As Deputy Director Sharp took a detour to her office on the next floor up Agent Gibbs took a moment to take in all that had happened. Over the course of a single morning he had gone from wasting time with a copy of Sniper Monthly in the cramped but cozy confines of an office trailer to watching the aftermath of some 13,600kg of explosive materials versus an eight-story USAF housing structure. Gibbs had lost his mentor and friend of four years who had also gave him the means to exact revenge on the murder of his wife and only child, not that he would ever speak of it again, and now he was going after one of his most high-profile targets of his naval investigative career.

Overlooking the squad room from above Gibbs took in one rejuvenating breath of air, psyching himself up for what was going to be a day, and most likely a week, of high stakes. It was time to gear up as Franks frequently told him to do when a case came the way of the MCRT. Those two words were all that was needed to give the probie and their other team member the kick in the ass they needed to get to work.

"Gear up, gunny," Gibbs whispered to himself as he dutifully marched down the stairs and back to his desk to grab his gun and, of course, that infernal cancer-causing mobile telephone that just might be the death of him and anyone else who held those devices so close to their brains. As he came down those steps however Gibbs came to find an unknown young man, a trespasser for all intents and purposes, handing around the unowned desk in his cubicle, his paws all of his issue of Sniper Monthly.

"Gibbs," was all the junior agent said as he stopped at the threshold of the cubicle, offering a yet to patented stare at the sandy brown haired, well kept, Harvard-looking young man in his mid-twenties.

In his well-to-do brown slacks, tan sweater vest and white dress shirt the guest stood to his full height of 1.8 meters and offered a hand to Gibbs. "Agent Stanley Burley," he introduced himself, an NCIS shield now visible on the right side of his belt. His first impression was one of competence. He was obviously raw, fresh off the boat but not timid or afraid of his own shadow.

Gibbs guessed the guy was a former varsity jock, football maybe, as they shook hands but he remained silent and maintained his thousand-yard stare for this Burley guy to say something to determine whether he would be welcomed or thrown out at the earliest opportunity. His clean-cut, choir boy presence was an anti-Franks of sorts.

"I'm here from Kings Bay," Agent Burley said, trying to elicit some kind of conversation and to get a read from this Gibbs guy. "I spent the last six months with Agent Wojcik. Wes Wojcik. Do you know him?"

"No," Gibbs replied with a simple shake of head, barely turned to the left. Finally heading in he took the long way around, circling behind the desk Burley had taken ownership of and promptly retrieving his magazine. "So, you've been detailed to the navy yard, Stephen?" he asked, seemingly oblivious to his error as he pulled open a drawer and found his sidearm, still lying among Franks' old gun and creds.

"Yes, and it's Stanley… or Stan," Agent Burley tried to correct Gibbs who paid little attention as he spoke. "I was told by HR to report to Special Agent Franks," he said, holding up a plain, brown office file. "I'm supposed to give this to him."

"You're out of luck, Simon," Gibbs erred again as he plucked the folder from Burley's grasp and opened it, rummaging through what little pages it held to get some information on the new agent he would have to start babysitting. "Not quite Harvard," he observed, looking over Burley's clothes.

"Columbia, actually," Burley stated. "Just as good as Yale or Harvard, regardless of what my dad might say."

"Senator's aide, junior and senior years," Gibbs kept reading. "Senior state senator Madeline Tanner, democrat. Gave you a glowing recommendation to NCIS."

"I actually applied to the Secret Service straight out of college," Burley revealed, maybe not quite in his favor as Gibbs peered over the document, glaring straight in his eye. "They flagged me. Something about stealing the Jack the Bulldog and replacing him with a poodle. The Secret Service interviewer was a Georgetown alum and that was the end of that chapter."

"Careful, or you'll be on chapter three before the second paragraph," Gibbs said, closing his drawer sharply, grabbing the infernal cell phone and walking to the edge of the cubicle as Sharp simultaneously dismounted the stairs.

"Who's this?" Sharp asked as she connected with Gibbs, Burley still lagging behind.

"Sebastian Burley," Gibbs said. "I think. I can't remember." It was anyone's guess if the junior agent was feigning ignorance or legitimately scatter brained.

"Sebastian? Really?" Agent Burley asked, dumbfounded. "Stanley Burley, ma'am," he corrected, speaking directly to Sharp.

"Air express from Wes Wojcik in Kings Bay," Gibbs added, apparently not at such a loss for memory recall as he acted. "Remind me to send him a thank-you note," he sarcastically followd.

"Burley," Sharp repeated, giving the new agent the once over as he stood anxiously in place, wondering if he would be told to sit and or come like a dog. "Do you have a gun, Burley?"

"Yes, ma'am," Burley replied, hopes growing higher as he patted the backpack atop his desk.

"It's not doing you any good in there, Agent," Sharp chastised. "You're with us."

"Gear up," Gibbs translated with a nod. "When we move. You move… Probie."