RECON
QUẢNG TR
PROVINCE, VIETNAM—JANUARY 1968
Sergeant Daniel Roland ducked and sprinted to his left, bullets chewing into the mud behind him. He threw himself against the trunk of a wide tree, forcing himself to take slow, deliberate breaths. M16 and AK-47 rifle fire pierced the air around him, punctuated by the occasional bark of the shotgun carried by his team mate, John Coffren.
Cries of pain erupted from somewhere over Roland’s shoulder, and he shifted his position for a better look. Voices to his right indicated where members of his team were reacting to the ambush, seeking whatever meager cover they could find. Two figures scrambled behind a fallen tree to his right, and he saw the barrel of Coffren’s shotgun as the other man angled for another shot. A native of northern Maryland, the young Marine had been a shotgun aficionado his entire life and preferred it to an M16, which was fine with Roland. At close range, the Remington 870 in Coffren’s hands could be devastating, and Charlie was plenty close.
“Roland! You okay?”
The shout from Coffren drew fire from the jungle somewhere to Roland’s right. Pushing his soft-brimmed jungle hat farther back on his head, he aimed his M16 in that direction and emptied the rifle’s magazine, uncertain as to whether his rounds were finding any targets. Feeling the weapon’s bolt lock to the rear, he ducked back behind the tree.
“I’m good!” he shouted, dropping the spent mag and fishing a replacement from the pouch on his equipment harness. He jammed the new magazine home and chambered a round. Shifting his position for a better look, he scanned the bush in search of threats and gave thanks to the hillside at their backs. That would reduce the likelihood of ambushers slipping in behind them, and they’d already cleared the bunker hidden there, so no surprises would be coming from that direction. Still, Roland knew the longer the firefight dragged on, the better the chances of Charlie getting reinforcements.
The repeating metallic snap of an AK-47 on full auto erupted from the undergrowth somewhere very close, and Roland crouched lower as several rounds chewed into the other side of his tree.
“Scotty! How’s about it?”
Rather than say anything, Lance Corporal Scott Pearson pushed himself to a kneeling position behind the fallen tree and fired his M79 at something Roland couldn’t see. The hefty round of buckshot tore through the jungle foliage along with any soft bodies that happened to be in the way.
Now we’re talking.
Hearing yells of alarm in the wake of the shot, Roland aimed his M16 toward the voices, unloading another magazine. Coffren added his shotgun and someone else, either Bill Leisner or the team’s leader, Lieutenant Matthew Byrne, was firing their own rifle.
New cries and what sounded like terrified shrieks burst from the nearby jungle, followed by a wave of intense, sustained weapons fire. Roland hunkered down behind his tree, but after several seconds he realized none of the fire seemed aimed in their direction.
What the hell?
To his right, Coffren and Pearson rose from behind the massive log that was their makeshift shelter, aiming their weapons toward the source of the gunfire. Pearson let loose with another buckshot round from the M79. With practiced ease and confidence, Pearson dropped the spent shell from the grenade launcher, replacing it with another round in quick fashion while Coffren provided covering fire. Then Coffren recoiled, dropping to the ground as something bright and yellow-green tore through the underbrush and slammed into Pearson. There was time for Roland to register that the shot—whatever it was—passed completely through the other man before the grenadier lurched backward. Pearson’s arms flailed as he fell to the ground.
“Scotty!”
Shouting toward his friend, Roland divided his attention between Pearson and Coffren, scanning the tree line, looking for the source of the shot, but saw nothing. Further back in the jungle, he still heard frantic cries and AK-47s firing as though in every direction.
Then, everything went quiet.
No gunfire, no voices, nothing. The abrupt, surreal change was enough to make Roland and Coffren exchange befuddled looks. Shrugging, Roland moved from behind the tree, his M16 leading the way. Coffren mimicked his team mate’s actions while making his way to the fallen Pearson, who lay in an awkward sprawl, his rucksack arching his back. Beyond them, Roland saw Corporal Bill Leisner rise from where he’d been lying prone in a small depression. Damp mud and a few leaves clung to his dirty uniform.
“Where the hell did everybody go?” asked Leisner.
Unable to answer, Roland simply shook his head.
“Pearson’s dead,” reported Coffren, gesturing down to the body of their friend. “Don’t ask me how.”
That was obvious to Roland even from where he stood. The man’s eyes were open in a fixed expression of shock, and the wound in the center of his chest, surrounded by blood and blackened skin and muscle tissue, was at least as big as his fist.
Cradling his M16, Leisner stepped around the other two Marines. “Where’s Byrne?”
For the first time, Roland realized he hadn’t seen or heard Lieutenant Byrne since the beginning of the skirmish.
“Sweep the area. Find him.”
* * *
From his vantage point, camouflaged within the thick canopy of the tree branches high above the ground, Nk’mecci watched the final moments of the fierce skirmish taking place far below him. The two groups, one far outnumbered by the other, had ceased firing their weapons and the larger contingent moved deeper into the jungle, its numbers greatly reduced both as a consequence of the fight as well as his own influence. Heat signatures generated by the bodies of the combatants and picked up by his bio-mask’s visual sensors told Nk’mecci that the smaller cluster of fighters now numbered three. They had survived the clash with their enemy on the ground, though two had fallen to him, along with several others from the larger group.
In truth, he could have taken all of the combatants with little effort, but there was no sport in that. Besides, a simple hunt was not the purpose of his visit. That might come later, provided the current circumstances didn’t change to any significant degree.
He regarded the skull in his hand, still covered with blood and remnants of tissue from his quarry’s body. Cleaning and polishing it prior to adding it to his small yet growing trophy collection would have to wait. Only with great reluctance did he set aside the skull, perching it atop a branch just above his head. As for the others he had taken, Nk’mecci disliked the notion of leaving them for the local animal life to consume. He would return for his trophies before departing this world, if at all possible.
With slow, deliberate movements, Nk’mecci checked the wounds he had sustained while on the ground. Removing his left hand from his side, he saw that the bleeding there was slowing. Despite his cloak, he was unable to avoid being injured by the humans’ projectile weapons. Vital organs appeared to have been missed, but the injuries to his torso and leg still required attention, if for no other reason than to prevent infection. His leg injury would be simple to treat, if painful, but he would need to remove the projectile from his midsection. His movements might be hampered in the short term, though it was nothing he could not endure.
His equipment was another matter. The power cell for his cloak had also been hit, and now the shroud only operated in intermittent fashion. Continuing to use it in its damaged state might draw more attention than if he simply moved without it, so Nk’mecci opted to deactivate it. From this elevation, he could escape detection with greater ease, but attempting to stalk the humans would prove problematic. On the other hand, this new limitation would increase the challenge as he carried out his mission.
It was not Nk’mecci’s first visit to this planet. Many cycles ago as a young, unblooded Yautja, he had accompanied his father and older sibling to hunt. The choice of location was altogether different in both terrain and temperature, and the indigenous weapons and technologies had been somewhat less advanced. As now, though, the humans tracked and killed during that previous hunt were caught up in the grips of their own conflict, albeit on a much larger scale in terms of numbers and the level of wanton violence and destruction. The hunting had been fruitful, with the three Yautja bringing back numerous trophies and other mementos to mark the occasion.
For this excursion, Nk’mecci traveled alone for the first time, as was customary for blooded hunters. Preliminary scouting reports of the escalating conflict on this world had drawn much interest, and many Yautja were clamoring for the chance to revisit such fertile hunting grounds. The opportunity offered by his clan to investigate this region of the planet was one he could not ignore, and to do so on his own would also be viewed as something of a test.
Based on the observations made since his arrival, Nk’mecci concluded that while the invading force was better equipped and possessed armaments and vehicles not shared by its adversary, the combatants who seemed to be guardians of this region were defending it well. There were indications of influence and assistance by yet another contingent, which also wielded better weapons and technology, but their role appeared limited and confined to areas well away from here. Nk’mecci guessed that situation might change, depending on how long this conflict persisted. It would be fascinating to observe, he decided.
For now, the defending force seemed well-suited to the battle it faced. Nk’mecci guessed that a familiarity with the terrain was at the heart of the advantages these warriors enjoyed. While observing their movements, he discovered a network of underground tunnels and passages which seemed to be all but unknown to the invaders. The tactic was noteworthy, in that it allowed the defenders to transport personnel and materiel through the unforgiving jungle almost without detection and at speeds greater than their counterparts. It was not a true equalizer in the grand scheme of things, but it served to make things interesting.
As for the invaders, they appeared reliant on their superior weapons and equipment, almost to a fault. They infiltrated enemy areas of this vast, unrelenting jungle in small numbers, using their primitive airborne conveyances to transport combatants from secure locations to these remote areas. They moved with relative stealth, as though conducting reconnaissance of their own. Perhaps they were gathering information for later use by a larger force with a more conventional goal of securing territory and resources. This made sense from a strategic perspective, but only time would bear out such a theory; time Nk’mecci did not possess.
Below him, the humans from the smaller force were gathering around the remains of their comrades, doubtless attempting to deduce what had happened. It had been a simple matter for Nk’mecci to identify the leader of each group and remove them from the equation, allowing the remaining combatants to process and adjust to the change in status quo so that he could study their reactions. This activity was not a component of his mission parameters, but remained within the acceptable sphere of deviation. Such opportunity could not be forsaken, particularly if it provided valuable insights about the object of a hunt.
What would they do now?
* * *
Staring down at the corpse, it took Roland an extra moment to ensure himself that he was in fact looking at the remains of his patrol leader, Matthew Byrne.
The brass bracelet on the lieutenant’s right wrist—a gift crafted from old shell casings by a Montagnard villager— was a better identifier for Byrne than the man’s own face, which was all but unrecognizable owing to the complete lack of a skull. It, along with the entire spine, appeared to have been cut or pulled out by some measure of force. How was that even possible? Blood was everywhere, dark red and glistening after having drained from Byrne’s body to stain his uniform and equipment. The stench of loosened bowels and bladder was almost overpowering, and Roland forced himself to breathe through his mouth. Reaching for the M16 lying on the ground next to the lieutenant’s right hand, he inspected the weapon.
“He never got off the first shot.” He ejected the full magazine, sticking it in the pocket of his drab green uniform blouse.
“The gooks did this?” asked Corporal Bill Leisner, who along with Roland served as one of the team’s riflemen. Roland heard the uncertainty and fear in the other Marine’s voice.
“Who else?” Even as he asked the question, Roland shook his head. “What I don’t get is how. We were out of each other’s line of sight for, what? A minute?”
Unable to look away from Byrne’s mutilated form, he instead studied the extensive damage inflicted upon the lieutenant’s body. John Coffren had been the one to find him, nearly twenty meters from where Roland was standing when the ambush came, along with the bizarre sequence of events accompanying it which resulted in the deaths of Scotty Pearson and, it seemed, Lieutenant Byrne.
“What I want to know is why they ran,” said Coffren. “You heard them, right? Something spooked the shit out of them.”
Roland nodded. In addition to Byrne’s body, the team had found eight dead Viet Cong soldiers sprawled in the jungle. The positions of their bodies indicated not all of them had died as a result of the recon team’s return fire during the attack. Four were killed some distance from where Leisner determined the ambush was set, and one of those had died in a manner similar to Pearson, with a massive wound punched through the center of his chest.
What the hell does that kind of damage?
“We can’t stay here,” said Coffren. “The pricks we didn’t shoot will be back, and they’ll have friends.”
Glancing past the other Marine, Roland studied the bunker set into the side of the sloping hill. All but invisible in the thick jungle undergrowth, the hideaway was a shelter built from tree branches and other broad-leaf vegetation designed to let the structure blend into its surroundings. So effective was the bunker’s camouflage that the recon team’s point man, Leisner, almost tripped over the damned thing. It was an unexpected find, yielding nothing of use or potential value, although the ambush was enough to prove that Charlie must have known they would be here to investigate.
This was enough to make Roland nervous, especially in light of their mission to find any evidence of a prisoner of war camp somewhere in this stretch of the Quảng Trị Province’s northern boundary. Rumors about such a camp had circulated off and on for months with nothing to back them up, and the issue was set aside as more pressing matters demanded the attention of recon teams. Things only heated up again when it became known that the son of a prominent United States senator was an Air Force pilot shot down somewhere near the demilitarized zone. If a POW camp existed in this area, it would be a logical place to take the pilot, assuming he was even still alive.
Familiar enough with the region, both from studying charts and photos as well as time spent surveying it on the ground and in the air, Roland was confident no camp was here. Regardless, orders were orders, and it had been with a degree of renewed urgency that his team was dispatched to investigate. Unlike typical Force Recon patrols, this outing was planned as a short hop and pop into the area, with a five-man team to keep things light, fast and mobile. Forty-eight hours on the ground after a near-dawn insertion to validate or refute the intel about the POW camp and then out, hopefully without attracting enemy attention.
The plan lasted the better part of thirty-six hours before going to shit, as Byrne and Pearson could testify.
“Remind me to cock-punch those S-2 assholes when we get back,” said Coffren. “They said this place was supposed to be quiet.”
Roland grunted in agreement. The team’s pre-mission intelligence briefing indicated no significant enemy activity or movement in the area, an assertion which had gone up in smoke. Now, the question was to what degree that intel was incorrect.
“If those guys were part of a larger force,” he said, “then we’re in some right deep shit.”
Coffren replied, “Neck deep, and with raging hemorrhoids.” He was busying himself with finding room in his rucksack and pockets for the extra magazines he now held. Both he and Roland along with Leisner had divided the remaining ammunition carried by Byrne and Pearson. Coffren had taken the extra step of burying the dead men’s weapons and other equipment that was of no further use.
“I think we got lucky,” said Roland. “If they really knew we were coming and had time to plan, they’d have set up a larger ambush and cut us to shit.”
The Viet Cong were notorious for their ambush tactics, which involved elaborate setups that took into account everything from weather to terrain, and involved recon and tracking activities which might take hours and even days to bring to fruition as they prepared to attack a targeted force. However, that did not rule out a smaller contingent performing its own recon patrol and simply taking advantage of time and opportunity to carry out its own ambush.
“Maybe we spooked them, but next time? They’ll have our asses. We need to get gone. Now.” Removing his boonie hat, Roland wiped sweat from his face. Even with the relatively cool January temperatures, the jungle was still hot and humid. “Too bad we can’t call for a ride.”
Despite Roland’s misgivings, none of the team even carried a radio in accordance with their orders. Their mission called for such stealth that in the minds of those calling the shots back at HQ, even the risk of monitored communications carried too much risk. Of course, that ruled out calling for helicopter extraction ahead of the prearranged rendezvous time and location. Like the others, Roland had memorized that information rather than marking it on the map he carried in his pocket, in the event he was captured or killed and the map found by enemy soldiers. He knew he could navigate with his map and compass to the landing zone. They just had to get there by the scheduled time. If for some reason they failed to make that rendezvous, there was a backup time and LZ location. After that? They were screwed.
So, let’s start hoofing.
“Guys,” said Leisner, who was standing several yards away. “Check this out.”
Strapping Pearson’s M79 and bandolier of remaining grenades across his back, Roland moved with Coffren to join their companion. Roland was the first to see what had drawn the other Marine’s attention. It was the body of yet another Vietnamese soldier, killed in a manner similar to Pearson and the other Cong. The corpse lay face down, with the muddy ground visible through the hole in its torso.
Coffren frowned. “One of you guys packing a rocket launcher you didn’t tell me about?”
“He may have been the leader,” said Roland, kneeling next to the body and indicating the canvas satchel slung across its left shoulder. After verifying the bag wasn’t booby-trapped, he removed it from the dead soldier and opened it. Papers comprised most of the contents, along with a pair of maps, which he handed to Leisner.
“Holy shit,” said the other Marine after a minute studying the find. “This is a map of the province and the surrounding area. Look what’s marked.” The faster he talked, the more his distinctive Upper Midwest inflections asserted themselves.
Leaning for a closer look, Roland recognized several terrain features as well as Vietnamese and American military bases in proximity to the demilitarized zone. He couldn’t help but note the lines drawn toward U.S.-controlled locations such as Đông Hà, Da Nang, and Quảng Trị City, along with numerous others across South Vietnam.
“What are these figures supposed to be?” asked Coffren.
Leisner shrugged. “I think it’s code.” The group’s designated translator, he could speak and read Vietnamese, including several of the trickier dialects. After a moment, the Marine’s eyes widened. “Damn. I think this might be an attack plan.”
“Where?” asked Roland.
“Everywhere.” Leisner stabbed the map. “This looks like a major offensive.”
Coffren asked, “When?”
“Don’t know. Nothing here indicates a date or time.”
“Could it be for the attacks they just pulled?” The memories of the recent rocket and mortar assault on Quảng Trị Base and other American targets just days earlier, prior to their departure for this mission, were still fresh in Roland’s mind.
Leisner shook his head. “This looks bigger than all of that. A lot bigger.”
“We take it with us.” Roland gestured with his satchel toward the map. “Somebody smarter than us can figure it out when we get back.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got about twelve hours to make it to the LZ. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
* * *
The three humans were walking into a trap.
Lurking high above the jungle floor and using both the now fading darkness and the thick tree canopy for concealment, Nk’mecci watched the genesis of the attack as it evolved. The sensors in his bio-mask showed him the heat signatures of the twelve bodies maneuvering into position, well away from the narrow rail that wound through the undergrowth for some distance toward a larger, wider path used by ground vehicles. In another direction, he observed that the jungle gave way to a large, relatively clear area dominated by high grass. Based on his observation of the smaller group’s progress through the region, Nk’mecci suspected that glade might well be a location designated for retrieval by one of their airborne vehicles.
With fascination, he observed this larger force’s inspection of the area, working as if to anticipate the course being charted by the interlopers before assuming positions within the thick foliage. The group had decided on a straightforward arrangement of the individual combatants, with a portion of them directing their weapons toward the approach vector they expected their adversaries to utilize. The balance of the group was arrayed along what should be a flank, assuming the targets followed their current path through the undergrowth. It was a tactic not that dissimilar from schemes Nk’mecci utilized as a young, unblooded Yautja learning the ways of the hunt on the homeworld under his father’s tutelage. Those schemes were designed to stalk and kill large game animals, though experience taught him they were useful against more intelligent quarry, as well. Such appeared to be the case here.
Nk’mecci shifted his position, adjusting his bio-mask’s visual sensors to increase their magnification. The trio of invaders was now visible, unknowingly making their way toward the site of the coming ambush. He had trailed their progress throughout the previous day until they settled into a defensive position as darkness fell. Only then had he detected the presence of the enemy force. The three now were charting a course running parallel to the established jungle trail which allowed them to utilize the undergrowth for concealment. They were not charting a direct path for the glade, but their only logical reason for being in this area, based on their past behavior, was a rendezvous just after daylight. Though they moved with stealth and alertness, they appeared to have no idea what awaited them. If all went according to plan, the attackers would be able to take their prey with ease.
The ambush would be a slaughter.
* * *
Feeble, predawn sunlight filtered through the trees, providing the only illumination. It was sufficient for Roland to make out the ground ahead of him. Moving in a slow, deliberate fashion, he chose each step with care, stopping each time to listen and search for signs of danger. The telltale sounds of insects and even the odd bird filled the air, but otherwise the only thing he heard was his own breathing, which he fought to keep low and regular.
Almost there.
A nerve-wracking day spent traversing the jungle followed by a defensive watch to get them through the night had brought them to this point. If his read of the map and compass were correct, they were less than an hour from the primary extraction point. Sixty minutes and he and the others would be on the chopper, heading back to base.
It would feel like an eternity.
Unable to sleep, Roland spent the quiet hours trying to order his thoughts. There would be much to report upon their return, particularly about the strange weapons which had killed Byrne and Pearson. Were the Russians supplying some kind of new technology to the Cong? That didn’t explain the dead Vietnamese soldiers, but the thing had come from somewhere. Who was responsible?
The spooks can figure it out.
Two short, low hisses from behind him made him pause in mid-step. The muted warning from John Coffren told him that the other Marine had heard or seen something. With agonizing slowness, Roland placed his foot back to the ground before lowering himself into a crouch. Once there, he shifted just enough to see Coffren. The lance corporal squatted five meters behind him, the barrel of his shotgun resting across his left forearm. Behind him and separated by a similar interval, Bill Leisner had dropped to one knee, his M16 up and ready. Coffren, his gaze focused on Roland, pointed toward his own eyes, then gestured toward the jungle ahead of them.
Enemy spotted.
Turning to look in the indicated direction, Roland scanned the jungle, searching for movement or anything which looked out of place; some shadow or shape that seemed not to belong. Though his eyes and ears told him nothing was there, every muscle and nerve ending signaled danger. Despite his best efforts, Roland felt his breathing quicken in anticipation, and his pulse now pounded in his ears. Staring into the gloom, he felt his right hand tightening around his M16’s pistol grip.
Something’s wrong, damn it!
The crack of a tree limb, perhaps thirty or forty meters away, was like a rifle shot ripping apart the silence around them. Roland jerked his head around to look for the source, catching sight of something moving among the high branches of a tall tree. A dark silhouette scrambled as though trying to keep from falling. Without thinking, Roland lifted his M16 and sighted down its barrel.
He was too late. Someone else fired first.
AK-47 fire from multiple points among the dense undergrowth tore apart the night air. Roland flattened himself on the ground, glancing behind him to see that Coffren and Leisner were following suit. Ahead of them, the gunfire continued, though now it was accompanied by… something else?
“Hear that?”
It was Coffren, his voice low. He pointed his shotgun toward the chaos. “It’s the thing that killed Pearson. I’m sure of it.”
Roland realized his friend was right. Flashes of green light, like tracer fire but larger and slower, were raining down from the trees. Each time one of the pulsing orbs struck they detonated like dynamite, and Roland saw a figure silhouetted by the blast.
“Ambush,” said Leisner, who had crawled closer to his companions. “Jesus, we almost walked right into it.”
Rifle fire concentrated on the tree that was the source of the odd light, and Roland saw the other, larger figure moving with speed and agility among the branches. Who the hell could move like that?
Shouts from somewhere else in the nearby bush, anxious voices yelling in Vietnamese, were accompanied by shots. This time, the rounds were coming in their direction, and Roland and the others flattened themselves on the ground.
“I think they know we’re here,” said Leisner.
Exchanging his rifle for the M79 slung across the top of his rucksack, Roland breached the weapon and exchanged the buckshot round for one of the high-explosive shells from the bandolier he’d taken off Scotty Pearson. Leisner was already firing his M16 into the brush, and Coffren added four shots from his Remington shotgun. Raising his head, Roland caught sight of two enemy soldiers crouching behind a fallen tree.
“Fire in the hole.” He aimed the M79 and pulled the trigger. A second later the grenade struck the tree in front of the enemy soldiers and detonated. Roland saw both men fall back and out of sight. For the first time, he realized that all of the other shooting seemed to have stopped.
“How many?” he asked, dropping to a knee.
Coffren, bracing his left shoulder against a thick tree, fed new shells into his shotgun. “Ten or twelve at the start. No idea, now.”
“Over there!” shouted Leisner, elevating his M16’s muzzle as though sighting on a target well above the ground.
Roland tracked the other man’s aim in time to see the dark figure scrambling among the high branches. The thing was huge, far larger than a man, and crossing gaps between trees that were too far for any normal person to negotiate. Its size and agility were matched only by its speed, which was almost too fast to follow.
Coffren unloaded his shotgun while Leisner emptied another magazine from his M16. None of the rounds seemed to find their mark, as the shadowy figure lunged from branch to branch. Reloading the M79 with the buckshot round, Roland shifted his aim just as the thing stopped less than ten meters away, and he saw something on its left shoulder pivoting as though aiming in their direction.
“Look out!”
The warning came too late as a blob of green energy spat forth from the odd device, striking Leisner and driving him backward. Roland saw the bolt drill through the corporal’s chest and chew into the damp, muddy ground behind him. Already dead, Leisner fell in a limp heap, his jungle hat falling from his head and revealing his open, unseeing eyes.
“No!”
Roland aimed the M79. Before he fired, he had time to note the figure’s bizarre appearance—a helmet that covered its face and clothing that looked more like mesh covering a massive, muscled body. A belt and harness carried numerous items, none of which Roland recognized.
What the hell is it?
He pulled the trigger and the thing started to move but the grenade was faster. The expanding cloud of buckshot hit it full in the chest, knocking it from its perch and sending it crashing toward the ground.
Out of buckshot, Roland loaded the launcher with one of his remaining high-explosive rounds. He aimed the weapon where the thing had fallen. Was it still alive? Where had it come from? He started to advance, but stopped when he felt Coffren’s hand on his shoulder.
“Listen!” his friend hissed, and pointed toward the sky. “Choppers.”
* * *
The pain was severe, yet manageable.
Nk’mecci rolled onto his side, every movement a small agony as he took stock of his condition. The swarm of projectiles had inflicted several wounds across his torso and extremities. His bio-mask remained functional, allowing him to see the two remaining humans plunging deeper into the jungle. Judging by their movements, they were discarding stealth in exchange for speed while seeking escape. In the distance, Nk’mecci heard the familiar sound of human air vehicles, drawing closer with each passing moment.
He cursed his carelessness. Spotted by one of the soldiers lying in wait to ambush their adversaries, he was left with no choice but to neutralize the humans. What he had failed to anticipate was a tree branch that was insufficient to support his weight. Its breaking had drawn the attention of the entire party, and without his cloaking shroud, Nk’mecci was forced to protect himself. He had taken most of the ambush force, with the others killed by their adversaries. That his kills were born of necessity rather than sport was disappointing.
There were the three last remaining humans, but his chance to take them was fading.
They, at least, might provide one last challenge, but was he up to the task? A drug from his medi-kit provided a powerful stimulant and helped keep his pain at bay, but healing his wounds required the resources aboard his ship. Returning there would likely mean giving up this final chance to take trophies.
For a blooded hunter of any worth, there was only one choice.
* * *
Pulling the incendiary grenade’s pin, Roland threw it toward the center of the glade. The grenade disappeared into the tall elephant grass and began spewing yellow smoke, the color designated as the signal for their extraction. Within seconds the cloud of smoke expanded and rose toward the sky.
“Here they come,” said Coffren from where he crouched next to Roland in the tree line south of the clearing.
Roland felt the first rush of relief begin to wash over him as he watched the first Bell UH-1 helicopter appear over the nearby trees and make a circuit of the area, flying low and fast. Its side door was open and a gunner sat behind an M60 machine gun, aiming the weapon toward the ground as he searched for threats. If anything looked as though it might present a danger to the choppers, Roland knew the gunner would unleash the M60’s fury upon the jungle below them.
“Get ready.”
Wearing the M79 slung across his chest while he gripped his M16, Roland divided his attention between the trees behind them and the second Huey as it maneuvered into view. Unlike his companion, who had assumed an orbit above the landing zone to provide security, this chopper was making a rapid descent toward the clearing. Roland waited until the Huey was less than twenty feet above the ground to slap Coffren’s back.
“Go!”
Both men sprinted from the tree line and into the open. Roland counted the seconds as the chopper dropped to hover mere feet above the ground. The action of its rotor blades flattened the grass, providing a clear approach for the two Marines as they closed the distance. All other sounds were drowned out by the Huey’s engine, which the pilot was already revving in anticipation of takeoff.
Then Roland saw the bolt of green energy punch through Coffren, never hearing the bark of the strange weapon that killed him.
“John!”
Coffren, already dead, was falling to the ground as the Huey’s gunner swung the barrel of his M60 to return fire, and Roland had to drop as a hellish torrent of bullets spat from the weapon toward something he couldn’t see. Rolling away from Coffren’s body, Roland twisted around and came up on one knee, aiming his M16 back toward the tree line, just as another green fireball streaked across the clearing. The shot was off, but still close enough to graze Roland’s left shoulder. Molten heat exploded at the point of impact as he spun and dropped to the grass. The M16 fell from his hand and he landed hard on the grenade launcher that was still slung across his chest, gasping as he felt what had to be a rib crack.
He looked to the edge of the clearing in time to see the mysterious figure—the thing—emerging from the undergrowth forty or so meters away. Even from this distance, Roland saw yellowish-green fluid draining from multiple wounds in its chest and arms. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t human. It was like a nightmare come to life.
The odd weapon mounted to the thing’s shoulder swiveled to aim toward the sky. There was no time or chance for Roland to offer any warning before the weapon fired a stream of hellish green energy skyward. Three of the shots struck the chopper, including one that hit its engine compartment, and the Huey exploded in mid-air, ripping itself apart as it lost all flight and plummeted in a flaming heap to the ground. It disappeared into the trees north of the LZ where a second detonation released a roiling cloud of fire and smoke.
Behind him, Roland could just hear the remaining Huey’s gunner, shouting above the roar of the engine.
“Come on, man! We’ve got to go!”
Without air cover, the chopper was in greater danger of attack by ambush from the trees. Its pilot would want to get the hell out of here, and Roland knew if he didn’t move, he risked being abandoned.
Then the creature charged.
Not as fast as Roland had seen it move earlier, the thing was still able to dodge the Huey gunner’s renewed string of M60 fire. It released a guttural roar that Roland heard even over the chopper’s engine, weaving and dodging the machine gun’s bullets with uncanny speed.
Roland ignored the gunner’s shouts to get aboard, along with the pain from his shoulder and his injured rib. Every breath was like someone stabbing him in the side. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the M79. Without thinking or even really aiming, he pointed the grenade launcher at the creature and fired.
The round landed short, perhaps three meters in front of the thing, but when it detonated, the blast was enough to knock the creature off its feet. Muscled arms and legs flailed as the thing dropped to the ground, hidden by the elephant grass. The Huey gunner raked that area with the M60 as Roland turned and ran for the chopper’s open door.
He stopped short as the other man was thrown backward by another of the green bolts, his body sailing through the open door on the helicopter’s far side. In the cockpit, the pilot’s expression turned to one of horror before the entire side of the canopy disappeared in a burst of fire and glass that was whirled about by the action of the Huey’s rotor blades, and Roland fell to the grass to avoid being struck by shrapnel. A third round from the bizarre weapon ripped through the chopper’s cockpit, killing its co-pilot while Roland could do nothing but watch.
A shadow fell across the grass in front of him, and Roland rolled over to see the creature standing above him. The thing was massive, its hands terminating with oversized claws which were not at all human. Its left arm hung limply at its side, and the same pale yellow-green fluid ran from dozens of wounds across its body. Even the strange helmet it wore to shield its face was marred, likely peppered with shrapnel from the grenade. Its breathing sounded as though it might be labored, and while it looked capable of killing him with little effort, Roland sensed no real malice from the creature. It was studying him, as though he were nothing more than a lab specimen, or even an insect.
“What the hell are you?”
* * *
Nk’mecci was dying.
His wounds from the explosive, coupled with the injuries already sustained, would prove fatal if left untreated. That much he had learned from his ship’s automated medical equipment. Honor precluded him from using those same facilities to heal his failing body. While he had successfully completed his mission—the records of which would be returned to the homeworld with or without his being alive to accompany them—he had failed to carry out the hunt. One might argue that the exercise was unsanctioned, and therefore not subject to the rules and codes observed by all blooded Yautja. Nk’mecci chose not to exploit such a faithless interpretation of the rituals which had defined his people for uncounted generations.
He had failed. Therefore, his life was forfeit.
Sitting at the controls of his ship, Nk’mecci studied the flow of information being relayed to him through the vessel’s network of scanners and recording devices. From orbit high above the lush blue-green world, he was able to watch the land battle currently underway in the section of continent he had left behind. If the data from the scans was accurate, the invading or occupying force with its superior weapons and equipment was currently enduring simultaneous armed incursions at numerous locations across the region. The attacking force, which seemed to call this land home, had launched a massive, multi-pronged offensive. It was a bold strategy, its scope rivaled only by its audacity and synchronicity. Nk’mecci suspected the targets of this attack would retaliate, bringing to bear all of their supposedly greater weapons and technology. The question was whether their spirit would be broken by this assault, or fueled by a need for vengeance. Regardless, it would be something to behold, though he would not live to see it. He cared not at all about which side might be the victor. It was the thrill of the conflict which drove him, as it did all true hunters.
All that remained for him was to verify that his ship would follow its programmed course home, and that the report of his mission was safeguarded until it could be studied. He was confident his findings would be greeted with much enthusiasm by those eager to partake of a new challenge here on this world which already had afforded so much in that regard.
This much was embodied by the skull sitting before him on the console. Despite his injuries, Nk’mecci had taken the time to ensure it was cleaned and polished, ready for display along with the rest of his collection. His prey deserved such respect, for this was a proper trophy, taken from the remaining human who had proven a worthy adversary. If Nk’mecci harbored any regrets, it was that he would never again partake of such rewarding contests. This prize, along with his report, would provide his clan with all the assurance and encouragement they needed to return to this world and relish in the sport it continued to offer.
Hunting here remains fruitful.