Scareforce

by Charles Hough

  “Then, regardless of whether you believe in the rumors of witchcraft or not, I think it would be wise of you to choose another route for your troop movements. Patience is a temporary thing.”

  Washington nodded his head absently. He was trying to catch an idea that was ticking around his mind, just out of reach. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. Now he knew what it was he was trying to remember. A different type of troop movement was planned in the near future. A movement that would accompany one of the most feared weapons of all time. A nuclear tipped ICBM was to be moved to the base from Lion Nine. The route would take it right through Targa.

  Sergeant Washington headed through the doors of the Security Police building almost at a run. He was determined to change the missile movement route. He just didn’t know what he was going to use for an excuse.

  As he walked down the main corridor, a familiar person walked out of an office. It took Washington a couple of beats to recognize the young Sky Cop commander he had pulled from Targa the day before.

  Before he knew quite what he was doing himself, he grabbed the young man by the arm and pulled him into an empty lounge room.

  “Hi Sergeant Washington. Sorry I didn’t thank you properly for rescuing my troops when our truck a… broke down.”

  The young man seemed embarrassed by the memory.

  “Forget it, kid. 1 just want you to be truthful with me. I think it might be very important.”

  The young man just nodded. He could see the older NCO was dead serious.

  “What were you thinking, there in Targa? What were you feeling? I know you were afraid, I could feel that you all were afraid? But what were you afraid of?“

  “Yeah, I was afraid. But I wasn’t afraid of anything. I was afraid of myself; of what I would do if I didn’t get out of that evil, fucking place.”

  Washington was surprised by the intensity of the reply, but he was smart enough to keep quiet and let the young man continue.

  “You’ve got to understand, Sarge. My men mean everything to me. We trained together, we live together, we work together. We’ve been through some of the worst times you can imagine and come out great. We work together like fingers on the same hand. We trust each other. I probably know those guys better than I know my own brothers. And that’s what makes it so scary.

  “Yesterday, out in the middle of that stupid little town, I had the strongest feeling of… I don’t know, it was kind of like claustrophobia. I felt that the longer I stayed there, the more I wanted to fight, had to fight. I wanted to slam a mag in my M-16 and shoot everything—and everyone—in sight. I just wanted to kill them all!”

  “But there wasn’t anyone there except your men.”

  The young man looked up and stared deep into the senior sergeant’s eyes. Washington saw a look that he remembered from a long time ago and half a world away.

  “Yeah, I know that,” the young man whispered. “Didn’t matter.”

  Sergeant Washington stood alone in the middle of the street. He just looked. The town was just as deserted as it had been before. He looked at the empty streets, the empty buildings, the white, well-kept, and obviously empty church in the town square. He saw no one. But he felt the eyes.

  When weapons and guards are moved by the Air Force they always take the most direct route. They always follow a straight line between Point A and Point B. Sergeant Washington knew that the brass did not believe in witches and such. But some of them had listened to him. Some had looked at his puzzling data and listened to his history lesson. And then they had talked to a security police officer who was no longer young.

  And after that any straight line that the Air Force used to get from Point A to Point B did not, by definition, pass through the town of Targa.

  A WAY TO GO

  IN the heat of war it seems like there will never be enough time to bury the dead, to memorialize them, to thank them for their sacrifice, to even remember them. But that time always comes sooner or later. It has to. It is one of the few things that might eventually end war for all time. But sometimes it takes a superhuman effort to get it accomplished.

  Flying over, it was a very strange place. It was like a child’s toy, one of those magic pictures that changed as you turned it from side to side. With the sun at one position, the countryside looked green and solid, like some verdant valley in South Carolina.

  Then the angle of light would change and suddenly the whole place looked like it was completely covered by water. Square ponds of various predictable sizes, their boundaries defined by narrow earth dikes, monopolized the landscape from horizon to horizon. It went on like this for enough miles to be monotonous, then suddenly acres of dense jungle would grab his attention, and he would once again be entranced by the view.

  Sandoval chuckled to himself. There it goes, putting on another mask. This place loves to fool me into thinking it’s not really all that bad.

  He had glided over the landscape countless other times and it always happened. He would forget where he was and the beauty of the place would grab him again. He would sit and stare and be totally caught up in the green world.

  And then the helicopter would land and the door would slide open and the heat and smell of Vietnam would roll over him and he would remember once again that he was in hell.

  It was the smell most of all that tore off the mask. Vietnam smelled bad. It was a sick, sour, dead smell. It was like nothing else. And because human memory is most effectively flagged and recalled by smells, Sandoval knew that this smell would forever be a precursor to nightmares.

  But this time the door was still closed and the young lieutenant could sit back and enjoy his illusions for a while longer. They had a way to go before they got to the site. The crash site.

  Jose Sandoval never once thought it strange that he was riding in a helicopter on his way to inspect the wreckage of another helicopter. Back in the world cops cruised to the scene of accidents in vehicles that mirrored participants: it was the same in ’Nam. The Hueys were the vehicle of choice in this war. They were the workhorses, the pack mules, and the all-purpose engines of destruction. Nothing special; they were just a way to get things done.

  Jose was on his way to see one now. As an explosive ordinance disposal or EOD officer, one of his duties was to inspect the wreckage of aircraft equipped with his special toys. He had to see that the site inspection, rescue, and cleanup crews wouldn’t be endangered by explosives. He was there to ensure the safety of the team.

  Yeah, he thought. What about his own safety. Sandoval wasn’t a superman by virtue of his specialist training. The only heightened sense he possessed was a very healthy respect for weapons of individual or mass destruction. Especially weapons that had been involved in aircraft accidents. Many of his lessons about dealing with the deadly stuff had come at a great expense. Quite a few of his friends had given their limbs or their lives demonstrating how not to dispose of weapons.

  But this job wasn’t going to be like that. This was going to be a piece of cake. Or maybe a waste of time was a more accurate description. Somebody had goofed. Jose wasn’t really needed on this mop-up. Because the chopper they were going to see wasn’t one of the armed-to-the-teeth birds of war. It was a slick—unarmed except for the M-60 door gun. Nobody left home without “the pig.” It had been heading up-country to help move some noncombatants out of an area that was going red.

  Jose snorted sarcastically when he thought of that description. At least three things were wrong with it. First, there was no such thing as noncombatants in this country. Everybody from the smallest child to the oldest grandpa, everybody was involved. They were born to it. He learned early that you “don’t trust nobody.” He learned that early enough to still be alive.

  Second, “help move” was a government euphemism for forcibly relocate. The military didn’t help anyone but themselves. It hadn’t taken anyone long to learn that this was a no-win situation. No one was trying to win anymore; they were just trying to survive. Only the politicians though
t something could be gained by being here.

  Third, (and this was the kicker) Second Lieutenant Jose P. Sandoval did not need to be on this trip. That was what was tightening his jaw. There was no need for an EOD type to be sent out to disarm a slick. The only thing dangerous on that ship was the fifty-caliber from the M-60 gun. If the wreck had burned, most of that was probably all cooked off by now. If it hadn’t, then the bullets would just lie around safe until somebody picked them up and stuck them in a gun. He didn’t need to be here.

  And that most of all sent a chill down his spine. Too many men bought it in this hellhole by being some place that they shouldn’t have been. The irony was that everyone connected with this fiasco knew EOD wasn’t needed on this job. But someone on the crew had fucked up. Someone had checked the wrong box on the flight plan. Someone, probably the copilot, had designated the copter a gunship. And now the paperwork showed that the crash involved aerial weapons. And if the paperwork said it, it must be so. And so they had to send EOD. Then their paperwork would match the wrong paperwork. In the military two wrongs did add up to be a right.

  Jose couldn’t blame the copilot. He made an honest mistake. He had just transferred from gunships. It was an automatic mistake. Probably his last one. There were no reported survivors of the crash.

  “LZ coming up.” The interphone in his helmet crackled to life, startling Sandoval out of his thoughts.

  “Prepare to disembark. And thank you for flying the friendly skies of Vietnam.”

  Jose stared out the side window as the Huey slid closer to the ground and slithered over a ridge covered with trees. As they topped the ridge, he glimpsed a couple of primitive buildings over the next ridge. Then the pilot pushed the chopper back to the safety of the ground and he lost sight of the village. The helicopter swung around in a wide arc and Sandoval’s attention was immediately riveted to a scorched area in the exact center of the valley.

  The object sitting in the middle of the burned-out circle might have once been a helicopter; now it was hard to tell that it had been man-made. It looked like slag from a blast furnace. It looked small and black, lacking any recognizable form or shape. Most of all it looked dead. The metal, fiber, and electronics that had comprised this aerial vehicle were now all of a piece, all mixed and mingled and stirred by a terrible blaze. The raging inferno had left its individual parts indistinguishable from the whole.

  Sandoval shuddered as he realized that the passengers were now part of that mass. Man and machine had been blended beyond recognition.

  His helicopter thumped to the ground as if the pilot had suddenly stopped flying. There was a pause as everyone on the bird contemplated the center stage of the clearing. Then the door slid open and the stink and heat hit him in the face with a physical jolt. At first he thought the heat was radiating from the wreck, the smell coming from the death it held. But the sergeant tapped him on the knee and he broke from his reverie and realized it was just Vietnam. Just the normal heat and the normal smell of Vietnam.

  “Area appears clear and safe.” The banter was gone from the pilot’s voice on the intercom. “Clear the ship. Give me a thumbs-up when you’re all clear. I will dust off and return with the… with the KP team. Good luck.”

  Sandoval and the other two airmen watched from the tree line as their ride lifted vertically and sailed back over the ridge and out of sight. Soon even the sound of the engine was gone. Reluctantly the three men turned their attention back to the wreck.

  Accompanying him on this worthless mission were two Sky Cops from the air base they had departed this morning. Air policemen are usually the only members of the Air Force trained for actual ground combat. Flyers, and ground pounders like Sandoval, were given cursory training with pistol and rifle. Usually just enough to teach them that they didn’t want to carry a gun for a living. But the Sky Cops were as good a fighting force as produced by any army.

  The two men, a tech sergeant named Rockford and a two-striper named Reagan, but called Junior, were considered enough to secure the perimeter of this operation. At least until the rest of the team rolled in on the next chopper.

  They stood and stared at the mass of blackened metal. Sandoval thought of a line from some old movie. “What a magnificent catastrophe.”

  Sergeant Rockford was the first to break the silence.

  “Orders, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes…” Sandoval took a minute to clear his head of a whole host of nightmare possibilities.

  “Well, let’s play this farce by the book. This place looks pretty secure, so let’s sweep the area looking for unexpended ordinance. In the unlikely event that you actually find something, just leave it lie and mark the spot with a piece of paper.”

  “What about the vil?”

  “What do you mean, Sarge?”

  “The vil. On the other side of the ridge. Think maybe somebody ought to check it out?”

  Jose contemplated it for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Nobody said anything about a village in the mission brief. Guess we better be sure it’s friendly.”

  Rockford dispatched the younger man with an admonition to look and listen and come back without exposing himself to danger. The airman seemed to agree with the plan wholeheartedly, especially the part about keeping his ass out of harm’s way.

  After the young man departed through the trees, the other two reluctantly returned to the task at hand.

  A thorough search of the area produced nothing but a sense of sadness and despair. The pilot had apparently chosen the clearing when the trouble developed with his helicopter. It was chosen well. Maybe he had seen the village and wanted to avoid it. Maybe he felt the need to avoid useless danger to the inhabitants. Maybe he just felt the clearing had fewer obstacles to avoid. It would have been a perfect spot to land. It was just as perfect a spot to crash.

  It looked as if the craft had come straight down from a considerable height. Helicopters were the only flying machines that could crash that way. And in this war they did just that with alarming regularity.

  The wreckage pattern attested to very little if any forward momentum. It also showed that the last landing was a hard one. Under the wreckage there was even a small crater caused by the impact.

  Sandoval wondered about the wreck and the final minutes of the crew as he surveyed the site. Did the horrendous impact cause the fire or were they already burning before they hit? Did the crew know they were doomed or did they think they had a chance right up until the last minutes of their descent into hell?

  His eyes swept the ground and the wreck as he contemplated the last minutes of four men. Suddenly his attention was riveted by an object in the wreck.

  A hand shook his shoulder, then gently turned him away from the accident.

  “Sir, I think the area is secure and safe.”

  “I agree, Sergeant.” It took Sandoval a while before he could get the words out.

  The only discernible structure left by the blaze was the frame that used to hold the pilot’s side window. And perched on the edge of that window frame, Sandoval had seen a perfectly normal hand. It was encased in a flying glove that looked new and undamaged. It was just a hand, with a little of the lower arm. It looked perfectly normal except that it ended in a lump of charred and melted debris. At that moment, just before he turned away, a breeze came up and the smell of cooked meat wafted over him, locking the memory of the hand in his mind forever.

  Darkness came to Vietnam like no other place. It seemed as if it was full daylight and then full nighttime with no remembered twilight. The stars and moon of the season gave a perpetual glow to the surrounding area. In the valley it would never be totally dark, not unless some sudden storm covered the sky brightness momentarily. It happened enough to be expected and prepared for but it really didn’t seem to be a possibility on this bright night.

  The three men were huddled together near a small fire under the tree canopy on the edge of the clearing. The fire was mor
e for emotional comfort than for warmth and not a good practice in a war zone. But this didn’t seem to be a serious part of any war zone and the fire was especially necessary.

  Junior had returned from his survey of the nearby village. He had looked and listened and seen exactly nothing. It appeared to be empty. Whether the inhabitants had moved or were just away temporarily was of little consequence. Just so they were gone and, therefore, not a threat to the little party.

  Junior had been on his way back to the clearing when his radio squawked to life and almost scared him to death. He had forgotten to turn it down when he went on his recon. Bad mistake. It was the type that could get you killed. It had scared him enough to be a good object lesson for the future.

  The message had been terse. Their ride into and out of this place had landed at the air base and been grounded for maintenance. It might have been that the pilot, just returned from the last resting place of a sister ship, was being overly cautious. But whatever the reason or motivation, the fact was that no one would return for the group this night. They were on their own. As a final gesture of embarrassed guilt, the pilot had passed on the fact that their area was still green and not expected to go red.

  The group was comforted by this news but still alert. Things changed rapidly in ’Nam.

  Lieutenant Sandoval okayed the fire and set a watch schedule, giving himself first watch. He contemplated the wreck over the last glowing embers of their campfire. He had thought it would be frightening to keep watch over a death scene at night. It wasn’t. It was just sad: deep down mournfully sad.

  “What the hell? Get away from there!”

  Sandoval came fully awake at the shouted commands from the young airman.

  “What is it, Junior?”

  “Over there by the wreck, LT. By the right side. Can’t you see it. It’s a dink. Walking right up to the wreck. A lousy dink. Hey, get away from there!”