Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“If we have to shoot him, you can shoot him, Alex,” Jack said.

Jaws smiled, going back on his rifle scope. “That’ll work.”

Bronco looked close at the little green rectangular picture on the palm-size monitor and recorder connected by digital cable to the night-vision spotting scope.

“He set that box behind the donkey,” Cortez said.

“Maybe he’s going to stand on it,” Jaws added.

“Why would he stand on it?” Bronco asked.

“Watch and find out,” Jaws said, and began chuckling.

Jesse Cortez looked through the lens of his sniper-rifle scope, then looked closer at the green screen on the small monitor and video recorder.

The farmer looked over both shoulders and stepped up on the box behind the donkey. Then he let down his baggy pants and pulled up his shirt. His overly large penis got everyone’s attention.

“Dude,” Jaws said. “That guy’s got a donkey dick.”

“Good for him,” Jack said, laughing.

“Dude! He’s fucking that donkey!” Bronco said.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Jaws laughed.

“You getting that on video, Bronco?” Cochise said.

“Fuckin’ A, dude. Recorder rolling,” Cortez said. “I’m posting it on YouTube when we get back.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Jack said, then called Cotton Martin and his three snipers. “You and the boys come on back. It’s just a farmer out for some late-night romance.”

“Roger,” the staff sergeant responded. “When we heard Bronco and Jaws chattering, we already made the U-turn.”

“Good,” Jack said.

“That a girl donkey or a boy donkey?” Bronco asked over the intercom.

“What the fuck difference does it make, ass-wipe,” Jaws said.

“I don’t know,” Bronco said. “Maybe if the guy’s like homosexual for donkeys or just regular, you know?”

“Fucking homosexual for donkeys? Are you serious?” Sammy LaSage let go. “The asshole’s all fucked up from the get-go, fucking a fucking donkey in the first place. For crying out loud, dude.”

“I don’t know, but it looks like the donkey’s enjoying it,” Jack said. “She quit eating and has her upper lip pointed out.”

“Gotta be a girl donkey,” Bronco said. “A boy donkey wouldn’t enjoy that big dick up his ass. Besides, this guy’s a Muslim, and he wouldn’t fuck a boy donkey. Right?”

“Unless it’s a gay donkey,” Jaws offered.

The more they discussed it, the more the donkey seemed to enjoy it. She now had her head raised and upper lip fully pointed like camel lips.

“That’s one fucked-up freak show,” Jack said.

“So, what do you want to do, boss?” Cotton asked.

“Leave the fucker alone,” the gunny answered. “He’s probably a pillar of the community. We wouldn’t want to upset that balance. Let’s move north. We got three hours before daylight, and still no prospects.”

“We got four dead motherfucking IED motherfuckers back up the road,” Quinlan said on the intercom. “Fuck the prospects. I say we had a very productive night.”

First crack after morning Colors, Liberty Cruz ditty bopped up the company street of MARSOC Detachment, Iraq. She had on her nice-fitting desert-tan 5.11-brand combat pants and a matching cargo blouse that she wore like a jacket, unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up Marine style. Beneath it, she wore a black Under Armour Tech Tank undershirt, and a set of dog tags on a ball chain dangling from her neck, bouncing over her ample breasts. Laced on her feet, Marine Corps Desert RAT boots, the ones that Jack had bought her.

In a long-drop holster suspended from her black-nylon-web operator’s belt and Velcro strapped to the middle of her thigh, gunslinger style, right where her hand naturally fell, the FBI agent carried a flat black Lippard 1911A2 Combat NCO .45 caliber pistol. Another gift from Jack, and she liked it better than if he had spent the $3,500 it cost on jewelry. The .45 was, after all, the best handgun ever made, at any price. It carried an unconditional lifetime guarantee, even against willful abuse. With it, she could hold a six-foot cone of suppression fire on the enemy at six hundred yards and lay down accurate kill shots with it, open sights, at four hundred yards. A set of diamond earrings, for her, had nowhere near the dazzle of her Lippard, nor the firepower. She wore it religiously, and used it well.

White buds hung in both of Liberty’s ears, connected to an iPod tucked in a handy pocket on her sports bra. As she walked down the street, she bounced off her toes with each step, keeping time with the music playing in her head from the just-released album Best of Chris Isaak and the song “Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing.”

The rockabilly blues grind had the long cool woman from the FBI cruising low and happy, going to see her man, and absentmindedly singing with her jams as Smedley Butler came out the headquarters office door, headed to pick up mail. The look of such a fine piece of ass high stepping down his boulevard stopped the boy dead in his tracks.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Corporal Butler called out.

Liberty never heard a thing and kept on walking.

Smedley ran to her, stopped in front, and took off his Marine-Pattern flop hat. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Agent Cruz smiled large at the lad, pulled the buds from her ears, and chirped, “Hi there!” She looked at the rank on his desert MARPAT uniform collars, then the name over his right slanted breast pocket. “Corporal Butler.”

She smiled more and Ralph Mouth blushed bright red.

“Yes, ma’am.” He gulped, blinking, stunned from this tall, golden-skinned, black-haired beauty that looked like she had just stepped off a cloud straight out of Heaven.

“Can you tell me where I can find Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine’s office?” Liberty said, and put her hand on the young corporal’s right biceps as she asked, and gave it a nice squeeze.

Reflexively, Ralph Butler tensed his whole body.

“My! You’re like a rock!” Liberty flirted.

“Uh, Gunny Valentine’s office is just down there,” Smedley stammered, pointing to the operations hooch, feeling like he might pass out at any second. “He’s got the big-boss desk right under the massive skull on the black wall. You can’t miss it.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Thank you so much, Corporal Butler,” Liberty said. “By the way, I’m FBI Special Agent Melita Cruz, should you need to put that in your duty log.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Butler said, and immediately put on his hat and snapped a salute. The old adage, when in doubt, salute, kicking in.

“I am so flattered, Corporal Butler,” Liberty said, “but I don’t rate a salute. I’m like a police officer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Smedley said, now rubbing his hand on his trousers leg as if it would clear the mistake.

“Thanks, Corporal Butler. Have yourself a glorious day!” Liberty said, and stepped away, heading to the operations hooch. As she left, she put the buds back in her ears, again bouncing to the rockabilly.

“Ma’am…” Smedley called out, the afterthought hitting him. “Gunny’s not here! He’s out in the Anbar with the rest of the detachment!”

She never heard a word, but kept bopping to Chris Isaak. “Two Hearts” came on the iPod, and it put her in the right mood as she came near the operations-hooch front door. She looked down at the HOG WALLOW — FORWARD sign and smiled. It had all the earmarks of Jack’s artistic craftsmanship.

Liberty wanted Jack’s surprise of her arrival in Baghdad to be perfect. Seductive and unforgettable. So she stopped outside the door, took off her blouse and her black ball cap, and let her long black hair unfurl over her bare shoulders. Holding her cap and blouse in her left hand, she looked around for anything that might show a reflection, so she could double-check her look, but found nothing. With no glass anywhere, she gave herself a quick up and down, straightened her sports bra and silky black tank top, took hold of the door, and stepped inside.