Hunting Season Read Free Page A

perfect description of my situation.
    Usually you pass through two other levels before reaching FUBAR.  First, there's SNAFU:  Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.  Then there's TARFU:  Things Are Really Fucked Up.  As a situation grows progressively worse, it moves naturally from SNAFU to TARFU to FUBAR.  Kind of like the way the degrees go up the worse you get burned.
    I never got to experience SNAFU or TARFU.  No, I jumped right to FUBAR.
    FUBAR.
    Fuck.
     
    *  *  *  *  *
     
    "You need to give me something more than, 'I was following orders,' Sergeant."
    Second Lieutenant Dexter stares at me hard but his attempt at intimidation doesn't work.  This clown has a nice high and tight haircut, freshly pressed uniform, and a school boy face.  Couldn't intimidate a skittish puppy.
    Fresh out of law school I bet.  Uncle Sam paid for college now Dexter repays his debt.  But he's too pretty to be scary.  Never seen combat.  Never faced death.  An actor playing a role, nothing more.  Plus, he's an asshole.  Figures the government sends an asshole to defend me.
    "That's the way it went down, Sir."  I tap my fingers on the metal table I'm handcuffed to.  "We were ordered to sweep the bunker for WMDs and eliminate any resistance.  Someone resisted."
    "Your squad killed eight civilians, Sergeant.  Not one of them was armed."
    "One of them in the crowd fired on us, Sir."
    "None of the Iraqis you killed."
    My nerves are raw.  Fuck this little prick.
    "We followed the Rules of Engagement.  We swept the bunker and took fire.  We returned fire.  It's not my fault eight people were at the wrong place at the wrong time."
    I can tell my words taste sour in Dexter's mouth.  The Marine Corp knew we were following orders.  But eight Muslim civilians got killed.  It looked bad, especially since whoever did open fire didn't stick around for the fight.  Not our fault, though.  In this case, fault doesn't matter.  Perception does.  The Corp didn't want another black eye.
    Dexter sighs like a fop, all wispy and girlish.  "The prosecution will pursue the death penalty, Sergeant.  Maybe if you testified against your Gunnery Sergeant, we could get a reduced sentence."
    My military bearing and respect for rank is the only thing keeping me from beating the asshole's head against this nice metal table.  Well that and the handcuffs.
    I look around the room, letting my anger subside.  It looks like one of those interview rooms you always see on cop shows.  Puke green-painted cinder block walls, concrete floor, and a solitary metal fan mounted near the ceiling, doing little to help cool the air.
    "I'm not going to point the finger to save my ass, Sir."
    "You could die if you don't.  I'm not joking when I say they're going for the death penalty."
    Big FUBAR.
    "Then I die, Sir."
    No way I'm turning rat.  Death before dishonor still means something to me.
     
    *  *  *  *  *
     
    They get these big ass sandstorms in the Middle East.  I mean fucking huge.  End of the world type storms.  And when they hit, forget about trying to see two feet in front of you.  It's like God decided he wanted to cocoon you in desert.
    The thing is, when one of those storms kick up, it moves tons of sand.  It's not unusual to find a whole street full of cars buried, never to be seen again.  But when something is buried, often something else is uncovered.  That's how the scout helicopter located the bunker.  What had been a sea of sand the day before the storm was now a desolate wasteland with a one hundred foot bunker cresting the surface.
    The order came in two hours after the helo reported the bunker.  Our platoon would go in and secure it along with any contents within.  The brass sounded concerned.  If WMDs were in the bunker, they didn't want a bunch of insurgents getting their hands on it.  The order came fast.  Move in.  Now, now, now.
    Just before we took fire outside the bunker, we found the canisters.  Don't know how we