THERE BE DRAGONS

by Peter Hallett

  The dragons rose into the sky.

  Jacobs looked to his side to see Buttons quickly undo the radio from its harness. He fell from the

  device and from the dragon.

  The RTO cut through the air and soon crashed through a bamboo fence in the village. The wind was well and truly knocked from him, also some blood as he coughed. His radio thumped into the dirt before his eyes. He rubbed at them. The dust seemed to have stung them.

  Jacobs saw Smith shake his head, like he tried to clear away dizziness, then go to help Buttons. He got him back upright.

  The dragon that had dropped Buttons disappeared into the sun, the haze and light disguising its escape.

  The dragon’s claws had cut deep into Jacobs. His shoulders were bleeding profusely. He winced from the pain then looked down to see his legs dangling above treetops. Sometimes they hit them. His shins felt bruised and bloody.

  The dragon on the ground in the village started to move. It slowly got to its feet, its eyes opening.

  Jacobs could see Cage below. The corporal was looking up into the air watching Jacobs, as he gradually went higher and higher and farther away.

  The wounded dragon roared.

  Cage turned to it and fired. The bullets ripped into its skin and more blood flowed.

  The platoon took aim at the dragon Cage fought, but he blocked their line of fire. Some of them lowered their weapons.

  “Out the way, Cage!” Teacher’s shout made it all the way to Jacobs’s ears.

  Jacobs saw Stephens moving to try and find a better angle to shoot from. He ran behind a hooch and came out to the left of the beast. He fired on full automatic. The dragon didn’t even look at him.

  It stared Cage down as the bullets impacted, eyes black as midnight.

  Jacobs struggled to pull the claws from his body. He couldn’t budge them. He kicked his legs nest and was able to hinder the dragon’s flight somewhat.

  The animal countered the new directions it was forced into from Jacobs’s struggles.

  The dragon in the village below Jacobs’s swinging feet appeared to make itself taller. Its legs went straighter, longer. It opened its wings.

  Cage’s and Stephens’s bullets cut through them. Beams of sunlight burst forth through the holes.

  A beam hit Cage’s eyes. He covered them with his forearm.

  Then the dragon’s neck seemed to contract.

  Its head shot forward slightly and it opened its mouth.

  Fire blasted from it, much like fire would from a blazing NVA flamethrower. A quicker burst than that of a flamethrower, though, but with the same range.

  Cage lowered his arm in time to see the fire race towards him. He turned, ran and then dove. The flames caught one of his legs as he hit the hard earth and rolled, trying to put himself out.

  The platoon now had a clear view of the dragon and they opened fire.

  The animal was rocked from side to side by the shots.

  It saw Stephens.

  It turned to him. Its neck contracted again … then …

  Bang.

  The dragon exploded and flesh flew. It stuck to trees and to hooches. It fell onto the ground and onto the soldiers.

  Stephens pulled a chunk from his helmet.

  Cage limped into view, carrying the Blooper, its barrel smoking, his leg doing the same.

  The explosion looked tiny to Jacobs now. He had no idea how far up he was but he felt sick. Then he was. He vomited into the air. Some landed on him.

  The dragon flapped its wings and went higher. They rose over a mountaintop, its claws digging even deeper into Jacobs’s shoulders; apparently it didn’t want to lose its catch.

  Jacobs managed to reach the holster at his hip. He pulled his .45 free. He chambered a round and winced from the pain that surged from his shoulders as he did.

  He waited for the right moment.

  His legs had started to hit treetops again. Fabric and flesh ripped.

  Jacobs fired up at the dragon.

  The shot hit its eye. The ball burst, an explosion of goo. It roared and released its grip.

  Jacobs fell into a tree and tumbled through the branches. The .45 was knocked from his hand.

  He tried to grab ahold of some of the branches but as soon as he felt his fingers manage to wrap

  around the bark, they were torn away by the weight of his body and he fell again.

  He landed, stomach first, across a branch. His ribs cracked.

  He tried to pull a leg over the thick branch, to straddle it, but he was too weak. The wounds in his shoulders depleted his energy reserves and he fell once more.

  He hit more of the branches. They cracked just as easy as his ribs had done. Some of the branches scratched at his face and cut him open. He was a mess.

  He hit the floor of the jungle. He had landed on his back.

  He looked up through the tree. His vision went blurred.

  Then he heard the thunder.

  The dragon swooped down and grabbed ahold of him, this time by the chest. Jacobs screamed as the claws cut in.

  He was in the air again. He could see the dragon’s face. He saw it was missing an eye, its right one.

  Everything went dark.

  • • • • •

  Stephens reported to the captain at the CP, in the battalion’s forward supply base.

  “Sir.”

  “Stephens,” said the captain from behind his cigar. “Someone in the CP needs to chat with you about the incident in the village.”

  “Not another, Cap. I’ve told the story countless times already. I could do with some rest,” said Stephens.

  “I understand that, but I think you’ll find this gentleman much more …” the captain removed the cigar from his mouth and spat some loose leaf into the dirt, “… accommodating to your account of what happened.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  • • • • •

  Stephens entered the tent to see a man waiting for him.

  The man wore a white shirt, grey tie and grey pants. He had sweat stains under his armpits. He used his tie to wipe perspiration off his forehead. He also wore leather shoes that were caked in mud. He looked to be in his late twenties and was clean-shaven with a buzz cut.

  “Sergeant Stephens?” The man’s voice was that of gravel. Like he had used nails as mouthwash. It was in contrast to his facial features, which had a feminine hilt hint to them, small mouth, small ears, thin lips, and fair skin.

  “Yes … and you are?”

  “I’m Agent Moore. CIA.” He held his hand out.

  Stephens didn’t shake it. “I don’t trust the CIA and the way you work. I prefer a straight fight. The CIA works in secret, keeps to the shadows and adores information. You collect it and destroy it. You cover up the truth. I believe in an honest approach to war, not cuz it would offend my sensibilities to lie, but cuz from the truth of combat comes a greater understanding of the change.”

  “Change?” asked Moore.

  “A CIA agent will never go through the change. You might believe you’re gods, think your actions maybe even imply such, think your greater knowledge leads to godhood, but that’s information, not power. A god doesn’t come into being cuz it knows everything, or cuz you can order someone else around. It comes into being when you have the ability to control yourself. When you make the decision if someone lives or dies … and you carry out that act.

  “It ain’t a process of commands and action, by different people doing each. It’s a case of one person doing what he wishes to do. What he believes should be done. Not what should be done for a nation, not what should be done for a commander, or a president, or a king.”

  “I was told you were … an interesting personality.”

  “I wasn’t told you was a spook. I’d have refused to speak with you if I’d known,” said Stephens.

  “If you’d feel better referring to me as a spook, please feel free to do so,” said Moore.

  “I would feel better and I do feel free.” Ste
phens let his eyes look from the tips of the spook’s shoes then up to his eyes. Stephens narrowed his gaze when their eyes met.

  Moore held the stare for a few seconds before he looked away and kicked some dirt off his muddy right shoe with the tip of his muddy left one. “Tell me what happened in the village.”

  “You already know what happened, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you need me to tell you again? Haven’t you got this all wrote in a file by now?” asked Stephens.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve read the file?”

  “Several times,” said Moore.

  “Then I ain’t gonna tell you what happened again. I’m sick of reporting what happened. I’m sick of people not believing me.”

  “I believe you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Stephens frowned. “What?”

  “I believe you encountered dragons.”

  “This a joke?”

  “No joke. It’s a very serious matter. Again, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

  “How serious is this matter?” asked Stephens.

  “So much so, that we know the Russians are working to capture as many of the beasts as possible.”

  “The Russians are in Nam?”

  “In a small number, in one NVA base … but yes. They are here,” said Moore.

  “What are they doing here?”

  “As I said, capturing dragons … and breeding them. With the final goal being to train them,” said Moore.

  “They don’t seem like the trainable type. I can’t imagine one of these playing fetch, or rolling over for its belly to be tickled. I could teach them one trick, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How to play dead,” said Stephens.

  “It’s funny you should say that.”

  “I know. It was a joke of sorts.” Stephens didn’t smile.

  “I don’t mean that way,” he let out a large breath. “It relates to my reason for being here.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Tell me why you’re here and more importantly why I’m talking to you,” said Stephens.

  “We want you to lead a team of men to destroy the Russian base. To wipe out the operations involving the dragons.”

  “Why me? Get some of your Black Ops guys to do it.”

  “That was our first thought. It makes sense to do that, doesn’t it?”

  “But?”

  “But they don’t have experience dealing with the dragons. You do. So do your men. As you know, Stephens, experience counts in the field.” Moore nodded.

  “I’ve heard stories from heaps of guys here, who have seen these creatures. So again, why me?” Stephens persisted.

  “Because you’ve fought them. Others haven’t. Plus, we’ve been keeping our eye on you for some time, in case we ever needed someone with your particular skill set. Now we need someone with that skill set. You are the perfect candidate for this mission. But I understand if you don’t wish to do it … if you find it too daunting, too much of a risk.” Moore clasped his hands behind his back.

  “I didn’t say that I found it to be any of those things,” said Stephens.

  “So, you will do it?”

  “Gimme more details.”

  “You can pick the best guys from your platoon to be on the team. I will also be along for the ride. I will guide you to the base. The base is like any other NVA prison camp; it is, however, devoid of POWs. In a mountain, to its rear, is an underground facility that the Russians have been using. We are to rig the underground base and blow it sky high.”

  “It does sound like it will be dangerous.” Stephens made sure his tone was full of mockery.

  “Yes, so like I said, I understand if you wanna refuse the offer.”

  “Not at all. The danger is the reason I wanna do it. I want another shot at the thunderbird.” Stephens smiled.

  “Thunderbird?”

  “That’s what my grandparents used to call them on the reservation. The stories of them have been passed down for generations. Vietnam ain’t the first place these animals have been spotted, is it?”

  “No … it ain’t … but that is all I can tell you on that matter,” said Moore.

  “I guess this mission is top secret kinda stuff?” mocked Stephens.

  “Yes, of the highest variety.”

  “Okay, here is the deal; any of the men from the team that survive, get taken off the front line when they get back. Get them a really cushy position to the end of the war.”

  “Deal. And for you?” asked Moore.

  “Nothing special, just get me back in the fight.”

  “Done.”

  “One other thing. I’ll need a weapon to help with the mission.”

  “Name it and I’ll get it.”

  “A bow and some arrows.”

  “This ain’t the Wild West.” Moore smiled.

  “I know. But this ain’t a normal bow. And these ain’t your everyday kinda arrows. I need this weapon, Moore. It will get us into the base quiet-like. I’m a good shot. A great shot. I grew up shooting bows. But not bows as advanced as the one I require. This one will make me even better. This bow is more accurate. Better suited to this environment too. Maybe you won’t be able to get it for me, though? It is very much high-tech, space-age stuff.”

  “I can get anything,” Moore said as he rose to the challenge.

  “Good. Well, then, partner. Saddle up. We’ve got Russian dragons to kill.” Stephens laughed. “It ain’t every day you get to say a line like that.”

  • • • • •

  It was Christmas and he was in the candy store. He was stood on his tiptoes looking over the counter.

  He could see rows of jars that contained the myriad of colorful hardened sweet stuff. The colors, the smells—vanilla and strawberry seemed to be the strongest—and the fantastical shapes they had been weaved into, mesmerized him.

  He wasn’t sure if the process of making candy could be called weaving, but he imagined the workers, the makers of the sweets, guided, twisted, and interlaced long strips of the sticky melted sugar forms together, to make the marvelous smile-inducing structures and patterns.

  Candy always made him think of the festival season, more so than pine trees, more so than Saint Nick.

  His parents never allowed him to have as much candy as his grandparents did, and since he got to stay with his grandparents at Christmas, he took full advantage of their greater allowances.

  His grandfather was stood nest to him. He was so much taller than he was. All grown-ups were. His grandfather patted him on the top of his head.

  He looked up at him and saw the old man’s smile. It was such a comforting thing to see. He could feel the warmth of what his family meant to him. The love.

  He also saw how bad his grandfather’s teeth were, undoubtedly the result of his own love for candy.

  His grandmother seemed to eat just as much of the stuff but her teeth had fared much better. Maybe she took better care of them. She must, considering all the moaning she did concerning his upkeep of dental cleanliness.

  The clerk handed a candy cane over the counter. He took it in his small hand. Then he put it in his mouth and started to suck on the sweetness.

  His grandfather handed the clerk some money and they exited the store.

  They stepped out onto the sidewalk. The sound of Christmas carols embraced them. A few snowflakes touched down onto his nose.

  His grandfather knelt by him and pulled the collar of his jacket up to keep the chill of the breeze from him. He said something about keeping Jack Frost out of business.

  His grandfather was so caring. Always looked out for him.

  Then the thunder came.

  The dragon dove at them.

  It contracted its neck. It shot a fireball.

  His grandfather pushed him into the snow.

  The flame hit the old man and engulfed him. He was consumed by the
inferno. His flesh was cooked. He screamed and waved his arms. Then fell to the ground and began to roll.

  The screams stopped. The rolling did too … but the fire raged on.

  A snowman that stood over the fiery body began to melt. Its coal eyes slid down its face. The carrot nose started to tip to the side. It looked like an icy Picasso.

  The young boy stood up. He dropped the candy cane and began to cry.

  The tears froze on his cheeks, the cold of them biting into his skin. He tried to pull them from his face but he couldn’t.

  More tears came, a wave of them, a massive gushing wave. They washed down his body and onto his feet.

  The water covered them and began to move up his frame. It froze as it did.

  Soon he was fully incased in the ice, a horrified expression etched onto his face.

  The dragon spat fire again.

  The little boy melted into the same pool as the snowman.

  The water took up the candy cane in its flow and it washed into the gutter.

  A pickup truck ran over it.

  It shattered.

  • • • • •

  The dragon dropped Jacobs onto the hard orange dirt.

  It hadn’t dropped him from a great height. Only from a few feet, but the impact was enough to wake him.

  Enough to shatter his candy cane.

  Jacobs looked into the blue sky and saw the dragon flap and land by him.

  Jacobs tried to stand and run but he fell back as quick as he had stood.

  The dragon looked into Jacobs’s eyes and placed a clawed foot onto his chest. It held him in place. The wound of its eye had dried over and scabbed. The blood had congealed.

  The dragon roared.

  Jacobs squinted. The noise hurt his ears. Hurt his head. His whole body was sore. His shins had been cut to bits. He could feel a sting on them as wind blew. Some ribs had been broken. He found it hard to breathe. His chest and shoulders bled from the claw grabs. His back was bruised and probably fully black from the fall from the tree.

  He heard someone shout in a foreign language, in Vietnamese. He heard the sound of feet as they ran on dirt. He heard the clatter of military equipment on a soldier’s webbing.