Brothers in Arms (7 page)

“Expect them within twenty-four to forty-eight,” Hoegerl said, writing the names on a form.

“Am I allowed to inquire as to the necessity of this specialized transfer?”

“Not quite yet, Jonah.” Hoegerl sighed. “All I can tell you is that you and a group of Marines you select and trust are going to be assigned a mission within the week. I was ordered to give the mission to you and only you. You were asked for by name.”

“Who the hell did I piss off?”

Hoegerl chuckled. “I think it’s more a case of someone you impressed.”

“If this is what happens, I’d rather I’d pissed them off.”

“Grizzly had high praise for you, Jonah. I’m sure his faith has contributed to the higher-ups’ trust in you.”

Jonah suddenly remembered Yarwood’s many requests for transfer to Jonah’s platoon. “May I make a request to pull a Marine already stationed here but assigned to a different platoon?”

“You may have just about any damn thing you want at this point, Jonah.”

“I’d like to take on PFC Yarwood, sir. He’s got the makings of a good Marine, he’s eager to learn, and I think he’ll do well among these more experienced men.”

“He’s all yours, then.”

“I’d appreciate any information you can give me just as soon as you’re free to do so, sir.”

“Absolutely, Gunnery Sergeant. That’s all for now.”

Twenty-four hours later, Herndon and Crowden pulled through the gates of firm base in the cab of a gun truck. Garcia, Steves, and Shankman exited the manor house, shouting obscenities at the two Marines they had all served with previously. Jonah stood in the shade of the firm base and looked on, deciding he’d made the right call with the transfer.

Sergeant Kelly Herndon was the first to approach him. He extended his hand, smiling. “It’s really good to see you again, Jonah.”

“Glad to have you back, Kelly.”

Shankman dragged Corporal Crowden, with an arm wrapped around his neck, to stand before Jonah. “Yo, Sergeant Carver, thank you for asking for me.”

“I trust neither of you are going to let me down. Are you?” Jonah lifted one eyebrow for emphasis.

He was answered with a chorus of, “No, Gunnery Sergeant.” Jonah stepped aside to allow the raucous group to enter the house. He could hear them deep inside the inner rooms, making introductions. He couldn’t bring himself to go inside. Jonah felt so old. The privates and corporals from his first tour in Iraq were once again serving with him, but Jonah missed his fellow team leaders from that time. Something heavy was heading his way and Jonah would have liked to have had Deshazo, Lucena, Papke, and yes, even Neil, at his back.

He really wanted to be able to walk outside and find Kellan so they could talk about this. Jonah stared out over the barren desert. The glare of the sun on the sand hurt his eyes, and he glanced down at his boot where it scuffed at the ever-present dust.

If he were to reach out now, after all these years, would Kellan even remember him? Would he remember that one night? Would he remember Jonah as more than just a team leader during Kellan’s trek across the Iraqi desert or as a single night’s conquest?

“Yo, Jonah.” Crowden appeared in the doorway, grinning ear to ear. “These guys don’t believe a thing we’re tellin’ them about Neil McMurtrie. They think we’re making this up.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Jonah moved to join the group. “They have to believe the stories, if for no other reason than to realize how lucky they are not to have him around.”

The members of his old platoon quickly set themselves up as Recon Royalty. They’d helped take Baghdad in twenty-one days. They’d served with Jonah, and it was obvious they had his trust and respect, so they now found themselves held in awe. Yarwood seemed to have attached himself to Herndon. As far as Marine role models went, he could do a hell of a lot worse.

The team leaving on patrol was hesitant to go, and the team coming off patrol worked overtime to get caught up on the pedigrees of the newcomers. There were some minor pissing contests until it became clear the newbies were not newbies at all and weren’t moving to the bottom of the pecking order.

It was late when the occupants of Diyala firm base settled down for some sleep, and even so, Jonah found himself staring at the ceiling long after everyone around him had begun to snore.

§ § §

He was jostled awake by Top Resler. “Captain Hoegerl needs to see you, Jonah.”

It was full daylight, but few Marines were stirring yet.

“Errand boy is a little beneath your rank, don’t you think, Top?” Jonah said, sitting up and straightening his uniform.

“Your legends became true stories last night,” Top said dryly. “I thought I’d better be the one to rouse you, rather than subject you to the hero worship.”

Jonah snorted in both amusement and annoyance.

When he entered the office, Captain Hoegerl motioned for Jonah to take a chair. He looked haggard. Jonah felt stretched thin and sleep deprived, and Hoegerl still looked worse than Jonah felt.

“There was a hell of a lot more to Grizzly’s mission here than any of us thought,” Hoegerl said, handing Jonah a sheaf of paper.

“How so, sir?” He scanned the papers.

“I still don’t know.” Hoegerl sighed in frustration. “All I know is what those papers say: we have some visitors en route who will shed some light on things for us.”

Jonah’s head snapped up. “Not babysitting duty again, sir.”

“Afraid so, Gunnery Sergeant. You have firsthand information on Grizzly’s movements, and he trusted you. Additionally, whoever is incoming is familiar with your record and pulled the strings necessary for you to be able to handpick your own team.”

“So, I’m to take my new team and hold the new VIP’s hand while he picks up where Grizzly left off?” Jonah was growing frustrated at what seemed to be a waste of time for a lot of good Marines.

“Not entirely. If I understand this correctly, Grizzly’s death was not incidental to his investigation. An FBI team and their civilian consultants will be here in the next twenty-four hours with the intent of uncovering who killed Grizzly and why.”

“Grizzly was killed by an insurgent IED,” Jonah said, confused.

“Apparently that is in doubt. More information will be provided by our guests when they arrive, or so this memo leads me to believe.”

“What interest does the FBI have in a military investigation?”

“Grizzly was a civilian, on a mission from State, not the Joint Chiefs, and what he found while he was here implicates civilians.”

“Why not CIA? We’re on foreign soil.” Jonah’s frustration was growing. Nothing seemed to be making sense.

“If I had to guess, I’d say the disease is rooted in the States. What’s going on here is just a symptom.”

It felt like tentacles were snaking around Jonah’s legs, pulling him deeper and deeper into shifting sands of deceit. “Are my guests coming in via C-130 again, rather than the Green Zone?”

“Affirmative. Apparently, they’re not to have contact with anyone they themselves have not vetted, independent of all government influence.”

“Who has that kind of juice?”

“You’ll find out in the next twenty-four, I suppose. You and your team will take a C-46 helicopter from the usual landing zone to meet them and return them to firm base. Once back here, you and I will both be briefed, heavily edited, I’m sure, by the FBI.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“That’s all for now, Gunnery Sergeant. Dismissed.”

Jonah called his men into the dining area of the manor house and gave them a rundown of his talk with Hoegerl.

“Seriously, Jonah,” Kelly said, expression dubious. “They let you handpick a team just to babysit a bunch of FBI POGs?”

“There’s more to it than that, as I’m sure the knitting circle has made you aware. But the details of our real mission will be given to us by those we’re assigned to babysit.”

“Does this happen a lot out here?” Herndon questioned.

“Nah, Dawg. It’s fuckin’ boring out here,” Shankman answered.

“Dismissed for now. But be ready to scramble at a moment’s notice in the next twenty-four hours.”

CHAPTER FOUR

At 0830 hours the following morning, Jonah was helping Assassin-Three-Three identify HVIs—high value individuals—they had detained, when Top Resler stepped into the doorway.

“Gunnery Sergeant Carver, your mission is a go. The chopper is on approach now. Get ready to step off.”

Jonah searched the manor and rounded up his team. Shankman, Steves, Garcia, Herndon, Crowden, and Yarwood all grabbed their gear and double-timed it to the landing zone in the expansive yard of Diyala firm base. This early in the morning and it was already 112 degrees. The rotors from the C-46 kicked up sand, dust, plant matter, and manure. The inside of the bird was stifling, but at least the temperature dropped a little when they were no longer in direct sunlight. This entire country was nothing but misery, as far as Jonah was concerned. It looked like dirt, smelled like shit, was hotter than hell, and was most likely going to serve as his grave.

Minutes later, they were exiting the rear ramp and jogging to the end of the runway. Jonah ordered his men to form a circle, facing outward, giving them a 360 degree view. He was exposed and vulnerable standing out here, several hundred yards from the helicopter and without the cover of Humvees.

The C-130 appeared on the horizon, moving fast. Jonah watched it grow larger as it neared their position, gradually losing altitude as it prepared for its landing. The last time he’d stood here and watched the same scene unfold, an annoying mission had turned into a disaster. He hoped his next three weeks wouldn’t be like his last.

The engines were deafening as the plane taxied to where they stood and slowly turned 180 degrees. Gears and hydros whirred as the rear ramp dropped down to allow its cargo to egress.

Two men and a woman, all in civilian clothing, exited the C-130, heavily loaded with gear. Jonah hoped it was necessary to their investigation and wasn’t a sign they expected to be spending a week at a vacation resort. A second woman suddenly burst from the bowels of the plane, jogging down the ramp to catch her compatriots, jamming a brimmed hat onto her head. All four wore sturdy and practical clothing in light colors, boots, hats, sunglasses, and sidearms. At least the FBI trained their agents to use firearms, so he and his men had a chance of having their asses covered by this crew.

“I’m looking for Gunnery Sergeant Jonah Carver,” one of the agents shouted over the ear-shattering sounds of the airfield. He addressed none of them in particular.

Steves gestured in Jonah’s direction with a lifted chin. The agent turned to Jonah and stepped forward, smiling, hand extended.

“Of course. If I’d thought about it for a second, I’d have recognized you from your description. Special Agent in Charge Clinton Keef.”

He took the proffered hand, impressed by the firm grip. “Gunnery Sergeant Carver.”

“This is Special Agent Marco Giammona.” Jonah felt a moment of sympathy for the agent Keef introduced. Apparently more affected by the heat than his fellow agents, sweat poured heavily down the dark skin of his face and nearly saturated his T-shirt.

“Special Agent Milagros Parrella,” the woman introduced herself, extending her hand with a friendly smile.

“And Special Agent Carlene Tygart,” Keef finished.

The severe-faced, red-haired agent merely nodded at Jonah in acknowledgement.

“Oh, how I fucking hate Iraq!” came a shout from the ramp of the C-130. “I swore I would never set foot here ever again. I musta been high when I agreed to this.”

Jonah’s jaw dropped at the sight of Neil McMurtrie slamming heavy-footed down the ramp of the aircraft. He wore a T-shirt that bore an obscene limerick.

Jonah was immediately transported back in time to that first tour in Iraq; the long hours in the Humvee with Neil driving, talking almost nonstop, singing off-key and at full volume, magically getting their temperamental radio working when Jonah was ready to rip it from the dash and toss it out the window. There’d been times he’d nearly wanted to strangle Neil, but had stopped himself, knowing he was a Marine Jonah could count on.

“Yo, McMurtrie! We’re still cleaning up from your first visit,” Kelly Herndon called back, a wide grin splitting his face.

“You missed me, and you know it.”

If Kelly had a reply, it was forgotten as the two embraced, slapping each other’s backs soundly.

Jonah was as amused by Neil as he ever had been, even when he didn’t breathe between sentences. A wave of nostalgia engulfed Jonah at seeing Neil and Kelly trading jibes. At least Jonah now knew who would have given the agents a description of him. He was about to approach Neil when his attention was arrested by movement on the ramp of the plane.

Jonah glanced up and felt the earth stop spinning beneath his feet. His fingers gripped his weapon more tightly, he swallowed several times against the lump that had formed in his throat, and his heart hammered in his chest with the same ferocity as the day of the IED blast.

Kellan Reynolds sauntered slowly down the ramp of the C-130. He was heavily laden with baggage. Jonah couldn’t see his eyes, hidden as they were behind a set of aviators. He stepped from the ramp to the sand of Iraq and smiled.

Jonah struggled to steady his breath. Kellan was here. Now. In fucking Iraq.

Jonah’s body moved without his thinking about it. Kellan approached, still smiling wide, hand extended. Jonah couldn’t help grinning in return. He worked to keep from looking like an excited teenager. He knew he was going to be embraced, and suddenly he needed to touch Kellan as well, to prove this was all real.

“Hello, Jonah,” Kellan said, grabbing Jonah’s hand and pulling him in hard for a quick embrace. “God, it’s good to see you again.”

“Christ, Captain,” Jonah said, pulling back but not releasing Kellan’s hand. “What the hell are you doing here?”

A quick glance told Jonah civilian life had not been bad for Kellan. He was still broad shouldered, narrow hipped—lean and strong—like Jonah remembered him. His disheveled hair, longer than the Marine regs allowed, fell over his forehead and into his eyes. Jonah gave himself a mental shake. Kellan had been a civilian for years now; of course he wore his hair longer.