As the modern U.S. Army fought with computers and high-tech communications as much as it did bullets, Battalion maintained a section of ten trained specialists to keep all the digital electronics going and everybody talking to everybody else. Companies in the field called it the “geek squad,” no disrespect intended. Computers and Internet or satellite phones were also the Joes’ link with home and the outside world, which made the geek squad in high demand when something broke down. The most popular communications specialist in the section, at least in Delta Company, was a nineteen-year-old Speedy Four (Specialist Fourth Class) named Jenson Mariur.
Originally from Palau in the South Seas, the brown-skinned young soldier was forever optimistic, polite, soft-spoken, and eager to help. He could light up an FOB with a single grin. What made him even more popular with Delta was the fact that the soldiers could always persuade him to repair their PCs, video games and assorted other personal entertainment gear.
Mariur’s popularity had its downside. The Delta platoon with a problem would jump on the radio and ask for him personally. “Hey, hey, dude. We’re having a little trouble. When are you coming out? Just say the word and we’ll send a convoy to Yusufiyah to get you.”
The result of which meant another nervous trip running the gauntlet known as Malibu Road.
One afternoon, Delta Company’s First Sergeant Aldo Galliano hightailed it in to Battalion with a convoy from Third Platoon to pick up tech support to install some new computer equipment for the Company TOC at Inchon. That naturally meant Mariur, who felt more than a little apprehensive about riding with the Top Sergeant’s convoy.
Top Galliano was jinxed, an IED magnet. It seemed his caravan got hit almost every time he went out. Not just his convoy, his truck within the convoy. He had been blown up twenty times, so often he began to take it personally. It got where, as soon as he was clear of the explosion, he jumped out of his hummer with his ears still ringing, dust up his nose, and went into a contrived rage, kicking tires, ranting and raving like a bull charging a red flag.
“Them dirty, no-good, ragheaded, shit-eating, Baghdad sons-of-bitches . . . !”
“Tell us how you really feel, Top.”
“I get it every damned time. What’s with Herne? They never hit him. What’s he doing, bribing ’em?”
Anyone in Delta who failed to experience one of the Top Sergeant’s productions was missing an Oscar-winning performance, tales of which circulated among the troops with a great deal of laughter and joking. Men would be passing the stories down to their grandchildren, they were that entertaining.
Galliano was one hard-charging Latino, rather small and short with a broad face, thick shoulders, and a practical-joke sort of humor that made him as well-liked as he was respected. He could chew a hole in a soldier’s boxers and make him like it. When he noticed how shaky Mariur seemed about taking the trip down Malibu with him, he really laid it on.
“Mariur, you can ride in the truck with me. I got some technical stuff I want to talk to you about.”
“That’s okay, Top. We’ll have a lot of time to talk when we get to Inchon. Why don’t I ride back here?”
“What’s the matter, Specialist? You don’t believe all them stories about me, do you?”
“Well . . .”
“What are you so pale about, soldier? When I get hit—”
“When?”
“Well, yeah. Have you ever been blown up before?”
Mariur had a feeling he was about to. He sucked it in and managed, “Top, I sure wouldn’t want to miss seeing you kick the tires out from underneath this old crate.”
Galliano laughed. The convoy headed back for Malibu Road with Mariur seated next to the Top Sergeant behind the driver, the third vehicle back in a procession of four. The crazy road with all its potholes and patched-up IED craters reminded Mariur how vulnerable they were.
It was a lovely autumn day, not so hot as sometimes, with the sun shining brightly, kids in the fields herding shaggy goats, and muezzins revving up their calls for afternoon prayers.
“Any damage you do to government property comes out of your pay,” Galliano noted slyly.
“Pardon?”
“Your ass is chewing a hole in the seat.”
True to form, Top’s vehicle detonated an IED just before the trucks reached Inchon. Mariur wasn’t even surprised; he expected it. There was a loud bang, a puff of dirt, and pieces of shrapnel chipping at the vehicle’s undercarriage. Although the scumbag who put it there buried it too deep to cause any real damage, the concussion was enough to knock the breath from Mariur’s lungs. He had never felt more profound relief than when the convoy pulled through the gate at 153.
Aldo Galliano jumped out to go through his usual rant. As he was stomping around kicking tires, he glanced up to see Mariur standing with his hands in his pockets looking solemn and appreciative at simply having survived the trip. His eyes were open wide, the whites in sharp contrast to a patina of “black face” sweat, dust, and smoke. He looked totally out of place in a war zone. All he needed to complete the picture of geek was a bow tie and a pocket protector.
As for Mariur, he chuckled to himself from then on whenever someone described Galliano’s hitting another IED. He couldn’t help himself—picturing the little Top Sergeant out there somewhere on Malibu Road kicking hell out of his hummer and blackguarding loud enough so every “Baghdad motherfucker” in The Triangle of Death could hear him.