The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Keenan’s mind was whirling, but he tried to keep his face emotionless.

  “Colonel Ward, I believe you know Special Agent Knutson?” the director asked.

  “Uh, yes, sir. We’ve met,” he said to the man behind the desk, and then to Keenan, “Congratulations on your promotion. The silver leaves look good.”

  “Excellent, so there’s no need to go into the back story. A situation has arisen, and it’s time to unleash the asset.”

  “The asset, sir?” Keenan asked, his heart rising to this throat.

  “Asset” could only mean one thing: Aiden.

  “Sir, with all due respect, who are you?” Keenan asked, his mind whirling.

  The man looked at Keenan for a moment, and Keenan got a glimpse of the hardened and competent man in back of the unassuming exterior. Keenan swallowed hard, wondering if he’d overstepped his bounds.

  The director suddenly smiled, and the mood of the room lightened.

  “Of course. Allow me. I’m Dr. Cheyenne Lowenstein, and I imagine your Colonel Tarnition might not have said much about me. Among other things, I’m the head of our little lycanthropic research.”

  The man’s name sounded like it came from a bad B-movie, but there was no questioning his air of authority. He hadn’t given his executive rank, but it was probably right on up there.

  “Lycanthropy? Keenan asked stupidly.

  “Let’s not play games here, Colonel. Do you think you were operating in a vacuum? Did you think Colonel Tarnition was running the show?”

  “Uh, no, sir. Sorry about that.”

  “And now, as I said, there is a need for your asset. A mission vital to the country has arisen, and I think it’s time to have you in the ‘Office Waste Management’ to start earning your salaries.”

  He said “asset.” So they know about Aiden. How about the rest of us? he wondered, feeling guilty for thinking about his own anonymity.

  “First, who is the asset?” the director asked, catching Keenan off guard.

  They don’t know? How much do they know? he wondered.

  “Come on there, Colonel. We know Tarnition’s been keeping this close to the vest, but time for games is over. Tarnition’s gone, and you don’t owe the man anything, even if it was his duty to report your success.”

  Keenan wondered if he could bluff it out. He knew it was his duty to report up his chain of command, but he didn’t know how much he could trust this man to look out for Aiden’s best interest?

  “Is it Corporal Kaas?” the director asked.

  Shit!

  “Look, we know it is someone. The CIA’s evidence is pretty strong,” he said, nodding at Rob Knutson, “although I’m not too happy that an outside agency is telling me what’s going on in my own directorate. But after looking through our own electronic records, I tend to agree with their assessment. I’d like to believe that Colonel Tarnition was withholding information merely to be able to present a complete finding. That will only get him fired, not court-martialed. But regardless, all this has come to an end, and most things point to Corporal Aiden Kaas despite the colonel’s attempt to cover up and point elsewhere.”

  Keenan knew he wouldn’t be able to protect Aiden, and it was his duty to serve as directed. He’d sworn an oath as an officer to the United States, after all.

  “Yes, sir. It is Aiden Kaas.”

  “And you’ve seen this with your own eyes? This is not merely Colonel Tarnition making these claims?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve seen the corporal shift with my own two eyes. It’s true, as hard as that is to believe.”

  Keenan sensed Rob relax ever-so-slightly beside him.

  The CIA hadn’t been sure, Keenan realized.

  “Fascinating. After so many dead ends with more promising projects, it’s this strange one that bears fruit,” the director said more to himself than to anyone else.

  “This strange one?” What else are we working on? Keenan had to wonder.

  “Well, I’m going to be very interested in meeting this corporal, but at the moment, his services are needed. I saw that he’s on leave now. I want you to terminate his leave and get him back. He’ll be on loan to the CIA for this, but I want you there with him the entire time. As soon as the mission’s over, bring him back here. Meanwhile, I want every bit of data you have on my desk.”

  “And what is the mission, sir? Am I allowed to know?”

  “Special Agent Knutson?” the director prompted.

  Rob didn’t look too happy about having to disclose anything to Keenan, but he said, “We have an asset. A very, very important asset, who has been captured by the Dire Alshshaeb.”

  “The what?”

  “Dire Alshshaeb. It roughly translates to ‘Shield of the People.’”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Not many have yet. It was started at Gitmo, actually, by three prisoners who were then released back to Syria and Iraq. They’re an offshoot of Al Qaeda, and with our success against that group, Dire Alshshaeb is starting to pick up recruits. The important thing is they make Al Qaeda look like boy scouts. They like to behead prisoners and videotape the act, and they consider rape their God-given right. We think they only have about 50 full members so far, but if they can prove the asset is ours, then that will be a huge recruiting tool for them.”

  “And where is the ‘asset,’ as you call him?”

  “He is a she, which we think is the only reason she has not been killed yet. We have reason to believe this will be a public execution after they have wrung her dry. And the asset, she, is in Iraq near Mosul. You’ll know exactly when the time comes.”

  “So you want Corporal Kaas to go in and rescue her? In the middle of bad-guy country?”

  Rob looked a little uncomfortable as he said, “Not exactly. If he can rescue her, fine. But it’s vital that she not disclose anything. I mean anything, and that includes the existence of a werewolf in the service of the US. And that prevention will be done in any way possible.”

  “Nice way of putting it, Rob. You want him to, how do you say it, ‘terminate her with extreme prejudice?’”

  “That’s only in the movies,” the CIA agent said with a frown on his face.

  “But the meaning is correct?”

  “If necessary, yes. I don’t like it, but she knew the risks when she took our paycheck.”

  “OK, I’m not going to get into that. If you want her dead and you know where she is, why not just hit her with a drone strike?”

  “We need her silenced, but more than that, we need to squash Dire Alshshaeb like a cockroach before it has time to gain a footing. These people, the ones supporting them, are very superstitious. If the devil himself crushes them—”

  “. . . showing them that Allah is not on their side, their movement will collapse. And so with an honest to goodness werewolf dishing out God’s wrath, they’ll lose their mojo,” Keenan interrupted.

  “You got it in one, Colonel,” the director said.

  “But won’t that reveal the existence of a werewolf, as you put it? Keenan said, directing his question back at Knutson.

  “It’s one thing for a person to be rescued by a werewolf and have time to talk with it. But we believe that if a werewolf wrecks havoc, then rumors will fly, and some will think it was the devil while others will brush off the reports as a primitive people’s imagination run wild.”

  From the pleased look on Knutson’s face, Keenan knew this plan had to be his.

  “The mission is vital for both our brothers in the CIA as well as the country, Colonel. But we want it, too. From the perspective of the uniformed services, we’re anxious to see just how well the corporal performs. Unless we know his potential, we cannot make maximum use of him.”

  I guess he doesn’t know about Columbia yet, Keenan thought. I just hope ‘maximum’ use is under his free will, not as a prisoner.

  He was just going to have to make sure that Aiden was protected from his own side.

  Chapter 18

&n
bsp; The smell as the C17’s ramp lowered hit Aiden like a fist. It wasn’t a bad smell, but it was 100% Iraq. Even without having been turned, Aiden was sure it would have had the same impact on his human senses.

  He filed out, ostensibly a government security contractor. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t wear his uniform, but the last two days had been a whirlwind of activity, from getting recalled from leave to his briefings and getting his op order in DC and then to his flight out to the Sandbox.

  Claire had been pretty pissed off—not about yet another truncated leave, but as a full-fledged varg, she thought she should go on the mission as well. It had taken Keenan and Hozan—who was royally upset as well that Aiden was even on the mission—to convince her that one day of shifting does not an expert make, and she’d be a liability until she was more at ease with her new status.

  Aiden was sad that their leave had been cut short, but his excitement at getting back into action more than overcame that. He did feel a little guilty for willingly leaving Claire behind, but he’d have eagerly volunteered had he be given a choice.

  “Mark Hopkins?” a short and wiry man waiting on the tarmac asked as Aiden deplaned.

  It took a second for Aiden to remember that he was Mark and to acknowledge the broad-shouldered man. Once again, the cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed almost comical to Aiden. But he realized there had to be a reason for all of it, so he hadn’t raised any objection.

  “JKK Security” was a sham contract company. All the members of the small unit were uniformed members of JSOC, Aiden had been told. He didn’t know their services or real names, but as so-called civilians, the military—and the government—had plausible deniability for any of the actions that blew up in their faces. As a recon Marine, Aiden had thought he was pretty high-speed, low-drag, and things were kept pretty confidential, but there had been no doubt that he and his fellow Marines were still military and under the UCMJ.[112] Now he wondered just how much adult supervision he had. Logically, it should have made him feel better, freer to do what he wanted. In reality, the lack of structure was a bit disconcerting. He was excited about his mission, but he missed the camaraderie of a Marine unit, the knowledge that his buddies always had his six.[113]

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Aiden answered.

  “Great! Let’s get you out of the sun,” the man asked cheerily. “It’ll burn you to a crisp if you let it.”

  The man had to be a kickass operator to be assigned to JKK, but his cheerful demeanor was not what Aiden expected. For some reason, he thought all the operators would be serious, dangerous-looking men who never cracked a smile. Then again, no one observing Aiden, all 160 pounds of him, would assume he was a pretty dangerous individual, either. It was probably better than way, too. They wouldn’t stand out.

  “I’m Vic, by the way,” his escort said over his shoulder as he led Aiden around the small terminal building into which the other passengers were heading.

  No one said a word about that, which didn’t seem too secure to Aiden. This was a war zone, after all, even if the numbers had been drawn down somewhat since the height of the surge. And if they were trying to remain unnoticed, bypassing the terminal seemed like a sure way to garner some attention. He didn’t say anything, though, as he followed behind Vic.

  A somewhat battered Toyota was parked right in front of the terminal.

  “Throw your pack in the back, and let’s get out of here,” Vic told him.

  Despite a tour in Iraq, this was the first time Aiden had been to VBC, or the Victory Base Complex. It was much, much larger than Camp Falluja or Blue Diamond in Ramadi, and the main DFAC at Camp Liberty had developed a substantial reputation as the best dining facilities in the country. Despite the importance of his mission, Aiden hoped he’d be able to head on over and try it out for himself before moving up-country to Mosul.

  Aiden craned his neck as Vic drove past the Water Palace, a huge, well, palace Sadaam had built in the middle of a lake.

  “That’s Al Faw,” Vic said, playing tour guide and using the palace’s real name. “You been inside yet?”

  “No. This is my first time to Baghdad,” Aiden answered.

  Vic seemed poised to ask, so Aiden volunteered, “I was in Fallujah for a tour, then Ramadi for another.”

  “A Marine,” Vic said, but without any of the I’m-tougher-than-you trash talk that was par for the course throughout the military.

  He didn’t ask any questions, which struck Aiden as odd, but he figured the secrecy in the unit probably made curiosity something to be dampened.

  “So, how about the DFAC? Is it as good as advertised?” Aiden asked to change the subject.

  “Better. But you won’t be seeing it. You’re out of here within the hour.”

  It wasn’t quite within the hour, but after stopping at a small armory and picking up a Bianchi, a Tavor, and some grenades, Aiden was at the Camp Liberty helo pad 70 minutes later waiting for his “charge.”

  He sat cooling his heels for close to another hour, which pissed him off to no end. He could have gone to the DFAC, and knowing he was going to shift, he knew he needed the raw calories. The two MRE’s[114] Vic had given him weren’t going to cut it.

  Finally, the worthy arrived, escorted by an Air Force major and a small two-man security team. The VIP was a young man, maybe in his late 20’s, with an air of self-importance around him. He couldn’t be too important, though, Aiden thought, if he only had a major as an aide and two men for security.

  The major looked around the small passenger terminal, spotted Aiden, and motioned him over. Aiden joined the security team without saying a word. Ten minutes later, the five men, joined by a number of soldiers catching a ride back, loaded two Black Hawks for the trip up to FOB Sykes.

  Aiden was a Marine through and through now (despite his less than enthusiastic start to his career), but as in Ramadi and in the ’Stan, he was pretty enamored with the Army helos. The Apache was one helluva combat platform, but even the Black Hawk was amazing. Compared with the Corp’s Huey’s, the Black Hawk was a Corvette or Dodge Challenger, all power and git ’em up. Despite his mission, Aiden sat back in the hurricane seat,[115] feeling the wind blast his face while he enjoyed the ride. The image of a dog with its head out the window of a car was not lost on him, and he laughed despite himself. With the wind and with all of the passengers wearing ear plugs, none of the others could have heard him laugh, but one of the soldiers saw him and looked at him as if he was crazy. That made Aiden laugh again.

  FOB Sykes was about 350 klicks from Baghdad, or about an hour and twenty minutes’ airtime for the Black Hawks. The two birds landed shortly after 1400, and the passengers debarked. The civilian was immediately escorted to four waiting Hummers: two with mounted .50 cals and two in the passenger configuration. Aiden got into the third Hummer along with the Air Force major.

  “You’ve got a green light,” the driver said to him without turning around.

  The major ignored them both.

  Aiden didn’t know if the civilian VIP really had a mission or not. It didn’t seem likely that it was all for show. The man didn’t give off the impression that he’d put up with that. No, it was more likely that he really was supposed to meet with the governor or mayor or whomever in Mosul, and Aiden had just been assigned to the entourage as a matter of convenience.

  The FOB was bigger than Aiden had expected, and when they passed the DFAC, his stomach started to rumble. He really wanted to stop and fill up, but the facility would be already closed and preparing for the evening meal. In his after-action report, he was going to stress to whoever planned these missions that he needed calories and lots of them.

  The convoy passed through the gate and headed towards Mosul. The landscape looked barren and desolate from the road, and it still amazed him that people somehow scratched out a living there. They passed an odd building or two, abandoned and in bad shape. At one bend in the road, the shell of a small shack stood watch.

  “Here’s where you get out,” t
he driver said as he sped up, drifted to the side of the road, and slammed to a stop just nudging the bumper of the Hummer in front of him. As the dust from his skid rose into the air, Aiden slipped out of the vehicle and into the shack.

  Within moments, the convoy was on its way again. It was not a foolproof method of insertion, but it was probably enough to get the job done. With the flat terrain, it was doubtful that any eyes were within a klick or two from them, and at that distance, Aiden probably got into the shack unseen. And if he was seen by those who would wish him harm, he had comms with the FOB for an emergency pick-up by air. There was also a security team already in place should Aiden need their assistance. This was Aiden’s gig, but whoever was pulling his strings obviously didn’t want him left high and dry. Aiden had wryly understood Keenan’s referral to him as an “asset,” not as a Marine corporal. Subtle, it wasn’t, but Keenan had let Aiden understand just how he was considered by those on top.

  Aiden looked around the shack. It was as bad inside as it looked from the outside. With a sigh, he sat down and pulled out an MRE. He had a long wait in front of him, so he might as well eat.

  Chapter 19

  It started getting dark—and mercifully cooler—shortly after 1930. Aiden waited another hour before he started getting ready. Off came the uniform, and within a heartbeat, he’d shifted. He slung his Tavor and struggled into his assault pack into which he’d placed his comms, his Bianchi and grenades, water, and his remaining MRE. It was more than a little difficult to get the pack situated on his back. The weight was negligible, but he had a long way to run, and he didn’t want it bouncing up and down.

  That was another thing about his after action-report, he noted to himself. The assault pack was made for an average human male. It was not suitable for a varg. His upper torso was much bigger after shifting, and his shoulders were conformed differently. If he was going to be used like this, they had damned well better design an assault pack that suited his physiology.

  He hesitated just for a second before leaving the cover of the shack. Aiden realized that there had to be eyes on him, either human, drone, or even satellite, and Hozan’s continual harping on secrecy had made an impact on him. His Columbian mission had been bad enough, but at least there, the jungle had hidden him from view, and none of the drug workers had survived to spread tales. On this mission, they actually wanted some survivors who would tell others what they had seen. The CIA agent briefing him had seemed pretty sure that no one would really believe them, though.