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Major Chester shifted through the photos of the crime scene for the hundredth time since the flight over. At least that was what they were calling it -a crime scene. PFC Johansson had been torn limb from limb and parts of him were still missing.

A glimmer of a thought surfaced of Major Chester’s own son who had been killed in combat just a year prior. He had identified the bloodied body. The death of his son was the final tie cut on the strained relationship with his wife. War alone was hell -having no closure was unbearable. It was ironic that it was his job to bring closure in the cases he investigates but can never bring closure in his own life.

Chester had barely gotten off the C-17 when he was whisked away to the perimeter to see for himself. Word had spread quickly and the troops were in an uproar. Was this some new kind of warfare? The question remained. What man or beast could do such a thing? SPC Gunther had said it was some sort of bear but there were no bear over here. There was nothing in Iraq that could explain Gunther’s description or the manner of death in which Johansson suffered. Nothing yet at least.

Major Chester had spent most of the morning interviewing the locals and the few that would talk with him led him here to this wheat farmers house who also was a tribal leader. He stepped out of his HMMWV and told his driver to wait with the transport.

“Zamil Chyad?” Chester asked of the leathery, brunt of a man who answered the door. Zamil nodded and Chester introduced himself and began to speak with him in Arabic.

After a few courtesies and questions answered on Chester’s behalf about the war and America he found himself being led out into the a vast field of wheat. Of course it didn’t take long for Major Chester to realize the farmer was growing more than just wheat out here. Chester wasn’t naïve enough to know that any given farmer in Iraq might make more money from growing Poppy plants for cocaine export than any other fledgling crops. Something had to offset the loss of money given to al-qaeda for protection from, well mostly the al-qaeda, as well as other warring tribes and war lords. It was something the US and British militaries were trying so desperately to contain. It was simply how things worked out here for so long.

On the way the farmer spoke of stories told to children who misbehave of the Ratel. A fierce creature, the farmer told him, with the body of a bear and the head of a monkey, razor sharp claws and teeth, and an aggressiveness and quickness like no other creature in the world. None have ever been known to be caught alive. The farmer led the Major into a small pasture beyond the crops. Immediately, the Major could see why. There was a carcass of a cow that lay gutless and dismembered in much the way that Johansson’s body was found. A splash of blood stained the area in a large circle.

Back at the base, Major Chester looked up anything he could find on Ratels. Ironically, it was an internet news story from the UK that offered more insight. The article read that the Ratels, or Badgers, was said by locals to have been placed in Basra as a type of warfare by British Soldiers. That the creatures had grown unusually large, something due to the marshland habitat.

Chester realized he was fingering his sons identification tags in his pocket. It was an act he repeated more and more lately. A symbol of his own growing dread.

If it weren’t for the physical evidence, Major Chester would have gladly chalked this one up to a sort of urban legend explaining the tragedies of war out here. He had no doubt that his next course of action would yield no positive results but he also knew to cover all the bases.

Colonel Gordon Ainsworth stepped briskly into the room with papers in hand and stopped short at the chair in front of his desk. He extended a slim hand.

“I hope I haven’t kept you long Major Chester.”

Chester stood to shake Ainsworth’s hand. “No sir, not at all. I appreciate you meeting with me on such short