The Far Side of Silence

By Robert B. Marcus Jr and Kim Frank Richardson

When Air Force One is shot down over the Mediterranean with no survivors Alexander Gray, a secret agent for the President, is tasked to execute his life's most dangerous undercover mission, something he has never done before.

As the wor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishers
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869126665

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THE FAR SIDE OF SLENCE

Robert B. Marcus, Jr.

AND

Kim FRANK Richardson

Table Of Contents

DEDICATION:

PROLOGUE

THE WHITE HOUSE

THREE WEEKS LATER

CHAPTER 1 WASHINGTON, D.C

CHAPTER 2 THE WHITE HOUSE

CHAPTER 3 BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

CHAPTER 4 ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

CHAPTER 5 DELTA FLIGHT 2239 TO ATLANTA

CHAPTER 6 SIGONELLA

THE WHITE HOUSE

CHAPTER 7 ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA

CHAPTER 8 ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA

CHAPTER 9 MOSCOW, RUSSIA

THE U.S. NAVY MEMORIAL

THE WHITE HOUSE

CHAPTER 10 CALGARY, ALBERTA, CANADA

CHAPTER 11 LANGLEY (MCLEAN), VIRGINIA

CHAPTER 12 JASPER, ALBERTA, CANADA

NORTH OF JASPER, ALBERTA, CANADA

CHAPTER 13 WASHINGTON, D.C

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA

CHAPTER 14 TARTUS, SYRIA

ROTA, SPAIN

GEORGETOWN

CHAPTER 15 WASHINGTON POST

HERE HERE HERE

CHAPTER 16 ON AIR FORCE ONE, OVER THE COLORADO ROCKIES

CHAPTER 17 NAPLES, ITALY

STRAITS OF MESSINA, BETWEEN ITALY AND SICILY

CHAPTER 18 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 19 MOTTA SANT’ANASTASIA, SICILY

CHAPTER 20 WASHINGTON POST

ZAVIDOVO, EIGHTY-FIVE MILES NORTHEAST OF MOSCOW

WASHINGTON, D.C

CHAPTER 21 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 22 WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 23 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 24 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 25 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 26 SIGONELLA

VIRGINIA, MARYLAND AND SIGONELLA

ARWAD, SYRIA

CHAPTER 27 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 28 WASHINGTON, D.C

CHAPTER 29 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 30 WASHINGTON, D.C.

MOSCOW, THE KREMLIN

SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 31 WASHINGTON, D.C.

SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 32 SIGONELLA

WEST OF CYPRUS

CHAPTER 33 WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 34 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 35 WASHINGTON POSTHERE HERE HERE

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

WASHINGTON, D.C., THE PENTAGON

CHAPTER 36 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 37 WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 38 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 39 MEDITERRANEAN SEA

CHAPTER 40 WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 41 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 42 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 43 MOSCOW

CHAPTER 44 MEDITERRANEAN SEA, EAST OF SICILY

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MEDITERRANEAN SEA EAST OF SICILY

CHAPTER 45 WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 46 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 47 MEDITERRANEAN SEA, EAST OF SICILY

CHAPTER 48 SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 49 MEDITERRANEAN SEA, EAST OF SICILY

CHAPTER 50 SICILY AND SIGONELLA

CHAPTER 51 MOSCOW, WASHINGTON AND ABOVE

CHAPTER 52 WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 53 MOSCOW

CHAPTER 54 WASHINGTON, D.C.,

HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

THE WHITE HOUSE

CHAPTER 55 YAMANTAU MOUNTAIN, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

CHAPTER 56 U.S. SENATE

CHAPTER 57 December 12 IN THE COLORADO MOUNTAINS

EPILOGUE SIGONELLA

NOTES

About the authors.

THE FAR SIDE OF SILENCE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, events, incidents, brands, and media are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE far side of silence

An Evergreen Publishing, Inc. Book

Text Copyright © 2022 by Robert B. Marcus Jr

All Rights Reserved.

Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher: Evergreen Publishing, Inc., 103 Cascade Road, Columbus, GA 31904.

Printed in the United States of America

Printed Version

Cover Design: Kevin Abbott

For more books please visit:

www.alexandergray.us

https://rbmarcusjr.co/

DEDICATION:

With Special Thanks To:Val Edward Simone

PROLOGUE

May 15

SEA OF CRETE

12:53 A.M. Local Time; 7:53 A.M. Eastern Standard Time

With relentless determination, the ship taunted the storm sweeping across the Sea of Crete. Two large nuclear reactors struggled to push the twenty-three thousand tons of metal through the angry waters. With every towering wave, the bow of the Russian rocket cruiser Kirov scooped up a wall of water, flung it into the air, and allowed it to crash down on the empty deck. Every loose object had long ago vanished into the sea. The crew was at general quarters stations.

A vertical launch system hatch clanged open, unheard beneath the roar of the wind and sea. A SA-6b surface to-air missile leapt into the rain in an explosion of fire and smoke. A second missile followed quickly. The two missiles accelerated into the sky and slowly angled toward the northwest.

Inside his quarters, a weary Admiral hung up the phone from the Combat Information Center, closed his eyes and wished he was on another ship, in another ocean.

#

THE WHITE HOUSE

9:26 A.M. Eastern Standard Time

Announcement by the White House Press Secretary

"It is my unfortunate duty to inform everyone we have reliable information that Air Force One has crashed into the Mediterranean Sea near the Greek island of Crete. President Kevin Douglas was on board, as was the Director of National Intelligence, many media personnel and at least fifty Secret Service agents and White House support staff. The site is being examined by the two fighter escorts of Air Force One. U.S. Naval vessels are on their way.

"Initial reports from the fighter pilots indicate a foreign naval vessel fired at least two missiles. There is no evidence of survivors.

Vice-president Theodore Anderson is now on his way to the White House where he will be sworn in as President. He will address the nation as soon as possible.

#

THREE WEEKS LATER

June 7

HAIFA, ISRAEL

The moonless sky blanketed the harbor of Haifa. The darkness was complete. The gentle slapping of the waves against the hull of the Israeli missile boat Gilat lulled the lone security watch. The sailor’s concentration was wavering. For the last hour and twenty-two minutes it had been his birthday. He was feeling sorry for himself as he patrolled the deck.

Why was he the only one of a crew of nine not asleep in

his bunk?

He thought he heard a soft thump against the hull. Sure, he was imagining things, he walked to the port side to investigate.

He was still depressed when he felt a searing pain in his right side, followed by something falling on his foot. His mind felt numb and detached as he looked down and observed an arm lying on the deck. The machete swung again.

The encounter lasted just two swings of a blade, but three sailors managed to awaken in time to force the fifteen terrorists into a brief skirmish. The odds were against the Israelis. Half-naked, half-awake men stumbling around in the dark searching for their weapons are always at a disadvantage against an organized enemy. The only officer on board made it as far as the weapon’s locker before he was skewered. Ultimately, the entire crew was piled on the deck, their blood mingling. One sailor was still breathing, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

After their conquest, the terrorists were quietly efficient. Four men went to cast off the mooring lines. Three went down to the engine room. Four carried the wet suits and tanks to the main cabin below deck and stored them. The leader of the raid, called the Scorpion, strode to the bow to inspect the six American made Prometheus cruise missiles. His inspection was as limited as his knowledge of their capabilities. It was enough to know the missiles were on the ship. He would learn how to use them later. Still, he noticed one of the missiles was a little different. Maybe the living Israeli pig would talk.

The Scorpion walked up to the small bridge, joining two of his companions. The remainder of the assault force gathered on deck to watch over the victims, preparing to dump them overboard as soon as the Gilat was far enough out at sea.

The departure from Haifa was uneventful. The sixty-ton craft rushed through the water at forty knots, her recently refurbished engines whining at full power. During the Gilat’s refitting three weeks ago nothing had been spared that might compromise her ability to protect the cruise missiles or deliver them to their desired targets in the event of war. A new weapons’ computer had been linked to the satellite guidance system, so the dumbest officer in the Israeli Navy could quickly activate a missile and correctly launch it.

An hour later, more than forty miles out from the harbor, the terrorists threw the bodies of the dead Israeli sailors into the sea, leaving the unconscious man on the deck, his breathing now somewhat calmer. Thirty minutes later, his quivering eyelids opened to reveal confused brown eyes, darting in all directions until finally focusing on the sharp face of the terrorist leader.

The missiles are ready to launch? the Scorpion hissed.

The Israeli’s only response was to narrow his eyes, an action that resulted in a swift kick to his ribs. He writhed on the deck, moaning; a response resulting in a second, harder kick. Tears of pain running down his cheeks, he stared up at his questioner. I don’t know, he muttered, trying to spare himself a third kick. It didn’t work. He felt a salty taste in his mouth, and glanced down at the wooden deck to see bloody phlegm accumulating in a small puddle. It took him a few seconds to realize it was drooling out of his mouth. It took him a few seconds more to realize that no matter what he answered he was soon going to be dead. He wasn’t by nature a hero, but deep within him a stubborn resolve began

to swell.

Go rot in hell.

The Scorpion stared at him briefly, then pulled a gun and shot him through both kneecaps. Wasted bullets. The Israeli sailor was already dead, his head rolling in rhythm with the waves, his eyes open to the heavens.

Consumed with anger, the Scorpion, seeking satisfaction, kicked the sailor in the ribs, the side, the hips, and the head until his ankles and toes ached from the contact. There was no satisfaction to be found. When his men finally tossed the body of the sailor overboard, the Scorpion was sure he saw a slight smile on his enemy’s lips.

CHAPTER 1 WASHINGTON, D.C

Alexander Gray stared at the Hope Diamond, the world’s most famous harbinger of bad luck, but didn’t really see it. He was waiting for Kobold again. He looked at his watch. Four-forty. Time to go. Kobold was already close by or wouldn’t be coming.

Gray left the Smithsonian and walked across the Mall toward the National Air and Space Museum, glancing behind him as he went. Kobold always wanted him to go to the diamond first, but as usual when Gray arrived, Kobold wasn’t visible. From somewhere near the diamond, Kobold was able to survey Gray and everyone around him. Then he tracked Gray to a spot he thought was safe to talk.

A group of pigeons was scrounging around an empty bench across Jefferson Drive from the Hirshhorn Museum. They scattered when Gray took a seat. Someone had left the sports section of the Washington Post. He picked it up, but only had time to read the baseball results before Kobold sat down on the bench beside him.

Kobold the Gnome the Goblin. The names were appropriate He was short, not quite five feet, and hunched over. Large darting eyes and a withered left arm gave him the appearance of a fairytale villain. But nature had given some compensation. A dark aura of intrigue surrounded him. He had an almost magical ability to disappear. No one could follow him, though he could follow another entirely undetected. Even Gray, who knew his own abilities in those areas to be superior to everyone else had to concede he couldn’t tail the man for more than a block. Nor could he detect Kobold when the man was following him.

My young friend Sockdolager, Kobold crackled. How are you today?

I’ll know better after you deliver your message. Gray bristled inwardly at the mention of his code name. Very few people in the world knew he was Sockdolager, including Theodore Anderson and Kobold.

You sound as though you have reservations. Do you? You’ve been available to Theodore Anderson even before he became President a few weeks ago when Air Force One went down. Perhaps you should quit. I can deliver a message back to Anderson saying you no longer wish to help him.

I’m sure you would enjoy that.

Kobold shrugged, his withered shoulder moving mere inches. I’m only a messenger—what I enjoy or hate doesn’t matter. But forget that. It is insignificant advice.

You told me once you never give advice.

Kobold laughed, harsh but not loud. Occasionally I may give advice to those I wish to see survive.

Gray took notice. Kobold never spoke frivolously, nor had he ever spoken like this.

Kobold evidently noticed the change in Gray’s attention. It’s dangerous to sit here very long. Though few know you, many know me.

Go ahead, Gray said.

Kobold nodded, his head bobbing on his rounded shoulders like a ball on a short rubber band. You are to go to Sigonella, a U.S. Naval Station on Sicily, near the city of Catania. I have your orders, your identification papers and complete details of your mission in this packet here. Your uniforms will be waiting for you in Catania. He handed Gray a large brown envelope. Destroy all but your identification papers and orders after reading the packet. At Sigonella, you will pose as an operating room nurse. You will assist Dr. Emmanuel Perez, Chief of Neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins University, as he operates on the world leader identified in your packet.

Never worked as a nurse, Gray objected.

Technically, you’re a doctor.

I never practiced after I finished medical school.

You started a surgery residency at Duke.

I dropped out.

"And eventually became a Seal Team Six. I know your

history well."

Gray wondered if Kobold was right. Did he know about that last spring in high school, when it was clear that the records of every great pitcher were going to be swept aside by Gray’s blazing fastball and crisp slider. Pro scouts attended every game his senior year. With a 12-1 record, two strikeouts an inning, it was only a matter of where to go, pro ball or college. Then the regional championship game. The sudden pain in his shoulder after he threw the slider. Several surgeries later, it was better, but fifteen miles per hour had disappeared from his fast ball, and he became just another mediocre middle relief college pitcher. He quit playing baseball after his junior year to pursue other goals—except none mattered. College, medical school, residency just ways to pass the time—his parents’ dreams, not his own.

Eventually, even his goals of becoming a doctor were replaced by a desire to lead a more active life. And he had, eventually rescuing Senator Theodore Anderson from where he had been captured in Iraq by terrorists. Since then, he had helped Anderson accomplish things around the world, acting as a personal agent. And now, in an odd culmination of events, Theodore Anderson was President. What would happen to Gray’s assignments now?

You won’t be head nurse, Kobold said. Plenty of people will be available to tell you what to do. Your real goal is to prevent the patient’s death from forces who don’t want the operation to succeed.

Gray started to open the packet, but Kobold stopped him. Not until you’re in private.

Okay. Continue.

You are to reveal your identity to no one. You have President Anderson’s authority to use any method necessary to make the operation a success. As I said, there are people who would prefer this mission to fail. Right now, there are dark forces at work in our government, seemingly working together to defeat Anderson. Never assume the obvious. These forces control many agents, and they’re not afraid to kill. I know they wish to defeat Anderson. The President has something they want.

I have the President’s permission to kill if I think it’s necessary?

Kobold didn’t reply. A sign of agreement.

The stakes were obviously high, and so were the dangers

Before leaving for Sigonella, Kobold continued, "the President wants you to go to Dr. Perez’s house in Baltimore, who will do the operation, and keep an eye on him until he leaves the States. The address is in the envelope.

Dr. Perez is in danger?

I only deliver messages. I don’t interpret them. Kobold hobbled to his feet.

What do they want? Gray asked.

They want what everyone in Washington wants. The White House, of course. Kobold suddenly stood up. Someone is watching us! he whispered harshly.

Gray turned and surveyed the Mall. He could see no one watching. How did Kobold know? He turned back to ask, but Kobold had already gone.

CHAPTER 2 THE WHITE HOUSE

There was absolute silence in the Oval Office.

Two men seated on the sofa stared at President Theodore Anderson, wondering why he had decided to commit political suicide. A third man sat in the corner John Harper the diminutive, hyperactive Chief of Staff, quiet and still now because he knew what the President was going to say.

Admiral Daniel Fern exploded first, as expected. I don’t care what’s wrong with him. You can’t try to save that bastard’s life!

From behind his massive desk, President Anderson glared at his Chief of Naval Operations. Anderson at fifty-eight was a large man in excellent shape, his muscles well-honed by several workouts a week in the exercise room he had installed next to his bedroom. With a thick head of graying black hair and cool blue eyes, he was an imposing man, both physically and mentally.

Fern, a coil of unreleased nervous energy, took Anderson’s silence for weakness and. continued, It’s only been three weeks since Borzov shot down Air Force One carrying President Douglas and eighty-seven other innocent people! We are within a breath of nuclear war. Fern made no attempt to control his anger even in the company of the President. He was short, black-haired, and wiry, and didn’t believe in sidestepping anyone. He assaulted his enemies face-to-face and usually annihilated them.

Richard Martin, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sitting by Fern, was rigidly formal and in total control of his emotions. Martin had a manicured, pointed white beard, gray eyes, and the leathered face of a goat. His head was small, balanced on top of a long neck arising from a thick thorax. He gave the impression he hadn’t moved for days. He was a man of few words, a total believer in Calvin Coolidge’s statement, You don’t have to explain what you haven’t said. He rarely engaged his opposition head on, trying instead to outflank them. His enemies didn’t know how dangerous he was until it was too late.

If the American public discovers this fiasco, they’ll run you out of the White House, Fern plunged on, feeling the warmth of adrenaline rush through him. You didn’t win an election. You don’t have the support Douglas had.

As you already know, President Borzov assures me he had nothing to do with the downing of Air Force One, Anderson remarked, with no emotion in his voice or on his face. Only John Harper recognized the look in his eyes. Other members of Borzov’s government arranged it.

You can’t believe that, Fern scoffed.

Anderson calmly pulled out the top drawer to his desk and produced a blank piece of paper and a pen. He stood up, towering over the seated five foot-eight-inch Admiral, and handed Fern the paper. I do believe him.

Fern stared at the paper. What’s this?

Your resignation, Anderson said.

I’m not going to resign.

Admiral, it doesn’t matter how I got this job—I’m still your Commander in Chief. You’ll either follow my orders, or I’ll find a CNO who will.

Fern flinched. He stared down at the blank paper. Finally, I’m sorry, Mr. President. I will, of course, obey all orders from you. His anger still boiled, but his deeply ingrained military training conquered it. He yielded to the chain of command.

Anderson studied the Admiral and nodded. Mr. Harper will brief you. Feel free to make constructive suggestions. But the terms are not negotiable.

Anderson left a very quiet Oval Office.

Without a word, Harper, the Chief of Staff, led the others across a hall to the Roosevelt Room, which had a large wooden table surrounded by sixteen chairs.

When Fern and Martin were seated, Harper began. As President Anderson told you, Vladimir Borzov, the President of Russia, has multiple cholesterol plaques that have developed throughout his brain. The worst are in branches of his left middle cerebral artery. The two middle cerebral arteries are very important sources of blood to the brain. Unfortunately, the plaques are obstructing normal blood flow to a portion of the left half of his brain, resulting in memory and speech abnormalities, as well as weakness on the right side of his body.

Why is he weak on the right side if the left half of his brain is affected? Martin asked.

Because each hemisphere of the brain controls motor activity on the opposite side of the body, Harper responded.

His weakness must be difficult to hide, Martin commented.

It’s impossible to hide, which is why he presently makes almost no public appearances, like Boris Yeltsin right after his reelection, when he was waiting for his cardiac bypass operation. He is on a medicine now that improves his neurologic functions a little, but the effect won’t last more than a few weeks.

Good, Fern said. "Maybe he’ll forget he asked us to

help him."

Harper smiled. If he gets worse, Admiral Fern, it will be because you failed in your job. Our operation can fix him, if we do it in time.

How can you fix him? Martin asked.

The first intelligent question I’ve heard from either of you, Harper muttered, then continued in a louder voice. I wondered the same thing when the President informed me about all this yesterday. But it didn’t take me long to understand the science. He closed his eyes and pictured several diagrams from the neurosurgery textbook Anderson had brought to the meeting as he started his explanation.

Both men were looking at him. "Although these small blood vessels cannot be approached from the exterior, a miniature probe can be inserted through their interiors. With a laser, the plaques can be dissolved. Controlling the probe through a blood vessel less than a millimeter in diameter makes the operation dangerous enough, but there’s another problem. Blood is thick and red. You can’t see through it easily. So the surgeon has to replace the blood with a transparent liquid capable of carrying oxygen to distant tissues. There are several possible liquids, but all of them work best at a temperature of about seventy degrees. Only two surgeons in the world have performed the operation more than two times; both

are Americans.

"Therein lies the dilemma, gentlemen. President Anderson believes we need to keep Borzov in power to best preserve the future of the United States; Borzov’s probable successors are true hawks, eager to restore the status of the former Soviet Union at any cost. For Borzov to remain in power he has to have this operation. To have a reasonable chance of surviving the operation, it must be done by one of two American surgeons. The one we picked is Dr. Emmanuel Perez, Chief of Neurosurgery at Johns

Hopkins University."

You’re going to do this in the United States? Martin

jumped in.

That would be ridiculous! Harper chastised. Security would be impossible. Can you imagine trying to keep the media from smelling this scandal? The O.J. trial would be like back-page stuff. We need a place where it’s possible to shut off all contact with the outside world, and where there’s already a usable hospital.

Like certain overseas military bases, Martin said.

Exactly.

I don’t like the idea of using one of my bases, Fern objected.

They’re not your bases, Harper snapped. He was tiring of Fern’s obstinance. So tell me Admiral, where do you think this operation should take place?

Fern swallowed his reluctance and answered with customary professional expertise. Ideally, the base should be close to Russia. The most likely choices would be Guam in the Pacific, Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, or Sigonella on Sicily..

Harper’s anger eased a little. The analysis showed Fern’s competence, the reason he was still CNO, in spite of his often-contrary opinions. The operation will take place at Sigonella, he told them.

Sigonella? Martin asked.

Borzov’s choice, Harper replied.

It’s nice Borzov is now taking care of our important decisions, Fern said.

Harper sent a cold glare in Fern’s direction. Logic dictates this decision. Sigonella is close to the Black Sea. Borzov’s old friend, Admiral Zhagov of the Russian Navy, will arrange a series of maneuvers to cover his arrival.

This will never work, Fern said.

We will make it work, Harper snapped. Don’t forget, you’re part of the plot now, whether you like it or not. We will get this mission done. We will bring in whatever equipment is needed. And the necessary personnel. After all, the most important materials in any operation are the surgeons, anesthesiologists and support staff.

Martin, who had been silent for a few moments, asked, When is this operation to take place?

Fifteen days..

There was a collective gasp from Fern and Martin.

Fifteen days! shouted Fern. Impossible! I need time to move a couple of carriers and their battle groups into the area. Do you realize the logistics necessary for a move like that? Food, fuel, ammo.

"You have fifteen days. It will be up to the two of you, and whoever Mr. Martin appoints as a team leader, to ensure the success of Project Hippocrates

CHAPTER 3 BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

Alexander Gray left the Mall. He considered driving through Alexandria and dropping one of his travel books, the one on Patagonia, in Allison Edger’s mailbox. Wouldn’t she be surprised? Forget it. Allison was the past.

Gray headed towards Baltimore on Interstate 295. The mile markers were flying by when a wall of red lights appeared ahead of him. He had to stop. Twenty minutes later, he rolled down the window and asked a driver in the next lane what had happened.

An eighteen wheeler collided with a tour bus. It will be hours before we start moving.

Gray nodded in reply, worrying as he sat. Somehow, he had a bad feeling about Dr. Perez.

He had wanted to reach Perez’s house before dark, but it probably wasn’t going to happen.

Gray sat and wondered what path had led him here. The usual background noise of his past played in his mind, a permanent soundtrack he was never able to entirely turn off.

He and Allison were together for four years while he was in college. Then he moved to Atlanta to attend medical school at Emory University. And, inexplicable to him now, he had left Allison to do this. He dated other women but found no one who measured up to her. From a distance, he kept track of her, but hadn’t talked to her since finishing medical school.

After medical school, he started a surgical internship at Duke. It didn’t work for him. He was always arguing with the chief resident or his residency director. During his fourth night on call, after receiving his tenth page in less than three hours, something snapped. Gray couldn’t do it anymore. Why wake up some poor fellow in the middle of the night to jab him with a needle he didn’t want or need?

Probably most interns felt like he did sooner or later, but few had the nerve to quit. Most had a wife at home, maybe a kid or two, and couldn’t afford to spit on the career they had worked most of their lives to obtain.

But he did. His dreams soured. He went home, packed his bags, and left. No problem at all.

It was dark now. He hoped they would open the interstate soon.

After he left Duke, he joined the Navy and qualified to be a SEAL. After six months of training, it was days of blood and glory. Missions never to be found in history books. Men dying at his hands. Worse yet, friends dying beside him.

Finding out he was better at the killing business than anything else he’d ever tried.

A flash of an incident in Baghdad, where a terrorist held a gun to a child’s head as Gray entered the room. The explosion of blood as the child’s head disintegrated. The twisted sneer on the terrorist’s