by Peter Telep
Josh started toward the bow, where Lance Corporal Duffy was still lying on the deck, waiting for him... but then he stopped. From the corner of his eye, he detected movement to his left about twenty meters down the riverbank. He squinted into his NODs. An insurgent was just coming out of the reeds, standing waist deep in the water. He lifted an RPG onto his shoulder and took aim at Josh’s boat.
* * *
On three, Willie led the others back to the gate. He arrived first, and when he turned around, he frowned at the team dragging toward him like a pack of badly wounded wolves. Rugg was carrying Oliver, Freeman clutched Marshall, and Padilla had Bandar on his back. Johnny had let his rifle dangle on the single point sling and had drawn his M45 MEUSOC pistol. He shoved al-Zahawi with one hand and used the .45 to cover their rear, along with Nunez.
“Brandt, it’s Willie. I need you and your guys at the front gate.”
“Roger, on our way.”
“ETA?”
“One mike.”
“Right on.”
Willie slipped past the gates and outside the compound walls. He was there but a second when salvos of AK fire ripped across the dirt not a meter from his boots, followed by more chiseling into the concrete at his shoulders. He crouched and hustled back through the gate and behind the wall, where he caught his breath and faced Johnny. “Maybe a squad out there under those palms to the left. We need to get past them, over two little hills, then over a big mound just before the water. What I don’t like are all those reeds down by the water. Too many covered and concealed positions. It’s a gauntlet all the way.”
Johnny grimaced. “Where the hell is Brandt?”
“Should be here any second now.”
A distant shout seized Willie’s attention. From behind both houses came more members of the Fallujah homeowners’ association, at least a dozen rifle-toting men, maybe more. They appeared enormously upset over the Marine Corp’s violation of their covenants by shooting up two houses in their neighborhood. They split into three groups, taking up firing positions along the walls and behind the cars.
“We need to go now,” Johnny ordered. “Go, go, go!”
“I’ll hold back and buy you some time,” Willie hollered.
“Watch your top knot.”
Willie grinned. That was a line from a movie they both loved: Jeremiah Johnson, and a reference to being scalped by Indians. No chance of that here. These natives preferred to dismember you, burn you, then drag you through the streets before hanging you from a bridge.
Johnny shoved al-Zahawi past the open gate. Brandt and his men showed up a heartbeat later, and Willie hurried back outside the compound to cut loose an entire thirty-round magazine on the insurgents positioned behind the palm trees, suppressing them and clearing a path for Johnny’s group. They splashed off through the puddles, heading toward the river, with Nunez and Brandt’s four Marines dishing out heavy fire to the flanks.
Willie returned to the rain-slick wall and chanced a look around the corner, past the gates and into the compound. The insurgents had been reinforced by another six or seven men. There were over twenty now, nearly ten squatting near the cars and the rest lying or crouching in and around the landscape or peering out from the windows. As Willie rolled back from the corner, they began shouting to each other. Echoing footfalls drew near. He took a long breath. Overcome. Adapt. Complete the mission. But how? By remembering who he was.
The Fujita-Pearson scale, which ranked the severity of tornadoes from F1 through F5, still needed revising to account for United States Marines like Staff Sergeant Joseph “Willie” Parente. Standing on the shoulders of every great Marine who had come before him, Willie spun away from the wall like the F6 twister he was. He rushed across the gates to the opening, where he emptied another magazine into the compound, driving the insurgents back toward their covering positions. He ceased fire and pitched one and then a second flash-bang grenade toward the houses, exploiting their detonations to blind the enemy and reload. He noted with dread that he had blown through seven rifle mags, with only three left. As he reached the opposite side of the gates, the clang of a grenade against the metal framework sent him racing along the wall. The grenade exploded, tearing one of the gates into a smoking piece of abstract art and raising a chorus of screaming from the insurgents. They were coming for him.
* * *
Josh brought his own rifle to bear on the insurgent shouldering the RPG. Even though he stitched a line in the water straight up and into the target’s chest, killing him instantly, the man’s RPG still flashed.
The whoosh and streaking light were the last things Josh heard and saw before he shouted, “Hit the deck!” The rocket exploded, sending shockwaves through the entire boat. The stench of fuel came immediately, and the port side engine coughed and fell silent. With smoke clouds swelling, Josh crawled back to find Corporal Keller. The aft gunner was lying across the starboard deck, bleeding profusely from multiple shrapnel wounds to his legs. “Hang in there, Artie!” he cried, then he faced the riverbank.
Seeing Josh and his men were in trouble, the insurgents directed all of their fire on Josh’s boat. Lance Corporal Blount turned toward the hillside and returned fire, and what seemed like a hundred rounds clanged off his gun shield and mount, off the canopy behind him, and off the deck. Blount remained at the gun, emptying his ammo can. As the gun fell silent, he dropped behind the gunwale, groaning that he had been hit.
As Josh tensed over which of his men to treat first, the starboard side engine sputtered and began to lose power, presumably its fuel line also damaged. All three gunners were down. His coxswain was manning the minigun and about to need a reload. The boat was dying on the shoreline. Josh slammed his fist on the deck. He was not out of the fight. Not yet.
* * *
Placing Corporal Ochoa in charge of his boat, Corey leaped off and splashed into the water. He came slogging around the back of Josh’s SURC, grabbing the collar and hauling himself onboard. He took one look at Corporal Keller bleeding out across the deck, then swung around at the sound of shouting.
Yet another RPG was being directed at them from beside the bulrushes, and Corey raised his rifle and punched that man onto his back before he could do any more damage. Two more riflemen appeared behind him, and Corey fired a grenade at their boots, then ducked as the explosion sent them hurling in opposite directions. He dropped to his hands and knees and faced Keller. “How you doing, Corporal?”
“I need a beer.”
“Roger. We’ll get you some help first.”
Josh rushed over and crouched down. “Nice shots! I owe you!”
“Forget it,” Corey replied. “Time to own this river!”
“Hell, yeah! If it ain’t wet, it ain’t worth it!”
That was Small Craft Company’s motto, and Corey loved hearing it as he hurried to get some bandages on Keller’s wounds.
* * *
Johnny and his group neared the last hill overlooking the riverbank. The stench of gunpowder permeated the entire area, and hundreds of shell casings shimmered as gold flecks across the mud. To the rear, Brandt and his men traded fire with a few more insurgents who had ventured out from the palms to try their luck along the pathway’s edge. They highly underestimated the precision of Marine Corp riflemen, but what they lacked in forethought and aim they made up for in sheer numbers. A few turned into ten, who turned into fifteen, and it was all Brandt’s men could do to keep them at bay.
Johnny crouched behind the hill. “Hey, Josh, it’s Johnny, you with me, over?”
“I got you Johnny. You’ll have to get the package to Corey’s boat, though. Got some catastrophic damage over here.”
“Roger that, are we clear?”
“Not yet. Still got a few contacts on the flanks. Standby.”
Brandt came running up behind Johnny and hunkered down. “Sergeant, everyone and his mother’s coming—like the whole goddamned town.”
Johnny smiled darkly. “They can’t get away from us now.
”
The young sergeant almost returned the grin, and he understood Johnny’s reference; he understood it big time. Lieutenant General Lewis Burwell "Chesty" Puller was one of the most, if not the most highly decorated Marines in the history of the Corps. When commenting on how he was surrounded on all sides by the enemy and was outnumbered 29 to 1, the legendary Chesty issued those same words: They can’t get away from us now.
Brandt cleared his throat. “We’re going red on ammo.”
“I know.” Johnny crawled to the top of the hill and hazarded a look over the top:
Two of Josh’s boats were belching out enough fire to kill a legion of men, let alone a string of loosely organized insurgents. But there was always that one lucky rat who pulled through, that one rat bastard who could sneak up on a boat along the shore and toss in a grenade, and the boys from Small Craft Company were doing their utmost to exterminate him.
RPGs struck thunderclaps near the compound, and they were closely followed by more gunfire. The platoon net came alive with reports of the security team being overrun.
“Josh, we’re running out of time here.”
Captain Zabrowski got on the net and confirmed that everyone should fall back to the boats. The insurgents were advancing en masse toward the river.
“Okay, Johnny, you’re clear,” cried Josh over the radio. “Bring ‘em down!”
* * *
As the first two insurgents ran past the shattered gate, Willie express shipped them to Allah with a pair of double taps, then he was back on the move. He sprinted toward the end of the landscaping, where a fountain of three lions spitting water lay near the driveway. He reached the fountain’s square base and ducked behind it. He turned and came up again, sighting three more insurgents who had clambered past the gate. Two went down, but he missed the third, cursed, and fired again, nabbing him in the leg. Willie scrambled to his feet and was back on the run. Shoot, move, communicate. Never stop.
In hindsight he should have stolen a moment to recheck the roof line, because when he broke away from the fountain, a distinctive booming resounded from high and behind, and the hairs stood on the back of his neck. The neighborhood watch was now armed with Russian Dragunov SVD sniper rifles, and they had found him.
He was half way across the open field, perhaps twenty steps away from a quartet of tightly placed palms, when a single shot echoed off the compound walls. His boot gave way, as though his foot were no longer there. After another step, excruciating hot pain woke from the base of his heel and shot up his leg. The rational side of his brain said stop. The recon side said run. He compromised and limped his ass over to the trees, collapsed behind them, then released his empty magazine and shoved home another. Only two left now. He tilted his rifle down toward his boot, and the attached flashlight told the story. A bullet hole was torn in the sole of the arch, with a blood-ringed exit hole coming straight out the back of his heel. The best he could surmise, a round must have ricocheted off the ground.
With fresh bark exploding into his face as the sniper who had caught him set free another two rounds, Willie raised his rifle toward the muzzle flashes. He found the man’s silhouette, range roughly 100 meters. He relied on the laser and on Kentucky windage, making adjustments on the fly to account for the wind and rain. The outline of the sniper shifted out from the parapet. Willie aimed slightly to the left and took in a deep breath. Smooth and steady pressure on the trigger. He took the shot. Low and to the right. Startled, the dark figure began to pull back from the ledge. Willie’s next round would be even more interesting. He fired, and the silhouette slumped as the dead do, the shot so accurate that Willie only half believed he had made it. He laughed aloud until more insurgents detached themselves from the walls and came running at him, wailing like banshees as they opened fire.
Caught off guard, Willie emptied his magazine, dropping all four. He ejected the empty mag, and then shoved in his last one, swearing over the waste of ammo. Thirty rounds left for the rifle. He still had his .45, with one mag in the pistol and two extras. The Corps issued them seven-round Wilson combat magazines, but Willie and most of the other guys had purchased aftermarket Chip McCormick ten round magazines for a little extra firepower. That seemed like an awfully wise choice now.
Willie began picking off more men as they attempted to advance. His plan was to drop the nearest guys then make his break for the riverbank. He sent two into the mud, clutching their chests, but then a more ambitious idiot Willie nicknamed “Moe” appeared from behind the walls with an RPG propped on his shoulder. Willie switched to full auto, blowing through nine rounds to level him and the other two stooges who had joined him. By the time he broke off fire, another four insurgents were flitting like little demons to the flanks. Muttering a curse, Willie emptied the magazine, unsure if he had struck them but convinced it was time to fall back.
He grabbed the palm tree and heaved himself to his feet. The fire in his leg was a three-alarm blaze now. He hobbled farther into the shrubs and palms, past some tall, wild grass, and toward a deep scar running across the ground about thirty meters away. His left hand cleared the rifle from his workspace, allowing it to hang at his left side from the sling. At the same time, he drew his .45 with his right hand. He repeatedly craned his head back, hearing them cut through the underbrush behind him. The scar ahead became a V-shaped irrigation ditch leading down to the river. The ditch was about three meters across and roughly two meters deep, although it was half-full with rainwater. There was no other cover, so Willie picked up the pace and headed there, groaning aloud as he did so, his eyes burning with tears.
As he neared the long furrow, the first shots came in, blasting up the mud to his left, then to his right. He spun and splashed onto his gut, raising his elbows and balancing his .45 in both hands.
The ManJam squad had momentarily lost him. Three men drifted off to the right flank, two to the left. The rain and darkness had worked wonders, as did Willie’s night vision so he could study them.
But then, from the shadows to his left came a loud and rhythmic squishing sound, and as he turned, he came face-to-face with an insurgent whose eyes bugged out. Reflexes took over, and Willie shot him in the head. The insurgent fell, and Willie cursed because he had just given up his position.
As he dragged himself onto his hands and knees, some clown fired on full auto in Willie’s general direction, sewing a line across the back side of the irrigation ditch. Once the man’s rifle went silent, Willie repressed a scream and forced himself to his feet, running the last few meters to the ditch, putting his full weight onto his wounded foot. He slowed, tripped, then slammed face-first onto the ground, his elbow hitting a rock, his hand opening reflexively and sending the .45 skittering into the water. He crawled forward and tugged himself into the ditch, rolling sideways across the muck. His momentum carried him like a log down the embankment, and he splashed completely under the water. He came up, chilled and gasping, his hands groping through the mud, searching in vain for the pistol. Damn, his wife was right again. He did have two left feet, and he should have learned to dance.
* * *
Once al-Zahawi and the rest of the group were safely aboard Corey’s boat, Johnny hightailed it back over the mound, intent on finding Willie. The staff sergeant was not answering his radio, and no one else had seen him. Knowing Willie, he would chose the most covered line back to the riverbank, so Johnny backtracked along that more wooded path. While he would never admit it, a hollow feeling swelled in his chest, a feeling that Willie might already be dead. And no, the Marine Corps could not afford to lose a man like Staff Sergeant Parente. He was always out front, always there to provide whatever the platoon needed. He did his job without complaint and was competitive to a fault, always ribbing Johnny for not pushing harder, even when both of them had already set the envelope on fire.
Rounds buzzed over Johnny’s head, a few splitting open the trunks behind him. He picked up the pace and kept on because he had steel in his back and a brother he neede
d to find. An AK-47 set to full automatic rattled from the adjacent field. In a matter of seconds, Johnny was at the perimeter, crouched down and counting six men converging on an irrigation ditch on the opposite end of the field. They weren’t fleeing... they were chasing...
It was not a question of math. If it were, then it would be six against one. No, it was a question of stealth and speed... and, of course, who was the most aggressive Recon Marine on the planet. That would be Johnny Johansen, the guy wearing the man pants, the guy who was all over this moment like a fat kid on a cupcake, the guy who was definitely all that and a bag of chips. Imagine that. Easy day. No drama.
After checking his rifle to ensure he had a full magazine, Johnny grinned crookedly. He pictured himself drinking Jim Beam from a cracked glass and reflecting on this night as though it had already happened, grab-assing with a bunch of young guns who were holding their breaths. They wanted to know what happened next. It was time to show them.
He vaulted from the tree line and opened fire.
* * *
Willie considered crawling out of the ditch to retrieve the insurgent’s rifle, but more men were coming, maybe twenty meters off now and closing... Multiple rounds cracked from above and continued, with AK-47 fire popping in between. Next came the sharper crack of a pistol. Without warning, an insurgent leaped into the water directly in front of Willie, not expecting him there and acting as though he was fleeing from someone. Before the man could bring his rifle around, Willie reared back and delivered a “Bare Knuckles Willie” blow to the man’s nose, breaking it instantly.
As Willie reached out to seize the man’s rifle, another man jumped into the ditch, he too, trying to evade the hellish fire blazing from above. Willie seized the end of this man’s rifle, wrenched it out of his hands, then reared back and batted the insurgent’s head like a baseball. Meanwhile, the first guy, who had dropped his rifle was reaching for a pistol at his side. Willie batted the man’s arm, dropped the rifle, then delivered another bare-knuckled blow to the insurgent’s face. He punched the guy again and again until the thug’s teeth caved in. With the insurgent stunned, Willie grabbed the man’s pistol and shot him. It was only then that he remembered to breathe. His chest rose and fell twice before he spun toward the sound of boots shuffling from above. He tightened his grip on the pistol.
