Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Of course,” Liberty said. “And we’ll have fun.”

“By all means. Loads and loads.” Gray laughed.

Jack Valentine squatted on his haunches in the dirt like an out-of-work tradesman outside a factory fence during the Great Depression. Six of his team squatted in a circle with him at Al Asad Air Base, finishing up paper plates of hot chow and red Kool-Aid “bug juice” they had gotten at the Air Force dining facility. Cotton Martin had hit the can with a copy of Sports Illustrated that he had borrowed from the battalion S-3 chief right after Lieutenant Colonel Black Bart Roberts’s operational briefing and official launch of Quick Strike Vengeance.

Roberts and his planners had named the operation after Operation Quick Strike the prior year, in honor of the twenty-one Marines, including seven Marine Scout-Snipers and their Navy corpsman, killed outside Haditha.

Jack had mixed feelings about the name. Way too close to home, and perhaps signaling a bad omen.

Everyone among the MARSOC detachment had made the command briefing. Mob Squad had grabbed quick chow and caught a northbound Osprey headed back to Haditha Dam. Sergeant Bobby “Snake” Durant had caught a truck caravan headed north, up ASR Phoenix on the east side of the Euphrates River. He and Ironhead Heyward along with Hot Sauce McIllhenny, Jewfro Clingman, and Hub Biggs would carry out fringe operations, augmenting the Fifth Marines sniper platoon headed by Jack’s old friend Gunny Tim Sutherby.

Staff Sergeant Drzewiecki and Sergeant Romyantsev had made themselves at home in the headquarters company with the battalion armorers. They went to work helping the Fifth Marines crew get caught up on broke-gun repairs, a point that Colonel Roberts had brought up in the command briefing, and he had graciously thanked Gunny Valentine and the MARSOC crew for pitching in.

Although he did not bring in prisoners, the colonel had made note of the IED team that Jack’s crew took out and the big hole left in the highway up the east side of the river. That came right after thanking Jack for his help, and concluded with, “Better to be pissed off than pissed on.”

Gunny Valentine grew tired of hearing it but politely laughed and took a bow for the colonel, nonetheless. The politic thing to do, rather than flipping him the finger.

“You boys look like a sorry lot,” First Sergeant Alvin Barkley said as he ambled up to the circle of snipers. He adjusted his big knife as he squatted by Jack.

“Still carrying that pig sticker,” Jack said, shaking hands with him. “How’s life been since I last saw you, Al?”

“Good all around,” Barkley said. “Had I known you headed up the MARSOC detachment, I would have given you a nod hello when I dropped off the op plan the other day.”

“No sweat, GI,” Jack said. “How’s Iceman and the Mob Squad working out for you?”

“It’s just business.” The first sergeant laughed.

Jack laughed, hearing the line. “Oh yeah. I’ve heard that a time or two from them. What’d they do?”

“Took out a baker’s dozen Hajis laying in an ambush ahead of one of my rifle squads,” Barkley said. “First throw out of the hat, Pizza Man and another fella. Nose?”

“Yeah.” Jack chuckled. “Nick the Nose Falzone. That’s Corporal Principato’s shooting partner.”

“So Sal the Pizza Man and Nick the Nose set up a high hide and see these Haji yo-yos setting up the ambush,” the first sergeant continued. “They call my squad leader and have him alter his movement and run a flank attack on the insurgent position. As the enemy fighters try to maneuver on the attack, Sal and Nick take out a Haji every time one of them tries to run for it. Those two young corporals killed all fourteen.”

“And when you go to compliment them, you get the standard Mob Squad line?” Jack grinned.

“It’s just business. Nothing personal,” they both said together.

Jack looked a few yards behind First Sergeant Barkley, where a Marine tossed an odd-shaped rubber toy and a dark brindle Belgian Malinois working dog chased after it. The Marine would give the dog commands, and when he executed, he tossed the toy as a reward.

“That yours?” Valentine said, nodding at them.

“Sergeant Padilla and Rattler, doing the Kong,” Barkley said. “Yeah, I commandeered them from the MP company down at Camp Ramadi. Wasting away down there. That dog’s real handy on a roadblock, or clearing houses. Notice the titanium teeth?”

“Yeah!” Jack said. “I did notice a sparkle in that dog’s smile. That’s quite the look.”

“He shreds tin cans,” Alvin said. “You should see it.”

“Wouldn’t want that big brute after me,” Jack said.

“I almost feel sorry for the Hajis when Padilla sics old Rattler on them.” Barkley chuckled. “Don’t say ‘Hot Sauce’ around him. That’s his attack cue.”

“I’ve got a sniper named Hot Sauce,” Jack said.

“Disaster waiting to happen,” Barkley said, and thought a moment.

“Fallujah One,” he went on. “I guess that’s the last time we sat on our heels together and shot the shit in the dirt. Nasty-ass place. Your boy, Corporal Place, hiding a week in that trash pile, cutting off a section of the city from enemy movement. He stacked bodies like cordwood in the streets. Took ammo off machine gun belts to keep working.”

“Took out a carload of Hajis with AKs trying to run the blockade. Two weeks’ time he killed thirty-two enemy fighters. Got the Silver Star medal,” Jack said. “Well earned.”

“We finally got that shit pile cleaned out in Fallujah Two six months later,” Barkley said. “That’s when I gutted me a second Haji with my Bowie knife. Not as spectacular as Afghanistan, but no less a close call. Gun jammed and all.”

“I recall it.” Jack nodded. “Legendary piece of work, my friend.”

“Fallujah. That’s when the Hajis started calling you, what was it? Ghost of Anbar?” Alvin said.

“Ash’abah al-Anbar,” Jack said.

“Right.” Barkley smiled. “What was it, two thousand enemy dead at the end of it, all told?”

“Something like it. I thought more. Us hunting Zarqawi,” Jack added. “A real zombie land.”

“That rat bastard’s smart-ass mouth,” Barkley said. “I hear he’s up here somewhere.”

“We’ve had a standing mission to find and kill the motherfucker,” Jack said.

“Good luck with that,” Alvin said. “He’s downright elusive. One asshole says he’s up by Mosul. Another one says Ramadi and Fallujah. Now, we got some raghead goat fucker saying he saw Zarqawi at an al-Qaeda powwow out east of Haditha.”

“My bet, out west of Haditha,” Jack said.

“I guess you can find out. From what I read in the op plan, you’re headed that way?” Barkley said.

“When Colonel Roberts drafted things up, he asked me where I thought we might find Zarqawi,” Jack said. “I told him on the opposite side of the river from the main body of the operation. If we sweep the east side, he’ll go on the west side. And vice versa.”

“Cheating motherfucker, we’ll hit both sides. See what he does,” the first sergeant said, and spit in the dirt.

“Zarqawi might not even be in Iraq,” Jack said. “One of the intel wizards who’s supposed to know this shit says Zarqawi likely operates in and out of Syria. Him being Palestinian, he’s got lots of cousins out there.”

Jack squinted his eyes and looked again. In the distance, toward the landing area, through a boiling mirage, he watched a gigantic human being ambling toward them.

“I think that’s about the biggest Marine I’ve ever seen,” Jack commented, and pointed toward the man.

Barkley looked over his shoulder.