by Anne Fox
“Nonfatal shot recorded,” Hal announced as Amigo ran to the next barricade. He came around the left-hand side of the barricade and engaged the target again.
“Fatal shot recorded,” Hal announced. “Suspect eliminated.”
Amigo cleared his firearm and reholstered it. “And that’s how it’s done.”
“You have to develop long-distance accuracy,” Hank said. “I’ll give you a hint on how to do that, but right now what I’d like to show you is what we really want you to be able to do.”
Once Amigo had returned to a point behind the starting point, Hank took up the starting position.
“Gun.”
Hank ran to the first barricade, and coming around it, took two shots during her run to the second barricade. She continued from barricade to barricade while Hal announced, “Fatal shot recorded,” for each of her two fired shots.
“You’re fucking me,” Cloud said when she’d finished and reholstered her sidearm.
“No. Actually, I’m fucking Spud,” she said with a grin.
Amigo cracked up.
“And you better not be fucking anyone else,” Spud said, coming into the range. “This looks like an interesting exercise,” he added. “The target shoots back?”
“And when those rounds hit you, they raise a nice welt,” Crow said, alternating between rubbing his shoulder and his leg.
Hank took out a quarter. “Care to see who’s better?”
Spud took out a quarter of his own. “You know, we did a lot of weapons training in the Secret Service.”
“And we did a lot of weapons training in the FBI. Plus, I took every opportunity to get to the range, as you well know.”
“Gunsmith, bring my Sig and two magazines of ammunition to the range,” Spud said.
“This is going to be fun,” Crow whispered to Cloud.
While waiting for the arrival of Spud’s handgun, Hank went downrange and pasted masking tape over the holes in the target. “I don’t expect this to be easy,” she said as she walked back uprange.
“Want to add a little something extra to the bet?” Spud asked.
“Depends. What are you thinking of?”
“If I win, you wait on me hand and foot at dinner. If you win, I’ll wait on you hand and foot.”
“That’s a damned sight better than a quarter,” she said, grinning at him. “And really good incentive to win.”
“Call it,” Amigo said, tossing a quarter in the air.
“Tails,” Hank said.
“Heads. Spud, you’re up.”
Hank stood back and let Spud take the starting position.
“Ready?” Amigo asked.
Spud nodded.
“Gun.”
Spud ran the course as Hank had, shooting two shots as he went from barricade to barricade, hearing Hal announce fatal shots during his run. He never hesitated, not even when he had to reload.
“That’s some nice shooting,” Amigo said when he finished.
“Want to up it even more?” Spud asked.
Hank looked at the neat pattern of his shots, centered on the target. “Sure. What else are you thinking?”
“If I win, you’ve got to wear a little frilly apron.”
“We’ve got a little frilly apron in the kitchen?” Hank asked, pasting tape over his holes and counting up his score.
“This isn’t the first kind of bet that’s gone like this,” Spud replied, giving her a little smile.
Better not fuck this up, Hank thought.
She took her position at the starting point.
“Ready?” Amigo asked.
She nodded.
“Gun.”
She ran the course again, again hearing Hal announce fatal hits during every dash to the next target. Finishing, she took a look at her shots and counted up her score.
“One point,” she announced. “One point difference.”
“Who won?” Crow asked.
She looked at him, her face expressing annoyance.
Crow grinned. “Spud.”
“Fuck,” Hank said. “By one fucking point. And I was looking forward to seeing him in a frilly apron.”
Spud smiled. “I’ll just go off and find that apron for you, Love. See you at dinner.”
11
“This new veteran’s bill is going to be the correct thing to do for those who have served this great nation. These men and women... who have given so... given so much...”
“Not again,” Spud muttered, watching the news.
“...Given so much to our nation... Though I have to say, I don’t know why we... why we call them heroes. I should be the one called a hero, the way... the way I’m being... being attacked... unfounded...”
Spud planted his face in his hand and shook his head as the President’s handlers once again steered him away from the microphones and cameras.
“I don’t understand his behavior at all,” Crow said. “He started out just fine. Then it’s like you see him melt into a blubbering puddle right before your eyes.”
“There are times when I wish I was still in the Protective Division,” Spud said. “Maybe I’d be seeing something that explains it.”
“So, what’s the latest on the criminal charges, anyway?” Edge asked.
“They weren’t able to find anything indicating emoluments clause violations,” Spud said. “The President was being truthful when he said he’d divested himself of any business dealings that involved foreign interests. The only businesses which he’s still involved with are completely domestic, taking no foreign money.
“They’re still pawing through the campaign contributions and where all the money went,” Spud continued. “But so far, they haven’t discovered anything there, either. That’s not to say that they won’t find anything, just that they haven’t found anything yet.
“It all makes me wonder if the President is just overwhelmed by the accusations at the moment, and the stress is getting to him,” Spud concluded.
“If the stress gets to him to the point where he has a meltdown all the time, maybe he’s not fit to be President,” Hank suggested.
“Well. That’s not going to get him impeached on an Article Two violation,” Spud said. “It could get him removed as medically unfit, though.”
“And what does that take?” Amigo asked.
“Invocation of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment,” Spud said.
Crow pulled out his tablet to look it up. Taking a moment to read it through, he said, “I gather we’re talking about the provisions in Section Four of the Amendment?”
“Exactly.”
“What exactly does it say?” Cloud asked.
Crow began reading. “Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.
“Thereafter, when the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that no inability exists, he shall resume the powers and duties of his office unless the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive department or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit within four days to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office. Thereupon Congress shall decide the issue, assembling within forty-eight hours for that purpose if not in session. If the Congress, within twenty-one days after receipt of the latter written declaration, or, if Congress is not in session, within twenty-one days after Congress is required to assemble, determines by two-thirds vote of both Houses that the President is unable to disch
arge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall continue to discharge the same as Acting President; otherwise, the President shall resume the powers and duties of his office.”
“So the process is,” Spud began, “that the Vice President and, because the President has twenty-four people in his cabinet, thirteen of the cabinet members have to tell Congress that they believe the President is unfit to stay in office. That could be interpreted as temporarily unable, or permanently unable. Once they do that, then the President is effectively removed from office, and the Vice President takes over as President.”
“Just like that?” Cloud asked.
“Not exactly,” Spud said. “The President can protest it. If he does, he’s reinstated in office.”
“Yeah, but is someone who’s potentially batshit crazy, as, sorry to say, this President just might be, competent to declare himself able to continue acting as President?”
“The Amendment provides for that,” Spud said. “The Vice President and cabinet members can then go back to Congress and, in essence, say, ‘no, he isn’t.’ Once they do that, then Congress decides if the President is or isn’t fit to serve. If Congress agrees, then the President is removed from office and the Vice President takes over. But it takes a supermajority to do that.”
“Supermajority?”
“Two-thirds of the entire Congress has to agree,” Spud said.
“And all of this is initiated by the cabinet?” Amigo asked.
“Not the cabinet. The Vice President,” Spud said.
“Fat chance of that, then,” Cloud said. “The Vice President will turn on the guy who got him where he is? I don’t think so.”
“Somewhat depressing when you think of the schizoid behavior we’ve seen from the guy we’ve got in office,” Voice remarked.
“Schizoid or not, this isn’t getting us to our training assignments,” Hank said. “Amigo and I have another date with our Marine Corps gunny out at the MOUT. He has something new set up for us, and frankly I’m curious about what it might be.”
Amigo and Hank arrived at MOUT North to find the base commander already there.
“Good morning, Sir,” she said as both of them saluted the officer. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.”
The colonel returned their salute and looked at his watch. “You’re actually early. I’m simply earlier.” He looked over Hank’s cammies. “I’m glad to see my request for you to wear gunnery sergeant rank was agreed to by the unit, Hank.”
Hank debated whether she should explain that rank really had no meaning for the unit. He seemed to pick up on her thoughts.
“I take it you have something to say about that?” he asked.
“Well, yes, Sir. You see, the unit really has no true rank structure. Our abilities and specialties dictate who will be in charge of each operation.”
“I gathered that from the briefing materials I received concerning the unit when I became commander here at Quantico,” he said. “My request was more to express my admiration for your abilities, Gunny Hank. I have had opportunity to witness the performances of many Marines who I always felt represented the best and most disciplined men and women this nation has to offer. Being confronted with someone who I consider a step above those men and women, and having really no other way to show my appreciation of your capabilities, I figured at least I could grant you another stripe.”
“I appreciate it, Sir.”
“Given you are not a Marine, you can relax and drop the military courtesies as well.”
“No, Sir,” Hank said. “The unit is pledged to fit in here at Quantico. The practice of proper military decorum is part of that pledge. While in your presence, that involves following the orders of a superior.”
The colonel laughed. “So, if I order you to raise your right hand and take the oath of enlistment?”
Hank smiled. “Shy of that one, Sir.”
“Fair enough.” The colonel turned and looked from their position on MOUT North to the MOUT. “It impressed me the last time we were here that the unit trains as realistically as possible. Am I right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“We’ve made some modifications in the MOUT. I’d like to see how you handle a target exercise.”
“With pleasure, Sir.”
The colonel raised a walkie talkie he held to his mouth and called, “Range Control, if you could activate the MOUT target assembly.”
Amigo handed Hank his binoculars so she could see what was happening in the MOUT. Watching, she saw targets appear, then disappear, while others moved from behind one building to behind another.
“Oh, that’s fucking awesome!” she said. “With apologies for the language, Sir.”
The colonel laughed. “I would say from my experience while attending OCS that you sound very much like a gunnery sergeant, Hank.”
She handed the binoculars to Amigo. He watched for a moment, then lowered the binoculars and said, “¡Jodidamente increíble es correcto!”
“And there’s a little catch to this,” the colonel continued. “We’ll be informing our own sniper teams of how quickly you and Amigo can clear ten targets, with the aim of having them gain some incentive for improvement by attempting to beat your record.”
“Best of three, Sir?”
He grinned. “Why not?”
Amigo and Hank set about setting up their firing point and readying ammunition. With her usual degree of organization, she set up loaded magazines and any other items she felt she might need within easy reach, and in places she used as habit, allowing her to simply reach for items without looking.
“Where it will start getting interesting,” she noted to Amigo, is when we start eliminating targets. It will start getting a lot harder to locate them and eliminate them within the time frame each one is visible.”
“In short, this is going to be fun,” Amigo said, getting them both laughing.
“May I ask how long each target is visible, Sir?”
The colonel grinned again. “It varies. Random times, random positions. Just like in real life.”
Hank’s grin spread from ear to ear. “You’re a sadist, Sir.”
“I would say, from the expression on your face, that you’re into sadism, Gunny Hank. Which is also appropriate to your rank.” He looked back down to the MOUT, then drew a stopwatch from his pocket. “If you’re ready, I’ll give the command to fire.”
She positioned on her rifle, and Amigo at his spotting scope.
“Spotter ready.”
“Shooter ready.”
“Fire,” the colonel said.
She commenced firing on targets as they appeared and Amigo called them, pausing only slightly once to reload the Sako with another five-round magazine. “Ten,” they heard come over the walkie talkie. The colonel stopped his stopwatch.
“Phenomenal. Sixteen point three seven seconds.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Hank said.
Running the exercise again, at the end of ten rounds and ten hits, the colonel announced. “A little slower, but not by much. Seventeen point five-seven seconds.”
Hank was frowning. “A slight fumble with the reload and then having to make a shot to the top of the high building,” she muttered. “Not an easy combo, Sir. The fumble with the magazine is inexcusable.”
“You’re a bit of a perfectionist, Gunny.”
“Perhaps, Sir.”
Running the exercise for the final time, the colonel announced at the end, “You are, if nothing else, consistent. Once again, sixteen point three seven seconds.”
Amigo ran some mental math. “Average of sixteen point seven seven seconds, Hank.”
“Are you sure that’s correct?” the colonel asked.
“Amigo is very good with the math, Sir. It’s what makes him such a good spotter. He can come up with a firing solution quickly.” Hank slid back and sat on her haunches. “If any of your teams beat my average, Sir, I would appreciate the opportunity to redeem myself.”
She st
ood. “If I may also, Sir, I’d like a little time to make a modification to our own range and then invite you to try your hand at our own little firing exercise. Your set-up here in the MOUT has given me some inspiration for an improvement we can make there.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” the colonel said. “Is there a way I should prepare for this?”
“I could be a sadist and simply tell you to show up with a sidearm, Sir,” she said, smiling. “Instead I’ll tell you that it would probably be a good idea to practice long-distance accuracy with a handgun, as well as the ability to shoot while on the move. Preferably running.”
Crow sat with Hank and Edge in the FBO at Stafford Regional Airport. He was jiggling his leg in that nervous way that Hank had always found both amazing for men’s ability to do it and annoying at the same time. She finally punched him in the arm. “Will you fucking stop that?”
“Sorry. I just wish Fred would get here so we can get this over with.”
“We? We’re the one taking the checkride,” Edge noted. “Not you.”
Crow had begun jiggling his leg again. “Then just consider that you don’t need to be nervous, because I’m nervous enough for both of you.”
“Did you ever stop to think that when you’re looking like you’re nervous that it doesn’t make us feel like you have confidence that we can pass?” Edge asked.
“What he said,” Hank added, watching him jiggle his leg with an annoyed look on her face.
“You’ll both do fine,” Crow said.
“Has anyone flipped a quarter yet?” Fred Parloy walked up and sat with the three pilots.
“I am, fortunately, the winner of the toss,” Hank said. “I don’t think I can stand another minute of watching Crow jiggle his fucking leg.” She got up, grabbed her flight bag, and headed back to the pilot’s lounge on Fred’s heels.
“She’s right, you know,” Edge said. “That’s really annoying.”
About an hour later, Hank and the examiner came back out of the pilot’s lounge. She grabbed the Archer’s keys from in front of Crow and the two of them headed out to where the Archer was parked on the ramp.