Chapter 12 - The Next Generation
The following Saturday morning, the air at the local high school’s athletic field was biting and cold. Frost still clung to the white yard lines on the turf.
Forty high school JROTC cadets stood in staggered rows, shivering slightly in their crisp uniforms and PT gear. Their cadet commander, a tall and eager senior named Marcus, was pacing nervously in front of them. When my car pulled up to the edge of the track, Marcus snapped to attention, trying to look far more intimidating than a seventeen-year-old high schooler had any right to be.
I stepped out of my car, wearing a simple fleece pullover and hiking boots, carrying a heavy canvas stopwatch pouch.
“Good morning, Cadets!” Marcus barked, his voice cracking slightly on the high notes.
“At ease, Commander,” I said calmly, walking onto the turf. I let my gaze sweep across the rows of teenagers. Most of them looked back with a mix of curiosity and intimidation. They had undoubtedly heard the rumors about the neighborhood legend who had put the local rich kid in his place.
Marcus stepped up to me, his chest puffed out. “Sergeant, we’re ready for the timed obstacle course. We’ve been practicing our speed drills all week. We’re aiming for a sub-four-minute average.”
I looked at him, then looked past him at the sprawling obstacle course: a low-crawl net, a six-foot wooden wall, a balance beam, and a heavy-tire flip station.
“Speed is a byproduct of efficiency, Commander, not panic,” I said, loud enough for the entire formation to hear. “Most of you are going to sprint the first fifty yards, burn through your oxygen, and trip over your own feet by the time you hit the wall. You think going fast means you're winning. In reality, it just means you're making mistakes faster.”
A few cadets exchanged nervous glances. One girl near the back suppressed a grin.
“Today, we’re not timing your speed,” I announced, walking down the center aisle of the formation. “We’re timing your composure. You’re going to run the course in pairs. One partner navigates the obstacles while the other monitors their breathing and pacing. If your partner gets sloppy, you both start over.”
A low murmur of disappointment rippled through the ranks. They had wanted a race, a flashy display of athletic dominance.
“A flashy demo looks great on a smartphone video,” I added, stopping in front of Marcus with a sharp, knowing look. “It wins you applause in a tent. But discipline, support, and control? That’s what keeps a unit alive when things get real.”
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Marcus swallowed hard, his posture dropping its performative stiffness as the message landed. He looked down, nodded slowly, and turned back to his platoon.
“You heard the Sergeant,” Marcus shouted, his voice steady now. “Pair up! Formations on the line!”
