Operation: Immortal Servitude From Declassified Files of Team of Darkness

by Tony Ruggiero

  Block's last thought was that he was glad for the darkness. What he had seen by the light of the flash he wanted to forget. He had seen their faces and the unholy red glow of their eyes and their fangs.

  "Oh my God!” he screamed.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of gunfire rang out from the ruins. Sergeant Estefan automatically drew his weapon and looked in the direction of the sound. In the distance, he could barely make out Captain Block running backwards toward them, firing his gun repeatedly at someone chasing him.

  "What the shit?” Estefan said.

  Brosnev, his weapon drawn, also watched what was happening, and came to stand beside him.

  "They can't be more then ten feet apart, point blank range. Whoever it is should be down hard!” Brosnev said. “Shouldn't we shoot?"

  "No! They're too close together. Might hit the Captain. Look! The son of a bitch is still up and coming, gaining on him! The bullets have no effect!” Estefan added. “Look, there's two of them, no, three ... four altogether!"

  In a matter of seconds, they watched as the mysterious attackers pounced on the captain. His screams lingered on the night air as they began to tear him limb from limb; the shreds of flesh and bone appearing like streamers in the early evening light.

  Laupki took the bottle and handed it to Brosnev as he spoke. Brosnev handed it to Estefan and said, “He says to throw it at them! There is not enough to kill them, but it will slow them down long enough for us to get away!"

  Estefan stared at the black-burgundy colored liquid in the bottle. His other hand clasped the butt of his gun. He'd seen the captain empty two magazines into ... whatever they were without any effect. He took a few steps away from the vehicle and hurled the bottle toward the attackers who now eyed them as the next target. The bottle struck the hard ground about five feet in front of them, causing a spray to splatter them. They recoiled with a screeching sound that Estefan had never heard before and would never forget for the rest of his life.

  "Get in the vehicle—NOW!” Estefan screamed.

  Everyone scrambled inside. Estefan jumped into the driver's seat and drove as fast as he could, much quicker than the roads allowed. They were tossed about the vehicle like rag dolls, Estefan constantly fighting to keep control of the vehicle from going off the road and into a ditch. The creatures did not pursue them, trapped by the mysterious liquid. He tried to erase the horrific images from his mind, but the sight of the captain being torn apart refused to subside from his thoughts.

  * * * *

  Corporal Brosnev sat quietly as Sergeant Estefan drove the vehicle to Camp Bondsteel without saying a word, despite the corporal's attempts to communicate with him. Brosnev wondered if Estefan was in some kind of shock. He hoped Estefan would be able to finish the trip to the base camp. Idriz Laupki sat silent in his seat, sporadically glancing at the bodies of his daughters and verifying that the creatures had not followed them.

  The vehicle proceeded to the gate of Camp Bondsteel; the guard recognized Sergeant Estefan and waved them through. Estefan stopped the vehicle at the medical tent, just outside the main entrance door. He turned off the engine and became immobile, staring straight ahead.

  Brosnev jumped out, shook him and yelled at him. There was no response. He told Laupki to stay put and went inside the tent for help. He returned with a doctor and an MP; they helped get Estefan out of the vehicle and into the examination room.

  Taking a moment to rest, Brosnev realized that he was the senior soldier left from the ill-fated mission, and it was his duty to make a full report on what had happened as soon as possible. He located a telephone and called Colonel Antol. As he waited for the colonel to answer, he rehearsed in his mind how he was going to explain what had happened.

  When he heard the colonel's rough “yes,” Brosnev stuttered through a brief explanation of events. The colonel ordered him not to say anything to anyone until he arrived.

  Brosnev went back out to the vehicle where Laupki waited with the corpses of his daughters. Grief-stricken, he stroked their hair and quietly spoke to the dead girls. Brosnev placed his hand on the man's shoulder, trying to offer comfort.

  "When will the horrible beasts be killed?” Laupki asked in his native tongue. “I have tried so many times—I thought they were dead..."

  "I don't know,” Brosnev answered. “But something will be done. We have confirmed your story. I have seen them with my own eyes."

  "These creatures are very old,” Laupki said. “They are very wise to the habits of mankind and they are not easy to kill. It will take ... much. We have tormented each other through the generations. Even I have sought out revenge ... and thought I had achieved it. But look where that has gotten me. My poor girls are dead. First their mother to the Serbs and now my babies to these creatures. But I will—"

  Colonel Antol's jeep pulled up to the medical tent, interrupting the words of Laupki. The base commander jumped out. “Inside, now!” he ordered.

  A moment later a truckload of MPs arrived and encircled the area.

  "Get those two bodies inside immediately,” he barked to the medical personnel. “I want them autopsied at once. All personnel here are not to leave this area unless I personally approve it.” The medical personnel stared at the base commander for a few seconds in disbelief, wondering what had happened to warrant such protocol.

  "I said now, damn it!"

  The personnel lost their immobility immediately and did as they were ordered.

  "Who is the duty medical officer?"

  "I am, sir.” A young man stepped forward. “Major Barkley."

  "What is the Sergeant's condition?"

  "He's stable, but appears to be in shock. He's unresponsive now, but he might come around with time. We have him under sedation for the moment."

  "No one talks to him unless I say so.” Then, as if remembering something he had forgotten, Antol added, “The autopsies—make them non-invasive until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand? For now I need to know what killed the girls."

  "Yes, sir, I'll get started right away,” Barkley said and left.

  Antol turned toward Brosnev and Laupki.

  "Corporal, I want you to find a quiet room and write down everything that happened since you left here, and finish with the moment you called me,” he said. “This is an incredible story. You're sure you are not stretching it somewhat?"

  "No, sir. What I explained to you was exactly what happened."

  "We have a senior sergeant that is in shock, you say Captain Block was murdered, and you bring two dead bodies back with you. I'd say that gives some credibility to your story. In fact, there is significant interest from stateside in this matter, and when they hear about this development, God only knows what will happen next."

  "Sir, what about the civilian?” Brosnev asked.

  "He has to stay here,” Antol said. “He'll need to answer a lot of questions as the investigation intensifies. Take him with you and have him write down his version. We'll have someone else translate it later."

  Brosnev spoke to Laupki, telling him what they were going to do. Laupki nodded his head, said something in his native language and then gave a half-hearted laugh.

  "What did he say?” Antol asked.

  "He says he has no where else to go. The creatures want him dead."

  Brosnev and Laupki started walking away to find a place to write their statements.

  "Corporal,” Antol called.

  Brosnev stopped and looked back at the base commander.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Captain Block ... did he suffer?"

  "Horribly, sir,” Brosnev said, as he turned away and tried not to remember the scene of the captain's death.

  Chapter Five

  MacDill Air Force Base-Florida

  "Did you read this?” General Stone asked Commander Scott as he showed him a folder labeled “Camp Bondsteel Situation Report."

  Scott saw the folder's title and felt his stomach sink, while his body temperature ro
se by about ten degrees. He'd been afraid of this. He knew the general would react strongly to it.

  The file contained a report from the base commander of Camp Bondsteel, part of the multinational peace effort in Kosovo. Scott had removed it from the general's reading pile because he knew if he read it, all hell would probably break loose. Seeing the report in Stone's hand, he found himself wishing he'd never seen the damned thing and that he didn't work for this madman.

  General Stone, the Commander of U.S. Special Operations Command (SOCOM) at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, looked like someone who had found the cure for cancer. He was a large man, in excellent shape for a man of fifty-plus years. His close-cropped gray hair was characteristic of a career soldier, the high and tight. He was always immaculate in uniform; it gave him an air of arrogance. His face: brown eyes, high cheekbones and square jaw, never gave away information about his position on issues. He controlled all the Special Forces of the military services, and certain projects kept at the highest secrecy levels. He was a man of great power and influence.

  His aspirations were high and remained that way; he used his prowess for solving impossible problems as his stepladder to those aspirations. He had been accused on occasion for being too General Patton-like in his actions; at times exceeding his authority by committing acts not sanctioned by higher-ups. Yet his record of successes in these actions were too numerous to discount; thereby his removal was considered a far greater loss and a certain level of tolerance had been applied, staving off his retirement for sometime in the distant future. His outlook was that there was a need for a man of his forward thinking in an age of softies: that politicians who had never served in the military had taken over too many of the roles that controlled the military forces.

  One of his biggest complaints was the lack of commitment of military assets to the drug war. Although illegal drugs were a world problem, this particular area hit closest to him; he'd lost his sixteen-year-old daughter, his only child, to an overdose of cocaine. His wife blamed him and his career that kept him away from home for long periods of time, but he saw the greater problem: businessmen with political connections who controlled large portions of the illicit drug trade and reaped its blood-money profits.

  Scott distinctly remembered the dissertation the general had given him on the subject. One thing about the general: when he went off on one of these little talks, you best give him your fullest attention.

  "The administration only throws token money and effort against the drug problem,” Stone had said disdainfully. He had a folder in his hand and Scott remembered the way in which his hand tightened around it as he spoke.

  "Nobody wants to step too hard on the toes of our precious South American neighbors. The assholes!"

  Stone had twisted the folder into a rolled-up stick which he now rapped against an open palm. Whap. Whap.

  "Everyone knows the only way to succeed on the war on drugs is to pull the plug on the Colombian cartels, take them out, take them all out by any means possible. Kill the bastards ... every last one of them."

  Scott remembered how he had looked away momentarily when the general used the words ... to kill. He was quickly awarded with a smack from the rolled-up folder and an iron stare from the general.

  "You have issues with that, Commander?” the general had asked. “If you do, I need to know about that right now."

  Scott had looked at the general and saw a stare that he would never forget. His eyes were like hard steel and intently focused on him. The folder remained in his hand but Scott surmised that it wouldn't be there for long if he answered incorrectly.

  "No, sir, I do not have a problem with that."

  "Good,” the general had answered. “I want to make sure that all my people are team players. You are a team player, Commander, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The general had looked at the rolled-up folder in his hands. His face had taken on a disgusted look and then he tossed the folder onto Scott's desk.

  "Get rid of this trash,” he had said and walked away.

  Scott's thoughts returned to the present. Although the general had many subordinates who looked through the multitude of media that flowed through the information center on a daily basis, he still made it a point to scan through some of it himself. Most of the reports were for information purposes only, such as this report. But Stone had made it known that he wanted to see anything that sounded the least bit strange; the more bizarre the information or story—the better. Nothing was dismissed, no matter how weird. To not adhere to this order would invoke the general's wrath, which had been known to end many a career.

  Lately though, with all that was going on in the Balkan region, his thoughts remained focused on these areas. He found the history of the region fascinating because of the campaigns that changed the political and military landscape of this region over the past several hundred years, along with the interesting topics about the myths and legends of the Balkans. He was a pragmatic man and gave little thought to unsubstantiated rumors or myths that held no credence. However, he knew that solving problems which were extremely difficult required a unique approach. So he kept everything inside his head in the event that it became useful at some point. The Balkans were full of ancient ideas: from legends to battles fought across the land for centuries. He knew that there was something to be learned from all of this which could possibly be helpful in his other endeavors as well.

  Commander Scott stared at the report General Stone had in his upraised hand. The report concluded that the deaths of the girls and Captain Block were possibly the result of Serbians, but Scott knew the unusual comments from the civilian who had reported the incident had kindled the general's interest. The words “vampires” and “creatures” keyed his attention, although the base commander had dismissed the use of the terms to translation problems and possible hysteria brought on by war fatigue.

  "Yes, sir, I have seen it,” Scott replied, trying to keep his voice even. His heart beat rapidly as the general's gaze bore through him. Sweat began to ooze from his pores.

  "And?” the general said, throwing the word out like a grenade that Scott thought he might as well fall on now and get it over with.

  "Hysteria and war fatigue,” Scott responded.

  "So you think someone is fabricating all of this?"

  "Yes, sir,” he answered. “Those people have been through a lot. Hysteria from deaths of loved ones can lead to fabrication of stories as a kind of repression of guilt. We've seen this before in Bosnia."

  "Very rational thinking, Commander,” Stone said, closing the folder.

  Scott breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the storm had passed. He returned to the work on his desk.

  "But I disagree,” Stone's voice boomed back, causing him to jump in his seat. “I think there are some interesting facts here that need to be looked at."

  "But sir...” Scott began. “There can't possible be any truth—"

  "Listen to me.” Stone cut him off. “I want you to do the following."

  Scott scrambled to get a pen and paper.

  "One, send a communication to the base commander telling him to check out the story. Two, put the Special Forces unit in the area on alert and three, get me someone with a background in historical aspects, specifically in myths and legends of this area."

  "Does that include vampires, sir?” Scott asked without thinking and immediately wished he could retract the question. A bead of sweat scurried down his back.

  "It does,” Stone said and smiled as he stepped up to within a few inches of his face. “And if you keep something like this from me again, I'll put you in the biggest shit-hole I can find, do you understand?"

  "Yes ... yes, sir, I understand."

  Stone stared at him for what was only seconds, but to Scott, it felt like a much longer time. Finally, the general left his office. He exhaled strongly and wished he'd never taken this assignment. He pitied whomever he would find for the job.

  Chapter Six


  Norfolk, Virginia

  Navy Commander John Reese was right at an intriguing point in the book he was reading when the telephone rang. He thought about ignoring it, but the interruption had already destroyed his concentration. He tried to consolidate the mass of paper that surrounded him so it wouldn't get it mixed up when he got up. The papers were his notes that would comprise his book he'd been working on for a few years. Tentatively titled Myths and Legends, he hoped it would become a textbook for classes of the same subject.

  Many of the classes he'd taken while earning his Masters Degree in Ancient Civilizations and Mythology did not have good textbooks; reliable information was scarce. His textbook would go further than any book currently published by basing the entire premise on the effect of legends and myths in the current day environment. As soon as he could afford the time and the cost, he planned a research trip to Europe to gather hard data. His deepest hope and desire was to prove just one of his theories correct.

  He finally reached the ringing phone. “Hello,” he said, unable to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

  "Commander Reese?"

  "Yes.” The use of his military rank indicated this was a formal call.

  "This is Captain Bleth. I'm the duty officer for Commander Mid-Atlantic Region in Norfolk."

  "Yes, sir, how can I help you?” Reese asked, civilizing his tone as he was speaking with a senior officer.

  "We've received immediate orders for you from Washington. You are to proceed immediately to U.S. Special Operations Command at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida."

  "What?” Reese knew they must have the wrong guy. “There must be some mistake. I'm the logistics officer for Naval Special Warfare Group Two at Little Creek. Sir, are you sure you're not looking for another Commander Reese?"

  "Is your social security number 198-65-8465?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There is no mistake,” Captain Bleth said.

  "I'll have to notify my chain of command,” Reese said, for lack of anything else to say. He was completely baffled about what was happening.