SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

by Jonathan Maberry

  In time he couldn’t quite measure, Carter came to a clearing in the jungle. It was no natural clearing – the area had been burned to ash, maybe in a rogue napalm strike and Carter could still smell the characteristic petrol residue hanging in the air. It had burned the vegetation and anything else that had stood here into oblivion, leaving behind a hellish scorched landscape.

  But this was too far from the war. What had happened here?

  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 do
g 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.

  Lund, Samuel.

  Or Carter, Jacob?

  “Are you all right, Carter?” Kane was grabbing his shoulder.

  Carter looked up and saw the mantis flit away. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Well, check it out, you looked like there was nobody home for a minute there, know what I mean?” Kane’s brilliant blue eyes were set in a piercing stare.

  Carter pushed Kane’s hand away. “I said I’m fine. Where the hell are Jek and Phut One? We need to get this show on the road. I want us to be up there while there’s still light.” He took another tug from the canteen, his hand trembling.

  As if on cue, the two Yards burst through the vegetation. Phut’s arm was draped over Jek’s shoulder, his eyes wide and staring. All the color seemed to have drained from him. Jek was holding his kinsman upright.

  “What the hell happened?” Carter demanded.

  Before Jek could answer, Phut stammered and spit out something in his dialect.

  Carter shook his head; he didn’t speak the indigenous lingo. It all sounded like gibberish to him. The Yards spoke halting English, enough to be understood by their American allies, so he had no idea why this one was trying his patience. Carter’s nerves already frayed, he felt ready to explode. The men sensed his anger and eyed each other silently.

  Jek spoke, keeping Carter from losing his shit. “He say that he see his mother... out there, in the jungle.”

  Carter shook his head, confused. He couldn’t even form a sentence through his frustration. His hands and feet tingled.

  “How the fuck is that even possible?” Kane asked.

  “It is not,” said Jek with his thick accent. “His mother is dead, many year.”

  Jek helped settle his countryman on the ground. Phut practically collapsed into a shaking heap, curling into himself in a semi-fetal position. He cried helplessly.

  “Did you see someone?” Carter asked, “Anyone? Something?”

  Jek shook his head, his face sober.

  “Kane, take Mock and have a look around. Mac, hang with me.”

  Kane sighed, but followed the orders.

  Carter reached into his pocket. His heart stopped beating for a painful moment.

  The tags he had held there a minute before were now gone.

  He shook his head to dispel the mounting haze.

  What the hell is going on?

  Pearson. That son of a bitch spooky cocksucker had done something to them. Had to have fucked with them somehow.

  Maybe he’d slipped something funny into their Dapsone... maybe some kind of hallucinogen? Or maybe they’d sprayed it in the air before inserting the team? Maybe there was another team out here, watching them, seeing what happened, judging how they reacted?

  Typical DOD voodoo shit.

  Who knew what the bastards were up to here in these dense jungle locations.

  Carter rubbed his temples. He asked Jek, “Is he gonna be all right?” He jerked his head at Phut One.

  “Yah, he will be ho-kay,” Jek answered, nodding too rapidly. Then the Yard knelt by his shaken compatriot, talking quietly in their Bahnar language.

  A chill raced through Carter; he had a bad feeling about this op. He took one more swig from his canteen before stowing it back in his rucksack as he waited for Kane and Mock to return from their sweep. Around him the jungle was teeming. Life was so thick here you couldn’t move without it touching you, breathing on you, leaning on you. Carter had learned to ignore most of it because the inability to tell the difference between a bead of sweat running down the back of your neck and a poisonous spider crawling down the collar of your shirt could drive a guy nuts. But today he couldn’t seem to blot it out. He was having trouble sorting out the important information from the trivial. His nerves seemed on edge while his senses felt dulled.

  Today it all seemed new, and Carter was overloading.

  He sensed it, but couldn’t stop it.

  Something rustled in the undergrowth. Carter crouched and trained his machine gun on the movement. He relaxed his finger off the trigger. It was Kane and Mock, breaking quietly through the thick growth.

  “Nothin’ out there, Sarge,” Kane said, disgusted. “And I mean nothing. No trace of Charlie whatsoever. No footpaths, no huts, no sign of anyone even somewhat civilized,” and with a sideways glance at Phut One and Jek, “...or their mothers.”

  “All right then, let’s move out,” said Carter.

  “Move out to where?”

  “We’re going to the top of this mountain.”

  “There’s nothing out here, man. We’re literally in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Then it’ll be like a vacation, right?”

  They left the riverbank and resumed their ascent. The higher they moved the more hostile the growth became, broad leaves became saw blades, stems seemed encrusted with nasty barbed thorns, and tangled vines grew into impenetrable walls of vegetation. Biting and stinging insects seemed to grow in both size and number. It was as if the land itself were trying to dissuade the team; keep them from completing their mission.

  Ahead, Kane signaled Carter: get down. Carter turned to wave down Mock, who was now taking up the rear in lieu of Phut One, but he could see no trace of him. He scrutinized the underbrush, but nothing moved. Leaves and branches hung motionless. Carter was about to retrace his steps when a small stone bounced off his shoulder. He jerked, swiveling the RPD’s muzzle around, his finger brushing the trigger.

  Kane, trying to get his attention down the path they’d made.

  Jesus.

  Kane and McBride were conferring. They beckoned Carter.

  “What’s going on?” Carter whispered, approaching cautiously at a crouch.

  “I don’t know,” McBride said, “I – I lost the rest of the team.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know where they went, Sarge. I was right behind Phut. He was right there...” McBride motioned with his hand, “and then he was just gone.”

  Carter rose up from his crouch, and stood looking over his shoulder where Mock should have been. The other two special ops soldiers followed suit.

  “It was like... like the jungle just swallowed them,” McBride mumbled, almost in a daze. Trying to convince himself.

  “What are we gonna do, Carter?” Kane grabbed him by the elbow. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” said Carter. “We’re gonna finish the mission.”

  He wasn’t fine though, was he?

  “No really, check it – it’s like you’re out of it today.”

  “I’m fine, Kane! Let’s get to the top of the fuckin’ mountain and get the hell out of here. Sound like a plan to you?”

  He realized he’d turned the RPD to face them, then turned it away again.

  “What about the Yards?” McBride was jittery, his eyes searching, never still.

  “We’ll have to report them missing, but first we need to accomplish what we were sent out here to accomplish.”

  “Which is?”

  “Look,” said Kane, “something’s seriously fucked here.”

  “I know, I agree. But the top of this mountain is gonna be our best extraction point if we can’t make the scheduled rendezvous anyway. Can’t go back down. We might as well hightail it up there. I don’t like it either. As for the Yards... I don’t have an answer. I... I have some theories. Nothin’ I’d say out loud in sane company. Not that you guys are sane.”

  McBride and Kane looked each other up and down and nodded. Reluctantly.

  “We all right, then?” Carter asked. “Let’s head out. Mac, take point.”

  Nervous and twitchy, fingers on triggers, the three remaining members of RT Python continued their climb, McBride in the lead.

 
In time, after struggling against the heat, the voracious insects, and the nearly impenetrable vegetation, they made the summit just as the hazy setting sun bathed it in a red firelight glow. They stood just inside the jungle’s crown, catching their breath, attempting to calm their racing hearts.

  The flat mountaintop was oddly devoid of vegetation, with one exception. Near the center of what looked like an open field, a single huge tree stood like a lonely sentinel. Unlike its brethren in the jungle below the summit line, here the tree was not required to stretch upward for life-giving sunlight, but instead could expand outward – and it had. This tree had branched out low on the trunk, and often, creating the appearance of a gigantic bush.

  As Team Python cautiously entered the courtyard, the reason there was no plant life clogging the peak became clear. Sometime in the temple’s long history, the priests had meticulously paved the area with large flat stones, leaving only the cracks between each slab to foster the sparse plant life, which turned out to be mostly stunted weeds. At the far end of this manmade clearing at the mountain’s summit squatted the temple itself, its columns and crumbling walls bound with twisting vines. The stone walls themselves were stained green with moss.

  Carter’s nerves didn’t keep him from wondering how in goddamn hell those flat stone slabs, each of them the size and thickness of a king-size bed, had been transported up the mountain. It hadn’t been helicopters, as the paving was clearly hundreds of years old.

  Kane kicked at a weed poking up from between the massive stones. “Looks like an NVA stronghold to me,” he said sarcastically.

  “Stay frosty,” Carter ordered. “We’ve already lost four men on this mission.”

  “They probably realized we were out of our minds and ditched us.”

  “That’s enough, Kane.” Carter motioned his remaining team members into flanking positions. Even though the temple seemed abandoned, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  After the others had repositioned themselves, Carter moved forward in a crouch and took a sheltered position behind that strange single tree. McBride and Kane stayed near the jungle cover on either side of the courtyard.