Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“We’ve got shots coming out the Escalade,” Jack reported on the radio. “Zero incoming, but automatic fire going out all ports of the lead car.”

Several bullets skipped off Valentine’s Humvee, and Jaws ducked low in his turret.

“Do I return fire?” he shouted down, swinging the .50 in big arcs, searching for targets.

“At who?” Jack yelled back. “All the shit’s coming out that Escalade. Nothing incoming!”

“What the fuck are those guys on?” Billy-C asked.

“Dude from Camp Liberty told me these private-security punks be shooting steroids, hard drugs, meth and shit, and stay drunk all night,” Bronco offered.

Valentine looked at the insanity ahead of him. “Makes sense to me.”

Just then, the three-man crew in the lead Cadillac came rolling out, hitting pavement, lighting up the world with a SAW and two Uzi burp guns. They ran a mad dash to Jack’s Hummer. Behind them fire exploded out of the abandoned car, flames and black smoke boiling skyward.

“Pop the back, Bronco,” Jack ordered. “Soon as those turds get aboard, Billy, roll this motherfucker hard to Camp Victory.”

Jack put the radio to his mouth and called to all following vehicles, “We’re hitting it, high speed to Victory. Try to keep up.”

As soon as the trio of Malone-Leyva security pros got inside Jack’s Hummer, Billy stomped the gas pedal and dodged around the burning Escalade.

“What the fuck!” Jack blew at the Malone-Leyva trio, dressed in tan M-L logo ball caps, sunglasses, tan 5.11s, black Under Armour T’s, and Advanced Operator Kevlar vests, pockets crammed with gadgets.

All three men stunk of booze, chemical-laden sweat and body odor, and urine. One had pissed himself when the shooting started, and now he tried to get his wet pants off, crammed in the back of the Hummer.

“Fucking wait!” Jack yelled at him. “Just fucking lay in your shit for five minutes. It won’t kill you.”

“You saw that RPG, didn’t you?” the crew leader asked the Marines.

“Weren’t no RPG, dude,” Jaws said, holding on to his big gun while Billy-C drove hard.

Behind Jack’s Hummer, the two Caddies and Cotton’s truck poured on the gas while the MRAP roared full-tilt boogie to keep up, blowing black smoke out its pipes. Shrinking in the mirrors, the abandoned Escalade sent a towering plume climbing skyward. A common sight in this city of exploding cars and bomb vests.

The contractor leader looked at the corporal and took off his sunglasses. “Was too! Motherfucker! RPG came right across our hood!”

Jaws turned sideways, looking down at the idiot, ready to boot the mouthy bastard, but caught the gunny’s squint.

“Heavy fire! Shit, bro. You had to have taken some, too,” the contractor fumed.

“I ain’t your bro, and I saw nothing,” Jack said. “My corporal saw nothing. No RPG. Sure as shit one didn’t blow.”

“Dud most likely,” the scumbag said.

Billy-C studied the leader in the rearview mirror. Jack took in the man’s need for a shave and a haircut, and his bloodshot eyes. One fucked-up piece of shit. Skin pasty, cheeks gaunt but big bones and chin. Muscles and no fat. Eyes sunk in his skull and watery red.

Then there was that smell. Oh, that smell. Not the liquor, but that other stink that oozed from their filthy hides. Drugs and steroids. Steroid unmistakable in the piss.

Bronco put his face close to the window, focusing on the world and wanting fresh air. Then he looked at the contractor boss.

“How come you to torch your wagon, dude?” he asked.

“Shot all to shit. Totally fucked,” the leader said.

Bronco shrugged. “Is now.”

As Jesse Cortez said it, the leader gave Bronco a mean squint. “Don’t I know you?”

“Could be,” the corporal said. “You tried to do the Basic-Recon course at the School of Infantry, out at Pendleton, when I went through out of boot camp. You sprained your ankle or something, didn’t you?”

“Broke it,” the guy said, and smiled, and put out his hand to Cortez. “Good to see you, bro.”

Jesse shook it but didn’t like it.

“Hey,” Billy-C called from up front. “Didn’t you used to be at three-two? Like a year or so ago?”

The dude smiled. “Yeah, that’s me. Didn’t know if you recognized me, all bulked up and built nowadays.”

“Takes a minute,” Claybaugh said. “You look like you got that Mickey Rourke thing going on. Your face kinda grown a chin and big cheeks.”

“Dude, that’s age,” he said, not liking the passive-aggressive way the staff sergeant hinted at the steroids.

Billy-C nodded. “Right. These days a guy ages a lot in a year.”

“Still can’t think of my name, though,” the Malone-Leyva crew chief said, half a smile on his face.

“Oh, I think I recall some kind of hyphenated red-clay grit sort of John-Boy name,” Claybaugh drawled out.

Jack’s guys laughed and Bronco tuned in with a smile like Sylvester just ate Tweety Pie. Then when he saw Billy-C couldn’t quite pull it out, he blurted, “Ray-Dean Blevins.”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Claybaugh called out, leading the caravan down the off-ramp from Airport Street, main gate of Camp Victory dead ahead. “But they call you something else. Coochie or Cootie. Yeah, that’s it, Cooter.”

“Cooter’s a pussy,” Ray-Dean said, then added, “It’s Cooder, with a D, not a T.”

Jack grinned. “On Dukes of Hazard , they spelled Cooter with a T.”

“I spell it with a D, okay?” Blevins popped back.

Staff Sergeant Claybaugh looked in the rearview, and said, “Corporal Blevins. How the fuck you been, dude?”

Ray-Dean gave Jack a go-to-hell glance, then spread a condescending smile at Billy-C. “Gettin’ rich as shit while you lame-ass losers still be living off food stamps.”

As the caravan closed behind the lead Hummer, a security force came out from behind concrete barricades by the blast-proof steel entrance to the American headquarters compound, and began their vehicle check. Thumbs-up, and a soldier waved the two Escalades and three military trucks to proceed inside Camp Victory.

“Who’re your friends, Cooder-with-a-D,” Jack asked, looking at the other two contractors.

The one in wet pants nervously spoke first. “Gary Frank. I used to be a Marine sergeant in public affairs. A forty-three thirteen. Radio and television. Malone-Leyva hired me to work PR for them. I got put on security duty for a couple of weeks to get me some front-line experience, and see how the company does business. Pretty exciting so far.” The guy finished with a big smile.

Jack nodded at the guy and felt sorry for the schmuck.

“And you?” Valentine said to the dry-pants contractor.

“Fred Stein,” he answered. “Hard stripe sergeant, US Army Rangers. Signed on with Malone-Leyva five months ago. I finish this tour next month. Then I’m going home to work construction with my dad’s little company in Tennessee.”

“You sound relieved,” Jack said.

“Security contracting. Not my cup of tea, it turns out,” Stein answered.

Jack nodded, kind of liking the guy.

Bronco began giggling like a child with a dirty secret. Jaws gave him an elbow. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“What?” Billy-C grinned, stopping the Humvee at the dismount area at Al Faw Palace, the caravan halting behind him.

The VIP car’s passengers couldn’t depart the Escalade behind Jack fast enough. Then the two crews of the remaining black SUVs made a fast circle and lit cigarettes. The MRAP Cougar pulled around the stopped cars and headed to its home shed at Camp Liberty, inside concrete walls on the north side of the Victory compound.

While Cooder-with-a-D and his crew climbed out to join the Malone-Leyva crowd, Bronco laughed to Staff Sergeant Claybaugh. “Frank and Stein! Get it?”