by Tom Abrahams
“The London Morning Reflector. Some reporter went to Vietnam and found the creature. Says he was almost killed. Talked to other people who say they saw it, who lost family to it.”
“And there’s a picture?”
“It’s grainy,” said the general, “but it’s a picture of something all right. It looks more realistic than that Patterson Bigfoot film from a couple of years ago.”
Gibson glanced over at the paper curling into a scroll as it emerged from the fax machine. He rolled over to the machine and unraveled the warm, shiny fax paper with one hand. He could read the headline upside down.
GHOST OF AMERICAN GI HAUNTS, TERRORIZES,
EATS VIETNAMESE VILLAGERS
“Good lord,” Gibson muttered. “This is—”
“Bad,” said the general. “It’s bad. The president’s already been informed. He’s asking questions to which he doesn’t really want to know the answers. Micromanager that POTUS seems to be, he wants to know everything about VX-99. He’s already got his hands full with the hostage crisis. This is FUBAR.”
Gibson squeezed his eyes shut. His mind was swimming.
“Tell me you didn’t know about this, Gibson,” said the general. “If I find out that you—”
“Of course I didn’t!” Gibson snapped before taking a breath. “My apologies, General,” he said calmly. “I didn’t know. We believed the entire platoon to be dead. There were a couple of MIAs. But with the way the bodies were ripped apart, there was no way to account for everyone definitively.”
“So there could be two of these things?”
“No,” Gibson said. “Not possible. If two survived the initial fray, one would have killed the other. No doubt.”
Gibson looked down at the emerging fax. He could see the photograph, however grainy and blurred by the facsimile ink. He knew instantly the monster captured in that image was one of his. It was a Burn Bright guinea pig. Somehow, one of the Marines had managed to survive as something other than human.
The fax quit printing and Gibson ripped the long sheet from the machine. He asked the general to hold while he scanned the article. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. It was like science fiction, implausible science fiction.
The White Ghost? Hundreds or thousands dead? Unreal. Completely unreal.
The more he read, the less anxious he became. He had an idea.
“It’s one of ours,” Gibson said. “No doubt.”
“How do we fix this, Gibson?”
“We find it. We capture it. And we use it to test our new cocktail.”
The general laughed. “Capture something that’s been roaming free for a dozen years? Then bring this killing machine back to American soil? You make me laugh, Gibson.”
“I’m not joking, General. Our latest test failed. We’re out of VX-99. This miraculous discovery gives us new hope in finding the right combination of chemicals to create the ultimate warrior.”
The general mumbled under his breath for a moment. “Your test failed, huh? You failed to mention that.”
“I hadn’t had an—”
“Spare me, Gibson. I know what you’re about. I know this is your passion. Or obsession. I admire your grit.”
“Thank you, General.”
“I think I can get the right people on board to make this happen,” said the general. “I think I could probably have a team in-country by the end of the day, tomorrow morning at the latest. You send me everything you have about these VX-99 tests and what you think happened to them. If we find him, we’ll get him back to you. Then, whatever happens…”
Gibson nodded. “Happens.”
The men hung up and Gibson unlocked his file drawer. From it, he pulled a thick binder of documents. Among them were the files for two men, both of whom were listed as MIA in the aftermath of Operation Burn Bright.
He laid them side by side on his desk and simultaneously opened both of them to the front page. To the left he looked at the photograph of Rick Fern. The man looked like he had a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. His lower lip protruded slightly beyond the upper one. To the right was Trevor Brett. He was the young lieutenant in charge of the platoon. Gibson remembered meeting the young Marine in a tent where he’d handed over the vials of VX-99. It was a moment that frequently made it difficult for Gibson to sleep at night. The insomnia wasn’t because of what he’d done to a platoon of Marines who’d pledged their lives to their country. It was because his operation had failed.
For a dozen years, Gibson had lived with the knowledge that his legacy was a failed experiment. He’d spent countless dollars, seemingly limitless hours, and much of his adult life in the pursuit of changing the future of warfare.
He’d studied man’s predilection for armed conflict. From the earliest Neanderthals there were weapons. Studies had found forty percent of the Neanderthal skulls discovered had fractures.
Warfare itself was prehistoric. There was archaeological evidence of a battle in Nataruk in Turkana, Kenya, more than ten thousand years ago. Remains revealed the violent deaths of two dozen people. Some contained embedded stone projectile tips.
From the Neolithic age to the advent of copper weapons in the Bronze Age, to Germanic warriors of the Iron Age, weapons advanced but men did not. Barbarism seemed to fester more deeply within societal fabric as one war dissolved into the next. It was the worst once the twentieth century had fully taken hold. Record numbers of people died in World War Two. As many as eighty-five million lost their lives in just six years. It was by far the worst war in human history.
Gibson knew he could not end war. He could not change man’s desire to conquer and rule. He could, however, lessen the death toll. He could save lives. He could shorten wars. All he needed to do was amplify the genetic code that made men the beasts they truly were. The deadlier these super warriors could become, the faster any armed engagement would end.
To this point, he’d failed in that mission. Now, somehow, when it was darkest, dawn was upon him. He had a second chance. A white ghost was giving him an opportunity for redemption.
Rick Gibson smiled as he ran his hands across the files. His eyes danced between the photographs.
“It’s one of you,” he said. “One of you magnificent grunts is going to change the world. I have no doubt about that. Sooner or later, you’re going to change the world.”
— 22 —
Black Site Installation NSS-1018, Northeastern Iran
April 22, 1980
Nick Womack folded his arms across his chest. His jaw was set. “What do you mean we’re off the assignment?”
“Yeah,” said Wolf. “We’ve been sitting here with our thumbs up our—”
“Shut it, Wolf,” snapped Womack. “I’m handling it.”
The men were standing outside the main house. The military liaison had called them outside to discuss an update on their assignment. He’d left the Iranian translator inside the house at the card table.
“We’re not going to need you for Operation Eagle Claw,” said the liaison. “That’s the only intel I can give you. I’m not authorized to divulge any more—”
“That’s not acceptable,” said Womack. “General Reed personally hired us for this mission. We’re part of the extraction element. We’ve been briefed. We know the plan.”
The liaison shook his head. “You’re not part of the extraction anymore,” he said. “You’ll be paid for the time you’ve spent here, of course. That I can assure you.”
“I need to talk with General Reed,” said Womack. “He’s not going to like this. We’ve been sitting out here with our thumbs up our—”
“General Reed is the one who pulled you.”
Womack took a step back and dropped his arms to his sides. “What?”
“General Reed is the one—”
“I think we get that,” interrupted Ferg. He was cleaning his thumbnail with the tip of his knife. “What Womack is trying to say is why?”
The liaison shrugged. “You’d have to ask h
im,” he said. “Answering you is above my pay grade. He’ll be calling you shortly.”
“You know this mission of yours is going to fail,” said Womack. “The plan barely had legs before you cut us.”
Wolf made a slicing motion with his hands. “You hacked off the feet,” he said. “Nothing to stand on now, brother.”
“What are you?” interjected Wilco. “The echo chamber?”
Wolf rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying—”
“I didn’t cut you,” said the liaison. “I made that clear. I didn’t hire you. I didn’t fire you.”
Womack bit his lip. He balled his fists. He wanted to punch the smug little gofer. Instead he motioned to his men. “C’mon. Let’s pack up and figure out what’s next.”
They marched back into the house as a satellite phone chirped. It was a black brick of a phone mounted to a wall in the kitchen. Womack headed straight to the phone and answered it.
“Speak of the devil,” Wolf mumbled. He pursed his lips when Womack looked over his shoulder and flung a dagger of a glance.
There was ambient noise warbling in the background, but he could clearly hear General Reed on the other end. His voice was unmistakable.
“This Womack?” asked the general.
“Roger that, General. I understand there’s a change of plans.”
“Sorry to do this to you, Nick,” he said. “I really am. You’ll get paid the day rate for the time you’ve spent in that dreadful desert.”
“Understood. When is the plane home?”
“Home?” asked the general with a chuckle. “Nobody said anything about you going home. I thought you knew.”
Womack pressed the phone closer to his ear and held his palm over the other to more clearly hear the general’s voice. “Knew what, sir?”
“You’re going from the desert to the jungle.”
The operator wanted to puke. “The jungle?”
“Vietnam, son. You’re taking that team of yours in-country. I don’t trust anyone else with it. It’s of critical importance.”
“Not to question your decision, General Reed, but this jungle mission is more important than rescuing the hostages?”
“It is, Nick. You’ll better understand it when you get the briefing packet I’ve had sent to your rendezvous point. As I said, it’s of critical importance.”
“What’s the mission? Recon? Elimination? Extraction?”
General Reed paused. “Possibly all three. You’ll understand when you get the intel.”
“Roger that.”
“Godspeed, Rick.”
Womack thanked the general and disconnected from the call. He slowly placed the transceiver onto the large brick-like cradle and let out a slow breath. “All right, men,” he said, facing his team. “We’re headed from the dry heat to the wet heat. Get your gear.”
“Vietnam?” asked Wilco. “Again?”
Womack nodded. “Looks like it.” He looked at the liaison. “When do we leave?”
“Transport is here in thirty,” said the gofer. “Wheels up in ninety. Intel will be on the plane. You’ll land in Laos and then chopper from Sam Neua to outside Hanoi.”
“So you did know,” said Wolf. “You lied.”
A smirk spread across the liaison’s face. “I didn’t lie. I told you that answering you was above my pay grade. I never said I didn’t know the answer.”
“Semantics,” said Womack.
“Se-what-ics?” asked Wolf.
Wilco laughed. “Semantics. It’s Latin for ‘Wolf is illiterate.’”
“Enough,” said Womack. He stepped over to Shine. “You okay with this?”
Shine shrugged and rubbed the back of his own neck with his meat hook of a hand. “I gotta choice?”
“You always have a choice. If you don’t—”
Shine interrupted. “You go, I go. That’s all there is to it.”
“All right then,” Womack said. “We need to hit the road.”
***
They’d been in the air less than a half hour into the seven-hour flight from eastern Iran to Long Tieng, Laos, when Womack opened up the folder for Operation Flame Out. There were matching dossiers for all five of the men. They’d waited for the okay to open theirs.
Womack keyed the mic on his headset. “Let’s do this,” he said. “Start with page one. Read everything. Wolf, if you need help putting sounds together, ask Shine.”
The men laughed. Even Wolf cracked a smile at his own expense. The smile and laughter disappeared, however, as soon as the men began reading their assignment. It was a top secret document intended for special handling only. No foreign nationals were allowed access to the information contained in the following pages. That was customary. What was typed beneath it was not.
TOP SECRET SPECIAL HANDLING NOFORN
USAMRIID 04221980-VX99
OPERATION FLAME OUT
22 April 1980
SUBJECT: VX-99 RESIDUAL CONTAINMENT
Background
On 10 July 1968, a Marine platoon under the command of Lieutenant Trevor Brett was assigned to a reconnaissance mission in an undisclosed location in South Vietnam. The Marines were inserted via CH-47 Chinook with specific instructions to target a remote village identified as harboring Vietcong.
The platoon’s lieutenant, Trevor Brett, was tasked with distributing an experimental drug known as VX-99 to all Marines under his command. At a prescribed location prior to reaching the target, the men were to inject the experimental drug.
Under direction of USAMRIID, the Marines were told VX-99 was a prophylactic designed to minimize or eliminate the airborne effects of herbicide Orange sprayed across South Vietnam under Operation Ranch Hand.
The true nature/military purpose of VX-99 was, and is, classified. It is not an HO prophylactic.
The experimental drug did have unintended psychological and physical side effects, which proved fatal.
(SEE ATTACHED PHOTOS: PFC Michael Junko)
Thirty (30) Marines were KIA.
Two (2) Marines, Lieutenant Trevor Brett and Staff Sergeant Richard Fern, were MIA and presumed dead. One of them is no longer MIA. He is alive.
(SEE ATTACHED NEWS ARTICLE/PHOTO: London Daily Reflector)
(SEE ATTACHED PHOTOS: LT Trevor Brett, SSgt Richard Fern)
Mission
This is an activity under joint command of USAMRIID and CIA Special Operations Group.
You are to insert into North Vietnam via helicopter. Location is TBD within fifteen kilometers of Hanoi.
Travel to last known location of Brett/Fern.
(SEE ATTACHED MAP/NAVSTAR Coordinates)
Locate Brett/Fern. Capture and sedate Brett/Fern. DO NOT KILL.
Return Brett/Fern to TBD Landing Zone. Return Brett/Fern to USAMRIID.
Conclusion
Brett/Fern is property of the United States Marine Corp and the United States Department of Defense.
If your mission is compromised, the United States government, USAMRIID, and CIA SOG will deny all knowledge of your activities.
###
Ferg held up the open file in his thick mitt. “Is this for real? Thirty Marines KIA? Did the Brett/Fern thing kill them?”
“No kidding,” said Wilco. “This has got to be some sort of joke. This mission file reads like—”
“That Sigourney Weaver movie.” Wolf snapped his fingers. “Alien.”
The men grunted in agreement. Womack couldn’t blame them. It didn’t seem real. It was, though. General Reed wouldn’t send him on some goose chase. Uncle Sam was paying too much money for that.
Womack raised his hand and quieted the men. “It’s for real,” he said. “This thing, whatever it is, is out there. No doubt. We need to track it, trap it, and bring it home.”
Wolf laughed uncomfortably. “Why don’t we just kill it, QSV style?”
Wilco and Ferg agreed. Kill it. Quick. Silent. Violent. No trapping. No transport.
Womack raised his hand again. “That’s not the mission,”
he said. “That’s not what we’re getting paid to do. For whatever reason, USAMRIID wants this thing alive.”
Shine keyed his mic for the first time. He hadn’t said a word since they left the black site. “All due respect, boss, but you keep calling him a thing,” he said. “He’s a Marine. He’s an American. It ain’t his fault he followed orders. From the sound of it, he got lied to.”
Womack pursed his lips and looked at his boots. He took a deep breath and sighed. “You’re right, Shine. Absolutely right. It doesn’t change the fact that this Marine isn’t really human anymore. He won’t hesitate to end you.”
Shine nodded. “I get it. Just makes the jungle all the more hospitable.”
Before Womack could respond, turbulence interrupted the smooth flight. The C-46A Commando twin-engine aircraft shuddered and its two-thousand-horse-power, radial-piston engines whined as the pilots took the aircraft higher into the Asian air. There were thirty-five empty folding seats in the cargo hold. Some of them flapped up and down as the plane rumbled and vibrated. The hydraulic winch hanging from the ceiling of the fuselage swung wildly back toward the rear of the plane as the nose arced sharply upward. Womack’s stomach lurched. He worked to keep himself flat against the back of his seat. His eyes drifted to the large empty cage strapped to the port side of the hold, adjacent to the large cargo door.
“I’m telling you,” said Wolf, his voice warbling with the movement of the aircraft. “It’s like we’re on the Nostromo.”
Wilco, whose color had slipped to a pale white, swallowed hard and looked at Wolf crossways. “The what?”
