SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Fisher stood in the open turret of his M113 armoured personnel carrier, his arms resting casually on the hatch rim. The APC’s metal felt cool on his exposed arms; he preferred the enclosed T-50 turret to the open A-cav. 50 cal. Mount — too open to Charlie’s AKs. The five-vehicle troop stood line-ahead along the deep rutted road beneath the jungle canopy, their engines idling as a calming white-noise filled Fisher’s head-set. Although the jungle limited horizons, Fisher could feel the storm building somewhere ahead of them, rolling closer on footfalls of thunder through the mountains. He closed his eyes and faced its approach, his skin bristling with electricity as the sky gradually darkened. Fisher reluctantly opened his eyes again, ever aware of the suffocating jungle surrounding them, praying it would be kind to them on this bullshit mission just a day before Christmas.

“Special ops my ass,” he whispered, spitting over the side as he awaited orders on the troop’s next bound. He spat again, aware the taste in his mouth would never go away. It was the taste of this country, this war.

Fisher swung the turret around to see what was happening at the Lieutenant’s vehicle. The LT sat on the rim of his own turret hatch, going over a map with that CIA spook, Green. What sort of bullshit name is Sherwood Green anyway? Fisher wiped beads of perspiration from his face with the already saturated towel around his neck.

It seemed the only swinging dick in the unit who knew where they were going and why was Green himself, drip-feeding information in short bounds. All Fisher knew for sure was that they were bombed-up to the max with ammunition, which meant there was every chance of trouble ahead. In fact Panther Troop was the vanguard for a full regiment of main battle tanks shadowing them just five miles to the rear. That much muscle this far north could only mean a world of hurt for someone. Even though mission specs were minimal, Fisher nevertheless knew how to read a map, realising being this close to the Demilitarised Zone meant breaching a dozen different conventions before so much as even firing a shot.

Fisher noticed Green fold up his map and jump down from the vehicle. He also noticed the pained look on the LT’s face.

Keying the internal comms, Fisher said simply, “Heads-up boys, the spook’s heading this way. Looks like we’ve got our orders.”

“Hope he ain’t planning to ride with us,” said Pete Jenkins from the driver’s compartment up front. “I’m not in the mood for some office jockey on board.”

“Keep it to yourself, Trooper Jenkins,” replied Fisher. “I don’t care whether you respect the man, but I’ll kick your ass all the way to Hanoi Jane’s hut if you don’t respect his rank.”

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Jenkins offered. “It’s just that it’s Christmas Eve, man. Who the fuck pulls a mission on Christmas Eve?”

“Put a sock in it, Jenkins,” cut in Corporal Nathan Fry from the crew compartment below. Fry was effectively the vehicle’s 2-I–C, managing the radios and Troop logistics. “I’m sure Santa will find us way out here.”

Agent Green climbed up the front of Fisher’s vehicle and crouched beside the turret. “I’m riding with you, Sergeant.”

“It’s an honour to have you aboard, sir.”

“This is the last bound before our objective,” he said placing his map in front of Fisher and pointing to a ridgeline eight miles ahead. “Your vehicle will lead the troop in a line-ahead formation until we hit this stream.” He tapped the junction on the map with his finger. “We then follow the creek upstream through the low country until this clearing just short of the ridge where we can spread out into an arrowhead formation. You got it?”

Fisher took up his own map and drew a line along the route in pencil. “Got it,” he confirmed.

“This last bound is under strict radio silence. If anyone so much as keys a handset on our frequency, I’ll have them severely punished.”

“I understand, sir,” said Fisher, wondering what possible punishment would be worse than spending Christmas Eve in deep-J this far up Charlie’s ass. He yelled down at Fry in the belly of the vehicle. “Corporal, open the cargo hatch and let our guest on board.”

As the hatch swung open by Green’s feet, Fisher offered his thoughts. “Sir, I believe this storm is gonna hit hard. We may need the radios to keep the troop together.”

Green leered. “What part of radio fucking silence don’t you understand, Sergeant?” He circled his arm in the air to indicate they were moving out, and each vehicle responded with a rev of their engines. “If the troop breaks up for any reason, we rendezvous at the objective’s grid reference at 2200.”

“Got it,” replied Fisher, slipping his headsets back over his ears and keying the intercom as Green jumped down beside Fry in the cargo bay. “Let’s roll, Jenkins,” he said. “Follow this track in a line-ahead formation. We have the honour of riding point, followed by 1–2, 1-2-Bravo and 1-2-Charlie.”