Termination Sanction

Termination Sanction R.J. O’Rourke Acknowledgements Writing a novel is a laborious process. A process that would be nigh on impossible without the input and comments of trusted friends and associates. In no particular order, following are those whose help in the process brought this book to fruition: Bill O’Rourke, Al and Paul Banfe, Tim Yaciuk, and Cecelia Tomasco. A special thanks to my favorite author, Brian R. O’Rourke, whose advice and help through every phase of this project was invaluable. “Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.” Niccolo Machiavelli Chapter 1 “Do you have him?” “Yeah, he appears stationary, about one kilometer northeast of you. There are two vehicles heading towards his location. They are roughly twelve kilometers out.” “Is there any way you can slow them down or deflect them?” “Not sure, hold one.” The man accelerated the pace of his jog. “Okay, they’ve been sent a comm that there is an active shooter three kilometers north of your target. Wait…one of the vehicles peeled off, but the other is still headed towards your target.” “Roger that.” The man started sprinting. He kept that up for two hundred meters then slowed to a jog. After twenty seconds he started sprinting again. He had to unsling his weapon while sprinting and hold it at port arms. He was close now. *** The phone, use the phone. He hit the button. Kintrell struggled to rise again. Move, move, get your sorry ass in gear. He made it three more steps till dizziness forced him to stop. He shook his head from side to side in a futile effort to clear the cobwebs. The wounds in his side and thigh, together with the concussion, were taking their toll. He felt top heavy. Vertigo? Great. He stumbled and fell again. So tired, so tired, must rest. NO, keep moving. Using his M-4 as a crutch, he managed to get back on his feet then set out again, slowly. After a couple hundred yards he fell again. He lay on his back. The early morning sky was deep blue with reddish tinges. What was it, red sky at morning? He spotted a hawk soaring effortlessly, shopping for breakfast. Need to rest, just for a bit, peaceful here. The words of the song came back again, knock knock knocking on heaven’s door. He would’ve liked to speak to her just one more time. He promised her he would come back. I really had no choice. I hope you can understand. He was drifting now, remembering friends long since gone and operations better left forgotten. Emotions he was usually able to bury, bubbled to the surface: regret, loneliness, fear. Enough of that, move, stay in the fight, stay in the fight. He rolled to his right and got on all Chapter 2 Six months earlier Kintrell struggled to keep up with his trainer. After three miles, the run with full pack and rifle was taxing. He thought he was in good shape till he got to the camp. After three days, with runs twice a day and hand-to-hand combat in between, his muscles were moaning. The Gurkha running ahead of him picked up the pace. That little bastard’s lucky the rifle’s not loaded. After arriving at the camp, he was issued BDUs, an M-4, a Ka-Bar combat knife, night vision optics and various toiletries, excluding shaving gear. By the time training was finished he’d be sporting a full beard and weigh twelve pounds less. After hours was dedicated to classroom study—phrases common in Pashto and Dari, the two most common languages in Afghanistan, and the various customs, eating habits and apparel of the Afghanis. Other studies consisted of explosives—their use and the disarming of same. Hand-to-hand combat classes included Krav Maga techniques as well as Muay Thai maneuvers. Techniques of knife-throwing were covered as well: wrist firm, shoulder loose. Use of the garrote and various poisons were taught, as well as weapons training─long gun and advanced handgun usage. The pistol training was extensive—static shooting, shooting on the move, shooting upside down, shooting with the opposite hand. He was proficient with the pistol before he started training. At the end of training, he was able to keep up with his instructor, a world class marksman. On his last day at the camp, he was invited by the Gurkhas to share a drink with them. They drank Khukri rum, a Nepalese concoction. Kintrell enjoyed the company of his Gurkha instructors, although he was hard-pressed to follow their conversation. One of them asked Kintrell if he had served with the military. “Yeah, I served with the SEALs for six years.” They then talked among themselves till one of them handed another an indeterminant amount of cash. As he was leaving, one of them said to him, “You good, almost like Gurkha.” Kintrell laughed, shook their hands and said, “You good also, almost like SEAL.” To which the Gurkhas laughed. *** Kintrell spent the next three days in Philadelphia with Special Agent Laneva Alvarez of the FBI. They were