The Lonely Hearts 06 The Grunt 2 Read online

  Married into the family only a year ago by way of Courtney Lawless, the feelings of admiration that often came with nuptials were substituted with tempered mutual respect, which in Brett’s mind was a step up from where he had first been relegated to – the live in boyfriend that everyone hated. In his defense, he didn’t know he was courting and employing the Colonel’s daughter. However, reality dictated that no one gave a damn what he didn’t know.

  A million evolutions of life had happened since then.

  A new marriage. A new baby. A new tour of duty. A new opportunity to get it right. And he intended to do just that. He wanted nothing more than to prove to his wife that he would always be the man for her and he wanted to prove to her family that she had chosen someone worthy of her, especially since he had such bad blood with his late wife’s family. Lord in heaven knew that he was glad to be moderately rid of them and all their racist right-wing rhetoric. But the Lawless family was something different. He really cared to be accepted by them. After all, they were all the family he had left. For him, such a large task started with the simplest step – doing his job. And he was good at that. In fact, he prided himself on it. He was a lifer in the Marine Corps, destined to retire after 25 years and spend his days tinkering on his truck and making love to his wife.

  “Good evening, Marines,” Brett said, scanning the room to make sure everyone was present. His authoritative, scratchy baritone echoed and boomed, waking up nodding men who slouched over in their seats, from a long day in the exhausting heat.

  In that exhilarating moment, he transformed from father and husband Brett Black to Marine Corps Staff Sergeant Brett Black. They were two very distinct personas of the same man. One was designed to love and protect his family. The other designed to be the swift and accurate arm of the military.

  “Good evening, Staff Sergeant,” the men answered nearly in unison. Everyone snapped to immediate attention. Heads shot up. Backs went erect. All eyes faced forward.

  Something that never changed - not in 244 years, not in a million men, not on seven continents - was the sounding off of well-bred, elite, human killing machines. It was the first thing that was taught in boot camp, one of the main things that Marines carried with them to military occupational specialty or MOS school, and it was the thing that bonded them during grueling trainings – cadence. He loved the sound - could never get enough of it. It motivated him, mobilized him, and reminded him yet again, why he loved the Marine Corps.

  Sergeant Morales, aka Rusty, a 23-year-old baby faced Latino in charge of all things technical, turned on the PowerPoint presentation on cue as the men picked up and opened their dossiers to follow along with the mission briefing.

  A satellite photo popped up on the projector screen of a white stone house in the Helmand River Valley. As Rusty zoomed in on the house sitting along the waterway, near a mix of patchy grass, rocks and sand, Brett rubbed his temples and cleared his throat. He could feel a headache coming on. They had become more frequent lately and lasted longer and longer, but for the moment, he had to ignore it.

  His rasping voice carried across the room without effort. “At 0-8 hundred hours, we received orders to raid this location exactly 250 miles due North from our base. Intel has indicated that this location is of key importance to our boys who are taking the fight a little closer to the locals than we have to.” He paused to give Rusty time to move to a ground view of the house. “As you can see, the home appears a little more modern than homes in this region, so you can’t miss it. It was built with the sole purpose of housing computer servers that feed intelligence and funds to local and regional cells of the Jihadist.” His eyes widened slightly, mostly due to dull pain starting in his left temple. “We believe this house holds over 20 computers, stores, bank account numbers, files on real property in the area, contacts within the Afghanistan government who are providing protection and aide to cells both in this region and throughout the country, locations of munitions and other very important counterintelligence. Our goal is to acquire that information tonight at 2200 hours. This is a last minute operation, but we have painstakingly prepared the most optimal strategy we can in the short period of time given.”

  Captain Lawless finally stepped out of the shadows and unfolded his veiny muscular arms. He was a man of few words, and a serious and pragmatic planner. Therefore, it went unsaid that he was unhappy with the impromptu mission, but as a servant to his country, unwilling to raise concerns with upper brass, he had worked with his team to create the most viable plan of action.

  Moving into the view of his men, he turned toward the PowerPoint and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Word from the top brass is that this information is central to our success in the Helmand Valley. It would have been ideal to conduct this mission when the property was vacant or less heavily armed. However, in the last 48-hours, our satellites indicate that there has been a constant presence at the home, which is abnormal. Armed presence has tripled and so has overall activity in the neighboring city, which is also indicative of insurgents preparing for an attack.”

  Rusty clicked to another photo showing thermal infrared images of bodies outside of the home over a 48-hour time-span.

  Captain Lawless sucked his teeth and talked calm and clear, standing like a statue in front of the image. “Our Intelligence close to the home has informed us that Mohammad Nabi, the British-educated Jihadist responsible for running the house and computers, may be at this location during the time the mission is carried out.” His voice projected louder. “If he is, this mission becomes a snatch and grab spec op. If not, then we’ll get him soon enough. Our sources indicate that he has not left the country in over four years. We don’t expect him to go anywhere anytime soon. Our priority remains to collect the data, extract the target and evac so that air support can destroy the house. This will be our one and only opportunity, gentlemen.” He turned his attention back to the men and glared at Brett. “I cannot stress the precision in which this mission must be carried out. Nabi is arranging to transfer millions of dollars and priceless information to another facility permanently. We have tonight and tonight only to get that information.”

  Brett didn’t beat around the bush. This was not his idea of an optimal operation. There were too many variables and not enough planning. “There will be casualties,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Scanning the room, he looked at each of his men. “It is my goal to ensure that those casualties are not American ones. Rules of engagement dictate this mission is deadly force authorized. Kill anything that moves. If they are there, they are a threat.”

  Captain Lawless quickly jumped in. Brett’s form of communication was a bit crass for his tastes. Some things needn’t be said, just understood. “Over 30 men are posted at the house. But because we need the information, any ideas about using strike drones are out. We have to physically enter the home, take the motherboards and jump drives, download the desk tops, grab any documents that are visible and easily accessible and then get out. From the time boots land on the ground to the time that you are picked up a click from the home on the river bend, the operation in whole will be 20 minutes.”

  “What about logging in remotely?” Hound, one of the men on the team, asked from the back of the room. He scratched at his curly, dirty blonde ponytail and squinted at the screen. “Just in case we miss some information, how are we to ensure that it won’t land back into the wrong hands? That’s a lot to get in a short period of time. If this stuff is as important as you say, and I don’t doubt that it is, overlooking something could cost additional lives down the road.”

  “We’ve already tried. It’s not possible.” Captain Lawless answered honestly. “This is our only recourse. What we don’t collect during the mission will be destroyed by air support during the fly over. This is a time-sensitive target.”

  “Alright men. Let’s go over to the planning table and walk through this mission one last time,” Brett said as one the men hit the lights and Rusty turned off the projector. “P
ut on your thinking hats. We have to consider every possible threat and prepare.”

  His gut knotted every time he thought about tonight. He hated last minute shit, and the idea of putting his men at risk was always daunting. He knew the wives, children, mothers and fathers of each of his men. Even losing one of them would be like losing all. Plus, this wasn’t his first mission. Hell, it wasn’t his 20th mission. With so much experience behind him, he knew that they were walking into a fucking mess. There was no doubt, however, that he could get the Intel. That was not the concern. These guys were.

  Many years ago, a wiser, older Gunnery Sergeant had warned him what getting too close to men in an outfit could do, but he hadn’t listened. Over time, he had gotten close to each and every one of his men. They were all family now. Hell, his best friend and godfather to his children, Staff Sergeant Joe Mabry, was across the room about to go under the wire with him.

  ***

  Immediately after the briefing, all the men headed from the war room to dress out and prep for the mission. As they filed quietly out of the room, Brett caught a glimpse of his best friend, Joe, lingering back intentionally to have a few words with Brett alone. He stopped at the table and waited.

  “Talk to the wife?” Brett asked when everyone else had left the room. Looking at the small figures on the table, he studied the plan in his mind again.

  “Yep,” Joe said, tugging at his dog chains. “She’s suspicious as usual. You talk to Courtney?”

  Just hearing her name sent a zinger up Brett’s spine. “Yeah, just before I came in here. She’s suspicious too. She knows something’s up…always does. She makes these little digs about it, trying to fish out information. Hell, I might as well tell her I’m going on an operation instead of keeping it from her. I have no poker face when it comes to that woman.”

  “You know what? The military actively recruits the wrong sex. From across the ocean, these nosey ass women know everything. Do you know the wife had the nerve to ask me if I had gotten new boot straps this morning?” Joe chuckled with pride. “I’m telling you, the entire female race is comprised of well-trained, natural spies.”

  Brett looked down at Joe’s boots. “Well…have you purchased new boot straps?”

  “Went as soon as I got off the phone,” Joe said, pulling out his wallet. “Got a new photo today too. The kids are growing fast, man. I need to hurry and get home to see the new little guy. He’s going to be shaving by the time I hit stateside.”

  Brett looked at the photo of Joe and Judy’s newest creation. He was a big healthy boy with his father’s smile and his mother’s Irish complexion. “Nice looking kid, man. Too nice looking. You sure he’s yours?”

  Joe laughed. “Oh, I’m sure. You sure about yours?”

  Brett didn’t let on to the fact that the joke rerouted to his end carried a different type of brevity. Changing the subject, he shook his head. His voice was ominous. “Just between the two of us…I got that feeling again.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “You and your superstition. Man, your gut don’t mean anything. It’s just a stomach. It doesn’t have supernatural powers.”

  “I know you say that, but, dude, my gut is never wrong,” Brett said, walking out of the room with Joe into the empty hallway. Their voices echoed down the narrow strait.

  “You and your gut can keep your bad luck over there,” Joe said, forming a cross with his index fingers towards Brett to ward him off. “I’m covered by the blood. I ain’t got time for your shit.”

  Brett pulled down Joe’s fingers playfully. “I can’t believe that you’re saved now. You were already a mother hen, now it’s like living with Madea in uniform.”

  “Going on 10 months with the Lord,” Joe said, proudly. “I feel sober.”

  “You were never a hard-core drinker,” Brett laughed.

  Joe shook his head as if he was ready to explode into a fiery sermon. “No, sober in another kind of way.” A broad smile crossed his brown lips and his eyes sparkled. “I feel free…refreshed. I feel like everything is going to be fine no matter what. Have you ever had that feeling, bruh?”

  Brett pursed his lips together and considered the feeling. “When I’m with Courtney.”

  Joe leaned into Brett like he was telling him a huge secret. “What if I told you that you could have it all the time?”

  “What if I told you that a couple hours before the op is not the time to try to save my soul,” Brett said with a wink.

  Joe’s response was immediate, like a used car salesman. “It’s the perfect time if you ask me.”

  “I got baptized when I was a teenager. You know that.”

  “Then all you’re doing is returning back to the fold,” Joe said as they walked.

  “I tell you what, if I ever decided to get all churchy, then I’ll come and see you first.”

  “Deal,” Joe said, serious but playing.

  Brett had known Joe for many years. He had been his confident and often his big brother in times of despair. Over the course of their career, Joe had been faithful to his wife, who was a white woman while he was a black man. He had persevered in the face of adversity and racism in the Marine Corps. In all, he was an honorable man before he was saved, but shortly before their last tour to Afghanistan, Joe had gone with the family, as he did every Sunday, to church and really found God. He hadn’t been the same since. He was a better version of Joe and everyone around him knew it. Brett preferred it, although he also enjoyed giving him shit about it.

  Brett patted his best friend on the back. “Think about what you’re turning from,” he joked. “No more titty bars, no more shots at the bar…”

  Joe raised his hand to clarify. “No titty bars, but a few shots at the house will work. Drinking is fine, just gotta know my limits. I don’t drink to get drunk anymore.”

  “Well, no more shots at the bar then. Just living your life on the straight and narrow. I can respect that. Hell, I’m so deep in love with Cort, until I can’t see past her, so I know. I guess we’ve both just finally grown up and found a better life.”

  Joe huffed. “I want you to get saved so that you don’t crumble if something were to ever go haywire in your life. Right now, you got it all figured out, but in this life we have to prepare for bigger trials. That preparation comes in the form of prayer and meditation. Think of it as Recon training on a spiritual level.”

  “You think Courtney is going to run off and leave me too?” It felt like a million years ago, but not even two years ago, his late wife had died in an airplane crash trying to ditch him to run to Japan to be with a higher-ranking Marine.

  “I don’t think Courtney is going anywhere,” Joe clarified.

  Brett stopped at the door of his room and looked his friend in the eye. “So why do I still have this gut thing, man? If everything in the world is fine, why is my gut going crazy?”

  Joe laughed and walked off. “You need, Jesus, man.”

  “Why don’t you want to talk about the gut?” Brett said, shrugging his shoulders and laughing as he disappeared into his room.

  Chapter 3

  "If in order to kill the enemy you have to kill an innocent, don’t take the shot. Don’t create more enemies than you take out by some immoral act."

  - General James “Mad Dog” Mattis

  Dressed out in full tactical uniforms, camouflage, aviator gloves, go-packs and parachutes the Recon Unit assembled quietly inside of the HH-60 Pave Hawk in preparation for their HALO (high-altitude, low-opening or HALO) parachute insertion jump.

  It was everything that kids across the country dreamt of as they played their life-like video games, and everything wannabes lied about when trying to impress women in bars. However, this was the real thing; there were no video cameras for reality TV, no theme music for an action movie, no updates every minute on Facebook and most of all, no turning back for the sake of life over country.

  Standing by the hatch already let down for their departure, Brett looked down the line at his men standing at t
he ready. Each one of these men were brave and had shown valor in the face of death a hundred times. Joe, Bear, Rusty, Geek and Hound. He would die for either of them, all of them, if needed. But he hoped that their training would prevent the need to ever make that decision.

  Right before the team reached their mark; Brett stepped out where he could see his men and made his normal speech. It was the same one every time, but each time it was warranted, needed in fact, to remind each man of why he was there.

  His voice thundered, “No one on this plane rang that bell three times in training. No one gave up then. No one gives up now. Do you know why they send us, Devil Dogs? It’s because we’re the baddest motherfuckers they could find!”

  “Oorah!” the men replied in cadence. Their voices boomed like lightning against the black night as the wind from the open hatch beat across their camouflaged faces.

  Bear, the six-foot six Irish ginger good ole boy from Alabama, spit his brown snuff out on the floor beside his boot and tugged at his Kevlar. It was his normal routine and Bear’s way of saying that he was ready to earn his paycheck.

  Joe made the sign of the cross and rolled his neck. He was ready.

  Rusty kissed the picture of his son.

  Hound scratched his balls.

  Geek stood stoically focused on the hatch, ready to wig out on as many insurgents as possible as soon as his feet hit the ground.

  Each man had a thing, and now was the time to do it.

  Brett’s square jaw clenched tight as he moved to the open hatch; the wind pushing and pulling at him like a rag doll. Anticipation coursed through his veins like a synthetic drug. The veins in his muscular neck protruded as he screamed, “Let’s go to work!”