Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

Jack pointed to a platter-sized, flat-faced stone that had fallen off the bank wall the last time a flash flood had washed the wadi.

“That big rock?” he said. “Put it in front of my hide. When I quit shooting, I pull it over the front of my hole.”

Cotton nodded okay, and the rest of the Marines looked at Gunny Valentine as if he’d lost his mind.

“I’m betting that with all our dirt work, improving our firing positions here,” Jack explained, “they’ll never consider that you buried me here. Who in their right mind would? Right? They’ll chase after your tracks out of here.”

“And why do you think that Quinlan’s idea isn’t viable?” Cotton asked. “The Hajis coming up behind us may not get here before we can kill this bunch and depart, and even get to the rally point. Strike force lands, we’re home free. We’ve got six healthy Marines trained to the teeth in special warfare, and what do they have?”

“Six of us beats twenty of them hands down,” Cochise chimed in. “I say we go for it!”

“I figure they got twenty or thirty people up ahead in that primary ambush,” Jack explained. “Consider that they knew we would head this way because in their attack they left this avenue of retreat open to us. They got inside information. Just like last year when they killed those guys from Cleveland. They probably got the rally point staked out, too. So, besides this ambush, I am betting they’re holding another thirty guns on the flanks and rear in reserve.”

“They’re counting on us charging them before their cavalry gets here. The obvious,” Cotton said, understanding exactly what Gunny Valentine envisioned.

“They’re prepared,” Jack added. “Someone on their end in that ambush got trigger-happy and hit Petey and Chico at the mouth of their kill zone. That little fuckup gave us a chance. Otherwise, we’d be dead ducks.”

“They’ll never anticipate us leaving anyone behind. So we hide the gunny good, he’s got a chance,” Jaws said. “We could draw straws to see who stays.”

“Bullshit!” Jack said. “I make the decisions, not you. I stay. You go. If anybody dies, it’s me, and I’m not planning on dying. Got it?”

Bronco gave Gunny Valentine a look that said it all. A lot like the look that the Apostle John must have had on his face when he watched the Roman soldiers nail Jesus Christ to the cross. What do you say to a man who is sacrificing his life so that you can live?

Just then a voice came on the command channel.

“Ghost One, Corsair Actual.”

“Corsair Actual, Ghost One,” Jack said. “Go ahead.”

“Ghost One, position report and casualties, over,” Black Bart said.

“Stand by, Corsair,” Jack said, pulling out his GPS and taking a reading. “Uploading grid coordinates now.”

“Ghost One, Corsair Actual. Copy. Coordinates received,” Colonel Roberts said. “Can you give us a casualty report?”

“Negative at this time,” Jack responded. “We will need medevac at rally point, over.”

“Ghost One, Corsair Actual,” Roberts continued. “Be advised that operation plan security has been compromised.”

“Not surprised,” Jack said. “They had our number from the get-go. Definitely we’re compromised.”

“Roger that, Ghost One,” Bart Roberts said. “Per that compromise, revise all references and points to Plan B. Repeat. Revise your references and points to Plan B, per final operation briefing discussion. Do you copy? Over.”

Jack thought a moment and recalled Colonel Roberts telling all commanders and key noncommissioned officers at the final briefing that should there be a reason, they would institute a general Plan B to the operation. Basically, all extraction and insertion points moved five clicks south. Likewise, all frequencies moved down channel five clicks.

“Roger, Corsair.” Jack smiled. “Plan B. Thank you!”

Cotton smiled, too. So did Sammy LaSage, Bronco, Jaws, Cochise, and even Petey, now wheezing as his lung filled with blood.

“How about it, Chico? You up for Plan B?” Jack said on the intercom.

Randy Powell answered back, still playing dead, “Plan B? Works for me. Don’t that put Whiskey Tango Foxtrot out of this fucking riverbed and closer to our position anyway?”

“Yes, it does,” Jack said, suddenly feeling the love of God shining on them. “If they got people waiting a mile east of us? We’ll be five kilometers south. That also gives Alvin Barkley and his strike force ample opportunity to kill the shit out of these guys.”

“So, Gunny. Does that alter your plan any?” Cochise asked, hoping that Jack would give up his suicide idea and run down the gully with them.

“Makes it a lot more likely you’ll survive, but changes nothing on my end. I still have to hold here so you guys can exit,” Jack said. “Don’t worry. It’ll just be a long walk for me, unless Alvin Barkley brings a hell of a lot of Marines, and you guys come after me.”

“That’d be wonderful!” Bronco said. “Can’t we do that? Land Barkley and his guys here instead?”

“We’ll be dead before they can get here,” Jack said. “At best, they won’t swoop in for another twenty minutes. We don’t have five.”

“Right. We need to beat feet now,” Cotton said.

Jaws and Cochise moved to the high positions. Jack got behind the SAW while Bronco, Sage, and Cotton worked fast, digging holes, pulling rocks, getting a deep trench for Jack to slide in.

Quickly, they had the gunny covered to his head.

“Bronco, you stick with Jaws, feed him and me ammo,” Jack said. “When you bug out, one under each arm on Petey and run your asses off. Do not look back.”

Cochise glanced down from his firing point. “Gunny, I ain’t leaving. We never left anyone behind, and I’m not starting now. I’ll cover up, too.”

“Sergeant,” Jack said in his gunny voice. “You will leave. Survival of the team depends on your gun. We’ve got two wounded. That means two carry two, plus our gear. Your gun is important. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinlan said, his voice choking.

Just then someone shouted from down the dry riverbed.

“Hey, Marines,” Jamal al-Hakim called out. “Ghost One. That would be Ash’abah al-Anbar , the Ghost of Anbar. We have been expecting you! Gunnery Sergeant Jack Valentine!”

“Fuck you!” Cochise Quinlan yelled back. “Valentine ain’t here.”

“Oh, I think he is,” Jamal responded.

Jaws yelled, “He’s a pussy! Hiding in the rear with the gear at Al Asad with all the FOB-rats and TOC-roaches.”

“Ghost One is Jack Valentine!” Jamal insisted. “We hear you loud and clear. Everything you say. Surrender. No one has to die. Not today.”

“Kiss my ass,” Jack shouted. “I’m Ghost One, and that ain’t Jack Valentine. Not anymore. He’s pushing pencils.”

“That is too bad,” Jamal said. “We had a special day planned for Ash’abah al-Anbar . A celebration with him as guest of honor. Now you must go to the party without him.”

“Stick your head up and say that, you donkey-fucking son of a bitch,” Cochise yelled. “That’s right, we got you on video going balls-deep.”

A spike of anger and prolonged impatience sent the captain up, out of his rocky nest. He, like all of his comrades, believed that the fatal authority of God dealt in all things. God’s will even determined the flip of a coin. It was God’s will that he was here killing these Marines.

Just as Jamal rose to his knees, to dare the insulting Marine to go ahead and take his shot, Cochise Quinlan lit him up. Three quick rounds from his Vigilance support rifle splashed home. The Haji captain never knew what hit him.

As Cochise fired, so did the entire team.