Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

Alosi glared at the Marine, found a chair at the very back of the room, against the wall. On his way to it, however, he stopped at the coffee urn on a side table and poured himself a steaming cup of the general’s brew.

The room quickly filled, and Lieutenant Colonel Edward Bartholomew Roberts took his place at the lectern on the right side of a large rear-projection screen in the front of the room. Seconds later, everyone stood, and the MEF commander and his chief of staff entered and sat down.

Alosi juggled his coffee getting to his feet. When he sat, he spilled a third of the hot joe down his trousers leg and on his shoe. It splashed on the boots of the major sitting next to him, too, and drew a frown.

“As you no doubt know, gentlemen,” Black Bart began, “we have shifted from an overall offensive posture in Operation Quick Strike Vengeance to more counteroffensive actions. This is due to a breach of security that is under investigation, and the resulting enemy buildup of forces. Before we had a handle on this, our units suffered a series of surprise ambushes along MSR Bronze and ASR Phoenix.

“We managed to thwart one action of particular note that was directed at a Marine Special Operations team, and rescued seven of their eight members. Two of those men suffered non-life-threatening wounds. One Marine remains missing in action.

“Estimated enemy dead stand at three hundred, in that one action alone.”

“Three hundred against eight Marines? Very impressive,” the general remarked.

“Many more escaped, sir,” the colonel said. “When I asked the team leader for an estimate of enemy force, his response was ‘All of them.’”

“That many, huh?” the chief of staff said.

“And more coming into Denver Area of Operations daily,” the colonel added.

“For now, our forces from Haditha Dam south to Hit have altered our original sweep plan to one of search and destroy,” the battalion commander continued. “We send out probes with quick-response reinforcements backing them up. The probe encounters fire, they hold as we bring the hammer to bear on the anvil.”

“How’s that working out, Colonel Roberts?” the chief of staff asked.

“Quite good,” Black Bart answered. “We now use our operation plan as a guide to establish where we think the enemy force will be lying in wait.”

“What about the missing Marine?” the chief followed.

“We suspect that the enemy is not aware he is out there,” Roberts responded. “Gunnery Sergeant Jack Valentine is one of the best special operators in the Marine Corps. He is a survival expert, master of field crafts, as well as possessing the full pack of Force Reconnaissance training. Unfortunately, he has no functioning communications except a short-range ultrahigh-frequency intercom that may or may not still be working.”

“You have searchers looking for him?” the general asked.

“Absolutely, sir,” Roberts answered. “Drones and aircraft making zigzag passes along the desert area north of T1 and within that area. No sign of him. However, each of the sorties has scored impressive strikes on enemy forces transiting the area in trucks, cars, and on motorcycles.

“With the increased Haji movement and apparent gathering of forces we’ve encountered, Gunny Valentine, no doubt, has set his profile extremely low. He’ll be next to impossible for us or the enemy to spot.

“Valentine’s senior assistant team leader, Staff Sergeant Terrence Martin, who is here in the room, said that the gunny is hiking a big circle, west, north, then east, and will end up at Haditha Dam. Given his skills, one of our top Scout-Sniper instructors, we won’t likely see him until he pops his head up at the final objective. We thoroughly briefed our Marines up there on the situation, and they have their ears and eyes wide open.”

“Do you think it’s possible that the enemy may have killed him or has him prisoner?” the chief of staff asked.

“Given who he is, the enemy would definitely make a big deal of it,” Roberts said. “Only other possibility is that he died in the desert, unknown to anyone. Not a prospect I like to consider. As I said, he is equipped for survival and well trained. I expect him at Haditha Dam in coming days.”

“His name again?” the general asked, jotting notes.

“Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine,” the battalion commander answered. “He goes by Jack.”

The regimental landing-team commander leaned forward and told the general and chief of staff, “Valentine’s last tour here, the Hajis pinned him with the name Ash’abah al-Anbar . The Ghost of Anbar. He scored a pallet of high-value kills around Fallujah, then a bunch up here, too, augmenting Twenty-fifth Marines. Very creative fellow. He put phony guns in fake sniper hides on rooftops, had guys go to and from them, as if they were manned. Then, when gangs of Hajis moved on the positions, he killed them from afar with his team’s direct sniper fire and took out their support crews with light artillery. Very creative man.

“Needless to say, the Hajis don’t like the gunny one bit. Sir, if they got Jack Valentine, dead or alive, we’d definitely know it. He would be a highly publicized prize.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them then,” the general said. “Gunny Valentine’s identity and the fact he’s missing in action stays under tight wraps. That clear?”

“That’s what I prefer, sir, and Colonel Roberts strongly concurs,” the regimental boss said. “Valentine’s best chance is total secrecy. If the enemy realizes we have a Marine missing, they’ll go to great efforts to find him. If they learn it’s Ash’abah al-Anbar , they’ll put every dog they have between Baghdad and Damascus on the hunt.”

“No doubt,” the general said. “That also means that search and rescue efforts have to remain secret. Keep them looking like search and destroy. We sure as hell don’t want to tip the bastards by flying grid search patterns.”

“Correct, sir,” Roberts said. “My opinion, Gunny Valentine’s got to pretty much get himself out of the desert. We go fishing for him? It could get him killed.”

Cesare Alosi sipped what was left of his coffee and could not help smiling, imagining all the possibilities.

“What crawled up your ass?” the major sitting by him said, seeing the man sparkle.

“Oh,” Cesare said, “I’m just thrilled that Gunny Valentine has got a real chance. He could well make it.”

No sooner had the briefing ended than Alosi hurried with the gaggle of straphangers and horse-holders back to the tarmac for their ride home to Baghdad, and he began digging through the address book in his smartphone. United States Senator Cooper Carlson. Perfect payback. As he got on the Osprey, he brought up the phone number.

When the aircraft landed a few minutes later, Cesare couldn’t wait until he got to his Cadillac. As soon as he closed the car door, he punched his phone’s GO button.

An aide answered, then put Alosi straight through.

“You still in Iraq?” Cooper Carlson said, standing in a black-silk robe by a floor-to-ceiling bank of windows in his penthouse apartment atop a Las Vegas hotel, held by the blind trust that his big-money cronies had set up for the senator’s share of their partnership in several high-end gambling resort properties.

“Yes, sir,” Alosi said.

“Why, you sound like you’re just down the street,” Carlson said. “I’m about to turn in for the evening, and Henry says you’re on the phone. Finally got a night off from campaigning. The wife’s gone to Los Angeles for the week, so I have a sweet young thing on her way up to make me sleepy.”

“Oh, I envy you, sir,” Cesare said. “A blonde?”