Chapter 4 - The Trap is Sprung
Thursday arrived with oppressive gray clouds that threatened heavy rain.
The atmosphere across Fort Liberty was electric with tension.
Rumors had already spread that something happened in Hangar 4 the previous night, though no official report was filed.
Vance hadn't said a word.
I saw him at morning muster.
He kept his head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, especially Sergeant Briggs.
Briggs, on the other hand, was strutting around the grounds like an uncrowned king.
He carried a black, heavy-duty tactical hard case slung over his shoulder.
The case never left his side.
Inside that case was the digital ledger Vance had talked about—the electronic receipts of treason.
During the tactical shooting drill at Range 7, Briggs stood directly behind me while I loaded my magazines.
"You look distracted today, Mitchell," Briggs sneered, chewing on a toothpick.
"Did you sleep poorly last night?"
I loaded thirty rounds into the steel magazine with rhythmic clicks.
"I slept just fine, Sergeant."
"Good," Briggs smiled, a cruel glint in his teeth.
"Because tomorrow is close-quarters evaluation."
"Five hundred soldiers from three divisions are coming down to the main arena."
"Even Colonel Harris is flying in from headquarters to watch the demonstrations."
He leaned down, whispering near my ear so the instructors wouldn't catch the tone.
"I personally requested to be your evaluator."
"I told the Captain that a Navy operator deserved the very best competition."
"I'm going to teach you a lesson your old man should have taught you years ago."
I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze without blinking.
"My father taught me how to handle wild dogs, Briggs."
"You don't negotiate with them."
"You put them down."
Briggs’ face darkened into an ugly mask of rage.
"Tomorrow, girl," he whispered, his voice trembling with fury.
"You won't be walking off that mat."
He spun on his heel and marched toward the observation tower, barking orders at a pair of terrified junior enlisted men.
I finished loading my magazine, slapped it into the rifle, and took my place at the firing line.
Pop-pop-pop.
Three rounds through the dead center of the silhouette target at three hundred yards.
Controlled.
Precise.
Unyielding.
Later that afternoon, I received a visit at the barracks.
It was Sarah Jenkins.
She slipped inside during mail call, holding an envelope.
"Mitchell, you need to see this," she said, her voice shaking.
She pulled out a printout of an official transfer order.
"Look at the date," she whispered.
I looked at the document.
It was an emergency transfer directive, signed by Colonel Gregory Harris, dated for tomorrow evening at 1800.
Destination: an isolated radar station in northern Alaska.
The name on the transfer order was Lieutenant Avery Mitchell.
"They're not even waiting for the training course to end," Jenkins said, pacing the narrow space between the cots.
"Briggs is going to injure you in the ring tomorrow morning, and by tomorrow night, Harris is shipping you to an outpost where you can't talk to anyone."
"They know you were in Hangar 4."
"Vance might not have reported it, but base security noticed the bypassed sensor logs."
"They are cleaning house, Avery."
"You have to leave base tonight."
"Go to the Inspector General in Washington."
I stared at the paper.
Going to the Inspector General with circumstantial stories and no hard evidence would achieve nothing.
Harris had friends in the Pentagon.
They would bury the complaint in committee hearings for three years, and by then, my father would be gone, and the evidence would be erased.
The only way to cut the head off a snake is to strike it in public, where everyone can see the blood.
"I'm not running, Sarah," I said, handing the paper back to her.
"Are you listening to me?" she pleaded.
"Briggs is an undefeated Army combatives champion."
"He outweighs you by eighty pounds."
"He's killed men in hand-to-hand engagements in Iraq."
"He is not going to play by tournament rules."
"He's going to hurt you."
I walked over to the foot of my bed and picked up my notebook.
Inside the cover was a photograph of my father in his dress blues, standing proudly on the deck of a destroyer, his arm around a twelve-year-old girl who dreamed of being just like him.
"He can try," I whispered.
"Tell me one thing, Jenkins."
"What?"
"Is the ring going to be broadcast on the base closed-circuit network?"
Jenkins blinked, confused by the question.
"Yes," she said slowly.
"The joint combat seminar is broadcast to all command offices on Fort Liberty for training assessment."
"Every company dayroom, every staff headquarters, every command desk watches the livestream."
"Good," I said, closing the notebook.
"That's all I need to know."
"What are you planning, Avery?"
"I'm going to let Briggs throw the first punch," I said.
"And then I'm going to make sure five hundred witnesses watch his entire empire collapse."
That night, the North Carolina sky opened up.
Thunder shook the barracks windows.
Rain pounded against the corrugated metal roofs like a million tiny drums.
I sat on the floor, stretching my hamstrings, my shoulders, and my hips.
Every breath was counted.
Every muscle was calibrated.
I knew every move Briggs favored.
I had watched him spar three times this week.
He was a power striker.
He relied on aggressive forward momentum, heavy hooks, and devastating leg sweeps designed to exploit smaller opponents.
He was arrogant because he had never faced someone who wasn't afraid of his size.
Arrogance makes a fighter predictable.
Predictability makes a fighter dead.
I lay down at 0200, closed my eyes, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
May you like
When the morning bugle sounded at 0530, the sky was clear, washed clean by the storm.
The arena was waiting.
