inspection and critique by the platoon's senior NCO. Deckard followed behind, examining the paper bulls eyes himself. The shot groups were decent but not great, except for one talented young soldier. Deckard committed the kid's face to memory. The battalion would need several sniper teams.
It wasn't so much the marksmanship that he had come to see but the method of training and discipline of the troops. Having worked with indigenous soldiers all over the world, Deckard had seen much, much worse. These guys had potential.
Following the mercenaries back to the firing line, the gears were turning in Deckard's head. Ideas and improvements would be discussed later once he had more than just a snap shot impression of the battalion's operations.
Nodding towards the XO and Sergeant Major, they got back in the van, the two seeing the look on his face and wondering what was in store for them in the near future.
Looking more like the Kazakhs under his command, Deckard walked into the interior of the warehouse, covered in sweat and dust. The morning light streaked through the huge gap in the ceiling, reminding him of the amount of work that needed to be done at Samruk International.
The warehouse had already been partitioned off by the former Kazakh military and police veterans with plywood, sheet metal, and whatever else they could scrounge into makeshift offices for the battalion's leadership and a war room consisting of a table and a ten-year-old computer. The rest of the warehouse was left open, one corner having been converted into a gym.
With his body warmed up from the five mile run in fatigues and boots, Deckard walked over to the weights, what Russian Spetsnaz units called the courage corner, a tradition that had obviously bled over to the Kazakhs, among many other influences from the former USSR.
Hitting the ground, he knocked out fifty pushups, alongside the Kazakh NCOs conducting their own physical training, and then followed up by sticking his boots under some dumbbells and executing a hundred sit ups. Next came a hundred flutter kicks, fifty dips on the dip bar, and a hundred squats. That was one set. Four more came after.
Taking a few deep breaths and stretching for a moment, he picked up one of the twenty-five-pound kettle bells. The AK-47 of fitness equipment. He began by doing five kettlebell swings before moving up to a thirty-five-pound kettlebell, then a forty-four, and finally a fifty-three. This made for one set. Two more followed.
Finally it was time for pull ups.
Legs feeling as if they were about to give out under him, he refused to show it in front of the mercenaries. It was his new found responsibility to provide an image of absolute confidence and strength in front of them. However, sitting down in his so-called office he knew he would be hurting for it by the time tomorrow morning rolled around.
Last night had been fairly productive. After observing training, Deckard had called a team pow wow to meet the battalion's leadership, which was basically platoon sergeants, along with the XO and Sergeant Major. After the troops went back to the tents to get some sleep, Deckard placed some calls on the satellite phone. As promised by his new benefactors from the Grove, several open lines of credit had been made available to him in New York, London, and Hong Kong.
While changing uniforms, he thought of what needed to be done. The former soldier wanted a full day to evaluate the organizational and equipment needs of the unit before placing any large orders. A few weeks was what was needed, but he didn't have that long. Based on the conditions he had seen so far, he had already contacted contractors in Astana to deliver pallets of water, portable lavatories, and some metal workers to fix the collapsed roof. Next would be electricians to make sure the place didn't burn to the ground,
It wasn't so much the marksmanship that he had come to see but the method of training and discipline of the troops. Having worked with indigenous soldiers all over the world, Deckard had seen much, much worse. These guys had potential.
Following the mercenaries back to the firing line, the gears were turning in Deckard's head. Ideas and improvements would be discussed later once he had more than just a snap shot impression of the battalion's operations.
Nodding towards the XO and Sergeant Major, they got back in the van, the two seeing the look on his face and wondering what was in store for them in the near future.
Looking more like the Kazakhs under his command, Deckard walked into the interior of the warehouse, covered in sweat and dust. The morning light streaked through the huge gap in the ceiling, reminding him of the amount of work that needed to be done at Samruk International.
The warehouse had already been partitioned off by the former Kazakh military and police veterans with plywood, sheet metal, and whatever else they could scrounge into makeshift offices for the battalion's leadership and a war room consisting of a table and a ten-year-old computer. The rest of the warehouse was left open, one corner having been converted into a gym.
With his body warmed up from the five mile run in fatigues and boots, Deckard walked over to the weights, what Russian Spetsnaz units called the courage corner, a tradition that had obviously bled over to the Kazakhs, among many other influences from the former USSR.
Hitting the ground, he knocked out fifty pushups, alongside the Kazakh NCOs conducting their own physical training, and then followed up by sticking his boots under some dumbbells and executing a hundred sit ups. Next came a hundred flutter kicks, fifty dips on the dip bar, and a hundred squats. That was one set. Four more came after.
Taking a few deep breaths and stretching for a moment, he picked up one of the twenty-five-pound kettle bells. The AK-47 of fitness equipment. He began by doing five kettlebell swings before moving up to a thirty-five-pound kettlebell, then a forty-four, and finally a fifty-three. This made for one set. Two more followed.
Finally it was time for pull ups.
Legs feeling as if they were about to give out under him, he refused to show it in front of the mercenaries. It was his new found responsibility to provide an image of absolute confidence and strength in front of them. However, sitting down in his so-called office he knew he would be hurting for it by the time tomorrow morning rolled around.
Last night had been fairly productive. After observing training, Deckard had called a team pow wow to meet the battalion's leadership, which was basically platoon sergeants, along with the XO and Sergeant Major. After the troops went back to the tents to get some sleep, Deckard placed some calls on the satellite phone. As promised by his new benefactors from the Grove, several open lines of credit had been made available to him in New York, London, and Hong Kong.
While changing uniforms, he thought of what needed to be done. The former soldier wanted a full day to evaluate the organizational and equipment needs of the unit before placing any large orders. A few weeks was what was needed, but he didn't have that long. Based on the conditions he had seen so far, he had already contacted contractors in Astana to deliver pallets of water, portable lavatories, and some metal workers to fix the collapsed roof. Next would be electricians to make sure the place didn't burn to the ground,
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