Chapter 13

Joint Base Pearl Harbor, Oahu Hawaii, Late March 2008

The tall, slender staff sergeant had the focused attention of nine Marines and four airmen as he spun tales of O’Brien’s feats and the many fallen records of the Quantico Scout/Sniper school. Pistochini’s rapt attention bothered O’Brien, he did not like that he was being set up for hero-worship.

SSgt Warren noted O’Brien’s sitting with unease next to the donkey corral, but most noticeable was O’Brien’s sour expression. Cooker decided to wind down his tale and return the troops to cleaning their rifles. Cooker carefully punched out the barrel of an M82 then got up to stow the weapon. It did not go unnoticed to the body of shooters that Carlton, O’Brien, and Warren went into the tent together.

“Staff Sergeant, please, no more shit-stories about me. My troops don’t need to hear anymore of that.”

“Opie, all that I’ve said is truth. You can’t exaggerate shit like that. Even the top said that you are one in a thousand among American shooters.”

“If I’m so fuckin good, why are my people gettin killed?”

Cooker and Jake exchanged expressional glances that indicated an acknowledgment of O’Brien’s condition. Cooker had been continuing down the same path as O’Brien. But he had something that O’Brien did not have. A good friend and a lover that understood Marines, because she is a Marine.

“You talk to the gunner lately?”

“You know I have.”

“What did he say? I want to hear it from you.”

“War sucks and that we can’t do shit about our people gettin killed.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes and No.”

“Good. That’s my take on the gunner’s philosophy too. We can reduce the shit our people must face, but some shit will always be there. Not a fucking thing we can do once the trigger has been pulled. But up until the bad guy pulls that trigger, we do everyfuckingthing we can to train and condition our people. Then we help each other live with it.”

“You’re not helping my Marines. I’m not a fucking god, and there’s sure as shit ain’t any hero crap in me. And you’re setting me up to be some weird type of perfection in the eyes of my people. So what happens when I fuck up? I’ll tell ya what happens, their faith in each other goes into the shit can.”

Carlton had seen the same response in her husband, but had always been able to pull him back from the darkness. But Cooker’s misadventures and debacles were not the result of poor leadership. Cooker was always supported by, and had been a part of, and had been within the system. Whereas O’Brien’s bad combat experiences were the resultant of isolation and abandonment by his command, and having to operate outside of the system. It had always been O’Brien’s teams against the world, always by themselves. Jake desperately wanted Cooker to bring him back into the fold before O’Brien’s discharge from the Corps. She did not want O’Brien to ever feel alone again. But, per the old platitude, people in hell want ice water.

“Well, fuck. How about I keep my fables to a minimum?”

“Okay, but ya know, no fuckin exaggerated shit. You should know that Jake has told me a few stories...”

Cooker raised an eyebrow to his wife, who responded with her characteristic non-committal shrug of her shoulders. But she did add a parting comment.

“And nothing I told him was not true. Fucking live with it, babe.”

Cooker gave his beloved the middle finger; the universal expression of affection between Marines. At least when it is not otherwise.

Puuloa Rifle Range, Oahu Hawaii

The fourth day on the range devolved into an unusual competition between Warren and O’Brien, much to the fascination of the Marines and airmen, such that all shooting stopped, intently observing, as two of the best shooters in the world put fifty caliber holes into the same target as they traded shots.

As Carlton observed through her spotting scope, she became resigned to what she had dreaded, the adolescent behavior of otherwise professional warriors. After about a dozen shots, the troops shouted hooyah or oorah as they observed the classic, made renown by the Mel Gibson movie, smiling face of about 50 cm width. The act was not that extraordinary by itself until you consider that the feat was performed at 1000 meters by two shooters in rapid tandem. To be honest, the conditions were ideal. Nonetheless, the two shooters were now demigods in the eyes of all the observers; at least all except Sgt Jake Carlton. Jake’s eye rolls had become a frequent occurrence during the last two days, as per her prescience fears. She was further dismayed when Captain Hastings transmitted, over the RSO radio channel on the loudspeaker, for all to hear, his congratulatory comments, causing her to further ponder if she was the only adult supervision available on the range.

As Cooker and Opie basked in the glory of their long-range artistry, Jake prodded Pistol to continue with the, now mundane, task of verifying new batches of 7.62 ammo from Quantico and an army arsenal, while she spotted and recorded impacts and the environmental conditions for each impact. The airmen, under the tutelage of the Marines, continued with the chores of mastering long-range marksmanship with various models of rifles.

O’Brien had the two best air force shooters fire at 100 meter and 500 meter targets, using a position of their choice and their M4 rifles. One chose prone while the other airman chose kneeling. Which led to the last string of fire.

The final display of the day’s legerdemain by Warren and O’Brien were several strings of off-hand shooting at the 100 and 500 meter targets with the two same M4s issued to the airmen; mostly to prove three points. One - the M4 with a shortened barrel and a marginal round goes to dog shit somewhere between 300 and 500 meters. Two - that the trajectories of NATO 5.56mm ammo become inconsistent between 500 and 600 meters. Three - that it is seldom the rifle that is the problem. It is almost always the shooter. The difference between the (air force) novice shooters’ 35 cm groups and the Marine’s groups of less than 15 cm made the latter point graphic, using the same weapons. O’Brien wanted these air force PJs to know the limits of their skills and their weapons systems; his objective of these tutorials was nothing greater, as both O’Brien and Warren considered the expectation to turn the air force operators into extended-range shootists in one week, to be somewhere between moronic and brain-dead.

The last two days on the range started at 0430 to enable setting up targets at, presumably, random distances. After an hour of running up and down the range in the dark, there were 31 man-size targets, aligned to firing position numbers from 30 to 60, varying in range from 150 to 950 meters. Range estimation, for many, is the most difficult of the basic shooter skills to master. As the previous two evening lectures included the range determination trade secrets of O’Brien and Warren and Pistochini, O’Brien was hopeful that the airmen would be able to at least get on paper. A fly in their sauce was that O’Brien would have the airmen fire only M40s, where the holds for range became critical over 500 meters.

The military personnel on the opposite side of the range were on their fourth string of fire when the gaggle of base PAO and civilian law enforcement people arrived at 0800. The police shooters noted the scattered targets and that there were four non-marine people firing M40s while two marines shot, to the LE officer’s astonishment, pistols. The astonishment was well-founded, as the most close targets appeared to be at least 100 meters down range. The senior LE officer quickly set up the tripod for his high-power binoculars. He became doubly astounded when he noted that the two close targets were full of 9mm holes, all within what would be the torso of a human body.

“Damn, Pistol. Ya kicked my ass. Sweet shootin. Well-earned name, dude.”

Pistochini, after a slight grimace, “Uh, yeah ... thanks, boss.” Pistochini was still sensitive about the event that had given his call-sign and nickname. In any case, he did enjoy, for a few seconds, the warm glow of his sergeant’s complement. But the last several days on the rifle range had added to Pistochini’s recent feelings of unease, in addition to the extemporaneous activities of various spook organizations. There was also the strange stuff coming from the wonderful people of SOCOM. The answer to the purpose of this new staff sergeant seem to be known only to O’Brien and Carlton. Pistochini had been certain he knew, or had heard of, all Marines designated scout/snipers in leadership positions. So why had he not heard of a SSgt Warren that was a principal instructor at the ‘main’ school on MCB Quantico?

Pearl Joint Base, S/S Platoon Bivouac Tent

The first thing noticed when the platoon’s three assigned hummers pulled up was the base security cruiser parked, half on the field grass and half on the road shoulder, near the gate to the compound. O’Brien walked to vehicle to find a Petty Officer first class sitting in the cruiser.

“What’s up?”

The sailor glanced at O’Brien’s rank, “Sergeant O’Brien?”

“That’s me.”

“Captain Robertson wants us to keep someone here for a while. I will guess he wants to discourage any increases in your body count.”

“That would be good. Y’all gonna have someone here 24/7?”

“Yeah, at least for a while. Don’t know how long.”

“Y’all gonna want some coffee? The chow hall is deliverin stuff twice a day.”

“Would appreciate that, sarge. You guys special forces or somethinng?”

“Nah. We’re a bunch of grunts that pissed off the wrong people. Uh, y’all know ‘bout the deadly force authorization?”

“No shit, batman. We carried away the bodies a few nights ago.”

O’Brien nodded to the MAA petty officer with a half grin as he returned to the hummers to help unload. The sailor determined that the big Marine was full of shit about being ‘regular’ grunts when he noted the type of weapons being carried into the compound, and having identified the four air force PJs. He did not know what was going on and he did not want to know.

“Think about this shit, Cooker. In the middle of a fuckin military base, they send people to kidnap me and Pistol. What the fuck, over? This shit can’t get more fuckin weird.”

The troops were doing the typical post-chow grab-assing, much to the concern and entertainment of the four airmen. Warren, Carlton, O’Brien, and Pistochini were cloistered in the small corral with the donkeys, giving them a good brushing while they talked.

“Can’t get more weird? Yes it can, and it will. The colonel and the gunner and the top put their evil little minds together. They think you saw something that the spooks didn’t want you to see, and they want to ‘talk’ to you about it. More specifically, they have the hots for you and Pistol.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“My guess is that you popped up on someone’s radar when the state department and the DoD had an argument over some unknown shit concerning the survivors of that Fallujah fuck-up. Once the holds and redactive bull shit were put on you and your records and the others in that platoon, you might as well have walked around with a red smoke grenade streaming out of your ruck.”

“Well fuck me. I’ll be separated before the end of the year. What happens to me and Pistol?”

“You’ll still be watched, at least until all of those idiots are convinced you are no longer doing anything for anybody. Jake, any ideas on this?”

“You are generally correct, babe. Anyone Defense Department-related will walk away once he gets a DD-214. The others are an uncertain quantity. I will SWAG it and say they will monitor for at least a year or until they get bored. No one leave CONUS, no one contact the State Department, and be careful about talking to people still in active status.”

“I can do that. Might talk to a good friend that was discharged about four years ago. Sure as fuck don’t wanna talk to anyone else. So what important shit did we see that was forbidden?”

Carlton sighed and shrugged.

“Honestly, MEF and Div intel do not have a fucking clue. G-2 had a pow-wow to talk about the two other tours that you and Pistol previously did, and this last foray that you two did. Other than being directed by that DIA jerk, nothing special was noted other than the fact your people were effective and eliminated many bad guys.”

Cooker was helping O’Brien brush Spock. “What are you gonna do with this guy?”

“Takin both of them back to my mother’s ranch. Weed control and general entertainment. They will also be good at keepin those fuckin coyotes away.”

O’Brien forwarded a serious glance at his corporal then gesturing to Pistochini, “and gonna use them as bait for him. If he doesn’t go for another hitch, was tryin to get him to work at my place.”

O’Brien paused and stopped brushing Spock. “When are you two going tell me why we’ve been honored with the Cooker’s visit?”

The question brought all activity and discourse among the four Marines to an immediate halt. The sudden stop was notice by Spock as he brought his head up and turned to O’Brien.

SSgt Warren, looked around. Noting that the troops were occupied and out of hearing range, answered with a slight reservation.

“Nothing is certain. No orders have been cut. They want to send some, or all, of your people to Africa. If they do get orders, I will take the platoon if they refuse to do another stop-loss on you and/or Pistol.”

O’Brien’s ever-present anger went up a notch. “More fuckin bull shit. There is no fuckin way that there aren’t people available to send on a deployment in the second or the third mar div. Last I heard, Lejuene was close to filling all sniper platoon billets in eighth and sixth Marines, and maybe second Marines, too.”

“Opie, no one else has what the people at the pentagon wants.”

“What’s that? We don’t have a fuckin thing, other than two donkeys, not found in any other platoon. Leave my people the fuck alone. Send them back to fifth Marines.”

“I will guess part of it is visibility. Like Jake said, you and your people are being watched. Your platoon is a known quantity. And holy shit, we need a fucking calculator to count the bad guys’ bodies wherever your people go. Want to know what stood out to the commanding general of Marine intel and to the WTB C.O. that were assigned to look at this shit?”

“I’ll bite. What?”

“Your platoon’s response to the assassination attempt at Jalalabad. Those people were a total unknown to the intel community; fucking came out of nowhere and you stopped them. Then your people hunted them down and brought the leader back alive.”

Pistochini and O’Brien’s laughter filled the area. The troops momentarily ceased their fuckery to see what was so humorous. Seeing nothing obvious, said grab-assing and card games and weapons maintenance were continued.

“That’s a load of bull shit. Consider this an official notification to your fuckheads you’re using as genius analysts. It was these two that detected that tango cell.” O’Brien emphasized his point by wrapping his arm around Spock’s neck. “We had to look around for a while to even figure out where the fuck they were after Troi sounded the alarm.”

“Well, that explains why SOCOM was supportive of their transport. But both of you are missing the point. Your analysis was quick and your response was immediate and decisive. This is the shit they are looking for.”

Pistochini remarked, almost seriously, “just recruit and enlist more donkeys.”

To Jake Carlton’s chagrin, O’Brien replied, seemingly earnest, “Good point, Pistol. Lets start SRBs and ask the first sergeant to do unit diary entries for Spock and Troi.”

SSgt Warren saw that the conversation was heading south with no productive results. He left the corral to join one of the troop’s card games.

Carlton remained standing next to Troi, absently and without conscious thought, brushing the donkey while O’Brien methodically checked and cleaned Spocks hooves.

“Does a donkey require the same amount of care of a horse?”

O’Brien paused while holding one of Spock’s lower legs horizontally to clean the hoof. “Nah, at least physically its less. There are emotional needs. They seem to be less of a group animal like a horse, but seem to need individual attention. And they can be moody. But Spock here is an even-keeled guy.

“How old are they?”

“The vet said three or four. which is probably why they’ve easily adapted to new people. That, and their previous owners were probably assholes that did not take care of them.”

“They live long?”

“Longer than a horse. Maybe 35 to 45 years. Sorta doubt that an Afghan donkey is gonna make it much more than 10 or 15.”

“So you have some long-term friends.”

“Yep, assuming I can get them back state-side.”

“What if the Marine Corps keeps them?”

“Not much I can do. But they sure as fuck like Marines. And we would more likely take good care of them. If they go back to the sandbox, don’t think they’ll have more than year or two before they’d get blown up.”

“Are the donkeys a reason you are not going to re-up?”

“Nope. If anything, me stayin in the suck would probably help to make sure they are okay. There are a bazillion conflicting reasons for me to both get out and stay in; and the donkeys are not among them.”

“What about you, Pistol? What are planning?”

“This shit was going to be my life. At least until a month or two ago. Not now.”

“What changed?”

Pistochini shrugged, then pointed to his sergeant.

“O’Brien talked you out of it?”

“No. He never said a thing against staying in. It not what anybody said. It what has happened. And I used to sorta fear being alone. Not anymore.”

If Sergeant O’Brien re-enlisted, would you?”

“Uhhh ... don’t know. Never thought about it that way.”

“What are Cheeseburger and Digger thinking?”

“They’re sorta pissed about the cutting score and bonus situation. The 03 cutting scores are a total fuck-story. How can infantry E-4 and E-5 scores be so fucking high when every rifle platoon in the Corps is short corporals and sergeants? I’ve seen promotion levels for some winger MOSs over 400 points lower. Where do you think that the phrase ‘Terminal Lance’ comes from? Not only do all of the space cadet MOSs have lower cutting scores, those fuckers get a re-enlistment bonus. And look at all of those 0231 POGs in the S-2 shop that picked up E-4. Almost half of those fairies can’t even get a final secret. And they ... never mind, sarge. You get the point.”

O’Brien did not consider Pistochini’s mini-soliloquy to be bitching. His statements to Carlton were a valid presentation of why sniper platoons were losing people at their EAS and have so few NCOs. He was certain that Jake needed to hear these sentiments and needed to be swayed, as he knew that she had direct access to senior people within MEF and division-level staffs.

Jake Carlton quickly acknowledge Pistochini. “Agree with all of that, Pistol. When I become the Empress of the Empire, 0317s will be at the head of the line followed by all other 03s.”

Jake gave a final brush and pet to Troi with a, “bye, sweetie. Got some calls to make and shit to do...”

“See you guys manana.”

Carlton walked by the group playing cards, nodded to her husband, then continued on to the fence gate. Warren knew the expression well - it was a tacit notification indicating there was important shit to talk about.

Transient Enlisted Barracks, Joint Base Pearl

“Babe, if we get Opie, we get all of them. And if we make his platoon happy, he will be happy. Simple as that.”

“Baby, last time I looked at the head-shed, they did not have any E-5s setting up budgets and moving line items. And that fits your definition of circular logic.”

“Maybe so. You call the gunner, I’ll call the MEF intel chief, maybe Major Tisdale. What about a career jammer? Can we use the third Marines jammer?”

“Any Marine jammer will do as long he can get to their SRBs. You got your shit, together, Marine. Have I told you how competent jarheads make me hot, baby?”

Jake smiled at the only man she had ever been ‘soft’ with. She thought him the final and penultimate example of a Marine, even if had had spent most of the last ten years doing special ops outside of the Corps.

O’Brien and Pistochini had figured that Carlton and Warren had begged off the last range day to bang each other senseless. While the idea was commendable in itself, where duty is concerned, romance was never on their schedule. Warren and Carlton were on a 20-hour continuous mission of conducting and directing communications and submitting forms that would be necessary to ensure at least two more years of an intact sniper unit. The Cooker would bang his wife senseless and stupid at some later time. For now, he was giving his mind and body and soul to his Marine Corps; a typical lifer.

Pearl Joint Base, S/S Platoon Bivouac Tent

O’Brien and Pistochini, along with their troops, were almost in shock. Pistochini and O’Brien were somewhere between awe-struck and horrified that the system had been massively gamed or in some way been grossly manipulated to affect their troops’ cutting scores and re-enlistment or extension bonus for all Marines in the platoon that were assigned the 0317 MOS.

“Don’t know what to say, Cooker. Should we be insulted with the appeal to our greed and avarice? Or are we supposed to be impressed that the brass in the head-shed considers the retention of our skills is worth a shit-ton? Just fuckin amazin.”

Jake and Cooker apparently saw O’Brien’s question as rhetorical, thus remaining silent.

Pistochini did not hesitate, as himself and O’Brien had been studying Africa in the interim and have convinced themselves that they were in over their head, and in severe need of adult supervision. “Damn, staff sergeant. Not that I’m not totally fucking grateful for yours and Jake’s efforts, but I think that Opie and me want something else for us to go to Africa. Boss?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah ... we’re a bit shell-shocked. We were thinkin that the big green weenie was comin and all of us would be served a stop-loss notification shit sandwich for a year or somethin ... but, anyway, we were sorta hoping that you would take the platoon whether I stayed in or not. We’ve been reading about the shit goin on down there. Its fuckin complex and has been goin on since the French colonial times. None of us has any background into this gaggle of cultures. The area is mostly being run by the frogs, I dunno if we’re up to understanding all of that shit. You take the platoon, and I’m probably in.”

Jake’s stomach sank at the thought of Cooker going into yet another third-world cesspool. She knew that her man would take the platoon. Her only mitigating solution was to beg her MEF master gunny to cut orders for her to tag along as the unit intel specialist and language talker.

Warren was both happily surprised and dismayed at O’Brien’s life-changing plans. The military in general, and the Marine Corps in particular, was in dire need of his skills. But, and a huge but it was, that he had discussed with the top and the gunner back in Quantico, was that O’Brien would have to walk away from this madness, and very soon, if he was ever to have any chance of self-recovery. Warren was torn between his personal fondness for the young sergeant, and his obligations to the Corps as a career Marine. As it is an immutable physical law; in the end, that the big green machine will always win.

MCAGCC Twenty Nine Palms, California, June 2008

“Yeah, but its a dry heat...”

Pistochini’s silent reply to Jerry was a smack up the side of his head, being careful to miss his radio head-set. The platoon had long since been inured to the interruptive comments of Crammer and Jammer, as well as their corporal’s ‘standard’ corrective response to such interruptions. As always, Sgt O’Brien did his level best to suppress the display of a smile upon these utterances by his two class clowns. SSgt Warren and Sgt Carlton had long since adjusted to these platoon dynamics; and Warren had been careful to adapt to the platoon and not force the platoon to adapt to his banalities and idiosyncrasies. Warren and Carlton had both discussed the importance of not messing with the platoon’s ‘secret sauce’.

“DO NOT FUCKIN GET DEHYDRATED! ... White got stupid and is gonna be down for two days. This shit is worse than the sandbox environment. One last thing. And you fuckers did this all last week. Do not depend on GPS for shit. Basic land navigation. Paper map and a fuckin compass, people. Barn, my miscreants are yours.

Barney Handley was O’Briens first encounter in the FMF with a former member of his first platoon out of SOI. Their initial behavior after their mutual recognition had been disturbing to O’Brien’s troops. His first pump in the sandbox was mostly mystery to all except Carlton. O’Brien’s reaction did, however, serve to explain his PTSD and his devotion to and protection of his troops, and his determination to complete the mission. The disturbing part was their sergeant’s display of emotion. That the troops chose not to discuss it among themselves was a tacit shout-out of their respect for the man and their unrelenting and binding loyalty to O’Brien.

Sgt Handley continued with his lectures on fire support. Handley was not certain, as the unit’s destination would not be revealed. Per Warren’s vague descriptions of available assets and environment, Handley deduced that their most likely fire supporting was be small or medium crew-served weapons using indirect fire. Thus remaining exercises would be calls for fire using defilade weapons. A defilade weapon could include everything from 60mm mortars to artillery, resulting in an array of ballistic variations. To avoid excessively complex exercises in multi-variable control, the focus would be mortars and how to interface with FDC for arty.

The platoon came to Sgt Handley’s large outdoor classroom well-armed with the skills garnered from O’Brien’s devotion to, and love of, mathematical models for exterior ballistics.

“Damn, Opie. You and Mac were always the platoon nerds, so I shouldn’t be surprised. But I’m fucking impressed with your boys. Your troops are well prepared and good Marines. Staff Sergeant Kimberly would’ve been proud. Its been a damn good training week.”

“I probably think about that too much. Always say to myself, what would’ve Jay or Kimberly done?”

“Yeah. You’re not the only one. I’m thinking that all the time.”

Handley and O’Brien sat along a ridge on the lava flow plain, talking past midnight as all else lay unconscious in their small tents; except SSgt Warren, laying semi-reclined against his ruck angled on a large rock. Their conversation confirmed and extended his previously nebulous understanding per the events of O’Brien’s first deployment. His incredulity of the myths surrounding O’Brien were explained and reduced. Warren was uncertain about relaying this knowledge to Carlton.

As O’Brien passed by Warren on the way to his tent, “Damn Cooker, still awake?”

“Shit, fuck-head. I was out until you asked me. You boys gonna shoot the shit all night?”

“Nah. Just catchin up on the last four years. Its good to see someone from the old platoon doin good. Some of our guys are way too fucked up.”

“Its expected. The early days in Iraq were a fuck-story. Nobody had a fucking clue. We’re starting to understand whats driving the extremists. A day late and a dollar short.”

“Yep. That’s the fuckin truth. Gonna be with the air controllers tomorrow or gonna tag along with the insertion tomorrow? I hear 1/7 OPFOR fuckers are gonna have something special for us.”

“Depends on what your bud Sergeant Handley says. Will hang with the controllers if he signs off on you and Pistol.”

“Yep. Said he’s gonna certify us plus Cheeseburger and Digger.”

“Opie, one other thing. Hang on to your final decision until we get back to Hawaii, or at least until after we finish the Irwin ops. Don’t say anything to anybody.”

“Uh ... okay, I reckon. Haven’t decided anyfuckinway. Why does it matter?”

“I’m thinking that your boys will be heavily influenced by what you decide to do. Don’t want them making commitments prematurely. Want to give this shit time to marinate in their brain-housing groups.”

“Okay, no problemo, Staff Sergeant, mine.”

Warren was satisfied that O’Brien would not miss-direct or unduly influence his people in either direction. He returned to sleeping on his ruck pack, propped up on a small boulder.

O’Brien, looked south towards Sagittarius. He viewed the shimmering galactic band for a few seconds before retiring into his tent.

O’Brien and Pistochini were the first two down the rope, running away from the rotor down-blast of the two UH-1 Super Hueys, hovering with less than 100 meters separation. All platoon members except Mybar and Beeman and Warren were on the two birds, having been sent back with SSgt Warren when Carlton ratted them out to Pistochini, upon seeing them limping from their Afghan wounds.