Under Every Rock

By Mark Eibert

Based on the true account of Jason Lightfoot, who worked in the behind the scenes intelligence gathering for the past twenty-six years. Jason takes you through his training, and overseas operations in the first part of his career. When the nineteen Islamic terrorists hijacked and flew those four commercial passenger jets into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and crashed the fourth one into a Pennsylvania field, killing three thousand innocent people, his world changes.

Jason has his own methods of interrogating, finding and eliminating the mujahideen that are located on American, Mexican, and Canadian soil. Jasons home base is one of the most secure facilities in the United States. Everything Jason needs is at his disposal, and he uses it all to his advantage over the hidden terrorists cells located in the United States. Whether you agree with Jasons methods or not, his results cant be argued.

Jason has been involved in the most secretive operations against extremists and terrorism, abroad and on American soil. He has assumed numerous identities in his lengthy career, and is fluent in six languages.

At 56, he has endured the most extreme training available and maintains a strenuous training regime daily. He continues traveling overseas and in the USA.

Jason lives in Las Vegas and works out of an unknown location in the Nevada desert.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 16, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465321206

Mark Eibert

Mark Eibert has been involved in numerous black ops against extremists and terrorists abroad and on American soil. He is fluent in six languages and has used over thirty different identities in his lengthy twenty-six year career in the intelligence community. When he is not working and traveling overseas and in the U.S. he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He is the author of a self-published book, Under Every Rock which describes his life and exploits in the intelligence field.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was 3:35am on a brightly lit morning in May 2008. Just as I had planned, it was a full moon. I was setting in an outcrop of rocks, just above the town of Agua Prieta, a little Mexican border town, just across the border to Douglas, Arizona. Next to me was my Mexican informant, Juan. I kept one eye on the shack and road below, while I kept the other on Juan. Even though Juan had never let me down, and his information was always right on. I had worked with Juan for three years now, but in this business you never trust anyone. We all have our own agenda, and Juan being no different, could choose at any moment to exercise his.

This morning my agenda was to do away with a man I have been trying to track down for six months now. His name was Alcario Ramirez. I had just learned his location and travel area last night, from another contact that I had talked with in Seattle. And this is the way that I work. Turn one rock over and three more bugs crawls out. I was looking for the biggest roach.

Alcario was very important to me because he was a friend to one of the biggest drug lords in Mexico. With the drug cartels money and contacts, he was able to smuggle Iranian and Saudi terrorist across the US border. This was not something that I was willing to live with.

I had just finished setting up the tripod to my Sako TRG-42 308 sniper rifle. The latest, and the best equipment, that was easily at my disposal. After all why not use the best when the terrorist were paying for it. I usually didn’t like to take out my target this way, usually preferring a more accidental method but tonight I had no choice. Alcario was known for being very cautious and was known to have a sixth sense for trouble. I wanted to be far enough away, and have no contact with him, that would make him suspicious or that might make him run. Besides, this was the one way that I knew would get the job done. I never miss. I was not being arrogant, but I had a natural talent and sense with a rifle in my hands. After all, I had grown up on a ranch and my father had purchased my first 22 rifle before I was hardly old enough to lift it. Plus hours and hours of practice each week, firing round after round in all types terrain, lighting, and weather conditions, made me pin point accurate.

The shot that I had set up was 1530 meters. The TRG-42 had a max range of about 2300 meters. I would take him out as he exited his vehicle. If he had bodyguards around him I would have to take them out also. But from the information that I had coerced from my contact, he was lower keyed and usually just traveled with a boyhood friend, and business partner, Dimas. He also preferred to drive so this should be a simple one shot and out. Looking at my watch, I had about 43 minutes before Izzy would be flying low over the hills with our Bell TH-67 helicopter, to take us away from all of this fun.

While waiting for the arrival of Alcario I had a chance to reflect on how a fifty five year old country boy had gotten himself into this line of work. All I could come up with was, I was just lucky, bad luck or good, it was luck.

I try, but cannot remember how many identities I have had in my lifetime. There are times that I truly can’t remember what my real name is. I was born in Claremore, Oklahoma as Jason Lightfoot, but was adopted by two different fathers by the time I was twelve. I guess I was destined to not to be any one person. I believe this helped in my development at an early age to be what I was destined to be, an unknown.

By the time I was fourteen I was basically on my own in the summer time. When springtime rolled around and school let out, I had already lined up a job on ranches in different states. I would leave as soon as the school bell rang, for the last time that year. I had my gear and my horse ready to go. I would go home, and say goodbye to my crying mother, and my father. Within the next couple of days I would be in a neighboring state, and riding my heart out. Looking back this was probably the best times of my life. The pay was a little of nothing, maybe a good ranch would pay two hundred dollars a month, with one day off a month. They provided room and board so there were no worries about eating or a place to stay.

On most of the ranches that I worked, there were usually six to twelve cowboys. On our day off we would all head into town. Generally a small town of about 5000 or less, where we would get whatever supplies we needed to last us until the next month. This usually consisted of personal items like tooth past, razors, and soap. Then we would head down the local tack store or leather shop where we would buy whatever equipment needed replaced or fixed. After all of our supplies were purchased and stowed away, we would then head to the nearest tavern or bar. Here, after several drinks we would be looking to satisfy our other needs. Most of the times this wasn’t too difficult, because the border towns usually had women that would do anything for the right amount of bucks.

Usually, a fight or two broke out between the locals and us, and it was usually over a girl. But that was in the days when only the two participants, did the fighting, and all the others involved would be there to, just keep it fair, and make sure no one else jumped in. After the male ritual of puffing of the chests, the yells of you hit me first, no you hit me, then the name-calling, it was over in a matter of a few minutes. Afterwards the winner would usually buy the losers a drink at the bar. Where all of the parties involved would apologize and by more drinks.

Once in a while we would run onto some person that MEANT business. They would be in no mood to fight fair. Out would come the knife or club. At those times I always seem to step up to the plate. I’m not tall, by the time I was seventeen, I was 5 8 but weighed about two hundred; at that time not an ounce of that two hundred was fat. I was built low to the ground and had tremendous strength in my legs and upper body. I was unusually quick on my feet and with my hands. I could hit someone three times before they could react. If they were tall, the first thing I tried to do was get them on the ground. My father always taught me that everyone is the same size on the ground.

At this time we usually were intoxicated enough that the one that was the most sober, would drive everyone back to the ranch. We would saddle our horses, load our supplies and head up to wherever we had our out camp. Usually too drunk to find our way, we would just let our horses find their own way. They knew where home was, so we would just let them go and they would find their way. More than once I would wake up sleeping on my horse in the morning with him standing by the coral wanting in. The next morning we would be up by day break and on horseback riding the country.

I was always a boy working among men. Most of the cowhands were between twenty and thirty years old. They would kind of look out for me but cowhands have a crude way of looking out after someone. Most of the time I was the butt of their jokes. At one time, Larry Stull, who later turned out to be a lifetime friend and rodeo partner, was bringing in the horses. I was doing my morning constitutional in the two-holer outhouse in back of the camp. As I was setting there thinking and solving life’s problems I heard kind of a grunting sound. There was about a foot of space around the outhouse going along the bottom. I noticed a black nose rooting around and smelling. It was a brown bear that made several visits to our camp and had stolen some of our food. Looking around for an escape route I found only one choice, if it was the last and only choice, and that was down the whole.

At this time that was the last thing I wanted to do, so I began yelling. Larry hearing me yelling came riding around the corner and quickly assessed the situation. Thinking I now had help, but he quickly disappeared. I’m thinking of course he went for more help. But this was not to be the case. He came riding back around the corner with an armful of pancakes that had just been cooked up. The next thing I knew he began throwing them into the outhouse. Those just made the bear become more excited and hungry. The bear found its way around to the opening and in he came.

I quickly looked around and saw that I was in deep trouble if I didn’t do something quick. All I needed to see was that bear rise on his hind legs and growl. Quicker than a flash down I went, into the hole where I had just been setting. All I could hear at that time were people laughing. After dragging themselves off the ground in fits of laughter, they managed to chase the bear away. They raised the lid and there I stood, up to my waist in waste. It was bad enough that I stood there in that waste but that wasn’t enough. I had to listen to them joking about my situation and laughing until there sides hurt. When your out in the wild with a bunch of yahoo’s, this kind of humor is to be expected, and experienced. It made men of us and was done in good nature. Of course this depended on what side of the joke you were on.

Of course there was the dangerous side to this type of life. There was always the normal, snakes, bears, and Mountain Lions. The work itself was also dangerous. Whenever you are dealing with animals like horses, cattle, and burros, that outweigh you by a thousand pounds, things get interesting. These animals are half wild and all wild. A day did not go by when you didn’t get bit, kicked, or thrown off. But, this was the normal life. Sometimes we did get hurt serious, and required medical attention. At these times, we would load up the wounded party on his horse, and ride for the headquarters, where we would put them in a pickup and make our way to town to the nearest Doctor or hospital. From the time of injury, to the Doctors would usually take about three hours.

We had to have a high pain threshold. You had no choice, and whining, or complaining only brought on the wrath of the other cowboys. This was looked down upon, and you would quickly find the word spread around the ranch. Very soon no one wanted to work with you. But this is the way it was, and the way it had to be. You would have a bone sticking out of your leg and someone would ask you, how you were doing. The answer was always, Great, doesn’t even hurt.

During the summer months, we had what we called a snake board. This board always hung on the wall above the stove. It was whittled down so the bottom edge was thinner than the upper edge. Snakes are cold blooded and at night and they look for warmth. On several summer nights you would wake up and feel a snake in your bedroll with you. I don’t know how you know, but you just wake up and felt it. Luckily for us, no one ever got bit by a rattlesnake. The only times we got bit was by Bull Snakes. The cowboy who had one of these bed mates had no choice but to lie very still until someone would rise in the morning, or get up to relieve himself.

No words had to be spoken; there was a look on that cowboy’s face that told the whole story. We would get the snake board off the wall, and then try to find the location of the snake and which side it was on. The cowboy who was sleeping with his bedmate could be of no help when it came to this; if he moved at all he was liable to be bit quickly. Snakes usually curl so most of the time they weren’t that hard to locate. There was then a count of three and the board would be shoved between the cowboy and the snake. Now I’ve heard of Moses walking on water, but good ole Moses had nothing on a cowboy sleeping with a snake. That man would literally fly out of that sleeping bag and never touch the sides. Of course there was laughs and jokes all around, but that’s what made life fun.

I lived this kind of life for five years and loved every minute of it. Of course no one every accused me of being smart. I was a pretty good bronc rider, roper, and all around cowboy. I did my share of breaking horses. Well I got real cocky and thought I was good enough to make a living on the Professional Rodeo circuit. After all, I had entered some local rodeos, and even some amateur ones. I took a couple of first place and thought I was real good.

So I quit my job at the time, kissed my first of six wives good bye with the promise I would return with pockets full of money, and headed down the road. After filling out my PRCA card, which is a term used that you must show you can win and compete at the professional level, I would enter the three rough stock events. Bull Riding, Saddle Bronc Riding and Bareback riding. My first rodeo was at the Denver Stock show in Denver Colorado. What I had failed to realize was that not only are you competing against professional cowboys you were also competing on Professional Stock I thought that I had ridden some pretty tough animals before, but my first rodeo left me not only sore, but humiliated. Those animals would shake your teeth from your head, jerk on your bones till you thought you weren’t wearing skin. They knew every trick in the book also. They could stop on a dime, turn inside out, turn and head the other direction and not lose a step.

This usually left me hanging in mid air wondering where my saddle was. The carnivals that usually followed such rodeos had those spinning rides like the Octopus and others. Believe you me, they couldn’t even hold a candle if you drew one of those bulls that would spin. They had enough G-Force to make a fighter pilot sick.

And if that wasn’t enough, there was always the Announcer that would use his old standards. His job was to entertain the crowd and fill the slow parts between events. Well some old bull would bury your head in the dirt like an ostrich, then come back around and kick you just for falling off. You would get up and the announcer would make some comment like, Jason must live in California, I heard him say something about the Sun-on-the-beach," Once again, that good ole cowboy humor.

In spite of all this, I managed to make just enough money to keep digging myself in deeper. When things got so bad at home, that the first of my three kids didn’t have anything to eat, I figured my year and the life as a Professional Cowboy was over.

I grew up in the turbulent sixty and seventies. With the Vietnam War in full swing, the drugs, hippies, free love, and me being a patriot, I decided I would join the war and see what all the hullabaloo was about. How tough could it be? I thought it couldn’t be any tougher than what I had been doing. Besides, I would make a big $545.00 a month.

So in 1972 I went to Kansas City, where I was indoctrinated into the US Army. I had decided to go into the Military Police. I had tried to get a job with our local Police Force, before I decided to join the Army. The Chief of Police was a good friend of mine, we used to go hunting together, and he said my situation was kind of twofold. He said that I had to have experience to get on the force, but I couldn’t get experience, if I didn’t get on the force. He was the one that suggested I enlist in the Army and join the Military Police. When I got out, if I got out, he could hire me. Bingo! I thought. I now have a new career goal, my parents had been after me for a long time to pursue something besides saddle leather, and it was also exciting at the same time. I would get to fight the bad guys.

A week later I was on a plane and headed to Ft. McClellan, Alabama. Our first stop was at a big warehouse where we were issued all of our gear, Fatigues, boots, duffle bag, underwear etc. Everything was OD green. I would come to hate the color. We stood in a line with about two hundred other guys just like me. Our first stop, the barbers shop. I had always had short hair, so this wasn’t quite as hard on me as most of the other guys that wore the hippie cut, and Afro’s. In fact I got quite a kick out of watching some of the guys tell the barber. Just trim it up a little on the side. Less than five minutes later they had no sides, or tops. This was a one cut barber, all of it off.

Next stop the quartermasters, where we would be issued our military clothing. They would look at you, size you up, and throw the gear at you. Some guys would look at their boots and say, these are a size nine, I wear a size nine and a half. Of course the soldiers working the line would apologize and throw them another pair. Size nine. I was a little older than most of the troops, so I knew when to keep my mouth shut, at least, until I figured this whole thing out. We made our way to the mess hall. Now all of our fathers or friends had told us horror stories about Army food". But to tell you the truth, I didn’t think it was that bad. But it was probably because I was used to the food that my buddies had cooked.

While eating, we all were talking about what we had done so far. We were all surprised, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like it was in the movies where you had a big burly Sergeant yelling in your ear all the time, and shoving you around. Actually besides having to stand in line, it was great.

After eating, they loaded us all on a bus where they were going to ship us to our company we were assigned to, that would be our home for the next 6 weeks. We packed on the bus like Sardines, along with our duffels and equipment in our laps. After we arrived at Alpha Company, of the 212th MP COMPANY, our Drill Sergeant met us. He came onto the bus before we could unload. He said, "good morning gentlemen, my name is Drill Sgt. Richards, I hope you enjoy your stay for the next week, Now, get the hell off the bus and line up on the white line before I kick your F***king ass. NOW! Sgt. Richards never stopped screaming at us from the minute we got off the bus, until we graduated, and if the truth were known he’s probably still screaming to this day. It was three weeks before I knew he could actually use his voice without screaming.

And so it began, my military career. After basic training we would go straight into AIT, advanced training in the particular area you are to be assigned. Mine was 95B. Military police. Since I was older than most of the other guys, they didn’t mess with me as much. Not that I didn’t get my share of ass kicking’s. However, they knew, I knew, it was all a game and I played along. Some of the real young guys were scared to death; they were scared to even sleep that first week. They were afraid to go to the latrine or even sit down.

The only area that I had trouble with was the runs. I have short legs and lets face it, I was not made to cover a lot of country by running. However, I never finished at the back either. I was usually in the middle somewhere. What I lacked in the running department, and hikes, I more than made up for in the shooting Dept.

Since the first day on the firing range I was not only the best shooter in my company but the whole platoon. After the first week they had me helping the weaker shooters in our platoon. I found out later that the officers of the platoons had a bet, every class, on who would have the most qualified, and the highest scored shooters. Of course I suggested that I should share on the wealth since, I put so much of my time in helping the other. After my 5th mile double-timing across the hills, I decided that my suggestion wasn’t a good one.

Finally, we graduated from basic training and were heading to AIT, Mine being Military Police. However, I got a little nervous when one of the Captains and a Colonel of the brigade sent for me, which made me very nervous. As is normal in a situation like these I immediately started thinking back, trying to remember what I did wrong. A couple of weeks prior, myself and another private had accidentally found our way off base and in the company of two, professional women However, as far as I knew this had not been reported or even discovered by anyone. It sounded like a lot of Brass to me, for something so small. But, I was new to this Army, and didn’t know what kind of offense this was, or how big a deal they might make out of it. So, I thought I had better be spit and polished. I took a shower, polished my brass and boots, before I met with them. Who knows, this might be my last hot shower I would get for awhile, I could end up in the Stockade next.

When I arrived the Lieutenant greeted me, and Colonel Marcus, also present was a man dressed in a civilian suit. I had a funny feeling about this man; you know the kind where the hair stands up on the back of your neck. However, everyone seemed relaxed and had a smile on their face. Oh no, I wasn’t falling for that. Every time I smiled at an officer since I had enlisted, it seemed like I wound up doing a hundred pushups, so, I stayed stoned face. After the normal small talk, Colonel Marcus said he would like me to think about changing my MOS and transfer to Ft. Benning to enroll in the Army Sniper School. My shooting scores had caught the attention of some important brass and it was considered an honor to be invited. The civilian man that had been quite up to that point, said if I qualified in the top of my class; I would get advanced training at the FBI sniper school.

Well, needless to say this caught me by surprise. I was expecting a lot of things today, but, this wasn’t one of them. They said that they would give me time to think about it and would contact me in the morning. If I did decide to accept, I would be shipping out tomorrow evening. As I was leaving, I overheard the civilian gentleman, which I found out later was anything but a gentleman, tell the Colonel to let him know about my decision, and to keep him updated on my progress. He said he would be talking to me alone later. It would be a year before he made good on that promise.

Now, I had joined the Military Police to become a dog handler. My recruiting officer, who would never think of lying to anyone, said, if I finished in the top ten percent of my class, that I was a guarantee to go to Lackland AFB, where they train the sentry dogs, and patrol dogs. This had been my goal when I entered the Army. I thought if I had that kind of experience behind my belt, I could get on at about any Civilian Police Dept. I phoned home that night and talked to my father about my new offer, since he had done time in the Army. He advised me to weigh the options, like I hadn’t thought of that. He said, I always had a way with animals, being raised on a ranch, but on the other hand, I was a dam good shot This was probably the closest thing my father ever gave me to a compliment.

I woke up the next morning still not having arrived at a decision. I had no idea what I was going to say when I met with the Colonel in an hour. When I was finally called in, I was so nervous, that I heard myself saying that I appreciate the opportunity, but I would like to finish what I started when I came into the Army, and go to dog handling school. I could tell by my friend, the civilian gentleman from the day before, that he wasn’t any too happy with my decision. Again, he told me that he would be seeing me at a later time, but this time, whether it was my imagination or real, there was a threatening tone to his voice. I made a mental note to ask the Colonel about this man. He probably wouldn’t tell me anything, but I could at least ask. I also made a note to watch out for this man. I’m usually a pretty good judge of character and this man was trouble.

The next day I started my MOS training. By the end of the 6 weeks, I had graduated in the top of my class, guaranteeing that I would be heading for Lackland AFB to start dog-handling school. But, I was still a naïve country boy that wasn’t too smart in the ways of people that are not used to being said, NO to. When they want something, they usually get it. No matter who they stepped on, or what they had to do. But I was learning fast. I also learned later there was a lot of pressure from above being put on Colonel Marcus, my Platoon Sgt, and Lieutenant Richards. They wanted me in sniper school, and dog-handling school wasn’t in my near future. I went to Sgt. Stark, my platoon Sgt. and requested my transfer to Lackland. I was told that I wouldn’t be going to Lackland, that I had been Volunteered to stay right where I was, and be a Desk Jockey for Alpha company.

Now as I said, I wasn’t too bright in the way of the world just yet, so I stomped in the office of Colonel Marcus. I requested to speak freely, and he said as long as I showed respect, I was free to say whatever I wanted. I told him that my recruiter had given me his word and promised me that if I graduated in the top of my company I could go to Dog handling school. Now where I come from I told him, a man’s promise and his word meant everything, and I know that the recruiter would not lie to me, and that I wanted the Colonel to live up to his part of the agreement. The next day, while flying on a cargo plane to Ft. Benning, US Army sniper school, I could still hear the Colonel laughing at me.

A little side note here! Some of the training that I went through during my career was pretty basic stuff, or should I say common sense type training. This type of training is printed in all the Training Manuals, Tapes and DVD’s. This type of training I will share with the readers, however, the advanced type of training, the kind that isn’t written in the manuals, I will not delve into. My reason is that the terrorists, our friends, and our enemies, all have the standard training manuals, plus some that we have forgotten. The other specialized training, if known to a certain faction, of not only our enemies but also to some bleeding hearts here in the United States, could be considered a Security breach. Some of my team accuses me of going to far when it comes to security. Myself, I would rather error on the secure side than not. Sorry UBL, go get your information from someone else. Also, I will not go into great detail about the weapons and the equipment we used. This isn’t a security issue, it’s a boredom issue for those readers that don’t know or care about the speed, weight, or number of grams used in a shell, or the number of twists in a rifle barrel. So to save these readers from boredom I will quickly skim over this part.

CHAPTER 2

I arrived at Ft. Benning, and they put me with about thirty other up starts like myself. Some of them had been in the Army for years, Lifers, as we call them, because they are making the Army there career and they want all the training they can get to put in their records for promotions. Kind of like Boy Scouts getting Merit badges. They put in just enough effort to pass the school but retain very little. They have no intention of staying in the outfit any way, they just want the badge so they can move on with their careers.

Then, we had the soldiers that thought it was Cool to be able to say they were a sniper. These types of guys just wanted to impress the girls and their friends. These are the kind that will get you killed in the field.

The rest of the soldiers were there for various reasons. Some of them, really wanted to be there, others were there because they were ordered to be here. Then, there were those who like myself, whom had special circumstances, or they were from outside agencies, receiving advanced training or Special training.

Whatever the reason for some of these soldiers being there, most of them would not finish. The first week we lost four soldiers. They were mostly the ones that didn’t want to be here in the first place. The training was fast, tedious, and monotonous. The hours were long, some days we were up at 0400 and would train all the way through until the next day. This involved not only PT training, but also, hours on the range with our sniper rifles, classroom training on the mathematics of shooting and ballistics. There were also long hours in the field training in concealment, which is the most powerful tool of a good sniper. Also escape and evasions classes took up hours of our time. You have to remember at this time, we were fighting in the jungles of Vietnam, not the desert. The hours that go into sniper training are endless. This training was something that you had to really want.

Even though I was Volunteered for this position, once I got there and started the training, I was actually getting into it. I became obsessed you might say. I couldn’t get enough of it. I learned everything I could on the different types of rifles, until I finally settled in on one that I thought was perfect for me, even though the rifle you used, was conductive of the job you were doing. I know it’s hard to explain, but, a rifle that you choose to use day in and day out, starts to grow on you. You learn to rely on it like a good friend. Some snipers even have names for their weapons. Myself, guilty as charged. I won’t embarrass myself by telling the name I had for mine.

Little did I know what was in store for me. I thought it strange, very strange, that everyone was working in teams. Teams consisted of two snipers. One was a spotter the other the shooter. But for some reason they did not work me with a team. I worked alone. When I would question them about this, I was basically given the old Army bullshit. Don’t worry about it, you’re on a need to know and you don’t need to know right now. Well needless to say, this made me very uncomfortable.

I started to notice little things that should have tipped me off as to what was to come. When they would send a team to the field, and would be running a mock exercise, I would be pulled aside and told it was my assignment to find the sniper team and take them out, with dummy rounds of course. We didn’t have lasers in those years, no laser sights, no laser tag back then. I also noticed, when they would go into camouflage and concealment training, that a lot of the time, I would be pulled out of class or training and brought into another room where they would go over Urban concealment and escape and evasion By this time I had learned not to ask questions. I was beginning to feel like someone above these training officers were pulling the strings. I was about to find out who, was doing the pulling.

I had been out on night missions and was returning to camp tired, dirty, thirsty and hungry. I headed over to the mess hall for a cup of coffee and relax before I turned in. Now I know I was tired, but I wasn’t blind. At this time of night the only ones in the mess hall were the cooks and soldiers that had earned KP duty. Just as I was about to sit down, I looked up as a man was going out the door. He turned and looked at me and quickly walked away. It was my old friend the civilian, from my Basic training. Now what was he doing here? I was really beginning not to like this man. As far as I was concerned he was a weasel and I didn’t like him. I thought briefly about following him to see where he was sleeping. I could then pay him a visit that night and find out what was really going on. But, a wave of tiredness and common sense came over me. So I would let it be for now, but I was sure that I hadn’t seen the last of this little weasel of a man.

The training was becoming increasingly tough and challenging. I loved the challenging part of it. I have always loved a good challenge, still to this day; I get bored easily, especially after I master something. The way I looked at it, this was something that no matter how good you think you are, you can never mastered this type of work. You can be a master at it but it can’t be mastered.

There was something that was always in the back of our minds, every one of us, since the beginning of training. It was kind of an unwritten code that you don’t talk about it, Bravado, so to speak. That thought was, could I actually pull the trigger and take a life when it comes down to it? That final tenth of a second after you took the slack out of your trigger, before you squeezed off a shot, can I do it? Most of us think, it’s the enemy, no problem.