Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

Two Russian sniper rifle rimmed shell casings were conveniently found in an open floor of a nearby building, and the ballistics on the bullets taken from the bodies matched, proving that they were fired from a Dragunov rifle. American and Iraqi bomb experts also determined that the bomb had all the earmarks of al-Qaeda Iraq.

“It was fun, Cesare,” Liberty said, as the disheveled, red-eyed, and exhausted Alosi walked out of the small white room. “We’ll have to do it again real soon.”

“You fuckers,” Cesare said as he gathered his cell phone, wallet, watch, pocket trinkets, and keys. “I won’t forget this. You don’t fuck with me and not get fucked back. I know people. You should have killed me. Your asses are mine now.”

“We can always help you out there, ass-wipe,” Bob Hartley said. “Got a black bag in the back, just your size.”

“Fuck you!” Cesare snapped at the smiling FBI man. “Fuck all of you!”

Chris Gray took a lean against the wall by the outer door to the white modular building where they had worked over Alosi’s mind for four and a half days. Runyan and Towler sat out front in the FBI Denali, waiting to take the Malone-Leyva boss to the airport, where a company gun crew and driver waited for him.

The CIA operator took out a green packet of Doublemint chewing gum, unwrapped a piece, and folded it in his mouth. Then he pushed out a piece toward Cesare as he departed.

“Go ahead. Take one.” Gray smiled. “Helps the breath.”

When Elmore Snow finally reached Baghdad, he found Captain Mike Burkehart dozing in an airport lobby chair with Corporal Ralph Butler zeed out beside him. They had waited in front of one of the lobby flat-screen televisions since eight o’clock that morning, four hours ago.

Elmore’s flight leg from RAF Mildenhall, in Suffolk, England, to Baghdad had been delayed while US Air Force mechanics repaired a hydraulic-system issue. Something to do with the rear ramp fully closing on the C-17 Globemaster. He had caught a ride on a retiring C-141 Starlifter at Dover Air Force Base, making its final flight, after a choppy ride out of Cherry Point the day before on a Marine Corps UC-12W, known among the civilian world as a Beechcraft King Air 350 turboprop.

He had managed to sleep most of the transatlantic hop, two good nights in the BOQ at Mildenhall, then part of the way from England to Iraq. So when he arrived in Baghdad, he came off the plane well rested and ready to work.

The colonel gave Mike Burkehart a nudge on the toe, and the captain popped open a blood-red eye. Then he shot an elbow into Sleeping Beauty Butler that sent the kid bolting out of the seat.

“Sir!” the corporal stammered, snapping his heels together. Burkehart stood by him and reached a welcome handshake to Elmore Snow.

“Sorry about the delay,” the colonel said. “You waited here the whole time?”

“Yes, sir, just this morning,” Burkehart said. “Only information we could get was that your flight was delayed for a repair. We had no idea if it would be an hour or a day.”

“How are you holding up, Mike?” Elmore asked, and gave Smedley a look, too. “And you, Corporal Butler?”

Smedley shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Pretty bad, I guess.”

“Neither of us will go to jail.” Burkehart smiled, and put his arm over the poor, sad corporal. “Smedley won’t be reenlisting, and I’m retiring when we rotate out of here.”

“I’m afraid it’s all out of my hands,” Elmore said. “I tried to intervene, but the general said we cannot make exceptions when it comes to national security. I have to agree. It is what it is.”

“Sir, I know. There’s no heartburn here with either of us,” Burkehart said. “I should have logged in that op plan the minute First Sergeant Barkley handed it to me. When I signed his logbook, I just tossed it on the pile on your desk. I never thought about it again. A hectic day. Billy-C getting shot and all.”

“How is Sir William Claybaugh?” Elmore smiled. “He sitting down okay?”

“Doing fine, sir,” Burkehart said. “Out in the truck waiting for us.” Then he turned and looked at Corporal Butler. “If anyone took it in the shorts, it’s Smedley. I didn’t tell him about the op plan on your desk. Just too busy with the bullshit. You know how it gets.”

“Sir,” Butler said, hanging his head. “I should have looked. My job, keeping track. I let crap pile up. I’m the one who let that piece of shit Ray-Dean Blevins come in and make himself at home. I should have thrown his ass out!”

“What’s the story on the filthy traitor?” Elmore asked.

“Got blown away,” Burkehart said. “He and his crew. Their vehicle bombed, killed one guy. An al-Qaeda sniper, they say Juba, took out Blevins and the other guy.”

“I heard tell that police recovered shell casings from a Dragunov and matched them to bullets they took out of the bodies, both Russian,” Smedley added.

“So, it was an al-Qaeda hit,” Elmore said.

“Who else?” Burkehart shrugged.

Elmore shrugged, too, then suddenly turned toward the television monitor overhead. He caught someone on CNN saying Jack Valentine’s name.

“What did he say?” the colonel asked, and all three men watched the news broadcast.

Behind the news anchor was a boot-camp head-and-shoulders photograph of a very boyish Jack Valentine wearing dress blues with an American flag behind him. Across the bottom of the screen, a banner of red with white lettering announcing, BREAKING NEWS. AMERICAN MISSING IN ACTION.

A white-bearded news anchor said, “Marine Corps and Defense Department spokesmen have issued an official no comment on the report that Marine Special Operations Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine is missing in action.

“United States Senator Cooper Carlson of Nevada had this to say about the official no comment from military leaders, following his announcement of the missing Marine.”

The shot cut to Senator Carlson standing at a lectern on the grass outside the main entrance of Nellis Air Force Base, where he made a speech for campaign supporters and the national and Nevada news media. His staff had prepped the reporters before the event, letting them know that the senator would make an announcement of national importance. They had also rounded up every screaming bobblehead they could wrangle off the streets of Las Vegas to create the illusion for the press that the villagers had awakened, torches and pitchforks in hand, and now rallied around their champion, Cooper Carlson, for whom they chanted, “Coop,” from his days playing college football at Princeton.

“I have railed against this abusive administration and its illegal war in Iraq,” Carlson bellowed over the lectern at the cheering crowd. “Our servicemen and — women deserve better. They deserve diligent representation and attention, from a government that cares greatly for their lives! Not the cold and callous leadership that we have today! But impassioned, caring leaders like me! I have always stood up for our military people and fought hard for them.”

The crowd erupted and chanted, “Coop! Coop! Coop!”

“Today, we have a heroic Marine missing in action, Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine, who selflessly sacrificed himself, saving his platoon. Allowing them to retreat to safety while he held off the enemy single-handedly,” Carlson bellowed. “He deserves a medal and undying gratitude from his nation. Not the cold shoulder! Our military leadership cares so little about this one man that they turned their backs on him. Cut him adrift in the Iraqi desert. He wasn’t even worth one airplane to search for him! As of this minute, we have no idea if Gunny Valentine is dead or alive, or worse yet, captured! Will we soon see him beheaded on video?”