Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

The tall new guy with no name yet stared downrange and bit his lip, thinking.

“They cheated your shot, you know,” he said, looking at the white spotter in the center of the black bull’s-eye.

“Yeah, I know,” Jack answered. “I put one out in the white at two o’clock, on purpose. Assholes want to hurry up and go to the schoolhouse, so they resort to lying.”

Jack went back on his gun, focused, and fired. His next shot blew the white spotter off the middle of the target.

“Now that’s a legit bull.” He smiled at the tall Marine, getting to his feet and offering the man his hand.

“I see that,” the towering staff sergeant said, shaking Jack’s hand. “Terrence Martin, Gunny Valentine. I’m reporting aboard from Pendleton by way of Okinawa.”

“They call you Terry?” Jack said, picking up his radio and growling to the crew in the butts, “Pack it in.”

“No, folks call me Cotton,” Staff Sergeant Martin said.

“Cotton? How’s that?” Jack said, tossing his data book, brass, and ammunition in a satchel, then taking his rifle and ground cloth in hand.

“I played college hoops at Texas Tech,” Martin answered. “Bobby Knight named me Cotton because I could hit the bucket from just about anywhere. Drive up the lane or three off the arc. Coach Knight used to say, ‘Nothin’ but cotton’ when I shot. The net on the hoop made of cotton, ya know. Back in the day. It’s polyester or something now.”

“Nothin’ but cotton.” Jack smiled. “I like that, Cotton.”

“It works,” Cotton Martin said.

“Division One college ball. No NBA contract?” Jack asked, heading along the road from the Hathcock Range to the group of redbrick buildings at Stone Bay firing range, just off the coastal waters on the bottom end of Camp Lejeune.

“At six-foot-six, I’m considered medium to short in the NBA,” the staff sergeant said, walking alongside the gunny, to his left, abreast and in step, which Jack also noticed. “Lots of hot-shooting guards in the game. They’ve got all the Steve Nashes they want. I knew if I made the NBA, it would only be a fluke. So when nine-eleven hit, that was as good an excuse as any to tell Coach Knight I’m done with basketball. I heard my country calling.”

“How’d he take it?” Jack asked, laughing. “I hear that guy throws chairs.”

“Gallantly,” Cotton said.

“You are a college boy, using words like gallant around people like me.” Jack laughed. “Define how Bobby Knight took it gallantly.”

“He wished me well, and even said he would join up, too, if he wasn’t so old and fat, and pissed off all the time,” Martin joked, as the two Marines cut across the grass parade field opposite the range-facility headquarters. Outside it, two Marines dressed in desert camouflage stood by the flagpole, holding the American Colors while the Officer of the Day checked his watch.

Just as Jack Valentine and Cotton Martin stepped through the doorway of the Scout-Sniper School, a scratchy record sound came on the Stone Bay public-address system. Jack stood at attention, looking outside. So did Cotton.

Still outside, running hard across the parade field, came the two knucklehead newbies from the butts. When the first blast of the bugle announced attention to Colors, the two Marines stopped, turned, stood at attention, and saluted the flag. They correctly held their salutes while the National Anthem echoed across the camp. At the last blast of the recorded bugle, calling order arms, the two Marines broke back into their hard run to the schoolhouse.

“Good boys,” Gunny Valentine said, and smiled at Staff Sergeant Martin. “They might do.”

“I’ve seen some guys go ahead and run it out, ducking inside during Colors,” Cotton added.

“Me, too,” Jack said. “Then they regretted it.”

The two Marines from the butts burst through the handprint-littered glass double doors that led into the Scout-Sniper School facility. Gunny Valentine stepped around the corner, blocking them, his arms folded.

“You’re late!” he barked.

“Gunny, we was pulling your targets,” the first one said, a short-sized Latino corporal.

“That’s no excuse,” Jack came back. “Staff Sergeant Martin and I had a leisurely stroll, and even stopped for coffee and crullers along the way. We made it on time. What were you two jokers up to?”

“Gunny, we had to take down the targets and stack them, and that sergeant in the range house, he made us sweep up the shit you blew all over the deck when you busted that spotter,” the second corporal, also Latino but taller, said.

“By the way, Gunny,” the short-sized corporal said, “nice shooting.”

“Go ahead and kiss my ass some more, shit-weasel.” Jack frowned at them. “Before we go in the classroom and meet the rest of our little zoo, how about some names.”

“Staff Sergeant Claybaugh didn’t tell you?” the taller corporal said.

“That a rhetorical question, or did you really mean what you just asked?” Staff Sergeant Martin cut in.

He got blank stares from both Marines.

“Rhetorical means you already know the answer to the question,” Gunny Valentine barked.

“No, I mean,” the shorter corporal stammered.

“Obviously, Staff Sergeant Claybaugh didn’t tell the gunny your names, or he would not ask you your names,” Cotton Martin huffed at the two bewildered souls.

“Right.” The shorter of the two corporals nodded. “I’m Corporal Jesse Cortez, and my partner here is Corporal Alex Gomez.”

Cortez added with a smile, “We call him Jaws.”

“We do, do we?” Jack said, raising both eyebrows. “Jaws? Catchy name.”

“He comes from South Central in Los Angeles,” Cortez explained. “Alex did some enforcing work for some of the holmes out there. On the side, when he tried to make it in pro boxing. That’s what they called him, Jaws. We gonna sic Jaws on your shit, they tell some poor bastard that don’t pay up.”

“What’s your story?” Jack asked the talkative partner of the newbie duo.

“I grew up in San Antonio,” he began. “Born in El Paso, at Fort Bliss. My dad was in the Army. We got sent to San Antonio when I was like two, and he retired there. I ride bareback and saddle broncs in the PRCA. You know, bucking horses. Rough stock, we rodeo pros call it. I rode in the Camp Pendleton show just before me and Jaws headed out here for duty in this new lash-up, MARSOC.”

“Can either of you shoot?” Martin asked. “Or did Colonel Snow pick you for your personality and good looks?”

“We can shoot,” Jaws offered. “Both of us.”

“Sniper school at Pendleton?” Jack asked.

“There and at Twenty-Nine Stumps,” Gomez answered.

“Me and Jaws will take on anybody at this school, except maybe you, Gunny Valentine. We know about you, dude,” Jesse Cortez boasted.

“We’ll see,” the gunny said, and looked the shorter corporal up and down. “So you’re a rodeo star? I saw a few in my time. I was born in El Paso, too. Raised there. My mother’s Latina, gave me my good looks.”

Both corporals smiled.

“You any good with those broncos?” Jack asked Cortez.

“One of the best, bro.” Jesse smiled. “I’ll show you my collection of championship buckles sometime.”

“So, you’re a big star?” Cotton asked.

“Just say Jesse Cortez to anybody in the PRCA, and they know me,” the corporal boasted. “I’ve been on ESPN like four times. Phoenix and Houston, then twice at Fort Worth.”

“How about Las Vegas?” Jack asked.

“NFR? Damn close, Gunny,” Cortez said, straining his neck to one side and pursing his lips, showing a touch of frustration. “Just out of the money. If I got one more ride, I’d make it. With this war and shit, I don’t know. Not anymore.”