SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Silence descended on the six of them. They’d followed this band of extremists for three days, picking up and losing their trail half a dozen times. He was tired even if the others were too hardass to admit it. Young Beaumont was like a puppy, on his first tour and desperate for a fight, but the others should know better. They’d all seen action to some degree. Coulthard more than most; the kind of guy who seemed like he’d been born in the middle of a firefight and come out carrying a weapon.

“Epsilon, this is Base. You’re sure this is where the insurgents went?”

“Affirmative. Dillman had them on long range scope. Trying to shake us off, I guess, going to ground.”

“Received. Proceed on your own initiative. Take ‘em if you can. They’ve got a lot of our blood on their hands. Can you confirm their numbers?”

“Eight of them, Base.”

“Received. Good luck.”

Spencer winked at the squad. “Received, Base. Over and out.” He unhooked his antenna and slung his pack.

“Okay, then,” Dillman said. He shifted grip on his rifle and dug around in his webbing, came up with a night sight and fitted it.

Brown sighed. No one was as good a shot as Dillman, even when he was tired and in the dark. But it didn’t give much comfort. “We’re not going to wait, are we?” he said.

Coulthard ignored him. “Pick it up, children. As there are no tracks in here,” he kicked at the hard stone floor, “we move slow and silent. Spencer, you’re mapping. I want markers deployed along the way.”

“Sarge.”

“Let’s go. Beaumont, you’re on point.”

“Yes, Sarge!”

“Slow and steady, Beaumont. And lower that weapon. No firing until I say so unless you’re fired on first.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

The kid sounded a little deflated and Brown was glad. Youth needed deflating. They fell into order and moved forward. Spencer placed an electronic marker and tapped the tablet he carried. It began to ping a location to help them find their way back.

It became cooler and the darkness almost absolute. The light that leaked through from outside couldn’t reach and blackness wrapped them up like an over-zealous lover.

“Night vision will be useless down here,” Coulthard said. “We’re going to have to risk torchlight. One beam, from point. Dillman, go infrared.”

“Way ahead of you,” Dillman said, and tapped his goggles. He moved up to stand almost beside Beaumont.

The young private clicked on his helmet lamp and light swept the space as he looked around. The passage was about five metres in an irregular diameter and as dry and cold as everything else they’d seen over the last few days. Dust motes danced in the torch beam, the scuff and crunch of their boots strangely loud in the confined space.

“All quiet from here on,” Coulthard said and waved Beaumont forward.

They fell into practised unison; moved with determined caution.

“I’m a glowing target up here,” Beaumont whispered nervously.

“That’s why the new boy takes point,” Coulthard said. A soft wave of giggles passed through the squad before the sergeant hushed them.

Dillman patted Beaumont on one shoulder. “I got your back, Donkey.”

Beaumont’s torch beam shot back into the group as he looked around. “Don’t call me that!”

Laughter rippled again. Brown grinned. Poor sap. Caught petting a donkey back in Kandahar, just a lonely kid far from home taking some comfort by hugging the soft, furry creature’s neck. Of course, he’d been spotted, photographed and by the time he got back to barracks the story had him balls deep in the poor animal.

“Enough!” Coulthard snapped. “Are we fucking professionals or not?”

Their mirth stilled and they crept forward again. The ground sloped downwards and Spencer paused every fifty yards or so to place a marker. After about three hundred yards the passage opened out into a wider cavern. Something was rucked up and definitely man-made on the far side.

Weapons instantly trained on it and Beaumont moved cautiously forward. “False alarm,” he called back after a moment, his voice relaxed and light. Relieved. “Someone’s been here, there are blankets, signs of a fire, an empty canteen. But it looks months old, at least.”

The squad relaxed slightly as Beaumont shone his torch in a wide arc, illuminating the cave. Nothing but rough, curved rock. A few small fissures striated the walls on one side, black gaps into the unknown, but nothing big enough for even a child to get through. On the far side, a larger gap yawned darkly, a tunnel leading away and down. Large rocks were scattered around the opening.

Coulthard nodded the squad forward.

“Looks like these have recently been moved,” Gladstone said.

Brown moved in to see better. “Looks like this passage was blocked up and those fuckers cleared the way.”

Dillman kicked at a couple of broken stones. “I guess they weren’t so keen to ambush us here and are looking for a better option.”

Brown shook his head. “Why would this passage have been blocked? And by who?”

“Emergency bolt hole they knew about?” Coulthard mused. “Move on.”