Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

As the creatures began to reach their position, Sarge screamed for them to fall back, but Billy had no idea how or to where. More of the beasts had emerged from the trees all around them. One of them picked Sarge up, as if he weighed nothing, and shook the big man in the air before it completely ripped him in two. With a roar, it flung the pieces in separate directions. Billy swung the machine gun to catch the thing dead in the chest with his stream of fire. The creature imploded under the sheer force and number of bullets tearing into it as a shower of blood covered the asphalt around it. Its twitching corpse collapsed unmoving on the road as the other creatures trampled it in their haste to get at him. Billy held his ground. He could hear Pullman screaming behind him but didn’t dare turn to see what was happening to the man.

Billy kept his finger tight on the machine gun’s trigger, swinging wildly back and forth in a wide arc, trying to take down as many of the beasts as he could. He felt a pair of massive hands close on his shoulders, then he was jerked from the back of the jeep and flung sideways onto the road. He struck the pavement hard. The pain jolting through him told him his right arm had snapped underneath his own weight. He struggled to yank his pistol from the holster on his hip as the beasts closed on him. Dozens of hairy hands reached out, digging into his flesh. He cried out, his eyes full of tears born of fear, and then pain as he was yanked apart. He saw one of the beasts raising his left leg to its yellow teeth and another scooping out long, red slicked strands from his stomach. He’d heard that a severed head lived on for a short time after being removed, and he soon found that it was true. The last thing he saw was a glimpse of the trees along the side of road as his head was tossed through the air and his world went black.

The staccato throb of the Huey’s rotors was practically deafening as the helicopter cut a path through the night sky between Command and Control Central in Kon Tum to the insertion point just south of Luang Prabang east of the Mekong in central Laos.

They were going over the fence . Flanking them on either side were their escort choppers, gunships loaded for bear.

Special Forces Sergeant Jake Carter, One-Zero of Recon Team Python, sat with the hundred-round drum magazine of the Russian RPD Light Machine Gun resting on his knee. He was staring out the Huey’s open door, past the ride-along gunner. Below them an open field of elephant grass that the boys called the Golf Course stretched in all directions, illuminated by the glow of the nearly-full moon. In the distance he could see the flash of cluster bombs pounding the Ho Chi Minh trail. He sighed and turned away from the door, refocusing his attention on the team.

Sgt. Larry Kane leaned into Carter, yelling over the heavy thrum of the bird’s engine and the rushing wind. “So what’s the pucker factor gonna be on this drop?”

“Unknown, Kane,” Carter yelled and shrugged broadly enough to be seen. “We should be in and out, two days. Not expecting anything out of the ordinary,” he lied.

“So what you’re saying is that we’re screwed?”

Carter allowed a fragile smile to cross his face and leaned back into the seat. They knew the ropes. The truth was, he really didn’t know what to expect. The mission briefing had been short and sweet. They were to observe whether there was ‘enemy activity’ at a godforsaken Taoist temple west of the Plain of Jars, far north of the panhandle. Though Carter had been team leader on a dozen MACV-SOG missions with Recon Team Python, none of them had crossed this deep into the interior. The main war zone was to the south and east, but they were flying a black op into the heart of Communist-controlled Laos and he had little idea as to why. Even if it were an NVA stronghold or training facility, it was too far from the front lines to be of major concern, especially considering that they were teetering on the cusp of the rainy season.

And, overall, it just didn’t feel right.

There was something about this one — they’d been told ahead of time they were going in black. If caught, their existence would be denied. For all intents and purposes, they were dead unless they made the extraction point.

Carter, like all his men, had volunteered for dangerous assignments. No point grousing about it now.

The Huey jinked to avoid a barrage of anti-aircraft fire, glowing green tracers suddenly surrounding them and lighting up the night. Carter grabbed his seat to brace himself as the chopper swerved evasively. A handful of pounding heartbeats later, the assault was left behind as unexpectedly as it had found them.

The pilot turned, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

“Laugh a minute,” he shouted.

The teams never found the pilot's sense of humor contagious, but you did what you had to do to get clear of the fear.

RT Python was comprised of seven men; three grunts and four Yards. Outside of Carter, Sgt. Kane was One-One, and the newer guy, Sgt. McBride, was One-Two. The three of them were Special Forces — Green Berets — and what they’d all volunteered for was duty in the Studies and Observations Group, so they had to be either crazy or gung-ho. Their Montagnard companions were all from the Bahnar tribe: Mock, Jek, Phut One, and Phut Two. The whole team were designated Bushmasters, specially trained for jungle combat. And this wasn’t their first rodeo.

Something nagged at him about that, but it was gossamer in a delicate night’s breeze.

Carter pulled a square out of his pocket, lit it with his Chinese Zippo copy, and took a deep drag. The mission was nagging, of that he was sure. Yeah, a few nerves were normal. The adrenaline rush of getting dropped into the boonies — into the unknown — was something he lived for. But this was different. It was as if that voice inside his head was warning him. Whatever they ran into, they were on their own. There wouldn’t be any Hatchet Forces or Air Cav sweeping in the clean up if they ended up in deep shit… they were already too far out, and blacked out on top of it. Why, he didn’t know. He wasn’t supposed to know. Even if they did call for an extraction, it would take hours for a slick to arrive. This was gonna be a clean fight, RT Python against whatever they found out there. But that wasn’t what was bothering Carter.

No, maybe it was that slimebag spook, Pearson of the DOD. He’d been at the briefing, quietly lurking like the snake that he was. Sure, Pearson wore Hawaiian shirts like banners and was friendly enough to your face, but it was that fake friendly of someone who was gaining your trust so you wouldn’t expect the knife when it slipped into your back. Carter didn’t like him, or any of his cronies. They were chickenshit in Carter’s opinion, but when you were deployed in Uncle Sam’s clandestine army you had to deal with the devil. It came with the package. You didn’t have to like it.

The choppers headed north along the hazy border between Laos and Thailand trying to steer clear of Charlie’s known nests. The flight seemed to take forever. Carter thought that it was probably similar to what a man would feel like on his last day on death row… waiting. The roar of the Huey’s rotors made conversation difficult — impossible if you didn’t want to blow your voice out. They didn’t want to talk anyway. They knew what needed to be done. They just wanted to get in and out alive and get back to base with the intel. And then maybe do it all over again.

He saw them all gripping their weapons, an assortment of French MAT submachine guns, Russian RPDs, and Chinese AK47s for the Yards. If they were caught or killed, none of their gear was US-made.