too many people."
"You promised, 960 and up. Got what you asked for. Try and weasel out on me and I'll bloody take this right to the top."
"Chill, you're in."
"How'd it go?" Parvana asks.
"Let's go do another ****ing round, not happy, want more."
"Mellow out, you're taking this way too serious. Let's go for a soda and talk."
As we speak of fun times, my overdrive mood cools. After an hour, she asks, "still want another round?"
"Nah, I passed. Good enough, leave it how it stands."