Scareforce

by Charles Hough

  “There’s got to be something. And it was only one other time. There’s just got to be something wrong. I don’t know engines too well but I know that they don’t just stop in the middle of the street in some deserted little pissant town for no reason.”

  “Well, you’re right about one thing, Jensen.”

  “Yeah, I knew I was right.”

  The huge sergeant pulled the stub of a black cigar from his mouth and leaned his face in close to the other man.

  “You’re right that you don’t know shit about engines. And what do you mean one time. I dragged your ass back to the base at least twice.”

  “Yeah, yeah, twice.” The nervous driver backed away from the mechanic.

  “But only one other time with this truck. The first time was another truck.”

  Sergeant Washington stopped. He backed away from Jensen and crossed his arms over his massive chest. He cocked his head to the right and regarded the driver with new interest. It was like he was taking the smaller man seriously for the first time.

  “Are you sure it was another truck?”

  “Yeah, yeah, another truck. This is five-zero. The first time it was five-eight. Check your own logbooks if you don’t believe me. But I remember distinctly that it was five-eight the first time. We don’t always get to drive the same truck, ya know.”

  The big mechanic said nothing but continued to stare at the driver. The intensity of his contemplation of the smaller man had an immediate effect.

  “I ain’t shittin’ ya, Sarge. It was another truck.”

  Washington started. It was as if he suddenly became aware of the effect he was having on the driver.

  “Don’t worry, Jensen. I believe you. It was two different trucks I hauled out of the wilderness.”

  He turned and walked a short distance from the other man toward the back of the diesel truck.

  “But what does that mean?”

  “What do you mean what?” Jensen was confused by the question.

  “What I mean is what is going on? Have I got the start of an epidemic? Are the trucks getting sick or something? I mean I just can’t keep hauling in perfectly good trucks. Somebody’s going to get a little suspicious. And before you know it I’ll have a bunch of ‘zeros’ looking over my shoulder and giving me advice.”

  Both men grimaced at the thought of a lot of help from zeros, or officers, as the Air Force preferred to designate them.

  “Well, I won’t find out anything standing here in the middle of this beautiful village.” His inflection turned the description of their location into surgical sarcasm.

  “I guess I’ll get on the horn and call the Hook.”

  “After you make your call, would you mind briefing the troops. I think they’re getting tired of hearing bad news from me. And they all got guns.”

  The big sergeant nodded his head as he walked back to his radio-equipped vehicle to call for the wrecker.

  “Motor pool dispatch, this is Charlie One.”

  “Charlie One, this is dispatch. Go ahead.”

  The speaker mounted under the dash of the blue pickup crackled to life almost before Washington released the button on his microphone.

  “Dispatch, see if you can get Hook up on this freq. I got a job for him.”

  “I’m here, Sarge. Your wish is my command.” The response was wrapped in a higher-pitched carrier wave, indicating a different radio.

  “That you, Hook?”

  “You got me, Sergeant Washington. Whatcha got?”

  “I got a sick troop truck on its way back from Lion Nine. Going to need a drag back to the base. And don’t doddle getting out here. It’s full of unhappy Sky Cops.”

  “Ten-four, Sarge. I’m on my way. Usual place?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by the usual place, but we’re stuck in the middle of the booming metropolis of…”

  Washington released the pressure on the mike button and glanced around, looking for a sign to tell him where he was.

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’ll bet you’re on the main drag of the town of Targa.”

  “I guess that’s what they call this burg. But how did you know?”

  “I’m always picking up dead vehicles from that place. Usually on their way to or from Lion Nine.”

  Washington stared at the radio for a minute, at a loss for words. Finally he keyed the mike.

  “Just get your mass out here, Hook. Don’t mess around.”

  “Ten-four, Sarge. I’m on my way. Out.”

  Washington clipped the mike into its holder and walked slowly back to the disabled diesel. He was trying to make some sense of the information that Hook had casually passed to him. He was determined to check a whole bunch of repair records as soon as he got back to the shop. Something was going on that he didn’t understand. And that was a rare occurrence for Senior Master Sergeant Damien T. Washington. When it came to anything mechanical, there were no secrets. It was a matter of physical law. There was a reason for everything an engine did. All it took was a decent knowledge of the way things worked and enough time and any problem could be solved.

  Washington thought of several ways to attack the problems. That’s all they were: problems. Not mysteries—problems. He was thinking so hard that he walked past the rear end of the truck and almost got to the cab before he remembered. He had promised Jensen he would talk to the passengers. He reversed course and headed for the back door of the vehicle. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining mechanical difficulties to a bunch of cops anxious to get out of the field.

  The canvas flap that formed the back door of the converted cargo bed was pinned up to allow air circulation in the cramped quarters. Washington hauled himself up over the tailgate and dropped into the isle of the crowded compartment. The first thing that hit him was the silence.

  When civilians think of the military, they usually envision camouflage-suited warriors armed to the teeth with the latest automatic instruments of death and destruction. But the steely-eyed killer is hard to find in the modern Air Force. The last bastion of the rugged G1 in the Air Force is probably the Security Police department. Security Police, or Sky Cops as they are known by their fellow airmen, are assigned the task of guarding the most dangerous and advanced weapons systems in the military. They are trained in all the arts of deadly warfare and are the most disciplined bunch in the Air Force. Anyone attempting to enter a facility guarded by Sky Cops can attest to their utter lack of a sense of humor.

  Sergeant Washington stood between the ranks of combat-ready troops and attempted to gauge the emotion he was receiving from all sides. It took him a while to get it. It took him even longer to believe. Washington stood in the midst of the toughest, best-trained, best-equipped fighters the Air Force had to offer. And from every one of them he caught the unmistakable indication of… fear. Washington was amazed. They sat in silence, staring straight ahead, radiating abject terror.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh… who’s in charge here?”

  Washington barely heard the reply. It sounded more like a growl than speech.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said when are we leaving?” the voice rumbled more distinctly. It still had the guttural quality of an animal sound.

  “Are you in charge here?” Washington directed his question to where he thought the voice came from.

  “No, I am,” a man next to the sergeant answered without looking up from the floor.

  Washington stared at the young NCO for a minute. Finally he decided on the safest course of action.

  “Sarge, why don’t you step outside with me and I’ll explain the situation to you.”

  It was couched in the friendliest of terms, but it was an order none the less. Even so the young staff sergeant was obviously reluctant to leave the safety of the truck.

  “Look, Sarge, this vehicle is inoperative and not repairable in the field. I have already alerted the tow vehicle and he’s on the way. He should be here shortly to give you and your men a tow back to
the base. I know your guys are anxious to get back and start their breaks. We’ll get you out of here just as soon as possible.”

  Washington tried to look into the younger man’s eyes as he explained. He was trying to find out what was wrong. But the man avoided his gaze absolutely. He was just as afraid as his men. He nodded understanding without a word. When it was apparent that Washington could think of nothing more to say, he turned and reboarded the troop truck in silence.

  Washington was still perplexed as he sat in the cab of the giant tow vehicle sent to retrieve the diesel. Hook, the driver, was completing some required paperwork.

  “Just about finished, Sarge.” The grizzled redhead smiled up from his concentration on the printed form. “Can’t pull a thing until the weight of the paperwork is equal to or greater than the weight of the load.”

  The sergeant smiled at the all-too-true observation. “Hook” was a character, one of the few tolerated by the modern Air Force. He was tolerated because he was not replaceable. He could drive anything and everything that had an engine and wheels. It was a widely held consensus that Hook could probably fly most of the airplanes in the Force. It was just that he considered flying a waste of time. So most of the brass put up with his nonmilitary bearing and his idiosyncrasies. And he was kept away from those who wouldn’t understand.

  “Hook, did you get a good look at the passengers?”

  “Yeah, I saw ’em. Never get over all them teenagers with guns.”

  “But did you see how scared they were? What do you think is bugging them?”

  “Oh, they’re always like that when I drag ’em out of Targa. Been talking to the farmers, I suspect. Them old geezers love to scare the bejesus out of the kids.”

  “How? How do they scare them?”

  “I reckon they been telling ’em about the witches.”

  Washington had been in the process of climbing down from the high cab of the tow rig. He almost fell from the next-to-last step.

  “What do you mean witches?”

  “Why the witches of Targa, Sarge.” Hook waved his arm out the window of the truck in a sweeping gesture that took in most of the little town. “The place is lousy with ’em.”

  Sergeant Washington stood in the street and looked at the town for probably the first time. It was a strange place. Even the roar of the tow truck engine didn’t disturb the eerie silence that shrouded the village.

  “See ya back at base,” Hook yelled over the noise of the vehicle. “Watch your ass, Sarge.”

  Washington stood by his vehicle in the sudden silence. There was not a soul visible in the little town. There were no children playing, no pedestrians, no curious onlookers. The town was not just empty, it was void. But the sergeant couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Not just watched but studied, evaluated, examined.

  “Witches, my ass,” Washington scoffed. But then he fired up his engine and got his ass out of the town.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.” Washington was sitting at his dining room table surrounded by stacks of maintenance logs. He stared at the figures and shook his head in disbelief.

  “This just doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  “All right Senior Sergeant Washington, what doesn’t make any sense?”

  The sergeant jerked upright and turned to look at his wife, seated in her own circle of books on the couch. For a moment he just stared at her as if he couldn’t quite place her. He had not been aware that he was speaking out loud.

  “Oh, sorry, hon.” He shook off his confusion. “Didn’t mean to bother you. I know you’re working hard correcting midterms. I’m just stumped by this data.”

  “That’s all right, darling,” said Gina, as she uncurled her long legs from under her. She stretched expansively as she stood. “I was looking for some excuse to tear me away from all this sophomore history, surprising as it can be. I honestly didn’t know that the Fascists were an East LA rap group. What’s your problem?“

  Washington chuckled then turned serious once more as his wife draped her arm around his neck and looked over his shoulder at the scattered log forms.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense. I have twenty-eight breakdowns in the last three months. All of them break down at about the same place and all of them are unexplained by mechanical analysis. It’s definitely significant, but significant of what.”

  Gina looked at the papers for a minute, then discovered an objection.

  “They’re not all unexplained. Look at this one. Cause: loose ignition wire. And this one says the problem was a broken fan belt.”

  “Gina those aren’t the causes. Remember when I fixed your vacuum. I took it all apart and put it back together and it worked fine.”

  “Of course I remember.” She smiled.” You’re my little mechanical genius.” She hugged his neck with some serious intent.

  “Be that as it may, I did not fix the incredible sucking machine. I just took it apart, looked at it, and put it back together. But I couldn’t tell you it fixed itself. Would’ve damaged my reputation.” He ducked under her playful right cross and continued. “That’s what my mechanics are telling me with these reports. Those findings were manufactured on paper because it’s impossible to explain to the brass that a truck fixed itself.”

  “But twenty-eight trucks fixing themselves in a three-month period is impossible. It has to be something. And they all break down exactly halfway between the base and Lion Nine Missile Site. Right smack in the middle of Targa.”

  “Targa? Did you say they all break down in Targa?” Gina was suddenly wide-awake and very interested.

  “Yeah, that’s the place. Does that mean something to you?”

  “No… well yes,” she hesitated, obviously unsure how to continue.

  “Well tell me. I’m ready to accept anything.”

  “It’s just that this is pretty farfetched. The kids use Targa as some kind of spell or omen. They’re always joking about it and scaring the younger kids with stories about that little town. And I know it’s just high school kidding, but sometimes it sounds half-serious.”

  Washington frowned. “What are the jokes about?”

  “About the witches… the witches of Targa.”

  “Actually Gina’s students might have a point about the denizens of Targa. The town has quite a history for such a small place.”

  The speaker, Edward Teeter, was a rotund, jolly little man with white, flyaway hair. He looked like a casting director’s idea of a history professor. His looks were perfect camouflage for one of the most incisive and knowledgeable historians in the country. He had come over to the Washingtons’ house without hesitation at the mention of a mystery concerning Targa.

  “Targa was actually settled in the early 1860s. It was built entirely by residents of a similar town in the Caucasus mountains. Their village, also called Targa, was located entirely in a pass in those mountains.”

  “To get to my point, and I will get to my point eventually, I’ll have to tell you a little about those mountains.” Professor Tecter even bumbled like a movie professor.

  “The Caucasus were the traditional dividing line between Europe and Asia. This did not make the region an especially peaceful region in which to live. Conquering armies were constantly sweeping back and forth through the mountain passes, usually destroying everything in their way. This activity continued right up into relatively modern times. Many of the little pass towns and villages disappeared completely, beaten into the dust by the military hordes.”

  Gina couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Is that what happened to Targa?”

  “Quite the contrary.” Edward smiled at the light of excitement burning in the eyes of his audience. This was his center stage.

  “Targa was unique because it was never overrun. Invading armies and retreating hordes gave it a wide berth. This was unusual because of its position smack in the middle of a wide highway through the rugged mountains.”

  “Why would they do that? An army tradition
ally takes the path of least resistance.”

  “Why indeed, Sergeant Washington? I can’t answer that. We have no clear answer to the avoidance of Targa by the armies of the world. Just rumor and innuendo. Scraps of orders and scribblings remain. All make it clear that Targa was to be avoided at all costs. They seemed to hint at supernatural fears, but they are as vague as they are serious. Only one gives any cause for that military fear. Napoleon sent an order to his commanders. It was an admonition not to forget the witches of Targa. For they, and here I quote the exact text, ‘for they will not abide the presence of warriors within the boundaries of their town.’ “

  “Witches?” Sergeant Washington rose and walked from the table to the fireplace as he contemplated this information.

  “What did these witches do to the old-time armies, make their horses vapor lock or something?”

  The sergeant’s feeble attempt at humor was disregarded by the little professor.

  “Oh, no, Sergeant Washington. If what little remains of the history of old Targa is to be believed, then your people have definitely been treated very generously indeed.”

  Tecter’s eyes rose slowly to the ceiling as if in contemplation of the horror he had to relate.

  “The stories talk of terrible battles, real bloodlettings that filled the fields with bones. But they were battles of comrade against comrade, brother against brother. For the only enemy that the invading armies found were themselves. And they fought. Fought amongst themselves with every weapon and every bit of strength that they had. And to a man they died. Only a few of the noncombatants, the camp followers, were spared to whisper rumors of the terrible fate of armies foolish enough to tempt the witches of Targa.

  “Tell me, Sergeant,” asked Dr. Tecter, returning to the present. “Do the men you are pulling from the town ever carry weapons? Do they carry modern weapons?“

  “Yes, the latest.” Washington’s answer was slow in leaving his lips. He, too, was contemplating horror. But it was a future possible horror, not a remembrance of the past.