Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“With big tits.” Carlson laughed.

“How would you like a little tidbit of anonymous information that if you play right will put you on the front pages on both coasts, and on CNN and Fox News?” Alosi said.

“What on earth do you have? Saddam’s fabled weapons of mass destruction?” Carlson bubbled.

“Not that, but something that might work even better. Something that will make you the glowing champion of the little man, truth, and the American people’s right to know,” Cesare offered.

“Out with it!” Carlson said.

“How about a serviceman missing in action?” Alosi teased. “How about a military cover-up of it, too?”

“They got a soldier missing in action, and they’re covering it up?” Carlson said, and smiled like a greedy cat in a roomful of fat mice. “That ought to take the pressure off your shooting fiasco of those thirty-five dead Iraqis.”

“This isn’t just any serviceman,” Alosi said. “He’s one of their best Special Operations Marines. In fact, he’s the senior Scout-Sniper instructor in the Marine Corps, and the top operator in the Marine Corps’ answer to Delta Force and SEALs, Marine Special Operations Command.”

“Henry!” Carlson bellowed. “Get on the extension and start writing this stuff down.”

The aide grabbed the phone at the desk. “Here, sir.”

“What’s this guy’s name? And give Henry all the dirty details,” Carlson said.

“This information is strictly confidential, sir. Classified top secret,” Alosi said, covering his ass.

“They’ll never know you told me a thing,” Carlson said.

“And, do you have a special reward for me? You know, me thinking of you and your campaign,” Cesare said, smiling.

“Name it. It’s yours,” Carlson said. “Now I’ve got a blonde with big tits that wants some of my cock meat. You and Henry take care of this business, while I take care of the monkey business.” He laughed and so did Cesare.

“What was that guy’s name again?” the senator said, getting off the line. “You listening, Henry?”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said.

“Valentine,” Alosi said. “Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine. They call him Jack.”

A North Carolina gust off a thunderstorm caught the door behind June Snow and banged it against the house as she struggled her way into the Camp Lejeune officer-quarters kitchen, lugging sacks of groceries. Just back, they had flown home to Wyoming for Rowdy Yates’s funeral at the Veterans’ Cemetery on the northeast side of Casper.

June and Elmore had gotten home late last night. The colonel had gone to work early, feeling bad, so the missus decided to cook a stew for dinner, and they would turn in early. She made a run to the Camp Lejeune commissary, bought groceries, and when she got home, Elmore’s car sat in the driveway. Way too early for him to be home for the day.

With the wind giving her fits at the door, she thought surely her husband would come running to help. So, when he didn’t, she set the bags in the kitchen and went upstairs to find him.

As she pushed open the bedroom door, she saw Elmore on his knees at the side of their bed, praying like a child. His green military Val-A-Pack suitcase sat bulging, packed full, by the closet door. A canvas special operations kit bag, likewise stuffed, lay next to it.

June Snow knew without asking that a whole new wave of bad news had come home. Elmore never had to mention that he would fly back to Iraq tonight from Cherry Point. The longtime military wife knew it without asking.

“What happened?” she said softly, after she knelt by her husband and bowed her head with him.

He looked at her. “Jack Valentine’s missing in action.”

She let out a breath, took her husband’s hand, and began praying, too.

After Elmore finished his talk with God, he waited for June. Then he lifted her to her feet and gave her a long kiss, filled with his years of love for the hometown girl he romanced in the wild lands where Headgate Draw meets Crazy Woman Creek.

“Mike Burkehart called me,” he told her. She said nothing, and Elmore went on, “His career’s finished. They lost a classified document. Some character, a former Marine from one of those bloody security companies, apparently snatched it when Corporal Ralph Butler had his head turned.”

“What was it?” June Snow asked.

“The top secret plan for the operation that Jack and our detachment supported,” Elmore said.

“And?” June added.

“And, the information in that operation plan apparently fell into enemy hands, compromised the whole battalion, including the eight-man patrol that Jack led. The enemy lay in ambush for them. They estimate fifty enemy at least, and hundreds more behind them. By God’s hand, and Gunny Valentine’s courage, all seven of our boys got out alive, but Jack stayed behind.”

“Jack Valentine sacrificed himself to save his Marines,” June said, and sounded a bit perturbed in her tone.

“I hope he didn’t sacrifice himself,” Elmore said, and pinched his wife on the cheek. “Jack provided cover for his men to escape. That’s what a leader does. I would have done it and expect no less from any of my Marines.”

“Oh, I know,” June breathed out, “but it is just so Jack. You know what I mean. He loves a good show.”

“I doubt that Jack is very pleased right now,” Elmore responded. “Captain Burkehart said that the gunny had successfully evaded capture. Now, our boy has a long, lonely walk in the dark, working his way to Haditha Dam by way of the western desert in Anbar Governance.”

“I’ll call the chapel’s prayer chain,” June said, starting to leave.

Elmore took her arm. “No. You can’t say anything to anyone. It’s top secret. We’re banking that al-Qaeda doesn’t know a Marine has gone missing. We absolutely don’t want them to know it’s Jack. Our prayers will have to be sufficient.”

June kissed her man. “What time does your plane leave?”

Nothing hurts worse than snagging a little toe on the leg of a coffee table. Cesare Alosi thought he had broken his off when he ran sock-footed to grab his ringing phone.

“Shit!” he screamed, dancing on one foot as he pushed the green button while the lightning bolt from his toe struck home. “Hold on! For crying out loud!” he wailed, falling in his chair and catching his breath.

“What!” he blared. “I think I just broke my toe!”

“Oh, poor you!” Liberty Cruz sang back and laughed.

“Miss Cruz? That you?” Cesare said, and spread a big smile. The pain suddenly worth the run for the phone.

“In the flesh, Mr. Alosi,” she said.

“Cesare, please.” He smiled and looked at her picture on his desk. “Someone told me you had come to Baghdad, but I could not believe it. What on earth for?”

“Oh,” Liberty sighed, sounding exasperated. “I graduate SERE School, report to Washington, and what do I get? Typical female shitty little job, like they’re doing me a favor. An administrative audit of the Baghdad FBI station.”

“It’s a man’s world,” Cesare said, and meant it. “Women come into it, they have to expect shitty little jobs. That’s life in big-boy pants. Get used to it.”

“I know,” she said, trying to sound agreeable but already pissed off at Alosi’s man’s-world idealism. Some people who are assholes simply can’t help being the assholes that they are. But Liberty didn’t say anything of what she thought, only what she considered Cesare wanted to hear.

“I hate to ask you,” she said, “but our FBI team in Baghdad is now investigating the shooting of the Iraqi civilians. We need to locate Ray-Dean Blevins and his crew. Can you help? I told them I knew you and that you would.”