by William Oday
Uniformed police officers rushed bystanders on both sides of the road away toward the perimeter of the action.
Two SWAT guys broke cover. Running in a low crouch, they leapfrogged from car to car as they approached.
“Face down on the ground!” the loud speaker ordered again.
It felt like a Hollywood action movie, only he was the bad guy that everyone wanted to see get waxed. But for the knowledge that any sudden movement would result in his immediate death, he’d already have been sprinting down the road after his daughter.
A furious thumping approached from behind. Mason turned and saw the ominous silhouette of an AH-64 Apache gunship about a block north. It hovered with its M230 chain gun and missile bays aimed at them.
Wasn’t this a little overkill? He wasn’t an international terrorist. He wasn’t even a bad guy, if anyone would take ten seconds and find out for themselves.
“Team two, get back to cover!”
The advancing SWAT soldiers retreated back to join the rest of their unit.
Mason watched as all their muzzles raised into the air and acquired a new target. The Apache.
What the hell was going on?
The police scanner cut through the whirling winds.
Unauthorized Huey helicopter, I repeat, you are in restricted airspace.
This is LAPD SWAT! It’s our airspace!
Unauthorized Huey helicopter, this airspace has been closed by presidential order. No local operations are approved. Ground your bird immediately.
We are about to apprehend a murder suspect! Back off!
Mason felt like a rabbit caught in a bear fight. This wasn’t where you wanted to be if the claws started flying.
Unauthorized Huey helicopter, your mission has not been cleared by federal authorities. Ground your bird. We will shoot you down if necessary.
Fucking feds! You can’t order us down!
The Apache’s chain gun let loose. Thirty millimeter rounds lanced through the air, less than twenty feet from the nose of the Huey. A warning shot.
You sons of bitches! I’ve got six snipers zero’d on your fuel tank!
The Apache’s chain gun roared again, this time shredding sheetmetal and glass.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Several SWAT guys went down. The howl of the chain gun swallowed their screams. Cars didn’t do much to stop the onslaught. One guy in black ran for the cover of a building. He fired bursts at the Apache as he went. He didn’t make it. A volley from the gunship literally tore him in half. His upper body ripped loose and tumbled to a stop as his lower body ran another step before collapsing.
Iridia screamed. At least it looked like she did, but Mason couldn’t hear anything above the whumping blades and the thundering cannon.
Several uniformed officers behind them opened up on the Apache with service pistols. Their bodies exploded. Vaporized by a torrent of fire. Their black and white cruisers crumpled and caved inward as rounds chewed them to pieces.
The scanner squawked.
Noooo! Noooo!
The Huey tilted up and clawed for altitude. It swung around as a gunner leaned out the side. He aimed at the Apache and went cyclic with an M4.
He barely got his finger on the trigger when a missile shrieked from the Apache. It lasered through the air not fifty feet above their heads and broadsided the Huey.
Mason grabbed Iridia and dove under the Bronco as an enormous fireball exploded in the sky. He curled around her as a blast of superheated air washed over them. Pieces of twisted metal fell to the ground like a tornado had touched down on a junk yard. Shrapnel exploded through glass store fronts. Store alarms went off, adding to the sonic tsunami.
Mason took a breath and choked on the acrid stink of burned oil, and worse. He lay still, curled around Iridia, a shell keeping her alive. He blinked to clear his head as much as his vision.
“You okay?”
The words croaked out, but she seemed to understand.
She nodded, eyes wide and unblinking.
Mason crawled out from under the Bronco, staying close to the side, wondering when a bullet would take off his head.
None did.
He looked around.
The cars in the middle of the street that the SWAT guys used for cover were hardly recognizable. They were twisted heaps of fragmented slag. Partly demolished by the chain gun. Partly melted by the Huey explosion.
Dozens of bystanders sprawled on the street. Some injured. Some worse. The lucky ones filled the street with their wailing voices. Mason turned back to the still-present whumping of the Apache a block away.
His shoe squished on something.
He didn’t want to know.
The Apache’s loudspeaker boomed.
“Citizens of Los Angeles. Return to your homes. Martial law is in effect. Curfew hours will soon be declared.”
Mason had no intention of returning home. Not without his daughter. He reached under the Bronco and helped Iridia stand.
She leaned hard on him as she took in the scene.
He nodded toward the Apache.
“You’re not getting out on a plane tonight. And I have to find my daughter.”
“What about all these people?”
The gunship powered up and lifted higher into the air. It dipped its nose and disappeared over the roofs.
The screaming in the street grew louder. Or felt louder now that it no longer competed with the gunship’s rotors.
A lot of people needed help here. Mason was no doctor. And yet that didn’t absolve him from trying. But what if Theresa got hurt because he delayed here? What if those precious seconds spent here ended up being the very same ones that meant life or death for her?
He’d never forgive himself. He wouldn’t want to live with that hanging over his head. He knew baggage. He knew that aching weight more than anyone. And he knew with absolute certainty that losing his daughter would be the end of everything he cared about.
It was the fog of war. The uncertainty of knowing the right answer. The predicament of having no right answer. Only the one you went with and made work. He prayed he was making the right decision.
“My daughter needs me. I have to go.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
November 2004
Fallujah, Iraq
Mason stuffed a huge pinch of Copenhagen into his lower lip. The zing of nicotine couldn’t arrive fast enough. He winced in pain. The bite mark below his right eye oozed creamy pus. The whole area was swollen, to the point where he couldn’t see more than a slit through that eye.
Lopes slapped his shoulder.
“Like a little girl, bro!”
“Shut up,” Mason replied.
The whole squad hadn’t let it go for two days now. In their version of the event, he screamed like a little girl swatting the camel spider off his face. That wasn’t how he remembered it.
That monster was about to chew his head off!
He succeeded in batting it away, but not before the loathsome creature had gouged a chunk out of his cheek. The whole squad chased the monstrous insect around the room for two minutes until Miro finally got a boot on it.
Big as your hand. Mandibles like a wood chipper. Eight long, jointed legs. Hairy. Repulsive.
Not venomous, though, so Mason figured he got away with minimal injury. And now two days later, the wound had half his face puffed up like a balloon. Touching anywhere near the area shot daggers into his brain. He had to drain it every few hours. The crud that spurted out was so revolting it was almost fascinating.
Lopes laughed.
“I’m not saying I would’ve done it any different.”
“I didn’t scream.”
“Sounded like a scream.”
“I yelled. Roared. Howled. Bellowed. Manly shit.”
Not that he chose to get bit, but he was glad that it gave the men something to joke about. Some light humor while they moved through such a dark place.
So much of the last week had be
en filled with misery and heartache. He’d lost four Marines. Two killed in action, and two critically wounded that had been flown to Germany for further treatment. Down to nine men, they were a weaker unit for the losses.
However, they were also harder for it. More determined. More resolved. More certain than ever that every last terrorist would surrender or pay for what happened to their brothers.
The mental toughness juxtaposed with their physical condition. Every man had lost enough weight that their eyes looked sunk in and their cheekbones protruded in a grotesque way. They hadn’t bathed in a week. Moist towelettes scrubbed over the filthiest regions was the best they could muster.
It wasn’t enough, by far.
They’d devolved into base animals—comfortable, or at least resigned, with their caked filth. Their dreams had boiled down to three simple comforts. A good night’s sleep, hot chow, and a hot shower. Things all the Rear Echelon Motherfuckers took for granted. REMFs lived comfortable lives behind the wire, inside the safety of the base. This gulf of experience created an invisible line that separated infantry from everyone else.
A grunt’s life was sometimes torture, but Mason wouldn’t have it any other way. He was here for his men. To see that the rest of his squad got back in one piece. There was no place in the world he’d rather be.
The nicotine buzz tickled his system, putting a little more gas in the tank.
They’d been reclearing backfilled neighborhoods for days. The enemy had an uncanny ability to melt away, only to reappear in neighborhoods that were supposed to be cleared. Going over old ground sucked big time.
Mason eyed the last house on the block. The shit always seemed to wait until the last house. Like the muj knew that after a hundred empty rooms, it was impossible not to get sloppy. Impossible to keep your edge after so many dull hours.
This one-story house didn’t feel right.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end. A tingle teased the edges of his awareness. He and a few of the other men were starting to develop a sense for when the shit was about to hit. Call it mind powers or maybe their brains picking out minute details that didn’t register at a conscious level.
Whatever it was, it seemed to work.
This house had every alarm in his head going off. The courtyard gate lay in the street. Probably dragged off by a humvee at some point. The place didn’t appear occupied. Four large windows were boarded up. It was much larger than your average house. Maybe a minor member of Saddam’s Baathist party.
The front door yawned open. A pitch black interior gave no further clues.
“Lopes, what do you think?”
“Gives me the creepers, Sarge.”
“Me too.”
“Wish we had a tank to flatten it.”
“Yep.”
They both stared at the ominous dwelling.
“Sarge?”
“What?”
“If something ever happened to me, you’d look after my boy, right?”
“Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
“I know. I know. I’m just saying. If it did, you’d keep an eye on him, right?”
“First off, you’ll be there for him. And second, you know I’d take look out for him if it came to that.”
Lopes stared into the infinite distance.
“A boy needs a father figure.”
“Damn, Lopes, you’re getting me all weepy.”
“You promise you’d keep him safe, if I wasn’t there?”
Mason could tell Lopes wasn’t going to let it go so he turned and locked eyes with him.
“I promise you, bro. Now stop acting crazy.”
“Thank you.”
Mason rolled his eyes.
Lopes smacked his shoulder and Mason’s face jolted with pain.
“Ow! Dammit!”
“Pull your nuts out,” Lopes said, “sir.”
“Very funny.”
Mason waved to gather the squad at the courtyard wall. A violent shiver raced down his back. With the sun below the horizon, the temperature had begun to plummet. His sweat-soaked cammies leached away body heat.
“It’s been a long, shitty day.”
All the men nodded like they’d never heard a deeper, more universal truth.
“The longest,” Lopes said.
“The shittiest,” Miro said with a grin. “Lopes has been crying all day about not getting to shoot anything.”
“I’ll shoot you if you don’t shut up.”
“It’d take every round in that box because your aim is crap.”
“How about I aim it up your butt?”
“Why are you always talking about my butt?”
“Enough!” Mason shouted, though he couldn’t help but laugh. “This is the last structure in this sector. Don’t go to sleep on me. Stay switched on and let’s do it by the numbers.”
“Ooh Rah!” the squad barked in unison.
“Hydrate and check your NVGs.”
The men gulped down water and then dropped their night vision goggles and looked around to verify operation.
“Good to go?”
“Ooh Rah!”
Mason motioned to move out.
Lucky took point and the rest of the squad got in the stack behind. They filtered into the courtyard, searching for targets in their fields of fire. Mason covered the two boarded windows to the right of the front door as they approached.
No bad guys popped out.
They stacked up to the right of the open front door.
“It’s dark as shit in there, Sarge,” Lucky whispered as he dropped his NVGs into place. The rest of the squad followed suit.
The inky night bloomed to life in green and black hues. The Marines filed through the front door, into the shadows.
Into the black unknown.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
It was so dark inside, the NVGs weren’t much better than unassisted vision. They cleared a large foyer. Cracked and pried out tiles marred a colorful mosaic floor. Mason didn’t get what it depicted at first. Maybe that was because he was only seeing it out of one eye. He stepped back and it came into focus.
A portrait of Saddam Hussein in cammies wearing a black beret. His trademark bushy mustache faithfully reproduced in small tiles. He wore a toothy smile that promised salvation for all the suffering in the world. A smile could hide a monster.
“Damn, Sarge,” Lopes said. “Look at those perfect chompers. I need to get on his insurance.”
“Lopes, I’ve never seen such sweet manlove,” Miro said.
“Cut the crap,” Mason said with a growl.
The foyer had three closed doors, one to the left, front, and right. The middle one had the hairs on the back of his neck ramrod straight. What about it felt so wrong?
He pulled up his NVGs and flicked on a flashlight. The door in front was painted solid black. But that wasn’t the most messed up part. A dark crimson hand print streaked into trails down the pale wall next to the door. Like a bloody hand fought to stay out of that hallway.
“That’s messed up.” Lucky said what everybody was thinking.
“Let’s do that one last,” Mason said.
Three doors. Three options. All or none could hold drugged up jihadis foaming at the mouth for American blood.
“Stack up on this one,” Mason said, pointing to the door on the left. Waiting around wasn’t going to make the choice easier. Besides, it was like a reverse lottery. The winner was the least lucky person in the world. You never knew when your number came up.
Lucky posted up next to the door and the rest of the squad got into position behind. Channing came around and tried the door knob. He’d only rejoined third squad that morning after receiving medical treatment for a face full of shrapnel. The doctors wanted to send him home. He refused. He wanted to be back with his brothers.
The strength of that loyalty was a bond they all shared. They’d fought through so much. Mason would rather he take a bullet than one of his men. He was sur
e each and every one of them felt the same way.
The door was locked.
Channing reared back and kicked the door in. The frame splintered and the door swung open. Lucky moved in with the rest of the stack following. They swept in with a hard-earned, fluid grace. Not rushing. Slow was smooth, and smooth was fast. They worked like perfectly meshed gears. Each turning to support the one in front, while at the same time getting the same support from the man behind.
Mason entered and noticed a small table along the far wall. A single candle burned in a cup on the table. It illuminated a half-eaten plate of food. His goggles made the flame glow white tinged with green. An AK-47 leaned against the wall by the empty chair next to the table. An open doorway led to another room beyond.
Someone was here. Close.
Mason waved Lucky forward. The kid jumped to his duty without a second thought. He shouldered up next to the open doorway.
“Allahu—“
The tallest muj Mason had ever seen appeared in the doorway. His lanky arm wielded a wicked-looking curved sword. He swung it at Lucky as he entered the room. The blade struck the Private’s chest body armor and stuck. The attacker didn’t get a chance at another swing as every rifle in the room shattered the silence. Two feet from Lucky, his body jerked with every impact. The volume of fire slammed him backwards into the wall. Bullets ripped him apart.
Blood spewed from his mouth, down his black garments. He slumped to the floor, leaving a brushed stroke of blood on the wall.
“Cease fire!” Mason shouted.
Their rifles went silent. The sharp stink of spent rounds filled the air. Wisps of smoke curled out of the end of rifle barrels.
The insurgent raised a hand, reaching for them, his fingers curled into claws.
SHUCK-SHUCK.
Channing racked the Mossberg and stepped in front of the dying man. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t call for last rites or forgiveness. He pointed the muzzle at haji’s head and emptied his shotgun. It was like a melon getting hit with a sledgehammer. Like that old comedian used to do. People would laugh when the wet bits sprayed over them.