The woman set down her mop. She walked to the armory window and pointed at the rifle without touching it. "Barrel requires cleaning every 200 to 300 rounds, more frequently in desert environments due to sand infiltration. Bolt carrier group should be cleaned and lubricated every 500 rounds minimum. Gas tube requires inspection but not cleaning unless malfunction occurs."
"Buffer spring needs replacement every 5,000 rounds or as indicated by failure to return to battery. Magazine springs are the most common point of failure and should be rotated regularly." Park's face had gone from smug to uncertain. That was word for word from the armorer's manual.
"Anyone can memorize words," he said, but his voice had lost its edge. "You want practical demonstration?" She turned to face him directly for the first time. "Sure." Hendrickx waved at the armory sergeant.
"Get that M4 out here. Let's see what the help knows about weapon handling." The armory sergeant, a grizzled staff sergeant named Collins, who'd been quietly watching the whole exchange, hesitated. "Sir, regulations require."
"I'm aware of regulations, Sergeant. Get the weapon." Collins retrieved the M4, cleared it with practiced efficiency and locked the bolt to the rear. He placed it on the counter between them, uncomfortable with the whole situation, but unable to disobey a direct order from an admiral. The woman approached the weapon.
Her hands moved before Walsh could even process what he was seeing. Field strip. The rifle came apart in a blur of controlled motion. Upper receiver separated from lower. Bolt carrier group extracted.
Firing pin removed. Bolt broken down. Charging handle. Buffer spring. Every component laid out in perfect sequence in 11.7 seconds.
Walsh knew that time because he'd unconsciously checked his watch, 11.7 seconds. The SEAL qualification standard was 15 seconds. The special forces standard was 13.
Only Tier 1 operators consistently broke 12. She reassembled it in 10.2 seconds. The corridor had gone absolutely silent. Even Hendrickx had stopped smiling.
Lieutenant Commander James Brooks, a SEAL team instructor who just arrived for his shift, stopped dead in the corridor entrance. He'd seen that disassembly speed exactly once before in a classified briefing about Force Recon selection standards. His eyes narrowed as he studied the small woman who was calmly handing the weapon back to Sergeant Collins. "Lucky," Park finally said.
"Probably practice that party trick at home." "Want me to do it blindfolded?" She asked the question with no arrogance, no challenge, pure factual inquiry. Before anyone could respond, Colonel Marcus Davidson arrived with his inspection team, three Pentagon observers, doing their quarterly facility review. He took one look at the crowd, the disassembled weapon being reassembled, and the woman in maintenance uniform holding it, and his expression darkened.