Terminal Impact Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Charles W. Henderson

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  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Henderson, Charles, 1948– author.

  Title: Terminal impact : a Jack Valentine Marine Sniper novel / Charles Henderson.

  Description: New York : Berkley, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016029237 (print) | LCCN 2016034519 (ebook) | ISBN 9781101988121 (hardback) | ISBN 9781101988138 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Snipers—United States—Fiction. | United States. Marines—Fiction. | Zarqāwī, Abū Mus‘ab, 1966–2006—Fiction. | Iraq War, 2003–2011—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / War & Military. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: War stories. | Biographical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.E52564 T47 2016 (print) | LCC PS3608.E52564 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016029237

  First Edition: November 2016

  Cover images of sniper, American flag, and target courtesy of Shutterstock

  Cover photograph of landscape © Nicholas Olesen / Getty Images

  Version_1

  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

  Contents

  Publisher’s Note

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  _ 1 _

  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.

  “Hacksaw back at you, sir,” the staff sergeant said over his sat-link as he eased alongside Jack and put his eye back on the high-power spotting scope equipped with infrared and night-vision technology. “Had to scatter a little rat bait out in this farmer’s tater crop if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you copy my com?” Snow asked.

  “Roger,” Gillespie answered. “Why the mark 84? Last I checked, that bomb puts down a thirty-foot-deep crater, fifty feet across, and blows through sixteen feet of concrete or fifteen inches of solid steel. Kind of overkill for a two-story spread-out office complex.”

  “Wizards in the head shed think this headquarters may sit atop a good-size bunker system,” Elmore explained. “Obviously a flag officer inside, the one you spotted, and maybe more.

  “Given the war began before daylight this morning, we believe they could have a command and control center underground. You said lots of traffic in and out, and that blue Rolls-Royce has our G-two people convinced you happened upon a major honeypot.”

  “Does this mean we can come home early?” Hacksaw joked.

  “Maybe you’re half-right, Walter. We may get to bust out of this burg and redeploy,” Snow answered. “As soon as I know anything, I’ll let you boys know, too. We’ll all likely beat feet to the rally point and await pickup there.”

  “Anything going with Frogman and Habu?” Gillespie asked.

  “They’ve got a flight of four Tomcats loaded with mark 82s inbound on targets. We’re trying to coordinate those strikes with yours. How about your laser? It set up? We need to get that target painted,” the captain followed.

  “Just pulled it from the drag bag and setting up as we speak,” Hacksaw answered.

  “While you’re in the bag, go ahead and pull out the camera and put on the long lens,” Snow told him. “If this commander with the blue Rolls emerges from the headquarters, I want pictures of him.”

  “If he comes out of the building, he’s probably leaving, sir,” Jack said.

  “That’s where you have the green light to splash him,” Elmore replied. “I want Walter to snap his pictures, nonetheless, and you take your shot. Be nice to identify this guy.”

  “Got you covered, Skipper,” Hacksaw broke in. “Laser is up and painting the target. I’m on the camera with a nice view of the car and front door. Awesome lens. Very clear. By the way, sir, it looks like the driver is talking on a radio.”

  “Now he’s stepping out,” Jack added, seeing the driver’s door open.

  “What’s the ETA on that Nighthawk?” Walter asked.

  “I just checked, and the pilot says he’s less than two mikes out,” Elmore came back.

  “May be too late,” Jack said, seeing the general emerge through the front doors, square away his burgundy beret, and jog down the steps. Instead of escorting the senior officer, the driver ran to his station, started the car, and left the general to let himself in the backseat.

  “Your range is hot, corporal. Wind unchanged. You’ve got your dope. Fire at will,” Hacksaw said, snapping the camera as fast as the motor drive could run the film past the shutter.

  Jack Valentine took a breath, watching the Iraqi commander in the dark green uniform run to the car, his scope sight’s reticle center mass on the man. He let out his breath halfway, held it, and relaxed, crosshairs dead on target. Then he added pressure to his trigger finger.

  Boom! The rifle bucked against Jack’s shoulder, and he watched through the scope.

  Two steps from the back door of his Rolls-Royce sedan, the shot took the Iraqi commander off his feet and drove him backwards to the ground. As the bullet struck his upper chest, red spray and debris exploded from his body.

  Calm and cool, Jack drew back his bolt, ejected the spent cartridge slowly into his hand, never taking his eye off the rifle scope, watching the crowd of Iraqi officers pour out of the building, handguns and rifles drawn.

  “Report,” Elmore said on the satellite radio.

  Sirens began wailing, and Iraqi soldiers, rifles ready, poured from every wing of the command complex.

  “You ever piss in an ant bed, Skipper?” Hacksaw laughed, still snapping pictures. “Corporal Valentine just broke his cherry. Score him one kill. A general at that! Nice. Real nice.”

  “Your laser still painting the target?” Elmore asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Hacksaw replied, just as a whistling whining screaming sound from the sky came down and the entire command-center complex suddenly erupted in a massive, ground-shaking, deafening explosion. Dirt, debris, bodies, cars, trucks tumbled in the air as a great brown-and-gray cloud rose a thousand feet into the late-afternoon sky.

  “We best di di mau, Boo-Boo,” Hacksaw said, gathering equipment into the drag bag and rolling down the back side of the berm. Jack slid out, too, hot on his partner’s heels.

  —

  On February 24, 19
91, Allied ground forces rolled across the line of departure into Iraq. Saddam’s three-hundred-thousand-man force occupying Kuwait fled the land. Many of them surrendered to the Americans, while others faced death from their own Republican Guard, who shot deserting Iraqi soldiers on sight. In four days, Allied forces conquered the Iraqi army and restored Kuwait to its rightful owners. General Walter Boomer and his Marines waded through Kuwait the first day. Carl von Clausewitz and Sun Tzu would have been proud.

  On the second day of March, Elmore Snow and his team of five Marines sat at a table on the mess deck of the USS Iwo Jima. Like a family admiring baby pictures, they passed around copies of choice reconnaissance photographs they had taken during their deep special operations mission.

  “What do we do?” Hacksaw asked, holding up a photo he snapped of the dirtball mushroom cloud that used to be the Republican Guard headquarters.

  “We fuck shit up!” Jack laughed.

  “And the pièce de résistance,” Gillespie added, holding up a photograph of the Iraqi general just as Jack’s bullet struck him. Stop-action death. The center of his chest exploding as the bullet lifted him off his feet.

  Hacksaw grinned at Jack. “Corporal Valentine put the hammer of justice on this sand flea. Fucked him up!”

  “Hammer.” Raymond Ambrose smiled over his cup of coffee, looking at Jack. “I name you, Hammer.”

  Elmore Snow raised his coffee mug with his men and toasted their new addition. “Here’s to Hammer,” he said.

  “And here’s to the loss of virginity,” Jack added.

  “So, Corporal Valentine, what do you think of South America?” Elmore asked the young Marine.

  “I’m fluent in Spanish,” the corporal said, and smiled back. “Mexican, I should say. My mom, you know.”

  “I read that in your SRB,” the captain said, nodding.

  “Did you also see where I put in for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training?” Jack came back. “I’d really like to go, Skipper.”

  Everyone at the table looked at the green young corporal sideways.

  “What the fuck, over?” Hacksaw said. “BUD/S is redundant, shitstain. You done done it. What’s those deck apes gonna teach a badass Para-Frog Scout-Sniper Force-Recon hard-baked little bitch like you?”