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chance to fire it. Still, he wiped it down and re-oiled it, just as he would have had he used it, just as he’d been trained to do.
    When the weapon was put back together and racked into the weapon carrier on the wall above him, Walker asked, “Is it always like that?”
    Laws had pulled out a comic book and was lying on his back and reading it. “Do we always kill beegees?”
    “No. I mean the … things.”
    “Like the homunculus? We get all sorts. About half the time it’s nothing, something that any other team could have handled. But the other half is a challenge.”
    “So that’s our specialty. When you said it before, I didn’t really believe it. But now that I’ve seen it…”
    “We’ve been down some gnarly rabbit holes,” Laws told him. “We have a mission log back at the Pit. When you get there, you can read all you want, that is, if it won’t scare you too bad. It’s like if Stephen King wrote nonfiction.”
    Walker chuckled. “What’s the Pit?”
    “Home sweet home.” Fratty grinned. “It’s our office, team room, and hooch. It’s where we live, work, and play when we’re not off staking some otherworldly beegees.”
    Ruiz laughed and shook his head. “Y’all are so Hollywood. You make everything sound so grandiose. What he means is that Pit stands for the Mosh Pit. It’s your new home.”
    The pilot announced that they were descending, then ran through a pastiche of a commercial flight mantra, to include recommending that tray tables be put away. The members of the team checked their weapons in the brackets, buckled in, and leaned back as they prepared for landing.
    Hoover rolled over and scratched herself behind the ear.
    “Been to sniper school?” Ruiz asked.
    “Scout Sniper in Hawaii.”
    “Just checking to see if they pulled you out of that early, too,” Ruiz cracked.
    “Very funny,” Walker said.
    “Didn’t you hear about the sniper took out the Somali pirates last year?” Laws asked. “This is that guy.”
    Walker felt a twinge of pride, which immediately turned into embarrassment as everyone’s eyes suddenly turned toward him.
    “The Maersk Alabama ?” Fratty asked, his eyes narrowing. “I thought that was Chief Garton from the USS Boxer .”
    “It was. Twitchy here wasn’t involved in the Alabama .”
    “Please don’t call me Twitchy.”
    Laws ignored him. “Remember the CNN reporter the pirates nabbed last year?”
    Ruiz and Fratty nodded.
    Walker did, as well as he remembered the shot. He’d been on the mast of a submarine with his Barrett 50. There wasn’t a SEAL within a hundred miles and he’d been ordered to take the shot if he had one. On six-foot seas with a twenty-kilometer crosswind, he’d watched through his scope as the pirates ripped off the shirt and pants of the CNN reporter the free world had seen reporting from any number of war zones, her pretty face delivering the tragedy of the human condition in a way that allowed Middle America to keep their evening meal down long enough that they could see commercials about bathroom tissue and cars with five-star safety ratings.
    The pirates had popped up sixteen hundred meters off the bow of the cargo ship she’d been reporting from. Then, on an international news feed, they’d stormed the ship, shot her cameraman, and proceeded to tell the world their terms. Three hours later, the USS Tennessee , an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, arrived on station. Walker, along with seven others from the Kennedy Irregular Warfare Group, had been aboard ship, on their way back from Iraq. When the submarine commander had asked him if he could take the shot, there was no question that he had to try.
    The distance was just over a mile. He could swim it in twenty-three minutes. He could walk it in twenty. He could run it in six and a half. But the .50-caliber round would arrive there 2.2 seconds after he pulled the trigger. Taking into consideration the velocity of the round, the curvature of the earth,