Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Dog would a caught the rabbit had he not stopped to take a shit,” McIllhenny said. “Bust that side mirror over his head. See what he does.”

Biggs laughed as he took aim and squeezed off a shot.

The mirror exploded over the sick gunman’s head, and the man fell backwards, into his puddle of shit.

Then the Haj rolled to his knees and lurched for his rifle. That’s when Hub Biggs put his second shot square in the man’s back, sending him skidding through his own fresh shit, face-first, drawers down.

“That’s a sight you don’t see every day,” Cotton Martin said. “You’re one warped motherfucker, Hub. You do know that, don’t you?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Biggs asked.

“I don’t know,” Martin answered. “Maybe just shoot him right off the bat?”

Ray-Dean Blevins pulled the seat of his 5.11s out of the crack of his ass when he stepped out of his Escalade. Then he checked his breath as he headed to the MARSOC–Iraq headquarters hooch.

Inside, Corporal Ralph C. Butler sat at Captain Burkehart’s desk and put the finishing touches on an email to his mother, Janine, back home in Red Bank, New Jersey. She taught third grade at Red Bank Primary School, and had raised Ralph on her own since the boy was three years old, and his father was killed.

Ralph’s dad, Trooper Ely Butler, a New Jersey State Police motorcycle officer, died when a hit-and-run stolen delivery truck sideswiped him as he was writing a speeding ticket on a highway shoulder near Fort Monmouth. They never caught the killer although the stolen delivery truck turned up quickly, abandoned on a side street in Eatontown. The only eyewitness, the real estate agent getting the ticket, driving her Lexus eighty miles per hour up Route 35 because she was late for a property closing, saw nothing.

When Ray-Dean knocked on the front door and stepped inside without waiting for an invite to enter, as if he belonged there, Smedley gave the Malone-Leyva mercenary the stink eye. He swung around and clicked off the intercom speaker, too, where he had been listening to Billy-C and the crew turning the tables on the jihadi ambush.

“Can I help you?” Butler huffed, immediately suspicious of the heavily accessorized, steroid-juiced intruder carrying the low-slung Glock 21 strapped to his thigh.

“Oh, it’s okay, Corporal Butler,” Blevins said after checking Smedley’s name on the embroidered tag above his pocket. “I’m an old Force Recon Marine from the way back. Half the guys in MARSOC are buddies of mine.”

Butler still kept the stink eye going on Blevins.

“So you say,” Smedley said. “You got a name?”

Ray-Dean gave him a cockeyed nod.

“Hey, I’m cool with your being careful and shit,” Ray-Dean said, taking a seat on the corner of Colonel Snow’s desk and eyeballing the pile of envelopes, postal mail, and various papers laid there. He picked up a Marine Corps Gazette and thumbed it open.

“Captain Burkehart’s not here, if you’re looking for him. He won’t be back for a good while either,” Smedley then offered, hoping Blevins would leave. “Can I give him a message?”

“Like I said. I’m an old friend of a lot of the guys here, not the captain. I don’t know him. My boss is up the street at a conference, and I’m killing time. That’s all. Thought I might swing in here and catch up with some of my bros,” Blevins said with a shrug, keeping his butt in place on the corner of Colonel Snow’s desk and relaxing even more with the magazine spread open, as if he might read it.

He looked again at Ralph’s name tag above the pocket on his utility jacket and pointed. “Name like Butler, I bet these ass-wipes call you Smedley, don’t they. Am I right?”

Butler just stared at the jerk.

“So, Smedley,” Blevins picked up. “Who’s on campus? Toss me a few names, and I’ll tell you if I know them.”

“How about you toss me a few names,” Smedley answered.

“Staff Sergeant Bill Claybaugh,” Ray-Dean offered. “Me and him was real tight back in the day at three-two.”

Butler nodded. “He’s on patrol.”

“Down to Fallujah?” Blevins said.

Smedley pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“My bet, they hit the shit, didn’t they,” Ray-Dean said. “You always hit the shit down that way.”

“Going on now,” Smedley said.

“On that run, it’s not if but when. Bad karma. Totally bad karma,” Blevins said, shaking his head, showing Butler his dismay. “Our guys got it under control?”

“Couple of truck drivers dead, and one of our operators,” Ralph opened up. “But Staff Sergeant Claybaugh and Staff Sergeant Martin have it handled now. Last I heard on the squawk box, they’re kicking some righteous ass.”

“My boy, Billy! Hard as woodpecker teeth,” Ray-Dean said. “Gunny didn’t go with them?”

“Gunny Valentine’s down at operations. He’s on the net with them,” Smedley said, relaxing into the conversation.

“How about Jesse Cortez? He out with Claybaugh?” Blevins asked. “I went through recon school with his lame ass out at Pendleton.”

“Bronco?” Butler smiled. “He’s at operations, too. Gunny’s got him and another guy on work detail.”

“Typical Cortez.” Blevins laughed. “Extra punishment duty, right? Jesse’s alligator mouth always talking himself into shit his hummingbird ass can’t handle. Fucker’s always on E-P-D.”

Smedley laughed. “Yeah, that’s Cortez. But he’s one of our best snipers. Him and his partner, Jaws, are badass in the field.”

“Jaws,” Ray-Dean said. “That’s the big Mexican dude, looks like a gangster with the tats and shit?”

Butler nodded yes. “Alex Gomez. We call him Jaws.”

“So, mind if I camp here until my boss gets done?” Ray-Dean asked, seeing that Butler had finally relaxed his attitude toward him.

“You’re a Marine, right?” Smedley asked, looking for a little reassurance.

“I hope to shit in your shoulder holster. Force fucking Recon,” Blevins said.

“What was that name again?” Smedley asked, relaxed but still wanting to be sure about the man.

“Sergeant Blevins,” Ray-Dean said, lying about his former rank. “I go by Cooder, with a D.”

A smile spread across Butler’s face. Cooder-with-a-D rang the bell. He’d heard Gunny Valentine ranting about this asshole, and how he insisted on spelling Cooter with a D instead of a T, because of the pussy connotation that the Cooter with a T had.

“Mind if I help myself to a little coffee?” Blevins said, already pouring a cup.

“Sure,” Smedley said, and gave a look at his near-empty mug, then noticed the rapidly building pressure in his gut. Irritable bowel syndrome, triggered from nerves, caused by the strange visitor. He gave Ray-Dean, who was thumbing through pages of Marine Corps Gazette , a look. “You know how to answer the phone if anybody calls, right?”

“What do I say, ‘MARSOC, how do I direct your call?’” Ray-Dean answered.

“That works,” Butler said. “I need to make a head call. You mind picking up the phone if it rings?”

“No sweat, GI,” Ray-Dean said. “Take your time. Take a nice long shit if you want. Like I said, my boss is in that meeting, and I’m just killing time.”

Smedley nodded and trotted to the restroom that connected between Colonel Snow’s room and Captain Burkehart’s.

As soon as the lad shut the door, Ray-Dean Blevins turned to the pile of envelopes on Colonel Snow’s desk and his eyes focused on several folders with red strips down the edges and big letters stating SECRET stamped on them. Then he saw the fat, nine-inch-by-twelve-inch manila envelope with CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET stamped in red ink on its face. It had “Hand Carry Only” handwritten on it and underscored three times. Then “Lieutenant Colonel E. B. Roberts, Commanding Officer, First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment” written in ballpoint ink on the upper left-hand corner and “Lieutenant Colonel H. E. Snow, Commanding Officer, MARSOC–Iraq” written in the same handwriting in larger letters on the center.