Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

The girl was still there, a moving shadow in a sea of gray. And her rippling laughter sent chills of recognition through Carter. Yet now he set off through the ash field. With his first step he heard a clink, like he’d kicked a tin can with his foot. He looked down. There, half-wrapped on the toe of his combat boot was a set of dog tags. He reached down and picked them up, trying to study them in the dark. He flicked his fake Zippo and held them close together until he could read the letters.

It was a name he recognized: Sgt. Samuel Lund.

The memory struck Carter like a physical force. Lund had been on Carter’s first two missions with Recon Team Python. Until a booby trap left by Charlie had eviscerated him. Carter had called for a dustoff, but it was too late. Lund died while Carter tried to hold in his guts, his hands squishy with thick blood.

Carter shoved the tags into his pocket and took another cautious step. Again he heard a metallic sound, and the ground just didn’t feel right beneath his weight. Glancing down, he dreaded what he would find. He almost thought: mine! But it was as if he knew it couldn’t be a mine, that it was something stranger and more dangerous.

Beneath his feet more tags crunched. Dog tags hidden under the ash. There were tags everywhere, hundreds, maybe thousands of them .

How was this possible? This wasn’t even a war zone.

Carter jerked awake.

Shit.

He had been dreaming.

His hand was trembling. He had drifted into sleep. It wasn’t like him, not at all, yet he had. He was still at the campsite.

Dog tags were all the more peculiar to dream about, because none of them wore theirs for this op in order to remain essentially orphaned in terms of nationality. If caught, they could be tortured and shot.

He took a ragged breath and surveyed the area around them again. The faintest traces of weak daylight were beginning to filter down through the jungle. Nothing had happened. He wiped the sweat from his brow and got to his feet. He heard the echo of a child’s laughter in the back of his mind, but the dream had already begun to fade.

He kicked McBride’s booted foot, leaning in and whispering. “Get up. Get the others up.”

When everyone had assembled in a group around him, Carter spoke to them in measured tones. “Our objective is approximately nine clicks to the north, but a ways up in elevation. We’ll stick down here in the valley, sweep around this mole hill on its eastern flank then approach our target from the southeast. Until further notice, no communication other than hand signals unless absolutely necessary. Standard marching order with a five-yard spread. Stay sharp, everybody.” Carter checked his Soviet watch and wrist compass. “All right, let’s head out.”

The team wove their way through the thick foliage, Jek leading the way at point. Though the filtered sunlight was beginning to brighten the jungle in angular patterns, night’s shadows still fought for dominance beneath the canopies, and gray phantoms seemed to lurk wherever Carter trained his eyes. Despite the lingering darkness, RT Python efficiently cut their way through the valley and headed east-northeast around the base of the towering green mountain. They were pros. They got it done.

The rain that started spitting at them before morning had come fully into flower. It swept in so rapidly that Carter felt the first fat drops falling through the leaves before the storm clouds swallowed the sun. The lush growth offered little resistance to the downpour. Rain catching on leaves high above coalesced and then gushed down in heavy streams, quickly turning the rich black soil into slippery mud, covered with even more treacherous wet discarded leaves. Water dripped from the brim of Carter’s boonie hat, obscuring his vision. His dyed black fatigues — lacking any trace of insignia — were soaked through to the skin in minutes.

Apparently they had passed the cusp and the rainy season had begun. Just like that.

The team pressed on, muttering.

Goddamn rain.

As suddenly as the torrent had started, it disappeared. But instead of granting relief, the rain was followed by an oppressive heat that threatened to choke them with its cloying humidity. The jungle seemed to exhale, giving its moisture back to the air. The atmosphere grew heavy and thick. Within a half hour the rainwater that had permeated Carter’s clothes was replaced with sweat. For him there was no difference — he remained wet.

Occasionally he thought he heard a sound out of place in the tapestry of jungle noises, but when he turned it was gone. If they were being followed, the followers were good. The sense of being watched was unnerving, and he never took his finger off the trigger.

They trudged on through the heat of the day. The undergrowth was thinner here and they gave their machete arms a rest. Rounding the eastern slope, they found a narrow slow-running stream and followed along its western bank. The water was brown and murky, stirred by rainwater runoff. Judging from the steep banks, Carter guessed that the stream ran more like a river during the height of the rainy season. They forded the river where it bent its course to the west. Jek entered first and the lower half of his body disappeared in the creeping, putrid water. He trudged through the slow current across to the far bank, holding his AK47 above his head, the rest of the team following close behind.

“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of Charlie,” Kane said to Carter with disdain. “Exactly what the hell are we doing here?”

“Keep your voice down, damn it.”

Carter threw down his rucksack again after pulling out his canteen. He sipped the lukewarm water then wiped off the few drops that rolled down his chin with his sleeve. “Jek, Phut One — take a look around,” he ordered.

The two tribesmen quickly and silently vanished into the jungle, and in seconds it appeared they’d never been there at all. Thin and whipcord tough, the mountain tribesmen became ruthless fighters when trained. They matched, man for man, just about every Green Beret Carter had ever known — but they were temperamental and their loyalties were sometimes difficult to pin down.

“Come on, One-Zero,” Kane persisted, the others looking on. “What the hell’s going on? What kind of recon is this really?”

“You know exactly what I know, Kane. We get to the top of this shit pile and have a look around. We relay what we find. We haul ass. That’s what we’re doing here.”

“Well I don’t like it,” said Kane. “We ain’t anywhere near the war.” He pulled a filterless cigarette from his shirt pocket. Carter tossed him his knock-off Zippo. “Thanks.” Kane lit the smoke.

“Do you ever like it?” McBride said, half-smiling. He was sitting on a bamboo log with his boot off, checking to make sure there weren’t any bloated black leeches on his leg. If there were, the bites could become infected fast, and that meant trouble.

“Mock,” Carter called out quietly. “Give me those funny books.” The indigenous soldier came at a run, grinning.

The Yard reached into his ruck and produced a handful of curled maps, handing them to his One-Zero. Carter unfolded them and took a look, mostly to placate Kane.

“Look here,” Carter said to Kane. “This is where we are. Right by the blue line,” he pointed at the map, “and this is where we’re heading. We should be there by sundown.”

McBride had joined them and was standing beside Carter. He pointed upslope. “Up there?” he asked. Carter nodded.

Kane said something, but Carter found himself suddenly transfixed by the praying mantis that was moving in slow motion over Kane’s shoulder. He heard the sound of pieces of tin clinking together. Carter slipped his hand into his pocket and ran his fingertips along the metal edges of the dog tags that rested there. A wave of dizziness swept through him, and he was suddenly afraid to pull the dog tags out, afraid of what he would find, afraid of the name he would find press-punched into the metal.