Ken Goddard - Double blind

First Sergeant Aran Wintersole looked down at his watch. "Then with your permission, sir, perhaps we can begin."

"You mean now?"

Wintersole settled his cold pale gray eyes on those of the militant colonel, who trembled at the mere thought of the idea.

"Yes, sir," the hunter-killer team leader replied evenly. "My men are ready to begin the demonstration and the training whenever you are, sir."

Thirty minutes later, the sixteen highest-ranking members of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal — who were already sweating and out of breath from unloading the four-wheel RVs — gathered around a cluster of picnic tables, where Wintersole's men arranged twenty black-matte-finished assault rifles, stacks of cardboard ammunition boxes, magazines, and webbing gear before putting on their own black nylon web gear.

The Brigade members then watched warily as one of the Rangers walked to the end of their target range and randomly set a total of eighteen sand-filled tin cans on the ground, on top of large rocks, and on varying flat surfaces of the six crudely welded target holders. Then they all stepped back and drew in their breath in unison when Wintersole picked up one of the lethal-looking rifles and casually drew and released the bolt-retracting lever with a loud CLACK! to verify an empty chamber.

"Gentlemen," he began in a voice that carried the authority of hundreds of instructor hours at Fort Bragg, "the weapon you will be training with today is the United States Army M16A1 assault rifle chambered for 5.56mm ball ammo. The M16A1 is gas-operated, magazine-fed, and equipped with a selective-fire lever for semi- or full-automatic fire. It is capable of delivering firepower at a target, at a sustainable rate of seven hundred high-velocity rounds per minute, to a maximum effective range of three hundred yards. In the hands of a properly trained soldier, the M16A1 can accurately place rounds on target out to five hundred yards. Today, however, we will focus on the capabilities of this weapon at standard close-combat distances."

After verifying that everyone wore ear protection, Wintersole picked up one of the loaded magazines, automatically tapped the base of the aluminum magazine against the tabletop to properly seat the rounds, and then walked to the middle firing position of the small range at the twenty-five-yard marker.

At the direction of the other four Army Rangers, the visibly intimidated militant Brigade members formed a loose semicircle around the formidable-looking first sergeant.

"Until you are told differently by your range instructor, you will leave the selector lever of your weapon set to the SAFE position." Wintersole spoke in a loud instructor's voice as he snapped the magazine into the receiver of the assault rifle, then drew and released the bolt with his left hand to feed the first round into the chamber, keeping his right index finger across the outer edge of the trigger guard and away from the trigger.

"When you are instructed to do so, you will use the thumb of your right hand to move the lever to the upright, SEMI-AUTO firing position." Wintersole snapped the small firing lever into the indicated position, then brought the weapon around one-handed with the barrel pointing straight up in the air so that everyone could see what he had done.

"You should never have to look to verify that your weapon is in the semi-auto firing position," Wintersole told them emphatically. "You will keep your eyes downrange on the target, and verify the firing status of your weapon with your thumb. Is that clear?"

Sixteen heads nodded vigorously.

"The rear sights of the M16A1 are adjustable. However, I cannot overemphasize the fact that a properly trained soldier should be able to combat-sight his weapon with two rounds."

Turning to face the downrange paper targets, Wintersole brought the M16A1 up to his shoulder and squeezed off two quick shots.

The first bullet struck approximately two inches to the right of the center-of-chest mark. A second bullet hole appeared dead center in the black silhouette target's forehead.

"Based on the impact points of those rounds," Wintersole went on calmly, "you ought to be able to correct your aim and hit your target."

In one smooth motion, the hunter-killer team leader brought the weapon up to his shoulder and — with legs and hips steady, and rotating only his shoulders — began rapidly firing single shots…

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM…

… sending expended casings, ruptured tin cans, and explosions of sand flying in the air in all directions until the M16Al's bolt finally snapped against an empty magazine.

A moment later, the last of the eighteen shattered tin cans rolled to a stop in the projectile-softened dirt.

Every member of the Brigade stood paralyzed with shock as Wintersole casually redirected the barrel of the M16A1 back up in the air, thumbed the select lever to the SAFE position, and then handed the still-smoking weapon to one of his men.

"Now then, gentlemen" — he turned and addressed the stunned militants — "if you'll move over to your pop-up target range, my men will demonstrate how to utilize the M16A1 properly in fire-team assault tactics. Please pay close attention. As you will see, things can happen very quickly in a combat situation."

Thirty miles from the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal's hidden training grounds — where Wintersole's men prepared for the fourth stage of their eye-opening demonstration of modern small-fire-team assault techniques, and the two covering members of Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team quietly shifted to new concealed positions with their telescopic-sighted sniper rifles — Henry Lightstone entered the hotel using his now-customary rear-alley approach, jogged up the rear stairs, checked to make sure no one lurked in the hallway, and knocked on the door.

Mike Takahara checked the peephole and quickly unlocked and opened the door.

"How's it going?" the tech agent asked as he closed and re-bolted the door.

"It's not," Lightstone grumbled as he walked over to the window and checked the street. "Where's everyone?"

Takahara glanced at his watch.

"It's three o'clock on what any normal person would consider a beautiful Saturday afternoon, so assuming everything's proceeding in a reasonably uneventful manner, which is pretty unlikely, all things considered," the tech agent added ruefully, "Larry and Thomas should be transferring 750 giant tarantulas into forty or so terrariums as we speak."

"How'd you and Stoner manage to escape that detail?"

"In my case, I was saved by predictable bureaucratic inefficiency." Takahara smiled as he walked over to the coffee table, picked up a rubber-band-wrapped packet of papers, and tossed them to Lightstone. "However, before we get to that, and speaking of bureaucratic efficiency for a change, there's your ID packet. Congratulations. You're now officially Henry Randolph Lee."

"Henry Lee?" Lightstone blinked in disbelief. "That's the Washington Office's idea of a Southern name that can pass a casual background check?"

"Actually, I do recall something about Lee being a reasonably famous Southern surname," Takahara looked at the ceiling pensively.

"Yeah, well, there's a reasonably famous Taiwanese-American forensic scientist named Lee who's been in the news lately, too. You don't think it's going to draw attention when I start calling myself Henry Lee?"

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm Japanese-American. What do I know?" Mike Takahara shrugged. "I thought I was doing good when I only had to threaten them three times to get them to send us a pair of guaranteed non-interceptable and encrypted cell phones."

He held up the phones, then tossed one of them to Henry.

"That is efficient," Lightstone agreed as he slipped the phone into his back pocket.