Rotters: Bravo Company

by Cart, Carl R

  Two locals were standing in the track. Both of them were dressed in battered military uniforms and armed with AK-47s. They looked like bandits or worse. I assumed we had found the rebels. One of them was a much older man, with crazy grey hair and a matted beard. He looked like an escapee from an insane asylum. He began to gesture wildly and scream at us in the local language. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but he didn’t sound happy. The other man had his gun at the ready, but at least no one was shooting yet.

  Sgt. McAllister walked up behind me. He took in the situation at a glance and said, “I’m going forward to talk to them. Cover me.”

  He removed his mask and hood. He slung his rifle and stepped slowly forward into the roadway, his hands at his side.

  “Gordo, lose your mask and get up here,” he suggested loudly. “Everyone stand easy.”

  Gordo pulled off his mask and carefully walked forward. He, too, had his hands out, he wasn’t armed.

  The lead local yelled at the sergeant and pointed back the way we had come. Even I got that one.

  “What the Sam Hell is he yelling about, Gordo?” the sergeant asked calmly.

  Gordo frowned and listened carefully. “I’m not getting it all, Sergeant, he’s pretty fucking excited. He says we must return, that we can go no further, something about the dead.”

  “Tell him to speak plainly, that we are stupid white men,” McAllister suggested, gesturing at the dispersed squad.

  Gordo spoke to the leader in broken Congolese. They got at least some of what he was saying, they both laughed and relaxed a little. The man repeated his demand.

  About that time I heard the cargo truck’s engine as it approached. The major and Lt. Beckham walked up.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded the major.

  McAllister cursed under his breath. “We’re trying to figure it out, sir. I’ve got it under control.”

  The man pointed at the major and jerked his finger, then yelled his warning again.

  “Why are these two Kaffirs holding up my convoy? Give these men some cigarettes or whiskey and let’s get this convoy moving again, Sergeant!” the major ordered. “We don’t have time for this!”

  Gordo spoke up, “They don’t want anything, Major. This man is trying to warn us.”

  “Well, what is he saying?” the major demanded.

  The man yelled again. He seemed to be growing agitated.

  “He says that we must go no further, that the people before us will be turned against us, that we will find the dead, no, our death, wait, something about we cannot return,” Gordo translated.

  “Fuck this; we need to get to the village, now. There are only two of them,” the major growled.

  “Wait!” Sgt. McAllister warned. “Sir, don’t do anything stupid. There are armed men in the trees to either side of us.”

  “We are a US Army combat company on a lawful rescue mission,” Major Dorset snapped. “I will not be delayed by a handful of ragtag rebels. Tell that man to step aside or we will open fire,” the major growled.

  The major’s tone was not lost on the rebels. The leader yelled his warning again, and the man beside him jerked up his rifle.

  Everyone tensed to fire.

  McAllister spoke loudly but in a calm voice, “Hold your fire.” He punctuated each word.

  “Tell him!” the major barked.

  Gordo repeated the major’s demand to the rebel leader. The man seemed to be gauging the American’s resolve. He looked around at the platoon and back down the track. Second Platoon was slowly advancing to cover us. His eyes narrowed. He slowly reached out and forced his companion’s rifle barrel down. They turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

  “That is how you deal with the locals, Sergeant!” the major smirked. He noticed that the sergeant and Gordo weren’t wearing their masks. “Why have you disobeyed my order to wear protective gear at all times?”

  Sgt. McAllister shook his head, “I was trying to secure our passage, sir. I felt it necessary to remove my mask to speak with the locals.”

  “No one is to remove their MOPP-4 protective equipment for any reason!” the major yelled. “Report to me once we are established in the village, Sergeant,” he rumbled.

  “Yes, sir!” the sergeant replied, yanking his gas mask back on and drawing his hood. He turned and stalked away.

  “Move out!” the CO ordered.

  We remounted and drove onward through the trees. Ten minutes later we reached the village of Lat.

  TO THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF - CODE RED COMMUNIQUE

  UNABLE TO REESTABLISH CONTACT WITH MEDICAL UNIT LAT DRC

  CIA ANALYSIS CONFIRMS SPREAD OF VIRUS THROUGHOUT IMMEDIATE REGION

  BRAVO COMPANY IN ROUTE

  SPECIAL FORCES UNIT ACTIVATED

  REPORT ENDS

  Chapter 5

  08:35 a.m. Zulu

  Village of Lat

  The Congo

  We stopped and dismounted at the edge of the village, as soon as we cleared the tree line. I could tell something was wrong the minute we arrived. You develop a sixth sense about things after you’ve been in combat, and you learn to trust that instinct. It keeps you alive.

  The village felt like an ambush to me.

  There wasn’t much to see. The rutted jungle road petered out into a muddy patch of puddles and stones. A few dozen slat-board huts with corrugated metal roofs surrounded a small, beat up looking church. The obligatory cinder block clinic and a couple of more modern looking buildings with metal siding comprised the village center. The whole place was carved out of the surrounding rain forest. The massive trees pressed in from all sides. Their twisting, exposed roots thrust through the mud like loops of blackened mooring cables. Here and there I could see a few pathetic scratch gardens filled with scraggly, drooping vegetables. I didn’t see any people. Of course, they could be in hiding, but I didn’t like the vibe.

  The medical unit personnel we had been sent in to rescue were nowhere in sight. No one came out to meet us. Their tents and vehicles were set up to one side of the village, on our right. Everything there was in disarray. Two of the smaller tents were partially collapsed, and one of their Humvee’s windshields was smashed. Debris of all sorts littered the ground. It didn’t look good, but I didn’t see any bodies.

  Maj. Dorset walked forward and looked around. “Let’s find our people,” he ordered.

  McAllister sprang into action. “You heard the man!” he shouted. “1st Platoon, secure the village. 2nd Platoon, with the major. Let’s look for our people.” He pointed towards the tents.

  I was with 1st Platoon. The platoon split into two squads and advanced. We spread out and moved slowly forward into the village. I stalked through the muddy lane, my M-4 rifle at the ready. Once again, we moved in advance and cover formation, two moving, two covering. There were footprints everywhere, and in at least two places I found congealed pools of blood. I stooped down and traced a set of military boot prints in the mud. They led deeper into the maze of huts. I pointed them out to Hard-on. He grunted in reply.

  We cleared each hut as we came to them. Each was the same. They were all empty.

  We approached the church. All of us stopped to stare. Gummy, blackened bloodstains covered the chapel’s walls and floors. The front steps were a mass of bloody footprints and splattered gore.

  “What have we gotten into?” Jonesy spoke.

  “This is some Old Testament shit right here, boys,” Hard-on uttered.

  “It is bad, very bad,” Gunner warned. He crossed himself.

  I wasn’t really what you would consider overtly religious, but seeing that bloodstained chapel sent shivers down my spine. Hard-on was right.

  “How many people had to die to make that much blood?” Jonesy asked.

  “A lot,” I answered.

  One of the buildings was what passed for a store. We cautiously stepped inside. The place was messy, and we found faint bloodstains, but it had not been looted. Some of the foodstuffs and
supplies had been knocked from the shelves, but that was all.

  Hard-on stepped behind the tiny counter and rummaged around. He held up a handful of the local currency.

  “This ain’t normal for Africa, boys,” Jonesy pointed out.

  We cleared the other small building; it was a residence of some sort, just a little nicer than the huts around it. It was the same. Nobody was home.

  We moved forward again, very carefully, and cleared the village, hut by empty hut.

  “Where the fuck is everybody?” Gunner asked.

  “Who knows?” I replied.

  “I don’t like this,” Gunner spat back. “Something seriously wrong went down here.”

  I knew what he meant. Death had touched this place. The sweat ran cold under my chem suit.

  Jonesy and Gunner moved forward. We had cleared the village and reached the end. The rain forest stretched out before us, a solid wall of trees, grim, green and foreboding on the other side.

  We turned around and made our way back.

  Everyone rendezvoused at the medical unit’s camp. Sgt. McAllister came out to meet us.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Sarge. There’s nobody out there,” I reported. “No bodies, none of our personnel, not a damn thing. The village is empty. We did find blood, a lot of blood.”

  I told him about the chapel.

  “I’ll have to look at that. Anything else unusual?” he asked.

  “Nothing was looted!” Hard-on added. “Everything is still there.”

  The sergeant grunted in response. “Wait till you boys see this.”

  He led us through the medical unit’s camp and stopped at one of the damaged tents.

  “We didn’t find any of our people either, but we did find human remains. The colonel is trying to ascertain if the remains belonged to us, or the villagers. It’s hard to tell.”

  “What do you mean, Sarge?” Jonesy asked.

  “The remains had been eaten, chewed, whatever. Fucking Africa. Must have been scavengers, hyenas maybe. There wasn’t much left that was identifiable. The bugs and flies had been at them pretty hard. Looks like it had been a day or more. We found a lot of blood, too. It’s everywhere.”

  “Sweet Jes…” Hard-on started.

  “Don’t blaspheme!” Gunner shouted. “This place is cursed! Don’t take the lord’s name in vain here, it’s bad enough already!”

  “Knock it off, you two,” McAllister growled. “Look here.”

  He pointed to the ground around the tent. Hundreds of spent shell casings littered the ground. He picked a couple out of the mud and tossed them in his calloused hand. “Standard NATO 556x45 and nine-millimeter, government issue. There was a pretty sharp firefight here. Somebody was shooting with an M-4 and a Beretta. We found a couple of rifles near this tent, they had been fired recently, one had blood on it. Our guys didn’t go out without a fight.”

  Every good soldier learned to interpret the evidence left on a battleground. Sgt. McAllister was an expert at it.

  “What about the other tents?” I asked.

  “They were empty, everything was a total mess,” the sergeant replied. “I haven’t been past the biological seals in the clean tent. The colonel went in there. He hasn’t come out yet, but he ordered it sealed.”

  “What do you think happened here, Sergeant?” Hard-on asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied. “In all my years of soldiering I’ve never seen anything like this. You guys stay close, I’m going to talk to the old man and see what our next move is.”

  McAllister ducked into the command tent. We wandered around the area, but there wasn’t much else to see. The medical guys were clearing the area, putting the camp back in order. Sgt. Price and a couple of the transport grunts were looking over the damaged Humvee. We walked over to talk to him.

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “Some asshole broke out the windshield,” Price answered, “And they sprung the driver’s door, it’s damned near pulled off,” he cursed. “This is gonna set the taxpayers back a pretty penny. I figure there’s four or five thousand dollars-worth of damage.”

  “Yeah, but how did it happen?” I queried.

  “I don’t fucking know. I just fix em up after you assholes trash em,” Price laughed.

  Sgt. McAllister came to collect us.

  “The major wants me to send out 1st Platoon to look for survivors,” he said.

  “We already looked for them,” Hard-on complained.

  “The major wants you to search the forest surrounding the village,” McAllister explained. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he insists. He wants all of the medical unit’s personnel accounted for. I need you guys to do a sweep of the area around the village.”

  “Shit, Sarge,” Hard-on grumbled.

  “Just do it,” McAllister shot back. “I want you guys on red. There could be rebels out there. Stay sharp. Stay together and stay close to the village, I don’t need you fuckers getting lost on top of everything else. I’ve got enough on my plate already.”

  1st Platoon saddled up and moved into the forest. We started on the side nearest our camp. We flipped a coin to see which squad would move the furthest into the forest. My squad lost, of course. The sun was up and it was hot, even under the canopy of the trees. We all bitched and cursed and cussed, but we followed orders.

  Walking slowly in our pressure cooker suits we spread out and searched the forest. We established a line formation, so that each man could see the men next to him on either side. The lenses of my gas mask kept fogging up, and the green gloom of the woods made it hard to see. I felt like my eyes were playing tricks on me. I would see movement ahead of me through the trees, but there was nothing there once we carefully advanced.

  We moved gradually forward, winding our way through the giant tree trunks, creepers and ferns. Our sight was sometimes limited to a few yards; we struggled to maintain contact with each other. We had only searched for a short time before Gunner called out to us.

  I pushed through the foliage to his position; the others were already there. Gunner was kneeling on the loam. He used his bayonet to lift a bloodstained, heavily rent shirt from the mud. It was mangled and dirty, but bits of green peeked through the stains.

  “It’s a scrub,” Gunner whispered. “It was one of ours.”

  We all stared at the dangling shirt. I tried to get my head around how it could have been damaged that badly. It looked like its previous owner had been run through a wood chipper.

  “I wonder what happened to the guy who was wearing it?” Jonesy muttered.

  “Nothing good,” I replied. “Bring that along, Gunner. Let’s keep on looking.”

  We resumed our search formation and pushed on through the forest. A little further on we crossed a trail and entered a small, overgrown glade. The remains of a badly corroded truck and an ancient backhoe lay rusting in the mud. They looked like they had been abandoned for a decade or more. A few tree stumps dotted the clearing, but nature had made short work of man’s progress, and the rain forest was quickly reclaiming the spot. These were common-place to us. Africa was a vast graveyard of abandoned equipment and failed ventures.

  We continued on with our circuit. I wasn’t sure how far around the village we had come, but we were turning to our left. The man closest to the village was supposed to keep it in his sight. Jonesy and I were the two men furthest out. Jonesy had drifted away until I could barely see him through the trees.

  I heard him yell. I stopped and shouted to everyone further down the line. My squad stopped and moved towards us.

  I struggled over to Jonesy; he was pointing further into the forest.

  “Guys! I’ve got a survivor!” Jonesy yelled. “It’s one of ours!”

  We all moved forward. Jonesy pointed into the trees. I could see someone emerging from the forest. I lowered my gun; it was a nurse in mud splattered, torn green scrubs. She staggered forward and stopped. Her face was a swollen
mass of bruises, and dried blood covered her tattered clothing. Patches of pale flesh showed through the rents in her scrubs, she was obviously wounded and in shock.

  “Hey!” Jonesy yelled. He slung his rifle and walked to her.

  She took a few faltering steps towards him and lifted her arms.

  “Get a medic!” Jonesy yelled. “She’s hurt bad!”

  Jonesy took the nurse by her arm. She turned and grappled with him. Her teeth sank into his shoulder, tearing through his chem suit like tissue paper. Jonesy’s screams were muffled by his gas mask. Blood spurted as they went down in a tangle of flailing limbs.

  “What the fuck?” Hard-on yelled. He leaped forward and grabbed the struggling nurse by her neck. He punched her in the head and flung her roughly aside.

  Jonesy struggled upright, one hand clamped to his lacerated shoulder. Blood ran freely through his fingers. “She fucking bit me!” he shrieked.

  The nurse slowly sat upright and began to crawl back towards Jonesy. A bloodcurdling moan came through her mangled lips. Her face was a snarling mask of blood.

  Without conscious thought I lifted my gun and fired. It was my soldier’s instinct that took over, reacting to a threat close at hand. I was only two yards from the nurse. I couldn’t miss. A three shot burst took her through the chest. The heavy rounds blew off her left breast and shattered her arm. She was thrown backwards into the mud.

  Hard-on took two steps towards me. He knocked my gun aside and roughly pushed me back.

  “Why are you shooting, Parsons?” he screamed into my face.

  “She attacked Jonesy!” I yelled back. “Fuck’s sake, man. Look at her!”

  “Guys!” Gunner shouted. We turned to look at him. He was pointing to the nurse.

  She slowly sat up and struggled to her feet, pushing herself up from the mud with her one good arm. I could see into her ribcage, her heart was gone, her vitals were shredded. She couldn’t possibly still be alive. She took three faltering steps towards us.