They were standing in the dry California heat at Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center Twentynine Palms, boots whitening with dust, sleeves rolled, rifles slung, waiting outside a squat tan operations building that looked like every other building on the base—functional, sun-beaten, and one hard wind away from disappearing into the same desert it stood in. The morning had started before dawn, but by eight the light already felt sharp enough to cut skin.
Mason stood with three other Marines from his battalion’s designated marksman package, a temporary detachment pulled into a two-week long-range evaluation course that had become the most talked-about training event on base.
That was mostly because of her.
“You hear she’s five foot nothing?” PFC Tyler Boone said around a mouthful of vending-machine peanut butter crackers.
Corporal Jace Donnelly snorted. “Heard she’s not even active anymore.”
“Retired gunny,” Boone said. “Civilian contract now. Some kind of long-range consultant.”
Mason shifted the strap on his rifle bag and squinted toward the building entrance. “Consultant for what?”
