Terminal Impact Page 15

  “Glad to know you, Claybaugh. Little Stevie plays both brands,” Cory said, and shook Billy’s hand.

  “He’s that dude, Silvio, on The Sopranos. Right?” Momo Costa asked.

  “Yeah,” Iceman said. “That’s him. Figures you’d know Little Stevie better for The Sopranos than Springsteen.”

  Momo shrugged, nodding much like Silvio did on The Sopranos.

  “These are some of my HOGs,” Jack said, realizing the need for introductions. “We got my Mob Squad here. Corporals Momo Costa, Sal the Pizza Man Principato, Nick the Nose Falzone, and their boss, Sergeant Carlo the Iceman Savoca.”

  “That’s fucking rich,” Hacksaw said. “Mob Squad. Figures you boys would be big on Tony Soprano. I like him, too. Fucking cold steel, that one.”

  They shook hands as Jack continued, “We got my number two gunsmith here, Sergeant Andre Romyantsev, better known around here as Rasputin the Devil.”

  “Call me Andre,” Romyantsev said as he shook hands with the three old pirates.

  “And you met Staff Sergeant Claybaugh,” Jack added. “We call him Billy-C. He and I’ve pulled a couple of pumps together before this one. Stone killer with a sniper gun, and one hell of a spotter. He’ll put you dope on, first shot.”

  “Glad to know ya, Billy-C,” Walter Gillespie said. “Retired Master Sergeant Walter Gillespie here. Just call me Hacksaw. That black guy there is none other than Kermit The Frog Alexander, and his asshole buddy there, Cory Webster, known to us as Habu. One deadly motherfucker. I was Jack’s sniper spotter back in the day, and broke the boy’s cherry.”

  He looked at Jack. “Remember that, Hammer? Fucking Iraqi general. Blew his shit straight to hell. Then, in about two seconds, screaming from the sky, comes two grand of holy shit. Mark 84 smart bomb blew the fuck out of that place. Only way we confirmed the general’s kill was I took pictures before the bomb hit. One hell of a memorable way for a Marine Scout-Sniper to step across that first kill threshold.”

  “Gunny Valentine really take out Pablo Escobar?” Momo asked.

  “Yes he did, young son,” Hacksaw said. “Old Jack the Hammer of Justice Valentine put fifty-two grains of .22-250 Sierra MatchKing lead straight through Escobar’s left ear. Surgical as it comes. I don’t think he even got wax on the bullet. Turned out that motherfucker’s lights at three hundred yards, downhill, cross-compartment. Hell of a shot! History says the Colombian National Police killed old Pablo, but in truth, it was Jack done it. I ought to know. I was right there by him, calling wind and range.”

  “Enough of the old-home-week nostalgia,” Jack gruffly interrupted as his buttery-eyed crew of young Scout-Snipers soaked in the story of their gunny’s glory days. “You just come by to say hello, Hacksaw, or did you want to suck my dick while you’re here?”

  “Fuck you, child.” Gillespie laughed. “Actually, I did come by just to say hello to an old friend. My boss, also, asked that if I did see you, I should try to persuade you to sign off on his toasted Escalade that fucking space cadet Ray-Dean Blevins put the thermite to a while back.”

  “Suck my dick, and I might think about it,” Jack said.

  “I’ll let that fucking Cesare Alosi suck your dick,” Walter said. “I delivered the message, and that’s all I said I’d do for that slimeball Sicilian piece of shit.”

  “Really do like the guy, huh?” Jack laughed.

  “Oh, fuck yeah!” Hacksaw let off. “Motherfucker’s been sending us down to Fallujah and Ramadi every day of the week since he got here. Trying to get us three killed, I think. He hates my fucking ass almost as much as he hates yours.”

  “What’s it worth to him for me to sign off on that Escalade?” Jack asked, curious.

  “Oh, he’d definitely suck your dick, and probably swallow, too,” Hacksaw grumbled. “Piece of shit, that one.”

  “He gay?” Jack asked.

  “He might suck cock, but I don’t think he’s totally Fruit-Loops,” Gillespie said. “He’s got a picture of one dark-eyed beauty on his desk. Guaranteed eating material. She’s way too pretty to just fuck. She kind of reminds me of that sweet thing you had back home. While we was down in Medellín. What’s her name? Liberty something?”

  “Liberty Cruz,” Jack answered, and gave his gang of grinning MARSOC operators a cold, no-smart-assed-remarks look. “She’s a special operations agent in the FBI nowadays.”

  “You don’t say,” Hacksaw said, and grinned at Jack’s crew of snipers. “You’ll have to get the Gunny here a little drunk, and maybe he’ll tell you about getting that pink ribbon full of sweet-smelling hair in the mail, when we was deployed to South America on drug-interdiction operations.”

  Then Hacksaw looked at Jack. “Did Elmore ever realize what kind of hair was tied up in that ribbon?”

  Jack shook his head no.

  “So, the little cheerleader’s a G-man now?” Hacksaw said, still grinning at the boys, knowing they were dying to ask about the hair and pink ribbon but knew better than to say a word more.

  “Yeah, she just finished SERE school at Lejeune,” Jack said. “Got an email from her this morning. She sent a picture. But I’m not so sure I want to show you.”

  “Oh, please! Can I see?” Billy chirped. “I love eye-fucking her shit. Hacksaw, you gotta take a look. This chick is way too hot for this dumb-ass gunny. She’s like a fucking movie star, but better.”

  “Alright, Hammer, let’s see how your little cheerleader has grown up. Come on, beam it up,” Hacksaw said.

  Jack opened the lid on his laptop and looked at the glassy eyes of his Marines and his old friends, licking their chops like they were about to see good porn.

  “No fucking comments. Got it?” Valentine said as he clicked the arrow on the email and opened Liberty’s latest picture, full screen.

  Liberty Cruz stood there in a nice-fitting tank top and well-fitting tailored cargo pants, snugging her in all the right places. She had her long, black hair let loose and wild around her gorgeous face. Topping off the whole she-warrior special-operator image, in her hands she held an M40A3 Marine Corps sniper rifle.

  “Mmm, mmm! Don’t she make that mantelpiece look good?” Billy-C exclaimed of the long cool woman holding the rifle.

  Hacksaw, Habu, and Kermit said nothing. Noticeably silent. Then nodded approvingly but uncomfortable.

  Jack looked at them. “Something wrong?”

  “Naw!” Hacksaw lied, recognizing the woman from Cesare’s desk. “Hell, Jack, she grew up real pretty. Kind of left me speechless. Your boys are right. She’s way too hot for a dumb-ass gunny like you.”

  “Fuck you, ass-wipe,” Jack said, closing the lid on his computer.

  “Look, Jack,” Hacksaw said, checking around to be sure no one unauthorized lurked anywhere near. “We’re headed out to Hit. Battalion operation we got assigned to support this morning. Contracting for the CIA. You know Chris Gray and Speedy Espinoza? Couple of former Marines gone spook?”

  “Know them both,” Jack said, smiling. “Chris and I served together in Force Recon, back in the Gulf War, when I joined your crew. Good men, both of them. I know all about the operation, too, Hacksaw. We’re heading up that way.”

  All three old operators laughed, delighted.

  “No shit?” Hacksaw said. “I kind of dreaded this one, just to be honest. Like Alosi stuck our pork in the fire this time to end all our troubles. Now, with you boys coming up? Why, it’ll feel like old times. Shit, now I’m happy. I ought to call my boss and let him know how happy I am, just to piss him the fuck off.”

  “Got something else for you, Walter.” Jack grinned. “You know that crazy flat-hat, Black Bart Roberts, commands one-five?”

  “Fucking Black Bart Roberts? No shit!” Walter Gillespie sang out. “Now he’s a pirate! At least the great-grandson of a pirate, for real. I thought that name E. B. Roberts on the brief sheet I read from Chris Gra
y looked familiar. Why, shit, Jack! We’re gonna have a hell of a good time.”

  “You’re heading that way now?” Jack asked.

  “Joining a truck convoy leaving here in an hour,” Hacksaw said, and let out a big sigh. “Wish we could chop up there by air. That road’s dangerous.”

  “Tell me about it,” Billy said, leaning on his crutches.

  “Yeah, we heard about your bad luck, Claybaugh,” Gillespie said. “We pulled into the opposite end of that ambush about the time they hauled you out to Charlie Med. You’re the poor fucker got shot in the ass. Right?”

  “That be me,” Billy said. “Just a graze, though, but it’s got me on a light-duty chit for a week or two.”

  “And your boy, the one got killed?” Hacksaw said, a solemn, respectful tone in his voice.

  “Lance Corporal Rowdy Yates,” Jack said, shaking his head, and all the snipers looked down at their toes, as if they suddenly joined in a moment of prayer.

  “Sorry to hear it,” the grizzled old Marine said. “Losing a brother’s never easy. I still grieve our boy Dirty Harry. Sergeant Leroy Griffin. The Scout-Sniper that Hammer replaced, back when he was a skinny little corporal. Griffin got killed down in South America, back in our cocaine-cowboy-huntin’ days. Never gets easy, Jack. I guess you know it.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Valentine agreed. “Elmore’s meeting the widow first thing this morning at Lejeune.”

  “Widow, huh?” Walter said, shaking his head.

  “Baby on the way, too,” Jack said.

  “Fuck. That sucks a big one,” Hacksaw said, taking a deep breath. “Look here. I’m making lots of money. Old man that owns Malone-Leyva loves me. Pays me rich coin. We get off this mission, I want to put fifty grand in a kitty for that girl and her baby. Start a fund. Get all the Marine Corps Scout-Snipers kicking in some jing-wah, too. Old Moose Ferran, out in Colorado Springs with the Scout-Sniper Association, I’ll get him to put something together righteous for her and the kid, God bless ’em.”

  “That’s good of you, Hacksaw,” Jack said. “That means a lot to me. It’ll mean a lot to Elmore, too.”

  “Old Elmore Snow,” Gillespie said. “Him and Mutt Ambrose used to scare the holy horseshit out of me with some of those goofy missions they’d dream up. Still kicking ass and taking names, then preaching Jesus on Sundays I guess?”

  “Fierce as ever, and not shy about sharing the Gospel.” Jack smiled. “And what of Master Gunny Ambrose? I lost track of him when he retired.”

  “Mutt?” Hacksaw said. “He’s running a rescue down in San Antonio for homeless kids, runaways from abusive situations. Him and his wife. I saw him just before I flew over here.”

  Jack smiled. “Not at all surprising.”

  “I hunted him down after he disappeared off the Scout-Sniper community radar. Feared him dead, but he’s doing real good. Real happy down there in south Texas,” Hacksaw added.

  “Glad to hear it,” Jack said.

  “Mutt Ambrose, one of the best ever. And Elmore Snow? He is the best, Jack. I do love that man,” Hacksaw said.

  “We all do, Walter,” Jack said, and every head in the room nodded.

  “He made our glory days, well . . . Glorious.” Gillespie smiled.

  “Yes he did, brother. Glorious. And still does,” Jack said.

  —

  Road dust and exhaust fumes mixed with burned-oil stench, smoking from the worn-out diesel engine of the Russian-made farm truck. Wafting through the floorboards, it left Giti Sadiq ready to toss her cookies. For the past two hours that she had rumbled southwestward down Iraqi Route 19 from Baiji toward Haditha, she swallowed hard to keep from spewing chunks. And, with each pothole they hit on the battered roadway, her morning nausea only got worse.

  Two hours on the road and their destination coming in sight, she felt every bit as green as the faded paint on the cab of the rust-bucket old KamAZ five-ton stake bed in which she rode, overloaded with wooden crates filled with produce for delivery in Haditha. A dusty brown tarp riddled with holes and tied to the sideboards with an eclectic collection of scavenged ropes flapped on top of the tipsy towering load.

  Beneath the tarp rode boxes of dates, apricots, and pomegranates, bundles of dried hot red peppers, cotton-cloth sacks of garlic, and big hemp-burlap bushel bags of onions. Lots of fresh sweet and hot peppers, garlic, and onions on this load, whose smell swirling with the truck fumes and goat stink of the graybeard driving, farting at regular intervals, only made Giti feel all the worse.

  This pungent load of eye-burning, nose-scorching produce hopefully cloaked the truck’s other load: a four-foot-tall-by-four-foot-wide-by-eight-foot-long plywood shelter installed behind the cab and buried under the boxes and bags of farm-to-market goods. Hidden inside it rode six al-Qaeda jihadists, tucked uncomfortably around a cache of Kalashnikov automatics with extra high-capacity magazines, two Dragunov sniper rifles, four Russian B-40 rocket-propelled-grenade launchers, and several cases of ammunition and rockets for the weapons.

  Giti only knew the graybeard driving the truck, Omar Bakr al-Nasser, by the strike of his murderous hands and the unceasing hardness of his third member, stabbed between her thighs as he raped her at will. Members of his growing Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah army, now allied with al-Qaeda Iraq, called him Abu Omar. Father Omar. However, for Giti, he was hardly any sort of father, nor any ilk of kin or husband of even the loosest definition, but her owner.

  She served Omar’s will as one of three captive girls taken from the rural Tigris River countryside at Al-Shirqat, a town about halfway between Baiji, to the south, and Mosul, to the north. They belonged to this hateful old dog with stinking bad breath and putrid teeth, who smelled worse than wet goats covered in shit because he never bathed. Always sweaty and foul, and always hard.

  Giti feared with nauseating certainty that she had gotten pregnant, and knew that as soon as Abu Omar learned it, he would toss her to his wolves, who would all have a good time defiling her. Then they would kill her. And her child. That’s what he did to another slave he knocked up, just after he took Giti and the two other Christian girls from Al-Shirqat.

  While Giti lived for survival’s sake as a Muslim, she secretly prayed to Jesus Christ, her Lord and Savior, and one of the three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, of the one true God of her small Presbyterian life. She prayed to God the Father through His Son, Jesus, for relief. She begged Him for deliverance from her horror. She longed for God’s mercy but got none of it. Her faith lacked strength of conviction, and she felt shame for it. She should have died protesting for Christ. Instead, she had feared death, and put on the Muslim shawl to remain alive. Enslaved and terrified.

  Early in her life, under Saddam’s reign, Giti’s family had worshipped God as Evangelical Christians under a government policy of narrow tolerance. Christians, as with the Sunni Muslims, along the upper Tigris valley had supported Iraq’s Ba’athist socialism and Hussein’s regime. In return, Saddam tolerated them.

  Her father and mother had married in the little Presbyterian church in Mosul, located on the city’s Right Coast, near the corner of Nineveh and Nabi Jorjis Streets, which stood in the shadows of the Al-Nabi Jarjis Shrine, Al-Hadba’a Minaret, and Al-Noree Grand Mosque.

  Then, with the fall of Saddam Hussein and the arrival of the Americans, which installed Iraq’s Shia-led government, Muslim Ba’athist socialists became jihadists of Ansar al-Sunnah, that became Ansar al-Ahlu Sunnah and Ansar al-Islam, and that became Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah. They swore death to the Shia’s Mahdi Army and their allies in the Iraqi and American governments, and to all Christians. Thus Abu Omar murdered Giti’s father and two younger brothers. He cut their throats and took off their heads as Giti and her mother and baby sister watched. Then he turned his pistol on the mother and her child, and offered them life if they embraced Islam and renounced their Christian faith. When they refused, he shot them point-blank.
First the child. Then the mother.

  Abu Omar Bakr al-Nasser later put his people in the Sadiq family farm. The farm that Giti’s father and grandfather and great-grandfather had scratched from bare ground with their blood and sweat, and made flourish over generations. It now became a resource for the Ansar al-Sunnah army. Because Abu Omar had found her desirable, he took Giti as a slave, along with two other Christian girls from Al-Shirqat.

  With her family still warm on the ground, their blood running into the soil that once grew their crops of wheat, oats, and lentils along the rich Tigris lands, Abu Omar gave the other Christian women the chance to live by turning from Jesus Christ and bowing to the Muslim faith. All they had to do was bow down to Muhammad.

  Most of the women and children did this by kneeling before Omar and declaring themselves Muslim, but a few refused. One at a time, the graybeard shot them with his pistol. Even the smallest child.

  Like every charismatic leader, Abu Omar Bakr al-Nasser had his grand scheme for the world. He foresaw a great land of Islam, the mountains lowered and the valleys raised. A return to the splendor of Persia, the Levant, a time where no borders contain the Muslim people, and Arabs rule without equal.

  Just as the prophesies foretell, Moslem brothers of the west will look across this plain and see their Moslem brothers of the east, and Moslem brothers of the east will likewise look across that plain and see their Moslem brothers of the west. Omar prayed to Allah for the prophesies of the Hadith, a world united in Islam, to come now, without further delay. Hasten the Mahdi, who will bear Muhammad’s name and his father’s name, and will be the protector of knowledge, the heir to all the knowledge of all the prophets and aware of all things, to now be born and lead Islam with justice and peace in a world torn by injustice and tyranny. He believed that violence and chaos would hasten the birth of this Guided One, the Lord of the Ages, and his time of Islamic Ummah would finally come.

  Abu Omar preached these Sunni beliefs, steeped in his Ba’ath Socialist ideals, to his growing army, and embraced the Palestinian Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and his al-Qaeda Iraq camp as brothers in common cause. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.