A cold, frosty Budweiser beside his field-stripped M40A3, Kevin briskly wrenched his swab rod dipped in oil through the barrel while a small radio next to him mournfully belted out "Tuesday's Gone" by Lynyrd Skynyrd through a few random cracks and pops of static. His tired, hazel eyes wrought with bloodshot veins glanced towards the sun gleaming over the peaks of the Kyber Pass. "Another day in the Stan." He thought to himself scratching the stubble on his rough chin and returning to cleaning his rifle. He was a Marine, a Devil Dog and damn proud of it, and if Kevin knew anything, a damn good Marine always took damn good care of his rifle. After swabbing the barrel and cleaning the dirt out of the receiver, Kevin expertly put the gun back together piece by tiny piece before pulling back the bolt with a resounding click. He remembered the first time he heard that sound, July 6, 2005, Camp Pendleton.