SNAFU: Hunters

by James A. Moore

  Table of Contents

  Apex Predator

  N.X. Sharps & Tim Marquitz

  Two Birds

  Evan Dicken

  Non-Zero Sum

  R.P.L. Johnson

  Only Stones In Their Place

  Christine Morgan

  That Old Black Magic

  James A. Moore

  Ngu’Tinh

  D.F. Shultz

  Warm Bodies

  Kirsten Cross

  The Bani Protocols

  Rose Blackthorn

  Hungry Eyes

  Seth Skorkowsky

  The Secret War

  David W. Amendola

  Outbreak

  V. E. Battaglia

  Droch-fhola

  Brad C. Hodson

  Bonked

  Patrick Freivald

  SNAFU: Hunters

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a collection of stories from writers all over the world.

  For authenticity and voice, we have kept the style of English native to each author’s location, so some stories will be in UK English, and others in US English.

  We have, however, changed dashes and dialogue marks to our standard format for ease of understanding.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction.

  All people, places, events, creatures, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to persons or monsters living or dead is purely coincidental.

  SNAFU:

  HUNTERS

  Edited by Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown

  Cohesion Press

  Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

  Bechworth, Victoria

  2016

  SNAFU: Hunters

  Amanda J Spedding and Geoff Brown(eds)

  Anthology © Cohesion Press 2016

  Stories © Individual Authors 2016

  Cover Art by Dean Samed/Conzpiracy Dean 2016

  Internal Layout by Cohesion Editing and Proofreading

  Set in Palatino Linotype

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Cohesion Press

  Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

  Beechworth, Victoria

  www.cohesionpress.com

  Apex Predator

  N.X. Sharps & Tim Marquitz

  “Target confirmed. Operation Mousetrap is a go.” The crisp, mechanical voice of the commander cut through the headset. “You will link up with local assets and infiltrate the mining camp. Eliminate the rogue and dispose of any evidence. Our presence in the area cannot be exposed. Do you read me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t underestimate the target, Sierra. He might well be an older model but you know damn well no one survives long in this line of work without a few tricks up their sleeve. Memphis out.”

  Staff Sergeant Sierra growled under her breath after the comms went silent. She knew well enough what she was up against and didn’t need Memphis’s warning. Sierra was no cub to be led about by the scruff. She turned to her pack, huddled tight in their drop seats, awaiting orders.

  “We’ve got the green light.” Wide, toothy grins met the announcement. She gave them a moment to revel in it before holding her hand up to quiet them. “Now bring it in, we’re almost there.”

  Sierra led her pride in prayer as the suborbital insertion craft began the re-entry sequence. The six women asked not for forgiveness, nor did they beg salvation. Instead they entreated upon their Goddess that their aim be true, their guns functional, and their blades sharp. Sierra felt the pressure of gravity reasserting its hold but disregarded the gentle creak in her bones while the pride lifted their voices in unison to praise the Mistress of Dread, the Lady of Slaughter, She Who Mauls.

  The commandos brought the prayer to an end with a roar while the insertion craft banked to port, indicating glide and circle sequence. Aware that a single flaw in the craft’s stealth package would invite interception by Chinese surface-to-air missiles, Sierra had her pack concentrate on performing a final account of their gear in case they needed to drop early. They did so in contemplative silence. This wasn’t their first suborbital insertion but death was never far from the thoughts of soldiers such as these. The goal was always to provide the Goddess sufficient sacrifices to spare the pack any losses. The Lady of Slaughter cared not who met their end upon the field, only that she earned her rightful blood-price in battle.

  Staff Sergeant Sierra scrutinized her pride as they went about their business. To her right sat Sergeant Charlie, eyes scanning her wrist-screen, checking for deviations in the signal. Charlie was the pride’s dedicated micro-drone operator, acting as the eyes in the sky. While all of the women were capable of utilizing the quadrotor, named Horus, Charlie was by far the most gifted operator. Horus was her child.

  On Sierra’s left was Corporal Foxtrot, the squad’s designated marksman. Foxy held a rifle scope up to her eye, peering through while making a series of adjustments. Across the aisle sat Specialists Juliet, Tango, and Victor, fighting against seat restraints to tighten the straps on their battle rattle. Sierra offered a sympathetic nod at seeing the stiffness in their postures, the budding frustration in their eyes. Despite the layers of thermal clothing and ballistic plating that covered the women Sierra knew they felt naked without their weapons in their hands; procedure demanded all small arms be secured to prevent them from becoming airborne hazards during descent.

  The women sat in barely restrained excitement – a trio of killers desperate to be about their work. Staff Sergeant Sierra knew her sisters on a primal level. Her enhanced senses accentuated their peculiarities, processing the scents and sounds that identified each as surely as any fingerprint or blood sample.

  “The LZ is hot. I repeat, the LZ is hot,” came the voice of the insertion craft’s pilot over the comms. “We’ve got SAMs incoming.”

  Sierra scowled as the craft juked to avoid the inbound missiles. She heard the pilot launching chaff to distract the radar guidance and ground her teeth together, reminded once more that the shuttle was unarmed due to payload restrictions. She hated their reliance on the man piloting the craft. Modifications aside, he was not one of them, not one of the pride. And now that the stealth approach had proved ineffectual, her sisters’ lives were in the hands of the First Lieutenant’s nerves and augmented reflexes; a situation far from ideal. A near miss on the starboard side a moment later sent a shudder through the fuselage and confirmed Sierra’s doubts.

  “Staff Sergeant, we are approaching the LZ but you’ve got to unload on the double. I’ve ditched the SAMs but this area is crawling with hostiles and I want to get the hell out of Dodge,” announced the First Lieutenant.

  “Roger that.” Sierra cut the link on the comms before her fury bled through. It did no one any good to antagonize their ride home. Her lips peeled back to reveal a feral smile of dominant canines and sharpened incisors. “You heard him, ladies, we’ve got a date with the Mistress of Dread and she will not be kept waiting.”

  The commandos roared, releasing their restraints and snatching the weapons and packs stashed above their seats. The starboard flank of the insertion craft peeled away with a metallic hum, exposing the pride to a blast of piercing wind. It was bracing after the warm confines of the shuttle. Sierra crouched before the op
ening as Foxy led the deployment. As soon as the craft leveled the corporal leapt through the door, weapon leading the way. The pride followed with Sierra bringing up the rear.

  Foxy hit the ground first and shouldered her rifle, scouring the LZ for hostiles. She found one almost immediately. The report of her rifle announced the death of an enemy combatant hunkered on the ridge even before Sergeant Charlie touched down behind her. The other commandos followed in sequence, dropping into crouches to return fire as rounds zipped through the air to clank off the shuttle’s hull and peck at the ground around them. Sierra waved the First Lieutenant off and, without delay, the insertion craft shot away with a surface-to-air missile on its tail.

  Sierra joined her fire to that of the pride, sending carbine rounds at the rocky outcropping shielding an unknown number of hostiles. The commandos spread out and increased the tempo of the fusillade, causing the enemy to hunker down in the face of withering fire. Charlie, given a reprieve, pulled Horus from her pack and spread his stabilizers, bringing him online. The quadrotor zipped into the blistering mountain air with the faintest of hums.

  In no time Horus’s sensor suite generated a real-time evaluation of the field and beamed it directly to the wrist-screens worn by each member of the pride. Appraising the display showed them everything they needed to know regarding the battle zone.

  “We’ve got eight shooters armed with assault rifles and a single belt-fed spread out on the ridge above. The approach is steep but Horus has highlighted a more accessible path we could use to flank them,” Charlie told the group.

  “Charlie, Foxtrot, Juliet, Victor, keep them occupied. Tango, follow me,” Sierra ordered, scrutinizing her own wrist-screen for the flanking path.

  In unison, Sierra and Tango shrugged out of their packs, slung their firearms, and dashed across the broken terrain, devouring the distance in a fast and low stride while their sisters provided cover fire. The mountain air was thin and clawed at the back of Sierra’s throat with every breath but it was the least of her concerns. Gunfire from the ridge resumed as the pair reached the mouth of the pass. They paused there to catch their breath. The belt-fed opened up and Tango flinched on reflex though the two had yet to be seen. Sierra grinned. No amount of combat experience ever fully settled a warrior’s nerves.

  Another look at the wrist-screen told the Staff Sergeant the enemy had spread even further along the ridge in an effort to counter her people, making their task all the harder. Sierra prayed the Goddess remember the sacrifices of her sisters and keep them from harm. She unslung her carbine and took point, trading speed for discretion on the ascent. Farther down the mountain Foxy’s rifle spoke, silencing the enemy machine-gun emplacement. Sierra swept her aim from side to side as she advanced, confident Tango would catch anyone she might miss in her advance.

  They found the first hostile precisely where Horus indicated he would be – kneeling behind a boulder and fumbling a reload. Sierra sent him sprawling with a trio of 5.56 rounds, painting the rocks with his blood. She and Tango sniffed out the next soldier on their own as Horus met with some unknown interference, the target blinking in and out at random. They spied the hostile peeking out of a shallow recess in the mountainside, firing and ducking back under cover to avoid the quadrotor’s scanners. Sierra and Tango lit him up the next time he materialized. He slithered back into his hole, his life draining away.

  The commandos resumed their advance along the trail, heads on a swivel and sniffing the air to find the six remaining enemies. Nictitating membranes shielded their large, sensitive eyes allowing them to absorb more light than human standard, providing an unparalleled view of the environs. Their mobile ears swiveled and rotated, tracking for any signs of danger that might have eluded the quadrotor.

  ‘Hostile MG active, hostile MG active, hostile—’

  A peal of thunder erupted forty meters up the ridge, interrupting the urgent missive from Horus. Sierra and Tango dropped and narrowly avoided the high caliber penetrators directed at them. The machine-gun scythed into their earthen cover, spitting a rain of stony splinters over the prone commandos.

  “Suppress that damned gun,” Sierra demanded over the comms.

  The staccato of gunfire intensified as the pride renewed their suppressive fire. The belt-fed redirected its attention back down the slope to silence the barrage and Sierra took advantage of the opportunity and raised her head for a look.

  “Specialist, what’s your condition?” she asked.

  “Pissed myself a little, Staff Sergeant, but am otherwise intact.”

  Sierra chuckled despite herself. Modified they may be but the pride were still fundamentally human.

  Tango shook her head. “Might not want to laugh too hard, Staff Sergeant. It looks like you took some shrapnel. You’re bleeding through your pants leg.”

  Sierra grunted and reached for her calf, feeling the lacerations she hadn’t noticed. They stung at her touch but she diagnosed them as superficial. She grinned. Better a little blood than wet panties.

  ‘Four hostiles headed your direction’, Horus said through the implants in their ears, which kept them in contact even if the rest of their comms broke down.

  Sierra glanced at the wrist-screen, viewing four thermal signatures through the drone’s sensor suite. She snapped her carbine up in time to catch the first combatant in her optics. Cross dot merged with silhouette and jacketed lead punched through yielding flesh. Momentum carried the combatant backward a short distance, rifle clattering from his hands. The three other hostiles took notice and ducked back, stopping short of entering the Staff Sergeant’s line of sight.

  “I’ll keep their heads down. You go pay a visit and share the good word of our Lady of Slaughter.”

  “My pleasure, Staff Sergeant,” Tango replied with a purr, rising to sling her carbine.

  Sierra released a burst of rounds to discourage curiosity as Tango set to scaling the rocky incline. The staff sergeant watched as Tango crawled up and over, disappearing behind the jagged rise. The belt-fed proceeded to spit certain death downrange. When Horus confirmed Tango was perched above the three hostiles exchanging shots with the Staff Sergeant, Tango unsheathed the Kukri from her thigh and drew the .45 from her hip holster.

  “On three,” she subvocalized to Sierra through the comms.

  One.

  Two.

  At three Sierra ceased fire and watched with amusement as Tango dropped into the midst of the hostiles. Death from above. The specialist struck with knife and pistol in a savage, whirling sequence worthy of the Goddess’s praise. Blindsided, the combatants died without struggle, major arteries severed and critical organs punctured in the blink of an eye, the walls of their makeshift cover painted in wet and dripping crimson. Tango ran her tongue along the flat of her knife, no doubt savoring the copper sacrament.

  Sierra rushed by at a near sprint. “Vicky is hit,” she said between breaths.

  Tango sheathed her knife and followed the Staff Sergeant, swapping pistol mags on the fly. They closed in on the last two enemies in the battle zone, snapping off shots as they navigated the uneven footing. Hollow points from Tango’s .45 connected with the nearer of the two, expanding upon penetration and disrupting soft tissue. The machine gunner pivoted, hefting the belt-fed to fire along the path they tread, finger jammed against the trigger in desperation.

  From there on, the trail offered no further concealment for Sierra and Tango. They unloaded on the gunner the instant they broke cover. Several bullets found their mark, hammering into the hostile’s torso, but he remained upright. Staggering, he braced to continue his stream of fire. Sierra let go of her carbine and drew her sidearm, expecting the 7.62 to shred her before she could get another shot off.

  To their mutual astonishment the gunner’s head cratered in a puff of red mist and gray pulp and he crumpled in a heap of ruined flesh.

  ‘All threats neutralized. Battle zone clear. Initiating patrol sweep’, Horus broadcast.

  “Sorry, Staff Sergeant, you we
re taking too long,” Foxy said over the comms, “Thanks for setting up the shot though.”

  “That was your handiwork?” asked Sierra.

  “Affirmative.”

  Sierra thanked her and got back to the business at hand. “How’s Vicky?”

  “Alive,” Specialist Victor answered over the link. “MG winged me but the weave deflected the worst of it. Hurts like a mother but I’ve suffered worse.”

  Sierra breathed a sigh of relief. The pride was intact. “In that case haul ass up here and bring our packs,” she ordered.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant, on our way.”

  Sierra kicked the belt-fed away from the dead gunner and knelt to examine him. He was considerably larger than the others and he must have been ugly even before Foxy evacuated his brain pan. His torso bore seven entry wounds but barely a dribble of blood at each. Sierra probed his chest, validating her suspicion. The gunner had a sub-dermal ballistic weave of his own. He was a mod like she was, though a poor imitation of the meticulous care and state-of-the-art technology that had gone into crafting her own body.

  “What do you make of these combatants, Specialist?” she asked.

  “Collateral damage,” replied Tango over by the gunner’s associate.

  “Elaborate.”

  Tango dropped to her knees, opened the corpse’s mouth and set to prying a tooth out.

  “They’re armed with cheap AK variants, wearing rags, and I’ll bet my favorite knife that big fella you’re poking has black market mods all through him. This guy here does too.”

  The tooth popped out and she stowed her trophy in a vest pouch. “They aren’t People’s Liberation Army and they’re definitely not Eight Immortals Group, which means we probably just killed our contacts who were supposed to help us infiltrate the mining camp. Blue on blue,” Tango finished.

  “Blue on fucking blue,” cursed Sierra, though she couldn’t bring herself to be disturbed by what they’d done. The pride had defended itself and that was all there was to it. “Something spooked this lot.”