Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

The captain then looked at his crew. “Form up a formation. Gunny, you will assist. Lance Corporal Valentine, front and center.”

Elmore handed Ray Ambrose the chevrons as he took a red-imitation-leather-covered hardback folder with a gold Marine Corps emblem stamped on its face from a guard mail envelope and opened it. Inside, under a clear plastic sheet, lay Jack’s promotion warrant, signed by Lieutenant General Walter E. Boomer, Commanding General, United States Marine Forces Central Command and First Marine Expeditionary Force.

Gunny Ambrose barked, “Attention to orders!”

Captain Snow then began to read the warrant:

“To all who shall see these presents, greetings: Know Ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the fidelity and abilities of John Arthur Valentine, I do appoint him a Corporal in the United States Marine Corps, to rank as such from the First day of January, 1991. This appointee will therefore carefully and diligently discharge the duties of the grade to which appointed by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto pertaining. And I do strictly charge and require all personnel of lesser grade to render obedience to appropriate orders. And this appointee is to observe and follow such orders and directions as may be given from time to time by Superiors acting according to the rules and articles governing the discipline of the Armed Forces of the United States of America.

“Given under my hand at United States Marine Forces Central Command, First day of January, in the year of our Lord 1991.

“Signed, W. E. Boomer, Lieutenant General, United States Marine Corps, Commanding.”

Gunny Ambrose took the right collar and Captain Snow took Jack’s left collar. They removed the lance corporal chevrons, handed them to Jack, and together put the steel pins on the backs of the chevrons through the uniform-collar material. Then, together, they drove the pins down hard into Jack Valentine’s collarbones.

His eyes lit up with the sudden sharp pain, but he held his position. Then, one at a time, the staff sergeant and two sergeants took turns pinning on the stripes. As they drove them in the collarbone, they also added a swift punch with their knees across the new NCO’s thighs, pinning on his blood stripes, too.

“Welcome to our wonderful world of fun and games,” the gunny then said. “Gunnery Sergeant Ray Ambrose at your service, Corporal Valentine. On the team, I go by Mutt, like a mongrel dog that doesn’t care whose ass he bites. Anyone outside the team calls me Gunny. That clear?”

Jack nodded.

Next up the staff sergeant introduced himself, still smiling tobacco juice and swallowing it. “Staff Sergeant Walter Gillespie. On the team, I’m Hacksaw.”

“Sergeant Kermit Alexander,” the black sergeant said, and shook hands with Jack. “Call me The Frog. Not just Frog but The Frog. Dark green like a frog, but not just any frog, I am The Frog. Got it?”

Jack laughed. “The Frog, I got it.”

“Cory Webster,” the other sergeant said, giving Jack his hand. “Skipper named me Habu. Okinawa Japanese for snake. I’m an oh-three-twenty-one slash eighty-five-forty-one, same as you. You and I will be primary Scout-Snipers, and these other nonshooting knife fighters will work as our spotters. Kermit The Frog runs with me, so Hacksaw’s your problem.”

Jack looked at the staff sergeant, grinning a nasty smile at Webster, oozing tobacco juice between his teeth, sucking it back and blowing Habu a kiss. “Bro, you just wish you had a problem like me when we get in the shit. Don’t forget who pulled your pork out of the fire in Medellín, when you and Dirty Harry got bushwhacked by that Escobar crew.”

“Yeah, bro, I owe you. I don’t forget,” Habu said.

“Fuck it, dude. Comes in a day’s work,” Hacksaw said.

“Ray, help me with this,” Captain Snow said, unrolling a tactical map with several clear-plastic overlays on it and fastening it onto a display board at the end of the conference table.

“That’s Iraq,” Jack said, seeing that the overlays had red, blue, green, and black markings on them.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Staff Sergeant Gillespie said. “Where’d you think we’re going, Disneyland?”

On the display board, next to the map and overlays, Elmore Snow pinned six color eight-by-ten portrait photographs of Iraqi officers.

“High-value targets?” Jack asked.

“They are the targets,” Elmore Snow answered, stepping back and giving the display a good look to see that everything appeared straight and presentable for General Boomer. Then he looked at his crew. “Gather round, gentlemen. I don’t want any gasps or whining while I brief the general. So I will give you a quick one-two-three before our audience arrives.”

“Fuck you, Elmore, nobody’s whining,” Hacksaw guffawed.

Captain Snow shook his head. “That’s why you have so much time in grade as a staff sergeant, Walter. And you’re lucky to hang on to that rocker. You’ve got no couth.”

“I wipe my ass with couth every morning,” Gillespie said, and paused before he added, “Sir.”

“How come the skipper don’t call you Hacksaw, or the gunny, Mutt?” Jack noticed, and queried the staff sergeant in a low voice.

“Captain Snow?” Hacksaw said, not bothering to lower his voice, not caring that Elmore Snow heard him. “Well, he’s an officer and a gentleman first and foremost, so nicknames aren’t his bag. And he’s a Christian, above all else. The man prays at dawn like an Arab, bowing toward the rising sun, and on his knees at night like a child, praying forgiveness for all us sinful jarheads.

“He called Gunny Ambrose a Mutt one day, when brother Raymond nearly chewed the arm off a cocaine gunslinger on a back trail in Chile. They were going at it hand to hand, when we come up on them. Gunny trying to disarm the scoundrel of his .45, and keep from getting shot in the process, so he just started biting the shit out of the poor bastard. Got hold of his arm and made the blood gush. That’s when the poor fucker turned loose and Ambrose killed him with that .45. Captain Snow said, you didn’t have to kill him. You’re nothing but a Mutt. We started calling brother Ray the Mutt after that. It really works on him, too, don’t you think? Block head, big jaws, chewed-off ears like a pit bull fighting dog. He is the Mutt.

“Other than that one time, Skipper never uses nicknames. We do. Except for himself, Gunny does the naming. He’ll come up with something cute for you. Just wait.”

Jack looked at the gunny. “Any ideas?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Give it time, little brother. You’ll do something or I’ll see something. It’ll come.”

“Yeah, like that joke about the Indian chief who named all the village children.” Kermit smiled. “When a baby is born, I name them after the first thing I see.”

Hacksaw laughed. “Why you ask, Two-Dogs-Fucking?”

“At ease, gentlemen,” Captain Snow said. “Here’s the skinny. The six faces you see are the top Iraqi field commanders of Saddam Hussein’s elite Republican Guard. We see one of these men, we take him out.”

“Where are we going that we might see commanders of the Republican Guard?” Cory Webster asked.

“Once President Bush raises the flag,” Elmore Snow began, “we’ll launch on a night insertion. High-altitude low-opening drop. Military free fall fifteen grand. Deploy your parachutes below a thousand feet and above five hundred, your discretion. Night insertion, we’re coming in black.”

Gunny Ambrose looked closely at the overlays. “Which color are we?”

“Green, of course,” Elmore said.

“That puts us well up the crotch of where the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers flow south,” Ambrose said, tapping the map. “What’s this city? Hillah? Like a hundred klicks south of Baghdad?”