Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC #7) (5 page)

I exhaled, did my best to perform an about face maneuver, and collapsed onto the bed.

That afternoon as I slept out of sheer exhaustion, I dreamt of raising a child.

A son.

One with the same moral values that were instilled in me by my father.

And I slept more peacefully than I had in longer than I cared to try and remember.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Early Winter 2005, Wichita, Kansas, USA

She asked, and because she did, I had to tell her the truth. One thing I had never done – and never would do – was tell a lie. My concerns were whether or not she would be able to accept the truth as being what was in our best interest as a couple.

“You can’t. They’ve got to let you out. Alec, you’ve been shot to pieces. You have pieces of metal inside of you. You were…” She paused and began to cry.

I reached for her shoulder and pulled her against me. “Babe, don’t cry.”

She sobbed for a moment, caught her breath, and leaned away from me. With her face filled with a combination of concern and fear, and her eyes still dripping droplets of hope down her cheeks, she continued.

“You were in the hospital for two months, Alec. Two months. You’ve been…you’ve been shot over and over. I asked Steve. And I’ve looked on the internet.
I know
. You
can
get discharged. Have they offered you a release?” she asked as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

Steve, my best friend since childhood, was a trauma surgeon at the local hospital, and an excellent source of information and support for her. Since my first deployment, she had used him as a sounding board for her concerns, always receiving well thought out replies and opinions. A wealth of knowledge and a very sensible man in general, I trusted him with not only my life, but Suzanne’s. Truthfully, if it wasn’t for him, I suspected Suzanne may have given up on me many years in the past.

“Let’s have a seat,” I said.

She raised her hands to her face and nodded her head as she rubbed her fingertips against her eyes. I realized she probably felt embarrassed for crying, as it was something she never did, but I didn’t view her as weak for doing so. As easy as it was for me to want to return to the war, it was impossible for me to fully understand why I had the desire to continue to fight. My beliefs on the matter were mine and mine alone, and came from nothing other than a self-performed diagnosis of myself.

“You can barely walk,” she said as she sat down on the couch.

I sat down in the chair across from her. “I ran three back to back six minute miles this morning.”

“You have a limp,” she said.

I chuckled. “Marine Corps swagger.”

“Alec…” she said sarcastically, her voice trailing off as she shook her head.

I nodded my head in acknowledgement of her sarcastic tone. “My hip hurts a little, but it’s much better than it was. And my heel is tender, but it’s getting better too.”

“So you’re justifying it? Going back? Can you get out? Have you asked?” she asked.

I pressed the palms of my hands together and held them in front of my chest for a moment as I studied her. She was a beautiful woman, and not only in her appearance. She had remained by my side through four years of me fighting in the war, and she had done so, for the most part, alone.

Suzanne was one of the strongest people I had ever met. Her ability to accept what most would be incapable of even considering was instrumental to our success as a military couple. I realized I had to tell her the truth, but explaining how I felt would be difficult – if even possible. I folded my cupped hands open, lowered my face into my hands, and sat for a moment, breathing into the palms of my hands. After a moment’s thought, I slid my hands from my face, and gazed across the room at her.

“Let me try to explain,” I said.

She wiped what little remnants of tears remained on her cheeks. “I’m listening.”

“While I was in Germany, two officers came to let me know I was going to be pinned with a medal for valor in the Second Battle of Fallujah. They told me I could get a medical discharge…”

“Take it,” she blurted excitedly.

I raised my hand as I cleared my throat. “Hear me out.”

With wide eyes, she nodded her head eagerly.

Damn, I hate to do this to you.

“I begged them to let me stay. I talked to the doctors, and I lied to the psychiatrist to get a clean psych-eval. He granted it, declared me fit for service, and I denied the discharge. I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I’m going back,” I said.

She sat, far less emotional than I expected her to be, and glared at me. After what seemed to be an hour, but was probably a matter of thirty seconds, she stood, turned away, and began to cry.

I stood from my seat. With her back facing me, she raised her right hand and held it in the air between us. “Just give me a minute.”

“Suzanne…”

“Give me a minute, Alec,” she said, her voice filled with emotion.

I sat down in the chair and waited, wondering how many other men in my position would have taken the offered discharge and walked away. There was no doubt in my mind that the war had changed me, but as I sat waiting for her to gather herself, I wondered just how much I had actually changed. I raised my hands to my face, pressed my palms to my cheeks, and covered my eyes with the tips of my fingers. I had always been able to think more clearly with my eyes closed, and sat hoping some newfound clarity would wash over me.

My mind immediately went to thoughts of my Marines, and I filled with guilt for sitting in the living room with Suzanne while they were dodging bullets and returning fire under someone else’s command.

Someone far less capable of protecting them than me.

“You know,” I said as I lifted my head. “Most of the men think I’m lucky or something.”

She turned toward me and wiped her eyes. “And you think you have some sixth sense about danger or whatever.”

I nodded my head. “Men are going to die in this war, Suzanne. I can’t change that. But what I can do is do my best to protect the men in my command. In my platoon. And in doing so, we rid this earth of what is evil, one bad guy at a time.”

“You know what’s sad? I can’t argue with you. I want to, but I can’t, because you won’t listen. You think you’re a superhero or something. It’s been almost five years, Alec.
Five years.
Five years of me sitting here crying myself to sleep, waiting on the next letter, and hoping each time I go to the mailbox I’m not going to be met by two Marines in dress blues who are here to tell me the man I love is coming home in a god damned flag covered box.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only one worried about me coming home in a casket.

I stood from my seat. “I can’t sit here and let my men die.”

She stomped her foot on the floor so hard she shook the pictures hanging on the wall. “You’re not
obligated
to protect them. Your
obligation
is to be my husband.”

I pressed my cupped hands to the outside of my thighs and stood erect. After clearing my throat, I recited the oath I had taken upon entry to the Marine Corps.

"I, Alec James Jacob, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the
Constitution of the United States
against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the
officers
appointed over me, according to regulations and the
Uniform Code of Military Justice
.
So help me God
,” I said, pronouncing each and every word clearly and precisely.

She blinked her eyes and stared.

“I took an oath before God, before the flag, and in the presence of an officer of the United States Marine Corps; and, I took an oath to be your husband. You took one as well, Suzanne. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Well, this is the
worse
and the
sickness
. I’m upholding my end of the two oaths I took. I’m still your husband. And, until this god forsaken war is over, I’m going to be a Marine,” I said.

“You’re always right, aren’t you?” she asked.

I cocked my head to the side, shrugged my shoulders, and smirked.

“Go find Osama or Saddam or whoever it is you’re trying to find, kill that son-of-a-bitch, and come home, okay?” she said as she slowly walked in my direction.

“So, we’re good on this?” I asked as I spread my arms wide.

“As good as we’re going to be,” she said as we embraced.

And that was all I could have asked for, because even when Suzanne and I were at our worst, we were better than any other married couple on earth.

And I loved her for it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Summer 2005, Haditha, Iraq

In a briefing with my commander, I learned a six-man Marine sniper unit had been overrun outside the city of Haditha, and all six men were eventually killed. Five of the Marines died relatively quickly, possibly executed as soon as they were identified as US Marines. The one Marine who lived – while covered in blood and stripped of his uniform – was paraded through the city with the five dead members of his unit, and the event was videotaped and played on Iraqi television. Later, the sixth Marine’s throat was cut by his captors.

Two days later,
Operation Quick Strike
began, and 1,000 Marines were sent into the city – not as a retaliatory action – but in an attempt to identify and capture the insurgents who had overtaken the city. At the onset of the operation, an amphibious assault vehicle carrying 16 Marines hit a roadside bomb, and 15 of the 16 Marines were immediately killed in the blast. The one living occupant was burned over most of his body, and wasn’t expected to live. The crater left in the earth by the bomb was large enough to fit a four-bedroom home inside of it.

On the second day of Operation Quick Strike, it was determined the US Marines were outnumbered, and command likened the city to Fallujah, only worse. House to house searches, close quarters combat, and gun battles in an area the size of a living room were a common occurrence. In short, savage extremists had taken over the city, and were going to any length to kill the US Marines or the civilian population who opposed them.

Every Marine being sent into the city wanted revenge for the deaths of their brethren. The 115-degree daytime temperatures, severe wind, and blowing sand only added to the tension. Our convoy arrived at 0800, and the sun pressed down on us like a heavy weight.

As we approached the city, smoke bellowed from the tops of half of the homes and buildings. Bombs exploded every few seconds, and the earth beneath our Humvee shook repeatedly as we slowly rolled into the city. 

“We’re going to fucking die in this one, Staff Sergeant Jacob,” Parsons complained as we hit the outskirts of town.

I shifted my eyes toward him for a split second. He looked no different than anyone else in my platoon. He was scared, and his eyes clearly showed it. Given the amount of insurgents in the city, and the temperament of the group who had executed the Marines, we were likely to be in for one hell of a fight and everyone realized it.

Price tilted his helmet up slightly and shook his head. “Jacob is immortal. Only motherfucker that can kill Jacob, is Jacob.”

“Enough about dying. Nobody’s fucking dying. We’re going to stomp in this motherfucker, capture insurgents, and send their asses to Al Asad Airbase for interrogation,” I said. “And then we’re going to finish that fucking football game.”

“Oorah!” Price grunted.

I didn’t think I was immortal, but I was beginning to believe I was
something
. After five solid years of fighting, I had sustained many injuries, but no one had killed me. The eerie vision of the C-130 filled with caskets still haunted my dreams, and I suspected it always would. Be it luck or the gracious hand of God that kept me from it, however, my body had yet to be shipped home in a casket.

And I was grateful.

“First and second squad take the far side, and third squad will go house to house, just like we discussed. If you
think
they’re insurgents, they’re insurgents, is that understood?” I asked as we assembled alongside the edge of the street.

“Oorah!” the squad leaders barked.

“We need to capture as many of these motherfuckers as we can. If you’re threatened, don’t think, just kill. Understood?” I asked.

Another
Oorah
rang out from the squad leaders and the Marines in the accompanying squads. The sound of small weapons fire in the background filled the air. With my eyes filled with sand, and my uniform soaked from sweat, I gave the signal to begin the house to house search.

Fifteen minutes into the search and we had captured four insurgents and found two weapons caches, one large enough to supply a battalion of men. Both weapons caches were in the homes of civilians, making it immediately apparent not only that we were in the right place, but that the city had been overrun by insurgents who were taking over the homes of civilians in their attempt to blend in.

As the Marines of third squad searched another home, an argument broke out between the occupants of the small house and the squad leader. In an effort to keep things as peaceful as possible, and to prevent tempers from flaring even higher than they already were, I stepped into the home to evaluate the situation.

“This motherfucker ain’t sayin’ shit, Staff Sergeant. Got twenty fucking AK’s hid behind that shitty fucking bed over there, and he just grunts when we try to ask him anything. Vingelli’s got a woman and a little girl in the back, and they’re both fucking screaming,” he said excitedly as I stepped into the small home.

The homes in Iraq, at least the ones I had been inside of, were far different than the homes in the United States. I was aware that the country also had mansions, and homes similar to Beverly Hill’s offerings, but the typical civilian home consisted of one large room where the family stayed, and a place to cook; and that was it. Some, but not all, had bathrooms. To the typical civilian in Iraq, having a rug thrown on the floor was a luxury.

As I stepped into the rear room of the house, I found a woman and a girl who was no more than twelve-years-old being detained by two of my Marines. The woman remained quiet until the girl began to scream, then the woman would begin to plead with the girl, obviously telling her to remain calm. The scene was far from calm, and I realized as soon as I entered the room if I didn’t take charge of the situation I would have two dead civilian women in my daily report.

“Settle the fuck down. I assume no one speaks English?” I asked of the two Marines.

“Fuck yeah they do, but they ain’t sayin’ shit. Cocksuckers got AK’s in the front room. They’re fucking al-Qaeda,” one of the Marines responded.

I turned to face the woman. “English. Do you speak English?”

Both she and the girl responded in Arabic, shaking their heads as they spoke. The woman seemed nothing but concerned for her family’s welfare, but the girl seemed to have something she wanted to say, and wasn’t interested in being quiet.

Although it wasn’t a common occurrence, women and children had opposed Marines in previous battles, shooting small arms, using grenades, and detonating roadside bombs. As sickening as it was to do so, on occasion, women and children had to be killed. In determining whether or not the person was a threat to my men, I couldn’t let gender come into play. Every person must be assumed a threat until it was determined they were
not
a threat. That determination came by no other than me, and was based on nothing other than my gut instinct.

To date I had yet to be wrong.

“Vingelli, go get the Terp. I think we’ve got a situation here, but this woman and her daughter aren’t al-Qaeda,” I said as I studied the eyes of the girl.

Her eyes told me she was scared, but not of my men. Her fear was deeper. In my opinion, she feared the men who had left the weapons in her home. Unintimidated by my uniform and weapon, she made eye contact with me, opened her brown eyes wide, and pressed her tanned hands against the hips of her red cotton pants. She began to babble so quickly even if I spoke Arabic I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Calmly, I reached over and brushed the dust from the floral pattern shirt she wore, and earned a grin as I did so.

“They might not be, but the old man is. He isn’t responding to a god damned thing we ask him. He’s keeping fucking secrets. Ship his ass to Al Asad and let the CIA water board him for an hour and he’ll give it up,” Vingelli said as he turned away.

With two of my Marines guarding the front door of the residence, and the entire family in the kitchen, I studied each of the people we detained. An entire family incapable of speaking with nothing other than their eyes, they needed to say no more as far as I was concerned. They feared the same men we were searching for and wanted to simply be left alone.

They were one of the reasons I was fighting this war.

To provide them with the freedom to live a life free of fear and the threat of harm would satisfy me to no end, but after five long years of fighting and seeing no progress, I had my doubts if it could or would ever happen.

“Who’s got candy?” I asked as I reached into my pocket.

I found one sand covered peppermint in the pocket of my trousers.

“Fuck these motherfuckers. I say we load up the weapons and kill these cocksuckers; that little girl included,” PFC Mann said.

I clenched my jaw, inhaled through my nose, and turned to face him. “And it’s a good god damned thing you’re not in fucking charge, PFC Mann. I’ve been fighting in his god forsaken war longer than you’ve been in the Corps, and I’m the NCO of this platoon. One more suggestion like that out of you, and I’ll bring charges against your sorry ass, is that understood?”

He lowered his chin and shifted his eyes to the floor. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“God fucking damn. We’re here to protect people like this, not kill them,” I said as I turned toward the sound of someone entering the home.

The platoon interpreter came into the small room, making it far more crowded than I was comfortable with.

“Everyone out except the Terp and me,” I said as I waved my left hand toward the front room.

“Ask the little girl who’s weapons they are,” I said as I handed the girl my peppermint.

She accepted the candy, unwrapped it, and poked it in her mouth. As her eyes changed from worry to what I expected was the surprise of the candy’s sweetness, the interpreter began to question her.

He questioned her in Arabic, and she immediately responded, tossing her dirty black hair from side-to-side as she spoke.

“She says men brought them here over a month ago. They’ve been forcing the residents to provide them shelter, food, and weapons storage,” he said.

I turned toward the girl, smiled, and nodded my head.

“Ask her why her father isn’t speaking,” I said.

Another line of questioning in Arabic by the interpreter, and the girl, clearly frustrated, began to cry. After a moment, she turned to her father, who shook his head from side to side.

I pursed my lips and studied the father. As he shifted his eyes to meet my gaze, I spoke to the interpreter.

“Tell her, hell, tell them all. Tell them if they don’t tell me why he isn’t responding, I’ll assume he’s al-Qaeda and take him to Al Asad and lock his ass up. Between you and me, I know he’s not, but he’s keeping something a secret and I want to know what it is,” I said, my eyes still locked on his.

He alternated glances between them all as he spoke. Calmly, as he explained everything in Arabic, the girl began to scream her response.

“Holy shit,” the interpreter said as he raised his hand and covered his mouth.

“What?” I asked as I shifted my eyes from the elderly man to the interpreter.

As he shook his head from side to side and lowered his hand the girl and the woman began to cry.

“What?” I asked again.

“The men who came here were Saddam Hussein supporters. She said they demanded they be allowed to keep weapons here. Her father opposed them.” He paused and shook his head. 

As he turned toward the elderly man and nodded his head, he continued. “The father told the men when they came that Saddam Hussein was a coward and a murderer. He went on to tell them the US Marines were going to capture and kill Saddam, and that they should surrender.”

He tilted his head toward the father. “They held him down and cut out his tongue for opposing Saddam.”

I released my weapon and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Motherfucker. Do they know where these cocksuckers are hiding? Ask the little girl.”

“I think she does,” he responded.

“Well god damn it, ask her,” I said as I shifted my eyes to the girl.

A lengthy exchange followed, and the interpreter sighed heavily.

“She does. She said she’s been following them nightly. She wanted to get revenge for what they did to her father, but she said she’s too small,” he said.

“Tell her I’m big enough. And how many of them?” I asked. “How many of these motherfuckers can she lead us to?”

After a quick series of questions, he sighed heavily. “Twenty. And get this. She said they’re the ones who cut the Marines throat in the street the other day.”

I shifted my eyes toward the girl. “Is she sure?”

“Don’t need to ask, she already answered. She’s sure,” he said.

“Vingelli!” I shouted.

Vingelli rushed into the room. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

I lowered myself into a crouched position and reached for the girl’s hand. After a few seconds, she reached out and gripped my hand in hers. Her eyes lowered to my free hand, studied it, and slowly shifted back to meet mine.