Nearly 0800 and Captain John Watson is off duty and headed across the compound to the mess for breakfast. He passes the entrance to the base hospital and sees 12-year-old Ali leaning against the wall murmuring a prayer while waiting to visit his little brother, Jahan, as he's done for the past week since the drone attack destroyed their family home.
It takes a few more yards for Watson to put together the little things that seemed off. Ali's a skinny lad whose torso seems somewhat heavier under the new striped robe. Allahu Akbar (God is Great), a common prayer, but also what the terrorists said as they crashed the planes into the towers. God, no! Jahan died 2 days ago of cascading organ failure that Watson couldn't stop.
Watson turns and calls out, "Ali!" The boy is just inside the entrance now, but can't resist the natural urge to respond to his name. The look he gives Watson is one of pure malice as his hand reaches inside the robe.
The gun at Watson's hip comes up in a fluid motion, the head shot quick and clean, the benefit of a surgeon's eye-hand coordination.
The robe on the fallen body opens just enough to disclose the bomber's vest.
Yes, Watson had bad days, and June 14, 2008, was a bitch.