SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

Death at 900 Meters Tyson Mauermann

The reticle tracked across the Iraqi landscape for what felt like the two-hundredth time this hour, searching for anything that would jeopardize the squad or their mission. So far, there’d been nothing to be concerned about, but in Fallujah, that could change in the blink of an eye. The marksman kept his M82A1 SASR rifle — his sasser — trained down range.

Sergeant Shane Hill was on his third deployment and looked forward to returning home. His long-time girlfriend, Lynn, had finally worn him down and made him commit to an engagement upon his return. In three short days, he and his platoon would rotate to the rear on their way back to Camp Lejeune, ending his tour of duty. He couldn’t wait, but right now there was only the mission. One thing at a time.

The mission was simple: breach and secure the target location. The building wasn’t much to look at, a strong front door with no windows on the first floor. The second floor had a few windows covered with dust, dirt, and grime. The door leading to the deck looked rotten and would likely fall apart with very little force. With luck, the unit would find a few Iraqis who the MCIA — Marine Corps Intelligence Activity — had deemed targets of opportunity. Capture if possible, kill if necessary, and get out without losing any friendlies.

The plan was to hit the target house right before sun up, only a short time away. It looked good to Shane. There was no activity in any of the surrounding buildings and the neighborhood was quiet — perfect conditions for providing overwatch. Hill had chosen a large abandoned building to the east, knowing that as the sun rose into the sky it would be difficult for anyone to see the two-man HOG — Hunters Of Gunmen — team, the best of the best.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Overwatch, report,” Platoon Leader Chavez called over the radio.

Hill knew Chavez was doing his best to take command of the unit. He‘d just been transferred to the group, fresh from officer training. Hill guessed Chavez remained distant from the men because that’s what the training manual recommended. Chavez rarely deviated from the manual.

“Delta Whiskey Seven, you’re all clear,” Sergeant Hill replied.

The mission was about to kick off. Time to give the area another eyeball. Hefting the heavy .50 caliber sniper rifle onto his shoulder and putting eyes on the target, he slowly worked his way to the left. Nothing piqued his interest; the streets as quiet as a tomb.

Hill glanced over at his partner, Lance Corporal Charles “Dog Pound” Turner, who looked through the scope on the smaller of their two rifles — an M40A5 chambered in .308. Turner surveyed the landscape with sharp eyes, looking for something to ten-ring.

Turner was a good guy to have watching your back, Shane thought, a bit of Navajo mixed with a little south of the border made for a compact man with rippling muscles and character. He was always at ease, regardless the situation. If Hill had to pick someone to be in a foxhole with, Turner was the easy choice.

Turner and Hill were on the roof of a three and a half-story dwelling disguised as a pile of shit and bricks. Five blocks from the target residence, they were roughly nine hundred meters from the target house — the tallest building in the immediate area.

If the two highly-trained and decorated snipers couldn’t get the jump on the terrorists, no one could.

Hill returned to his scope and caught movement a few houses to the right of the target, on a second-story balcony. The area was dark and wouldn’t see the light of day for a few hours, but something had drawn his attention.

“Overwatch to Delta Whiskey Four, you have a possible tango on your three o’clock. Watch your flank,” Hill said into his comms.

“Roger that. Keep me posted if the tango advances.”

Hill saw Turner move his scope to check it out.

“I don’t see anything,” Turner said. “You sure?”

Just then, a dark shape leapt the gap between the two adjoining balconies, little more than a blur in Hill’s scope. Both snipers lifted their heads, and stared at one another.

“Overwatch to Delta Whiskey Four, tango is moving fast to your posit. Advise you secure your flank and hold.”

“Delta Whiskey Seven. Repeat tango’s last known position.” Hill wasn’t sure but it seemed as if Chavez’ voice sounded a little shaky.

“Last sighting was three houses from target on your right, second floor. “

“Copy, Delta Whiskey Seven.”

Through the scope, Hill could see his platoon leader snap instructions to the assault team, and he watched the men of the right flank reinforce their lines of fire preparing for the worst.

Hill moved his scope back to where the tango was last seen. He double-checked the dope, making sure that the range to target was correct. It was a waiting game; a game of which he was a master. Hill knew Turner was hot to get another kill, the fourth in the deployment. He was chasing Hill’s kill record. If Turner could get one more they’d be tied. Hill knew the man was dying to get the record before heading home. Just as Hill was about to check back with the breaching team, he saw more shadows. A second tango crept along the terrace.

This time, however, Hill was able to see a few more details. The figure was big — not Turner big, but large enough to warrant caution. He was also deathly pale. Hill switched off his safety and slowed his breathing, preparing to take his first shot. He placed his crosshairs on the back of the tango’s neck. If Hill’s shot flew true, the bullet would sever the spinal cord from the body and put the guy down before he even knew he’d been shot. Hill visualized the shot, starting with the trigger pull and ending with the large tango crumpling to the ground. He did this before each shot. It was an attempt to see all the variables and make minute adjustments milliseconds before he actually fired.

The tango slowly turned, and then moved out of sight. Hill’s practiced breathing froze. Red, glowing eyes had, for a second, made him doubt his normally perfect vision. He shook his head. Damn stupid time to be imagining things.

“Delta Whiskey Seven to Delta Whisky Four, you have a second tango — second floor, third house. We can’t get a bead on them.”

“Overwatch, we’re sending a party to investigate while we commence the operation. We have to rock ‘n’ roll or we lose the element of surprise. If the tangos reappear, take ‘em out if you see a weapon,” Chavez responded with a little more iron in his voice.

“Roger that,” Hill replied.

He watched as two marines moved toward the second house, the darkness and urban environment providing perfect cover. A quick look at the target house had the rest of the team stacking up in preparation to breach. They were moving a little early; daylight was still about half an hour away, but a few slivers of light were starting to creep over the rooftops. With luck they would secure the target house and exfiltrate to base before anyone on the block woke for the Morning Prayer.

“Oh, shit,” Turner yelped. “Tango is right on top of them, and they’re blind. I’m taking the shot.”

“Belay that. Tango doesn’t have a weapon” stated Hill.

“Dammit, Hill, you know as well as I do that they intend to kill our boys.”

“That may be the case but ‘no weapon, no shot’ is the order from up top,” said Hill

“Shit, the brass don’t know what it’s like out here. This is gonna go sideways fast.”

Hill watched as Turner fumed. Just then, the two marines responsible for checking the team’s flank could be heard going fully automatic. The radio burst to life as the firing stopped.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Delta Whiskey Six, report,” came the call from Chavez.

“Delta Whiskey Six, we just capped two pale, motherfucking Johnnie Jihadis. They got the jump on us, but now the Hajis are down. We’re all good here,” PFC Staples replied.

Not long ago the platoon celebrated Staples’ twentieth birthday in-country with some ‘confiscated’ beer. He was a good soldier who was shaping up to be a great marine. His melon-sized and balding head had earned him the unfortunate nickname of ‘Pineapple’. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but then again, nicknames given by the unit rarely did.

“Copy, we’re breachin’ now. Go, go, go!”

With the two tangos down, Hill quickly scoped over to watch as the three-man breaching team blew the door to the house then threw in a flash bang. The instant the grenade went off, the team moved in.

While waiting for the report to come in from Chavez, Hill switched back to scan the balconies for more bad guys. The way they’d moved and hid suggested there might be more waiting in the dark.

The comms system crackled as Chavez’s voice came over the net. “House is secure. Seven dead. They‘re all torn up. Something out of a slasher film, arms and assholes are everywhere. We need to document it. The rest of the team is securing intel and photographing the scene. It smells like shit in here.” Hill could hear Chavez’s breathing over the comms. “Delta Whiskey Six, high step it to my location, you can help secure any intel.”

It wouldn’t take long before the team gathered what it could to take back to Forward Operating Base. The FOB was only a few clicks away.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Joker One Seven, requesting transport, we will mark location with strobe,” stated Chavez.

Hill blew out the breath he was holding as Staples confirmed the order to help gather the intelligence and then entered the house. Joker One Seven, a Black Hawk helicopter, was their ride back to base. The mission was winding down and he was looking forward to a shower and some hot chow—

Gunfire erupted from the target house.

“Overwatch, the fuckers aren’t dead—” Shots erupted over the headset as the team dealt with the new threat.

Both Turner and Hill set their sights on the front door. Flashes from the carbines cast light and shadow out the doorway.

“Delta Whiskey Four, report!” Hill said.

“The Tangos are not dead, I repeat, not dead. They’re attacking with their fuckin’ teeth. I have two wounded and two dead. Pineapple and I are going to the second story. Cover us. We are going to try and get some distance on them.”

“Copy, Delta Whiskey Four.” Hill looked to Turner. “This just got ugly. Wait for Staples and Chavez to come out and put down anyone that comes out after them.”

“Fuck! Let’s do it,” Turner said, and Hill knew the other sniper was on mission now. He was out for blood, and it was blood he was going to get.

Hill watched as Chavez and Staples made their way onto the second-story balcony, fireman-carrying the wounded and hopping to the patio of the neighboring house. Their BDUs were covered in dark red splotches he knew was blood. Whatever happened in there must have been a nightmare. They would have to contend with the wounded as they fled. The dead could wait.

Hill watched as Chavez and Staples, with the wounded, made it to the second balcony. He saw them make it halfway to the next balcony when a small horde of tangos crashed through the nearest patio door.

Turner and Hill went to work.

Hill let Turner take the shot as the first tango came through the entryway. He knew Turner would have it lined up, and he wasn’t disappointed as Turner’s gentle pull of the trigger sent the bullet on its merry way. Hill watched through his scope as the shot entered the tango’s head a little left of the bridge of the nose. The head snapped back with violent force as the legs went out from under him, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Hill lined up his own shot as he heard Turner chamber another round. A second tango crossed the threshold. Hill fired.

While the .308 was the perfect round for taking out a person, the .50 caliber was designed for tank warfare or long range targets. His SASR was loaded with Roufoss Mark 211 explosive rounds. The bullets were designed to blow through a wall or into an armored vehicle, where the zirconium trigger would ignite and smash a big exit and plenty of shrapnel, making it a very bad day for anyone hit. The person in Hill’s scope was neither a wall nor armor, so the round ripped the head and the majority of the upper body off, exploding in a spray of red mist. The first two terrorists to stick their heads out had lost them, buying the team more time to reach safety.

Hill watched as Chavez and Staples made it to the third balcony seconds after the dead tangos hit the floor. They were working on a way to get to ground level and meet up with Hill and Turner. The snipers’ shots echoed off every surface in the neighborhood. If people weren’t awake when the operation began, they were now.

Hill watched through his scope, and saw that the ground rose up in front of the team enough to make the jump difficult but not impossible. The chance of breaking an ankle was still there, but not a definite like it would have been from the other two houses. Hill watched as Staples jumped first. He had the most battle rattle and the full pack would tell Chavez if he needed to be more cautious when he worked his way down. Staples had no trouble; he was fine and already covering as many angles as he could when Chavez lowered the two wounded down to him before finally joining what was left of his squad.

Hill’s radio crackled to life as Chavez got on the horn, “Delta Whiskey Four to Delta Whiskey Seven, what’s the clearest way out of here?”

“Delta Whiskey Four, continue two more houses to your right, and then come straight at us to the east. We’re just shy of one click away. Turner will set up a strobe on the roof to alert our ride.”

Hill peered over as Turner turned on the strobe light to mark the location. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate, Hill thought; it was the tallest pile of bricks and mortar in the area. The helicopter wouldn’t be able to land but it could hover while the unit made good their exfil.

Hill surveyed the area again. No one had exited the target house after he obliterated the second tango. The early morning grew quiet once more. To Hill, it didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what ‘it’ was. He moved the scope to check on Chavez, Staples, and the rest of the team. Then it hit him. The first two contacts Staples and his fire team had killed were no longer lying where they’d fallen. They were nowhere to be seen. Sweat dripped down Hill’s spine, making him itch.

“Dog Pound, did you see anyone gather up the tangos Staples and his team shot up?” Hill asked.

“Negative, why?”

“They’re fuckin’ missing.” Hill and Turner put eyes back to scopes and scanned the street.

A few seconds passed. “No fuckin’ sign of them,” Hill said.

“Well, that ain’t good,” Turner deadpanned. Hill knew Turner was a sarcastic son of a bitch in times of crisis, a stone cold killer with a dry sense of humor. It never surprised Hill what spilled out of the guy’s mouth. Suddenly, Turner was all business. “Movement, second house, street level.”

“Take the shot,” Hill replied.

A single report rang out.

“Tango down,” Turner said.

Hill looked down on the fire team as they made their way to the landing zone. Halfway. The going was slow for both Chavez and Staples under the weight of the wounded soldiers and having to cover every nook and cranny with their pistols while looking for more hostiles. As Hill moved the scope around the area to provide some cover for the retreating soldiers, he caught a dark silhouette creeping toward his friends. The hostile was making progress and, while Chavez and his team might not see them, Hill did. It was an easy shot from this distance.

He waited for the tango to line up inside his crosshairs, slowing his breathing as he prepared to pull the trigger. It gave Hill an opportunity to study his prey.

The man was dressed in a pair of dark black pants similar to Hill’s and a ripped, dirty camo shirt. The man’s skin was pale. Not what Hill expected to see in Iraq. He could be one of the Chechens who had entered the conflict to help their Muslim brothers. It wasn’t common, but not unheard of. Whoever he was, he was seconds away from meeting his maker.

Two more steps, fucker, Hill thought. Come on, keep moving.

Without warning, the tango surged forward, ripping PFC Silao from Chavez’s arms. The pale man dragged the wounded soldier away and bit into him, blood spurting all over the figure’s face and Silao’s BDUs. Hill lined up his shot. Wasting no time, he pulled the trigger.

The comedian, Gallagher, would have been proud. As the bullet entered the tango’s head, it exploded like a watermelon. Blood gushed from his neck stump, a shower of red bathing Chavez, who’d moved to try and help Silao even as Hill had taken the shot. The .50 caliber left no doubt as to the fate of the attacker.

Hill now watched Chavez though the scope; he was dazed but not out.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Overwatch, thanks,” Chavez croaked.

“No problem, Delta Whisky Four. Get moving before more of tangos hit you.” Hill moved his sight to cover their six. Silao was down, but Hill saw Chavez gather the body and sling it over his shoulders. No one gets left behind, he thought.

“Got anything?” Hill asked Turner.

“Nada. Target house and the streets are clear,” Turner answered, not taking his eye from the scope. “I had movement near the gas station on the corner, two houses down from target, but nothing now.”

“Good, I’ll radio the helo, see what’s taking them so damn long.” Hill changed comm frequencies. “Delta Whiskey Seven to Joker One Seven. Time to dustoff? We have wounded to casevac.”

“This is Joker One Seven, time to extraction is five mikes, say again, five mikes.”

“Roger, Joker One Seven. Sooner is better than later,” Hill replied. He switched back to the unit channel. “Delta Whiskey Seven to all elements, extraction in five mikes, so haul ass, marines.”

“Copy that, Delta Whisky Seven,” came the terse reply from Chavez. He sounded tired and shaken. Having your commanding officer panic was not a good thing. Best to leave him off the radio or it could spread to the others.

“Did you hear that?” Turner asked.

Hill shook his head. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything.”

“Sounded as if someone was below us.” Turner looked toward the edge of the building.

“Impossible. The claymores in the stairwell would have gone off. We put enough to bring the whole building down around them if they dared come up.”

“Not from the stairs. Over the side of the building.”

“Fuck, that’s impossible,” Hill said.

Hill watched as Turner moved to a tactical crouch, grabbing the M4 rifle he’d leaned against what was left of the hip-level wall. He made his way to the edge and peered over, then jumped back.

A pale, slender hand grabbed for the ledge. It was joined by a second hand, then a head.

Turner wasted no time opening the taps on his rifle. For a decorated sniper, Hill thought Turner’s aim in this situation was severely impaired. The bullets hit just about everything except the intended target, only a few hitting the climber. The repetitive clicking of the rifle’s hammer on the empty magazine was all that could be heard as the tango climbed over the lip of the building. The rounds hadn’t slowed their attacker down one bit. The stare from glowing red eyes zeroed in on the two men

Turner grabbed a fresh mag from his pouch and slammed it into the lower receiver, but it was too late. The pale tango grabbed the sniper, dragged him forward, and bit him in the throat. Hill watched Turner die as the tango tore his throat open with his teeth, and tossed Turner’s flailing body over the side as effortlessly as throwing a rag doll.

Hill didn’t have time to mourn the loss of his friend as the hulking man turned to face him. Turner’s M4 was too far away so Hill grabbed his Heckler and Koch Mk23 pistol.

Pfft, pfft. The silenced weapon spat, its load striking the man dead center of the forehead. The man stumbled back, falling to the ground.

Hill breathed a sigh of relief. That was too close for comfort. He took the time to look over the edge to locate the rest of his group. Turner’s lifeless body lay at an odd angle in the sand. Staples would pick the body up and bring him home. The team would know where the charges were set and how to avoid them as they climbed the stairs to meet him.

Hill gave a silent prayer for his fallen friend, wishing him a safe trip to the other side. There would be time to mourn later; right now he had to stay frosty and make sure the rest of the team made it back alive.

Whoomp, Whoomp. The beautiful sound of the chopper’s blades could be heard in the distance as their ride made its way toward them. In no time at all they would be returning to base. As Hill thought that, Chavez and Staples exited the stairwell, carrying their fallen comrades. They looked like warmed dog shit.

As the chopper made the minute adjustments in order to hover over what was a sorry excuse for a rooftop, Hill made his way over to the body of the man who climbed up the building. He was joined seconds later by Chavez and Staples.

The tango was very pale, his skin almost translucent. His jaw didn’t look quite right. It was massive, and with weird muscle structure. He was hairless, and his clothes looked as if they’d been dug up and taken from a dead man, the style right out of the 1970s. Not unusual in this part of the world, but definitely not normal.

As Hill bent to take a closer look, the sun breached the horizon, bathing the rooftop in a golden hue. The body started to smoke and smolder, then burst into blue flames. Hill jumped away in surprise. Within seconds, there was little trace of the man, just a pile of ash blown into the air by the chopper’s wash. Hill didn’t know what to make of it, and wasn’t sure how he was going to write it up in his report, if he even had the balls to put it in writing.

There wasn’t time to talk about what they’d witnessed as the Black Hawk hovered over the roof, just low enough for the men to climb a board. The dead and wounded were loaded first, followed by Chavez, Staples, and finally Hill. No one spoke on the ride back to base.

Victory had come at a high price. Hill looked over at Turner’s lifeless body. He wasn’t sure, but thought Turner looked paler than he should. Almost luminous. A cold chill settled over Hill and he grabbed a spare magazine from his vest and reloaded his sidearm.