Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“I thought you were going to keep me informed about these MARSOC operators? You claim to be friends with a couple of them,” Cesare said, and put his .45 auto on the desk as he spoke, so Ray-Dean could see it.

“I said I know a couple of them,” Blevins answered. “I didn’t say I liked any of them. And I sure the fuck never said I had any friends over there.”

“But you still made a deal with me. What’s their status?” Cesare asked.

“Security patrols,” Blevins said. “They’re running shotgun for a KBR convoy of tractor-trailers down Fallujah Road this afternoon.”

“Who all knows about it?” Cesare asked.

“Like you told me, I make sure the hookers hear about it.” Blevins shrugged.

“Good,” Cesare said.

“You know, it doesn’t make sense, you wanting us to compromise those guys, telling those whores classified shit like that,” Blevins said, disgusted.

“Marginally classified. And who else do you suppose those whores are fucking besides you assholes?” Alosi asked.

“Iraqi soldiers, cops, a few Allied soldiers, maybe Americans, too. Shit, I don’t know,” Ray-Dean slurred out.

“Reporting all to al-Qaeda, I suspect,” Cesare added.

“Then we sure as shit don’t need to be giving them information that can end up killing Americans,” Blevins fired back. “That’s treason.”

“That’s business,” Alosi corrected his man.

“What, so we can get more security duties and special operations?” Ray-Dean said.

Cesare Alosi smiled. “Precisely.”

“MARSOC and those Army guys stuck on security aren’t in business,” Blevins argued. “They’re not our competition.”

“They are the competition, you fool!” Alosi snapped.

Blevins stuck out his jaw and took a grip on his gun, not liking the insults hurled at him by his boss.

Cesare picked up his .45 and cocked the hammer, not pointing it at Ray-Dean but still sending a message.

“Cooter,” Alosi said. “That’s what your pals call you, right? Cooter, like a pooter but with a C.”

“No, sir,” Blevins came back, his lips curled above his brown-rimmed teeth. “It’s Cooder with a D.”

“Right. Cooder,” Cesare said. “I stand corrected.”

Then the swarthy boss with his slicked-back black hair and pearly teeth rested his gun’s butt on his desktop, pointed the muzzle straight at Ray-Dean, and explained, “It’s simple economics. As long as the less-expensive Jarheads or Doggies provide adequate security, we sit here making nothing. However, if the Marines or Army look like they cannot adequately protect these caravans of supplies and important people, then the government comes to us. Get it?”

“I got it a long time ago,” Blevins said, and took his hand off his gun and crossed his arms, still not breaking eye contact with Cesare Alosi. “I’m just saying it ain’t right. What we’re doing. Americans can die from it.”

“Americans die every day in this war,” Alosi retorted. “Most often because some bonehead fool sends them out underarmed and ill prepared on a poorly planned mission. They’re fighting this war like the cavalry of the old West. Ride out of Fort Apache at dawn, kill Indians, and ride home. Proves nothing and wins nothing. Do they expect to kill all of an ever-increasing army of insurgent soldiers?”

Ray-Dean took a big breath. “That it, sir?”

Alosi shook his head. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Blevins started to leave, then turned back at his boss. “I thought Hacksaw and his buddies that’s supposedly so tight with Gunny Valentine might help you out.”

“Not hardly,” Alosi answered. “They’re not mainlining drugs and fucking Iraqi whores. They may dress like pirates, but unfortunately, they’re too straight for my needs. They’d never compromise their lofty sense of ethics for anyone or any amount of money. Dumb-ass losers.”

“Then why do you keep them around?” Blevins asked.

“I have to,” Cesare said. “My boss, the owner of this company, likes them.”

“Oh.” Blevins nodded.

“But I always come up with a solution to every kind of problem that gets in my way. Haven’t you noticed?” Cesare smiled. “People get killed on the job every day. That’s why we pay astronomical salaries and keep our queue of ready replacements filled. You just never know when one day’s your last. It’s a dangerous business.”

“That why Hacksaw and his boys run a lot of duty down by Fallujah and Ramadi? You want them dead?” Blevins asked.

Cesare shrugged, lowered the hammer on his pistol, and slid it to one side of his desk. He gave Ray-Dean Blevins a cold, narrow smile as he leaned back in his tall, executive-model leather swivel chair.

“Cooder. Don’t forget. I’ve always got you by the balls. You willfully destroyed our three-hundred-thousand-dollar armored Cadillac Escalade that Jack Valentine stuffed up my ass. Oh, that festers, my man. It festers.

“I simply dangle it over your head, and that gets you to do anything I need,” Alosi reminded the man. “We can take the cost of that car out of your pay anytime you start sprouting morals and want to quit being my boy, or you can do what I say.”

“There are limits,” Ray-Dean said.

“Not around here.” Cesare smirked.

Midday sun sent heat waves dancing off the concrete where four KBR semi-tractor rigs sat as workers running forklifts finished loading the long box trailers with pallets of shrink-wrapped supplies, outbound for delivery to the logistics drop point that served the camps around Fallujah, Ramadi, and Hit.

Billy Claybaugh had Lance Corporal Rowdy Yates pull across from a sand-tan Cougar MRAP HE where a dozen infantry soldiers and their lieutenant sat in the shade of the six-by-six mine-resistant troop wagon. Cotton Martin’s driver parked the second Hummer alongside the other MARSOC truck.

The Army lieutenant gave Billy-C a wave with the tip of his index finger off the lip of his helmet. Claybaugh answered him with a hip-low cowboy-style slide of his hand.

“Go ahead and stretch your legs, boys,” the staff sergeant leading the MARSOC security mission told his Marines, and gave Cotton Martin a sign to dismount, too.

None of the Marine special operators smoked cigarettes or used tobacco in any forms. They didn’t want dependency on nicotine eating at them when they worked in a hide days on end, nor to have effects of the drug making their sights on long-range shots bounce any higher than the low ebb of a slow pulse and calm heartbeat. Like professional athletes, they avoided caffeine, too, and had eating habits that ensured that their bodies remained at peak performance. Free-weight workouts, aerobics, martial arts practice, most of the men held various degrees of black belt, and long runs daily kept them fit and tool-steel hard. No fatsoes or skinny weenies in this outfit. Just trim muscle and clear minds. Jack Valentine had that uncompromising rule, among others, that made his Marines different than any run-of-the-mill hard charger. They looked it, too.

Most of the infantry soldiers sat in their truck’s shade sucking on high-octane energy drinks and cigarettes, and spitting tobacco juice on the blistering concrete and watching it fry. Even the lieutenant had a lip full of Skoal. As staff sergeants Claybaugh and Martin gathered their cadre of eight Spartans and sat them in the shade of the two Marine Hummers, the soldiers gave them those telltale sideways leers that always say, “So you think you’re hot shit?”

The Marines knew their shit was righteous and blew off the condescension. Cotton shot the soldiers a slack smile, then turned his back on the mutts.

Breaking the tension, the lieutenant walked over to the two staff sergeants, and asked, “Who’s in charge?”