Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

July 10th, 1968

Operation Burn Bright

South Vietnam

Operation Burn Bright started off with a smooth insertion. Lieutenant Brett and thirty-one other Marines jumped into the fray, fast-roping from the crew compartment of multiple UH-1 Huey choppers hovering fifty feet above the drop point.

The stink of the jungle filled Brett’s lungs as soon as his boots hit the ground. They’d been dropped on the outskirts of a swamp, and the rot lingered in the sultry air.

Brett gagged at the smell and promptly clenched his jaw shut. He moved with his lips sealed and was careful not to swallow any bugs when he was forced to open his mouth and bark orders. Vietnam was the worst place for someone that suffered from a borderline case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. There was simply no way to keep good hygiene in the jungle.

Breathing through his nostrils, he led his men slowly into the knee-deep water in a wedge formation. Every few steps he would pause, scan the area, and then flash hand signals to advance. The men were experienced enough to know they should maintain combat intervals. Enough of them had seen buddies die from clustering together and forming double targets for the enemy.

If he didn’t have his lips closed he might have even smiled at the sight of his well-organized platoon. But smiling was reserved for peacetime, not war. In Brett’s eyes, Vietnam was just a place for Marines to go and die.

The further they moved into the muck, the deeper the swamp became. Stagnant water crawled up his legs, sending a cold chill through his body.

Goddamn, he hated the fucking jungle and everything inside of it—the snakes, the bugs, and worst of all, the leeches. He stifled a curse when he saw a foot-long leech swimming in his direction. The last thing he wanted to do was notify Charlie they were coming. The slurping water was already loud enough to tell every Viet Cong in the area that a platoon full of fresh meat was on its way.

As he slopped through the water, he wondered how he got so unlucky. The war had ruined everything. After graduating college, he had looked forward to a career in banking with a nice little cookie-cutter house, a gorgeous wife, and a warm dinner waiting at home for him every night. Instead, his girlfriend had left him and he was wading through water toward one of the most ruthless enemies the American military had ever faced. To make things worse, they carried an experimental drug that they were supposed to take right before reaching their target. Command said it would negate the effects of any chemicals lingering in the area, such as Agent Orange, but Brett had his doubts. It sounded more like they were being used as guinea pigs.

“Shit,” he muttered as a fly the size of a peanut buzzed by his helmet. After batting it away, he swept the muzzle of his M16 over a clearing at the far end of the swamp. They weren’t far from their target—a remote village that Brass claimed was harboring support to the local VCs.

Brett wasn’t so sure. He’d been down this road many times before. Most of the time they didn’t find shit.

When they reached the edge of the swamp, Brett balled his hand into a fist. He jerked his chin toward the platoon sergeant, a stocky Texan named Fern. The man was built like a football player, with wide shoulders and tree trunks for legs. He approached with a toothy grin, revealing a wad of chew that bled a brown trail of juice down his chin strap.

The two men were the exact opposites. Fern cared nothing for hygiene and seemed to thrive in the disgusting jungle. The thicker the muck, the more he enjoyed himself.

“Lieutenant,” Fern said, squinting with a hand shielding his eyes.

“The village should be just beyond that ridgeline,” Brett said, pointing toward an embankment across the field. “Tell everyone not holding security to pair up and take their dose of VX-99, and make sure they actually do it.”

“Roger that, sir,” Fern replied. He spat a chunk of tobacco into the stale water, and Brett watched it vanish into the mouth of some small fish. His stomach churned at the sight.

Brett followed Fern out of the water and onto solid ground. They stepped over rotting vegetation and slapped away sharp branches. When they got to the edge of the clearing, Brett dropped to his right knee and reached for his bag. He removed the small syringe of VX-99 and eyed it suspiciously. There was nothing he hated more than needles except the jungle and everything inside of it. If sticking the needle in his arm meant he would get out of here quicker, well then, fuck it.

He bit off the plastic tip and spat it out, found a bulging vein in his wrist, and jammed the point into his arm. Slowly, he pushed the mysterious cocktail into his bloodstream. A sharp pain instantly raced down his arm. Brett tossed the syringe into the brush and placed a finger over the spot. The other men were taking turns; one man on guard with weapon at the ready, the other with his weapon cradled while jabbing the chemicals into a vein.

Brett waited there, listening to the hum of oversized insects and the chirp of exotic birds for several seconds, wondering if the platoon would notice any side effects.

After a minute, the tingling sensation in his veins passed. He stood, shouldering his rifle and leveling the muzzle over the field. So far there was no sign of the enemy, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Charlie was always out there, waiting to strike like the drugs in his veins.

“Move out,” Brett said. Fern nodded and flashed a blur of hand movements to the men on their right. The Marines fanned out over the field at a brisk pace, their boots slurping through the mud.

Before they’d made it halfway, Brett felt a burning. At first he wondered if the wind had carried Agent Orange into the area, but this burning wasn’t the type associated with the chemical. It wasn’t coming from the outside of his skin—it was coming from the inside of his chest, like he’d swallowed an entire bottle of Vietnamese hot sauce.

Small jolts of pain raced through his body with every heartbeat. The agonizing burn spread to his head and lingered there. He blinked, tears welling in his eyes. He felt like he was being burned alive, only from within.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a PFC named Junko collapse to both knees, clawing madly at his skull. Then came the screaming. Wails of pain broke out as other Marines fell.

What the fuck is happening to us?

The pain was so intense Brett could hardly think. Shimmering arcs of bright light broke across his vision. The oranges, reds, and yellows swam before his eyes. The jungle faded behind the colors.

Dropping his rifle on the ground, he cupped his hands over his ears to drown out the crazed, pained shrieks.

Whatever was happening to the platoon wasn’t from some chemical lingering over the field. Brett could hardly form a cohesive thought, but he knew the pain was a result of the VX-99.

A sudden surge of fire blasted through Brett’s body. It was followed by a sharp tingling sensation, like hundreds of bees were stinging him all at once.