Michael , stared through the windshield at the gray snow sludge, shining ice patches, sweeping headlight beams bordered in darkness. The tunnel vision with rhythmic swipe of wipers and rumbing purr of the engine blended well with the Savatage blaring out, soothing him into complacency.
The Sword seized the opportunity to feed on his memories. Michael held some enticing morsels of horror that tantalized the demon spawned intelligence. Centuries had wrought wonders of atrocity and evil such that the sword had only fantasized about while awaiting the reawakening. The Humans had actually managed to surpass the Aos Sidhe in population and depravity. The mass insanity of thinly veiled violence and cruelty, the sheer volume of rampant malevolence were tantalizing. Michael had seen the darkness and walked in humanities hells. War had transformed the world, transitioning from a sporadic upheaval into a pandemic infection engulfing the world. What a wonderous time to be alive.
Purring, the demonblade worried its way through Michaels memories. Feasting, revelling in the magnitude of the horrors. For his part Michael did not resist the thoughts, he let them flow. Trying to prevent them never worked, it was best to let them flow, otherwise, he would damn himself to the endless feedback loop of memory that PTSD played in his head. The demon blade cackled in glutinous glee as Michael remembered. Morgan noticed Michaels fists clench and his tension.
There is a mid day darkness, black as night on the ground level of triple canopy jungle. Water and or simian urine, both likely, constantly dripped.
The Air , hot, thick, still and fetid oppressed his senses. Michael drew breath, tasting the pungent earthy aroma of the jungle. Moving excruciatingly slowly, careful to not bend a branch or leaf, leaving no trace, Michael moved. He knew where the other five men in his team were without looking. With practiced precision the six man LRRS team moved toward their objective. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back, making him even more uncomfortable.
Gods, Michael really hated Africa. With any luck, they would do their sneak and peak unobserved. Once their objective was found, the fireworks of artillery and air support would light up the night. Unfortunately, their quarry was not being cooperative. While easy to track, the child army seemed to have no specific objective, at least The trail was blatantly clear.
There is no way to disguise when an army of drug crazed teens rampaged through the jungle. They left a trail of wreckage behind them like rabid locusts swarmed the darkness.
Three days the team had tracked the guerrillas, burned villages, mangled bodies, body parts gnawed upon, bits and pieces of horror scattered along to show the way the guerrillas had moved. ” The lords resistance army” they called themselves. Charles taylors private army of crazed fiends, children that had been chosen out, selected, beaten, drugged, forced to consume parts of their family moved with no concerns at all.
The Armed forces of Nigeria, Uganda, The Democratic Republic of Congo, U.N. observers, had all left the lords army alone. The denizens of madness moved and operated in the open with impunity.
Well, not for much longer that is.
The team could hear them ahead, laughter, gunshots, terror and pain filled screams beckoned the LRRS team forward. Michael raised a clenched fist, the team froze in place. With silent hand signs, Michael deployed the team. They set up and observed, counting, assessing, searching for Taylor or his subordinates, whomever was leading this horde of madness.
The guerrillas set no perimeter, no guards, no watch. There was no organization no discipline. To what purpose? They had nothing to fear, hah, they were fear!
The clearing housed the remnants of a village. Smashed huts, broken dung-clay walls marked where once families had lived. Now, there were only the demented guerillas, the dead, dying, and those begging for death.
The guerillas had set up a kitchen of sorts. Several old fifty five gallon oil drums set up over fires. Steam rose like spirits dancing out of the impromptu stew pots. Boys, worked holding down a prisoner, while another butchered the writhing screaming victim alive, tossing freshly sliced pieces into the drums. The victims eyes were open, mouth moving in silent scream as the butcher-boy cut the head free and laughing held it up, the eyes shone in terror, blinking as the butcher dropped the severed head into the stew.
Michael and his team watched in silent horror. This was beyond unacceptable. They had counted over a hundred armed guerrillas in open sight with evidence of more. There were fly covered piles of severed hands and severed feet, scattered about. One rather large pile of some amorphous mass buzzed under a mound of flies.
Between the six men of the team, Michael knew they each had at least 200 rounds each. Twelve hundred rounds of 149 gr 7.62 x .51 nato. Ten twenty round magazines each. Michael was actually pleased to be carrying the heavy Swiss Sig battle rifle rather than the standard 5.56 M-4. The .556 round was deadly, fast, light, accurate. The only problem was, the light 59 gr. Bullets did not transfer energy well. The small .223 caliber bullets tended to punch through soft tissue only really tumbling when they hit bone.
Consequently, unless it was a lucky head shot, often the recipient of the prize barely noticed they had won, until the bleeding informed them of the award. In war this is highly problematic, the target can often shoot back as they bleed out.
Back when the 5.56 was adopted, the military theory had been that a high rate of fire, light recoil, and more bullets were good. The light round would make devastating wounds, thus potentially removing both the target and the soldier rendering aid. That was great theory when dealing with Professional first world armies. A twofer, remove two for one shot from the fight.
In reality, dealing with undisciplined guerrillas and terrorists would leave their wounded to fend for themselves. It is rather unsettling to put three rounds center into the chest of a young teen , high on Ganj and or Qat, while he keeps running towards you screaming with a machete and Ak-47. The bigger, much harder hitting 7.62 round, let them know they had been serviced, receiving their darwin award post haste. Bang, one shot, one down.
Quietly, the Team observed, took note, then withdrew, retreating almost a kilometer before pausing to radio in the encampment coordinates, disposition, numbers etc.
They were far beyond range of artillery support, air support was over an hour away. The team, had been traumatized by what they had seen. U.S. Army Rangers tend to be hard men, however this insanity was unbelievable.
You cannot send Rangers to watch and do nothing. It was surreal, almost like being stuck in a badly written zombie epic. Except for the smell which was something Michael would never forget. Boiling human meat smells just like boiling pork or bacon. The team had been smelling the cooking meat during their approach. Not having stopped to eat their MREs in their haste to acquire their target, the teams bellies had grumbled hungrily as they approached. The watering mouths and appetites were long gone now.
The team, received orders to set up an lp/op ( listening post/observation post) over watching a refugee center which the lords army now seemed to be headed for. Silently, the LRRS team bypassed the encamped guerrillas , leap frogging ahead towards the refugee center.
Quickly, quietly the team arrived, chose position, and created two camouflaged three man dugouts which they disappeared into. Watch established, alternating watches organized, the men waited. No one had any appetite. They waited, rested, watched through the day, refugees, in seriously rough shape trickled into the center. Near nightfall, the lords army arrived.
There was no organization, there was only mob action. The guerrillas did not bother to stage or plan. They merely walked haphazardly into the center and began butchering people with cane knifes, axes, and machetes.
The team watched in horror and growing fury. There was no support, they were there twisting in the breeze waiting for the promised support.
The team did not discuss what they were going to do, they split into three two man teams and moved along the perimeter.
They had decided they could not watch this as vulnerable Children, women, elders were butchered they had to stop it if they could. Six men against a couple hundred drug crazed teen cannibals hardly seemed a fair fight.
The big difference between special operations and regular infantry is in discipline and fire power. During a typical infantry exchange less than half, often less, actually aim and fire their weapon.
With special operations, every single man carefully serviced targets. Thus, six men represented nearly the active firepower of a platoon or company. All six Rangers opened fire at selected targets dropping the evil in their tracks.
Manuever and fire, fire and manuever. Pause, service a target, move positions immediately. That way, by the time the targets realized where the fire was coming from, that element had moved on.
The guerillas, in turn returned fire on vacant spaces. The LRRS team, in violation of all orders to stand down observe and report, thoroughly and efficiently eliminated the guerrillas. Not one Ranger was hurt. By the time the three fire teams had worked around the center perimeter once. More than sixty guerillas lay cooling in the early evening.
It was short work moving through the refugee center killing each guerilla on site. Refugees running, screaming in terror, children crying. The only real casualties were the innocent women and children caught between.
The Rangers were selective and accurate in their fire, the guerillas seemed to not care , spray and pray was their modus operandi killing indiscriminately.
It was all over in less than half an hour total. All told, three hundred refugees had been butchered, a hundred fifty dead guerrillas littered the ground. The rest of the demonic child army had fled.
The team, having no back up did not pursue them. Instead, the team worked frantically to help the injured refugees. When Morning came a contingent of Irish Rangers arrived to support and assist. Of all the U.N. contingent, the Irish Rangers were the best, the most disciplined, best trained equiped and motivated.
Command and control was certainly not happy. No one was supposed to know that there was an American Lrrs team operating on the ground. That cat got out of the bag.
The team was assigned clean up duty While descisions were made. Article 15s prepared, early extraction arranged.
Counting and assessing the victims, making the after action report kept the team busy and distracted from the shit storm they knew was waiting for them. Though it was somewhat difficult to tell the difference between cooked and gnawed upon pelvic arches, so, when the demand of how many women had been murdered was made, the team, with the U.N aid workers could only shoo the flies away from the piles of severed flesh. the Mounds of womens breasts brutally cut from their living bodies, left behind at every guerilla action.
" How do we do this?” Michael was asked. With a cold distant stare Michael grunted and gestured at the pile of flesh. ” Count those, divide the number by two, that should give you a good estimate. ”
While Michael had been sarcastic there honestly were no other options. The Team, was diligent and thorough in their report. That was when Michael decided that he did not want a military career, that whole African deployment taught Michael all about human kindness and mercy, and he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. Never would Michael trust any authority again. Politicians, are a plague upon humanity.
The demon blade drank in the horror, morbidly cackling as it fed. Michaels still unresolved rage,guilt and shame, were tasty tidbits to savor indeed. The promise of more mayhem madness terror and blood ahead amused the sword.
This modern world was proving to have only advanced in terms of scale. The horror increased, the insanity maximized. Tasty and delicious indeed.