Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  “We have put in a new trigger because the originals had a lot of trouble, and the original wood of the stock had warped from use in wet conditions; so, we replaced it. The rifles are long and heavy and a bit awkward in the field. Nevertheless, these rifles were very accurate and remain so—average accuracy is about 1.5 MOA. This particular one tests out at below 1 MOA.”

  Hunter admired the handsome long rifle and recognized it from among the weaponry he had taken from dead NVA during his years as a LRRP, and from occasional captures in the later Phoenix Program.

  “So, lock and load. John, let’s see you put in five sets at 800 yards. We’ll move on when you can get to 1.5 MOA or better.”

  Hunter examined the rifle carefully, worked to get the heft and balance adjusted to his needs, and found it longer and heavier than his SSG-69. His first set of five were all placed in the head of the target cutout, but at about 2.0 MOA. He steadied himself, and his next five were at 1.5 MOA, and the next three sets of five after that were all close to 1.0 MOA.

  “Good enough, John. Go for the 1,600 meter target.”

  Hunter took three sets to get to 1.5 MOA and could not improve on that. However, his self-esteem was preserved by seeing through the spotting scope that every shot was in the head. It might not win a shooting contest, but every shot would have been a dead terrorist.

  “That was good and fast. Keep practicing, but I doubt that you are going to be able to get to 1.0 with any consistency. We’ll try another rifle now.”

  The sniper brought out a Beretta M501.

  “This sniper rifle is the Italian Army standard. It has a five round detachable box magazine and a heavy-duty free-floating harmonic balancer with four grooves which is contained within a tube hidden in the front end of the stock, a nice piece of technology which is used to reduce the vibrations of the barrel, helping to improve accuracy. It fires 7.62 X 51 mm NATO rounds. I prefer synthetic stocks, but this wood stock has a nice feeling contour. The rifle is issued to Italian snipers with 1.5-6 X 42 mm Zeiss scope. It is not available outside the Italian army. This weapon comes to you courtesy of the company you work for.”

  “Let’s test it out,” Hunter said enthusiastically.

  If nothing else, he admired the rifle’s beauty. It was the most comfortable of all of the rifles he had thus far handled. It was lighter and easier to move about and to fix on a target. The best thing about the gun was that after an initial five round set of 1.5 MOA, Hunter developed a feel for the weapon and shortly was able to put nearly every set at 0.5 MOA at 800 meters and after the very first attempt at 1,600 meters, he was able to score 0.75 and 0.5 MOAs every set. All of his shots would have been lethal, and half were in the T Kill Zone.

  “Like that one, amigo?” asked the sniper.

  “This baby is downright fun. Let’s be sure it gets into the bag when I go someplace.”

  John I said, “Already on the official list, John. You have three beautiful weapons at your disposal, and none of them is traceable to you or even to the USA. Hard to beat that.”

  Hunter nodded his approval and appreciation. Next, he shot at moving targets; and like his stick-shift driving analogy, he was comfortable with the new rifle and missed only one rapidly moving target, having overestimated the required lead time on that one. It was now only 1430.

  “Ready for a change of pace, my friends?”

  “Bring on the rest of the toys,” urged Hunter. “This is getting to be the most fun I’ve had in years.”

  The sniper went to his HMMWV and pulled out a boxy looking weapon with multiple barrel ends visible, something like a small Gatling Gun barrel and a Tommy gun magazine. He held them out for the two Johns and said, “This is my personal favorite for relatively close range. It is a crowd clearer and a house vermin exterminator. It has a tremendous fear factor. You can’t dodge it, and most of the stuff the bad guys want to hide behind is useless for them.

  “This is an Atchisson Assault Shotgun or Combat AA-12 Combat shot gun. This drum magazine holds 32 rounds. It is a fully automatic, gas operated, and can fire 300 rounds per minute. The standard issue shotgun can use many different types of cartridges such as hardened 00 buck shot, #4 bird shot, 12-bore lead slugs, or less-than-lethal rubber stun batons. It can also fire flares or special Frag-12 18.5 mm fin-stabilized HE, HEAP, and sensor fused HEAB air-burst fragmentation shells that can detonate in mid-air and are accurate to 175 meters. It is light enough to carry around, and a strong man can fire it one handed, conceivably even fire one in each hand.”

  “Like old Arnold Schwarzenegger!” quipped John I, and Hunter laughed.

  “Just like. One stop shopping—high explosive, high explosive armor piercing, high explosive air burst, and regular shot. Who could ask for more? The grenades I have here are Frag 12 armor piercing little monsters which can be fired at a rate of 120 per minute bursts and clear everything in a nine foot radius—that’s a circle 18 feet across. This little missile here is an HE, armor piercing, fragmentation grenade with wings—flechettes.”

  “We need a suitable target for our Buck Rogers sci-fi gadget.” Hunter said.

  “Let’s get aboard the hummer, and I’ll take you to the perfect target.”

  The three drove to another section of the shooting range. 100 meters from where they parked sat three ugly three story concrete buildings with standard size window openings from which the glass had long since been blown away. The walls were thoroughly pockmarked with impacts from a large variety of fire power. The entryways appeared to be made of solid steel.

  “This was delivered to me last night from the Black Hawk Training Center in Moyock, North Carolina. Watch this,” the sniper said with a malevolent grin.

  He loaded and locked the magazine, aimed at the first of the buildings then fired 20 rounds through the windows and doors in the next four seconds. The noise was deafening, and the incredible amount of damage inflicted on the building impressed even the two seasoned veteran militarists. The sniper set down the gun and started walking towards the hapless building, beckoning his two pupils to follow.

  The building was structurally unsound, and the three men gingerly picked their way in for a cursory look. The target had been outfitted with furniture and mannequins in every room. The furniture bore no resemblance to anything that could once have been useful to people. The people—mannequins—were blown to pieces, tiny fragments. It was evident that many of them had essentially been vaporized.

  “Like I said, gentlemen, this weapon has an incredible fear factor attached to it.”

  “Amen,” said both Hunter and John I at the same time.

  Both students gave the remarkable weapon a thorough workout. It fired flawlessly, accurately, and with a convincing devastation.

  “And I get one of these?” Hunter asked like a little boy viewing the chance to get his first real .22.

  “Yup. Part of the standard armamentarium for you regular spy folks,” said the sniper when the din and dust died down. “There is a catch.”

  Hunter frowned.

  “Yeah, you have to clean it after every 10,000 rounds.”

  They all laughed at the absurdly effective, nearly indestructible, and incredibly durable science fiction weapon Hunter was now holding.

  Hunter shook his head in wonder and appreciation. He was convinced that Oliver was as good as his word. Any mission he was about to undertake would be at least equipped as well as was possible. He still had more than two and a half months of this kind of training left and had some difficulty in imagining what would be in store for him for the rest of the time.

  The sniper smiled at Hunter and said, “you did good. Not as good as the average marine, but good.”

  “Thanks for all that faint praise.”

  The sniper gave Hunter an approving nod and left the two Johns to prepare his lecture for the evening.

  John I said, “You know, John, you really got high marks and serious praise from that guy. I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s the top instructor at the Qu
antico Marine Sniper School.”

  Hunter’s expression stayed placid, but he was quietly very pleased with himself. He had always liked to be a respected man among men, and it was heady stuff to be praised as a shooter among shooters.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After the long day of shooting, and another lecture by the sniper, Hunter settled on his bed, picked up a copy of Middlemarch that had been on the coffee table, turned on the radio to a country music station, and drowsily began to read. He knew it was a mistake for him to listen as the first twangy nasal voice came on.

  The disc jockey, said, “And now all my friends out there, here’s an oldie and a goodie. Let’s give a listen to Dickie Lee’s Rocky from the Country Gold 1975-79 album.”

  “Alone until my eighteenth year, we met four springs ago.

  She was shy and had a fear, of things she did not know

  But we got it together in such a super way

  We held each other close at night, and traded dreams each day

  She said Rocky I’ve never been in love before, don’t know if I can do it

  But if you let me lean on you take my hand I might get through it

  I said baby, oh sweet baby it’s love that sets us free

  And God knows if the world should end your love is safe with me”

  Hunter listened in spite of his better judgment; it was too close to the bone; and he should turn it off.

  “…And she said Rocky I’ve never had a baby before, don’t know if I can do it

  But if you let me lean on you, take my hand I might get through it

  I said, baby, Oh sweet baby it’s love that sets us free

  And God knows if the world should end your love is safe with me”

  For months, Hunter had gritted his teeth to avoid the heart wrenching images of his family that he had hidden deep in the recesses of his mind. The lyrics brought to the fore sweet Rosie and her fears as labor started with and of beautiful Donna as a baby girl. He began to cry silently but with a river of tears as the dam that held in his tightly held emotions began to crumble. He fought to control himself, but there was a poignant and close truth to the man in those lyrics he could not defeat.

  “We had lots of problems then, but we had lots of fun

  Like the birthday party, when our baby girl turned one

  I was proud and satisfied, life had so much to give

  Til the day they told me that she didn’t have long to live

  She said Rocky I never had to die before don’t know if I can do it”

  The floodgates of the dam opened and the entire contents of his misery, loneliness, and pain poured out. He grabbed his pillow, crushed it against his face, and ran into the bathroom; so, John I would not hear him. He wept inconsolably.

  “…Rocky you know you’ve been alone before, you know that you can do it

  But if you’d like to lean on me, take my hand I’ll help you through it

  I said baby, Oh sweet baby, it’s love that sets us free

  And God knows if the world should end, your love is safe with me.”

  The emotional catharsis was draining but strangely restorative. When the great waves of grief finally ebbed away and back into their hidden place in his wounded mind, Hunter felt exhausted and finally able to face what had happened to him. He was surprised that the song had triggered such a spontaneous outpouring but; as he fell asleep, he recognized that he might well be starting to heal.

  His dreams were both beautiful and profoundly disturbing. Over and over, he walked on a shining beach holding Rosie’s and Donna’s hands and smiled down at young Daniel as he trotted along side, hurrying to keep up. There was warmth, light, and a great feeling of peace and of all being right with the world as they walked along barefoot in the warm sand. Then, repeatedly, in the distance, Hunter saw a tall bearded Arab in a kaffiyeh and thobe walking towards him and his family. As he drew closer, the dark hawk-nosed Arab waved a Qur’an and shouted; but the Arabic words were incomprehensible to the family. At the end of each repeat of the dream, Hunter woke up sweating and angry, only to fall asleep again and to experience the same scene.

  When the alarm went off at 0630, Hunter awakened and said, “I will never stop hunting them, Rosie; you and Daniel and Donna and Stephen and Marie and the little ones will have justice if I have to kill every “peace loving” member of that twisted religion in the world.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  White House Oval Office, 0630: Daily CIA Briefing. Present: POTUS, DCIA

  Gerald Lang was ushered into the Oval Office unceremoniously and without formalities or pleasantries.

  “Give me the latest, Director. Anything more about the attacks on U.S. interests in Israel—the visa office at the embassy in Jerusalem, the FBI legat office in Tel Aviv, and the Brigham Young University Center for Near Eastern Studies on Mount Scopus in Jerusalem?”

  “There is one more occurrence that you did not get called about last night, Mr. President. There was a fourth attack planned against Israel by Hamas on the Grand Oasis Hotel and entertainment center on the Israeli-Jordanian border between Eilat and Aqaba. It is best known as The American Partners Tourism Project which made it a prime target. But that facilitator of man- made disaster’s suicide vest malfunctioned. He took off the vest, tried to fix it and failed, then his compatriots took it away from the hotel and gave it a go and were privileged to achieve martyrdom. He was captured intact. Mossad had a discussion with him—quite a vigorous one, apparently—although the details of that were not forthcoming. The bottom line is that the gentleman gave a plethora of information about the entire plot, to wit: Hamas, under Adel Abu-Darzi—ostensibly a citizen of Gaza, but in fact a citizen of Tehran—was the tactical commander. The other direct participants—now vaporized—included two other Iranians—a woman, Ronan Hussain, and a gentleman, Muhammad Ali Khomeinil; a citizen of Saudi Arabia, a ranking operative of the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate—the Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah—named Sheik Abdullah el-Faisal; and a true Palestinian Arab, Abdulkhaleq al-Shibri.”

  “Any significance to the individuals you’ve named?”

  “Indeed so, Mr. President. Abu-Darzi is an Iranian agent, a representative of the government of the Republic of Iran who probably answers directly to President Ahmadine-jad. The Sheikh came to Israel directly from the Saudi government bearing operational money. Al-Shibri was the nephew of Oumar Abu al-Shibri, who is the finance director of the Palestinian National Liberation Movement—Harakat At-Tahriri Al-Filistiniya—or FATEH. The directness of the involvement of the Shia and Sunni official worlds—generally assumed to be at complete logger-heads with each other—could hardly be more explicit or worrisome.”

  President Storebridge was contemplative, and there ensued a thoughtful silence that lasted a full three minutes before he spoke, “Director, I think you are drawing somewhat of an overly tight conclusion based on the facts you have presented, and I want you to squeeze every bit of intel out of anyone and everyone involved before the government of the United States can accept at face value the full impact of your conclusions. Second, you serve at my pleasure, Gerald. I acknowledge your great contributions to the intelligence service and to the country, but your penchant for sarcasm irks me. Since President Obama, our country has made dramatic strides in regaining our popularity among our allies and even among those with whom we differ. Get used to the idea that this is no longer the War on Terrorism, that it is not a war, and that we do not, repeat, do not publicly refer to the perpetrators as terrorists any longer. I want you to get used to the new reality. George W. Bush is gone along with his bellicosity. There is a new president and a new attitude, a hard won diplomatic state of mind. The members of this administration shall hue to the new line; so, we can continue to function in the world. Capisce?

  “Capisce. But, Mr. President, the events of yesterday are serious. Israel cannot tolerate such outrages on their soil any more than we can afford to let our consulates be attacked in any country. Those attacks are
every bit tantamount to acts of war on our soil. The use of euphemisms like “violent extremism” suggests that there are only a few, fringe, semi-lunatics acting with some warped definition of Sharia. When al Qaeda is identified as the culprit in some heinous outrage, the reporter or politician is quick to refer to the organization and its acts as somehow being a “corruption of Islam”. That way of thinking and behaving on our part flies in the face of two stubborn realities: first, these people are doing nothing more than implementing the Sharia. Second—and more important—they have literally tens of millions of sympathetic and supporting adherents, far more than a diminutive term like ‘fringe-group’ suggests. We are seeing a significant upturn in jihad by the sword—one of the core tenets of the religion. What would you have The Company do?”

  “Can you send your Sheep Dog people to create some mischief?”

  “Not yet. Our operatives are just not ready. That will have to wait for three or four more months, and the targets will have to be chosen very carefully. Actually, while diplomatic efforts are underway, the U.S. can appear to be acting in a measured way. When we do hit, the perpetrators will not be able to make direct connections between action and reaction. Our preparations are moving along very well. We are pleased with the progress being made, and the Sheep Dog program will be a finely tuned machine when it is fully up and running; you have my word on that, Mr. President. And, I apologize for being snide. I am frustrated—as I know you are—about the growing intentional chaos.”