Black Angel

by Jack Dayton

  “Get your kit, Sergeant.”

  Guidry picked up Freshwater’s gear and they moved toward the direction the RPG had come from. The admin hut was off to the north of the small outpost and, though not isolated, it was an easy target. Quickly the two Marines reached the perimeter, skirted the coiled wire and belly crawled up the berm at the edge of the camp. At a distance, figures moved across the rocky landscape. Both Marines wordlessly crested the ridge and moved with a low grace, close to the ground but moving quickly. Vance was regretting that he had his whole kit when all he really needed was his weapon but there was no hesitating now.

  The terrain alternated between hills of stony sand and low gullies but was mostly flat. They lost the figures twice when moving to the low points but they found them again after cresting the rises. Finally, they scrambled to the top of a rise and found themselves looking down on a flat plain of sand and scrub on the edge of the Red Desert. In the distance a rough outcrop of rocky peaks rimmed the flat desert space.

  The figures were closer, no longer running. “Whadya think?” Guidry asked. “This might be our best shot.”

  Vance dropped his kit and quickly positioned himself, propping his M110 on its bipod. He was grateful now for his sniper’s obsession with his weapon. He had cleaned it and squared it away before he brought it in from the field and it was now as ready as he needed it to be. He began to adjust the sight as Guidry got down on his belly, his field glasses in place and found the two figures. He handed the glass to Vance as he swept a four inch camel spider off his pack. He looked out and found them.

  “Are those our guys?” Guidry asked.

  Vance assessed the two males in the traditional Perahan tunban, the full-length loose fitting clothes worn by Afghan males . . . he could clearly make out the launch apparatus strapped across the back of the taller of the two. “Affirmative. These are our guys.”

  Vance handed the glasses back to Guidry who again relocated the two. “Are they still in range? Laser says they are maybe 800 meters away.”

  Vance peered through the scope. “Technically, yeah. Maybe . . . It’s a long shot . . . literally. You know what to do?”

  Guidry didn’t waste time but studied the two figures as they continued to recede from view. “You ready?” He waited gazing out through the glasses. Then dead calm “800 meters. Wind range at 7, full value, right to left.”

  Vance responded “On target. Center mass up.”

  “Fire when ready.” Vance squeezed off a round. It kicked up a flash of sand and both figures hit the ground.

  Guidry tracked through the glasses “Half a mil low hit. Fire when ready.”

  “Re-engage,” Vance responded.

  “Fire when ready.” Another round, close to the prone men. More sand flung in the air. Both sprang up in panic, in full flight now.

  An almost imperceptible shift in the weapon, a slight cough, inhaled breath, exhaled. Another round fired . . . Big man goes down.

  “Hit,” Guidry confirmed one down.

  “Re-engage.”

  Vance coughed again, the tightness in his chest the accumulation of days laying on the ground inhaling the micro dust of the Afghan desert. Inhale and then exhale. Still. Still.

  “Fire when ready,” Guidry’s voice registered as a low growl. Another round . . . “Hit.”

  Vance dropped his head and exhaled slowly.

  “Well done, Sergeant.”

  Vance turned to Guidry and shook his head. Guidry shrugged. It was odd, laying there on the hot sand, something Vance hadn’t been aware of until just that moment, with an officer. Guidry was uncharacteristically quiet. It was not every day that you control the fate of two strangers who had tried to kill you just minutes before. Guidry was propped on his elbows, the glasses in his hands, face inches from the sand. Vance rolled over on his back for a moment, the exhaustion from the last three days collapsing over him. The sky, an unbroken expanse of blue above him, blanketed them from horizon to horizon. Now all he wanted was sleep.

  “Shit,” Vance broke the silence jumping up to brush a camel spider off his blouse and shake himself, flinching at the thought of the odd looking cross between an insect and a crustacean getting under his blouse.

  Guidry laughed at the jig Vance was doing. He went quiet then. “Whatdya think, Vance? Should we go see what’s going on with Blow-Up?”

  Vance turned and couldn’t suppress the smile and then the mirth that overcame him. Guidry looked quizzical but then it caught him, too. It left them both helpless, snorting with laughter. It made no sense. A combination of fatigue, relief and acknowledgement of just how weird life was. Right then, laughter was the only reasonable response.

  They collected the gear and started back to the outpost. Patrolling back as the professionals they were, watching for the next pair of bad guys. Or worse. Long silences, then deep breaths finally with smatterings of laughter that continued until they got back to the admin hut and found Freshwater. He was helping clear debris but left off abruptly to collect his kit from Guidry who displayed an appropriate level of mock outrage. “I don’t know what the fuck you were thinking, Sergeant Freshwater, when you left your kit out in the open for any old jihadi to stroll up and walk off with it. I just spent the last hour running all over this goddamn camp trying to make sure you didn’t get court martialed for losing your kit. I wanted to write you up but Sergeant Vance talked me out of it. You better get your head out of your ass and start thinking about gear accountability and force protection, Sergeant.”

  Freshwater took his kit his eyes shifting from the Guidry to Vance. “Sir, yes, sir . . . I was just . . . but Sergeant Vance . . . ” He seemed skeptical, still unsure.

  “I don’t wanna hear any of your broke-ass excuses, Freshwater. Be grateful I am in a decent mood.” Guidry shot a glance at Vance’s poker face.

  Vance realized Guidry was back to his old self. He finally spoke up. “Lieutenant, I’m sure Sergeant Freshwater will keep his kit secure from now on and may let you use it again if you ask politely.”

  A hint of a smile crept over Freshwater’s face. “Good to go, Lieutenant.”

  Guidry winked at the Marine. He turned then and headed off to the aid hut. “Let’s go see about Blow-Up. We can come back and clean up the mess in the hut when the sun goes down.”

  “Sure,” Vance and Freshwater followed. “You still need to file those contractor reports.”

  Guidry gave Vance a side eye look. “Sergeant, with an attitude like that, you may make Commandant someday.”

  Vance smiled wistfully. He didn’t know about Commandant. He knew he was good at his job. A day like today made that clear. He never felt more useful to his Marines or to his country. He just wondered if the two men lying in the Red Desert had considered how their day would end. Now, walking to the aid hut, Vance wondered what he would find there and how his day would end. If he was lucky, he would be back cleaning up the admin hut. Then a shower, his rack. No AC. That he could count on.

  Chapter 5

  Anton Kulyak eyes fixed on the pool of light that splashed across the ceiling of his well-appointed bedroom. Some nights it looked like a bowl, others, an umbrella. Some nights, like this one when the dark places in his mind and soul finally forced resignation that there would be no sleep, it appeared exactly like the flower-like explosion of a thermo-baric bomb. Like the ones the Russians had used in Grozny when he was a kid. The cone of light was a reflection from the room at the front of his luxury apartment. Something in that room was reflecting the light from across the street, the light that burned 24 hours a day.

  Kulyak sat on the edge of the bed. He let out a long breath and rolled to his feet. There was no point in laying there. He took a Marlboro from the pack and watched as the blue propane of his lighter fired. The blue tint of the small fire bomb shined a ghostly light across his chiseled face, giving the ruts and tracks of old wounds a sinister cast. It couldn’t fully illuminate his aquiline features. Still attractive at middle age, even with the wear a
nd abuse his life had exacted. He took a drag on the cigarette and raked his left hand through his hair, feeling the black waves run against his rough palm. He walked slowly to the front of the penthouse to the full-length window wall and looked out at the night, and the memorial. The Marine Corps Memorial. There was a lot to remember. A great deal more he would like to forget.

  It was night but even in the diffused light from the reflection the imprint of his many tattoos could clearly be seen. The Chechen Wolf Mother on his chest, his protection from enemies and worry. He smiled. Where was She tonight? The Hamsa on his shoulder from his time in Qatar. A Hand of God protecting him from the evil eye. His wrists braceleted by barbed wire, a crude addition from Afghanistan to mark his time with the Marines.

  He studied his hands, the smoke from the cigarette curling like a ribbon around his fingers. His most personal marks, the Чрный clearly visible across the palm of his left hand, the ангел, nestled in the palm of his right. Black Angel. His rebel father whom he followed into the hills after Grozny. Always in his hands. He closed his hands and drew them to his chest, reaching back into his memories of his days when he fought for something worth dying for.

  He flipped his hands and dimly, but still apparent, the “Semper” on the back of his left and “Fi” on his right, in the gothic font he loved. His two great loves. The Black Angel, the rebel who kept fighting even after Grozny, was his war papa. The one who made him a man.

  But the Marine Corps were his war brothers. They fought for him, stayed behind for him, pulled him out of rubble and dragged him to a safe space. They showed him the other side, too. The side that made him look forward to the down time, the time between the high accelerant of combat encounters when boredom was the greatest enemy. It was the back and forth of ‘you shut up,’ ‘no, you shut up.’ It was the odd thing called a practical joke that he had never seen before but found he loved, like a game where you never knew what might happen next. He loved chow and trading MRE prizes like one Chili Mac for two CCCs - Country Captain Chickens. His time in the hills in Chechnya above Grozny had erased any hesitation he might have about food of any type. He relished his ability to shock the Marines at what he would eat, demonstrating a particular affinity for camel spiders and small rodents, cooked, of course. The Marines loved his toughness and his unflappable demeanor. His nickname, Kool, was as much a descriptor of his flat, unemotional facial expression under any circumstances as a diminutive of his last name.

  He hated leaving Afghanistan when his contract was over. Worldwide Agri was at the end of the contract and the mission was no longer viable but he would have stayed if he could have. He had found a place in the Marines’ mission to work with the Afghan farmers to shift from poppies to wheat. He spoke Pashto and was a Muslim so he was a valued resource to the mission. It was not his decision. He had made the connections though and he could use those.

  He couldn’t work with Marines but his time at Faizal was enough to get him to America and that was the beginning.

  Now he gazed down on the Memorial, the sun tinting the sky around the Lincoln Memorial a muted rose.

  He focused on the statue, shadowed but still bright in the early dawn. He could live anywhere but he never tired of looking out the glass wall of this condominium at the memorial and the city beyond. And there were always Marines close by, visiting this shrine like Mecca. He smiled a little at that. It was fitting.

  The clock. It was already late . . . 0600. He needed to get to the restaurant. His crazy cook, Abukhan, would be there already cursing the night crew for not cleaning up properly, yelling for his kitchen help. He was still mad about Alik. Kulyak closed his eyes. Sure, he could explain that Alik had found an outside gig at a Christmas party. It was all the other questions. The answers he was giving sounded like bullshit. The real reasons Alik was found dead at the foot of a hill behind a house in McLean even he didn’t know.

  * * *

  Vance scanned the screen and tried to get his attention back to the email in front of him. It was from Sergeant Major Cade. He was letting him know that one of his Marines, Lance Corporal Sanchez, had been tagged by the Stafford Target security for shoplifting a razor from the store on Route 610. The security guys there were willing to refer it to the Marine’s command as a courtesy but Cade was mad. He wanted this Marine to know that this would not be a part of this year’s Command Chronology.

  This was the last thing Vance needed. He was headed out to McLean to talk with a detective in the afternoon but as distracting an event as that presented, he wasn’t about to delegate this to Seelbach. He let Cade know that he would handle it and it wouldn’t be an issue in the future. A short walk down the hall to Seelbach’s office confirmed his assumption. Sanchez sat at the round table in the space next to Seelbach’s desk. Seelbach popped up from his seat, as did Lance Corporals Casper and Sanchez.

  Vance looked directly at Sanchez. “Lance Corporal, I want to talk to you in my office. Sergeant Seelbach, I want you in there, too.

  “Yes, Gunny,” Seelbach glowered at Sanchez who stared straight ahead. Seelbach got rid of his dip spit and both Marines followed Gunny Vance back to his office.

  “Close the door, Sergeant,” the Gunny ordered. “Don’t sit down.”

  Seelbach closed the door and stood at parade rest in front of it. Lance Corporal Sanchez stood in front of the Gunny’s desk again exhibiting the 1000 mile stare.

  “Okay, Lance Corporal, you know why you are here.”

  “Yes, Gunny,” Sanchez answered expressionless.

  “You are accused of taking a fancy razor. What’s it called here? A Pitbull Gold Skull Shaver. Is there anything you want to say?”

  “No, Gunny.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  “So you admit that you tried to leave the store without paying for the shaver?”

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  “Not that you forgot to pay or whatever?”

  “No, Gunny.”

  “Okay, that makes this simple. Sergeant Major Cade is clear on this. We are going by the book. Now, you understand that I am only recommending this as the appropriate measures for this lapse, Sanchez. The actual decision and orders will come down from Training and Education Center so you can prepare yourself but the final decisions aren’t mine. Just the recommendation. Are we clear?

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  “Okay. So the recommendations will be that you are going to be issued a nonjudicial punishment. You are to be confined to barracks for two weeks. You are to leave only for meals at the chow hall. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  “You are going to lose a stripe and will go back to Private First Class. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  Gunny was waiting for some sign of regret or apology but so far nothing. He continued. “This is the United States Marine Corps and we only function when we are able to trust each other, when we show the character and integrity it takes to put yourself at risk for someone else. What you did was selfish, Sanchez. It showed a lack of commitment to what it means to be a Marine.”

  The lance corporal continued his implacable stare. The Gunny paused. He had no authority to take the step he was considering. He knew Sanchez was a good Marine. He wasn’t about to let him go without knowing whether he wanted to continue to be a Marine and put this behind him.

  “Okay, you are going to leave here and Sergeant Seelbach is going to get the paperwork ready and I’m going to sign it and he is going to forward it up Sergeant Major Cade. Then it is going to go up to TECOE for final determination. But before the orders are signed and your barracks time starts and you leave the Marines in your unit to pick up the slack for you as you stay in your rack back at the barracks, you are going to go to Sergeant Seelbach’s office and you are going to call your father in San Antonio and you are going to tell him what you did.”

  Vance caught Seelbach offering a subtle nod of his head. Sanchez blinked and his mouth opened as though h
e was about to speak.

  “You have something you want to say, Sanchez?”

  Sanchez let out a small breath, as if he wanted to say something but then caught himself. His eyes still fixed at a point on the horizon glistened. Sanchez swallowed, his breath unsteady now. A single tear had found its way from the corner of his eye and had made its way down the side of his face. He eyes flicked up to the Gunny’s face, now a mask of stern resolve. His stare now replaced by hooded eyes, Sanchez made no moved to wipe his face. He rasped a muted “No, Gunny.”

  “Sergeant Seelbach, take the lance corporal back to your office and have him call his dad.”

  “Yes, sir, Gunny.”

  Vance sat down at his desk and emailed Sergeant Major Cade with the details of the Sanchez conversation and logged out of his email. Maybe Sanchez would correct himself or maybe his father would help him work through to get his footing. He let out a deep breath and closed the door to change into his civilian clothes. He would think about the questions that the McLean detectives would ask on his way up I-95. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy the belief that his Marine wasn’t lost, just finding his way.

  * * *

  Detective Desmond LeVeque slammed the phone back into its cradle. The conversation reflected the frustration the entire investigation had become. The murders at the Norwegian Defense Attache’s were clearly in McLean’s jurisdiction but the tangle of interests associated with the diplomatic corps had created a maze of authorities all competing to control the direction of the inquiry. Instead of leading the investigation, LeVeque was playing a supporting role, gathering information from the people he was allowed to talk to. Not the ones he knew could have information that would make a difference in the case. The investigation was a maze of contending players most of whom he had no access to. There was something else . . . some reluctance, some hesitation to go at this the way it should have been treated. LeVeque had given up on pushing back. That had gotten him a stern directive to ‘stay in his lane’ by his lieutenant. So that’s what he was doing.