STATS Read online

  by Mark Donahue

  STAT$

  Copyright © 2020 Mark Donahue

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator”, at the web address below.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.

  Front cover design by Marsha Donahue. Illustration by Mary Susan Oleson, bludesignconcepts.net

  Published in the United States of America by

  Donahue Literary Properties, LLC.

  www.DonahueLiteraryProperties.com

  Dedicated to

  All Navy Seals who keep us safe from the bad guys.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss voter fraud.”

  Jon Stewart

  CHAPTER 1

  Iraq Desert—April 2009

  The Blackhawk MH-X hovered virtually unheard two hundred feet above and one mile south of its objective. The green images seen through night vision goggles by its Navy pilots made the objective appear like a glowing Christmas tree in the drab desert terrain.

  In the back of the Blackhawk, a heavily armed combined squad of Navy Special Ops and SEAL Team 3 members sat placidly while they inhaled Jet A fuel fumes that mixed with the intoxicating aroma of spent gun powder. The unmistakable odor of human sweat also wafted through the back of the chopper. The pungent, nervous kind.

  All eight stared straight ahead and awaited word from the pilots to initiate their well-rehearsed and meticulously planned operation. As the chopper hummed through the pre-dawn darkness, there were no thoughts of home or family in the minds of the squad. All thoughts were on the mission. Anything else would be a dereliction of duty, and duty mattered.

  The yellow-pink glow in the eastern sky foretold of sunrise only minutes away. If weeks of reconnaissance proved accurate and schedules kept, the captives within the objective would be taken outside by their six guards just after dawn to use the crude bathroom facilities dug into the dirt. The two men would then be doused with cold well water from wooden buckets that would serve as their weekly shower.

  Near the back of the chopper, one of the SEALs chewed several pieces of Juicy Fruit gum, the man next to him moved his leg up and down like a piston, a third had a tight grin on his face in anticipation of what was to come.

  The team’s goal was straightforward; rescue the two American congressmen who had survived an IED attack on their convoy before those same legislators were publicly executed by their relatively unknown but particularly vicious Islamic captors.

  The congressmen had been on a fact-finding mission in Iraq to determine the “truth” about America’s continued involvement in the never-ending war and a requested increase in financial resources to further the effort. Among the many truths they discovered was that Iraq was a dangerous place to be. The men had been taken hostage weeks earlier and held for ransom by a splinter group made up of a dangerous melding of Syrian, Iraqi, and Afghani forces. By policy, America would not pay a ransom.

  Undeterred, the group had eagerly, with production quality rivaling a professionally produced McDonald’s TV commercial, posted videos of the capture of the two congressmen and promised they would be placed in metal cages, have gasoline poured on them, and then lit to be burned alive in HD living color for all the world to see.

  The sight and sound of the infidels being consumed in flames would serve as important propaganda fodder for the group in their world-wide recruiting efforts. The event would also serve notice to other American forces, politicians, and journalists as to what their fate would be if captured by the radicals. The online video event was scheduled to be broadcast within the next twenty-four hours.

  Seven minutes after sunrise, a grainy satellite image of the two captured Americans and six guards in the Islamic compound appeared on the computer screen on the Blackhawk’s control panel. The chopper crew removed their night vision goggles and now relied on what they could see in real time on their screens and out their windows.

  The two naked congressmen had their hands and ankles tied with nylon bands as they shuffled through the dirt to the toilet holes under the control of six armed guards. They were twenty yards outside a group of block buildings that served as a holding location.

  “We have a visual,” the pilot said. “We’re moving in. Descending to thirty feet. A.O., you hang back in case things go to shit.”

  “Roger that,” A.O. replied.

  As the chopper descended, the rest of the team prepared to exit using braided ropes that were tossed out the sliding doors of the Blackhawk. “Go,” the pilot said.

  Within eight seconds, the team of seven had exited the chopper and sprinted toward the largest of the buildings that was enclosed behind a ten-foot-high chain link fence topped with razor wire. The plan called for the good guys to surround the perimeter of the buildings in groups of three and four and use wire cutters to silently gain access to the complex.

  Once inside, they would surprise and then eliminate the Islamic guards as they ate their breakfast. After the guards were neutralized, the good guys would find and extricate the congressmen, board the chopper, and return to base before seven a.m. It was a simple and logical plan prepared by the best military minds on the planet.

  The plan went to shit.

  Instead of having breakfast inside like they were supposed to, the six guards remained scattered on the outside of the four small buildings. They had concluded it would be far more entertaining to beat the hell out of the two congressmen for a while before their morning meal. The beating would not be for the purpose of gathering information or as punishment, but instead, just for fun. Something to get the day off to a rousing start.

  The congressman from South Florida was led blindfolded to the center of a dirt enclosure, forced to his knees, and told to put his forehead on the dirt. Three laughing guards then took turns each kicking him in the head like it was a soccer ball. In Arabic, one of the men yelled “Goal!” after a particularly savage blow that left the congressman unconscious. The other men laughed at the witty football reference.

  The second congressman from Ohio had been tied to a metal post in the yard while the three other guards took turns lashing him with belts that left over a dozen deep red gashes in his skin.

  As the six Islamic guards continued their pre-breakfast entertainment in two different locations within the dirt enclosure, the seven American forces who had entered the compound were out of visual range of what was happening to the congressmen inside the small courtyard hidden amongst the four block buildings.

  Once the chopper pilots could see via the satellite images what was happening to the congressmen, they immediately radioed for the ground forces to move quickly toward the area where the beatings were taking place.

  The plan suddenly got far more problematic when an additional five armed guards— not part of the plan—rushed out of one of the buildings after they had spotted the American intruders inside the fence line. They immediately fired on the seven American troops who had come together as a group after they had entered the complex and were now pinned behind a low stone wall.

  “Fuck, we have a shitstorm brewing down
there. They have more guards than we thought” the co-pilot said. “A.O., you locked and loaded?”

  “Roger that.”

  “We’re gonna move in. Can you get a visual?”

  A.O. looked through the scope and saw the targets. “Do a ninety and keep it steady.”

  “Coming around.”

  As the chopper moved into position, the three football-playing guards, seeing the situation that was unfolding in front of them, ran toward the tied-up congressmen brandishing swords. Their intent was to behead both men and save their heads and maintain at least part of their planned home video presentation.

  As the first Islamic guard neared the helpless Ohio representative with his sword already raised, he was flattened by two bullets to his chest creating two resounding whomps.

  This turn of events caused the remaining two sword-bearers to turn toward the chopper and gape in what ended up being fatal curiosity. That made it easy. Whomp- whomp, whomp- whomp.

  Having seen their three comrades fall, the three remaining belt-wielding guards in the courtyard grabbed their rifles and turned their full attention to the hovering chopper that was now within hearing distance only a quarter mile away. They knelt and opened fire on the chopper causing metallic pings to be heard inside the heavily armored Blackhawk.

  The flashes from their weapons were like beacons to A.O. who homed in on the shooters with radar-like efficiency. Three single rapid-fire headshots did the job. Whomp, whomp, whomp.

  The second group of five fighters fired at the chopper while continuing to hold the seven Americans who remained pinned behind the low concrete wall that was becoming lower and thinner with each rifle blast by the insurgents.

  “We’re taking incoming. Need to back away,” the pilot said.

  “Copy,” A.O. said. “Just keep it level.”

  As the chopper moved higher and further from harm’s way, A.O. identified what looked like the leader of the group of five that was holding down seven good guys.

  A.O. didn’t have to remember training. It was all reaction and muscle-memory now. The kinds of actions that had been imbedded over a period of years by screaming sergeants and endless drills. It was all reflex and execution. Just do the fucking job like you’re trained to do. Sight the damn target through the scope. Focus. Exhale. Ease back the trigger. Two quick pulls, whomp, whomp; leader down, one to the head, one to the chest.

  Next were the two short ones near the water well, whomp-whomp, whomp- whomp, then the tall one that tried to run away. Not fast enough— whomp-whomp, to the back. The last one was on his stomach taking careful aim at the Blackhawk. Too late. Two to his face made for a different sound, like water balloons hitting pavement.

  All nineteen of A.O.’s trigger pulls found a target. Despite the higher altitude and distance, A.O. did not miss. Not once. After the five were eliminated in less than a minute, the seven American troops on the ground rose from behind the low wall, and within minutes, three of them had guided the naked Congressmen toward the chopper.

  The remaining four went building by building and searched for more guards and to determine if there was any valuable intelligence inside the compound buildings. They found no more fighters, but took several notebooks, assorted files, and computer hard drives.

  Before they left, they set several timed C-4 charges that would level the buildings soon after their departure. Within ten minutes all eight team members were safely on the chopper in the same “lucky” seats in which they had arrived. For some reason, the chopper smelled better on the return trip.

  On the forty-minute ride back to base, there was little conversation except when the naked congressmen now covered with blankets kept thanking their rescuers. “We were dead men. Thank you, guys. We never knew it was like this. We never knew, I mean how could we know what you guys have to deal with?”

  “You should thank A.O. over there,” one of SEALs pointed out.

  “Thank you, A.O. You saved our lives. That was unbelievable what you did,” the congressman from Florida said emotionally.

  “That sailor saved all our lives, Congressman, not just yours.”

  A.O. did not respond to the gratitude and instead stared out the window of the chopper at miles of endless brown desert and looked forward to breakfast.

  CHAPTER 2

  Flagel and Schultz Econometric Forecasting, Inc., Manhattan, May 2012

  “Hi Marsha, have a good weekend?”

  “No,” she replied and walked away without even a glance his way.

  Dr. James McDowell, PhD, had seen her the first day she showed up at the office. She was kind of hard to miss. She possessed the body of doom and knew all eyes were on her when she walked through the office, even those of some of the other women.

  Her name was Marsha, and she would be working in the office as a temp for a couple months replacing the redhead on maternity leave who had gotten knocked up by some guy in marketing after a company Christmas party the year before.

  When Marsha walked through the office delivering mail or making copies, she made sure she emphasized her many assets that included impressive breasts, tiny waist, long legs, and ash blonde hair that was always tied up in a high schoolish ponytail. James really liked that high school ponytail and, on several occasions, tried to strike up a casual conversation with her, but she ignored what she saw as an older man. Much older.

  But James was no quitter. He decided he would bide his time with Marsha and when the right opportunity arose, he would pounce like a cat, a tall middle-aged cat, and impress her with his numerous degrees and knowledge of all things numbers.

  “Hey Marsha, did ya see the Yankees game last night?”

  “I hate baseball.”

  Sure she may have walked away, but James thought she may have actually glanced at him. He felt that was real progress toward a potential meaningful relationship since he hated baseball too.

  The day she had stood at the printer for nearly an hour and made all those copies, she had worn a short skirt, and she kept bending over as she retrieved the copies. Each time she did, she almost showed James the promised land. Was that a planned performance or was it just an accident? Did she know what she was doing? Could she tell that James was in a perfect position at his cube twenty feet from her to see what no one else could see?

  After Marsha’s copy machine presentation, James had a question as she passed his desk. “Hey Marsha, you want anything from Panera?”

  “I hate Panera, their food sucks.”

  “Yeah me too but it’s quick and I…”

  Marsha walked away from James with several copies of documents marked “Confidential” and delivered them to senior management on the top floor of the office tower.

  It was at that precise moment that others would have considered his efforts an unadulterated and even embarrassing failure. But James, instead, finally saw his opening and a path to ultimate success. He noticed Marsha had absentmindedly left the original document in the copier, and after she entered the elevator, he retrieved the papers and slid them into his briefcase.

  In just minutes his agile brain had formulated an absolutely foolproof plan. He would hold onto the document overnight. The next day just before lunch, he would go to her desk and ask her if she had lost an original document at the copy machine.

  She would of course confirm she had, and he would say “Oh, I think I have it. It must’ve gotten mixed up with stuff I copied.” That of course would lead to some small talk, and then he would obviously invite her to lunch, where they would laugh and talk about stuff and then he would ask her if she had seen Beautiful on Broadway?”

  “No,” she would say.

  “Oh, I have two tickets for Saturday night, wanna go?”

  And of course she would say, “Cool, I’d love to go.”

  Then they’d go to the play and during the second act she wou
ld slide her right arm under his left arm and strategically position her ample right breast just below his triceps. He would act like he couldn’t feel it, but he could feel it and she would know he could feel it.

  After the play they would go to his apartment and after a little too much wine, they’d start making out and then she’d jump up and do a slow sensuous striptease just to get both of them in the mood. Then after a twenty-minute blowjob (maybe it would only be fifteen), she would screw his brains out because she couldn’t help herself. Afterward, they would lie in bed, talk into the wee hours, and discuss their next date.

  It was a great plan.

  Then James read the document from the copier.

  CHAPTER 3

  James had always been good with numbers, and the numbers he was seeing in the eight-page document he had swiped from the copy machine, made no sense. At first he thought it was all a mistake, maybe just some typos, but these were no typos. It was simple math, and the math didn’t add up.

  As he read, he realized he had never seen this kind of statistical detail before. When he saw his name was not on the distribution list at the top of the memo, he almost decided to give it back to Marsha since it would have given him an excuse to begin the execution of “the plan.”

  But the document was interesting, maybe even more interesting than an evening with Marsha.

  Right before midnight, as he sat up in bed reading, with his medium haired tuxedo cat named Rocky purring on his lap, he was for the first time able to see the data from all the other nine regional managers, a total group of ten of which he was a part. He saw the conclusions of that data that had been prepared from the reports. But it was clear as day to James that the combined figures should have led to a different number.

  “Math doesn’t lie,” was a favorite saying of James’ that he tried to bring into every conversation with young professional women in Soho bars to let them know he was indeed a math wizard. But the numbers in this memo had indeed lied.