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“People are gonna start thinking you’re a jinx, Major.”
TC rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Colonel.”
It wasn’t his fault his gunners had been a little on the shallow end of the luck pool. One turned out to be afraid of heights, another failed to fasten his harness correctly and wouldn’t be having children any time soon, and the other the unlucky victim of a stray shot.
Three gunners in six months. That had to be a new kind of record.
“I think I have just the guy for you,” Greico said, a slow, Cheshire like smile forming. “Yeah. I know I got just the guy.”
“He good with guns?” TC asked. “And heights?”
Greico shrugged. “Who fucking knows? He’s a scout sniper. Lost his spotter to a case of nerves, or so he says. Personally, I think he’s the one who scared the guy shitless.”
TC raised an eyebrow. “And you’re gonna give him to me? It’s not even the same MOS.”
Greico waved his hand. “It’s the Sandbox. It’s like Kansas. Nobody cares about us here. But he’s the best shot I’ve seen in…shit, years. And he’s good under pressure. Last place he and his spotter were dropped was shy of the Korengal and nary a scratch on them.”
TC whistled appreciatively. The Korengal was a nightmare to fly. High mountains, trees obscuring the ground, radio interference, no place to pick up or set down and crawling with Taliban looking to take pot shots at low flying hueys with everything from rocks and slingshots to RPGs. Visibility was crap in the air. He didn’t want to imagine what it was like from the ground.
“Who is he?”
“Orville Wright,” Greico said, and TC accidentally inhaled his water instead of sipping, coughing and spluttering as he tried not to die.
“Are you fucking serious? That’s his name? His actual name? Not just some weird ass nickname I don’t even want to guess the origin for?” he wheezed in between breaths.
Greico edged another glass towards him, curling his lip slightly at the spit all over his desk. “God given, apparently.”
“Christ,” TC gasped. “No wonder he likes shooting people.”
“I didn’t say he liked it, I said he was good at it,” Greico amended, then looked thoughtful. “Though to be fair, he has been known to whistle on his way to work, so…who knows. He might be a psychopath. We don’t screen for that type of thing anymore.”
TC frowned. “Budgets?”
Greico snorted. “I wish. Nah, now it’s considered discriminatory to ask about someone’s mental health before we hand them a rifle and ask him to kill on behalf of Uncle Sam and the Sons of Liberty.”
“So your plan is to give me a sniper who may or may not be a serial killer in uniform who doesn’t even have the right MOS for the job? Is it because you hate me?”
Greico snorted into his coffee cup. “No, that’s because of budgets.”
TC sighed. Perfect. Just what he needed. Another ulcer.
“You want to meet him?”
“No.”
“Good,” Greico said, slapping his hand on the desk as he put his feet on the ground. “Come with me.”
“Besides being a possible sociopath, anything else you can tell me about him?” TC asked, easily keeping stride with the senior officer as they made their way across base.
They were considered a combat zone, despite being on base, so fortunately no one saluted. It was one of the things TC hated about being an officer, but if it meant he got to fly, it was a small price to pay.
“You mean besides his parents clearly hated him?” the colonel asked, snorting. “Yeah. His enlistment papers are bogus. But he’s good enough at his job no one cared enough to look into them. No drug history, so that’s a nice bonus. A little temperamental.”
TC pulled up short. “Hold up. How ‘temperamental’ are we talking here? I ain’t flying with a moody itchy trigger finger.”
Greico didn’t even break stride, forcing TC to jog a few steps to catch up. “Nothing too extreme. Can’t be too twitchy if you’re gonna hit a target at 2000 meters.”
TC blinked. “2000 meters? Was that a freak shot, or what?” That was over a mile.
“Don’t know. Kid’s been in closer quarters ever since, but I betcha if money was on the line, he could make it at 2100. Or further.”
Well, shit. No wonder the Marines didn’t go poking too heavily at his history. The longest sniper shot on record currently was just shy of 2500 meters, a little over a mile and a half.
“He’s not a bad kid,” Greico said. “Got a hell of a chip on his shoulder for reasons unknown. The ladies seem to like him well enough. Hasn’t stabbed anybody, on purpose or otherwise, so that’s a plus. Got an attitude problem though. Thinks he’s the toughest guy around, and so far, he’s been right. Naturally, it’s caused a little…friction with some of the other men.”
“Wow, sir. Way to upsell this kid. Sounds like I’ve struck gold.”
Greico snorted at that. “Ha! Like you’re one to talk. You’ve lost three gunners, Major. And no, it doesn’t matter that the only one of them that died was just a lucky shot by some haji with a rifle taking potshots. No one wants to ride an unlucky bird.”
They were getting towards the enlisted quarters now, which were just row upon row of numbered Quonset huts. The air conditioning units by the doors shook and rattled and sounded like they were on their last breath – which they probably were.
“Here we are,” Greico announced proudly. “Lucky number 13, Major. Looks like it’s fate.”
TC fought the urge to roll his eyes as he followed the colonel through the door.
It sounded like Fight Club.
It looked like Fight Club.
Over a dozen enlisted in various stages of dress – some in their full BDU’s, some still in their tees and boxers, and everything in between gathered around the far end of the Quonset, shouting at the top of their lungs. They stood on tip toes and braced against their friends’ shoulders to see over heads, stood on top of bunks and whatever available piece of furniture there was to see whatever the hell was in the middle of the circle they’d formed.
“What the hell is this?” TC shouted to be heard over the cheering.
There was a crash, and a roar erupted from the crowd. TC could just see someone being lifted and slammed like a linebacker onto something that broke with a crunch.
Greico offered a shrug and tapped the shoulder of the closest Marine. “Hey, who’s winning?”
The younger Marine whipped around, clearly about to rip the colonel a new one for interrupting when his eyes caught the eagle on Greico’s collar.
“Officer on deck!” he shouted, elbowing his buddy hard in the ribs as he jumped back a step to the foot of a cot, snapping to attention. As Marines noticed what was going on, and who was suddenly in their midst, they scrambled for their position in front of any rack available.
As they jumped to either side clearing a path, TC could finally see what they’d been cheering on. Two Marines, still oblivious along with the edge of the circle who were only now realizing what was happening, were in the middle of a fight.
Both of them looked like they were giving as good as they got – the one still standing was tall, broad shouldered and the poster child for the term jarhead: tattoos up and down both arms that were as big around as TC’s neck, boot camp styled high and tight haircut and wearing his BDU’s. His nose looked soundly broken, or at the very least, sufficiently bloodied, one eye darkening with an impressive shiner.
The one on the ground was only slightly smaller and a lot younger, built less like a brick shithouse and more athletic and considerably shorter, dirty blonde hair just shy of being too long to be in regs and the beginnings of an unauthorized five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw – though that might be more bruise than beard. He only had his BDU pants on, though they were comparably faded from what they should be. Like other guy, one eye was starting to swell shut and his teeth were stained red from a sliced inner cheek and he was lying amongst the wreckage of what was presumably once a table he’d just been slammed into by the Hulk towering over him.
Neither one seemed to notice the officers, until one of their buddies shouted, this time much louder without the added jeering of the crowd to cover it, “Officer on Deck!”
The tall brute of a Marine snapped to, hands obediently and expertly snapping to his sides as his heels audibly clacked together.
The one on the ground stayed there, breathing hard and not impressed enough by a colonel and a major to pick himself up off the ground.
“I present to you sergeant Orville Wright, Major,” Greico said proudly, stepping to one side as he gave a Vanna White impression. “Your new door gunner.”
TC eyed the muscle bound Marine dubiously. He looked like a serial killer. Or a flunkie bad guy from a Rocky sequel. He would be surprised if the man could even fit in a ghillie suit, but Greico seemed impressed enough with him, so TC figured he at least owed the guy a shot.
“Nice to meet you,” TC said, about to extend his hand in greeting.
The Marine on the ground took that exact moment to rear his knee back and slam his foot into the other guy’s groin.
The jarhead made a noise that wasn’t quite a scream, and not quite a squeak as he curled in on himself, doubling over and collapsing to the deck in the fetal position as he turned a violent shade of red and purple as every other man in the room hissed and winced in sympathy as one entity.
“Nice to meet you too, Major,” the kid on the floor huffed. He turned his head to the side and spat out a wad of red before turning back to TC, looking at him upside down from the ground as he held out his hand, knuckles torn and bruised. “You can call me Rick.”