A story about the true events leading up to our Armageddon, told through the fictional lives of two unlikely allies.
Redemption
By: Joshua Wendell
The fourth beast shall be the fourth kingdom upon the Earth, which shall be diverse from all kingdoms, and shall devour the whole Earth, and shall tread it down, and break it into pieces.
-The Book of Daniel, Chapter, 7 verse 23
And when he opened the fourth seal, I heard the fourth voice say, come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was death, and hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the Earth to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the Earth.
-The Book of Revelation, Chapter 6, verses 7 and 8
Chapter One
Band of Bad Asses
Tuesday, July 9th, 2013
First day of Ramadan
From the anchor desk at ANN- American News Network; anchorperson Sara Wilson reporting:
Tensions ran high in Syria today as the United Nations deployed its first units in that war torn country, including elements of America’s 10th Mountain Division and specially trained Marine Corps infantry units. The United States government had been supplying the rebel forces with weapons and training for months now; however, the fighting has drawn to a bloody stalemate which the United Nations hopes to break. The U.N. Secretary General has assured the world that their mission in Syria is one to broker and maintain a peace agreement, and only needs the American fighting forces there as a security measure. After Syrian National troops fired rockets into refugee camps in Turkey, NATO was placed on high alert and began making plans to defend one of their own. That’s when the U.N. stepped in as a last resort to avert a possible escalation into regional war…
The relentless July heat was unusually high that day in the dusty Syrian Desert. The stale and blistering air burned Marine Staff Sergeant Daniel McMann’s lungs under the exertion of carrying ninety pounds of gear. Sweat ran down his back beneath the bulky body armor, but his face and arms were dry and clammy. He checked his digital weather gauge. The temperature read one-hundred twenty-two degrees, but the humidity wasn’t even registering. Back home in Georgia the humidity during the summer months was so high that he felt he was swimming through the very air, but these extreme conditions were causing the sweat to evaporate off his skin faster than it could cool him. He took a short pull of hot water from his camel-back and spit it back into his dingy hands. Using the precious liquid, he quickly rinsed his arms and face in an attempt to cool off before making a visual check of the Marines in his squad.
Danny was on his sixth month in country, and the survival techniques he learned from his three tours in Iraq were vital here. His hand-picked unit was composed of the toughest men that he knew, all combat veterans from the war in Iraq, men that he had personally trained. Although they were the best Marines he had ever known, Danny knew that even they were not invincible. They had been helo’ed in three miles from their objective in order to obtain surprise, but the drawback to that plan was a heightened risk for heat casualties. He surveyed the terrain. They were still far enough from their objective that they would not be spotted. There was a nice stand of scrub trees at their position. He spoke into his mic:
“Ice to Sierra One- Park it here for health and comfort check. Get plenty of water in your bellies, men; gonna be a hot one. Over.”
The Marines of 1st squad, 1st platoon all gathered under the sparse shade of the trees but did not drop their packs. Danny noted this and felt his pride welling. He joined them and drank deeply from his water pack as he looked them over.
“You men okay? Don’t BS me, now. It ain’t the time or the place to get all John Wayne on me.”
Various responses of “Ooh-Rah” and “Good to go, Staff Sergeant” filled the air, and Danny was satisfied. They all looked more than ready to tackle this mission; not one ounce of fatigue could be seen in their faces. Danny nodded and looked in the direction of the town that was their objective. Nothing abnormal could be seen or heard, so he allowed himself a moment’s reflection on his Navy SEAL brother, Matty, who had been killed five months prior in February while on a secret mission in Jerusalem. He couldn't help but think about how close he was now to that city; just one-hundred and fifty short miles away. They could have spent some time together, if only…
Danny cleared his head of that memory and focused back to the mission at hand. He thought about his enemies and his “allies”, wondering again how they were supposed to tell the difference. His infuriated musings sent his mind back to the events that led him with his band of bad-asses here, to the apparent ass-hole of the world…
Danny and his brother, Matthew, four years his senior, were raised on a Black Angus cattle farm by his Mother’s brother, Uncle Merle. They went there to live after their parents died in a car accident. Danny was four at the time and could hardly remember anything about his parents, but he could not have asked for a better surrogate than his Uncle Merle.
His uncle had no children of his own and had never been married, which was fine by Uncle Merle. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a family, but he was fiercely independent. He had never found a woman who was willing to put up with him, or at least that is what he told the men down at the feed store. As far as the boys were concerned, he took to them immediately and raised them as if they were his own. A devout Baptist, he taught them about all aspects of life and being devoted to God. He often used a biblical parable as a tool for instruction. Danny smiled as he remembered one of his favorite “Merle-isms”. This came on a frigid and sleeting Christmas Eve night when Danny was ten. One of the cows was attempting to give birth but was breeched. Uncle Merle told the boys to get dressed and ready to save both calf and cow, but Danny objected.
“But, it’s Christmas, and 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' is on…” Uncle Merle cut Danny off by responded gruffly, “Boy, the cows don’t know it’s Christmas! Now git yer boots on and c’mon.” The boys turned out to be as good at learning as Uncle Merle was at teaching.
Immediately after graduating High School in June of 2001, Danny and his lifelong best friend Seth Reynolds enlisted in the Marine Corps. Seth had been the star running back of his high school, but had declined a scholarship to play football for the Naval Academy. His reasoning was that if Danny was going to enlist, then someone had to go with him to watch his back because Seth didn’t trust anyone else. Danny had been the starting quarterback, and what he had lacked in pure physical talent he more than compensated for in his leadership skills and hyper-analytical mind. His experience on the football field translated well in his Marine Corps career.
They were
scheduled to be shipped to boot camp that next December, but had upped the date
to “as early as possible” after the horrific events on that September 11th
day. They departed soon after and hit the yellow footprints in Parris Island on September 30th. They went on
to the Marine Corps’ School of Infantry in Camp LeJeune, then to desert warfare
training at Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, Twentynine Palms California
where Danny graduated top of his class. After he survived his third successful
tour of duty in Iraq, Danny,
along with Seth volunteered to instruct the young Marines in that “
They both found work in the Kia assembly plant in nearby West Point Georgia and were happy enough in civilian life for a while. Soon, however, they both began to feel the itch of returning to where they both knew they belonged. Watching current world events on the news had prompted many discussions over a beer as to whether and even when they should return to their beloved Corps. On November 10th, 2011 while celebrating the Marine Corps’ 236th birthday at the local American Legion, they came to a decision. Still half-hammered and stinking of Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon, they went to the nearest USMC Recruiting Office in Newnan where they swore the Oath of Enlistment one more time.
They had requested and received orders back to Twentynine Palms as desert warfare instructors. As far as their physical conditioning was concerned, they had never “let themselves go”, at age 29, Danny could wear out nearly all of the younger Marines under their tutelage. The two “old men” would push the young guns to the point of exhaustion every day, continuing the hard work completed in their students’ Infantry School. Neither Danny nor Seth ever wanted to hear about one of their boys coming home in a flag-draped coffin, and the harshness of their regimen reflected that desire. Iraq was all but over, and Afghanistan, it was promised, would soon follow, but they would take no chances. The way it looked, any number of other countries over there, were begging America for another invasion and subsequently, another ass-whoopin’. It wasn’t long before their predictions would come true.
On March 15, 2011 the so-called “Arabic Spring” was launched with the entire Middle East once again finding itself in tumult. Libya and Egypt established new governments after ousting their “dictatorial” rulers, but Syria was left embroiled in a bloody civil war. It was difficult for Danny to decide who the good guys were in that conflict, if any at all truly existed. On one side was the current government which was backed by Iran and considered cruel to its people. On the other were the same Islamist fundamentalists he had fought against for three years in Iraq. The United States, and indeed the rest of the world, was taking the side of the rebels by arming them and giving aid when they could. It didn’t sit well with Danny or Seth, who both figured that the Syrians should handle their own mess. Every other Marine that they talked too was in total agreement. America was stretched too thin as it was; too many of her young men paying too high a price for someone else’s unappreciated freedom. They watched the Syrian situation carefully as events unfolded.
Then, just after the election in November 2012, they received unthinkable orders. The United Nations had decided to intercede in Syria under the pretense of restoring some sort of order there. The United States had agreed to provide the best trained and most experienced troops to help with the effort, and Danny’s name, as well as Seth’s was mentioned in the Pentagon. Orders to deploy under the powder-blue banner of the U.N. were issued.
Danny had been a platoon leader back when he was in Iraq, but would now only be required to lead a smaller elite squad. Because he had so excellently performed all duties ever asked of him, the decision makers at the Pentagon allowed him to hand-pick and train the Marines in his unit. Danny chose the best men that he had personally operated with or had personally trained.
The first man he sought after was Corporal Stacker. He was the same sort of cool that Danny was under pressure and Danny needed another top-notch leader for his second five-man fire team. During a timed obstacle course run in Twentynine Palms, Cpl. Stacker had improvised smartly and led his team to a record breaking finish for the course. It didn’t hurt his cause either that he was a fellow redneck from Northern Alabama (despite his love for the state’s college football team, the Crimson Tide…)
Lance Corporal Stevens would be his translator. His Arabic was passable at best, but his “salesmanship” skills earned Danny’s platoon a lot of trust among the Iraqi villagers they were trying to help. LCpl Stevens could make friends with an angry Grizzly bear mother protecting her cubs.
LCpls Cranston and Wills were recruited for their marksmanship skills. They were a sniper team that Danny had found to be invaluable many times. Their kill-count wasn’t very high, as they had been instructed to place well aimed shots in a convincing manner to get the enemy to surrender. It amazed Danny how painting a smiley-face on a wall just beside an enemy’s head would change their minds. And the holes left by the .50 caliber rounds were quite impressive as well. They also saved many lives in Danny’s platoon by being their guardian angels at those times when they were pinned down. Wills was the trigger-man. He never missed a shot.
Finally, he was able to secure his good friend and protector from Iraq, Navy Petty Officer First Class Stuart “Doc” Simpson, as his squad’s corpsman. Doc Simpson’s grandparents had immigrated to America from Nigeria, but he was pure Boston Yankee. His smart-ass comments were guaranteed to make even a 4-Star General chuckle. Danny not only needed Doc’s meticulous skills in battlefield injury treatment, but also wanted someone who could keep the spirit of his men high. Doc was a definite must-have.
The others he chose for their known courage under fire and intelligence. With his team now set and ready, Danny began their short but intense training regimen and a month later, in January 2013, deployed to Syria.
Now six months later, Danny’s “peacekeeping” duties had rapidly escalated into a more direct combat role. In an extreme example of irony, they were now fighting beside the men they had been shooting at just four years ago in Iraq. As far as Danny knew, they were also the same men still shooting at his brother Marines in Afghanistan. Danny and his Marines despised this, but there was nothing that could be done about it now. They were stuck here with little to rely upon except themselves; brothers united under the Marine Corps’ historic emblem: the Eagle Globe and Anchor. The blue UN armbands conflicted with their tan desert camouflage utility uniforms and they were following the orders of men who seemed to know nothing about winning or even fighting wars. They fought for another purpose…to keep each other alive; defending the men to their left and to their right even unto death.
With all his training and experience Danny’s leadership more than compensated for the lack of “military intelligence” in the ranks above him. Also in his favor were the hand-picked elite Marines he commanded. They were smart, experienced, hard-charging, heart breakers. So far, he had not lost a Marine in combat here and his men rarely suffered any injuries. They often joked with Doc that he was a “third wheel” in their operations and would complement him on his honed talent for handing out Band-Aids and foot powder. When he wasn’t in the field he would volunteer at the Headquarters’ medical facility in order to stay sharp. Not every squad was as lucky as theirs and the need for skilled trauma treatment personnel was always high.
One criterion Danny secretly used in determining his team, was their strength in faith. Based on what he knew about both his “friends” and his enemies here, he wanted only devout warriors in Christ. He had chosen wisely. Before each mission, the entire squad would kneel together in a tight circle. With heads bowed and arms hugging their brothers’ shoulders, they would take turns offering a small prayer for their safety. After each offered their individual piece to God, they would recite the Lord’s Prayer in unison, with a slight change in the finale. Their voices would rise as the Spirit of Christ flowed through the squad.
“Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, For I Am THE MEANEST SON-OF-A-BITCH IN THE VALLEY. OOH-RAH! A-MEN SIR!”
After each successful mission, they again gave proper credit to God for their safety and good fortune.
To a man, they were young, tough, cocky and cool. They were bullet proof. They were righteous. They had every confidence that God would see to it that they would all return safely home to their girlfriends and wives, their families and children, their friends and loved ones. And after this war was over, they would all meet up and drink themselves stupid while eating all the barbequed meat they yearned to cook.
This day, however, held a much darker fate for SSgt. McMann and his Band of Bad-Asses. Very soon, all their high hopes and haughty attitudes would plummet down a deep, dark pit of despair. On this day, their lives would be devastated under the crushing reality of the personal horrors of war. On this day, God had His own plans…
Chapter Two
The Fog of War
Tuesday, July 9th, 2013
From the anchor desk at ANN- American News Network; anchorperson Della Wilson reporting:
A
spokesman for the United Nations held a press conference in
“Yes. We are having much success in Syria. The United Nations arbitrators are still conducting talks of peace between the two sides in Damascus, and our troops there have been able to keep a tenuous peace among the different factions. We have been well-received and continue to be allowed to work nearly unfettered in our diplomatic mission. We here at the United Nations have every confidence that peace shall be achieved.”
He went on to say that the widespread reports of mass executions conducted by rebel forces, to include beheadings of local Christian converts who refused to return to Islam, were greatly exaggerated. Bin-Laden claims that although there have been a very few isolated incidents, those who are perpetrating these barbaric acts are being pursued and prosecuted under sharia law. Bin-Laden assured reporters that these men are not following the proper teachings of the Holy Koran and that Islam is still the “religion of peace”…
Danny’s call sign during operations was “Irish Ice” for the calm and unblinking manner in which he effectively commanded his squad. It was a moniker carried over from his days leading a platoon in Iraq. He was now the squad’s absolute commander, leading his Marines on missions after a suicide bomber killed four Marine officers and wounded a dozen others at the UN headquarters. It was almost a daily occurrence at HQ. The UN had so far been unable to deter either side in the conflict from plaguing their efforts with adversity. For an organization dedicated to security, Danny thought in reflection of their now decimated leadership structure, those UN guys are idiots. Hell, it’s safer out here in the field than it is back at HQ. Danny’s new role as squad commander was fine with him, as his now injured 2nd Lieutenant was in dire need of combat experience.
Today’s mission called for his squad to secure a small town after the UN received reports of “suspicious activity” in a certain house in the area. What that meant God Himself only knew, and if the UN guys had any Intel, they sure weren't letting on that they did. It was typical and frustrating, but Danny kept things in priority. The unknown always lent excellent opportunity to keep himself and his men focused and sharp.
They had been in this town once before and encountered very little resistance. The only problem they had faced was when they entered the home of a very old, irate woman. LCpl Stevens could understand very little from her. It seemed she was saying that she was in the middle of cooking… or something. After a quick sweep of the tiny, three-room abode, LCpl. Stevens apologized then thanked her as profusely and politely as he could in Arabic. The squad had a good laugh about the scene later, voicing their own interpretations of what the woman was actually saying to Stevens. They offered marital advice for him and his soon-to-be bride.
For the most part, the people here loved the Americans for their efforts in ridding them of the brutal oppression imposed by President Assad. The tricky part for Danny was figuring out which side those they encountered were on. However, Danny and his Marines had been here long enough now that they were very adept at discerning the small nuances of speech and body language which gave away the true intensions of their enemies. Even then, the Marines always had to be wary of those who were supposedly their allies here. Unlike the general population, the rebels didn’t want the UN, and especially the American infidels here fighting in what they considered to be their own personal struggle. For their part, the Americans were in total agreement. The rebels were openly hateful and hostile towards American troops to the point that the UN had decided to have the Americans run their missions solo. This turned out to be both safer and more dangerous for the Marines, who were used to fighting an American-executed war in Iraq, and with a whole lot of other Marines at their back for support. Now in Syria, under the control of the UN, they were virtually on their own; a fact which left many Danny wondering what kind of White House would send America’s best into such a dangerous situation.
Due to these circumstances, the only mission that mattered to Danny was keeping his men safe and alive. If that priority was ever compromised, then the UN and their peacekeeping failure of a mission here could go “eff” themselves.
Danny carefully led his squad into the town of nearly eight hundred residents. They moved fast between the rubble-strewn dilapidated houses, remaining as covered as possible. They kept constant attention focused on every doorway and window, always while looking straight down the sites of their M-4 carbines. They paid special attention to rooftops and the broken-down and burnt out vehicles; any spot that could offer adequate cover for a potential enemy earned their attention. When Danny spotted the house where the alleged suspicious activity was taking place, he halted his troops with a closed-fist hand signal. They hustled up to the place where he knelt and silently huddled around him.
“Ok, here we are, and you all know the plan.” Danny’s voice was low but he maintained his forceful calm. He looked each of his men in their eye while he spoke. It was his way.
“Sergeant Reynolds will lead Fire Teams One and Two into the house charging hard and taking prisoners. Doc, you go with them and keep the Band-Aids handy.” That comment earned Danny a stress-relieved chuckle from his men.
Doc smiled, rolled his eyes and replied “Okie-dokie, ‘Sarge’!” (Marines were NEVER referred to as “Sarge”. That term was reserved for the Army). Danny cocked a crooked grin at the faux insult and continued. “I’ll remain on the street with Fire Teams Three and Four where we’ll provide perimeter security. Keep communications clear until reports are required. Stay cool and keep yourselves safe. Let’s move out.”
Fire Team One was led by Seth, who also served as Danny’s second in command. He was the most professional and mature Marine among this stellar group of peers, and would have been the easy choice at that position even if he hadn’t been Danny’s life-long best friend. With all their years spent together in training and operating in the field of battle, the two could read each other’s thoughts. Upon the order to ‘move out’, Seth sprinted out towards the door to the house with his team close behind. Even at age twenty-nine and with the massive bulk of gear on his back, Seth’s running-back muscled legs covered the thirty yards to the house in less than five seconds. After one monstrous kick splintered the door, the teams entered like a thunderbolt. They easily achieved the surprise for which they were striving.
Danny and the remaining two fire teams then emerged from cover and assumed a semi-circle of protection around the front of the house. He immediately heard shouts from within, both of command from his troops and of pleas from those housed within. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Danny continued scanning the area for trouble.
Suddenly Danny was startled out of his confident thoughts by the sharp sound of rapid-burst gunfire erupting from the second story of the house, followed by a small explosion. He and the other Marines on the street focused their attention toward the commotion.
Danny yelled into his mic: “Ice to Foxtrot One- Status report! Over!”
“Foxtrot One to Ice- We have five, say again, five romeo bogies exiting southwest upstairs window. No friendly injuries. They cooked off a smoker. How copy. Over.” Seth’s strong and confident response eased Danny’s apprehension; the “smoker” was only a smoke grenade used for covering a retreat. “Bogie” was the squad’s radio code for non-friendlies, informally “bubbas” when off-mic. Danny’s Marines were good to go, but the code “Romeo’ indicated that the bogies were “rebels’, and therefore supposed to be allies. Danny trusted Seth’s ability to access the situation and knew that if the bogies were shooting at Seth and the others, they were most certainly not friendlies.
He needed no time to decide his next action. While barking his orders, Danny quickly moved around the side of the house to where the bogies had exited the rear; his weighted pack bouncing against his back with his long strides.
“Ice to Foxtrot One- I copy five, say again, five bogies exiting southwest upstairs window. Foxtrot One and Two pursue bogies. Foxtrot Three and Four follow me and secure the rear. How copy. Over.”
As Danny dashed around the side of the house with Fire Teams Three and Four, he heard Seth’s enthusiastic reply: “Roger, Ice- I copy Foxtrot One and Two take point and pursue. We’re on their tail, but danger-close to safezone.”
“Roger, One- Stay on ‘em. Execute corral. Keep ‘em out of safezone.”
“Safezone” referred to the town’s mosque, and “corral” was Danny’s code word for maneuvering between it and the fleeing bogies. According to the Geneva Convention and their UN superiors, any Holy place was completely off-limits in a combat situation. Every Marine scoffed at the UN’s “rules of engagement” as complete garbage and a major obstacle to effectively win a war, but they were all men of honor. They begrudgingly followed the “R.O.E.” despite knowing the burden those rules placed on the success of their missions. The same could not be said for their Islamic enemy, however, who were instead fighting under the philosophies of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. They had no use for civilization’s rules; they only lived for killing and dying in the name of Allah. They excelled at fighting guerrilla warfare, and at the very least, the Marines respected them on that level. Their tactic of hiding in mosques, however cowardly some may think it, was a highly effective and decisive use of terrain that often kept them alive and free from capture. Danny was determined to keep these five from that sanctuary.
Along with his two teams, Danny burst out into the debris-cluttered street behind the house to the sound of small arms fire. He spotted a great position between two burned out trucks that offered both cover and a clear view to the mosque. Motioning his troops forward, he assessed the situation ahead:
Fire Teams One and Two were split up on either sides of the street. Danny could see that all his Marines were in excellent covered firing positions. They were sending rounds down range in a crossing pattern that kept their targets pinned behind a large crumbling mass of concrete in the middle of the street. The bogies were essentially trapped inside a triangle whose walls consisted of rapidly deteriorating concrete that covered the space between them and the Marines, and two invisible lines of lethal lead that covered the space between them and the mosque. Danny allowed himself a single moment of pride in his Marines, greatly pleased at their performance. They all agreed that capture was much preferable to killing for many reasons. Most importantly, Danny wanted a chance to interrogate them before he handed them over to the UN. He had a funny feeling about this mission, and was eager to discover why his alleged friends were shooting at his Marines.
Now, with superb cover fire, he could safely lead Teams Three and Four up to the insurgents’ position and take them captive. The bogies would never reach “safezone”.
Danny broke cover with the others in his two fire teams instinctively followed suit. “Ice to Sierra One- Good job squad. Beer’s on me. Foxtrot One and Two maintain cover fire, Foxtrot Three and Four advance rapidly in spread formation and watch for strays. Keep eyes on our six…”
Danny’s orders to his squad were suddenly cut off by a massive explosion just behind him. The blast carried him ten feet through the air and savagely threw him against the side of a burned-out truck. As he laid there dazed, his ears emitted a single, high pitched tone that left room for no other sound. His eyes swam dizzyingly; he knew he was in danger of passing out. A bullet ricocheted off the truck, passing her cheek and startling him back to awareness. He shook his head viciously to regain his bearing straining to look around him. The sight before him made him fight back a sudden surge of vomit. In a shallow, blackened hole where he and his men had just been running lay the twisted, mangled bodies of his Marines. He saw that Corporal Mason, the squad’s radio man, was among those killed. The radio, which was the squad’s only means of communication to HQ, was a smoking wreck of shredded metal.
Staring at the unbelievable amount of blood soaking into the Iraqi sand, Danny gurgled into his throat mic: “Status report, now!”
The news was grim.
“Holy Christ, Ice, they got Wills and Cranston! Silvestre and Mason’s fragged! They’re all blown up, man!”
Danny couldn’t recognize the panic-stricken voice; his ears were still throbbing and ringing from the explosion. He could barely even comprehend the words blaring through his head set. The horrible seconds that followed that initial, gruesome message were filled with a confused, desperate garbled mass of voices that intensified the dizziness in Danny’s head.
Desperate pleas sounded. “DOC! HELP ME! DOC!!” echoed in the street, mixing with the immediately recognizable sound of AK-47 rifle fire. The best he could comprehend from the reports was that at least four of his Marines were dead, and an unknown number were wounded.
Another round whizzed very close to Danny’s head. He slapped himself hard across his own face, forcing himself to focus on keeping the rest of his men alive. Danny squeezed his eyes shut for half a second to steel his composure. Opening his eyes, he snapped his attention away from the awful carnage in the street and surveyed the situation behind him.
Danny was Marine Corps Staff Sergeant, Daniel “Irish Ice” McMann once again. In a second-story window of the building directly behind him, Danny clearly saw a figure holding a shoulder-fired rocket propelled grenade.
It was aimed directly at his position. He screamed “INCOMING…SIX O’ CLOCK HIGH,” pressing his body as tightly as possible against the truck’s body. A second later a thunderous explosion shook the ground nearby. By the grace of God, Danny was under sufficient cover and was only pelted by gravel. Ignoring the thick cloud of dust, he hoisted his own weapon: a single-shot grenade launcher attached to the underside of his M-4 rifle. He directed his deadly aim at the open window and pulled the trigger. Danny watched as the HE/DP (high-explosive/duel purpose) projectile flew dead-center through the window, exploding immediately after passing the pane. That threat was now permanently silenced. Danny took a second to confirm their rear position was now secure, then focused his full attention back to the situation in front.
Before he even had a chance to gain his forward bearing, Danny heard a voice whose words chilled his heart. Those desperately pleading words came from his best friend, and for the first time in Danny’s entire life, Seth sounded scared.
“Ice! They got Doc! At the mosque...ICE!”
A sickening wave of dizziness washed over Danny. It was becoming increasingly more difficult for him to focus. He violently shook his head and looked around at the mosque.
In the awning-covered entranceway of “safezone” stood two of their bogies, who had managed to escape while the rear rocket attacks held the squad’s attention. One was covering their position with an AK-47; the other was holding Doc down on his knees with a large knife to his throat. They were both chanting something in Arabic. The intonations were familiar enough to Danny that he became severely alarmed. Although blood was already flowing from a deep cut in Doc’s neck where the blade’s edge pushed, and his right arm appeared to be shattered in several places, Doc struggled and fought his captor as hard as he could. Doc had the look of a True Warrior in his eyes.
Danny raised his rifle, but his eyes blurred and the world spun around him. What the hell is WRONG with me? It was then that he noticed a low throb thumping with his rapid heartbeat in his right leg, but he quickly put that out of his mind. Right now, Doc was in trouble. Right now, Doc needed his help. Danny was furious that his own sudden lack of fortitude may get more of his men killed. He desperately fought his rapidly clouding mind which threatened to rob him of his consciousness.
Knowing that he could no longer effectively lead, Danny slumped down on the powdery sand below him and spoke sluggishly into his mic: “Ice to Foxtrot One- Take the stick. I am combat non-effective. Say again...”
Danny barely heard Seth’s confirmation through his still-ringing ears, but he understood well enough to know that Sgt. Reynolds had assumed command of the squad. As his head hit the ground, Danny’s dizziness cleared just enough for him to see the mosque from underneath the truck. What he saw there would cause him to wake screaming into the black night for the rest of his life.
The two bogies were nearing the end of their ritualistic chanting. They began yelling at the tops of their lungs: ALLAH AKBAR!! Seth must have given the command to fire, because just then the surviving members of the squad all opened up at the same time. Both the bogies were hit several times in their torsos, but it wasn’t enough. In a final act of service to his god, the man with the knife began sawing rapidly back and forth across Doc’s bare neck. His initial screams of terror instantly turned into a gurgling, choked sound as his blood sprayed out in an unbelievably bright red fan. In a matter of seconds, Doc’s head was severed to his spine, and all sounds coming from him were mercifully silenced. Slowly and clearly, as if in a terrible dream, Danny watched Doc’s body slump to the ground; his head twisting backwards as he fell. He saw Doc blink once as he fell; his life had not yet left his body. When Doc finally came to a rest chest-down in the filthy entranceway, his eyes were staring unseeing up to the heavens. He had become a sacrifice to the heathen god of this forsaken land.
With all three men now on the ground, Danny watch in disbelief as the bogie who had killed Doc crawled back inside the shadows of the mosque. He could then make out the shadowy figure of a woman loading a rocket-propelled grenade from just inside the entrance. From his vantage point, Danny could tell that the rest of the squad couldn’t possibly see her. He reloaded his own grenade launcher as best he could and sighted in on her. He allowed himself a second of prayer to God for clear vision and true aim.
His shot was just high, exploding in the archway above the woman. The blast caused his target to drop her rocket, which bought Danny a few precious seconds. He reloaded and again took careful aim through his rapidly deteriorating vision. His next shot was true, hitting the woman dead center in her chest. The explosion not only turned her body into a “red mist”, but also collapsed the doorway, partially blocking the entrance. The cloud of dust and smoke and blood obscured the scene, but Danny could hear the Arabic yells of others within. It sounded to him like shouted commands to troops.
Suddenly Seth slid into position beside Danny, quickly checking him over. Blood was gushing from a gaping wound down his face, but Sgt. Reynolds was hard-core. His wound was a matter of little consequence to him. His concern was for his best friend and Squad Leader. As he stared down at Danny’s legs, a look of shock washed over his face.
He gasped from his slack-open mouth, "Danny… Oh God…Bro…”
Danny was becoming delirious and fading fast. “More… there’s more… in the mosque… Sergeant, get Doc to look at your face… You look… terrible… Devil Dog...” he managed to mumble through his cracked lips.
“Shh…Danny, your leg man…” Seth said as he took off his pack and scrambled for his med kit. Danny’s right leg had been transformed into a twisted and mangled mass of flesh, bone, and blood. Huge chunks of shrapnel were protruding through several large gashes from his ankle to his thigh, and he was rapidly losing blood. Seth found his tourniquet and quickly affixed it as high on Danny’s thigh as he could where flesh yet remained. After hitting him with a morphine ampoule, Seth placed the end of Danny’s water tube in Danny’s mouth. Once he saw that Danny was getting water, he glanced over to where the first RPG round hit and saw that Corporal Mason was dead; their radio now useless. He peered over the top of the truck and into the ruined mosque entrance. He nodded in confirmation of Danny’s report that more combatants remained, then gently placed his hand on his best friend’s shoulder.
With hate burning deep in his eyes and grim determination set in his face, Seth whispered in Danny’s ear, “Rest easy, bro.” He took Danny’s grenade launcher along with the belt of 40 mm grenades and stood. “I got this shit.”
The last thing Danny heard before fading into a welcoming black silence was Seth’s terrible wrath-filled voice. Marine Corps Sergeant Seth Reynolds was Danny’s closest friend and he was the squad’s best Marine. But right now he was God’s fiery sword of vengeance for the execution of Navy Corpsman, Petty Officer First Class Stuart “Doc” Simpson. Seth’s bellowed order to the remaining living members of the squad sounded to Danny as if it had been trumpeted from the mouth of the Archangel, Michael:
“MARINES! WASTE THE MOSQUE!”
Chapter Three
New Beginnings
Thursday, October 24th
From the anchor desk at ANN- American News Network; anchorperson Sara Wilson reporting:
A Marine unit in Syria came under fire last week, suffering heavy casualties. Five were killed with another six wounded during an ambush that UN sources tell us was in direct retaliation for the Marines firing on a local mosque. In what appears to be a clear violation of the Geneva Convention’s rules of engagement, sources close to the United Nations have told ANN that the incident is still pending investigation. We now go live via satellite to ANN senior war correspondent, Charles Baker.
"Charlie, what else can you tell us about this tragedy?"
"Yes. Thank you, Sara. What you are looking at here is the devastation incurred on this beautiful mosque by a Marine unit that was apparently seeking revenge for a previous deadly attack by insurgents. The destruction left behind has left this building in such a state that it can no longer be safely used. Now, the Unit Commander, Captain William Hampton has told me that he cannot comment on the incident because the Marines who attacked this peaceful place of worship are still under investigation."
"Charlie, I’ve heard that there were collateral casualties as well?"
"Yes, Sara, that is correct. Allegedly there were indeed women and children inside the mosque seeking shelter from the battle. Local sources have told us that possibly three women and six children were crushed under the rubble from the mortar attack. We’ll keep you updated as new facts surface."
"Thank you, Charlie. Now onto baseball All-Star highlights with…
As usual, the temperature that October morning in the Atlanta V.A. Medical Center was uncomfortably cold. Danny glanced at the window beside his bed. The blinds were shut, preventing the warm morning sunlight from streaming through. He pulled the blankets closer to his chin, wondering again if he would ever get used to “normal” weather conditions; wondered if, in fact, anything in his life would be normal again. He had tossed and turned most of the night hoping that the sleep medication that he requested would bring relief from the horrific images that plagued his exhausted mind. It did not. His nights in the past three months had been filled with the memories from the battle, but the stillness he had hoped the medicine would bring did not come. Seemingly nothing could quiet the screaming flashes of his awful memories.
Danny squinted toward the shielded window again and could just make out a tiny stream of light trying to peek through the dusty blinds. As he turned toward the hopeful warmth of that single thin beam, his blanket caught on the metal framework that was immobilizing his reconstructed leg.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
Danny jerked angrily at the blanket, freeing it from the contraption running down the length of his bed. He stared at the still strange shape and gathered the force of his will. I will walk again, he thought at his legs. His statement was more than a fleeting fancy; it was a command. He repeated it aloud and with more conviction: “I will walk again.” He reflected on all that had happened in the past three and a half months…
The surgeons at surgeons at the Bethesda Military Hospital had worked miracles to reconstruct his shattered leg. It had been broken in twelve places, fractured in another fourteen, and completely shattered into fragments in three. There was also catastrophic tissue damage in every muscle group. He had suffered through three weeks of multiple surgeries in that epic struggle, and another two months of observation before they determined that he was fit to be moved closer to his home. The physical therapist had advised him that he had a very long road of the most painful rehabilitation imaginable, but should regain some mobility if he chose that path. Danny assured them that he did. He even told them that he considered it his duty to do so after they had spent so much effort allowing him to even keep the nearly destroyed limb. He had sworn to them that he would make them proud.
Now, he had been languishing here for another three weeks in a different battle to save his leg. A week after his arrival, the opinion of the Atlanta Head Administrator had seemingly changed overnight. He had told Danny; actually tried convincing him that amputation of his already reconstructed leg, a medical discharge, and a lifetime of meds would be best for him. Rehabilitation would prove too difficult. The constant pain would be unbearable. Danny had argued incredulously that the Bethesda doctors didn’t agree, and refused the procedure. The Head Administrator had then informed Danny that his orders to amputate came from far above those in Bethesda; a statement which Danny could not get him to clarify. The procedure was scheduled.
But Danny was a Marine. Until the battle in Syria, he had never lost a fight and was willing to do anything to win this one. Although Danny wasn’t a fan of politicians or the manner in which they played with others’ lives in far-away lands, he had researched his own Representative and found that he was a very strong and vocal advocate for veterans’ rights. Two weeks after he had been informed that he would lose his leg, he called Congressman Epps’ local office, pleading with him to take up his cause. The Congressman arrived at eight AM sharp the next day.
They had immediately fallen into a comfortable conversation as the elderly Statesman told Danny a few stories about his time as a Soldier fighting in Korea. Before he left the room, he thanked Danny for his service and gently patted the end of his bed. He promised to speak to the hospital administration; Danny reached up and shook his hand, thanking him in advance for doing whatever he could. That had been two days ago, and he was anxious to hear if the Congressman had been successful with his mission.
Not only had his days become more burdened with the hospital’s red tape, they were also occupied by investigators inquiring about the “Syria incident”. The FBI, NSA, NCIS, and two men with strange accents claiming to be agents for the UN all paid him regular visits. Danny attempted to truthfully recall and recount every exact detail of that day: The rebels attempted to reach the mosque; his squad was attacked from the rear; the rebels… did what they did to Doc at the mosque; the rebels conducted the remainder of the battle from within the mosque; a woman was within seconds of firing an RPG at him but he took her out first.
Not one of the investigators seemed to believe Danny’s account: He was dizzy from blood loss; he had suffered a concussion from the blast; there was too much confusion during the firefight. They told him that he was either lying or just plain wrong about the events. Danny was furious at their insults to his integrity.
The disgustingly biased media were also attempting to condemn his squad. The reporters would label his Marines as “barbaric” and praise their adversaries’ cowardly and brutal deeds as “desperately necessary defensive actions”. It was all backward and blatantly dishonest. They didn’t seem to concern themselves with the truth, only with selling a sensational story. He wondered exactly which side of this war they and the investigators were on. The Marines- fighting in another country for a cause most decidedly not in the interests of the American people under such disastrously difficult conditions- surely deserved better treatment and scrutiny.
Although he was outraged, Danny dutifully answered every question posed by those he thought of as the “Alphabet Army”. He too had questions of his own for them; questions they refused to answer, which only added to Danny’s frustration. They wouldn’t even tell him how to get in touch with Seth and he really needed to have a long talk with his best friend. The only information given to Danny was the names of those Marines who were either killed or injured. They read off those names in a harsh manner, seeming to accuse Danny of willful neglect. Having been highly trained in counter-interrogation himself, he recognized those tactics. They were meant to break Danny; to make him more willing to confess the alleged war crimes of actions instead meant to save the lives of his Marines. Armed with his former training and the secure blanket of the truth, those tactics did not succeed. He would only concede personal responsibility for the inactions that cost the lives of those on that list, personified in wretched memory of one name alone…
In his dreams, Danny would be standing directly in front of Doc. He would watch as Doc’s head was brutally separated from his neck in agonizingly detailed slow motion; the bright red blood spraying out in a thick, jetting fan. Doc would then lay unmoving atop a pile of desert-camouflaged Marines whose name tapes were clearly visible. Wills… Cranston… Mason… Silvestre… For some reason, Danny could never see their faces.
Suddenly Doc’s already dead and decomposing eyes would snap open, and through unmoving lips he would think at Danny in a cold, accusing monotone: “You did this to me. You let me die.” Doc would lie still, staring bitterly into Danny’s eyes and repeating his charge over and over again. The droning in Danny’s head would grow louder until Danny would wake screaming into the night: “STOP! I’M SORRY!! I DIDN’T MEAN IT!!!” With the help of the heavy sedation administered by the nurses, he would then cry himself into a guilt-ridden sleep.
Because of his experience on that day and others, his faith in God had been shaken to his core. The hospital Chaplain, Navy Lt. Commander Jeremiah Brown had spoken with Danny a few times, trying with his good and kind heart to help Danny heal spiritually. Danny had tried to explain to him how he didn’t understand why God allowed the horrible atrocities he’d witnessed happen to the Men of Honor he served with; that He could allow Danny’s enemies, under the warped mindset of sharia law, to run over a six year old boy’s arm with a large truck. Their purpose was to break the small boy’s arm as punishment for “stealing” some bread in order to feed his starving family. This Danny and others in his unit were ordered to stand by and do nothing about, and they watched in frustration and horror as the men perpetrating the “punishment” stared at them with evil smirks while shouting “Allah Akbar!!” His vivid memory the of the boy’s arm splintering and his shrieking wails of pain and shock, along with the memory of Doc’s execution still echoed in Danny’s every waking moment.
Danny shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut against those memories. He had stared into the face of evil; had combated it and watched it grow despite America’s best efforts. He wondered, and not for the first time, if there was any hope against such madness. If God could turn his gaze from such wanton hate… Danny sighed. It was all so utterly hopeless. As the door to his room opened, he made a mental note to discuss this with Chaplain Brown later in the day.
"Good morning, Staff Sergeant," the nurse smiled as she walked into Danny’s room and sat down his breakfast tray.
"Thanks," Danny muttered. Her entrance robbed him of his few minutes in reflective sorrow. He was grateful.
"Now, you eat up, boy!" she directed, opening his blinds all the way to welcome every ounce of the morning sunshine.
"Yes ma'am," Danny managed. He liked Nurse Ida; a well rounded black woman in her late forties. She had been raised in Southern Mississippi, descended from a mix of Caribbean relatives who had been wealthy New Orleans landowners from all the way back in the 1700s. She was very spiritual, kind, and always had a positive effect on Danny whenever she entered the room. Her bright smile was a welcome contrast to his gloomy frown. He stared at her every morning and wondered how she got her teeth so white.
"You have a bright smile," Danny initiated.
"Well, thank you, Staff Sergeant! My mama had me brushing with baking soda and peroxide ever since I was old enough to walk," she beamed.
"It’s nice," Danny offered. He didn't feel much like conversation, but he had been raised to be polite.
"Why, I appreciate your compliment, but you eat that breakfast ‘for it gets cold.” She looked him up and down over the top of her glasses. “You don't want them fine, cut muscles to get weak now do you?"
Danny smiled at her harmless flirtation. He glanced at his reflection in the bedside mirror, marveling at the haggard and dingy-grey look in his once piercing blue eyes. In the three months that he had been hospitalized, his jet black hair had grown long and curly; much too long for Marine standards, and he was in dire need of a shave. He grunted amusedly to himself that Nurse Ida thought him attractive. She must not get out much.
“I’m getting fat.”
Ida turned serious as she replied, “’Fat’, huh? Boy, you come home with Mama Ida and let me fix you up some beans and cornbread, collard greens and pork chops, mashed taters and gravy, finished with my own Grand-Mama’s secret-recipe pecan pie and you’ll know what it means to get fat!”
Danny chuckled out loud, “Ma’am that sure does sound like a fine meal! Makes me hungry just hearin’ about it…” He looked down at his tray. “Maybe even hungry enough to try and eat some of this hospital mess.” He added hopefully, “You know, I do consider myself to be a connoisseur of both pecan pie and cornbread...”
Nurse Ida also looked down at his plate, a disapproving frown playing on her face. “Well, maybe it ain’t my cookin’, but it’ll do its job anyway.” She looked back at Danny over the top of her glasses. “Maybe I’ll just have to sneak you in a slice of pie from time to time…maybe some fresh cornbread, too…”
Danny grinned and nodded slowly in conspiratorial agreement. “Yes, ma’am, if you say so…” then more emphatically, “You know, now that you mention it, maybe that would be for the best…”
She smiled sweetly but then snapped her fingers in memory. “I almost forgot! That Congressman the other day? Why, he marched straight from your room down to the main office.” Danny put his fork down and eagerly listened to her.
“Nobody knows what he said, but just a few hours after the meeting broke up the Chief of Surgery himself came to see me and gave me strict orders to get you ready for physical therapy. You won, Staff Sergeant! You begin today!”
Congressman Epps had proven to be true to his word, and Danny made a mental note to get to the polls in the next election. He sighed loudly with overwhelming relief. “Thank God.”
“And thank that nice Congressman too!” She winked at Danny and went about her business of cleaning and preparing the room. She quietly hummed a church hymn that Danny recognized as “I’ll Fly Away”. Instantly, the tune lifted his mood even further, and he was awash in a new-found motivation to get this process started. Maybe it’s an omen: today will be a good day, he thought. SOMETHING good has to happen soon…Nurse Ida finished her chores and headed out the door. In parting, she sternly looked Danny in his eyes and forcefully nodded at his plate.
Danny smiled. ‘Nuff said. He turned his attention back to his breakfast and tried to concentrate on eating the food. Not five minutes later his door opened again…
