Operation Assassination

by Anne Fox

  “Send him in,” she heard a man’s voice call from behind the closed inner door. “I’m expecting him.”

  The woman got up, and opening the inner door, directed Hank to enter. Walking through, she came face-to-face across a desk with a tall, thin man wearing colonel’s insignia. She snapped to attention and rendered a brisk salute. “Staff Sergeant Hank, reporting as ordered, Sir.”

  Returning her salute, the colonel came from behind his desk and stood next to her. Please don’t notice.

  “Staff Sergeant Hank.” He walked around behind her and then stood facing her on the other side. “You’re a bit small for a Marine.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re with the unit. Are you really a Marine?”

  Honesty or reality? Maybe both. “I wear the uniform with pride, Sir.”

  “You pass your PT test?”

  “Regularly, Sir.” Just don’t ask me to strip to my boxers and do crunches for you...

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Phew!

  He returned to his desk and sat. “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat.”

  Hank took the chair at the desk opposite him, the special undergarment she wore not really allowing her to be much at ease.

  “There’s this little matter of these.” He reached down and pulled up a plastic bag, dropping it on his desk in front of her. She looked inside. The coconut meat itself was gone, but the shells remained. Fucking Luigi. Yeah, the vermin ate the coconut and left the fucking shells!

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  “It seems when a detail went out to Range 15 to repair and paint targets, they found these down at the thousand yard area.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “They didn’t know who shot them, but I knew the unit was scheduled for the range, given no Marine units were scheduled. Given my request, I’m gathering you’re the one who shot these?”

  “With my apologies, Sir. I was assured by one of the unit members with me that the wildlife would take care of them.”

  “Obviously, the wildlife doesn’t like coconut shells any more than we do.”

  “Apparently not, Sir.”

  “You were shooting from the firing point?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “At coconuts.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He looked at her skeptically. “And what rifle were you using?”

  “The unit has provided me with a Sako TRG M10 that has been modified for my specific use, Sir.”

  “Caliber?”

  “It’s chambered for .338 Lapua mag, Sir, but can be rebarreled for .308 for shorter distances.”

  “So, you don’t use the M40.”

  “No, Sir, but my spotter does. Or I should say, he has the equivalent. The Remington MSR, also modified for him specifically.”

  “He was also shooting these coconuts?”

  “Well, yes, Sir. But he misses more than I do.”

  “Tell me: how many rounds does it take for you to hit a coconut at a thousand yards?”

  “One, Sir.”

  He sat back in his chair and scowled at her. “I find that very hard to believe.” He extended an arm onto his desk and tapped on the desk with his index finger.

  “Staff Sergeant Hank, I’m not so interested at this point in the fact that these coconut shells were found littering the range as I am in how a sniper can hit coconuts with a single shot at a distance of a thousand yards. I’d truly like to see that.”

  “With apologies, Sir, but it’s not very challenging. Typically, once we find one of them, it’s an easy matter to find the rest. If I may, Sir, I’d like to propose a bit more of a challenge.”

  “You want more of a challenge than hitting coconuts at a thousand yards?”

  “Certainly, Sir,” she said, trying to maintain a straight face and not grin.

  “What would you consider more of a challenge?”

  “Sir, I’ve noticed you have a Military Operations in Urban Terrain facility near the firing point end of Range 15, and an associated range area. MOUT and MOUT North? And I note, Sir, that ordinarily nonlethal ammunition is used in the MOUT. I note, also, that there is about a thousand yards from the northeastern end of MOUT North into the MOUT itself.”

  “And?”

  “If targets could be set inside the MOUT, Sir, I’m sure my spotter and I could engage them. One shot per target. If set by your range personnel, we would also have the task of finding them prior to engaging them. We would have no prior knowledge of where the targets were, nor how many would be set. It would be a welcome challenge from the predictability of engaging targets on Range 15, Sir.”

  The colonel sat back with a smile on his face. “This should be an interesting demonstration,” he said. “Consider it done. I’ll let Range know what you want, and will get back in touch with the unit in the usual manner to let you know when to arrive at the range.” He stood, and she stood as well, facing him. “Dismissed.”

  She snapped to attention and rendered another brisk salute. After he returned it, she about-faced and strode from the office. Once outside the door, she relaxed as much as the restraining undergarments would allow, grinned, and headed back out to the unit’s SUV.

  “These allegations against me, that I have violated the emoluments clause, are totally false. I have divested myself of all of my business dealings, and have devoted myself... devoted myself... to the service... the service...”

  “Sounds like he’s derailing again,” Crow said as the team watched the news over breakfast.

  “The service of... It’s these women. These nasty women. Maybe if a few people... a few enthusiastic people would take matters into their own hands...”

  “Holy shit,” Amigo muttered. “Is he suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?”

  They continued to watch as the President’s staff steered him away from the microphone.

  “What the hell is going on with him?” Amigo asked.

  “That’s a fine question, my friend,” Cloud said. “A very fine question. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if Sesogo had taken over the government after all.”

  Spud’s face held the kind of expression he’d been used to adopting when standing next to the President as a Secret Service agent.

  “Tell me, Spud,” Cloud continued. “You spent eight years next to Presidents. Admittedly, not this President, but... in all those eight years, did you ever see anything like this?”

  Spud took a drink of his coffee. “I’ve seen a President get a bit tipsy and not act like that.” He reflected. “Well, not a bit tipsy. He was downright drunk.”

  “Not in front of cameras and microphones, though,” Edge said.

  “I hope,” Voice added.

  “No. It happened in the residence. Precipitated by a little spat with the First Lady.” Spud’s face still held a stoic expression. “A lot of interesting things happened in the residence.”

  “The stories you could tell, I bet,” Hank said. “And you know, guys? He doesn’t even share them with his wife.”

  Spud just looked at her, face stoic, saying nothing.

  “And there you have it,” she concluded.

  “So, what’s the deal?” asked Voice. “What does the emoluments clause actually say?”

  “No title of nobility shall be granted by the United States: and no person holding any office of profit or trust under them, shall, without the consent of the Congress, accept of any present, emolument, office, or title, of any kind whatsoever, from any king, prince, or foreign state,” Crow quoted. “It’s in the Constitution.”

  “You can just rattle something from the Constitution off like that?” Voice asked.

  “Ordinarily, no. But this is what all the current discussion is about, so I looked it up and have been studying it a bit,” Crow replied.

  “So, how does this apply to what’s going on with the President right now?” Cloud asked.

  “The allegation is that he still has ties to his businesses and is still gaining p
rofit from them. Given some of those businesses get money from foreign governments, that would be a violation of the clause. He’d be guilty of accepting an emolument from a foreign state without the consent of Congress.”

  “And if true, what happens?” Amigo asked.

  “It’s an impeachable offense,” Crow said. “He could be removed from office.”

  “And that’s the whole motive behind the allegations,” Maybe because his choo-choo has gone around the bend,” Amigo mused.

  “And if he doesn’t step down?” Edge asked.

  “Then Congress would have to decide if they want to proceed with impeachment,” Crow said. “It would be an interesting case, because the House brings the charges, and the House is currently held by the opposition party. But the Senate actually tries the case, and the Senate is currently held by the same party as the President.”

  “Sounds like it could all fall to partisanship,” Amigo remarked.

  “Could very well.”

  “Well, in spite of how enlightening I’m finding the discourse,” Amigo said, trying to sound highbrow, “it’s not letting me get the dishes done and go with Hank to the range.”

  “Very true,” Hank said. “If we don’t practice, the broad sides of barns will start feeling safe. And given that currently cans of peas and coconuts don’t feel safe, we certainly don’t want barns getting too comfortable.” She stood and drained her cup of the last of her coffee. “Gunsmith, Hank on my way to gather my gear.” She turned to Amigo. “You want me to pick up yours as well?”

  “Sure. With dishpan hands, I might not be able to get a good grip on anything.”

  “Gunsmith, picking up Amigo’s as well.”

  Making her way through the corridors to the armory, she was greeted by Luigi, who was placing ammo cans up on a table inside the door.

  “Good mornin’, Sweetheart. You gonna need more than two cans?”

  “We probably won’t even use two cans, Luigi. But I’ll want my loads and Amigo will want his, so two cans it is.”

  “The two of you still wantin’ to play with different loads and powders, or do you think you’ve got ‘em pretty well tuned now?”

  “We didn’t have any difficulties in Roswell, so I think what we worked out is going to be good,” Hank replied.

  Luigi smiled. “I heard you killed Spud. Knocked ‘im down and shot ‘im through the throat.”

  “You heard right. He shouldn’t have been tracking a perp that carelessly.”

  “’Specially not one that knows how to make pea soup and coconut pie at a thousand yards.” They both laughed.

  “I heard he trotted you back into the Roswell complex in handcuffs.”

  “Stop right there, Luigi,” she said, taking the case with her Sako in it from him. “We’re not going there.”

  “So long as you both had fun, who am I to judge?” Luigi protested, sliding Amigo’s Remington in its case to her. “Where are the two of you off to today?”

  “I’d like to know that, too,” Amigo said, coming into the armory.

  “We have been granted special permission for live fire from MOUT North into the MOUT,” Hank said with a smile. “We’re going to be picking off targets located both inside and outside of the buildings.” She held her arms as if she had a rifle in them. “I see you there, in the back of the room, in the shadows. Bang, bang, you’re dead.”

  “How did you manage to get permission for that?” Amigo asked.

  “I had to have a little chat with our gunny here at Quantico. Who, as it turns out, isn’t a gunny at all. He’s a colonel. In fact, he’s the base commander.”

  “For real? What’s the catch?” Amigo asked.

  “He wants to watch.”

  “Oh, no pressure there.”

  Hank laughed. “Seems he got reports of broken coconut shells a thousand yards from the firing line on Range 15, and rather than get pissed about the mess,” she said, casting an eye in Luigi’s direction, “he wanted to know both how they got there and how they got broken. Guess who had to explain that?” she asked, turning to face Luigi.

  “I would-a sworn the critters would-a carried all of them off,” Luigi said.

  “Apparently, the critters ate the coconut and left their dirty dishes.”

  “Ok. Next time, I put out apples.”

  Amigo laughed. “He’ll have us playing William Tell.”

  The two grabbed their gear and made their way up through the BEQ above ground to one of the unit’s black SUVs.

  “What distance are we talking about for firing into the MOUT?” Amigo asked as they started the drive to the range.

  “About a thousand yards from where we’ll set up our firing point, with varying distances to the buildings in the MOUT. With it being military ops in urban terrain, we can probably get good guesses on distances within the MOUT once we get a distance to the nearest buildings.” Hank grinned. “This should be a lot more interesting than just plinking at the targets on Range 15.”

  She turned and started heading through the wooded areas to where the MOUT range was located. “One of the nice things about what’s being planned for Nebraska is that we won’t have as much driving through winding roads to get to the ranges. And one of the bad things is that it’s flat out there.”

  “Still, I’m looking forward to the move. If Mr. Chelon can get that facility put together the way he was showing us, it’s going to be a whole heckuva lot nicer than our current digs,” Amigo said. “I have to admit a certain amount of claustrophobia. Working with the Border Patrol, I’m used to being outside all day. Between living in a hole in the ground and not really having tremendous amounts of space, it will be nice to live in a residence the size of a house and have a little greenery around.”

  “I take it you’re volunteering to cut the grass?” Hank asked, grinning at him.

  “Mow the grass, prune the trees... But Spud and Edge are the experts at pulling weeds, so I’m going to leave that to them,” he said, getting her laughing.

  “That’s kind-of how it’s been going, huh? ‘For this surveillance, we’ll sit up here on this roof, you guys go pull the weeds.’ There are definite advantages to being a sniper team.”

  Arriving at the range, they found the gunny standing by a vehicle waiting for them. Stepping out of the SUV, she gave him a brisk salute.

  “Good morning, Sir. I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.” Coming over, Amigo likewise rendered a salute.

  Returning their salute, the colonel said, “There have been a few things bothering me since we met, Sergeant Hank.” He looked at them both closely. “My guess is that your answer to me as to whether you’re a Marine was a bit cryptic. You didn’t say you’re a Marine – only that you wear the uniform with pride. My further guess is that you’re not Marines. But you dress like Marines, and you act like Marines.”

  “We dress like Marines, we train like Marines, we live alongside Marines on a Marine Corps base, and we hope you will find we’re as disciplined and talented as Marines, Colonel,” she said.

  He walked up and examined her closely. “And you are not a man.”

  Time for the truth. “No, Sir.”

  “It struck me after we talked. No facial hair. Not even a hint of stubble.”

  Hank winced. “An oversight we’ll have to see if we can correct,” she said. “The unit is housed in a BEQ, and it wouldn’t be good if someone else figured out that one of the bachelors is actually a bachelorette.”

  “But you train like a man?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How many pull-ups can you do?”

  “Currently eighteen, Sir. But I hope to do better.”

  “And these are pull-ups and not flexed arm hangs?”

  “Yes, Sir. Our unit trains to male standards for all team members.”

  “Interesting. Meeting you was the first time I’ve ever met anyone from the unit, Hank. What’s your first name?”

  “Hank is my only name, Sir.”

  “You can stand at ease
, Hank,” the colonel said. Looking at Amigo, he said, “And I take it you’re just Amigo?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you’re going to give me a little demonstration of your shooting skills today, is that right, Amigo?”

  “No, Sir. I’m the spotter. Hank is the sniper.”

  The colonel resumed his scrutiny of Hank. “So, you are the sniper?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well then, Hank, let’s see what you’ve got. We’ve prepared the area with a number of targets. Some are inside the buildings, some are outside. Your task...”

  “Will be to identify and eliminate all of them. Which is just what Amigo and I will do, Colonel.”

  Hank and Amigo went about setting up their area, choosing a spot on the rough ground where they had a good view of the buildings in the MOUT.

  “How do you want to work it, Hank?” Amigo asked.

  “Meh. Let’s take out the obvious ones first, then we can go back and methodically search for any remaining targets.”

  “Sounds good to me. First target is going to be pretty easy. Flat-sided building, dead center in the front of the area, target is dead center of the building, black on white.”

  “I have the target. Firing solution?”

  Amigo consulted a weather gauge in his hand, and then a ballistics table. “One MOA left, three MOA up.”

  The colonel watched as Hank adjusted her rifle scope.

  “Shooter ready.”

  “Spotter ready.”

  “Sending,” Hank murmured. She squeezed the trigger and was rewarded with the pop of the round exiting the silencer. Then she waited and watched through the scope, and seeing the target fall, took her cheek from the stock. “Hit,” Amigo announced. The muted sound of the round hitting steel came back to the firing point.

  The colonel stood watching with binoculars, saying nothing.

  “Target in the doorway to the left of that building, black, in shadow, partially obscured.”

  “I have it.”

  “Same settings. Spotter ready.”

  “Sending.”

  Again, she watched the target fall, then heard the ring of the 300-grain bullet hitting steel return to her firing point.