OPERATION:
Immortal Servitude
From the Declassified Files of
Team of Darkness
Tony Ruggiero
www.dragonmoonpress.com
Copyright © 2007 Tony Ruggiero
Cover Art © 2007 Eric Gooch
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Dragon Moon Press
www.dragonmoonpress.com
www.tonyruggiero.com
OPERATION:
Immortal Servitude
From the Declassified Files of
Team of Darkness
Tony Ruggiero
www.dragonmoonpress.com
Dedication
This book is sincerely
dedicated to those
people that:
had faith in me to
write it,
helped me complete
it and will get
enjoyment from it.
“There are always choices, Commander Reese. No one knows that better than I do. However, it’s what we do with those choices that truly defines our existence.”
~The Vampire Dimitri
“Death is better than defeat. Defeat you have to live with.”
~Navy SEAL Compound-NAB Little Creek
“If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle
us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?
And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?”
~William Shakespeare
Author’s Note
In 2002 I published Team of Darkness and since then if anyone sees me they say, "there he is…the vampire guy." No matter what else I write, I'm stuck with the vampire writer label. It'll probably end up on my tombstone.
Readers have asked, well more like demanded actually, that I continue the story of Navy Commander John Reese and the vampire Dimitri and add more "meat" to it. For those comments I am eternally grateful because it reaffirms that so many people enjoyed the original story to demand more. Well I am happy to say...here you are!
Operation Immortal Servitude is Team of Darkness with more meat added to it. How much meat you ask-well about 80 pages or so. So if you have read Team of Darkness you will find that material within the pages of this book, but more importantly this "revamped" version sets the stage (how's that for a tease) for the series of books to follow.
Book II: Operation: Save the Innocent
Book III: Operation: Face the Fear
Book IV: Operation: End Game
I look forward to continuing the story of John Reese and the vampire Dimitri both because I enjoy it, and because you, the reader, wants it and that makes everything just right.
Happy reading and remember to keep the lights on.
Tony Ruggiero, 2007
Prologue
Dear J:
It’s late. We should be arriving soon at our destination. I have a feeling that I won’t survive this night. The enemy (whoever that may be) will probably kill me. I know it sounds strange that I, a Navy officer with over twenty years of service, say whoever the enemy is as if I do not know, but that is the truth. I no longer know who I can trust and that includes the…men I lead. I call them men but they aren’t really men anymore. They are something else—they are creatures that—well I am not sure if they should be revered or despised? I know it sounds strange, but if I could answer that question I would have been smart enough to not be where I am today. But like my superiors, I was blinded by my personal desires. Now it may be the cause of my death.
Personally, I think the General has been insane for quite a while. My only hope is to stay with the creatures and wait. But now I fear I may have waited too long. Still, there might be a chance if I survive this operation; some hope that I might be able to set things right. I say set things right because it was me who brought everything together so that all of this nightmare could happen. Nevertheless, if I am successful and I survive this mission, and all goes as planned, I still lose; it boils down to the question of how many will suffer. Will humanity pay for what I have done? I don’t know. It seems humanity has been in the shits for quite a while and especially before I got there. Sorry about being so morbid, but morbidity has become a good friend of mine as of late. You could say we take a blood communion together on a regular basis.
Anyway, this piece of paper and the rest of the documents may be the only thing that I leave behind; the only record that will say what happened to me. If anyone knew I was writing this, they would destroy it in a heartbeat and declare me a traitor. It’s funny; well, not really funny, it’s pathetically sad really, how traitor becomes a relative term when one’s country, or those in positions of authority, bend the rules to benefit a small group, or even one individual. But that’s all in the past now. Hell, ask Benedict Arnold the same question. Washington didn’t have a choice in that situation. It was either save a country or save a man who he admired. The choice was simple when we are faced with such large consequences of our actions. Like I said, it’s all in the past. What a quaint and pat saying that is. All in the past. I have not really thought about it before, but now it seems so damn appropriate because of the past, or should I say the ignoring of it, every damn myth and legend about these creatures that has been mockingly joked away into some dark and musty corner or been epitomized on the big screen or in books galore, has now returned—and it is my fault. That needs to be clear. I accept the responsibility…every square millimeter of it. I shall not shirk away from what I have done.
I plan to drop this letter in the ship’s mailbox; it’s the simplest way to get it off the ship without anyone knowing. No one checks the outgoing mail, only the incoming. When you get this and the information in the envelope you will know what to do with it. You are what I would call the voice of reason, the champion of the righteous, and all that bullshit. Sorry for the bit of humor, J, but self-indulgence is one of the few pleasures that I have these days. But that’s not actually true. I do have something else. One thing. It’s so bizarre how things work out. I chastised Lieutenant Johnson for it, but the more I think about it, I think he was right. I wish he was alive so that I could tell him that. Hell, I wish for a lot of things right now...
I can feel the boat slowing. We must be near the station for departure. I have to go. The…men will be restless and anxious to get started. They look to me because I am their keeper but you know what, J, I think it is the other way around. I think they are my keeper because they remind me of the morality I am supposed to possess and of what they have lost. Ironic, if somewhat true, but that is something for another discussion at another time.
I will admit that I am presumptuous in thinking that you will not let this affair go without notice if I should not return. You may end up hating me for getting you involved with the entire ordeal. Please accept my apology in advance if that is the case, but I have no choice. If you feel that you cannot do this justice, I will understand. I close with a Godspeed wish for y
our success when you decide what, if anything, to do with all of this. As for me, God has gone on hiatus for a while and left me to play with either the escapees he loosened from hell or creatures that he created to mock humanity. Either way, it’s a rather cruel game, don’t you think?
Fair wind and following seas…
Your friend
John Reese
Commander, United States Navy
Chapter One
Kosovo-The Former Republic of Yugoslavia
One Year Ago
The duty officer massaged his tired face and ran his hands through his close-cropped hair, then picked up his fifth cup of coffee of the night as he struggled to stay awake at 0300 in the morning. Captain Block, an Army veteran of five years, had been in Kosovo for more than ten months. He’d spent the past six months at Camp Bondsteel, along with four thousand other servicemen and women. The camp was situated on what had once been farm fields near the town of Urosevac, in the southern region of Kosovo, and was part of the international peacekeeping team, also known as Task Force Falcon by the Americans.
Task Force Falcon was responsible for the twenty-three thousand square kilometer American zone, maintaining peace and keeping the Albanians and Serbians from killing each other and themselves.. This equated to approximately three hundred and fifty squad-sized security operations every day.
Block was tired of the bloodshed and ethnic division. With only two months left to his tour, he looked forward to going home. His stint in the Army would be over and he was ready to work at his uncle’s car dealership. He was soft-spoken, with facial features that made a guy either a minister or a car salesman; his fellow soldiers told him that he had the kind of disposition that would ensure him success in the car business.
Block firmly believed in Murphy’s Law: If anything could go wrong with the short time left to his tour, it would. His time and experience in the military had proven he was not a professional soldier, nor did he have any desire to become one.
Tonight had been quiet, thankfully. With all assignments completed, he had busied himself by catching up on some reading and even managed to write a letter to his mom and dad back home in Seattle. As he licked the envelope’s flap, he noticed his burly infantry sergeant, Sergeant Estefan, come into the central command area. He was not hard to miss. A big man, about six feet in height and 225 pounds, he always had a five o’clock shadow at about one o’clock in the afternoon. His face appeared to be made of solid granite—along with his muscles. Although ominous in appearance, Estefan was a calm person and rarely got upset.
Block noticed Estefan was not alone. An obviously agitated civilian accompanied the sergeant, demanding his attention. The civilian babbled wildly in a native Slavic tongue, making wild gestures with his arms. His body shook as if he was being shocked with electricity. Block had seen many like this man come into the compound, usually to report a murder or rape by one of the native forces; it was almost a daily occurrence. But for some reason, Block found this man interesting enough to watch him closely.
Observing the agitated man, Block saw that the man’s clothing was worn but clean. He was probably a farmer, like the majority of the people in the area, he thought absently. They took pride in their clothing that was sewn by hand to endure years of service. The man’s face was weathered from spending time in the cold and hot temperatures; the wrinkled lines held permanent locations on his face and made him appear older than he probably was. But his eyes were brilliant and strong, and reflected strength, energy and determination.
Block watched as Estefan sat the civilian in a chair, and then motioned for him to stay there. Apparently the civilian didn’t speak or understand English. The sergeant spoke to a corporal then pointed to the civilian. When Estefan moved away, the corporal remained, watching the civilian. Estefan headed toward the duty officer’s office, stopped at the door and knocked. Block waved him in.
“Sir, we might have a problem,” Estefan said.
“So I see,” Block said, indicating the civilian. “What’s going on?”
“All I know right now is that he’s terrified about something. He ran up to the evening patrol, throwing himself in front of their vehicle, yelling and screaming at them to make them stop. The only thing we could understand was the town’s name, Kacianik. He kept repeating it over and over again. I have an interpreter on the way to find out what he’s going on about.”
“All right. Let’s take a look at him. Bring him in here.”
The sergeant stepped out of the room and motioned for the corporal to bring the civilian into the captain’s office. Block reminded himself that part of the responsibility of the peacekeeping forces was to maintain order such as a police force would do. Any incident was investigated if the situation warranted it. Unfortunately for him tonight, that was his job as duty officer. Either way, it would be recorded into the desk log and forwarded to the Base Commander for review, as well as to several agencies in the United States. Everyone wanted to be kept in the loop of what was happening.
As the sergeant, corporal and civilian entered the captain’s office, the civilian surprised them all by lunging toward the captain. He grasped the collar of Block’s uniform in his hard, weathered hands and spoke hurriedly, spraying spittle onto Block’s face. Shocked, Block found himself unable to move. The civilian’s hands were like steel, and were locked onto his clothing. He couldn’t budge them. In those seconds, he saw that this man was scared out of his mind. His eyes twitched, revealing blood-lined white backgrounds that contrasted with darting pupils. As he continued to rant, the man’s body pulsed with uncontrollable fear.
The sergeant and the corporal managed to pull him away from the captain and forcefully sat him into the chair. They kept their hands clamped over the man’s wrists and forearms until he settled down. After a few seconds, the sergeant released his grip on the man, but not before giving him a stern look and finger wagging that promised retribution if he tried something like that again. Estefan looked at the corporal to be sure he had the man; when the corporal nodded, the sergeant turned toward the captain with a look of disgrace on his face.
“Sorry, sir. I never thought he would do that. He caught me off guard.”
“It’s okay. He caught me off guard, too,” Block said, attempting to catch his breath. “Whatever it is, he’s scared out of his mind.” Then in a low voice that only the sergeant could hear, “I can almost smell the fear from him.”
Estafen nodded his head in agreement with Block’s assessment.
A knock at the door caused Block to look up. Another corporal entered; his boyish features making him appear eighteen or nineteen years of age. He was five foot six inches and weighed perhaps one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet.
“Corporal Brosnev, reporting as ordered for interpreter duties, sir,” he said in a voice that reflected a nervous untested youth.
“Come in, Corporal,” Block said, as he waved him in. “I want you to find out what this civilian is ranting about. He’s scared out of his mind about something.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal responded and went to where the civilian was being held in the chair. Estefan dismissed the other corporal as Brosnev took the position of holding the man’s forearms to the chair.
Block listened as the corporal addressed the civilian in the local Slavic dialect. The man’s eyes lit up at the recognition of language. Another onslaught of words spilled from his lips. Brosnev raised his hands and spoke a few words repeatedly to the civilian that Block assumed was telling him to go slowly so that he could understand what he was trying to say. The only word that was recognizable to him was the repeated mention of the town Kacianik. Block continued to listen and watch as the interpreter questioned the civilian. For several minutes they spoke back and forth.
“What’s wrong?” Block asked finally.
“We’re trying to agree on a dialect,” Brosnev said. “Between the provinces, dialects differ immensely.”
After a few more exchanges of words, Brosn
ev raised his hand indicating for the civilian to stop. He turned to speak with the captain.
“His name is Idriz Laupki,” Brosnev said. “He lives in a little village outside the city of Kacianik. He says that he has found people that have been murdered.”
“Is it more ethnic cleansing?” Block asked, in a voice that reflected having seen too much of this already. They found mass graves of bodies from these atrocities almost every other day, and there was no getting use to the sight of civilians killed and piled into hastily dug holes. “Ask him to tell you about the killings.”
Brosnev spoke again with Laupki, who reacted more strongly to the questions. But as Laupki responded, Brosnev appeared to not understand what the man was saying and the frustration on Laupki’s face was evident as the lines in his skin pulled tighter. Brosnev released the hold on him, but Estefan tensed as if there might be another outburst.
“He says,” Brosnev said, his voice sounding unsure, “he says it was not Serbs or Albanians that did the killing.” Brosnev turned back to Laupki and spoke slowly as if clarifying each and every word that he had told him. “He says,” Brosnev continued, “there are...creatures that came from the ruins of an old church near his village last night. They came from the ruins and killed two people from his village.”
“He can’t be using the right word. Hostiles, renegade Serbs, looters...who?” Block asked impatiently.
Brosnev asked Laupki the same questions again. “No, sir,” Brosnev said. “None of them.”
“What then?”
Operation Page 1
