Dead Shot by USMC (Ret.) with Donald A. Davis Gunnery SGT. Jack Coughlin

problems?” he asked Harold.
    “Nope, but glad you came around to check.” The engineer had on a headset and was working a bank of lighted dials. “I’m setting the uplink to go live. Let me know if you need me.”
    “Right. Won’t be a minute.” Juba studied the desktop area, dropped to the floor to look at the underneath wiring, and clicked a flashlight to see into small places. He opened the engine and played around in the compartment, climbed to the top and back down, then crawled beneath the truck, where he removed two cans of aerosol spray from his toolbox. Each was labeled as a commercial product that was widely used to blow blasts of clean air onto delicate computer components. Juba twisted the exterior coverings and pulled out the canisters within, then carefully attached them to small clamps above the exhaust pipe from the muffler. Tiny bits of explosive plastique were on the tips of the canisters, and he joined them with a common wire to a small detonator. It would go off when a certain cell phone number was dialed, and the contents of the canisters would be released.
    While he worked, Kim Drake continued preparing for her upcoming live shot for the six o’clock evening news back home. She had managed to snare a good report, standing in front of the palace with one of those tall soldiers in the red coat and funny-looking fur hat. When she was done filming, she stepped away from the spot, and a press officer ushered in another reporter to do the same thing. The news director back home loved it and set the report for the evening news.
    Juba finished just as Kim was doing her makeup at a mirror in the van. “Pardon, Miss Drake, if you don’t mind. May I snap a few photos of you and Harold and your cameraman? Hate to be such a bother, but the company wants some pictures for its adverts after you lot are gone. Drum up more business for us in the lean times, you know.” The request was so polite that they all agreed, and Juba took out a digital camera.
    “Just wait until I finish my hair,” Kim called. “I look horrible.” He shot a series of pictures of Harold at the controls while he waited.
    Kim snapped off the light and stepped forward. “Any time you’re ready.”
    “Are you famous, Miss Drake?” He clicked two pictures.
    “No, not yet. Working on it.” Broad smile, hands on hips, blond hair in helmet hairspray mode. American Idol.
    “I find that difficult to believe. Obviously you’re talented, or you would not be here.” Two more pictures. “Very good. My thanks to all of you. The company will be pleased up to get these. You are okay here, so I’ll just be off now to check the other van. Some Italian chaps.”
    He repeated the drill with the Italian van, where only a technician was on duty. There was one big difference. Inside the truck, Juba tilted the driver’s seat forward and unscrewed a panel door, and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the interior. “That smells good. Are you brewing a pot of coffee down there?” asked the man at the console.
    Juba explained over his shoulder that they packed coffee around some of the more sensitive avionic components to absorb excess moisture because the damp climates of Scotland and England played havoc with the delicate equipment. In reality, the strong coffee smell masked the scent of the large brick of C-4 explosive attached to a small lead-lined box. Sniffing dogs had moved right over it during the final security inspections. Juba fished out his camera and took a few pictures, then reached inside the lead-shielded compartment and clicked a metal switch attached to the explosive, which lay beside a large aerosol canister. The weapon was armed. He set the timer on a backup detonator, poured in some fresh coffee beans to cover it, screwed the panel back in place, and lowered the seat.
    “There. That’s it, now. I will be going along. Good luck.” The technician paid no attention as he left.
    Kimberly Drake was in a pool of bright light,