Doug's Story
"All charges are dismissed. The defendant is free to go."
It took a moment for it to hit, then I sank back in my seat. My lawyer shook my hand and my father hugged me from behind. It was over!
Well, not really. I looked over at Gary, Lissa's father. He was sitting there with a shocked expression on his face and holding Madeline tight to his side. She was white as a ghost as she cried into his chest. Their nightmare just got worse. Me confessing to the crime was their last hope to find her. Now that it was wolves, it was likely they would never recover her body. They would never be able to have a proper funeral, never have closure. No justice would be found, no answers. Nothing.
I saw him glance up at me, but he quickly looked away. I'm sure he blames me for his daughter's death. After all, I took her camping. I left her alone in the tent. I didn't protect her, and now she was gone.
Now I had nothing, not my girlfriend, not a future, not a child she hadn't even told me about yet.
I leaned forward and covered my face with my hands. I didn't want the press or anyone else to see my grief as it finally hit me that my Lissa was gone. I only looked up when the Sheriff's Deputy touched my shoulder. "If your lawyer contacts us, we can arrange to release your personal effects to him. That way you don't have to go through these leeches." He was looking at the press as he said that.
I walked out of the courtroom between my father and my lawyer. The steps were packed with cameras and reporters. My lawyer talked briefly about justice but I wasn't even listening to him. Someone asked me if I knew where Lissa was. I stopped and looked at the reporter. "If I knew, I would have told them. I want to be able to say goodbye to her." With that, they escorted me through the crowd and into a waiting car.
We stayed at a hotel for a day while the paperwork was processed. Eventually I got back four boxes of my stuff and my Mustang convertible. I drove it straight to a car dealer and traded it in for an old F-150 4x4. I was going to need something that could handle winter.
When I got home, we had to repeat the whole thing with the local Sheriff. They had to return everything they had taken when they executed the search warrant on my parent's house, including my firearms. I checked out my baby, my Accuracy International AX bolt action sniper rifle in .338 Lapua Magnum. I use a similar rifle in Afghanistan, where it holds several records for long range kills. Corporal of Horse (CoH) Craig Harrison of the UK's Household Cavalry, who recorded a 2,707 yd shot (confirmed by GPS) in November 2009, also during the War in Afghanistan, in which he hit two Taliban insurgents consecutively. He used the older L115A3 sniper rifle. One of my heroes as a sniper, SEAL Chris Kyle, used a .338 Lapua by another maker to make a 2,100 yard kill in Iraq. I liked it because it was easier to fire and lighter than the .50 cal rifles, and had better long range ballistics. I could hit man-size targets at a mile more often than not with mine. My rifle was the next generation, and was even better than the ones the Marines let me use. The other stuff was more standard, an AR-15, a Smith & Wesson M&P9 9mm pistol, and some shotguns. I spent some time cleaning and checking them all before locking them up in the safe in my closet.
I had just finished washing up when my Dad yelled I had a visitor. Capt. Grubb, the JAG officer who I had talked to shortly after being arrested, was there along with a Gunnery Sargent from the local recruiting office. It didn't take long to figure out that with all the publicity, the brass wanted me out of the public eye as soon as possible. I was given a choice- either cleaning weapons at Quantico, or shooting bad guys in Afghanistan. Another unit had a sniper who broke his leg while on patrol, and so I would take his place. Frankly, I needed the break as much as anyone.
I was "wheels up" on the way to the 'Stan less than 24 hours later. I was able to make the memorial service for Lissa, which was pretty awkward. I don't think her parents know what they think of me any more. I tried to be respectful and didn't press things, it wasn't about me. It just pissed me off that so many people looked at me like I'd done something wrong, or had gotten away with murder. Not many approached me or wanted to be seen with me. As the plane gained altitude, I decided I needed to let all that go behind me.
So what was left in my life? I would stay in but the Marine Corps didn't want me. I had no job, no idea what to do next. No girlfriend, no wife.
I would find her. THAT I could do. I knew the search parties had given up, but I wouldn't. I would go up there and do two things- find her remains and make sure no one EVER had to go through this again. To that end, my pack was stuffed with my research materials. Topographical maps, wolf surveys, maps showing cattle predation. I also had downloaded a number of books on wolf behavior and trapping.
It took two days and a couple helicopter rides to make my way to my unit. They were stationed out of a forward observation post Shrine. This was the northernmost Marine position in Kajaki, occupying the high ground along the northern side of the Helmand River. Since winter was approaching, it was very cold at night but could be hot in the day. It was isolated, uncomfortable, vulnerable to mortar fire and completely out of internet range. Yep, they found the perfect place to hide me.
My reputation had preceded me. Marines in general don't like anything that makes the Corps look bad, and our code makes people who harm women and children the lowest of the low. Most of them wouldn't look me in the eye. It didn't matter that I had been released, in the end no one could be sure I didn't kill her. I wasn't going to argue; it wasn't a unit I was going to be with long. I had 30 days in country and I was going to make the most of it.
I was teamed with Corporal Joe Miller, who was in his first deployment after graduation from Scout Sniper school. He was a farm boy from Oklahoma, and we hit it off fine as he briefed me on the area. We had overwatch duty on 2 hour shifts, every 6 hours. There were several positions around the OP we could work from, mostly old mattresses that sat behind sandbagged walls. Marine sniper teams consisted of a spotter and a shooter, with the shooter on a Barrett .50 sniper rifle and the spotter with a powerful spotting scope. You'd think being a sniper was exciting, and there are some moments, but for the most part it is drudgery. Look here, look there. Make range maps. Look back here and there and see if there are any changes. Follow vehicles, donkeys or motorcycles. Get to know who is going where and when so you can tell if something is abnormal. Take notes. Make more maps.
Then turn over the watch to another team, get some food and rest, and start again. The routine was helpful to get my mind off everything that had happened.
Joe and I were asleep that night when the first explosion woke us up. It was still far off, but the shout of "Patrol under fire" was all we had to hear. I grabbed my helmet and Kevlar, still in my boxer shorts and boots that hadn't been tied yet, and we ran to an empty firing position with our weapons. I could see the flash of weapons fire on the road below, and a Humvee was burning and upside down. "Fuck! Find me a target!" As Joe was getting the spotting scope up, I was attaching and firing up the night vision attachment to my Schmidt and Bender rifle scope. I then chambered a round and searched for a target.
The patrol was three Humvees, two were pulled across the road and were protecting the Marines who were recovering their buddies from the wrecked vehicle. I could see the platoon was deployed in the ditches and being attacked from the front and the right side, where the bad guys had set up behind rocks on the hillside above the road. I looked for the biggest threat, but Joe found it first.
"Machine gun, 2 o'clock and 300 yards north of the vehicle." Moving my rifle that way, I saw the muzzle flash and increased magnification to 24 times. "Range 1440, wind 10 from 070, elevation -330." I put the information into the ballistics calculator, basically a program for my iPhone that was preloaded with the ballistics of my rifle and load. My scope was normally zeroed for a thousand yards and no wind, so I quickly adjusted the 18 clicks right and 10 clicks down. Placing crosshairs on the target, I relaxed my body, trying to get as low and still as possible, while slowing my breathing.
