NOTE: THE FOLLOWING IS BASED ON THE UNIVERSE SET UP BY OHC.

June 17, 2018

SBC O'Shea POV

"Six mikes out!" the crew chief shouted, holding up a full left hand and his right thumb.

"Six mikes out!" we shouted back, holding up identical hand signals as we double-checked ourselves and our gear. Once I ensured I was good to go, I turned to SB3 Martinez—a nineteen-year-old fresh out of CQT.

"Kid, you know your place?" I shouted over the deafening noise of the Chinook's rotors.

"Yes, Chief! Bow gunner!" Martinez shouted back as he put on his gloves for fast-roping.

"Make us proud, kid!" my old friend, SB1 Chen, shouted as he reached across and slapped Martinez on the shoulder. "Or your ass is scrubbing toilets for the rest of the year!"

"Aye, Petty Officer!"

"Hey, Chief! You want the stern gun?"

"Negative! Stay on that .50!" I replied, with him giving me a thumbs-up in return.

"One mike!" the crew chief warned with one finger, eliciting yells of acknowledgement from us before he opened the bottom hatch and prepped a fast-rope. "Thirty seconds!" he shouted, holding up his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

With the warning, we stood. When the green light lit, the crew chief shoved the rope out the hatch and began signaling for us to go. Grasping the rope with my hands and feet, I slid down like I had hundreds of times before getting out of the way for the next two. Down came Martinez and Chen within seconds as the pilots slowly lowered the RHIB into the water. As soon as they hit the deck, they scrambled to their stations, prepping the boat's systems.

"Lifter 3-1, all boots on deck!" I radioed to the pilots, prompting the crew to begin retrieving the fast rope while the pilots finally set us down, detaching the MEATS. The three of us quickly secured the lines before I got us going and sent more traffic to the Chinook. "Lines secured!"

"Stingray 1-1, Stingray 1-2 is good!" our sister boat called on the net.

"Roger, 1-2. Lifter 3-1, all Stingrays are good to go."

"Roger, Stingray. Lifters are bugging out. Good hunting," the pilot replied. As the Nightstalkers flew away from our ingress point, I hit the gas and got us going, with our sister boat doing the same. Up front, Martinez prepped the MK19 while Chen handled the M2 in the back. Extra crewmen would've helped to speed up the process, but due to manpower shortages and the essence of time, we had to run with a skeleton crew.

Our mission was to extract SEAL Team 3's Bravo Platoon from a DA on the west coast of Mexico—counter-narcotics with intelligence support from the Mexican Navy—and provide fire support in the event that shit hit the fan. Given that this was a daytime op, though, it probably would.

"Bravo, this is Stingray. We are in the water. Send status, over," I called over the operation-wide net.

"Good copy, Stingray. Be advised, Bravo is about to hit the target. Request that you secure primary extract," a SEAL replied. "We'll be there in ten mikes, over."

"Roger, Stingray moving to secure primary extract in seven mikes. Out," I acknowledged before switching to the detachment's net. "1-2, we're moving to secure primary extract, how copy?"

"Roger, 1-1. On your six," our sister boat replied, gunning it after us. Right on the dot, we arrived within a hundred meters of the primary extraction point. After directing the detachment's gunners to watch the coastline and surrounding waters, I expected us to sit and wait for a few minutes for Bravo to arrive. "Bravo, Stingray has secured primary extract. What's your pos?"

"Stingray, Stingray, Bravo has lost primary extract! I say again, we lost primary extract! Moving to secondary extract, over!" a different SEAL called frantically. What shocked me wasn't the fact that the op had gone FUBAR, but the fact that the SEAL was none other than my very own son, LTJG Jawa O'Shea.

"Wha—roger that, Stingray moving to secondary extract at this time. Out," I replied before warning our sister boat. As we zipped through the coastal waters, I suppressed whatever unease I had, for not only was my detachment responsible for the lives of sixteen SEALs, but one of those SEALs was Jawa.

Someone upstairs didn't like me.

"Contact port side!" Stingray 1-2 suddenly warned. A quick glance to my left revealed a technical keeping pace with us, dodging rocks and trees as the enemy opened fire with the DShK.

"Kid, nail that sonuvabitch!" I shouted as I sped up and moved us away from the coastline, hearing the "crack-crack-crack" as rounds flew past my head. At the bow, Martinez swung the MK19 towards the shore and opened fire, the "thunk-thunk-thunk" rattling the boat as he unleashed 40-mm grenades on the technical. It took him a few seconds, but finally, a few rounds impacted the truck and took it out of action.

"Tango down, Chief!" he reported.

"Nice going, kid!" Chen shouted behind me. "But stay on the front! I got the side!"

"Roger that!"

"Stingray, Bravo has reached secondary extract! We've set up a hardline but need immediate fire support! Be advised, red smoke on our pos, hostiles forty meters east!" Jawa called.

"Roger, Bravo. Immediate fire support. Your pos marked by red smoke. Pushing your way in eight mikes, over!" I said for clarification.

"Affirmative! Bravo out!"

"1-2, be advised, tangos have cornered Bravo, forty meters east of secondary extract. Bravo's position marked by red smoke, so watch your fires!"

"Solid copy, 1-1. Friendlies marked with red smoke. Watching our fires!" Stingray 1-2 replied. After relaying the information to my own crewmen, every man waited with bated breath as we proceeded to secondary extract without encountering resistance. Not even five minutes later, gunfire was audible and red as we sped towards the extraction point.

"Bravo, Stingray is one mike out. Pop smoke!"

"Roger, Bravo popping smoke!" Jawa acknowledged, with the red smoke becoming visible in the sky fifteen later. "Friendlies marked with red smoke!"

"Check, Stingray going hot in thirty seconds. Get down!"

"Copy your last!"

"Get ready!" I bellowed, both to Stingray 1-2 and my boat crew. Right on time, we arrived at the beach that was secondary extract. Bravo Platoon had taken cover behind some large rocks, firing upon a superior enemy force inward.

Though, not superior for long.

The boat rattled as Martinez and Chen unleashed the fury of their weapons, and with Stingray 1-2 joining the party, there was no hope for the enemy as they were hit by a barrage of 40 mike-mike, .50 BMG, and 7.62.

"Stay put, Bravo. This won't take long," I ordered before going back to directing my detachment. After some quick thinking, I had Stingray 1-2 maneuver further up the coastline to hit the tangos from a different angle. While they fired back, none of their rounds successfully impacted us or our boats. Within forty seconds, the whole thing was over.

"Stingray, this is Bravo. All tangos down. I say again, all tangos down. Thanks for the assist. Moving to the boats now," Jawa called moments after the firefight ceased.

"Good copy, Bravo. Coming to you," I replied before the other boat. "1-2, hold security while we extract our boys."

"Roger, 1-1," the SWCC replied. I drove the boat as close to the shore without beaching it, allowing the SEALs to more easily climb aboard and bring their casualty aboard. As soon as eight SEALs were aboard, we moved away from the shore to provide security for Stingray 1-2.

"Hey, nice work!" Jawa said behind me, slapping me on the back.

"You too, son," I replied without turning around, resulting in several noises of shock behind me.

"What the—Dad?!?" he exclaimed, making me briefly turn around and give him a thumbs-up and a grin.

"Not bad... sir."

"What the hell is this, O'Shea?" another SEAL asked.

"Sir... meet my Dad, apparently," Jawa sighed, resulting in several SEALs snorting with laughter.

"Well, that's one way to celebrate Father's Day," one snarked.

"Get a grip, Louis. You can make fun of O'Shea when we're back on the Essex," the platoon commander ordered.

"Check."

"1-1, this is 1-2. Eight Bravos on board, ready to move," the SWCC called.

"Roger, let's get to Rally Point Alpha," I replied, maneuvering the boat towards the ocean and gunning it. "Lifter, Lifter, all eagles on board. Exfil complete. Moving to Rally Point Alpha, fifteen mikes out."

"Roger that, Stingray. Pushing to Rally Point Alpha," the Chinook pilot replied.

"Be advised, we have a CAT Bravo. Say again, CAT Bravo."

"Roger, one CAT Bravo. Relaying to the boat at this time. Lifter out."

"Chief!" a voice shouted to my right, revealing my son hanging onto the boat as he stood by me. "Er... thanks for saving my ass. If you don't mind, don't tell Ai about this."

"My lips are sealed, Lieutenant," I replied with a grin. "Just pray she doesn't hear about it from the other wives. Otherwise, we're both in for a tongue-lashing."

He snorted out a laugh as the sun beamed down on us, heating us when the mist of the Pacific Ocean wasn't cooling us. The smell of the sea mixed with that of gunpowder as we charged through the waters towards the rally point.

One hell of a Father's Day... but still the best one so far.

Mr. Zibbell POV

"Hello?" Maria asked as she picked up the phone.

"Hey Maria. Listen, I'm gonna be a little late for dinner. Gotta put in some overtime," I sighed. "One of the new kids had to drop early, so I need to fill in for him. Shouldn't take more than three hours."

"Come on, Max. That's the third time this week."

"Sorry."

"Okay... I'll keep some stuff in the oven. Love you."

"Love you too," I replied as I hung up. It made me feel like a heel to miss dinner with my family yet again, but with one worker short, I had to fill in to finish the job today.

"Abba, you ain't comin' home?" Anthony asked as he packed up to head back to our apartment.

"Sorry, Anthony. Gotta stay a little longer, make sure the job gets done."

"... okay. See you in a bit."

"Yeah."

As we went our separate ways, I couldn't help but think back to a similar circumstance from many years ago, long before I became a foreman.

"Louie, call 911, now!" Jimmy—then foreman—shouted as he and I pulled Phil away from the construction site. It was towards the end of our shift and he was reinforcing the structure on the second floor when he slipped and fell, his safety rope failing him. He not only hit his head hard, but some sharp debris cut into his pants and right leg. "Marty, go flag down a cop, a fireman, anything! Alex, get the first aid kit!"

"Got it!" each man replied, scrambling off to complete his assignment.

"Max, how's his breathin' and heart?"

"Uh, hang on... yeah, yeah I'm hearin' both," I confirmed. "Just unconscious and bleedin'."

"First aid kit!" Alex said as slid towards us, opening it up and pulling out the gauze and tape. "Dammit, it looks like it nailed his fem... fomar..."

"Femoral artery?" I asked, recalling my high school biology lesson as Jimmy put pressure on the wound.

"Yes, that! No wonder it's still bleedin'! We need one of these... turn-in-kits?"

"Tourniquets?"

"Yes!"

"Uh..."

"Gimme the damn thing! Max, keep pressure on it!" Jimmy barked, prompting me to slap my hands on the bandage while he grabbed the tourniquet. After some mumbling to himself, he had gotten it around Phil's thigh above the wound, tightening it to cut off the blood flow.

"Okay, now what?"

"Keep him down and watch the time! We gotta tell 'em how long it's been in place!"

"Yo, I got the cops!" Marty shouted, dashing in with one of the boys in blue.

"Talk to me. What's going on?" the cop—Samuels—asked as he knelt beside us.

"Phil took a fall, knocked his head, cut his leg. We think the femoral artery got hit, so we put a tourniquet on. It's been there for... six minutes," I replied after checking my watch.

"Okay, I assume you checked for breathing and circulation?"

"Yeah, that's right! He's good on both! What the hell do we do?"

"Just keep an eye on him for now. Was he moved?"

"We had to get him outta there, but we didn't remove his helmet or anything," Jimmy replied.

"Okay, okay... I think that's all the right protocol. Anyone call 911?"

"Yep! Ambulance is on its way!" Louie shouted behind us as he continued talking with the dispatcher.

"Okay... damn it, radio's malfunctioning!" Samuels cursed before turning to Marty. "Sir, tell Lena to call for an ambulance, tell her everything they just told me: unconscious, head injury, femoral artery cut, everything, just to make sure. And tell her the address too."

"Your partner? The lady cop?" Marty asked, still a bit discombobulated from the incident.

"Yeah, the lady cop! Go, go, go!"

And so it continued for the next thirty-one minutes, believe it or not. Why? Because we were in New York City and Murphy's Law had struck everyone somehow. Finally, the paramedics arrived and loaded Phil into the ambulance, with Jimmy riding with him.

The next day, we learned that Phil had some additional injuries—none spinal, somehow—but he would be left unable to work for three months. While we were saddened at his state, all we could do was press on.

Jimmy, however, took the matter personally, working overtime every workday and giving the money to Phil's wife, allowing her to help take care of their infant. It didn't take long for the idea to catch on, with the rest of the crew also contributing whatever overtime pay they could. In those three months, I worked overtime for around sixty percent of the workdays and gave ninety percent of that money to Phil's wife, with the rest going towards my own family.

Even after Phil finally came back to work, I continued to put in overtime at least thrice a week, placing the overtime pay—save for when it was needed in the short-term—in a trust for my kids. As silly as it sounds, Phil's accident was something of a reality check, and I wanted to ensure there was some sort of safety net for Zoe and Anthony beyond what Maria and I already set up for them.

For a time, it strained my relationship with my family. I missed Anthony's baseball games and Zoe's dance recitals. I missed dinners and slept with my wife less often. Hell, for a time, I became a bit of an ass towards everyone.

But interestingly enough, it was Phil who reminded me that—while it was important to have assets in place—time was incredibly valuable too. In some ways, even more so.

I continued to put in overtime, but cut back on it and tried scheduling it around time spent with my family. I still missed events from time to time, but it wasn't as bad as before.

As I looked at the photo of my wife and kids that I kept right next to the dent in my helmet, all I could think about was Phil's accident. He retired a few years ago and became a banker, preferring to keep his construction projects to his house. I often wondered if that was a path to go down, but it never felt right to put my tools down. And the hard work always made coming home worth it even more.

I smiled as I clipped my helmet on and marched out of the office. Sure, it sucked to have to work on a Sunday—overtime at that—but at least I'd get tomorrow off to spend with my family.

Time's important too, after all.

Mr. Brezinski POV

It was a hot June day at the park. The Brezinski family reunion was happening on Father's Day, but everyone made sure that the latter held precedence over the former.

Still, it certainly looked more like the former than the latter: kids playing, adults talking, and older adults napping and/or talking. Yes, I said "and/or," because you've never met an old Brezinski.

But I wasn't complaining. I had the Sunday off, I was out of my office, I was with my family, I had a cold drink in my hand, and I felt blessed in general. There was absolutely nothing I could complain about.

"Say, Dad? Got a second?" someone suddenly asked behind me. A quick turnaround revealed none other than Mike himself.

"Sure, what's up?"

"... in private?"

"Uh, yeah..." I replied, standing up and walking away from the shelter to the privacy of some nearby trees. "What's up?"

"I have an issue."

"... what did you do?"

"Nothing, Dad! Sheesh! It's about a girl!"

"Ah-hah... so I'm about to become a grandfather?"

"DAD!"

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," I chuckled as my son fumed. "Seriously, what's going on?"

"... how did you know you were ready to marry Mom?"

"Wait a second, wait a second, back it up a minute," I hurriedly said, almost dropping my drink in shock. "Don't tell me you're thinking of proposing to this girl, whoever she is."

"Okay, I won't," he replied without missing a beat.

"Michael, I'm serious."

"... so there's this girl I've know for a while back in St. Smithen's..."

"The short one? Zoe?"

"Jeez, does everyone know?"

"Yep."

"... I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not. That aside, we've kind of been dating for a while—"

"'Kind of?'" I interrupted.

"Okay, we have been. Not fooling around, not friends with benefits, but actually dating. We met through Ben, believe it or not."

"Huh, I guess that works. When are you going to introduce her to us?"

"Sorry, just kept forgetting. I gotta meet her family too."

"Wow... you must really like her," I realized, making Mike nod silently. "And you're thinking of proposing?"

"I dunno... I was just wondering if we were too young, or if I'm just diving into it head-first, or whatever," he sighed, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"Okay... let me ask you something. Do you see yourself raising children together?" I asked after a moment of thought.

"Er..."

"Do you see yourself sleeping together in the same bed?"

"Well..."

"Do you see yourself—despite a big argument of some kind—kissing her before going to work or bed, still saying 'please' and 'thank you,' and doing whatever it took to put on a good scene for your children to avoid demoralizing them? Do you see yourself—again, despite a big argument—cooking your best for her? Her cooking her best for you? The two of you still working together to get the job done? The two of you still in love with one another to the grave?"

"I... I..." he stammered, with no other words following.

"Son... there are a lot of questions you need to answer for yourself. Not things such as constants, never fighting, happily-ever-afters, or other storybook bullshit. You will change, you will fight, and you will not have a fairytale ending. But can you still go forward, even with all that in mind? That's what you need to be wondering before asking the question to marry this girl," I said. "Does this answer your question?"

"I... I think it does," he murmured after a few moments of thought.

"Oh, and make sure to at least get to know the family. It's not just the man and woman getting married, it's their families getting connected as well, so you should probably get to know them too," I advised. "Julia's mother didn't like me at first, but she eventually did after getting to know me. And it'd be best for you to avoid a shotgun-toting father."

"Dad, Zoe's family is in New York City," Mike reminded.

"Oh, right... maybe he'll have a baseball bat or something instead."

"Eh, probably."

As we got back to the rest of the family, I couldn't help but ponder over the conversation that took place. As a father, you want the best for your kids, but they're going to have to operate on their own at some point without your interference. Doesn't mean you can't give them advice—and it's a really good idea to do so—but they will encounter failures in some respect. Of course, everyone wants success, but failure is as good of a teacher as a father's advice, as humbling as it sounds.

Still, God willing, I'll always be there to give advice to my kids.

MSgt Schacter POV

Something you should realize about the Marine Raiders—and MARSOC as a whole—is that while we will work with the Marine Air-Ground Task Force, we don't work for the MAGTF. It's an understandable misconception, but a misconception nonetheless.

You see, there is a lot of overlap between us and other units, particularly Recon Marines (especially Force Recon), but they operate under the MAGTF while we operate under the Special Operations Command, given our statuses as a special operations capable force and special operations force, respectively.

As such, you'll understand my surprise that a joint exercise took place at Camp Lejeune incorporated elements from the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit and the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion (oh, and supporting Navy elements as well). The exercise was centered around littoral warfare, which the brass wanted us to focus more on after so much time in the Middle East—something I'm actually willing to commend them on.

Two Marine Special Operations Teams of 2nd MRB's Hotel Company were tasked to support the operation by reconnoitering the beach, passing intel to the MEU's command element, then call in fire support to remove specific threats and clear the way for 2/6 and VMM-263 (i.e., the MEU's current ground and aviation combat elements).

Pretty simple, right?

... yes. I know you might be expecting a dramatic "no," but it actually was relatively simple.

There was one catch, however. Each MSOT—Hitman 1 and Hitman 2—had a fifteenth man augmenting them: a Marine from the 2nd Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company to help direct fires from each team's headquarters element. And guess which Marine was attached to our sister team? None other than Captain Hank Schacter himself.

But I wasn't worried. I knew Hank and the other ANGLICO Marine that joined us were both qualified in their craft. My concern, as always, was ensuring that every man that walked in was walking out. A bit dramatic for a training exercise, perhaps, but you have to train how you fight.

At 2300, in the dead of the night, we emerged from the waters of the Atlantic at six landing sites corresponding to whatever HQ/tactical element washed up on them. After confirming no enemy presence, we stowed our gear and pressed forward, updating the MEU command element on the command net.

"C-2, this is Hitman 1. Radio check, over," Sergeant Engel—our attached ANGLICO Marine—called on the command net after confirming that our localized net was operational.

"Roger, Hitman. We have you lima charlie. Send traffic, over," C-2 (command and control) replied.

"C-2, all boots on the ground. I pass Phase Line Anabel. Say again, Anabel."

"Roger, Anabel. Be advised, ISR shows roving patrols in your vicinity, and enemy presence is concentrated around artillery platforms. Exercise caution."

"Good copy. Hitman out," Engel signed off before turning to me.

"Don't die, ANGLIBRO," I whispered before getting on the teams' net. "Hitman, move out."

While Camp Lejeune isn't particularly mountainous, there are a few hills that we planned to use as observation posts. Hitman 1's HQ element would go to OP-1 while Hitman 2's would go to OP-2, leaving the tactical elements to press forward and eliminate OpFor communication, artillery, radar, and surface-to-air missile platforms. As a finishing touch, our attached ANGLIBROs would call for airstrikes from supporting F-35s—apparently for the sake of continued testing—with Harriers on standby should the "Fat Amys" fail.

According to Engel and Hank, they were almost certain that the Harriers would be needed, which didn't exactly boost my confidence.

After navigating the channel just beyond the beach (which had a sandbar to serve as a bridge, believe it or not), patrolling through the forest, and avoiding two enemy patrols, we finally reached the point where we passed Phase Line Betty. C-2 confirmed that there was nothing out of the ordinary as the HQ elements set up the OPs and the tactical elements reached their set points.

The top of the small hill had decent concealment thanks to the surrounding trees and a half-decent line of sight on an OpFor forward command post. However, we had damn near no visibility otherwise. But we made it work, setting up security while the ANGLIBRO and Captain Farley coordinated everything.

"C-2, this is Hitman 1. I pass Phase Line Caroline. Say again, Caroline," Engel reported after confirming all elements were in position.

"Roger, Caroline. Be advised, thunder is in the sky. Zeus is coming," C-2 replied—the code phrase that the F-35s were on station and ready for tasking.

"Roger, Zeus is coming," Engel acknowledged before switching radios to call up the air support. "Lightning, this is Hitman 1. Fire mission, danger close..."

"All Hitman elements, this is Hitman 1-6. Are you ready to execute Thunder?" Farley asked.

"1-1 is green."

"1-2 is green."

"2-1 is green."

"2-2 is green."

"This is 2-6. We're green," Hitman 2's commander added. "Your call, 1-6."

"Roger, all elements are green," Farley acknowledged.

"Sir, Lightning is standing by to execute," Engel reported.

"Three... two... one... execute Thunder."

On his orders, several fireworks went off in the distance, simulating OpFor equipment being taken out of commission by demoltition charges set by the tactical elements. And of course, almost immediately, gunfire erupted as the Raiders were engaged.

"C-2, this is Hitman 1-6. I pass Phase Line Dorothy, say again, Dorothy," Farley reported with a slight grin on his face.

"Roger, Dorothy. Scrambling Dagger flight at this time for your exfil," C-2 replied.

"Hitman 1-6, be advised, 1-1 has troops in contact!" Hitman 1-1 reported.

"Break contact and get to primary extract, now!" Farley ordered.

"Roger that, but we may be a little late!"

"1-1, this is 1-7. Do you require assistance?" I asked.

"Negative, 1-7. We'll make it!"

"Engel, get some warheads on foreheads right now," I ordered, turning towards the ANGLIBRO.

"Aye, Master Sergeant. Lighting, this is Hitman 1. You are cleared hot on the targets... wait, say again your last, Lightning... damn it! Roger, Lightning."

"Problem, Sergeant?" Farley asked as the frustration on the ANGLIBRO's face grew over the next thirty seconds.

"Lightning 0-1 made positive contact with Targets 1 and 2, but 0-2's computer systems have gone to hell, so he's combat ineffective. 0-1 also just got targeted by a SAM, so he's dead. I'm calling up the Harriers now," Engel reported. "Stone, this is Hitman 1..."

"All Hitman elements, this is Hitman 2-7. Be advised, we are pinned by an enemy force on OP-2. Requesting support," Hitman 2's chief called.

"Aaand, OpFor's got 2's HQ," Farley mumbled. "Hitman 2, can you reinforce OP-2?"

"Negative, 2-1 is pinned."

"Same for 2-2."

"1-6, this is 1-2. Do you need us to reinforce OP-2?"

"1-2, this is 1-7. Belay the last order," I said, cutting off Farley. "Hitman 1, proceed to primary extract and secure the LZ. Say again, secure the LZ."

"What's your idea?" Farley asked.

"I'll take Graham and Holt to OP-2 and get 'em out. Can you stay with Engel?"

"That leaves this OP at risk, doesn't it?" Gunnery Sergeant Graham, the operations SNCO, asked. "Engel's still rackin' and stackin' targets."

"It'll do. Take my carbine, give me your M39, and get it done," Farley ordered.

"Check," Graham acknowledged, lowering his NODs as they swapped weapons.

"On me," I ordered, crawling off the summit and sliding down the hill with Graham and Holt behind me. We worked our way through the trees as quickly as we could while maintaining situational awareness. While we had gone loud and stealth wasn't a requirement anymore, we still had to be careful, considering we were only three men up against a numerically superior enemy force.

"2-6, this is 1-7. We are approaching from the south. What is your position?" I asked as the gunfire became louder.

"Be advised, we've turned off our strobes! OpFor is utilizing NODs! Say again, they are utilizing NODs!" Hitman 2's commander warned. My brain briefly paused at his warning, given that we had been fighting an enemy for the past several years that lacked night vision, before the ugly truth finally hit me:

The Taliban and other enemies in the Middle East did have night vision. Perhaps not on a mass scale—even conventional Marines have more NODs per capita than them—but they still had them. Not only did they have devices captured from Afghan/Coalition forces, but they used things such as camcorders with night vision modes. As primitive as they were, I couldn't help but recognize their ingenuity.

But that didn't matter. In the end, a job had to be done, and if it meant using every bit of guts, training, and muscle memory rather than the ease of technology, so be it.

"Solid copy. We've disabled our strobes as well. Keep your fires away from the south. Say again, friendlies coming in from the south."

"Roger, 1-7. Keeping our fires away from the south. We're still on top of the hill, with the enemy setting up a hardline to the southwest and northwest."

"Check. 1-7 has eyes on tangos at your southwest," I confirmed as soon as we saw the OpFor hardline a hundred meters from the treeline: two trucks, each with mounted machine guns and dismounted personnel. What I saw confirmed why there were such inconsistent sounds: there was a DShK, an M2, five AKs, and two M16s, manned by nine enemies.

Either we were fighting an oddly equipped state adversary, a well-equipped non-state adversary, or the low Marine Corps budget was taking effect again.

"Shoulda kept my EMR," Graham muttered.

"Graham, go left. Holt, go right. I'll go up the middle, drop a flashbang. On the flash, go hot," I ordered.

"Check," they acknowledged before moving their respective ways. Astoundingly, the OpFor failed to maintain rear security and notice me as I crept forward—which was shocking, considering that I'm six-foot-five. But nonetheless, once I was around thirty meters away, I pulled a nine-bang from my plate carrier, pulled the pin, and threw it at the enemy before flattening myself against the ground.

Upon the nine loud flashes and bangs (go figure), Graham and Holt engaged the unit, dropping seven with their suppressed carbines while I took out the machine gunners.

"1-7, was that TIC to the southwest you? I'm not receiving any more fire from that direction," Hitman 2-6 called.

"Affirmative," I replied as we pushed forward, checking the trucks and shoving the grumbling "dead" OpFor men out of the way. "Be advised, we have acquired enemy weapons and transportation and are moving to engage the northwest force. Stand by."

"Damn you, Schacter," one blue-splattered man—none other than Master Gunnery Sergeant DeSanta, an old friend of mine—growled at me as I pulled him off the truck with the M2 and left him in the dirt.

"Have a good one, Master Guns," I snarked as I took up the blank adapter-fitted machine gun. "Holt, take the wheel!"

"Roger!" Gunnery Sergeant Holt—the communications SNCO—replied as Graham took shotgun. "Moving northwest!"

"2-6, hold fire to the northwest. We're comin' in," I reported, baring myself.

"Roger, holding fire to the northwest."

Forty-five seconds later, after some masterful maneuvering from Holt, we had visual on the OpFor position.

"Dammit, Johnson!" an OpFor man cursed as he hailed us over a radio in the truck. "Why the hell aren't you on the southwest side?"

"Sorry, pal. Tell me how the morgue is," Graham replied as I opened up with the M2. After a brief barrage, we rolled up right beside the shocked-looking group of men.

"2-6, this is 1-7. We're at the bottom of the hill now. Get your men down here and let's move to extract," I called.

"Roger, coming to you," the captain replied.

"Uh, y'all are dead," Holt pointed out, pointing towards the truck bed where the M2 and I were. "Have a nice night."

All thirteen OpFor men began cussing us out, but nonetheless sat down in defeat. Meanwhile, Hitman 2's HQ element came off the OP within twenty seconds with Chip in tow and no casualties taken.

"Let's get the hell outta here!" Graham shouted, waving to our boys. Seconds later, they were mounting up in the cabin and truck bed with some assistance from me, with us barrelling towards the beach as soon as every man was on board.

"Mass Sarn't," the largest of the group—Hank—said. "Er... thanks for the help."

"Anytime, sir," I replied with a smile. "Whaddaya think of the Raiders?"

"Damn fine men. I can see why you like working with these guys."

"You did good, Captain. Made your old man proud."

"Wait, are you two related?" another Marine—Hitman 2-6, I realized—asked.

"He's my Pa," Hank explained as we went over a bump in the forest.

"... well, that explains a lot."

"Hitman elements, Hitman 1-7. Do you have a full head count at primary extract?" I asked.

"1-7, all tactical elements are accounted for, but—"

"Stop, stop, stop!" Graham suddenly bellowed, causing me to cut the radio off and clutch the M2 tightly in a knee-jerk response. Holt, meanwhile, slammed the brakes and nearly threw us from the technical. "We almost plowed into the damn channel!"

"Hang on, sandbar's thirty meters to the right!" Hank shouted, pointing in that direction.

"Dismount! Let's go!" I barked, getting off the truck before getting on the radio. "Hitman elements, 1-7! We are two mikes from primary extract! We need covering fire to cross the sandbar!"

"Roger, 1-7. 1-1 coming to you with fire support!"

"Check! 1-6, what's your status?"

"All targets destroyed, but we lost primary and secondary extracts! Say again, primary and secondary extracts are gone! Moving to tertiary extract, how copy?" Farley responded, as I ran across the sandbar.

"Copy, 1-6. Just stay alive and get your tails there. 1-7 out," I signed off as I reached the other side, turning around to cover Hank and Hitman 2's commander as they crossed. "C'mon, gents! We gotta hightail it outta here!"

"Roger that! Where the hell are those birds?" the captain asked as we held position in the area between the beach and channel for maximum concealment and cover.

"They'll be here! Dive gear secured?" I asked.

"A-firm, got the gear bags!" someone shouted to my right.

"Hitman, this is C-2. Status update, over," C-2 suddenly called.

"C-2, Hitman 2-6. We have two men in contact and separated from the rest of the force. They're moving to tertiary extract and setting up a hardline, and we're gonna fly in with the birds," the captain replied.

"Good copy, Hitman 2-6. Be advised, we're picking up a lot of signal approaching the primary extraction point, so watch out."

"Contact front!" Hank shouted beside me as rounds began impacting the trees behind me. OpFor had once again cornered us, but we were prepared this time. Not even a second after Hank's warning, the Hitman teams counterattacked ferociously. The precise fires of MK18s and M39s, coupled with the suppressive fires of MK46s, kept the enemy back and ultimately silenced the threat.

"Huh? Roger, Dagger. Send traffic," Hank said, receiving a message on his comm. "... LZ is ice. Say again, LZ is ice. No enemy... roger that."

"What's goin' on?" I asked as I reloaded my carbine. But my answer came at the deafening sound of rotor blades. A glance behind me revealed four Venoms—Dagger flight—flaring for landing and quickly touching down on the beach, with a rifleman and machine gunner jumping out of one to set up a perimeter the best they could.

"Go, go, go!" Hank shouted, prompting everyone to run for the birds. Three helicopters were quickly filled, with me, Hank, Holt, Graham, and the Marines that jumped earlier. As soon as everyone was loaded—which didn't take more than twenty seconds from the time they touched down—we lifted off, with me sitting at the door with Hank and the door gunner as our legs hung off the side.

"Hey, get us to the tertiary LZ!" I yelled over the deafening rotor noise.

"Roger that, moving to tertiary LZ. We'll be there in four mikes. Hang on, boys," the pilot replied as he began flying us towards the LZ we'd set up the New River on a beach near a cluster of small islands.

"Raiders! Nice work!" the machine gunner shouted from the opposite door, reaching across and patting me on the shoulder. Raising my NODs, I peered back through the dim light of the cabin, realizing that he was none other than...

"CHIP?!?" Hank bellowed in shock as he raised his NODs and turned to look at the lance corporal. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN' HERE!"

"Savin' your butt, boy!"

"LISTEN HERE YOU LITTLE—"

"ENOUGH!" I yelled, interrupting their little repartee. "YOU CAN BICKER WHEN THE EXERCISE IS OVER, Y'UNDERSTAND?!?"

"Roger that!" they shouted simultaneously.

"Oh, Lance Corporal? What're you doin' here?"

"They couldn't send a full squad, so I volunteered to come in! Hernandez here too!"

"Good man, son!"

"Wait, are you guys related or something?" the rifleman—Hernandez—yelled.

"YES!" all three of us roared back.

"... WHAT THE HELL IS WITH YOUR FAMILY, SCHACTER?!?"

"Kids these days," I muttered before getting on the radio. "Hitman 1-6, this is 1-7. We're two mikes out! What's your status?"

"Our augmentee took a hit! It ain't fatal, but he's outta action and I'm runnin' low!" Farley replied. "Where the hell are you?"

"Almost there, 1-6. What's your position?"

"Right on the LZ! Marking my position with IR strobe! Multiple OpFor north, east, and southeast of my position! Danger close, danger close!"

"Stand by, 1-6. Just hold your position," I replied before turning towards the cockpit. "Cap'n needs CAS! Friendly position marked by IR strobe! Enemies north, east, and southeast of the LZ! All inside danger close!"

"Roger, danger close fires north, east, and southeast of the LZ! We'll get 'em!" the pilot shouted, with the door gunners acknowledging in kind.

"You mind if I join you?" Chip asked the door gunner next to him. Upon receiving a thumbs-up, he lowered his PVS-14 and hefted his M249, a massive grin on his face. "Hey, Mass Sarn't, Captain! Whaddaya say to a lil' OpFor huntin'?"

"You complete lunatic... hell yeah!" Hank shouted beside me, lowering his NODs as he checked his weapon. Chuckling, I did the same as we arrived above the LZ.

"1-7, I see you! You're cleared hot on tangos!" Farley called.

"Roger, 1-6. Get down. Engagin' with guns," I replied before turning to the rest of the cabin. "CLEARED HOT!"

Alexander POV

To say I'm a model for what a father shouldn't be is completely true. Negligence and just generally being an ass not only screwed me up, it screwed Erica up. Not because I didn't show her how to be a woman—a notion about as stupid as a mother showing her son how to be a man, as neither situation is fully possible—but because I didn't show her anything positive period.

Frankly, Dad parented her more like a father than I did, which sickened me. But worsening the matter is that he wasn't constant in her life. Even Catherine, who technically raised her the most, wasn't constant. And ultimately, it all came back to me.

And yet, here I was on the sofa, Erica to my right and Catherine sleeping on my left shoulder, sitting together in darkness as we watched Airplane!, one of my favorite comedies.

"Whoa... that just went from zero to a hundred really quickly," Erica muttered as the pilot was taken out of commission by the bad fish, taking another bite of popcorn after doing so—something else that surprised me, considering how much of a health nut she was. And sure, I certainly get it, but she was a legitimate health snob, like those crazy people on social media, especially the vegans.

Seriously, no offense to vegans, but some of those people look like they need to eat a steak or two... maybe some ribs... or at least a mess of eggs. In the words of Chip Schacter, "they look like them crazy northerners and West Coast folk that mocked [him] for bein' a southern country boy while they look like they'd break their arms bench-pressin' a ream o' paper."

That kid is seriously wise beyond his years.

Anyways, for once, I wasn't watching and laughing at my favorite comedy, instead thinking about the whole situation. In essence, I had been given a second chance.

Second chances... a confusing concept to me. I suppose I could see that in the context of small crimes—traffic tickets and the like—but what about infidelity? Murder? Sexual assault? Or in my case, bad parenting? Were second chances warranted in those places? Did forgiveness make sense?

After I finally realized just how much I screwed up, I didn't believe I deserved forgiveness, but ended up getting it anyway. I had my daughter, wife, and dad closer to me than ever before in my life. Things were a little too good to be true.

What changed everything was Operation Fox Hunt. None of my actions in Mexico—including the defense of the safehouse and my Rambo moment—were anything I'd call heroic. At most, they canceled out some of my past sins. And yet, I was called as such by command, the junior officers, the British officers, and weirdly enough, my family.

What disgusted me was at the fact that every "heroic" thing that happened was, for the most part, for Ben's sake. It's not that I didn't care about Ben—I really did see him as the son I didn't have—but the fact that I placed someone else over my family. So what kind of father, husband, and son did that make me?

But still, here I was. My daughter wanted me to stick around and let the past die. Moreover, she wanted to change as a person and not be in CIA mode 100% of the time—a product of my own failures. And with her mother's advice, we worked things through to the best of our ability.

"Dad... what just happened?" Erica suddenly asked, jarring me from my thoughts.

"Hm? Where are we now?" I asked.

"We just passed a scene with a woman and a horse in a bed."

"... don't worry about it."

"But—"

"I said don't worry about it."

Yeah, that's one part of fatherhood I'm not particularly happy to have back. But hey, you win some, you lose some.

Cyrus POV

"That's your plan?" I asked incredulously from my place in the driver's seat. "Watch Airplane! again? Alex, I swear you're in love with the damn film."

"C'mon, it's a good one!" Alex protested from the shotgun seat.

"Why do you even like it? It's ridiculously slapstick!"

"Isn't Dr. Strangelove kinda slapstick too?"

"It's more so black comedy than anything else."

"Yeah... I guess it also holds a place in your heart 'cause you lived through it, didn't you? The Cuban Missile Crisis, DEFCON 2, all that."

"Wouldn't quite put it that way, but I suppose," I reasoned. "Is Airplane! close to your heart because of similar circumstances?"

"Missed my wife, aviation... yeah, that sums it up," he replied with a nod.

"But you do rotary-wing, not fixed-wing."

"Flying is flying."

"Boy, no it ain't. Imagine all the crap that happened in 'Nam with our birds."

"Say, that reminds me, Dad... wanted to give this to you," Alex suddenly said, pulling a small box from his jacket pocket and handing it to me.

Taking a jackknife from my pocket, I cut the box open, unsure of what to expect. What I didn't anticipate was a small package containing...

"A recoil spring and a... slide release?" I said quizzically.

"Yep. You were saying that those parts were broken in your 1911, so I got you some new ones! Don't worry, I checked and made sure they're good," Alex assured me. "Plus, there's a small packet of info in the box saying where you can get more. But yeah, something practical, nothing particularly fancy... Happy Father's Day."

"... huh. Thanks, Alex. Really, thanks," I replied earnestly. The gift, as simple as it was, was quite touching, especially when considering how much I'd been bitching about my pistol being combat ineffective due to malfunctioning parts.

"Don't mention it. Maybe I don't agree with you carrying .45 ACP, but I'd rather you have .45 over nothing."

"... 9-mil is basically nothing."

"Dad—" he groaned, making me throw up my hands in faux-surrender.

"Okay, fine. 9-mil can kill... but it only kills the body. .45 ACP kills the soul."

"DAD—"

Ben POV

RONALD RIPLEY

BELOVED FATHER, HUSBAND, FRIEND

NOVEMBER 12, 1970 - JUNE 8, 2014

"HE WHO HAS STRENGTH, WISDOM, AND LAUGHTER IS UNSTOPPABLE."

"Good point, Dad. Gotta say, that last bit has helped out a lot more than you could imagine," I said, responding to the quote on his gravestone. "Lemme tell you, there's no such thing as a boring day when Chip and Mike are around. Throw Zoe, Jawa, and hell, even Erica into the mix, and you've got crazy days upon weeks upon months. Alexander and Catherine have been great too. I'm still not sure what Cyrus thinks of me, but we respect each other, if nothing else."

Respect: something my father talked about quite a bit. He always said that disagreement shouldn't mean disrespect. A prime example of this was a longtime friend and customer of his: Mr. Martin. Dad and Mr. Martin—from what I heard eavesdropping on the adults as a kid—was that the two held very different beliefs in the realms of religion, politics, economics, and the like. But what kept them friends was not only the fact that they maintained human decency, but they talked about other things.

Seriously, you sit down with someone long enough, the two of you will eventually agree on something. I mean, look at the Hales.

"Yeah, those four are a crazy bunch... but they're united by blood and espionage," I chuckled. "Hopefully they'll figure it all out... hell, I'm hoping I figure it all out."

"Some battles, you'll have to fight yourself."

And he had a point. But I still had his advice, his stories, his memories. And for the rest of the time, I had my friends here and now to give me a hand. From my best friends to the Hales.

'Even Cyrus,' I thought as I said patted the gravestone before walking back to the car where the two men were waiting. Hopefully Cyrus was having a grand Father's Day. 'Hey,,, maybe I should pull that out if Alexander hasn't done it already.'

"Love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day."

And so it went.

And that's the Father's Day special (also late, I know). This is in honor of amazing fathers everywhere.

Just like the previous one, one of the odder pieces, but for the sake of exploring the characters beyond what Mr. Gibbs gave us. Some of the sections were longer than others due to surpluses and shortages of ideas... oh well. Hope you like tactical stuff.

Also, as a side note, do you like reading stories like this (i.e., backgrounds of side characters)?

Until next time,

- ADF-2