Author's note:
This is a work of fiction. The characters portrayed in this story are not real people. Any similarity between characters and organizations and real people is purely coincidental.
I welcome criticism. The LW group is a tough crowd. That's okay. But in the past, some have criticized my stories, citing the excessive length and level of detail provided. This is done purposely to fully develop the plot and the characters. If you are looking for a quick story with lots of sex to whack off to, or serious BTB revenge against cheating wives be warned...This does not meet that criteria. DO NOT READ THIS STORY BECAUSE IT WILL ONLY PISS YOU OFF!
This is a story in three parts; each part will be published separately. I will make every effort to publish stories several days after after the previous story gets posted.
Chapter 1
The desert morning dawned hot and arid, in stark contrast to the stinging cold of the night, only several hours before. The stench of charred cordite and desert death mingled in the air. Lance Corporal Rocco Pistiglione of the Bronx lay prostrate on the ground under the remains of his burned out Humvee. Out of nine members of his squad, only he and Gunnery Sergeant Tom Highway were still alive. The night before, Highway and his squad were sent as an advance Recon team on a road paralleling the Iraqi "Khawr Abd Allah" waterway. Their mission was to scout that roadway. They were to report any un-friendlies so that a larger force could traverse that route several hours later, protecting the flank of the Navy SEAL team that was scheduled to land the next morning. Scuttlebutt got around that a big battle was brewing, and the 15
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Marine Expeditionary Force was to play a key role. The mission, it was rumored, was to capture the heavily defended oil and gas platforms in the "Al-Faw" Peninsula.
Rocco's squad had been ambushed the night before. Someone gave their position away. He was sitting next to Private Percy Cooper in his Humvee when it was hit with an RPG. Cooper bought it instantly. Highway's vehicle was bringing up the rear. He took shrapnel in his leg and chest, but he was still alive. His vehicle took a direct hit almost at the same time. Those Marines who were walking the point got hit with devastating small arms fire. They went down very quickly.
Rocco caught shrapnel in the back part of his right thigh, just below his butt cheek. It could have been a lot worse. He lost quite a bit of blood, and he had been floating in and out of consciousness all night. But Rocco knew he'd make it. The rest of his platoon would be looking for them soon, and he and Highway would be "medevac'd" out. He thought, "Shit. Look at all this death around me. These poor bastards will never make it home. What the fuck am I doing here? But hey...By this time tomorrow, I could be in a comfortable bed in a naval hospital in Germany, flirting with all the nurses and eating steak. Relax Rocco, my boy," he said to himself. "We'll be out of here real soon. The Calvary is coming."
As he lay there in an almost dreamlike state, Rocco wrestled with his thoughts about how he came to be in this damnable Iraqi desert on this 19
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day of March in the year 2003. His memory drifted back to his high school graduation day in June of 1997.
"Saints preserve us, Rocco! You did WHAT, lad?"
Maureen Pistiglione, nee Thornton, from County Waterford, Ireland, fired the question at her son. She still had the slight twinges of her Irish brogue, even though she had been in America for nearly 25 years. It was quite the talk of her family when she married the Italian rookie New York City policeman, Dominick Pistiglione. A match made in heaven? Perhaps. When Maureen's Irish temper flared and the brogue thickened, Dominick smiled, even though she was mad at him. He liked a woman with guts. And she had guts in spades. In this marriage, the Italian and the Irish blended just fine.
Her fiery red hair matched her temper that day when she spoke with her son, as her bright green eyes bore into him.
"Mom. Look. After pop died last year, we knew there would be no way we could afford my college tuition. Joining the Marine reserves gives me an opportunity to add to my resume and finance my education all at the same time."
"After your father, God rest his saintly soul, was shot and killed by that bloody bastard who was trying to murder his wife, you go pull a stunt like this on me! I married a cop. Now I'll have a son who's a Marine and puts himself in harm's way just like his old man. Holy Saint Aidan, pray for me!"
"Mom. No need to worry. We're not going to war anytime soon, and besides, they won't call up the reserves unless things get out of hand. No way that's gonna happen."
Of course, no one had any way of predicting what would happen on September 11, 2001. In June 2001 Rocco had graduated from New Amsterdam University with a degree in Software Engineering, and was offered a pretty good job right after his college graduation. Then his reserve unit was activated. Soon after, he was deployed to Iraq.
He awoke with a start, coming back to the real world. "Jesus Christ," Rocco thought to himself. "It's getting hotter than hell out here. Those fuckers in the second platoon better get here fast." He tried to move over to see how Sergeant Highway was doing, but he found that his right leg wouldn't move, and he couldn't crawl over to his position. He stayed put. And then he noticed her about 100 yards out, through the wavy lines of the desert heat haze that was starting to build. He could barely make out a woman in a dark burka. But she was real and it looked like she had a purpose. As she got closer, he noticed she had an AK-47 slung over her shoulder. Rocco remembered that his AR-15 jammed during the firefight and he exhausted his supply of ammo for his M98 Beretta. He was left without a weapon before he passed out from the pain. At 50 yards out she noticed him, and began to stride more purposefully toward his position, the AK-47 now poised in her arms for action.
"Fuck! No weapon. This is it. I'm gonna buy it. What a fucked up way to die." Rocco suddenly realized that this woman was likely going to blow him to kingdom come. And then he remembered. While a cop on the streets of New York, his dad had what he called a back-up safety weapon. It was a little snub-nosed 38 caliber, also called a "Saturday Night Special," which he kept strapped around his ankle. When his dad died, Rocco took possession of the gun. He carried it with him wherever he went, even out on missions, though he couldn't imagine what good it would do. It was more of a talisman than anything else. It made him feel like his old man was protecting him.
