THE BATTALION SON IN LAW

CHAPTER 8- Planning

The pre-dawn darkness cloaked the eastern watchtower as Silver Caldwell and Annie Chen maintained their vigil, the desert air still carrying the coolness that would vanish within hours. Their voices were low, barely audible above the distant rumble of patrol vehicles returning from night reconnaissance.

"The cartel activity isn't decreasing," Silver said grimly, studying the latest intelligence reports by lamplight. "If anything, it's intensifying. Three more supply convoys intercepted this week, and our scouts report increased movement in the disputed zones."

Annie's expression remained professionally neutral, but her grip tightened on her rifle. "How close are we to declaring it a Major Threat?"

"Too close," Silver admitted. "If the pattern continues for another two weeks, Command will have no choice. And when that happens..."

"The new personnel will panic," Annie finished. "Half of them look ready to bolt already."

"Which is why we keep this between us for now," Silver said firmly. "The last thing we need is green recruits losing their nerve before they've even seen real action."

Their attention shifted to the training grounds below, where soldiers were beginning to gather for the morning assembly. In the center of the formation, Max Sterling stood calmly beside the platform, seemingly unaware of the hostile glances directed his way.

"Still think your little test is a good idea?" Annie asked, nodding toward Max.

Silver's jaw tightened. "Hamilton family members need to understand they can't waltz in here expecting special treatment. If he can't handle a little pressure from the troops, he has no business being at this station."

"And if he surprises you?"

"He won't," Silver replied with more confidence than she felt. "Rich boys always crack under pressure."

But even as she said it, something about Max's composed demeanor made her wonder.

Twenty minutes later, as Max concluded his speech with the moment of silence, Silver found herself fighting back unexpected tears. The transformation in the soldiers' faces was undeniable—mockery had given way to respect, hostility to genuine admiration.

"Son of a bitch," Annie whispered beside her. "He actually did it."

Silver wiped her eyes quickly, hoping no one had noticed her emotional response. "He praised the Caldwell Combat Techniques," she said, her voice thick with surprise. "He called them... meaningful."

"Most military academics consider our techniques outdated," Annie observed. "Basic, they call them."

"But he understood," Silver continued, still processing what she'd witnessed. "He saw the discipline behind them, the tradition. He gets it."

How long has it been since someone from outside truly understood what we stand for?

"Silver?" Annie's voice carried a note of concern. "You okay?"

"I feel like shit," Silver admitted bluntly. "I set him up to fail, and instead he... God, Annie, I actually like him. Not like that," she added quickly, "but as someone who actually respects what we do here."

Later that afternoon, the physical training assessments began under the merciless desert sun. The obstacle course stretched across a quarter-mile of brutal terrain—rope climbs, wall scaling, endurance runs through sand that felt like quicksand, and combat drills that left even experienced soldiers gasping.

Max finished 34th out of 37 participants, his desert fatigues soaked with sweat, his breathing labored but steady. As he walked toward the shade, consulting his personal training notebook, the commentary from other personnel was immediate and harsh.

"Thirty-fourth place?" Sergeant Murphy laughed loudly. "My grandmother could beat that time, and she's been dead for five years."

"Maybe Hamilton money can buy you a wife, but it sure can't buy you muscle," Corporal Davis added with cruel amusement.

"Look at him scribbling in that little book," Private Jenkins sneered. "Probably writing his resignation letter."

Max continued writing, seemingly oblivious to the mockery. His notes were methodical, detailed—observations about his performance, areas for improvement, adjustments to his personal training regimen.

They can mock all they want, Max thought as he made another notation. I know where I stand, and I know where I need to go.

"Sterling!" a gruff voice called out.

Max looked up to see Sergeant Rodriguez approaching, a cold towel in his weathered hands.

"You look like hell," Rodriguez said without preamble. "Desert heat'll kill you faster than enemy fire if you're not careful."

Before Max could respond, Rodriguez pressed the towel into his hands.

"Rodriguez is right," said Corporal Williams, appearing with a pair of worn but serviceable desert boots. "Your city shoes aren't going to cut it out here. These might fit better."

Within minutes, other soldiers began approaching—some offering advice about desert survival, others providing small pieces of equipment or supplies. Their gestures were awkward, almost embarrassed, but unmistakably genuine.

"The trick is to breathe through your nose during the runs," Private Santos explained, demonstrating the technique. "Keeps your mouth from drying out completely."

"And drink water before you're thirsty, not after," added another soldier. "By the time you feel thirsty, you're already behind."

Max accepted each offering with genuine gratitude, his smile widening as the small acts of kindness accumulated.

"Thank you," he said simply, and meant it. "All of you."

Their hearts are in the right place, he realized. They might not be subtle about it, but they're good people.

"Sterling!" Silver's voice cut through the afternoon heat as she and Annie approached, both looking slightly nervous.

"Lieutenant," Max replied, standing respectfully.

"I wanted to... that is, your speech this morning was..." Silver stumbled over her words, her usual confidence replaced by something resembling vulnerability.

"What she's trying to say," Annie interjected with a knowing smile, "is that you did good, Sterling."

"The Caldwell Combat Techniques really are remarkable," Silver continued, gaining momentum. "The discipline required, the focus on fundamentals, the way they build character as much as skill—most people don't understand that they're not just fighting methods, they're a philosophy, a way of approaching conflict that prioritizes—"

"Silver," Annie said gently, placing a hand on her friend's arm. "Breathe."

Silver flushed slightly. "Sorry. I get carried away when people actually understand what we do here."

"No apology necessary," Max replied warmly. "I meant every word."

"Actually, we came to invite you to dinner," Annie said. "The Commander—Silver's father—would like to meet with you. Privately."

"I'd be honored," Max said.

As the two women turned to leave, Silver stopped abruptly.

"Actually, Sterling, one more thing. We need to..." she hesitated, glancing at Annie for support.

"We need to measure your head and hands," Annie said matter-of-factly. "For... official documentation purposes."

Max raised an eyebrow but submitted to the quick measurements, watching with amusement as Silver carefully noted the dimensions in a small notebook.

"Official documentation?" Max asked with a slight smile.

"Very official," Silver replied, not quite meeting his eyes. "Extremely important... documentation."

As they walked away, Max heard Annie's whispered comment: "Smooth as sandpaper, Silver. Real subtle."

Documentation, my ass, Max thought, chuckling to himself. But it's a kind gesture, whatever they're planning.