What could be so hard about the job anyway? Captain Sam Wilson-Carter had asked herself that question a thousand times over the past few years. And each time she'd asked it the answers had always come quickly: Well, the ultimate downside seems to be the imminent possibility of a slow, agonizingly-painful death at the hands of a jihadist with a crazed look in his eyes, a sharp object in his hand and a giant-sized chip on his shoulder. Or, I could end up front and center in the middle of a Capital Building hearing room with a bunch of snooty politicians raking me over the coals about something I either did or didn't do during the process of getting the job done. Yeah, that was the worst that could happen. The politicians. It just never seemed fair to her. They could always hide behind something while they got in their digs and tossed whatever aspersions their staffs could come up with. Anything was fair game for them in search of that half-million-vote soundbite. Anything to poke or prod the administration into revealing something that seemed shaky or underhanded. How many of them ever had to get up in the morning and actually do anything? When was the last time they'd had to justify their existences in front of anybody that counted? She shivered as she thought about it. You know what? Give me the jihadists any day.