The good thing about going last was that he’d had time to get his story straight. It was pretty close to the truth, minus the minor point that he’d been a werewolf during most of it. He completely left off the attack on the mortar truck and was relieved when he heard that the Apache crew had been given full credit for that.
The debrief took him back to his first debrief. The names and faces had changed, but it was almost the same. Aiden wondered if they went by some sort of script. The questions he received were basic: why did he take this action, why that one? What was each insurgent doing? How were they armed? Aiden thought that was odd because they had the bodies, so wouldn’t it just be easier to check them?
Despite their seeming lack of outward emotion, Aiden could tell that the officers were impressed even if they acted like this was an everyday occurrence. This was recon, after all, and officers were not immune to the cache. Under their exterior, though, Aiden thought he could sense awe. The major had a different air about him, not really awe, but as if he had been wondering what he would have been able to do in the same situation.
One thing puzzled them, though. They kept coming back to it.
“I still don’t understand why you took off your boots, LCpl Kaas. Can you go over that one more time?” the battalion intel officer asked.
Aiden had not been able to get back to his boots and helmet before he met up with the platoon. Gunny hadn’t let him go find them, and he’d come back to Hurricane Point barefoot and bareheaded.
Luckily, he’d had a chance to come up with an excuse.
“Well, sir, when I was in the grunts, there was this sergeant, Sgt Gata Gata. He was a Samoan, and he always told us, if you gotta go quietly, like to slit a throat of a lookout, you know, you gotta go barefoot. I didn’t know how many of them there were, and I knew I probably had to sneak up on them, so I just took them off.”
There was just enough truth to the backstory that it had to be accepted. There were a number of Pacific Islanders in the Corps, and many infantry officers had either witnessed or heard of an islander who would take off his boots at the slightest opportunity. Some may have heard it from someone who had heard it from someone who heard it from someone they knew wasn’t BS’ing them, but that was enough. When the major nodded at that, Aiden knew his excuse would be accepted.
“That’s hardly SOP there, Marine, but I guess you can’t argue with success,” a captain said. Aiden didn’t remember the officer’s job, but he nodded and tried to look humble.
“Well,” the captain went on, “you’ve been through this before, I know, so you know what’s coming. I need a written statement on what happened. Just repeat what you told us. You made the Corps proud today. I would not be surprised to see you up for something to go along with your Silver Star. Go get cleaned up, and I’ll make sure that the DFAC keeps the midrats going until you and the others get fed.”
Aiden came to attention, did an about face, and marched out the hatch.
As it was closing behind him, he caught someone, it sounded like the major, saying, “He sure doesn’t look like much, but that’s one helluva Marine.”
He smiled as he started for the hatch out of the building. He was surprised to see Gunny Despirito sitting on the wooden bench outside. He stopped as the gunny stood up and stretched.
“So, Huck, you ready to get some chow?”
“Huck, Gunny?”
“Yeah, you know,” he said, pointing at Aiden’s feet. “Like Huck Finn, always going barefoot.”
The gunny had never thanked him for saving their asses. Aiden hadn’t expected it. He was a Marine, a recon Marine, and he was just doing his job. If the gunny had thanked him, it would be as if he hadn’t expected Aiden to what had to be done. But having the gunny give him a nickname, even one as lame as “Huck,” well, that was all the thanks he needed. He was part of the team.
Chapter 38
“MAJ Ward, you and Specialist Sutikal need to be at the terminal no later than 1300. Do you need help with any of your gear?” the Spec 4 asked, pointing at the two duffle bags by the door.
Keenan wondered if he offered that to all officers or if he was aware that between the two of them, MT and he had only two real legs.
“No, that’s OK. We’ll handle it,” he said.
It wasn’t that far to the “terminal,” a rather grandiose description of the shack at the edge of the helo port outside the embassy. They were scheduled to catch a Black Hawk to Taqaddum, then a flight to Kuwait where the Army would keep them for a few days, ostensibly for processing, but really to allow them to decompress before being permitted back into the civilized world. Not that he and MT needed it. They had not been in combat. They spent their time chasing figments of the imagination for the past 15 months.
He leaned back in his chair, feet (one real, one fake) up on his desk. This office had been his home, but with him packed up and ready to leave, it looked no different than it had when the two of them had first entered it. He hadn’t even made an impression on the place, he hadn’t made his mark. He didn’t know who would use it next, but there was no evidence that MAJ Keenan Ward, US Army, one each, had ever been there. This was a fitting reflection of his Army career.
“You ready to get back to the real world?” he asked MT.
“You got it, MAJ,” he said, pronouncing the rank as “mage.” “I’m ready to leave this dump.”
That was about it. The two of them had nothing else to say. He glanced at his watch. Chow would start in about half an hour. He could grab a Panini and have plenty of time to mosey on over to catch his helo. The food at the DFAC was surprisingly good, but it still seemed surreal that at the DFAC express lane inside the embassy itself, he could put together his own Panini, grill it, and sit at one of the small round tables to enjoy it. If it weren’t for the surplus of uniforms and weapons, he might have been in a small café in California or New York.
Keenan had packed up his laptop, but MT still had his hooked up, probably playing games. Technically, Keenan thought their internet connection was supposed to have already been cut, but the enlisted had their own way of doing things to get around procedures. It didn’t bother Keenan one bit.
“Hey, Major, the report just came in. You want to take a look?” he asked.
He thought the reports had also been cut off, but once again, it didn’t matter. He looked across the office. It seemed like a long, long way to MT’s desk, at least eight or even nine feet, and he was comfortable sitting where he was.
“Nah, I think I’ll delegate it to you today. You’re in charge.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Major. I’m touched.”
Smartass, Keenan thought, but a smile made a brief appearance on his face.
Keenan wouldn’t know what was in store for him until after he reported back to the Puzzle Palace, but he wouldn’t mind if he and MT were together. It wasn’t just their missing legs that connected them, but the two men were a good match as professional soldiers.
He locked his hands in back of his head and closed his eyes. There would be a lot of time for sleep over the next five or six days, but it never hurt to catch some shuteye when the opportunity arose.
“Oh, man, Major. Here’s a good one. A Marine recon platoon got ambushed by the mujahideen yesterday. One lance corporal takes out 12 of them, then the gunny assaults the rest, killing all but two who are captured. That’s some hot shit!”
Keenan didn’t even open his eyes. During their 15 months, he’d read report after report of soldiers going superhero on the bad guys. It wasn’t just the SEALS, the Rangers, Air Force Para-rescue, or like this Marine recon platoon; in a war with no front lines, it had been truck drivers, clerks, mechanics, even that one Coastie. They answered the call with courage. None of them, though, showed anything other than being just what they seemed to be: well-trained servicemen and women.
“Oh shit,” MT said.
Keenan opened one eye, waiting for MT to elaborate.
“Uh, sir? I think
you need to see this.”
In the office, with just the two of them, most of the military formalities had fallen by the wayside. For MT to use the word “sir,” something was different. Keenan got up and went over to MT, who scooted to the side to give him a better view. He pointed to some text on the screen.
Under interrogation, detainee #2 stated that they had been attacked by a “shaytaan.” Said detainee fired at the shaytaan, hitting it, but without effect. He then put down his weapon and sat quietly until captured by the Marine forces.
A shaytaan was an Arabic demon. This was not a smoking gun by any stretch of the imagination, but it certainly caught his attention.
“What do you think, sir?” asked MT.
“I think some hajji got scared and started imagining things. That, or he didn’t want to ascend into heaven just yet, and this was his excuse to stop fighting.”
“Well, maybe. It’s just that, well, you know . . .” MT went on, trailing his voice into silence.
“Yeah, I know.”
He didn’t have to elaborate. Neither one of them believed in the mission, but still, it would have been good to justify what they’d been doing for the last 15 months.
“Let me see the rest of that.”
Keenan finished the report of the POW, then went back to the beginning. The name of the Marine who’d broken the ambush rang a bell.
“Kaas, didn’t we get that name before?” he asked MT.
“Yeah, I think so. Wasn’t he that sniper? Here, let me look.” MT paused as he brought up an Excel spreadsheet. “No, here he is. PFC Aiden Kaas. Took out some insurgents with his bare hands.”
“I remember, now. It looked good for a moment, but he was hospitalized afterwards. Any word on injuries this time?” Keenan asked.
“None, sir.”
“So, we’ve just got some kid who evidently can kick some ass. Not our target.”
“Do you want to check it out anyway?” MT asked.
Keenan looked at his watch. There wouldn’t be time to even make a dent on this before they had to go, and he was ready to leave the Sandbox and get home. He picked up his laptop case and pulled out a thumb drive.
“Here, copy that on this. I can look into it after we get back just as easily as from here.”
He knew it was nothing. The kid had gotten both a Purple Heart and had gotten deathly ill. Both meant he wasn’t any sort of paranormal creature. Still, for another two hours at least, it was his job to investigate.
Chapter 39
Hozan had been feeling uneasy. He’d felt the unmistakable twinge of a shift the day before, not close enough to know from which direction it came or even how many of the Tribe might have shifted. He didn’t even know how far out his abilities to detect a shift could reach, but he hadn’t felt anything since getting to Ramadi. He knew of at least one member of the Tribe in the city, but Shukrah was a very conservative woman, older than him, and not likely to be shifting without reason.
It could just be lack of sleep. That may have been making him jumpy. He’d pulled two “all nighters,” as his supervisor called them, staying up after midrats and through the breakfast meal and onto lunch, dinner, and midrats again. Ramadi was a difficult place to get people to work for the Americans, and as they were shorthanded, the current workers were often asked to work extra shifts. Hozan didn’t need much sleep, but still, going without it had some effects.
He lay down on the small cot in the tiny boarding house room, staring at the ceiling. A small beat-up fan tried mightily to move cool air over him, but that would require some cool air in the first place. He knew he needed sleep, but it just wouldn’t come.
If it wasn’t Shukrah who had shifted, then could have been Aiden? The young man knew better than that. Maybe it had been someone else who had come into the area. It wasn’t like every member of the Tribe had to check in with him.
He had finally started to drift off when a presence made itself known. Hozan came to with a start. Another member of the Tribe was in Ramadi, and he was climbing the stairs. Hozan felt relief. Whoever it was, it was probably him who had shifted.
There was a heavy knock on the door, and Hozan opened it to admit a young member of the Tribe, a large, muscle-bound man. He could pass for an Iraqi, but he wasn’t Arab or Kurd. He looked around the bare room, his upper lip rising in disgust.
“Hozan, I presume?” he asked in English with an Eastern-European accent.
The visitor should have been able to sense that Hozan was a member of the Tribe, and he obviously knew where he lived, so why the question, Hozan wondered? He simply nodded.
The man came in, shutting the door behind him. He looked around as if he wanted to sit, but finding nothing other than the bed, remained standing.
“You know Günter Wais,” he said as fact instead of a question.
Günter Wais was on the Council, one of the more influential members. He was a traditionalist, the self-proclaimed protector of their culture and history.
“I am here at his bidding. I was told that you have been our eyes on the half-breed Aiden Kaas,” he said, pronouncing the name as “Kaze.”
Hozan went on alert. This couldn’t be good. The use of the term “half-breed” alone sent a message. Suddenly, the shift he’d felt the day before had an explanation. Aiden had given in and made the shift. Hozan’s heart fell, hoping against hope that he wasn’t going to hear what he expected to hear.
The stranger went on without waiting for a response. “Yesterday, the half-breed shifted. Not only did he shift, but he was spotted doing so, and an Iraqi has reported what he saw to the Americans.
He’d done it in public? And been spotted? This was very, very bad.
“Are you sure?” Hozan asked, realizing how stupid the question sounded.
“Yes, I am sure. I have my contacts, and the Americans have the Iraqi’s eyewitness account. The half-breed’s unit was under attack, and a janus was seen in the counter-attack.
“As you may or may not know, this unplanned half-breed was, well, let’s say that some members of the Council had a connection to him, and so the order to exterminate him was not immediately given. However, most of the Council knew that the half-breed would not be disciplined, that he would be a danger to the Tribe. He was given more than enough of a chance, but now it is time to end this unholy experiment. He is not one of us, and he has to be destroyed.”
Hozan prayed that he was not being told that he would be the executioner. He just couldn’t do that.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“I’ve been told that you can sense those of the Tribe. I need you to help me find him.”
Hozan was devastated. He understood that the Tribe had to be protected, but Aiden had become a son to him, replacing his missing family. He wanted to point out that on one hand, this stranger said that Aiden was not one of them, but on the other hand, he wanted Hozan to find him as one of “the Tribe.” He was relieved that he was not being tasked with killing Aiden, but that was scant comfort.
He didn’t need to use his senses to know where Aiden was. At breakfast, they had a few quick words, and Aiden had told him where his platoon, what was left of it, would be. He toyed with the idea of sending the executioner somewhere else, but that would only delay the inevitable. He had a duty to the Tribe, and Aiden, headstrong Aiden, had flaunted the rules.
He really had no choice. With a heavy heart, he told the stranger what he wanted to know. The man tilted his head in acknowledgment and stepped out of the room. Hozan listened to the man’s footsteps as he went back down the rickety stairs and left the boarding house.
Chapter 40
The little boy with the “Miami Heet” and the number 88 on his shirt stared at Cam, Gonzo, and Aiden. Aiden wasn’t sure there was even a number 88 on the “Heet,” and he was sure that the Heat’s team colors were not green and yellow, but that was typical of the pseudo-American culture he’d seen during his two tours. American culture was what somebo
dy imagined it was, spelling and facts be damned.
The boy stood watching them for twenty seconds before putting his hands down on the dirt, then kicking up his legs. He hand-walked in front of them, turned around, and walked back. With a little kip of his legs, he bounced back up on his feet and started staring again, not saying a word.
Cam laughed and clapped. It was good to see Cam out of Charlie Med. His face was all messed up, but that would heal, albeit with some heavy scarring. His sprained knee would heal. Aiden had thought Cam was about gone when he’d pulled him back into the ditch, but other than a slight concussion, he was going to be OK. He arrived back at their SWA before they left this morning and had insisted on coming.
Aiden, on the other hand, had thought that a visit to the orphanage was just a little too kumbaya. The chaplain had arranged it, obviously to take their mind off their losses, and maybe to remind them just why they were in Iraq in the first place. He warmed to the visit, though, once they arrived. It was hard not to be in a good mood with a bunch of laughing kids around.
“You gonna show him how it’s done there, Frankenstein?’ he asked Cam.
“No one’s buying that Frankenstein shit, there, ‘Huck,’” Cam said with a laugh.
Aiden thought it fit. Cam was going to have two very prominent scars on his face, and with him getting a nickname, he thought Cam should have one, too.
“Why not? If you shitheads are going to call me ‘Huck’ just ’cause I went barefoot, then, I mean really, doesn’t Frankenstein fit?”
“Actually, it doesn’t,” Gonzo said. “Dr. Frankenstein was the inventor. You’re thinking of the monster itself.”
“Whatever,” Aiden said with a wave of his hand. “What do you know anyway? You’ve already got your nickname. And about that, what the fuck’s a ‘Gonzo?’”
“Isn’t that one of the Muppets?” Cam asked.
Gonzo just smiled and said nothing.
The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy Page 21