The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  After the debrief, Dave took him aside and said, “Norm told me he was going to put you in for another Bronze Star. That’s a Silver Star and three Bronze Stars, all in three years? And I read your write up for the Navy Cross, the one that got downgraded to a Bronze Star. That probably should have been a Navy Cross, and for the life of me, I don’t know what went on with that.”

  “It was no big deal, Dave,” Aiden said, and he meant it. To be put in for an award for when he was a varg didn’t seem right. He was far more proud of the Bronze Star he’d been awarded for taking out the Council enforcer Oleksander.

  “The thing is, I spoke with Gunny Despirito back in your old unit when we got word you were coming.”

  That was a surprise to Aiden. What had his former gunny said about him? In the back of his mind, he noted that Dave referred to the other Marine as “Gunny.” Aiden guessed that the MSOT habit of first names only worked within the team itself—elsewhere, Marine discipline still held sway.

  “He told me you were a no-shit hard-ass, but kind of a cowboy, going off on your own. And today, what did you do? Run off alone.”

  Dave stood looking at him as if waiting for Aiden to respond.

  “Are you a medal hound?” he asked Aiden, direct and to the point.

  The question took Aiden by surprise. A medal hound? Not in the least.

  “No, no way, Dave.”

  “We’re a team here, and we need to be a team in order to be successful. We don’t need any cowboys out shooting for glory, ’cause that’s what gets people killed. Comprende?”

  “Yeah, sure. I understand,” he tried to reassure his team chief.

  “So no more solo missions, right?”

  “Of course, no solo missions.”

  Dave looked at him for a few heartbeats, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Just getting that cleared up. Go get yourself some chow.”

  Aiden hurried off, shaken by Dave’s little conversation. He was probably going to be watched closely when they went out again.

  The next morning, after two MREs and a shower the night before, sleep, and then a chat with Claire after he woke up, Aiden was in a much better mood as he opened up his breakfast spaghetti meal, pulling out the cobbler and scarfing it down.

  “Hey, your boyfriend’s over there,” Brett said to him, interrupting Cree.

  Aiden looked up to see the Army major on the other side of the DFAC, looking at him. As their eyes met, the major quickly looked down at his meal.

  “What the fuck, Brett? Boyfriend?” Aiden said sourly.

  “Well, he sure as shit’s got the hots for you,” Brett insisted while Cree and Daron, sitting across the table from them, nodded,

  “You know, don’t ask don’t tell,” Daron, one of the team’s communicators, said, holding up his hand to high-five Brett.

  “Eat me,” Aiden said, taking another bite of his cobbler.

  “Oh, I’m sure he will, if you ask him,” Brett barely got out past his attempt to hold in his laughter.

  I walked into that one, Aiden thought.

  The banter was all part of the game, and while it might not seem so to the uninitiated, it was just further proof that Aiden had been accepted. Cree tried to pull Brett back to the NFL as Aiden ate the last piece of cobbler.

  He gave a quick glance back at the major. Brett’s razzing aside, it really was a little creepy that the guy always seemed to be watching him.

  Chapter 5

  The next week was pretty quiet. The team went out on two interdiction missions where they were supposed to watch the trails for Taliban movement, and then either call for an air strike or launch an attack if the numbers were favorable. Each time, they bypassed the main path to the next village, instead taking what were nothing more than goat trails that the terp[78] had found out about from a local (probably for a nice monetary reward).

  Charlie Company, the Army unit at the FOB, made a patrol in force through the ambush site and to the village, but neither the company nor the team had any contact. There was some grumbling about that. The team had been in-country for almost two weeks, and except for Manny, Javier, and Aiden, none of them had done much other than be a target. All the members of the team joined for the action, and they were getting bored.

  When not out beyond the wire, most of the team were anally diligent about maintaining their equipment. For the guys with comms, that seemed reasonable. But Griff constantly worked on their GMVs, even though they hadn’t been driven since the team arrived at the FOB. Aiden could only clean his M4 so many times, so while Griff was out in their corner of the motor pool, Aiden had borrowed Griff’s Kindle.

  Aiden hadn’t even heard of a Kindle, and he was amazed at the number of books and magazines Griff had downloaded into it before deploying. He had more in the little unit than all the books in the FOB “library,” which consisted of a box with maybe 50 ratty books donated by the USO.

  “Get yourselves ready to mount out!” Dave shouted as he came into their GP tent. “We’ve got a mission. Count on up to two days.”

  Aiden tossed the Kindle on Griff’s cot and rushed to get his gear. Nothing had been planned for the afternoon, so this had to be a real-time development. Within two minutes, he had his gear on, ready to go. Unbeknownst to the rest, his battle kit had a few extra pieces of gear. In his assault pack were an extra frog and extra boots. No one in the team carried extra boots, as far as Aiden knew. They were just extra weight. But this was part of Aiden’s werewolf kit. If he had to shift, he’d take the assault pack, and after shifting back, he’d be able to get back into a semblance of a uniform.

  Norm came into the tent, calling them forward. “A French Rafael either crashed or was shot down in our AO. Drone surveillance shows an increase of Taliban activity, and the electronics chatter is pretty clear that the Taliban want the pilot. We’re getting a 47[79] here to lift us near our best guesstimate of where he might be. Charlie Company will be sweeping the lower reaches while we have some of the more unreachable terrain. Husni and Mike, get your elements ready for at least two days before resupply, and remember, it might be plenty cold where we’re going. Thiago and Dave, you come with me for our ops-order.[80] We’re supposed to be ready to embark in 45.”

  Mike was SSgt Mike Gandy, Aiden’s element leader. Thiago was GySgt Thiago Mendez, the operations chief.

  The next 45 minutes went by in a rush. Norm came back after 20 minutes and gave them the ops-order, but it was not extremely detailed. Marines like to plan things out to a T, but this was one of those times when they had to react based on training.

  Four big 47’s arrived on station. The FOB’s helo pad was not big enough for two at the same time, so the team was rushed onto their bird and sent on its way so Charlie could be embark on their birds.

  Aiden didn’t like the entire team being on one bird. Some of the most significant loss of life in the ’Stan, to include other operators,[81] was when 47’s had been shot down. Spread-loading among several birds was the preferred method, but this time, there was no getting around it.

  The 47 was a powerful bird, and it could reach higher altitudes than most other helos. Within half an hour, the big bird was flaring in on a tiny rocky outcrop, its rear wheels on the mountain, its front hanging over a 100 meter drop. The team rushed out, and the helo lifted back off, ready to get more boots in the mountains to find the missing pilot.

  After a few moments, the two elements broke up. Hosni’s element, with Norm, started making its way to the last known position of the pilot’s personal responder, which was near where surveillance drones had spotted a parachute. Mike’s element, with Dave coming along, headed down the slope to where they had decided that the pilot, if he were mobile, would probably head.

  The helo had let them off on a windswept rocky slope. Within a few hundred meters, though, Aiden’s team reached the trees. The Hindu Kush forest was not the dense stands of trees that were in the Eastern US or in the Pacific Northwest. They were more like the eastern Sierras, scattered,
but dense enough to cut down on visibility. They offered some cover, but moving among them was easy enough. Within 20 minutes, they had reached the depression where the pilot might have tried to walk himself out. It was also a logical terrain feature that the Taliban might use to try and reach the pilot, and each member of the element knew that.

  The depression was in the shadows of the western peaks, and already, the temperature was dropping. Winter was still a long way off, but this high, when the sun went down, it could get cold. No one knew what the pilot had as far as clothing, but without shelter, he could be susceptible to hypothermia.

  Mike’s plan was to set them up in what was essentially a blocking position along the small draw that formed the depression. They would hold this position until Norm and Hosni’s element arrived at their objective, a good klick up the depression. If the pilot came diddy-bopping down the trail, all the better. If the Taliban came, either up from below or down from the other element’s direction, they would take whatever action was deemed necessary.

  Just as darkness was falling, Norm got on the hook to tell them they had reached the parachute, but there was no sign of the pilot. After some discussion with Dave, he made the command decision to hold steady for the night. Even with NVDs[82], tramping around the mountain tops in the dark was an accident waiting to happen. Mike broke them down into two-man teams and spread them out perpendicular to the draw with half of the element uphill of it and the other half on the downhill side. Aiden and Larry—Sgt Laurent Januski, the element’s operator/breacher—had the far left flank, the one lowest in elevation. The two Marines took cover behind a fallen tree trunk and settled for the night. Larry broke out an MRE, eating it cold, before pulling out his polypros[83] and putting them on. With Aiden taking the first watch, Larry leaned back against the tree, and within minutes, was out.

  Aiden settled in for a long, cold night. Actually, the cold didn’t bother him much at all. The boredom would be taxing, though, and with ten hours before dawn, he had five hours before he could wake up Larry and get some sleep himself. Aiden quietly munched on his MRE, senses on the alert for any sign of movement. While the pilot might stumble around, he doubted that the mujahideen would be up and moving about. They would understand the dangers of a misstep in the dark.

  So Aiden was rather surprised when he heard the unmistakable sound of feet approaching somewhere in the trees and down the slope from him. He tried to discern who it might be. Twice he heard voices, but they were too far off and too faint for him to make out the language. Without his improved hearing, he doubted he would have heard anything at all.

  Ever since his shift at the ambush, it was as if Aiden’s body suddenly remembered what is was like to be in varg mode, and it seemed to him that every cell in his body cried out for more. He wanted to shift, but he had been warned against doing so. He needed an excuse to break that restriction. That excuse could be the small group of men somewhere up ahead and slightly down-slope of him.

  I’ve got to check them out, right? he reasoned.

  But Dave’s admonition still resonated in his mind—no more cowboying!

  Still, just seeing who was there was a recon, nothing more. It could be some goat farmers trying to get home, for all he knew. If it was Terry Taliban, he could alert the rest of the team.

  He looked over at the sleeping Larry. He was tempted to just slip off, but that would leave Larry defenseless.

  “Hey, Larry,” he whispered, shaking the sergeant’s shoulder.

  “What, it’s already time?” Larry answered grumpily.

  “No, sorry, but I’ve got to take a wicked shit, man. I need you up while I do it.”

  “So take it,” Larry said, pulling the e-tool off the side of his pack and shoving it along the ground to Aiden.

  “Uh, I think it’s going to be a bad one. My gut’s on fire.”

  That caught Larry’s attention. In the darkness, when sight was limited, the sense of smell was heightened. A pile of shit, even when covered, could pinpoint their position to any advancing mujahideen.

  “You can’t hold it” he asked.

  “I’ve been trying to. I’m at my limit,” Aiden told him.

  “Fuck. OK, go ahead, then down the slope 10 or 15 meters. Dig the hole deep and make sure you cover it,” Larry said.

  With any mujahideen coming up from the west, it made sense for him to go to the east, in front of them, from where only the French pilot might approach them. Aiden took the e-tool, then moved off, making sure there were enough trees between him and Larry to hide him.

  Once out of sight, he dropped his assault pack, tore off his boots and frog, then shifted. The world coalesced into an intense flow of smells and sounds. Immediately he swiveled to pinpoint the approaching men. He could hear four men walking, but two of them had deliberate footsteps, as if they were carrying something heavy. Two more seemed unburdened. There was another smell, that of a man, but different than the other four. It wasn’t the blood that made him different, nor even the faint whiff of aviation fuel. He just had his own underlying odor. It could be the man’s food, it could be genetics, but he was different, and Aiden was positive that this was the pilot.

  The draw they were protecting came down alongside the mountain. On one side, the steep slope rose to the peak. On the other side, after passing the small lip of the draw, the mountain continued down until it reached some distant valley. Mike’s element was closing off the draw as a route of movement, but there were only so many Marines in the element, and they could cover only so much. If someone crossed below the last two members—Aiden and Larry—he or she would be long gone and out in the vast Afghan wilderness.

  Forgetting his plan to get the rest of the team involved, Aiden flowed through the trees like a wraith. Within moments, he could make out the group of men struggling along another goat path, one that the element didn’t realize existed. One man was in the lead, his AK at the ready as he peered into the darkness. With his beard and turban, all Aiden could see of his face were his eyes.

  Immediately behind him were two men carrying a poncho stretcher hung like a hammock from a sturdy branch, the ends of which rested on the shoulders of the two men. The poncho bulged with its cargo. Without a shred of doubt, Aiden knew this was the French pilot. Behind the two stretcher-bearers, another man followed, providing rear security. The rear man was small, and he moved with a sense of nervousness.

  Aiden knew he should alert the element and let the entire team rescue the pilot. He should not cowboy it. But if the element assaulted, the mujahideen would undoubtedly kill the pilot. They needed him alive for their propaganda videos, but a dead pilot was better than a rescued pilot.

  In the far recesses of his mind, Aiden knew he was just fishing for an excuse. The fact was that his bloodlust was growing, and he wanted to attack. He needed to attack.

  Without bothering to think things through, he launched himself the last 20 meters and collided with the point security. Aiden wasn’t even sure if the man saw him at all. One moment, he was carefully walking; the next moment, something big and angry crashed into him, a paw nearly knocking his head off of his body.

  Aiden didn’t bother to stop and admire his handiwork. The front man of the stretcher team saw the collision, and he dropped his end of the makeshift stretcher, reaching to pull around his AK from where he had slung it across his shoulder. Aiden didn’t give him a chance. He sunk his teeth into the man’s neck, reveling in the hot blood that gushed into his mouth. He swallowed, savoring the taste of life, of power, which was ironic as the taste of life was the sign of impending death for the Taliban fighter.

  The staccato of AK fire next to his ears broke his concentration. The other stretcher bearer had gotten his AK slung and was firing as he gibbered mindlessly. The only word Aiden could clearly hear was “shaytan,” the same word he’d heard back at the ambush site.

  Aiden jumped over the prone pilot just at the man swung his AK up, and a round lanced through Aiden’s left biceps. Aiden ignored the
pain and tackled the man, landing astride his chest.

  The man tried to crawl away, and as Aiden wasn’t any heavier than he was in human form, the man was making good progress. Aiden reached forward and grabbed the mujahideen’s head. His varg hands were not as dexterous as his human hands, but they were good enough. With a simple twist, the man’s neck was broken.

  Aiden wanted to howl in victory, but footsteps registered on his mind. The other man! When in varg form, his mind didn’t seem as organized, and he’d forgotten the fourth mujahideen. Luckily, the man was not attacking, but was in full flight. Aiden jumped up to give chase. He couldn’t let anyone get away.

  The man was running blind, smacking into trees in his panic. Aiden caught the word “shaytan” again, as the man sobbed in fear. Aiden wondered what it meant as he closed the gap. The ill-fated man ran into one more tree and stumbled as Aiden reached him. Aiden grabbed the man by the back of the neck and slammed him back into the same tree. Another neck broke, and the man fell limp to the ground.

  Only it wasn’t a man, Aiden saw. It was only a boy, possibly 12 or 13 years old. Aiden had killed a child. He knew that would bother him later, but for the moment his human mind struggled to push through his varg bloodlust. Aiden knew he had to work quickly. The entire element would have heard the gunfire.

  Aiden rush back to the three dead mujahideen and the hopefully alive pilot. The man was only half conscious, clearly hurt. Aiden took the point man’s AK, propped the body up, then pulled back on the pilot’s hand, firing a burst which hit the body in the torso, knocking it down. He fired another burst into the rear stretcher bearer as the pilot moaned.

  The other stretcher bearer was more problematic. Aiden had torn out half of his throat. After only a momentary pause, he pulled a grenade off the old British cartridge belt one of the Taliban was wearing, pulled the pin, and placed it next to the neck of the body, right up against Aiden’s teeth marks. The body should shield the pilot from the blast. He released the spoon and sprinted back to where he’d left his clothes. This time, he hadn’t needed his “werewolf kit,” as he struggled to get back in his gear. His arm hurt, but at least his frog covered the already-healing wound.