by Young, Mark
OFF THE GRID
A Gerrit O’Rourke Novel
By Mark Young
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Coming Works by Mark Young
About the Author
Contact Mark
Copyright
Joseph Costello
A man who peered into the future
And understood the good and the bad
Prologue
Fallujah, Al Anbar Province, Iraq, December 2004
They were on their own.
Diesel growls from M1A1 Abrams tanks beckoned from a distance. Tanks circled the city like lumbering metal horses of war, though their mighty firepower could do him and his men no good here. Narrow city streets permitted only pedestrians and small vehicular traffic to squeeze through. No room for armored cavalry to maneuver, only small arms and hand-to-hand combat worked in these tight places.
Gerrit O’Rourke eased himself to the dusty floor, quietly resting his rifle against the wall. Gazing upward, a black cavernous hole in the ceiling, carved out some time ago by an explosive fist from an artillery shell, offered him a glimpse of a blue heaven. Next to him, a stairwell led to where his men stood watch on the second floor after they ate. His turn for a break after a long tense watch.
A puppy—caked with dust the color of sandstone—clambered over rubble. Gerrit eyed the dog as he heated his MRE, Meals Ready to Eat, featuring chicken with salsa. He studied the four-legged creature as it cautiously drew closer. A tiny rib cage, poking through matted fur, announced just how hungry the animal might be. Dark, mournful eyes stared at Gerrit’s meal.
He lowered a green plastic pouch and squeezed out a few morsels of meat onto a flat stone. “Hey, dog, wanna try a little spice in your life?”
The puppy snapped them up like a hungry bird, then sat on its haunches whimpering for more.
He squeezed out another hunk of meat just as an enemy sniper opened up.
Gerrit scrambled for his M16 assault rifle and sprinted up the stairwell to the second floor. As he low-crawled toward an open window, he glanced at the rest of his team, sprawled out below several other windows, to make sure everyone was present and accounted for.
“You see where it came from?” Gerrit whispered, pressing against the wall and slowly peering around the window frame.
“Yeah, Lieutenant. Somewhere at twelve o’clock. Don’t think he spotted us.” The Marine—a gangly young man from Georgia nicknamed Peaches—lay on his side, glancing at Gerrit. Peaches carried one of the radios for the team. “I think he was shooting away from us, sir. In that direction.” He pointed in the direction where the sniper lay hidden, toward the west, where the late-afternoon sun slowly sank toward the horizon.
Nodding, Gerrit edged his head higher, scanning the rooftops beyond. No movement. They had been sitting here since before daybreak, easing into position during the chilly predawn darkness.
Something nudged his leg. Looking down, he saw the puppy sniffing his pockets. Somehow, those short legs made it up the stairs.
Peaches grinned. “Hey, Lieutenant, who’s your friend?”
Gerrit reached down and patted the puppy’s head. The dog peered up, tail wagging, too young to be afraid. “This little guy is hungry.”
He surveyed the street—scarcely more than an alley—as it cut a canyon between low, squatty buildings, a dusty corridor draped in shadows and protected from the onslaught of the afternoon sun. Movement on the street made him tighten his grip on the M16. He spied several figures moving in single file fifty yards away, sneaking toward his position.
“We’ve got company,” he whispered, pointing toward the gunmen. “At least five, heavily armed. No, wait. There are more. Plenty more, coming our way.”
He motioned toward his radioman, carrying one of the unit’s AN/PRC-148 radios. Peaches handed over the external handset. Gerrit grabbed it and in a few moments forwarded their coordinates and the direction and travel of the enemy.
Yesterday, he and his men from the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion had been ordered to sit tight and report without contact—if possible. Eyes and ears only. Intelligence believed they would be greatly outnumbered in this part of the city, with other Marines too far away to help. After a month-long push of door-to-door combat, a small lull had crept across the war-torn city as Operation Phantom Fury bore down on this ancient city. Some old-timers were comparing this battle to the U.S. Marine operation in Hue City during the Vietnam War because of the nature of the operation and the high number of casualties.
Gerrit crawled over to his men. “Get ready to rock and roll. We have units moving into place. They want us to hunker down. Just be ready to fly if need be.”
The others nodded and spread across the room as quietly as possible.
The puppy nudged Gerrit’s pocket, whimpering.
He stroked the animal’s matted fur, hoping this would keep the puppy quiet. More movement caught his attention. An Iraqi resistance fighter, dressed in loose-fitting clothing and carrying several bandoliers of ammunition, loomed into view, an AK-47 held at the ready. He stealthily moved out of Gerrit’s line of sight in the direction of the other fighters.
Just as a second fighter crept by, the puppy yelped. The gunman jerked his head up toward the window.
Tensing, Gerrit waited. He did not think the man could see him from the street, but just in case he gripped his rifle and withdrew into the shadows of the room.
Motionless, Gerrit watched the fighter scan the building, rifle pointed toward their position. His mouth felt dry as he waited to see if the man might spot them.
Finally, the gunman lowered his gaze and moved out of sight as another combatant followed close behind on his heels. And another. And another. A minute slipped by. Silence filled the dry, warm air as the waning sun still baked the clay walls. He could hear footsteps below and saw more men moving in single file.
Soon, the street appeared empty. The enemy had moved farther down the street. He estimated about twenty men had slipped past their position. Maybe more.
Booom! The crunching sound of a mortar round hit about a hundred yards away. Other rounds quickly followed until it seemed one explosion blended into the next with a continuous blast.
Peaches rolled over and tapped Gerrit. “Sir, how’d you give out those coordinates without looking at a map? I’ve seen ya do this before, but I forgot to ask.”
Gerrit glanced toward the explosions. “I memorized them when we set up here. Just recalculated where the Ali Babas would intersect with our units.”
“Man, that’s so cool.”
Gerrit shrugged. “Let’s get ready to move. As soon as it gets dark enough, we’re pulling out.”
Peaches jutted out his chin. “Lieutenant, you got a new recruit.”
Looking down, Gerrit saw the puppy huddling next to his leg, explosions making the tiny animal shake. The louder the sounds, the more the dog shoved against Gerrit’s leg trying to find a place to hide. He scooped up the dog and held it against him. The puppy wiggled deeper, burying its dirty head into the crook of Gerrit’s arm.
“I think it loves ya, Lieutenant. Whatcha going to call him…Devil Dog?”
Gerrit laughed. “Nah. How ’bout Bones? Look at those ribs sticking out.”
The younger man smiled. “That dog is one heap o’ bones.”
Explosions from incoming mortars suddenly ceased. An eerie silence followed until he heard the sound of men running down below. He signaled a warning to the others. Suddenly, a man’s head popped up on the rooftop directly across the street. A turbaned gunman, rifle in hand, peered toward where the mortars had struck earlier. If the figh
ter turned toward them, he could see right through the window where Gerrit and the others lay.
Gerrit lowered the puppy and raised his rifle just as the man glanced down. Squeezing off several rounds, Gerrit saw the man jerk back and drop out of sight.
Gerrit sat up. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve been spotted. There must be others.”
Another head emerged. One of Gerrit’s teammates fired back. The team scooped up their gear and scrambled toward the stairs. Gerrit realized he’d snatched up the puppy without thinking. For a moment, he thought of flinging it away to leave his arms free. Instead, he yanked open a thigh pocket on his pants and shoved the puppy inside as he ran.
Just as he reached the stairs, several rounds slammed into the wall next to him as he hustled through the doorway. One team member fired back as the others dashed to safety. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the last team member make it safely through the doorway as they single-filed down the stairs to ground level.
“Do not engage unless there is no other option,” he yelled. More fighters were moving into the area. A sweep would be coming their way, and he didn’t want his men caught in the cross fire. “Let’s move out.
They began moving away from the sound of enemy gunfire. The building opened up on a parallel street, a large hole punched by an artillery shell. One of his men poked his head through the hole, glancing both ways down the street before crossing. Another Marine moved in to cover, as the first team member charged across the street and kicked in the front door to another dwelling.
The team cleared the next building and leapfrogged their way from building to building. They worked their way about another hundred yards before they felt comfortable the enemy had given up pursuit.
In the last building they came to, Gerrit found an interior courtyard built around a small fountain, cobblestones creating a small pool. The water, barely running, seemed fresh. Oddly, in this war-torn city, this courtyard seemed to offer a moment of tranquility.
Gerrit motioned the others to gather round. “Okay. Let’s sit tight until dark. Then we’ll make our way back home.” He directed several of the team members to clear the building above them to make sure they were alone and directed two guys to stand watch on the top floor. The others spread throughout the building to stand guard.
Bones squirmed as he tried to thrust his nose through the pocket flap. Gerrit smiled as he reached in to withdraw the puppy and carefully set it next to the water. The puppy thirstily lapped it up, stopping for a moment to glance back at Gerrit.
He shook his head. “What am I going to do with you, Bones?” The puppy seemed to have enough water and sniffed around Gerrit’s boots. The dog lifted a leg and peed on his boot. “That’s how you show me gratitude, you fur ball?”
Peaches, sprawled a few feet away, tried to stifle a laugh. “Hey, Bones. Y’all got to learn a little respect.”
Wearily, the Recon unit slipped into headquarters just before dawn. They’d crept through the city as quietly as ghosts, using night-vision goggles to navigate their way until they hooked up with a transport unit back to this compound.
The men plodded to their cots, anxious to catch some shut-eye before starting out again. Gerrit handed Bones off to the radioman. “Since you think the dog’s so funny, you baby-sit this mutt till I report in. The comm. center says the old man wants to see me.”
“Yes sir.” Peaches held the dog as far away as possible. “Man, this here dog stinks to high heaven. What kinda dawg is he?”
“Looks like a cross between a mud-colored lab and a who-knows-what breed. He’s a mutt.”
Peaches seemed to be reading his mind. “Please, Lieutenant. Don’t make me do it.”
Smiling, Gerrit shook his head. “Just keep an eye on him. I’ll clean this freeloader up when I get back.”
Peaches opened up an empty locker—left behind by another Marine who just shipped out—and gingerly lowered the animal inside. “Okay, dog. You can pee all you want until the lieutenant gets back—just don’t poop.”
Peaches always made him smile. The team slapped that nickname on him over beers after he drunkenly boasted that Georgia girls thought he was “sweeter than peaches and cream.” No matter how hard he tried, Peaches couldn’t shake that handle. It stuck to him like Super Glue.
Gerrit made his way to the CO’s hooch, raised in the middle of the compound the Marines had taken over for the duration of Operation Phantom Fury. Enclosed in concertina wire and earthen bunkers, the battalions’ nerve center consisted of green-canvassed tents enclosed by waist-high sandbag walls. Headquarters seemed to be drowning in waves of dust raised by passing trucks, Humvees, and other motorized vehicles.
Gerrit rapped on the door to the major’s quarters, a plywood entryway that led to the commander’s tent. “Permission to enter, sir.”
A growled response from within led him to believe permission had been granted. Inside, Major Jack Thompson sat at a folding table, maps spread out in front of him.
“Sir, received your message. My unit just returned.”
“Take a load off, Lieutenant.” Major Thompson pointed his chin toward a folding chair next to his desk. He peeled off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Close-cropped dark hair dusted with gray and a wrinkled weather-tanned face gave no hint as to Thompson’s age. “G2 updated me on your run-in yesterday. Good job calling it in, sitting tight, and keeping your troops out of harm’s way.”
“Thanks, sir. Good men. Good Marines.”
Thompson frowned. “They are, but that’s not why I called you here, Gerrit.”
Hearing the major call him by his first name made Gerrit tense. He waited for the man to continue.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.” Thompson turned, facing him. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just spit it out. I’ve just been advised your folks were killed in a car bomb two weeks ago. Somewhere in the Seattle area. And your uncle … he turned up missing.”
A chill grabbed Gerrit’s chest, icy fingers refusing to let go. His world seemed to slow down and sound became distorted. Numbly, he stared at Thompson, finding words hard to form. “Why? Do…do they know who did this?”
Thompson shook his head. “I made a few calls and learned that Seattle PD’s running point on the case. The feds are assisting. So far, they don’t have squat.” The major leaned forward. “I’ve cut orders to send you back home.” He paused, looking down at his hands for a moment. “I’m sorry to add to this to your load…but they couldn’t wait on the funeral. Those idiots couldn’t seem to find you. A closed-casket affair. A few of your dad’s friends got together from MIT and buried them near your home in Boston.”
Thompson’s face seemed to soften. “Son, I want you to go home. Make your peace.”
Gerrit felt the chill disappear. “Sir, my men…the operation.”
The major waved his hand. “Our operation here in Fallujah is winding down, and orders will be coming down to rotate some of you guys in 1st Recon Battalion stateside anyway. In your case, rotation just came a bit early.” He stood. “Go home, Gerrit. Take care of your family.”
Gerrit eased to his feet. “Sir, I have no more family. Everyone’s dead or missing.”
Thompson placed a hand on Gerrit’s shoulder. “You got your father’s Irish looks and his ruddy brown hair, but you have your mother’s smile. They were good folks.”
Gerrit shot him a quizzical look. He never knew the major knew his folks.
“I met them years ago at one of those highfalutin’ D.C. parties. We kept in touch over the years. Once your dad learned I was your CO, he’d drop me a line once in a while to see how you were holding up.”
Something seemed to make the older man draw back. After a moment, Thompson continued. “Go home and take care of the dead, son. Your mission here’s finished.”
“But—”
“That’s an order, Marine.”
Gerrit stiffened and saluted before turning to leave.
“And may
God have your back.”
Gerrit closed the door behind him without responding.
The sun was just rising, casting a golden hue as it chased the shadows of night toward the west. Black, acrid smoke rose in the distance. He heard a helicopter whirl past. An overpowering smell of diesel fuel hung in the air, a part of the stench of war wherever men and machines clashed in battle.
Unclenching his fist, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a pocket watch his father gave him the day he received his doctorate degree from MIT. He flicked the watch open and gritted his teeth as he studied the photo of his mother and father attached to the lid, protected by glass. They were smiling back, proud of their son, enjoying a moment of academic achievement as the last remaining member of the O’Rourke clan earned the right to be called doctor. They could call each other that now—but they never did. Status did not mean much inside their family circle.
And then—with a grimace—he remembered the last time he saw his dad. The day before he shipped to Iraq for this last tour of duty. Angrily, his father implored him to remain at the university, to help him with a research project clouded in secrecy. “I have connections; I can get you assigned to work here with me.”
When Gerrit pressed for details, his father refused to divulge the nature of the research without Gerrit’s promise to help. Instead, Gerrit refused to allow his father to intercede. He knew he was needed here—in Iraq—serving with his men. It would be the last time he and his father spoke to each other in this life.
Whatever path Gerrit traveled, death and war seemed to hover. Now this dismal road led to Seattle. Car bomb? Why? How?
He trudged toward the tent where his men were most likely fast asleep. Tiredness and sadness unbearably weighed him down. The major’s news had just shaken Gerrit’s world off its axis, and in that final jolt, he felt all alone. He was the one who should have been in harm’s way. Not his folks. Not in America.
As he reached his tent, Gerrit paused and looked at the rising sun before reaching for the door. He must start packing for the trip home, even though only the dead waited for him there.