The Repairman- The Complete Box Set, Page 2

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  October, 2005

  Desert Freedom

  Al Qa’im, a dirt-bag town of twenty five thousand on the western edge of Anbar province, only a mile or so from the Syrian border, along the three hundred foot wide mud-bog that’s the Euphrates River. We’re 320 clicks northwest of Baghdad, and I wish we were back at Camp Victory.

  Al Qa’im is mostly an agricultural town, but, it’s particularly interesting place to our people for another reason—the Al Qa’im phosphate plant and uranium extraction line is located here, and was part of Iraq's comprehensive nuclear weapons development program. Some of those infamous weapons of mass destruction, WMD’s, were never found…of course it’s only a mile to Syria, and it quickly became my belief that Syria now hides all of Saddam’s toys. Before Desert Storm, Iraq recovered uranium yellow cake in this facility. The Iraqis planned to use this yellow cake to produce the feed material needed for multiple uranium enrichment efforts in their secret nuclear weapons program. This program, later uncovered by U.N. inspectors, focused on building an implosion-type weapon. The coalition bombed this facility in Desert Storm and Iraq promptly rebuilt it.

  As far as I’m concerned we should give the hajis a fifteen-minute notice then shake and bake—white phosphorous and copperhead artillery shells—the whole stinking place.

  So we watch it closely, and will make sure it’s inoperable—totally, completely, for-all-time, if I have my way long before we take our leave.

  After ten years a Marine, my early years serving in Marine Intel, HUMINT or Human Intelligence, I was proud to be a Warrant Officer. At the end of my eighth year, as soon as I possibly could after reaching E-5, sergeant, and after receiving the Legion of Merit for distinguished service in Somalia—that particular engagement unknown to American civilians—I applied for the appointment in Force Recon. I then attended Warrant Officer Basic at Quantico and was given additional leadership and management training—that’s SOP for non-coms.

  So here I am in the sandbox, sweating like I've just done a twenty-mile hump in full gear, leading a select group whose main duty is intelligence gathering in forward positions. Most of the time ‘intelligence gathering’ is an oxymoron for bashing down doors and rummaging through the personal belongings of Iraqi citizens. Occasionally it pays off with a cache of arms, a personal computer or cell phone which has valuable info, or something even better. One of the better items was a list of weapons caches in the area.

  It doesn’t win hearts and minds.

  We’ve been here a week, much of the time outside the wire and out of our choo—containerized housing unit—which has been set up in a small ten choo FOB—forward operating base—ten clicks from Al Qa’im down the Euphrates, and mixing with the populace. On the fifth day out, I am surprised to be spoken to by a young Iraqi woman with striking ebony eyes—jet black pupils in striking white—surrounded by clean, clear skin, with lashes for which a Hollywood starlet would die. She is accompanied by another young woman, not quite so slim and pretty, who doesn’t speak, but merely stares in wonder at her brash sister, or whatever relationship they might have.

  "My name is Vania," she says, in surprisingly good English, clearly heard through her conservative veil, supposedly covering all but her eyes, but sagging to reveal sharp cheekbones and a straight, slightly aquiline but still attractive nose. Her head is swathed in a wrap, a hijab, her body totally covered from the neck down with an abayah, which in turn could cover their simple cotton sheath or a stylish dress from the latest internationally known designer. I have the impression that this young woman—beautiful I’d surmise—chose, and could only afford, the former. It is clear she has an impressive bust line, yet is slender, which is about all I can conclude. My eyes sweep her, and her companion, but not to admire her. Rather, I’m looking for the telltale bulge of a bomb. Even suicide bombers can have beautiful eyes.

  We are next to a wadi, a shallow ravine with a foot trail in its bottom, a click from the town. It winds among fields of crops between the town and the river. I’m a little surprised to see her here, as over a thousand families have fled the town, most into Syria, since we occupied. But we’re sheltered from view by the grove of palms where we now converse—palms my squad is sweeping—as only yesterday we took fire from this location. As the squad leader, I’m on point and my people are spread out enough that we won’t all be taken out by the same IED, or single sweep of automatic fire.

  "Nice to meet you, Vania. I’m Mike. Won’t you get in trouble for speaking to me?" I'm wondering how she's looking so cool while I'm trying to keep the sweat out of my eyes. It must be cultural adjustment.

  "Not if we speak quickly, and are not seen." But she cuts her eyes back and forth worriedly.

  "Then, what can I do for you?"

  She hesitates for a moment, then I can hear the smile in her voice. "I just desired to speak with an American man, a soldier, to see if you are the devils our men say you are." She giggles.

  I can’t help but laugh. "Even my sainted mother has called me a devil a time or two. From your perspective, I guess I understand why you might think us so."

  "Perspective?"

  "Your view."

  "Aw, so you don’t eat little children." She flashes a smile that belies most Iraqis poor dental health.

  "Nor do we beat our women, nor make them walk behind, nor keep them from working or driving an automobile."

  "How many wives do you have?"

  I laugh again. "None."

  "You know that Iraq banned more than one wife before I was born."

  "So you have only one husband?" I say, tongue in cheek.

  This time she laughs. "Only one."

  "We must go," the other girl says, looking from side to side. I can see she is very nervous. But the prettier one ignores her, and asks, "Are you a general?"

  Again I laugh. "No, ma’am, I’m merely a warrant officer."

  "An officer in the U.S. Army—"

  "Marine Corps," I quickly correct.

  "In the U. S. Marine…he must make a great deal of dinar…how do you say…money?"

  As she speaks, Tariq, our unit’s interpreter, our haji, steps out of the palms, and I can see he is upset. "You should not speak with a woman…particularly a young woman." Then he snaps at her in Najdi Arabic, something I don’t understand although I have a smattering of the language. I understand enough to know that what he’s saying isn’t nice.

  I step in, gaining a glare from Tariq. "I was speaking to her, it was not her speaking to me," I say, a little defensively. And I can see he doesn’t believe me, or doesn’t care.

  "I heard, from the trees," he says, his tone haughty.

  The two girls hurry away without looking back.

  I think little of it until two days later, when Tariq comes to me, and seems to again have a superior attitude. "I told you that you should not have spoken to Vania Sharafi."

  "You know her?"

  "I know her family."

  "Why’s that? Why shouldn’t I speak to her? It’s not like we were alone, another girl—"

  '"Infidelity is a crime against Allah, and she will pay."

  "Infidelity? Pay how?"

  "She could be stoned—""Wait a minute, I spoke to her, she didn’t speak to me," I lie, "and there was certainly no infidelity."

  "It is looked upon differently here. It will be settled this very day by the men of her family."


  There is little I can do but nod. But we are due to leave our temporary hutch in an abandoned factory on another patrol this afternoon for random searches of Al Qa’im homes for arms caches…and I suddenly determine that I am going to find the Sharafi home, and put it on my list. It isn’t the way to gain the hearts and minds of the Iraqis in my opinion, kicking down doors and charging in, shouting and wielding weapons. But those are the orders of the day, and we follow orders.

  I get on the radio and inquire about the Sharafi residence, telling a small lie that I’d heard they were sympathetic to the enemy and I feel the need to make an incursion. If they are in fear of Marines, they’ll be less likely to do something stupid to the young lady I’d met and briefly spoken with.

  I was wrong, and I was right.

  I ignore the last sound coming through the radio, which is "stay away from the Sharafi residence." It was as if the order was a tree falling in a forest where there was no one to hear.

  We approach the house both front and back. It may be the largest residence in town, or nearly so. The walls next to the road, and a two-piece drive through gate, indicate a large open area in front of the residence, which is set back twenty-five or thirty paces, before it raises two stories, as well as having an enclosed verandah on the roof—this I learned from studying aerials before leaving our temporary base.

  We approach quietly, unloading from our gun truck which we’d Frankensteined together, knowing a like-sized force of six Marines were unloading at the rear of the house. I can hear lots of raucous haji male voices, seemingly raised in anger, from inside the yard. I check the load in the Benelli M1014 12 gauge I carry, in my opinion the only weapon for this kind of close work. It has a telescoping stock, when folded in as it now is, and can be easily swung in tight doorways or halls. When extended and fired from the shoulder with rifled slugs, it’s good to at least a hundred yards, but with double-ought buck, six in the magazine and one in the chamber, I can clean out room after room without reloading. However I carry another dozen shells hung among my battle rattle—the fifty pounds of gear hung from my Kevlar.

  PFC Sanchez deftly wraps C-4 det cord around the padlocked chain, and just as the haji voices inside seem to reach a crescendo and as my second hand sweeps past 0400 the explosion blows away the chains and the auto gates part enough that we can charge through. I’ve always insisted on leading the way, and I do.

  There are over a dozen robed men, in traditional dishdasha, in the courtyard, some in turbans, some in checkered keffiyehs. All turn to face me. I am struck by the expressionless looks, as if nothing special was happening, as if they hadn’t just—obvious to my quick perusal—taken the lives of two young women for merely speaking to someone they considered an infidel.

  Only one man is dressed otherwise, and he wears the uniform of the Iraqi Army. It is immediately apparent what is taking place as two girls lie, arms and legs askew, on the pavement in the center of the area. Blood splatters the area around them, as well as skull fragments and some gray matter from the young lady I’d spoken to. One of those beautiful ebony eyes protrude from her crushed skull, I presume from the blow of a concrete block resting three inches from her in a puddle of blood and gore.

  A quick glance at a parapet above reveals two women, both crying hysterically but carrying no weapons.

  The sight, the gore, sickens me and as tough and impenetrable as I think I’ve become, my stomach roils. I am more sickened by the fact I am only moments too late.

  More than one haji quickly drops a rock from his hands. A variety of bloodied rocks and a couple of horrid gore covered concrete blocks litter the area. Were I not hot to the core, seeing red, enraged, I would probably be sick.

  Only two of the men are armed, one the uniformed Iraqi Army officer. They both carry AK47’s, and, to my great pleasure, raise them to come to bear on my squad.

  All of this transpires within three seconds of breeching the doorway.

  The first blast from my twelve gauge almost decapitates the man nearest me, and the second opens the stomach of a man only fifteen yards away. Only then do I come to terms with the fact that I’ve killed an Iraqi Army officer, supposedly an ally—but he was raising a weapon which might have cut me in half. The others scatter like barnyard chickens from a coyote and scamper in a half dozen different directions. I cut two more down—seeing them as sub-human, cowardly curs, as they’d just proved themselves to be, and truthfully not caring if they are threats—before they reach what appears to be the main door to the house. With my men close behind, I charge into that opening where a couple of hajis who are faster have already disappeared. By the time I breech the doorway, I see their trailing robes fade into a doorway across the main room, which is sparse of furniture but the floor is covered with what appear to be Persian carpets. I can’t say I am disappointed when one of them exposes the barrel of a weapon, then jerks it back.

  It is enough excuse—not that I gave a damn if I have one or not—for me to jerk a grenade off my belt, count a quick three, and lob it through the doorway. I yell "frag out" and we all hit the floor as the ensuing blast reverberates through the whole house.

  Then silence, as dust settles, until I hear the rest of my squad who’ve entered from the rear, shouting "clear" as they move toward the main room where we are getting to our feet.

  "All’s well?" I ask as PFC Willingham slips into the room in a half crouch.

  He nods. "Affirmative, Stick." We warrant officers are referred to as lipstick lieutenants because of the red stripes on our bars, so my boys have shortened it.

  "What a total cluster-fuck," I manage to mutter. My personal mission was to impress the men of the family, the possibility being that they would do nothing to antagonize us, such as stoning an innocent young woman...how wrong can one guy be?

  I move to the doorway where I’d thrown the grenade and quickly discover that my kill total is six.

  I still think I was right to search that house, and a small cache of weapons, including a pair of RPG’s, proved so, at least to me, and probably saved my ass from a general court marshal. So I was right to dispatch the six Iraqis, even though one turned out to be a local sheikh and cleric. Unfortunately the Marine Corps and the ruling hajis they had to answer to didn’t agree.

  In fact, they violently disagreed.

  I could have been a bit more discreet, even if the uniformed haji was raising a weapon. As I later realized the Iraqi in tan wore the six-color desert camouflage uniform of a major general, complete with shoulder slides.

  What a double cluster-fuck it turned out to be!

  The good news is I am able to find Tariq, the haji interpreter who ratted the girls out to their family, an hour before I’m scheduled to leave the sandbox. I would like to rip his head off and piss down his throat, but rather, with a straight right and two left hooks, I relieve him of four of his front teeth. It is mildly satisfying, even though they are yellow and half-rotten and in the long run I probably did him a favor. I split two knuckles in the process, and will probably get an infection, but it was worth it.

  Hereafter, I'm on my own.

  1

  TODAY

  When a guy's talents are search and destroy, there's not much he can do out in the real world…other than search and destroy.

  The two of them, Frick and Frack, have been dogging my trail around Ventura long enough that I know it isn’t merely a coincidence…like one wouldn’t notice a big black SUV, that keeps appearing and disappearing.

  We've got a little ocean effect weather, with the fog lying low about a quarter mile in from the beach, and even on this spring day my leather jacket and helmet are not uncomfortable. It's in the low sixties, good weather for a little light work on the bag, or on some asshole's head. The weather was beautiful just minutes ago, but the coast is fickle.

  I let them follow me into a parking structure, park my Harley Sportster, casually cross the second story parking area, then lie in wait in the stairwell. The lot’s cold, concrete, smelling of
bums pissing in the corners, lined with black tire tracks, and a great place for kicking some ass out of sight of the rest of the world, but maybe the stairwell is better yet. It smells as if the bums have been doing more than urinating in its corners. My quick surveillance of the 2nd level reveals a video camera, but there are none in the stairwell. It's hard to find a place in this observant world where you're out of sight of some digital device.

  They are at a disadvantage—crisp white shirts, narrow ties, sharp creases—dressed like they’ve come fresh out of the FBI academy, which I’m sure is a fact. And they're doubly at a disadvantage as I am sure they have no idea I'm onto them. So, as I don’t like having my trail dogged, I am about to discourage them from further casual observation with almost all the vigor I can muster. If it results in a broken bone or two—on them, not me—que sera'. I won’t hang for long after I determine who they are, and with luck, by the time their cobwebs clear, I’ll be far down the trail.

  The fibbies, if that’s who they are, are well trained, but unless I get a big surprise, not quite well enough. The boys who’ve come from the military have normally been able to give them a lesson. We’ll soon see.... This is not the first time I've lain in wait for some stalk, or some sniper.

  It’s amazing how much work there is these days for a talented repairman.

  Yes, I’m a jack-of-all trades, but my work is not carpentry, painting, or fixing your appliances…it’s far more personal than that. Even though my business card, which has only a Mumbai, India email address for contact, says merely M. Reardon, Repairs. I’m in the business of fixing relationships, of returning stolen items, of righting the wrongs of the world. And, no, I carry no license of any kind, not a private detective license, not a bail enforcement license—although I do have a badge, there's no license required—only a driver’s license and I’ve got a half dozen of those, one from California, one from Nevada, one from Utah, and two from Florida. My actual factual license is from Wyoming. And even though unlicensed, other than a bail enforcement arrangement with a guy in Vegas which entitles me to carry a badge, I’ve performed lots of private detective assignments, some bail enforcement, both stateside and internationally, and a little bodyguard work. It seems if you get the job done, licenses matter little.