Lt. Colonel Martin was the director of the New Dawn Program and oversaw all operations. He was a realist and an easy man to communicate with. He treated his subordinates as if they were equals. In return, he was respected and admired.

The six Marines assigned to the program would eagerly offer their lives to save his on any occasion that presented itself.

Assistant Director Wallace was a civilian who I doubted could get a job as a security guard at a shopping mall. His placement amidst combat Marines made zero sense to me. He didn’t have the guts to get into a food fight, let alone a firefight.

His ability to obtain and compile accurate data regarding our assignments was his alleged strength. Nevertheless, the intelligence sheets for my missions often contained inaccurate information and missing details, many of which were crucial. If presented an opportunity to push him in front of a moving truck, I’d do the world a favor and take advantage of the situation.

I took long strides down the corridor, hoping to pass his office without speaking to him. Two steps past his open door, the sound of his voice caused me to cringe.

“Briggs!” Wallace shouted. “Get your ass in here!”

I gazed at the exit.

“God damn it, Briggs!” he bellowed.

With reluctance, I turned around and peered into his office. Dressed in wash-and-wear navy-colored slacks, an un-ironed white dress shirt, and a loosened black tie decorated with little red Tabasco bottles, he looked like a drunken day trader.

“Come in.” He gestured toward the opposite side of his desk. “Shut the door.”

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

“What in the fuck happened, Briggs?” He mussed his hair and then shook his head in disbelief. “You ended up in jail?”

I stopped a few feet short of his desk and crossed my arms. “I exited the residence through the rear door, as per protocol. Upon doing so, I was challenged by an armed civilian from approximately seven meters away. He’d already called the police and advised me of such. Sirens could be heard in the distance. My only option was to allow myself to be apprehended.”

He looked me over, scoffed and shook his head. “You’re a Special Forces Marine. Force Recon, or whatever, right?”

I sharpened my gaze. “Yes, Sir.”

“So much for all that training,” he said. “Fat bit of good it did you on that fucking assignment.”

My blood began to boil. The assignment’s intelligence sheet said nothing about a neighbor with US Special Forces training. Martin’s inability to plan a mission led to my arrest.

“With all due respect, Sir,” I said in the most condescending manner I could muster. “It would have been valuable to know the neighbor was a former Army Ranger. Encountering US military trained resistance on a mission isn’t typical. My options were to be shot or be placed under arrest. I chose the latter of the two.”

He lifted his tie and looked at it as if checking for a food stain. “Wise choice, I suppose.”

His failure to acknowledge excluding the neighbor’s military history frustrated me. It came as no surprise. Wallace, like detective Boyle, was sloppy. From the way he dressed to the way he planned a mission, his efforts were lackluster, at best.

I glanced at the mountain of paperwork littered about his desk and then looked at him. I wondered if he was going to make a point, or if belittling me about my field tactics was enough to satisfy him for the day.

“Was that all, Sir?” I asked.

“No. I’ve got a serious question.” He gestured toward an empty chair, and then sat down. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

He gave me a serious look. “Between you and me, what do you know about Shephard? His mental health? What he doesn’t tell the shrink. Is he stable?”

Regardless of what I may or may not know about the men, I wouldn’t divulge any information to Wallace, be it opinion or fact. He was nothing more than a cog in the program’s machine. Arming him with anything that could be used against one of my brothers was contrary to my belief system. Giving him information about Shep was a different story altogether.

“He’s a good operator, Sir,” I assured him.

“Are you sure?”

Irritated that he’d question my response, I narrowed my gaze. “Shep’s a damned good Marine.”

While in Fallujah, Shep, a Private First Class at the time, saved many men’s lives. He identified and eliminated a sniper who was firing upon my Marines. His advance to the sniper’s nest was a suicide mission that he somehow managed to pull off without injury. The act of heroism earned him a Bronze Star. Later, in Afghanistan, he dragged three wounded Marines to safety while under heavy machinegun fire. A second Bronze Star was awarded for his actions during that battle. His acts of selfless bravery saved the lives of many Marines. In New Dawn, his actions had saved the lives of many civilians.

Wallace shrugged. “I guess that’s good enough for me.”

Masking my annoyance wasn’t an easy thing to do. Nevertheless, I maintained my expressionless stare. “Anything else?”

He shrugged. “I guess not.”

I walked away uncertain of what was gained from our little meeting. In all honesty, I wondered why he was part of the program.

Originally funded solely to support the elimination of terrorist cells that were being developed—or inserted—on US soil, New Dawn’s program was quickly expanded to include any threats to the security of the Nation, foreign or domestic. That broad stroke of the brush allowed the Director of National Intelligence to choose anyone as a target that he deemed to be a threat.

It wasn’t my place to question the targets that were assigned to me. I simply had to live with the mental aftermath once the mission was complete.

From the first war the United States fought in until the last, the enemy was identifiable. By either a uniform, the color of clothing, or an appearance that was altogether different, the opposition could be recognized.

That recognition allowed those fighting in the wars to quickly react when confronted by anyone that fit within the description of the opponent. The identification of the enemy was a critical part in the mind’s ability to process the death of those killed as justifiable. The soldiers were able to compartmentalize the death based on appearance alone.

Good versus evil.

Participating in the program was different. Killing a US citizen with ties to ISIS wasn’t an easy task to digest. Second-guessing my actions had become commonplace. Although I repeatedly told myself the assignments I completed were for the betterment of the Nation, I struggled to accept my actions as being a necessary part of accomplishing that task.

Nevertheless, I’d taken an oath to oppose all enemies, foreign and domestic. When I made a promise, I kept it at all costs.

The cost, in this circumstance, was my own sanity.