Shooter Galloway Read online

  Doc Dyer had been the first to treat Galloway’s leg wounds after the sniper incident, and everyone seemed to know that Shooter Galloway had killed two bandits in some sort of Montana shoot out. Dyer still hungered to hear that story, but Galloway seemed uninterested in the incident and had not brought it up.

  Like most New Yorkers, the older Dyers believed that guns should be registered and tightly controlled. The Dyer home did not have guns. Frankie thought differently, and he was a stern, if inexperienced, defender of the right to keep and bear arms. In liberal and virtually disarmed New York City, he encountered few kindred spirits.

  To his surprise and chagrin, Dyer discovered that the Navy also no longer did much with guns. Recruits no longer drilled with rifles, and there was only a basic familiarization firing of weapons that taught little and failed to develop significant marksmanship skills.

  The Marines were different. Marines were riflemen first and everything else a distant second. Marines seemed always on the ranges, and there was no question that they lived with their rifles.

  Still, most Marines knew only what they were taught, and that included only Marine Corps weaponry. Shooter Galloway knew a lot more. Galloway talked pistols, rifles, and shotguns. He quoted ballistics, he knew prices, and he understood strengths and weaknesses of small arms that no one else had even heard of.

  Galloway spoke familiarly of bullet weights, case volumes, and terminal velocities. Sectional densities and ballistic coefficients readily melded into discussions of apparent recoil and appropriate scope powers for various probable encounters with assorted game animals as well as human enemies.

  Clearly, Shooter Galloway had studied his subjects, and about snipers, Lance Corporal Galloway seemed to know everything. After Galloway’s astonishing success in eliminating the Iraqi sniper, Shooter’s word became gospel on how wars should be fought.

  Doc Dyer sucked in Galloway’s opinions and information. The more he heard, the more interested Dyer became. It wasn’t that Frank Dyer wished he were a Marine. Doc was married to medicine, but off duty, guns and the adventures they promised came ever closer. He wanted to own them. He wanted to shoot rifles and pistols. He hungered to stride with his new friend through the mysterious and primitive Notch that Shooter spoke of. He wanted to hunt deer and turkeys and visit with Galloway’s mysterious Uncle Mop who rode Harleys, carried a pistol or two at all times, and who lived in a wilderness cabin in “the big sky country” of Montana.

  After he had done all of those things, Doc Dyer thought he might be ready to settle down to more college and more degrees until he became a licensed physician. In the meantime, there was doctoring to do here in the desert and Dyer knew, as surely as did the Marines he traveled with, that his skills might be needed and could save some lives.

  Shooter had just begun to describe the advantages of a .300 Weatherby’s flat trajectory when another halt was announced. The reduced squad got ready, and as the personnel carrier halted, they exited swiftly and took up their usual defensive security positions. Shooter passed a motley group of seven outwardly unarmed Iraqis sitting beside the trail with their hands on top of their heads with another standing beside the group with his fists planted on his hips. That one looked aggressive, Galloway thought.

  Shooter moved to the left front of the personnel carrier to study the surrounding terrain and to have the surrendering Iraqis under his rifle from their flank—in case anything underhanded was planned or unexpectedly developed.

  The sitting Iraqis stood and were perfunctorily frisked and moved aside by two of the Marines. Doc Dyer moved in. One of the Iraqis complained of something. Dyer looked closely.

  Galloway watched the group with his M16 pointing that way. His peripheral vision and the machine gunner on the personnel carrier examined the desert beyond the surrendering Iraqis in case the small group was only bait for a trap.

  Even then, the explosion into action caught everyone by surprise. The Iraqi with his hands on his hips started it, and it was his actions that made everything surreal.

  A firearm or a grenade could be expected, but the Iraqi reached inside his robe and hauled forth a sword of significant length. His fanatical scream accompanied the appearance of the blade. Doc Dyer surged backward almost toward Galloway, and Shooter had to step sideward to get a shot.

  He had been holding the M16 muzzle low with the butt in his shoulder. He did not need to sight; the sword wielder was only ten yards away.

  Shooter’s mind cursed the too long stock on the M16 that slowed aligning, but his shots were swift. He snapped two rounds into the Iraqi even as the swordsman began his first swing at the unarmed corpsman.

  Shooter held for center of mass, and the jacketed .22 caliber bullets hit bone, and their tumbling flight tore completely through the Iraqi’s body leaving large exit wounds. The sword dropped from nerveless fingers, and the Iraqi collapsed straight down. Shooter did not spare him a look. That danger had been eliminated. His eyes sought other targets, but none appeared.

  Galloway heard unintelligible yelling, the words failing to breach his intense concentration. He saw the surrendered Iraqis diving to the ground, and Doc Dyer was humping toward the dead swordsman, but Galloway’s nerve ends tingled with expectation that everything was not over. And it wasn’t.

  As one, Iraqi helmets and rifles rose from undetected concealment paralleling the road not twenty-five yards distant. The Iraqis were firing as they rose, and Shooter swung his rifle onto them.

  The LVT machine gun was faster, and its pounding rhythm beat Galloway’s rifle fire by an instant, but the Iraqi AK47s sprayed on full automatic slashing through their own POWs and ricocheting from the sides of the Marine vehicle.

  Nothing came Shooter’s way, and he ceased fire and dove forward into the protection of a small earth berm created when the roadway was bulldozed.

  Doc Dyer was still up and was crouched over the dead swordsman. Galloway was certain that Dyer would die within the next instant, but he could not help.

  Galloway rolled twice and got his feet under him. He came up in a crouch and raced ahead, pointing for the end of the Iraqi trench. A rifle in the Iraqi firing line swung onto him, and a blast of ill-directed fire chewed dirt and stones behind him.

  Shooter again dove and rolled, and the rifleman who had fired at him turned to another target. Shooter came up and made the end of the Iraqi rifle pit. He had a clear view of the enemy, and his rifle was pointing in the right direction.

  Shooter switched to three-shot burst, but his heart longed for the hosing effect of full auto fire. He fired with the stock in his armpit, almost snatching the trigger as fast as he could manage. The pit seemed full of enemy, but it was probably a squad. Shooter held on the struggling mass and raised and lowered his muzzle as he blasted his remaining eighteen rounds into them.

  Then silence reigned. No wounded groaned, and no voices directed. Shooter got close to the ground and punched a new magazine into his rifle.

  Wonder of wonders, Dyer still worked on his dead man, and Shooter saw both of the Marines that had been frisking prisoners in prone and behind their rifles. Hadn’t anyone been hit? No one touched by that wall of fire thrown at them? It looked that way.

  Galloway rose and stepped to the edge of the rifle pit. He saw no life, but he could be wrong, and Iraqis could be alive. With his nerves twanging, Shooter moved along the edge of the trench looking closely, rifle pointing.

  One of his men was announcing something about another Iraqi prisoner being hit, but Shooter had his mind on trickery.

  Doc Dyer came up beside him, and Galloway heard him say, “My God,” but whether the corpsman was awed by the carnage of nearly a dozen dead or by the ferocity of the past moment, Shooter was not certain.

  He turned to check on his team’s situation when something struck the ground almost beside him, and as quick as he looked, other roundish objects landed nearby.

  Galloway’s instincts were in highest gear, and his voice matched his realization. He sc
reamed “Grenades,” and dove for the slower moving Doc Dyer. His hard-driven body hit Dyer almost in the small of the back driving the Doc over the edge and into the rifle pit of silent dead. Shooter fell in on top of him.

  Shooter heard one of the hand grenades go off even as he was falling, and the first explosion blended with another half-dozen apparently thrown at the same time. Fragments whistled and whined, smoke billowed, and again the personnel carrier’s machine gun ripped at barely detectable enemy clustered within a second parallel ditch.

  As he fought himself off the prostrate Dyer, Shooter Galloway’s skin crawled. He imagined grenades dropping right into the pit with them, and they would have no place to go.

  As if fear made it happen, a grenade tumbled in almost beside him. Dyer looked at it in frozen attention, but Galloway was again fast. He grabbed the nearest dead Iraqi and dropped him on the grenade. The body almost instantly humped as the grenade detonated, and Galloway feared that fragments could have gotten through to Doc or himself. He felt no sting or pain, so he kept going.

  The personnel carrier’s machine gun kept hammering, and Shooter’s glance back showed the gun spraying bullets almost at him, just over his head, Galloway judged. The Iraqi grenade throwers would have to be close, and they were probably in a trench about like the one he was in. Other M16s began shooting fast, and Galloway judged that the rest of the depleted squad had gotten into action.

  Shooter wondered if he could again get to a flank and pour fire down an exposed trench. He doubted it would work a second time, so he reached for his own grenade.

  Grenades were still exploding close to the roadway, but the grenadiers had apparently abandoned tossing them in among their own men. Doc Dyer slid close beside Shooter but stayed as deep as possible in the trench. The Doc had grabbed an AK47, and although his eyes were wide, Galloway figured Dyer was willing to fight—if he got the chance. If the Iraqis charged, he might get that chance.

  Shooter ordered, “Stay low, Doc, and watch for grenades. There could be more coming in.”

  For a short moment Galloway thought about his next move. Then, he picked a small and lightweight dead man, and with a ferocious heave, flopped him into view along the reverse edge of the firing pit. No bullets slammed the corpse. So, thankful for his helmet’s protection, Shooter risked a quick look. He saw a throwing arm appear and clearly saw a grenade depart in flight above their heads. The enemy’s second trench was really close. Less than a dozen yards, he judged.

  Marine machine gun bullets ripped the edges of the Iraqi’s fighting trench preventing the grenade throwers from observing their results, and Galloway took advantage of their cowering. He pulled his grenade pin, released the handle, and counted to two. He lobbed his throw above the entrenched Iraqis and ducked barely in time.

  Shooter got the airburst that he desired, and a few pieces of the grenade made it back into the furthest wall of his pit. He knew that hell must have rained on the men in the trench below the grenade, and he prepared his second and last grenade.

  Again, Shooter sneaked a quick look. Heads were moving among the enemy, voices were yelling, and commands seemed to be shouted. The most activity was slightly to the left, and Galloway lobbed his second grenade in that direction.

  He failed to get an airburst, but the grenade exploded in the trench, and enemy screaming began. Shooter edged himself into a supported firing position and searched for a target. An Iraqi soldier scrambled over the edge of their trench and started crawling away. He had his rifle, so Galloway shot him. The Marine machine gun had gone silent, and a moment later an arm appeared above the Iraqi trench waving a bit of rag. Galloway figured the enemy wanted to quit.

  Then, it was over. Iraqis appeared, their faces ashen, their eyes begging, some clutching wounds, other falling to their knees beseechingly. Shooter watched them from a corner of his eye, but his attention remained on the seemingly empty desert. There could be more fighters hidden close by.

  Doc Dyer came up for air his eyes still wide, but he saw the wounded and set aside the rifle to head for them.

  Shooter held him back with an extended arm. “Give it a minute, Doc. These are sneaky guys, and we may not be done with it.”

  Galloway looked around. “I don’t think any of us are hit, and that is amazing.”

  Dyer said, “You were really fast, Shooter. Thanks for knocking me into the trench. I didn’t even see that first grenade.” Dyer coughed, wiped a smear of blood from under a nostril, climbed out of the trench, and headed for the Iraqi wounded. He left the assault rifle behind.

  The Marine machine gunner was using his binoculars, and Galloway asked for a Sit-rep.

  “I don’t see anybody else, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  Shooter’s foot hurt, and he limped along both trenches making certain that everyone not out front was dead. They were, and Galloway counted sixteen plus the swordsman. What a blood bath.

  Doc Dyer reported to the squad leader that the Iraqi wounded could walk, and the line formed with a one Marine escort to move the prisoners from the battle scene and away from all of the available weaponry.

  Shooter picked up the dead Iraqi’s sword in passing and limped over to the LVT. He began urging Marines aboard. Dyer coughed and again wiped his nose leaving a bloody streak across his cheek.

  Dyer said, “You turn an ankle, Shooter?” He looked closer and gasped, “Holy Hell, Galloway, your boot is full of blood, and you’re leaving bloody prints.”

  Shooter looked, and damned if Dyer wasn’t right. As if angry at being discovered, his foot blossomed pain, and Galloway hurried to unlace the boot to determine the injury.

  The hatch clanked shut, and the Marines’ vehicle chugged into motion. Dyer worked Galloway’s blood drenched sock off and took a look. Then, he looked into the sock and came up with something short and ugly.

  As pragmatic sounding as if showing a chocolate covered cherry, Doc Dyer said, “Well, Shooter, you got shrapnel or something right through your boot sole. Take a good look at your little toe because it’s gone for good.” Unconcerned, Dyer waggled the amputated toe for Galloway’s inspection.

  Gabriel Galloway was stunned. It still didn’t feel that bad. He hadn’t realized he had been hit at all. When? Probably by the first grenade when he had ridden Doc into the trench, or maybe the grenade that he had smothered with a dead body?

  Damn, all of a sudden his foot was beginning to ache. Shooter chose to make light of the wound.

  “Maybe, you could just sew that toe back on, Doc.”

  Dyer suffered a wracking cough, and Shooter noticed, but the Doc said. “I’ll get the bleeding stopped, Shooter. Then you are out of here.”

  Shooter Galloway was not paying attention to Dyer’s words. He said, “You’re bleeding from the nose, Doc, and you’ve got a cough. What’s that about?”

  Dyer looked a bit leadenly at his blood-streaked hand. “Oh, I thought my nose was running. I . . .” He looked a little dazed.

  Shooter’s voice was anxious. “You sure you aren’t hit, Doc?”

  Dyer appeared surprised by the idea, but began coughing again.

  Galloway spoke to the squad leader. “Dyer’s coughing hard and bleeding from the nose. My guess is Doc’s lung shot, and if that’s right, he needs treatment fast. Get him out of here, Corporal.

  They stopped and got him into the open, but Dyer felt himself sinking. He found it hard to believe. There was no pain; he just seemed to be losing energy.

  Stripped to the waist, they found a tiny pinprick of a hole behind the Doc’s shoulder. Galloway examined the hole with obvious worry.

  Dyer said, “Hell, it can’t be much. I don’t feel any pain.”

  “You’re getting blood in a lung, Doc, and its coming out your nose when you breathe. Can’t you taste it?”

  Shooter did not wait for an answer. “A chopper is on its way, and you’ll be medevacked out of here.”

  Dyer experienced another coughing fit, and finally took more seriou
s notice of his condition.

  “Damn, you could be right, Shooter. All of a sudden, I’m feeling puny.”

  Shooter thought he looked puny. “I hear the blades whacking, Doc. They’re about here.”

  The helicopter sat down and evacuation began. Dyer held up a hand and got things stopped. He pointed at Shooter standing with one boot off and his foot hidden within a blood soaked bandage. “He’s to go, too. Hell, his toe is shot off. Load him on.”

  Still clutching his sword. Shooter Galloway got loaded without genuine protest. His foot now ached all the way to his waist. Until he got it fixed, he could not be useful in the field.

  Galloway figured he wasn’t seriously hurt, but he was not so sure about Doc Dyer. A lung hit was serious business. He was almost certain that a scrap of grenade fragment had sliced into Dyer and at least nicked a lung on its way. There was no exit wound, so the fragment was still in there. Doc Dyer was bound for surgery.