Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

And the dead walked on.

They shambled past, oblivious to the now baking sun and the stench of rotten bodies.

I found McKee in the surgeon’s tent, mending a broken arm.

“Have we stopped them, Nick?’

“For now, Robert, it seems so.”

“Their disposition?”

“They avoid us, but walk on. South.”

Roberts’s eyes grew wide. “Towards New Birmingham.”

I nodded.

“They have no walls. We must sally and harass the enemy. Someone must be sent to warn them!”

I nodded again. “The tide is coming in, Robert. We must be the sea walls.”

He tried to stand but the surgeon held him back. “Sir, you’re in no shape to be riding!”

McKee, covered in blood and gore, and his arm in a sling, grunted and lay back.

“We’ll find a way to warn them. We must.”

“We’ll find a way.” I walked out, worry stabbing at my bones. New Birmingham was a thriving colony town. They had only the protection of their garrison. Stout men, but with no walls.

I climbed our walls again and looked over that seething mass of dead. It was going to be worse, much worse at New Birmingham. But we would ride. We would battle the enemy, and make them fight for every shambling step.

God help us all, the demons marched on.

The reticle tracked across the Iraqi landscape for what felt like the two-hundredth time this hour, searching for anything that would jeopardize the squad or their mission. So far, there’d been nothing to be concerned about, but in Fallujah, that could change in the blink of an eye. The marksman kept his M82A1 SASR rifle — his sasser — trained down range.

Sergeant Shane Hill was on his third deployment and looked forward to returning home. His long-time girlfriend, Lynn, had finally worn him down and made him commit to an engagement upon his return. In three short days, he and his platoon would rotate to the rear on their way back to Camp Lejeune, ending his tour of duty. He couldn’t wait, but right now there was only the mission. One thing at a time.

The mission was simple: breach and secure the target location. The building wasn’t much to look at, a strong front door with no windows on the first floor. The second floor had a few windows covered with dust, dirt, and grime. The door leading to the deck looked rotten and would likely fall apart with very little force. With luck, the unit would find a few Iraqis who the MCIA — Marine Corps Intelligence Activity — had deemed targets of opportunity. Capture if possible, kill if necessary, and get out without losing any friendlies.

The plan was to hit the target house right before sun up, only a short time away. It looked good to Shane. There was no activity in any of the surrounding buildings and the neighborhood was quiet — perfect conditions for providing overwatch. Hill had chosen a large abandoned building to the east, knowing that as the sun rose into the sky it would be difficult for anyone to see the two-man HOG — Hunters Of Gunmen — team, the best of the best.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Overwatch, report,” Platoon Leader Chavez called over the radio.

Hill knew Chavez was doing his best to take command of the unit. He‘d just been transferred to the group, fresh from officer training. Hill guessed Chavez remained distant from the men because that’s what the training manual recommended. Chavez rarely deviated from the manual.

“Delta Whiskey Seven, you’re all clear,” Sergeant Hill replied.

The mission was about to kick off. Time to give the area another eyeball. Hefting the heavy.50 caliber sniper rifle onto his shoulder and putting eyes on the target, he slowly worked his way to the left. Nothing piqued his interest; the streets as quiet as a tomb.

Hill glanced over at his partner, Lance Corporal Charles “Dog Pound” Turner, who looked through the scope on the smaller of their two rifles — an M40A5 chambered in.308. Turner surveyed the landscape with sharp eyes, looking for something to ten-ring.

Turner was a good guy to have watching your back, Shane thought, a bit of Navajo mixed with a little south of the border made for a compact man with rippling muscles and character. He was always at ease, regardless the situation. If Hill had to pick someone to be in a foxhole with, Turner was the easy choice.

Turner and Hill were on the roof of a three and a half-story dwelling disguised as a pile of shit and bricks. Five blocks from the target residence, they were roughly nine hundred meters from the target house — the tallest building in the immediate area.

If the two highly-trained and decorated snipers couldn’t get the jump on the terrorists, no one could.

Hill returned to his scope and caught movement a few houses to the right of the target, on a second-story balcony. The area was dark and wouldn’t see the light of day for a few hours, but something had drawn his attention.

“Overwatch to Delta Whiskey Four, you have a possible tango on your three o’clock. Watch your flank,” Hill said into his comms.

“Roger that. Keep me posted if the tango advances.”

Hill saw Turner move his scope to check it out.

“I don’t see anything,” Turner said. “You sure?”

Just then, a dark shape leapt the gap between the two adjoining balconies, little more than a blur in Hill’s scope. Both snipers lifted their heads, and stared at one another.

“Overwatch to Delta Whiskey Four, tango is moving fast to your posit. Advise you secure your flank and hold.”

“Delta Whiskey Seven. Repeat tango’s last known position.” Hill wasn’t sure but it seemed as if Chavez’ voice sounded a little shaky.

“Last sighting was three houses from target on your right, second floor. “

“Copy, Delta Whiskey Seven.”

Through the scope, Hill could see his platoon leader snap instructions to the assault team, and he watched the men of the right flank reinforce their lines of fire preparing for the worst.

Hill moved his scope back to where the tango was last seen. He double-checked the dope, making sure that the range to target was correct. It was a waiting game; a game of which he was a master. Hill knew Turner was hot to get another kill, the fourth in the deployment. He was chasing Hill’s kill record. If Turner could get one more they’d be tied. Hill knew the man was dying to get the record before heading home. Just as Hill was about to check back with the breaching team, he saw more shadows. A second tango crept along the terrace.

This time, however, Hill was able to see a few more details. The figure was big — not Turner big, but large enough to warrant caution. He was also deathly pale. Hill switched off his safety and slowed his breathing, preparing to take his first shot. He placed his crosshairs on the back of the tango’s neck. If Hill’s shot flew true, the bullet would sever the spinal cord from the body and put the guy down before he even knew he’d been shot. Hill visualized the shot, starting with the trigger pull and ending with the large tango crumpling to the ground. He did this before each shot. It was an attempt to see all the variables and make minute adjustments milliseconds before he actually fired.

The tango slowly turned, and then moved out of sight. Hill’s practiced breathing froze. Red, glowing eyes had, for a second, made him doubt his normally perfect vision. He shook his head. Damn stupid time to be imagining things.

“Delta Whiskey Seven to Delta Whisky Four, you have a second tango — second floor, third house. We can’t get a bead on them.”

“Overwatch, we’re sending a party to investigate while we commence the operation. We have to rock ‘n’ roll or we lose the element of surprise. If the tangos reappear, take ‘em out if you see a weapon,” Chavez responded with a little more iron in his voice.