Colonial Marines F.O.B “Camp Juno”

  Approx. 65 miles west of Jakara, Indonesia

  August 19th, 2193

  Sweat trickled down his back, plastering his shirt to his skin. This damn heat, you could cut it with a knife. The relentless jungle sun was already oppressive, and it wasn’t even midday. The humidity was even worse. It was cloying, inescapable. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he bent to pick up the next crate of munitions. He would have been done already if he had used the loader, but McCaffery wanted it done by hand. The Colonial Marines long range reconnaissance teams were the elite, they didn’t rely on conveniences or technology, or so McCaffery insisted. So here he was, in sweltering jungle heat and humidity that defied all laws of nature, very “elitely” moving crates from truck to pallet by hand.

  “Ten-hut!” barked a voice from over his shoulder, and Private Sanchez almost dropped the crate on his toes as he snapped to attention. A rush of sweat that was nothing to do with the heat joined the rest as he stood frozen in place until the unseen figure casually strolled into his field of view.

  “Pendejo” he swore as he half-heartedly shoved his friend. “You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack.”

  “Is that insubordination, Private?” said Danny, sporting a stupid grin. “We can add striking a superior officer to the list of charges. You’re looking at a full court martial.”

  Only a few months older, Danny Alvarez had grown up in a town only fifty or so miles from Sanchez, and had gone through Basic at the same boot camp. The two had become instant friends. They had both been overjoyed when their orders came down and they found out they were both being assigned to the same LRS team. Danny had been promoted to lance corporal a week ago, making him officially the second-lowest-ranked member of the unit. Right above Sanchez. A fact which he had taken every available opportunity to tease him about. He was happy to see his friend get promoted, but he would be lying if he said he was not just a little bit jealous.

  “You can court martial me after I get these crates stowed for aerial transport, otherwise McCaffery will have my ass, and yours, so give me a hand” he said as he grabbed one end.

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate work for an NCO” said Danny, feigning indignation.

  “Just help me, asshole.”

  Danny laughed as he relented and, grabbing an end, helped Sanchez load the crate. With the two of them, things went more quickly. Within thirty minutes the last pallet was fully loaded and Sanchez waved to the rig master to signal that he was done.

  “Gracias a Dios that’s done,” said Sanchez, catching his breath. The sun had risen in the cloudless sky and it was now almost high noon. Its rays weighing on him like a backpack made of hot lead.

  “Yeah, and you know what that means? It’s Miller time.”

  Sanchez snorted. “You wish. Underage drinking on base? Sarge would have us strung up by the cojones. Nah, we’d better check in see what else he wants us doing.”

  Danny smiled a mischievous grin. “The captain didn’t, specifically, order you to check in with him once you finished loading the pallets, did he?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Then let’s go. Come on, mijo, I’m sweating my balls off out here. Let’s go get a drink. You can get a lemonade. I’ll get you a little umbrella for it and everything.”

  “Attention, Vulture Six,” the harsh voice of Captain McCaffery boomed over the PA. “Report to Briefing Room 7. Ten minutes.”

  The two boys exchanged a nervous glance.

  “I guess that drink will need to wait” said Sanchez as they headed for the briefing.

  *

  The boys entered the small briefing room as Captain McCaffery stood next to an old-fashioned projector. His blank, serious expression and cold grey eyes gave nothing away. The only noise coming from the whirr of the small metal ceiling fan in the corner that meekly tried to combat the sweltering heat. It was not quite so oppressive indoors, but even in here everyone’s brows were thick with sweat. Despite still being a few minutes early, they were the last to arrive, and the only available seats were in the front row. It was closer than they would have liked, and they sheepishly filed in, careful to avoid eye contact with McCaffery.

  “Gentlemen, glad you could join us,” he said sarcastically. As usual, Sanchez noted the captain’s accent. Or rather, his lack of one. He had an ear for languages and accents, and beyond generic “American”, the captain had no trace of a regional inflection in his voice. A lifetime in the Colonial Marines would do that. But it also gave the captain a certain lack of affect that made his skin crawl.

  “Orders came down from Command. Intel has confirmed the location of one Doctor Vasili Toptunov,” he pressed a clicker and the projector screen lit up with the image of a middle-aged man in glasses. The captain was nothing if not consistent, thought Sanchez. “The good doctor doesn’t know it yet, but he has decided he is going to work for us. We have it on good information that the doctor is operating in a small forward operating base here.” The screen went black, then lit up with an aerial view of green jungle canopy, with a tiny light brown square cut out of it.

  “This was taken above Thailand, so it is deep inside UPP territory. All intel shows that this base is tiny, only about a hundred metres on each side. It’s lightly guarded and is manned by a skeleton crew, meaning we have a golden opportunity. This is a snatch and bag, gentlemen, simple as that. A one-day operation. We go in, sit the doc down and have a friendly chat with him about why he should work for the USCM, and get out. We are wheels up at nineteen-hundred hours. I want full weapons strip and equipment check completed by seventeen-hundred.”

  “What if the doc doesn’t want to come with us?” whispered Danny. Sanchez responded by elbowing him in the ribs.

  “Then convince him, Corporal,” snapped the captain, and Danny turned pale. “Any other stupid questions?”

  “Sir,” Sanchez began, immediately regretting it as he realised what he had just owned up to, but it was too late, “what is the doctor’s field of expertise?”

  “That’s classified “need to know”, Private, and you don’t need to know.” That had been a more civil response than he had been expecting.

  “Sir, what’s our infil-exfil strategy?” asked Sarge.

  “We’re going in low and quiet. We’ll be taking one of the new hypersonic stealth skiffs. The flyboys will drop us off about ten clicks south of the base. Tree cover means we cannot properly recon their surface-to-air capability, so that’s a close as we can risk getting. We proceed on foot, and should reach the base by morning. Our exfil is here,” he gestured with his finger. “The river another nine clicks east. The river bank is the only place clear enough that the dropship can come in low enough for a hot pickup. We need to be there by sundown.”

  Straightforward enough, Sanchez thought to himself. It might even be fun.

  “Sir,” this was Spook, “rules of engagement?”

  “Everyone of military age who is not us is to be considered hostile. We need the doctor alive. All other base personnel are expendable,” said the captain matter-of-factly.

  “Jesus, let’s hope we don’t run into some rice farmer out walking his goat,” whispered Danny, prompting another elbow in the ribs.

  “I repeat, everyone not us is expendable,” growled McCaffery. “The UPP boys don’t always wear uniforms, and they recruit young. Someone sees us, we take them out. No exceptions. We were never there. Do I make myself clear?” the ice in the captain’s voice made Sanchez’s blood run cold. A weak “yessir” was all Danny could manage.

  Sanchez remained quiet. He had never even fired a weapon outside of a training environment. Although he had known one day he might have to point it at a person, he had never given it much thought until now. The notion that he might have to point it at an unarmed civilian…

  “If there’s no further questions, dismissed. You all know the routine, so get to work. Sergeant Foster, I want everyone on the line at eighteen-thirty hours.”

  Everyone left without another word.

  *

  The air buzzed with unspoken anticipation. With the eight of them crammed into the tight confines of the skiff’s personnel bay, it wasn’t exactly comfortable. Especially not in full recon gear, but he didn’t care. Besides, it was a short flight. McCaffery hadn’t been lying about the new hypersonics. The skiff had made the three-thousand-kilometre trip in under two hours. He looked around at everyone’s faces, all older than his, except for Danny’s, and while everyone seemed nonchalant as they checked their weapon again or fidgeted with a cigarette, he could feel the tension. A few wore masks, preferring that to the camo paint he had used to cover his face, but he still knew everyone by name, rank and callsign, and trusted them completely. He would be fine. He had their back, and they had his.

  Everyone was seated except Captain McCaffery, who paced up and down while an old-style stereo blared some twentieth century rock music Sanchez had never heard of. Although he had to admit, it was having the desired effect. Maybe he would look it up when they got back.

  “Man, I’m dying for a piss,” complained Danny.

  “You should have thought of that before we left. Go on ask the cap if he’ll lower the loading ramp for you,” egged Sanchez with a grin, fairly confident that McCaffery couldn’t hear them over the music and the engines as long as he kept his voice low.

  “You know what, I’ll hold it,” said Danny.

  “Go on, ask him nicely he might even hold it for you,” pressed Sanchez, his grin widening.

  It was his turn to get an elbow in the ribs, and both laughed, but immediately cut it short when the captain turned to walk back down the aisle. He settled back into his seat, nervously rubbing his hands as the levity instantly evaporated.

  “Nervous, rookie?” asked Red, the team medic, who was seated across from him.

  “No, not at all, sir,” he said with unconvincing forced bravado.

  “He’s about to have kittens,” Danny interjected. “Was it an immaculate conception? It’s a good thing you’re here, sir, I wouldn’t know what to do if we went into labour.”

  “Sir, if Corporal Joker here should get his ass bit by a venomous snake, I recommend we leave him.”

  Red smiled. “No one is getting left behind. It’s a first drop for both of you. Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

  Sanchez appreciated that. He didn’t know how Red knew it was his first drop, or Danny’s, but he was not about to turn down the offer of support. Maybe it really was just written all over his face.

  “Ten minutes to drop point,” barked McCaffery. “No talking from now on unless absolutely necessary. Suppressed weapons only,” he ordered as he killed the music. A moment later the lights in the cabin went out, the yellow overheads replaced with a deep red. There was a click, and the roar of the engines faded to little more than a whisper.

  This was it. No more training. This was the real deal. A few more minutes and he and his compatriots would be dropped in the middle of the jungle in the dead of night. He could not stop himself from grinning.

  A small green light came on above the loading ramp, and McCaffery gave the signal. He secured the clip to the safety line, and checked Danny’s while Danny checked his, and then Red checked both of them, while McCaffery made the gesture for “thirty seconds”. The ramp lowered, and the humid night air wafted in, hitting him like a wall of heat. Madre de dios, it was even worse here than it was in Jakarta. But even with the ramp open, the engines were barely more than the sound of a hairdryer. The Sarge and Spook were up first, abseiling out the back of the skiff and dropping out of sight. Red and Crow went second, the latter having to duck until he was clear of the skiff, which meant he and Danny were up next, with Reaper and the captain bringing up the rear.

  He inched closer to the end of the ramp, daring to peer over the edge. To his surprise, the skiff was almost skimming the top of the trees. A pat on the shoulder told him to go, and he stepped off into air. For a split second his stomach lurched into his throat, but almost immediately the brakes kicked in, and he silently slid down the cable through the canopy, and before he knew it his feet where on the ground. Red was there to greet him, lit cigarette already hanging from his lips. He gestured for him to be quiet as he expertly unhooked both the boys with practiced ease, and the cables disappeared as they were reeled back up into the skiff. In near silence, McCaffery and Reaper landed and did the same.

  “Package deployed,” the captain spoke into his headset. “Radio silence, out.”

  With barely a sound the skiff took off at a speed that was hard to follow. The moon was near full, and the entire forest was bathed in an eerie glow that gave it an almost otherworldly feel. The effect was immediately ruined as Sanchez pulled down his lenses, and suddenly the whole jungle was as brightly lit as a summer’s day, but with all of the colour bled out. Sarge gestured for a final equipment check, which took less than a minute, and Red snubbed out his cigarette. The sun would be up in about eight hours; with luck they would reach the outpost by then.

  “Private Sanchez,” whispered the captain, who seemed to just materialise by his side. “Give me a heading.”

  Sanchez fished in his pocket for his compass.

  “No,” said the captain.

  Sanchez gulped. No tech. He looked up, the colourless moon just visible through the canopy. Using that as a reference, he estimated the direction of “north”, gestured with his palm, and prayed he was correct.

  McCaffery looked satisfied. Turning to the rest of the unit, he made the gesture for “move out” and pointed in the same direction as Sanchez had just done. Moving silently, they vanished into the jungle.

  *

  “What the hell happened here?” said Crow as they surveyed the destruction. The early morning sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt floor of the outpost, but the heat was already rising fast, and the smothering humidity with it.

  Finding the base had been simple enough. They had located it just before dawn, and had spent an hour scoping it out for signs of activity, sentries, exploitable weak points, and the most likely location of the target. In the end, they had just walked right through the front gate. No sentries, no guards, no alarms, not a single sign of a living human soul anywhere. Now, in the full light of day, it was obvious what had happened. Smoke still emanated from a dozen small fires that had almost burned out. Shell casings and empty magazines littered the ground. Tents and sheet-metal buildings were riddled with bullet holes. The sound of countless buzzing flies filled his ears. An acrid, metallic smell filled his nostrils, and it was not gunsmoke. The underlying smell of rot gave it away. It was blood, human blood, turning in the heat.

  “It was a firefight. We’ve got small arms damage here, here, here and here,” said Sarge, pointing out the damage in a slow circle. “They were shooting in all directions. Someone hit them hard. It was fast too. It doesn’t look like they were able to break out any of the heavy stuff, and all their vehicles are still parked.”

  “Whatever happened, looks like we just missed it,” added Red. “The humidity will keep the blood from drying out, but I’d say this is twenty-four hours. Thirty, at most.”

  “Night before last?” ventured Sanchez.

  “That fits,” agreed Red.

  “Enough,” barked McCaffery. “Intel shows there’s thirteen personnel on station including the package. They didn’t just vanish into thin air. This place isn’t that big. Find them. Crow, Spook, clean sweep. Red, Alvarez, locate their armoury and make sure all of the hardware is secure. Reaper, take the rookie and check out that hangar. Sergeant Foster and I will take that comms shed and see what intel we can find. If anyone sees anything, sound off. I want open comms at all times. Move out.”

  *

  The whole outpost looked like it had been thrown up in a day or two. The hangar was the closest thing it had to an actual building. Even so, it was only big enough to house a few medium sized vehicles. There were not many places to hide, and this would be one of the few. He followed Reaper’s lead, and approached the building with his weapon ready.

  “We haven’t seen any bodies yet,” he said nervously.

  “Shut up,” growled Reaper quietly.

  He silently chastised himself for being an idiot. He was letting his nerves get the better of him. Reaper stopped a couple of metres short of the door, and waved for Sanchez to open it. He gripped the handle with both hands, nodded, and yanked the heavy door to one side in one smooth motion. The stench of rotting meat hit him like a wall, and he fought the urge to retch. The sound of the flies was deafening. There must have been millions. Even Reaper moved to cover his mouth with his free hand, taking a second to compose himself before silently slipping passed him into the hangar, weapon at the ready. Sanchez pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose and followed suit. He waved away stray flies but the swarm mostly ignored them. Small, square skylights permitted some daylight to leak in, and as his eyes adjusted, he got a better idea of the layout. A row of storage lockers ran down the left-hand side, and the rest of the space was mostly taken up by storage crates stacked three metres high. Right in front of him was a line of fly-infested blood forming a pool that stretched from wall to wall, turning a sickly brown in the jungle heat. He looked up, mainly to take his eyes off the pool of blood, and froze. Hanging from the rafters by their ankles, a line of almost a dozen wet, skinless human bodies hung like slabs of raw meat.

  *

  “My God…,” whispered Sanchez, and Reaper gestured for him to be quiet. Crates and equipment created a lot of dark corners. They could not be sure they were alone. Reaper waved him left while he went right, and slipped out of sight. He kept his weapon tight to his shoulder and his finger on the trigger as he silently crept forward. His boots sticking to the floor as he crossed the pool of half-dried blood while his eyes scanned for any sign danger. The constant drone of the flies covered the sound of his footsteps, but there was something else. A faint whimper, somewhere off to his left. Coming from inside one of the lockers. Once he was sure he had the right one, he cautiously put one hand on the handle, holding his carbine at the ready with the other, and threw the door open.

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  The man fell to the floor at his feet and he took a step back. He was mumbling in what sounded like Russian. The man looked up, pushing his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. It was Toptunov. He looked exactly like his photo from the briefing.

  “What the hell is going on here, rookie?” demanded Reaper as reappeared from behind the crates, then looked down at the kneeling man, whose eyes frantically darted back and forth, oblivious to the pair of armed Marines. “Sir, we’ve got a positive ID on the target. He’s alive. Shaken, but he doesn’t look injured, and…we’ve found the rest of them.”

  “Doctor Toptunov?” asked Sanchez. “Do you speak English?” he asked slowly, careful to enunciate each syllable. If the doctor understood, he did not acknowledge the question. Reaper didn’t bother with the pleasantries.

  “On your feet, Doc,” he demanded as he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him up, only to take three steps back as the doctor produced a large revolver from under his lab coat. Sanchez tensed.

  “Now Doctor, you lay that gun down,” said Reaper quietly, making a placating gesture with his hand, but Toptunov ignored him, and continued babbling in rapid-fire Russian. “I said drop it, Doc” he repeated, and this time the threat was there. English or not, the meaning was clear. This time the doctor did look up, and for the first time he acknowledged the two men. He continued to speak in quick, hushed tones, only now he seemed to be pleading with them. Something in his tone seemed even more urgent. But he did not drop the gun.

  “Last chance, Doc. Drop the fucking gun,” growled Reaper, as he brought his carbine up to a low ready. Sanchez stood frozen, transfixed. The doctor’s eyes were mad with fear, but he did not think he was afraid of them. No, he was trying to tell them something. The doctors’ eyes went wide as he let out a terrified scream, bringing the gun up to fire, and managed to get a round off that went over their heads, before Reaper emptied half a magazine into his torso. The man dropped limply to the floor as Sanchez still stood frozen.

  “Contact report!” shouted McCaffery. “What the fuck just happened?”

  The captain was close enough now that they did not need to use their headsets. “He’s dead, sir. Crazy, he opened fire on us.” Reaper suddenly standing in front of him snapped him out of his trance, and before he could say anything the big man grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Next time you freeze, I’ll fucking shoot you myself,” he whispered menacingly, and shoved him away in disgust.

  “Sergeant, what the hell is…,” the captain stormed in followed by Sarge, with the rest not far behind, but was cut short as he saw the hanging bodies.

  “I guess we know what happened to the crew,” said Reaper. “The doc was hiding in one of the lockers. He was armed and crazed. Tried to get him to stand down but, he didn’t leave us much choice,” he said unapologetically.

  “Shit,” spat the captain. “There will be questions when we get back, Reaper”.

  “Gave him every chance, sir. He even got a shot off. Private Sanchez will confirm everything.”

  Sanchez squirmed.

  “We’re missing two,” said Red. “Twelve personnel plus Toptunov. I make that ten hanging from the ceiling, plus the doc on the floor. That leaves two.”

  “They’re back there,” Reaper thumbed over his shoulder. “What’s left of them, anyway. They’ve been boned like fish. Looks to be a major and a staff sergeant, judging by their uniform insignia.”

  McCaffery sighed. “Did anyone else find anything?”

  “Nothing useful, sir,” answered Red. “But whatever they were doing here, it doesn’t add up. They’re packing all kinds of weird shit. Tranquiliser darts, nets, cages, full spectrum googles, anti-thermal stealth suits. It’s less a military operation than it is a goddamn safari. I think they were hunting something.”

  “Hunting what? Tigers?” asked Crow.

  “No, the dosages in those tranq darts would knock out a rhino. Plus, they’ve got serious firepower to go with it. Armor piercing rounds, plasma rifles, particle beams. They were hunting something a lot more dangerous.”

  “What about genetically-modified super tigers?” asked Danny, trying to inject some levity.

  “Knock it off, Joker,” snapped the Sarge.

  “It still doesn’t explain who did this,” said Crow. “It sure as hell wasn’t Colonial Marines. Pirates or an independent guerilla faction maybe, but that hardware would be worth a fortune on the black market. Whoever did this, wasn’t in it for the money.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said the captain. “Our mission was to secure Doctor Toptunov. The doctor is confirmed dead, along with all other base personnel. Who did it and why is immaterial. Spook, pull the memory core from the main computer in the comms shed, we’ll take that with us. Everyone else get ready to move. We’re out of here in five minutes.”

  The team dispersed, but Sanchez remained at the hangar, despite the smell and the gore. There was something about the doctor that just did not sit right with him. He went back to the body, and stood facing the door, exactly the way Toptunov had done. Sanchez estimated roughly where he and Reaper had been standing, and mimed a pistol with his finger and thumb. He was about the same height as the doctor, and raised his arm to what he thought was about the same angle as the doctor had done.

  He and Reaper had been standing less than three metres away. Point-blank range. A blind man could have made that shot. The angle went way over where their heads had been, even though Reaper was a few inches taller than he was. It was not even close. In fact, his finger was pointing directly at the satellite dish on the roof of the comms shed. He was willing to bet that if he was to check now, there would be a single neat bullet hole going right through it. The realisation hit him hard. Toptunov had not been aiming at them…

  “Snap out of it, mijo” hollered Danny as he slapped the door. “El Capo says “move out”. Vamanos.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming,” he said quietly, but he did not take his eyes off the roof of the shed. There had been something there. He was sure of it.

  *

  The leaves of the canopy appeared black, silhouetted against a blood red sky as the setting sun sank below the horizon. The trek towards the riverbank had been harder than the previous night. The closer they got to the river, the thicker the jungle became, and with the river at the bottom of a shallow valley, the uneven ground slowed them down even more. With still a kilometre or so to go, they were cutting it fine. At least the night brought the cooler air with it, Sanchez thought to himself as he hacked away at the bush. The sweat pouring from his brow.

  “Pick up the pace, men,” ordered the Sarge. “The extraction team isn’t going to wait.”

  He also didn’t mention it was going to be pitch black in ten minutes, and the jungle would come alive with its exotic nocturnal wildlife. Despite the tyrannical heat, a cold shiver ran up his spine as realisation dawned.

  “Sarge, sir,” whispered Sanchez.

  “What is it, rookie?” he growled.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Sarge shook his head. “Anything else you feel the pressing need to share with the class, son?”

  “No, sir, I mean, I don’t hear anything,” explained Sanchez. “Listen. It’s dead silent. No animals, no birds, nothing. Not a damn thing.”

  Sarge looked thoughtful for a second, then his face hardened. “You’re right”, he said, and Sanchez did not try to hide his relief when the Sarge started giving orders. “Form up, men”. The squad immediately gathered round, even the captain. “We might have picked up a tail here. Lenses on. We move quick and quiet and we stick together. Sappers will try to pick off any stragglers, so keep your head on a swivel. If you see anything, you light it up.”

  “Sarge,” said Red quietly, a hint of alarm creeping into his voice. “There’s only seven of us.”

  The squad exchanged concerned looks then immediately checked their magazines and cocked their carbines.

  “Spook? Has anyone seen Spook?” demanded the Sarge. “Spook, sound off,” he said, grabbing his mic, but there was nothing but a silent hiss in response.

  “I want Spook found,” order McCaffery. “Sweep pattern, double back, one hundred metres. Double-time it.”

  Sanchez gripped his carbine as he aimed down sights, sweeping back and forth across a wall of grey. With his lenses down he could see clearly, but it did not let him see any further, and with the forest as dense as it was, he could not see more than a couple of metres. It occurred to him that he was, for the first time, afraid, and he struggled to prevent his hands from shaking. They were looking for a body. He knew that. Something had gotten Spook, and it had done it so quietly that no one had even noticed. Something, he caught himself. Not someone. Unbidden his mind flashed back to the outpost, to the swinging bodies in the hangar, strung up like slabs of beef. To whatever it was that had been on the roof of the comms shed…

  A deafening crack and a flash of blindly bright white temporarily overloaded his lenses before they could adjust.

  “Contact!” he heard someone shout, followed by the roar of full auto gunfire. He charged towards the sound and found Crow, with the body of Sergeant Foster at his feet, his chest blown open with a smoking basketball-sized hole that went through to the other side. He was just in time to see the flash of some bladed metal projectile take off the top of Crow’s head, and watch him drop limply to the floor.

  “Contact!” he screamed as he opened fire. The image enhancing effect of his lenses highlighted the ethereal shimmering outline of a humanoid figure as it leapt from branch to branch with inhuman power and speed. He tracked it as best he could, but he knew he had hit nothing but air and trees. “They’re running camouflage!”

  “All units on me,” barked McCaffery, and Sanchez bolted back the way he had come, retracing his steps with relative ease he almost collided with the captain. He was relieved to see Danny and Red already there.

  “Where’s Reaper?” asked Red. As if by way of mocking response, a round, wet object slammed into Red’s chest, staggering him. It was Reaper’s severed head.

  “Motherfucker!” screamed Danny, firing off a volley of rounds in the rough direction that the head had come from.

  “Ceasefire!” barked McCaffery. “You’re wasting ammo. We need a defensive position-” Sanchez noticed the three red dots forming a neat triangle on the side of the captain’s head, and before he could say anything his head vanished in a cloud of plasma, splattering them with gore and skull fragments. Sanchez desperately wiped the blood from his lenses as his heart pounded and his hands shook uncontrollably.

  “Boys,” said Red with surprising calm. “On my “go”, make a run for the river. Don’t look back. No matter what.”

  “No chance, old man,” said Danny, and Sanchez’s eyes widened as he watched Red pull the pin on an incendiary.

  “Go, now!” he roared as he cocked his arm back. A flash of metal whipped through the air almost imperceptibly fast, and sliced off Red’s arm at the bicep. Sanchez could hear the air whine as the razor-sharp blade passed within centimetres of his head. Red screamed as the arm, still clutching the grenade, fell to his feet, and before anyone could react, they were engulfed in flame.

  *

  He gasped, then coughed as he cleared the ash from his throat. Searing pain filled his lungs as he slowly opened his eyes. The blast had knocked him out cold. His armour still smoked and he did not need to look at his hands to know his hands were burned. His lenses were gone, but had saved his eyesight. He lay on the ground as it sizzled beneath him while a dozen small fires burned around him. His armour the only thing keeping him from being cooked alive by the scorched ground, and the jungle was lit up in a soft orange-red glow. Twenty-odd feet away lay the charred body of Red, his face mercifully turned away from him. Another ten or so feet from that, just outside the fire zone, lay the body of Danny.

  A purring, clicking sound from behind him made him freeze. A low, satisfied rasp, followed by more clicking. He lay motionless as the figure strode into view. Still camouflaged, the shimmer distorted the fires around it, like watching a flame through cut diamond, but he could make out a lithe human shape. There was an audible beep and suddenly the shimmer materialised into a solid figure. He stared at the monster that stood just a few metres away, not daring to move a muscle. It was humanoid, but massive. Easily over seven feet. An angular metal mask covered a face that was framed by thick tendrils. Its body was lean, powerful, and mostly exposed except for a netting material that its pale, mottled skin. Shoulder guards, greaves and gauntlets bristled with weaponry. A pair of wicked-looking twin blades on its right wrist dripped blood as the creature hitched the strange bladed disc to its left hip. He watched as the creature casually strode through the carnage, seeming to survey the battlefield, and utterly unfazed by the scorched, burning ash beneath its bare feet.

  A mote of ash caught in his throat, and he did not quite stop himself from making the slightest cough. With a snarl the creature’s head whirred round, dreadlocks flowing, and the twin blades extended to double their previous length, but it did not approach. It was staring right at him…but it did not move. A tense moment passed, then another, then the creature seemed to relax, and turned its back to the massacre. Could it not see him? It did not make sense, it was looking right at him, but rather than attack it merely continued its unhurried investigation. Heart pounding, he slowly raised his carbine, bringing his other hand up to clutch the underslung grenade launcher. With one big foot it rolled the red-black charred corpse of Red on to his back, then abandoned the body, seemingly disappointed with the result. It approached the limp body of Danny and bent down, placing one clawed hand on the back of his neck before yanking him off the ground, holding him at its eye level with one arm as if he weighed almost nothing.

  “Die, you hijo de puta!” screamed Danny, half his face badly burned, as he jammed his carbine forward. But the creature effortlessly caught the barrel with its free hand, and redirected the volley to spray harmlessly into the trees before tearing it from his hands. Seemingly amused, the creature paused for a moment, and Sanchez hesitated. Frozen in fear, he watched the two figures, until he caught Danny’s eye, and his friend’s expression turned from rage to terror to hope.

  “Mijo, help me!” he screamed, and Sanchez froze, eyes wide and hands shaking as the creature threw Danny face down in the mud. “No, no, please,” he cried as the creature placed one big foot on his waist, and slashed him from shoulder to tailbone with its twin blades. Slicing cleanly through flesh, armour and bone, the blades drew a bloody parallel streak down his back. His dying eyes locked with Sanchez. In one quick move and with impossible strength, the creature punched its clawed hand deep into the small of Danny’s back, and pulled, tearing out his spine and skull. Holding its gruesome trophy aloft, it let out a deafening, inhuman screech of triumph.

  “No!” screamed Sanchez, and he pumped the launcher. The creature dropped its trophy and instantly three red dots appeared on his chest as some sort of weapon on the creature’s shoulder swivelled into place, aiming directly at him. But it momentarily hesitated. It still could not see him. The heat, he realised. It could not see him because of the heat. He pulled the trigger, and the round slammed into the creature’s left side. The blast almost knocked him unconscious again, and he squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of heat washed over him. The ringing in his ears was stinging, but fading fast, and he slowly pulled himself up. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the ash as he crawled towards the mutilated body of his friend. He knelt beside him and clutched his charred arm, ignoring the searing pain in his own. He kept his eyes closed. He could not bear to look at what was left. He tried to think of a prayer, but all he could think was “I’m sorry” as he mumbled it over and over. How long he knelt there, he could not say. A minute, an hour. It didn’t matter. His friend was dead.

  A click-click brought him back to his senses. Then again, this time a click-click-click. He watched in horror as, wounded and unsteady, the creature slowly rose to its feet. Hunched over and drenched in glowing green blood, clutching its side with one hand. Its mangled left arm hung lifeless. The sound of deep, guttural, ragged breathing sounding unnaturally loud in the night air. A gaping, ugly gash of shredded and scorched flesh covered its flank. The mask was caved in, and sat at an awkward angle. With its good arm the creature tore the mask from its face and tossed it, and although it was too dark for him to see clearly, he could make out the glint of sharp, pointed fangs, on the end of what were possibly mandibles, and then it locked eyes with him. Dark, deep-set yellow eyes that burned with rage and hate. The creature was furious. Without thinking Sanchez aimed his carbine and pulled the trigger, and felt his stomach turn to ice as the sound of a hollow “dead man’s click” echoed in his ears. The creature let out a bellowing roar as it stood to its full, towering height.

  *

  He was running blind. Mad with fear and pain, the leaves and branches slashed at his face and arms. He had hurled his useless empty weapon at the creature, and tossed more pieces of his armour as he ran. He knew the creature was behind him in hot pursuit, although he had no idea how close it was. He had seen how fast it could move, but how much would its injuries slow it down? Every second he expected to look down and see razor-sharp twin blades burst from his stomach. With no lenses he could barely see, the light of the moon struggled to penetrate the canopy. All he knew was that as long as he kept the moon on his right, he would reach the river soon. As if answering his prayers, the sound of flowing water became audible over the sound of his laboured breathing. He picked up the pace, and the rainforest began to thin out, and the ground beneath his feet became wetter, the sparkle of water in the moonlight catching his eye. He had made it, but he had no idea whether the rendezvous coordinates were upstream, or down. He picked down for no reason other than he could run faster downhill, and prayed it was the right choice.

  A black shape passed overhead, and he braced for the searing bite of a blade, but then he heard the whirl of an engine. It was extraction team, here to pick up his squad. A seam of red light widened into an open square as the boarding ramp lowered, the skiff hovering a few feet above the riverbank. Two airmen beckoned him as he powered along the bank as fast as his legs could carry him. From the darkness behind him, an inhuman roar filled the night.

  “Go, go, go, go,” screamed Sanchez as he waved frantically, running so fast he could barely keep his balance as he charged through the now knee-deep water. With a final leap he threw himself forward and slammed into the loading ramp, winding himself as each of the airmen grabbed one of his arms. The air screamed and the metal disc sliced through his left forearm, barely missing the airman who fell back still gripping his severed arm, and burying itself several inches deep in the inside wall of the bay. Sanchez stared in shock at the stump of the arm as the other airman was almost pulled over the edge but, gripping with both hands, he heaved Sanchez into the skiff.

  “We’re in. Go,” screamed the airman as he slammed the door controls and threw Sanchez into a seat. Below, a thunderous roar of frustration and hate echoed through the jungle as the ramp closed. He gripped his severed stump of an arm as he felt the skiff accelerate high into the atmosphere. It didn’t hurt. Not really. He stared blankly at the empty seat opposite him as the airman applied a tourniquet. The other still held his severed arm, as if unsure what to do with it. The man was saying something to him as he fixed the tourniquet, but Sanchez could not hear. Numb shock has taken over his body. His eyes fixed on the alien weapon still embedded in the hull, and he half-expected it to come flying at him of its own accord, taking his head from his shoulders, but nothing happened. Danny. Danny should be sitting in that chair across from him. Why wasn’t he with him? He should be here. No, Danny was dead, and it was his fault. He felt warm as the airman gave him a shot of emergency pain meds. “Danny” was all he could manage to say as the drugs took effect, and everything went black.

  *

  “That thing killed my entire unit. It butchered my best friend right in front of me, and he might still be alive today if I hadn’t hesitated.” He shook his head in disgust. “After getting back to Jakarta, there were all sorts of questions. Almost none of them were about us. They wanted to know about the yautja. Its strategies, its capabilities. They didn’t give a damn about the team. Wey-Yu got involved too. More of an inquisition than a debrief. They even offered to pay for the surgery to reattach my arm. In exchange for my “cooperation”, of course.”

  “And you took it?” asked Jennings accusingly. It was out of line for him to take that tone with a colonel, but Sanchez let the insubordination slide. It was nothing he had not said to himself every day since that night.

  “No, I told them to go to hell. But then my chain of command got involved. Ordered me to get the surgery. I guess they had no use for a crippled one-armed jarhead. Wey-Yu still paid for it. Lord knows what it cost. It sure as hell wasn’t any VA doctor that did that. You can’t even see the scar, they’re that good,” he said, holding up his arm for effect before he slumped back in the chair, defeated.

  “After that, I decided I was going to quit the USCM. I had two years left on my enlistment. I was planning on running out the clock. But about a year later, my abuela passed away, and she was the last living family I had left on Earth, so I ended up staying in the Corps. I drifted from assignment to assignment, moved up the ranks, more down to seniority than anything else. Eventually, I became an officer.

  “About twenty-five years after the Thailand incident, I had made major, so I used my clearance to pull some strings and get the files on that mission. They had been scrubbed. Officially, Vulture Six recon were killed-in-action by UPP forces. Their bodies were never recovered, and one PFC Emil Sanchez listed as “wounded-in-action” and reassigned. Absolutely no mention of Toptunov, my debrief, Wey-Yu’s involvement, or any hostile alien species.”

  “Weyland-Yutani were working with the UPP,” said Jennings.

  “I can’t prove that, but yeah, that’s my guess too,” Sanchez agreed. “I think they were hunting it. That’s why the outpost was so makeshift. They knew they didn’t have much time. Wey-Yu supplied the hardware, the UPP supplied a team, and Toptunov. I’ve never found anything on him. He’s a ghost. But my guess is he was some kind of “yautja expert”, if such a thing is possible.”

  “And it got them first,” Jennings snorted.

  He nodded. “I think when they lost contact, they knew what had happened. But they also knew there was a good chance Toptunov was still alive, so they slipped the intel to the USCM, knowing we would go in to retrieve him. If they couldn’t have the yautja, they could at least get him.”

  “I guess that makes you the resident expert now, sir. You said it yourself; it’s flesh and blood. It must have weaknesses.”

  “Not many,” Sanchez shook his head. “I have spent the last forty-five years scraping together every last piece of information on the yautja that I could find. My white whale. But these things are so goddamn careful, that still amounts to almost nothing. Nothing useful, anyway. Just a trail of mutilated corpses. They show up in some backwater, kill a handful of people, take a few “trophies”, and vanish again for years at a time. By the time it’s investigated, they’re long gone, and what’s left gets written up as an accident, or pirates, or some maniac gone loco, and quietly buried. Most people don’t even know they exist. Nobody wants to know. You and I might be the only living Marines in the galaxy that have seen one up close,” he said with a frustrated sigh.

  “I don’t get it, why the cover up? Why all the secrecy?” asked Jennings.

  “No one in the know wants to risk open war with them. We know how formidable they are in close combat. You’ve seen what they can do. But we don’t know anything about their military capabilities, or if they even have a conventional military. We don’t know how many there are, or how many ships they have. We don’t even know where they come from. Humanity can’t afford to start a war it might not be able to win. Try to capture a lone one, maybe, but we can’t risk provoking an interstellar conflict. Much easier to just turn a blind eye to the occasional “hunt”, and clean up the blood afterwards.” He shook his head. Just saying it made him feel complicit.

  “I’ve spent a lifetime looking over my shoulder. I always knew I’d run into them again. Don’t ask me how, but I knew. But the same one? Hearing Danny’s voice again, it was like a message from beyond the grave. It was like a flick of a switch, and I was back in that jungle. It’s not a coincidence, it can’t be. It’s here for me.”

  “But it still doesn’t explain why,” said Jennings. “Why come after you now, after all these years?”

  “It’s a big galaxy. I think it has taken this long to find me. Turns out, I’m not Ahab. I’m the whale. You see, I’m the one that got away. I almost killed it back on Earth. I humiliated it. Dishonoured it, and now it’s here to settle a half-century old score.”