Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Why such a big gap down the middle?” Bronco asked. “I never understood that part of it. Why not two hundred meters like between the two-man teams?”

“What happens if team one somehow gets seen, or engages enemy fire?” Jack asked. “Hajis will move on them, without likely seeing us, too, or vice versa. When they go after Cotton, Sage, Chico, and Petey, then we can pivot on their flank and light ’em up, just like an ambush.”

It still didn’t make any sense to Jesse Cortez, so he just smiled like he bought it.

“What is our final objective, Cochise?” Gunny Valentine asked.

“Besides hopefully snatching a prisoner or two we can take home to grill? Personally, I like mine smoked with sweet barbecue sauce,” Quinlan said with a chuckle, but bought nothing but groans from the team.

“After our night of sweeping north,” he continued, “we end up establishing blocking positions at both ends of the trestle over the Euphrates about a klick and a half south of Haqlaniyah. On the east side, half of us set up at the railway crossing with Alternate Supply Route Phoenix, also known as Iraqi Highway 19. Our other half sets up at the railroad crossing on Main Supply Route Bronze, known locally as Iraqi Highway 12, on the west side of the river.

“We shoot anything with guns coming up any roads anyplace or trying to sneak up the river. We definitely take out anybody running ahead of the sweep that one-five’s commencing up MSR Bronze along the west side of the river, and ASR Phoenix on the east side of the river at first light. We remain in position until relieved at about 0900, if we’re lucky, early enough that we can make it to Al Asad Air Base for one-five’s command brief of Two MEF, and get hot noon air-winger chow if we play our cards right.”

“Right. Good job, Cochise.” Jack nodded and looked at his team. “Any questions?”

No one said anything.

“Double-check your gear, one last time,” Jack said, then he looked at Cotton Martin. “Us eight on the final lift leaves three back at the fort to cover what comes in the door. Billy-C in the saddle, and he’s got our number.”

Cotton nodded. “Too bad we couldn’t bring him along and employ a rear-echelon commando to cover the phones.”

“Lame as Billy is? He’d just be deadweight,” Jack said, and took a bite out of a Snickers bar he had melting in his pocket, and went to sucking chocolate off his fingers. “Claybaugh limping around with his ass in a sling. Think about it. Besides, Billy or not, I want Drzewiecki and Rasputin with us, fixing guns. The entire crew aboard on this operation, there’s absolutely no reason to leave any capable man at the rear. Smedley excluded.”

“Goes without saying,” Cotton said. “By the way, Sergeant Romyantsev doesn’t like you calling him Rasputin.”

“He tell you that?” Jack asked, licking more chocolate and finishing the messy candy bar.

Cotton shook his head. “No, Drzewiecki did.”

“He serious?” Jack said. “I rather like Rasputin. If he doesn’t want to be called Rasputin, then you guys can call me Rasputin. Rasputin the fucking He-Devil. It fits right in. Hell of a lot better name than Romyantsev. How did we end up with alphabet soup as our armorers anyway?”

“You got a point,” Cotton said, and checked the setting sun. “Getting late. The other teams should already be deployed. Mob Squad up at the lake, and Sergeant Durant, Hub, Hot Sauce, Jewfro, and Ironhead running rear guard behind one-five headquarters element for now.”

“Right,” Jack answered, and looked at his watch.

“And what about this flat hat you know at one-five, running this sweep? An old friend you say?” Cotton asked.

“A dear old friend. From my days down in Colombia with Elmore,” Jack said, showing a big smile. “Lieutenant Colonel Edward Bartholomew Black Bart Roberts.”

“A descendant of Black Bart the pirate, so they say,” Cotton said. “I heard the boys talking about him.”

“That’s right,” Jack said. “He’s got your old running mate Tim Sutherby with him, too, leading First Battalion, Fifth Marines sniper platoon.”

“Sutherby? Really?” Cotton smiled. “Thought he was in Afghanistan.”

“Came over to one-five when I MEF came in country from Pendleton. Found out today when I did some final checking on one-five,” Jack said. “They’d had him busy around Ramadi. Black Bart heard he was down there and snatched him up.”

“He’s been here all along?” Cotton asked.

“Apparently so,” Jack said. “I knew they had a new team working Ramadi, but I didn’t know it was Sutherby.”

“He’s one badass gunslinger,” Cotton said. “Makes me kind of feel sorry for the Hajis.”

“Only about a second?” Jack smiled.

“Not even.” Cotton grinned. “Like maybe an interval of Planck time.”

Jack grinned, remembering their discussion of the first instant of the creation of the universe with Elmore Snow, and Cotton’s explanation of how the physicist Max Planck had divided the first second of creation into intervals based on the time it takes the speed of light to travel one meter.

“At any rate, I knew one-five had their hands full, so much area to cover,” Jack went on. “So I told Colonel Roberts I’d like to bring out a team or two, from time to time, if he could clear it with the powers that be. Next thing I know, we got this full-blown operation plan. Good opportunity to put some of our guys to meaningful work.”

“Yeah, but the whole fucking herd?” Cotton said.

“I’m not leaving any able-bodied operators back there to get saddled with more bullshit escort duty,” Jack said. “We lose another Scout-Sniper, it’s going to be for a better reason than protecting a can of beans.”

“Black Bart cleared all this with Elmore before he departed for Lejeune?” Cotton asked.

“Sure. Mostly,” Jack said, not knowing for certain how much Colonel Snow really knew beyond what he had told him. Then he considered. “Well, the colonel may not know about the entire MARSOC detachment coming along. That’s me making a command decision, and not giving Captain Burkehart room to back out. But I’m sure the colonel’s cool with it. Black Bart and Elmore are tight. No way Colonel Snow would ever turn down his asshole buddy from Medellín.”

“Elmore see your hooch decorations before he left?” Cotton asked.

Cochise Quinlan looked up. “Gunny kept all that dark shit in the box until the colonel got on the plane.”

“Going to be a welcome-home surprise.” Jack smiled.

“What’s Elmore going to say?” Martin asked.

“He’ll love it!” Jack answered. “Besides. Shit didn’t come in until the day Elmore left, and he saw the boxes. I even gave him his patches. Not like I’m hiding it.”

“Punisher skulls, snake-eye dice, and Templar cross gunwale to gunwale might look a bit rabid to him,” Cotton offered. “You know, his strong Christian values, and how he never says motherfucker unless he’s really pissed off.”

Jack grinned. “I got Christian values, too. Only difference, I’m a sinner that don’t care to hide his shit.”

Cotton Martin rolled his eyes. “One day, lightning will come out of the clear blue and strike you dead.”

“Colonel Snow’s cool with it. Promise,” Jack assured his staff sergeant.

Cochise Quinlan and the rest of the team gave Jack a look, not so sure about their gunny’s confidence.

Captain Margaret Foulks and First Lieutenant Cynthia Snyderman walked toward the helicopter, helmets under their arms and their short-cropped hair fluttering in the hot wind. Both women looked trim, shapely, and fit real well in their flight suits.

“Dude, check it. They’re hot!” Bronco Starr let slip.