Deep Cover Shakedown

By Dennis King

First, a minor point about the BlackSteel series. If I say ‘Jeep’ or ‘M16’ most people can visualize those. However, if I say ‘MRAP’, ‘PM9’, or ‘Kriss Super V’ many folks could not bring to mind what those look like. So I’ve distributed a few illustrations throughout the novel. Looking for feedback, is that a good idea or not?

Deep Cover Shakedown is a stand-alone story but the sequel to 'Betrayed by Soldiers.' Each novel will appeal to past and present members of the Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps and readers interested in detective or espionage stories. The leading male characters are First Lieutenant Robert Steele and Sergeant Cassius Kelly, both Recon Marines. The central female, Army Corporal Isabella DuLay, is portrayed as intelligent and strong, yet vulnerable, and spunky.

In this novel, the criminal network is almost stamped out by the dangerous undercover work of Sergeant Kelly and Corporal DuLay. Once Lieutenant Steele, a double amputee, is released from Walter Reed Hospital, will they and their fledgling Security and Private Investigating firm, BlackSteel, survive the foreign government’s hitmen?

These Afghanistan, Pentagon, and US East coast adventures are best described as a military drama, supported by real wartime events woven into webs of deceit and triumphs. I introduce the reader to the best our armed services offer, and a glimpse of the dishonest, some say unconstitutional, acts of our government at the highest of levels in this war on terror era. Being semi fact-based makes for believable character situations and lures the readers in because they remember wisps of reported events interspersed with truths they might know.

Can our heroes bust up the networks selling black market explosives to terrorists, and distributing counterfeit bills? Tracking spies and traitors, they not only survive firefights but battle inter-agency turf struggles between the Department of Justice, NSA, and the Pentagon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis King
• Release date: Jan 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005315115

Dennis King

Hello friends, if you are looking to download my free or low-cost selections of books and essays, you've reached the right place. All you have to do is scroll down a couple of pages to peruse those offerings.What is your favorite reading genre? If you like adventures or stories with military intrigue, try “Betrayed by Soldiers” and follow that up with “Deep Cover Shakedown.” If you like poetry, you can read 20,000 words of original, rhythmical composition in “Romantic Poetry”? By poking around in the nooks and crannies of the offerings listed you will find illustrated children's stories, Sci-Fi, and many short essays that have proved useful in informal Bible Studies or self-help for the troubled souls suffering from worry or anxieties.For those of you that wish to know a little about me, after growing up in the small town of Mukwonago, Wisconsin, I served for twenty years in the military. During that time, I served two volunteer tours in classified combat situations and flew more than 100 combat missions manning a .50 machine gun from the side-door of a Marine helicopter at the height of the war. After being promoted to Staff Sergeant (E-6), I requested Officer Candidate School. As a Signal Officer, I served in Field Artillery, Signal Battalions, and Recruiting Command. My last assignment was at the Pentagon with the Army Research & Development Agency.For the avid card players out there, I invented and offer TOSS Playing Cards, comprised of an eight-suited deck that plays every card game you know with more excitement and challenges. The deck can be reviewed at Toss.iWARP.com.Retired, I now serve as a Red Cross Disaster Services team member and Spiritual Care. Please, feel free to email any comments, favorable or not. Every author, like to hear from the fans or critics. You can reach me directly at [e-mail].

Book preview

Deep Cover Shakedown

by

Dennis D. King

All Rights Reserved ISBN 9781005315115

Copyright 2021 Dennis D. King

This novel is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Disclaimer

This novel is a work of fiction. Characters, events, and locations are used fictitiously. Any appearance of actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental or fictionalized characterizations gathered from public information. Trademarked products are owned by their respective corporations and have been mentioned without permission or endorsement. Depictions of activities concerning any living persons, NATO, and the Department of Justice-Overseas represented in this novel are entirely shaped through dramatic license and literary liberties. To my knowledge, the DoJ has no Overseas Unit designated as DoJ-O.

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank all those who helped with this novel.

Author’s Notes

This novel is based on twenty-years of experience serving within the United States Marine Corps and Army, plus contacts within the Navy and Air Force. All events are fabricated, though some relate directly to authenticated facts of the Afghanistan war era. The brief accounts of treasonous Americans reflected within this story are based on their convictions, the evidence presented at trials or publicly reported information.

Table of Contents

Prologue

CHAPTER ONE, DEEP COVER

Chapter Two, First Date

Chapter Three, Burn Baby Burn

Chapter Four, The Bribe

Chapter Five, Grab Ass And Run

Chapter Six, Strip Search

Chapter Seven, off-post

Chapter Eight, Ambush

Chapter Nine, Mop Up And Move Out

Chapter Ten, The Puzzle Palace

Chapter Eleven Road Trip

Chapter Twelve, BlackSteel

Chapter Thirteen, The Package

Chapter Fourteen, Dump The Body

Chapter Fifteen, Unlucky & Red-handed

Chapter Sixteen, Elvira

Chapter Seventeen, Smoke and Joke

Chapter Eighteen, Cabin Fever

Chapter Nineteen, Pain and Gain

Chapter Twenty, Take'em Down

Chapter Twenty-One, Wrap It Up

Chapter Twenty-Two, DuLay's Revenge

Chapter Twenty-Three, Going Home

Chapter Twenty-Four, Kelly's Surprise

Epilogue

Other Links

Novels by This Author

Children's Stories

Free Christian Essays

Toss 8-Suited Playing Cards

PROLOGUE

Several days ago, from their mountainside Marine Corps Recon observation post, Lieutenant Robert N. Steele and his Intel Sergeant E-5, Cassius Clay Kelly, were shocked to see a solitary Army Humvee traveling this dangerous road without convoy or close air support. A terrific explosion at the sloped bottom blew their Hummer upside down. Its foul smelling carcass reminded Sergeant Kelly of a dead armadillo, and the resulting ‘all tits up’ caricature reinforced this notion. Once the gravel, chad, and dust settled, the Jarheads engaged in a deadly firefight with terrorist forces superior in both number and firepower. Before the battle was won, Taliban reinforcements arrived and captured the higher ground positions. The exchange of gunfire was fierce. Yet during the defense of their own lives, the two Marines managed to save a GI Corporal named Isabella DuLay and a Dog Face Sergeant First Class Dan McDaniel. One very short-timer, PFC Ferguson was not so fortunate.

Shortly after the explosive ambush warfare, Lieutenant Steele’s feet were blasted off. This occurred as the cowardly SFC ‘Dirty’ Dan McDaniel shot an already dead terrorist lying prone on the ground. Unbeknownst to anyone, the bad guy happened to be wearing a hidden suicide vest, which exploded as Lieutenant Steele stood nearby. The LT was airlifted to Ramstein Air Base as a stopover en route to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, District of Columbia. After months of amazing recovery, there was a very positive, although uniquely personal, benefit provided by his ultramodern ankle and foot prosthetics. From birth onward, he had been consistently shorter than his peers. Malformed tibias and fibulas were the cause. All during his pre-adult life, he was harassed because this birth defect caused his legs to be incredibly dwarfish below the knees. He was so short a height waiver was required even to join the Navy ROTC program at Louisiana State University. Sparse of length below the knees, in acts of overcompensation, he built up this upper body substantially. Admittedly his expanded chest and muscled arms hanging over his way too stubby legs gave him even more of an apish look. Many strenuous months later, Lieutenant Steele, who had been barely 5-foot tall, was recovering and getting used to his new feet and ankle prosthetics. Now, with different sets of prosthetics, he could be as tall as he wished. Before his lengthy therapy came to an end, Robert was promoted to Captain and discharged.

Captain Steele came from Midwest, middle-class, roots. His mom was a homemaker, and his father sold many types of life insurance. His father had doubled the coverage of his children for several consecutive years. To great sadness, both mom and dad were killed in an automobile accident just before Steele was assigned overseas. With his attorney brother lending assistance, the fighting with the insurance companies ended with them both receiving quite and nice sum of cash. More money on the near horizon was a distinct possibility. Yes, Steele jokingly reflected how he was now too tall and too rich! The only bad thing was, as maimed and mangled as he was, the Crotch decided to give him an Honorable Discharge for boot him out for medical reasons. Mere weeks after being awarded the Navy Cross for Valor, they unceremoniously let him go with no parting gifts. His lifelong dream of being in the military ended by being wheeled out the hospital doors to sit on the concrete benches wait for his buddy, Sergeant Kelly, to swing by and pick him up.

Returning to the battleground events of many months ago, the trouble for Lieutenant Steele and Sergeant Kelly began from the heights of their mountainside OP overlooking the Korengal Valley. If there was a singular battleground in Afghanistan that deserved to be named 'The Valley of Death', this place was definitely a leading candidate. Over several years, both men and women troops of the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, and NATO units constantly battled Taliban terrorists to a virtual standstill over this heavily contested piece of real estate. The main action took place mostly on the Afghan side of the Pakistani frontier.

Similar to the actions within the Vietnam conflict, our ground troops made ineffective sweeps through towns and villages. We fought for physical hillsides or mountain ridges to install temporary artillery batteries and or observation posts. Once seized, improved, fortified, and held, we later abandoned them owing to the ebb and flow of the weak political will of our government to win the war for keeps.

What a waste of young American lives? The gruesome number of casualties on both sides was horrific. Late in 2005, a Seal team was ambushed, and three squad members died. Subsequently, a Chinook rescue helicopter was shot down and crashed, thus killing an additional 16 troops, eight of which were also Navy Seals. Nineteen patriots died for a place few civilians could pinpoint on a map. Tragic!

In their time and their war, Kelly, DuLay, and McDaniel were MedEvac'd along with the near lifeless Lieutenant and PFC Ferguson’s body bag, plus a smattering of raghead cadavers. By happenstance, a Department of Justice (DoJ) Agent Brett Nash was onboard the NATO helicopter that airlifted the wounded group from the disasters of the firefight site. Nash was on the hunt to track down criminal elements of a counterfeiting network involved in stolen military munitions and weapons being sold and funneled to terrorist groups. Which, in turn, used these contraband munitions to slaughter the U.S. and Peace-Keeper troops.

In separate events, in Ramstein, Germany, Sergeant Kelly, engaged in a battle to the death with two murderers, likely terrorists, recovered a briefcase containing a sizeable amount of cash and other important Jihadist documents. At Nash’s direction, a small group of DoJ analysts pulled together several links, revealing secret bank accounts and perhaps the owner of the master account.

Agent Nash recruited Sergeant Kelly and Corporal DuLay to infiltrate the criminal network. DoJ-O, pronounced phonetically as Dough-Joe, assigned them near the head of the snake at NATO Headquarters, Kabul, Afghanistan.

They gave Isabella DuLay a cover story and Cassius Kelly a new pseudonym of Kelly C. Cauterloocci. This novel begins as they are released from their old units and are being assigned and in-processing into NATO Headquarters. Specifically, HQ Supply.

Sergeant First Class ‘Dirty’ Dan McDaniel, one of the upper-level suspected criminals also in supply, hastily exited the Army. He was barely three years shy of a twenty-year retirement and all the benefits earned. The DoJ and the Army are still very interested in him, but his whereabouts are unknown.

By way of deep background, DuLay’s husband had been mugged and murdered in Washington D.C., less than four years ago. Back then, upon hearing the shocking news of her husband’s death, she miscarried the twin babies, growing healthy and harmoniously within her womb. It was a traumatic, heart-wrenching moment. She joined the military for twofold reasons. To prove herself and to run from her sorrows.

Growing up, Sergeant Kelly came from deep, Louisiana Cajun, roots of mixed bloodlines of white, black, and two different Indian tribes. He looked Caucasian, albeit with a dark tan. He is often admired, though sometimes feared, for his immense strength, endurance, and an arm span longer than Michael Jordan's. His father had been a Merchant Marine and an absent parent most of the time. But his stalwart mother managed to keep up with the mortgage on a hardpan, ten-acre farm, while raising three children in a Christian home.

CHAPTER ONE, DEEP COVER

Once NATO's military passenger bus arrived at Kabul International Airport, everyone got on board and claimed a seat. Wide-shouldered Kelly took a double bench at the near the back behind Shirley, who had sat down next to Isabella. Handing out meal card vouchers, a Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer, E-7, from personnel, started briefing the small group en route. Okay, gang, congratulations on your safe arrival to Kabul’s winter wonderland. Now we will board the NATO bus waiting outside the terminal. Be sure to grab all your gear and luggage. We will arrive momentarily at the NATO Headquarters Transit Billeting. You need to know and adhere to our basic rules.

Walking towards the bus, she started her spiel. A proper military uniform is required at all times. The exception to that rule is when off-duty, you may wear civilian clothes in the Dining Facility and in your permanently assigned dorms. There is a No Salute Policy within the NATO compound unless walking past a General Officer of the U.S. or Coalition Forces. When outside your dorm, all military troops are required to display a visible ID. Headgear is a must when outside! Even on a smoke break, one-step from the backdoor of your working area. Smoking indoors is not allowed anywhere on post.

All service personnel will be issued your appropriate weapon and expected to tote it along at all times. No exceptions! For all you in-country newbies, even though you landed at a Civilian airport, you are now in a war zone. Don’t forget it! When you are outside of your dorm, you must be armed. I repeat, armed at all times. There are four Alert Levels, A-L for short.

A-L GREEN requires you to have your weapon’s safety on, but do not insert a magazine. Last week, a Navy squid was Court Marshaled over an infraction of this regulation. True, he obeyed the letter of the policy, but the dumb dude had a round in the chamber. Do not be that stupid. Because of that, all the written notices are being updated and reprinted as I speak.

A-L AMBER, at this level, your weapon has a loaded magazine inserted, but the chamber remains clear. That means empty, for you wing-wipers and salty seafarers. Your weapon must remain on safe unless you come across an armed terrorist charging at you. In that case, do not forget to rack a round and switch off the safety.

At A-L RED, your firearm is fully functional and loaded. You’ll slide a round into the chamber, and the safety selector is positioned to safe. Basically, you are locked and cocked at the red level.

During the highest level of readiness, Alert Level BLACK, your weapon is fully loaded with a cartridge in the chamber, and your weapon selector is off safe. I personally don’t like the thought of rookies running around in a panic, with weapons able to fire at the drop of a hat. But I don’t make the rules! Depending on your type of firearm, your fully loaded complement of ammo magazines must be in your possession. Remember, in A L Black, before you report to your assigned combat station, remove all classified documents from your work areas and store them within the proper security containers.

No weapons are to be carried off post except for officially sanctioned missions. We relax the mandatory carrying of assault arms while you are using the gym, showers, or sleeping. Also, while you are allowed to go off post when not scheduled to work, we recommend that you do so only during daylight hours. Then your weapons are stored and locked in your room's secured locker, or at the gymnasium.

Looking out the window at the back of the bus, Isabella wondered if each one riding along would return to see the airport again—at the end of their tour. It seemed like everyone was more at risk from terrorist attacks than ever before.

When the bus pulled up to the overnight billeting area, everybody piled off. Inside, the on-duty clerk, a Marine Lance Corporal, suggested, Rather than drag their gear around all day, you people should stow duffel bags and extra stuff in the temporary lockers right here in the transit barracks.

After a group-escorted trip to the chow hall and a hasty meal, the in-country newbies waited for the return bus S-1 provided.

The Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer returned and instructed that the rest of the day be dedicated to finishing all NATO in-processing. Then she advised, when I release you, check into HQ Supply to gather one new, completely free, winter uniform issue, with respect to your particular branch of service. Spring weather is late and the outside temperature was chilly, if not downright cold. I will decide on your permanent barracks assignment tomorrow.

When the bus arrived at the NATO headquarters, she hustled them into a collective gaggle and brought them into the lobby. After your last official stop of the day, plan on returning here, the transit building, for the night.

Most troops talked about moving out together, like a clump of sheep, in Kelly’s opinion, and hit every designated office and check off the little boxes on their local in-processing sheet. Marine Corps Sergeant Kelly and Army Corporal Isabella DuLay decided to first slide by the HQ Supply office, as that was to be their workplace assignment. Both were looking forward to diving full-on into their deep undercover roles for their secret DoJ-O operation. But that was not the plan of their Coast Guard Escort. She walked the group to the nearby S-1 building, which housed the Base Commander’s office.

Okay, she directed, Everyone but Sergeant Cauterloocci standby. Pointing her finger, she declared, You come with me. Our Bird Colonel wants you to report to him. ASAP!

A junior airman turned towards Isabella to whisper. What the heck is that all about? Culling Kelly from the herd, like that?

Before Corporal DuLay could tailor her response, Shirley piped in, The night clerk told me he’d heard that a Marine Sergeant, just assigned here, fragged an officer down south. That Cauterloocci guy must be the one.

No way, man! Fragged an officer? Then why isn’t he in Fort Leavenworth? questioned a female airman.

Whoa, hold up there a minute. Kelly and I ate together yesterday evening while waiting for our flight here. He declared the pending felony charges were total bullshit. He thinks it’s going to end up his word against the Lieutenant’s. There’s no way they will prove he tossed that grenade. They were on a platoon Intel night mission, outside the wire and off in the badlands with other Marines. Maybe NATO troops were there too, I don’t know for sure. So, who’s to say, who did what to whom? When?

Oh-oh! Listen up so I can hear the Colonel, said another GI slightly down the hall as one powerful voice billowed out from the Commander’s office.

A Navy noncom spoke up. Tune in, that Kelly guy is getting his ass reamed out loud and long. So the group drifted down the edge of the hallway, hearing most of the ass-chewing spilling out the Colonel’s open door.

~ and furthermore, since I’m told not to trust you at all. From this moment forward, you’re restricted to limited driver duties for the Supply NCOIC. That way, you’ll have constant adult supervision. So, if you thoroughly understand me, buck sergeant Cauterloocci, that’s all for now. Dismissed! Get out of my sight, but keep this little talk in mind. Best you remember, we’ll be watching you!

Yes, Sir! By your leave, Sir!

Vanish, Jarhead!

Kelly snapped a brisk and proper salute, did a perfect about-face, and strode out into the hallway towards the personnel lady. The group of eavesdroppers cast downward looks of sheepish embarrassment.

Only DuLay spoke up loudly, That was total BS. They can’t prove anything? Right, Kelly?

Right! Kelly exclaimed with an air of bravo. Totally erroneous. They can’t pin that one on me, no sirree.

The female escort piped in, Okay gang, we got a lot of places to get checked off. Let’s get moving. So most of the loose-knit gaggle followed her around to the assigned check-in places.

A few hours later, the group finished the morning check-in missions. They were released for noon chow and told to complete their respective unit’s processing that afternoon.

They all went out front to the bus stop again and rode together for lunch at the mess hall. Or as NATO preferred, you should call it—the dining facility.

Arriving at the chow hall was an unusual experience for a gaggle of the newbies and even any older, grizzled, veterans. A cacophony of foreign languages filled the air. People of like skin tones and indescribable accents surrounded most of the tables. Some groups were American military in the uniform that reflected their branch of service. Other groups were in westernized, civilian clothing that blended traditional Afghan apparel with tennis shoes and such. A few blacks here, fewer whites there, and darkly tanned Afghans almost everywhere.

After showing their new meal cards, the in-processing group gathered up the chow of their choice from the buffet line and garnered two tables of their own.

Of course, all the gang of greenhorns wanted to hear Kelly’s Marine Corps war stories. As Cauterloocci, Kelly didn’t want to reveal too much information that might give clues about his real identity. So basically, he told only a portion of his last combat episode.

Okay guys, here goes. Oops! Excuse me, and ladies too. Most of what I did in the Marines was Recon Intelligence gathering. It was so classified the sun will never shine on it. But I’ll give you the honest lowdown on my last mission.

First off, I hope you don’t think I’m bragging. In fact, I might not be here if it wasn’t for a quirk of fate or the hand of God. Ya see, I was climbing up a steep slope to hose my Super V on a tribe of terrorist ragheads holdup in a makeshift foxhole. Off to the horizon, storm clouds were twirling and swirling. Raindrops began to fall. Extending a long arm, I was able to tip my machine gun's silencer over the edge of their berm. It was a case of spray and hope, otherwise I’d have to expose myself mere feet, if not inches, from the terrorists. I pulled the trigger. My gun went Pifpifpipippppp, followed by a silencing click. My magazine emptied. I thought, Crap, that was a waste of ammo. I had forgot to switch off of full auto!

My clip held thirty rounds of 45 caliber slugs. In two seconds, they were all blasted out. I’d intended to keep it to three-round bursts. But I screwed up royally by not flipping the selector to the correct position. As good luck would have it, all the enemies were nailed. So, breathing hard, I was searching the bodies and makin’ double sure they were dead. With my little friend here!

Kelly whipped out his Boker Kalashnikov, flip-blade knife, sliced the air a time or two back and forth, and folded the razor edge quickly to stuff the knife into his pocket. It seemed like a one-second flash of a blade then, magically, it was out of sight.

Jaws gaped and mouths hung open. That was the effect he was striving for. So he continued his blend of false and true parts of the story.

Huge raindrops started to fall as I glanced down and saw spilled Al-Qaeda blood go from bright red to pinkish as it drained into dirty cracks and crevices. After the hill climb and searching, I had to sit down and catch my wind again. The high elevation we were operating at was a bummer for oxygen density. Anyway, I was laughing from the adrenaline rush and admiring my still open knife. You know those flip-blades are hard to get over here. But I got mine by mail order. I’m ashamed to tell you it came from China. It was sent right direct to my APO address. Craig’s List won't let you buy guns and knives. I’d like to see them California pantywaists over here and serve a bit of time with us, wouldn’t you?

The Lance Corporal shouted an affirmative Hoo-Rah!

Anyway, instead of minding the war situation at hand, my little break turned into a lolly-gagging that almost cost me my life.

Kelly paused his war story for effect. But, right at that moment, Lady Luck swung my mind back around to the ‘zone.’ Either she or God saved me! How? A thunderous crack of lightning struck a nearby ridge. I turned to look in that way—just as anyone would. From that very direction, a jihadist was jetting out from behind an outcrop of rocks. The Mookie Shiite screamed, 'Allah Akbar!' With an overhead, clubbing swing of an RPG Launcher's stock. Not the warhead end, mind you. He was going to bash me where I was sitting.

Thanks to that split-second warning, I was surging upward, deflecting his swinging weapon with this here arm, as he jerked up his left forearm in demonstration. The raghead then kicked at my groin, but only connected with my turned thigh. I bobbed and weaved. I feinted low and to the left, and I swiped my knife hard to the right, streaking through inches of the bad guy’s shirt and a deep slashing lateral slice of belly flesh. Well! I’ll be damned! That terrorist only grunted, pulled back, and switched his grip like a baseball player. It was easy to see this guy was a soccer dude because he swung the stock like a little league T-baller. You know, slow, weak, and with almost laughable timing. I jerked the RPG loose and tossed it down the hill. To me, that guy was only a pesky insect.

I’ll give him this, though. The shithead Shiite had spunk, but he was dumb enough to charge me head-on, so I sidestepped and pushed the passing jerk down hard. He did a face dive and landed lips first in the rocky gravel. Ouch, that had'a hurt! I mumbled to myself. 'Hey!' I was willing to take him prisoner, but the bleeding bastard was insane with rage. Probably couldn’t get over that I, as a lowly infidel, was kicking his ass royally. His last, death-inviting, act was to run at me with a large rock.

I ducked under the roundhouse swing and sunk my Boker knife deep up under the Jihad’s sternum. Twisting the blade, I grabbed some shirt and pulled him up so we could be eyeball to eyeball. I told'm, 'Git ready to meet your maker,' and jerking out my knife, I then stabbed it into the man’s chest. Lastly, I jerked it out and slashed his throat.

Then I sincerely thanked Jesus, and finished with the fourth line of the Lord’s prayer, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

As I was searching this last KIA, I discovered he had a bulging belly purse, under his shirt, that contained some mighty fine Intel, maps and such. Even a coordinating list of places and names. Crap! Maybe I’ve said too much. But once again, true story. Honest Injun, and I’m allowed to say that because my bloodlines come from the Chitimacha and Choctaw Indian tribes. Plus, I’m half Caucasian, an part black. But my story’s gotta stop here. I can’t tell y'all anymore. It’s way too classified.

After Kelly’s spiel of ten or fifteen enthralling minutes, DuLay wanted a little of the spotlight. She spoke of her recent terrorist killing adventure. As was absolutely necessary, she sanitized Kelly completely out of their joint adventure.

Just before my reassignment here, my Supply NCOIC down south, SFC Dirty Dan McDaniel, had me and PFC Fergie motor out in the boonies all by ourselves. We didn't have any MP escorts or any air cover in the queue. Which, looking back, was really stupid of the SFC in charge. I was driving an up-armored Humvee. Man, I was flying down the road jarring our collective butts off, but trying to stay ahead of a huge billowing dust contrail. All of a sudden—Ka-Boom!

That blasted our Hummer over and it landed upside down in a cloud of flames and dust. I guess the explosion slammed Fergie to the roof and killed him outright? Head all bashed in and all? I was knocked cold, and the SFC was as well. Except he may have been faking. At any rate, this cool Marine Corps Lieutenant braved all the automatic weapon fires, ran over to the Hummer, put out the dashboard fire, pulled me out, and slung me over his shoulder. He carted me off to safety. Relativity speaking, that is, 'cause we were under enemy small-arms fire. Then he dashed off again and shoveled the SFC over his shoulder. Like he did me. I was thinking this handsome LT was Superman, but—Pow! A ricochet nicked his leg, knocking him down, spilling SFC Dillwad ass-over-tea-kettle. So the LT latched onto some webbing and dragged the shitbird to safety. The LT went back a third time, but it was too late to save Fergie. What a waste! The guy only had a couple of days left, not only on his tour, but on his entire enlistment. I sure hope his family doesn’t get screwed out of his $50,000 SGLI.

What is a SGL-LIE, asked a confused, fuzzy-headed boot.

Shirley cut in, S-G-L-I. That’s an automatic insurance Uncle Sam pays for all of us in the military. Fifty-K is free while you're in, and you can pay to keep it going after you’re discharged.

Another troop sounded off. Yeah, you can pay extra and have the coverage go up to four-hundred thousand smackers. But why would I do that? Cut myself short so my old lady can be rich? Not me, buster! Anyway, DuLay, get back to your story, this policy and benefit malarkey they can learn later.

Isabella bragged, It was a mondo firefight. We ended up fighting two nests of terrorists. At the start of it all, I had no weapon. The SFC didn’t allow me to carry. The LT was letting me fire at the bad guys with his automatic while he was dodging back and forth to the Humvee carcass. Fergie had started the trip with an M4, but, like I said, he was dead. I think Fergies M4 had this detachable grenade thingie clipped to the bottom of the barrel. But the M4’s front barrel was bent beyond use. Which wasn’t found out until the LT crossed the danger zone for the fourth and last time? Well, while the two Marines were planning our next combat strategies, a raghead crawled up close, jumped up and was pumping bullet after bullet out an AK-47 like there was no tomorrow. Know what?—For him, there wasn’t. Without thinking, I snatched up the LT’s sidearm and, barely aiming, I fired the Beretta. Bang!

And the group went bug-eyed. What happened next?

I toppled him quicker than that singer, superstar, Kacey Musgraves dropped her mic when ‘Same Trailer Different Park’ took the Country Album of the year. One round down range, one hole in the middle of his forehead.

Isabella left out the part where the round had gone off prematurely before she had steadied her aim. Adrenalin will do that once in a while in the heat of battle.

After a ten minute uphill climb through her brain fog, Shirley wanted to know, You mean,—your Humvee was totally blown up?

Shut the frick up, girlfriend. Don’t be such a FNG! Let DuLay talk! Then a seasoned ground pounder encouraged, Was that it? That's all?

Corporal DuLay marched right back into her spiel. Not on your life. See, we were short on weapons and ammo. Out front of our position, there was a perfectly good AK just laying in the dust. So I tossed down the pistol, in case I didn’t make it? Then I dashed out, slid to the ground, snatched up the deadman’s AK, some ammo stuffed in bandoliers, and an ancient revolver. Don’t remember whatever happened to that rusty old piece? Any-hoo, bullets were flying and striking all around me as I zig-zagged back and jumped over a boulder to safety. The two Jarheads, and I use that term respectfully, made me an honorary Gyrene on the spot for capturing the much needed rifle and extra bullets.

An Airman busted in. Girl, you actually shot terrorists and ran out under fire and captured an AK-47? Chill'n, girlfriend! That’s chill'n. I bet you’ll earn a Silver Star for that?

Palms up and deferring, Isabella said, Maybe, maybe not the Silver Star, but I don’t think anyone has the balls to deny me the Bronze Star with a Combat V. That stands for valor. Just incase you rookies don't know. Plus, I’ve already know, I'm going to receive a Purple Heart with an Oak Leaf Cluster. However, it seems that I’m in a little trouble too, pending the outcome of an investigation. They accused me of deliberately losing some legal evidence on a soldier. Of course, I’m innocent. Paperwork crap gets lost all the time. Doesn’t it? I have no idea why they think I did the deed? Probably just because the dude under investigation used to date me. With a wink, she flirted out, So what! I was a very popular young lady, don't ya know? She was pleased to see everyone was buying her cover story—hook, line, and sinker.

Was it Kelly’s stuff you lost? asked a wide-eyed Shirley.

Sarcastically, Isabella spat back, No! Don’t be an idiot, stupid. He’s a lean, green Marine and I’m Army, totally different branches of service, you half-witted dodo bird. I never saw him before yesterday. Which leads me to ask? Kelly, where are you from?

Originally from Cajun country. The little known town of Bayou Cane, Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana. But if you mean my last Marine unit, it was the First Marine Division Expeditionary Force? I’m ah—or, I meant to say, I was Recon and Intel. Special ops and hush-hush stuff, not to be discussed. Now I’m just gonna be driving the NATO supply's NCOIC. Well, whoop-deee-doo!

Shirley uttered, Yippee, me too. Oh-oh, I don’t mean supply driver, but I’m going to be a clerk typist in NATO supply, too.

DuLay piped in, Well, isn’t this a small world? I’m tagged to work inventory there.

Always willing to take charge, Kelly directed, Okay gang, time to go our separate ways and finish processing. Izzy, do you want to meet here for supper? Maybe we can manage a proper date tonight.

Sounds good. But don't call me Izzy! See you then, she expressed as she pushed away from the table. Shirley, since we’re both Army and both assigned to supply, we might as well hang together and get this bullcrap checking-in done. So the group split up into segments and went on their own errands.

After getting the minutia worked out, like finance, the bank, sickbay, rec-center, and such, Kelly prioritized his remaining three check-offs. First, no sense postponing the inevitable. He had to meet his new boss, the NATO HQ Supply Sergeant, sooner or later. Now was as good of a time as any. Then the next checkpoint would be the Armory and, last and best, find out where his permanent quarters were going to be. Even though he was under a heavy cloud of suspicion, as an E-5 NCO, he still rated a single room, full bed, and private shower.

Entering the supply complex, initially, it seemed to stretch endlessly with several buildings and stacks upon stacks of pallets. Finding the all-important, main supply building, he marched past riveted stares of the other workers and went straight to the office door marked in four rows of raised embossed lettering that displayed; Tyrone Smith, MGySgt. USMC, SUPPLY NCOIC, NATO Headquarters.

The title ‘MGySgt’ stated this guy was a Marine Corps Master Gunnery Sergeant, an E-9. This grade was near the pinnacle of the enlisted chain. The only enlisted rank higher was that of Command Sergeant Major, which was also an E-9 rating, but received more pay for more responsibility.

Out of habit, and almost unconsciously, Kelly gave himself a quick double-check and found everything squared away except a loose string trying to escape from behind a button on his shirt. Snapping off the errant wisp, known in Marine lingo as an Irish pennant, it was tucked away in a pocket. Knocking with forcefulness on the doorjamb, he loudly and formally announced, Master Gunnery Sergeant Smith! Sergeant Cauterloocci requests permission to enter.

The one word bellowed back was, ENTER! only to be followed up with less menacing, Git your sorry ass in here and close the damn hatch. This here’s going to be a private meeting.

Opening the door, he sly eye-balled the office, noticing the usual military accouterments of file cabinets, oak and glass bookcases, and the ever-present cork board with mandatory safety blurbs and notes pinned to it. Then, closing the door and striding forward with exaggerated, formal precision, Kelly centered himself at attention three feet from the largest ebony-wood desk he had ever laid eyes on. Master Gunnery Sergeant, Sergeant Cauterloocci reporting for duty as ordered.

What was most unusual in the room was the built-in fireplace, a tall, solid steel gun safe, polished wood wall paneling, a sea of lush carpeting, and very modern, plush furniture? All around were the accouterments of other assignments and Asian tours, like the obligatory souvenir sword in its glossy black shellacked scabbard and black on white pictures of shy Geisha girls with cherry blossoms in the background.

Glancing off to the side of the expensive-looking leather-bound desk blotter, he saw a statue depicting five Marines plus a Navy Corpsman raising a large flag. He remembered, They had to do it twice, so the photographer could capture that iconic, awe-inspiring picture during the Battle of Iwo Jima.

The window riding air conditioning unit was straining away noisily but losing the struggle to the extreme outside heat seeping through the roof and walls. Smith's sharply starched combat utility uniform blouse was hanger hung on a wall hook. Attired in camouflage cargo pants and a green T-shirt sitting behind the desk sat his new boss. He was a very big Marine, reading something from an open government folder. His bulging muscles from earlier decades of strenuous exercise were slowly turning to fat as the bumps and humps of his thick neck melted into his shoulders. His 8-Ball smooth head reflected a dull shine from the overhead fluorescent lights. Even so, he was looking large and in charge despite the light brown freckles spackling his dark black face.

In a barbed, demeaning voice, the senior sergeant said, "Stand at ease, Mister Kelly Cauterloocci. How the hell do you get away with such long, curly locks? Around here, you better get a haircut and start shaving twice a day. You look mighty darn scruffy. You are a Marine, aren’t you? Your shit won’t take wings and fly here. You don't see any pansy-ass curls on my head so your hair better be gone by tomorrow. The Bird Colonel wants me to square you away, and I’m damn well going to see that accomplished in spades. I notice, by this added entry in your two-oh-one file, that you’ve gotten yourself into quite a pickle at your old unit. And, you just don’t seem to be starting off any too good here, either? Now do you?"

Staring straight ahead with eyes focused on the wall behind the supply Sergeant’s head, Kelly stated, Master Sergeant, those charges are under review. I’m innocent.

Innocent my ass, Cauterloocci. I can tell just by looking at you, you’re guilty of something. Maybe you fragged an officer and maybe you didn’t, but innocent, you’re not. And knock off that bullshit with the 1000-yard stare over my head. I’ve got one question for you, boy. Look me in the eye and answer this quietly—just between two Jarhead NCOs. Did that LT deserve to be fragged?

Hesitantly, running several calculated scenarios as to how best explain the cover story’s phony incident, Kelly stared down eyes to eyeballs, and finally sneered, Master Gunnery Sergeant, hypothetically, yes, he deserved it. Want to know why I thought so?

"Not interested in history, boy. I just need to learn if you’re trustworthy or not. Until I do, I’ll be checking every step you take. Every commissioned officer I’ve had the displeasure of working for had an embellished, pretentious sense of self. Know what I mean, boy?

I do, Master Sergeant.

Those highfalutin, jack-off officers go way overboard about their chicken-shit chivalry, traditions, and so-called honor and integrity. Most all that bullshit comes from the West Point boys, ‘bout not lying, cheating or stealing. What a bunch of total horseshit. Just what do you think the creed should be for us, non-commissioned officers? What should be the doctrine of the NCO Corps, he asked, shifting back in his executive chair and allowing a knowing, wide, sanctimonious grin to spread cheek to cheek?"

I can’t say for sure, never heard of one, but I’ll take a stab at it. Let me think. With a furrowed brow and a slight frown, he decided to go all-in and volunteered, Get the job done would have to be first, ‘cause we do all the work. Seeing an approving nod that seemed to say, go on, Kelly paused a few seconds and added, and we have to git it finished almost instantaneously because they always wait till the last minute to tell us to do something.

Damn straight, boy! But you’re leaving out one of the most important things. Take another stab. Go on, son.

Here’s where Kelly had to take the real leap of faith after pondering which off the wall answer might appeal to this guy. Well, given we have to do the work and we have to get’er done on short notice, I’d say we need to be smart enough not to get caught when we bend the rules a bit to do what we have to do.

Tyrone Smith moved back over to his desktop and leaned forward conspiratorially. Son, you got a helluva sharp brain there. I run a tight ship here even though the crew is a mix of civilian foreigners, candy-ass soldiers, and wing wipers of both sexes. Thank God, there ain’t no swabbie noncoms attached to me. You and I happen to be the only Jarhead NCOs assigned here at the moment, and I ain’t have'n no one step outta line on me. You hear!

Semi-contritely, Sarge responded, Master Gunnery Sergeant, you’ll get no trouble from me. None at all.

I don’t give a rat’s ass ‘bout any burdens you could bring on. Hassles I can handle! And call me ‘Gunny’ or ‘Top’ while we’re here in my private office, but not in officer territory. No, Kelly, outside trouble is not my problem at the moment. It's the disloyal idiots that might wreck my lucrative set-up I've built here.

Reaching into a bottom drawer, Tyrone pulled out a tall, narrow black container with gold lettering and held the top of it with his thumb and middle finger to center it on the desk’s green felt blotter. While staring right dead center at Cauterloocci, his left hand reached down and withdrew two double shot glasses to set beside the package. Relax a little son, you look tense. Step up, open the carton, and pour us a drink.

Kelly moved forward, picked up the box with one big mitt, freed the flap, and removed the bottle by its neck with his other hand. Then, he studied the box. The glossy, embossed package contained a full measure of golden brown, Tennessee sipping whiskey. Sitting the box down, he pried open the thin-metallic seal with his thumbnail. Reading parts of the label out loud, he muttered, Jack Daniels, 1915 Gold Medal, 90 proof. Don’t believe I’ve ever drank this before, as he twist-pulled the cork out and began to carefully pour three fingers of JD into each tumbler.

Well then, son, you’re in for a treat! It's smooth as silk, but with a mellow bite and a mighty fine aftertaste that lingers right along with the burn. Watching Kelly re-cork and sit the bottle back down, he continued, Most people would read this here fragging report and say you have three strikes against you. Game over! You say the Lieutenant deserved it. I believe you. I’ve met many an officer that didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. By you saying ‘he deserved it,’ you passed my first little test of honesty.

Reaching for his shot glass of hard liquor, Tyrone lifted it up in a half salute and said, Cheers! After savoring a moderate sip, he directed, Go on, take a pull, Kelly, my boy. Enjoy!

After watching the junior NCO take another small swallow, Smith went on to say, Instead of several strikes against you,—you maybe have a couple of things moving you into my good graces. Any idea what I might be speaking of?

With a confused tilt of the brow and dipping angle of his head, he admitted, Gunny, I’m lost here. No notion of what you’re talking about.

The Supply Sergeant took another sip of the lustrous amber-colored whiskey, relished it, and elaborated. This morning I got a call from HQ and was told you were to be my supply driver. Kelly, you could be my right-hand man here, and my driver too. Yeah, I’ve got two E-6 Staff Sergeants that outrank you, but they’re totally white-bread. Worse than that, they'er army boys, if you get my drift, brother. That would still look like you're being punished, drivers usually being Lance Corporals and all. You’re black, though certainly not as pure-blooded like me, but black none the less. I need loyalty from somebody trustworthy. Could that someone be you?

Look, Top, I’m just wanting the last few months of my enlistment to run their course. With no more trouble. Then—I’m outta the Corps for good. When the Marine Corps sets out to screw you, they’ll never forget or just let it go. You know as well as I do that’s how the ‘Crotch’ works. I’ve had it!

Don’t be too rash. Things around here can be more beneficial—how should I say, —more rewarding than you might ever stop to imagine?

Reverting to a more formal form of address, Kelly repeated, Master Gunnery Sergeant Smith, I just want to keep my nose clean and do my time. When my contract is up, in a few months, I’m outta here for good. Then he swigged his whiskey down, sat his tumbler back on the blotter and, with finality, stepped back into parade rest.

After no further response from Kelly, Tyrone carried on. So that’s what you’ll be doing unless all the shit barrels need burning. Get my drift? What else are you licensed to drive? Forming a scowling frown, then erasing it, Tyrone replaced it with a big grin and suggested, Top off our drinks again and put the bottle back in the box, boy.

Kelly did as Top instructed, but he went lighter on his refill than he did with the Supply Sergeant's glass. Once the whiskey had been poured and the bottle plugged, he carefully inserted it in the box, closed the flap, and slid it across the desktop, closer to Smith.

The Supply Sergeant took out a little yellow 3M sticky note and scratched out a few words. Kelly couldn’t quite see the writing, except it looked like it started with his own name. Gunny purposefully picked up the box at its bottom, stuck the sticky on top, and carefully carried the carton over to the safe. Spinning the dial with one hand masterfully, he swung the door outward and stowed the boxed booze away. Returning to his desk, he lifted his shot glass and instructed, No need to make a hasty decision now. We will revisit this subject later. Finish your drink. For now, just get over to the motor pool. Have the Motor Sergeant show you how to conduct a full maintenance inspection on my personal Humvee. Then you top off all the fluids and wash it. Got it?

Got it, Gunny. Where we going?

We ain’t goin’ no place today. Just do what I say and don’t question me, boy. Then go to the Senior NCO barracks and check out where you’ll be sleeping. Tell the NCOIC there, I said, to give you your choice of any vacant Senior NCO room. He gives you any lip or back-talk, have him call me. Take the rest of the day to square away your gear, but report back to me at 0630 hours right after sunup.

Do I bring the Humvee over?

In a rough, gruff, exasperated tone he barked, Didn’t I just say don’t question me? Of course, bring my Humvee around! You think I’m gonna wanna wait till you, my driver, trot back and forth to the Motor Pool tomorrow? Kelly, you gotta start thinking for yourself. I’m not used to having to explain every piddling detail twice. Especially to a seasoned Jarhead.

To answer your last question, I pretty much can drive every tactical vehicle. Deuce-and-a-Half cargo trucks too.

Have the Motor Sergeant bump your license ratings up to include petroleum and explosive hauling on all 18-wheel cargo trucks.

Kelly started to ask about the special training required for those special ratings, but held his tongue this time. Tyrone closed Kelly’s 201 file folder and started shuffling a stack of meaningless paperwork. Sarge took that correctly as a sign of dismissal. Aye, aye, Sergeant. See you at oh-six thirty. After which, he turned smartly and strode out, stopping only to open, then close the door behind him. Thinking to himself, he considered their first meeting strange indeed. Sounded like I was already being interviewed and groomed for crooked dealings. If so, it was probably smart to play hard-to-get? Just like I did.

Then he tried to visualize what that brief glance into the safe had revealed, so he could offer some meaningful Intel to Brett via Izzy. Reflecting, he pictured four small, gray money boxes that usually held petty cash. That many, in one safe, was weirdly unexpected. And how about those several other booze boxes? Besides the one they had just drunk from, he saw, at least three other brands with the same size yellow sticky-note. Another thing that caught his eye was a tube of semi-glossy, waterproof looking paper that he took to be the backside of a rolled-up map.

Kelly walked back past the same gauntlet of supply clerk stares. The mixed staff in this NATO unit seemed so strange to him. He was used to everyone being in the same uniform. Not here. Troops from all the services worked in their different uniforms. Civilians, as always, in whatever clothes they decided on that morning, or in too many cases with Afgan males, what they selected last week and continued to wear day in day out. Their stink readily identified the most serious culprits. As he walked out the main door, he wondered, what the hell have I gotten myself into? Again!

At the front of the main supply building, the driver of a Humvee, an airman with the last name of Zachariah, waved him over. "Top phoned ahead and told me