Chapter 2

I pulled a breakfast burrito out of the chest freezer, gave it six minutes in the microwave. I like to cook, but hate cleaning up. So I tend to prepare big batches to freeze, making dish washing almost worthwhile. I poured the last of yesterday's coffee into my go mug, and slipped it in at the two minute mark. When the bell rang, I carried breakfast down to the dock.

I sat in great great grandfather's adirondack chair. That's a family joke. There's no way that any part of the chair is his. I'd replaced the front legs and half the back spiles myself. This was a working farm when he built his chair, before the lake had covered the productive acres. It had passed through four generations as vacation cabin and summer home.

Each generation had made improvements to the place. Great grandfather had built the bunkhouse for the kids. Grandfather had built the dock, Dad added the two story boathouse. We were going to build and store wooden boats. Never happened. No boats. I turned an old equipment shed into an auto shop. I was going to build street rods and race cars. Empty: no tools, no cars. Well, half a car, half a continent away. Kathleen happened.

Kathleen brought her own history into the marrage: The Plantation House. The Old South was a long time ago: 1870 was the last time anyone had lived in that burnt out hulk. All of her money and most of mine, as well as all my free time, went into that money pit. We spent years in a double-wide in the drive, making that pile a home. She would resume weekend tours in the Spring, but someone else would be the squire in top hat and cutaway coat.

The sun rose above the trees on the opposite shore, beginning to burn away the morning mist over the water. Soon I would begin my forms and exercises, morning run, and laps swum to the float and back. For now I was content to bask in the sun. Memory drifted back to the sun beating on me as I lay on third world rooftops.

Most of my time in theater was spent lying in the sun. Usually prone behind my M40. I observed quaint native customs and time honored religious festivals, through a Unertl 10x scope. I studied the local folk's culture, and their colorful and historic costumes. Occasionally, I got to shoot one of them.

I was not a sniper. I never got to that level of training or fieldcraft. Every Marine is a rifleman: I just had a little bit more aptitude and accuracy than most. After the Beruit bombing there was a big push for improved security. I'd been noticed on the range, and got a try out. Overwatch seemed a much better job than driving a clay pigeon humvee through a mined shooting gallery. I grew to love the long rifle.

I was raised a poor farm boy. Hell "poor" and "farmer" are pretty much synonymous! I knew pretty early on that the GI bill was my only chance at college and a future. The Marine recruiter offered the best deal. I was only in it for the money, but the Marines gave me a lot more: Home, creed, and a second family. They also introduced me to the CIA.

I spent the last half of my last tour on loan. I did pretty much the same job. The company used me for security for meetings and supply drops, remote locations, rather than fixed bases. From time to time I got to take out a high value target. The military has programs for the transition back to civilian life. CIA doesn't, apparently, not that I'm all the way out yet. They just pushed me out the door of one of those little Learjets they use for VIP transport, two weeks late for my freshman year at UT.