The Shot

By Don Knighthouse

Part One of ‘The Shot’ trilogy: A duo of terrorist masterminds are captured overseas and brought to Washington DC for interrogation. Everything is proceeding normally with the prisoner transfer until one of the terrorists tries to escape and a military police sniper is ordered to shoot him. That one shot sets in motion a series of events that change the MP’s life and that of all of his loved ones forever as their lives are plunged into a cauldron of political intrigue and a worldwide web of terror.

In a race against time, the young Marine MP and a grizzled veteran federal agent must try to save the lives of innocent friends and co-workers that are inadvertently caught in the crosshairs of an elaborate terrorist cartel that operates uninhibited around the world. In the process, the team uncovers the terror group’s plans for world conquest.

Can the MP and the federal agent save their friends and families after they are marked for death? Will they be able to figure out the plans of the huge terror organization before it’s too late to stop them?

‘The Shot’ kicks off this intense spy thriller trilogy with an explosive BANG and never takes its foot off the accelerator! Once you pick it up, you’ll not be able to put it down!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Knighthouse
• Release date: Feb 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370209019

Don Knighthouse

Marine Veteran, Author, Martial Artist, history enthusiast, competitive & recreational shooter.

Book preview

The Shot

By Don Knighthouse

Published by Don Knighthouse

Copyright 2016 by Don Knighthouse

Smashwords Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

BONUS: Excerpt from Ricochet

About Don Knighthouse

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Chapter 1

Alpha 1-7, came out over the radio in the Marine MP’s patrol car. The patrolman’s radio was only slightly louder than the car stereo, playing something from the local radio station's top-40 Country music hits. The Marine sergeant reached up to the handheld microphone, affixed to the collar of his camouflage utility uniform to signal back to his communications center:

Send it, he replied.

1-7, proceed to NATCC, priority Code 2. How copy?

The Marine looked quizzically at the radio. Wonder why they want me running ‘lights’ back to the Center?

10-4 Comm Center. 1-7 out.

The Sergeant reached over and pressed the button that activated the red-and-blue emergency light bar on the top of his patrol car. Code 2 meant lights and only to use the siren if needed at intersections and heavy traffic use areas. Regardless, even with lights and sirens it still meant being extremely cautious at intersections, where drivers coming from other directions weren’t looking for you. Almost immediately, the traffic began to move off to the side of the road, making space for the military police vehicle. Accelerating cautiously, he kept his eye on the traffic because his increased rate of speed would mean shorter reaction times, both for him and for other drivers.

He was on the west side of the base, while the Naval Air Traffic Control Center; Joint Base Andrews, which was also the command center for his military police unit, was on the east side. It would be a few extra minutes before he’d get there.

1-7, further information—Alpha 1-1 requests you meet him on the quarterdeck, came further instructions from the dispatcher.

10-4. ETA 5 mikes, Sergeant Jacob Murphy said as he smiled to himself. He really loved being a Marine. He really loved being a cop. Being a Marine MP was like having his cake and eating it, too.

Soon enough, he arrived back at the NATCC, where Murphy pulled the squad car into the crowded parking lot. As he proceeded to the designated parking area for government vehicles, he noted that there was several black SUV’s and sedans parked at the front of the building, replete with their black-tinted windows. Murphy found an opening in the parking area and pulled the patrol car into it. Exiting the car, he ran past them and headed straight for the glass double doors of the main entrance at the Naval Air Traffic Control Center.

Pushing his way through the first set of doors, into the foyer and past the second set of glass doors, Murphy was taken aback with the scene that greeted him at the quarterdeck. Two men in black suits, complete with dark ties and sunglasses, stood in the center of the quarterdeck—one was short, bespectacled and the other was tall and darkly tanned. As if on cue, their glance snapped in Murphy’s direction the moment he came through the interior set of double doors. The highly trained Marine MP noted that one of the men reflexively reached with his right hand up toward the inside left opening flap of his suit jacket. He’s armed, Murphy thought to himself. And so is Mr. Dark Suit #2.

Murphy, report to the squad room…double time! The Skipper’s getting ready to brief us.

The order came from a lean, square-jawed Marine Staff Sergeant Kristoffersen from across the quarterdeck. Kristoffersen was standing in the armory doorway, which was a bit unusual, Murphy thought, because it wasn’t shift change for the Alpha and Bravo shifts. Obeying his instructions, Murphy hustled past the dark suits across the quarterdeck and down the corridor on the left, through a set of double wooden doors, and then down that hall to the squad room.

Greeting Murphy was a salty-looking fellow dressed in business-casual civilian attire—Special Agent Ward—the NCIS agent assigned to the Naval Air Facility here at Andrews. Ward was a former Marine that had seen combat duty in Beirut with the Eighth Marines. He was battle-tested and cool under pressure. Murphy liked him, trusted him. Ward was chatting with another NCO—Sergeant Trufant—and one of the enlisted Marines, Lance Corporal Pulczeski.

All right, move it all the way to the back ‘cuz it’s gonna be crowded here, right quick. Staff Sergeant Kristoffersen’s command voice bellowed as he approached the squad room. Dutifully, Murphy complied, followed by Trufant and Pulczeski. Taking their place in the back of the squad room they leaned on the stacks of cardboard banker’s boxes filled with paperwork: Old parking tickets, traffic accident reports, incident reports, you name it. The boxes were stacked four high along the back wall, acting as a ‘catch all’ for the Marines’ random gear, newspapers, and a few Sports Illustrated magazines.

The squad room used to be the old cafeteria. When the Navy decided to renovate and expand the Air Traffic Control Center, they handed over the café keys to the MP’s for use as their squad room/break room/whatever room. It still retained two rows of long folding tables, lined on each side with the requisite metal folding chairs. A counter top at the front of the room, adjacent to the doorway, held the microwave, coffee maker, and small refrigerator. It was sparse, to be sure. But, then again, the Navy wasn't about to go too far out of its way for the Marine MP’s that made up the Naval Air Facility’s contingent of law enforcement and flight line security personnel.

Into this room poured more bodies—Sergeant McIlvaine, followed closely by Gunnery Sergeant Moultrie. Behind the Gunny came Lance Corporal Martinez and Corporal Willard, two of Murphy’s good friends. The last NCO through the door was Corporal Adahy, another of Murphy’s friends. Adahy normally wasn’t a part of Alpha squad because his normal shift was Charlie squad—third shift. As predicted, the small room was packed with Marines and suited federal agents. Hushed conversations broke out throughout the room as to the significance of this impromptu all hands meeting. Conversation ceased with the arrival of Captain Horrigan, the unit’s commanding officer. Accompanying him were even more ‘suits’ who stood along the front of the room, staring back at the Marines.

Okay, Marines, lock it up! barked Gunny Moultrie in his deep southern Louisiana Cajun drawl. As the conversation abruptly ended, the Gunnery Sergeant directed their attention over towards the CO, Captain Horrigan.

Alright, Devil Dogs, we’ve got a hot one for you, a Priority One operation. I’m going to hand the rest of the briefing over to Agent Griffin, he’s with the State Department. You will give him your undivided attention. This is the real-deal gents, so listen up!

Captain Horrigan motioned toward the door just as another business suit-clad man stepped through the door opening, or ‘hatch’ as it is commonly called in the Marine Corps and Navy. He pulled the door closed behind himself and stood front-and-center before the Marines. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a grizzled outer appearance with salt-and-pepper, thinning hair. He looked to be fairly stout; and plainly, he didn’t look like the typical doughy ‘cubicle commando’ that the Marines had become accustomed to meeting whenever they interacted with federal agents. Marines in Murphy’s unit had found that feds either came as the short-and-dumpy types or they were the tall-slender-collegiate types. Either way, they always came festooned in the latest attire from the local men’s clothier. This Griffin fellow, noted Murphy, was different. His demeanor was one of a veteran agent who’d seen action, lots of it. Either way, his voice was direct and commanding.

Marines, we have a military flight coming in to Andrews in approximately… Griffin glanced at his watch, …in approximately 30 minutes. And on this cargo plane are two very high value, top priority persons-of-interest to the State Department. The plane has been diverted last minute to land on the Navy side of the air base. This comment was met with some muffled comments and murmuring by the Marines.

Staff Sergeant Kristoffersen spoke up, expressing what everyone in the room was already thinking: Sir, if I may ask—why bring these high value targets to our facility? The Air Force side of Andrews has much better facilities for receiving them, they’re geared for handling this sort of thing.

Griffin cleared his throat, We have received credible information that this mission intel was leaked out to the press… The agent’s body language belied his disgust in having to confess such a thing as a mission as important as this being possibly compromised by an internal leak. Composing himself, Griffin continued, "Regardless, we have bingo’d the flight to the Navy side of the air base. This is Secret intel, Marines, and your CO has assured me that every one of you has the appropriate clearance to be included in this op. Your track record working with high-level VIP’s has demonstrated your proficiency for this work.

These two individuals are extremely valuable to the State Department and we cannot afford anything happening to cause this mission to go sideways, understood? So we have diverted the flight here. All State needs from you is perimeter security at the flight line and immediate traffic control. We’ve got the reception committee all taken care of. Once the bird comes to rest out on the tarmac, State Department agents will take the individuals into custody and transport them off the base.

Agent Griffin searched the faces of the Marines in the room and he could tell that these jarheads were professionals, that was plain enough. All of his past dealings with Marines at US embassies worldwide had shown him that this operation was in good hands.

Any questions? Griffin inquired. No hands. No questions. Everyone looked as if they’d done this sort of thing a thousand times before. Good! Your CO is going to divvy up the assignments and posts in establishing the perimeter security.

As Griffin handed the meeting over, the Marines began to whisper amongst themselves concerning this important assignment.

At ease, Marines! blurted Gunny Moultrie. Captain Horrigan and I have laid out the following assignments. Switch all your radios to Tac-2. We’ll do a radio check 10 mikes out from touch down. Gunny pulled out a small notebook whereupon he had written the radio call signs. He called out, McIlvaine!

Yo! replied Sergeant McIlvaine.

Mack, you got the south edge of the tarmac area, next to the Navy hangar. You’ll be in your squad car. You’re sign is Mobile One. Subdued laughter ensued, obviously, the ad hoc call signs drew their derisive humor.

Close your pie holes! bellowed Gunny. Sergeant Trufant, you are in a car as well, stationed along the north extension of the tarmac along the Air Force Logistics Command hangar line. Nothing comes down the tarmac from that area, understand? Nothing. You're Mobile Two.

Aye aye, Gunny, acknowledged Trufant, Mobile Two. Sergeant Trufant was probably the most laid back of all the Marine MP’s represented in the squad room and, like Gunny Moultrie, was from Louisiana, but he hailed from New Orleans, so his Southern drawl was not nearly as pronounced.

Staff Sergeant Kristoffersen, you and I will be securing the NATCC, specifically the quarterdeck area. All exterior hatches will be locked. No one in, no one out! Gunny continued, ‘Our calls are Quebec One, pointing to himself, and Quebec Two."

Gunny continued, Lance Corporal Pulczeski, you have the gate entrance to the tarmac. You will have a State Department agent with you to assist. No one in or out unless it is a State Department ride, got it? Your call sign is Golf One.

Roger that, Gunny! Pulczeski said.

Willard and Martinez, you have traffic control out at the main driveway and Perimeter Road. Once the motorcade clears the gate, stop all traffic in both directions. Leave plenty of room for the vehicles to go either left or right, depending on the egress route that they opt to take. The two Marines nodded affirmation of their assignment.

The XO, First Lieutenant Howa, will be in the Control Tower, in direct communication with the bird. His call sign is Control Two. The CO is going to be working directly with Agents Griffin and Ward. Skipper’s sign is Control One. Agent Ward is Navy One and Agent Griffin is Eagle One. The Gunny noted with pride that all of the Marines were hastily scribbling down the signs in their patrol notebooks.

As Gunny finished his last statement, all eyes landed on Murphy. He couldn’t help but notice, as did everyone else in the room, that he hadn’t been given any assignment yet. He braced himself for the worst…

Murphy, you’re the designated marksman. You’ve got overwatch, providing mission security. Your post is on the roof of the NATCC. Your call sign is Eagle Two. Report to the armory immediately following this briefing to draw your rifle.

Gunny continued, Very good everyone, now get to your positions. Perform a security sweep of your areas. The bird will be in the nest in approximately 25 mikes. Set your radios. We’ll do a comm check in 15. Let’s move!

There was the general mumbling and light joking about their assignments and call signs. The sound of chairs being shuffled across cheap asbestos tiled flooring and tables sliding out of position filled the room as the Marines and business-suited agents filed out, heading off to their assigned duties.

Murphy, don’t go anywhere, stated Captain Horrigan flatly. Have a seat, we need to give you some more details regarding your assignment.

The CO motioned him toward a chair at the tables in front of the room, where he and Agents Griffin and Ward also stood. Murphy moved up front and sat in the chair directly in front of the Skipper and the agents. Murphy pulled out his small spiral note pad out of the right breast pocket of his desert digital Marpat camouflage utility blouse, and flipped it open to the nearest blank page. Pulling out a pen, he prepared to take additional notes on the agent’s instructions.

Put that away, said Griffin. Nothing I am about to tell you is to be written or recorded in any way, understand? With a quick glance at the hatch, Horrigan walked over and shut the door to prevent anyone standing in the hallway from hearing what was coming next.

Murphy looked up at Griffin, then he glanced over at his CO, who nodded in affirmation. Murphy complied and shoved the notepad back into his pocket.

Griffin explained, "These two high value individuals are some bad hombres, understand? As the sharpshooter providing cover, if anything goes sideways on the ground, if either one of those two hombres, or both of them, whatever…if they break free and make a run for it, I am hereby authorizing you to shoot on my command or on the command of your CO. Do you understand?"

Murphy stared up at the agent, incredulous. Did he just tell me to shoot somebody, just because he says so? Sergeant Murphy's mind was racing. He was trained to obey orders unquestioningly. However, those orders that he was to obey were to be lawful orders, orders that dealt with complying lawfully to the Constitution of the United States of America, and orders that lined up with the UCMJ—the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Murphy had more trigger time in Iraq than he cared to recollect, so that wasn’t the issue. But even in Iraq and Afghanistan, US forces still had to follow the ROE or Rules Of Engagement. Shooting some random guy because a suit from inside the Beltway said so, well, that had all the makings of trouble.

Sergeant Murphy, is there a problem? inquired Captain Horrigan.

Sir, request permission to speak freely, replied Murphy.

Granted, replied Horrigan.

Sir, if I'm going to be ordered to whack somebody, I’d like to know what this is all about sir.

The captain started to fashion his reply when Agent Griffin cut him off, That’s a fair request, Sergeant Murphy. You take this very seriously…I like that. This is ‘need-to-know, privileged’ information, you understand? Murphy nodded. Griffin continued, "These two high value individuals are two upper-echelon leaders in the Al-Qaeda network. They’re brothers. They’ve worked with bin Laden and some of the heavies from Al-Qaeda. After the Navy Seals bagged bin Laden, we found documents that pointed to the importance of these two brothers who had links to terror plots all around the world. We knew of them, but we didn't really know them. These two just aren’t your run-of-the-mill bad guys. These two have a penchant for planning, preparing, and executing major terrorist operations. Once the CIA and NSA started poring over the mountains of evidence we found at bin Laden’s compound we began to see these two hajjis have got the juice for pulling off major op’s all over the world. They’re fearless, cunning, and evil. They were close to bin Laden and many of the higher-up’s in Al- Qaeda. Word has it that they are forging deep connections with ISIS as well. Because they have worked with just about every leader, middle-manager, and even some of the boots on the ground in Al-Qaeda, that puts them in the know of the ‘whose-who-and-what’s-coming-next’ department. That means if we can squeeze them for information, we could get ahead of what the network is up to next.

Well, two days ago, we got lucky, Griffin said as he snapped his fingers for emphasis. We bagged both of them conducting reconnaissance around our embassy in Rome. Marines snagged the duo while they were trying to scope out the embassy security. This is like catching Al-Qaeda’s brain trust and this will put their operations, and maybe even ISIS’s, back months, maybe even a year or better. This is one of the biggest grabs yet, and we are trying to take every precaution to make sure we can squeeze them for all the intel we can. With that, Griffin leaned back onto the countertop of the cafeteria’s countertop and crossed his arms, satisfied that he had assuaged Murphy's misgivings.

Murphy smirked. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his own arms, mimicking the federal agent’s body language. Murphy queried the agent, "So that is why State has these two in custody and not Interpol or the FBI or the CIA, because the Marines caught them at the embassy?"

Griffin nodded uneasily. He definitely didn’t like this cocky Marine asking so many questions. And, judging from the Captain’s body language, he didn’t like it either.

Why not ship them to Gitmo, where they have all the right hotel accommodations? asked Murphy.

That is not your concern Marine! retorted Captain Horrigan. Your job is to be the overwatch from the rooftop, got it?

Aye, aye Sir. But, if I may ask one more question of Agent Griffin pertaining to my assignment.

The middle-aged Marine officer nodded his assent.

Murphy, clearly sensing this important assignment he was given, juxtaposed the important question: What do these ‘high value individuals’ look like, should you order me to shoot one of them?

At that, Griffin nodded and reached into his suit jacket pocket. Producing his smart phone, he pulled up two photographs of the ‘brothers grim.’ The older one we'll call Tango One, the younger brother we’ll call Tango Two.

Murphy stared intently at the photographs, small as they were on the scratched screen of the agent's mobile phone. The older terrorist—Tango One—looked to be in his late 30’s, had a well-trimmed beard, and he possessed the polished look of a business professional, an engineer, maybe even a doctor. Tango Two, the younger of the tandem, appeared to be in his late 20’s, clean-shaven, handsome, with a sly, smirk of a smile. Both of these men looked more like well-to-do Middle Eastern men than terrorist masterminds.

Murphy looked up from the pictures, If this was such a big deal, how did this get leaked to the press? If opsec was so tight, who screwed the pooch on this one?

Horrigan looked as if he was going to blow a gasket right on the spot. Griffin's face briefly flushed with anger but he quickly tamped it down with his best poker face. Who does this punk Marine think he is, questioning me, questioning the State Department?

Griffin nodded assent to the Sergeant’s inquisition, Yes, well, there is that little matter of compromised operational security that we’ll address internally at State. But that’s State’s concern, not yours. You have your mission and your orders. Any more questions, Sergeant?

No sir. Murphy's gaze never left Agent Griffin's eyes. Locked in, he peered into the agent’s eyes as if his life depended on what dwelt behind those cold blue orbs. Murphy had been taught by his parents that the eyes are the windows to the soul. This made him stare at Griffin’s eyes, to try and drill down into Griffin’s very soul, if it were possible. He needed to know if this Agent Griffin could be trusted because, upon his orders, he may have to take another human being’s life.

Murphy shrugged away his concerns. What's the big deal? I'm a United States Marine. It ain’t nothing but a thing…it’s just a simple prisoner transfer.

Murphy stood, nodded an agreement to Agent Griffin and the Skipper, and proceeded out of the squad room to head back down the hall toward the quarterdeck. Murphy spun back to the CO. One last question, sir. What’s my weapons status prior to arrival of the package?" asked Murphy.

Red Con One, Horrigan answered while shooting a glance toward Agent Griffin. Griffin nodded approvingly. Murphy noted the CO’s instruction with a nod. Cocked-and-locked with a round in the chamber, noted Murphy mentally.

Murphy about-faced and headed down the hall for the armory. His operational instructions were on his mind and, on the surface, it appeared that between the feds and his CO that they had all the bases covered. Nevertheless, Murphy’s gut began to churn, just like he used to experience just before going out of the wire on a patrol or convoy escort. He couldn’t escape thinking that this was the feeling he’d get just before a mission went sideways.

He prayed to God that this little op wouldn’t be one of those times.

Chapter 2

The armory was on the other side of the quarterdeck and that is where Murphy would have to draw his rifle from before heading up to the roof. As he made his way down the hall, he set his radio channel dial to 2 so as to match up with everyone else on this assignment. He could already hear traffic on the channel as Marines and agents were checking in. The outside door was open and, proceeding through the initial sign-in area, he saw that the armory’s vault door was open. Peering inside, he saw Staff Sergeant Kristoffersen writing on the armory’s weapon sign-out log book.

Ready, Marine? quizzed Kristoffersen.

OooRaaahhh, Staff Sergeant. I was born ready! replied Murphy enthusiastically.

The middle-aged staff NCO smiled back, Get some, Devil Dog. And with that, he produced the rifle that Murphy was to be issued for this assignment as the designated marksman: A Springfield Armory M14 7.62 x 51mm rifle topped off with an M8541 Scout Sniper Day Scope. Kristoffersen racked the rifle’s bolt to the rear, locking it open. He handed the rifle to Murphy, who did a quick safety inspection to ensure that there wasn’t any round in the chamber. Murphy knew it was a moot point to check it again, but weapons safety had been drummed into their heads since Boot Camp at Parris Island.

Serial number? barked Kristoffersen, as he double-checked the ledger.

Murphy looked down at the heel of the rifle’s steel receiver and recited back the eight digit serial number stamped on it. Kristoffersen handed him three 20-round box magazines, already loaded with 7.62 full metal jacketed ball ammunition.

What’s the round count, Kris? Murphy asked as he stuffed one magazine in each of his cammie trouser cargo pockets.

Twenty rounds each, for a total of 60 rounds. Counted ‘em and loaded ‘em myself! Don’t you trust me, Murph? With that, Kristoffersen handed him the ledger and Murphy signed the log book.

If you say it is so, then its good-to-go, Staff Sergeant of Marines! Murphy said jokingly.

Murphy and Kristoffersen had been down this road before—both had served together in the same MP unit in Iraq. Kris was a sergeant, Murphy a lance corporal then, but both had spent many days in the scorching heat of ‘The Sandbox.’

Murphy exited the armory with the third mag clutched in his hand as Kristoffersen stepped out and closed the safe vault door and locked it behind him.

Let’s get you situated in the nest, Kristoffersen said as he walked past Murphy and out of the armory. The two Marines walked across the quarterdeck and turned left, just past the double doors of the main entrance. Up two flights of stairs and, at the 3rd floor landing, there rose up a vertical metal ship's ladder that disappeared into a dark tunnel above the ceiling. Kristoffersen proceeded up the ladder until he was fully up inside the darkened tunnel. Murphy heard him fumble with the keys, and then some metal clinking-clunking sound as the staff sergeant manipulated the padlock. Then with a sound almost like a vacuum seal being broken on a vault, Murphy heard the hatch pop open and a sudden beam of sunlight shot down through the previously shrouded tunnel. Kristoffersen came down the ladder, panting from the exertion of lifting the heavy hatch door.

Here, you go up and I’ll hand you the rifle, proffered Kristoffersen. It’s already heating up out there, he said as he held out his hand for Murphy’s rifle.

Thanks Kris, Murphy handed him the rifle. Murphy stuffed the magazine that he held into his nylon police duty belt. His duty rig was already fully loaded with his level-3 security holster containing his Beretta M9 9mm standard issue sidearm. Add the hand cuffs, flashlight, OC spray, Taser, and a telescoping, collapsible steel baton, it meant his duty rig was plenty heavy. Nonetheless, Murphy ascended the ladder easily. The sun was bright and hot and the asphalt roof, covered with pea gravel, was getting even hotter.

Murphy called down through the open roof hatch. Kristoffersen climbed up and handed Murphy the rifle, butt stock first. Taking the rifle, he thanked him and turned to head over to find a suitable overwatch position from which he could adequately cover the entire tarmac area with any supporting fire he may need to provide. Murphy noted the heat and wiped a few droplets of sweat from his brow.

Kristoffersen chuckled, Look on the bright side, Murph, this is nothing compared to the oven we used to call ‘home’ over in ‘The Sandbox.’

Murphy turned and saw a broad smile on the staff sergeant’s face as he clung to the roof hatch’s edge to support himself. Murphy knew Kris well: Whenever he was nervous he would overcompensate on the sunshine, trying to keep everything loose with his humor and optimism. He had seen that a hundred times before. That is one reason why he worked so well with him. Murphy was intense and focused just before a mission or a patrol. Kristoffersen was a great one to offset the seriousness with a little mirth.

Murphy laughed, Yeah, but it was a dry heat.

Both Marines smiled as they recounted some of the good times and good Marines that they had shared in their common hellhole called Iraq. Good times were few there. Good Marines were everywhere. Many, he thought, met their untimely end there. Murphy’s smile dimmed as faces of buddies that he lost over there in those sweat-soaked, anxious, frustrating months began to press their ghostly images onto the forefront of his consciousness. How many had he lost on his first tour? Six? Seven? And on his second pump? Twelve? No, it was higher than that…it was more like…

Murph, we’re good, right? asked the staff sergeant, trying to sound unfazed by the look on Murphy’s face, but his wrinkled brow belied his concern for his friend.

Snapping from his revelry, Murphy blinked once and then nodded and smiled to his superior. It’s all good, Kris.

Murphy spun away from the hatch and headed for the west edge of the NATCC roof. Surveying the tarmac from multiple positions was key. The tarmac apron was adjacent to the NATCC and that was where the aircraft would eventually park to disgorge its nefarious occupants. The south edge of the NATCC afforded a good field of fire to all areas of the apron, but it didn't allow him to cover the small wooded patch that separated the Navy flight line from the Air Force’s flight line just north of the NATCC. Sergeant Trufant was going to be up on the tarmac that joined the two, but he would not have a good view of anyone that got to those woods. Murphy surveyed the west side of the NATCC. It obscured the south gate area, where the State Department vehicles were coming in from, but he could see the tarmac and the wooded area exceptionally well. Even though the south gate was going to be guarded by Pulczeski and another State Department agent, he didn’t like not being able to see the end of the Navy hangar facing the tarmac apron. There were several access and egress doors to the hanger on the end. If a bad guy made it into one of those hangars, it could take a while to root him out.

Kristoffersen reached up to pull the hatch lid down as he began to descend the steel ladder that he had been precariously perched upon. He paused before bringing the hatch all the way closed. He took a long glance at his fellow Marine and good friend. He had seen this kid do this drill a hundred times if he had done it once. Over in The Sandbox, Murphy was the DM there, too. He had proved his deadly prowess with a rifle, not only because of his Rifle Expert scores on the rifle range—which he had earned six times—but most importantly, he had honed those skills to a fine edge in the suffocating cauldron of Iraq. His cool-headed, steely resolve and cunning hunter-like demeanor was proved time and again when it mattered most—when lives were on the line and every shot counted. Murphy had saved many Marines, and other friendlies, while in country when he utilized his skills with the shooting steel. Whether it was an M16 rifle, an M14, an M40 sniper rifle, or even his M9 pistol, Murphy was a crack shot; but what was more, he possessed the calculating coolness of an old Western gunfighter. Kristoffersen closed the hatch tightly shut and clambered down the ladder to head off to his assigned post on the quarterdeck.

Angels Twelve Five Niner inbound and on deck in one five minutes. Repeat, Angels Twelve Five Niner will be wheels down in 15 mikes. The voice in the radio was that of the MP’s executive officer, First Lieutenant Howa. He was situated in the control tower on the NATCC’s third floor. It really wasn’t a tower per se, it was like a flight operations center. The actual base tower was located over on the Air Force side, or the west side, of the base. The radio crackled again, How copy, Control One and Eagle One?

That’s a solid copy, Control Two, came the CO’s voice. Quebec One, Quebec Two, secure the NATCC and perform your radio checks. Make sure we’re up-and-up. Control One out.

Murphy busied himself with his hide location. He finally settled on a location almost midway down the long axis of the west parapet wall. The low parapet wall was only about 8" high, but it would afford a solid embrasure for his rifle should he need to use it. One by one each post checked in with Gunny, until it came to Murphy.

Quebec One, Quebec One, this is Eagle Two, radio check, how copy, over? Murphy waited for only a moment when he heard Gunny’s voice, Eagle Two, this is Quebec One, you are coming in lima-charlie, over.

Eagle Two, Control One, over. Murphy signaled back with, Control One, Eagle Two…

Eagle Two, are you in the nest, over? was the CO’s inquiry.

Affirmative, Control One, Murphy responded.

Eagle Two, while in the nest you will receive commands from Eagle One and myself only. How do you copy?

Control One, this is Eagle Two…solid copy. I receive instructions only from you and Eagle One. Over.

Horrigan couldn’t help but feel proud about his Marines. The State Department had just showed up with this security detail for them only little more than 45 minutes ago. With this critical assignment his men had just been given, their dedication and professionalism showed that they were up to the challenge. Horrigan smiled to himself: Why should I have any concerns? These hard-chargers guard the President of the United States, so what’s a few terrorists?

Yes, his Marines were up for any challenge. Especially Murphy. He was the DM for the unit because, at the range, he simply out-shot everybody. He was just a natural with a rifle. Every Marine is a rifleman. But some Marines are just incredibly lethal with a rifle. Murphy was one of those Marines. The only thing that he was better at was being a cop. He excelled at every aspect of his patrol duties. He wished he had more Marines like Sergeant Murphy. He was preparing to re-enlist again and Horrigan hoped that he’d be staying on at the Provost Marshall Office unit at the Naval Air Facility detachment.

Control One, Eagle One, this is Control Two. Angels Twelve Five Niner inbound and on deck in one zero minutes. Repeat, Angels Twelve Five Niner will be wheels down in ten mikes.

Roger that, Control Two. All units, this is Control One: Clear the net. I repeat, clear this freq. Eagle One, this is Control One, all units are in position and have rogered up. Eagle One, you have the ball, over.

Control One, this is Eagle One, I have the ball.

Murphy settled down into a solid prone position on the rooftop. The roof surface was made up of pea gravel embedded in black asphalt tar. As the late spring mid-morning sun was nearing its apex in the sky over the NATCC, the roof surface temperature was rising quickly. Murphy rolled down the sleeves of his cammies. He pulled the brim of his 8-sided cammie cover to shield his eyes from the sun beaming almost directly above him. Doggone tar better not ruin my cammies, Murphy thought to himself as he surveyed the scene below him again.

Glare shouldn’t be a problem at this time of day, he thought to himself. Being higher than his target would mean that he’d have to aim slightly lower on the target than he would if he was on the same elevation as the target. The heat waves coming off the tarmac shouldn’t be a problem, Murphy thought, because the distances will be close. On that note, he looked at the scope’s variable magnification to make sure it was turned down to its lowest setting: 3X. The longest shot he’d be looking at today was 300 yards, and that would be clean over by the far corner of the wood lot where Mobile Two was posted. Murphy remembered that he kept his ‘dope’ chart in the storage compartment of the rifle’s butt stock. The M14 has a small compartment in the stock to store cleaning gear. Murphy had slimmed the cleaning kit down a bit so as to allow a small 3 x 5 card, rolled up like a scroll, to be hidden in with the cleaning kit. On this dope chart, Murphy had placed all of his elevation adjustments for his sights for ranges out to 800 yards. He checked his chart on the card and then checked the settings on the scope. After a couple of minor adjustments, he was confident it was ready.

He took the rifle sling’s rear clip off of the sling loop on the rifle’s butt stock. Quickly adjusting the sling into a loop, he thrust his left arm into the loop until the loop was up past his bicep. Using the sling lock, he adjusted the loop down until it was gently gripping his bicep, he serpentined his arm around the sling until it tightened down snugly, providing a solid shooting stabilizer. Murphy found the safety, clicked it back into the trigger guard, rendering the weapon safe. Once this was done, Murphy inserted a magazine of 20 rounds into the mag well of the rifle. With his right hand, he grasped the operating rod's handle to the rear and carefully racked the first round out of the magazine and into the rifle’s chamber. He didn’t let the bolt slam home so as to avoid a slam-fire negligent discharge that can commonly happen with the M14. Now, the rifle was Red Con One—locked and loaded, hot—and, given the rising temperature of this roof, so was he.

All units, this is Eagle One…we have a visual on Angels Twelve Five Niner. Angels Twelve Five Niner is on approach. All units stand-by. Murphy smiled to himself. Feds, he thought, they sure do like to play on the radio.

Murphy looked toward the south end of the east runway. He could just make out the exhaust trails and faint, thin silhouette of a four-engine cargo plane. He studied the shape of the aircraft as it grew larger with every second. In another moment he recognized the familiar outline of a C-130 Hercules.

The Herc approached the runway from the south. With circular halo’s of water vapor from the humidity spinning off of the propeller tips of the four turbo-prop engines, the wheels touched down on Andrews Air Force Base’s east runway—the Navy runway—exactly opposite of where the press hounds were expecting it to land. While news crews were