No shit there I was, sprinting away from the GOV, shaking my head in disbelief as my buddy “Delta” nonchalantly chucked a random flash bang into the backseat.  I glanced back towards the armory as shouts of dismay and utter surprise rang out from the truck, with copious cussing thrown in for extra measure.  




Mostly everyone in the truck braced for impact or sprinted clear of the vehicle as the grenade cooked off.  But let’s start from the beginning.

The team was enjoying another day at the range.  We were a small 16-man support team that trained in small unit tactics and expeditionary skills (stuff almost taboo in the Air Force outside of Security Forces or Special Tactics AFSCs), and also ran various MOUT training/scenarios and basic weapons proficiency training.  It was a beautiful day in Colorado, but the sun had just set so things were getting somewhat chilly.

We had just finished up our course of fire and were busy loading up our gear in the GOVs to call it a day. As the guys waited for the armory to be locked up, one of our GOVs was parked right next to the armory so we could unload any remaining ammo, lock up the weapons, and get our personal gear hauled back to the barracks.  And that’s where Delta comes in.

One of the guys on the team, nicknamed “Delta” due to his proclivity for gucci gear and ardent attempts at high-speed live fire exercises, was the team wisecracker.  Now I’m not knocking on Delta whatsoever.  He’s a great friend, an awesome guy, and one I do my best to keep in touch with as we go our separate ways.  At one point we had trained together to enter the Special Tactics and Rescue pipelines until Delta decided that the path of a fighter pilot was his true calling, because “chicks dig fighter pilots” (actual quote may vary).