SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

PART ONE

The jungle has a presence. Sergeant Carl Fisher sensed it on his first tour of Vietnam two years ago. Now, nearing the end of his second tour in-country, he knew the jungle more intimately than anything back home in the States. It was a living thing, dark and secretive, a sprawling mass of ancient deep-rooted life. It can either protect, or kill, without prejudice. And it can hide things… for centuries.

It says a lot about a man who finds more meaning to life during war, than back home in downtown New Orleans. For a Southern black man, army life can be a whole lot easier than tending bar in the Blues quarter for minimum pay plus tips. Back home Fisher was nothing. A shadow; a noise; a memory. But here he was something; here he was Troop Sergeant of an armoured reconnaissance squadron, the thinking man’s armour, the spearhead of the main battle tanks and self-propelled artillery units of the 1^st Cavalry Regiment. Travel by night and spy by day. Panther Troop. First in, last out. Yeah, life here was easy once you learnt to respect the one fundamental rule.

We own the day, but Charlie owns the night.

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.”

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

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.

“Fuck-all, Sarge. I’ve got a white-out in front… The same over my right shoulder… And a whole lot of jungle slapping at my left periscope.”

“Maintain that position,” Fisher said, “and keep the speed steady. I’ve got slightly better visibility from up here, but it’s marginal. If you keep the foliage against our left hull it stands to reason we should still be on the road.” Fisher squinted against the forward turret window, constantly wiping condensation from the inside glass. “At this speed the jungle should make way for a clearing in about an hour or so. There we’ll steer left until we find that creek line.”

“Roger that, Sarge.”

“With a little luck this storm will pass over in no time.”

But it didn’t. The hour passed as darkness took hold, the only images outside captured as silhouettes against each lightning strike. That’s when the imagination turned on a man. That’s when you saw Charlie crouching in every shadow. We own the day… That’s when the promise of daylight was the only thing that made the night remotely bearable. They own the night. The hour quickly turned to two, then three, as they eventually stumbled across the now swollen creek and headed due north towards the cathedral site.

“Mr. Green?” Fisher said over the intercom. “Sir, I lost visual of the troop two hours ago, and strongly suggest we break radio silence momentarily to re-group.”

“No,” came Green’s stern reply. “I can’t risk the NVA intercepting our radio chatter, so we push on.”

“But, sir, the troop could be scattered all over this fucking grid. I believe we’d be stronger arriving in force and with some semblance of organisation.”

“Everyone knows their orders, Sergeant. If separated, meet at the RV at 2200. That’s just ten min—”

The vehicle collided with something outside, throwing Fisher against the .50 calibre machine gun’s breach and cutting his cheek. The engine revved in a violent burst as Jenkins’s weight fell against the accelerator with the impact before stalling. The interior lights flickered before going out as the headsets dwindled to total silence. There was only the sound of the torrential rain on the hull until Fisher eventually broke the silence.

“Everyone okay?” he called, wiping the blood from his cheek.

“Yeah,” came Jenkins’s laboured voice.

“A little shook up,” called Fry, “but I’ll live.”

“You okay back there, Mr Green?”

“What the fuck happened, Fisher? Where’s the fucking lights?”

“I’d say we’ve knocked a battery terminal off on impact, sir. Should be an easy fix.”

“Hey, Sarge?” Jenkins broke in. “You might want to see this.”

Fisher straightened. “What is it?”

“I can’t make out what we hit, but I think I see something moving out there. You might be better placed to see from the turret.”

Fisher braced himself against the .50’s breach, straining to see through the sheets of rain outside. A lightning flash briefly revealed an open landscape scattered with familiar shapes, but the multiple silhouettes also triggered a sense of denial. “What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath. Just then, something slapped against the turret’s forward window and Fisher instinctively pushed himself away from the glass with a startled gasp. He wrenched the cocking handle back on the .50 calibre and unlocked the turret rim, his thumbs held firmly against the rear trigger as he manually traversed the turret full-circle to scan the terrain outside.

Finally, with the gun facing forward again, Fisher paused, each heartbeat resonating in his ears. Unblinking, he waited for that next flash of lightning to illuminate the land outside. Breath held trembling in his lungs, he paused to confirm the image he thought he saw earlier. Fresh forks of lightning streaked across the sky to strike the ground beyond the surrounding tree line, briefly illuminating the scattered APCs in the clearing around them, their turrets pointing in all directions, gun barrels spent and motionless. As brief as the lightshow was, there was no mistaking the remaining troop vehicles outside – immobile, strewn in every direction, and not a sign of life.

“Green,” he called below. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like the rest of the troop made the rendezvous point ahead of us, sir.”

“How’s that a problem?”

“I don’t know that they’re in any shape to go on from here.”

“What the—”

Then the rain stopped.

It didn’t peter out gradually, but rather ceased in a heartbeat, the sudden silence becoming quickly unnerving until the sound of footsteps on the hull outside caught Fisher’s attention.

“Fuck,” he spat at a whisper, staring up at the inch and a half of metal over his head.

“There’s someone out there,” said Green, crouching at the base of the turret space.

“Maybe it’s one of our boys,” said Jenkins from the driver’s seat.

“No one opens a hatch until we can confirm who’s who, okay?” Fisher was adamant. He considered their situation for a moment before continuing, “Jenkins, we need power back ASAP. You can access the engine’s battery from the panel over your right shoulder. Reach in and check the terminals. If they’ve come away from the battery then hook us up again. If not, check the fuses.”

“I’m on it, Sarge.”

The footsteps, heavy and purposeful, continued above them.

“Fry,” he said at a whisper. “Now that the rain’s stopped I need you to set up the infrared imaging so I can see what we’re dealing with out there before we decide on our next move.”

“I’m afraid our next move is set in stone, Sergeant Fisher,” said Green in a firm, don’t-fuck-with-me voice. “Our next move is to secure that cathedral ahead of the NVA.”

“Not until we know what we’re dealing with, Mr Green! Not until I know who or what the fuck that is creeping around on my vehicle! Not until I know how many of our men are alive out there! We’re a long way from home, Mr Green, and fountain of fucking youth or no fountain of fucking youth, me and my boys are your only way in or out of this shit fight right now, you got it?”

With a brief flash of sparks from the driver’s compartment and an instinctive, “Shiiit!” from Jenkins, the lights came back up with a flicker. “We’ve got power back, Sarge.”

Fisher took a deep breath, staring Green down in the process. “Let’s just see what we’re up against, shall we, Mr Green.”

Whatever was moving around on the hull had paused a moment before trying the combat latch on Fisher’s turret hatch. Locked from within, it held fast, but somehow even the inch and a half of metal didn’t seem like enough armour between Fisher and whatever lurked outside. He switched from white-light to red and peered out through the narrow port window where something was moving around just left of the gun.

“Everyone at their stations,” he ordered. “I’m gonna fire a few warning rounds. Jenkins, switch to infrared just as soon as I cease fire so I can see what’s going on out there.” He grasped the dual handles of the gun and placed both thumbs firmly on the trigger ready to fire. “Here we go,” he breathed, folding down the infrared screen in front of the forward window before firing.

The sound and reverberation of the gun bounced throughout the hull as a stream of hot cartridge cases clattered to the floor plate around Fisher’s boots. After a short burst he peered out through the window in time to make out the figure of a man lumbering away towards the bordering tree line.

As the cordite haze lifted outside, the IR beams unveiled a scene of devastation. The troop APCs, glistening wet from the storm, were scattered all over the clearing, no reason to their positions, no defensive tactics evident at all. If this was an ambush, then it was swift and savage. Each vehicle’s ramps and combat hatches remained wide open and exposed, their engines still idling, their crews strewn everywhere, bodies contorted and void of life. Fisher slowly traversed the turret to his left as the IR beam revealed the same scene all around. The bodies closest had no bullet holes or shrapnel damage, but rather deep cuts and gouges, a number of them decapitated.

“What do you see out there?” asked Green.

“They’re all dead,” Fisher said.

“NVA?”

“Maybe, but I can’t see any unfriendlies dead or alive, just our boys. What’s real strange is there doesn’t appear to be any bullet wounds in the bodies or signs of anti-armour damage to the vehicles. Charlie doesn’t normally leave this kind of signature.”

“Montegnard?” questioned Green. “Maybe one of the tribes decided to turn on us.”

“The Montegnard are mountain militia,” Fisher reminded him. “And besides, we’re too far north for them.” Fisher sighed deeply, thinking about Green’s story of 400-year-old crusaders. “So much for preparing for anything, Mr Green.”

PART THREE

Less than an hour shy of Christmas, the moon – near enough to full – had risen well above the tree line surrounding the clearing. It was a hunter’s moon, high and bright, casting shadows and reflecting off the damp, rain-beaten surfaces.

Having moved the APC to a suitable exit point by the creek line, Green and Fisher made the call to push on by foot to the temple while Fry and Jenkins locked-down and secured the area for their return. This meant setting up ground radar, claymores on the perimeter and maintaining contact with the main battle tanks on route behind them. If Fisher and Green could determine the enemy’s strength, then perhaps they could avoid a similar fate for the MBTs when they arrived.

A mere ten steps beyond the tree line and their APC was out of sight, the jungle enveloping them in a darkness broken only by the intermittent spears of moonlight piercing the canopy above. They trod softly, carefully, for Charlie owns the night. Charlie… or whatever the fuck had ambushed Panther Troop back there.

They stumbled across a well-used trail heading north-west and flanked it from the shadows keeping about 6-feet to the left in case of trip wires or traps of any kind. It was slow going, both men conscious of time passing with every heartbeat. Then, seeing the silhouette of a man on the trail ahead, Fisher stopped and went to ground, Green doing the same as the man crawled along beside him.

“What do you make of that?” whispered Fisher.

“Look at the helmet,” said Green. “Looks like NVA to me.”

“The gook’s just standing there.”

Fisher dug through his webbing for the binoculars, raising them to his eyes as he focused on the silhouette. “It’s a North Vietnamese Reg all right. But he’s not gonna be any trouble.’ He passed the binoculars to Green as he stood.

“Dead?” asked Green as he peered through the glass. Then, in answering his own question. “Oh, yeah. He’s dead.”

They stepped carefully up to the body, the only thing keeping the morbid scarecrow upright being the spear plunged down through his skull and torso into the ground.

“Jesus-H-Christ! What kinda force does it take to do that to a man?” Fisher’s eyes were fixed on the tortured death mask of the NVA officer before him. “This is my second tour here Mr Green, and I ain’t never seen shit like this.”

“The Guardians,” said Green soberly. “It’s got to be the Guardians. Crusaders sent here to—” Fisher placed the palm of his hand across Green’s mouth, guiding him down to their knees just as the approaching sound of heavy footfalls commenced ahead. They backed away from the trail and into the jungle, low and silent, melding with the shadows. Breathlessly they waited and watched, the only living witnesses to the Guardians’ existence.

Marching in two perfect columns along the narrow track, the hunters’ moon broke through the jungle canopy enough to make out details of their sunken skeletal features, the flesh of their faces like dry parchment, their eyes pale, unblinking orbs beneath their helmets and chainmail. The Guardians’ tattered tunics bore multiple stains, although the broad cross of St George was still discernable across their chest plates; their armour rusted and beaten after centuries of battle damage. The absolute precision to their marching was amazing, their heads held high and facing towards the fight; shields held close to their left shoulder; broadswords clasped in their right gauntlet with one intent. To kill.

Fisher waited until the column had passed before keying his radio handset. “1-2-Alpha, this is Sunray.” He waited for a replay from the APC, Green and he just looking at each other in a mix of disbelief and wonder.

“This is 1-2-Alpha, Sunray,” came Fry’s voice. “Sarge, is that you?”

“Alpha, yeah, it’s me. Prepare for company. You have a hundred plus heading your way.”

“One hundred plus what are heading this way?”

“Guardians, Fry,” said Fisher. “Green’s story is true, every fucking word of it, and they’ll be in your location any time now. If they break into the clearing take out the second line with Claymores, and pepper the first line with phosphorus grenades from the turret launchers.”

“Got it, Sarge. Anything else?”

“Do we have an ETA on the tanks yet?”

“Thirty minutes or so, Sarge.”

“Then you and Jenkins fight the good fight from inside that bucket of ours until the MBTs arrive, got it? If you exit that vehicle you won’t stand a chance.”

“Got it, Sarge. Good luck out there.”

“Sunray out,” Fisher said, trying to imagine what might be happening back at the vehicle. Like the single blimp appearing on the ground radar as the Guardians broke cover. As two blimps turn to four, then eight then sixteen while their numbers multiplied before their eyes.

“We need to move,” said Green tapping his watch face.

“Yeah,” said Fisher. “Can’t miss Christ’s birthday and all.”

Passing the speared scarecrow, they made their way towards the cathedral site as the pop-pop-pop sound of claymore mines firing back at the clearing echoed through the undergrowth. The jungle trail progressively became strewn with the bloodied bodies of Vietnamese soldiers, cut to pieces and making the muddy trail blood-red underfoot. A little further on they heard the .50 calibre open fire back at the vehicle; and a little further again, they broke through the jungle to find themselves standing before the Guardian’s fortress.

The building was magnificent, a medieval cathedral façade carved into the towering rock face before them. The centuries were evident, with tendrils of thick vines hanging down from their hosts above the cliff above, inching their way around the twin spires, strangling each gargoyle poised along the parapet. A wide cascade of stairs narrowed at the large arched doorway, many steps occupied by dead NVA soldiers, their blood still running in rivulets.

“It looks unguarded,” whispered Green.

“I find that hard to believe,” said Fisher scanning the open door and parapets above.

“Hard to believe or not, the clock’s ticking, Fisher. We need to get in there. I need samples, proof, something to take back. Something to save this fucking mission.”

“I’d be happy to save our asses right now, but I guess we’re committed.” Fisher took a deep breath. “Follow me, Mr Green. You cover the door and windows; I’ll cover the positions up top. Let’s go.”

They walked slowly, making their way around the bodies on the staircase until they stood before the open door unchallenged. Stepping inside, they could barely make out the long corridor that led to a chamber carved into the stone ahead, the dim glow from a number of flaming torches their only light. They backed up to a wall each and made their way towards the chamber where they eventually saw what they had come for. A pool of crystal-clear water. Green checked his watch as midnight rolled in, the day of Christ’s birth. For a brief moment he looked concerned – then it happened.

Just as it was written, the spring-fed water began cascading down from a small cavity in the wall behind it.

“Merry Christmas, Sergeant Fisher,” said Green with a smile as he took the sample vials from his map pocket and stepped toward the spring. “The tanks are coming and there’s my fountain… Mission saved,” he said, just as an arrow pierced his throat. He dropped the vials, all smashing on the floor as he clutched at the embedded arrow.

Fisher opened fire with his M16, spraying sporadically, uncertain as from where the arrow had come. Still clutching desperately at his throat, Green eventually fell to the floor as a second arrow entered his back, life ebbing away until his eyes glassed over with his last rattled breath.

Then Fisher saw the lone Guardian, an archer crouching in the passageway, pulling back on his bow once more. Fisher opened up the M16 again, but it was too late. The arrow flew straight and true, piercing Fisher’s shoulder with white-hot pain. He staggered back with the impact as the archer loaded yet another arrow, but not before emptying his last rounds into the creature. The Guardian’s chainmail shattered in places with the bullets’ impact, but with little effect to the ancient warrior. The creature’s way was clear now as Fisher staggered back to the edge of the spring. He watched as the Guardian pulled back on its bow; watched as the arrow sliced the air and entered his chest, forcing him back into the cool water of the spring.

He lay motionless in the shallow water as he felt his life drain slowly from his body, the pain from the arrows numbing with every weakening heartbeat. He thought about New Orleans, about the people he cared for, about his men back at the clearing. But Fisher couldn’t help them now, couldn’t avenge the defeat of Panther Troop.

Or could he?

Then, knowing he had nothing to lose and everything to gain, Fisher opened his mouth and let the water enter his body.

Immediately he felt something surge through his being. More than a life force rushing his body, this was power, never-ending and all-consuming. The pain was gone, and with it, an overwhelming sense of revenge, of finishing the mission he was sent on. He had their sample now. Hell, he was their fucking sample!

Fisher stood, knee deep in the cool spring waters, fists clenched, eyes wide, as the ancient power filled his being. The Fisher of old was no longer. The poor black boy from New Orleans; tending smoky bars; eventually commanding a recon troop here in the Nam; all gone, replaced with a power and knowledge older than the pyramids. And now, there was only the mission left. He stared into the dark voids that were once the lone Guardian’s eyes, sensing it knew the balance of power had just shifted. Fisher tore the two arrows from his body without effort, each wound closing without a scar. He stepped from the spring, the two arrows raised high as he marched towards the archer with brutal intent.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said to the creature, knowing that he would tear its parchment body apart with nothing but the arrowheads and his bare hands. “You’ve grown weak, soldier.”

EPILOGUE

Captain Mulgrave’s tank was the first to break ground through to the clearing ahead of his troop. The M48 main battle tank powered across the creek line and halted ahead of the carnage before it, tracks ploughing into the soft earth, turret traversing left and right as Mulgrave scanned the area. Each MBT fell into position beside their troop leader, Cadillac Gage engines growling like the hunter killers they were, ready to strike. But at what?

Mulgrave’s heart still pounded in his chest as he stared through the gun sight at Panther Troop’s armoured personnel carriers scattered motionless across the clearing, the multitude of bodies strewn everywhere. His last radio contact with the remaining APC was thirty minutes ago, and as he listened to the ensuing battle it slowly became evident that the lone troopers had little to no chance after defending their vehicle to the last. The MBTs spared nothing to get to the rendezvous point, charging line-ahead like the modern cavalry they were towards the besieged Panther Troop. However, after the turmoil of battle, the last transmission became abruptly calm, as if the crew were suddenly resolved to their fate.

“We’re done for, Captain,” came Trooper Jenkins voice. “That’s the last of the ammo and now they’re all over us… forcing the hatches…” There was a spasm of static before the transmission was cut, but not before a curious final statement. “What the fuck,” said Jenkins. “Out there… Who is that…?” Then nothing but dead air hissing in Mulgrave’s headsets.

The jungle surrounding the clearing was eerily quiet and still when they arrived, as if pausing for breath. Mulgrave continued staring through his gun sight, everything clear beneath the bright hunter’s moon.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself. Reaching up, he unlatched the combat lock of his turret hatch and opened up, standing in the hatch ring, witness to the carnage. The moonlight glistened off the tarnished surface of the mummified soldier’s armour, their bodies torn apart, scattered among the dead of Panther Troop, their weapons and shields broken and discarded.

“Je-sus,” he whispered again, ordering his gunner to switch on the searchlight.

The light beam fell on Sergeant Carl Fisher’s vehicle, the image strangely bizarre and surreal. Clearly exhausted, Jenkins and Fry were slumped atop the stricken APC, their arms raised over their eyes against the tank’s harsh searchlight. But Fisher, an upturned Guardian’s helmet in one hand, clear water lapping the rim from time to time, and a broadsword clasped tightly in his other hand, stared directly into the light without blinking. The mummified bodies of the forgotten crusaders were piled all around the vehicle, pyramiding to where Fisher stood victorious atop his vehicle.

“You’re a little late,” cried Fisher. He raised the helmet full of spring water above his head. “I have our sample,” he said. He then brandished the sword over the killing ground surrounding him before pulling the handle back to his chest in a bizarre salute. “And so much more, Captain,” he added.

As Mulgrave searched for words, each of the other tank commanders surfaced from behind their armour, their bleak expressions mirrors to the battlefield’s bloodshed.

“How?” It was all Mulgrave could utter.

Fisher just smiled. “Eight-hundred years can take a lot out of a soldier,” he said. “They’d grown slow, and in the end, weary.” Fisher raised the sword over his head and roared, the sound echoing through the jungle. It was part challenge; part warning. “WE OWN THE NIGHT!”