The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  “You got a job waiting for me in your line, whatever that is, Shooter?”

  Galloway checked his watch before standing up preparing to leave. “I’m out of here, Corporal Jack, before your new Commanding Officer floats in and jails us both.

  “Keep me posted, and make Perry County proud. And Jack, keep your head down.”

  And Galloway was gone.

  — — —

  The rifle Range Detachment was on the Known Distance Range when the new Commanding Officer made his visit. Saltz piled from his armored Humvee, and just as Galloway had predicted, a spit and polished First Lieutenant and a heavily armed Sergeant First Class followed closely.

  The Battalion’s Range Officer, another Lieutenant, began his formal presentation—already spoken a hundred times and sharpened to its finest point.

  The permanent range detail including Corporal Tim Carlisle stood frozen at attention at their appointed posts. No one commanded At-Ease, as most inspecting officers immediately ordered, and Corporal Carlisle expected that Lieutenant Colonel Saltz was still a stiff-necked pain in the butt.

  The range officer explained the function of each activity, which an officer of Saltz’s experience certainly already knew, and introduced each non-commissioned officer assigned to the detail.

  When he reached Tim, the Range Officer announced, as he usually did with pleasure in his voice, that this unmoving object was in fact, the battalion’s deadliest marksman Corporal Blackwater Jack.

  Saltz nodded, and to Tim’s satisfaction, began moving on. The Sergeant First Class butted in as if he had authority beyond his pay grade—and judging by the Colonel’s abrupt halt and sudden attention, he did.

  The SFC, whose name tag said, E. A. Swartz, asked, “Why is this Corporal known as Blackwater Jack, Lieutenant? This Battalion does not use nicknames, as far as I know.”

  Tim saw color rise in the Range Officer’s neck, but his voice remained calm. No doubt the commissioned officers had arrived at their own conclusions concerning their new CO’s entourage.

  “Corporal Carlisle attended Blackwater Training Center’s sniper and marksmanship classes, Sergeant, and he taught there as well. His skills are appreciated here, and he is known throughout the battalion by his nickname.”

  Colonel Saltz felt a need to get back in the game. “Are you one of our Harrisburg boys, Carlisle, or are you from the city you are named after?”

  The Colonel did not sound genuinely interested, but Tim was careful with his answer. “I’m from a little north of Carlisle, sir.”

  Saltz appeared prepared to move on, but again the SFC interrupted. He unslung his rifle and held it forward for Tim’s examination.

  “Ever see anything like this at Blackwater, Corporal?”

  Understanding his Corporal’s inability to actually look at the rifle while at formal attention, the Range Officer ordered, “At Ease, Carlisle.”

  Tim relaxed and took a good look at the proffered rifle. Of course he had seen it before, but he had to wonder how on earth a U S Army non-com got hold of a very rare sniper rifle purchased and used only by the United States Marine Corps?

  Tim’s answer was complete. “Yes, Sergeant. Your rifle is an XM3 made by Iron Brigade Armory that came to the Marines via a DARPA program.”

  The SFC’s eyes bulged. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve never met anyone else whoever heard of the rifle. How did you happen to know about it, Carlisle?”

  “I helped test the rifles before they were shipped to the Corps, Sergeant.”

  Saltz was again interested. “How good is the rifle, Corporal?”

  Tim’s personal enthusiasm broke through. The XM3 is the best all-around sniper rifle in service today, Colonel. It is deadly accurate, and with the suppressor in place it is hard to detect. At night, there is almost no visible muzzle flash, and the UNS Night Firing Device can detect human targets out to about eight hundred yards when normal eye sight fails beyond about sixty yards.”

  The SFC demanded, “You have seen this?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Saltz turned to the Range Officer. “Sergeant Swartz has made powerful claims for his rifle. Can we put Corporal … What did you call him?”

  “Blackwater Jack, Colonel.”

  “Yes, can Blackwater Jack give us a demonstration to support his claims?”

  The SFC said, “Yeah, I would like to see some of that.” He handed Tim his rifle. The Range Officer was ignored.

  Tim held the XM3 at a relaxed Port Arms. He asked, “What sort of zero do you have on the rifle, Sergeant?”

  The non-com flushed beet red. “Well, I haven’t gotten around to zeroing it in yet.”

  No one commented, but the futility of carrying a weapon that you could not shoot accurately was obvious to any soldier.

  Tim continued as if he had not noticed.

  “There are two practical firing demonstrations. The first is shooting off a bench. That checks the rifle’s accuracy. The second is position shooting: standing, kneeling, and sitting. They demonstrate the rifleman’s abilities.” He waited expectantly.

  Colonel Saltz chose. “Shoot off-hand and kneeling, Corporal.” He gestured down range. Use those silhouette targets there on the 100-yard berm.”

  Tim suggested, “I should take a few zeroing rounds, Colonel, so that I know where this rifle is shooting.”

  The SFC demanded, “Just shoot, Dead Eye! We are in a hurry here.”

  Tim turned to the targets. He shouldered the bolt-action rifle and touched off a shot. Without lowering the piece, using only his thumb and forefinger, he operated the bolt. His cheek remained stock-welded and unmoving behind the Nightforce telescopic sight. The rifle cracked again before Tim dropped to one knee and fired a pair of rounds from a kneeling position.

  The Colonel’s Lieutenant Gold exclaimed, “That was fast.” Then he seemed embarrassed by his approval. Tim supposed the Lieutenant usually waited until Colonel Saltz committed himself.

  The SFC groused, “Yeah, but what did he hit?”

  A PFC trotted down to the target line and brought back two targets. Each had a pair of bullet holes solidly through the head.

  Saltz nodded, saying only, “Good shooting Corporal,” before he moved on.

  The Range Officer spoke longer.

  He said, “You know what you’ve just done don’t you, Jack?

  “You have cemented the rest of your tour right here on these ranges.

  “You, my boy, aren’t going anywhere else in Afghanistan, and that is as certain as I can make it.

  “Nice shooting, Blackwater.”

  12

  Lieutenant Colonel Frank Saltz was steaming mad. His voice raged far louder than he could have desired, and his pointed finger bounced repeatedly from First Lieutenant Gold’s fitted and pressed field uniform.

  SFC Swartz had wisely turned away, allowing the Colonel’s ire to fall entirely on Gold, but Corporal Blackwater Jack could see that the Sergeant was listening, and that he was disturbed by what he was hearing.

  Jack needed no other clues. He altered his intended march to the base PX and disappeared behind a building corner. When Colonels bellowed at Lieutenants, Corporals should depart post haste.

  Unfortunately, there was no way to go. Tim’s building ended in a cul-de-sac without visible outlet. He would have to wait until the furor died away before resuming his journey.

  It was the weather, of course. A large chunk of Afghanistan had been locked down by an unusual storm—or something—that had cut visibility to less than fifty yards. It was not the usual dust-in-the-air atmospheric condition. There was no wind at all, and if there had been any detectable moisture, Tim would have called it fog.

  The shooting ranges were closed, and had been for three days. Nothing was flying, and darn little was moving on the ground. Those conditions appeared to be Lieutenant Colonel Saltz’s complaints. He wanted an aircraft—a helicopter actually, and he wanted one NOW!

  Well, he wasn’t getting anything, that was una
rguable. All aircraft were grounded, no exceptions, and the Battalion CO was frothing.

  Lieutenant Gold had been selected as a convenient punching bag, and he could not manage even a “But” in response to the colonel’s raging demands.

  The group apparently moved a little, and Jack could hear a bit more. Saltz’s shouting was most clear.

  “Do you understand the importance of delivering today, Gold? Not tomorrow or the next day. This is our last day, and you are telling me that I can’t get even one of my own aircraft?”

  The question was rhetorical, but Gold attempted to answer. “The whole command is grounded, Colonel. No one is flying until this mess blows through. The General said … “

  “The General isn’t here, Lieutenant. I am.” Saltz apparently turned to include his Sergeant. “Both of you know what is at stake here. We have one chance. After today, the Sheik won’t even know us.”

  Saltz forced himself calm. “Look, people, assuming my promotion comes through, the three of us will rotate out of here within sixty days. If we miss this connection, our plans will be set back so far that none of it may work out. This is our seed … “

  Sergeant First Class Swartz cut in. “There is another way, Colonel. It’s not as good, but it should work, especially with visibility down to nothing. No one will be moving and we could … “

  “We could what, Sergeant? For God’s sake spit it out.”

  “We could take an armored-up Humvee and run straight in.”

  Gold was horrified. “Good God, Swartz. One Humvee alone out in those mountains? We wouldn’t get twenty miles.”

  Saltz returned to the fray. “Hold up, Lieutenant. Swartz has a point. Even in this weather it is only three driving hours out, and once you are there you would just stay with the Sheik until the weather clears. Then you and whoever else goes will come back by chopper, and I will send a number of support vehicles to drive back the Humvee. It could work, and it sounds like our only chance.”

  “Colonel, nobody has been out that road in a while. It could be mined again, or an ambush could be waiting for us. To go by road we should have big stuff, Strikers would be right, and we should have at least three vehicles.”

  Saltz’s voice was disdainful. “Now, how in hell could I justify a convoy like that, Gold? This is a stealth operation. I don’t even like the idea of including a vehicle driver, but having one of you drive would draw too much attention.”

  Tim heard the Colonel pacing before deciding. Then Saltz said, “We’ve got to do it, and driving seems to be our only choice.

  “Gold, you get a Humvee from the motor pool. If you get any static, I’ll be in my office. Have any complainers call me directly, and I will chew their asses so thoroughly that they will never again consider bellyaching about anything to anybody.

  “Swartz, pick up your personal gear and meet the Lieutenant and the vehicle right here. Lieutenant, pack extra fuel and a lot of water. You know the drill.

  “I’ll have the box waiting. We dump it in, and you are off. It’s a straight run up the mountains, but once you are into the valleys, your radio won’t pick up anything—so don’t depend on it. Just tend to business.”

  The voice stopped but began again with more than a little menace included. “And only business. This is as important as you think it is. No mistakes, men. Move out.”

  Feet shuffled, and Tim could picture Gold and Swartz saluting before hustling off. He waited to be certain the coast was clear.

  As he began to slip away, Tim was amused that his mind chose “coast was clear.” Gee, Navy slang and clichés here in the middle of a desert. He rounded the corner, and almost bumped into First Lieutenant Gold obviously hurrying somewhere.

  Also surprised, Gold returned Tim’s salute and started on—before he abruptly pulled up and gave the Corporal his best thoughtful look.

  Tim thought, Oh hell, but he could only wait.

  Gold said, “Your ranges are closed down, aren’t they, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir. No shooting in this weather.”

  Gold nodded, “Then you are just the man I am looking for.

  “Go straight to the motor pool and check out an armored-up Humvee. Load extra fuel and water. See if you can get one of those pickup models. They can carry more.”

  Tim began to protest, but the Lieutenant was not finished.

  “Get your gear. We could be out a couple of nights, and drive the truck to meet me and Sergeant Swartz in front of Battalion HQ. Move it, Corporal. This is an emergency.”

  “Lieutenant, I have to check with my First Sergeant. I can’t just take off, Sir. I’ll be AWOL or worse. I’m not a light vehicle driver anyway. My MOS doesn’t … “

  Gold was short. “Listen closely, Blackwater, this is coming straight from Colonel Saltz. See your top Sergeant or whoever you think you should.

  “If anyone delays you one instant, you have them call the CO immediately. He is waiting by the phone. This is a rush deal. You can tell them that, when they call the Old Man, to expect the worse butt reaming they have ever received. Now move out, Corporal Jack, or whatever your real name is.”

  Cursing his luck did no good, but Tim did it anyway. He went directly to the Motor Sergeant, a god-like figure within his own special world.

  “Look, Blackwater, we are down because of the weather just like the fly boys are. We are pulling long overdue maintenance on almost every machine in the place. I don’t have an armored Humvee running. Later today, I will have them all up, but right now—nothing.

  “What have you got, Sergeant? I had better show up with something, or it will all fall on me.”

  “You can draw a regular Humvee. No armor but in top shape. That’s the best I can do no matter who calls. Pass that on to the Old Man if you can.”

  “I’ll take it, but man-oh-man, Sergeant, I heard that we are going up into the mountains to see a Sheik. We’ll be alone, and that isn’t good without armor.”

  The Motor Sergeant swore. “No, Jack, that isn’t good. Why in hell can’t he put it off until the weather clears?”

  “I didn’t ask, Sarge. Why don’t you call him for me?”

  “Not this trip, Blackwater.” The seasoned Sergeant shook his head in disgust, but all he added was that the plain jane Humvee was ready.

  Tim tossed his gear into the backseat, and moved to a fuel dump where he added four five-gallon cans of diesel and two water cans.

  He drew his rarely used M-16 rifle and a basic ammunition load. Then he drove out to his ammo dump at the ranges and added two more cans of 5.56 cartridges. You never could have too much ammo.

  Colonel Saltz waited with Lieutenant Gold and Sergeant Swartz. When he pulled to a stop and explained the unarmored vehicle, Tim feared the Colonel might explode. They all cursed the Motor Pool, and the CO promised to make some seriously painful changes, none of which could help on this mission.

  Then they quieted. Colonel Saltz reminded the Lieutenant and the SFC of the importance of delivering their cargo to the Sheik. He personally placed what appeared to be a wooden box of some weight netted within imaginative macramé that included a strong rope carrying handle braided into the hemp windings so tightly that the box itself was barely visible. No one would sneak an undetected peek into this box, which roused Tim’s interest more than a little.

  Finally, Saltz took a close look at the appointed vehicle driver. His eyes squinted and his brow furrowed. Tim thought, the man had forgotten him, but now … ?

  Saltz said, “I know you, Corporal … Whitewater isn’t it?”

  “Close enough, Colonel, and it is only a nickname.”

  “You are our hot shot shooter, aren’t you.” It was not a question, and Tim did not attempt an answer. SFC Swartz did.

  “That’s him, Colonel. Blackwater Jack, we call him.”

  Saltz said, “Well, Corporal Jack, you won’t have to do any shooting on this trip. It’s just a milk run, but an extremely important one. Stick to the road, and in this soup you will have no trouble.�
��

  Swartz labored into the back seat, nestling his sniper rifle beside him. Lieutenant Gold sank into the front passenger seat. He saluted the Colonel, and they were off.

  Tim crept along the hard-surfaced road and out the main gate. “You will have to direct me from here, Lieutenant, I have never driven into the mountains.”

  Gold was using a hand-drawn sketch. “Turn right as soon as you see a road. We follow that until it turns to dirt. Then we head uphill. From there, it is a straight run to the Sheik’s village.”

  The Humvee crept along, visibility remaining improbable, and their pace pathetically slow.

  For a full mile, the dirt road was tolerable. Then it became stone and little more than an uphill donkey and cart track. The Humvee bucked and jolted, while Tim did his best to keep on the ancient, beaten-in tracks.

  Straying could mean running over some sort of improvised explosive. That did not seem likely on a solid rock path this close to the base, but the barely negotiable trace did not look like something military vehicles would use often and therefore be kept free of mines and traps.

  Tim had strapped himself in tightly, but both Gold and Swartz chose to ignore the heavy-duty seatbelts. Both bounced and jolted silently until Swartz said, “How in hell will we last four or five hours of this, Lieutenant? My back is already about to give out.”

  Gold was taking it better. “Pretend that we are Rangers or Berets or something heroic. Then, we can laugh at any challenge thrown at us, Sergeant.”

  Swartz complained, “Can’t you miss a hole once in a while, Jack? Just swing out of the ruts and … “

  Gold was swift, “Don’t do that, Blackwater. Stay right in the tracks.” His grin was strained, and Tim did not like its looks. “It’s less likely they would plant a bomb in their own cart tracks. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  Swartz’s chuckle was disbelieving. “These people don’t give a damn about anybody, even each other. If there’s a bomb, we’ll hit it as sure as hell is hot.”

  “The Sheik is an ally, Swartz. He has a big stake in this, too, remember.”

  “He’ll be expecting us to come by air, Lieutenant, not limping in along this camel trail.”