The Secret Corps

by Peter Telep

  Within the next heartbeat, a second man appeared, lifting his arms into the air, but his attempt to surrender was cut short by a third figure who appeared from behind and gunned him down. This third insurgent, whose face remained hidden in the shadows, was not wearing ManJams but a western-style dress shirt and slacks. He continued firing before ducking away. Johnny and the others shrank to the walls, their rounds striking the man’s ghost.

  “Bandar, Nunez, get up here!” Johnny shouted.

  “Bravo One, this is Drifter,” called Captain Zabrowski. “Do you have our package?”

  “Sir, I think we got him cornered. I need a minute.”

  “You got thirty seconds. They’re cutting us off from the river.”

  “Roger that, sir. On our way.”

  * * *

  Josh got on the radio and told the assault force commander that no one was cutting off his men from the river, not if Josh and his four miniguns had anything to say about it. He called up the boat captains on the 152, and they blasted out of the bulrushes like a biker gang roaring away from a dive bar, their sterns sinking, the water churning white behind them as they got up on step. Bad to the bone, Josh thought.

  As heart-racing and breathless as the situation was, Josh knew his boys would keep their cool and rely on their training. They needed to get on the landing site as quickly as possible but also be aware that the site might change, given the scope and location of the enemy force. Friendly elements along the riverbank needed to be accounted for at all times, with situational awareness and weapons discipline never higher. Communication was the key to it all, and as they cleared the island, Josh learned that the GCE needed his boats directly behind the compound. He shared that news with his men, along with a report that a platoon-size force of insurgents carrying small arms and rocket-propelled grenades was setting up along the riverbank, preparing for their arrival. “It’s coming boys. It’s gonna be a shit storm.”

  * * *

  “Tell him to drop his rifle and get out here,” Johnny told Sergeant Bandar as they crouched down at the end of the hallway.

  The terp lifted his voice and spoke rapidly in Arabic as more salvos of gun and RPG fire boomed from outside.

  No answer.

  “You tell him he won’t be hurt,” said Johnny. “But if he doesn’t come out, we’ll kill him and every one of his friends.”

  Bandar shouted again. Nothing. The terp shrugged.

  Johnny gave a hand signal to Rugg, Marshall, and Padilla. They sprang from their positions, and Johnny led them down the hall. Once they reached the open door, Johnny swung into the room, his flashlight panning across the walls.

  * * *

  Willie was lying prone and about to tell Johnny that five insurgents had slipped past the main gate and darted into the house. However, before Willie’s fingers ever neared his push-to-talk button, two more insurgents rushed from behind, their sandals slapping in the mud. Willie rolled, firing nearly point-blank into the first, who had not seen him, then he squeezed off another round into the second one’s chest. Two more rounds into each man finished the job.

  However, killing them was like shaking the bee’s nest. Another surge of fire drove him back onto his belly, the rounds coming from one, two, even three directions, the fools catching themselves in the crossfire.

  Sergeant Brandt and his men were already coming down from the roof with orders to clear a path toward the riverbank, but they, like Johnny’s team, were getting pinned down inside the houses. Willie’s men near the rear gate had caught a break during reloads and fallen back into the compound All three cars had been struck by RPG fire to explode in succession and drive the men posted there back to the walls on either side of the front gate.

  Even with the advantage of the night vision to “own the night” and superior weapons, there were just too many insurgents, and they kept coming as though off an assembly line. Staff Sergeants Daniels and Boatman, who had taken up positions on the northeast side of the compound, reported new contact to the west, a pair of machine guns whose fire was so relentless that they were unable to fall back.

  Willie thumbed his mike and ordered Sergeant Heredia to grab a few Marines from the main gate. They needed to locate those insurgents to the west and suppress them long enough for Daniels and Boatman to exfiltrate. Heredia broke free from the tree line, and Willie followed him, running a serpentine path to the gate, whose iron bars rattled and lit up like short-circuiting Christmas trees under a fresh onslaught.

  Lowering to his haunches, Willie caught the attention of a Sergeant named Freeman, while Heredia grabbed another. Heredia and his teammate circled around the burning cars while Willie and Freeman headed for Johnny’s house. Freeman was a Sasquatch who hailed from Jamaica, Queens and enjoyed sucking on empty brass casings as though they were breath mints. Despite his size, he could run like a marathoner. By the time they reached the flattened metal door, Willie was out of breath but motivated to rush inside because more gunfire popped from the back of the house, sounding like ammo cooking off a burning tank.

  Willie tensed and cursed as the metal door creaked under his boots. At the end of the foyer, a pale-faced bearded man squinted in Willie’s light and brought his rifle to bear. Willie had three rounds in the man’s chest before the man ever squeezed his trigger. As the insurgent fell, Willie and Freeman hit the deck on either side of the wall as another insurgent stole a peak around the corner and fired wildly toward the noise.

  * * *

  Corey gritted his teeth as muzzle flashes lit up the riverbank. Clusters of bulrushes along with a mound about three meters back from the waterline gave the insurgents both the high ground and well-covered firing positions. The GCE’s path back to the boats was now twice as dangerous.

  Rounds struck the bow and the armor around the control station. The insurgents always targeted that station, believing if they took out the captain or coxswain, the rest of the crew would abandon the fight. They did not realize that Marines were cross-trained heavily because they were always only one bullet away from someone else’s job. The hierarchy went from captain to coxswain, then bow gunners to aft gunner.

  Josh was on the radio to check the status of the GCE before the boat gunners opened fire. “They got our boys blocked,” he reported. “They’ll rally on the other side of the hill till we call clear. Let’s go!”

  All four boats throttled up and sped downriver, with Corey and Josh turning directly toward the bank. The insurgents assumed they had adjusted course to put the guns in better firing positions. They did not expect Corey and Josh to barrel head-on into the fire.

  With the wind whipping over them, and rounds ricocheting everywhere, Corey ordered his bow gunners to open up, even as the captains of Game Warden 1 and Game Warden 4 did likewise. The sight of four miniguns lighting up the bulrushes with tongues of crimson fire was enough to take Corey’s breath away. The mechanical buzzing of all those guns, and the thought that death could be only a second away, gave him the most incredible rush, one that was well-nigh impossible to duplicate on any college baseball field.

  The riverbank came barreling toward them, with enemy positions scattered like pawns on a chessboard of mud. The water jet engines roared louder. They would hit the bank in just a few seconds. This was the way Marines fought—leaning headfirst into the danger. Corey grabbed his rifle with attached grenade launcher and held his breath.

  * * *

  Johnny’s flashlight shone into the face of a graying Iraqi with a long beard of steel wool. This was the man in business attire, and he shouted something in Arabic as he raised his hands. His AK-47 lay on the nearby bed.

  “Don’t move!” Johnny ordered. He was a second away from exacting payback—trembling with the desire to do so—but his training took hold.

  Bandar came in behind Johnny and fired off a few words in Arabic, his tone hard and uncompromising. Sergeant First Class Nunez appeared a second later.

  “Is this our guy?” asked Johnny.

  Nunez’s g
aze widened in recognition. “Yeah, that’s him!”

  Shots came from down the hallway, probably out near the staircase. Somebody shouted, “Get down!” But it was too late. Marshall, who had gone to the doorway to cover them, jerked as rounds pierced his neck and chest. He convulsed and slumped to the floor.

  “Get ‘em!” screamed Johnny.

  Sergeant Rugg cursed and dragged Marshall back into the room while Nunez and Padilla squeezed past them to return fire.

  “He’s bleeding out real bad, Johnny,” Rugg reported.

  “Do what you can!”

  Shuddering with the desire to help Rugg but knowing he needed to get their package ready to travel, Johnny sloughed off his pack. He opened the main zipper compartment and tugged out an extra plate carrier vest, one they dubbed a “bullet bouncer” or “bouncer” that was part of their Full Spectrum Battle Equipment (FSBE). He gestured for al-Zahawi to put it on, after which he zipper cuffed the man’s wrists behind his back and pulled a balaclava over his head, turning it backwards to blind him.

  Rugg lifted his head. “Sergeant Marshall is dead.” His report was punctuated by a triplet of gunfire that bit into the doorpost above him.

  Letting that fully register in his thoughts was both time consuming and dangerous, Johnny knew. Dwelling on Oliver and Marshall now would dull his senses. There would be plenty of time to grieve later, too much time, in fact.

  “Johnny, it’s Willie, over.”

  Willie’s voice swept him back to the moment. “Yeah, Willie, I’m up on the second story. We got the guy, but we’re cut off.”

  “We found Sergeant Oliver down here.”

  “They got Marshall, too. So you’re here?”

  “Yeah, I’m with Freeman at the bottom of the stairs. There’s four of ‘em. You force them back into the stairwell, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Roger.” Johnny regarded Sergeant Rugg, who was still on his haunches beside Marshall. “Pat, I need Nunez to carry Marshall. Carlos will stay with the terp. I’ll escort Mr. Money Bags here. Right now, you do like Willie said and corral ‘em into the stairwell. When Willie’s through with them, you get Oliver on the way out.”

  “You got it, Johnny.” Rugg took a deep breath and rose. There was a sheen in the man’s eyes born of a weary determination. He turned off his flashlight, flipped down his NODs, then burst into the hallway and sprinted off, releasing a blood-curdling war cry as he opened fire. The insurgents would believe he had a death wish or had gone insane, but big Pat Rugg was just being a Marine.

  Taking Rugg’s advance as their cue, Johnny gave the signal, and the others followed, with Johnny clutching the back of al-Zahawi’s shirt and shoving him forward.

  The four insurgents took one look at the enormous Cyclops trouncing toward them, assumedly wet their pants, then scurried away. They were thumping farther down the stairwell when the rat-tat-tating of familiar rifles boomed and lead peppered the ceiling above the stairs.

  “Johnny, you hear me?” shouted Willie. “You’re clear!”

  “Roger, we’re coming down!”

  Willie and Freeman were dragging the bodies out of the way as they descended. Rugg was already engaged in the grim task of hoisting Staff Sergeant Oliver over his shoulders. Freeman helped by accepting Marshall, since, he too, was a pack mule of the first order. This freed up Nunez to work security as they moved.

  Johnny notified the captain that they had confirmed the ID of their package and were exfiltrating down to the boats. They returned to the front entrance and kept low on either side of the doorway. Johnny saw how they could exploit the cover of the burning cars, heading there first instead of making one long hike to the gate. He shared the plan.

  Freeman and Rugg were nodding, and Rugg spoke for the both of them, “We’re good to go, Johnny. We’re just slow carrying these guys.”

  Bandar gestured to Sergeant Padilla who was watching over him. “Let me and Carlos go to the palm trees and draw some fire while you guys make the break.”

  Johnny shook his head. “I’ll send Nunez.”

  “Come on, Johnny, let me fight.”

  Johnny eyed the young man, searching for any signs of weakness. “Sergeant Bandar? Padilla? Get out there and draw some fire.” He winked at Bandar.

  The interpreter returned the wink. “Glad we speak the same language.” He charged off across the metal door, with Padilla in tow.

  By the time they reached the palm trees, they had captured the attention of at least six insurgents who had been concealed behind the burning cars. At that instant Johnny realized that if Bandar had not made his offer, the group would have been ambushed. Those insurgents had been perfectly hidden, and Bandar’s desire to contribute had just saved them all. There it was, esprit de corps, flying high like the stars and stripes, right before Johnny’s eyes.

  Meanwhile, Willie was already lobbing one fragmentation grenade, then a second, striking a one-two punch, the frags blasting apart at least three insurgents behind the cars while the rest retreated toward the back gate with their tails between their legs. Nunez got a bead on them and took out the last man before he could join the others. Johnny hollered to move, and they double timed across the courtyard and ducked behind the nearest car. Once a beautiful black Mercedes sedan, the vehicle was now lying on its side and spilling gas, oil, and radiator fluid like a dying beast. The rain sizzled as it fell on the super-heated quarter panels and doors, and all that burning rubber and melting plastic released a toxic smoke that had Rugg and Freeman coughing.

  Al-Zahawi kept standing tall, and Johnny shoved him down, onto his knees. Rugg and Freeman set down Oliver and Marshall so they could rest before the next trip to the gate. Johnny skulked around to the front of the car and targeted two insurgents up on the rooftop of the adjacent house. He caught the first one in the head, and the man dropped off the ledge and plummeted with an eerie, almost underwater slowness. The second guy reacted and dove to the side, but Johnny anticipated that and caught him in the neck. He fell prone on the ledge, one arm draped over the side and dangling like a pendulum.

  “Nice work,” Willie said.

  Johnny glanced back, nodded, and then he lifted his voice to Bandar and Padilla. “Come on, now. Move!”

  Bandar rose and bolted toward them with the agility of an Olympic track star, and there was certainly enough gunfire to send him dashing from the mark. Padilla kept tight on his boots, whirling back once to cover their rear.

  AK-47s popped and cracked from somewhere behind Johnny, and Bandar took a round in the leg. He stumbled, turned, then caught another bullet in the side that sent him toppling. Padilla could not stop in time and fell over Bandar, both of them smashing into a puddle. More guns cracked, and the mud around them erupted in a dozen tiny volcanoes.

  Johnny craned his neck to the gates, where four insurgents had appeared. Rugg and Nunez were on them, though, emptying their thirty round magazines in a retaliatory strike that had the word vengeance engraved on every shell casing. When their rifles fell silent, there was nothing left alive near those gates.

  After ordering Willie to keep an eye on al-Zahawi, Johnny sprang from behind the car. He raced toward Bandar, who was being hauled to his feet by Padilla. Johnny took one of Bandar’s arms and draped it over his shoulder, then he and Padilla carried the terp back to cover.

  “Johnny, I can’t feel my legs.”

  “Don’t worry about it, son. You think about what a rock star you are. I didn’t see those guys behind here. You drew their fire. You saved us all.”

  Bandar’s eyes creased into slits, and he nodded.

  The second he was able, Johnny called for HM2 Milam but learned the corpsman was tied up with four other causalities. He lifted his voice to the others, “We need to patch him up before we move him again.” Freeman, Rugg, and Nunez were already digging through their packs, producing morphine and trauma bandages, while Willie reported more movement out near the rear gate.

  * * *

  Josh clutched the
gunwale as the patrol boat crashed into the riverbank and the bow rose and shuddered across the mud.

  Four insurgents were literally three meters away, firing at them as Lance Corporal Duffy swung the minigun around and stitched fiery lines across their makeshift bunker. Mounds of earth spewed in all directions.

  A wave of gunfire came from the bulrushes, within which several insurgents had concealed themselves. Rounds pinged off Duffy’s gun shield before he fell back into the boat, clutching his thigh.

  “Get up there! Get on his gun!” Josh barked to Lance Corporal Wilson, then lifted his voice even more. “Duffy, you all right?”

  “Aw, yeah, Sergeant,” he gasped. “Yeah.”

  “Be there in a second.”

  The coxswain left the wheel and slipped out of the control station, rushing up to re-man the minigun and put fire into the reeds.

  At the same time, Corey and his men were trying to suppress another wave of insurgents bounding over the hill to reinforce their brothers. His machine gun and tracer-lit minigun fire struck much higher lines than Josh’s, casting the entire riverbank in an otherworldly glow. Corey himself was thumping off rounds from his rifle’s M203 grenade launcher, the explosions decimating insurgents and terrain.

  Josh glanced down at the SeaFLIR, a forward-looking infrared imaging device. On the screen were the heat signatures of the GCE attempting to fall back to the riverbank. Their lack of movement suggested they were cut off well before the last hill. Johnny’s group was still inside the compound behind the burning cars. After assessing the SeaFLIR’s data, monitoring the platoon’s internal net, and receiving intel from higher regarding the GCE’s status, Josh knew that if he and his boys failed to clean up this shoreline, no one was going home.

  I am my brother’s keeper...

  He got on the 152 and ordered Game Wardens 1 and 4 to get in tighter and direct their fire across the bulrushes, while Wilson and Corey’s minigunners concentrated on the crest of the hill. The boys on the 240 Golfs would continue suppressing additional contacts near the waterline or off to the flanks.