The Horror

by Martin E. Silenus

  “We got nothing but some tools and maybe info from Colonel Smith, and our own skill as ghosts in the jungle. And we have done well beyond “good at being ghosts”, and that is the truth.” says P-Man. “And I tell you what, if we do not stand up for those slaughtered kids who just wanted to laugh and play soccer, then we are no damn better than the pukes who killed them!”

  “Shit, true enough, true enough, the kids are what makes this whole thing worth doing. In a way they were our foster village. And nobody but nobody fucks with our village like that and walks away alive.” I acknowledge.

  I read through the file Farris gave us on the 6 marines we are to kill. While I am extremely unhappy with the notion of killing fellow soldiers, after seeing Bien Ho and the carnage of the children I am much more accepting of the fact anyone who did such a thing should be killed. Making deliberate war on defenseless civilians is just not done. Not even in the madness of war.

  The sight of the fucking big tiger has set my nerves on edge, what the fuck is he all about?

  Chapter 5: The Enemy

  Every group or functional organization has a structure. A leader, second in command, etc, etc, all depending on its size and functionality. The special-Ops squad had a structure, a command structure to make it work. But like every other structure it had a ghost command structure within the structure. The invisible power structure made the decisions the visible structure accepted. For us to be effective in our hunt we needed to understand and recognize both the apparent structure of the squad and also the invisible ghost power structure within the squad.

  It took some time filtering through the bios of the squad members to fit it all together, but it was there, you just needed to know what to look for. I have always maintained the most important skill set to being a sniper is a degree in psychology. We have to know how the target is going to think and what he is going to do under stress.

  The so called leader of this spec-ops squad, Cpt. Johnson, was a low time boy out of Nebraska, farm and ranching background. Blonde hair, wire rim glasses, reasonably bright and had attended Military College. He was close to rotation back to the US, back to Nebraska. I could not see him as a drugged out of control freak, fried by combat, and determined to kill every gook he found. It did not fit, all he had to do was stay calm and cool and complete his rotation with his head down and it was all over for him. It was very apparent he could not control some of his men.

  The Sargent in the squad, a Sgt. Boyle, greasy black hair, scars of acne and knife fights on his face, dead pig eyes, fit the psychological profile of a psychopath exactly. He was a Latino ghetto pig, didn’t matter if there was a war or not, he loved it over here as he could kill and maim and destroy all he wanted. War was the perfect environment for this piece of shit. He hid in the military and hid behind the military structure, but when the fire fights broke out he was the animal doing all the killing, all he could get away with and then some. He had been disciplined for being overzealous in killing, torturing prisoners on two previous occasions, although no charges were brought against him. How could the system condemn the essence of what they had created? It was like being accused of speeding at the Daytona Speedway for fuck sake.

  I knew the type well, slimy upfront, and undermining all command structure. Spreading rumor, unrest and turning the men around him against the system. A vicious back stabbing weasel very difficult to corner and if you managed it they would fight like a madman. Fucking perfect!

  There were also a couple of brain dead idiots in the squad. Pfc. Lee was a white inbred hillbilly, struck me as complete waste of skin, and likely had the mental capacity of a house plant. He was a stoner and just followed Boyle no doubt. Pfc. Jackson, a negro from Chicago, was a little brighter, an ass licker, he could sense the power as it shifted from Cpt. Johnson to Sgt. Boyle and he became Boyle’s right-hand man. Smart enough to know what he could get away with if he hid behind Boyle or Lee and denied to beat hell. Real pieces of work the both of them. If it wasn’t for the war these fools would be in jail as they knew nothing else.

  The other two men of the squad seemed to be just average fucking grunts, one out of Seattle, Pfc. Gerard, a hiker and skier and Pfc. Bomont, a black man from the ghetto of Los Angles. Bomont had shown natural ability with demolition explosives. Special!!

  It wasn’t hard to envision how this whole goat fuck went down. The spec-op squad was dysfunctional to say the least. At least half of them or more were druggies baked on what the fuck ever they could acquire to smoke inject or ingest in some manner. Given to violence and under severe stress, with weak leadership, they had been out on a mission which had produced nothing. When they got to Bien Ho something triggered them. Or more correctly it triggered Boyle and his two pet dogs and they went out of control. By the time it was all over they were all fucked. The villagers were fucked, the children were fucked and the semi-innocents in the spec-op squad were fucked too.

  Fucking precious, just fucking precious, to get out of this colossal shit show P-man and I had to clean this fucking mess up. Boyle, Lee and Jackson I could kill while drinking my morning coffee, like swatting flies or killing rats, no sweat. They are the sewer scum of the world and deserve it even if they had not committed such atrocities at Bien Ho. Cpt. Johnson I am comfortable to kill as he is an ineffective spineless piece of shit leader. He should have controlled his own men and prevented their actions in the village. Instead he did nothing. You are an embarrassment to the military. Leaders unable to lead are worthless shit.

  The two average grunts are problematic for me as they were dragged into this goatfuck and are in part victims. But the spec-op squad is accountable in whole and in part for the collective actions at Bien Ho. Maybe I will kill you quick and painless, maybe!!

  I pass the file to P-man for him to read and assess.

  Daria darling, the burned village is a horror beyond words...watched over by a fucking great Tiger...

  The Devil is relishing his glee, happy...oh so very, very happy...

  Chapter 6: Bomont & Gerard

  The prick 10 radio crackles to life in a hiss of static, “Streetgang, Streetgang, this is Almighty come in.”

  “Almighty, Almighty this is Streetgang, read you clear,” I reply.

  “Streetgang, Streetgang, be advised two targets designated item three and item four are enroute to the Golfcourse Firebase.”

  “Almighty, Almighty, copy targets three and four enroute to Firebase Golfcourse,” I confirm.

  “Game on P-man,” I mutter. “Let’s haul ass to the gook weapons cache and catch these two pieces of shit out in the jungle for some quality discussion time!”

  “Oh you bet your sweet ass, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” says P-man through gritted teeth.

  The gook weapons cache is impressive. Col. Smith knows his shit. A Druganov Russian sniper rifle, an AK47, small caliber handguns, Russian grenades, and a couple of gook machetes. Plus a package of gook explosives complete with detonators.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” I mutter. “Smith is a kind of a handy guy to have around.”

  “I am definitely on board with the up close and personal machete,” growls P-man.

  We intersect Pfc. Bomont and Pfc. Gerard as they flounder and scramble along the jungle trail. I watch them through my binoculars. They are scared shitless and on the verge of hysteria, the poor stupid fucking pukes. How they managed to get as far as they have without Charlie making a meal out of them is beyond me.

  “Can ya fucking believe those two clowns?” hisses P-man.

  “Shit, they are beyond pitiful, let’s just smoke’m quick!” I whisper.

  “When they come around the bend down here tap a couple of rounds into the nigger with the AK47 and I’ll use the Druganov to pop the white fools head. Then we’ll slip over and grab the dog tags and split.” I say.

  “Done and done,” mutters P-man as he slips into position with the AK47.

  Sometimes it is just too easy. Through the scope I can see Bomont pause to look
around as he comes round the bend and crests the slight rise. The poor stupid fuck is hysterical and in shock, his eyes are wide and white and he is shaking like a leaf. Gerard is no better, looks like puke dribbling out of the corner of his mouth and he appears to have pissed himself, he looks exhausted.

  I set the scope cross hairs on his face and wait for P-man. WHACK, WHACK says P-man’s AK47 and Bomont goes limp and collapses. I squeeze the trigger the final fraction of an inch, the Druganov says THUMP and Gerard’s head disintegrates in a red puff.

  They are both comfortably dead, no fuss, no muss, we collect the dog tags, P-man mutters into the prick 10 radio, and we slip back quietly into the jungle, no sounds, moving like smoke drifting, ever aware of Charlie and his omni-presence. Easy, just too easy, two Snakes down! I think or imagine I hear the cough and rumble of a tiger. Christ, being stalked by a true predator, fucking lovely!

  I check the picture of Daria inside my hat, she watches me calmly and I can feel her touch and hear her voice....

  The Devil applauds our efficiency with killing and bows in our direction...

  Chapter 7: Johnson

  It is late afternoon, beer time we used to call it back in the world.

  P-man says quietly, “You realize we are being stalked by Charlie?”

  “Yeah, I know, I figure they have been pacing us for the best part of a couple of hours.” I say.

  “Odd they are not being more aggressive and closing for a kill shot. You don’t suppose they know what we are doing and are giving us a bit of a pass do you?” asks P-man.

  “Well, Charlie knows everything happening in his jungle, this is his backyard. I reckon he knows very well we are tracking and exterminating our own men who smoked Bien Ho. It’s entirely possible he’s just fine with it. What bothers me is we got bounties on our heads so when we’ve smoked the last grunt asshole you can bet Charlie is gonna hit us and hit us hard.” I state.

  “Shit, it just keeps getting better and better doesn’t it?” replies P-man.

  “When we get the last cocksucker lined up we whistle up Smith pronto for the big taxi chop, chop. With any luck he arrives just about the time we smoke the last piece of shit, and we slip away on his magic carpet.” I say thoughtfully.

  “I am really starting to fucking hate the “with any kind of luck” phrase. If we had any fucking luck at all we would be home drinking beer and chasing the ladies!” sulks P-man.

  “Well, we ain’t dead yet, are we?” I say.

  “Fuck off!” replies P-man.

  “The big fucking cat is stalking us too”, I say.

  “Yah, I thought I heard him, but never saw the bugger,” replies P-man.

  Mid-day, clear, sunny, hot, on a ridge overlooking a narrow dirt road. K-rations and water, we are lucky to have that, Charlie maybe has some cold greasy rat meat and stale rice once a day if he is fortunate.

  Almighty has told us Cpt. Johnson of the Snakes Spec-Op squad is moving by jeep on this particular road to join another Marine division. We want to pick him off this jeep like a turkey off a fence post. Problem is there will be others with him in the jeep, so just demolishing the jeep is not a good option.

  We work our way down to get a line of fire down the road. We are range checking various points on the road from our position. There will be no time to make scope adjustments so the shot has to be taken when the bullet trajectory is as flat as possible. Somewhere around the 300 yard mark should work dandy and yet still give us sufficient cover. We range from 200 yard to 400 yards. The jeep is not going to be wasting any time so it is important we have a shot as the jeep comes toward us. I’ll pick up the target and get the scope on him out past 400 yards and hold it on him until P-man gives the word at 300 yards.

  P-man is on the binoculars, I have the Druganov on the bi-pod and solid, we wait, snipers are good at waiting.

  “Hey man, you want a beer?” whispers P-man.

  “You fuck, yah I want a beer, and pussy too.” I hiss.

  “Roseler tell ya about the tight little twat chick he got in Saigon?” asks P-man.

  “Shut up ya asshole, I don’t want to know.” I growl.

  “He said her twat was as tight as your hand and he could feel her squeezing and gripping his cock.” chuckles P-man.

  “You fucking cocksucker, if this Snake doesn’t appear soon I swear I will shoot you instead.” I curse.

  “I see dust, get ready, he’s coming” chuckles P-man.

  I pick them up as they come into sight. Driver, and guy in the front with a machine gun, the Snake Johnson is in the back. I get his head in my scope, fucking trail is rough and his head is bouncing around.

  “400 yards...350 yards...300 yards, take the fucker,” hisses P-man.

  THUMP says the Druganov and slaps me in the shoulder. The recoil causes me to lose sight picture for a moment.

  “Got him just under the chin, ripped his head off,” says P-man.

  I get the Druganov back on target, and there sits our useless as tits on a bull Snake Cpt. Johnson, headless, with blood spurting out of his neck. There is no sign of his head. Fuck this feels good for me, elation surges through me. Fucking sweet!!

  The driver glances back at the THWAP of the Captain’s head being torn off and starts to scream in horror. He lets go of the wheel and the jeep swerves sharply, bounces once and then flips over tossing everyone out and rolling over on them. Flames lick out of the engine compartment as we watch...SWOOOSH...the jeep and the three occupants are engulfed in flames.

  I line up the driver’s head and shoot him, then the soldier with the machine gun. One shot each through the head.

  “Well for fuck sake, it didn’t quite go as planned, did it?” says P-man.

  “Fuck’em all, we got the Snake, not our fault the driver is a shithead, just didn’t feel I wanted those boys to be burned to death.” I whisper.

  Three Snakes down, P-man is on the prick 10 muttering to Almighty. Maybe he’s ordering beer and hookers.

  Just as we turn to leave an enormous tiger pads out of the jungle, sits down on his haunches and surveys the mess. I put the scope on him immediately, the cat is fucking huge, must weigh some 900 lbs., a beautiful handsome creature, with a crooked tail. What the fuck? He is looking directly at us. I nudge P-man and point.

  “Man, it’s the same fucking cat from the village,” I hiss.

  “What cat,” says P-man?

  “Don’t fuck with me you asshole, it’s the same fucking cat we saw at Bien Ho,” I curse.

  “Alright, alright, yeah it does look the same, sure is fucking big,” mutters P-man. “So why the hell is this fucking cat following us around and showing up whenever we snuff one or two of the Snakes?”

  “Well I got an idea, but you ain’t gonna like it,” I offer. “How much you know about spirits?”

  “Oh for fuck sakes, here we go again with the shit that gives me the creeps,” replies P-man. “This another one of those Mai Lei spooky deals?”

  “Could very well be buddy, the land has spirits, back home on the prairies it was the Coyote who represented the land, and up north in the woods it was the Wolf that was the symbol or spirit of the land, and in the Artic it is the Polar Bear,” I say.

  “So you’re telling me the fucking great tiger is the spirit of the jungle?” asks P-man.

  “For lack of a better answer, yup I believe he very well may be,” I reply.

  “Sweet, why is the fucker following us?” asks P-man.

  “There was a terrible injustice done at Bien Ho,” I say. “I gotta sense he is following us to ensure the injustice is answered.”

  “Ok, you’re freaking me out with this shit.” mutters P-man.

  “Let’s just watch and see what the cat does, for christ sake don’t shoot at him or we are all dead meat,” I say. “We will know soon enough.”

  I can hear Daria as she admires the magnificent tiger...

  The Devil is laughing and has tears of glee at the mayhem and carnage of the jeep crash...


  Chapter 8: Lee & Jackson

  Few people realize and even fewer would agree we humans can be manipulated to perform any acts imaginable. There is nothing we will not do if sufficient motivation is present within our reality construct. Such theory is righteously rejected by those who have never experienced the “sufficient motivation”. Those who sit comfortably and theorize how mentally strong they might be to reject the concept they can be pushed to perform vigorously the most inhumane of all acts. Those humans do not have a fucking clue, not a fucking clue. They are babes in the woods. But the facts are there for those who care to look. Inside the construct of any human conflict the truth of such horrors awaits. Mostly it is denied and covered up or just not mentioned as it is too uncomfortable. But those who have experienced it know it to be true. I know because I performed the most inhumane acts with revenge, zeal, and consummate satisfaction.

  We have been on recon watching and tracking the movements of Pfc. Lee and Jackson from the Snakes Spec-Op team. These two fuckers are bad news. Lee is an inbred hillbilly who only knows killing, fucking, and getting stoned or drunk. Jackson is much the same but has enough sense to be dangerous. He can anticipate and has a sense of destiny. Both of them are very cautious. Seems word is getting around about the other missing three Snakes and their “accidents”. These two fuckers do not venture far from their Firebase and are hard to catch alone. To get these two pukes we are going to have to get close and personal and be quiet about it. Of course they have no idea who is hunting them and we could walk right up to them and give’m a “how ya all doing” before we slash their throats and piss on them as they bleed out.

  Every Firebase requires maintenance, filling sandbags, burning barrels of shit, razor wire positioning and securing, maintenance to minefields, and spraying poison on the vegetation on the parameter of the firebase to keep the killing fields clear. All firebases are the same and everyone gets to take a turn at it. We wait for a day and sure enough Lee and Jackson are on weed detail outside the minefield. P-man and I are in the jungle not 50 yards away watching.