By Cy Young
When his Marine son is killed by friendly fire in Desert Storm, ex-CIA agent and truck tycoon Vincent Fazio constructs two trucks and out of revenge, sends them on a destructive rampage across the country blowing up air force bases. Tracking the behemoths is Phoenix P.D. detective and karate champion Manny Breen. Breen teams up with Phoenix P.D. chopper pilot Sharon Kramer. Together they follow the trucks and end up at the White House for a powerful ending.
About the Author
Cy Young performed as a dancer/singer on Broadway and co-starred at the Globe Theater in London in Divorce Me Darling. He worked with Howard Keel (On A Clear Day) and Buster Keaton (Once Upon A Mattress) as a featured player with great reviews. Young has many recordings on the Painted Smiles Records, performed a night club act at New York's famous Number One Fifth Avenue, and has done numerous commercials and voice overs. Also a writer, Cy has written three published (French) plays, three musicals, and has a song on the Streisand Third album, Draw Me A Circle, which Barbra used to open one of her early TV Specials. Cy's short story, The Schitzle Connection, has been published by Twit Publishing (Winter/Spring. 2011 edition) and won Best Short Story in an Oklahoma City Writer's Group contest.
Bursts of heavy artillery fire danced on the horizon as the staccato rumble of Saddam’s big guns rolled across the windswept desert toward them. Marine Lance Cor- poral Vincent Fazio, Jr. squinted into the rolling clouds of dust at the road ahead.
Vincent’s LAV-25 was the third Light Armored Vehicle in the convoy now highballing recklessly into heavy enemy fire. The armored unit was speed- ing toward Umm Hugul. The Marines were the iron fist of the thrust and Vince was beginning to get that sick feeling again in the pit of his stomach.
Operation Desert Storm was moving into high gear. Vince and his buddies had hoped the ground war would never materialize. Now reality was star- ing them in the face.
A shell burst off the road behind them. The LAV swerved erratically.
“Shit, that was close!” Vince’s buddy yelled as he was jolted against the steel struts of the vehicle.
Norm Kleinhsauer was wishing he’d stayed at the hardware store in Monet, Missouri. It was better
to be a live clerk than a dead Marine. He glanced over at his buddy.
“Hey, Vince? You scared?”
Fazio’s face, illuminated in a sudden shell burst, was tense. Tense? He was scared shitless. But what the hell, he was a Marine, wasn’t he?
Marines were tough assholes, square-jawed leather-necks. He could fake it as well as the next guy.
“Nah,” Vince shouted, glancing at his buddy, “I saw more action last year when I visited New York!”
Norm laughed as another shell whined over- head. Both ducked as the shell went wide, bursting well to their right. Vince liked Norman. He liked most of the guys in his unit. They’d learned to stick together, be a family. Not like his own family. His fa- ther was too rich, too powerful, too busy making deals and traveling to pay much attention to him. He’d been proud when Vince joined the Marines, though. Vince knew because he’d overheard Vince Senior bragging about him to an old pal in the CIA.
Vince had mixed feelings about his dad. The man could be heartless, cruel. He’d seen him break associates, destroy them without mercy, then laugh about the way they’d squirmed and folded. Vince had learned to be tough. He’d learned from the best.
The first they knew of the Warthog was a wrenching roar behind and above them. Slow and ugly, the A-10 was one of the deadliest planes taking part in Desert Storm. The tank killer had a battery of high powered weapons which were already locking onto the convoy below. After the tragedy, the pilot swore he didn’t see the markings on the LAVs identi- fying them as friendly. But it was war. Crazy things happened.
Norm was the first to hear the plane closing behind them and turned. “Hey, guys? We got air cover!” he shouted as he strained to see through the smoke and sand swirls erupting around them. His as- sumption that the plane was friendly was accurate. The Iraqi Air Force had been decimated in the first few days of the air war. Now the multi-nationals owned the air. “Go get those mothers!” he yelled at the approaching plane.
As Vince turned to look back, the A-10’s two cannons fired a salvo striking the LAV and knocking it into the air. The vehicle landed on its nose with a violent thud, hop-skipping end over end half a dozen
times before skidding to a stop upside down. The Marines had been blown free and were lying scat- tered on the sand. All except for Vincent Fazio, Jr. He was wedged under the LAV’s front end, blood oozing from his mouth, his body crushed, his eyes open in a blank stare of death.
The young casualty was one of less than two hundred men killed in combat in the Gulf War. The men who would die because of Vincent’s death by friendly fire would reach into the thousands.