Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

For my brother, James Lindsey “Jim” Henderson

and

all my beloved Marine Corps HOGs

8541s, 0317s, fellow 9925s, and others who lead HOGs

and

In blessed memory of my dear Scout-Sniper brothers:

Staff Sergeant Shane Schmidt, USMC

and

Sergeant Rob Richards, USMC

and

Lieutenant Colonel, USA, Corporal, USMC, Tom “Moose” Ferran

and

My mentor, Master Sergeant Bruce Martin, USMC

Fighters for Justice, Hunters of Gunmen

Brothers All

Eight, seven, six. The second hand on Jack Valentine’s watch ticked.

Five… “Snuggle into the rifle, Jack. Like she’s the woman you love. Yeah, baby. Breathe. Relax.”

Four… “Close your eyes, bro. That’s it. Go inside the bubble.”

Three… “Now open up. Natural point of aim. Solid. Center mass.”

Two… “Focus. Crosshairs sharp, clear. Target fuzzy.”

One… “Hold that half breath. Ease the trigger roll. Squeeze.”

Burlap fringe from his Ghillie-suit bonnet tickled Jack Valentine’s face as a dry January breeze rustled the fuzzy strips of light green, dark green, and various shades of brown camouflage tied on netting that hid his face. Slowly, careful to not rustle the growth of dry dead foliage that hid him, he eased his fingers up and gave his itching cheek a rub.

The newly promoted Marine corporal and his spotter partner, Staff Sergeant Walter Gillespie, affectionately known as Hacksaw, likewise Ghillied up, lay tucked beneath a weed crop on the raised border of a set of long and narrow farm fields. From this hide, they watched the main entrance of what appeared to be a Republican Guard command center, across a highway, nearly a thousand yards ahead of them.

Elmore Snow’s special operations team had parachuted into position from a high-altitude low-opening jump the night before, two-man teams landing in three zones on the northwest side of the city of Hillah, Iraq, along Highway 84, which led to Hindiya and Karbala. Early that morning, January 17, 1991, Allied aircraft and sea-launched cruise missiles had begun the bombardment of Iraqi command and control centers, and antiaircraft-missile positions. The Persian Gulf War had now begun.

The mustang captain and his team’s senior noncommissioned officer, Gunny Ray Ambrose, whom Snow had named Mutt during South American drug-war deployments, had moved northeast, edging around the outskirts of the city, past the palace that Saddam Hussein had built on a promontory hill overlooking the ruins of ancient Babylon, that he had also renovated into a new museum, honoring himself and ancient King Nebuchadnezzar. Saddam had even had his name carved in the bricks, boasting the lie SADDAM HUSSEIN, SON OF NEBUCHADNEZZAR.

Sergeants Kermit The Frog Alexander and Cory Habu Webster had skirted eastward, well past the captain and gunny’s position while Jack and Hacksaw went west, then bent their trek southward toward a curious ring of lights that turned out to be the suspected Republican Guard command center that all three teams had sought.

They found a spot close enough to see what went on but far enough away to not draw attention to themselves. The sniper team had Ghillied up and lay in a hide because of random farmers and goatherds wandering by uncomfortably close. The Marines planned to stay put until nightfall, then move out west, beyond searching eyes, and find a place to eat, rest, and await next orders for movement.

Captain Snow reported the grid coordinates of the military targets to higher command over satellite-linked radio, and told the operations staff that neither Saddam Hussein nor anyone else important appeared to occupy the Summer Palace. The only people they saw there were caretakers.

As for Jack and Hacksaw, military traffic constantly streamed in and out of the Republican Guard headquarters, and only moments ago they had seen a dark blue Rolls-Royce sedan enter the complex and park by the building with the flagpole flying the Iraqi colors.

Two soldiers in desert-camouflage uniforms and burgundy berets hurried to the rear passenger-side door as the driver opened it. A trim, slight man in a dark green uniform with a bald head and a short beard got out, put on his burgundy beret, exchanged salutes with the soldiers, and followed them inside the building.

“He’s got to be a regional commander. Flag rank, judging from the car,” Captain Snow told his team on their heavily encrypted sat-link headsets.

“Shall we dance when he exits, sir?” Hacksaw asked.

“If you took the shot, do you have adequate egress?” Elmore asked in return.

“Once it’s dark we do,” Jack broke in. “Right now, sir, we take the shot, we best sit tight. We might get away with one shot. We’re off in the boonies, where they likely won’t look for us.”

“What’s the distance?” Snow asked.

“Range finder says 812 meters to the sedan,” Gillespie reported.

“How do you feel about it, Jack?” Elmore asked.

“Quartering breeze off my right leg, nice and steady at three clicks, I can’t ask for better shooting conditions. I’m all in, sir,” Jack answered.

“One shot, one kill, it’s all you’ve got,” the captain said. “How about it, Staff Sergeant Gillespie?”

“We need to take the shot, sir,” Hacksaw came back. “Even if Corporal V misses, just think how it will fuck with these dudes’ heads. They won’t know whether to shit or go blind, paranoia fucking up their dope.”

“Bear in mind, Staff Sergeant, lots of important ears might be listening to you at the national command center as well as Riyadh,” Elmore cautioned his swarthy Marine. Then added, “Stand by while I clear the mission.”

An hour had passed, and Hacksaw began to grumble, “I got a brick crawled straight up my ass and parked. What I wouldn’t give to take a leisurely shit and read the newspaper with a hot cup of black coffee.”

“Scoot down behind us and pinch off a loaf. Nothing’s stirring,” Jack grumbled back. “Just make sure you drop your turds where I won’t crawl in them.”

“You got it, bro,” Hacksaw said, and inched himself backwards, off the two-foot-high raised berm overgrown with weeds. “I hate taking a shit lying down, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Sure glad I don’t wear panties. This might leave a stain.”

Jack fought the urge to laugh and focused on what he saw through his rifle’s twelve-power scope sight.

Just as Hacksaw farted and released a steaming load, Elmore Snow came on the sat-link.

“We’re a go on the shot, but as a stopgap, should the target decide to depart the area,” the captain said.

“What’d ya mean, stopgap, Skipper?” Jack asked.

“We’ve got a Nighthawk inbound with a GBU-27 to deliver on that Iraqi command center,” the captain answered.

“That’s like a mark 84 laser-guided smart bomb, isn’t it? Two thousand pounds of high explosive, sir?” Jack came back.

“Roger that, a bunker buster,” Elmore said.

“Just checking, sir,” Jack answered. Then he added, “Seems like I recall the lethal blast radius of a two-grand bomb throws fragmentation four hundred meters up and out.”

“Roger that,” the captain confirmed.

“Won’t it get just a touch breezy out here, across the flats, Staff Sergeant Gillespie and me lying on this two-foot-high berm eight hundred meters away from the target? Just weeds for protection?” Jack asked, worried.

“You should be fine,” the captain replied. “I’ve called it in closer, but not much. You’ll get some dust up your snot locker.”

Jack Valentine shrank over his rifle and looked through the scope again, watching the headquarters main door and the blue Rolls-Royce parked in front.