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Somewhere a True Believer is training to kill you. He is training with minimum food or water, in austere conditions, day and night. The only thing clean on him is his weapon, and he made his web gear. He doesn’t worry about what workout to do—his ruck weighs what it weighs, his runs end when the enemy stops chasing him. The True Believer doesn’t care how hard it is; he only knows that he wins or he dies. He doesn’t go home at 1700; he is home. He knows only the cause.
We are the accumulation of our past experiences. How we channel those experiences and knowledge into wisdom as we move forward is critical.
What’s past is prologue. Written by William Shakespeare in The Tempest, it is also inscribed on a monument outside of the National Archives in Washington, D.C.
What memories Grey had of his father were now the type that made him wonder if they were real, or figments of his imagination.
She was the only person who still called him Curtis. To everyone else he was General or Sir. His close friends called him Curt. Their kids called him Dad. Curtis was reserved for Sara.
“Is the .260 like a .308?” “Fills the same role but it’s better in nearly every regard. It shoots faster, flatter, and with less recoil. Same mags as a 7.62, but has the dope of a .300.
“You’re kind of a gear snob, Freddy.” “I like nice stuff, man, what can I say?”
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
“Remember, a fight isn’t just about surviving, it’s about prevailing. There’s a difference.”
Islam is a religion, just as Christianity is a religion. Islamism is the idea that a certain interpretation, any interpretation, of Islam must be imposed on society at large. It’s a political movement, a totalitarian movement, with Islam as its vehicle, with the goal of eventually creating the Khilafah.
Even though suppressed, the firing became louder as Reece approached the corner of the building. Suppressed meant just that: suppressed, not silent.
You can use this conference room as your office if you like. My extension is 5150.
“Jules Landry is a shady character, the kind of guy that gives the Agency a bad reputation. He was a one-way street; he’d take whatever info you had but never show you his cards. I never really trusted him. He was a sick bastard, too.”
“Well, I can’t exactly claim to be a superspy. Mo’s guys Tased me and threw me into a van while I was sipping a latte.” “That would never have happened to Mitch Rapp or Scot Harvath.”
Reece smiled, remembering an old commanding officer who preached that luck was the residue of preparation.
“If you get in a helicopter and it’s not leaking, get ready to crash because that means it’s out of hydraulic fluid.”
“Freddy, does this remind you at all of Apocalypse Now?” Reece whispered, referencing the classic 1979 film by Francis Ford Coppola. “Yes, and I expect we’ve already met our Kurtz.”
The CIA analyst ordered a large Dunkin’ coffee and picked up the latest Brad Thor novel while he waited impatiently for it to cool. Spymaster, he said silently to himself, already imagining himself in the lead role.
A once-mighty empire that had mastered deepwater navigation, commanded the seas, and spanned the globe was now one of the smallest economies in Europe, only its language left as a mark on its former territories, a faded tattoo as a reminder of what once was.
Reece always enjoyed perusing international bookstores, as he often found interesting military nonfiction written by Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and South Africans. In this particular bookstore he found a copy of Three Sips of Gin, by Tim Bax, about the Selous Scouts and pseudoterrorist operations in Rhodesia.
The nationalists want the Russians to push their boundaries out to places like Ukraine and Poland to grab both their people and resources. If they can annex those people, Mother Russia will live on.” “A land grab to save a dying empire,” Reece stated.
“To those before us, to those amongst us, to those we’ll see on the other side. Lord let me not prove unworthy of my brothers.”
To Jocko Willink and Jeff Johnston for lending a hand with the jiujitsu and combatives.
