Shannon

MAJOR DENNIS SHANNON sat with his feet hanging out of the Huey. Below him swam the night jungle. He checked the glowing dial of the Rolex on the inside of his wrist and his heart increased its pounding. Two minutes.

Two hundred meters away whapped the bulk of the lead UH-ID: the decoy ship. Then his mouth went dry as the Huey nosed down and the pilot twisted the collective. The helicopter moved abreast of the first ship.

Shannon checked the other troops in his Huey. Darkness. Only the sudden grin of teeth from Williams, the LRRP team commander, sitting by the door gunner. One thing the black cats got going for them, Shannon thought, is they don't have to worry about camouflage at night.

The second hand on the Rolex crossed, and Shannon signaled the pilot. The helicopter swooped down toward a rice paddy: the LZ.

The theory was if you wanted to insert eleven troops into Indian Territory without the Bad Guys knowing about it, you took two helicopters and flew like a motherfucker across their stronghold. One chopper would make lots of noise, while the second dropped down and dumped out the Long Range Recon Patrol. Then the second ship would lift back out, and hopefully, nobody would be the wiser. The Lurps would be left to get on about their business.

And how many times, Dennis old boy, Shannon thought, has that theory been proven full of donkey shit?

But the jungle was coming up fast and the clearing was below and the chopper was flaring for its landing... ten fucking feet too high, you cocksucker, and Shannon was balanced on the skid, almost overtoppling, and he came off in a classic PLF, but without the roll because this rice paddy ain't as abandoned as it looks on the map, and who wants to swallow shit, but if it is dried up I could bust a leg and...

He plummeted into five feet of muck. Even over the turbine whine and the slosh of the paddy water from the helicopter blades, he heard other troops falling into the paddy.

And then, thank the good lord, whopwhopwhop as the fucking pilot got his finger out and took that shitbird the hell out of it and...

Silence. Blackness.

Shannon crouched, ready. Then he realized: Jesus God! Softly moved the bolt of the K gun back until it was cocked. Go in hot, you dumb mick son-of-a-bitch, and you ain't even ready. You're getting too old for this. Almost twenty-eight. Leave this crap for the kids. Or kiss your sweet Irish ass good-bye.

Quit playing old home week.

You're supposed to be back at the Ossifers' Club waiting for word from and I quote your recon elements and I end quote. Drinking beer. What the hell are you doing standing in a rice paddy up to your ass in shit with a bunch of dumbass kids who haven't learned any better?

Aw, shut the fuck up. You're here. Besides, Williams is fifty years old. Doesn't matter. Silly son of a bitch has been recon for three wars now. His brains are fried.

Knock it off! Look at your damned treeline, Shannon. Don't you remember? Watch the trees, asshole. Okay. Get yourself back together. Stop thinking you're a big-time Assistant Division Intelligence Idiot and start playing Cowboys and Gooks. Because that's what they're playing.

Eleven men crouched in the muck, waiting. Shannon started to motion, then caught himself. This isn't your war anymore, remember? He looked at Williams. The man was still waiting. What the fuck is he waiting for?

Then Williams brought up his arm. Held one arc of the tiny LRRP perimeter in place. Motioned for a lead element to head for the treeline.

And Shannon moved. Sloshing, for Chrissakes. Goddamned U.S. technology. How come nobody ever found a way to build good goddamned boots that don't fill up, or else simply rot?

The rice paddy was only half farmed. They came to a dike and Williams's M-60 man crouched. The troopies slithered over the dike like so many crazed tiger-stripe-camouflaged lizards. Put a damned chameleon on a camo shirt and the fucker'd go crazy, Shannon thought, a little hysterically, as he rolled over and came into a firing position. Thank you, God. Dry land.

The patrol assembled. Williams and Shannon quickly conferred over the map boards and lensatic compass, the conversation done completely with long-practiced shrugs, waves, gestures and expressions.

Is that shadow over there where we want to go? Does it look like a hilltop? Damfino, but good guess. How far are we from Cambodia? Good question. Pricks probably dropped us twenty klicks inside. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Fuck no.

Fucking maps, Shannon thought. "Made from good data." My ass, good data. Basic survey by the Japanese, confirmed by the French... and we all know what happened to them... so trust this map if you feel like it.

Shannon always figured Army maps, especially the 1:25,000 projections that a LRRP team so desperately needed, should have some kind of a commercial disclaimer: WARNING: FOLLOWING THIS MAP COULD BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH.

Very cute, Dennis, he thought. And followed the shadows toward the treeline and toward the Cambodian border.

Copyright © 2003 by Chris Bunch and Allan Cole