The Protector

4

The swamp is my friend, Braddock insisted to himself.

Holding his M-16 above his head, wading through the cold chest-high water, pulling his combat boots out of muck, he repeated the mantra his survival instructors had drilled into him long ago when he'd joined the Rangers.

The swamp is my friend.

A lot had happened since then. Braddock had been through combat in Grenada, Panama, Iraq, Afghanistan, and in numerous unpublicized missions, often in jungles. Now he was an instructor, and as he slogged through the darkness, leaning slightly forward to compensate for his sixty-pound pack, he hoped that every man in his squad had made "The swamp is my friend" their mantra, as well.

The alligators are my friends.

The snakes are my friends Don't think.

Just repeat it and believe it.

Ignoring what felt like a sunken log that shifted under him, nearly causing him to lose his balance, Braddock focused on those words to live by, hoping that his men would also.

They'd been in the swamp for three hours, with another two to go. You're more than halfway through, Braddock wanted to assure them, but he couldn't. This exercise was being conducted under strict voice silence. Even their radio transmissions every half hour to their companion squad a quarter mile away were voiceless, composed of electronic pulses. As a further deprivation, none of them wore night-vision goggles, on the theory that sophisticated equipment was a luxury they shouldn't rely on.

The darkness is my friend.

This night had been chosen because it didn't have a moon. As a bonus, thick clouds from yesterday's storm lingered, blotting out the stars. Hulks of dead trees loomed in the darkness, gray against black, only the slightest gradations at the lowest end of the light spectrum providing an indication of Braddock's surroundings. Under such sightless conditions, the streaks of green-and-black camouflage grease on their faces might have seemed unnecessary, but Braddock had warned them to plan for every contingency, saying that even on a night mission, camouflage grease was mandatory.

His drenched, cold uniform clung to his legs, hips, and chest. He saw a slight glow ahead as the squad's scout checked a luminous compass and shifted direction, the other men following. Braddock would have to discipline him for that, confine him to barracks, make him run extra miles. I shouldn't have seen the glow from the compass, he thought. A sniper out there would have seen it, too.

Despite the insect repellant Braddock wore, mosquitoes settled on his face, drawing blood, making him itchy. He ignored them. Insects are my friends.

He listened to the ripple of water as his squad waded onward through the barely visible dead trees. His upraised M-16 cramped his arms. The fetid swamp rose to his neck. Under the water, something nudged against his left side. He smelled rotting vegetation.

He shivered.

That troubled him. Accustomed to much worse conditions, Braddock accused himself of starting to lose his edge.

A gray mist drifted over him, a pungent odor beginning to irritate his nostrils. As the water felt colder, he shivered harder. But the numbness in his legs and the tightness in his chest didn't matter. More important things occupied him.

Any second now, Braddock thought.

His sense of timing was perfect. Overhead, flares burst. Haloed by smoke, their harsh light pierced the darkness. Brad-dock's men stared up in surprise, the descending glares reflecting off the scummy water. Although Braddock had known about the flares, he'd been under orders not to tell his men.

Anticipate.

Don't be surprised by anything.

Part of the point of the exercise was to make Braddock's already-stressed unit feel unexpectedly threatened. At once, three fighter jets streaked over the skeletal trees, their approach so swift that only after the jets passed could they be heard, their thunder deafening. Braddock wore a waterproof electronic location transmitter so that the pilots knew where not to shoot. Ahead, the jets fired rockets and 50-mm tracer bullets into the swamp. Two hundred yards away, the night became alive with explosions and fire.

"Jesus," somebody said.

No! Braddock mentally shouted. You're not supposed to talk!

"What the-" somebody else demanded. "Don't they know we're here?"

Braddock surged through the water toward the second man and glared. Shut your mouth, Braddock's eyes said.

Smoke from the flares drifted over them, smelling of cordite and dead things, almost making Braddock gag.

"Christ, those rockets almost hit us," a third man said.

Braddock splashed urgently toward him, glowering him into silence. Damn it, keep control. Obey orders, he wanted to shout.

The water seemed colder. As another soft thing nudged against Braddock's left side, he shivered harder. His heart pounded. His breathing quickened.

"Nobody mentioned anything about rockets," a fourth man said, his voice wavering.

Furious, Braddock surged toward him, then stopped as the descending flares hissed into the water, spewing more smoke, darkness overcoming everyone. Braddock shivered so hard that his teeth chattered.

At the same time, his stomach felt on fire. Unaccountable fear crept up his torso, cramping his muscles, spreading heat around his heart. His breath came so fast, he couldn't control it. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold it, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold it, one, two, three.

But his chest kept heaving, refusing to obey. He didn't understand. After the numerous combat missions he'd been through, this was nothing. The swamp is my friend. The darkness is my friend. What's happening to me? he wanted to scream.

One of his men-the toughest of his trainees-did scream. "Something bit me!"

No! The man sounded as out of control as a civilian would have been. It didn't make sense.

"A snake!"

A log-or something-bumped against Braddock's side.

"An alligator!"

"Something's under my-"

Suddenly, one of Braddock's men fired full-auto at the darkness, muzzle flashes illuminating ripples in the water, bullets shredding dead trees, men screaming as they, too, fired at the night. A bullet seared Braddock's right arm. He lost his balance and fell back, greasy water flooding into his mouth and up his nose.

The rattle of the M-16s sounded hollow beneath the surface. Keeping a tight grip on his weapon, Braddock fought against the weight of his pack and struggled upward. As he broke into the air, desperate to breathe, the multiple gunfire suddenly became loud enough to make his ears ring. Smoke and the smell of cordite swirled around him.

Muzzle flashes blinding him, he shouted, "Cease fire! Cease fire!" He barely recognized his voice, so severely had fear seized his throat, making his normally husky tone a shriek.

A bullet struck his left shoulder, slamming him backward into the water. Fangs seemed to pierce his neck. No! The swamp is my friend! The alligators, the-

When he scrambled upward again, resurfacing into the panic of screams and gunfire, a bullet blew the back of his head away.