Omen

We were training outside Panama City, where the jungle is thick and the night is black. The first few nights, we had a walker with us. He didn’t say much. He watched and chewed our asses later.

But that night was different. No oversight. No handholding.

I was the point man. My team leader, Staff Sergeant Reeves, worked the route out with me. Simple job–get dropped in the jungle, find our way back to the bivouac without getting caught by the patrols or the instructors.

We got in the blacked-out vans. They dumped us at some nameless spot, and we spilled out, took a knee in the mud, pulling security.

That’s when my cammies tore wide open at the crotch. I laughed under my breath, though it felt like a bad omen.

The van rolled off, and the jungle swallowed us.

We moved in a ranger file, tight, careful. The first quarter mile went easy. Then, we crossed an old runway–wide and open under the moon. After that, things started to turn.

My compass went sideways when we hit the trees again. The needle jumped like a fish on a line. I thought maybe a power line was nearby, but there was nothing above us but the dark. I held the compass away from my rifle, thinking it was that, but it didn’t help. I probably looked like an idiot stretching the lanyard out as far as it could go, squinting at the dial.

Eventually, the needle settled. We paused. I took my azimuth. I felt a tap on my shoulder and a whisper, “Go.”

So I went.

I could hear traffic on a road nearby, but it faded quickly. Thirty feet in, it was dead quiet. No bugs. No birds. Just the heavy silence that you can feel pressing on your ears. A cold feeling prickled at the back of my neck.

I stopped. I turned to ask Reeves something. But there was no one behind me.

I was alone.

The dark was thick, with no moonlight. The NVGs were useless. I moved by the faint glow of my tritium compass, heart hammering in my chest.

That’s when I heard them. Voices. Women and kids, playing, laughing. Men talking. Muffled and far away, like a radio down a long hall.

Bushes rattled. I shouldered my rifle and backed away, slow. I had no live rounds, but I was ready to buttstroke anything that came out at me. The movement stopped.

Turning, I ran, low and fast, dodging trees, trying to find my team. Through the brush, I saw moonlight glinting off the runway. North and south—nothing. Somehow, I had ended up way north of where we crossed, with no idea how.

I pushed south. Jogging, careful. Breathing hard. Then, through the trees, I found them–still in their 360.

Reeves grabbed me, his voice low and sharp, “Where the hell did you go?”

I told him he had tapped me and said to go.

He shook his head. He said he was busy taking notes from the ROC when I wandered off. His eyes softened a little when he saw how confused I was. He just told me to stay sharp.

We moved out again.

The jungle was still dead silent, but now I had my team’s boots behind me, which helped.

We patrolled until we hit a small trail. And there it was, the building.

Massive. Black. Crescent-shaped. Like a hangar half-buried in the trees.

We tried to go around it right. No good. Left. No good. It was always there, always in front of us.

Under the camo tarp, with a red light, we checked the map. We decided to risk it. Follow the trail to the stream. There was no other choice. We left the strange building behind.

Near the stream, the brush got high. We moved along the edge, heads low. That’s when I saw headlights.

“Vehicle,” I hissed.

We dove into the elephant grass. Thick. Sharp. Suffocating.

The van rolled past, hunting us.

It turned around and came back slower, sweeping its lights over the grass. I held my breath. Mud soaked through my sleeves.

It moved off. We crept out.

And then–movement across the stream. A man. Or something that looked like a man–walking the treeline. The moonlight hit him wrong. His shape was wrong. His clothing was incorrect, not cammies or civvies.

I froze. Reeves froze, too. I put my night vision goggles on to get a better look. Gone like smoke.

We moved quickly, crossing the bridge in short sprints, one at a time.

When we got across, our radio operator, Lance Corporal Delgado, asked to take a leak. Reeves gave him a nod.

Halfway through, headlights again. Reeves tackled Delgado midstream, dragging him into cover. Delgado was cursing, holding himself.

The van rolled by, slow, searching.

When it left, we had a good laugh. Delgado complained he scratched his junk.

We moved out again, avoiding the roads, and finally returned to the bivouac.

After debriefing, I went to the guys driving the van. I asked if one of them had gotten out across the stream.

Nobody had. There weren’t supposed to be any other bodies in the training area but us.

So, who did I see? And who tapped my shoulder?

I never found out, and maybe it’s better that way.