Black Ops
In retrospect it was inevitable the CIA should use gun writers as counterterrorist operatives. Their wizened trigger fingers combined with the rare ability to turn a pithy phrase on the fly makes them vital national security assets. A new mission promised to test even their superhuman capabilities.
The target was a bloodthirsty terrorist with the nom de guerre Ugotabe Kidnme. Kidnme frequently called big-boned people “fat” and he considered roasted beagle puppies a delicacy. His henchmen had downed a V22 Osprey carrying the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders enroute to a USO show. Now the 20 gorgeous girls, buffeted but otherwise unhurt, languished in Kidnme’s evil lair.
The chiseled gun-writer-turned-CIA Special Activities Division asset inserted via HALO parachute drop, just like always. He now stood invisible in the darkness outside the evil fortress, his heart rate languishing in the low 60s. He placed explosive breaching charges and retrieved the Springfield Armory XD-M Elite OSP pistol from its custom thigh rig. He closed his eyes, activated the Streamlight TLR8G combination white light/green laser and touched off the charge.
The blinding flash left the evil “Tangos” within momentarily stunned. The gun-writing SAD asset pushed into the expansive smoke-filled edifice, the reticle of his Holosun slide-mounted red dot sight automatically compensating for the dim ambient light. The nearest terrorist, a shockingly hairy man, shook his head to clear his muddled senses and foolishly raised a poorly maintained Kalashnikov rifle. It was on.
The agent flowed through the room with a ballerina’s grace, dispensing double taps like party favors at the Playboy mansion. The SilencerCo Omega 45K sound suppressor coughed twice each time the asset indexed a new target. In seconds the slide locked back and 11 terrorists lay cooling on the hard stone floor. The XD-M Elite OSP carried a total of 23 rounds onboard but he had inadvertently pulled one. The asset would address it on the range when he got home.
Stroking the bilateral pushbutton magazine catch, the operator dropped the empty magazine. He had a fresh box through the flared magwell funnel before the terrified cheerleaders had time to gasp. The gun-writing SAD agent briskly slid his weak hand backward against the Holosun sight to drop the slide, causing one of the young ladies to swoon over his rarefied tactical coolness.
Just then Ugotabe Kidnme himself arose from behind the huddled mass of tousled girls, a stubby AKSU74 panning the group. The puppy-munching villain grinned through stained teeth as he prepared to deliver a well-rehearsed despotic monologue. Without a word, the SAD agent dropped him at a range of 60 feet with two well-placed 147-gr. SIG SAUER V-Crown hollowpoints.
“Quick,” the asset shouted. “Everybody grab a puppy and follow me.”
In an instant the cheerleaders were on their feet and stacked behind the gun writer, each grasping a wriggling beagle puppy saved from Kidnme’s nefarious stewpot. As they streamed aboard the waiting MH47G Chinook helicopter, the asset was nearly overcome by the sweet smell of runny mascara, newly liberated beagles and palpable unfiltered gratitude.
The Night Stalker crew chief turned to the flight engineer and keyed his microphone, “Wow, that guy is incredible!”
The flight engineer responded, “Yeah, I know. I read Shooter’s Rx in GUNS Magazine. He really is that awesome!”
The flight back to Bagram was little more than a blur. During the exfil the rescued cheerleaders tried vainly to smear his face paint camouflage with smooches. The asset nonetheless resisted them all for he was a happily married man with the most amazing wife in the universe. The wispy tails of liberated puppies buzzed in appreciation. At the airbase, irascible editors Brent T. Wheat and Roy Huntington stood clear of the aircraft until they were certain all of the liberated cheerleaders were accounted for.
“I just got off the phone with the President,” Roy shouted above the dying turbines. “He wants you in the Oval Office tomorrow to accept the deed to one of the Florida Keys, a really nice European sportscar and a huge cube of cash. There’s a jet waiting on the tarmac.”
“No thanks, boss,” the exhausted gun writer responded flatly. “Our standard agreement still stands. I’ll drop by Martinsburg when we get back and borrow another rare machinegun from the BATF reference collection to paw over for a while. I don’t do this for fame or money.”
The three quiet professionals shook hands, smiled, and disappeared into the darkness to track down some hot pizza and cold Coke. They were the silent heroes, working tirelessly in the shadows to preserve freedom, promote democracy, and ensure the uninterrupted flow of gun-related minutiae.
