Chapter Seventy-Three: Training Day (Part One)

Training an elite commando squad isn’t as simple as marching a group of recruits onto the parade ground and drilling them for three months until they can march in step and fire a rifle. To become a member of the special forces, there are no shortcuts; only through a series of rigorous selections can one even hope to begin. And that’s just the initial screening—later phases of training are filled with even harsher evaluations, and those who fail to meet the standards are dismissed without hesitation.

Take the selection criteria, for instance: anyone who runs the five-kilometer cross-country with a fifteen-kilogram load in more than twenty-two minutes is out; anyone who takes over four minutes to finish the 800-meter obstacle course is out; those who can’t throw a grenade seventy meters are out; anyone who scores less than forty-eight out of fifty on five prone shots at 100 meters is out; less than forty-five out of fifty on five standing shots at 200 meters is out; less than ninety out of a hundred on ten kneeling shots at 150 meters is out; anyone who can’t complete the exercise routines on the parallel and horizontal bars is out. With so many eliminations, few soldiers make it through the selection each year. And that’s before considering the thorough background checks, educational requirements, and medical exams. Only a handful actually make it into the special forces.

Now, there were only a few dozen men coming and going, most of them air force ground personnel—frankly, not much better than the camp laborers of old armies. They could handle logistics, stand guard, and perform sentry duty, but to turn them into battle-hardened soldiers would take three to five years at least.

Back when Wei Tao was an instructor with the SWAT team, every one of his trainees was either a veteran from the field army or an elite from the police force; whether it was marching or combat, they were the best of the best. Now, as he watched the line of men stretch out thinly like a long snake after only a short run, Wei Tao and Zhao Qiang could only shake their heads in dismay.

These survivors had been greatly improved physically since their ordeal, but their potential had never been truly tapped. Even though it wasn’t too late to start now, it was certainly not early. As for Cai Jiashu and the few soldiers who had always followed Wei Tao, they were already far ahead of the ground crew, leaving them in the dust. It seemed that the first batch of commando squad members could only be chosen from these seasoned veterans.

Cai Jiashu had been holding back his frustration for a long time. Since arriving at the prison, the relatively comfortable environment had stripped away combat missions. Apart from standing sentry at the lookout tower and taking potshots at wandering zombies through the scope for some fun, there was nothing else to do. For ordinary people, a peaceful environment and an easy life were blessings, but for Cai Jiashu, addicted to killing zombies, this life was nothing short of slow suicide.

“A real man should die wrapped in his horse’s hide!” was a phrase Cai Jiashu repeated constantly. If it weren’t for Wei Tao’s strict orders forbidding wasteful use of ammunition and unauthorized departures from the prison, Cai Jiashu would have led his men out for action long ago. Frustrated as he was, orders were orders. Though reckless, Cai Jiashu was still obedient to Wei Tao’s commands—a soldier from the barracks only respects the strong. Zhao Qiang’s prowess was evident to all, and as Zhao Qiang’s mentor, Wei Tao was naturally even more formidable. The battles orchestrated by Wei Tao further cemented his authority in Cai Jiashu’s eyes, making him the undisputed leader of the group.

The orders only forbade going outside and wasting ammunition; there were no other restrictions. Cai Jiashu’s dissatisfaction was simply that he couldn’t go out and fight zombies as he pleased, and he harbored some resentment toward Zhao Qiang—that brat had left him behind to enjoy himself alone! With nowhere to vent his grievances, Cai Jiashu could only drill his own men relentlessly. After all, idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and a soldier who doesn’t train is no soldier at all. Besides, if these brats kept dragging him down, and with Wei Tao not interfering, they needed to toughen up. Otherwise, when Zhao Qiang returned, wouldn’t they be a laughingstock?

Soldiers have a strong sense of regionalism—southern and northern soldiers often don’t see eye to eye and are quick to scuffle over the smallest thing. The officers understood that letting these energetic young men blow off steam was no bad thing—as long as no weapons were drawn and no one got seriously hurt, they turned a blind eye. If things got out of hand, a round of corporal punishment and confinement usually settled it. There was also rivalry between the army and air force; neither side would back down from a fight.

In the prison, things remained cordial on the surface, but news of the tactical squad selection fired everyone up. The ground crew lost badly at the loaded cross-country, admitting their physical strength was no match for the combat troops. Hoping to reclaim some honor in the fighting ring, these men—who usually only did technical work, at best moving equipment—ended up being thoroughly beaten by Cai Jiashu’s six men. Forty or fifty ground crew members were left battered and bruised.

It wasn’t the ground crew’s fault. They spent their days handling equipment, and what little they learned in basic training was long forgotten. Pressed, they could handle a gun against shambling zombies, but against Cai Jiashu’s men, who did nothing but train every day, they stood no chance. At first, it was one-on-one; after a few punches and kicks, the ground crew was nearly beaten senseless. Even after a series of group attacks, no one could bring down Cai Jiashu. When Meng Longwei, Zhao Qiang, and Wei Tao gave the nod, the ground crew launched a full-on assault—but even then, forty or fifty men couldn’t topple the six veterans, and instead, they ended up sprawled all over the floor.

Zhao Qiang watched it all with satisfaction—these were the kind of soldiers he wanted. As for Meng Longwei, his face was so long it could have beaten a donkey’s. None of his men could hold their own; not in singles, not in groups. What a disgrace!

Wei Tao, on the other hand, wasn’t too concerned. With only a few dozen men at hand, he was glad Cai Jiashu didn’t embarrass him, but the others needed much more work. A commando squad couldn’t be trained overnight; whether it was hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, or tactics, every aspect required time. Shooting, in particular, wasn’t something that could be mastered by endlessly aiming unloaded guns.

Ammunition was a serious problem. Cai Jiashu’s men had decent marksmanship, but the ground crew needed thousands of rounds each to improve, and without good shooting skills, they’d be useless against zombies—unless you shoot a zombie in the head, every other shot is wasted. But ammunition was running low. If they used it all for training, there wouldn’t be enough for future defense; if they didn’t train, their shooting could never be reliable.

Watching his men immersed in training, Wei Tao felt as if his head was about to split in two.