The Faith Eaters, Chapter 8: Jungle Music
The jungle was loud.The part of Chasseur Bova that wasn’t concentrating on footing, temperature, proximity readings or any one of a hundred other details essential to a successful search and recovery, considered this fact for a moment. He couldn’t recall that anyone had ever told him how loud the jungle could be. The high, whining hum of a thousand different life forms filled the air. Growling. Buzzing. Shrieking. Humming.
Something tugged at Bova’s leg and his nose detected a faint, acrid odor of burning vegetation. The smell stung his nostrils and he looked down to watch as a lengthy rope of vine quickly untangled itself from his ankle and withdrew into the undergrowth. Bova’s stiff facial features crinkled in what another Chasseur would recognize as a smile. Apparently the electro-static sensors built into his armor worked up to specs.
Looking ahead, Bova saw that the foliage began to thin. He commed a signal and the Chasseurs to his left and right silently extended their distance from him to compensate for the increased visibility. The squad, which had been advancing through the undergrowth in a wedge formation that allowed rapid forward movement while maintaining clear, all around fields of fire, slowed, then stopped as its members approached the edge of a road.
Bova knelt and began a scan while the rest of his squad automatically turned outboard and lowered itself to the ground, weapons directed toward the possibility of a threat from any direction.
The noise of the jungle thrummed on. So much life out here, Bova thought. Then he filtered the noise out and concentrated on the specific sound he was tracking.
**********
“Git in here, Dent.”
Corporal Dent stood, walked quickly into his First Sergeant’s office and centered himself before the man’s desk. “Corporal Dent reporting as ordered, Company First Sergeant,” he said from the position of attention.
The towering hulk that was Company First Sergeant Josiah L. Vines, Capitol Light Infantry, rose from its chair and leaned across his desk to glare at Dent. His voice rumbled from his chest in a deep baritone that was disarmingly quiet. “You know what went wrong?” he asked.
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Explain it to me.”
“First Sergeant, I instructed my watch partner not to disturb me while I caught some zees. He’s new. He’s young. He took me a little too seriously. He thought he saw something moving in the wire and chose to initiate an alert rather than wake me, First Sergeant.”
“Really.” It was a statement.
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“So all this noise happened because the private didn’t understand you?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Oh, really.” Another statement.
No response from Dent.
“And you counseled the Private? You explained to him that should there be any confusion about his orders in the future, should he in any way not understand your crystal clear guidance, should his squad leader at any time put him in a position where he feels he has to make a decision far above his pay grade, that he should ask for clarification? In short, you made it very clear to the new, young private, that you, the squad leader, are responsible for the actions of your squad and will make yourself available at any and all times that one of your squadmembers may even possibly need the slightest guidance on approprate action?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Particularly if it involves the discharge of a firearm?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Then nothing more needs to be said.”
“No, First Sergeant.”
“Good. Then it will be clear to you that the patrol I’m now going to send you on is NOT some freaky, vengeful sort of punishment. Correct?”
Dent swallowed. “Yes, First Sergeant.”
“It will be a real-world patrol situation which will provide an outstanding opportunity for you to excel as a squad leader and hone your skills at communicating mission intent to your squad. It will be some of the best damn training you will ever have the opportunity to experience. Correct?
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Good. Take advantage of it. Give your squad a night patrol frag order, then report soonest to your Platoon Sergeant for a detailed mission brief." Vines paused for a long moment and glared at Dent, who continued to stare at an imaginary spot six inches over the First Sergeant’s left shoulder. “You make sure everyone comes back, son. Go away.”
“Yes, First Sergeant.” Dent stepped back one pace, executed a faultless about face, and left his First Sergeant’s office, thinking in a proud, slightly awe-struck, almost reverent sort of way that while the First Sergeant hadn’t so much as raised his voice, Dent still felt as if he were leaving with a handful of his own butt in his hands, and that it had been handed to him by someone who loved him like a son.
**********
Bova found what he was looking for at almost the precise moment he spotted the Capitol patrol. The project was there, in the middle of the road, a dark smear beneath the dull, flickering glow of Kinsborough’s outer-perimeter street lamps. The patrol was approximately 100 meters away, moving parallel with the road opposite from Bova’s squad, ten to twenty meters into the jungle and cautiously pushing through the vegetation.
As Bova watched, the closest man raised a fist, froze in position, then slowly faded from view. The Chasseur noted the position and spoke into his comm. “Our mission has become a race. I have one squad of Ell Eye opposite, one hundred meters southeast. Call it a full squad of twelve to be safe. Daggeur, Jerico, Felix, guide right forty. On my sig, spray to cover. Be liberal with your grenades, Felix. I’ll recover the package, then we’ll withdraw North. Praust, Fabien, Hegal, steady on the left. As we withdraw past you, pick up suppression. We’ll leap-frog back, same way we came in. No worries. They don’t know we’re here yet.”
**********
Less than three hours after receiving his orders, Dent was replaying the conversation with the First Sergeant in his head -- particularly the part about bringing everyone back -- while he hugged the jungle floor and sawed furiously at the snare plant vine wrapped around Private Oaks’ neck. Confetti in a million shades of green rained down around him as the angry claws of enemy rounds shredded the foliage mere inches overhead.
Good training, he muttered under his breath. Take advantage of it. The vine finally parted and Private Oaks gasped, rolled onto his stomach and began to vomit. The color of his face rapidly changed from blue to pale white as the physical threat of asphyxiation was replaced with the psychological one of fear.
Dent slid the bayonet back into its sheath on his belt. The enemy gunfire stopped. Silence descended on the jungle.
**********
Minutes after the last echo of gunfire faded, the natural symphony of the surounding jungle resumed.
The jungle was loud. But it was a natural loud.
No gunfire.
No explosions.
Dent crawled forward to the edge of the undergrowth and peered out at the dimly lit street. Nothing. No movement. No enemy. Just the background hum of the jungle as it went about its business.
Still not convinced the fire zone was safe, Dent used a series of silent hand and arm signals to get a head count. No casualties. Then, still silent, he passed his next set of instructions to his squad. Four men right. Four men left. Dent and three others would advance center, cross the road and establish a triangular perimeter.
The action was executed with textbook precision and Dent again lay in the undergrowth, this time on the other side of the road, listening to the music of the jungle.
Still no signs of an enemy.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Dent turned and made his way back onto the road. His heart pulsed in his throat as he stepped into the glow of the flickering street lamps. With his squad covering a 360 degree perimeter, he knew he was as safe as he was going to get. Nothing left to do but accomplish the mission.
He scanned the road quickly and found what he was looking for: a disturbed piece of ground scarred by boot prints and splattered with blood. Walking to it, he knelt and observed the ground more closely.
Nope. No body.
Damn.
Dent had a feeling he knew where it had gone.
He stood, ready to recall his squad and begin movement back to the gates when something caught his eye. Kneeling again, he drew his bayonet and poked the blade into a patch of dirt deeply imprinted by a boot heal.
There, embedded in the bootprint, was the pulverized body of a small -- something. Dent supposed it was an animal. Only about three inches long, at least two thirds of the brownish, jelly-like body consisted of what appeared to be a bulbous head. The head was split by a gaping mouth ringed with row upon row of tiny, needle sharp teeth. Dent, like all Capitol troops assigned to Venus, had received countless hours of briefings on the flora and fauna of the planet. This was nothing he’d ever seen or heard of.
Dent pried the small body from the ground with his bayonet, using his thumb to press it against the blade, and drew it to his face for closer examination. In an instant a wave of dizziness washed over him, his stomach turned and he was overcome by a sense of rage -- pure, seething hatred -- so strong that his body convulsed, twitched, folded itself over at the waist. In doing so his arm was wracked with a spasm and both the bayonet and slippery leach-thing were flung from his hand. The rage subsided and Dent felt fine again.
He had no idea what the creature was, but he was certain of two things: It wasn’t natural; and someone would want to know about it. He quickly emptied one of his canteens and used the cap as a spoon to scoop the thing into it, then sealed the lid tightly, replaced the canteen in its pouch on his belt and signaled his squad to move out.