Second That Emotion
by Latikia
Copyright © 2006
Chapter 10
Desert Shield had been building up for a while, motivated by the western world’s ethical determination that Saadam Hussein wasn’t going to acquire more oil than the Saudi royal family. (Yeah, I know…he’s a rat bastard, ego-maniacal despot with no care or concern for the people he was supposed to have been elected to serve. Name me four heads of state that aren’t. Go ahead…I’ll wait.)
The people in charge of the operation had every modern intelligence advantage you could possibly want in a combat theatre. Satellite pictures, infra-red imagery, GPS transponders, real-time computer assisted communications with units as small as a squad. Generals had never had it so good in the history of human conflict. But…they still needed someone to look at all the nifty pictures and images and reports and tell them what the hell it meant in terms they could understand.
It has always amazed me that the men, and occasionally women, making the “Big Picture” decisions are not the ones who can actually see the “Big Picture”. Those people are usually lower ranking, ignored except in an emergency, and then shoved back into their boxes when the crisis is over, types of people.
And I was about to join their ranks. I wasn’t asked if I wanted to. My interests, concerns and desires were never taken into account. Maybe they didn’t think I had any.
Fact is, when I wasn’t working I spent most of my time at various libraries. I didn’t watch TV, didn’t go to movies or concerts, didn’t hang out in bars or clubs, didn’t have friends or lovers…the list of things I didn’t do or have was nearly endless. I did go to the gym, I ran, sometimes for hours but never in competition. I went to the range once a month and kept my weapons qualifications current, and I’d spend hours and hours reading.
The day after the two shootings I was called into my supervisor’s office. With him was Agent Watters and a Lt. Colonel in his dress greens, complete with ribbons, medals and all the shiny stuff the Army likes to us to wear, most of it serving only to announce to other Army types what unit you belong to. Like a cattle brand, but much more complicated and decorative.
The Lt. Col., a stocky, bull necked guy in his early thirties with intense brown eyes and an nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, sat quietly while my boss, Art Hodgekins took control of the meeting.
“Blacktower, you are being transferred, effective as of
I recognized my cue and delivered my line. “Yes sir.”
Watters stood up paced a few steps. “Blacktower, you
have demonstrated certain skills and abilities that are not only rare, but that
will be invaluable to the Army shortly. There will be a war with
I flinched a bit when he used the word talent, but otherwise remained silent and motionless.
The Lt. Col. finally spoke up. “Are you really as good a shot as Agent Watters tells me, or were you just lucky?”
I looked over at him. “I’m rated Expert with rifle and pistol sir.”
“I can read your file and get that info. All that tells me is that you can hit paper targets. I’m more interested in how you do against people.”
I was tempted to link with the man, but I resisted, for the moment.
“Yesterday was the first time I’ve ever shot a human with the intent to kill. I learned to hunt as a young boy, but prior to yesterday the only other living thing I’ve shot and killed was a deer.”
“You fired two rounds yesterday, correct?” the Lt. Col. asked.
“No sir, four. One that killed Lt. Brady, two into the ballistics barrel at the police station, and one that killed the man inside the police station.”
“I stand corrected. Four rounds fired. My point is, you fired one round at each man and each round was fatal. Why only one round per man?”
“One was all that was necessary sir.”
There was a prolonged silence in the room. The Lt. Col. looked over to Agent Watters for a moment.
“I’d like you gentlemen to come with me down to the firing range. I would appreciate seeing Agent Blacktower fire a couple of rounds from a rifle, before I’m willing to have him attached to my unit.”
“Of course Colonel.” Hodgekins said.
The four of us went down to the CID’s underground firing range and Hodgekins, Watters and I picked up earplugs and a couple of targets and headed for the far end where the extended rifle pits were located. The Lt. Col. left us briefly and went to the Armory Locker, returning with a long travel case. He set it on a table back behind the firing line and proceeded to unlock and open it.
“This is the 7.62mm C-75 special forces rifle, once used by the armed forces
of
He sounded like he was delivering a lecture to a class of new boots. He then showed me how the weapon functioned, safety, loading and sight adjustment. He hooked one of the paper silhouette targets to the track and ran it out a little more than half-way down the length of the lane, about three hundred yards. The Lt. Col. removed his jacket and tossed it on the open case. Then laying down and assuming the official prone firing position he opened the bolt, inserted a single round and closed the bolt. He took fifteen seconds to sight and then fired the round. I was watching the target and saw a hole appear in the center of the chest area.
“Hit, dead center of the chest.” I called out. He grunted slightly, opened the bolt ejecting the casing and inserted a second round. Ten seconds and he fired again. A second hole appeared not more than half an inch to the left of the first.
“Hit, half inch left of first.” I announced. Second casing was ejected and a third went in. Ten seconds and he fired. The third hole was a little higher and a little farther from the first, maybe two-thirds of an inch.
“Hit, two-thirds above first.”
The Lt. Col. got to his feet and stepped behind the firing line.
“You have very good eyes, Blacktower. Your medical files make mention of that, but words on paper can’t begin to describe the reality of seeing it demonstrated.”
“Thank you sir. You’re an excellent shot.”
“I should be, I’m a graduate of
He handed me the rifle and three rounds.
“In the head please, Sergeant Blacktower.”
This was the first time in a couple of years anyone had addressed me by my actual rank. It was a bit odd.
I stepped over the firing line. He hadn’t specified what position I should assume to fire, so I took the one I felt most comfortable with. Standing with my left shoulder towards the target I inserted one round into the chamber and closed the bolt, tucked the rifle butt into my right shoulder, lined the cross hairs of the scope on the target’s head and fired the first round. Not taking the rifle out of position, I rolled the bolt up and back, ejecting the brass and inserting the new round, jacked the bolt forward and locked it down, reclaimed the target and fired, rolled the bolt, ejected, inserted, jacked and locked, sighted and fired the last round, rolled the bolt back, ejected the brass, turned and went back behind the firing line. I offered the rifle to the Lt. Col. but he indicated that I should hang onto it.
“How did you do, Sergeant?” he asked conversationally.
“Three hits in the head Colonel, maybe three and a half inches apart.” I told him. He nodded and hit the button to retrieve the target. When the paper target had been removed, he Watters and Hodgekins spent a few minutes examining and talking amongst themselves. Hodgekins got a bit animated briefly, but Watters and the Lt. Col. overrode whatever it was he was objecting to. The Lt. Col. took a small cellular phone, the first one I’d ever seen, from his jacket and made a quick call.
Minutes later two soldiers in BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) entered the range, dragging a pig between them on a rope leash. The two sergeants nodded to the Lt. Col. and he motioned down the firing range. They then maneuvered their charge down the lane. They went all the way down, five hundred yards and tied the rope to a ring in the floor. They came running back at double time and took up ‘at ease’ positions behind the Lt. Col.
“One last test, Sergeant Blacktower.” He handed me one round. “Kill the pig.”
I looked him in the eyes.
“Colonel, I do not kill for sport or amusement.”
He looked right back at me, never blinking.
“For the record, neither do I.
That animal is going to be the guest of honor at a barbeque tomorrow for my
unit before we ship out to
I nodded my acceptance, stepped over the firing line, inserted the round and locked the bolt. Assuming the off-hand position again I lined the cross hairs on the pig’s head and linked to the animal.
Felt the breathing, the heart beating, hunger, thirst, confusion, but no fear. The scope’s sights were not quite right; I’d discovered that from watching my shots earlier, all part of the Lt. Col.’s testing process. They were good enough for this. I sent the round thru the pig’s eye as soon as it shifted towards me. It dropped to the floor like a bag of wet laundry. I felt it die. It was mostly painless and quick. I snapped the link as soon as soon as I felt it’s heart stop.
I snapped open the bolt and ejected the brass, turned on my heel and walked back to the Lt. Col. and handed him the rifle. He gestured to one of his men, who took off like a shot down the firing lane towards the pig.
I stood there waiting, while his troop verified the kill and came running back.
“Entered the left eye, thru the brain and exited just back of the right ear Colonel.” he reported.
The Lt. Colonel’s face gave the impression that a missing piece of a puzzle had just fallen in place for him. He nodded to Watters and Hodgekins.
“Sergeant Blacktower is acceptable.” He turned to me. “I’ll have my second in command meet you here tomorrow at 0900. He’ll escort you out to us.”
He returned the rifle to the case and locked it up. Handing it to one of his men, he stopped, put his jacket back on and buttoned it up.
“I have men on the way now to remove the pig and clean up. If you would have them brought down here it would be appreciated.”
“Of course Colonel. Good luck to you and your men.”
“Thank you sir.” He and his men left. I stood there on the range with my ex-boss and an upper level Agent Supervisor.
“You’ll be spending the rest of the day clearing out your desk and transferring whatever cases you were working on to other agents, Sergeant. When you’ve finished that, go to Personnel and get your Emergency Notification data updated. We’ll have your files and orders ready for you by 1700.” Hodgekins informed me. Then he left.
Watters stared at me for a moment then slapped me on the shoulder, as if we were old friends.
“Good luck to you, Sergeant Blacktower. When this is over, if you want, we’ll be more than happy to have you back. Keep your eyes open and your head down.” Then he left and I was alone.
I cleaned up my paperwork and case files, updated all my emergency notification data (I puzzled over who should be told if anything happened to me and the only one I thought might care, even a little bit, was my sister. So I put down her name and my father’s address. I even listed her as the beneficiary of my Serviceman’s Life Insurance.) and at 1630 I collected my personnel and financial files along with twenty copies of my transfer orders. I turned in my CID credentials and the Glock.
The next morning I was met out front by a Captain Grosse, who took me to their staging area, and I was introduced to the members of the unit, all thirty of them. I was shown to where I’d be bunking until we shipped out, then was hauled over to supply and provided with a new issue of dessert BDUs, boots, skivvies, and all the combat gear I hadn’t needed as a CID agent. After that I handed in all my files to their admin support unit, formally reported to the Lt. Col. (his name I learned at last was John Erickson) who gave me the traditional welcoming speech, then was passed off to the Sergeant Major. He gave me the nickel tour and we ended up at the barbeque I’d killed the pig for.
There was eating, lots of drinking, loud talk and laughter. This unit had been together for a while, so they were all comfortable with one another. I was the outsider. They tried to make me welcome. I spent most of my time moving around, eating some, drinking less, and linking with each and every person there. I wanted to get an idea who I could trust and some sense of the people I was going off to war with.
Most were older than I was; late twenties or more. Lots of experience, trust and good will in this bunch and confidence was not something any of them lacked.
I could work with these people. Like I had a lot of choice; I’d been volunteered.
The party broke up around 2200 and we went off to sack
out. We were shipping out the next morning for
Desert Shield was the build up for the war that was
coming. There were troops from several different countries involved, but
the intel work like we were
doing was being conducted almost exclusively on the ground by the
I didn’t go out ‘acquiring’. That was the job of the majority of our unit. That’s what they’d been chosen and trained for. I did the interviewing and the analysis. We had interpreters to ask the questions I wanted answers to. My job at the interviews (or interrogations, if you prefer) was to determine how reliable the responses were. Then I, along with a couple of Arab specialists, put the pieces of the puzzle together.
For about two weeks we moved from one point along the build up line of coalition forces, doing ‘snatch and grab’ operations and interviews.
I had no business being in that climate. I’d brought
along as much sun blocker as I could get my hands on, and grabbed up whatever I
could find from the hospital in
“Hey, Ghost, you come to haunt our line?”
Much as I didn’t like being there, it kept me busy most of the time, which saved me from living in my memories.
We were conducting snatch and grabs near the Kuwait/Saudi border. It was around two in the morning and I was on night watch when we got hit by a recon patrol of Iraqi troops. The sound of gunfire drew me from my thoughts and I scanned the horizon for movement. My night vision is very good, but I couldn’t make out a thing, so I popped the covers off my M-16’s night scope and peered thru it, tracking along the ground in front of me. To my right and left I could hear others on guard calling into their radios asking for updated info…how many, which direction, what do we do…that sort of thing. No one had expected the shooting to start just yet. I kept looking thru the starlight scope.
Off in the distance, about a hundred yards to my right, I spotted a four man squad. They were mostly hidden below a slight dip in the ground and they were setting up what looked to be a small mortar. I used my radio and called in to our unit command post, reporting what I saw, coordinates and then requested orders. A voice I recognized as Lt. Col. Erickson came back in my ear.
“Any officers in that squad?”
I looked thru the scope and looked for signs of insignia.
“None I can see.”
There was a brief pause, then “Kill them.” I liked that about the Colonel. He didn’t use euphemisms. He didn’t say, eliminate, terminate or take them down. He said what he meant, in plain language. At least to me.
“Yes sir.”
I looked back thru the scope and could still see the four men working quickly. They were just about ready to start lobbing rounds down on our position. I reached out, linked with all four and started shooting. First, the man holding the mortar round…a bullet thru the face, then the man next to him, the one manning the mortar…a bullet thru the face. The two remaining started firing blindly in my direction. I projected terror and horror at them, mind numbing, gut wrenching fear so powerful that they jumped up and started running away. I started walking towards them, keeping my cross hairs lined up. Man on the right, one round to the base of the skull. The man on the left turned quickly to the side in an evasive move and presented me with a beautiful target. One round thru the head, just below the edge of his helmet.
I returned to my position and called in.
“Post six, mortar crew killed, sir.”
“Good work, Ghost. Maintain your position. Backup is on the way.”
“Post six, acknowledged and out.”
Christ! If the Colonel was doing it now the damn name would never go away.
The majority of the gunfire had been a diversion meant to draw attention away from the mortar crew who were going to do the real damage. It took an hour or more to clean up the rest of their force before my backup arrived to go out and check my dead four man crew.
As the sun started coming up I could see where the rounds from the last two men had hit around my position. They’d gotten a lot closer than I’d thought, but as I hadn’t been hit it didn’t really matter much.
The reputation I didn’t want grew. Before long I was not only the Ghost, but bullets just went right thru me and I kept on killing. I was that damned pink bunny with a rifle instead of a drum.
One evening after chow (MREs fresh from the back of the delivery Humm-Vee) several of us were sitting around as it got dark, some were smoking, some chewed gum, but everyone was trying to get as comfortable as you could with sand and dirt and dust creeping around inside every nook and cranny of your unwashed body. They talked about home, wives, children, girlfriends. I sat there, quietly waiting for dark and my turn on watch. Then someone had to go and try to get me involved in the chatter.
“Ghost, how come you never talk about home?” Corporal Andrews, one of the snatch and grab crew, asked.
I thought about that for a couple of seconds.
“I don’t have one. Nothing to talk about.”
“No, girl, no family?”
Pause.
“I have a father, brother and sister. I…” I couldn’t make myself finish.
“Let it be Andy. Some folks just ain’t the talking kind.” SSgt O’Brian, Andrews’ partner told him.
“Sorry, Ghost. I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.”
I waved his apology off. “It’s alright, Corporal.” I took a deep breath. “I had a wife, before I joined up. She was killed. My mother died not long after I finished boot camp. The rest of my family…we don’t talk anymore.”
“Damn, I’m…”
“Don’t. It is what it is.” I got up and headed out for my turn on watch.
Time for another trip down
Have you ever gotten up in the morning and just known deep down in your bones that something really fuckin’ unpleasant was going to happen?
If you’ve never felt that way, congratulations and good for you. Keep it up. As for the rest of you, you know exactly what I’m talking about. It keeps you on edge all the time. You’re walking around on eggshells, waiting for that other shoe to drop, most likely on your head.
My day started like that and got even worse.
To begin with a resupply convoy arrived early, with food, water, mail and extra ammo.
Mail was generally a good thing for troops in the field. Letters from home, pictures from loved ones, the occasional CARE package filled with cookies and candy that would be shared out with the recipient’s friends and squad mates.
Sometimes it wasn’t such a good thing. Ask any G.I. from any war, in any military from any country since the invention of mail.
I got a letter. First letter I’d gotten from anyone since I’d arrived. Usually all I got were bills and junk mail. But that day I got a letter. From my father of all people.
He made the usual opening remarks, hoping I was well and that sort of thing. My brother Ivan and Svetlana were expecting a baby sometime in June. He himself was doing alright; business was the way business usually was. Isabeau was getting married next month. February 25th.
He made a couple of comments about some other local happenings, but I’d pretty much lost my focus.
She couldn’t even tell me herself…
I put the letter back in its envelope and stuck it in my front left pocket. I needed to think.
“Ghost! Hey, Ghost!” I turned around and saw Corporal Andrews waving me down.
He came towards me at a quick jogging run. “Colonel wants you in the command tent ASAP.”
I wasn’t expecting to have any interviews or analysis work today, so this was beginning to sound a lot like eggshells crunching underfoot. The whistling sound you hear is the other shoe, and it’s coming right at your head.
I stepped into the command tent and looked around for the Colonel. Yeah, I know, he was a Lt. Colonel, but that’s just the way it is. The only people who make a big deal about the difference between a Lt. Colonel and a ‘Bird’ Colonel are (you guessed it) ‘Bird’ Colonels. It’s like the difference between a Second Lieutenant and a First Lieutenant, or in the Navy with Lt. Commanders and Commanders. One gets paid less and has to salute the other.
I spotted our Colonel off to one side in deep conversation with a young First Lieutenant. Damn, a Marine First Lieutenant. And he looked like an Arab. I stepped over and announced my self.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Colonel Erickson looked up, a bit startled. I’d managed to sneak up on someone yet again.
“Ghost…yes, good. We need to talk. Lt. Bakr, this is Sergeant Blacktower.” I nodded to the smaller man. He was probably a year or two older than me, but he looked younger, maybe seventeen or eighteen tops. He couldn’t have been more than five feet ten and if he weighed more than a hundred and sixty pounds I’d have been amazed. But he did have very intense black eyes and a manner about him that demanded respect.
Fat lot of good that was gonna do him with me.
“Ghost, Lt. Bakr is with the Marine Assault Group. He’s been sent over here so we can utilize his skills. We need to perform one more ‘snatch and grab’ and it has to be done within the next four days.”
“What do you need from me Colonel? Analysis, someone interviewed?”
“Nothing like that. I need you to go with Lt. Bakr and do the SnG.”
SMACK!! The other shoe has landed.
I looked at the Colonel then glanced at the Marine Lt. Then looked back at the Colonel.
“With all due respect, are you out of your fucking mind? Sir?” The deadpan tone of my voice probably bothered the Lt. more than my choice of words. He definitely flinched. I think he was expecting the Colonel to go off on me.
“Look, I know this isn’t your usual kind of work. It’s certainly not what I brought you onboard for, but in this one special instance I think you have a better chance of making sure the mission gets successfully completed than any of the other SnG crews I could send.”
For the first time since I’d met the man I linked with him. I climbed in deep and took my time. I had to be sure about this, and I had to be sure about him.
Worried, tense, tired, mentally exhausted, physically exhausted, concerned, compassionate, a mild paternal feeling, determination and fear. No guilt, no deception.
“Who’s the target?”
“An Iraqi General, third cousin to Saddam himself. Lt. Bakr has studied the man and can identify him by sight. He has codes to their Command and Control systems that can make this war a lot easier on us.”
Still no deception. But now there was guilt.
The shoe had already dropped, but now it bounced off my head and kicked me in the ass.
I nodded my head in understanding then asked the one question I didn’t really want an answer to.
“Besides the Iraqi General, who’s not expendable?”
Lt. Col. Erickson bristled at this, on the outside as well in with his feelings. The question hurt him. The problem was, he’d been given his orders and he had to do the best he could to see they were carried out.
“No one on this mission is expendable, Sergeant.” He growled. I could feel the guilt building.
“I’m not trying to be a wise-ass Colonel. I’m asking for a reason. If Lt. Bakr here has to make it back, I damn well have to know. If I have to make it back, then he has a right to know. I’m guessing the Lt. has to come back with the General.”
The Colonel nodded, yes.
“I thought as much. I’m the bodyguard and diversion, right?”
Lt. Bakr’s eyes widened a bit.
“You’re too damn smart, you know that Ghost? If you weren’t so good at killing, I wouldn’t have chosen you for this.”
“Colonel, you’re a better shot than I am. Almost everyone in the unit is a better shot than I am.”
“True. But none of us can do what you can. I’m praying that you’re so damn good you’ll make it back, and I know none of the rest of us are.”
Nope, no deception in the man. I thought about what he was asking me to do…asking not ordering. I thought about the letter in my front pocket. I thought about my nights on watch, endlessly riding on my merry-go-round from Hell.
“I’ll go. I’m going to want some different weapons though. An M-16 and a Beretta 9mm are not going to cut it on this hunting trip.”
“If I can get it for you, it’s yours.” The Colonel promised.
“I’d very much like a British L96A1 sniper rifle with 100 rounds of match grade ammo, two AK-47s with six clips and a Glock 10mm with three clips of armor piercing rounds.”
Lt. Colonel Erickson took a pencil from his work table and jotted a couple of notes on a piece of scrap paper.
“I’ll get right on this. In the mean time, you and Lt. Bakr put your heads together. He’ll let you know what the specifics of the SnG are and what you can expect. I’ll get hold of you two in about four hours and let you know if anything’s changed.”
He headed off to the communications area to do my shopping, leaving me and the Marine Lt. to ourselves.
He held out his hand. “Amari Bakr.” He said introducing himself.
I took his hand in my larger, paler one. “Ike Blacktower. You any relation to Abu Bakr?”
“A very distant relative, on my mother’s
side of the family. You’ve done some research on the
“Not really. I read a lot. Eventually, if you read and remember enough, you’re bound to appear knowledgeable about something.”
He laughed and smiled up at me.
“Your Colonel is right, you are too damn smart for what we are about to do. But since neither of us was smart enough to avoid it, let’s figure out how to get it done quickly and as painlessly as possible.”