Staff Sergeant Belinda Watt

Belinda and Jones had lunched at a nearby restaurant to celebrate her advanced hand-to-hand combat ‘graduation.’ As they exited the restaurant, a large young man stepped in front of Belinda. “Excuse me,” she muttered reflexively and stepped aside. “No excuse necessary, Sweetheart,” he replied with a big leer on his face. “I spotted you in the restaurant and just wanted to meet you. Perhaps we could go back there and have a drink. Of course you’d want to ditch your father…” “He’s not my father, dickhead,” she said. “Now go home and tell your mommy she wants you.” “Oh, a smart-assed bitch, are you?” He grabbed her wrist to pull her up to him. In a swirl of motion, he found himself on his back, her heel pinning his face in the dirt. He was gasping for air. Startled, his three his friends started to run up to him. “Raymond, you O.K.?” one of them cried out. “That cunt sucker-punched me,” he raged, his head still pressed hard into the dirt. “Show her GalFed Troopers take no shit from no one.” With the oaf still on the ground, the three turned toward Belinda. She glanced over at Jones, who hung back, smiling. “There are only three,” he shrugged. “But call me if you need any help.” Belinda lunged low at the first one and punched the oaf to the ground with a stiff, short kick to his solar plexus leaving him gasping desperately for air. She saw the second one rush in, leading with the Frontal Assault Maneuver 2B —a rank beginner’s move! And he held his striker arm much too low! Oddly, he seemed to be attacking in slow motion. She reached over and knocked his striker arm down, then seized his throat and spun him around and down to the ground to finish him off. Instead, she gave him a light kick to the temple—enough to stun, but not—this time—enough to kill. Belinda had not mussed a hair on her head. The remaining recruit recoiled in his charge toward her. He was astonished by the rapidity with which comrades had been dispatched. “We’re going to report this to the MPs,” he bellowed. “I’m sorry,” Belinda replied, leaping forward and seizing the miscreant’s slackly waving hand. She brought him to the ground in a smooth, painful wrist twist. “I didn’t hear what you said.” “Nuthin’,” the youth bellowed, now crouched on the ground, his head pressed against the street. “I didn’t say nuthin’. We didn’t see nuthin’.” She let him up and shoved him over to aid his stricken companions. Belinda rejoined Jones. “Gee, Jonesie,” she remarked, trying not to let her growing smile of conquest show too much. “Those lessons really worked! There was nothing to it!” “Because you’re such a good student, my dear,” he said solicitously. “Now let’s go back home. I’ve got so much more to tell you.” Belinda took his hand in hers and followed compliantly. Her face was glowing with a newfound sense of deep personal satisfaction. And Jones didn’t seem nearly as awful as he used to. Maybe because she had finally realized her own mettle. In full measure.