Dark Magic

By Aaron Abilene

A mysterious man leads a secret unit by dark magic during the vietnam war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Syphon Creative
• Release date: Apr 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224100385

Book preview

Dark Magic

Aaron Abilene

Published by Syphon Creative, 2024.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

DARK MAGIC

First edition. April 30, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Aaron Abilene.

Written by Aaron Abilene.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Aaron Abilene

Dark Magic

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Also By Aaron Abilene

Dark Magic

Written by Aaron Abilene

Bullets whizzed past Private James Mitchell, thudding into the damp earth and tearing through the dense jungle foliage with lethal indifference. Sweat mixed with grime streaked his face as he returned fire, the muzzle flash of his M16 briefly illuminating the shadowy tangle of vines and trees that surrounded him.

Move, move, move! he bellowed to the men at his flanks, feeling rather than seeing their nods of assent as they coordinated their volleys with a synchronicity born of necessity. James's heart hammered against his ribcage, but his hands were steady, his eyes sharp. He had long since learned to compartmentalize fear, to store it away in some distant corner of his mind where it couldn't interfere with the task at hand.

The cacophony of war was deafening, a symphony of terror composed of the relentless rat-tat-tat of machine guns, the staccato bursts of rifles, and the occasional gut-wrenching boom of a grenade detonating too close for comfort. Over it all rang the shouts of his comrades—warnings, cries of pain, urgent commands—all blending into a discordant chorus that set the very air on edge.

James ducked behind a tree trunk, bark splintering around him as bullets sought flesh. He caught a glimpse of his fellow soldiers dashing from cover to cover, their faces masks of determination etched with the grime of battle. Each man knew his role, trusted in the others' ability to perform theirs. It was this trust, this unspoken pact among them, that transformed individual acts of bravery into the collective might of a unit.

Covering fire! James yelled, signaling for two of his squad mates to lay down a barrage as he prepared to leap to a new position. Even in the midst of chaos, there was an order, a method to survive, to fight, to win.

An explosion ripped through the undergrowth mere meters away, a concussive force that sent tremors through the ground and rattled James's bones. He blinked against the dust and debris that filled the air, his ears ringing, but he did not falter. Instead, he tightened his grip on his weapon, squinted through the settling haze, and resumed firing.

This was war in its rawest form—a test of wills, a contest of courage. And Private James Mitchell was not one to shrink from such challenges. With every round he discharged into the unseen enemy, he reaffirmed his resolve to emerge victorious, no matter what horrors the jungle might yet reveal.

The foliage ahead rustled, a subtle but sure sign of the enemy's advance. Private James Mitchell's eyes narrowed as he read the movement like a seasoned tracker. With deft urgency, he signaled his squad with a silent hand gesture, directing them to flank the approaching Viet Cong.

Double back, he mouthed to Martinez, who nodded and disappeared into the green maze without a sound. The brush swallowed him whole, leaving no trace of his passage.

Mitchell himself took a low crouch, his boots finding purchase in the soft earth as he moved parallel to the enemy's line. His movements were precise, calculated—the result of countless drills and the hard-earned instincts of combat. Each step was taken with care to avoid snapping twigs or disturbing the dense carpet of leaves that could betray his position.

Smith, Williams, on me, he whispered, barely audible over the distant gunfire. The two soldiers fell in behind him, their trust in Mitchell's command implicit. They advanced cautiously, rifles at the ready, eyes darting between their leader and the terrain ahead.

Here, Mitchell pointed to a cluster of bamboo shoots, Perfect for an ambush. Smith and Williams nodded, understanding the plan immediately. It was a simple strategy, but one honed by experience and necessity. They would use the natural funnel created by the bamboo to concentrate their fire, if it came to that.

Mitchell's mind raced, planning and re-planning as the situation evolved with each passing second. A break in the firefight offered a momentary lull, which he seized to reassess their positioning.

Williams, high ground, ten o'clock, he instructed, pointing to a slight rise in the terrain that offered a clear vantage point. Smith, keep to the shadows, crossfire on my mark.

Both men crept to their designated spots, blending with the environment until they were nearly invisible. Mitchell himself found cover behind a thick trunk, his fingers tightening around the stock of his M16. He peered through a gap in the foliage, eyes scanning for any hint of the enemy.

Steady, he breathed, the word a mantra for both himself and his men. This was the crux of their survival—patience, precision, and the unspoken bond that held them together. Mitchell knew that his next command could mean the difference between life and death, not just for him, but for the brothers-in-arms who trusted him to lead.

Wait for it, he tensed, every muscle coiled like a spring. And then, through the lattice of leaves and shadow, he spotted the tell-tale glint of sunlight on metal—a rifle barrel, perhaps no more than twenty paces away.

Now! His voice cut through the stillness, a signal unleashed.

In perfect synchrony, the jungle erupted with the roar of gunfire from Mitchell’s squad, catching the advancing enemy off-guard. Their carefully crafted ambush, born of Mitchell's quick thinking and resourcefulness, had given them the upper hand. And in those crucial moments, it was Mitchell's leadership that turned the tide, molding their collective will into a formidable force that would not easily be overcome.

Bullets ripped through the foliage, each snapping twig a harbinger of death as Private James Mitchell and his squad were abruptly baptized in a hailstorm of enemy fire. The air was thick with cordite and the screams of men, punctuated by the relentless cacophony of warfare that turned the dense jungle into a nightmarish arena.

Move! Cover! Mitchell's command was a guttural shout, almost lost beneath the thunderous barrage. His eyes, dark mirrors reflecting the chaos, darted from soldier to soldier, ensuring none were frozen in the deadly spectacle. Adrenaline surged as he ducked behind a fallen log, splinters flying as bullets sought flesh.

Jackson, flank right! Ramirez, lay down suppressive fire! His orders carved paths through the disarray, asserting direction amidst the pandemonium. He knew they needed more than gunfire; they needed grit—the will to push through fear and fight for every breath.

A crescendo of gunfire drew nearer, the enemy pressing their advantage. Mitchell's hands were steady, even as sweat mingled with the grime on his face, streaking his camouflage. As rounds chewed the earth around them, a sense of urgency gripped his heart like a vice. There was no retreat here, only forward—through the iron storm.

Then, in a moment that seemed suspended in time, he saw it—a grenade arcing through the smoky air, spinning towards the huddled form of a young private not three feet away. Without thought for his own safety, Mitchell lunged, pushing the kid down into the relative safety of a shallow ditch.

Stay down! he barked, feeling the heat as the explosion rent the air mere yards from where they landed. Soil and shrapnel rained upon them, a cruel downpour, but they were alive. Mitchell's ears rang, his body protesting the abrupt assault, yet his resolve did not waver.

Keep firing! He clawed his way back up to position, his rifle finding its rhythm once more. Each shot was a declaration, an assertion that he and his men would not be felled so easily. They were warriors, each one, bound by a cause greater than themselves. And it was Mitchell's unwavering determination that galvanized them, that made them more than soldiers—it made them brothers, each willing to brave hell for the other.

Push them back! Mitchell screamed over the din, the lines of his face set in grim defiance. They fought not just for territory, but for each other, and in that unity, there was strength.

And though the jungle sought to swallow them whole, Private James Mitchell stood as a beacon within the maelstrom, a leader whose courage was the shield upon which his comrades could rely.

A deafening blast tore through the oppressive humidity of the jungle, shaking the very ground beneath Private James Mitchell's boots. He flinched as a wave of concussive force hit him square in the chest, his body instinctively recoiling from the unexpected fury. The world spun wildly, a carousel of shadow and flame. His heart hammered against his ribcage, not just from the adrenaline but also from the narrow escape—the spot he had vacated mere seconds before was now a smoldering crater.

Gasping for breath, Mitchell fought to clear the haze from his vision, the acrid smell of explosives permeating his senses. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine, the aftermath of the explosion silencing the cacophony of battle for one disorienting moment. Instincts screamed at him to move, to do something—anything—but his limbs were momentarily leaden, unresponsive to the urgent commands of his mind.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the vulnerability passed, leaving behind a seething determination that burned hotter than the fires around him. Mitchell shook his head sharply, dispelling the last vestiges of confusion as his training kicked in. There was no room for hesitation on this battlefield; weakness would only lead to death—for him and for his men.

Rally! he bellowed, his voice cutting through the resumed chaos like a knife through the dense undergrowth. He clawed at the muddy earth, propelling himself back into the fray, his rifle once again an extension of his will.

Mitchell moved with purpose, each step a testament to his refusal to surrender to fear or fatigue. Bullets zipped past, so close he could almost feel their heat, but he pressed forward, firing measured shots at shadows that darted between trees, at flashes of light that betrayed enemy positions.

Advance! Advance! he urged his squad, his eyes alight with a fierce resolve. They responded in kind, feeding off the energy of their leader, their movements synchronized in a deadly dance of retaliation.

He felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle onto his shoulders, heavier than any pack he had ever carried, yet it did not crush him. Instead, it spurred him on, fueling his every motion, driving him to be the bulwark his brothers needed.

As gunfire stitched a deadly pattern through the foliage, Private James Mitchell, with gritted teeth and a relentless spirit, reaffirmed his position on the frontline of hell. Each round he fired was a defiant cry against the chaos, a declaration that he would not be overcome, nor would he allow his brothers to falter while he still drew breath.

Beneath the cacophony of war, a brief lull allowed the sound of labored breathing and muttered prayers to surface. Mitchell, crouched behind the twisted trunk of a once-majestic tree, met the eyes of Corporal Harris. In that fleeting silence, their shared resolve spoke volumes.

Stay sharp, Mitchell whispered, clapping a hand on Harris's shoulder. The corporal nodded, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face before vanishing into stern concentration.

Wouldn't be anywhere else but here with you guys, Harris replied, gripping his rifle tighter. Their helmets nearly touched as they leaned in, brothers not by blood but by battle.

Cover me! Mitchell called out, darting from his cover to drag a wounded private to safety. Bullets kicked up dirt around them, a deadly hail that chased their every move. He felt hands join his, sharing the burden. Together, they heaved the injured soldier back behind their makeshift barricade.

Thanks, he panted, nodding to the men who had risked exposure to help him. A round of muted acknowledgments passed among them, each man recognizing the unspoken pact they had all silently agreed upon: no one gets left behind.

As the firefight resumed with renewed fury, an unexpected figure emerged from the smoky haze—a superior officer, Captain Edwards. His presence on the front line was rare, and it stilled the air around them for a moment.

Private Mitchell! the captain shouted over the din, his voice carrying the weight of urgency and authority.

Sir! Mitchell responded, snapping to attention despite the chaos, his rifle still at the ready.

Your actions have not gone unnoticed, Captain Edwards said, stepping closer, his gaze locked onto Mitchell's. Your courage under fire and your ability to lead and inspire your squad are exemplary.

Thank you, sir, Mitchell replied, instinctively bracing for orders, his mind never straying far from the mission at hand.

Effective immediately, you're being transferred. You've been promoted and reassigned to a specialized unit, the captain continued, his expression serious yet tinged with respect.

Mitchell could only nod, accepting the words amidst the surreal backdrop of war. His heart hammered with the gravity of recognition, even as his focus remained on the comrades beside him, the ones who looked to him, depended on him.

Details will follow, but know this—your country is grateful, Captain Edwards concluded before slipping away as quickly as he had appeared, his figure melding back into the blur of green and brown.

In the eye of the storm, Mitchell stood tall, his resolve fortified by the trust of his brothers-in-arms and the honor just bestowed upon him. Together, they would face the next wave, a band of warriors bound by something deeper than fear or duty. They were united by trust, and for Private James Mitchell, that was the fiercest weapon of all.

Bullets whizzed past, carving malevolent paths through the air. Private James Mitchell ducked behind the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, its bark rough against his palms. The cacophony of war raged around him—gunfire a relentless symphony to which his heartbeat now synchronized. As he reloaded his M16 with mechanical precision, Mitchell's thoughts churned with Captain Edwards’ words.

Promotion. Specialized unit.

The honor was immense, a weighty medal forged from the fires of combat and bravery. Yet, it brought with it a cold undercurrent of trepidation. He had never been one to fear the unknown, but the mystery shrouding this new assignment clawed at his resolve. What shadows lurked within this specialized unit? What trials would they demand of him?

His finger paused on the trigger, a momentary lapse as the dual sentiments warred within him. He glanced sidelong at his comrades, their faces smeared with grime and determination. These men were more than fellow soldiers; they were brothers, forged in the crucible of shared hardship.

Keep your head down, Mitch! a voice barked through the chaos. It was Sergeant Doyle, his eyes fierce but trusting. Trust that Mitchell had earned, trust that bound them tighter than blood.

Got it, Sarge, Mitchell responded, the familiar surge of adrenaline drowning out his uncertainties.

As he popped up to return fire, he realized that this was the essence of his duty: to face the unknown, to protect those who called him brother. Honor and apprehension blended into a steely resolve. He had always risen to the occasion, and this time would be no different.

Covering fire, Mitchell commanded, his voice cutting through the din. His squad responded in kind, a rhythmic hail of bullets granting him precious seconds.

The firefight ebbed, a rare lull amidst the tumultuous battle, and Mitchell seized the tranquility to reflect on his path forward. Accepting the promotion meant leaving these men, venturing into the dark heart of a war that held secrets even deeper than its despair. But wasn't that the very nature of courage—stepping into the abyss with the faith that you would emerge not just unscathed, but stronger?

Alright, Mitchell, he whispered to himself, steeling his soul for the journey ahead. Time to show them what you're made of.

With the taste of gunpowder heavy in the air and the sounds of war still clamoring for dominance, Private James Mitchell stood up, his gaze piercing the jungle canopy.

Tell the captain I accept, he said to Doyle, his voice resolute amidst the lingering echoes of battle. I'll take on whatever comes. It's what we do, isn't it?

He didn't wait for an answer. There was no need. The look in his sergeant's eyes spoke volumes—a mix of sorrow for the separation and pride for the honor bestowed upon one of their own.

Mitchell shouldered his rifle, the tool of his trade and his lifeline. Whatever awaited him in the mysterious unit, he would face it with the same tenacity and unwavering spirit that had carried him through the jungles of Vietnam. For his country, for his fallen brothers, and for himself, he was determined to prove worthy of every challenge that lay ahead.

Mitchell's boots crunched on the gravel as he stepped into the fray of the elite unit's base camp. The air was thick with diesel fumes and the cacophony of war—shouts, the clatter of metal, the guttural revving of engines. Soldiers moved with a sense of urgency that bordered on frenzy, hefting crates of ammunition and securing them in the bellies of canvas-topped trucks. Around him, mechanics wielded tools like surgeons, fine-tuning the beasts of war that growled impatiently.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder, eyes sweeping over the organized chaos. Every man and woman here moved with purpose, a cog in an intricate machine that didn't allow for hesitation or doubt. Mitchell felt the weight of his newness here, an untested piece in this complex mechanism.

Name? A voice, sharp as the snap of a rifle, cut through the noise, bringing Mitchell back to the present.

He turned to face the owner of the voice—a soldier whose stern features were etched with the lines of discipline and authority. Not a hair out of place beneath his helmet, his gaze held the kind of focus that could bore holes through steel.

Private Mitchell, he replied, his voice firm despite the tightness in his throat.

Follow me, the soldier commanded without preamble, turning on his heel with military precision.

Mitchell hastened after him, noting the way others cleared a path for the man leading him. Respect—or was it fear?—flickered in their eyes as they glanced at the stern-faced herald.

The heart of the camp neared, marked by a tent larger than the rest, its canvas sides stretched taut under the strain of secrets it must hold within. Flags of various allied nations flapped above it, a silent testament to the gravity of operations orchestrated under its roof.

Commander's expecting you, the soldier said, pulling back the flap of the tent and gesturing for Mitchell to enter before standing guard outside, as immovable as the rifles stacked nearby.

Mitchell drew in a breath, the scent of sweat and earth mingling with a faint trace of something else...something he couldn't quite place, an underlying hint of the occult that seemed to cling to the very fabric of the place. He stepped across the threshold, ready to meet the enigma at the center of this storm.

Mitchell's boots sank silently into the lush carpet that covered the ground of the commander's tent, an unexpected luxury amidst the austerity of war. The interior was dimly lit by a single overhead lamp that cast long shadows across maps and documents strewn over a hefty wooden table. At the far end stood the man he had come to