Chapter 29 "Order must be done"
After arriving at the forward outpost and meeting my new fireteam, we were immediately briefed on our first mission: a suspected rebel stronghold deep in the jungles of Siam, near the entrance to Sector Foxtrot. Intelligence suggested it was a key node in the insurgents' dwindling network—our objective was to neutralize it completely.
We boarded a transport helicopter along with nearly a dozen others, carrying over two hundred GOC soldiers into the dense, humid wilderness. Below us, the jungle stretched endlessly, a sea of green hiding horrors we hadn't yet imagined.
I tightened my grip on my semi-automatic rifle as Lucas checked the magazine of his SMG beside me. The rest of the fireteam sat in tense silence, eyes sharp, jaws set—each of us bracing for what lay ahead.
The chopper touched down in a small clearing. Within seconds, we spilled out onto the damp earth, weapons up, scanning the treeline as the rotor wash kicked up dirt and leaves. Once the bird lifted off and vanished into the gray sky, Lucas gave the signal: "Move out."
He called for a 2-1-1 formation—grenadier and team leader in front, gunners providing suppressive fire in the middle, sniper holding back for overwatch. Standard jungle insertion protocol. We advanced cautiously, boots sinking slightly into the moist soil, the air thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and distant smoke.
Then came the first thunder.
Artillery Regiment 131 opened fire. High-explosive shells and napalm rained down just twenty meters ahead of our position, turning the rebel encampment into a hellscape of flame and debris. The bombardment lasted less than a minute—but it was enough. The enemy's defenses were shattered.
As the explosions ceased, Fireteams 105 and 65 surged forward, breaching the outer perimeter with brutal efficiency. Our unit—Fireteam 64—was ordered to hold our position. Not to assault. Not to engage. Our task: secure the primary evacuation route and intercept any fleeing hostiles.
"Easy duty," George muttered.
It wasn't.
From our vantage point behind a moss-covered ridge, the jungle canopy swallowed sound and sight—but not everything. A scream cut through the humidity like a blade. I raised my binoculars.
What I saw froze my blood.
A family—unarmed, terrified—was being chased through the underbrush by GOC soldiers. The mother clutched her infant to her chest, stumbling as she tried to shield the child with her body. One soldier grabbed the baby by the arm. She screamed, reaching out, refusing to let go—until he struck her hard across the face and flung her to the ground. She didn't move after that.
I couldn't breathe.
Lucas placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Don't look," he said quietly, voice strained. "It's not good for your head. You'll break if you keep watching."
I nodded, lowering the binoculars, but the image was already seared into my mind. The guilt gnawed at me—I could've fired. I should've fired. But orders were orders.
The battle raged for over three hours—longer than Command had anticipated. Just as dusk began to bleed into the canopy, the rumble of engines cut through the silence. Battalion 17 rolled in: IFVs, transport trucks, nearly five hundred soldiers from the GOC 7th Army. They passed right by our position without stopping, heading straight for the rebel compound.
Lucas received new orders over the comms. "We're moving with them," he said, jaw clenched. No choice. Refusal meant court-martial—or worse.
We followed.
What awaited us wasn't a battlefield. It was a slaughterhouse.
Six hundred to nine hundred civilians lay dead. Another four thousand—men, women, children—huddled in terrified silence, corralled like livestock. Four hundred rebel fighters had been killed in the initial assault; five hundred more had surrendered.
I expected processing. Interrogation. Prisoners of war.
I was wrong.
A priority transmission crackled over every channel:
**"Eradicate all witnesses. No survivors. No exceptions. Not even children."**
The words hung in the air like poison.
Around us, the mood shifted. Some soldiers—many of them—grinned. One grabbed a teenage girl by the wrist and dragged her toward the skeletal remains of an old house. As he unbuckled his belt, others began betting on who could behead the most rebels with their ceremonial swords—a grotesque game born of bloodlust and impunity.
Lucas wanted to pull us out. I saw it in his eyes. But he knew the truth: desertion meant execution. Disobedience meant the same. We were trapped—not just by jungle vines, but by the rot within our own ranks.
So we watched.
One by one, civilians were executed. Decapitated. Burned. Thrown into rivers in body bags—still alive, judging by the muffled thrashing as soldiers dragged them away. I tried not to look, but a severed head rolled to a stop at my boots.
It was the girl before.
Her eyes—wide, empty—seemed to stare right through me.
I doubled over, retching. Lucas shielded me with his body, blocking my view, whispering, "Breathe. Just breathe."
But I couldn't unsee it. Couldn't unhear the laughter of men turned monsters.
The genocide lasted eight hours.
When it was over, I was evacuated—not for wounds, but for my mind. Medics diagnosed acute psychological trauma. They gave me sedatives, quiet rooms, soft words. None of it helped.
Back in Sector Bacardi, atrocities happened—yes. But never on this scale. There, it was dozens. Here? Thousands. Executed not in heat of battle, but in cold, calculated extermination.
By the time I returned to the barracks, my fireteam was already asleep. I slipped into my bunk, stared at the ceiling, and begged the darkness to take the memories away.
It didn't.
Her eyes followed me into sleep.
*To be continued…*