The ambush is a classical tactic. It is probably the oldest organized technique used in warfare. It is a type of personalized trap. Instead of the prey falling into a hole upon sharpened sticks, the hunters themselves, with their sharpened sticks, fall upon the unsuspecting prey. Weapons themselves have changed markedly over the centuries, but the ambush remains. Sure, we have smart bombs and cruise missiles that have depersonalized the ambush to a large extent but, every day there is still a soldier of some army lying in wait for the enemy. His weapon may be the stick, the knife, the gun or grenade but his task is still very personal. The prey, for one brief moment, senses the hunter's tension. The air waves vibrate irregularly from the unnatural beating of the hunter's heart and his sporadic breathing. Then the rush of panic causes the prey's senses to collapse. His ears fill with the pounding rush of blood, his vision narrows and focuses on the bush, his muscles tense preparing to spring his body out of harm. His field of view suddenly focuses on a strange movement, a color out of place or a sigh of relief from the hunter who has caught his prey in the trap. The brush explodes and the prey is flung helplessly to the ground where he realizes that he hasn't heard or felt anything for minutes, and then he dies. Sergeant Kennedy's life was the ambush. He had spent eighteen of the last thirty-six months in the Central American jungle perfecting the art of the ambush. The Marine Corps had spent much time and effort to train Sergeant Kennedy to kill and he repaid them by doing his job well. Kennedy liked the ambush. It was a chess game, and it was a very sound tactic. The ambush was very useful in taking the enemy's initiative away. The ambush was excellent for interrupting the enemy's supply and communication lines. It was good for forcing the enemy to over commit troops and divert them from more useful jobs. Basically, it gummed up the works when done properly. It was great for destroying a highly effective enemy unit without confronting them directly. It is the tactic of the weak, the oppressed and the cunning. Maybe it was poker. Whenever Kennedy sat up in the jungle night, philosophizing about his trade, his lips and teeth braced against the recent swig of Beam's Best, he always remembered that game. Indian Poker was the game. Five card stud, where each player sticks a certain number of cards -- face out -- on his saliva moistened forehead. The players could see the other players' "Indian" cards, but not their own. The dealer chose the number of cards to place on the forehead and the number usually increased as the night, and the bourbon, gained the upper hand. The game of Kennedy's memory was a typical evening of Indian Poker. They chose the living room of an air-conditioned luxury suite in San Salvador. The kind with the deck joining the living room. Usually the sliding glass doors to the deck would be opened to allow a breeze. This night was particularly hot and humid, so the boys left the doors closed and the cooler on. Kennedy thought nothing when the game switched to Indian Poker early in the morning. Then, as he gazed across the exposed cards of the other players, his eyes fell upon the reflection of his face -- and cards, in the glass doors. The others were so drunk that they actually laughed at Kennedy's incredible luck. They eventually "donated" over five thousand dollars to him that evening. He still gets that warm, satisfied feeling when he remembers that game. That same warm, satisfied feeling he gets when he catches the momentary twinkle in the enemy's eyes as they realize they are trapped and their eyes dilate in fear. This week was Kennedy's last for this "war". He'd spent three, six-month tours here and it was time for a break. He was starting to walk hunched over from the weight of the souls he had collected. They hung from him like scalps or tiny, shrunken heads. He wasn't afraid of them, nor haunted by them, he just lived with them. They were his companions. The whole trade of death was too normal, too routine. So he decided that he'd leave after this tour. Go back to Lejeune or PI. He didn't know and he didn't care. Mostly, because he knew he'd be back. He was a Marine and Marines go where the action is. This would be his last mission. It was a busy weekend and most of the squads were out on patrols or raids. They were officially "Force Reconnaissance". Their job was to gather long range intelligence for other Marine units. But out here they were on their own. They lived and operated in a hostile foreign country. Fighting a war nobody cared about. They were effective. Kennedy's platoon had located a thorn in the allies' side. Small groups of enemy soldiers and sympathizers were operating early warning sites which radioed in US and allied troop movements. The enemy headquarters could then triangulate the reports and predict possible routes and then -- ambush. After the last patrols went out, an observation team located one of the enemy surveillance teams leaving a village only three miles from the Marines' camp. Kennedy plotted their movement and decided he could catch them at a stream crossing the Marines had identified the week before. Kennedy grabbed three others from an off duty fireteam and threw together a plan for a hasty ambush. Kennedy decided to set up the team in a small triangle. One man 50 yards to the rear and one man on either side, 50 yards out, for security. Then Kennedy himself would conduct the ambush alone. This wasn't totally sound, but he was short people. He also wanted a few private memories he could savor after he left; one last "great adventure". He took two homemade mines and his shotgun. The others took their issue M16s. Kennedy was an intimate fellow and he liked the effect of the 12-gauge close in. He knew that the mines would be more than enough for the three men he expected, but he liked a little overkill, it was the name of the game. This time the ambush would serve another purpose -- collecting intelligence. He hoped to capture the enemy's communications equipment and get their frequencies. He might also find enough scraps to put together their call signs and other valuable information. It was all there for the picking. They picked their routes and left friendly lines. Their route would get them to the ambush site about twenty minutes before the enemy soldiers. More time than Kennedy liked, especially since it would be morning before they sprung the trap. Kennedy was also concerned about the patrol back to the Marines' lines, so he decided to use four separate routes. They would only have to cover two miles to get back and the Marines had plenty of patrols in the area for support. Kennedy covered the final fifty yards to the ambush site alone. There was a slight break in the canopy and a small but obvious ford on the stream bank. Shafts of grey light filtered in from the morning sky and Kennedy worked quickly to place the mines so that their blasts converged on the near side of the stream. He then moved back to a sheltered hollow he had dug in the ground. He was twenty yards from the kill zone and he could barely see it between the foliage and the changing light. He laid into the ground making himself a slight rise in the earth where it was flat before. His eyes closed as his body began to conserve energy for a potential fight. Glancing down he watched a spider walk across his bare wrist. The poisonous oils of the spider raised his skin in a hot red trail behind the spider. He watched another bug building with a stick . . . The bush crunched suddenly and voices cut through the damp air. Kennedy looked up straining to see the enemy through the leaves. His body tensed. He felt a warm shiver flow down his back and into his groin. It ended at his anus and he fought off the sudden sensation that his entire existence was about to pass out his asshole. He panicked momentarily, worried that they would cross at another point and stumble onto him, but just as he was about to adjust his gaze, he saw them. Their clothes bobbed in and out of view and finally broke into the open of the crossing. They took two steps, laughing, and suddenly stopped. They dropped to a low crouch, their eyes scanning the bush. Kennedy moved his right hand and began to squeeze, one of the soldiers froze looking directly at Kennedy. The soldier swung his weapon up to fire, but the blast from the mines continued to carry the weapon and the soldier in a lazy arc into the air. Then he ceased to be a single, whole unit. Kennedy was on his feet before the trees and body parts were still. He moved through the wreckage expertly and picked up most of the items he expected. He removed the pin from a grenade and placed it carefully under the butt of a dead man's M16 as a booby trap. Then, according to plan, he turned, picked up the equipment and ran. He ran about 75 yards through the brush, stopped, took a long swig of bourbon and water from his canteen and set off walking toward the camp. Forty minutes later, Kennedy slowed to check his bearings. He picked out a familiar dead tree and decided to walk the last half mile straight into camp. The hair rose on the back of his neck. His ears thundered with the rush of blood. He quickly scanned the bush and panicked as the realization hit him. His eyes dimmed and focused quickly on a break in the bush. Turning, reaching for the cover, he felt something warm rush down his legs. He heard no sounds, but bright red points of light pushed him away from the gap in the bush. He staggered and kicked his legs to run, but the ground still pushed against his head. He felt the earth turning and he could hear the sound of a hundred souls laughing. The colors of the jungle rushed together into white and then, black. Jimenez laughed as he pulled the gringo's soft cap out of his pocket. He walked away admiring the Marine Corps emblem on the cap. This pendejo had been a pain in the ass for too long. Copyright (C) 1992 Mike Allison