Four tours of duty in Afghanistan enabled him to understand the Pashto she used to convey her plea.
“My daughter…”
The woman coughed, then sobbed more openly. She struggled to move under the pile of rubble, but her efforts did little to shift the hundreds of pounds of debris that rested upon her.
The woman’s eyes met his, imploring him. “Help me…”
Pushing his rifle to the side, he knelt down next to the woman. Switching to Pashto, he softly said, “Shhhh, it’s okay…”
Leaning down, he put his gloved hands over her nose and mouth, cutting off her air supply. Unable to move, all the woman could do was widen her eyes and raise her eyebrows in alarm at his actions. Grunting in desperation, she tried to move her head, but she was no match for Baldinger’s powerful arms.
Within seconds, it was over.
The woman’s eyes stared straight ahead, fixated on what remained of the ceiling above her. Using his fingertips, he closed her eyelids.
Heart pounding in his chest, he rose from his position.
‘Seventeen,’ he thought to himself, nodding slightly. Combined with the enemy combatants he killed in battle, he’d managed to send forty-six Afghanis to their graves during his nearly two and a half years in the war-torn country. A fair total, but far from his goal of 100.
He still had a lot of work to do.
It was why he’d volunteered to come back.
At the end of his first tour, he’d been disappointed by the fact that he’d ‘only’ killed five of the enemy. Sitting in a bar back home in Sacramento, California, he was drinking a beer and commiserating over his perceived lack of effectiveness when he thought about how many injured civilians he’d been forced to help during his tour. He thought of all the first aid he’d rendered to people who harbored those who wanted to kill Americans.
He didn’t care what his superiors told him about how the country’s people were innocent non-combatants who wanted nothing to do with the Taliban or Al Qaeda. It was all bullshit. Most likely they were just as guilty as the terrorists that attacked America on 9/11.
If they really didn’t want to be around the terrorists, they’d leave, right? Even if it meant they had to leave their homes, surely they could go somewhere.
‘They’re wrong,’ he’d thought of his superior officers.
‘Even worse, they’re naive.’
The civilians had to be helping the terrorists, most likely willingly. Otherwise, how were the terrorists still surviving? The military needed to take away the support network Al Qaeda relied on.
Besides, one less Afghani was better for the world, wasn’t it? And if you looked at the downstream effects, it was even better. Every man he killed would be one less that could father a future terrorist. Every woman he killed would be one less that could carry one.
It all made sense.
While his fellow Marines counted down the days to the next deployment, focused on how the time at home was slowly dwindling away, he counted down the days, excited at the prospect of getting back to the shithole country.
Excited about what he’d be able to do when no one was looking.
He’d already killed two more terrorists, bringing his total to seven, when he’d had the opportunity to snuff out the life of an elderly man who’d been injured by shrapnel from an IED. Why the man didn’t know where his friends had buried the IED was beyond him, but it wasn’t his problem. With gloved hands shaking in trepidation, he’d pushed the jagged piece of metal further into the man’s body, severing arteries and puncturing organs. The man died in seconds as the blood flowed profusely from his wound.
Baldinger’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the man die, first seeing the fear in the man’s eyes, then shortly after, the realization that his life was ending. It filled Baldinger with excitement, a massive rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins, releasing endorphins, filling him with excitement.
Kneeling next to the old man, the erection in his pants told him he’d discovered something else.
He was turned on.
He’d had to stay there, down on one knee, for several long minutes, burying his face in his hands, feigning grief as he willed the erection to subside. When it finally had softened enough so as not to be obvious, he’d stood, knowing he’d have to deal with it later.
And deal with it he had, masturbating with a fury that surprised himself. The power he’d felt in that moment had been unlike anything he’d ever felt: a thousand times more exciting than anything he’d effort felt during his times with women (and one man, but that was a drunken mistake, he told himself). He’d finished himself off quickly, then laid there in his rack, panting heavily, holding his hand over his mouth to suppress the noise. He knew he would do it again.
He needed to do it again.
And he had. The next man he’d killed had required more effort, but he’d snapped the man’s neck with his hands, grateful for the strength training required by the Marines that had made it possible.
The woman he’d killed three weeks later had bothered him at first, and he questioned his decision at the time, but the remorse he’d felt was quickly forgotten that night in his rack.
He found out later that killing children was the hardest to deal with.
At first.
Bringing his hand down to ensure his penis wasn’t going to protrude in an obvious fashion, he stood up, thankful for the fact that he’d learned to control it. Smiling slightly, he brought his radio to his mouth.
Thirty feet away, Corporal Ramirez stood there in shock over what he was sure he’d seen. When he saw Baldinger reach for his radio, he knew he had to act quickly to avoid being exposed. Quietly stepping back away from the opening to the home, he turned and crouched down before grabbing his radio. He covered the speaker with his hand, keyed the mic, and spoke into it, keeping his voice down.
“Staff Sergeant, Corporal Ramirez. Tower structure clear. We found the shooter, confirmed kill, over.”
Keying his mic, Baldinger brought it to his mouth. “Roger, over.”
“Any civilians requiring assistance? I have a med kit, over.”
Looking down at the dead woman, Baldinger smiled.
“Negative. Two civilians here. Both dead when I arrived, possibly killed by the blast.”
Hearing movement behind him, he spun on his heel, reaching for his rifle.
It was Ramirez. The young man’s eyes were wide with fear.
‘Probably found the shooter’s body in the tower,’ he thought.
“Shit, Corporal, you can’t sneak up on people like that. Likely get shot that way.”
“Sorry, Staff Sergeant. I was near the other home, coming this way when I called, so I figured it didn’t make sense to stay on the radio.”
Baldinger nodded, looking back down at the dead woman. He shook his head slowly as he spoke. “This is the part of the job that sucks, Ramirez. Seeing the innocent killed because of fuckers like the one in that tower.” He looked over at the young corporal, eyes wet with tears he’d learned to generate on command.
“I wish we could save them.”
“Me too, Staff Sergeant.”
Baldinger stepped back over the rubble, holding his rifle in his hands. “You ever see a dead body before today, Corporal?”
Ramirez shook his head. “Negative, Staff Sergeant.” The young man turned and looked towards the opening for the door, gazing towards the square. “Harrison is dead.”
Baldinger grimaced as he moved past Ramirez, looking in that direction. “Fucking terrorist assholes.” He stopped and looked into the Corporal’s eyes, holding eye contact. “I wish I could kill them all.”
Ramirez nodded, looking away. When he realized the older man was still standing there in front of him, he looked back.
“Don’t you?” Baldinger asked, his gaze unwavering. The man’s piercing grey eyes held Ramirez’s, boring into his soul as he waited for an answer.
“Definitely, Staff Sergeant.”<
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“Good,” Baldinger replied, nodding. He turned and led the way out of the home. “Let’s go. I’ll call for a Humvee to pick up Harrison, then we’ll get back at it.”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.” Ramirez fell in behind him, wondering what he should do. He was certain he’d just watched his Platoon Leader kill an innocent civilian, but what options were available to him? Report it to the Gunnery Sergeant? The Captain?
Baldinger was a goddamn legend in the field. He’d been in dozens of firefights and come out victorious in each. He’d killed over thirty enemy combatants, and never sustained so much as a scratch.
Heck, he’d probably be a Gunnery Sergeant if it weren’t for his drinking problem. The guy had three DUIs and was lucky to have not been knocked down in rank. He’d been fortunate that none of the incidents resulted in injury to others, but he’d smashed two of his cars and damaged a lot of property. Ultimately, the Marines had decided that time in the field was what he needed to sober up.
If he was being honest, the guy gave him the creeps. He had those dead eyes that seemed completely devoid of emotion ninety-nine percent of the time, and the noise he made at night in his rack was more than just a bit over the top.
For God’s sake, the man didn’t even attempt to be discreet in his ‘activities.’
The Staff Sergeant always sat alone during meals, unwilling to make conversation and uninterested in making friends. He simply sat there, bringing his fork or spoon to his mouth repeatedly, in a perfectly measured, perfectly repeated fashion, each bite the same size as the one before, and each following the previous one at almost the exact same interval.
The man was strange; detached from others, seemingly uninterested in anything other than hunting bad guys and the ‘special time’ he shared with himself at night.
Ramirez told himself that it might be because so much time in the field had hardened the man, but deep down inside, he felt much more confident in believing there was another reason.
The man was a sociopath.
What he’d just witnessed confirmed it.
CHAPTER THREE
Afghanistan, 2017
Over the next several days, Corporal Ramirez tested the waters around his peers, including Sergeant Smith.
“Forget what you think you saw, Corporal,” Smith said, staring off towards the mountains as he smoked his ‘successful mission’ cigar, which signified that they’d killed at least one enemy combatant during their mission. He sat atop a stack of pallets, letting his legs dangle off the side.
Looking up at the man from where he stood, Ramirez began, “But Sergeant…”
Not bothering to turn his head to look at him, Smith blew a thick cloud of smoke. “You know who else THOUGHT they saw something like that?” Smith took another puff from the cigar, then exhaled. Not waiting for Ramirez to reply, he answered his own question.
“Johnson. He even went to the Major.”
Ramirez was stunned. “Are you saying…”
“Shut up. Johnson was killed by an IED. That part’s true. But here’s the thing:”
Another puff.
Another exhale.
Sergeant Smith turned his head and met Ramirez’s wide-eyed gaze.
“Baldinger had scouted ahead.”
“So…”
“I said shut up. We’re not talking about this.” He turned away and resumed his studies of the mountains. “Get the fuck out of here.” He flicked the end of his cigar, sending a bit of ash to the cold, rock strewn ground. “I won’t say it again. Forget what you THINK you saw.”
Ramirez did try to forget, wanting to take Smith’s advice, but when Baldinger had reported ‘finding’ two dead civilians on a mission the following week, then had another furious tug session in his rack that night, he’d been unable to remain silent.
Unfortunately, Captain Miller hadn’t offered anything other than returned questions when approached.
“And you saw these people alive?”
“Well, not directly, sir.”
“Hunh, so you heard something that told you they were still alive?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“So what the hell are you talking about?”
“Sir, the one time I saw him with his hands over the woman’s face?”
The six foot two, chiseled jaw, blue eyed, blonde haired, lean and muscled Captain Miller rose from his chair and came over to where Ramirez stood, looking down at the shorter man.
“Are you one hundred percent sure this woman was still alive? Would you bet your life on it?”
“I - ”
“‘Cause you’re betting his if you go forward with something like this. Baldinger’s been a hell of a platoon leader and one of our best men.” He brought his hands up and rested them on his hips. “Now I know he rubs people the wrong way - and apparently he rubs himself the right way in a very, shall we say, ‘boisterous’ fashion? - but he’s doing some real good out there, taking down these goddamn terrorists.”
“Bu - ”
“So unless you can tell me that you saw a woman - ALIVE - and then saw him kill her, I suggest you think about what you’re accusing that man of. You understand me Corporal?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do here.”
“Yessir. Sorry Sir.”
Ramirez left the Captain’s tent, cursing the man for his supposed ‘open door policy.’ Even though he knew it was the right thing to do, he actually felt WORSE for bringing up the subject.
Baldinger continued to lead the platoon out on missions, splitting them into teams once they reached the locations they were supposed to clear. He always kept the same team with him, but began having Ramirez stay with him whenever they had to clear areas.
On one occasion, the pair of them found a woman who was clearly dead, her body riddled with gunshots wounds, her eyes open, her mouth dried and coated in a layer of dirt.
Baldinger turned and looked at him, locking those grey eyes on him again. “You wanna check her, Ramirez? Make sure she’s dead?”
Ramirez's heart felt like it went from 60 to 120 beats per minute instantly as he realized the significance of Baldinger’s question. Shaking his head, he tried to play it cool, but heard his voice waver slightly as he responded.
“Nah, Staff Sergeant, not necessary.”
Baldinger continued staring at him, unyieldingly. “You sure?” He grinned slightly, making Ramirez wish he’d never seen such a sight. The smile, ever so slight, looked completely foreign on the man’s face.
“I’m sure, Staff Sergeant.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.”
It was two days later when Ramirez knew the man had tried to kill him.
Out on a mission near one of the furthest towns from their camp, Baldinger had the Platoon stop for lunch under a small copse of bent, tough looking trees. Excusing himself, the man disappeared into the small town to ‘see if the layout matched the map.’
Shortly after returning, Baldinger wolfed down a protein bar, not bothering to sit as he ate. Taking the last bite, the Staff Sergeant turned and looked at Ramirez.
“Ramirez, I need you to scout ahead. Check the main road before we head in. Just down to the town square and back.”
Ramirez felt his heart stop, then realized his mouth was hanging open, the half-chewed bite of protein bar exposed to the air. “Staff Sergeant?”
Baldinger nodded. “Yeah. You heard me. Down to the square and back.”
Ramirez stood slowly, looking around. “Should I take someone with me?”
The older man shook his head, reaching down and grabbing his canteen. “Nah, I’m sure it’ll be routine.”
Ramirez’s eyes found Sergeant Smith’s, imploring the man.
Taking a deep breath, Smith stood, looking over at Baldinger. “We sure it’s safe, Staff Sergeant?”
Freezing in place, his canteen held out in front of him, Baldinger turned and looked over at Smith. “You questioning me, Sergeant?�
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Smith shook his head, bringing his hands up. “Not at all, Staff Sergeant.”
Baldinger chewed his lip, looking frustrated as he stared at the Sergeant for several long seconds. “Tell you what. You go with him for safety, then.”
Sergeant Smith looked back at him, his mouth partially open as he struggled to find a response.
Baldinger turned away, bringing his canteen to his lips. The conversation, if it could be considered one, was over.
Smith looked over at Ramirez and took a deep breath. His eyes glowed with anger as he stared at the young Corporal. “Alright, let’s go.”
He led Ramirez away from the copse, waiting until they were out of earshot before speaking. “Thanks for dragging me into this shit.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“You think he’s trying to kill me, I mean, us?”
Sergeant Smith shook his head, looking ahead. “Do you ever shut up?” He pointed to a football-sized rock. “Grab that.”
Picking up the rock quickly, Ramirez tucked it under his arm. “Will this work?”
“I have no idea.” Smith reached down and grabbed a similar sized one, tucking it under his arm as well.
The two of them continued into town, looking left, right, and mostly at the ground as they walked. When they reached the main thoroughfare, Smith reached out his free arm, stopping him. He pointed towards the ground, he set his rock down, then lowered himself until he was on his stomach. Ramirez copied him, laying himself down on the man’s left.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 3
