The Alpha Chronicles Read Free

griping ensued. Spider decided to help and added, “Come on, you lazy fucks. People back home pay a butt-full of money for a trip to the waterpark. Hell, we’ve not only got water, but mud and 20 varieties of poisonous snakes, too! This op’s like a vacation to a health spa and zoo combined. Shit, we’re even blessed with foot-long centipedes.”
    Spider’s logic met with some verbal feedback, including one operator grabbing his crotch and taunting, “Hey, Spider! I’ve got yer foot-long… right HERE!”
    Stoke ordered the column to move out, Bishop taking his place at the front, off-center to the right, and 100 feet in front of the main body of contractors. Sensing, more than seeing, he knew Spider would keep even with him, but to the left. The formation moved forward like a pitchfork missing its middle prong.
    The unit hadn’t traveled more than 50 steps when the rain suddenly stopped. Bishop didn’t realize it at first, the runoff cascading down through the canopy above for several more minutes. Shortly after, the sun shone brightly, lighting the jungle floor through small peepholes of light in the dense vegetation above.
    The men’s initial reaction to the change in weather was positive - for about an hour. After days of precipitation, the subtropical sun turned the super-saturated terrain into a steam bath of misery. Waves of moist heat rose from the jungle surface, unwelcome by men burdened by heavy, saturated clothing and humping packs often weighing in excess of 100 pounds.
    The suffering was made worse by their destination, the now-abandoned village requiring a climb of 4,000 feet along the incline of some unnamed mountain. Bishop could think of several names for the hill that was causing his legs to cramp, most of the labels unfit to be printed on any map.
    With his shotgun in his left hand and a razor sharp machete swinging from his right, he cut his way through some of the thickest undergrowth he’d ever seen. “This is no place for a boy from West Texas,” he mumbled to himself.  
     
    Bishop peered out from under the jungle foliage at a completely altered landscape. The dense, triple-canopy above had begun thinning as the column gradually worked its way up an ever-steeper incline. As the altitude increased, Bishop noted two distinctive changes. The first was the undergrowth; most of the diminishing plant life now tinted an earthy brown rather than the viscoid entanglement of emerald-green they had struggled through for miles. The second variation was an increased difficulty in catching his breath, the thinner air containing less oxygen.
    As if some mighty God had drawn a line on the side of the mountain and dared the vegetation to cross his mark, the jungle suddenly ceased. The tropical bush was replaced by waist-high, mud-colored grass covering the mountain’s slope.
    Any drastic change in surroundings dictated a stop. Knowing it would be a few minutes before the main group caught up to his position, Bishop took the opportunity to drop his pack. The relief experienced after removing the heavy kit was practically orgasmic.
    Since combat in a jungle environment is often close up and personal, Bishop had selected a 12-gauge, automatic shotgun for the mission. The weapon was devastating within 75 yards, but lost effectiveness at long distance encounters. Scanning the open, prairie-like landscape in front of him, he expected Stoke to reassign him from a scouting role back to the main formation. Wide-open spaces required the point man to have a longer-range weapon. Still, he had packed a few dozen slugs, and they would extend his capabilities if it came to a fight. He decided to use the time to replace the seven rounds of buckshot with a mixed load, every other shell being a one ounce, solid plug of lead. The operators called the process “candy striping.”
    Just as he finished reloading, the main body arrived. Stoke took a knee beside Bishop and scanned the open grasslands. “Any