Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  “Front sentry returning,” Taylor radios.

  Withdrawing my knife, I grab the corpse under the arms and quickly drag him into the darkness against the wall, Freeman dragging his body in my trail. It will take a bit before the patrol’s absence will be noted, but it won’t be forever. Moving quickly but quietly under the ledge, Freeman and I make our way to the corner and along the back wall.

  Above our heads comes the faint shuffle of boots against the hard clay, causing us to slow our movements to minimize noise. Turning at the corner, we move to the opposite wall.

  “In place,” I whisper over the radio.

  From here, it’s hit fast and hard. Baker moves along his wall to the limit of his patrol parameter while Taylor and Mitchell get as near their targets on the walls as they are able without appearing suspicious. Inside, once the patrol was out of the equation, Burkhart climbed out of the window and moved along the opposite side wall toward the front. Everyone calls ready.

  “Three…Two…One…Go,” I radio as Freeman and I step out from under the ledge.

  Muted coughs of gunfire echo across the compound as the remaining sentries posted on the walls are engaged. I quickly find one guard nearly above me and send a burst into the silhouetted figure, hearing the solid thumps of my rounds finding their target. The man stumbles back and to the side. Turning, he then goes to his knees and falls forward, the upper portion of his body hanging over the ledge. With his center of gravity over the edge, he slowly slides, gaining momentum until he falls off and impacts the grass with a heavy thud.

  I rush over and place a round in the guard’s head just to make sure. All around, bodies drop to the ledge or to the ground below. Mitchell takes the remaining one on the back wall, while Taylor and Baker eliminate the ones out front. Freeman takes down his along the same side wall as mine. Burkhart keeps his sights on the bunker entrances next to the gate. Delayed, two men run out and are met with a torrent of fire from Baker, Taylor, and Burkhart. In a matter of seconds, the exterior has been cleared without an alarm raised. We’re now clear to search the building and grounds.

  After ensuring all of the guards have expired, Mitchell and Baker remain on the wall to keep up appearances for anyone who happens to approach. The rest of us head inside for a more detailed search.

  The release lever on the bookcase under the staircase isn’t that difficult to find, knowing it for what it is. The bookcase slides out, the back sealed with weather stripping to block any of the light streaming from the hidden room; inside, as shown on the security monitor, are the stacks of four pallets loaded with bagged powder. Leaving the pallets alone, we search for other hidden entrances or trap doors. There’s nothing to be found in the manor or anywhere on the grounds. We’ve only taken out one of the cartel’s stash houses. There’s still the lighthouse to check, but I’m reasonably sure the hostages aren’t in this location.

  “Raven zero one, Badger six,” I call, pulling the handset from Freeman’s radio at his back.

  “Badger six, Raven zero one, go.”

  “Zero canaries at Alpha. Plenty of white stored in a safe room, though. Advise.”

  “Copy zero canaries, standby.”

  A minute passes.

  “Badger six, can the white be moved?”

  “Not by us,” I reply.

  “Very well, Eagle advises to leave it in place, seal the safe room, and continue as planned,” Raven zero one radios.

  “Copy that. Anticipate exfilling in one hour, Badger six out.”

  “Copy exfil in one hour. Raven zero one out.”

  For the next hour, we drag the bodies into the courtyard, putting a few more rounds into their dead bodies to make it looks like they succumbed to numerous bullets instead of single shots. Dragging the bodies out to put on display will hide some of the evidence of what really occurred. After lining the bodies on the paved entry road near the manor’s front entrance, we take their weapons and fire inside the house and across the grounds to further add to the appearance that a firefight took place. Taking some of their weapons, we fire into the perimeter wall near the gate, into the front of the manor, and along the hallways, adding ours to the mix as well. Even though our rounds are subsonic, the casings we are using won’t betray that fact, nor will the markings indicate anything that could point specifically to us.

  As we set up the scene, I’m not sure why a chill keeps creeping up my spine. After all, the danger here is over. Several times, I find myself rising to gaze toward the interior mountains. It’s not like I feel that I’m being watched or anything specific, more of a general uneasiness. It could be that I’m thinking of the other team and how they’re the ones entering the location with the hostages. However, that thought doesn’t feel right. I shake it off and return to finishing up here.

  We blow the gates and front door with grenades and toss one into each of the sleeping quarters. The devastation will hide any trace of our covert activity. Our next to last stop is in the security room, where we run a magnet across all of the tapes and then toss a grenade in. Having finished setting up the scene, I withdraw a piece of cardboard previously written on and place it on the pile of bodies, stabbing it into place with a knife found on one of the guards. The sign indicates a competing cartel taking credit for the assault, one we know is currently at war with this one. However, since I only know a few Spanish phrases, such as how to ask for a smoke, the sign could have been an invitation to a wedding for all I know.

  We then exit the way we came. Standing atop the ledge, I get that uneasy feeling again as I stare at the unseen mountains in the distance. It’s like there’s some black hole in that direction and it’s giving me some anxiety. I’ve learned in the past to trust instincts, but this feels different. With a shrug, but with the thoughts still circling, I climb over the wall, remove the duct tape, and secure the razor wire back into place.

  The lighthouse is also a no-go, having been abandoned and turned into a remote tourist location. Back on the beach, we alert the USS Dallas and don our swimming gear, entering the low surf from which we emerged hours ago. I’m a little disappointed, not only because we didn’t find the hostages, but because, if we had found them, we would have been choppered out with them. Instead, I’m left with a long swim with the promise of kitchen food instead of a big steak. Oh well, at least I’ll be heading home soon.

  Chapter Two

  The red light illuminates—ten minutes.

  The drone of the engines changes pitch as we begin to slow down, the deck angle of the cargo compartment rising just a touch. The crew chief dons his portable oxygen and begins running through his checklist procedure. Reaching down, I turn on my portable player, which launches into Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town.” This is a little habit of mine I picked up some time ago to infuse a little confidence. And, if truth be told, a little badassness.

  My ears pop as the pressure inside the aircraft lowers. Once it’s stabilized at our current cruising altitude, the crew chief initiates the ramp. The top half of the ramp folds upward as the lower ramp opens to the tune of high-pitched hydraulics. The song finishes playing, with Baker giving a thumbs up. I turn off the player and stow it. Shortly afterward, the crew chief holds up two fingers. I disconnect the oxygen from the aircraft supply and attach it to my personal one. Rising, I step to the edge of the ramp with the others.

  The roar of the engines and rush of the slipstream encompasses nearly everything as I stare out of the aircraft through the opened ramp. The upper half of the sun is on the horizon, the western heavens bathed in deep oranges and reds. Scattered clouds below slowly move into view from the edge of the ramp, their borders lined with crimson flames. Further below, the rough terrain of steep ridges, ravines, and valleys is hidden in shadow, only the rocky peaks flushed in the dying light of the day.

  Shortly after our arrival back in the USS Dallas, word was received that the other team had missed three of their position reports. The surrounding terrain could account for weak signals, but to
miss three was an alert. As time went on, still nothing was heard.

  After a short rest, we were pulled off the sub and flown to rearm and be briefed on the details of Bravo target. No one knows what could have occurred. If they had been taken captive or eliminated, there would have been a parade of videos and announcements to elevate the cartel’s status.

  The primary mission of finding the hostages is still on the table and our number one priority, but we’re also tasked with conducting a search to find out what happened to the other team. The target is a small village hidden deep in a valley amid mountainous terrain. We look after our own, and resources will be turned to finding their location or learning what happened to them, but our main job is to see to those who were taken and likely being used as a bargaining chip.

  We’re going to be inserted in a different location from the other team. They infiltrated with the assistance of others and a possible leak is suspected, but the lack of anyone taking credit is a little disconcerting. They didn’t get lost or take a side trip to explore the local fauna. They were far too experienced for that.

  Rechecking my gear and Baker’s, we prepare ourselves in the chilled interior of the C-130 that had been quickly flown down from southern California into our remote desert rendezvous. The crew chief holds up one finger. The six of us are gathered near the ramp, mentally going through checklists for the hundredth time.

  The other team was inserted to the southwest of the small town, so we’re attempting another angle and dropping in from the north. There’s a significant chance that the cartel members in the area are alert, thus the reason for a High Altitude Low Opening jump.

  There’s always that nervous feeling just prior to a jump. There’re so many variables aside from the worry that we could be met on the ground when we’re the most vulnerable. However, those thoughts are pushed into the background as we all stare at the light like impatient motorists waiting at a stoplight.

  At thirty seconds, I shuffle to the edge of the ramp, the cold of the high altitude penetrating through my layers. The red light flickers off and the green illuminates. It’s go time. I leap out into the dusk. The first bite is bitter cold, and the roar of the engines quickly fades away as the 130 and I separate at over two miles a minute. The fluttering roar of the wind takes its place and buffets my gear. Plunging through the dusk, I check my GPS and turn slightly to angle toward our drop zone.

  The wind whips a little stronger as I reach terminal velocity, a speed close to what the 130 was flying when we departed its confines. The fiery glow of the setting sun is in my peripheral, a red glow across my vision that lights the edges of the clouds I’m quickly approaching. The orange glow transforms instantly into a blanket of gray that blocks everything. Small water droplets stream from my mask. Before I really register being in the gray void, I plunge through the floor of the cloud with a small wisp of vapor extending downward, following my body.

  I check my altimeter and drop zone and note that I’m a little off target, but not so much that I won’t be able to correct the minor deviation. As I descend, the light from the setting sun departs, the light becoming gloomy and then dark like a time-elapsed passing of day into night. The air warms as I descend to the lower elevations. To the south are the glimmering lights of our target town, a couple of them moving; either lights from vehicles or brilliant flashlights. I’ll worry about that later; I’m quickly coming up on deployment.

  At one thousand feet, I drop my goggles into place. There’s not a lot of detail to the darkened terrain below, but I’m able to pick out enough at this altitude to visually guide in on the semi-open area we chose as a drop zone. However, as I rocket toward the ground at a crisp one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, the details quickly become clearer. I only have time to make a slight adjustment before it’s time to deploy.

  Spreading as much as possible to slow my descent, I deploy the chute. Behind, I hear the fluttering of material as it is thrown into my slipstream. The G-force is abrupt as I’m jerked into an upright position. At this height, I only have a few seconds until I become a creature of the ground once again. Checking that the chute is fully deployed, and assured that I’ll hit the small field, I release my gear bag attached to a tether. The roar of wind past my head becomes a hushed quiet, the only sound the faint ruffle from the chute over my head.

  The bushes become starkly clear as I maneuver and drop toward them. The patches of visible ground indicate that the shrubs are only a few feet tall and not over my head, which will cause me to flare high and find an unexpected drop. I’ve done that before—it’s not the most pleasant experience.

  “I should be touching down. I’m not feeling the ground. Why aren’t I touching the ground? Oh shit, where is it? OH! There it is…aaand, that’s going to leave a mark.”

  I feel the drag of the gear bag’s tether as it hits. Shortly after, I pull on the risers to flare and set foot on the ground with the whisper of branches scraping across my clothing. As I come to a stop, I release the harness and hear the chute flutter to earth. Nearby, I hear the sound of the others arriving. Releasing my weapon and gear bag, I drop and scan the surrounding terrain over the top of a bush. The others form a perimeter and we wait to see if we’ve drawn any company. Without a strong wind, our chutes won’t flutter or fly away.

  Under a nighttime sky with distant stars twinkling through gaps in the clouds, we wait in place for fifteen minutes. There’s no noise but the breath of wind gently stirring the tops of the bushes. The chutes and tethers are collected to be buried as best we can in the clay soil. There doesn’t seem to be any foot traffic through this field, but that kind of thinking is exactly what leads to a parade tromping through the bushes. Gathering our gear and shouldering our packs, we set off toward the hills rising above the valley to establish a vantage point above the village a couple of miles away.

  As we work our way through the bushes, whispering across the landscape, the terrain begins to rise. The bushes become denser before turning into a chaotic mass of trees. Aboveground roots flow away from the bases of the trees, arcing before vanishing into the red clay soil. We move slowly. We have all night to get into position on the overlooking ridge east of the village.

  Several times along the way, the trees abruptly give way to open areas filled with bushes, and we have to alter our course to work around them. Counterintuitively, the openings are treated as obstacles. Luckily, none of the fields appear to be recently tilled or logged, which would give evidence that some villagers live in the hills. We had the opportunity to review satellite footage, but it was hastily gathered. Because the other team had planned an alternate approach, there wasn’t a lot of intel on this stretch of ground.

  Through the night, we march ever upward and toward our point, frequently checking the GPS to keep us heading in the right direction. Our position reports go through without interference, which pretty much dismisses the hope that the other team had merely run into an area that blocked communication. That means they’ve run afoul of something, and the lack of credit could mean that they’ve been quietly taken for interrogation. If that’s the case, it hopefully places both of our mission objectives in the same place. If they’ve been moved to a different location, then they’ll be much more difficult to find.

  Nearing the town and to the east of it, we come across a well-used dirt road that leads out of the village and winds up the slopes to an unknown destination. The dense foliage from the trees along the edge folds over the top of the route, thus concealing it from any overhead view. I mark the location on my map and make a mental note of the possibility of finding company near our overwatch position.

  Backing away, we work our way to a corner where Baker and Mitchell set up alongside the rutted road, each watching opposite directions. Corners are the best locations to cross roads in hostile areas because the line of sight is diminished. The ideal spot is where a road curves along higher terrain, as opposed to away from it. Once they’re in position and the road is clear, Taylor and I m
ove across, keeping to the hard pack to not leave impressions, and enter the tree line on the opposite side. From there, we push onward and set up along our line of travel. Freeman and Burkhart follow, setting up on the far side, similar to Baker and Mitchell, who then cross and push past the two. In this manner, we fall into our original marching order.

  After a few hours, we arrive at a position that gives us a fairly decent view over the village while remaining out of sight. A narrow clearing of bushes leads to a sharp drop off, the bare clay showing as the result of a slide. Trees encroach on the opening, giving us shelter, and they’re tall enough that we won’t be silhouetted by the sky. In the dark valley below, a couple of lights flicker from windows. Every so often, the beam of a flashlight can be seen as someone moves down one of the very few streets.

  We pull back into the trees and set up. We won’t be conducting any observations this evening—we need rest. The past few days have been exhausting. As I lay back, with Baker taking first watch, I’m a little concerned about the concealed dirt road below our position and what it might mean for our continued security.

  * * * * * *

  With the sun yet to make its appearance in the false dawn, I crawl across the chilled ground, working my way through the thick, tangled stalks of the bushes. I think my fantasy is of retiring in a hammock because it’s a place that’s not on the fucking ground. And my joy of camping, yeah, that’s pretty much a thing of the past as well. To purposely leave the comfort of a soft mattress to go sleep on the cold ground—ludicrous. I love the outdoors and know this feeling is only transitory, but at the moment, I’m good with never having to spend another moment outside.

  With Taylor alongside, I crawl to the edge of the clearing and look out over the village. More lights appear as the sky begins to lighten, the village stirring awake. That’s another thing. If I do get to retire, this morning thing just isn’t going to happen. Behind, the sun rises, beams streaking through gaps in the trees.