SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

The vehicle lurched forward, tracks protesting until finding traction in the soft earth. The troop pushed forward, ever aware of the dying light; ever aware of the approaching storm. Charlie owns the night, Fisher reminded himself, glancing over his shoulder from time to time to check the LT’s position in the convoy. He also checked on Green below. Constantly studying the map and his watch, Green finally keyed his intercom as the first few drops of rain hit the vehicle’s armour.

“As soon as the daylight’s gone, Fisher, we go to infrared. No white light.”

“I figure that’s about the same time this storm’s gonna hit, sir. Unfortunately the IR doesn’t cut through rain.”

Green sighed. “It is what it is, Sergeant. IR or no IR, you get this troop to the objective by 2200 tonight.”

“Will do, sir. But for the record, don’t you think it’s about time the crew knew what we’re doing this far north? I mean, we’re carrying enough ammo to take down a small city, so it’s more than just a taxi service. We’re just an hour or so from the RV and we still don’t have any final orders.”

Green sighed again, and Fisher thought he was in for a mouthful of abuse. But he was wrong.

“Okay,” Green said with a little reluctance. “Your LT’s got the full mission orders now, and the Delta Team travelling with Tail End Charlie has been briefed since the mission’s launch point. We’re bombed up because frankly we don’t know what to expect, so we’ve prepared for anything.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“Yeah, well, our intelligence advises that a regiment of North Vietnam Regulars are also pushing towards our objective from Hanoi.”

“That explains why it’s so time-critical,” said Fisher. “But what exactly are we in this race for? What’s the prize?”

“Okay, Fisher, I don’t care how open-minded you are, so just take what I’m about to say as gospel; as the culmination of five years intelligence and well-founded ground work. Men have died getting this information to the Pentagon, and if the information is true, then we may all be about to enter the history books.”

Fisher looked the CIA man in the eyes, realising suddenly just how high on Washington’s agenda this mission was. He nodded his agreement just as the cool air ahead of the storm-front squeezed through the jungle in a bluster.

“There’s an eight-hundred-year-old temple just inside the southern boundary of the demilitarised zone. And if intelligence is correct, this temple houses something that could not only change the course of this war, but ensure victory of any future war the United States may find itself in.” Green took a moment, realising the light rain on his face was gradually getting heavier. “This temple is the source of a subterranean spring that is said to only run for the course of twenty-four hours once a year.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Fisher, squinting against the driving rain. “Christmas day, right.”

“Yeah,” said Green. “Christmas day.”

“So what has an eight-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple got to do with Christ’s birthday?”

“The temple isn’t Buddhist,” Green said. “It’s Roman Catholic.”

“Catholic?”

“Yeah. We believe it’s one of the furthest outposts of the 4th Crusade, where newly discovered Vatican documents suggest the Crusaders discovered a spring that only flows on the anniversary of Christ’s birth. So now you see the absolute urgency behind this mission. It’s said this spring will bestow immortality and unearthly strength to whoever drinks the water, and was said to have been used to make a super army that devastated all before it in this region. The site was promptly made sacred and secret, the Holy Roman Empire building a fortress-like temple around it in 1204.”

“Don’t tell me we’re here to take on an army of eight-hundred-year-old Crusaders?’

Green obviously didn’t appreciate Fisher’s cynicism. “They call them the Guardians,” he answered stony faced. “And like I said, we don’t know what to expect, so we’ve prepared for the worst.”

Fisher simply nodded his understanding then keyed off the intercom, muttering to himself, “Great. We’re about to fight Charlie and the Vatican for the fountain of fucking youth.”

PART TWO

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness”

Martin Luther King, Jr.

It sounded like a charging bull through the foliage. Even over the engine’s reverberation and the constant hiss of the headsets, Fisher could hear the force of the rain-front rolling in, clawing at the jungle’s face like a thrashing beast, roaring until it hit in a torrent.

Fisher lowered his seat as he keyed the intercom. “Close down, driver. You too, Fry.” Fisher reached up and closed his own turret hatch, water dripping from the seals until he fastened the combat lock. “How’s your visibility up front, Jenkins?”

“Near enough to zero, Sarge.”

“Push-on, Sergeant!” Green’s voice was distinctive over the intercom.

“What can you see?” Fisher asked his driver.