Doc: The Scorpion Team

By Doc Jung

About the Book
For forty years a man has kept his silence, never telling anyone he has ever met or worked with or for. Not even his family could be told; or repercussions, removal from service, and forfeit of all benefits would result.
The government didn’t want you to know they had a secret weapon: three Special Forces teams put together with the best of the best. The Honorable President Ronald Reagan had his hands full with terrorists and the Cold War with the Soviet Union. When Iranian militants seized the U.S. Embassy in Tehran on November 4, 1979, under President Jimmy Carter’s term of office, they held 52 Americans captive for 444 days. President Reagan knew he wasn’t going to ever allow this again.
Now one brave man breaks his silence after forty years to honor his brave fallen brothers, and tells all his story, so you will know that they really did exist and their missions really did happen, despite the government’s coverup. This is the story of his life, his journey, his love of a lifetime that slipped away, and his struggles with PTSD and those who helped him along the way.
About the Author
Doc Jung is a retired military Veteran of 32 years of service. After retirement he worked for James Avery as a handmade jewelry tech. Then the opportunity came where he used his Airframe & Powerplant IA license to work for Texas Aircraft Manufacturing as their Quality Assurance Manager, which he still does today. His hobbies include, of course, target shooting and building handmade one-of-kind personalized birdhouses that reflect a person's personality. They are pieces of artwork and are on his Facebook page: HeyZombieLLC.
Doc has always wanted to write books and even has some other rough draft books, but he has never pursued publishing them. This book is the true story he had to come out of silence to tell all, to honor his fallen Special Forces team brothers, to speak of his love of a lifetime that slipped away, and to reach out to those others who may be suffering from PTSD in hopes of stopping them from ending their own lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798888126882

Book preview

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to all Veterans, especially those brave Special Forces Units out there somewhere in the world.

And to the angel that saved my life on

October 12, 2020

Allison Marie Soret

DOC

The Scorpion Team

Soundtracks for the Book

My friends, I love music of all kinds, as you’ll soon find out.

I implore you to have these songs readily available to listen to so

you may follow me along my journey and feel the moment as if you

were right there with me, especially the Egyptian music.

Throughout the book you will see song suggestions.

Please play them as you read.

Bad To The Bone

George Thorogood

Rebel Yell

Billy Idol

Awakening

Unleash the Archers

Hells Bells

AC/DC

When I’m Gone

3 Doors Down

Ayonha D

Hamid Ai Shaeri

Maggie May

Rod Stewart

The Flame

Cheap Trick

You’re The Inspiration

Chicago

Too Much Heaven

The Bee Gees

The Sound Of Silence

Disturbed

The Zoo

Scorpions

Blessed And Possessed

Powerwolf

Enter Sandman

Metallica

Carry On Wayward Son

Kansas

One Last Breath

Creed

Toosie Slide

Drake

When You’re Young

3 Doors Down

Don’t You (Forget About Me)

Simple Minds

Hair Of The Dog

Nazareth

White Wedding

Billy Idol

Army Of The Night

Powerwolf

Eyes Without a Face

Billy Idol

Don’t Fear The Reaper

Blue Oyster Cult

Love Of A Lifetime

Firehouse

Lost In Love

Air Supply

Pocketful Of Sunshine

Natasha Bedingfield

Shik Shak Shok

Hassan Abou Seoud

Curse Of The Pharaohs

Mercyful Fate

Fly Like An Eagle

Steve Miller Band

Dust In The Wind

Kansas

Last In Line

Dio

Magic Carpet Ride

Steppenwolf

Send Me An Angel

Scorpions

JUST LIKE YOU

NF

See You Again

Wiz Khalifa

You’ve Got Another Thing Coming

Judas Priest

Who Let The Dogs Out

The Doggies

Wind Of Change

Scorpions

Thunderstruck

AC/DC

The Sound Of Silence

Pentatonix

Everybody’s Fool

Evanescence

Caught Up In You

38 Special

Sunshine Of Your Love

Cream

Hooked On A Feeling

Blue Swede

Gone Too Soon

Simple Plan

Here Without You

3 Doors Down

Army Of The Night

Powerwolf

If I Would Have Known

Kyle Hume

Save A Place For Me

Matthew West

You’re The Inspiration

Chicago

Memphis Soul Song

Uncle Kracker

Sweet Child O’ Mine

Sheryl Crow

Zombie

The Cranberries

Here I Go Again

Whitesnake

The End,

Maybe It’s Time,

Sixx: A.M.

Just for fun trailer

Back In Black

AC/DC

Credits

Army Of The Night

Powerwolf

Blessed And Possessed

Powerwolf

Chapter 1: Making a Sniper

San Antonio, Texas, 1972

I remember all too well learning to reload ammo with my dad, he would say, Son, to be the best you must be precise in everything you do, never accept average as okay, always strive for perfection.

As I was measuring the Hodgdon H335 powder, I read in my dad’s Hornady book for .270 caliber medium load is 42.5 grains to 48.5 grains of powder. My dad said our target load was half so 45.5 grains. As I weighed the powder on the scale, it read 44.2, so I was ready to pour the tray into the brass case when my dad said, STOP! The scale doesn’t read 45.5, trickle some more powder in until it reads 45.5. Of course, I was an eleven-year-old who had to argue that the book said it could be between 42.5 and 48.5. He said, That’s not precise, your factory loads can be as much as ten grains off per round but ours will never be. The next tray weighed 46.4, I looked at him and he said, Grab the tweezers and take a piece out, one at a time until the scale reads 45.5. So I did. All twenty rounds had exactly 45.5 grains of powder.

Later as we were headed out to shoot, he continued telling me the facts. We got to Lester’s Northside rifle range. He said, Now I will show you how much of a difference it makes to be perfect.

As we pull into the Northside rifle range, which was just north of San Antonio off of IH-35, he reminded me, Remember, son, to be the best you must use the best and use the BEST technique: Breathe, Exhale, Squeeze.

I replied, But Dad, that’s only B, E, and S. What does the T stand for? inquisitively wondering.

And he smiled, saying, In time, son, in time I tell you, just remember the first three for now. So at the 100-yard range, I started shooting, he told me, One more shot, let’s see where we are on the target, then he showed me how to adjust the Redfield 6-power scope on my Ruger Model 77 .270 caliber rifle. I fired two more shots, and he was satisfied.

Lester hollered in, the profound German accent, Ceasefire! and drove that old rust bucket of an El Camino down the road to pick up everyone’s targets. He handed them out to each shooter and then approached my dad and me. He spoke in German to my dad: Erstaunlich, dass lhrSohn das Zeug zu einem wahren Scharfschutzen hat, which translates to Amazing, your son has the makings of a true sniper. To which my dad said, Close but not yet, not yet. I was happy to see all my shots in the bull and touching the 9-ring. But I guess that wasn’t good enough for my dad.

Years passed and it was the same every time we went to the rifle range, it was the same exact precise way of shooting. After my 16th birthday he watched me load my own twenty rounds precisely as he taught me, never said a word, which was good, that meant I didn’t fuck up.

This time I was driving us to Lester’s.

Watch your heavy foot, son, we don’t want a ticket. But I was just a bit of a hurry to see how my skills had improved. I started to pull into our usual spot at the very end of the 100-yard range and he said, No, keep going down this other road to the 200-yard range. There were only five benches and no one there but us. My confidence fell as I had never shot at the 200-yard range before, this was the farthest range Lester had. As I got my rifle out and started setting up my dad positioned himself behind the range’s 12-power spotting scope.

Then Lester showed up and got out of the rust bucket, telling my dad, Sonny! You just want me to work harder today, haven to drive way down der to set up a Goddamn target for you, all in that German accent.

My dad laughed and said, We’re here today to see just what kind of sniper I have created.

Lester asked him what kind of target he wanted him to put out, either the standard 200-yard target, which had 8-inch orange circles, or what? My dad told him no, put up a standard 100-yard target with the 6-inch circles and two 3-inch diamonds in the middle. Lester just looked at him, eyes wide opened, and whispered, Crazy dummkopf.

I zeroed in on the top left 6-inch target and was ready to take my first shot when my dad said, Now son, I want you to shoot at the 3 orange diamond on the left."

I tried but the crosshairs were too big for that small of a target at this range, so I told my dad I couldn’t get a good look, all I saw was a little orange in each corner of the crosshairs, too which he said, Then put equal amounts of orange in each corner and do your BEST.

So I took a deep breath, exhaled half, and squeezed. POW, the sound echoed. I turned my head to look at my dad’s response. He was looking through a much higher-power spotting scope.

Squeeze off another same way.

So, I did…POW, and another echo in the air.

Looking through the spotting scope again, he said, Inch low and an inch to the left, adjust you scope, son.

So I removed the dust caps and corrected my windage and elevation of my Redfield 6-power scope and slightly tapped on the scope with my pocketknife and got back in position. This time, he said, shoot at the other 3-inch diamond on the right, he wanted me to have to reposition all over again. Remaining calm again, I used the BEST technique and when I could see equal amounts of orange in the corners of the crosshairs, I squeezed. POW, the echo crackled through the air. I turned my head to look at my dad.

He looked at me, smiled, and said, The T stands for ‘That’ll do, son, that’ll do.’

The bullet had hit, touching the bottom on the 2nd inner square diamond within the 1-inch bull in the dead center of the 3-inch diamond.

Not bad for a .270 with only a 6-power scope, imagine what you could do with a nice Leopold 3x12 power with range finder scope, one day, son, maybe we’ll get you one, they’re pretty expensive, though.

Lester was listening to every word, patiently waiting his turn at the range scope. My dad then let Lester look through the spotting scope.

"Jesus H. Christ, Sonny, your boy has talent I’ve haven’t seen in twenty years, to do that with that rifle and that weak scope at this range, I bet with really good military-grade equipment he could reach out past 500 yards or more.

Song: Bad To The Bone, by George Thorogood

He is truly bad to the bone, if he does decide to join the military our enemies will be fucked. He’ll pick them off like ducks on a pond, you have created the greatest sniper I have ever seen come through here.

I could hear George Thorogood’s Bad To The Bone playing in my head. He then went and retrieved that target, but I said, That’s it, we’re not shooting anymore. I only fired three shots. No need to save the ammo, let’s go celebrate with some dinner.

My dad rolled up, the target shook Lester’s hand, and we left. Dinner was a steak and boy, was it good. Dad wasn’t rich by no means, there were times my mom struggled to put food on the table, but my parents always found a way. But that day he must have had some extra money and he splurged that day.

I never saw those 3-inch diamond targets he cut out from the main target. Until many years later after his death, and long since I retired from the military, when I went through his old ammo box looking for a 22-caliber cleaning brush. There tucked away in a Ziplock bag, to my surprise was those 3-inch targets he had written my name on and saved all these years. Tears hit my eyes as I recalled what he told me, Remember, Breathe, Exhale, Squeeze, That’ll do, thinking of how all help me through all of our missions and that a few of the combatants I had shot, some as far away as half a mile, with my M-24. Not to mention those who met their maker at the muzzle of my M4 or Beretta M9.

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Chapter 2: Basic Training

Downtown San Antonio, Texas

To Lackland AFB, Texas, 1981

The day was very solemn as I rode with my father and mother back to the MEPS center, Downtown San Antonio. My mom talking up a storm, Don’t forget to do this, that, and everything else. My dad remained silent, driving with the flow of morning traffic, knowing that I was to be there no later than 0700 hours. As we pulled into the parking lot, my dad still hadn’t said a word. My mom, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped. I saw a drill instructor with a clipboard standing by the door of a grey bus.

I got out, hugged my mom, turned to my dad, only to shake his hand when the T.I. yelled, Boy!! Are you supposed to be on my bus?! What’s your damn name?

Jung, Sir Philip Jung.

He looked at his clipboard and checked my name off. Well, get your damn butt on my fucking bus now!!

My mom’s eyes grew big. not accustomed to the language. I let go of my dad’s hand, he knew what I was in for because he had served in World War 2, but he was still silent. I walked toward the bus. As I approached the steps of the bus, my dad then yelled, Son, remember, do your best, be the best and always remember what it means: Breathe, Exhale, Squeeze, That’ll do. Son, that’ll do, I love you, son.

I turned around much to the T.I.’s disgust. I will, Dad.

He then said loudly. One more thing, you make damn sure you shoot that som-bitch before they get you!

I nodded and smiled, knowing all too well I signed up to be a 2A571 aircraft mechanic. Maybe he knew something I didn’t; I just know then I felt the backhand of the agitated T.I., who screamed, Get on the fucking bus, you belong to me now, maggot.

As I entered the bus, which only had three other recruits, I saw the T.I. look at my dad, who had the look of death on his face, his hands clenched into fists. I watched as the T.I. changed his demeaner to one of respect, slowly raised his hand to wave, and nodded his head almost in a submissive manor. My dad’s fists unclenched, and he too nodded his head to the T.I.

I found an open seat—very open—sat down and looked out the window toward my parents. Soon more recruits started showing up, only five minutes more before 0700.

The T.I. looked at his watch and said, 0700. He looked into the bus at us. Weren’t you motherfuckers told 0700? looking at his clipboard again. Well, I know who is going to spend their first day on KP duty, these three late motherfuckin’ maggots that I haven’t checked off! Then the first unfortunate soul showed up, the T.I. didn’t give his parents time for goodbyes. Get your fucking ass…. I’ll let you figure out the rest. It was bad, I felt for his parents as he grabbed him by his ear and pulled him to the bus. Back then this was the norm, today in our sick world the T.I. would probably be sued and incarcerated.

Finally, one more showed up with the same results, at fifteen after the hour the T.I. climbed aboard and told the driver to go. He said the recruiters would have to deal with the punishment for the no-show. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a guy get out of a car and was running toward the bus. I can’t even wonder what his day was going to be like after he went into the MEPS center to talk to someone.

After a while of seeing the same sights along the route to Lackland Air Force Base, I could only shake my head at listening to the other recruits that were from some other states.

Look at that, is that the Space Needle?

Again, I shook my head as I look out the window toward the Hemisfair Tower of Americas, erected back in 1968 for the world’s fair here back then. I remembered my dad taking us there and they had the machines that made dinosaurs out of liquified plastic, like you could get animals at the San Antonio Zoo, all different colors. Twenty-five cents got you a show and a new hollow plastic dinosaur, still warm to the touch when it came out. Every one of them we came to I would ask for a quarter.

Finally, after the third one my dad saw a walking vendor with big clear plastic bags full of the same dinosaurs from the machines, twenty in each bag. How much? he asked, and the man yelled, Two bucks! My dad quickly handed him two dollars, he knew the value of the dollar and twenty dinosaurs for two bucks was way better than a quarter each.

Soon we saw the grand entrance of Lackland AFB, Texas. We stopped at the barracks of the 3703rd and were politely told to Get the fuck out, maggots. There was Technical Sergeant Aaron, his first look at us. He had a very stern, unjudgmental look about him.

Finally, he spoke. Which one of you is my bypass?

We all looked at each other puzzled. He retorted.

Come on, don’t you maggots know what a bypass is? Pause. Who here had four years of ROTC?

I raised my hand and he quickly walked up to me, inspecting every detail of my face.

Well, now, bypass, you’re gonna be my right guide and if you fuck me up you will not be bypassing basic training, you hear? Somebody fucks up, I’m coming to you!! Then he backed up and said, Okay, maggots, form four squads right the fuck now, bypass, take the right guide point and then line these motherfuckers up.

I quickly got everyone in four lines, asking tallest to the front, knowing all too well dress-right-dress was coming.

T.I. Aaron looked around. If you’re taller than the person in front of you, tap them on the shoulder and move up.

I was in the right guide position, just forward of the fourth squad, when the guy behind me tapped me on the shoulder to move up.

T.I. Aaron ran up to him. Not you, dummy, this is my right guide, you don’t get to tap his shoulder. I don’t give a fuck how tall you are! Right face!! Jesus H. Christ, you can’t even do that, damn it, bypass, we have a lot to teach, if you’re taller than the person in front of you tap them on the shoulder and move up! At ease! He paced back and forth, then glanced over at me. Not too bad, bypass, what else are you going to surprise me with? Then he proceeded to introduce himself.

After a while he told us it was time for a haircut so we could all look alike. I will spare y’all the agony of hearing grown men crying as their long hair and some with dreadlocks fall off. Except for me, I got a bypass haircut because I was only going to be there four weeks instead of the usual six weeks of training due to my ROTC in high school. Now everyone hated me even more, I felt even more distant from the group.

Time flew by while my 3703rd Group trained. I had a bypass schedule for me: Do this next this, by next week have this down. Eventually weapons training came and again I was with an earlier group of trainees disassembling the M16 rifle and putting it back together again. Now I was in my familiar zone, well experienced in field stripping and cleaning a rifle. All those years of listening to my dad paid off. The instructor was amazed at my speed and attention to detail of my weapon.

Well, very nice, but let’s see what you can do on the rifle range, that’s where it counts, boy.

Range day came as no surprise to me, I was well