This Green Hell

sounds, he could sense the man’s abject fear — the juddering breath, the slight wetness of the inhalations, as if his nose was running. He knew adrenalin was coursing through that body — fight or flight. Come on, soldier, this is what you trained for, he thought, willing the young man to pull himself together.

There was a tearing sound, then a thump that could have been a tree falling, and then a roar so loud that it made Jack Hammerson sit up in his seat. It was close, and followed by the panicked yell of the young captain. ‘Anybody, if you’re there — they’re all dead. Come in … please, come in.’ There was a pause and then what could have been sobbing.

Hammerson wished he was there. He knew battlefield panic — without someone taking immediate control, things would quickly go to shit. The sobbing stopped only to turn into a shout — ‘This goddamn green hell!’ — and then more gunfire. There was another roar, a grunt of pain and the sound of cloth or something soft being ripped, then nothing but the real white noise of severed communications.

The recording stopped and the menu reappeared. Hammerson’s brow furrowed and he said angrily to the screen, ‘What the fuck was that?’

The final menu item displayed was titled ‘Current Operational Status’. Hammerson read it quickly; it was a brief information squirt from command: All contact severed. Green team 1 assumed neutralised.

An advanced VELA satellite had been redirected and, although it was partially blinded by the thick growth of the jungle, it had used its thermal, motion and energy signal scans to confirm no movement and no intact human heat signatures from the potential skirmish zone.

Thankfully, the local and American scientists and advisors were well away from the hotzone, but they would eventually need to enter it to continue drilling. Hammerson ran his eyes down the list of names and came to one he immediately recognised: Dr Aimee Weir — Independent Petrobiological Consultancy.

‘Ohh, shit.’

The Hammer knew what was coming. When a squad like the Green Berets were taken out, you didn’t just send in more GBs. Instead, you changed the extent or category of force. There were three options: one, send in about a hundred regular army with heavy ground support; two, burn the entire zone from 10,000 feet; or three, send in the HAWCs.

Hammerson also knew that once Alex Hunter found out Aimee was in a hotzone, nothing would stop him going in, with or without authorisation. And if anything happened to Aimee down there, burning from 10,000 feet would have looked like the soft option.

He picked up the phone. He didn’t need to dial, and the call was answered immediately. He spoke slowly, not taking his eyes off his computer screen. ‘Find Captain Alex Hunter and get him in here, immediately.’

FOUR

Alex Hunter crouched at the tree line and sucked in a deep breath of pine-scented spring warmth. Using his hand as a shield, he squinted into the distance at the crystal, tumbling waters of the French Broad River — wouldn’t be long before it had a fly fisherman or two in its shallows. Asheville this time of year was magnificent, and with the national park close by, a small population of folks who were more than happy to mind their own business, and plenty of white-tailed deer, elk and rabbit, it was a place where you could really live. And, if you wanted to, it was also a place you could get … lost. Perhaps that’s why his mother had settled here after his father passed away. The property at the foot of the Black Mountains was a lot of acreage for one woman, two horses and an enormous German Shepherd, but Alex guessed she was happy to let nature share it with her; and if it decided to intrude from time to time, so be it.

Alex kept his eyes narrowed. Though the sun was behind him, he was a mile distant from the property and even his enhanced vision had trouble picking out the details. He pulled a small scope from his pocket and thumbed the resolution button. As he’d expected, his mother was on the front porch, a magazine open on her chest as she lay snoozing on her favourite swing bench. Her dog, Jess, lay in front of her — close by as always.

His mother looked content, peaceful — maybe a little greyer than he remembered, but otherwise no different. He wished he could talk to her. His father had been gone ten years now, and a few years back she had been told that Alex, her only son, had been killed on a mission overseas. She probably thought she had lost everyone, but she hadn’t. Alex was very much alive, and every day he longed to tell her that she wasn’t alone.

But it was impossible. After his accident, the treatment and his recovery, and the resulting physical and mental changes, his entire existence now belonged to Hammerson and the HAWCs. His fighting force was one of the most lethal and covert that had ever existed — they were ghosts. Hammerson once described them as ‘cleaners’ — someone makes a mess and the HAWCs clean it up before it gets any worse. No headlines or applause.

In Alex’s line of work, friends were rare, but enemies were numerous. Enemies who would think nothing of wiping out an entire family if it meant an opportunity to bring pain, even indirectly, to a HAWC. His abilities made him nearly untouchable, but his mother …

He gazed at the sleeping woman and dog on the sunny porch, his face a mix of regret and resignation. While he was dead, she was safe.

The German Shepherd waggled her ears to bat away an over-attentive bee and lifted her head. A bit more silver in the muzzle, but at about a hundred pounds of muscle still formidable enough to see off the largest intruder — four- or two-legged.

Look after her, Jess, Alex thought.

The dog raised her head and tested the air, then looked towards the tree line where Alex crouched. He froze, keeping his eyes on the house. His comm unit vibrated once in his pocket and he ignored it, but in another few seconds it double vibrated — urgent. He pulled the small silver box free. On its screen were just three letters: HIR.

Alex grunted: HAWC–Immediate-Recall. He melted back into the trees.

* * *

Alex listened to the recording in silence.

‘Play it again,’ he said, and this time he leaned in and closed his eyes.

Colonel Jack Hammerson sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘Sounds like a grizzly attack.’

‘Not a bear … not any animal. That sound came from a human throat.’ Alex opened his eyes and looked at his superior officer, his face unreadable. ‘It’s not a language, Jack, or not one that I know of. Human vocal cords definitely produced it, but there’s something wrong with the throat — it’s warped somehow, or there’s something stuck in it.’

Hammerson knew Alex’s hearing was acute enough to pick up the super and subsonic ranges. If he said the noise came out of some guy’s mouth, it did.

‘Captain Michaels and the rest — we believe they’re all dead. Something down there surprised them and took ‘em all out — and that isn’t easy to do to six heavily armed Green Berets.’ Hammerson was sitting forward in his chair now, his fingers locked together.

‘And now they want us to take a look?’ Alex said.

Hammerson gave a humourless half-smile. ‘Yes and no. I’ve requested this one, for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s a critically important project for the USA, and as the whole region down there is a little anti-Uncle Sam we need to deal with this delicately — and be mindful of how others see us dealing with it. We can’t park the seventh fleet off the coast of Brazil and fly low-altitude sorties over the jungle, or march 200 marines in there. Paraguay is a small pool of friendship in the midst of an ocean of distrust and aggravation — we have to respect their sovereignty and requests. At this point, they want us to help but not be ham-fisted about it.’

Alex nodded. The rationale didn’t really matter to him. If his friend and mentor asked him to lead a team into hell, he would oblige. ‘I haven’t caught up with the teams yet. I’ll need to find out who’s available. I’m not sure who’s on base or still out in the field.’

Hammerson grinned. ‘It’s already done. I’ve pulled in Mak and Franks, and I believe Sam has just completed his rehabilitation. He’s still sore, and probably needs another few weeks of physical therapy, but you know Sam —