Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

The Russian had to know something to help.

I parked at the base of the hill and began picking my way up the path we’d taken earlier in the day. The lights of the Castro Neighborhood blinked below. A cool wind brought the first hints of water-soaked fog. I shivered, pulling my jacket collar closer around my neck.

I heard a shout.

Then a scream.

I jerked my M1911.45 caliber semi-automatic pistol free of its leather shoulder holster and broke into a run. I tripped several times once I veered off the path, but managed to stay upright.

Another scream. I was close enough to hear the sounds of scuffling and be drawn to it. Two men were fighting each other, while another, dressed in a long fog jacket, looked on.

“Hey! Stop where you are.” I held the gun in the air for them to clearly see.

The man in the long jacket turned towards me. For a moment, I thought it was a woman, long tresses hanging from its head. But then I saw it for what it really was. The tresses were over its face, too.

A satori!

I slowed just as a shot rang out.

One of the figures slumped to the ground.

The air crackled and sizzled. I felt the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise. A slice of blinding white lit the night. Both figures disappeared into it before a great zipping noise, then silence.

I stared for a stunned moment, before I ran to the downed man. It was the Russian. Shot between the eyes. I guess he wasn’t eternal. I suppose he could be killed.

I spun, trying to ascertain if I was truly alone. A breeze swirled the approaching fog. A horn came from somewhere out in the bay. At my feet lay a spilled can of caviar and half a bottle of vodka. Three cigarettes lay in an area a little ways off, one still smoldering. The filters were constructed of gold foil, telling me immediately of their origin — Sobrainie Black Russians made in Ukraine.

I regarded the Russian. I could try and find a spider, perhaps take it with me to the Box Man, but looking at the old face, a face older than any other in the city, much less the state of California, turned me against the idea. I felt it was time to give him some rest. God knows he earned it.

I was early into the office, receiving reports from my other agents. A Chinese-American worker had been caught trying to place a statue of a dragon inside a wall of the twentieth floor of the TransAmerica Pyramid. We couldn’t be sure what it was, but on the off chance it might be something harmful, we sent it to the Skunk Works for evaluation. I also sent a telegram to D.C. detailing the death of the Russian and the positive identification of an satori at the scene. I mentioned the light and their disappearance. I hoped they could explain it.

Doris informed me that Apollo 11 was out of contact with Earth and was now on the back side of their lunar orbit. This marked the first time an astronaut had ever been completely out of contact and Houston was all pins and needles.

Jakes and Harvey had left earlier for a meeting with the deceased’s co-workers at Lawrence Livermore. Nancy was hard at work, pulling files and adding to the dossier of the countess whom we’d thought dead. Luckily, Colonel Dieter Hermann had retired in the Bay Area, and was due at our offices within the hour. If anyone could shed light on the countess and her activities, he was the one who could do it.

I was working on fitness reports when Hermann stormed into the office. Doris stood to greet him, but he ignored her, glanced around the main room until he saw me sitting at my desk, then marched in my direction. About seventy and bald, he was still fit and hale. He had the face of a bulldog and the glare of my ex-wife. He wore yellow pants and a white golf shirt.

As he entered my office, I stood. I was prepared to welcome him, but never got the opportunity.

“What the hell is it with you people?”

You people?

He placed his hands behind his back and leaned forward, inspecting the wall behind me and my military memorabilia from previous units.

I stood for several moments, feeling more and more ill at ease in my own office. It was as if I were back at West Point as a plebe and being inspected by a senior cadet. I smiled, but it was lost on him as he continued to rack and stack my place on the military pyramid. Regardless of the fact he was a colonel and I’m a lieutenant colonel, there was a significant event which separated him from me — his retirement. Whatever power he’d wielded before, whatever ability to make people feel small and insignificant he’d used before, it had no bearing on the current situation.

Then why is he making you so nervous? my inner voice asked.

Shut the hell up, I told it.

He finally stood straight and appraised me, his gaze raking my civilian clothes; his nose twitched, signifying his distaste.

“Welcome to Special Unit 77, Colonel Hermann.”

He sighed and sat in one of my chairs. “I’m retired. I keep telling you I’m retired.”

“Me?”

“The War Office. The Pentagon. You know. And they keep calling me.”

I was beginning to feel awkward being the only one standing, so I sat. “They must have a good reason.”

“Where’s your uniform, by the way.” He made a hand gesture. “And what’s up with the long hair.”

First of all, my hair wasn’t long. And secondly, I was getting a little fed up. I waited a moment for my inner voice to pipe up, but it remained silent… which meant consent. It clearly agreed with me. “We have relaxed grooming standards here. No reason to announce that this is a military organization.”

“In my day we would have been proud of that fact.”

“Well, sir, it’s not your day.” And Hannibal has since crossed the Alps.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Clearly. Is that you with that upstart MacArthur?”

I nodded. “It is. I take it you don’t approve of him.”

“General Officers should be commanding men, not looking for photo ops and greasing the hands of politicians.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying to stay alive.”

“Korea, right?”

I nodded.

“Nothing like World War Two. Now that was a real war.”

My mind’s eye returned to the frozen arms and legs of too many dead marines scattered across the Chosin Reservoir. “No, sir. Nothing like it.” Enough of the dick-measuring chit chat. “We need to discuss your operation against Countess Mizuki.”

He frowned. “That’s what I was told. Why bring up that old op? It’s done and done.”

“Your reports indicated that she perished in a fire. We have reports that she is still alive. I’m trying to examine those two facts and see which is real?”

“Are you challenging my integrity?”

“I’m questioning whether or not her death was verified or assumed.”

He paused and gave me a hard stare. I’m sure had I been a second lieutenant I would have found a sword and committed seppuku. “As I recall, there was a fire. No one could have survived.”

“Did you find her body after the fire was put out?”

He shook his head. “The fire was so hot it consumed everything.”

“Everything?”

He nodded.

“So you can’t actually verify that she was dead.”

“Listen. I shot her, she fell back and knocked over an oil lamp. That was it. The silk screened walls and cedar rooms went up faster than one could believe.”

“Where’d you shoot her?”

His eyes searched mine, but I kept my stare hard and dispassionate. “The chest. Yes, the chest.”

Nancy had come up behind him and stood with a file to his chest. I nodded to him.

“Do we have further evidence?” I asked.

Hermann spun in his seat and looked askance at my Japanese-American officer.