Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“You didn’t do anything bonehead, like make copies, did you?” Malone asked.

“Of course not.” Cesare laughed.

When Jack Valentine and his seven Marines dropped on the secluded landing zone in the sprawling desert, several miles east of the Euphrates River and south of Haditha, the sun lay blood orange on the western horizon. By the time they reached their first reporting point, darkness had engulfed the world.

After checking in by covered net radio with one-five’s operations chief, Jack and his Scout-Snipers gathered in a circle, guns pointed outward, eating their evening meal on a hill of hard earth that hadn’t seen rain in recent memory.

“Dryer than a popcorn fart,” Sammy LaSage commented while working on a cold Meals Ready to Eat package of Smoky Franks that Marines had nicknamed the Five Fingers of Death.

“What would make people want to inhabit such a brutal land?” Cotton Martin asked Jack, as they ate their own mystery meals, and looked at the distant twinkling lights of Haditha on the west side of the river and Barwana on the east side, far to the northwest, and Haqlaniyah closer to the northwest, across the river. Somewhere ahead of them, Iraqi Highway 19, known on military maps as Alternate Supply Route Phoenix, running north from Hit, along the east side of the Euphrates, then just south of Haditha, across the river from Haqlaniyah, turning northeast across country to Baiji, on the Tigris River, lay hidden in the darkness.

Jack thought about it, started to say something cute, but thought some more. “I used to ask the same question about the shit-hole places around El Paso when I was growing up. You know? Fuck if I know…”

“Elmore says it’s the Garden of Eden,” Cotton added.

“Elmore says a lot of shit like that,” Jack said.

“Hard to imagine,” Cotton added, gazing into the darkness and at the distant lights. “A good land gone bad.”

“There’s no good land gone bad, Cotton,” Jack said. “People gone bad. Not the land.”

Cotton smiled. “Elmore tell you that?”

“Naw.” Jack grinned. “I’m capable of coming up with a pearl of wisdom on my own, now and then.”

They finished their food, and Jack gave Martin a nudge.

“Look here, brother,” he said in a low voice, careful to be sure that only Cotton heard him. “Anything happens to me this trip, or down the road, I want you to step up and take over.”

“What about Billy?” Cotton asked, taken off guard.

“Oh, he’s my pard and all, don’t get me wrong,” Jack said. “I trust him with my life. He’s capable. But dude, when it comes to smarts, you run circles around him. Me, too, sometimes, I think. I expect to see you wearing bars on your collars before long. Besides, don’t you hold rank over him?”

“A month in grade,” Cotton said. “But, Jack, you and Billy got a long history. Fallujah Two, a tour up here a year ago. Billy and Elmore go back, too. Don’t you think Billy would expect to step up? Besides, won’t Elmore pick him anyway?”

“I already had this talk with the colonel, a while back. He respects my choices. Like Billy or not, it boils down to one thing: You don’t do stupid shit,” Jack said. “Billy does stupid shit. Me, too, for that matter. Something happens to me, you tell Elmore I said you’re my replacement.”

“Whatever,” Cotton said, and sat quiet for a while, watching the lights and picking up the movement of a truck driving along Highway 19 far to the south. “You see that?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, binoculars up. “Long way off.”

The headlights stopped and went out.

“Reckon it’s an IED team?” Cotton said, still looking through his binoculars.

“Lights on, probably not. Then, you never know,” Jack said. “It keeps working up our way, we might just find out.”

“What brought up this business of something happening to you, anyway?” Cotton said, again talking low.

“Those guys at the airport,” Jack said. “That one recognizing me. Called me Ash’abah al-Anbar , the Ghost of Anbar.”

“So what?” Cotton shrugged.

“They know me. Know I’m here. Saw us leave. Zarqawi’s going to make it a point to come after me,” Jack said.

“And?” Cotton said. “Just makes our hunting him easier.”

“They might get me,” Jack said. “Catch me unaware.”

“They might get us all,” Cotton said. “We’re eight Marines sitting by ourselves in their desert. Nobody friendly even remotely close.”

“But we’re badass dudes with badass guns.” Jack grinned.

“That’s right, brother,” Cotton said.

“One thing for certain,” Jack said in a low whisper. “They won’t take me prisoner. Not alive. I’m still breathing, I’m still shooting.”

“Same here,” Cotton said. “I’m pretty sure that goes for every man in the outfit.”

“Prisoners get their heads chopped off on YouTube,” Jack said. “Balls, too, most likely.”

“They chop off my head, I don’t think I’d be worrying too much about my balls.” Cotton laughed.

“Unless they chop balls first.” Jack grinned.

“Yeah, that would hurt.” Cotton laughed.

“Anyway, I’m going down in a fucking blaze of glory, or I won’t go down.” Jack smiled.

“Brother,” Cotton said, “you’re not going down. None of us are. But we’re going to take down a whole shitload of their sorry Haji asses.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Jack said, and put out his knuckles.

“Fuckin’ A,” Cotton said, and bumped Jack’s fist.

Giti Sadiq carefully placed a serving board layered with sliced roast goat in the center of the dining table for the men. Amira followed with a platter of khubz and pita breads in one hand, and in the other she balanced a tray loaded with dishes filled with hummus, tahini, fattoush, and rolled, pickled grape leaves stuffed with cheese.

Miriam put hot plates of sliced, steamed vegetables on the table after Amira had set down her cargo. Giti returned with two pitchers of cold water with lemon slices floating in them.

The men at the table, each a regional chieftain who supported the efforts of Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah and al-Qaeda Iraq, drank coffee and chai as they waited for the last two guests to arrive, now embarrassingly tardy.

Abu Omar looked at his watch, then at Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. “I cannot imagine what has delayed them.”

Zarqawi said nothing but began eating. The others at the table followed suit.

One of Omar’s men came in the room a few minutes later and whispered in the old graybeard’s ear.

“Juba and Hasan just passed our eastern checkpoint, coming from Haditha,” Abu Omar told Zarqawi.

The boss of al-Qaeda Iraq gave Omar a nod.

Twenty minutes later, Dzhamal Umarov and Khasan Shishani hurried into the dining room, bowing and apologizing.

“We were delayed in Haditha this evening because of something marvelous!” Juba said in French, reaching inside a satchel and withdrawing a copy of the First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment’s top secret operation plan. He took the document to Zarqawi, who stopped eating and began thumbing through the pages.

His eyes lit up as he read the words TOP SECRET on the cover.

Each of the pages was printed from photographs of the original operation plan shot by a cell-phone camera. Although rough and crude, tilted at one angle and another, the pages all read well enough for al-Qaeda Iraq to make some quick plans of their own.

Zarqawi smiled at Juba. “Top secret?”

“Yes, brother, top secret,” Davet replied. “A most wonderful piece of luck.”

“From your spy in Baghdad?” Zarqawi asked.

“A devoted agent,” Juba answered, “dedicated life and limb to the Jihad.”