Global (19): Rude Awakening
Whiiing~ Whiiing~ "All personnel, wake up! All personnel, wake up! This is the operations room. Assemble at the parade ground in ten minutes."
On the first day, shouldn't they cut us some slack? After last night's dinner, they'd assigned us quarters. Our squad was the 1st Squad, called the Typhoon Squad—probably named after the squad leader. There were four squads of eight men each; I'd already forgotten the others' names. I'd thought it would just be sweating and physical training, so I'd let my guard down. Then the siren went off at dawn.
The squad leader was a guy named Typhoon with a distinctive pug nose and a solid build. Our first meeting had already left a strong impression. "Hey, GB, get your head straight and gear up. This isn't your first rodeo, right?" He was already riding me at the crack of dawn.
The squad members were well-trained. The moment the siren sounded, they got ready and even helped me along. Once I was dressed and followed them out, I saw them drawing equipment from what looked like an armory. Wasn't that standard U.S. military gear? On the platform stood the four officers we'd met yesterday.
"Attention!" "Training begins now." "Current time: 0517. By 0600, the Typhoon Squad will draw equipment, eat breakfast, then reassemble in full combat gear. Move." "Move!"
From that moment on, my feet never got a moment's rest. The squad members had already started running. "GB, Camio and Michael will draw equipment with you. Franco and Pony, handle the meals. The rest of you head back to the barracks and pack the rucksacks."
Camio had a dark complexion and heavy double eyelids that made him look perpetually sleepy. Michael was tall and sharp-featured. I ran after the two of them. We headed to the armory I'd seen earlier and received eight AR-15-style rifles along with ammunition, grenades, flashbangs, and other accessories. They told me to carry the rifles. Eight of them weighed about as much as a full combat load.
"GB! No strength left?" These guys seemed to enjoy getting under people's skin. I had no choice but to grab the rifles and run with them. With four slung around my neck and two in each hand, the weight felt just right. When we reached the barracks, three men were already busy packing rucksacks. "Everyone, gather up."
By the time we'd drawn weapons and packed the gear, fifty minutes had passed. Meanwhile, the meal detail had returned with combat rations. There was no time to eat slowly; we just shoveled the food in. Once we shouldered our rucksacks and reached the parade ground, the other squads were already there. We weren't late, at least.
"Squad leaders, step forward and receive maps and radios. You have until 1130 to reach the objective."
So the first day's training was a march. It had been a while since I'd walked without thinking. Damn it—they started at a quick pace right from the beginning. Time must have been tight. After about thirty minutes, Camio came over with a warning. "GB, the instructors are going to hit us. Stay sharp."
I heard later that afternoon there were prizes. Best Squad, Top Trainee, and two Outstanding Trainees. The amounts were enough to make your head spin. Best Squad got $20,000, Top Trainee got $10,000, and Outstanding Trainees got $5,000 each. Someone said that was six months' wages for the average Filipino worker.
The morning passed without incident. The ambush Camio had mentioned never came. Still, why did it feel like I'd already been through this training before? I was dying from exhaustion. The objective turned out to be some kind of farm, similar to the one we'd raided last time.
While we were eating lunch and resting, Typhoon came over to brief us on the afternoon training. "This afternoon it's offense and defense. Draw equipment by 1300 and assemble. The equipment detail will carry the gear; everyone else holds an operations meeting."
The equipment detail meant us—the ones who'd drawn weapons that morning. I was still dazed when Camio and Michael answered for us. We followed them to the designated area and received two sets of weapons each: a rifle and a pistol. They were rubber guns. They also handed out network equipment. The three of us carried everything back to the barracks, where the rest of the squad was already briefing.
"GB, what's your position?" "All player." "Cocky. Then I'll back you up."
They'd decided on two plans: attack and defense. We found out why when we assembled. The four squad leaders drew positions and opponents. "We're on defense, lucky us." "GB, since it's your first time, let me warn you—don't expect any mercy. No one's going to stop them."
Our goal was to hold out for two hours. The enemy's goal was to seize the objective or neutralize everyone. And "neutralize" didn't mean the kind you saw in documentaries or training videos. It meant actually taking someone down. Even so, I still thought of it as just training.
After that, we reworked the plan. Typhoon led well—maybe he'd received tactical training. Close and long-range escort teams to protect the objective, plus a situation team. Camio and I were assigned to the ambush team. Instead of guarding the objective, our job was to eliminate approaching enemies. Since we hadn't trained together yet, they probably gave us free rein. I'd better pull my weight.
At 1400 the instructor arrived and told us to get ready. Success meant at least one person surviving until 1700, or preventing the objective from being taken. "Good luck." Where did this instructor think he was going to war?
I'd underestimated the situation because someone had called it training. That evening I had to fall asleep covered in bruises. Why the hell was someone still moving after getting shot? I'd been hiding in a blind spot, watching the enemy's movements, when at 1500 they launched an all-out attack. Gunfire erupted from every direction. It struck me as strange—they should've been approaching quietly.
"This is Typhoon. Enemy attack has begun. Looks like a pressing strategy. Don't panic—hold them back."
I'd been waiting about ten minutes when I got lucky and spotted them first. The ground was covered in gravel and leaves, yet they moved without making a sound. I used the advantage of seeing them first and shot the lead man in the legs. Shooting the torso probably wouldn't have hurt through the plate carrier. I hit him three times before he could react. I thought he'd just drop or an instructor would call him dead. So I exposed myself—and the guy started limping toward me, still shooting. Of course I got hit too.
After that our magazines ran dry and we went hand-to-hand. He was smaller than me but moved fast and hit hard. I took a lot of punishment. If I hadn't tagged his legs, it probably would've been a draw. Once I'd taken him down, I was in too much pain to do anything but sit and wait. Then a support request came in, so I had to run again. Truthfully, I could barely manage it.
Now I was finally getting used to the training—and getting good at it. I came up behind the next guy and smashed the butt of my rifle into the back of his head. I didn't want to risk another fistfight. Camio thanked me later. We ended up neutralizing the entire attacking team and won.
And why the hell were we only getting half rations? When I asked, Camio answered, "Losing squads don't eat." Now I understood why everyone had been glaring at us.
That evening we held a debriefing. I asked why the neutralization drills had to be so brutal. The team members just laughed. "This is close-quarters combat training." Then why give us guns at all?
After the afternoon training ended, we ate dinner, washed up quickly, and were organizing our gear when Camio came over. "Get some sleep now. You might not get another chance later." "What do you mean?" "From now until tomorrow's muster, we're free." That sounded good. "If there's a squad you don't like, they'll come raid you."
Looking around, I realized I was the only one who'd taken my boots off. The squad next to us was also an enemy. Strange how they'd set up the barracks so far apart. Luckily, no raid came that night.
The next day was live-fire training. Usually after training that produced casualties, they moved on to technical drills. So why were we marching in full combat gear again? We moved all morning and conducted live-fire exercises at the range in the afternoon. Even though I'd only been training for two days, the content was solid and the equipment was in good shape. You could really feel the money being spent—especially how freely they handed out ammunition. I had to give them credit for that.
"You shoot well, right? They're scoring us, so do your best." A guy who'd introduced himself as Dollar spoke up. Here, no one used real names. They went by call signs. That day we got to fire every type of weapon our organization owned, including the RPG they called "Allah's magic wand."
"We use those a lot. Nothing beats them for taking out pickup trucks." Made sense. Everyone fired carefully, one round at a time. I did the same—I didn't want to cause any trouble. That afternoon I placed third. They announced rankings every day.
Dinner was only a third of what we'd eaten the day before. I hadn't realized how important food was. My stress level shot up. With rations cut, the mood turned sour. While we were on personal time, Camio went over to Typhoon. "Typhoon, I heard we're supposed to work tonight. We should probably get ready." "Where?" "Soho Squad. Their expressions gave it away."
Now we were doing intelligence work too. When Camio came back, I asked why they had it out for us. He just laughed. "Because tomorrow we'll be doing another physical drill." It clicked immediately. They were eliminating competitors in advance. "But how did they know we'd be paired with them?" "Usually two squads team up. I saw it happen." "Then shouldn't we team up with one of the remaining squads too?" "Who would we trust?"
The two men who'd stood watch had a rough night, but the rest of us, who'd slept on edge, managed to rest comfortably until the next day.