“Oh shit, we’re definitely in Pakistan,” I said.
“What you got there, Dommy?” Captain Blatt asked, as he joined me at the table. Looking over the map, we realized simultaneously the mistake the Osprey crew had made. Cap responded with, “Fucking Airwing POG motherfuckers!” POG referred to ‘persons other than grunts’—common rivalry abounds in the Corps.
Two Marines hurried into the room from the stairwell, both out of breath. Corporal Myers, tapping on his ear, said, “Comms aren’t working worth a shit around here. Cap, we’ve got company. No less than thirty armed insurgents are headed this way.”
“ETA?”
“Shit . . . no more than a few minutes.”
Loud automatic-weapon fire clattered from outside. Immediately, return-fire from overwatch answered back from overhead. Then, all the sound suddenly ceased. Godden was most likely either shot dead or was dying. Captain Blatt, again on his comms, was having trouble connecting to anyone.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Suddenly, rounds were streaking in through the open windows. Chunks were blasted from the inside walls, exploding all around us. I ducked and scurried over to the closest window. Taking a quick glance outside, I noted the enemy had assumed firing positions on the surrounding rooftops.
Captain Blatt turned to me. “You! Get up on the roof. Go get Abdul Javed Jarwar. Do whatever you have to, just get that terrorist motherfucker out of here. Make your way through side streets, or alleyway . . . hell, crawl through the damn latrine canal. Just get Jarwar to the LZ. And don’t get yourself or him killed in the process. Go! Get out of here, Dommy!”
As ordered, I got myself up to the rooftop. With Myers covering my six, we found nothing short of a bloodbath. Both Godden and his spotter were indeed dead. Two other Marines, tasked with guarding the prisoners, were also dead. Both corpsmen were dead. The surrounding enemy fire continued, so I kept moving. We were sitting ducks up there—we had to get the hell off this rooftop, and fast. All thirteen Hajjis prisoners lay in pools of their own blood, shot by their own countrymen. Then Myers, pointing the muzzle of his M4A1 to the left, said, “That one’s still moving.”
It was Jarwar! I turned to give Myers a thumbs-up. But Myers was no longer standing there. In that split second, surprise and curiosity turned to dread. Please no . . . Then I saw him—sprawled on the rooftop, half his head blown away.
Crawling over on my hands and knees to Jarwar, I grabbed ahold of the terrorist’s grubby bare foot, then dragged his seemingly inert, but hopefully not lifeless, body along behind me. Once back in the stairwell again, I checked to see if Jarwar was still alive. He had a shoulder wound and a minor head wound—an ear clipped off by a stray bullet. His breath was shallow, barely audible. I hauled him up then swung him over one shoulder into a fireman’s hold. The renowned terrorist was relatively light, and I was able to descend the stairs two at a time.
As I stumbled outside, the gunfire surrounded me, from the rooftops above me and from doorways on either side. Armed villagers, crouched low, were also shooting from the middle of the road. I returned fire, taking out three of them, then darted left for cover behind the husk of a burnt-out delivery van. I slapped in a new mag and got off a few more rounds at an adjacent rooftop. A turbaned man fell dead into the street. Then I was off again—I had a rough idea of the direction I needed to go, so I just kept chugging forward.
Remembering the Cap’s words, I jutted into a side alleyway, then stumbled straight through a cowering family’s ramshackle living room. Two parents huddled close together with their three small boys. Frightened, wide eyes followed my movements. Fleetingly, I felt guilt added to the weight of Jarwar there upon my shoulders. Our firefight was shattering these civilians’ lives. Then I thought of all those children this terrorist liked to single out for methodical extermination, and how he had chosen to hide out here, to make it impossible for us to avoid this damage. Hopefully, getting rid of him and those like him would ultimately save many other families like these.
Within seconds I was back outside, exhaustion creeping into my chest, pain cramping my upper thighs. Shit! No less than ten insurgents were heading my way. I jumped into a shallow ravine, my boots sinking deep into a kind of thick muck—I realized I was literally trudging through Pakistani shit. Sure enough, I’d found their latrine trench. My progress slowed, but I kept on going. To stop was to die. By this time, Jarwar’s blood had pretty much covered my entire upper torso—at least I hoped it was his blood. I wanted to stop. Needed to stop, just for a breath or two. But I trudged on. The trench angled to the left and I dropped, crawling on all fours, Jarwar still splayed across my back.
Slipping and sliding, finally I made it up and out of the shit canal. Staggering, I picked up my pace. Then Jarwar, still perched up there on my shoulders, woke up. Immediately, he began to flail around and spew mostly indecipherable curses at me. I tried to get a better grasp on him, but we were both covered in slime. The two of us went down, sliding halfway down the steep embankment. I punched him hard in the jaw and he went limp. I prayed I hadn’t killed him. How many of my brothers had died today just to capture this son of a bitch? Swinging him back up onto my shoulders, I continued plodding on toward the LZ.
Gunfire erupted from behind. The same band of Hajjis, or maybe new ones, it didn’t matter—they were quickly closing in on us. Pop! Pop! Pop! More rifle fire ensued. I ventured a quick glance backward—an indeterminate number of armed villagers were clustered together in close pursuit.
Now here’s where the military training came in. Proper formation dictates, at least in a war zone, that a squad needs to put distance between its members, considering the minimum killing radius of a fragmentation grenade is about fifteen feet. These guys, on the other hand, were pretty much shoulder-to-shoulder.
Temporarily releasing my one-handed hold on Jarwar, I unclipped a grenade, pulled its pin between my teeth, spun around, and threw the thing high and far behind me. In the process, I dropped Jarwar. I heard the resulting explosion and hoped anyone still alive back there would back off. Out of breath and with exhaustion catching up with me, I trudged on.
Minutes later, my comms crackled to life as I approached the LZ. To my astonishment, an Osprey was up ahead, idling on the ground, its big rotors still twirling. The dust and debris made it nearly impossible to see the path toward the copter. Then, out of the murky, swirling cloud, two Corpsmen came running toward us. As they approached, the automatic gunfire resumed suddenly from behind. As if hit by a pile driver, I took a bullet round into the back of my right thigh. I staggered, unable to go any farther. My leg buckled and I went down. Lightheaded, I felt myself losing consciousness. Then a pair of strong hands grasped my shoulders. I got the words out: “Jarwar . . . don’t let him die . . .”
“Okay, buddy, we got him. Fuck! . . . You smell like shit, man.” Then I blacked out.
When I reawakened, I was at Bagram Airbase, in Afghanistan. Apparently, I’d been out for four days. My leg throbbed, and my head pounded, to the point I had a hard time focusing my eyes. A doctor was next to me, sliding his stethoscope across my chest, listening to my heart and lungs. When he was finished, he checked the bandages on my thigh.
Unable to speak clearly, I croaked out the words, “My team?”
The doctor fitted a straw through my pursed lips, and I gratefully sipped the cool water. As his face came more into focus, I saw his expression. It said it all.
“I’m sorry, son . . . you were the lone survivor.”
I tried to blink away the accumulating moisture filling my eyes, but it was no use. Tears soon tracked down both cheeks. I swallowed hard. “The terrorist?”
He nodded. “He’s alive. We’re already getting good intel from him. Seems the fucker is a bit of a coward . . .” The doctor stopped mid-sentence and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “Sleep. Rest is the best medicine.”
I nodded and closed my eyes. Despair closed in on me.
“Hey . . . you’re a real-life hero, young man. You may not f
eel like one right now, but you are. And a lot of people are proud of you, of what you accomplished out in that hell-hole village. I probably shouldn’t be saying anything, but it looks like a silver star’s coming your way, young man.”
I just stared at him, not knowing what to say. What about the real heroes? The ones who paid the ultimate price. I thought about the weight I’d endured carrying Jarwar for what must have been miles. The weight of that Pakistani’s terrified stare. It was nothing compared to the weight on my shoulders now, thinking of my dead comrades—save your damn medals and ribbons for the ones who matter.
Chapter 2
I realize there hasn’t been one aspect of my life I haven’t screwed up since returning home. Let me count them off for you: First, I’m in debt up to my ass. Let’s just say I have a serious gambling problem. Mostly sports betting. If I don’t set things right—and do so soon—I’ll have a much bigger problem. I’ll be dead. That leads to the second aspect of my life that’s totally screwed. My wife has had enough—sent me packing months ago. I heard she’s spoken to a lawyer, her douchebag cousin Luigi, about getting a divorce. I’ve seen her, and my six-year-old daughter, only a handful of times since. It breaks my heart, this sad situation. There’s nothing more important to me than fixing things up with her, though that’s a hell of a lot easier said than done. Add to it all the fact that, being the way I am physically, with a uniquely large build, I’m well-suited for certain kinds of . . . um . . . criminal activities. Which I’ve gone out of my way to avoid. Till now.
“There he is. Mr. Dominic Moretti!”
I glanced up to see Geppino Lasso, the owner of Pannaria!, one of the oldest pizzerias around these parts. Bald on top, and stooped with arthritis, he eyed me warily. He took a deep drag on his Marlboro before gesturing at me with a raised chin.
“Stayin’ out of trouble, Dommy?”
I shrugged. “Trying.”
Looking disappointed, he flicked his still-glowing butt into the street before disappearing back into his restaurant.
I continued on. Across the way was the infamous 247 Mulberry Street, now a shoe store; back in the 70s and 80s the place was the social club of the Italian Don, John Gotti, called the Ravenite. Exclusively for prominent Italian men, it wasn’t uncommon to see several wise guys sitting out front in lawn chairs, keeping guard—and five or six stretch limousines lined up curbside a short ways away.
Things sure had changed since those days. Now, restaurants and high-priced storefronts lined both sides of the street. I passed by a souvenir shop—hundreds of miniature Empire State buildings and Statues of Liberties (made in China, of course) stood sentry at the store’s entrance, while racks of I ❤ NY T-shirts hung limply on metal hangers. At the turn of the century, desperate immigrants had emerged out of Ellis Island, hopeful for a bright future here in America, but they had been greeted with discrimination, especially the Italians. Those of the same ethnicity were forced to stay together, and in the interest of safety the divisions went even narrower. One block would be immigrants from Naples; another block over would be the Sicilians, and so on. Insolated, isolated, these tight-knit communities grew, learning to be self-sufficient, learning how to protect their own.
In the 1970s, there were over two thousand murders a year in Manhattan. The mob was in full force back then. Those days were mostly gone. But five crime families still kept a tight rein on certain businesses in New York—construction, sports betting, prostitution, and waste collection, just to name a few.
I made a right turn and then another between two brick-sided buildings. The alleyway quickly loomed dark, a dumpster-lined cavern that smelled of rotting food and dank runoff from rooftop gutters. Something small scurried across the alley in front of me. I checked the time on my phone—I was running only a couple of minutes late.
Up ahead, a solitary light bulb illuminated the back steps of one of Mulberry Street’s businesses. I slowed, hearing that unmistakable sound ahead: fists striking against bare flesh. I could just make out three darkened figures. Two men loomed over a third—the one being knocked around. He appeared to have been tied, his arms bound over his head to a vertical drainpipe. Proceeding, I buried my hands deeper into my hoodie’s pockets. I kept my head down—this was none of my business. Breaking heads was nothing new around here. Hell, wasn’t this the same thing Mr. Caputo wanted to talk to me about tonight? We’d chat about breaking heads, arms, and kneecaps, about being new hired muscle for the Elizabeth Street crew. Would getting out of debt be worth it? Maybe. Could get me one step closer to getting my Anna and Val back . . .
“Keep moving, fuckhead . . .” one of the dark shapes said to me as I approached.
I would have done just that. That truly was my intention. But I don’t like being disrespected, never have. I slowed, glancing their way. Yup, they were Mott Street boys. I’d seen them before but didn’t know their names. Both were about my same age. One was tall, a beanpole; the other one—short and stout—had acne scars on both his cheeks. I tried to get a better look at the third figure, the one tied to the drainpipe. Something seemed strange about him. Although his face was hidden deep in the shadows, the man’s body shape looked wrong. His elbows and knee joints seemed angled sort of . . . backward. I took two more strides before one of the Mott boys moved aside. His towering figure no longer cast a shadow over the bound man’s head. Holy Mother of Jesus.
That face—sure, there were two eyes and a nose and a mouth, but everything was pulled down into creases, into deep folds of skin, a face melted away like hot wax. I’d seen some pretty bad effects during the war. Hell, I’d spent four years in the Marine Corps. It wasn’t uncommon for a roadside IED to cause this same kind of damage. In Kandahar, it was almost an everyday occurrence. Being a vet changes you, changes your tolerance level for bullshit. And this was pure bullshit. Beating up a disfigured war vet? Fuck that.
I came to a stop. “Leave him be.”
Only now did I get their full attention. Perhaps they’d been too preoccupied to fully notice me. They looked at me now—really looked at me—each assessing both my size and my girth. At six-foot-six, I towered over them. But I was also thick. Sure, some added weight had accumulated around my mid-section, but there was enough muscle left over from the days serving my country that I was still capable.
“This isn’t any of your business,” the taller of the two Mott boys said.
“Well, I’m now making it my business.”
“Who you with?”
“I’m not.”
“Elizabeth?” the shorter one asked. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen this fucking Frankenstein around here before . . . but when he was younger. When he wasn’t so fat.”
They both chuckled.
“What’s your beef with him, anyway?” I asked.
“Caught the freak creeping around here in the dark. Spying-like.”
“I’m sure he was just trying to stay . . . you know, out of sight.” I strode over to the man, taking in his odd-looking uniform. I looked him in the eyes, then nodded and offered up a friendly smile, glancing at the windings of baling wire they’d used to bind his wrists. “Sorry about all this, man. How about we set you free?”
The disfigured wounded warrior’s gaze suddenly shifted to a point over my left shoulder. “Hold on a sec . . .” I said, spinning around just in time to see a length of wood swinging toward my head. I caught the two-by-four with my left hand, mere inches from my face. Pain shot through my arm and up into my shoulder from the impact. But I showed none of that, just stared down at the acne-faced man with a granite expression, and then threw a hard right jab into his nose. I felt bone and cartilage crumble beneath my knuckles. He immediately let go of his end of the two-by-four to grasp at what was left of his bloodied nose.
“You motherfucker! You broke my nose . . . you broke my fucking nose!”
I turned my attention toward the beanpole standing three steps behind him. “You want some of the same?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I�
�m good.”
“Then go ahead and free my friend here. Hurry it up!” I took a few steps back while he untangled the wire from the man’s wrists. I stepped away just in time to catch his now-freed, falling form. “Okay, I got you, man,” I said, taking him up in my arms. Light as a feather, he had a strange smell. Not necessarily bad, just not a scent I’d encountered before. I heard, more than witnessed, both Mott Street boys running away behind us.
“I’m sorry about those guys. I’m Dominic, though most call me Dom, or Dommy. You got a name?”
Even before he spoke, before he could reply to my question, I realized he wasn’t what I thought. Not a disfigured war vet, or even a car crash victim—this guy wasn’t human.
Chapter 3
Hannig
Hannig lay quietly within the sleeping compartment’s soft blue illumination. He tried to ignore the throbbing pain, primarily emanating from his left shoulder and lower right abdomen, where he’d taken two of the hardest blows.
“Increase dopamine levels,” he said aloud.
“Dopamine levels increased 5 percent,” the androgynous voice replied.
“General assessment of injuries?” he asked.
“Injury infliction points are seven. No broken bones. No organ damage. Substantial inflammation due to various localized points of trauma.”
“Ugh . . . Increase dopamine levels,” he said again.
“Dopamine levels increased another 5 percent,” the ship’s AI replied back.
Hannig mentally chastised himself, again, for his stupidity. Venturing outside of the ship was certainly allowed, but only with due caution. High population centers such as this required extreme care to be taken. But doesn’t one need to make more personalized assessments, sometimes? There was much at stake for this world. How long would it be before the Wikk came, before they laid waste to this planetary system? It would happen sooner rather than later, he suspected.
Guardian Ship Page 2
