“Estimated enemy dead stand at three hundred, in that one action alone.”
“Three hundred against eight Marines? Very impressive,” the general remarked.
“Many more escaped, sir,” the colonel said. “When I asked the team leader for an estimate of enemy force, his response was ‘All of them.’”
“That many, huh?” the chief of staff said.
“And more coming into Denver Area of Operations daily,” the colonel added.
“For now, our forces from Haditha Dam south to Hit have altered our original sweep plan to one of search and destroy,” the battalion commander continued. “We send out probes with quick-response reinforcements backing them up. The probe encounters fire, they hold as we bring the hammer to bear on the anvil.”
“How’s that working out, Colonel Roberts?” the chief of staff asked.
“Quite good,” Black Bart answered. “We now use our operation plan as a guide to establish where we think the enemy force will be lying in wait.”
“What about the missing Marine?” the chief followed.
“We suspect that the enemy is not aware he is out there,” Roberts responded. “Gunnery Sergeant Jack Valentine is one of the best special operators in the Marine Corps. He is a survival expert, master of field crafts, as well as possessing the full pack of Force Reconnaissance training. Unfortunately, he has no functioning communications except a short-range ultrahigh-frequency intercom that may or may not still be working.”
“You have searchers looking for him?” the general asked.
“Absolutely, sir,” Roberts answered. “Drones and aircraft making zigzag passes along the desert area north of T1 and within that area. No sign of him. However, each of the sorties has scored impressive strikes on enemy forces transiting the area in trucks, cars, and on motorcycles.
“With the increased Haji movement and apparent gathering of forces we’ve encountered, Gunny Valentine, no doubt, has set his profile extremely low. He’ll be next to impossible for us or the enemy to spot.
“Valentine’s senior assistant team leader, Staff Sergeant Terrence Martin, who is here in the room, said that the gunny is hiking a big circle, west, north, then east, and will end up at Haditha Dam. Given his skills, one of our top Scout-Sniper instructors, we won’t likely see him until he pops his head up at the final objective. We thoroughly briefed our Marines up there on the situation, and they have their ears and eyes wide open.”
“Do you think it’s possible that the enemy may have killed him or has him prisoner?” the chief of staff asked.
“Given who he is, the enemy would definitely make a big deal of it,” Roberts said. “Only other possibility is that he died in the desert, unknown to anyone. Not a prospect I like to consider. As I said, he is equipped for survival and well trained. I expect him at Haditha Dam in coming days.”
“His name again?” the general asked, jotting notes.
“Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine,” the battalion commander answered. “He goes by Jack.”
The regimental landing-team commander leaned forward and told the general and chief of staff, “Valentine’s last tour here, the Hajis pinned him with the name Ash’abah al-Anbar. The Ghost of Anbar. He scored a pallet of high-value kills around Fallujah, then a bunch up here, too, augmenting Twenty-fifth Marines. Very creative fellow. He put phony guns in fake sniper hides on rooftops, had guys go to and from them, as if they were manned. Then, when gangs of Hajis moved on the positions, he killed them from afar with his team’s direct sniper fire and took out their support crews with light artillery. Very creative man.
“Needless to say, the Hajis don’t like the gunny one bit. Sir, if they got Jack Valentine, dead or alive, we’d definitely know it. He would be a highly publicized prize.”
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them then,” the general said. “Gunny Valentine’s identity and the fact he’s missing in action stays under tight wraps. That clear?”
“That’s what I prefer, sir, and Colonel Roberts strongly concurs,” the regimental boss said. “Valentine’s best chance is total secrecy. If the enemy realizes we have a Marine missing, they’ll go to great efforts to find him. If they learn it’s Ash’abah al-Anbar, they’ll put every dog they have between Baghdad and Damascus on the hunt.”
“No doubt,” the general said. “That also means that search and rescue efforts have to remain secret. Keep them looking like search and destroy. We sure as hell don’t want to tip the bastards by flying grid search patterns.”
“Correct, sir,” Roberts said. “My opinion, Gunny Valentine’s got to pretty much get himself out of the desert. We go fishing for him? It could get him killed.”
Cesare Alosi sipped what was left of his coffee and could not help smiling, imagining all the possibilities.
“What crawled up your ass?” the major sitting by him said, seeing the man sparkle.
“Oh,” Cesare said, “I’m just thrilled that Gunny Valentine has got a real chance. He could well make it.”
No sooner had the briefing ended than Alosi hurried with the gaggle of straphangers and horse-holders back to the tarmac for their ride home to Baghdad, and he began digging through the address book in his smartphone. United States Senator Cooper Carlson. Perfect payback. As he got on the Osprey, he brought up the phone number.
When the aircraft landed a few minutes later, Cesare couldn’t wait until he got to his Cadillac. As soon as he closed the car door, he punched his phone’s GO button.
An aide answered, then put Alosi straight through.
“You still in Iraq?” Cooper Carlson said, standing in a black-silk robe by a floor-to-ceiling bank of windows in his penthouse apartment atop a Las Vegas hotel, held by the blind trust that his big-money cronies had set up for the senator’s share of their partnership in several high-end gambling resort properties.
“Yes, sir,” Alosi said.
“Why, you sound like you’re just down the street,” Carlson said. “I’m about to turn in for the evening, and Henry says you’re on the phone. Finally got a night off from campaigning. The wife’s gone to Los Angeles for the week, so I have a sweet young thing on her way up to make me sleepy.”
“Oh, I envy you, sir,” Cesare said. “A blonde?”
“With big tits.” Carlson laughed.
“How would you like a little tidbit of anonymous information that if you play right will put you on the front pages on both coasts, and on CNN and Fox News?” Alosi said.
“What on earth do you have? Saddam’s fabled weapons of mass destruction?” Carlson bubbled.
“Not that, but something that might work even better. Something that will make you the glowing champion of the little man, truth, and the American people’s right to know,” Cesare offered.
“Out with it!” Carlson said.
“How about a serviceman missing in action?” Alosi teased. “How about a military cover-up of it, too?”
“They got a soldier missing in action, and they’re covering it up?” Carlson said, and smiled like a greedy cat in a roomful of fat mice. “That ought to take the pressure off your shooting fiasco of those thirty-five dead Iraqis.”
“This isn’t just any serviceman,” Alosi said. “He’s one of their best Special Operations Marines. In fact, he’s the senior Scout-Sniper instructor in the Marine Corps, and the top operator in the Marine Corps’ answer to Delta Force and SEALs, Marine Special Operations Command.”
“Henry!” Carlson bellowed. “Get on the extension and start writing this stuff down.”
The aide grabbed the phone at the desk. “Here, sir.”
“What’s this guy’s name? And give Henry all the dirty details,” Carlson said.
“This information is strictly confidential, sir. Classified top secret,” Alosi said, covering his ass.
“They’ll never know you told me a thing,” C
arlson said.
“And, do you have a special reward for me? You know, me thinking of you and your campaign,” Cesare said, smiling.
“Name it. It’s yours,” Carlson said. “Now I’ve got a blonde with big tits that wants some of my cock meat. You and Henry take care of this business, while I take care of the monkey business.” He laughed and so did Cesare.
“What was that guy’s name again?” the senator said, getting off the line. “You listening, Henry?”
“Yes, sir,” Henry said.
“Valentine,” Alosi said. “Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine. They call him Jack.”
—
A North Carolina gust off a thunderstorm caught the door behind June Snow and banged it against the house as she struggled her way into the Camp Lejeune officer-quarters kitchen, lugging sacks of groceries. Just back, they had flown home to Wyoming for Rowdy Yates’s funeral at the Veterans’ Cemetery on the northeast side of Casper.
June and Elmore had gotten home late last night. The colonel had gone to work early, feeling bad, so the missus decided to cook a stew for dinner, and they would turn in early. She made a run to the Camp Lejeune commissary, bought groceries, and when she got home, Elmore’s car sat in the driveway. Way too early for him to be home for the day.
With the wind giving her fits at the door, she thought surely her husband would come running to help. So, when he didn’t, she set the bags in the kitchen and went upstairs to find him.
As she pushed open the bedroom door, she saw Elmore on his knees at the side of their bed, praying like a child. His green military Val-A-Pack suitcase sat bulging, packed full, by the closet door. A canvas special operations kit bag, likewise stuffed, lay next to it.
June Snow knew without asking that a whole new wave of bad news had come home. Elmore never had to mention that he would fly back to Iraq tonight from Cherry Point. The longtime military wife knew it without asking.
“What happened?” she said softly, after she knelt by her husband and bowed her head with him.
He looked at her. “Jack Valentine’s missing in action.”
She let out a breath, took her husband’s hand, and began praying, too.
After Elmore finished his talk with God, he waited for June. Then he lifted her to her feet and gave her a long kiss, filled with his years of love for the hometown girl he romanced in the wild lands where Headgate Draw meets Crazy Woman Creek.
“Mike Burkehart called me,” he told her. She said nothing, and Elmore went on, “His career’s finished. They lost a classified document. Some character, a former Marine from one of those bloody security companies, apparently snatched it when Corporal Ralph Butler had his head turned.”
“What was it?” June Snow asked.
“The top secret plan for the operation that Jack and our detachment supported,” Elmore said.
“And?” June added.
“And, the information in that operation plan apparently fell into enemy hands, compromised the whole battalion, including the eight-man patrol that Jack led. The enemy lay in ambush for them. They estimate fifty enemy at least, and hundreds more behind them. By God’s hand, and Gunny Valentine’s courage, all seven of our boys got out alive, but Jack stayed behind.”
“Jack Valentine sacrificed himself to save his Marines,” June said, and sounded a bit perturbed in her tone.
“I hope he didn’t sacrifice himself,” Elmore said, and pinched his wife on the cheek. “Jack provided cover for his men to escape. That’s what a leader does. I would have done it and expect no less from any of my Marines.”
“Oh, I know,” June breathed out, “but it is just so Jack. You know what I mean. He loves a good show.”
“I doubt that Jack is very pleased right now,” Elmore responded. “Captain Burkehart said that the gunny had successfully evaded capture. Now, our boy has a long, lonely walk in the dark, working his way to Haditha Dam by way of the western desert in Anbar Governance.”
“I’ll call the chapel’s prayer chain,” June said, starting to leave.
Elmore took her arm. “No. You can’t say anything to anyone. It’s top secret. We’re banking that al-Qaeda doesn’t know a Marine has gone missing. We absolutely don’t want them to know it’s Jack. Our prayers will have to be sufficient.”
June kissed her man. “What time does your plane leave?”
—
Nothing hurts worse than snagging a little toe on the leg of a coffee table. Cesare Alosi thought he had broken his off when he ran sock-footed to grab his ringing phone.
“Shit!” he screamed, dancing on one foot as he pushed the green button while the lightning bolt from his toe struck home. “Hold on! For crying out loud!” he wailed, falling in his chair and catching his breath.
“What!” he blared. “I think I just broke my toe!”
“Oh, poor you!” Liberty Cruz sang back and laughed.
“Miss Cruz? That you?” Cesare said, and spread a big smile. The pain suddenly worth the run for the phone.
“In the flesh, Mr. Alosi,” she said.
“Cesare, please.” He smiled and looked at her picture on his desk. “Someone told me you had come to Baghdad, but I could not believe it. What on earth for?”
“Oh,” Liberty sighed, sounding exasperated. “I graduate SERE School, report to Washington, and what do I get? Typical female shitty little job, like they’re doing me a favor. An administrative audit of the Baghdad FBI station.”
“It’s a man’s world,” Cesare said, and meant it. “Women come into it, they have to expect shitty little jobs. That’s life in big-boy pants. Get used to it.”
“I know,” she said, trying to sound agreeable but already pissed off at Alosi’s man’s-world idealism. Some people who are assholes simply can’t help being the assholes that they are. But Liberty didn’t say anything of what she thought, only what she considered Cesare wanted to hear.
“I hate to ask you,” she said, “but our FBI team in Baghdad is now investigating the shooting of the Iraqi civilians. We need to locate Ray-Dean Blevins and his crew. Can you help? I told them I knew you and that you would.”
“I fired the three of them on the spot,” Cesare said. “They’re awaiting transportation back stateside. I have not talked to any of them since the shooting of those poor people. Frankly, I hope I never speak to that crew again.”
“Can’t blame you there, Cesare,” Liberty said. “You wouldn’t know where we could find them? Any ideas will help.”
“I’d start at his apartment,” Alosi said, trying to sound casual, but now worrying about what Cooder-with-a-D might say to the FBI if he had a little pressure put on him.
“You know,” Liberty said, “I happen to be standing in Ray-Dean’s kitchen right now. He’s nowhere around. And let me tell you, this boy lives like a pig.”
“How did you get in his apartment?” Cesare said, and had to work at sounding calm. “You have no jurisdiction.”
“Well . . .” Liberty said, letting the word stretch into almost a whine. “Iraqi police have taken jurisdiction on the killings. They opened full cooperation with the FBI in the investigation. Also, we have a little matter of some highly classified materials that we found hidden under the organizer tray in Mr. Blevins’s silverware drawer. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Espionage and violation of the National Security Act of 1947? It opens a whole world of jurisdiction for the FBI. The Iraqi government is bending over backwards to help us, too. They’re very upset at the security compromise. It is their country after all.”
“I had no idea!” Cesare exclaimed, really scared. “What sort of classified documents we talking about? I should know about these things. It’s a reflection on our company.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. All I can share is the fact that the material we discovered in Mr. Blevins’s apartment is highly classified,” Liberty said. “Your man
and his conspirators face serious charges. A capital offense.”
“Death penalty?” Alosi gasped. “Seriously?”
“Treason is a capital crime,” Liberty said.
“But nobody’s been put to death,” Alosi argued.
“You ever hear of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg?” the FBI agent said, trying really hard to suppress the tone in her voice that gave away the elation she felt, driving a dagger into the slimeball’s heart.
“That was like the 1950s. The McCarthy Red Scare,” Cesare scoffed. “America wouldn’t do that now.”
“Don’t bet on it. If the espionage costs American lives? You better believe we’ll fry the sons of bitches,” Liberty fired back. Bob Hartley, Casey Runyan, and Cliff Towler stood close to her now, listening on the smartphone’s speaker. Hartley had a big grin going on.
“Well, those sons of bitches deserve what they get!” Cesare said, trying to now sound supportive. “You can count on Malone-Leyva pulling out all stops to assist the FBI in bringing the scumbags to swift justice. Let the chips fall where they may. Just rest assured that no one in this company had any idea that Blevins or those other two fools on his team had anything like espionage going on.”
“Count on a thorough investigation, Cesare,” Liberty said. “We appreciate your cooperation. Now, how about any ideas you may have on Blevins and his crew’s location?”
“If he’s not at his apartment, there’s only one other place I’d look,” Alosi said.
“Baghdad Country Club?” Liberty said.
“Oh! You know the place?” Cesare said, trying to sound surprised.
“Of course you know I do.” Liberty smiled. “I would be disappointed if your agents had not reported seeing me there with Chris Gray just after I arrived in Baghdad.”
“They mentioned this beautiful woman with long black hair smoking a cigar,” Alosi answered. “I thought it might be you, but no one said your name.”
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