Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

Captain Mike Burkehart pecked furiously at his computer, across the office from Lieutenant Colonel Elmore Snow’s vacant desk. Several wall lockers lined the bulkheads of the small white MARSOC headquarters office. In the rear of the building, the captain and the colonel had set up their living quarters in small, walled-off rooms with a single bathroom and shower serving both officers.

A knock came at the front door, and Burkehart looked up as the bright outside light came through when it opened. A geared-up combat Marine stepped inside, an M4 carbine rifle slung on his shoulder and mature creases lining his tan face.

“First Sergeant Alvin Barkley, Charlie Company, One-Five,” the Marine said. “Looking for Lieutenant Colonel Elmore Snow.”

“You missed him by half a day, First Sergeant,” the skipper said. “I’m Captain Mike Burkehart. Officer in Charge of the MARSOC detachment, and executive officer to Colonel Snow. Can I help you?”

“I hope so, sir,” Barkley said, and took a brown, nine-inch-by-twelve-inch envelope out of a green map case. “Lieutenant Colonel E. B. Roberts, one-five battalion commander, gave me direct orders to hand carry this operation plan to Colonel Snow. I’ve been busting my hump since daylight to get here from out in the Anbar by Hit. Deeply regret missing Colonel Snow. Will he return soon?”

“He’s gone stateside for three weeks,” Burkehart said.

“We’ve got a team of your MARSOC operators tasked to support this operation,” the first sergeant said.

“Colonel Snow told me about it before he left,” the captain said. “Gunny Valentine briefed me, and he’ll lead the team. You can take that envelope back with you or leave it with me.”

First Sergeant Barkley thought about it and started to put the envelope back in his map case but stopped.

“Sir, I just don’t know what to do,” he said. “Colonel Roberts didn’t trust email or the classified guard mail couriers with this, and wanted me to hand carry this hard copy direct. Too many compromises these days. But I hate to go back and tell him I couldn’t deliver the package.”

Captain Burkehart reached out and took the envelope from the Marine. “Leave it with me. Absolutely safe. I’ve known Black Bart Roberts for years. Tell him you left it with Mike Burkehart, Snow’s X-O, and he’ll be fine with it.”

“Be sure you lock it up, sir,” the first sergeant reminded the captain, and opened a logbook for Burkehart to sign.

After endorsing receipt of the plan, Captain Burkehart pointed to the three-drawer classified-documents safe in the corner of the office. “I’ve got some other classified materials that I’m wrapping up. I’ll secure your op plan with them when I’m done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Barkley said, and shook hands with the captain. “I’ll let the colonel know that all is well on this end, and your team will be joining us.”

“They launch out of here in a day or two, so the gunny tells me. I’ll read the plan and get myself fully up to snuff. Worry not, Marine,” Burkehart said.

“Sounds righteous, sir,” Barkley said. “I’ve got my company chopping up by Haditha Dam in the morning, setting up our end. Trying to clear the scum up and down the river.”

“Good luck with that. Easier said than done,” the captain said, walking the first sergeant back to the door.

“Don’t I know it, sir,” the first sergeant said, and shook the captain’s hand again.

“Tell Colonel Roberts that Captain Burkehart sends his regards,” the skipper said.

When the Marine departed, Captain Burkehart laid the envelope on the colonel’s desk with other papers he planned to lock in the classified safe, once he got his work done.

As he sat down at his computer, another courier came through the door with a handful of similar-looking envelopes. Saying nothing, the captain merely pointed at the colonel’s desk. The courier laid them on top of the envelope and other papers, and left.

While Jack Valentine had the double album Traveling Wilburys Collection playing on his CD boom box, keeping corporals Jesse Cortez and Alex Gomez tranquilized while they painted the finishing touches along the corners and edges of the black accent wall, he mixed several shades of gray and white paint in plastic throwaway cups. He had used white chalk to sketch on the black wall the outline of his massive evil-eyed skull with long teeth exuding a terrible snarl, and no lower jaw. Punisher style. Except Jack had decided to paint his own stylized version of Le Croix Pattée, the footed cross, worn by Knights Templar during the Crusades, on the skull’s forehead.

He had gotten the idea from Elmore Snow’s lecture on Muhammad and the Crusades. Why not? The cross of the Knights Templar might provoke the enemy even more than a mere Punisher-inspired skull by itself. Besides, everybody these days sported some version of that skull. Le Croix Pattée, painted blood red and trimmed in black, would pop.

On the desk nearest him, Jack had set his intercom radio tuned to Billy-C’s security team’s channel. He could hear the boys laughing and yakking while George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, and Roy Orbison sang about a woman called Maxine riding a llama through an old parking lot, and she never came through here again. Or words to that effect. Jack liked the song because of its old-school Flamenco style. The rhythm and the bass run held his heart.

His mother’s roots reached deep in Mexican musical and dance culture, and extended to Cordoba in the Andalusia region of Spain, where the Flamenco was born. Jack’s grandfather, Pablo Francisco Guerra de Cordoba, whom the villagers called El Capitan , a tall, stately man, had come to Mexico as a young gypsy and danced the Flamenco in the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico . Jack was very proud of his grandfather, and his aunts and uncles, too. All musical artists, like his mother, a great Flamenco dancer herself. Thus music and art were in the gunny’s blood, and a great passion in his life.

“We shoulda gone on that convoy, Guns,” Bronco said, interrupting Jack’s musical daydream, hearing his buddies on the radio, laughing, sounding like they were having a lot more fun than him.

Jaws said, “Shut the fuck up, Jesse.”

“You always in my shit, Jaws,” Cortez whined. “Thought you was my bro, dude.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gomez repeated. “We get this done, we can kick back. Drink a brew and watch a movie, maybe. Those guys, they’re happy now but that’s Fallujah Road they’re running. I’d rather be here, under the cool A-C, painting. Not ducking lead.”

Bronco thought about it, and nodded. “Right on.”

Jack began sketching the skull’s teeth longer, exaggerating them with uneven points like dripping wax.

He stepped back and cocked his head to one side. Bronco and Jaws came alongside him and cocked their heads, too.

“Whoa, Guns,” Bronco said. “Gnarly skull.”

Jaws nodded and let a smile creep out.

“Gnarly,” Jack agreed, and glanced at Jaws, seeing the rare smile. “You approve?”

“Righteous,” Jaws said.

Immediately after his morning meeting with Cesare Alosi, Ray-Dean Blevins had done his best to kill a pint of vodka, pissed off about feeding Iraqi whores information on US military security operations. He knew he had become worthless scum, but even scum will sink only so low. Making American forces look bad, to the point of compromising lives and safety, so that Malone-Leyva could generate some business, went way too far, even for him.

He soon killed the pint and clanked it in the trash with several other dead soldiers. When he couldn’t find more to drink, Ray-Dean fell across the foot of his bed where he dazed out for an hour. When he awoke, he stumbled into a hot shower, gave himself a good shave, and put on clean clothes.