by E. R. Torre
“What the hell?” he said.
The giggling stopped and the bushes before him rustled.
“Who’s there?” Bartlett said.
The bushes rustled some more. Something was moving very fast. It crashed through the vegetation and was coming directly at him.
“What the fuck?!” he yelled. He grabbed for his weapon but his hands were slick from the mud and he didn’t get a good grip of the M-16. His mind barely registered the sleek black form explode out of the jungle.
It was the last thing he would ever see.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At the makeshift camp, the remaining passengers of the Little Charlie killed time, oblivious to what was happening outside their private little world.
Doctor Evans adjusted the bandage around Frank’s leg for the fourth time before getting up and stretching.
“Damn arthritis,” he muttered.
Sitting a few feet away from them was Alicia Cunningham. Her short brown hair was, like her clothing, mostly dry. Her army fatigues returned to their original light green color. Despite all this, the poor girl looked miserable and lost.
Doctor Evans walked to the girl’s side.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Not so good,” Alicia replied. She tried, but failed, to stop shivering. It was difficult to tell if this was the result of the cool temperature or the situation.
“We’re close to home,” Evans said. “Very close.”
“I hope we get there soo…soon,” she said through chattering teeth.
Doctor Evans sat beside her.
“We’ll make it,” he said. “After everything we’ve been through, we damn well better.”
Alicia nodded but the worry remained in her face. Her entire body shook.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Doctor Evans said. “But if you’d like, we can warm each other up a bit.”
Alicia looked at Doctor Evans. For a second she stared at his face, at the lines on his forehead. She let out a frightened little laugh.
“On any other day, I’d say that was the clumsiest pick-up line I’d ever heard,” she said. “Today…today I could really use the company.”
Doctor Evans put his arm around her shoulders. Alicia leaned into the Doctor’s body. As she did, she heaved. She took a series of sharp breaths and, when she couldn’t contain herself anymore, let out a loud sob.
Samantha Aron, seated on a toppled palm a few feet away, watched Doctor Evans huddle with Alicia. After the newbie starting crying, she could no longer look. She sympathized with the young soldier. Things had gone to hell quickly and only now, a short while after the crash, was her mind beginning to process all the events leading to now. Even so, the others had adjusted far better than the newbie.
She shouldn’t be here, Samantha thought. The pilot looked at Frank. Her co-pilot was sleeping. His breathing was deep and every now and again he let out a soft snore. It was almost drowned out by Alicia’s sobs.
Almost.
Samantha gritted her teeth and walked to Frank Masters’ side. Though his face was placid, his skin was pale. His eyes twitched now and again. If he was sleeping, he was dreaming.
Hope you’re having one hell of a nightmare, Samantha thought.
Of the people aboard the Little Charlie when she crashed, Frank was easily the worst off. But, unlike Alicia, Samantha found it hard to muster any sympathy for the man she once thought, not so very long ago, a friend and confidant.
What did you do? Why did you do it?
He knew what all this was about –the deviation to Tortuga, the crash landing– and he kept it to himself. He kept it from her.
She had a stray memory of sitting with Frank in the Bad Penny Cantina and sharing a couple of drinks. They were talking and, more often than not, laughing at some silly joke. Toward the end of their stay, Frank introduced Samantha to a very shy officer who he said was desperate to meet her. His name was Warren Bligh.
Samantha remembered rolling her eyes and biting her tongue. Her first instinct was to tell Frank to mind his own fucking business. But she played along, knowing there was no way she and that army rat would ever find anything in common. Besides, her focus was on her career. She neither wanted nor needed anyone. Samantha figured the conversation with Warren would be a royal pain and in the end she’d be polite yet firm in letting him down.
Funny how things don’t work out the way you planned.
To Samantha’s surprise, Warren proved a sympathetic soul. The two clicked like old lovers, and a very good phase of her life, up through today, began. Each day she was with Warren was special in its own way, and each time she had to fly out of Bad Penny she missed the hell out of his company. Since then, every time she made that trip and looked over at her co-pilot, she realized just how thankful she was for introducing Warren to her. From that moment on, she realized Frank was someone she could count on. Someone she could trust.
You were the big brother I never had.
The anger within Samantha bubbled up.
Yeah, right.
She grasped the remote control in her pocket. Her grip was tight, so tight she had to force herself to release the device, lest it shatter in her hand.
The truth is I don’t know you at all, Frank. I never did and probably never will.
“You going to stand there all pissed off or are you going to tell me what's on your mind?” Frank muttered.
Samantha took a step back and controlled her surprise. Frank was awake, looking up at her. After taking a few seconds to compose herself, Samantha leaned down closer to the injured pilot.
“Why did you do it, Frank?” she asked.
From somewhere behind her, Samantha heard Alicia’s sobs.
“How could you do it?”
“What—?” Frank began. Before he could complete his question, Samantha pulled the small black remote control device from her pocket and held it before his face.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
“On the cockpit floor.”
“Must have dropped it when I smashed my knee,” Frank said.
“Must have,” Samantha repeated. “Colonel Robinson lied about us being shot down. We weren’t shot down. We were sabotaged. An explosive device was planted in the helicopter’s tail. A device set off by a remote control unit. This unit. You set off the explosive, didn't you?”
For a second it looked like Frank might plead innocence. For only a second. He closed his eyes and nodded.
“There’s more to this,” Frank said.
“I’m listening.”
Frank took a few seconds to collect his thoughts.
“I've known –knew– General Spradlin for many years. All the way back to Desert Storm. He was something of a legend around our team. Back then, we were all green and scared shitless while he was in total control. He calmed us down, trained us hard, and had us ready to fight. When it was time for us to do so, we didn’t hesitate. Thanks to him, we came through.”
“That's all really fascinating, Frank, but even if General Spradlin is the reincarnation of Washington, Grant, Patton, and Eisenhower, it doesn't explain why the fuck you sabotaged the helicopter.”
Frank sighed.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “General Spradlin ordered me to.”
The words hung in the air like fallout from a dirty bomb. Though Samantha strongly suspected it, hearing it confirmed so bluntly took the wind out of her. For several seconds, neither Frank nor Samantha said anything.
“He tells you to sabotage a U.S. military helicopter loaded with personnel and you just go ahead and do it?”
“The explosive wasn’t strong enough to destroy the—”
“How the hell did you know?” Samantha said. “What if Spradlin miscalculated? What if his little bomb wasn’t quite as little as he thought? What if you didn’t find that clearing like you were supposed to?”
“You knew about that, too?”
“It didn’t take all that long for everything t
o fall into place,” Samantha said. “At first I was so fucking thankful you spotted that clearing I didn’t bother to think how you knew it was there and why you could see it from such an impossible distance. You knew where it was and you knew where we were so all you had to do was set off the charge at the right time and at the right place and point out where we needed to land.”
“I’m a soldier, Samantha. What else could I do? General Spradlin’s my commanding officer. Whatever he tells me to do, I fucking do.”
“Come on, Frank, don’t feed me the old ‘I was only following orders’ bullshit.”
“He’s my superior.”
“And he’s got a bunch of superiors above him. If you’re ordered to sabotage a very expensive piece of military equipment and put the lives of soldiers in jeopardy, shouldn’t you have taken at least a few seconds to double check his orders?”
“When? You were there. We had no time.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Samantha said. She shook her head. “Let me get this straight: We get diverted to Tortuga and, while we’re being treated like lepers on that landing pad, you’re called out under the pretext of refueling the chopper.”
“It wasn’t a pretext,” Frank said. “That’s all I was going to do.”
“And while you’re out there, General Spradlin and his boys show up and have their chat with you.”
“That’s when he gave me the orders,” Frank said. “Colonel Robinson left the explosive and the remote next to the refueling pump. He’s the one that told me where to place the charge.”
“Go on.”
“General Spradlin said if I place the explosive exactly where Robinson told me to, the device would cause enough damage to force us down, but not enough to blow us out of the sky.”
“Why did he want you to do this? Why did the General want us to land in that clearing?”
“I don’t know, Samantha, I swear. I asked, but he didn’t tell me why he wanted this done, only that I had to do it.”
“And instead of telling General Spradlin and his boys to check themselves into the nearest mental ward you say ‘Sure, why the fuck not’.”
Frank lay back down and closed his eyes.
“I thought I knew you, Frank,” Samantha continued. “I thought you were one of the smart ones. I was so fucking wrong. You’ve got everyone staring at shadows, scared shitless, when the boogeymen are right here, walking among us.”
Samantha could no longer look at her partner. Alicia’s cries continued. They felt like knives digging into her brain. Involuntarily, Samantha hands balled into fists. There was one last question she needed to ask. One final question before she could no longer stomach the sight of Frank ever, ever again.
“Back when we were ordered to land at Tortuga, the central operator told you to observe red alpha protocol. What the hell is that?”
“It’s…it’s an old code, from the original Desert Storm,” Frank said. “It means some really nasty shit is about to go down.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Colonel Alan Robinson and Private Becky Waters stood eight feet away from the rustling bush and aimed their weapons at it. Robinson’s grip on his weapon, however, was not as tight as Becky’s.
Through the corner of her eye, she noticed Robinson held the rifle with his left hand only. His right hand dropped to the knife sheath strapped to his belt. Robinson unclipped the sheath’s top strap, exposing the knife’s dull grey handle. Robinson slowly pulled the weapon from its holster.
Becky was confused by Robinson’s actions. How was a knife better protection versus an M-16 rifle? Why would Robinson think of using it at all?
Becky’s body tensed. She alternately watched the bush and Robinson’s knife as he pulled it out. Now fully exposed, Becky was surprised to find the weapon’s body was entirely black instead of the expected shiny silver. Nonetheless, it looked very sharp and high tech. Was the blade made of some kind of sophisticated ceramic?
No.
The knife Robinson carried was the size and had the general shape of a machete but a sharper point. It was created for stabbing as well as slashing. Though she was hardly an expert in ceramic knives, Becky knew that while they retained their cutting edge far better than metal knives, they were also brittle. They were good in a kitchen but not as good as offensive weapons, especially if you were trying to slash through bone.
Therefore, the blade Robinson carried was probably not made of ceramic. If it wasn’t, then what was it made of?
Robinson eased up next to the bush. He locked eyes with Becky and, soundlessly, mouthed “One”. Then “Two”.
Becky leaned closer to the bush, forgetting about the strange knife for the moment.
“Three,” Robinson said.
Becky and Robinson jumped to either side of the bush. To their surprise, a man in a fetal position lay on the ground. He was dressed completely in black. His face was stained with black grease paint, most of which had rubbed off. The skin below, in stark contrast to the camouflage paint, was a very pale white. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties or very early thirties. He had a lean, athletic build. Before him and lying on the ground was a small black backpack.
“Do you recognize him?” Robinson said. Becky noted Robinson lowered his M-16 and held the eerie black knife close to the stranger’s head.
“What?” she asked, confused by Robinson’s question.
“From Bad Penny, soldier. Have you seen him before?”
“No sir,” Becky replied. “But I couldn’t swear…”
“You don’t need to,” Robinson said. He released the M-16 and moved in closer to the intruder.
“What the fuck?!”
When they heard Howard Bartlett scream those words, Jennie Light and General Spradlin spun around.
General Spradlin’s mind whirled. He watched in horror as a black humanoid thing burst like a living nightmare from the bushes behind Howard Bartlett. Leaves and branches flew in all directions. The figure ignored the havoc and lashed out. Its right hand slammed with incredible force into Bartlett’s face. General Spradlin heard a grotesque crack before the two bodies fell into the muddy puddle. Water splashed at Jennie and Spradlin’s feet.
Upon hitting the muddy water, Bartlett’s body went limp. The creature nonetheless continued its attack. It slashed at the soldier’s neck, almost severing head from body and staining the muddy water until it was a deep red. The creature’s head, like its body, was sleek and formless. It moved back and forth, taking in its surroundings while the creature’s arms made sure Bartlett was beyond giving any resistance at all. Every one of the creature’s movements was precise, mechanical.
Robotic.
Once done examining its surroundings, the creature turned its attention to the wrecked body of Howard Bartlett. It took only a few seconds to look its victim over and assure itself that he was indeed dead. Then, the creature’s formless head turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees until it settled on Jennie Light and General Spradlin.
For several seconds, the dark attacker held still. The features on its face vibrated. After a few seconds, an opening –a mouth!– formed on its jet black face.
“I know a real nice restaurant in Coconut Grove,” the dark shape said. Its voice was garbled and the words sounded like a mechanical grunt. The inflection, however, was recognizable.
“Sir?” Jennie Light whispered.
“Easy,” General Spradlin said.
“The way I figure, the odds of that kid being mine aren’t all that great, you know?” the creature continued. The second attempt at speech was much clearer than the first. The mechanical edge was almost gone. “Look, Jennie, we go out, have a couple of rounds, maybe even a few laughs. What’s the harm?”
Jennie Light’s hand came to her mouth.
“What…what the hell is this thing?”
Spradlin grabbed Jennie Light by her arm and pulled her toward him. As he did, the PCOM slipped from his hands and fell to the muddy ground. It slipped down the
incline, stopping at the edge of the puddle.
Its motion caught the creature’s attention.
The creature released Howard Bartlett and stood up. It walked to the edge of the puddle and leaned down close to the PCOM.
Bartlett’s body, no longer pinned down, floated to the surface of the muddy water. Despite the mud and filth, Jennie and Spradlin saw what remained of Bartlett’s face. It was caved in and unrecognizable. Tissue and bone fragments oozed out of the destroyed skin that had once been nose, cheeks, and forehead. His left eyeball was gone. His right eyeball floated on the water beside his head, connected to his shattered face by a line of viscera.
The creature finished its examination of the PCOM and walked out of the puddle. It stepped on the device, flattening it.
Spradlin’s grasp on Jennie Light’s arm tightened.
“Run,” he yelled.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Alan Robinson and Becky Waters stood at either side of the darkly dressed man. Robinson released his M-16 and allowed it to hang loose on his shoulder. He had both hands on the long black knife.
If you aren’t going to use the M-16, you could give it to me, Becky thought. Maybe he’s not so much Captain America as he is Tarzan.
Still, Becky felt that if the black blade was, to Robinson, a more powerful weapon than the M-16, then her puny .45 handgun was less than worthless.
“Who are you?” Robinson asked the man in black.
“Sir,” Becky Waters said. “General Spradlin told us not to engage—”
The man on the ground looked up. His eyes were wide with terror.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered.
“He’s British,” Robinson said. The accent was strong.
Robinson’s eyes drifted to the man’s backpack. It was open and a miniature camera protruded from its top.
“Who are you?” Robinson repeated.
“The man’s in shock,” Becky said.
“Maybe,” Robinson muttered before bending down to reach for the backpack.
