The sound and reverberation of the gun bounced throughout the hull as a stream of hot cartridge cases clattered to the floor plate around Fisher’s boots. After a short burst he peered out through the window in time to make out the figure of a man lumbering away towards the bordering tree line.
As the cordite haze lifted outside, the IR beams unveiled a scene of devastation. The troop APCs, glistening wet from the storm, were scattered all over the clearing, no reason to their positions, no defensive tactics evident at all. If this was an ambush, then it was swift and savage. Each vehicle’s ramps and combat hatches remained wide open and exposed, their engines still idling, their crews strewn everywhere, bodies contorted and void of life. Fisher slowly traversed the turret to his left as the IR beam revealed the same scene all around. The bodies closest had no bullet holes or shrapnel damage, but rather deep cuts and gouges, a number of them decapitated.
“What do you see out there?” asked Green.
“They’re all dead,” Fisher said.
“NVA?”
“Maybe, but I can’t see any unfriendlies dead or alive, just our boys. What’s real strange is there doesn’t appear to be any bullet wounds in the bodies or signs of anti-armour damage to the vehicles. Charlie doesn’t normally leave this kind of signature.”
“Montegnard?” questioned Green. “Maybe one of the tribes decided to turn on us.”
“The Montegnard are mountain militia,” Fisher reminded him. “And besides, we’re too far north for them.” Fisher sighed deeply, thinking about Green’s story of 400-year-old crusaders. “So much for preparing for anything, Mr Green.”
* * *
“Courage is fear holding on a minute longer”
General George S. Patton
PART THREE
Less than an hour shy of Christmas, the moon – near enough to full – had risen well above the tree line surrounding the clearing. It was a hunter’s moon, high and bright, casting shadows and reflecting off the damp, rain-beaten surfaces.
Having moved the APC to a suitable exit point by the creek line, Green and Fisher made the call to push on by foot to the temple while Fry and Jenkins locked-down and secured the area for their return. This meant setting up ground radar, claymores on the perimeter and maintaining contact with the main battle tanks on route behind them. If Fisher and Green could determine the enemy’s strength, then perhaps they could avoid a similar fate for the MBTs when they arrived.
A mere ten steps beyond the tree line and their APC was out of sight, the jungle enveloping them in a darkness broken only by the intermittent spears of moonlight piercing the canopy above. They trod softly, carefully, for Charlie owns the night. Charlie… or whatever the fuck had ambushed Panther Troop back there.
They stumbled across a well-used trail heading north-west and flanked it from the shadows keeping about 6-feet to the left in case of trip wires or traps of any kind. It was slow going, both men conscious of time passing with every heartbeat. Then, seeing the silhouette of a man on the trail ahead, Fisher stopped and went to ground, Green doing the same as the man crawled along beside him.
“What do you make of that?” whispered Fisher.
“Look at the helmet,” said Green. “Looks like NVA to me.”
“The gook’s just standing there.”
Fisher dug through his webbing for the binoculars, raising them to his eyes as he focused on the silhouette. “It’s a North Vietnamese Reg all right. But he’s not gonna be any trouble.’ He passed the binoculars to Green as he stood.
“Dead?” asked Green as he peered through the glass. Then, in answering his own question. “Oh, yeah. He’s dead.”
They stepped carefully up to the body, the only thing keeping the morbid scarecrow upright being the spear plunged down through his skull and torso into the ground.
“Jesus-H-Christ! What kinda force does it take to do that to a man?” Fisher’s eyes were fixed on the tortured death mask of the NVA officer before him. “This is my second tour here Mr Green, and I ain’t never seen shit like this.”
“The Guardians,” said Green soberly. “It’s got to be the Guardians. Crusaders sent here to—” Fisher placed the palm of his hand across Green’s mouth, guiding him down to their knees just as the approaching sound of heavy footfalls commenced ahead. They backed away from the trail and into the jungle, low and silent, melding with the shadows. Breathlessly they waited and watched, the only living witnesses to the Guardians’ existence.
Marching in two perfect columns along the narrow track, the hunters’ moon broke through the jungle canopy enough to make out details of their sunken skeletal features, the flesh of their faces like dry parchment, their eyes pale, unblinking orbs beneath their helmets and chainmail. The Guardians’ tattered tunics bore multiple stains, although the broad cross of St George was still discernable across their chest plates; their armour rusted and beaten after centuries of battle damage. The absolute precision to their marching was amazing, their heads held high and facing towards the fight; shields held close to their left shoulder; broadswords clasped in their right gauntlet with one intent. To kill.
Fisher waited until the column had passed before keying his radio handset. “1-2-Alpha, this is Sunray.” He waited for a replay from the APC, Green and he just looking at each other in a mix of disbelief and wonder.
“This is 1-2-Alpha, Sunray,” came Fry’s voice. “Sarge, is that you?”
“Alpha, yeah, it’s me. Prepare for company. You have a hundred plus heading your way.”
“One hundred plus what are heading this way?”
“Guardians, Fry,” said Fisher. “Green’s story is true, every fucking word of it, and they’ll be in your location any time now. If they break into the clearing take out the second line with Claymores, and pepper the first line with phosphorus grenades from the turret launchers.”
“Got it, Sarge. Anything else?”
“Do we have an ETA on the tanks yet?”
“Thirty minutes or so, Sarge.”
“Then you and Jenkins fight the good fight from inside that bucket of ours until the MBTs arrive, got it? If you exit that vehicle you won’t stand a chance.”
“Got it, Sarge. Good luck out there.”
“Sunray out,” Fisher said, trying to imagine what might be happening back at the vehicle. Like the single blimp appearing on the ground radar as the Guardians broke cover. As two blimps turn to four, then eight then sixteen while their numbers multiplied before their eyes.
“We need to move,” said Green tapping his watch face.
“Yeah,” said Fisher. “Can’t miss Christ’s birthday and all.”
Passing the speared scarecrow, they made their way towards the cathedral site as the pop-pop-pop sound of claymore mines firing back at the clearing echoed through the undergrowth. The jungle trail progressively became strewn with the bloodied bodies of Vietnamese soldiers, cut to pieces and making the muddy trail blood-red underfoot. A little further on they heard the .50 calibre open fire back at the vehicle; and a little further again, they broke through the jungle to find themselves standing before the Guardian’s fortress.
The building was magnificent, a medieval cathedral façade carved into the towering rock face before them. The centuries were evident, with tendrils of thick vines hanging down from their hosts above the cliff above, inching their way around the twin spires, strangling each gargoyle poised along the parapet. A wide cascade of stairs narrowed at the large arched doorway, many steps occupied by dead NVA soldiers, their blood still running in rivulets.
“It looks unguarded,” whispered Green.
“I find that hard to believe,” said Fisher scanning the open door and parapets above.
“Hard to believe or not, the clock’s ticking, Fisher. We need to get in there. I need samples, proof, something to take back. Something to save this fucking mission.”
“I’d be happy to save our asses right now, but I guess we’re committed.” Fisher took a deep breath. “Follow me, Mr
Green. You cover the door and windows; I’ll cover the positions up top. Let’s go.”
They walked slowly, making their way around the bodies on the staircase until they stood before the open door unchallenged. Stepping inside, they could barely make out the long corridor that led to a chamber carved into the stone ahead, the dim glow from a number of flaming torches their only light. They backed up to a wall each and made their way towards the chamber where they eventually saw what they had come for. A pool of crystal-clear water. Green checked his watch as midnight rolled in, the day of Christ’s birth. For a brief moment he looked concerned – then it happened.
Just as it was written, the spring-fed water began cascading down from a small cavity in the wall behind it.
“Merry Christmas, Sergeant Fisher,” said Green with a smile as he took the sample vials from his map pocket and stepped toward the spring. “The tanks are coming and there’s my fountain… Mission saved,” he said, just as an arrow pierced his throat. He dropped the vials, all smashing on the floor as he clutched at the embedded arrow.
Fisher opened fire with his M16, spraying sporadically, uncertain as from where the arrow had come. Still clutching desperately at his throat, Green eventually fell to the floor as a second arrow entered his back, life ebbing away until his eyes glassed over with his last rattled breath.
Then Fisher saw the lone Guardian, an archer crouching in the passageway, pulling back on his bow once more. Fisher opened up the M16 again, but it was too late. The arrow flew straight and true, piercing Fisher’s shoulder with white-hot pain. He staggered back with the impact as the archer loaded yet another arrow, but not before emptying his last rounds into the creature. The Guardian’s chainmail shattered in places with the bullets’ impact, but with little effect to the ancient warrior. The creature’s way was clear now as Fisher staggered back to the edge of the spring. He watched as the Guardian pulled back on its bow; watched as the arrow sliced the air and entered his chest, forcing him back into the cool water of the spring.
He lay motionless in the shallow water as he felt his life drain slowly from his body, the pain from the arrows numbing with every weakening heartbeat. He thought about New Orleans, about the people he cared for, about his men back at the clearing. But Fisher couldn’t help them now, couldn’t avenge the defeat of Panther Troop.
Or could he?
Then, knowing he had nothing to lose and everything to gain, Fisher opened his mouth and let the water enter his body.
Immediately he felt something surge through his being. More than a life force rushing his body, this was power, never-ending and all-consuming. The pain was gone, and with it, an overwhelming sense of revenge, of finishing the mission he was sent on. He had their sample now. Hell, he was their fucking sample!
Fisher stood, knee deep in the cool spring waters, fists clenched, eyes wide, as the ancient power filled his being. The Fisher of old was no longer. The poor black boy from New Orleans; tending smoky bars; eventually commanding a recon troop here in the Nam; all gone, replaced with a power and knowledge older than the pyramids. And now, there was only the mission left. He stared into the dark voids that were once the lone Guardian’s eyes, sensing it knew the balance of power had just shifted. Fisher tore the two arrows from his body without effort, each wound closing without a scar. He stepped from the spring, the two arrows raised high as he marched towards the archer with brutal intent.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said to the creature, knowing that he would tear its parchment body apart with nothing but the arrowheads and his bare hands. “You’ve grown weak, soldier.”
* * *
“In war, the victor writes the history”
Author unknown, American Civil War
EPILOGUE
Captain Mulgrave’s tank was the first to break ground through to the clearing ahead of his troop. The M48 main battle tank powered across the creek line and halted ahead of the carnage before it, tracks ploughing into the soft earth, turret traversing left and right as Mulgrave scanned the area. Each MBT fell into position beside their troop leader, Cadillac Gage engines growling like the hunter killers they were, ready to strike. But at what?
Mulgrave’s heart still pounded in his chest as he stared through the gun sight at Panther Troop’s armoured personnel carriers scattered motionless across the clearing, the multitude of bodies strewn everywhere. His last radio contact with the remaining APC was thirty minutes ago, and as he listened to the ensuing battle it slowly became evident that the lone troopers had little to no chance after defending their vehicle to the last. The MBTs spared nothing to get to the rendezvous point, charging line-ahead like the modern cavalry they were towards the besieged Panther Troop. However, after the turmoil of battle, the last transmission became abruptly calm, as if the crew were suddenly resolved to their fate.
“We’re done for, Captain,” came Trooper Jenkins voice. “That’s the last of the ammo and now they’re all over us… forcing the hatches…” There was a spasm of static before the transmission was cut, but not before a curious final statement. “What the fuck,” said Jenkins. “Out there… Who is that…?” Then nothing but dead air hissing in Mulgrave’s headsets.
The jungle surrounding the clearing was eerily quiet and still when they arrived, as if pausing for breath. Mulgrave continued staring through his gun sight, everything clear beneath the bright hunter’s moon.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself. Reaching up, he unlatched the combat lock of his turret hatch and opened up, standing in the hatch ring, witness to the carnage. The moonlight glistened off the tarnished surface of the mummified soldier’s armour, their bodies torn apart, scattered among the dead of Panther Troop, their weapons and shields broken and discarded.
“Je-sus,” he whispered again, ordering his gunner to switch on the searchlight.
The light beam fell on Sergeant Carl Fisher’s vehicle, the image strangely bizarre and surreal. Clearly exhausted, Jenkins and Fry were slumped atop the stricken APC, their arms raised over their eyes against the tank’s harsh searchlight. But Fisher, an upturned Guardian’s helmet in one hand, clear water lapping the rim from time to time, and a broadsword clasped tightly in his other hand, stared directly into the light without blinking. The mummified bodies of the forgotten crusaders were piled all around the vehicle, pyramiding to where Fisher stood victorious atop his vehicle.
“You’re a little late,” cried Fisher. He raised the helmet full of spring water above his head. “I have our sample,” he said. He then brandished the sword over the killing ground surrounding him before pulling the handle back to his chest in a bizarre salute. “And so much more, Captain,” he added.
As Mulgrave searched for words, each of the other tank commanders surfaced from behind their armour, their bleak expressions mirrors to the battlefield’s bloodshed.
“How?” It was all Mulgrave could utter.
Fisher just smiled. “Eight-hundred years can take a lot out of a soldier,” he said. “They’d grown slow, and in the end, weary.” Fisher raised the sword over his head and roared, the sound echoing through the jungle. It was part challenge; part warning. “WE OWN THE NIGHT!”
Fallen Lion
Jack Hanson
“I only recognized the solitude I lived in when I saw it in another. I only knew what ’to thine own self be true’ meant when I saw it exemplified by this same Old Blood.”
Marshal Ripper, By Fang and Rifle: A Memoir
The Lancer snorted and ran his claws along the composite decking under his feet, his annoyance getting a hold on him for a second. The smell of coppery blood was bothering him, made worse by the humidity in the air that was conditioned to Old Blood and Illurian preferences. Yet to the Triceratops known as Brokehorn, it only made the smell more cloying and aggravating.
If the dhimion leading the briefing had not been someone Brokehorn respected, he might have said something to the Bladejaw standing next to him in regard to the Tyrannosaurus’ hygiene. It would, howev
er, be poor precedent for the human janissaries standing in front of them at parade rest, sweat running down the backs of their necks into their gray battle armor. Brokehorn held his tongue.
The commander of the strike force told the troops about the planetary insertion to stop the Peace Federation raiders and rescue what civilians they could on the human colony of Libra III. The high-arching ceiling of the bay allowed a battalion-sized element to stand easily in formation, along with the addition of the two Old Bloods attached to their unit. The light in the cavernous chamber barely reach beyond the area around the haptic projection screen.
Brokehorn was somewhat troubled by the increasing frequency of these missions in the last two years. At one point, it had seemed to the veteran Lancer that this war was in its last stages, but perhaps the Naith-led coalition had pulled the other hand out from behind its back and really begun to fight. The addition of the Leitani and the Khajal, two very dangerous alien races, had certainly put iron into the spine of the Naith, and attacks on the Dominion’s borders had redoubled.
“Do you think?” grumbled the Tyrannosaurus.
“Think about what?” the Triceratops asked, shaking his one-horned head. He had been lost in thought.
“About how we are to be inserted?” replied the Bladejaw.
The Lancer raked his claws along the ground once, his version of a testy shrug. “I am sure Dhimion Cruzah has employed us properly,” he responded.
“As am I, but I was curious what your experience might lead us to believe would be the best approach for assault, as I have never worked with a Lancer before,” admitted the Bladejaw.
“If you had, you would know that we don’t appreciate the smell of blood wafting around us,” replied Brokehorn.
“If I had, I would have the answer to my question in regards to all Lancers being so quick to whine like a hatchling fresh from the egg,” the Bladejaw riposted.
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest Page 13
