The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  When he recounted the Indians taking the old 106 recoilless rifle out of the locker and using it, only to have one guy killed by the backblast, then turning the big rifle around and getting another guy killed by the round, the table burst out in incredulous laughter. Even the Spanish officers at the next table laughed, all pretense of not listening in gone.

  “No shit?” asked Gil. “I thought that had to be pure Hollywood! That really happened just like that?”

  Tony assured him that what he said was the Gospel truth. That seemed to be the highlight of his tale to Gil, at least. Rob had questions about the mechanics of shooting the attackers. Stan wanted to know how he figured out what to do when he got word of the incoming bomb, and all of them seemed interested in the publicity events he attended after the fact.

  And if Tony didn’t deny a fling with a certain starlet as the press had reported (by only telling them “A gentleman doesn’t tell tales”), it wasn’t his fault if they assumed more happened than the truth (which was nothing happened at all, much to Tony’s chagrin).

  As Tony went on, he could almost see the bonds of brotherhood forming, drawing them closer together. He knew these bonds would be strong, as strong as the ones he had formed with the Marines in Amman or Camp David, for that matter. Delhi was different, though. He had lost friends there, and that created stronger bonds between the survivors. He prayed that he wouldn’t have his bonds with these friends, with these brothers, similarly strengthened.

  Chapter 7

  Aboard the USS Jason Dunham, Off the Coast of Somalia

  A week later

  Private First Class Jerry Masterson nervously checked his M4 for the umpteenth time. Two hours ago, he had been about to dig into his pancakes on the mess decks. Now, he was ready to go into action for the first time. He wasn’t sure if he was ready.

  “Just like rehearsal, Jerry. No problem, right?” asked Cpl Winsome, his fire team leader.

  Jerry merely nodded. His throat felt too dry to speak.

  A year ago, he had been drifting in life, living with his parents back in Milwaukee. When the news hit about the embassy takeover in New Delhi and what the Marine Security Guard Detachment had done, he had felt a rush of patriotic fervor. He immediately enlisted and was lucky enough to get a quick boat space at boot camp, the first one back at the newly re-commissioned Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Paris Island. The Marine Corps was in a state of upheaval as it rushed back to full status, but for Recruit Masterson, boot camp was enough of an upheaval in and of itself. What was going on Corps-wide was above his event horizon.

  He finished boot camp and the School of Infantry and was assigned to the battalion at Camp Lejeune. The next six months were hectic as the battalion was formed and trying to get ready for the upcoming deployment. Kilo Company was going to be the anti-piracy raid unit, so the company’s training was a little more specific. 1st and 3d Platoons were going to be away from the company headquarters, so each had to be able to handle any mission thrown its way. Jerry’s squad was assigned as a boarding party.

  2d Squad and 3d Platoon’s 1st Squad left Camp Lejeune a week early for Little Creek to cross-train with the Special Boat Unit. There would be two boats on the Jason Dunham, and when investigating a suspicious target, each one would have a fire team on board as a boarding party. The boarding parties had previously come from the ship’s sailors, from what they called the VBSS, but this seemed like a good job for the Marines, so they got the mission.

  It has all seemed rather fun and even adventurous back at Little Creek. But this was the real deal now. A patrol plane had spotted a suspicious boat, and with the ship nearby, they rushed to the scene.

  The small boat bobbed off in the distance, maybe 500 yards away. It had tried to flee when the Dunham steamed up, but a few well-placed shots from the ship’s big 5/62 gun in front of the boat stopped it in its tracks.

  Despite the Dunham’s top-of-the-line technology, it was not designed to carry Marines nor “swicks,” (Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen). Getting the RHIB’s (Rigid Inflatable Hull Boats) off the deck and into the water was a rather old-fashion method of hoists. More specific to Jerry was the fact that once the boats were in the water, the way his fire team would board the boats was via a cargo net, just as Marines did back off the shores of Tarawa and Iwo Jima. It was one thing to do that back in Little Creek in the harbor. It was an entirely different thing to do that out in the middle of the IO.

  When the boat’s coxswain gave the signal, the fire team climbed over the side and down the net. Jerry tried not to look down at the water. As the ship rolled with the gentle waves, he was alternately pressed against the ship’s hull and then swung out to hang in the air. Concentrating on one step at a time, he was relieved to feel hands grab his legs. He had made it.

  With both boats loaded, the ship’s first lieutenant saluted, and the boats cast off to head out to their target. Jerry unslung his M4 and took his position on the port side of the boat. Opposite him on the starboard side was LCpl Javon Jones with his M27 IAR. Jerry took a surreptitious look over at JJ. That IAR was a mean-looking weapon, and Jerry had really enjoyed firing it at SOI. He looked forward to the day that he could become the team’s automatic rifleman.

  He jerked his mind back to the task at hand. The target was now only about 200 meters away. Jerry’s RHIB was the lead boat, and so a Navy Lieutenant (JG) was with them. Jerry thought his lieutenant should be aboard, but his was not to reason why, he figured. Sgt Alvarez, his squad leader, though, was on the trailing RHIB which broke off to circle to the other side of the target to provide covering fire, if needed.

  As they approached the target boat, Jerry was surprised at how old and beat-up it looked.

  This was a pirate boat? he wondered.

  There looked to be four skinny men on board wearing not much more than shorts and loose cotton shirts. They were standing facing the RHIB when the translator took out the bullhorn and shouted out to them. The translator was a civilian assigned to the ship. He wore Navy overalls without any insignia. He was as black as any of the African-American Marines or sailors, much darker than Jerry himself, but his features seemed more hawk-like and sharp. Jerry really didn’t know what to make of him.

  Whatever he said, though, had an effect. The four men raised their hands over their heads and stepped to the middle of their rickety boat.

  The RHIB’s coxswain, BM3 Eric Hadley, expertly brought his boat alongside, and with Jerry and the other sailor on the .50 cal covering, Cpl Winsome, JJ, and PFC Cal Rafferty, the other rifleman, jumped on board, followed by the Navy JG. Only when the others had the four men covered did Jerry and the translator cross over.

  The boat was pretty small, and with six more men aboard, it was positively crowded. The wooden sides of the boat seemed almost rotten, and water sloshed around beneath their feet. Jerry glanced over the water to the Dunham. If he was going to be out in the middle of the ocean, he rather preferred a nice big ship like that over a claptrap boat he wouldn’t even use back at home on Lake McNeil on a calm and sunny Sunday afternoon.

  Jerry had no idea on what was being said, but it was obvious that the translator was accusing the four men, and it was just as obvious that they were denying whatever that accusation was.

  With Jerry and Cal covering the men, the others started searching the boat. It took only moments for JJ to pull back a tarp and uncover some rifles. A thrill coursed through Jerry. They were pirates, after all!

  The JG picked up one of the rifles, which looked to be an old AK47. He shook it in his hand.

  “Ask them what these are,” he told the translator.

  Some unintelligible gibberish went back and forth before the man turned back to the Navy officer.

  “They say they need those for to protect from pirates. They say they are just the simple fishermen.”

  “So where’s their nets, huh?”

  The translator went back to the men and parleyed the question, getting an answer back.

  �
�They say they lost the nets in the storm. Now they are only trying to go back to the home.”

  Just then Cpl Winsome reached down and pulled up a plastic case. Jerry could clearly see the words “Samho Jewelry” stenciled on the side of the box. Winsome handed it to the JG whose eyes lit up.

  “And this?” he shouted, directly to the four men. “Where did they get this first aid kit?”

  The translator asked, then told the JG, “They say they found it floating in the water.”

  “Bullshit. The Samho Jewelry was hijacked last year. That was the second time that bad-luck ship has been pirated, if I remember right.”

  “Of course, you are most right. These men, though, they will not admit to wrong. They will admit they are fishermen only. This is their way.”

  “Fishermen,” the JG sneered. “Right. Well, we’ve got enough here to bring them in.”

  He got on the radio to report back to the ship and to order the other boat to tow the pirate boat back to the Dunham. The pirates themselves had their hands flexi-cuffed, and two were placed in each RHIB.

  Jerry felt elated. He hadn’t been sure he was ready for action, but it had gone down just like rehearsal, just as Cpl Winsome had told him. And they had caught honest-to-goodness pirates.

  As they came alongside the Dunham, Jerry figured that every single man and woman not on watch was there on deck to see their catch. He caught sight of Terry Miller, his best friend in the platoon. Terry and Jerry, they’d been called ever since boot camp, as if they were bonded together instead of two individuals. Terry must be green with envy. Jerry wanted to wave, but that wouldn’t be too professional, so he tried to maintain his war face instead. The other Marines and sailors were watching, after all.

  As they were tied alongside the big ship, the pirates were hoisted aboard like cargo. Cpl Winsome ordered Jerry to sit in the pirate boat as security, which seemed strange to him. Who was going to steal a beat-up pirate boat out in the middle of the ocean? But he did as he was told while everyone else except for a sailor on each RHIB clamored up the cargo nets back onboard the Dunham.

  The next few hours crawled by at a snail’s pace. It was pretty hot sitting there, and the Dunham’s slow rolling was at odds with the pirate boat’s bobbing. That incongruity upset his stomach. He was happy to get relieved to get some chow, although the relief had more to do with getting off the small boat than any real desire for food. He hadn’t thought of the Dunham as a stable platform, but when compared to the pirate boat, it was almost like being on dry land.

  Terry found him on the mess decks, and of course, he wanted to know every detail. With half-a-dozen Marines around him, he recounted everything. The fact that most of them had been watching through binoculars kept him from embellishing the tale too much, but he tried to make it a bit more exciting than it actually was.

  After chow, he went down to the cramped berthing are to clean his weapon. The improved M4 was a pretty good weapon, but it was still a finely-machined piece of gear, and salt water could wreck havoc with it. He had to make sure it was pristine, and not only because Winsome and Alvarez would check it, but SSgt Davidson was sure to go over it with a fine-tooth comb. The platoon sergeant frankly scared Jerry, something he wasn’t afraid to admit to himself.

  He was just reassembling his weapon when LCpl Taylor Nguyen came rushing in.

  “They’re letting them go!”

  A chorus of “who” came from the few Marines in the space.

  “The pirates, they’re letting them go! You gotta see this!”

  Everyone, including Jerry, rushed out. No way was anyone letting their first pirates go!

  But they were. Jerry watched in astonishment as the pirates were being carefully led to the cargo net and allowed to climb back down into their boat. What looked to be food, water, and fuel was then lowered into the boat as well. The ship’s crew and embarked Marines stood in silence while this was happening. Some had looks of confusion on their faces, but most had looks of disgust. One sailor looked like he wanted to do something about it, but the others hustled him down below decks.

  It took about 15 minutes, but the pirate boat was finally loaded. One of the pirates tried to start the outboard motor, but it wouldn’t catch. After a few fruitless minutes, a sailor in overalls was sent over. He took off the outboard’s cover, and within a minute or two, he had the motor going. He came back as the pirate boat was cast off and slowly pulled away. One of the four men stood up on the bow’s gunwales and waved broadly to the assembled men and women.

  There were a few muttered obscenities among the crew, but most of the sailors and Marines seemed to be in shock. Jerry was amongst those numbers. What was the use of catching pirates if they were just going to be let go? It made no sense at all.

  Chapter 8

  Aboard the MV Wilmington 400 miles off the coast of Somalia

  Three weeks later

  Chief Mate Craig Murphy stood at the railing of the big merchant ship, sipping a coffee and watching the waves slip past as the sun peeked above the horizon. He was ready to go home to June and their small house in Connecticut, but deep inside, he knew he would miss all of this. But with his Navy Reserve retirement about to kick in, it was time to go. June had put up with his months and years at sea, and he promised her this was his last cruise.

  Financially, he would be comfortable enough. His Navy retirement would be almost $3,000 a month, and his pension as a merchant mariner would more than double that. Add June’s pension from the Torrington School District, and well, they would be doing OK.

  June felt that he could have stopped sailing earlier, but the fact was that Craig liked being at sea. He liked the life. The fact that his Navy retirement wouldn’t kick in until he was 60 had been his excuse to keep going. But next month, he was hitting the big six-oh. He had no more excuses.

  One more port at Capetown, then his final run to Baltimore. It was hard to realize it was almost over.

  He turned around, leaning back against the railing. He could see the captain in the bridge, silently looking out over the Indian Ocean. Todd Iverson was younger than Craig, and he had managed to reach the position Craig couldn’t quite seem to achieve. Craig thought Todd was a bit of a jerk, but he was honest enough to himself to realize that his opinion could be colored a bit by jealousy. It might not have been overt jealousy, but Craig often pondered on why he had never been made master of a ship, any ship. As a Chief Mate with over 360 days at sea, he was a licensed master, but actually getting command of a ship had been something that had never materialized.

  Even in the Navy, he had never risen above navigator aboard a vessel. He had gotten out of the Navy too early to get command of an active duty ship, but as a reservist, not only had he never received a ship’s command, he had never been to sea. Each of his reserve billets had been shore-based.

  The Wilmington had three mates, so the captain never stood watch. But he was usually on the bridge, staring out to sea. Craig sighed and threw the last dregs of his coffee over the rails and into the water streaming past him. He should go below and get something with more sustenance than coffee before he went on watch.

  He opened the hatch and made his way down to the galley. Over the years, Craig had been aboard many different ships. He had to admit, though, the Wilmington had a great galley, and the coffee was first-rate. He liked to blame the cooking on his ever-burgeoning girth, even if he knew a serious dearth of exercise was the more likely culprit.

  He went up to the espresso machine to refill his mug before ordering his breakfast. Craig didn’t know if he really liked espresso more than drip-brewed coffee, but he sure liked the process of making it. The whooshing sound of the machine alone was enough to get him going. Just as the last drops filled his cup, the PA came to life, calling the 2nd Mate and him to the bridge.

  What now? He thought, glancing at his watch. He still had 20 minutes before he was on duty.

  His stomach growled reminding him that he hadn’t actually gotten anything to eat y
et. He hoped whatever the captain wanted wouldn’t take too long. He didn’t want to have to get something brought up to him on the bridge as while not verboten, and while it would be normal on most ships, it was certainly frowned upon aboard the Wilmington, just one more thing about the captain that annoyed him.

  He blew on his latte, trying to cool it down so he could take a big gulp, and grabbed a couple of doughnuts that he stuffed into his mouth as he left the galley and made his way slowly up to the bridge. The PA repeated its call.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered as walked, careful not to spill any of his brew.

  He stepped into the bridge and looked around. The captain wasn’t there.

  “He’s on the bridge wing with Mr. Harris,” Randolf Fenix, the helmsman told him without being asked.

  Craig nodded and opened the hatch to the flying bridge. The captain, John Harris (the Second Mate), Rolf Weiss (the Third Mate), and Bong Benedicto, one of the Filipino crewmen, were already there, looking through binos aft of the ship.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  The captain handed his set of binos to him and said, “Take a look back there, maybe two miles and five tenths, a few points off the port quarter.”

  Craig took them and looked. He couldn’t see anything, so he adjusted the focus to try and compensate for aging eyes. He was about to tell the captain that he didn’t see anything at all when a faint spray of white caught his attention. Looking closer, he could see one, no two small shapes trailing them. His heart fell.

  “What do you think?”

  Craig paused a moment, trying to pick out more details.

  “Well, probably what you think. What are we, 400 miles out? And two small boats in our wake? Pirates.” He paused again, then asked, “Are they gaining on us?”