Predator

by James A. Moore

  The ease with which it passed through the man’s body was terrifying. Dunkirk didn’t even scream as the disc sliced through his body armor and chest as though they were no more substantial than mist, erupting from his back in a burst of blood and internal organs. As the disc, trailing gore, shot back up into the trees like a bird of prey returning to its handler, Dunkirk’s legs simply folded beneath him and his body dropped gracelessly to the ground, nothing but a man-shaped bag of meat.

  Two dead and two injured. Only six of them left now. As well as Dutch, Angus, Brand, Cook and their youngest member, Dorantes, who was only twenty-six, there was Nick Faraday, a thirty-five-year-old English ex-Para, who had been working as a merc in Gaza when Dutch had first met him. Faraday had been the first man that Dutch and Angus had recruited onto their team, and it was Faraday now whose gunfire followed the flight of the disc that had killed Dunkirk up into the leafy canopy overhead.

  Faraday was a great shot, but it was almost certainly more luck than judgment that enabled him to hit his target with such accuracy. There was a rattling screech of pain from the trees overhead, and suddenly the Hunter was tumbling from its perch for the second time that night. Its clawed hands clutched ineffectually at passing clumps of foliage as it crashed and slithered downwards, its slim, dark-skinned body bouncing off tree branches as it descended, haltingly but inevitably, to the ground below.

  It hit the sloping ground on the far side of the stream and lay there, its curved back rising and falling rapidly as it gasped with pain and exhaustion. Where Faraday’s bullets had hit it and how close it was to death, Dutch had no idea. He also had no idea which of its weapons were still in its possession and operational.

  Faraday was still standing at the water’s edge, his gun trained on the stricken creature. Behind him, Dutch rose slowly and pointed his gun at it too. He was aware of Angus, over to his right, leaning out from behind the tree where he had taken cover and pointing his grenade launcher at it. If it hadn’t been for the stream between themselves and their prey, Dutch might have ordered the men to rush in and annihilate the creature before it could recover. But because the stream was so fast-flowing, he didn’t want to risk them stumbling, floundering; didn’t want to hand any sort of advantage back over to their enemy.

  Was that a mistake? Should he have been less cautious? He guessed he would never know. What he did know was that life and death rested on split-second decisions made at crucial moments, and if you got those decisions wrong there was no point beating yourself up about it. Hindsight was a curse, but it was also a waste of time.

  Maybe when the Hunter flopped over onto its back and screamed its rage and pain into the air, Dutch should have taken it out; maybe they all should have. But he wanted to be sure, wanted to get a clear shot and see the light go out of the thing’s eyes. And so he crept closer, moving toward where Faraday was standing.

  He was still some meters away when the Hunter abruptly sat up. A moment later all hell broke loose.

  As the alien faced them, its shoulder cannon swiveled, seeking the trajectory of whatever had hit it. Instantly realizing the danger he was in, Faraday took aim and fired, scoring a perfect hit on his target. The three rounds hit the alien in the shoulder, the side of its throat, and blew its half-raised left hand into glowing green confetti. But by then it was already too late.

  At almost the same moment that Faraday pulled his trigger, the shoulder cannon fired too, its first blast smashing into the tree directly next to Faraday and exploding outwards, sending him flying through the air. Even before he hit the ground, the cannon was swiveling and firing again, two more lightning bolts scoring a direct hit on his body and blowing him apart like a clay pigeon on a skeet range.

  No doubt aware that it would either die from its injuries or become a captive of creatures to which it considered itself superior, the Hunter had clearly decided to go out in a blaze of glory. And go out it did, because no sooner was Faraday dead than the alien was dead too, its already wounded body torn to shreds by the combined gunfire of four Heckler and Koch MP5s and a grenade launcher.

  Its death was no less spectacular than Faraday’s, its body an eruption of luminous green blood and unrecognizable chunks of meat. When the gunfire ceased, the Hunter was spread over a wide area, parts of it even dripping from the trees, its glowing green blood turning the jungle into a kind of Halloween grotto.

  The instant it was over, Dutch slumped, feeling exhausted, his body starting to hurt. He looked around at the remainder of his team and wondered if he looked as dazed and shattered as they did. Intrinsically they had done nothing wrong, but for all that, the mission had turned into something of a disaster. Three men dead, two injured, was far too high a price to pay for what had been achieved.

  Fuck, he thought. Fuck-fuck-fuck!

  Working almost on automatic pilot, they crossed the stream and gathered up the mangled remains of the alien, sealing them in a body bag. They also scoured the jungle floor for every piece of equipment it had had in its possession, picking up every shard, every sliver of metal, no matter how insignificant. Finally, they gathered up the remains of their friends and colleagues, and sealed what was left of them into body bags too. They worked quickly and efficiently, and exchanged very few words.

  By the time they were done, there was little evidence that a battle had ever taken place. The fires from the various explosions had been doused by the rain, the blood – both human and alien – had been washed away, and the jungle was so thick that even the shattered trees and the fallen debris were barely noticeable among the foliage. Hauling their grim cargo, the men began to trudge back toward the camp where they had left Pablo and Jameson, still watchful of their surroundings.

  “I’ve radioed for a pick-up,” Angus said, falling into step beside Dutch. “And I’ve let Garber know what happened here. A couple of his guys are going to rendezvous with us at H12.”

  Dutch nodded. It was all routine stuff, but it needed saying. “You called in a cleanup crew?”

  “Yep.”

  “Warn them it’s a hot zone, in case one of those things is still out there.”

  Angus glanced at his friend and boss. “You think one is?”

  “No. If it were it would already be hunting us.” His voice was bitter.

  Angus said, “Dutch…”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s not my fault. Except it is my fault, Angus. It’s always my fault. They were good men.”

  “They were.”

  * * *

  It was not raining back at Hangar 12. In fact, it was the kind of cool, clear, fresh evening that seemed to hover almost exactly at the midpoint between winter and summer. It was four months now since Scott’s run-in with the MIBs, and he had been half-waiting for the ax to fall ever since.

  Not that he was unduly worried. He had the support of his superior officers, and he knew he hadn’t done anything they could punish him for. All the same, he had no doubt that the MIBs could make trouble for him if they really put their minds to it. Fortunately they seemed to have bigger fish to fry. For now.

  His most worrying moment had come the following morning. Although New Year’s Day had been designated an official vacation for “the Brotherhood,” Scott had received a summons to Captain Parker’s office right after breakfast. Indeed, the summons had arrived courtesy of a couple of mean-looking MPs, who had not only accompanied him to the Captain’s office, but had stood right outside during his interview, as if they expected him to make a run for it.

  The mood had been hard to read at first. Captain Parker, in full uniform, had been seated behind his desk, grim-faced, and Sergeant Wilson, who was standing to attention just behind Parker’s left shoulder, was equally inscrutable. As Scott stepped into the office and saluted, he tried to catch Sarge’s eye and couldn’t. Only when the MPs had stepped outside the door and closed it did Sarge eventually look at him.

  “You do like stirring the shit pot, don’t you, Devlin?” he said, his voice low and edgy, as always.

/>   Scott stared at him, trying to work out how to play this. The truth was, he was a good and dedicated soldier who put in extra hours to improve himself as much as possible, and the Sarge knew this.

  “No, Sergeant,” he said eventually.

  It was Captain Parker who spoke next, and his voice was soft. “Want to tell us what happened last night?”

  Okay, so either the MIBs had put in an official complaint about him, or someone had seen last night’s footage and flagged it up. Scott wasn’t surprised he was being asked to explain his actions. Violent confrontations between different factions within the potential pressure cooker of H12 couldn’t simply be ignored. The real question, though, was what the agenda was here. Was this a token gesture to appease the MIBs? Was it a rap on the knuckles? Or was something more serious going on?

  “I was heading back to my quarters after seeing in the New Year. I was a little drunk and needed some air, so I went out back and looked at the stars for a while, then came back in and took the most direct route from there, past the storage units. In a public corridor, accessible to all base personnel, I came across a group of… non-military personnel. They appeared to be discussing the contents of an open storage box, and when they saw me they confronted me, and accused me of being where I was not supposed to be. I attempted to apologize and told them I simply wanted to go to bed, which is when they became aggressive. One of them tried to attack me, and so I subdued him using the minimum amount of force. When another member of the group tried to attack me, I defended myself, sir.”

  “By punching him in the throat?” said Sarge.

  “It was more of a jab than a punch, sir.”

  “Don’t split hairs, Devlin!” barked Sarge.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Parker pursed his lips and blew out a long sigh.

  “The good news? The video feed of the incident backs your statement. You handled yourself well in a difficult situation, and did not, as far as I am concerned, use excessive force. I see no wrongdoing on your part, Devlin.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Scott.

  “The bad news? You made someone high on the chain of command around here very angry.”

  Silence followed his statement. Scott glanced at Sarge and thought he saw the man’s lips twitch. In amusement? It was impossible to tell, but at least it gave him the courage to speak.

  “So what happens now, sir?”

  Parker fixed him with a stare that, although it conveyed little, gave Scott no doubt that his superior officer was on his side.

  “As far as I’m concerned? Not a damned thing. As I have already said, video footage backs up your account, and as such there has been no wrongdoing on your part.” He laced his hands together and leaned forward. “But keep your eyes out for these guys, Devlin. In future, avoid them at all costs. They are people you do not want targeting you.”

  Scott nodded. “Next time I’ll turn right around and walk the other way, sir.”

  “That would be wise.” The Captain looked down at the papers on his desk and then deliberately slid them to one side. “Now get out of here.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Scott had left the office trying not to smile. It felt good to know that someone had his back. Since then he had kept his head down and had suffered no repercussions from that night. On the rare occasions when he had seen MIBs around the base, he had studiously ignored and avoided them. That didn’t mean he hadn’t written down everything that had occurred in his little red book, though. Indeed, he had recorded it all as soon as he got back to his quarters that night, while it was still fresh in his mind and he could remember every detail. He had even made sketches of the items he had glimpsed in the strong box, and had speculated on their link to the gauntleted arm he had seen in LA almost three years earlier. He knew how dangerous it was to have the results of his curiosity recorded so blatantly, and how difficult it would be to explain his motivations if his journal were ever found. But he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the notes. His jottings were the only way of stopping his thoughts from eating him up inside. Maybe one day he would have answers to all his questions, and his little red book would no longer be important to him. But until that day he would keep recording his thoughts in it. In Scott’s view, his peace of mind was worth the risk of discovery.

  It was just coming up to midnight, and Scott had been for yet another late-night run. He thumped to a stop not far from where he had looked up at the stars in the earliest hours of the brand-new millennium, sweat trickling down his face and causing his running vest to stick to his back. He did what he had done that night four months ago, and looked up into the night sky. But on this occasion, despite how cool and clear the air felt at ground level, cloud cover obscured all but the very brightest of stars.

  He was about to head indoors to take a shower when he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a helicopter engine. He peered into the sky, but it was a minute or more before he saw the green, red and white fuselage lights burning through the murk overhead. There were frequent daily arrivals at H12 (and just as many departures), but not usually at this time, and Scott, in typical fashion, found himself wondering who could be arriving at such a late hour, and why.

  He wondered if it was another group of government suits. If so, it might be wise to make himself scarce. But then he felt a surge of defiance. No, why should he? He had every right to be here, and besides, they could hardly accuse him of spying on them when he had been here first.

  All the same, he decided that if he did see any of the guys he’d encountered on New Year’s Eve stepping out of the chopper, he wouldn’t hang around. Captain Parker had told him to “avoid them at all costs,” which, it could be argued, had been a direct order.

  He watched the helicopter descend, realizing how conspicuous he was in his white vest. To make it clearer that his presence here was simply a coincidence, he bent forward, hands on knees, as if he’d just this minute finished his run and was still recovering from his exertions. He squinted as the chopper touched down on one of the helicopter pads some distance away, the wind created by the rotors ruffling his hair and blowing dust into his face. After a moment the chopper door opened and a bunch of men got out wearing army fatigues.

  Not MIBs then. Soldiers.

  There were five of them on their feet and another two that were lowered carefully down onto wheeled stretchers. A couple of the guys took possession of four more wheeled stretchers, and then four black body bags were passed down and laid one on each stretcher. Even from a distance, Scott could tell that the bodies in those bags were not intact. In fact, from the way the weight fell, it was clear they were very far from intact. He wondered what had happened, what battle these men had come from. He half-recognized them, especially the older guy with the bodybuilder’s physique. He’d seen them off and on around H12, a team of ten, who kept themselves very much to themselves and never spoke to anybody.

  Suddenly it occurred to him. A team of ten? Was that right? He scoured his memory and was almost certain that it was. He remembered thinking to himself on a couple of occasions that ten was a neat and compact number.

  But if there were five fit and able guys here, plus two injured and four in body bags, then who was the eleventh member? An ally from another team? An enemy? But why bring back the body of an enemy? It didn’t make sense.

  The men were approaching him now, all but the big guy pushing one of the wheeled trolleys. They were a tough-looking bunch, but they looked haggard, exhausted, their uniforms filthy, and even from this distance Scott could smell the stench of battle – smoke, blood and sweat – that came off them. They literally looked – and smelled – as if they’d been through Hell.

  Scott started to feel uncomfortably like a voyeur. It was clear these men had suffered, clear they had lost guys they undoubtedly thought of as brothers, and all he could do was stand and stare like some rubbernecker at a traffic accident. He took a swig from his water bottle to cover his embarrassment, and as the big guy came parall
el with him, he stood up straight and saluted.

  It was a spur of the moment thing. A gesture of respect, of acknowledgement. Their leader – Dutch, Scott suddenly thought; he remembered one of the guys saying he thought the big guy’s name was Dutch – stared at him hard, maybe even with curiosity… and then he saluted right back.

  In that moment when their eyes met, Scott felt something – recognition? A sense of déjà vu? – and then the moment passed. The big guy walked on without uttering a word, and his team, pushing the stretchers, trailed after him. A couple of them glanced at Scott, and when they did he exchanged nods with them. Scott noted that one of them, a big black guy with a pattern of swirls shaved into the side of his head, had a strong box strapped to his back, not as big as the one full of what appeared to be medieval weapons that the MIBs had had in their possession, but pretty hefty all the same. He wondered what was in it. Doubtless something they’d picked up from whichever battlefield they’d just come from. He wondered too whether the contents of that box, whatever it was, would interest those asshats from the government. He hoped so. He hoped so because it was in Dutch’s possession, and not theirs, and Scott instinctively felt that if he ever had to choose between Dutch’s team and the MIBs, he’d choose Dutch’s team.

  Every time.

  * * *

  “Seriously, though, buddy. I can’t pretend I’m happy about this.”

  Scott squinted at Marcus through the steam rising from both their coffee cups. He understood his friend’s shock and disappointment, was even a little touched by his reaction.

  “Not even for me?” he asked.

  Marcus leaned back and sighed. His conflicting thoughts were evident on his handsome face.