Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

Three soldiers jumped out of the two sand-tan vehicles, rifles out, ready to shoot in any direction. Another soldier, without a rifle but shouldering a green satchel that had a red cross painted inside a white circle on its side ran to the wounded man and tried to save his life.

It is a woman, the sniper realized as he put his crosshairs on her. She had taken off her helmet, and he could see her long, black hair rolled in a bun on her head.

“Allahu Akbar,” the sniper said as he shot her in that rolled knot of hair, killing her instantly. All of it captured on video to be seen later on multiple al-Qaeda fan-base Web sites, worldwide.

Just after the sniper had killed the woman soldier, and she crumpled, dead, the jihadi driver jumped over the seat and got behind the steering wheel. As he started the taxi, he sent a cell-phone text cue to several trucks and cars that now converged on the intersection.

As the traffic surge came through, the driver hit the gas and sped away in the mix of delivery trucks and cars.

None of the soldiers, nor any other witnesses, ever realized where the shots came from. One Iraqi shopkeeper said he might have noticed a taxi sitting at the corner, but he wasn’t sure. Taxis frequently sat there, waiting for fares in that busy part of town.

“Gangway!” Jack Valentine yelled as he used the edge of his boot sole to pull open the door to the MARSOC, Iraq detachment operations offices. They sat inside a white hard-walled, white-roofed block-type one-story structure that looked like a giant refrigerator turned on its side. Similar to the quarters in which Jack and his tribe lived, it had tiny high windows and air conditioners sticking out all four corners of the supposedly somewhat-bullet-repellant walls.

A new crimson sign posted on white pipe stanchions out front proclaimed with bright gold lettering who lived in this house, United States Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command, Iraq. The newly coined MARSOC emblem, an eagle, globe, and anchor inset within a large black spade-like spearhead, dominated the sign’s center. Beneath it read a slogan in gold script, ALWAYS FAITHFUL — ALWAYS FORWARD.

On the lower corner of the big sign, a smaller red one with yellow lettering read, LIEUTENANT COLONEL H. E. SNOW, COMMANDING. Opposite it, a similarly small strip read, GUNNERY SERGEANT J. A. VALENTINE, STAFF NONCOMMISSIONED OFFICER IN CHARGE. On the hooch door, yet another sign, a varnished cedar plank with bold black lettering burned into the wood, read, HOG WALLOW (FORWARD).

The gunny blindly hefted two large boxes, one stacked atop the other, reaching from his knees to over his head and as wide as his arms could hug.

“That sniper they call Juba killed two more Americans,” Staff Sergeant Billy Claybaugh yelled to Jack when he saw the boxes and the gunny’s feet peddling under them. “Both Army. Office types making some kind of off-the-wall admin run to south Baghdad. Whatever the fuck that’s about. Like letting children wander off a playground if you ask me.”

Jack grunted and huffed as he came inside the office. “Yeah, I heard about it at the post office. A little help might go a long way.”

Billy-C grabbed the box off the top. “One was a female lieutenant and the other a sergeant. Dirty shame. Gunny, why didn’t you get one of the boys to go with you for these?”

“Didn’t know they’d arrived,” Jack said. “I just happened by the headquarters mail drop and those Air Force jamokes working in there was kicking our boxes around and tripping all over them. Given a little time, they would have rat-fucked the whole load. So I grabbed shit and fled. I left the rest of the MARSOC mail out in the seat of the truck. Elmore got another letter from his wife.”

“Good. He can pick it up on his way out,” Billy-C said. “You buy that Juba stuff, the Phantom of Baghdad?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said, feeling in his pocket for his Cold Steel lock-blade knife. “Intel guys at the two-shop say al-Qaeda made up this Juba character, and it’s really a bunch of different gunmen, mostly lucky shooting Hajis making kills at short range. Nothing impressive, like now they got their version of Carlos Hathcock.”

“Both these was head shots,” Billy said. “Well, actually, one a neck shot and the other a clean head shot.”

“We need to get after ’em, brother,” Jack said, pushing his knife into the tape of the first big box. “Entirely too many Americans getting hit by snipers these days. We need to engage some countersniper action to put a stop to it.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Billy said as he headed for the truck to grab the mail off the seat for everyone in the detachment.

Just as Staff Sergeant Claybaugh shoved open the HOG Wallow door, it hit Lieutenant Colonel Elmore Snow slam in the kisser. Wham!

“Oh shit, sir!” Billy-C cried out. “You okay?”

Elmore shook his head like rattling rocks in a box. “No worse for wear. Carry on, Marine.”

“I guess you heard about those two soldiers got killed by Juba the Phantom of Baghdad, first thing this morning?” Claybaugh said to the colonel.

“Bloody shame, that,” Snow said. “We stress sniper vigilance, but I guess some people forget where they are.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said, and dashed outside to the truck.

The colonel eyed Jack, who had his knife out, cutting open the tape to the top of one of the big boxes. On the side of the pasteboard, dark blue print read, JACKSONVILLE CUSTOM IMAGES COMPANY.

“What’s in the boxes?” Snow asked, walking over and trying to peek inside the one Jack had just opened.

“Oh, just a few Tinkertoys I had made up for the kids,” Valentine said, and grabbed a handful of black-and-red-embroidered patches from a plastic bag and handed them to his boss.

Snow looked at the four-inch-by-three-inch red-trimmed diamonds with a black ace of spades on a gray field that had an overbearing, evil-eyed white skull trimmed in red and black in its center. Below the black spade and white skull, was a set of white dice with black dots showing snake eyes.

“You drew this?” Snow asked, admiring the artwork.

“Yes, sir.” Jack smiled.

“Nice,” Snow said, and tried to hand them back.

“No,” the gunny said. “Those are yours. I got three hundred of them made for our team. Plenty to go around.”

“These are not kosher on Marine Corps uniforms, you know,” Snow said, stuffing the patches in his utility-trousers pocket.

“Oh, goes without saying,” Valentine said. “We’ll sew them on our kit bags and maybe on the pocket of our vests. A little team identity.”

“Sounds good,” Elmore said, and took a second glance at the very large boxes. “But it looks like more than patches here.”

“Oh, just a little decor for the hooch, sir,” Jack blew off. “Nothing really.”

“Hey, Jack,” Snow said casually. “I thought I’d mention that a couple of CIA operators, boy named Chris Gray and his partner, Speedy Espinoza, may come knocking on your hatch in the next few days. Help them out all you can. They’re tasked with finding Zarqawi. And we want to kill him.”

“I’ll roll out the green carpet,” Jack said, and puzzled a second. “Chris Gray? Sounds familiar. I knew a Chris Gray at Second Force Recon back in the Gulf War.”

“One and the same,” the colonel said. “Espinoza’s Marine Corps, too. Flew the EA-6B Prowler for a while.”

“Spy in the sky,” Jack said. “I’ll do all I can for them. Last time I saw Chris, we were lance corporals. Then you kidnapped me.”

“I should have grabbed him, too,” Elmore said. “He’s a solid operator. So’s Speedy.”

“Never fear, they’ll be at home here,” Jack assured his commander.