THE CONTRACTOR
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The day of the final started out cold. Each team started just outside a wooded area. They would need to cross the wooded area, a road, and then a field, make their way into the hilly terrain, find their firing position, and make their shots without being seen by the instructors in the tower. They worked with instructors who walked the terrain taking commands for the tower. If the tower-watchers thought that they saw movement, they would send the walker to that exact spot and the walker would verify whether the stalking sniper was there.
The stalk can take hours. If you aren’t discovered, and you can set up your firing position, you get to take your shots.
What was different from the SEAL school was how the final shots at the CIA school were made. At the SEAL school, and probably the Army and Marine schools, too, you first shot a blank. That announced you were in your FP. Then you were allowed to load an actual live round and fire at a humanoid target. Hit the center mass or head, and you’re a winner, winner, chicken dinner. Miss, and you fail. At this school, meanwhile, you shot blanks at living targets wearing the MILES IWS system. This is essentially a laser system attached to the barrel of your rifle and worn by the mock targets. When the blank round is fired, it triggers the laser on the rifle, sending a beam of light to receptors on the target’s gear. When hit, the gear would emit a loud alarm, and the target personnel would lie down on the ground and use a key to switchoff the sound.
This test involved taking out two guards, a high-ranking officer, a truck driver, and a portable satellite dish. What made the shooting portion tricky was that as soon as you took out one human target, the others would react to the “attack” and become highly mobile. The real test, beyond even getting to your FP, was to choose the right targets in the right order. You had to understand the order of priority. The high-ranking officer should go first. Then the truck driver, as he would quickly become mobile. Then the satellite dish so there could be no communications about this event, and finally the guards if they became targets of opportunity. In reality, the guards didn’t matter much.
In the end, ten of the twenty-four passed the final test. Eleven were spotted before they made it to their firing positions. Three made it to their FP but did not successfully take out the three key targets.
I felt that six of the ten who passed would have passed SEAL sniper school. And, not surprisingly, three of the six had been through a formal military sniper program.
Either way, I felt things went well, and we were able to write detailed findings and recommendations on the trainees. It was a fast five weeks. Class Two was due to arrive in two days, and we would start this all over again. Time for after-action reports, equipment cleaning, ammo inventory, and a bunch of other shit the trainees don’t know the instructors have to do after hours.
We got back to The Hole around 1800. Trainees, some with extatically happy faces and others with the “I suck” face, exited the bus. Those who went through the test last still wore their Ghillie suits. Each shuffled past the cadre to clean up and pack up for their exfil in the morning.
As the bus closed its doors and drove off into the distance, I could see another vehicle headed in our direction. It was another black SUV, so I figured we might be getting more cadre.
The other instructors followed the trainees into the old building while Gary and I stayed outside, wondering who was going to be added to the staff.
The SUV stopped right in front of where we stood, sending a small cloud of dust onto our already dusty clothes.
I don’t know why I looked down at the license plate, but I guess I was just curious. It was a diplomatic plate. Maybe we were getting a visit from our program manager from D.C.
The tinted back passenger-side window rolled down, and a face familiar to me leaned out. It was Mike Goldman.
Gary looked at me. “You know him?”
“Yeah, he kinda recruited me into this.”
Goldman waved his hand out the window, “Hey, Branson, you got a minute?”
Gary looked at me with a strange face that conveyed there were probably things about me he didn’t know, and that he really didn’t want to know.
“I’ll meet you inside,” Gary said. “You can take care of this, right?”
I nodded my head in the affirmative to Gary.
I began to walk in Goldman’s direction. He opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel before closing the door behind him and walking toward me.
“How did you like the school?”
“Umm,” I started, “it was great. A little short for my liking.”
“That’s what she said!” Gary yelled from inside the doorway.
“Smartass!” I responded.
I refocused on Goldman. “It was great to do some high-speed training right here in the U.S. Another five weeks and I’ll be headed home again. That all works for me.”
Goldman smiled.
Starting to get a bit nervous, I asked, “So what brings you way the fuck out here?”
He smiled again. “So about that heading home thing. I might need you for something important. Like…really important.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, spidey-senses heightened.
“It means that I am going to need you to skip the second session here and help me out with a situation we have. A situation that could become an international issue.”
I remained silent for a minute. Goldman didn’t bite. He didn’t fill the awkward silence with more information. So I blinked first.
“Listen, we agreed I was going to teach at this school, go home when it was over, and reassess our next steps. It’s been less than a year since we talked. Why the sudden change?”
“Niiick,” Goldman said, stretching out my name for effect as if to convey that I didn’t understand. “I wouldn’t have come here if this was an issue that someone else could handle. You know we have all sorts of agents, but you are one of the few people who can mop up this situation before it gets out of hand. The President really doesn’t want to commit troops to this—it needs to be handled covertly.”
“Okay, shit, can you tell me what it is?” I asked.
Goldman chuckled. “No, not here.”
“Mike, is there seriously no one else who can handle this? Why do you want me to handle this alone if it could be such a big international incident?
“Yeah…about that, Nick. Like I said, you are one of the few people who can handle this—but not the only one.”
“Well shit, Mike, then get him.”
Mike looked at me very seriously, not smiling this time. His eyes were intense. “I did get him, Nick. He’s going to be your partner. You will make one badass team.”
I had no idea who the hell he was talking about.
The back passenger door on the driver’s side of the SUV opened and closed. I couldn’t see who had exited the vehicle, but he was walking around the back of the truck toward us.
He was medium build with lean muscle. His sleeves were rolled up, and I could see a small Japanese kanji tattoo on his left forearm. He removed his baseball cap, allowing shocks of unkempt red hair to fall down over his forehead.
Erik Olsen smiled and extended his hand to shake mine.
“What’s up, Nick? Ready for some fun?”
One shot, one kill—Damn, I did NOT see THAT coming!
About The Author
R. SAINT HILAIRE
R. Saint Hilaire is an Author of Historical Fiction, Action, and Adventure novels. He is also an avid Historian, Genealogist, Book Collector, World Traveler, and lover of Wine and Cigars. Saint Hilaire is also a Jujitsu instructor, certified Personal Protection Specialist, and was formerly a Hand to Hand Combat and Riot Control Instructor in the U.S. Army. He is the author of the Military Thriller series "The Contractor," as well as "Pioneers of American Jujitsu."
Books In This Series
THE CONTRACTOR
THE CONTRACTOR - The Sandbox
Like many who leave the military for the action and high pay of a Private Military Security C
ontractor, former Navy SEAL Nick Branson abandoned a promising military career to provide High Risk Protection services for the CIA. Now charged with protecting a traitorous CIA Agent, Nick finds himself embroiled in one failed mission after the other. A little bit at a time, Nick discovers the truth about his Principal, who turns out to be a high level Operative with a personal vendetta and a plot to bring destruction to U.S. Troops.
Meanwhile in Washington, D.C., strings are pulled to ensure extreme measures are taken to guarantee funding for the long term occupation of Iraq. Nick Branson and his Principal Joe Corrino have no idea they are pawns in this political game.
As the truth becomes clear, The Contractor and The Operative embark on a seek-and-destroy mission against one another across the war torn sands of Iraq. Only one will emerge the victor!
THE CONTRACTOR - Death Spiral
What you think is the truth is a lie!
Nick Branson is back in the second action-packed novel in The Contractor series.
Nick has taken an Executive Protection job instead of his usual High-Risk Security assignment.
Go to Turkey, they said. It’ll be safer, they said.
But as part of a Diplomatic Protection Detail, Nick and his team must escort the Turkish Ambassador on dangerous missions to perform nuclear materials inspections across the border into Iran.
When the Ambassador's private jet is sabotaged by what seems to be an extremist element, Nick finds himself fighting his way out of a death spiral. Miraculously surviving, Nick is left stranded in the Iranian desert fighting for his life. Little does he know, a CIA NOC—who is happily dipping into the pockets of the CIA and foreign governments—is on a mission to create an international incident which could instigate a U.S. invasion of Iran.
Nick and his team are the only ones who can stop him.
Once again, Nick Branson finds himself runnin' and gunnin' across the Mideast, trying to stop World War Three.