by Tom Abrahams
Gibson stepped back and nodded. A smile crept across his face. He keyed his radio. “Finally,” he said. “You’re showing some backbone to go with that brain of yours. It’s about time.”
Two hours later, Gibson sat alone in his office. The only light in the room was the glow of his computer screen. He typed his appeal.
EYES ONLY, CLASSIFIED
PROJECT BESERKR USAMRIID TRIALS
New substantial progress.
Molecular structure is stable when attached to hormone. VX-99 rendition is stable.
Hypothesize the need for active VX-99 culture for synthesis to occur.
Request live test subject repeated.
Request for deadline extension.
Gibson sent the message and waited. If command denied his extension, it was over. He chuckled thinking about it. Under the pressure of a ridiculous seventy-two-hour deadline, his Stanford-educated genius had made a breakthrough. He’d been able to stabilize the combination of the updated VX-99 and the new Berserkr cocktail. They’d worked for years without success. And in less than a day, Starling had figured it out.
That should be worth something to the string-pullers higher up the chain of command, the men to whom Gibson had to answer. They knew VX-99 had value. They’d told him as much, even as they ridiculed what it had done to the team of Marines in Operation Burn Bright in July 1968.
Gibson reached down to his right and unlocked a file drawer underneath his desk. He slid open the drawer and withdrew a thick file folder, which he dropped onto his desk and opened up.
In the dim light of the computer monitor, he again read through the postmortem intelligence report from Burn Bright.
Gibson scanned through the briefing, as he had countless times before. He always hoped to find something he’d never noticed before. He was always disappointed.
The facts hadn’t changed in a dozen years.
All thirty-two men inserted into the jungle via a CH-47 Chinook were dead. At least, they believed all of them were dead. It was nearly impossible to determine which body parts belonged to which men. Some of them were unrecognizable as human.
Graphic black-and-white photographs might as well have been full color. The images were splattered with the dark color of blood. It was everywhere. Gibson’s stomach lurched, but he pressed forward.
Officially, thirty Marines were listed as KIA. Two of them, Rick Fern from Texas and Trevor Brett from Georgia, were officially MIA and presumed dead. Neither their bodies nor their dog tags had been recovered during the hasty retrieval mission sixteen hours after the insertion.
The retrieval team wasn’t there to recover men who’d given their lives for their country. The team was dropped into the jungle to make certain no evidence of the VX-99 remained. They were the ones who snapped the grisly photographs, the proof that VX-99 had worked too well.
Almost immediately, Gibson had been tasked with finding an alternative to the DNA-altering concoction. Funding was limitless for seven years. Then the war ended. The immediate need for supersoldiers or monstrous Marines disappeared with the final choppers evacuating Saigon.
Gibson suddenly had to fight for every dollar, for every test tube and petri dish. His work wasn’t critical to those in charge. Maybe that would change, he thought, if he could prove to them he’d cracked the code.
His eyes stopped at a photograph of a young Marine. He’d looked at the photograph so many times before. And it struck him every time. The Marine looked like a child. Fresh-faced, hope in his eyes, confidence in his jaw.
Gibson always wondered what those final moments were like for the Marine. What did he feel when he injected VX-99? What raced through his mind as his body changed and his fellow Marines attacked him?
Gibson’s computer beeped with an alert. There was a new message from command.
EYES ONLY, CLASSIFIED
PROJECT BESERKR USAMRIID TRIALS
Request for live subject pending.
Extension granted until 1 May.
Gibson sighed. At least it was something. He ran his hand across the photograph of Lieutenant Trevor Brett and closed the file. As was the case with Operation Burn Bright, he resolved this operation needed his personal touch. He had an idea, somewhere he could turn to test the new theory. It was unconventional but necessary.
He picked up the receiver on his phone and dialed an internal extension. The phone rang once before a woman answered.
“This is Major Gibson,” he said. “I need a secure line to another installation.”
He gave the operator the number and waited for the series of clicks that indicated she’d switched his extension to an encoded line. There was a brief dial tone followed by the rapid analog ticking of the operator inputting the number. The phone on the other end of the line rang three times, and a familiar voice answered.
“Colonel Long,” said the man.
“Colonel Long,” replied the operator. “I have a secure call for you from USAMRIID.”
“Securing line,” Colonel Long replied. There was a beep and another series of clicks. “Line secure. Please proceed.”
“Thank you,” said the operator. A short tone indicated she’d disconnected from the call.
“Rod,” said Major Gibson, “it’s Rick.”
The colonel laughed. “Rick? Good to hear from you. How’s the family?”
“Excellent, thank you. Yours?”
“Wonderful,” said Colonel Long. “What’s it been? A year?”
“Two, I think.”
The colonel sighed. “Time flies. I assume you aren’t calling to reminisce, given we’re on a secure line.”
“Roger that, Rod.”
“What do you need?”
“You still running Project Judas?”
Colonel Long cleared his throat. “Officially?”
“Unofficially.”
“Roger,” said the colonel. “From time to time, depending on the circumstances. You need some assistance?”
“Roger.”
“Officially?”
“Unofficially,” said Gibson. “But I need the paperwork to look clean.”
“For you, Rick, not a problem,” said the colonel. “How fast do we need to make this happen?”
“Yesterday,” said Major Rick Gibson. “I need it yesterday.”
— 11 —
Hanoi, Vietnam
April 18, 1980
The humidity was suffocating. Linh stepped from the plane and tore his tie from his neck and folded it neatly before slipping it into his jacket’s breast pocket. It was too hot for the jacket, but he was embarrassed by the instantaneous rings of sweat that had soaked through his dress shirt by the time he’d descended the steps from the aircraft.
He fumbled with his brown satchel and walked across the boiling tarmac to the terminal. Linh swore the soles of his shoes were melting on the blistering ground. Instead of the cool relief he expected, Linh was met with a warm gust of air as he entered the loud, crowded space. He looked up at the low ceiling and spotted an old fan with wide, dusty blades slowly spinning and creaking above the din of passengers awaiting loved ones.
The collection of sounds was almost deafening, and Linh wondered if he’d made a mistake. After a long, uncomfortable flight next to a pair of Frenchmen smoking putrid Gauloises cigarettes, he was already exhausted. The humidity, noise, and mix of body odor that washed over him as he shuffled only made it worse.
He tightened his grip on the bag and pinballed his way through the crowd to search for his driver. Harriett had told him to look for a sign with his name on it. Linh tried taking short breaths through his mouth to avoid the suddenly overwhelming stench that hung in the stale indoor air. Once he’d cleared the initial swarm, he found a row of drivers holding up pieces of paper with names scribbled on them. He scanned the row of casually dressed men and found one whose placard read “Jinny Linh”. Close enough.
“I’m Jimmy,” he said to the leathery-faced chauffeur. “Jimmy Linh.”
The man n
odded and reached for Linh’s satchel. “I’m Huynh.”
“I’ll keep my bag, thanks,” Linh said, “but I do have a suitcase at baggage claim to pick up.”
Huynh waved at Linh to follow him. He was chewing on a stalk of sugar cane as he maneuvered expertly through the throngs of travelers moving their way in all directions. Linh struggled to keep pace and caught up with Huynh when he reached the baggage carousel.
“You have one bag?” asked Huynh, the thick stalk hanging from his lip like a cigar.
Linh nodded. “Instead of going to the hotel, could you please take me to my uncle’s house? It’s not far.”
Huynh shrugged. “Your money. We will go where you want.”
Twenty minutes later Linh’s bag was the last to arrive. Huynh yanked it from the carousel, popped the handle, and rolled it back into the thickly oppressive heat.
Linh sucked in a breath of air and felt it in his lungs. By the time he’d reached Linh’s beige 1962 Peugeot 404, he was wiping the sting of sweat from his eyes.
“You look like you’re from here,” said Huynh, opening the door, “but you’re not from here. You sweat too much.”
Linh slid into the backseat and set his satchel next to him. “I was born here,” he said. “We moved when I was little. I haven’t been back in a while.”
Huynh chuckled. The deep creases of his crow’s feet melted into the corners of his eyes. “No kidding, Jinny.”
He shut the rear driver’s side door and climbed behind the wheel. He honked the horn and forcefully merged into the slow-moving traffic trying to leave the airport. Huynh grabbed the stalk from his mouth and pointed it back at his passenger, waving it up and down.
“So what do you do, Jinny? Why are you here sweating and stinking so bad?”
Linh leaned over to sniff his armpits. Was it him? He couldn’t tell. He caught Huynh’s near-toothless grin in the rearview mirror. “I’m a reporter. Can you turn on the air-conditioning?”
“A reporter? Of what? Roll down your window.”
“News.”
“What news is here in Vietnam, Jinny?”
Linh cranked the window as low as it would open. The warm breeze offered minimal relief. “It’s Jimmy.”
“Jinny.”
Linh rolled his eyes. “I’m working on a story about a village legend,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard about it.”
Huynh rolled the sugar cane around in his mouth. “I hear lots of things. Lots of stories. People sit in your seat there and tell me all about their lives.”
“Ma Trang,” said Linh. “It’s the story of—”
“I know Ma Trang,” said Huynh, the smile melting from his face. “It’s not a legend. It’s truth.”
Linh leaned forward in his seat. “How do you know?”
Huynh stuffed the stalk in his mouth, pressed the clutch, and shifted the four-speed manual into third gear. “Everybody knows. Ma Trang is real.”
Linh leaned over and rifled through his satchel. He pulled out the Ultra Compact Pearlcorder L400 Micro audio cassette recorder and pressed record. “Can I ask you a few questions for my story?”
Huynh shrugged. “Your money. We do what you want.”
“Tell me everything you know about Ma Trang.”
Huynh jerked the wheel and changed lanes to pass a pickup truck. He accelerated and glanced at Linh in the backseat. “I know you don’t want to find him.”
Linh shifted in his seat, used his arm to wipe sweat from his forehead, and moved the recorder to the seat back to the right of Huynh’s shoulder. “Why?”
Huynh looked back at Linh as if he’d said the most idiotic thing he’d ever heard. “Because he’ll eat you.”
Linh didn’t say anything. Despite his inexperience, he’d already learned that silence was uncomfortable. An interview subject always felt compelled to talk to end the silence. If he sat there without speaking, the driver would elaborate. After thirty seconds he did.
“He’s American,” said Huynh. “He was a fighter during the war. He was killed, but he didn’t die.”
“How is that possible?”
“That’s what makes him Ma Trang,” said Huynh. “Did you give me the address?”
Linh reminded Huynh where they were headed. “What makes him Ma Trang, the White Ghost? Why do people think he is a ghost?”
Huynh downshifted and slowed in the worsening traffic. “He’s not a man,” he said. “His skin is pale. His hands and feet are claws. His teeth are sharp like knives. His mouth is not normal.”
“How so?”
Huynh held his fingers like he was plucking a bulb from a socket and held it to his lips. “They are round like a…like a…what do you call the bloodsucker in the river. Con dīa?”
Linh searched his mind for his Vietnamese vocabulary. “A leech?”
Huynh snapped his fingers. “Yes. A leech. His lips are like a leech.”
“You said he eats people?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know this?”
“I said to you already, everybody knows this. Nobody goes near the Da River from Hòa Bình to Thung Nang. Only villagers and fishermen go there, and they know they could die.”
“Have you ever seen the Ma Trang?”
Huynh shook his head. “No,” he said. “My cousin’s wife has a brother who died. Ma Trang ate him. Five years ago. Five or six years ago. Very sad.”
“If I wanted to talk to people who’ve seen Ma Trang, where would I go? What village?”
“I said to you people who see Ma Trang die. So good luck talking to dead people.”
Linh sighed. “Okay,” he said, “how about talking to dead people’s families? Where would you suggest?”
“Hòa Bình is a big village. You could go there. Xóm Bưa Sen is a tiny village. That is where my cousin’s wife’s brother lived. You could go there.”
Huynh flipped the turn signal, downshifted, and turned right onto a narrow street lined on either side with three-story-high apartment buildings. He narrowly avoided a pair of men on bicycles and eased the Peugeot into an empty spot against the crumbling curb. He slipped the car into park and shut off the engine before turning around to face Linh.
“This is the address you gave me,” he said. “You get out here.”
“Okay.” Linh reached for the door handle.
Huynh stopped him. “You pay me first,” he said. “A little extra too for the story.”
Linh reached into his satchel and pulled out a wad of the petty cash he’d gotten from work. “How much?”
Huynh glanced at the cash in the mirror. “British money?”
“Yes. Is that all right?”
“Sure. I’ll take all of it.”
Linh resisted and scowled.
Huynh broke into laughter. “I’m kidding, Jinny the reporter. I’m just joking. Ten pounds is fine.”
Linh exhaled nervously, smiled, and handed the driver his money. He shouldered his way out of the backseat and stepped back into the stifling humidity of Hanoi in April.
Huynh delivered the suitcase and offered his hand. “Good luck with your story. I hope you don’t see the ghost.”
“Thank you,” said Linh. He grabbed the suitcase and lugged it onto the sidewalk. His uncle’s apartment was on the third floor. He licked beads of sweat from his upper lip.
“Great,” he mumbled. “Heat rises.”
— 12 —
Thirty thousand feet above Iran
April 19, 1980
Nick Womack moved the headset microphone closer to his lips. “We’re getting close, gentlemen,” he said, drawing the attention of the four other men on board the ridiculously long and uncomfortable flight from Willow Grove Navy Base in Horsham, Pennsylvania.
“Time for a quick briefing,” he said. “I’m going to tell you what little I know.”
“About time,” grumbled Ferg.
“Yeah,” chimed Wolf, the young one of the group. “We’ve been flying in the dark here.”
Wil
co laughed. “You’re always flying in the dark, Wolf. Doesn’t matter how much light we give you.”
Wolf stuttered, hitching as he tried to find the right comeback. “Yeah,” he said. “Well…”
Wilco punched him in the shoulder. “Proving my point.”
Shine cleared his throat and adjusted his mic. His resonant voice boomed into the others’ headsets. “All right, fellas,” he said. “Enough. Listen to the boss.”
Womack nodded at the burly Shine. “So we’ll be landing in northeastern Iran. Once we deplane, we’ll have transport waiting for us. It’s a short trip to a safe house, where we’ll gear up.”
Wolf interrupted. “The agency has a safe house in Iran?”
“Roger that,” said Womack. “My understanding is it’s a black site, so there may be another team gathering intel while we’re there. Regardless, we stay focused on our task.”
Womack pulled a stack of papers from a manila folder tucked underneath his legs. He kept one set for himself and handed the rest to Shine. Shine took one, as did the rest of the team.
Womack held up his packet. “First page is a map. Take a look. We’ve got distances, key sites, emergency rendezvous locations. Memorize this. Copy?”
The men agreed in unison. They flipped the page, following Womack’s lead.
“This page is a schematic of the US embassy in Tehran,” he said. “This is a layout of the different floors. The subsequent pages give you electrical, plumbing, ventilation, et cetera.”
“So what exactly is the mission?” asked Wolf.
“He’ll get to it,” said Wilco. “You’re more impatient than a virgin on prom night.”
“Were you a virgin on prom night?” snapped Wolf.
“Only until your mother—”
“Cut it out,” said Womack. “Wilco, c’mon, brother, you’re better than that.”
Wolf protested. “And I’m not?”
Womack glared at him, answering his question without saying a word. He smirked. “May I continue?”
He didn’t wait for a response. He cleared his throat again and keyed the mic.
