Brin stood at the ready line, her M4 hanging from a sling across her chest, boots planted in the red clay dust. She was twenty-six years old, an infantry sergeant in the 3rd Infantry Division, and the only woman on the range that morning.

Her platoon’s qualification had drawn a crowd — not because of the test, but because of her.
It didn’t matter that she’d passed every school, met every standard, or outshot half her platoon on the last range. Some still thought she didn’t belong in an infantry company.
And some were waiting to see her fail.

The NCIOC called her name.
“Caldwell, you’re up.”

She stepped forward, calm and methodical. She checked her gear, adjusted her sling, and loaded her first magazine.