Prologue - Miami RMI

Prologue

Aegis two-niner, a two-man scout sniper team, manned an observation post atop a four story building on the east side of war torn Beirut. Their makeshift post sat near the edge of the parapet roof and consisted of built up sandbags to provide cover from the harassing fire they received on a near daily basis. From this aerie atop a building on the American University of Beirut campus, their assignment was to provide oversight for the unit patrolling the market nearly 500 yards away. Beyond that, the city of Beirut faded into the foothills of the Lebanon Mountains that served as a majestic backdrop to the ugliness that hid behind the bullet-ridden shells of buildings which at one time was known as the jewel of the Mediterranean.

Contrary to popular belief, snipers rarely worked alone. The team consisted of a shooter and a spotter, the latter being the most experienced. He was the one making all of the calculations for the shots based on visual clues and feeding the information, also called the dope, to the shooter who would dial in the settings on his scope and take the shot.

"…Alright, the lead element is clear of the first alley. They'll be turning the next corner onto the main stretch as soon as you clear them." Gallagher relayed in a whisper while intently focused on his view through the tripod mounted spotter scope.

"Hold up, freeze them at that corner!" Pershing whispered with a sense of urgency.

Immediately Gallagher was on the big PRC-77 radio, relaying the instruction to the Marines patrolling the market.

At the bottom of Pershing's view within his scope, he could see Cpl. Jackson from second squad at the edge of the building, anxiously responding to the message relayed to them. He made a halting gesture with his hand and went to one knee, the rest of the squad followed suit and immediately began scanning their surroundings for any sign of trouble.

"What you got?" Gallagher inquired with his eyes still glued to the spotter scope, while there was chatter on the radio in the background.

"I'm not sure yet, there's something in one of the windows facing the street that our guys are about to turn onto. It may be nothing but there is something about it that doesn't sit right." Pershing said as he attentively scanned the scarred façade of the building, his rifle's muzzle panning almost imperceptibly in line with his view. "There …second window to right of the doorway, ground level."

Gallagher slowly shifted his view. "Got it." He murmured.

"There… look." Pershing whispered as a pair of sandal clad feet stepped into view near the window he just pointed out.

As with so many of the other buildings in and around this war torn city, most of the windows on this building were broken and had cardboard covering all or part of them. In this particular case, only the top half of the window was covered with plain cardboard. This severely limited visibility into the building, especially from their vantage point. In view was a large olive drab colored, box shaped object, with an X-shaped indentation in its side. Next to it sat an elongated shape, elevated from the floor and draped with a pale blue sheet. The person inside stepped closer to the window, and then turned around and stood with their back to the window.

From Pershing's viewpoint, the person by the window was only visible from the waist down to the calves.

"What's that look like to you?"

"Looks like a chick wearing a Burqa, standing next to a big ass Soviet ammo box for a big fucking gun, which is probably what that thing is under that sheet. If that's a Dishka, or anything like it, our guys coming around that corner are going to get an ugly surprise." Gallagher explained smugly.

"So now what?" Pershing asked deferentially.

"Look…you asked me for an opinion…I opined. It looks to me like it's time to start putting that trigger finger to work."

"What about the rules of engagement?"

"Man, fuck the rules of engagement! What about Force Protection? Once those guys turn that corner and commit to moving up that street, they'll be ducks out in the open." Gallagher responded with a sharp edge to his voice.

"What if…?"

"Are you willing to risk a life over "a what if'"? Have you ever seen what a Dishka will do to a man? I know a bunch of those grunts down there and so do you! Can you live with trying to explain to who's left down there, why you let them turn that corner and get blasted?" Gallagher shot back with a hiss.

Pershing was flushed with uncertainty over this situation, everything was always so complicated, yet deep down he agreed with Gallagher. He felt his stomach knot with trepidation as his finger gently caressed the trigger guard of his rifle.

"Call the dope." He said poignantly as he briefly glanced at the notes he kept in his logbook and tried to anticipate the corrections to the scope settings.

"Give me a second," Gallagher responded briefly with his eye glued to the spotter scope, "…650 yards, slight breeze from your left…" he muttered while mentally making the calculations, "one and a half up, half right,"

"Check", Pershing responded as he changed the settings on his scope that Gallagher called out.

His mouth was dry and he could feel his pulse pounding inside his head as he pressed his cheek to the stock of his M40A1 rifle and sought to acquire a good sight picture through the 10x Unertl scope. Several deep breaths later, he was under control again and relaxed. Carefully, he selected a spot on the cardboard covering the window that would correlate with the center mass of the obscured target.

"Clear the patrol to turn the corner." Pershing whispered while intently focusing on the target.

"Damn it…what are you doing?"

"I got this" Pershing replied.

"Alright…" Gallagher replied with some doubt as he made the call on the big field radio.

As Cpl. Jackson and two others cautiously cleared the corner, Pershing observed what he decided was going to be the determining factor in his decision. Whoever the person was began to pull the sheet off the elongated object. Although he still could not positively identify what it was, this was it; show time.

After flipping the safety off with his thumb, he continued to regulate his breathing and applied even pressure on the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder as he exhaled, sending the boat tailed, 184-grain, 7.62mm match grade round downrange at over 2,800 feet per second toward its target.

The image was vivid, the outer fringe motion blurred, giving an incredible sense of speed, yet everything moved slowly. To Pershing, it seemed as if he were sitting on the tip of the bullet itself as it sped towards the intended target.

With a dull thump, the bullet passed through the cardboard covering the window and immediately he was afforded an unobstructed view of the scene within. Time momentarily paused as he studied the interior of the room which he and Gallagher could only speculate on. Directly ahead was the target, a middle aged woman wearing a black Burqa, sleeves rolled up and the partially covered face projecting a warm smile with its friendly eyes. It became quickly apparent that she was a midwife attending to a younger woman in labor, lying in a bed behind her. Pershing now confused, quickly darted his eyes around the room seeking the suspicious objects that caused him to assess this as a perceived threat. The olive drab box, previously identified as a large ammo can was in fact a jerry can containing water that the midwife was using for boiling. The elongated object covered with the sheet was actually an ironing board sitting at an odd angle to the window.

"Oh my god…!" Pershing screamed as the projectile entered high in the midwife's back.

"No, no…!" He continued muttering as he realized his error. The bullet traveled diagonally through her body and exploded out of her chest, followed by a spray of blood, and began tumbling, throwing Pershing off his ride and into a complete state of horror!

"Oh god no…!" He screamed as the projectile impacted and cratered the side of the supine woman's head. The impact threw her head into a strange cant and deformed it beyond recognition.

He felt nauseated seeing the devastating effect of his shot, which was made under a false premise. Then suddenly, the silence of the scene was interrupted by a wet sucking sound emanating from the body of the woman on the bed. Her body began to convulse until a baby's head emerged from between her splayed legs.

"What the…? He blurted as he realized that the baby emerging from the womb looked eerily a lot like him.

Saudi Arabia

February 23, 1991

2nd Marine Expeditionary Force Staging Area

"…Wake up man! Saddle up …, we gotta go!"

Pershing jumped up with rivulets of sweat running down his face looking blankly at Gallagher.

Sergeant Jack Pershing has had the same nightmare before but now it seemed to become more vivid, frequent, and painful. He interpreted it as a message stating that he was killing his chances of ever having a family and a normal life if he did not leave the Marines Corps. Only 6 months into his third enlistment, with a total of 9 years invested, he began to doubt his willingness to continue in his attempt to achieve his goal of retiring. Plagued with the decision of ending this run after 12 years and trying to start a normal life; or ride it out for 8 more years after that and retire. It was a constant distraction that he believed fueled the nightmare that was now going to haunt him for at least for the rest of this enlistment, another 3 ½ years. He really could not understand the change in heart. He went into his third enlistment with a gung-ho attitude without these trepidations.

The big news was the start of the ground campaign of Operation Desert Storm; an actual war. He tried to take solace in the fact it was finally a seemingly meaningful deployment. Something he and others like him spent all these years training for. This morning's mission consisted of flying well ahead of the main attacking force and providing eyes on a key point of concern for the main force.

It was a typical desert night for this time of the year with the temperatures hovering in the low 40's. The moon hung low and bright in the night sky casting sharp shadows on the desert floor. The time was 02:30, their ride was already an hour late and the plans for their mission were on the verge of being compromised due to time constraints. All Pershing and Gallagher could do was sit and wait in the shivering cold, reclined against their gear, huddled under their ponchos. They sat silent, trying to maintain a state of readiness for the mission ahead while suffering through the chill of idleness.

Staff Sergeant Tim Gallagher was Pershing's longtime friend, sometime nemesis, drinking partner and spotter. A solid 6'2", 225 pounds of Irish wrecking machine, he sported a high and tight haircut topped by red hair and a thick red mustache that was always at the edge of being regulation. His most prominent feature beside the red hair was his jutting square jaw, which made his whole head look square. Gallagher, one who found it hard to hold his tongue finally burst out!

"I am so sick of this shit!" Gallagher hissed. "Hurry up and wait, the story of my life. In my 13 years, I must have spent half of that hurrying up and waiting"

"Gallagher, what makes you think things are going to change anytime soon, huh?"

"Look here Pershing, I was bitchin' to myself, if I wanted to hear any shit out of you, I would've squeezed your head!" Gallagher snapped. "Matter of fact, I should've left your ass after Beirut, but no … I had to take up the role as your babysitter … and now that we finally have a real war on our hands, your dumb-ass would probably get yourself killed without me."

"Awh, does that mean you really care?" Pershing chided.

"Kiss my ass you ungrateful shit, before all this is over I might shoot you myself!"

"Yeah right …you know without me you couldn't find your way home."

The distant sound of a helicopter caught both of their attention and interrupted their bickering.

"This better be them." Gallagher complained while standing and looking for the telltale blinking light in the sky.

By the time the old Huey descended, both men already had their ponchos stowed and gear in hand. The helicopter made a slow 180° turn and settled on its skids with a little bounce. A crewman jumped from the open side door and jogged awkwardly towards the waiting pair of Marines. The camouflaged flight helmet seemed ridiculously large on the person and made them look like a bobble head figure.

"Are you Aegis two-niner?" The small voice screamed straining over the loud noise of the idling helicopter as the crewman stepped closely between the two Marines.

"Who else would be standing out here at oh-dark-thirty waiting for a ride …do we look like a couple of tourists packed to go to Hawaii or something?" Gallagher yelled, clearly agitated with the situation. It was Pershing who realized that the little crewman was actually a petite woman and noticed that the front of her flight suit was dark and glistening wet.

"Oh great we got a stewardess for our flight." Gallagher continued mockingly, as he too realized that it was a woman.

"Can it and get your shit on the chopper!" The little figure screamed.

"You hurt?" Pershing asked after seeing her swollen eyes and streaks of blood on her pale moonlit face.

She looked down at her tiny combat boot clad feet and shook her head, "we caught a stray round in the cockpit while inserting a recon team on our way here," She sobbed. "Michael, my brother … he was the co-pilot …he's dead; dead because of me."

Pershing placed his arm around the sobbing woman and tried to comfort her.

"Now what the hell is going on … you trying to woo the stew?" Gallagher asked sarcastically.

"Can you just shut up and get our gear on the bird?" Pershing yelled at the agitator.

"Who the hell do you think you …?" Gallagher started as he passed the pair. He stopped quipping when he sensed that something was wrong when he met Pershing's angry glare.

The first thing Gallagher noticed when loading the gear onto the helicopter was the covered body lying in the cargo area and the unmistakable coppery scent of fresh blood. There was a golf ball sized hole in the windshield on the vacant side of the pilot seats. Although the interior of the helicopter was bathed with red light, he knew what the splatter marks were, the ones which dried into long rivulets down the side window. Looking down at the floor, he noticed a puddle pooling from a body which was covered with a tarp, along with the footprints of someone who happened to walk through what obviously had to be blood.

"Ah shit." He muttered as he went to find a seat as far from the body as possible.

Everyone's mood was sullen as Gunnery Sergeant Julie McBride told her story while the two marines grievously listened on their headsets. Gallagher, now listening in on the conversation, made him painfully aware of how insensitive his behavior was.

Gunnery Sergeant McBride was a helicopter crew chief on the UH-1W Huey helicopter, on her first combat sortie ever. Earlier that night, she purely by coincidence came across her brother, Warrant Officer Michael McBride, a helicopter pilot. Even though she spoke to her brother regularly by phone and through e-mails, she had not physically seen him in years. Fortunately, they were able to make arrangements to swap crew members with another chopper on the flight line to afford a brief reunion. The seemingly simple 2 hour mission which involved inserting a couple of recon teams took a turn for the worse. The first recon team's insertion went fine until they strayed into the path of an Iraqi air defense unit on the way out. Even though the fire from the lone ZEUS was not accurate, due to them apparently firing in an unguided mode while trying to remain undetected by US strike aircraft, one lucky round found its way into the cockpit, killing her brother instantly. The unexpected happy reunion turned into her worst nightmare and now she blamed herself for making the suggestion.

Although Pershing did his best to provide solace, this was an issue that was going to stick with this woman for the rest of her life and something she was going to have to resolve on her own once she left the sympathy of his arms.

She's going to be fucked up behind this one, he thought.

The incident stayed on his mind for the duration of the flight, another reminder of why he wanted to leave this behind to pursue a normal life.

"Time to get with the program…" Gallagher yelled over the intercom as he rudely kicked Pershing to get his attention and made a whirling gesture over his head with his finger, "…insertion point coming up in two minutes!"

The reaction was automatic, patting, checking for gear and a quick mental inventory, "alright let's do this," he responded to Gallagher with thumbs up.

The burst of adrenaline did not rid him of the sorrow he felt for McBride as they leaped from the chopper while it momentarily hovered a few feet above the ground. His attention quickly returned to the vanishing red light of the Huey as he thought of how in an instant her in life had been forever changed, and in an instant, he was made part of that life.

Lying in the cold sand, Pershing and Gallagher, wearing their night vision goggles, methodically scanned the surrounding area. "Clear!" Pershing whispered after completing his observation.

"There ain't nothing out here." Gallagher replied.

To Pershing's humor, Gallagher was already standing out in the middle of the desert, taking a long piss and moaning in satisfaction. It never seemed to amaze him how Gallagher could always be so calm and seemingly act with reckless abandon, no matter what the situation was.

Fairfax, Virginia

June, 1998

Gallagher felt that it was inevitable for the ambush to be set up near the objective. Reinforcing his theory was the fact that the operation had gone too easy up to this point. He had studied and observed the objective area and had a good idea of how and where.

He made a minor adjustment to his gear and then crept out to the tree line while he methodically scanned the short clearing. Gallagher brought his large frame up into a low crouch and dashed across the ten yards of open area, then bounded over the waist high wall as gracefully as a gazelle. Upon landing on the other side he tucked, rolled, and positioned himself at the base of a large tree. Quickly, he glanced around the tree, once, then again before he began to slither down into a creek bed.

He was in tune with the sounds and smells of the forest, moving within it as if he were part of it. Silently, he moved along the edge of the small creek with his weapon in a high carry, ready to take a snap shot at any threat. The creek bed featured a steep embankment rising ten feet on one side with exposed roots visible within the ruts. A terraced three-foot rise on the other side continued in a gentle slope up into brush and sparse trees. The creek itself was only three feet wide, consisting of clear water flowing through an eroded channel. He sensed movement up the slope to his left and slowly crouched. Slowly he trained his weapon towards the perceived threat. He could now hear rustling, and carefully scanned the area ahead of him for movement. Gallagher crossed the creek to take advantage of what little cover the terrace would offer.

"Got him, "mused the assailant, while patiently waiting to spring the trap. It was easier than anticipated to lure the prey into this trap, now it was just a matter of adding the finishing touch.

Getting his attention was easy, tossing several rocks to his left, then a few more to his right to capture his attention and cause some anxiety. The coup de grace was the small paper sack filled with dirt and stones that was lobbed overhead on top of the embankment behind him while his attention was still focused to one of the sides.

"Shit…!" Gallagher muttered as he realized that he might have a serious problem. He was hearing little sounds all along the slope ahead of him. While scanning the slope, he was startled by a sound behind him, coming from the top of the embankment. Debris trickling down the embankment and immediately made him decide to commit to this side of the creek. It was obvious now; someone must have lost their footing up there.

Gallagher now stood with his back pressed to the embankment trying to decide his next move. A hundred thoughts ran through his mind but only one thing mattered, he must move from this spot or he was dead meat.

He began to move, still pressed closely to the musty dirt of the embankment. The opposite bank became an afterthought now, if there would have been a threat it would have already come. More debris rained down on him from above as he halted. He faced the embankment, and trained his weapon up the rise. He was scanning the ledge above him when two loud thumps broke the silence of the forest and seemingly broke his spine. His body slammed hard against the embankment, slid limply down the muddy slope and then he lay there for a moment, unable to catch his breath.

"Son of a bitch…!" Gallagher screamed as soon as he was able to breath normally again, while writhing in pain from the two impacts between his shoulder blades.

"Center mass, just like you taught me baby". Was the snide and playful remark shouted from across the creek.

"Damn it Andrea… are you using frozen paintballs again?" He snapped, grimacing with effort.

"Of course baby, I know how you are a stickler for realism." By the time Andrea reached her fallen mate, he was still rolling back and forth in pain. She reached down with a gloved hand and effortlessly pulled his 6'2", 235-pound frame to his feet.

"Damn it, I thought we talked about this before! You know you are going to pay for this." He hissed between clenched teeth while she brushed dirt and debris off his clothes.

"I know… I can't wait." She replied with a coquettish grin. "…but it may be awhile because you really look hurt."

"Oh… so now you're talking shit too?" He shot back scowling, as he snatched her by an arm. "You psycho …!"

"Whoa…calm down baby, don't make me shoot you again." She replied with her gun firmly pressed into his groin. This is how their monthly participation in the paintball competition ended.

In Gallagher's view, women were either, too dainty and fragile, or one biscuit past big boned to be attractive for his taste. At 5'10" and well muscled, Andrea Black was not the average woman. Three years ago, he met her at a Hotel which was hosting a body building event. He saw her competing on stage and was mesmerized by her oiled body, rippling with muscles and clad only in a skimpy green bikini.

What sealed the deal for him was actually meeting her afterward. His opportunity came when he saw her leaving the hotel. He approached her with an outstretched hand and startled her as she was loading her gear into a black SUV. In an instant she clasped his outstretched hand, grabbed him by his throat, pivoted and choke slammed him to the ground. He was immediately on his back with her straddling him and a .44 Bulldog intently pressed to his forehead.

"Ah… hi, I'm Tim… pleased to meet you." He responded poignantly, almost as a reflex in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

The steely gaze of her green eyes searched within his, as if his identification and intent could be found within them. When she felt confident that he posed no threat, she smiled and slowly ground her hips on him.

"The pleasure seems to be all mine." She replied with a wanton gleam, deliberately taking her time about getting off him.

That night, Gallagher experienced the most physically demanding sex of his life. He also fell in love with a woman who was more than his match in wit, temperament, and physical strength. (she for the first time in his life made him come face to face with the fact that there was a woman who was his equal. It didn't matter that no one else knew about how this female phenomenon affected him; the only person in the world that mattered knew; him.)

Florida

August, 1998

The weather had been dreary thus far into his southward drive. The forecast for the northern part of Florida called for heavy rains and heavy gray clouds were hanging ominously in the sky with occasional downpours which became more frequent and heavier the further he progressed. The weather matched Pershing's mood inside

Pershing's old 1979 Ford Thunderbird he drove droned and rattled over the rural roads of southeast Georgia. This was the first and only car he had owned since being stationed at Camp Lejeune 16 years ago. It had served him well over the years and provided its fair share of service. In the early years the car stayed on the highway as he drove back and forth to Kinston. After returning from Beirut though, the car spent a lot of time sitting idle in the Battalion parking lot, while he was deployed overseas and attending schools.

The cacophony was making the simple AM/FM radio barely audible. The windshield wipers left annoying streaks in his view that became an irritant to him in the darkness and distorted his view of the road.

Staff Sergeant Jack Pershing's tenure with the Marine Corps came to an end with a voluntary separation. He chose not to reenlist after twelve years of blood, sweat, and tears given freely to his beloved Corps. Deep down his feeling was that he would always be a Marine. There were good times and bad, but even now the bad seemed minor and were held at bay by firmly ingrained fond memories. Although the experience of his and Gallagher's misjudgment in Beirut still caused him occasional nightmares, he came to accept the responsibility of his actions and the barrage of consequences that ensued. The shot he took that day had cost two local women and an unborn child their lives. Gallagher and himself had strayed from the rules of engagement and the overanxious behavior of the two young Marines who thought that they were doing the right thing at the time, cost innocent lives. They almost paid for the mistake with prison terms but instead had their military service records tainted by the report of the incident, even though it never resulted in criminal charges; nevertheless, both went on to have fairly normal careers. The detail that no one would ever appreciate was the fact that in that situation, two Marines, one of which was not even of legal drinking age had to make a life or death decision on the spot with the cost of a dozen Marine's lives on the line. The feeling he developed long after was that at least he had the balls to make the decision.

Gallagher, his long time friend and spotter, made a surprising decision. He went on to become a Warrant Officer after Pershing's departure and attended rotary wing flight school. Gallagher finished his twenty years as a helicopter pilot then retired. The last time he talked to Gallagher, he was operating a helicopter charter somewhere in Virginia.

Arriving in Daytona Beach, Pershing was pleased to find that he was over halfway to his destination. After exiting I-95, he stopped to refuel and replace the worn wiper blades. Within twenty minutes, he was back on the interstate to continue the drive. The rain had slowed to a sprinkle and traffic to a handful of cars.

His decision to leave the Marine Corps was not an easy one. He was good at what he did and it provided a constant challenge but the ever present question had always been: "what else is there to life besides this? A home with a wife, couple of kids, a dog, a normal job and financial security," all alien to him. Now four years after leaving the corps, he was still not any closer to realizing his dream of a normal life, mainly because he didn't have the faintest idea what a normal life was.

He envied Gallagher's easy transition; he had attained a marketable skill by becoming a pilot, which now as an afterthought made a lot of sense. It did not then, because there were not too many things a grunt despised more than an Air Winger- a Marine serving with the Air Wing. The thought had always been that Marine Corps Infantry was the nucleus that the rest of the Corps was built around. The Air Wing was considered to be just a support mechanism and was too far removed from the mud to be hard enough to be considered real Marines.

For Pershing though, even with all of his hard work and dedication to succeed, the transition to the civilian world had been a rocky one. He had moved to Augusta, Georgia after leaving the Corps to be near his aging father but a soft job market and lack of opportunities made him consider South Florida. After several odd jobs, including a brief stint with IBM, he was left completely disillusioned. Pershing had enrolled at Nova Southeastern University and took up classes relating to business management and computer networking. The reality was that opportunities for a former Marine sniper were slim to none and not many gave credence to the ability of a middle aged man to make a major career change. Law enforcement was an option that came up more than once and he briefly worked part-time as a firearms instructor for the Sheriffs Department but becoming a police officer was not his idea of an ideal career choice, especially considering that the streets of hometown America were becoming almost as treacherous some of the combat he has encountered. He was not willing to take on the responsibility of having to make life or death situations involving ordinary American citizens. His financial situation had become dire. Although he had saved a significant amount of money during his time in the Corps and the fact that Uncle Sam paid for his education, the cost of living and lack of a steady income became the demise of his savings.

A surprising opportunity arose in the form of an unsolicited call from Gunny Morris, a former instructor at the Scout Sniper Instructor School in Quantico, whom he remembered as being a no nonsense guy, whom informed him of an immediate opening with a company out of Miami which he was doing some head hunting for. Something had to change and hopefully this was an opportunity that would open the doors to something viable.

He arrived at his apartment in Lauderhill early that morning and still surprisingly energetic after the ten-hour drive. After calling his father, a quick shower, and a filling breakfast, Pershing changed into a modest dark suit and prepared to step into destiny.