Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“It’s not what you think!” Ray-Dean shot back, pulling the sheet up high to his chest like a shy girl at a topless beach, and wrapping it tight under his armpits.

“I’m not judging you.” Alosi laughed. “Who you fuck and how you three fucked. That’s your business. I don’t want to know even the slightest details of what went on here last night. Seriously. None of my business.”

“Well, it’s not what you think. That’s all,” Blevins blustered as he threw the sheet in a wad on the bed, pulled on his trousers, and hurried to the table where he noticed that Cesare had left off reading the First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment operation plan, opened to the back-page appendices. He gave Alosi the stink eye.

Seeing the frown, Cesare offered, “Look, dude. I apologize for waking you. Not really thinking, I put on a pot of coffee. The aroma woke Francoise, and she insisted on cooking breakfast. I pitched in to help, and I guess we got a little silly and a bit loud. I honestly intended to let you sleep. I just wanted a cup of coffee to sip while I read that operation plan I found on the floor as I came through the door. Nice work, Ray. Top secret no less. I suppose it came from your visit with your friends at MARSOC? That right?”

“Yup,” Cooder said, taking a Malone-Leyva polo shirt off a pile of clothes atop an overflowing hamper. He sniffed it, gave it a shake to air out the body odor, then put it on.

“Very good work indeed, young squire,” Cesare said, pouring a cup of coffee and bringing it to Ray-Dean.

“Look, boss,” Cooder said, taking the cup, then casting his eyes down at the operation plan. “Maybe we should throw that thing in the shredder and pretend we never saw it. Soon as I knew what I had, I got a really bad feeling. Seriously. This ain’t any small-change security detail. No, sir. We’re talking a full-scale battalion operation from Hit to Haditha Reservoir. Lots of American lives at risk here.”

“Let me do the worrying,” Alosi said, and wrapped his arm around Ray-Dean like his new best friend. “After all, we’re on the same side. Right? Would I do anything to compromise the security of those Marines or any other American presence here? We’re in business to help them!”

Ray-Dean pulled away from the clutch of his boss. “Right. Just like you helped those guys yesterday. I hear two KBR drivers and a MARSOC Marine got whacked in that ambush, plus some other dudes got wounded. Paolo, that squirrely guy you saw on his way out this morning, told us all about it. He’s a sound tech with CNN, and was there with the news crew covering the story. One Marine killed, another one wounded. Couple Army guys with minor wounds and their lieutenant hit pretty bad. You don’t think that bothers the shit out of me? I may seem like a worthless shit turd to you and a lot of other people, but I’m still a Marine.”

“Look, Ray. It’s business. On the positive side, I picked up a little CIA work on this operation, and I got a call from KBR’s in-country boss late yesterday, and they pitched us a security contract for convoy-protection management. It’s worth millions!” Alosi rationalized. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he added, “You break a few eggs to make an omelet. Right? People do get killed in a war.”

Blevins frowned. “What’s in it for me? This new security contract worth millions from KBR. I get a bonus?”

“Yeah,” Cesare said. “That Escalade you burned. Consider it off the books. Plus, I’m putting a fifty-grand kicker in your direct deposit this month for the op plan you brought us. Does that soothe your guilty conscience?”

Ray-Dean nodded yes, then half smiled. “Like, what difference does it make now? Right?”

“Right!” Alosi bubbled, and put his arm back around his new best friend. “We go on living, you and me. Nice cars, pool in the backyard. Big boat. Pussy on the quarterdeck. All the good shit that comes with serious money. Right?”

Cooder-with-a-D gazed at Francoise, looking sexy in his T-shirt, holding a platter heaped with scrambled eggs, her plump, bald snatch peeking out, and he smiled.

When Billy Claybaugh pulled open the door to the MARSOC operations hooch and heard the weird Arabic music, it stopped him in his tracks. A hellish scene.

The great skull painted on the black wall loomed over Jack Valentine, who sat transfixed to his laptop computer screen, watching a video taken off one of the many al-Qaeda Web sites. Then came “ Allahu Akbar ” chanting from the sound track, mixed with the sounds of gunfire.

“Jack! What the fuck, over!” the staff sergeant said as he hobbled on a set of aluminum crutches, heading to Gunny Valentine’s desk as fast as he could scramble. He knew what his sniping partner watched, and it wasn’t healthy.

In 2005, six Marine Scout-Snipers and their platoon’s Navy Hospital corpsman, all from a reserve unit in Cleveland, fell victim to an ambush south of Haditha. Most of them died on the spot as an al-Qaeda gunman shot video of the grisly scene and later posted it on the Internet. One Marine, still alive, was dragged through the nearby village and brutally sacrificed as a crowd cheered.

The Marines had been betrayed by the Iraqi soldiers assigned to support the operation, who knew many sensitive details about the plan and deployment of the ill-fated sniper team. Once the Iraqi and Marine leadership identified the traitors, they sent a reinforced rifle platoon of Marines to apprehend the men.

En route to the village where the culprits had fled, the Marines again suffered betrayal, again compromised by Iraqi traitors inside their tent. This time fourteen infantrymen from that same reserve unit died in a well-executed ambush. In less than two days, Cleveland, Ohio, lost twenty-one of its sons to al-Qaeda Iraq gunmen.

This all occurred only days after Jack and Billy-C had taken the shot that missed Abu Musab al-Zarqawi as he stood on the roof of the taxi on the bridge into Haditha, lording over the public execution of men and boys that day.

“Recharging my mental batteries,” Jack said without looking up.

“Fucking up your mind, I say,” Claybaugh said, and slammed shut the lid of Jack’s notebook PC. “You know how seeing the video of those Cleveland Scout-Snipers getting ambushed fucks up your dope. It fucks up mine just watching you watch it. Hell, Jack, I trained those guys with you, don’t forget. I knew them, too. Fuck, dude!”

“They died because of us, Billy,” Jack grumbled. “You can’t deny it. I took that totally impossible shot, and pissed off the madman. You know he came specifically hunting the Marine Sniper who nearly killed him. We went home, but twenty-one of our brothers died because of us.”

Billy fell onto the chair by Gunny Valentine’s desk, holding out his leg stiff to protect his sore ass, landing on the good cheek. After an exhale from pain, he looked at his longtime friend and started to say something more. But then the Alabama staff sergeant with nearly always something smart-assed to say just shook his head, words failing him.

“I should have said no,” Jack complained. “When the skipper came back with yet another road-guard mission. I should have nutted up. My lack of balls? Got you shot and got Rowdy killed.”

“We got compromised, Jack,” Claybaugh said. “Somebody tipped off al-Qaeda. That’s not your fault.”

Jack clenched his jaws. “You wouldn’t have been there if I had been the man I’m supposed to be. I was rolling with the flow. Getting this deployment done, following orders, not making ripples. You got shot, and that’s on me.”

“Hey, I’m fine, brother!” Billy came back. “Like a razor slashed across my ass cheek is all. A few stitches, and I’m back in the weeds. Ready to rock and roll.”