Jack Boomer checked his med kit for the third time that morning. Every bandage had its place. Every syringe lined up in perfect rows. He dreamed of joining the elite Rangers, not as a fighter, but as their most trusted combat medic. The kind of medic who could save lives when bullets flew and chaos reigned. The company commander had given him a field aid pavilion just outside the main barracks. Canvas walls stretched over a simple frame. Daylight filtered through, creating a soft glow inside. Jack arranged his supplies on the metal shelves, grouping items by urgency. Trauma gear went closest to the entrance. His hands moved with purpose as he set up cots along the back wall. This would be his proving ground. Every soldier he treated here would be a step toward earning the Rangers' trust. He tested the IV stands, making sure they locked in place. Everything had to work perfectly when the wounded arrived. Jack needed to practice before real casualties showed up. The commander had arranged access to the med bay in the main facility for training. He walked across the compound, boots crunching on gravel. Inside, clean white surfaces reflected the overhead lights. A training dummy lay on the exam table, rigged with sensors to track his responses. Jack pulled on his gloves and grabbed his trauma shears. He ran through the drill. Check airway. Control bleeding. Start fluids. His hands stayed steady as he worked through each step. The timer beeped. Forty-seven seconds from entry to stabilization. He reset the dummy and started again. Next time he'd beat forty-five. After his tenth run, Jack headed to the command building. A corkboard covered most of one wall in the hallway. Military insignias pinned next to maps and tactical notes. Job postings from different companies filled the right side. He scanned the listings, looking for anything about combat medics. The Rangers posted a notice last week. They needed someone with field experience and steady hands under fire. Jack pulled the notice down and folded it into his pocket. He had his facility. He had his training routine. Now he just needed wounded soldiers to prove what he could do.

Jack stepped into the Rangers' training gym before dawn. The air smelled like rubber mats and sweat. He needed to learn how real soldiers moved under pressure. A heavy bag hung in the corner, wrapped in duct tape. He watched it sway slightly in the draft from the ventilation system. Combat medics had to understand the fight before they could save fighters. Jack circled the bag, studying the scuff marks left by hundreds of strikes. He threw a punch. His knuckles stung on impact. Pain shot up his forearm. He shook out his hand and tried again. This time he aimed lower and followed through. The bag rocked back. He needed strong hands to drag wounded men to safety. After an hour, Jack headed to the reinforced military medical school on the north end of the compound. The building stood three stories tall with concrete walls and narrow windows. Inside, the training rooms simulated real battlefield conditions. Smoke machines filled the corridors. Speakers blasted recorded gunfire and explosions. Jack entered the trauma bay and found a training instructor waiting. The man pointed to a dummy on the floor. "You've got incoming," he shouted over the noise. Jack dropped to his knees and started his assessment. His hands moved through the steps while the floor vibrated from simulated blasts. The smoke burned his eyes, but he kept working. Outside the school, Jack found a metal storage cabinet bolted to the wall. He opened the glass doors and examined the shelves inside. This would hold his backup supplies. He loaded extra bandages, splints, and tourniquets onto each level. Everything had its place. He organized the items so he could grab what he needed without looking. Next to the cabinet stood a wash station with a foot pump and a basin. Jack tested it, pressing the pedal until water flowed. Clean hands meant clean wounds. He scrubbed his palms and watched the water drain away. Out here, he could treat multiple patients and stay ready for the next one. Jack walked back to his field pavilion as the sun rose. His knuckles still ached from the heavy bag. His lungs still felt tight from the smoke room. But he understood more now. Combat medics worked in chaos. They had to stay calm when everything around them exploded. He checked his supplies one more time, then sat on the edge of a cot. The Rangers would test him soon. When they did, he'd be ready.