//------------------------------// // Chapter 3 // Story: Entanglement // by ArguingPizza //------------------------------// The forest was dead quiet, giving away not a single hint that a pair of lethal warriors stalked its shadows. Two deadly predators clad in body armor and camouflage uniforms moved at a rapid but careful pace. Twelve hours. That’s how long Moose and Clumsy had sat at RVP Butterscotch. During the night, they had taken turns sleeping and keeping watch. Every hour, whoever was on watch would send out a radio call for Lowball and Chainsaw. No response. For half a day they had lain in wait, baking in their heat-retaining ghillie suits. Eventually, after some persuasion, Riptide had authorized them to work their way back to where Beowulf had split up and search for their missing teammates. It had taken them two hours to ditch and stash their hide suits and long guns and cover the distance. They could have done it in twenty minutes or less, but their caution slowed them greatly. With barely a sound, Moose and Clumsy stopped in the shadow of an ancient oak just off the barely-worn footpath where they had last seen Lowball and Chainsaw. While Clumsy scanned behind him, Moose looked for the tracks of his men. A few seconds of inspection revealed the distinct boot treads. Unfortunately, it also showed dozens of hoof prints. Without speaking, Moose motioned for Clumsy to follow him into the bush. The boot prints continued for roughly half a mile before they faded away. That told Moose that Lowball and Chainsaw had lost their pursuers, or at the very least thought they had, sufficiently to begin covering their tracks. In the same area, the hoof prints shadowing them were more crowded, indicating the horses tracking them had lost the trail as well. The hooves didn’t appear to leave the area, so most likely the search party had been the flying type and had taken to the air to search. Moose pressed forward towards where he knew the river to be; Lowball was supposed to take himself and Chainsaw at least a mile past the river before heading to the RV point. If something had gone wrong, it had probably been near or on the river when they would have been exposed crossing. The sound of rushing water announced the river’s presence before Moose saw it; the thick underbrush worked hard to conceal anything more than five feet in any direction. Moose tapped Clumsy on the shoulder and motioned for him to join him in searching along the riverbank. Several minutes later, Moose heard Clumsy’s voice in his earpiece. “Boss, I got something.” Moose quietly made his way back to where Clumsy had been searching and saw the lanky soldier kneeling over a body. Moose’s heart leapt into his throat. “Check this crazy shit out,” Clumsy said as he pushed aside the branches obscuring the details of the corpse. Moose’s reprehension dissolved in an instant, but was immediately replaced with confusion. “What the fuck?” The body was a fusion of a lion and a scorpion with trippy leather wings. Two massive wounds marred the fur on its back as well as a dozen smaller bullet punctures. “There was a scuffle, I think this nasty bitch came at them while they were trying to cross,” Clumsy said, pointing at boot prints that headed into the river and back out. “They turned around and engaged, but one of them got swiped before they took it down.” Moose noticed the blood puddle that was noticeably distinct from the growing pool around the monster and agreed. “Bravo 1-2, this is 1-1. Can you read me? Over.” Silence. “Fuck. You see any tracks heading out or did they try to cross again?” Moose asked. “Nope, they headed that way,” Clumsy replied, pointing north. “One of them is helping the other walk, but they left under their own power.” Moose nodded and the two followed the trail, Clumsy in the lead. Less than a hundred meters up the riverbank, Clumsy raised his fist. Moose stopped immediately and scanned around, his HK 416 at the ready. A tap on his shoulder caused him to turn. When he did, the familiar weight in the pit of his stomach returned. Clumsy had stopped them just before they hit a small clearing where the tracks led. Near the center of the clearing, dozens and dozens of hoof prints surrounded and covered the boot treads. Wheel impressions started and stopped abruptly in the center of the small field. No tracks led away. The two Delta operators looked at each other in silence, hesitant to voice what they both knew to be true. Lowball and Chainsaw had been captured. Klaxons sounded. “All personnel, clear the Loading Bay. All personnel are to clear the Loading Bay immediately.” As one, the dozen or so sterile-jacket clad researchers in the Loading Bay turned towards the nearest exit and filed out quickly. After the last person passed the threshold, a heavy solid steel door descended into sturdy grooves designed to hold the slab in place against any force up to and including a tank. With a groan and a hiss, the windowless concrete room was sealed. In the center of the room, watched by cameras placed so no space was left unobserved, a large silver device began to glow. Unfamiliar symbols lit up with soft white light along the edge of the rounded dais. A low buzzing filled the air as static electricity charged the atmosphere. The buzzing rose in pitch and volume until, had anyone been in the room, they would have been clutching their bleeding ears in agony. From seemingly nothing, a small mote of light appeared three feet above the exact center of the platform. The symbols on the rim of the machine shifted color, taking on a sharp golden tint. The buzz was gradually overpowered by a dull roar coming from the vortex. The mote grew and began to swirl and rip at itself even as it swelled. Every color of light in the visible spectrum, and a few just outside it, bathed the concrete walls in a furious rainbow. The vortex continued to expand. One foot, then three. Soon the light nearly reached the surface of the machine. In an instant, the light exploded and enveloped the entire room, then was gone. In its place were four men, three standing and another resting on a stretcher. “Transition complete. Begin Decontamination Protocols.” The heavy steel door rose with the whine of heavy duty motors. Into the room poured a team of men and women wearing biohazard suits and carrying hoses, sponges, and sterilizing agents. The four men began to strip off their weapons, armor, and utilities. The two men on either side of the stretcher helped their injured comrade remove his garments, with assistance from the technicians. The equipment was placed on a large rolling cart which was then sealed and pushed to the side. The soldiers stood still as warm water, soap, and bleach was sprayed, scrubbed, and dumped on them. The wounded man gave grunt of pain when a careless technician was too rough on his broken leg, but otherwise the entire process proceeded smoothly. After ten minutes of extremely thorough cleaning, the men were given new uniforms and led out of the Loading Bay, which was itself receiving a sterilizing treatment. “Captain Marshfield!” One of the men, a black soldier who was leaning over the stretcher and rechecking the splint on the injured man’s leg, turned and saluted as another man came up to him. The second man was a half foot shorter than the first and, instead of normal BDUs, wore his Class A uniform, complete with campaign medals and stars on the shoulders. The second man returned the salute casually and nodded towards the injured man. “What happened to him?” he asked brusquely, with a slight southern twang. “General Hicks, sir. Sergeant First Class Hart suffered a fall and broke his left leg, sir,” the first soldier reported. “He alright?” Captain Marshfield nodded. “Simple fracture, sir. A couple months with a cast and he’ll be back at 100%.” General Hicks nodded and turned to walk to a side door marked with a plaque that said “JTF TOC” in large letters. Captain Marshfield followed wordlessly. Hicks led the way through a myriad of computer stations and mapboards into a small, isolated office inside the Tactical Operations Center. He opened the door and walked in, followed by the Captain. A wave of his hand ordered the younger officer to close the door. The improvised sign that read ‘JTF CO’ clattered against the opaque glass as the door clicked into place. General Hicks sat down behind a small desk without pretense. Marshall stood, as he had not been given permission to sit. “Your last communications packet mentioned one of your teams had an encounter with the natives. I wanted to have a face-to-face so you could explain to me exactly what happened before DoD tears both our asses out of our mouths.” The fact that General Hicks had remained completely calm when he spoke sent a chill up Captain Marshfield’s spine. “Sir, Beowulf team was in their designated OP in the forest outside of SS1 when I am given to understand that three juvenile locals wandered into the woods. The three passed within 200 meters of their position when they encountered a pack of local predators. Beowulf team at that time decided to intervene and destroyed two of the predators with sniper fire.” General Hicks stared at Captain Marshall for a few moments before he leaned forwards and placed his elbows on the wood. Hicks opened his mouth to speak, then immediately closed it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. So, despite the very clear rules of engagement, Beowulf team decided that they would initiate hostile contact with local life forms, which we happen to know very little about. That about sum it up so far?” Marshfield nodded wordlessly. “Continue.” “Following the engagement, a small group from SS1 arrived on scene. Through unknown means, one of the locals managed to recover the rounds fired at the predators, as well as discover Beowulf’s OP before they were able to reposition. Beowulf used a stun grenade to break contact and retreated on foot. Unfortunately, a group of LMFs* arrived on scene quickly and began a pursuit. After attempts at evasion failed, Beowulf deployed smoke and split up to reduce chances of capture. As of 0900 Zulu, half of Beowulf team is still unaccounted for.” “Names?” Hicks asked. “Sergeants First Class Richard Collins and Jacob Bidwell, sir.” Hicks shook his head and leaned back. “Well, Captain, it seems this has turned into one gigantic gagglefuck.” Marshfield said nothing, but the tightening of his jaw bellied his nervousness. “Where is the known half of Beowulf team at this moment?” “Beowulf’s team leader requested permission to begin the search for his men. As my Reaction Team was forced to turn back following Sergeant Hart’s injury, Colonel Yavarich authorized the mission, with added emphasis to avoid any further contact.” For several moments, General Hicks said nothing as he inspected Captain Marshfield with a critical eye. “Captain, I hope you realize that this single incident has torpedoed not only our careers, but also the career of almost everyone involved in this operation. Not to mention the fact that there doesn’t exist a shade of black dark enough for the list we’re going to be put on.” “I do, sir.” General Hicks opened one of the drawers on his desk and pulled out a slim cigar. He eyed it for a moment before pulling out a silver lighter. Flames danced to life and lit the cigar’s end. Hicks puffed for a few seconds before looking back up at the Captain with a sad smile. “Well, if you’re gonna go down, go down in style.”