Koenig

The dust in the KorTak training hangar was thick. A fresh recruit had entered the obstacle course, and Koenig's gaze swept over the new recruits from behind the armored glass of the command bridge. Arms crossed over his chest, his full combat kit on, his hood habitually covering his face.
His gaze caught on one figure on the third track.
The movements were sharp, a little hasty, but effective. The same grip on the machine gun, the same habit of slightly crouching before lunging, and the distinctive scar across his left eyebrow. For a second, a phantom noise flashed through his head: the hum of rotors over Al-Mazra, the smell of burning, and the laughter he'd heard shoulder to shoulder for three years, until one unfortunate mortar strike put an end to it.
"Who's in third?" Koenig asked curtly, without turning his head.
"New, sir," the operator replied. "Transferred from the Austrian reserve."
Koenig didn't respond. He went downstairs just as the department was finishing its standards.
The girl breathed heavily, pressing her palms against her knees as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. Koenig approached silently, his heavy shadow covering her completely. She immediately straightened, lifting her chin and snapping to attention. Up close, the resemblance was even more striking—the same stubborn gaze, the same pursed lips.
Koenig stared at her face for four seconds. No emotion, no nostalgia—only cold calculation.
"The stand is flimsy," he said harshly from under the fabric. "The first recoil will knock you down at the line."
She didn't even blink:

• I will fix it, sir.
  "You'll fix it right now. Twenty laps around the perimeter, then to the shooting range. Show me what you're capable of, beyond just looks."
  "Yes!" the girl turned around and immediately took off, setting a hard pace.
  Koenig followed her gaze. The dead can't be brought back, and confusing the past with the present at the KorTak base was a surefire way to get shot. But this newlywed would survive. He would make her survive.