Collision Course (A Josh Williams Novel) (2 page)

JoJo's
nickname came from his mother's habit of saying, ‘Yo, Yo’ to everyone she greeted, sounding like she had downed a twelve pack.

Which, in all probabilities, she had.

The name attached to JoJo as a youngster playing basketball at the Boys Club. JoJo's mom, whenever she showed up, would yell "JoJo, that's my boy. JoJo, watch him man, he is going to the NBA."

While JoJo's father failed in being a meaningful presence in his life, he made up for it as he had left him, genetically at least, a sense of duty and responsibility. Those that knew JoJo said he was a kind, caring kid and avoided trouble.

JoJo never went to the NBA. Instead, he went to another organization known by its initials, the United States Marine Corps, USMC. He enlisted at 17, having managed to keep himself in school long enough to graduate.

He knew he did not want to live like his mother or most of his friends.

The Marine Corps lived up to its reputation and broke JoJo down in order to rebuild him in the manner of a Marine. He was selected for, and completed, Reconnaissance training. It seemed a career in the Corps was tailored made for JoJo.

Two tours in Iraq and three tours Afghanistan eliminated that possibility.

Wounded early in his first deployment, he recovered and applied the lessons to the next four tours. He suffered more wounds, but he made the bastards work for it.

His luck ran out on a mission to some remote outpost known as Hill 181.

Sergeant Machado and two other Reconnaissance Marines received orders to establish an observation post to monitor and disrupt the Taliban's infiltration routes from Pakistan.

The Recon Marines left the Forward Operating Base headed west, away from their intended course. The idea, to mislead the Afghans about the mission.

Of course, the Afghani assumed this, so it was an exercise in futility in Sergeant Machado's mind. Nevertheless, Gunny Scotton usually got his way.

Three kilometers out of the base, turning a slow, wide, 180-degree arc, setting flares to locate anyone trailing them, they headed to the real objective, Hill 181, one-half kilometer from the Pakistan border.

Arriving at sunset, the Marines deployed their equipment, set rotating watches, and settled in. Sergeant Machado took the first watch with Corporal Sanchez; Gunny slept.

Just after 2200 hours, Sanchez spotted movement 500 meters away, three figures carrying weapons.

Machado decided to wait and see if additional groups followed before taking out this group. Better to kill as many as you can at once than take them on piecemeal.

The group moved slowly down the trail, smoking, noisy, probably high. Despite denials by the Taliban religious leaders, many of the fighters were addicted. Drug use was rampant.

The Marines detected more movement further up the trail, four more individuals; one carrying what appeared to be a Stinger Surface to Air Missile launcher. Sergeant Machado now had a very good reason to wake Gunny.

Twenty-four years to the day Gunnery Sergeant Michael Scotton joined the Marine Corps; his twenty-two-year-old son graduated from Officer's Candidate School at Quantico, VA., and was accepted into Marine Aviation training, on his way to becoming a Marine Super Cobra helicopter pilot.

On First Lieutenant Michael Scotton, Jr's twenty-fourth birthday, during combat operations in Afghanistan in support of the First Marine Division, he was shot down and killed by a Stinger missile.

Gunny Scotton would strangle Machado with his bare hands if he let them get past and did not wake him.

When Gunny heard what they had, he smiled, and said, "Okay, we're going to go kill most of them, but I want the bastard carrying the Stinger. Alive."

Machado knew better than to argue.

Scotton selected an ambush point on the trail, positioning Machado and Sanchez to take out the lead and rear of the group, reserving the Stinger bearer for himself. He told Machado and Sanchez to wait until he rolled the concussion grenade into the middle of the group before opening up.

As the group of Taliban entered the kill zone, Scotton pulled the pin on the MK3A2 Concussion Grenade, released the safety handle, counted to three, and rolled the grenade beneath the feet of the fighter just in front of the one carrying the Stinger. The grenade went off. Separating the Taliban fighter from his genitalia; sending him "weaponless" to Allah and the seventy-two virgins. The explosion knocked the Stinger from its bearer's hands, rendering him unconscious.

Machado and Sanchez followed their instructions to the letter.

Then there was one.

A mostly deaf, partially blind, twenty-two-year-old illiterate, unsophisticated, brainwashed Taliban, who would be better off if he died, became a temporary "guest" of the Marines. They quickly secured from the area taking the Stinger, and the one remaining fighter, with them.

Moving quickly to a newly established position, they set up to look for any movement or indication of Taliban following them. They saw none.

Scotton moved off alone to a separate area with his prize.

The Taliban fighter, legs and arms tied, began to stir. Scotton let him regain the remnants of his physical abilities, Allah the merciful should have spared him. As he recovered, Scotton began his interrogation. Among the Gunny's many talents was an uncanny ability with languages. He began by smiling, welcoming the Taliban, in fluent Pashto, to his home, and then cutting off the fighter's thumbs.

To say the man was screaming, or more correctly trying to though the gag, is a flagrant understatement. Scotton then asked a series of questions, while running the blade over the remaining fingers. The man was whimpering and begging for his mother. This seemed to drag on for hours. In spite of Scotton's threats, the man retained the ability to count to eight.

Scotton learned, the group was not the rear security team, but the point of a larger force massed just on the other side of the border. One quick radio broadcast of no more than 10 seconds duration and Marine Aviation and Artillery would send Allah a few hundred more Martyrs. Unfortunately, Pakistani pride and politics outweighed the lives of US forces. As long as they remained on that side of the border, they were untouchable.

Suddenly, Machado saw a change come over Scotton. The Gunny started pacing back and forth, conversing, pleading, and crying out, to an unseen presence. Scotton looked back at the Taliban, ran at him; bayonet raised, screaming, and sliced the rope binding his arms. Eyes are not made to open that wide except in the presence of absolute terror.

The man fell to his knees, looked up, and yelled some Pashto version of "You fucking asshole," as he lunged at Scotton. The Gunny shot him dead with his M9A1 9mm sidearm. He looked at Machado and said, "Michael told me to let him die a warrior, how can I argue with that?"

Machado and Sanchez exchanged glances. Sanchez, trying to lighten the moment, said, "Fuck Sarge, it's not like he could thumb a ride back to Bumfuckistan."

The Marines began policing the area for anything the Taliban might use against them, preparing to move out. Just as they readied themselves to leave, death decided it wanted three more.

The Rocket-propelled grenade round, reaching the limit of its range, caught Sanchez in the chest, knocked him on his ass, and fell, without detonating, to the ground. Sanchez looked at Gunny and Machado and rolled himself onto the round.

Nothing happened.

Gunny Scotton laughed and said, "Sanchez, get up, dumb ass, you look like a monkey trying to fuck a football. It's a fucking dud."

"Fuck!" Sanchez grimaced as he tried to stand up, "I think my ribs are broken."

Scotton came over, probed a bit until Sanchez started swearing in Spanish. "Listen, son, you just have to be tough. We cannot leave anything behind, so suck it up and let's go.”

Grabbing Sanchez by the arm, Gunny said, “One other thing, I speak Spanish as well. If you ever say something about my mother again, I will shove a working RPG up your ass, comprende' Pancho?"

Machado hoisted the communication equipment and started down the trail. Sanchez in the middle, Gunny covering the trail as best he could. They went about three kilometers; Machado motioned for them to stop.

He saw movement ahead.

Sanchez set up a position to cover them. Scotton moved off to the flank, while Machado kept on point to identify the target.

He did not have to wait long.

The group of Taliban moved quickly. Machado guessed they knew their lead team was compromised and decided to intercept the Marines. The Taliban knew these hills and mountains so well they seemed to be able to materialize out of nowhere.

Sanchez spotted the sniper, leaving him no choice. He squeezed off a burst of fire, cutting the man in half, eliminating the threat but alerting the larger group to their presence. Gunny threw five fragmentation grenades into the middle of the group and beat feet back to Sanchez and Machado.

"Sanchez," Gunny pointing to the likely route the Taliban would use to get to them, "keep their fucking heads down so Machado and I can get around them. We'll set up crossing fire positions and take 'em out."

Sanchez smiled and set his weapon on full-auto, readied extra ammo, and waited for them. "Aye, Aye, Sarge, I got it."

As Gunny and Machado made their way to flank the Taliban, a burst of fire told them Sanchez was at work.

Then it all went to shit.

They heard Sanchez screaming. Gunny pointed Machado toward the top of the rise and ordered him to continue while he went back for Sanchez. As he made his way down the reverse slope, a round caught him just above the knee, broke his leg, and sent him rolling down the hill, almost landing on top of Sanchez.

Machado made his way to the top and looked down onto a group of ten Taliban, the taller one, standing in the middle, was clearly the leader. They were all listening as he spoke; gesticulating toward Sanchez's, and now Gunny Scotton's, position.

Machado took him out with one round to the head, and then managed to kill or wound seven more before bailing from the position. Now that they knew he was there, he would move somewhere else.

The Hajis would assume he'd go help the wounded Marines.

He was going to do that, but not directly.

If Gunny Scotton and Sanchez were alive and conscious, they were still dangerous Reconnaissance Marines, not taken easily. If they were dead, Machado could not fix that, but he would take out as many of the bastards as he could.

Machado moved away from his position to the rear of the Taliban. He came upon two wounded fighters and insured they would not recover. Grabbing an AK-47, he moved further off and began firing the Taliban weapon. The AK-47 has a very distinctive sound, readily identifiable by anyone familiar with the weapon.

Machado was going to use the Taliban's lack of field immediate communication to draw the others to the sound of the weapon, which he hoped they would assume was their own.

Moving a hundred meters away from his original firing position, he watched as three more Taliban cautiously made their way to the ravine bottom. He pulled the pin on a frag, threw it at the Taliban, and then moved perpendicular to his position. The grenade went off, killed one of the fighters, wounded the other two, one severely.

The lightly wounded fighter moved toward Machado's last position, trying to lure Machado into a direct confrontation.
These bastards aren't pussies,
Machado thought, as he moved ninety degrees to the right.

The Taliban, surging with adrenaline, ignoring the intense pain from his wounds, yelled for Allah's help, and ran over the top of the rise. Firing quickly, spraying the area with automatic weapon fire.

Machado rolled to his left, firing back, catching the guy in the left shoulder, spinning his body. The weapon continued to fire as the Taliban spun down to the ground.

Two rounds caught Machado. One bullet passed through the lower leg muscle, the other through Machado's upper-right shoulder. The rounds exited without hitting any bones. Neither was fatal, as long as he stopped the blood flow, but they were painful.

Machado fired once more, killing the Taliban fighter.

Machado knew he needed to get back to Corporal Sanchez and Gunny Scotton. If they were dead, he did not want the Taliban defacing the bodies. If they were wounded but alive, he did not want them captured.

Using his field medical kit, he wrapped his wounds as best he could, slowing his blood loss. Once he was back with the other two Marines, he would do a more permanent job.

As he worked his way to a position, he spotted two more Taliban setting up a mortar. Taking them both out, he made his way to the mortar. Machado lobbed a few rounds into the surrounding hillsides before dropping a grenade into the mortar tube, rendering the weapon useless.

Returning to his original approach, he peered over the top and saw Sanchez, with a compress field dressing on his shoulder, putting a splint on Gunny's leg. Making his way down the slope, he counted fifteen dead Taliban.

"Will you look at this Sanchez, the fucking prodigal Marine returns." Gunny Scotton smiled, looking at Machado, "Where the fuck have you been while we were killing these bastards?"