Synbat v5

by Bob Mayer

  Between those strange things in the trees earlier in the day, the helicopters, and the lousy weather, Louis was beginning to lose his enthusiasm for this reenactment. He longed for the warmth of his home and wife back in Illinois.

  LAKE BARKLEY

  7:12 P.M.

  High overhead a large buzzard had been circling Fords Bay for ten minutes. Finally it swooped down, wings spread wide against the tricky air currents that played along the cliff face. Talons splayed, the bird passed through some branches and landed on a large pile of rotting flesh. Pay dirt. The buzzard’s pea-sized brain registered elation. Its beak plunged into the carrion. The bird was working on a second swallow when its senses were alerted to a threat. Expanding its wings, it lifted in one swift sweep.

  Too late. One of its legs was grasped from below. For a moment there was a curious balance between the wildly beating wings and the weight from below. The grasp tightened. The buzzard made one last surge to break free, squawking loudly.

  On the water Powers had been watching the bird circling in the waning daylight. He heard the desperate squawk echo across the water and waited for the buzzard to reappear in the sky. After five minutes and no sign of the bird, he pulled out his map.

  The northern shoreline of Fords Bay showed tight contour lines representing a cliff. They’d been briefed that the creatures they were hunting could climb trees, so it made sense that they could climb rock. It looked like there were only two ways to get into the small sliver of shoreline at the base of the cliff: climbing down from the top or coming in from the water.

  Powers waved his hand above his head at the other two boats, signaling for them to stay in place and cover his area. He turned to the other men in the boat. “We’re going into that bay over there. I want you to keep your eyes open. I saw a buzzard go down there not too long ago and I want to check it out. Let’s go.”

  In a minute they reached the entrance to the bay. Powers pushed a low overhanging branch out of the way as they passed through. After the tight entrance, the bay opened up to about a hundred meters wide. It looked like a long green cathedral as the setting sun angled through the high trees on either side. The ground on the north gained in altitude, rising to become cliffs. On the south side was a relatively level tree-covered bank.

  The navigator — Cartwright — had the engine idled down low, the boat moving along slowly. After a couple hundred meters, Powers signaled a temporary halt. “Do you smell that?”

  Cartwright nodded. “Something died in there.”

  “Move in along the shore. I’ll watch for depth and obstacles.”

  Cartwright edged the boat closer. The Zodiac drew only a few inches of water, but the propeller went almost a foot deeper. Powers kept switching his gaze from the shoreline to the water directly in front of the boat. Trees were crowded in the thin spit of land between the cliff and the water, with thick undergrowth choking the space between the trunks.

  Finally the smell was so strong that Powers signaled Cartwright to halt, and they took cravats from their first-aid kits to use as makeshift face masks. Powers had smelled death before; whatever was rotting up ahead was no squirrel. It was big.

  They moved in closer. An uneasy knot formed in Powers’s gut. He flicked the selector lever on his M16 to semiautomatic.

  “Hold it!” His voice was muffled by the green cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth. Cartwright killed the engine and joined him in the front of the boat. The other two men had their weapons at the ready, covering the flanks.

  Ten feet away on the shore, they could make out piles of white bones in the undergrowth.

  “I’m going ashore. Cover me.”

  Powers slid over the side of the boat into the surprisingly chilly water. The dark surface lapped around his waist until he got close to shore. Pushing aside branches, he began to take in the scope of what he’d just found.

  “Bring in the boat,” Powers yelled. He scanned the trees and the cliff face for any movement, the muzzle of his weapon following his eyes. As far as he could tell, the bones were from animals, but he didn’t want to make a personal contribution to the ghastly pile.

  After the Zodiac was beached and tied off on a tree, Powers deployed the three men in a skirmish line facing the cliff. He didn’t need to give them any warnings. The signs of death were present everywhere.

  “Take a look around. Make sure you keep checking out the trees.”

  Less than five seconds later, Cartwright’s voice broke the silence. “Over here, Sergeant Major!”

  Powers pushed through to where the man was standing. Large bones were covered with tattered flesh and mingled with rotting internal organs. Powers could recognize the three skulls: horses.

  Powers looked up the cliff face. They’d fallen off the edge of the cliff and landed here. He didn’t think horses were stupid enough to do that on their own — not three, one after another. Something had run them off the cliff. And then that something had dined on the carcasses.

  His thoughts were interrupted by another man’s yell. “Sergeant Major!”

  Powers made his way to where the other two men were standing. One was in the process of losing his dinner; upon arriving Powers could understand why.

  The body was battered, and most of the flesh on both legs was gone, but the two clear blue eyes stared up at the gathering darkness with a peaceful look about them.

  They’d found Emma Plunket.

  Chapter Sixteen

  LAND BETWEEN THE LAKES

  7:34 P.M.

  Powers had the four men in a tight perimeter, back to back. The low ground of Fords Bay was growing darker as the sun went down, and soon the night would surround them. They had two sets of night vision goggles, but Powers didn’t feel safe here, goggles or not. Besides their Ml 6s, they also had an M21 sniper rifle with a laser night scope. Cartwright stirred next to Powers, his eyes riveted on the cliff face.

  “What’s the matter?” Powers asked in a low voice.

  Cartwright gestured up toward the cliff. “We’re being watched. I can feel it. We’ve been watched ever since we pulled in here.”

  There were enough cracks and crevices in the rock wall to hide a hundred Synbats. Powers had to admit he’d had that same feeling for the past ten minutes. After discovering the woman’s body, he’d pulled everyone in tight and they hadn’t done any more exploring. Each man had his M16 and sidearm, but they were at a disadvantage in the low ground. It wasn’t the time to go looking for trouble, especially since trouble might come looking for them soon.

  Powers opened his rucksack and turned on the PRC-77 radio.

  7:38 P.M.

  A young lieutenant appeared at the door of the humvee where Riley had been kicked back, trying to get some sleep. “Mister Riley, you’re needed at the TOC.”

  Riley grabbed his M16 and double-timed over behind the lieutenant. The two generals were clustered around a radio along with Colonel Hossey, who gestured with his good arm for Riley to come over. Riley recognized the voice on the radio as soon as he heard it.

  “I say again, I’ve found the body of a woman along with three horses. The bones of several other small animals are gathered here too. Over.”

  Trailers had the mike. “How were they killed? Over.”

  “It looks like they were run off the cliff. Over.”

  “Get the grid,” Hossey advised.

  “What is your location? Over.”

  “North side of Fords Bay. Wait one.” Powers’s voice disappeared with the squelch and then came back on. “Grid one two four, six four three. I say again: one two four, six four three. We need some reinforcements here. Over.”

  Riley looked at his map. It made sense. Powers was only a couple of klicks away to the south. The Synbats weren’t running. They were hiding. Merrit had said they had no place in particular to run. The cliff was the most secure location for them within miles. Powers had found the Werners’ horses.

  “Any sign of the Synbats there other than the bodies? Over,” Trailer
s asked.

  “Negative.” There was a brief pause. “But I can feel them. They’re here. We’re being watched. Over.”

  Trailers turned to Colonel Hossey questioningly. Hossey looked up from the map where he had been plotting the grid. “Sergeant Major Powers is a good man. He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t think we needed to hear it. He’s seen some heavy action and he’s still alive. I’d trust his instincts.”

  Trailers looked at Riley. “You have the location. Get going.” He keyed the mike. “We’ve got help on the way. Hold your position. Out. Break. Nighthawk, this is Search Base. Over.”

  7:46 P.M.

  The small red dot probed among the rocks. Looking through the night scope, Powers could see both the dot and the surrounding rock clearly despite the gathering darkness. The AN/PAS-6 night scope mounted on the M21 was a vast improvement over all previous systems he’d ever worked with. The point of aim of the rifle was wherever the emitted laser beam touched.

  As darkness fell, Powers had decided on a tactical retreat — General Trollers’s order to hold fast notwithstanding — loading everyone back on the Zodiac and anchoring twenty meters offshore. They could do the same job from the boat, and Powers felt safer with the water between him and the shore. Of course, if the Synbats had weapons, as the men had been briefed, this position was more exposed, but Powers had decided that the move was worth it. If the Synbats were on the rock wall, the creatures had the advantage of the high ground. Powers was hoping to partially decrease the vertical angle by putting some space between his men and the base of the cliff.

  Something moved at the edge of the scope. Powers overcorrected and then swung back. A Synbat! It was high up, about ten feet below the lip of the cliff. It slipped out of sight, melting into the rock. Powers watched carefully for it to reappear. There it was, moving swiftly! Powers placed the red dot and fired. Sparks flew as the round hit the rock, and the wall exploded with screeches.

  Powers cursed as he tried to pin the creature with the laser beam. The scope mounting must be off slightly; he hadn’t had a chance to zero it in, which accounted for the miss. The Synbat scrambled over the lip of the cliff and was gone before he could pin it down. A shot roared right next to him and Cartwright yelled out: “I spotted two going up. They’re over the cliff. I don’t think I hit.” He slapped his M16. “Can’t aim this thing worth a fuck with the goggles.”

  “Damn,” Powers muttered to himself. All they’d managed to accomplish was to scare the Synbats out of their lair.

  7:48 P.M.

  Louis turned away from the fire and looked out to the east as two shots cracked the night air. They were camped with the rest of their “regiment” — all forty-three of them along a wood line. The sixteen horses were picketed in the trees. They’d been hearing numerous helicopters and vehicles moving around ever since the sun started to go down.

  “That didn’t sound like no musket,” Jeremiah said.

  “What were them yells?” the regimental sergeant at arms, Buford P. Lister, asked no one in particular.

  The screeches after the first shot had caused the hair on the back of Louis’s neck to stand up. “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t care,” threw in Billy Pates. The man was what Louis would label the regimental fool. He made everyone around him look intelligent. Pates lifted his canteen cup to his lips. “As long as we got some of this here firewater, everything will be all right.”

  And for a while everything did seem all right. For at least ten minutes. Louis was sitting through the third rendition of one of Buford’s jokes when Jeremiah plucked at his sleeve.

  “What?”

  “Listen.”

  Louis looked at his brother in irritation. “To what?”

  “The forest.”

  He gave it ten seconds, tuning out the noise of the camp. “I don’t hear nothing.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “That’s what I mean. It’s quiet. Can’t hear no night animals. Remember earlier today? That thing that attacked us? This is just how it got before it came on us from the trees. It’s coming back.”

  Louis wanted to smack his brother over the head. The damn fool had always acted weird. “You don’t even know what it was. How the hell can you know it’s coming back?”

  “It’s the devil. He’s come to claim our souls.”

  “Ah, goddamnit, Jer. You’re going off your rocker. You listen—” Louis paused as a horse whinnied and then another. The animals were pulling at the picket line, straining back.

  The men who had mounts left the fire and moved into the trees, trying to calm the horses. Louis’s horse, Jezebel, had almost pulled her halter loose; he was retying it when he noticed his brother standing nearby, musket in hand, ignoring his own horse, just staring at the woods.

  “Want to give me a hand here, Jer?” he asked, the irritation plain in his voice.

  “There it is!” his brother yelled, throwing the musket to shoulder and firing. With the deep roar of the powder going off, all hell broke loose. Figures exploded out of the dark, firing rifles at the disbelieving men. Buford Lister and Billy Pates were among six that went down in the first ten seconds, their screams tearing the air.

  Jeremiah and Louis ran, Jeremiah reloading on the run, Louis grabbing his musket and kit as he raced by the fire. A few more rounds ripped through the air around their heads and then the firing ceased. They halted two hundred meters away in a field and turned back, Jeremiah with musket at the ready, Louis reloading. Other shaken men of the 7th Cavalry were scattered around, breathing hard from the run and yelling senseless questions.

  Soldiers from other campsites came running up to ask what had happened. But no one headed back into the tree line where the 7th U.S. Cavalry had been camped. The last of the screams died out.

  8:14 P.M.

  Eight hundred meters away, the three humvees of ODA 682 were rolling down a trail, the occupants oblivious to the destruction occurring close by. The headsets for radio and intercom, along with the rumble of the diesel engines, effectively deafened the entire team.

  Riley had heard Powers report that he’d fired on the Synbats and that the animals had scaled the cliff and were running. Other units were closing in. The TOC was trying to throw together a hasty net to try and sweep up the Synbats.

  The radio crackled. “This is Nighthawk. I’ve got multiple contacts on LLTV, vehicle and dismounted. I’ve also got horses on my screens. Impossible to find the target. Over.”

  “All elements, this is Search Base. Mark yourselves for identification by Nighthawk. Over.”

  Riley slid down into the humvee and reached into an outer pocket on his rucksack, retrieving a black watch cap. He turned the cap inside out, exposing the fluorescent tape sewn there, and put it on. Standing back up in the hatch, he knew that the tape would show up clearly on the low-light television (LLTV) of the Spectre gunship and the thermal sights of the OH-6s.

  “This is Nighthawk. I’ve got small arms firing. Grid one two five, six five three. I say again. Small arms firing. Grid one two five, six five three. Over.”

  Riley shined a red-lens flashlight down on his map. “Take the next right, John.” As the vehicle turned, Riley released the safety on the trigger of the .50 caliber.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LAND BETWEEN THE LAKES

  8:33 P.M.

  Doc Seay and Martie Trustin were working on the wounded under the glare of headlights from various pickup trucks and rigs. Riley had the rest of his team deployed in a loose perimeter, supplemented by almost a hundred men with Civil War muskets. It would have almost been humorous except for the four bodies laid out under ponchos nearby and the wounded who were being tended.

  Riley had already called the situation in to Search Base. Other than holding a perimeter to prevent the Synbats from coming in again, he was at a loss as to what to do. Going after the Synbats wasn’t possible because they had no idea where the creatures were. By the time they’d gotten here, the Synbats had already disappeared and no one was
sure in which direction.

  Riley had ignored the numerous questions thrown his way by the re-enactors. There wasn’t anything he could say, except to tell everyone to stay inside the parameters of the open field.

  Military vehicles were now rolling into the field as reinforcements arrived. General Trailers and Colonel Lewis hopped out of one humvee and hurried over to Riley’s location.

  Trollers’s eyes were flashing in the glint of the headlights. “Where did the Synbats go?”

  Riley shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. They hit coming from the west, but I haven’t been able to find anyone who could tell me which way they left.”

  “What about Nighthawk?”

  “It’s picking up multiple targets. Our people are marked, but these re-enactors are all over the place.”

  Trailers turned to Colonel Lewis. “Let’s clear these people out now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  8:57 P.M.

  Few wild animals have had a more devastating encounter with man than the bison, commonly miscalled the American buffalo. From an estimated peak strength of thirty million to a low of five hundred at the turn of the century, the herds have slowly increased to a present size of approximately thirty-five to fifty thousand.

  With a half moon rising in the eastern sky, the herd of fifty-three bison at the Buffalo Range at Land Between the Lakes had just increased by one. The mother finished licking the newborn calf to clean it off, and it immediately suckled up.

  The bachelor groups of massive males, some weighing almost two thousand pounds, ignored the maternal efforts. It would be two more months until breeding season, when they would mingle again with the cow-calf herds to initiate the reproductive process.

  This particular evening one of the males, an old bison that had seen the turn of many seasons, was alert, but not because of the events going on inside the fence of the range. There was something outside that disturbed him.