Brooks Tucker
The first novel about the Persian Gulf War written by a Gulf War veteran, Breach is a raw and unvarnished account of the friendships that arise and the human conflicts that erupt when a tightly knit unit of combat Marines confronts the harsh realities of war.
Just weeks after the unit''s arrival in the Arabian desert, a demoralized young officer commits suicide. His death prompts an investigation and sparks concern that he was the target of salacious rumor. To quell the controversy and reinstill discipline, a seasoned lieutenant with a checkered past is dispatched to lead the dead man’s platoon. When the lieutenant stumbles upon the likely cause of his predecessor''s demise, he must face the fragile and uncompromising relationship of trust between officers and enlisted men.
The unit soon heads to the Saudi-Kuwait border on foot and in armored personnel carriers. Along the way, the lieutenant and his men contend with sandstorms, chemical alerts, friendly fire, and inadequate intelligence, while their senior leaders - veterans of Vietnam and Beirut – are stymied by an ever-changing invasion plan and a lack of supplies. Just weeks before the ground offensive, the Marines race against the clock to prepare for a low-tech battle against landmines, tanks, and nerve gas. With combat looming, the lieutenant and his fellow officers discover their selfish and bungling captain is mistrusted by the rank and file. Fearing the worst if he remains in command, the lieutenants attempt to have him removed. Their noble, yet ill conceived, mutiny offers an unexpected chance to bind the unit together before they must face the enemy.
From eager warriors to frustrated veterans, the Marines'' odyssey sheds light on the unforgiving and compassionate personalities in a frontline unit, trumpets the camaraderie and courage of the foot soldiers in a war dominated by smart bombs, and ultimately reveals a disturbing legacy of America’s first war in the Middle East.
Brooks Tucker served as an infantry platoon commander in the Second Marine Division and is a combat veteran of the Persian Gulf War. He was born in Saudi Arabia in 1965, the son of an expatriate American oil worker. During his years in the Middle East, he visited Iran, Syria, Lebanon, Kuwait, and the United Arab Emirates. Brooks attended University of Maryland and was graduated in 1987 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. He works in the private wealth management division of a Wall Street investment firm and is a director on the board of the Marine Corps Scholarship Foundation. Brooks is a Major in the Marine Corps Reserve and lives in Annapolis, Maryland with his wife and two children.
Matt Stenner brushed the buzzing horsefly from his face and cursed its persistence. Rays of sunlight filtered through the camouflage netting above his head. The shadows receded from behind tent poles, on the sand beneath Stenner’s green canvas cot, and across the rifle resting on his lap. He hadn’t much time left. In a few minutes, the past evening’s cool air would yield to distracting Arabian heat. Stenner glanced at three vacant cots, each draped in an empty sleeping bag. It was Sunday. And like most Sundays, chow would be late. When his platoon sergeant had left earlier in the morning, Stenner had told him to go on without him. He wasn’t hungry.
The sun rose a few more degrees above the horizon and the color of the sand outside gradually turned from gray to pale yellow. Stenner laid the rifle upside down on his lap. He stared at the empty magazine well. He’d been here before, but something insignificant had distracted him. Last week it was an unexpected breeze, the week before a chirping bird. The magazine clip sat beside him, three rounds already nestled inside, one atop the other. Stenner slid the magazine into the rectangular well and it clicked in place. He pulled back the charging handle. The oiled bolt slid back, its face anxiously waiting to grip the first round. He let go of the handle and the bolt shot forward with a loud, metallic clack. This was where he knew it would get awkward. The length of the M-16 made it a hard weapon to use in this particular situation. He placed the butt down on the sand between his feet. From his sitting position, the muzzle of the thirty-nine inch rifle reached his chin. He sat up a bit straighter, gripped the rifle with his left hand and pushed the open end of the cold barrel against the warm, soft skin between his throat and chin, an inch above his Adam’s apple. A bird flitted past the hooch and landed on the edge of his cot. He placed his right thumb on the trigger and stared enviously at his temporary companion.
About fifty yards away, Lance Corporal Dante Price was walking back to the platoon area, enjoying the solitude, thinking about his mom. He’d promised her he’d find time to write a letter every Sunday, just like he’d done last year in boot camp. As he caught sight of the hooches, he heard it - the rapid cough of a muffled three round rifle burst. The shots were close, real close, like they had come from somewhere in the platoon area. He instinctively ran toward where he thought the shots had been fired, stopping a just a few yards from the platoon headquarters hooch. Staff Sergeant Perry had said something about the lieutenant skipping morning chow; maybe the lieutenant heard the shots. As he neared the shelter, he could smell the distinct odor of expended ammunition. A lingering veil of gray smoke hung in the air. Dante began to feel uneasy. From a short distance, he thought could see the outline of someone through the netting.
“Hey sir? It’s Price!” he called out as he walked around to the entrance. “Sir? You in there?” He stopped suddenly and stood very still for a few seconds, his mind trying to interpret what his eyes were seeing. The lieutenant was sprawled across his cot, his body in an awkward position. His back was slumped against the netting, the inert rifle resting between his legs. Three expended cartridges lay in the sand near his feet. There were dozens of flies buzzing around. He inched a few steps closer. The gold bars on the lieutenant’s collars were spattered in blood. He tried not to stare for too long at what remained of the lieutenant’s head. Parts of it clung to the bloody netting like an ugly, shattered, pumpkin shell. A pair of lifeless eyes stared past him into space. He turned away and ran as fast as he could. His mind was racing to make sense of what he’d just discovered, his lungs heaving for air. As he crested a dune, he saw Staff Sergeant Perry and Sergeant Moore trudging up toward him. He was almost out of breath and frantic when he reached them.
“Staff Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, the lieutenant…he’s!”
“Calm down Price, get a hold of yourself. What about the lieutenant?”
“I heard shots, Staff Sergeant. So I went looking. He’s on his cot.”
By this time Moore and Perry were already sprinting across the sand with the winded Price trailing close behind. When they reached the hooch, Perry kept Price outside and tried to calm him down, while Moore went inside. He came out a few seconds later. His face was drawn.
“Staff Sergeant, you better take a look at this.”
Perry stepped inside the hooch. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead body in this condition, but the fact that it was his platoon commander made him hesitate for a few seconds before his instincts took over. Perry quickly pulled his poncho out of his pack and draped it over Stenner’s body, being careful not to disturb anything. Then he calmly gave instructions to Moore.
“Go back to the chow line. Tell the squad leaders to keep everyone there. Then go find first sergeant and the captain and bring them back here.”
