Terminal Impact

by Charles Henderson

  “Petey! Chico!” Jack Valentine yelled on his helmet headset. No answer, but Corporal Preston did manage to find his radio button and sent an S-O-S with clicks.

  Then Petey coughed, and that carried on his hands-free microphone.

  With the one corporal apparently dead and the other behind cover, the enemy stopped firing and waited.

  “Who shot?” Jamal al-Hakim shouted in Arabic, standing without thinking. “What fool shot! You didn’t hear my orders? Hold fire until we have them all! Now look!”

  All of his men sank behind their weapons, and Ismail emotionally melted into the ground.

  “Me, sir,” Ismail answered his commander, raising his hand. “I was overwhelmed.” And the boy began to weep.

  The cameraman glanced at the boy and shook his head.

  Petey Preston held his fire, saving his ammo. He looked sadly at his pard, Randy. Dead. Facedown and bleeding in the sand. Then he saw Chico move his foot, coming to.

  “Stay still, bro,” Petey said on his intercom, his broken ribs stabbing his lungs as he breathed the words. Then he saw the subtle thumb on Corporal Powell’s left hand point up and go back down.

  Cotton Martin came alongside Petey. Sammy LaSage, too.

  “What’s the damage?” Martin asked.

  “I’m fucked unless I can get out of here pretty quick,” Preston answered. “Kevlar took away the penetration. I got two bullets just inside somewhere. But I got broken ribs on both sides, and a slow leak in my right lung.”

  He spit blood to show the staff sergeant.

  “And Randy?” Cotton asked, seeing the other Marine lying facedown, blood on the sand, his helmet still strapped tight under his chin but the night optics and front of the K-pot messed up from the bullet.

  “Alive,” Petey said. “Can’t say how bad, but alive. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I told him to lie still. They won’t waste ammo on a dead body.”

  “Back about fifty feet, there’s that little turn that will let us set up a SAW on the other side of the wadi, and we can get an angle on their right flank,” Cotton said, assessing their available cover and possible firing points.

  Bronco and Jaws showed up with Jack and Cochise hot on their tails. In two minutes, all seven Marines snuggled close to the embankment, behind the cover of the elbow.

  “From this turn, we can cover everything from center to left flank,” Jack said, unhitching his pack.

  “That elbow, back about fifty feet”—Cotton pointed—“gives us coverage of the center to right flank.”

  “You and Sage set up the other machine gun there,” Jack said, and began looking high on the wash sides above the streambed. “We got a couple of good spots at higher angles. We’ll put those Vigilance guns up there.”

  He looked at his Marines. “No scattered shots. All the ammo we got is what we got. Make it count. If we can’t bust out of here, those Hajis the artillery missed will be running up our ass soon enough, and she’ll be all over. So don’t go to loving this place too much. We gotta grab Chico and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Love to go right now, boss,” Bronco said.

  “Tell me about it,” Jack said, and gave Cortez a smile.

  “You got a plan?” Cotton asked.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “But you won’t like it.”

  “Does that matter?” Martin smiled.

  “No.” Jack grinned back.

  “Why ain’t they shooting?” Sage asked, using his spotting scope to sneak a peek over the top of the embankment and try to pick out the enemy gun placements. “We got fifteen or twenty rifle barrels and Haji heads between what looks like three machine guns on bipod mounts. What do you suppose they’re waiting on?”

  “Us, I’d imagine,” Jaws said.

  “I think they’re wanting to hold us here and take us alive,” Jack said. “They figure we’ll surrender when all those Hajis behind us arrive.”

  “Some people might do that,” Cotton said. “But we know better, don’t we.”

  “Fuckin’ A, dude,” Jaws said. “Nobody sawing my head off on YouTube.”

  “What about your plan I won’t like?” Martin asked Jack.

  “About a hundred yards back, I saw a little feeder gully coming in this draw from the south. Leads right out of this shit stream,” Valentine said.

  “Yeah, I saw it, too.” Cotton nodded.

  “We set up a base of fire here. Suppress the shit out of them,” Jack began. “Grab Chico. Get back here. Bury me with a SAW and a sniper gun. I keep them in place while you seven run for it to that gully and head south. Sweep a big circle around to the rally point.”

  “Why don’t we just set up a base of fire,” Cotton said. “And use fire and movement tactics to get all eight of us out of here? Isn’t that a better idea?”

  “No,” Jack said. “I thought about fire and movement first. They’ll just chase us down when we move out. If they’re on us, the minute we cross open terrain, we’re all dead.”

  “We could fucking attack them!” Cochise Quinlan said, fire in his throat. “Bust out on both their flanks and kill the shit out of them. Worst that happens, we all go down in blazes of glory. But they sure the fuck don’t capture us and cut off our heads on YouTube.”

  “Yeah, well,” Bronco said. “Trouble with your plan, Cochise? We all fucking die. What about the tribe coming up our asses right now? You think about that?”

  Quinlan shook his head and gave Bronco the finger.

  “They’ll vent all guns soon as we go for Chico,” Jack said. “We tie them up in an exchange. Everybody falls back to the gully and exits except one man running a SAW back there, and me running mine up here.

  “Cotton, I want you to lead the herd, so that leaves Sage to run the other machine gun. Once you guys disappear up the gully, he’ll pull his gun and fly, too. I’ll keep ’em busy. They won’t know you’ve gone until you’re well away.

  “While we’re resting, dig me a good deep hide in the bank, right behind this gun. I’ll roll in it and you cover me with rocks and crap. Hide me good. If I live or die depends on how well you cover me.”

  Jack pointed to a platter-sized, flat-faced stone that had fallen off the bank wall the last time a flash flood had washed the wadi.

  “That big rock?” he said. “Put it in front of my hide. When I quit shooting, I pull it over the front of my hole.”

  Cotton nodded okay, and the rest of the Marines looked at Gunny Valentine as if he’d lost his mind.

  “I’m betting that with all our dirt work, improving our firing positions here,” Jack explained, “they’ll never consider that you buried me here. Who in their right mind would? Right? They’ll chase after your tracks out of here.”

  “And why do you think that Quinlan’s idea isn’t viable?” Cotton asked. “The Hajis coming up behind us may not get here before we can kill this bunch and depart, and even get to the rally point. Strike force lands, we’re home free. We’ve got six healthy Marines trained to the teeth in special warfare, and what do they have?”

  “Six of us beats twenty of them hands down,” Cochise chimed in. “I say we go for it!”

  “I figure they got twenty or thirty people up ahead in that primary ambush,” Jack explained. “Consider that they knew we would head this way because in their attack they left this avenue of retreat open to us. They got inside information. Just like last year when they killed those guys from Cleveland. They probably got the rally point staked out, too. So, besides this ambush, I am betting they’re holding another thirty guns on the flanks and rear in reserve.”

  “They’re counting on us charging them before their cavalry gets here. The obvious,” Cotton said, understanding exactly what Gunny Valentine envisioned.

  “They’re prepared,” Jack added. “Someone on their end in that ambush got trigger-happy and hit Petey and Chico at the mouth of th
eir kill zone. That little fuckup gave us a chance. Otherwise, we’d be dead ducks.”

  “They’ll never anticipate us leaving anyone behind. So we hide the gunny good, he’s got a chance,” Jaws said. “We could draw straws to see who stays.”

  “Bullshit!” Jack said. “I make the decisions, not you. I stay. You go. If anybody dies, it’s me, and I’m not planning on dying. Got it?”

  Bronco gave Gunny Valentine a look that said it all. A lot like the look that the Apostle John must have had on his face when he watched the Roman soldiers nail Jesus Christ to the cross. What do you say to a man who is sacrificing his life so that you can live?

  Just then a voice came on the command channel.

  “Ghost One, Corsair Actual.”

  “Corsair Actual, Ghost One,” Jack said. “Go ahead.”

  “Ghost One, position report and casualties, over,” Black Bart said.

  “Stand by, Corsair,” Jack said, pulling out his GPS and taking a reading. “Uploading grid coordinates now.”

  “Ghost One, Corsair Actual. Copy. Coordinates received,” Colonel Roberts said. “Can you give us a casualty report?”

  “Negative at this time,” Jack responded. “We will need medevac at rally point, over.”

  “Ghost One, Corsair Actual,” Roberts continued. “Be advised that operation plan security has been compromised.”

  “Not surprised,” Jack said. “They had our number from the get-go. Definitely we’re compromised.”

  “Roger that, Ghost One,” Bart Roberts said. “Per that compromise, revise all references and points to Plan B. Repeat. Revise your references and points to Plan B, per final operation briefing discussion. Do you copy? Over.”

  Jack thought a moment and recalled Colonel Roberts telling all commanders and key noncommissioned officers at the final briefing that should there be a reason, they would institute a general Plan B to the operation. Basically, all extraction and insertion points moved five clicks south. Likewise, all frequencies moved down channel five clicks.

  “Roger, Corsair.” Jack smiled. “Plan B. Thank you!”

  Cotton smiled, too. So did Sammy LaSage, Bronco, Jaws, Cochise, and even Petey, now wheezing as his lung filled with blood.

  “How about it, Chico? You up for Plan B?” Jack said on the intercom.

  Randy Powell answered back, still playing dead, “Plan B? Works for me. Don’t that put Whiskey Tango Foxtrot out of this fucking riverbed and closer to our position anyway?”

  “Yes, it does,” Jack said, suddenly feeling the love of God shining on them. “If they got people waiting a mile east of us? We’ll be five kilometers south. That also gives Alvin Barkley and his strike force ample opportunity to kill the shit out of these guys.”

  “So, Gunny. Does that alter your plan any?” Cochise asked, hoping that Jack would give up his suicide idea and run down the gully with them.

  “Makes it a lot more likely you’ll survive, but changes nothing on my end. I still have to hold here so you guys can exit,” Jack said. “Don’t worry. It’ll just be a long walk for me, unless Alvin Barkley brings a hell of a lot of Marines, and you guys come after me.”

  “That’d be wonderful!” Bronco said. “Can’t we do that? Land Barkley and his guys here instead?”

  “We’ll be dead before they can get here,” Jack said. “At best, they won’t swoop in for another twenty minutes. We don’t have five.”

  “Right. We need to beat feet now,” Cotton said.

  Jaws and Cochise moved to the high positions. Jack got behind the SAW while Bronco, Sage, and Cotton worked fast, digging holes, pulling rocks, getting a deep trench for Jack to slide in.

  Quickly, they had the gunny covered to his head.

  “Bronco, you stick with Jaws, feed him and me ammo,” Jack said. “When you bug out, one under each arm on Petey and run your asses off. Do not look back.”

  Cochise glanced down from his firing point. “Gunny, I ain’t leaving. We never left anyone behind, and I’m not starting now. I’ll cover up, too.”

  “Sergeant,” Jack said in his gunny voice. “You will leave. Survival of the team depends on your gun. We’ve got two wounded. That means two carry two, plus our gear. Your gun is important. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Quinlan said, his voice choking.

  Just then someone shouted from down the dry riverbed.

  “Hey, Marines,” Jamal al-Hakim called out. “Ghost One. That would be Ash’abah al-Anbar, the Ghost of Anbar. We have been expecting you! Gunnery Sergeant Jack Valentine!”

  “Fuck you!” Cochise Quinlan yelled back. “Valentine ain’t here.”

  “Oh, I think he is,” Jamal responded.

  Jaws yelled, “He’s a pussy! Hiding in the rear with the gear at Al Asad with all the FOB-rats and TOC-roaches.”

  “Ghost One is Jack Valentine!” Jamal insisted. “We hear you loud and clear. Everything you say. Surrender. No one has to die. Not today.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Jack shouted. “I’m Ghost One, and that ain’t Jack Valentine. Not anymore. He’s pushing pencils.”

  “That is too bad,” Jamal said. “We had a special day planned for Ash’abah al-Anbar. A celebration with him as guest of honor. Now you must go to the party without him.”

  “Stick your head up and say that, you donkey-fucking son of a bitch,” Cochise yelled. “That’s right, we got you on video going balls-deep.”

  A spike of anger and prolonged impatience sent the captain up, out of his rocky nest. He, like all of his comrades, believed that the fatal authority of God dealt in all things. God’s will even determined the flip of a coin. It was God’s will that he was here killing these Marines.

  Just as Jamal rose to his knees, to dare the insulting Marine to go ahead and take his shot, Cochise Quinlan lit him up. Three quick rounds from his Vigilance support rifle splashed home. The Haji captain never knew what hit him.

  As Cochise fired, so did the entire team.

  Sammy LaSage and Jaws ran out, under the suppression fire and grabbed Randy Powell, and dragged him to the far side, where Cotton ran the SAW.

  “I’m going back for Petey and the boys, and we’ll beat feet,” Jaws said.

  “Do it!” Cotton Martin said, dropping a spent can from the light machine gun and locking in a full one.

  Cotton then switched guns with Sage, patted him on the helmet, and headed for the gully, with Corporal Powell running at his side, his arm on Martin’s shoulder. Ahead of them, Bronco and Jaws carried Petey the same way. However, Cochise Quinlan kept firing above Jack.

  “Move out, Marine!” Jack yelled.

  “I can’t leave, Gunny!” Sergeant Quinlan cried out. Tears streamed from his eyes. “I can’t see you die!”

  “Those Marines need you, Sergeant!” Jack snarled. “Do your fucking job!”

  The words stung, but the stocky, stubborn sergeant knew the gunny was right. Two more shots, one more dead Haji, and Cochise dropped to his knees. He pushed the big rock right by Jack’s face and checked the rest of his concealment.

  “It’s a good hide, Gunny,” Cochise said. “Is it okay for a guy to love a guy?”

  “Sure it is, Cochise,” Jack answered, shooting the machine gun. “Just don’t fuck me.”

  Cochise laughed. “I love you, Gunny Valentine. More than just a brother. All of us, we’re like all part of each other. Does that make sense?”

  “Absolutely,” Jack said, and put his hand on the sergeant’s boot toe and gave it a pat.

  Cochise looked at the gunny. “Don’t fucking die!”

  “I’m not!” Jack said, and changed cans while Cochise opened again with his Vigilance rifle. That’s when he saw Petey’s M40A3 sniper rifle lying on the embankment.

  “I’m leaving this Vigilance for you, Gunny,” Cochise said, and quickly buried his rifle and Petey Preston’s satc
hel full of ammunition, which he had pulled from the Marine’s discarded backpack. “Rifle and ammo at arm’s reach, to your right. It’s buried good.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Jack yelled, and Sergeant Quinlan got to his feet. Heavy fire returning from the three machine guns and a dozen rifles chewed up the dirt above and around both Marines.

  “Don’t fucking die!” Cochise yelled as he stood to run.

  “I won’t,” Jack shouted back, bullets flying.

  “Promise?” Cochise strained, his voice breaking up.

  “I promise!” Jack said, working the machine gun.

  With that, Sergeant Clarence Quinlan disappeared.

  Jack Valentine shot out the six cans of SAW ammo that he had. When he popped the last bullet downrange, he slid deep in his hole, tossed the machine gun aside, and pulled the rock in front of his face. He prayed that he hadn’t knocked away any camouflage. With that last round spent, Jack felt more alone now than he had ever known in his life.

  —

  Jack waited and prayed. He knew that if Jamal, the al-Sunnah captain, had known to call him Ghost One, he no doubt had monitored the command and control encrypted radio channels. To do that, the enemy had to have the working crypto receivers and call frequencies.

  However, he didn’t think that the Hajis had ears on the MARSOC team’s discrete intercom band or frequencies since they had never acted on any information that they should have obtained if they could monitor them. Such as the fact that Randy Powell had played dead and gotten away with it. Had they known he was alive in the open, they would have finished him with their machine guns.

  For this, the gunny was thankful for Elmore Snow’s insistence that his teams not carry one radio with all channels, but two different devices with different radio bandwidths. One for the command communications and the other for internal voice chatter. Both connected with their helmet headsets, as if one radio, but command could not hear the cross talk among the team. The colonel had told his Marines that once small unit leaders began giving that kind of access and direct control to higher headquarters staff, soon bean counters and even the president would be sitting in lounge chairs, sipping cocktails and quarterbacking special operations missions. Something that must never happen. “Micromanagement kills Marines,” Elmore had said.