Machine Learning (Captain Allen and DPD SWAT POV)

Veterans' Preference

Part I: The Thorn in My Side

Six months had evaporated – felt like six weeks and six years all at once. Captain Fowler, true to his word, had pushed me through the DPD's accelerated prior-service academy. It wasn't the crucible of Parris Island, thank Christ – less screaming, more lectures on penal codes and de-escalation strategies that felt counterintuitive to years of ingrained Marine Corps aggression. The structure felt familiar, yet alien; the discipline was there, but the underlying purpose was different.

What truly surprised me was the sheer volume of veterans in my cohort. Army Rangers next to Navy EOD techs, Air Force controllers trading headsets for handcuffs, and more Marine grunts than you could shake a stick at – a whole cross-section of the old life scrambling for Fowler's "mean veteran preference policy" in the face of dwindling opportunities elsewhere. A different kind of unit, maybe, but the shorthand, the dark humor, the shared language of service cut through the branch rivalries quickly.

Part of Fowler's deal included me leveraging my background to help instruct academy cadets during my own Field Training period. Working with the vets was easy; mostly just translating blue terminology over green instinct. Trying to instill tactical awareness in the civilian recruits, though – some barely old enough to shave – often felt like herding cats in a firefight. Still, seeing a few actually get it...that had been more rewarding than I'd expected. Especially one woman in particular.

But all that was prologue.

Fowler had just given the official green light: assemble the task force. My team. The real reason I'd endured the academy drills and skeptical looks from some of the brass. That old adrenaline, the sharp, pre-operation focus that I thought died somewhere in Africa surged back hard and clear. Maybe I'd started to get complacent in the routine of the last few months, a dangerous state. Now, the real challenge was here, and I remembered exactly why I'd taken this path. First order of business: find my operators. That meant tracking down six people I trusted my life with.

Easier said than done.

Pierson declined, said she was set up as an EMT in Detroit, though. I told her we'd have to catch up later. Chaplain was already a cop and didn't want to transfer out of Cleveland, but he gave me some good advice. I told them both I was proud of them for not letting their circumstances or past experiences destroy their lives, and to my surprise, they said the same thing to me, even after everything.

I took a deep breath and slung my duffle bag over my shoulder, locking my truck behind me, making my way towards the employee entrance. It was 30 minutes before my shift, just early enough in the morning to guarantee that Fowler would be extra pissed after telling him I needed even more department resources.

Snow crunched under my boots and the cold nipped at my cheeks, the wind picking up in a shallow gust, rattling bare tree limbs. Another sound carried on the wind – gravel shifting too close behind me. The whisper of synthetic fabric, carrying a distinct air of ill intent.

My neck whipped around instinctively, the duffle bag dropping from my shoulder as my hand shot out, aiming for a controlling wrist grab – combat reflexes taking over. But my grip closed on empty air. Too slow.

"Not bad." The voice was chillingly familiar, sending ice down my spine. A sharp click echoed in the cold air, and the hard press of a pistol muzzle met the base of my skull. "Stay very still. Let's avoid any...misunderstandings."

He moved smoothly beside me, the steel sliding from my head to press hard against my ribs. That's when I saw the sandy-blonde hair. The blue eyes. The tattoo of Afghanistan on his forearm.

"Thorn." I kept my voice low and level, trying to mask the surge of adrenaline. "Didn't expect to see you slumming it outside a DPD precinct."

"Always direct." A hint of amusement touched his voice, but the underlying predator remained.