Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Jack?” Elmore asked, as his heart crashed flat to his boots.

“Afraid so, sir,” the Delta Company, Fifth Marines commanding officer answered.

“Did they kill him?” the colonel asked, his voice broken. He didn’t know if he could handle losing another Marine he held so close to his heart.

“Not yet,” Crenshaw said. “They got him dressed in a blue jumpsuit and threaten that they’ll cut off his head unless America releases all the prisoners at Abu Ghraib.”

“Motherfucker!” Elmore screamed into the empty desert from his high perch.

“Excuse me, sir?” the captain asked.

“I’m sorry, Captain Crenshaw,” Elmore said, and headed down the ladder. “Something I say when I am really upset.”

“I’ve heard tell,” the skipper said, leading Lieutenant Colonel Snow to the blockhouses where Speedy Espinoza had set up his CIA intelligence shop with Hacksaw, Kermit, and Habu bunking there, too.

When they got inside, Espinoza clicked the PLAY button on the news agency’s Web site.

Jack Valentine sat on a short milking stool in what appeared to be a room with stone walls. An al-Qaeda black flag draped the background, and two men with rifles, dressed in black outfits and their heads and faces wrapped in black, stood at each side of the Marine. A man directly behind Jack, also wearing a black ninja suit and mask, held a short Moorish sword with a broad, curved blade.

A gray beard peeked below the mask that the man with the sword wore, suggesting that he was older and probably a higher-ranking al-Qaeda Iraq boss.

The man bellowed his speech in Arabic for all the jihadi brethren, then spoke in very good English:

“We are the Army of God, Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah, may Allah be praised. Today we have captured the American Marine, an evil assassin of the faithful, Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine, known to us as the minion of Satan, Ash’abah al-Anbar .

“It is God’s will that America must release all of our faithful brothers from the prisons at Abu Ghraib and at Guantanamo, Cuba. American forces must also lay down their arms and the infidels depart Iraq and all the lands of the Levant. Unless this happens in the next seventy-two hours, I will execute Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine in the method of our faith. May Allah be praised!

“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”

“And kiss my ass,” Speedy Espinoza said, clicking off the video.

“Seventy-two hours,” Elmore said.

“Probably about seventy hours by now,” the CIA agent said, “given the time lost after Al Jazeera received it and that it took for them to post the video to their Web site.”

“Less than three days.” Elmore sighed.

“Fuck!” Bronco Starr said.

“We shouldn’t have left him there!” Cochise Quinlan protested, and the colonel looked at him.

“He saved our lives, Colonel. All of us,” Petey Preston said. “Me and Chico, we’d be dead if it wasn’t for Gunny V.”

Elmore Snow cocked his head to one side and gave Billy Claybaugh a look. Then he wrinkled his forehead at Cotton Martin and pointed his thumb at corporals Preston and Powell. “I thought those two went to Germany. To the hospital.”

“Sir, Cotton didn’t have a thing to do with it,” Staff Sergeant Claybaugh spoke up.

“You knew about this?” Elmore said to Billy-C.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“After the fact, sir,” Chico Powell said.

“I busted ’em out, sir,” Sergeant Cochise Quinlan said, stepping up to take full blame.

“You know, you guys are U-A,” Elmore said to the two wounded corporals. “Do the hospital people even know you’re missing?”

“Those Air Force dudes at Charlie Med?” Petey Preston smiled. “No, sir. They don’t have a clue. Never will.”

“Who has your record books?” Elmore asked. “Captain Burkehart sent those to the hospital when we transferred you out.”

“We have them right here, sir,” Cochise said, and the two Marines held up large envelopes that contained their enlisted Service Record Books and all their orders.

“Didn’t I see this in a movie once?” Elmore said, and began to laugh.

“Sir, we ain’t hurt bad,” Preston said. “Couple of leaks here and there, a few broken ribs. Hey, you get dinged up worse than this playing high school football. We don’t need to go to a hospital. They let Staff Sergeant Claybaugh stay at MARSOC on light duty. Why not us?”

“Yeah, and I see how that’s working out, too,” the colonel said, looking at Billy-C leaning on his crutches.

“I’m healing just fine, sir,” Claybaugh said.

“We got our antibiotics and everything,” Powell said. “Billy even got some extra refills for us, so we’re fat. Way more than we need. Don’t worry about anything, sir. We got all the bases covered.”

“You know, a daughter in high school is less trouble,” Elmore said, and let out a long breath of frustration. “I’ll call Captain Burkehart and have him start fixing this.”

“Sir, nobody’s going anyplace without Gunny Valentine,” Jaws piped up.

“That’s the law, sir,” Bronco chimed in.

“Who’s law?” Elmore asked.

“Our fucking law, sir,” Jaws said, deadpan and serious.

Six men sat at a table eating a late-night dinner, surrounded by two dozen gunmen in the al-Qaeda safe house near the village of Hibhib. At the head sat Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Davet Taché stood by the door with Jean René Decoux and their female spy, French journalist Francoise Theuriau.

“Juba, Hasan, and the lovely Francoise,” Zarqawi said, “always you make the stylishly late entrance. So very French of you.”

Davet smiled, and said in French, “Fashionably late as always, sir. However, I rushed here from Baghdad as quickly as I could with wonderful news from Omar Bakr.”

“Make them a place at the table,” Zarqawi ordered the men who served their meal.

“Even the woman?” one of the gunmen asked, looking at Francoise.

“Certainly,” Abu Musab huffed. “Do you know what this woman did for the jihad? She is the one who gave us the secret plans. It is our honor to sit with her tonight.”

Francoise smiled as she made her way to a chair. She adjusted the dark blue hijab around her head and neck, making sure it remained properly tucked inside the top of her dress, hiding any hint of her breasts. Rather than click-clack high-heel slippers with open toes, now she wore plain brown shoes with socks, and a long brown dress and matching long blouse. Proper Muslim attire.

Davet Taché and Jean René Decoux wore fine Armani silk and wool-blend summer business suits. Davet’s light gray with a thin blue pinstripe and Jean René’s a dark tan.

“We have come to stay a few days if you don’t mind,” Davet said. “Things have become somewhat difficult in Baghdad. One of our American contacts has become a liability of late. While the FBI investigates him, we thought it best that we make ourselves unavailable.”

“Juba, or it is today your French character, Davet,” Zarqawi said. “You and Hasan, and this woman, may remain my guests for as long as you desire. Now, what news?”

“The one they call Ash’abah al-Anbar , the Ghost Sniper, Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine,” Juba began.

“I heard that pig on CNN say his name some days ago,” Zarqawi remarked. “What of him?”

“Abu Omar has him.” Davet smiled, and looked all around the table, and at the men standing guard. All of them aglow.

“Hah!” Zarqawi let out, and slammed the heel of his hand on the table, rattling the dishes. “Have him brought to me! I will saw off his head!”

“Abu Omar begs your indulgence,” Davet interjected.