SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

“No one opens a hatch until we can confirm who’s who, okay?” Fisher was adamant. He considered their situation for a moment before continuing, “Jenkins, we need power back ASAP. You can access the engine’s battery from the panel over your right shoulder. Reach in and check the terminals. If they’ve come away from the battery then hook us up again. If not, check the fuses.”

“I’m on it, Sarge.”

The footsteps, heavy and purposeful, continued above them.

“Fry,” he said at a whisper. “Now that the rain’s stopped I need you to set up the infrared imaging so I can see what we’re dealing with out there before we decide on our next move.”

“I’m afraid our next move is set in stone, Sergeant Fisher,” said Green in a firm, don’t-fuck-with-me voice. “Our next move is to secure that cathedral ahead of the NVA.”

“Not until we know what we’re dealing with, Mr Green! Not until I know who or what the fuck that is creeping around on my vehicle! Not until I know how many of our men are alive out there! We’re a long way from home, Mr Green, and fountain of fucking youth or no fountain of fucking youth, me and my boys are your only way in or out of this shit fight right now, you got it?”

With a brief flash of sparks from the driver’s compartment and an instinctive, “Shiiit!” from Jenkins, the lights came back up with a flicker. “We’ve got power back, Sarge.”

Fisher took a deep breath, staring Green down in the process. “Let’s just see what we’re up against, shall we, Mr Green.”

Whatever was moving around on the hull had paused a moment before trying the combat latch on Fisher’s turret hatch. Locked from within, it held fast, but somehow even the inch and a half of metal didn’t seem like enough armour between Fisher and whatever lurked outside. He switched from white-light to red and peered out through the narrow port window where something was moving around just left of the gun.

“Everyone at their stations,” he ordered. “I’m gonna fire a few warning rounds. Jenkins, switch to infrared just as soon as I cease fire so I can see what’s going on out there.” He grasped the dual handles of the gun and placed both thumbs firmly on the trigger ready to fire. “Here we go,” he breathed, folding down the infrared screen in front of the forward window before firing.

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.”

PART THREE

“Courage is fear holding on a minute longer”

General George S. Patton

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.