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outfit.”
    â€œGrade him, with A the highest, C the lowest,” Murdock said.
    Ed slid out in the chair, massaged his wounded leg, and scowled. “Is this part of my job here?”
    â€œIt is. Give me a grade.”
    â€œOkay, I’d put him at a B. Depends on who else we get. When’s the next one?”
    â€œAt 1100. A JG from SEAL First, First Platoon.”
    â€œI’ve heard they’re plenty sharp,” Ed said. “Hope their JG is a good one.”
    Â 
    Senior Chief Sadler led the platoon on the run to the Navy antennas just six miles down the Coronado Strand toward the outskirts of the town of Imperial Beach.
    â€œHey Senior Chief, this dry sand is a bitch to run in,” Jaybird squawked.
    â€œKeep it up, Jaybird, and we’ll run back the same way, only twenty percent faster.”
    At the Kill House, dug into the sand near the far end of the strand, they went through the routine of quick-firing at the pop-up targets. With fifty thousand variables on the computer-programmed targets, there was little chance they would ever see the same ones again.
    â€œWe’re keeping scores and reporting them to the CO,” Sadler said. “Top score gets my personal six-pack of your choice of beer. Now let’s do some good numbers.”
    The Kill House was also known as a CQB, Close Quarters Battle house. It had been dug into the sand and had bullet-proof sides on all walls. There were three rooms with ceilings and all sorts of furniture. There were also terrorist figures and terrorists with hostages that popped up the moment SEAL boots hit the floor activators. The computer registered the hits and misses, and any time enough seconds passed without a SEAL response, the computer determined that the terrorist had killed the SEAL.
    A pair of SEALs attacked the house, one taking the right-hand side of the first room, the other the left. When it was clear, they said so and moved to the next room and new problems.
    Jaybird and Sadler were the first ones into the house. Jaybird took the left. Just inside the door he saw three terrorists pop up with a hooded hostage between them. He cut down the two on the right and shifted to the left, but the target had vanished.
    Sadler had one target on the right, drilled it with a three-round burst, then at once two more terrs jolted upright almost in the center of the room holding sub guns. Sadler slapped down both of them with swinging bursts from his Bull Pup rifle set on 5.56mm.
    The next room proved tougher, with one after another terrorist popping up after the SEALs thought the room was clear. They missed three of them.
    â€œDamnit, I just shot a hostage,” Jaybird wailed.
    When they came out of the last room, Sadler went to the side of the building to a weatherproof hutch and punched the button to get a printout of their score.
    â€œSeventy-four,” Jaybird screeched. “We did better than that.”
    â€œWe could have,” Sadler said. “But they fined us fifteen points for that hostage you shot. The setups on the targets are tough today.”
    After the last pair went through the Kill House, Sadler checked his watch. No time to make a second pass. He brought the men back to the beach, looked over the printouts, and yelled, “Look at this, you slackers. Van Dyke and Fernandez came up with the winning score. Eighty-nine. I bet they didn’t gun down any hostages like some people I know did. Okay, back to the compound. We have thirty-seven minutes for the trip. That’s a little over seven minutes to the mile. Who can set the pace?”
    â€œHell, Senior Chief,” a disguised voice yelped. “You know SEALs don’t fucking never volunteer for goddamned nothing.”
    There were a dozen hoorahs, and then Lam moved out front of the pack. “I’m not volunteering, I’m just trying for a personal best. If any of you want to try to keep up with me, be my guests.”
    He took off down the