The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy Page 2

  Dr. Marc Gutierrez looked back at the young Marine on the table.

  “So you’re telling me that a man bit him?” he asked the corpsman, HM3 Mainz. [8] “A person?”

  “Yes, sir. A man. A naked man, in fact. We smoked his ass, but not before he took a chunk out of PFC Kaas, here.”

  The Navy medical officer looked back at the shirtless PFC. The wound on his shoulder covered at least six or seven inches on both the front and back. The punctures were separate and round. This was definitely not a human bite. If this was Tanzania, he would have sworn it had to be a lion bite. Here in Iraq, though, it must have been a dog—a rather large dog.

  He looked back up at the corpsman. He’d thought Mainz was one of the better corpsman, a professional in every sense of the word. He was obviously mistaken. Mainz should know that a human bite needs to be treated differently than a dog bite, but here he was lying to him.

  Marines often lied when they came into the hospital. Usually, they tried to minimize their wounds so they could get back with their squads, back into the fight. Why this time they would be lying about this, and why a Navy corpsman would be backing up that lie, was beyond him. He dismissed Mainz and told one of the nurses to get PFC Kaas cleaned up. After Kaas was taken care of, he would go over to their battalion senior chief and have him take care of Mainz. The chiefs were the ones who took care of disciplinary problems, after all.

  Chapter 3

  Aiden walked out of the bright sun, glad to get into the dimmer light inside the plywood SWA[9] that served as their berthing area. He’d been at the hospital for three days, not that he remembered much of his stay. Evidently, he had run a 106° fever for two days and was about to be medivac’d to Balad[10] when the fever had broken. When he came to, he’d felt fine. Better than fine, in fact. But the docs wanted to keep him for observation, especially when one of the nurses had gone to change the bandages on his shoulder only to find the puncture wounds completely healed, with faint red marks the only indication that he’d been bit.

  Aiden’s primary mission in Iraq was to protect his skin. He had thought, though, that if he should become WIA,[11] he’d milk that for all he could. He’d see if he couldn’t use that as his golden ticket, his ride back to the States. It could even get him discharged, if he played his cards right. He was surprised at himself, then, when he had insisted that he was fine and that he should get back to his squad. The doctors finally relented when they had no real reason to keep him under observation.

  “Look who’s back,” Snake said to no one in particular as Aiden walked in.

  The Marines in the squad were cleaning their weapons, evidently having just come back from a mission. He went to his rack and lay down.

  “Boots, Kaas,” Sgt Rickman said just as he’d said a couple of dozen times so far in the deployment.

  Aiden sighed and took them off. It was his rack, and he thought he should be able to lie there in full battle rattle, if he wanted.

  “So you gonna tell us what happened?” Cpl Ruddy asked.

  “The docs say I’m fine, so nothing to tell,” he replied.

  “Not that. We already got that word. I mean, what the hell happened back there? One minute we’re providing security, the next you’re gone, and we find you being held up in the air by a raghead superman. That’s what we want to know.”

  Aiden knew this was coming, so he had prepared a story. He looked up to see that everyone in the squad had stopped working and was ready for what he had to say.

  “I was right there, in back of you when I thought I heard something. Cpl Douglas, I knew your team had just cleared the room, so I didn’t bother to try and get anyone else. I just figured I’d make a quick check. I didn’t see anything, so I’m about to come back out when this guy jumps in the window, knocks my M16 away, grabs my throat, and bites me. Then you guys came in and smoked him. End of story.”

  “A naked guy just jumps in a second-story window, and then you let him grab you by the throat and bite you?” his team leader persisted.

  “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

  There was no way he was going to mention the hairy paws, the jaws, the fangs. He wasn’t even sure of that anymore. Having his oxygen cut off probably made him hallucinate all of that.

  “What about how he stood there while I emptied my SAW[12] on him? We were all lighting him up, and he even took a step towards us. And he growled, I swear it,” Snake said, with several other Marines nodding in agreement. “What about that?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about what you thought you saw. I saw a naked Iraqi. Period. But thanks for saving my ass, all of you,” Aiden said, turning back to stare at the ceiling of the SWA.

  A few more Marines tried to get more out of him, but it was evident by his monosyllabic responses that not much else would be forthcoming. Chow was beckoning, and that took precedence, so weapons were put away and they left for the DFAC.[13]

  “Man, that hajji held you up like a puppet,” Dontrell said as they made their way to the dining facility. “I wouldn’t let any man do that to me. No real man would.”

  Aiden ignored him.

  “You were up there in the air, all turning blue and stuff, not making a sound, not fighting. No balls, if you ask me.”

  Aiden continued to ignore him, head down as he walked.

  “Hey man, show us where he bit you. I wanna see your scar,” Dontrell said, reaching out to grab Aiden’s shoulder to turn him around.

  Dontrell was a big man, running about 250 pounds of muscle. Aiden was about 150 soaking wet. Throughout his short life, Aiden made it a rule to avoid confrontation with other guys, especially big guys. Something snapped this time, though, and he forgot his own rules for living. He slammed Dontrell in the chest with the flat of his hand. The big Marine was knocked off his feet and flew back five feet to land on his ass in the Iraqi sand. He lay there, gasping for breath, his mouth gaping like a beached fish.

  “Holy shit, Kaas!” he heard John Rys, one of the squad’s other PFCs, say as several of them rushed to Dontrell’s assistance.

  Aiden just turned and continued on his way, calm on the outside, but his mind seething on the inside. He NEVER, EVER did anything like that. He avoided confrontation like the plague, yet here he was taking on Dontrell. He even liked the guy, as much as a loner like him could like anyone, but he’d just flattened him. Part of him was worried about the consequences, but another part of him, a part he didn’t even know he had, felt pretty damn good about it.

  Chapter 4

  “Hey, can you help a brother out?” the big Marine said to him, holding his tray out despite having just had one pork chop already placed on it.

  Hozan Kamaran Mardin made a mental sigh and gave the Marine another chop.

  “Hey, thanks for hooking me up,” the Marine said, moving on, another taking his place.

  This is what he’d come to, serving food to the Americans, and pork at that. Like most of his kind, he was not particularly religious, but technically he was a Sunni, and living in a Muslim country still had its bleed over; pork was pork, unclean. He wondered what his father and grandfather would have thought, seeing him like this.

  They didn’t even know him by his real name here because, as was tradition, he had taken his father’s and grandfather’s first names as his middle and last name. Here, he was merely Hozan Jaff, “Jaff” being his tribe. He was a Kurd from the north, not an Arab like most of the civilian workers hired to provide service for the sprawling American camp.

  Hozan was a lean man who’s lined and weathered face drew attention away from his surprisingly fit physique. Most people would assume he was in his late 50’s or early 60’s, not his actual age of 83. He was invisible to those around him, just one more body marking time until he passed on to the next life.

  “I’ll take the chicken, please,” the next Marine said.

  Hozan gave him two pieces, ignoring the instructions of his line manager, a woman under pressure to cut costs by making the Americans come bac
k for seconds if they were still hungry. It wasn’t his money, after all.

  The line of hungry Marines and sailors never seemed to end. Hozan was amazed at how the Americans had arrived in their numbers, how they transformed the camp into what he imagined was a slice of their own country. He didn’t resent that, nor did he welcome it. They were like the weather, something to be endured until they passed on. They were the enemy of his enemy, and so he could work with them for now.

  The Marines had a certain warrior spirit about them, even if Hozan thought they were a little soft. Hozan had been a Peshmergas,[14] fighting under Mustafa Barzini himself. To him, all soldiers were weighed on that scale, and all other soldiers came up short. He doubted these Marines could march 600 km under attack from the British bombers and Iranian Army to make their way to the USSR. Hozan had been one of the 500 men to survive that brutal march, something that still filled him with pride to this day.

  Most of his kind did not get involved with national politics, but the dream of a free Kurdistan, the short-lived Republic of Mahabad, had captured his heart and had convinced him to join the Peshmergas to fight for that ideal. The 11 years they had lived in the Soviet Union, though, tempered that revolutionary zeal and dampened his fervor. He realized they were just puppets in a larger game between the superpowers. When Barzini led his men back to Iraq in 1958, Hozan was done, and he had quietly gone home to Halabja, married, and raised a small family.

  Life had been comfortable until that fateful March day in 1988 when the poison fell out of the sky. His kind were often portrayed as monsters, but in their history, they had never done what the real monsters, Saddam Hussein Abd al-Majid al-Tikriti and his cousin, Ali Hassan Abd al-Majid al-Tikriti, had done to his home. The Al Anfal Campaign[15] had been going on for some time in retribution for some Kurds supporting Iran in the war, but this had been pure genocide.

  It had been late morning, a beautiful sunny day, and Hozan was enjoying tea with his brother-in-law when the garrison outside of town began to get shelled. The shelling was at the north side of town, so Hozan decided to stay where he was until it would be safe. When the MiGs approached, Hozan had expressed pity for the soldiers, but the planes did not go to the garrison. They dropped their bombs on Halabja itself. Hozan jumped up and rushed out the door to get to his own home on the other side of the town. There were no sounds of explosions as he had expected, but clouds of white, yellow, and black smoke rose up in the air.

  As he ran, he picked up the scent of apples, but not exactly that. There was something off, something vile. A man he didn’t know came running towards him shouting “gas, gas!” but Hozan didn’t falter. When his skin started to blister in excruciating pain, he didn’t falter. When he began to cough, his lungs on fire, he didn’t falter. He had to get home.

  Bodies were lying on the ground as he entered his neighborhood, some reposed peacefully, others with green vomit dribbling down their chins to pool in front of them. He stopped in front of his house, feeling dizzy, afraid to enter. He had to put one hand up to his doorjamb to keep upright. Finally stepping in, he found what he feared he’d see. Narmin, his wife, was on the floor motionless, her arms around Roshna, their eight-year old daughter. He’d gone against tradition and married Narmin, even if she was not of the blood. Their oldest child Zmnako, a son, whose house was only a block away, was also not of the blood, but his little Roshna, she was, she carried his gift. Her name meant “Bright,” and she was the light of his life.

  He knew Narmin was dead. He would grieve later, but he had to check on Roshna. They were a tough kind, hard to kill. She could still be alive. She was on her stomach, her arms outstretched as if she’d been trying to crawl away. Hozan turned her over, looking for any sign of life. But it was too late. Even his kind were not indestructible. Whether from the poison he’d inhaled or from grief, Hozan collapsed unconscious.

  He woke up in a hospital in Tehran where he surprised his doctors by getting out of bed and walking out, pushing past arms trying to restrain him. He found a sympathetic Iranian on the street outside the hospital, and by calling through an in-law in Turkey, where they still had communications into Halabja, he confirmed that his son and family were among the 5,000 killed by the chemical attack. That broke him.

  Numb, he wandered homeless in Tehran for several months, his mind on nothing. He might have shifted during that time, he might not have. He couldn’t remember.

  Hozan wasn’t sure how he’d gotten back to Iraq. Nothing was left there for him, but as the old saying goes, “The Kurds have no friends but the mountains,” so up he went, wandering around, living off the land. That wasn’t that difficult, given his abilities, but being alone was not in his DNA. He caught up with the isolated tribes in the region, staying with one for a few weeks before moving on, paying for food with labor.

  He finally met up with a Tribe family, all blood, who lived in isolation. Without any hesitation on their part, they welcomed him in. They could sense his damage and knew he needed time to heal. It was with them that he heard about the invasion of Kuwait, then the coalition response. After the defeat of the Iraqi forces, Kurds in the north and Marsh Arabs in the south rose up against the Saddam regime, buoyed by promises of support from the US. Hozan never even considered joining the National Uprising. He had no stomach for it. When the American support never materialized, the Republican Guard, as battered as it was, was more than enough to put down the uprising. Hozan and Dumon, the head of the small family, listened as sounds the far-off fighting occasionally reached them, but neither had a desire to join in. When the streams of refugees came up the mountain passes on their way to Iran, the two men silently watched them trudge by.

  Hozan wasn’t sure when he started coming back, started to become himself again. It happened over time, and as he returned, his thoughts went to Saddam, the desire for revenge growing into a palpable need. Hozan was not among the more aggressive members of the Tribe. He had joined the Peshmerga, but as a Kurd nationalist, not as a way to satisfy a blood lust. But as Saddam raised the stakes in his reign of terror, Hozan started wondering who would be better than him to extract revenge? Who was more capable?

  One foggy morning, as he looked out over the grey expanse of nothingness, he knew what he had to do. He would kill the monster who killed his family, his friends. He was tempted to do it immediately. He knew he could break through Saddam’s body guards and kill the man, even if he would be taken down in the end. But that would be too quick, too painless. He wanted Saddam to know it was coming. He wanted to kill those under him, to let him know his doom was approaching. He would kill Chemical Ali, take his head, and send it to the president. Then, as the coward hid, he would root him out and let him meet his nightmare.

  He said goodbye to Dumon and his family. They could sense his resolve, but they said nothing, merely praying that he go with God. Hozan was grateful for their healing support, but he never looked back as he walked down the mountain path and out of their lives.

  Hozan decided that the first to pay would be the pilots who dropped the bombs on Halabja. It wasn’t hard to get their names. One of the Tribe worked for the government, and soon, a list was sent to him. Twenty MiG and Mirage pilots had bombed his home. Four had been killed in the war. That left 16.

  His first victim was Major Sayf Al-Khalili. Al-Khalili was stationed at Qadisiyah Airbase in Al Anbar, one of the largest bases in the country. Hozan made his way to the base, which was located in a wadi out in the middle of nowhere. There would be no cover getting into the base, so he decided an open approach would be best. He “borrowed” a truck in nearby Haditha, loaded it with produce, and drove up to the main gate.

  “Where do I go to become a supplier to the base?” he asked, gratified that the gate guards, after only a cursory search, gave him directions to the base quartermaster’s office.

  He hadn’t been concerned about them searching the truck and finding any weapons. He was the weapon.

  He parked the truck and wandered the base, seeming
ly just an old man serving his nation. It didn’t take him long to find the major. His squadron sign was prominently displayed, and once inside the headquarters, a timid and nervous Hozan posed no threat as he asked for the major. A bored clerk pointed out Al-Khalili’s office. Hozan kept his head bowed, hand clasped in front of his chest, the picture of a man who just wanted to do what he had to and then leave.

  He softly knocked on the door.

  “Enter!”

  He pushed open the door, and stepped in, hands clutching the edge of his dirty kaffiyeh.

  “Major Al-Khalili?” he asked in a querulous voice.

  “Yes, what do you want?”

  Hozan dropped his kaffiyeh and stood up straighter. “Do you remember Halabja?” he asked without emotion.

  “Yes . . . What do you . . .” Al-Khalili started, the warrior in him bringing him to his feet, hand clutching for the Makarov PM[16] in its holster.

  Hozan shifted, stopping Al-Khalili mid-sentence. The major’s eyes grew large, trying to comprehend how the old, nervous man had transformed into, this thing, this monster.

  “This is for my Roshna,” Hozan said, reaching out for the major and pulling him close, his voice low and slurred as his vocal chords changed.

  The major broke out of his stupor, knowing his life was over. He pulled the Makorov out as Hozan’s jaws closed around his neck. With one powerful bite, the major’s head came free and bounced on the concrete floor, his neck flinging blood in a plume, spattering the white walls and covering the official photo of Saddam that hung there. Hozan stood there, savoring the taste of the hot blood, holding the still-spurting body.

  Hozan had killed before, but with modern weapons as a member of the Peshmerga. This was the first time in his long life that he’d killed a human while in form. He wondered if the human side of him should make him feel revulsion or shame, but there was none of that. He felt no remorse. He could sense the power in him, and he finally could understand the call for blood that made some of the Tribe go rogue.