Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“My staff sergeant, who’s still in the shitter,” Jack went on, then with an interrupting thought, looked at Cochise Quinlan, who had stretched out on the dirt. “Sergeant Quinlan, come to think of it, you might check on Cotton.”

Then he looked back at First Sergeant Barkley. “Like I said, my staff sergeant, Cotton Martin, stands six-foot-six, but that dude’s got to be pushing seven feet.”

“Staff Sergeant Marcellus Jupiter,” Alvin Barkley said.

“No shit?” Jack said. “Like Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the Consul of Rome? One of the greatest military leaders to ever live?”

“Shit, I guess so,” Barkley said. “I wouldn’t have a clue. You’re always full of oddball information.”

“I got my bachelor of arts degree in humanities,” Jack said. “Art, history, government, languages, philosophy. All that nonessential school- teacher-type bullshit.”

“Hey, a college degree’s a college degree, dude,” Barkley said. “I’ve done good to get my associate degree in business.”

“Better than most Marine knuckleheads,” Jack commented.

“With that BA, why aren’t you an officer?” Alvin asked. “That or running for Congress.”

Both Marines laughed.

“I did put in for warrant officer,” Jack said. “Selection board should announce the list in a few weeks.”

“I thought they wanted younger guys than you and me,” Barkley said. “You know, like closer to ten years in service than pushing twenty.”

“They do,” Jack said. “Colonel Snow has nagged me for the past five or six years to get it done, he says, before it’s too late. You think anyone in their right mind would pick an outlaw with my reputation to put on the gentleman’s green suit and lipstick lieutenant bars?”

Barkley laughed. “You never know. Some of the guys on that board are gunners and generals. Those old crusty dudes tend to like a little outlaw in a guy. They just might pick you. Best wipe your feet and wash your face. That tiger-stripe recon war paint won’t let you in the officers’ club.”

“Fuck!” Jack said, looking up at Staff Sergeant Marcellus Jupiter towering over him. “This dude’s even bigger up close. Like Shaquille O’Neal in MARPAT brown.”

The massive dark green Marine didn’t smile. He’d heard the jokes before, especially the Shaq comparisons. In fact, he did greatly favor the NBA All-Star now playing for the Miami Heat.

“I thought there was like a height limit in the Marine Corps,” Jack said. “Something like six-foot-seven, because Cotton, my staff sergeant, said he just slipped under the wire at six-six.”

“Read the regs, Marine Corps Order 6110,” Staff Sergeant Jupiter spoke up, before First Sergeant Barkley could say anything. “The height-weight chart stops at eighty inches tall. The order itself does not specify a limit. It says that height and weight must fit the appropriate ratio and body mass index, and present a positive appearance in uniform. I have nearly zero body fat, and I max the physical fitness test. Gunny, my personal appearance ratios are just fine.”

“You got that down pat, staff sergeant.” Jack laughed, and Barkley just grinned.

“Every new officer I run into quizzes me on the appearance regulations,” Jupiter said. “I stay well versed, Gunny. A guy big as me? It’s survival.”

“Don’t I know it,” Cotton Martin said, walking up to the big man and shaking his hand.

Cochise Quinlan squatted in the dirt and looked up at the Shaq look-alike.

“Fuck, you’re big!” the sergeant said without thinking.

“So they tell me,” Jupiter responded.

“Staff Sergeant Jupiter is a machine gunner in my company,” Barkley said.

“That makes sense,” Jaws said, getting to his feet after snoozing, and lifting his Barrett .50 sniper rifle. “Big guys get big guns.”

“Got big dicks, too,” Bronco said, standing up and chiming in.

Sammy LaSage, Petey Preston, and Randy Powell got to their feet, too, seeing the team about ready to leave.

Jaws looked at Bronco Starr. “And sawed-off little fuckers like you got stumps.”

“But thick stumps,” Bronco came back, laughing. “Length don’t matter, it’s the girth that brings on the moans.”

Marcellus Jupiter had enough of it and gave both Bronco and Jaws a look that would sour milk.

“First Sergeant,” he said, “I came over to let you know that we’ll be launching as soon as we finish loading the Osprey. Pilot asked me to convey to the MARSOC team that he will take a couple of vectors along the river, per your instructions, drop low, and travel west to your tactical point of departure, drop you off, vector south, then east, across the river, then move north to the dam. Probably a good idea to beat feet over to the LZ.”

“Since my reinforced rifle company’s operating units will probably be your closest friendly forces, up by the dam,” the first sergeant added, “we’ll be the ones come running if you hit the shit. I’ve got your rally points, reporting points, targets, and patrol route on my maps.”

“Cool,” Jack said, falling in along the left side of Alvin Barkley. “You guys really are tight. Glad to have you covering our six. Hopefully, we won’t need you, except when maybe we haul ass at the end of the hunt.”

“That’s the way we want it,” Barkley said.

Bronco and Jaws walked behind Jack and the first sergeant. Preston, Powell, Quinlan, and Sage followed them. Staff Sergeant Jupiter led the way, ahead of the group, with Cotton Martin alongside him, talking basketball.

“Those dudes are big as fuck,” Bronco said.

“Maybe to you,” Jaws said.

“I bet Jupiter’s dick’s so big he scares horses,” Bronco said, and laughed. “Probably carries two machine guns. One in each pocket.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jaws grumbled.

“Alex,” Cortez complained. “You’re one unhappy soul. Did your mother hate you as a child? Make you stay inside and practice the accordion while the other boys played baseball? Did your daddy piss in your Post Toasties?”

“Keep it up, you little shit,” Gomez said, his big .50 caliber rifle riding over his shoulder while a semiautomatic Vigilance .338 Lapua Magnum support rifle rocked atop his hundred-pound pack, stuffed mostly full of ammo.

Each of the other Marine Scout-Snipers carried similar kits on their backs, loaded for a long-range patrol, facing a virtually unknown enemy, miles from any friendly support or rescue. While all four two-man teams used the Marine Corps M40A3 sniper rifle as their primary bolt guns, they carried models chambered to .338 Lapua Magnum, so that it shot the same ammo as the highly accurate EDM-Vigilance semiautomatic support gun that also doubled as a backup sniper rifle.

Besides the Barrett and its .50 caliber sniper rounds that Jaws carried, everyone fired the hard-hitting, far-reaching .338 Lapua Magnum as this mission’s primary round. Additionally, Jack and Cotton each carried an M249 light machine gun or SAW, along with as many canisters of 5.56-millimeter Black Hills seventy-seven-grain ammo for them as they and their sniper-team partners could haul in their packs, along with ample supplies of primary sniper rounds.

“And you’ll do what, Jaws?” Bronco Starr sassed.

“I’ll stuff your short ass under a rock and stand on it.” Jaws laughed. Then he put his hand on his partner’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push.

Cochise Quinlan nudged his fellow sergeant, Sammy LaSage, as he smiled and shook his head at the two clowns ahead of them.

“Ever notice how a sniper team that’s worked together a good while acts like an old married couple?” he asked Sage.

“Good teams do, sure,” LaSage agreed.

“You’re fucking gay,” Chico Powell crowed from behind. “Both you guys. Fruity-Loopy as three-dollar bills.”