Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“Roger that,” Hill replied.

He watched as two marines moved toward the second house, the darkness and urban environment providing perfect cover. A quick look at the target house had the rest of the team stacking up in preparation to breach. They were moving a little early; daylight was still about half an hour away, but a few slivers of light were starting to creep over the rooftops. With luck they would secure the target house and exfiltrate to base before anyone on the block woke for the Morning Prayer.

“Oh, shit,” Turner yelped. “Tango is right on top of them, and they’re blind. I’m taking the shot.”

“Belay that. Tango doesn’t have a weapon” stated Hill.

“Dammit, Hill, you know as well as I do that they intend to kill our boys.”

“That may be the case but ‘no weapon, no shot’ is the order from up top,” said Hill

“Shit, the brass don’t know what it’s like out here. This is gonna go sideways fast.”

Hill watched as Turner fumed. Just then, the two marines responsible for checking the team’s flank could be heard going fully automatic. The radio burst to life as the firing stopped.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Delta Whiskey Six, report,” came the call from Chavez.

“Delta Whiskey Six, we just capped two pale, motherfucking Johnnie Jihadis. They got the jump on us, but now the Hajis are down. We’re all good here,” PFC Staples replied.

Not long ago the platoon celebrated Staples’ twentieth birthday in-country with some ‘confiscated’ beer. He was a good soldier who was shaping up to be a great marine. His melon-sized and balding head had earned him the unfortunate nickname of ‘Pineapple’. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but then again, nicknames given by the unit rarely did.

“Copy, we’re breachin’ now. Go, go, go!”

With the two tangos down, Hill quickly scoped over to watch as the three-man breaching team blew the door to the house then threw in a flash bang. The instant the grenade went off, the team moved in.

While waiting for the report to come in from Chavez, Hill switched back to scan the balconies for more bad guys. The way they’d moved and hid suggested there might be more waiting in the dark.

The comms system crackled as Chavez’s voice came over the net. “House is secure. Seven dead. They‘re all torn up. Something out of a slasher film, arms and assholes are everywhere. We need to document it. The rest of the team is securing intel and photographing the scene. It smells like shit in here.” Hill could hear Chavez’s breathing over the comms. “Delta Whiskey Six, high step it to my location, you can help secure any intel.”

It wouldn’t take long before the team gathered what it could to take back to Forward Operating Base. The FOB was only a few clicks away.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Joker One Seven, requesting transport, we will mark location with strobe,” stated Chavez.

Hill blew out the breath he was holding as Staples confirmed the order to help gather the intelligence and then entered the house. Joker One Seven, a Black Hawk helicopter, was their ride back to base. The mission was winding down and he was looking forward to a shower and some hot chow—

Gunfire erupted from the target house.

“Overwatch, the fuckers aren’t dead—” Shots erupted over the headset as the team dealt with the new threat.

Both Turner and Hill set their sights on the front door. Flashes from the carbines cast light and shadow out the doorway.

“Delta Whiskey Four, report!” Hill said.

“The Tangos are not dead, I repeat, not dead . They’re attacking with their fuckin’ teeth. I have two wounded and two dead. Pineapple and I are going to the second story. Cover us. We are going to try and get some distance on them.”

“Copy, Delta Whiskey Four.” Hill looked to Turner. “This just got ugly. Wait for Staples and Chavez to come out and put down anyone that comes out after them.”

“Fuck! Let’s do it,” Turner said, and Hill knew the other sniper was on mission now. He was out for blood, and it was blood he was going to get.

Hill watched as Chavez and Staples made their way onto the second-story balcony, fireman-carrying the wounded and hopping to the patio of the neighboring house. Their BDUs were covered in dark red splotches he knew was blood. Whatever happened in there must have been a nightmare. They would have to contend with the wounded as they fled. The dead could wait.

Hill watched as Chavez and Staples, with the wounded, made it to the second balcony. He saw them make it halfway to the next balcony when a small horde of tangos crashed through the nearest patio door.

Turner and Hill went to work.

Hill let Turner take the shot as the first tango came through the entryway. He knew Turner would have it lined up, and he wasn’t disappointed as Turner’s gentle pull of the trigger sent the bullet on its merry way. Hill watched through his scope as the shot entered the tango’s head a little left of the bridge of the nose. The head snapped back with violent force as the legs went out from under him, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Hill lined up his own shot as he heard Turner chamber another round. A second tango crossed the threshold. Hill fired.

While the.308 was the perfect round for taking out a person, the.50 caliber was designed for tank warfare or long range targets. His SASR was loaded with Roufoss Mark 211 explosive rounds. The bullets were designed to blow through a wall or into an armored vehicle, where the zirconium trigger would ignite and smash a big exit and plenty of shrapnel, making it a very bad day for anyone hit. The person in Hill’s scope was neither a wall nor armor, so the round ripped the head and the majority of the upper body off, exploding in a spray of red mist. The first two terrorists to stick their heads out had lost them, buying the team more time to reach safety.

Hill watched as Chavez and Staples made it to the third balcony seconds after the dead tangos hit the floor. They were working on a way to get to ground level and meet up with Hill and Turner. The snipers’ shots echoed off every surface in the neighborhood. If people weren’t awake when the operation began, they were now.

Hill watched through his scope, and saw that the ground rose up in front of the team enough to make the jump difficult but not impossible. The chance of breaking an ankle was still there, but not a definite like it would have been from the other two houses. Hill watched as Staples jumped first. He had the most battle rattle and the full pack would tell Chavez if he needed to be more cautious when he worked his way down. Staples had no trouble; he was fine and already covering as many angles as he could when Chavez lowered the two wounded down to him before finally joining what was left of his squad.

Hill’s radio crackled to life as Chavez got on the horn, “Delta Whiskey Four to Delta Whiskey Seven, what’s the clearest way out of here?”

“Delta Whiskey Four, continue two more houses to your right, and then come straight at us to the east. We’re just shy of one click away. Turner will set up a strobe on the roof to alert our ride.”

Hill peered over as Turner turned on the strobe light to mark the location. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate , Hill thought; it was the tallest pile of bricks and mortar in the area. The helicopter wouldn’t be able to land but it could hover while the unit made good their exfil.

Hill surveyed the area again. No one had exited the target house after he obliterated the second tango. The early morning grew quiet once more. To Hill, it didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what ‘it’ was. He moved the scope to check on Chavez, Staples, and the rest of the team. Then it hit him. The first two contacts Staples and his fire team had killed were no longer lying where they’d fallen. They were nowhere to be seen. Sweat dripped down Hill’s spine, making him itch.