Ken Goddard - Double blind

He paused briefly at the top of the slope, looked back, saw two of the dark green figures materialize at the edge of the forest, and then, with the last remnants of his strength, staggered toward the darkened warehouse.

First Sergeant Aran Wintersole lay prone at the top of incline with the barrel of his M-16 assault rifle extended, waiting until the two members of his fire team signaled that they were in their proper flanking positions. Then he directed the figure lying next to him to set the crosshairs of her target scope on the slightly open side door of the warehouse nearest their location.

She did, and shook her head.

"I'm getting a diffuse heat source, but no movement," she whispered while continuing to scan the front of the warehouse with her IR-heat-sensing target locator.

"Wait a minute," she corrected herself. "I've got heat and movement. Looks like it's coming from the gap between the siding and the floor."

"How many?" Wintersole demanded.

"Two… no three, at least three targets. Definitely three."

"Where?"

"Far front corner of the warehouse, opposite side from the open door, in close to the main roll-up door," the communications specialist reported confidently.

Using hand signals, Wintersole quickly informed one-two, his heavy-weapons specialist, of the location of the three targets inside the warehouse, and ordered the corporal and his team to take the near door and go in hot while he and his team stayed outside to pick off the expected runners.

Once the Ranger first sergeant verified that everyone was in place, he signaled "Go!" with his raised right hand.

As Wintersole watched with professional calm, the Rangers took the door without hesitation. The roar of automatic weapons fire filled the night air as the lunging and rolling soldiers sent overlapping streams of 5.56mm rounds into the front and side corrugated metal walls of the building.

Then came the distinctive sound of full magazines replacing empty ones.

And then dead silence, broken only by a softly whispered, "Oh shit."

Another distinctly feminine and near-panicked voice whispered, "Help, I'm stuck."

"One-two, give me a sit-rep!" Wintersole immediately ordered.

Another period of silence.

"We've got a… a situation… in here, First Sergeant," the team's heavy-weapons specialist whispered in a shaken voice.

"Get us out of here, First Sergeant," the feminine voice pleaded.

"One-two to one-one, request permission to withdraw," the heavy-weapons specialist whispered.

"Negative, one-two. Hold your position," Wintersole ordered. "Do you have Lightstone?"

Another long pause, then a soft, "I don't know, First Sergeant."

First Sergeant Aran Wintersole blinked in disbelief.

"Then go look and see, Corporal," the hunter-killer team leader ordered in a slow, very clear, and definitely threatening manner.

A much longer pause followed this time.

"We can't, First Sergeant."

The unimaginable words from arguably the toughest member of his Ranger hunter-killer recon team brought the combat-hardened first sergeant immediately to his feet. He charged toward the partially closed side door of the warehouse, reflexively thumbing the selector switch of his M-16 to full auto as he did so.

Once at the side door, Wintersole paused, M-16 at the ready position, and motioned to one-seven on the other side of the door opposite him. Without hesitation, the young soldier dived in through the doorway, sending a stream of 5.56mm rounds streaking over the heads of the other hunter-killer team members and punching through the far side wall of the warehouse… then rolled to the floor, automatically ejecting the empty magazine as he reached back for a full one with his left hand.

The instant he heard one-seven hit the floor, Wintersole slammed the door aside with his shoulder and lunged through the doorway, finger tightening on the trigger of his M-16, ready to kill the first thing that moved… and then stood, stunned and uncomprehending, as he stared at the incredible scene before him.

"Oh my God…" one-seven whispered, but Wintersole ignored him, feeling a very unfamiliar fear-induced chill run through him when he saw the hundreds of slowly moving eyes and legs glowing in varying combinations of bright red and iridescent blue in the bright green viewfinder of his night-vision goggles… and then the six, much larger bright eyes glowing in the far corner of the warehouse by the roll-up door.

But as the hunter-killer team leader moved toward the hundreds of slowly moving, bright red and iridescent blue creatures, he began to put it all together.

Snakes and spiders?

Then he stepped on something sticky.

What the hell…?

At that moment, a deep voice with a distinct, South Carolina accent called out from outside the front roll-up door of the warehouse.

"THIS IS SPECIAL AGENT LARRY PAXTON OF THE U.S. FISH AND WILDLIFE SERVICE. WE HAVE THE WAREHOUSE SURROUNDED. THROW YOUR WEAPONS OUTSIDE THE DOOR, AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS!"

"BULLSHIT!" Wintersole roared as he spun and emptied the thirty-round magazine waist high across the front wall of the warehouse.

Ordering his troops to maintain their positions, Wintersole calmly knelt on the concrete floor, reloaded his weapon, and waited.

"What do you think?" Larry Paxton asked. With a Smith amp; Wesson 10mm semiautomatic pistol clenched tight in both hands, he was crouched next to the largest tree he could find among the meager collection surrounding the warehouse parking lot.

"Definitely sounded like a 'no' from here," Bobby LaGrange replied from his prone position next to the adjoining tree. The retired San Diego Police homicide detective aimed the 12-gauge pump shotgun held tight against his shoulder at the main roll-up door of the warehouse.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too."

Sighing to himself, the Bravo Team leader slowly stood up, positioned himself in a barricade position next to what now — thanks to the barrage of bark-shredding 5.56mm rounds that had come flying in their general direction — seemed like a very small tree, yelled out, "OKAY, IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL ABOUT IT," and then carefully and deliberately fired two 10mm rounds into the metal wall of the warehouse.

The crash of breaking glass immediately followed the sound of punctured sheet metal… and then, some moments later, a high-pitched scream.

"GIVE UP YET?" Paxton called out.

Dead silence.

"I SAID, DO YOU GIVE UP YET?" Larry Paxton repeated.

More silence.

"IN CASE YOU'RE WONDERING, THOSE YELLOW-EYED THINGS ON THE FLOOR ARE CROCODILES, THE TARANTULAS HAVE FANGS LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE, AND EVERY ONE OF THOSE DAMNED SNAKES IS POISONOUS… ESPECIALLY THE TIGER SNAKES AND THE DEATH ADDERS. AND NO, I AIN'T GOT NO IDEA AT ALL

WHAT I'M AIMING AT," Paxton tried hopefully.

No response.

"Give them another shot," Bobby LaGrange suggested sensibly.

Muttering a heartfelt curse, Paxton raised his 10mm semiautomatic again.

Two more rounds punched through the corrugated metal, followed by more breaking glass, another high-pitched scream, and some extremely heated profanity.

Moments later, four M-16 assault rifles sailed through the side door and clattered on the ground.

Wait a minute. How many were there? Five or six?

Henry Lightstone stood at his barricade position behind a nearby tree, trying to remember exactly how many figures he'd seen following him in the woods and then entering the warehouse.

They started out with seven at the training compound. Boggs had one-four under control, and I took out another one — broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder — which leaves five. Right.

"That's only four, Wintersole," Henry Lightstone spoke into his reactivated collar mike. "I want them all, or I'm tossing in a flash-bang."