Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Hacksaw back at you, sir,” the staff sergeant said over his sat-link as he eased alongside Jack and put his eye back on the high-power spotting scope equipped with infrared and night-vision technology. “Had to scatter a little rat bait out in this farmer’s tater crop if you know what I mean.”

“Did you copy my com?” Snow asked.

“Roger,” Gillespie answered. “Why the mark 84? Last I checked, that bomb puts down a thirty-foot-deep crater, fifty feet across, and blows through sixteen feet of concrete or fifteen inches of solid steel. Kind of overkill for a two-story spread-out office complex.”

“Wizards in the head shed think this headquarters may sit atop a good-size bunker system,” Elmore explained. “Obviously a flag officer inside, the one you spotted, and maybe more.

“Given the war began before daylight this morning, we believe they could have a command and control center underground. You said lots of traffic in and out, and that blue Rolls-Royce has our G-two people convinced you happened upon a major honeypot.”

“Does this mean we can come home early?” Hacksaw joked.

“Maybe you’re half-right, Walter. We may get to bust out of this burg and redeploy,” Snow answered. “As soon as I know anything, I’ll let you boys know, too. We’ll all likely beat feet to the rally point and await pickup there.”

“Anything going with Frogman and Habu?” Gillespie asked.

“They’ve got a flight of four Tomcats loaded with mark 82s inbound on targets. We’re trying to coordinate those strikes with yours. How about your laser? It set up? We need to get that target painted,” the captain followed.

“Just pulled it from the drag bag and setting up as we speak,” Hacksaw answered.

“While you’re in the bag, go ahead and pull out the camera and put on the long lens,” Snow told him. “If this commander with the blue Rolls emerges from the headquarters, I want pictures of him.”

“If he comes out of the building, he’s probably leaving, sir,” Jack said.

“That’s where you have the green light to splash him,” Elmore replied. “I want Walter to snap his pictures, nonetheless, and you take your shot. Be nice to identify this guy.”

“Got you covered, Skipper,” Hacksaw broke in. “Laser is up and painting the target. I’m on the camera with a nice view of the car and front door. Awesome lens. Very clear. By the way, sir, it looks like the driver is talking on a radio.”

“Now he’s stepping out,” Jack added, seeing the driver’s door open.

“What’s the ETA on that Nighthawk?” Walter asked.

“I just checked, and the pilot says he’s less than two mikes out,” Elmore came back.

“May be too late,” Jack said, seeing the general emerge through the front doors, square away his burgundy beret, and jog down the steps. Instead of escorting the senior officer, the driver ran to his station, started the car, and left the general to let himself in the backseat.

“Your range is hot, corporal. Wind unchanged. You’ve got your dope. Fire at will,” Hacksaw said, snapping the camera as fast as the motor drive could run the film past the shutter.

Jack Valentine took a breath, watching the Iraqi commander in the dark green uniform run to the car, his scope sight’s reticle center mass on the man. He let out his breath halfway, held it, and relaxed, crosshairs dead on target. Then he added pressure to his trigger finger.

Boom! The rifle bucked against Jack’s shoulder, and he watched through the scope.

Two steps from the back door of his Rolls-Royce sedan, the shot took the Iraqi commander off his feet and drove him backwards to the ground. As the bullet struck his upper chest, red spray and debris exploded from his body.

Calm and cool, Jack drew back his bolt, ejected the spent cartridge slowly into his hand, never taking his eye off the rifle scope, watching the crowd of Iraqi officers pour out of the building, handguns and rifles drawn.

“Report,” Elmore said on the satellite radio.

Sirens began wailing, and Iraqi soldiers, rifles ready, poured from every wing of the command complex.

“You ever piss in an ant bed, Skipper?” Hacksaw laughed, still snapping pictures. “Corporal Valentine just broke his cherry. Score him one kill. A general at that! Nice. Real nice.”

“Your laser still painting the target?” Elmore asked.

“Yes, sir,” Hacksaw replied, just as a whistling whining screaming sound from the sky came down and the entire command-center complex suddenly erupted in a massive, ground-shaking, deafening explosion. Dirt, debris, bodies, cars, trucks tumbled in the air as a great brown-and-gray cloud rose a thousand feet into the late-afternoon sky.

“We best di di mau, Boo-Boo,” Hacksaw said, gathering equipment into the drag bag and rolling down the back side of the berm. Jack slid out, too, hot on his partner’s heels.

On February 24, 1991, Allied ground forces rolled across the line of departure into Iraq. Saddam’s three-hundred-thousand-man force occupying Kuwait fled the land. Many of them surrendered to the Americans, while others faced death from their own Republican Guard, who shot deserting Iraqi soldiers on sight. In four days, Allied forces conquered the Iraqi army and restored Kuwait to its rightful owners. General Walter Boomer and his Marines waded through Kuwait the first day. Carl von Clausewitz and Sun Tzu would have been proud.

On the second day of March, Elmore Snow and his team of five Marines sat at a table on the mess deck of the USS Iwo Jima . Like a family admiring baby pictures, they passed around copies of choice reconnaissance photographs they had taken during their deep special operations mission.

“What do we do?” Hacksaw asked, holding up a photo he snapped of the dirtball mushroom cloud that used to be the Republican Guard headquarters.

“We fuck shit up!” Jack laughed.

“And the pièce de résistance,” Gillespie added, holding up a photograph of the Iraqi general just as Jack’s bullet struck him. Stop-action death. The center of his chest exploding as the bullet lifted him off his feet.

Hacksaw grinned at Jack. “Corporal Valentine put the hammer of justice on this sand flea. Fucked him up!”

“Hammer.” Raymond Ambrose smiled over his cup of coffee, looking at Jack. “I name you, Hammer.”

Elmore Snow raised his coffee mug with his men and toasted their new addition. “Here’s to Hammer,” he said.

“And here’s to the loss of virginity,” Jack added.

“So, Corporal Valentine, what do you think of South America?” Elmore asked the young Marine.

“I’m fluent in Spanish,” the corporal said, and smiled back. “Mexican, I should say. My mom, you know.”

“I read that in your SRB,” the captain said, nodding.

“Did you also see where I put in for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training?” Jack came back. “I’d really like to go, Skipper.”

Everyone at the table looked at the green young corporal sideways.

“What the fuck, over?” Hacksaw said. “BUD/S is redundant, shitstain. You done done it. What’s those deck apes gonna teach a badass Para-Frog Scout-Sniper Force-Recon hard-baked little bitch like you?”

Then the staff sergeant scooted close to Jack and wrapped his tattooed, muscled arm around the corporal’s neck. “Listen to me,” Walter said, wrinkling his brow, “this is your daddy talkin’ to ya. A Navy SEAL ain’t nothin’ but a sailor tryin’ to be like a Marine. You got that?

“Fuck me to tears, boy. Stop thinking such silly thoughts. You need to pack your trash and go down to South America with us men and kill yourself some of them cocaine cowboys we been huntin’. You got the good eye, the trigger, and the Hammer!”