The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  It turned out that it had been a good decision, though. He needed to report back to the council on what had happened.

  When the ambush had commenced, something that took Hozan by surprise just as much as it had taken the Marine patrol, he had watched his subject vault a wall and hide in back of it. That was what he would have expected given what he’d learned about the man’s character. But when someone had fired out of the building, Aiden Kaas had rushed inside. Even as far away as he was, Hozan had felt the twinges on his nerves, the static-like bursts that let him know a shift was imminent. It was way too early for an infected human to shift, but sometimes, when under extreme stress, a shift could come early.

  The first shift usually caused a few moments of disorientation, and for a moment, Hozan hoped that the mujahideen would take care of the problem for him. He had no love for the foreign Al Qaeda, but if they could remove Mr. Kaas, then he could forget about him and get back to focusing on his real mission in life.

  There was no final burst of energy that signified a shift had been made, however. Hozan thought that the insurgents had killed the Marine. Hozan felt relief, but also sadness. That surprised him. What did he care about some American who had managed to get himself bit by one of the Tribe and survived? Still, he felt a loss, almost like he did when his wife had miscarried their first child.

  He was just about to leave and skulk back to the base, thinking up an excuse as to why he was late, when Aiden came out the front door of the house, covered in blood, but none the worse for wear. Other Marines were with him, and even from this distance, Hozan could tell they were on edge—not for fear of another attack, but cautious around their fellow Marine.

  Despite the fact that the problem still existed, Hozan felt a glow of satisfaction that Aiden was still alive. He’d survived. He wasn’t even one of the Tribe yet, and he probably never would be, but even though he was still mostly human, the small amount of the People in him was enough to win his fight.

  Chapter 9

  “So tell us again why you didn’t use your weapon. I mean, by firing it, not like some sort of hoplite dory,” Maj Corbin asked.

  Aiden looked around, feeling very uncomfortable. He didn’t like Os,[20] and here he was with the battalion executive officer, the adjutant, his company commander, and his platoon commander in the company office while he recounted yet again what had happened. The sergeant major and the company first sergeant were there as well, making it quite a crowd. Beside him were Cpl Ruddy and Sgt Rickman, but they were keeping quiet.

  The top of his head itched as if the hair was being pulled. Aiden thought there must still be some blood up there that he hadn’t showered out, and now it was drying. He wanted to reach up there and scratch, but he didn’t dare with everyone’s eyes on him.

  He’d gone over everything with Lt Tallifer, his platoon commander, as soon as they’d made it back to the camp. He hadn’t even had time to get out of his bloody cammies. None of it was too clear in his mind. The overarching memory was just of the anger building up inside of him, but he knew he’d done the best he could do in the fight. When the lieutenant had left, most of the others had crowded around him, anxious to get the details. He’d begged off, saying he had to get cleaned up. Dontrell had decided to escort Aiden to the showers, but the rest had left him alone. As they returned, Cpl Ruddy was waiting, telling him they had to go to the company office.

  For the last 10 minutes, he’d been going over what had happened, at least to the best of his recollection. Now the major wanted more. Aiden had no idea what a “hoplite dory” was, but he got the drift of the major’s question.

  “Well, sir, I’m not actually sure. Like I told you, I was pissed off . . . sorry, I was angry, I mean, and uh, I just wanted to get someone back. When that hajji, you know, I mean Iraqi man, when that Iraqi he tried to lift up his AK, I had to knock it down, and I was too close to him. I just, uh, you know, just hit him with my M16.”

  He looked up apprehensively. It didn’t sound like he was in any trouble, but PFCs didn’t make it a habit to hang out with the senior leadership of the battalion.

  “So you just hit him? That’s not what I would call a simple ‘hit,’” the major said before turning to Cpl Ruddy.

  “So, corporal, PFC Kaas here says he ‘hit’ the insurgent. When you got there, the barrel of his rifle had been run right through the man’s head, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” the team leader replied.

  “So after you ‘hit’ the insurgent,” the major continued, raising his fingers in the quote sign when he said “hit,” “you decided to chop another guy in half, then bash the head in of the third man?”

  “Uh, yeah, I mean yes, sir. I guess so,” Aiden replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wished he could scratch his head.

  “Well, that is simply outstanding, Marine. Outstanding!”

  He turned to the company commander and said, “I don’t know what you’re feeding your men, there, Capt Grabowsky, but keep it up.”

  He stood up, indicating the meeting was coming to a close. “I want to see a write up on my desk by COB Friday. Make it good. Make it for a Silver Star.[21] Those bastards at MEF[22] will probably downgrade it to a fucking Navy Achievement,[23] but screw them. We’ve been here four months busting our asses, and it would be nice to see someone in the battalion getting some recognition. That sergeant in 2/4’s[24] been put in for a Navy Cross,[25] and even Motor T’s got a driver put in for a Silver Star, and we’ve got jack shit. So make it good.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” the company commander said.

  “Well, PFC Kaas,” he said putting out his hand to be shaken, “you might not look like some UFC scrapper, but you made all of us proud today. Keep it up.”

  The major shook the hands of Cpl Ruddy and Sgt Rickman before leaving.

  “You heard the major, there, PFC Kaas,” the captain said, making his name sound odd with the flat “a” and sibilant “s.” “Good job. Go get some chow, then I want you to sit down and write up all you can remember, every detail. Give it to Sgt Rickman. You two,” he said to the two NCOs, “I want a full report from each of you by COB tonight. Lt Tallifer, that goes for you, too.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” he said in chorus with Sgt Rickman and Cpl Ruddy.

  Aiden took a step back, then did an about-face and left the office. As soon as he was out of sight, he reached up to his hair where his questing fingers found the lump of dried blood. With relief, he pulled it out and dropped it in the dust.

  Chapter 10

  MAJ Keenan Ward, US Army, leaned back as far as he could in his chair, which wasn’t very far. Shoehorned as he was in what had to once have been a closet at the palace, he barely had enough room to slide into his desk. Across from him, desk flush up against his, Spec 5 Marc “MT” Sutikul was going over the morning’s report.

  “OK, here’s another. SFC Randy Timmons of the 3/75th Rangers. Looks like he broke down the door to a room, killing two AQII inside.”

  MT had a habit of using “AQII,” pronouncing each letter of the acronym, for Al Qaeda in Iraq, something Keenan hadn’t heard anyone else do.

  “Status?”

  “Oh, WIA, casevac’d[26] here to the Green Zone.[27] Nothing for us.”

  “Like every other case since we’ve been here,” Keenan said, trying not to let the lingering bitterness come through his voice.

  He should be resigned to his fate by now, but it still grated on him. He’d had dreams, big ones, and now he was shunted to one of Saddam’s supply closets doing a dead-end job with no future ahead of him. His career was over.

  It wasn’t supposed to work out that way. He’d been on the fast track since he first reported in on that July day to West Point. A natural leader, he had done well in classes, great in the military part of being a cadet. As an athlete, he’d been on the swimming team, one of the few African Americans nation-wide to reach All-American status, and he’d captained the lacrosse team. As a firstie,[28] he was the second set’s
Deputy Brigade Commander, the second highest cadet position. He was going places, and everyone knew it.

  There was no career choice possible for him other than infantry, and after graduation it was off to Infantry Officer Basic Course at Benning[29] where he’d been his class’ honor graduate. Three weeks of jump school followed, then 61 days of starvation and sleep deprivation at Ranger School. Keenan received the Ralph Pucket Award as the Officer Honor Graduate. The newly tabbed Ranger went off to Korea for an uneventful tour, and then came back to the Point as a physical fitness instructor and assistant coach for the swimming team.

  CPT Ward was getting ready for a class when the planes hit the twin towers, the Pentagon, and the Pennsylvania field. He immediately put in for a transfer and chaffed when others deployed to Afghanistan while he sat back at the Academy. It wasn’t until the end of the academic year that his orders came in. He was first assigned to Infantry Officer Advanced Course at Benning before getting back to the regiment in time to take command of a company and deploy to Kuwait in preparation for the invasion of Iraq. A driven soldier, he worked himself and his men, knowing that this was his chance to prove his worth. His reputation would be built upon what he did during the invasion.

  On March 16, 2003, three days before the invasion, he was riding back to battalion for a meeting when his driver lost track of the road and drifted to the side. Normally, a vehicle could manage across most of Kuwait without roads, but this was where a wadi cut through the desert sand. The Humvee rolled. Keenan tried to brace himself by putting his foot up against the side of the vehicle, but he slipped, and his leg pushed out the open door. The Humvee rolled, crushing his right leg into hamburger meat. No one else was even scratched.

  Keenan was out of surgery at Landstuhl[30] in Germany, staring at the flat spot beneath his covers where his leg should have been when the Coalition forces kicked off the invasion. His men, his soldiers, were going off to war without him.

  A year of intensive therapy followed where he worked hard to build up his stump, being fitted with a prosthetic leg, and learning how to walk all over again. Normally, he would have been discharged from the Army, but Keenan wouldn’t give up. He petitioned the Army and was retained; he was sent to the Pentagon to push papers, a captain where colonels were small fry.

  It was at the POAC, the Pentagon Officers Athletic Club, that he caught the eye of COL Jack Tarniton. “Tarnation” was a wizened old soldier, seemingly way past mandatory retirement age, but when he offered Keenan a job “vital to the country,” Keenan jumped at the chance. Security meant that the colonel could not tell him the details of the job, but he figured anything had to be better than making sure the coffee was hot and the doughnuts fresh for the morning meetings.

  He had never been so wrong. After additional security screening and a Top Secret Clearance, Keenan was assigned to the Office of Epistemological Investigation, a super-secret group of six people who were based in an office in the B-ring of the basement with a “Waste Management: Effluent” sign on the door.

  He’d wanted to quit right then and there when he found out just what the Office of Epistemological Investigation did. Were they kidding him? The colonel let him know in no uncertain terms that it was this or out of the Army, and yes, he had that kind of pull. Despite his skepticism, Keenan stayed, frankly because he had no other option.

  Once he was brought up to speed he was given orders to Iraq, but not before what he called his “pity promotion” to major came through. He knew this would be his last one. No one was going to promote a one-legged Ranger in a shit billet to O5.

  He and MT deployed together to Baghdad, taking up residence in their little closet, doing the job, which was essentially screening what went on in the theater for signs of extreme heroism and superhuman effort.

  “Here’s one from the ‘Stan,” MT went on. “An MP, Spec 4 Teresa Wright, she sees something suspicious at a checkpoint and wrestles some lady to the ground. Only it isn’t a lady, it’s some guy in a burqa with a suicide vest. The guy’s too scared to set it off right away, and she grabs the dead man switch until EOD can get there.”

  This was a new one, and despite his opinion of his job, he perked up.

  “A woman? Took down a guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it says here. What do you think?”

  “You know what I think, but that’s neither here nor there. Let’s look into this one. You know the drill.”

  “Roger that. I’ll get on it. OK, we’ve got one last one. This one’s a doozy. Marine PFC Aiden Kaas single-handedly takes on three AQII and kills them in hand-to-hand.”

  That caught his attention as well. “He took on three guys and won?”

  “That’s what it says here, but it sounds more like a slaughter than just a ‘win.’”

  “Is he WIA?”

  “Nothing here about that, but you know these reports. We get them as we get them, not as we want them.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Keenan said. “Well, let’s look into this. You take . . .” he said before pausing.

  Their protocol was to check out each potential case in person. This wasn’t the sort of thing that could be delegated out. This Kaas case had more potential, but Keenan hadn’t been to Afghanistan, and he needed to get out of the Puzzle Palace for awhile.

  “Uh, you take the Marine. I’ll take our MP. Get me a flight as soon as you can, and one to come back. While I’m gone, you’ve got the helm.”

  “Roger that, Major. I should have some sort of itinerary after chow.”

  Chapter 11

  “Seven card draw, deuces, nines, and one-eyed jacks wild,” Dontrell Jordan said, taking the time to spit into a paper cup. He wiped the small dribble of brown tobacco spit rolling down his chin with his sleeve.

  That brought a howl of protest.

  “That’s lame ass. How about a real game, not Go Fish!” Suarez shouted, leaning back in disgust.

  “My deal, my call,” Dontrell said, gathering up the cards.

  Aiden looked around at the others. This had been the first time he’d ever been invited to a card game. He wasn’t much of a player, and so far he’d lost about $30 to the others, but he didn’t care. He was accepted, part of the “gang.” This was a far cry from his first year plus in the Corps. He hadn’t thought he needed anyone, but it was sure nice not to be totally on his own.

  The initial bet was 25 cents. Dontrell dealt the hand, placing seven cards in front of each player. Aiden didn’t really mind losing, but it wouldn’t hurt to win a pot, so he was hopeful as he glanced as his cards. There was nothing much showing, he thought at first. It had only been a minute ago, but he couldn’t remember what was wild. He’d had a headache for the last half an hour, probably due to the cigarette smoke. Smoking was not allowed in berthing, but the game was taken to the gear locker, and while smoking was probably not allowed there, either, no one seemed to take issue with it.

  Was it deuces and eights? No, deuces and nines.

  He had a two of hearts and a nine of diamonds. At worst, he had three-of-a-kind, queens. That wasn’t bad, but with the game as Dontrell called it, there could be some pretty high hands. Dontrell looked to Billy Harrison to start the betting. Billy was from Third Platoon, but he was good friends with Rico, so he was a usual player when they got together.

  Billy let the cigarette dangle from his lower lip where it somehow defied gravity while he talked. “I raise a buck,” he told the rest.

  “Your call, Kaas,” Dontrell said.

  Aiden tried to calculate what his chances were, but his headache was making thinking difficult. It would just be easier to match the bet.

  “I’ll match that,” he said, throwing his dollar into the pot.

  As Dontrell went to the others, Aiden’s headache suddenly started to get worse. He was feeling flushed, and his skin started to itch. He tried to ignore his discomfort. He couldn’t wimp out, he had to hold it together. This was his first time playing with these guys, and there was no way he was going to
look bad in front of them.

  He was feeling hot, but there was no sweat. Aiden grabbed the half-drunk can of Mountain Dew in front of him and put the can up against his forehead. It really wasn’t cold anymore and didn’t do much of anything.

  “Kaas! Whaddaya want?”

  He looked up at Dontrell, confused. It took him a moment to realize that he had to tell the dealer how many new cards he wanted.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Give me . . .” he said.

  He really didn’t know what he wanted, and he couldn’t focus. He threw down two cards, not really even knowing which ones they were.

  “Two, give me two.”

  “The man wants two,” Dontrell said, throwing two cards down on the makeshift table with a flourish. “Rico, how about it?”

  Aiden stared at the two cards lying in front of him. They seemed so far away. He reached out to pick them up, but his arms were not long enough. He started to lean forward, but instead of stopping his lean, he kept on going, smashing face first onto the table. He was vaguely aware of voice calling out for a corpsman as he fell into a merciful void.

  Chapter 12

  LCDR Marc Gutierrez listened as HM3 Mainz rattled off his report. He pulled up the Marine’s eyelids. The pupils were fixed and dilated. That was not a good sign. His temperature was 107, his skin dry and red.

  This was the same Marine who had been in before with the dog bite. He had spent two days then in a fever-induced coma but had suddenly come out of it seemingly none the worse for wear. Evidently, whatever bug had caused the first fever hadn’t been defeated, merely forced back. Now it had returned with a vengeance.

  Occam’s Razor would indicate that this bug had to have used the dog bite as a vector. Anything else would be too much of a coincidence. First thing first, though. He had to get PFC Kaas’ fever down and only then worry about the cause.