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PROLOGUE
Cloudcroft, New Mexico
St. Timothy Catholic Church
St. Timothy Catholic Church
Saturday evening, 6 p.m. Mass
Father Mendoza adjusted his collar and made one last check in the full length mirror in his office.
"As always, perfecto," he said approvingly. They say all men, regardless of their place in line before the Pearly Gates, have their weaknesses and vices. Father Mendoza would spend a rather lengthy stent in Purgatory because of his vanity. With his dark skin and thick shock of curly black hair, Mendoza was a good looking man. The problem was that he knew it; and, so did many on Cloudcroft's single women circuit. Still, though, the father was a relatively good man who had spent a lifetime building and nurturing his congregation. Tonight's Mass, with Thanksgiving looming in the near distance, would likely see a few hundred people taking Communion. It was nights like this that made living a life of poverty and servitude worth it. It was times like the coming Mass that reminded Father Mendoza that no matter how often he woke in some woman's bed, scratching and clawing to find his clothes, the Lord will forgive him. Just look at the people number of people he had brought to Christ's cross. This church was nothing before he got here.
Hell, he thought with an internal chuckle, it could be worse. I could be banging one of my altar boys like so many of the priesthood.
Mendoza's spirit was still running high when he rounded a corner to the sacristy and froze. In the hallway was a completely naked man. Given the long, dark hair, broad forehead, and high cheekbones, Father Mendoza immediately guessed Native American. Probably some drunk Apache from the reservation.
Living in a town like Cloudcroft, situations like this were fairly common - even in the Church. You just got used to them.
"May I help you?" asked Mendoza with only a small amount of frustration lingering on his voice.
"Father Mendoza, I presume?" The voice was smooth, though there was something underneath, something that almost sounded like a purr or...a growl.
Not any Apache I know, he thought and immediately became nervous. It was like something was amping up the fear his mind was capable of producing. He found himself unable to hold the man's gaze. To Father Mendoza, the man seemed ten feet tall, though he knew the stranger was about the same height as he was.
"I...I...yes, I'm Father Mendoza, and I asked you if I could help you. If this church has nothing to offer you, I suggest you move along."
The clergyman finally managed to pull himself together and look into the stranger's eyes. They swam with a sickly, yellow color that burned the color of a setting sun. Unholy terror wrenched at Mendoza's spine and shook, tearing away the priest's ability to do anything but gaze into the depths of insanity locked away in those eyes.
His voice fell dead in his throat.
The clergyman finally managed to pull himself together and look into the stranger's eyes. They swam with a sickly, yellow color that burned the color of a setting sun. Unholy terror wrenched at Mendoza's spine and shook, tearing away the priest's ability to do anything but gaze into the depths of insanity locked away in those eyes.
His voice fell dead in his throat.
"Oh, this church had much to offer," the stranger took a step closer, and the carpet squelched underfoot. Despite his fear, Mendoza looked to the floor and noticed, for the first time, the dark blood flowing from under the door to the sacristy.
Mendoza was vaguely aware the stranger has used the term had when describing the church's usefulness. He became even more aware of hot breath on the back of his neck. It took every ounce of determination he had left in reserve to turn. There, uncomfortably within the priest's personal space, were half a dozen men. They were Mexican, judging from their smallish stature, dark skin, greasy black hair, and tattoos riddling every square inch of their naked bodies. They had the same burning yellow eyes. Given his chosen profession and his time spent working soup kitchens, Mendoza knew hunger - real, unadulterated hunger - when he saw it. Their eyes looked upon him like he was a prized porterhouse steak. Managing to move his eyes from theirs, Mendoza noted the group was coated in blood.
Fresh blood.
Mendoza's bladder involuntarily released as he whispered, "I need to get to my congregation now."
"Oh, dear priest," said the stranger, "we've brought all that's left of them with us."
Mendoza tried to scream but could not. He was, quite literally, panic frozen.
Mendoza tried to scream but could not. He was, quite literally, panic frozen.
"I guess I should thank you. It was only through the diligent efforts of you and those like you over the centuries that an entire planet of human prey was convinced we don't exist and never have."
"Who...who are you?" Mendoza interrupted with a terrified voice.
Bones began to snap and pop from behind, and he hazarded a glance. Those men that were behind him were in various states of transformation. Their bodies were breaking, bending over themselves, and reforming, all occurring nearly instantaneously. Once finished, and it only took seconds, they all stood much taller than before. They had hands the size of catcher's mitts and fingers that were much longer than they had any right to be. Each one was tipped with a razor sharp, black claw. Much the same could be said for the feet. To call them paws would be an insult to the species. They were not paws, but hands and feet, just highly evolved representations of the appendages. The beasts' legs and arms were much too long, much too muscular to be truly human, and their faces were elongated snouts filled with long, serrated teeth meant for both cutting and tearing. Thick, matted fur of varying color covered their entire body, and their eyes still swam with yellow hate.
Even as the first werewolf hit him, spilling his liver out on the carpet, and began feeding, Mendoza screamed again, "Who are you?"
Finally, the stranger - the leader- obliged, "I am Red Moon, first and the last of the Anasazi. I am the Ancient Enemy, one of the few remaining Eldrich Wolves, and these are my children. For centuries, your species has been convinced by men such as yourself that we do not exist, have never existed. Hear me now, human, that ends tonight!" His voice boomed across Father Mendoza's mind even as several werewolves began fighting over his intestines. "Tonight, this town burns!"
Mendoza's mouth moved like a fish gulping for air. He was already dead; his brain just had not yet registered the fact.
1)
The Pledge
The Pledge
Silver Moon
0500
Kris Metcalf, whom everyone called Twitch - for obvious reasons once you were around him for, say, five minutes - roused Dane at 0430 for a workout and run. Twitch led him around, over, and through the ship's warren of expansive walkways for nearly two hours. They stopped periodically along the way but not to rest, rather, to increase the difficulty. At one stop on the top deck, near a bar called the High Tide, they scaled a fifty foot tall rock wall. At another, this time near the helicopter pads, Twitch stopped them in an open area that held a group of pull-up bars. The two performed pull-ups until failure, then continued on their run. One particularly long and wide pathway with an incredibly tall ceiling held a series of monkey bars and rope climbs. While Twitch and Dane performed the grueling work of negotiating the series of obstacles, men and women dressed in everything from business attire to casual dress walked the part of the hall designed for normal foot traffic. There were dozens of random areas like this scattered over the entire length, width, and depth of the Silver Moon, SKUL's cruise liner turned central command and control. Dane noted other men doing much the same as he and Twitch. A few worked through the obstacles in ones and twos, but the majority were doing it as teams. Some were muscular behemoths while others were built like gazelles, lean, long muscled, and built to run forever. The common thread with them all was that they were physical specimens without an ounce of body fat to show.
Dane's entire adulthood had been spent working within a loose organizational structure whose very moniker - Special Operations - implied that because he was there, he was elite. Yet, even within the community, Dane stood out. He was a unique entity, even among the best of the best.
Here, though, he was just another fish in a very big pond.
Home, he thought with a smile.
By 0630, Twitch had eased them to a stop in front of a set of large, frosted, sliding glass doors. Throughout the entire workout, Twitch never stopped talking. He pointed out each and every obstacle along the course, named each area they passed, and just made overall small talk. Dane had to give it to him, the younger operator did not even look winded.
"Dude, how far did we go?" asked Dane whose legs were a bit wobbly. Too many beers and not enough running, he thought with much chagrin.
"Dude, how far did we go?" asked Dane whose legs were a bit wobbly. Too many beers and not enough running, he thought with much chagrin.
"Six miles, bro," Twitch said simply before leading them through the doors.
"Six miles?" exclaimed Dane. "Jesus, how big is this ship, anyway?"
"Big enough," Twitch replied with a grin. "As you now know, the whole thing is basically one big obstacle course." He led Dane into a cavernous room full of free weights, treadmills and stair climbers, and a large section of pull-ups bars and rope climbs. "Welcome to the ship's workout center. This is where the meatheads hang...you should be right at home here. Upstairs is a running track. Showers and sauna are around that corner there." He pointed off to the right hand side of the workout area.
"Damn, man, this is great. Why didn't we just workout here?"
"Dude, this is home for the foreseeable future; so, you need to get a feel for the ship. I'm not going to be around all the time to hold your hand." Twitch was smiling, but there was some wisdom to what he said.
"Dude, this is home for the foreseeable future; so, you need to get a feel for the ship. I'm not going to be around all the time to hold your hand." Twitch was smiling, but there was some wisdom to what he said.
"Fair enough," Dane conceded, "where to now, Magellan?"
"Very funny. I've got some stuff to get together, but you have a meeting with the Skipper in about fifteen minutes. Think you can find your way to his quarters, or do you need a babysitter?"
Dane laughed, "I think I can get there, man. Thanks for the workout."
Twitch smiled, "No problem. I'll catch up with you later today. Try not to embarrass me by doing anything stupid."
"Now there's some irony for you," Dane said, still laughing. "You telling me not to embarrass you. There are a few dozen jokes in there about explosives alone, but I'm late for a meeting."
***
Admiral Briggs' stateroom
0730
KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK
"Come in, Stackwell," called the Admiral's gravelly voice. "It's open."
Dane poked his head through, "You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yeah, son. Take a seat." The Admiral motioned to one of the stools at his personal bar. "Coffee?"
"That'd be great, sir. Thanks."
While the Admiral busied himself pouring the coffee, Dane took in the Admiral's quarters. It had a warm, old feel to it. Deep, rich wooden walls surrounded heavy wooden tables and leather furniture. As many photos of old operators and teams adorned the Admiral's walls as were hanging from the walls of Shamus' pub. Ancient looking nautical charts and books whose subjects ranged from warfare to werewolf mythology lined a huge shelf on one wall. The air, tinged with cigar smoke and whiskey, lent itself to the old feel of the stateroom.
Briggs slid a cup of coffee across the mahogany bar. "How you take it?"
"So strong it can stir itself."
"Ha!" Briggs' laughter boomed throughout the room. "Man after my own heart."
The two savored the first couple of sips before the Admiral asked, "Getting settled in?"
"Yes, sir. Twitch has been a lot of help."
"First time for everything, I guess." The Admiral became contemplative for a moment, then added, "Do me a favor. Keep Metcalf and his little utility tool away from his SICS device. I'm tired of having to replace the damned things."
"I'll do my best, sir."
"I know you will. Anyway, I didn't call you down here to talk about Metcalf's propensity to completely fuck shit up. Dane, before we get started, I want you to know I've talked at length with General Pattridge concerning your situation. Pete wanted me to make sure you knew, he believed you. Always did, and he wishes you the best of luck."
Dane visibly bristled, and his voice grew dangerous, "Fuck Pete Pattridge, sir. He could have stepped in at any time and stopped what was happening to me and my men - the survivors of the shit-storm he created down in Mexico. Instead, he turned his back on us and let the military chew us up and spit us out on some trumped up medical. It's all bullshit!" The pain in what had happened was still to close to the surface. It was like an ice cube on an exposed nerve ending. Dane held the bar in a white-knuckled grip. His chest heaved, and he ground his teeth together.
For several seconds, all was quiet until the Admiral asked, "You done?"
"Yes...sir." His breath was still ragged, but he fought for control. "Sorry, sir."
"Don't be," Briggs replied sarcastically, "it's always nice to watch a man loose control of his emotions so early in the morning. Kind of sets the stage for the day, you know?" The Admiral waited until he was sure Dane was back in control of his faculties before continuing, "Dane, General Pattridge's hands were tied. The simple truth is, he fought me for every inch concerning you and your men. Quite frankly, you and your men were a liability."
"How can you say that? We now know what's out there. We can review our techniques and create contingencies for when missions become compromised due to werewolf involvement..."
"Exactly," Briggs interrupted, "create contingencies for werewolves. How could you ever possibly do that and keep it locked down and in-house?" Dane started to reply, but the Admiral cut him off. "No, you listen, and you listen good, Commander. The answer to my question is that you couldn't. It would get out. Hell, you're a former SEAL - as am I - so you know how much we like to become authors after our time in the Teams is done. People talk, Dane, even as classified a unit as Section 8."
This brought a snort from Dane. He could not deny what the Admiral had said, and he would have been pissed had it not come from another SEAL.
Briggs continued, "Think about what would happen if the truth regarding the existence of werewolves ever got out? Panic would ensue, and that panic would breed anarchy. There'd be rioting, looting, and outright murder in our streets. Wall Street would crash like a lead balloon and with it, the banking system. Hell, son, our enemies worldwide are circling our borders like sharks in a chum slick, and I can guaran-damn-tee you that kind of infrastructural collapse would be all the excuse they'd need to hit us at home. The likelihood of invasion would increase by several powers of ten. Regardless of any supposed contingencies you would implement, your next confrontation would be your last. It would be a bloodbath. Every special missions unit - DEVGRU, CAG, ISA, Section 8 - has their specific areas of expertise; things they excel at above all others. I'll concede there's been a great deal of overlap in mission profiles over the last decade plus of war-fighting; but, the overall concept prevails. The same can be said for SKUL. We're a Tier 1, special missions unit formed to combat werewolves. We are trained and equipped to deal with beings that sit comfortably atop the food chain. We aren't just the tip of the spear, Commander. We're the damned shaft and edge. In short, we are humanity's answer to a growing problem. SKUL is the final stop for every JSOC soldier and sailor who manages to survive. Quite a few conventional shooters work in our teams as well; though, most of them are former Marines and members of the 82nd Airborne. There's a slot waiting on you if you want it."
"Color me interested," Dane replied, doing everything in his power to hide his excitement. "But, I've got a few questions."
The Admiral smiled, "Never a doubt. The floor is yours, Commander."
"What kinda chain of command am I walking into?" Dane took another healthy slug of coffee, then added, "I'm assuming after your last diatribe that it's pretty much a conglomerate of bureaucratic bullshit."
The Admiral chuckled, "Quite the opposite, actually. SKUL consists of seven platoons lead by a platoon leader. In each platoon are seven direct fire teams lead by a team leader and assisted by an assistant team leader." Seeing the smirk on Dane's lips, Briggs added tersely, "I know, real imaginative. Save it. We like to target savages around here; so the bullshit's kept to a minimum." It was his turn to take a sip of coffee. "Anyway, we - SKUL's higher command - pretty much allow the team leaders Carte Blanche when planning and executing missions. We have to. Werewolves, by nature, are not static creatures. They'll take out a fucking shopping mall on a whim and disappear in the chaos. If the intel's solid and the PL - platoon leader - thinks it's actionable, we act. I'm here to run mop-up duty in most cases. I make the phone calls that need to be made when things don't go as planned. Things like picking up some damned hardheaded former SEAL and his family on the edge of Witch's Tit, Mississippi. If there's time or need, me or any one of my immediate subordinates are called in to give our blessing, but we try to keep the operational planning at the operator level."
"Now, that's a gig I can live with."
"Yeah, I figured you'd like that, but understand, you're operating on sovereign, U.S. soil. There will be times when I step in and call you off. We've discussed the potential for disaster with just the knowledge that there are beings more powerful than us walking around. Sometimes, we have to act with the greater good in mind." Briggs visibly cringed when he said the words.
"Now, that sounds like a clump of feces some White House pissant might vomit."
"I know," Briggs allowed, "and, it's the part I hate; but, in this case, it's the goddamned razor-leveled truth."
Dane thought for a long time about what had been said and the repercussions. Finally, he nodded. He could live with a little oversight, and the Admiral certainly seemed like he would be providing only a minute amount. Dane then asked the main question that was troubling him, "Why me, sir? What I mean by that is, there were more survivors than just me, and I know you know that. So, what makes me so special?"
"Who says you are?" the Admiral countered quickly. "Considering the currently abysmal global climate and the fact that our nation's finest, most elite units are in a nearly constant state of deployment, after action reports, so classified black doesn't begin to describe them, slide across my desk daily. Out of those, a very finite number of survivors mentally have what it takes to handle this assignment. Out of the men you led in Mexico, you, Lattimore and Tolar have shown the proper fortitude to succeed here."
"Proper fortitude?" Dane all but spat. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It's simple, really. Some men are just going to stick by their story, regardless. You can put a dozen shrinks in front of them and have them ask the same question a hundred different ways, and their story will never change. Stick a gun to their head...it won't matter. They just aren't wired to be anything less than the absolute best they can be. Changing their story in order to maintain their current position would equate, fundamentally, to a failure; one felt at the cellular level. That's the small number even within the small number. The larger percentage, and even those within the special operations community can boast more than their fair share, will deny what they saw in order to maintain their status quo. We seek out the former and have no more use for the latter than an ambushed platoon in Afghanistan would have for a missile made of wet noodles."
"Then, where are they?" Dane's tone was serious and businesslike, with only the slightest hint of accusation. "Toad and Tweeker, I mean."
Admiral Briggs shifted uncomfortably behind the bar, and Dane could tell they had come to the crux of the conversation, "We don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know, sir?" Dane's eyes were slits of red hot coals. "You found my ass in a goddamned dive bar off a Mississippi River oxbow."
"And, a tricky bit that was. I've got damned near a whole division of SI-2s working that bit of hell's half acre just to see if the situation was properly contained."
"SI-2s?" asked Dane, momentarily forgetting the subject of their conversation.
Briggs waved his hand flippantly, "Second tier intel agents imbedded in normal jobs. They are very well trained and are the workhorses of our intelligence service." He poured another cup of coffee, "Point being, you were still visible. You left a fingerprint wherever you went. By the way, that whole beer for breakfast shit won't fly around here. Bill Kipling, your platoon leader, is a hard man, and I can guarantee you he won't cotton to that."
"I was on vacation," Dane interjected defensively.
"Vacation my ass. You were running away from the memory of Mexico and your family issues." The Admiral genially poured Dane another cup. "Anyway, you weren't any trouble to track down. As soon as we started looking, you lit up on the big board. Chief Lattimore and Petty Officer Tolar have, to this point, completely fallen off the grid. We need your help in finding them and bringing them in. They deserve the same chance you're being afforded. Think you can do that?"
Dane dropped his elbows to the bar and rested his head in his hands. He sat deep in thought before raising his eyes and holding the Admiral's gaze, "I don't know, sir. Maybe. You have to understand, these guys are as much spook as they are shooter by now. Marcus would never endanger his mom; so, going back home is out of the question. Ansil's parents are both dead, and his brother stepped in for him when no one else would. His brother's married and got a couple of young kids now. He'd never let his life bleed back on them. My guess - and this is conservative, but what I would do - is they've stashed half a dozen fake I.D's backed by credit cards and bank accounts, and faded into the white noise. They won't be together, but they'll know where the other is. I'd be willing to bet that if one gets into a bind or suspects trouble, the other will know and react accordingly."
"Interesting concept," Briggs admitted and already knew the answer to his next question before he asked. He also knew he had been right about Dane Stackwell. "So, that's how you'd do it, huh?"
"No, sir," Dane admitted, "that's how we'd do it. I need someone that's good with computers, and I need them now."
Just then, the Admiral's SICS beeped. He snatched it up, read the message, and was already moving for the door as he said, "I'll send a message to Elbert. He's the best we have. Get with him and find your men."
The door to the Admiral's quarters slammed in his wake.
"Okay," Dane said to an empty room.
"Exactly," Briggs interrupted, "create contingencies for werewolves. How could you ever possibly do that and keep it locked down and in-house?" Dane started to reply, but the Admiral cut him off. "No, you listen, and you listen good, Commander. The answer to my question is that you couldn't. It would get out. Hell, you're a former SEAL - as am I - so you know how much we like to become authors after our time in the Teams is done. People talk, Dane, even as classified a unit as Section 8."
This brought a snort from Dane. He could not deny what the Admiral had said, and he would have been pissed had it not come from another SEAL.
Briggs continued, "Think about what would happen if the truth regarding the existence of werewolves ever got out? Panic would ensue, and that panic would breed anarchy. There'd be rioting, looting, and outright murder in our streets. Wall Street would crash like a lead balloon and with it, the banking system. Hell, son, our enemies worldwide are circling our borders like sharks in a chum slick, and I can guaran-damn-tee you that kind of infrastructural collapse would be all the excuse they'd need to hit us at home. The likelihood of invasion would increase by several powers of ten. Regardless of any supposed contingencies you would implement, your next confrontation would be your last. It would be a bloodbath. Every special missions unit - DEVGRU, CAG, ISA, Section 8 - has their specific areas of expertise; things they excel at above all others. I'll concede there's been a great deal of overlap in mission profiles over the last decade plus of war-fighting; but, the overall concept prevails. The same can be said for SKUL. We're a Tier 1, special missions unit formed to combat werewolves. We are trained and equipped to deal with beings that sit comfortably atop the food chain. We aren't just the tip of the spear, Commander. We're the damned shaft and edge. In short, we are humanity's answer to a growing problem. SKUL is the final stop for every JSOC soldier and sailor who manages to survive. Quite a few conventional shooters work in our teams as well; though, most of them are former Marines and members of the 82nd Airborne. There's a slot waiting on you if you want it."
"Color me interested," Dane replied, doing everything in his power to hide his excitement. "But, I've got a few questions."
The Admiral smiled, "Never a doubt. The floor is yours, Commander."
"What kinda chain of command am I walking into?" Dane took another healthy slug of coffee, then added, "I'm assuming after your last diatribe that it's pretty much a conglomerate of bureaucratic bullshit."
The Admiral chuckled, "Quite the opposite, actually. SKUL consists of seven platoons lead by a platoon leader. In each platoon are seven direct fire teams lead by a team leader and assisted by an assistant team leader." Seeing the smirk on Dane's lips, Briggs added tersely, "I know, real imaginative. Save it. We like to target savages around here; so the bullshit's kept to a minimum." It was his turn to take a sip of coffee. "Anyway, we - SKUL's higher command - pretty much allow the team leaders Carte Blanche when planning and executing missions. We have to. Werewolves, by nature, are not static creatures. They'll take out a fucking shopping mall on a whim and disappear in the chaos. If the intel's solid and the PL - platoon leader - thinks it's actionable, we act. I'm here to run mop-up duty in most cases. I make the phone calls that need to be made when things don't go as planned. Things like picking up some damned hardheaded former SEAL and his family on the edge of Witch's Tit, Mississippi. If there's time or need, me or any one of my immediate subordinates are called in to give our blessing, but we try to keep the operational planning at the operator level."
"Now, that's a gig I can live with."
"Yeah, I figured you'd like that, but understand, you're operating on sovereign, U.S. soil. There will be times when I step in and call you off. We've discussed the potential for disaster with just the knowledge that there are beings more powerful than us walking around. Sometimes, we have to act with the greater good in mind." Briggs visibly cringed when he said the words.
"Now, that sounds like a clump of feces some White House pissant might vomit."
"I know," Briggs allowed, "and, it's the part I hate; but, in this case, it's the goddamned razor-leveled truth."
Dane thought for a long time about what had been said and the repercussions. Finally, he nodded. He could live with a little oversight, and the Admiral certainly seemed like he would be providing only a minute amount. Dane then asked the main question that was troubling him, "Why me, sir? What I mean by that is, there were more survivors than just me, and I know you know that. So, what makes me so special?"
"Who says you are?" the Admiral countered quickly. "Considering the currently abysmal global climate and the fact that our nation's finest, most elite units are in a nearly constant state of deployment, after action reports, so classified black doesn't begin to describe them, slide across my desk daily. Out of those, a very finite number of survivors mentally have what it takes to handle this assignment. Out of the men you led in Mexico, you, Lattimore and Tolar have shown the proper fortitude to succeed here."
"Proper fortitude?" Dane all but spat. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It's simple, really. Some men are just going to stick by their story, regardless. You can put a dozen shrinks in front of them and have them ask the same question a hundred different ways, and their story will never change. Stick a gun to their head...it won't matter. They just aren't wired to be anything less than the absolute best they can be. Changing their story in order to maintain their current position would equate, fundamentally, to a failure; one felt at the cellular level. That's the small number even within the small number. The larger percentage, and even those within the special operations community can boast more than their fair share, will deny what they saw in order to maintain their status quo. We seek out the former and have no more use for the latter than an ambushed platoon in Afghanistan would have for a missile made of wet noodles."
"Then, where are they?" Dane's tone was serious and businesslike, with only the slightest hint of accusation. "Toad and Tweeker, I mean."
Admiral Briggs shifted uncomfortably behind the bar, and Dane could tell they had come to the crux of the conversation, "We don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know, sir?" Dane's eyes were slits of red hot coals. "You found my ass in a goddamned dive bar off a Mississippi River oxbow."
"And, a tricky bit that was. I've got damned near a whole division of SI-2s working that bit of hell's half acre just to see if the situation was properly contained."
"SI-2s?" asked Dane, momentarily forgetting the subject of their conversation.
Briggs waved his hand flippantly, "Second tier intel agents imbedded in normal jobs. They are very well trained and are the workhorses of our intelligence service." He poured another cup of coffee, "Point being, you were still visible. You left a fingerprint wherever you went. By the way, that whole beer for breakfast shit won't fly around here. Bill Kipling, your platoon leader, is a hard man, and I can guarantee you he won't cotton to that."
"I was on vacation," Dane interjected defensively.
"Vacation my ass. You were running away from the memory of Mexico and your family issues." The Admiral genially poured Dane another cup. "Anyway, you weren't any trouble to track down. As soon as we started looking, you lit up on the big board. Chief Lattimore and Petty Officer Tolar have, to this point, completely fallen off the grid. We need your help in finding them and bringing them in. They deserve the same chance you're being afforded. Think you can do that?"
Dane dropped his elbows to the bar and rested his head in his hands. He sat deep in thought before raising his eyes and holding the Admiral's gaze, "I don't know, sir. Maybe. You have to understand, these guys are as much spook as they are shooter by now. Marcus would never endanger his mom; so, going back home is out of the question. Ansil's parents are both dead, and his brother stepped in for him when no one else would. His brother's married and got a couple of young kids now. He'd never let his life bleed back on them. My guess - and this is conservative, but what I would do - is they've stashed half a dozen fake I.D's backed by credit cards and bank accounts, and faded into the white noise. They won't be together, but they'll know where the other is. I'd be willing to bet that if one gets into a bind or suspects trouble, the other will know and react accordingly."
"Interesting concept," Briggs admitted and already knew the answer to his next question before he asked. He also knew he had been right about Dane Stackwell. "So, that's how you'd do it, huh?"
"No, sir," Dane admitted, "that's how we'd do it. I need someone that's good with computers, and I need them now."
Just then, the Admiral's SICS beeped. He snatched it up, read the message, and was already moving for the door as he said, "I'll send a message to Elbert. He's the best we have. Get with him and find your men."
The door to the Admiral's quarters slammed in his wake.
"Okay," Dane said to an empty room.
2)
The Turn
The Turn
Mactavish's Pub
0800
"Heard there was some new hotshit frogman decorating the decks around here."
Dane had just started his third cup of coffee's ascent to his lips when the voice from his past stopped him cold. He looked up to the former SKUL commander-turned-barkeep, Shamus Mactavish. The old yet still hard Bostonian was staring over his shoulder with a wary gaze nestled on the new-comer. Dane thought about the voice and the last time he had seen the owner of it. That night had been the culmination of six months of hard reconnaissance along the icy-cold, mean streets of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Section 8 had been targeting a particularly aggressive sect of the Filipino terror group, Abu Sayyaf, and had finally dialed in on the both those in leadership positions and the aerosolized biological weapon they had bought from Iranian nationals. Interestingly enough, as well as incredibly frightening, those men had come to control a whole warehouse of Saddam's searched-for-but-never-found weapons.
Dane had recruited the DEVGRU shooter, helped develop a personalized training regimen that would enhance his already incredible abilities; but, on the night of Operation Halo 19, he was sack-deep in his own shitstorm, chasing Colombian narco-terrorists, somewhere in the swamps south of Miami.
As it was given to him, Halo 19 slid off the rails the moment the mission was executed. Something had gone wrong; something really, really bad had happened. The men on that operation were some of the best the military had to offer, particularly the squad leader that lead them; so, Dane poked around. Section 8's higher command - his own colleagues - had been surprisingly and uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Undaunted, he dug deeper into the mission, enlisting the help of one of Section 8's computer hackers-turned-analyst, but the two had no sooner taken their first keystrokes than General Pattridge had them both before a URC - unit review committee.
In the end, Dane was found - rightly so - innocent, and while allowed to continue to work within the Section, the analyst was reassigned.
Dane hoped the weather in Juneau, Alaska, agreed with her.
Now, that voice that should be dead - had been dead for years, supposedly - was speaking to the back of his head. For the briefest of moments, Dane thought he had finally lost his mind. He allowed the cup to continue its journey to his lips, took a huge gulp, and turned. He felt his eyes flare wide but managed to contain the flood of emotions that tore through him well enough.
"Gator?"
"How'ya doin', Boss?" The man spit a huge stream of brown, tobacco juice into his ever present water bottle and smiled. "Been a while, huh?"
Chief Petty Officer Morgan Hicks, known as Gator throughout the Teams, had been a Navy lifer until Dane managed to to recruit him away from Naval Special Warfare Development Group. To be fair, Ansil Lattimore had as much to do with Gator making the lateral move from DEVGRU to Section 8 as he had. Chief Hicks, with his quick, sarcastic wit coupled with an ironclad will to succeed, was a welcomed addition during the early days of Section 8. He had a unique ability to keep things light yet focused even when the screws were tightened and the pressure nearly unbearable. Gator stood under six feet tall but weighed in at around one hundred ninety pounds - all of it muscle. He was a workout addict and fanatical follower of the Paleo diet; qualities that endeared Gator to Lattimore and vice versa. In the lights of the pub, his torso, arms, and balding head glistened with a sheen of heavy sweat. Obviously, Gator had just come from a workout. Dane noted his usual ink - a Punisher skull with the number six on its forehead over his right pectoral and Section 8's dragon perched on a stone Templar's cross on his left forearm - had been joined by two crossed hatchets set within a shield. Words in Latin ran the edges.
Dane had seen this Shield several times over the last few days. It was SKUL's emblem and motto.
He also remembered Gator walked a bit on the crazy side. Crazy enough that rumors surfaced regarding Gator and his DEVGRU squad mates. Crazy rumors involving the taking of Taliban scalps - literally. Prior to recruiting Chief Hicks, Dane had researched the rumors extensively and found them to be just that...rumor. Regardless of said rumor-mill, Dane recognized Gator as one of the hardest, most dangerous men he had ever worked with.
Dane stood shakily and, not believing his eyes, offered his hand. He was honestly unsure whether the Chief would accept his proffered greeting or punch him in the face. Though the feelings were irrational, even Dane knew that, he had always felt that he had somehow abandoned Gator and his men during their time of ultimate need.
Gator did not accept his hand...instead, he took his former, day-to-day, boots-on-the-ground commander in a powerful embrace. Dane, unsure how - exactly - to react, held his hands wide until finally succumbing to his old friend's wishes. Dane matched Gator's tremendous grip with his own.
Finally, Shamus interjected with the wisdom of the ages, "Look, Nancies. Sailors have a bad enough reputation as it is. We don't need the two of you standing around rubbing peters together."
The two broke their embrace, realizing Shamus was right. "Sorry, Mac." They each said, then Dane turned to Gator.
"Dude..." Dane held his hands out in a gesture that was one part, I'm sorry, I should have been there and one part, What in the absolute fuck are you doing alive?
"Savages," Gator said as he spit in his water bottle. "Those Filipinos tore us apart, Boss. They didn't have a weapon. They were the weapon."
Dane shook his head in disbelief, "How?"
"Same as you, same as everyone, I guess," he said then really grabbed Dane's attention. "Heard about that shit down in Mexico." Shamus slid another cup of coffee across the bar. Gator accepted appreciably. "You're gonna be rollin' with a solid group, Boss. Whiskey's one of SKUL's oldest platoons, and they have a solid reputation around here. You lead your team like you led us at the Section, and you'll do well here." The Chief's voice sounded different. To a small degree, Gator's internal flame that had always shone so bright had dimmed. Upon closer inspection, the shooter looked older. He had less hair on his head - by several degrees - and more gray in his ever present beard. Where at one time his eyes flashed with fun-crazy, now that hard edge had been sullied to a certain degree.
"Not even sure what I'm doing here, Gator. Any advise?"
Gator smiled, "Don't get bit."
Shamus snorted a chuckle from behind the bar, "That's my line, Gator."
Dane glanced momentarily to the the man behind the bar, then back to his friend. He really was not sure whether they were serious or just picking on the new guy. Neither was smiling, not really, anyway. "That's the trick, huh?"
"Pretty much," Gator replied as his personal SICS buzzed. He palmed it, looked at its face twice in rapid succession, and then strode for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, "Got something spinning up hard. Briefing's in five. Come on, I'll answer what I can on the way."
"I shouldn't be at your briefing, Gator."
"Bullshit," Gator said as he led the two to an elevator. "You're a TL, or will be once you pass through C-school. It's time you have your eyes opened to what we're facing."
The elevator door closed; and, with a very slight feeling of too much gravity, the two ascended several stories before coming to a nearly seamless stop. They stepped out into one of the ship's many hallways, took several turns in silence, then ducked through a solid oak door. They filtered into an office waiting area.
"Dane, this is Millie, the Admiral's assistant."
Millie was one of those women that was so pretty in old age there was little doubt as to how she looked in her prime. The only word Dane would gather to describe her was striking.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am."
"Hi, Dane. I've heard a lot about you."
"Wish I could say the same," Dane replied with a nervous laugh.
"I'm sure that will change with time," she countered with a wink.
Millie's phone began ringing and, with the pleasantries over, Gator led Dane through a second door. The one was labeled Ops Center.
Dane hoped the weather in Juneau, Alaska, agreed with her.
Now, that voice that should be dead - had been dead for years, supposedly - was speaking to the back of his head. For the briefest of moments, Dane thought he had finally lost his mind. He allowed the cup to continue its journey to his lips, took a huge gulp, and turned. He felt his eyes flare wide but managed to contain the flood of emotions that tore through him well enough.
"Gator?"
"How'ya doin', Boss?" The man spit a huge stream of brown, tobacco juice into his ever present water bottle and smiled. "Been a while, huh?"
Chief Petty Officer Morgan Hicks, known as Gator throughout the Teams, had been a Navy lifer until Dane managed to to recruit him away from Naval Special Warfare Development Group. To be fair, Ansil Lattimore had as much to do with Gator making the lateral move from DEVGRU to Section 8 as he had. Chief Hicks, with his quick, sarcastic wit coupled with an ironclad will to succeed, was a welcomed addition during the early days of Section 8. He had a unique ability to keep things light yet focused even when the screws were tightened and the pressure nearly unbearable. Gator stood under six feet tall but weighed in at around one hundred ninety pounds - all of it muscle. He was a workout addict and fanatical follower of the Paleo diet; qualities that endeared Gator to Lattimore and vice versa. In the lights of the pub, his torso, arms, and balding head glistened with a sheen of heavy sweat. Obviously, Gator had just come from a workout. Dane noted his usual ink - a Punisher skull with the number six on its forehead over his right pectoral and Section 8's dragon perched on a stone Templar's cross on his left forearm - had been joined by two crossed hatchets set within a shield. Words in Latin ran the edges.
Dane had seen this Shield several times over the last few days. It was SKUL's emblem and motto.
He also remembered Gator walked a bit on the crazy side. Crazy enough that rumors surfaced regarding Gator and his DEVGRU squad mates. Crazy rumors involving the taking of Taliban scalps - literally. Prior to recruiting Chief Hicks, Dane had researched the rumors extensively and found them to be just that...rumor. Regardless of said rumor-mill, Dane recognized Gator as one of the hardest, most dangerous men he had ever worked with.
Dane stood shakily and, not believing his eyes, offered his hand. He was honestly unsure whether the Chief would accept his proffered greeting or punch him in the face. Though the feelings were irrational, even Dane knew that, he had always felt that he had somehow abandoned Gator and his men during their time of ultimate need.
Gator did not accept his hand...instead, he took his former, day-to-day, boots-on-the-ground commander in a powerful embrace. Dane, unsure how - exactly - to react, held his hands wide until finally succumbing to his old friend's wishes. Dane matched Gator's tremendous grip with his own.
Finally, Shamus interjected with the wisdom of the ages, "Look, Nancies. Sailors have a bad enough reputation as it is. We don't need the two of you standing around rubbing peters together."
The two broke their embrace, realizing Shamus was right. "Sorry, Mac." They each said, then Dane turned to Gator.
"Dude..." Dane held his hands out in a gesture that was one part, I'm sorry, I should have been there and one part, What in the absolute fuck are you doing alive?
"Savages," Gator said as he spit in his water bottle. "Those Filipinos tore us apart, Boss. They didn't have a weapon. They were the weapon."
Dane shook his head in disbelief, "How?"
"Same as you, same as everyone, I guess," he said then really grabbed Dane's attention. "Heard about that shit down in Mexico." Shamus slid another cup of coffee across the bar. Gator accepted appreciably. "You're gonna be rollin' with a solid group, Boss. Whiskey's one of SKUL's oldest platoons, and they have a solid reputation around here. You lead your team like you led us at the Section, and you'll do well here." The Chief's voice sounded different. To a small degree, Gator's internal flame that had always shone so bright had dimmed. Upon closer inspection, the shooter looked older. He had less hair on his head - by several degrees - and more gray in his ever present beard. Where at one time his eyes flashed with fun-crazy, now that hard edge had been sullied to a certain degree.
"Not even sure what I'm doing here, Gator. Any advise?"
Gator smiled, "Don't get bit."
Shamus snorted a chuckle from behind the bar, "That's my line, Gator."
Dane glanced momentarily to the the man behind the bar, then back to his friend. He really was not sure whether they were serious or just picking on the new guy. Neither was smiling, not really, anyway. "That's the trick, huh?"
"Pretty much," Gator replied as his personal SICS buzzed. He palmed it, looked at its face twice in rapid succession, and then strode for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, "Got something spinning up hard. Briefing's in five. Come on, I'll answer what I can on the way."
"I shouldn't be at your briefing, Gator."
"Bullshit," Gator said as he led the two to an elevator. "You're a TL, or will be once you pass through C-school. It's time you have your eyes opened to what we're facing."
The elevator door closed; and, with a very slight feeling of too much gravity, the two ascended several stories before coming to a nearly seamless stop. They stepped out into one of the ship's many hallways, took several turns in silence, then ducked through a solid oak door. They filtered into an office waiting area.
"Dane, this is Millie, the Admiral's assistant."
Millie was one of those women that was so pretty in old age there was little doubt as to how she looked in her prime. The only word Dane would gather to describe her was striking.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am."
"Hi, Dane. I've heard a lot about you."
"Wish I could say the same," Dane replied with a nervous laugh.
"I'm sure that will change with time," she countered with a wink.
Millie's phone began ringing and, with the pleasantries over, Gator led Dane through a second door. The one was labeled Ops Center.
***
Ops Center
Briefing, Operation Reaper's Grip
0830
"Dane, these are the guys I work with." Gator said by way of introduction. "The big dude there is our team leader, Daniel Parker. He's old school Force Recon, but don't hold that against him."
The two shook, "Call me Danny, Dane. Your reputation definitely precedes you."
Dane laughed, "Don't believe everything you hear. It was college, and I was curious."
The entire room laughed at that, and Dane found himself settling in with these brother warriors almost instantly.
"Those guys," Gator pointed to two black men whose physical presence were completely juxtaposed to one another, "are Tobias Fischer and Oscar Henderson. Both of them are former Green Berets. We call Tobias Bones, because he's the skinniest black man this side of the Sahara. He runs point. Oscar, our medic, is the Grouch...he hates that."
"That's because I'm a rather pleasant individual you damned red-necked hick," replied the short, thickly muscled man wearing a tank top. He spoke in a thick, Cajun accent.
"Rounding out Python - that's our team name, by the way - is Matt the Cannon McCannon. Matt's another jarheaded Recon sniper."
Cannon nodded.
For the next few minutes, the guys from Python swapped stories until they were silenced by the Admiral's entrance. SKUL's leader strode with intent steps across the stage, "Seats." Only then did he notice Dane in the room, "I see you and Gator have been reunited?"
"Yes, sir," Dane answered. "If it's a problem for me to be here, I'll take a hike."
"Absolutely not," Briggs replied adamantly. "You need to see and hear this."
He turned and clicked the remote in his hand. An overhead aerial feed was called up on the largest flat screen in the room. The image showed a small town - a village, really - situated high up in what looked to be a cluster of very arid mountains. Other than the modern buildings making up the town, it could have been an image of just about anywhere in Afghanistan. Suddenly, a hot spot appeared on the screen. It was the thermal image of someone running from a building - a gas station in the center of the town - toward a parked car. Behind the image, another thermal hot spot appeared. This one was glowing on a different level of intensity and moving so fast it was hard to follow. It quickly overtook the lead hot spot, and the image of the runner exploded on the screen in a fine, glowing mist of heat.
The action was so violent Dane flinched, "Jesus, what the fuck was that?"
"Our problem," the Admiral stated grimly. His scar twitched under the patch he wore. "At approximately 0100, we received a serial six from one of our SI-2s imbedded in the town of Cloudcroft, New Mexico." Briggs clicked the remote again, and a panicked voice sounded throughout the Ops Center. The transcript of the call played across the screen in conjunction with the conversation.
This is Nest acknowledging a serial six. Please state your name, serial number, and reason for the call.
Howling saturated the background of the call followed by gunfire and unintelligible screams.
Ja...Another round of gunfire ensued and cut off the man's voice. A second later, he excitedly stated, Jacob Willoby, serial number Juliet-Whiskey-three-one-one-seven-eight-Sierra-India-two. Cloudcroft, New Mexico is about to be over...The voice was again cut off as another round of howling and gunfire overwhelmed the man's voice. Oh my God! They are coming! Get that door barred, now!
The howling grew nearer with eery rapidity, yet the man never spoke again nor did the gun fire resume. The controller on SKUL's end of the phone tried to get the man back on the phone until the connection was severed.
The howling grew nearer with eery rapidity, yet the man never spoke again nor did the gun fire resume. The controller on SKUL's end of the phone tried to get the man back on the phone until the connection was severed.
The Ops Center was as silent as a tomb, though Dane could hear his heart beating in his chest.
The Admiral began uncomfortably, "Our overhead satellite imagery give us a rough estimate of six savages currently terrorizing the town of Cloudcroft. The serial six you just heard was the last communication we managed from the town. Your mission is to get in there and eliminate every savage you see. We have no idea whether these are young werewolves or a sect that has lived long enough to develop any gifts, nor do we know whether any of the citizens of the town have been changed. Questions?"
Danny Parker asked quickly, "Is the situation contained, sir?"
"Loosely, at best," the Admiral stated with a wooden voice. "The National Guard arrived on scene exactly two hours ago. They've managed to cordon off Highway 82, running east and west, along with the smaller outlets - Highway 63 and 244. F-22's out of Holloman AFB are flying top cover and have shut down the air space for thirty square miles."
"Cover story?" asked Gator, Python's ATL.
"Undetermined at the present time, Chief," answered the Skipper flatly. "Frankly, that's a White House concern." Gator rolled his eyes. It was a quick gesture but one noticed by Briggs. "Is there a problem, Chief?"
"I didn't say a word, sir."
"You don't have to." The Admiral glared at the operator through his one good eye, "You're not here to worry about those decisions. You're here to neutralize savages and save human lives along the way, understood?"
"Hooyah, sir." The sarcasm on Gator's voice was so thick Helen Keller could have heard it. Hell, she could have seen it.
"You're being flown into Holloman AFB outside of Alamogordo via Raven-77." The Admiral checked his watch. "Helo is wheels up in one hour for your ride to the airfield. That should put you touching down at Holloman by noon. Follow-on sitreps to be delivered to your SICS in-flight. Any more questions?"
"Sir, are the boys from the Guard aware we're coming?" asked Grouch, the team's medic.
"They are aware someone is coming and that they are to let you through. Obviously, they have no clue who you are or what you do; so, suit up after they let you through their cordon. Anything else?"
Everyone shook their heads. They obviously knew their jobs.
"Gentlemen, this is a less than ideal situation, but speed is of the essence. An entire town is on the brink of destruction, and we are the only hope they have. Make no bones about it; you are being dropped into the belly of the beast with little to no support and no cavalry to pull you out of the fray. Watch each others' six; stay true to your training; and, I'll see you when you get back. Good luck."
The room erupted as the men hustled from the Ops Center.
Dane and Gator shook hands one last time.
"Dude, from here to New Mexico in roughly three hours? What the hell are ya'll flying in, the space shuttle?"
Gator smiled as he pumped Dane's hand heartily, "You know the Concorde jet?"
Dane nodded, unsure where this was going.
"Who you think jumped on that contract once the airlines mothballed it?"
"Damn," Dane thought with no small measure of awe, "no shit?"
"No shit, though our engineers customized the insides to suit our needs and that of our operations."
"Wow," said Dane, unable to collect his thoughts and words further.
Gator slapped his shoulder, "There ain't a better funded unit in the military. Find Tweeker and Toad, bro, and come get you some."
"Roger that," Dane said, "stay tight."
"Always," Gator said as he strode from the room to join his teammates.
The Admiral began uncomfortably, "Our overhead satellite imagery give us a rough estimate of six savages currently terrorizing the town of Cloudcroft. The serial six you just heard was the last communication we managed from the town. Your mission is to get in there and eliminate every savage you see. We have no idea whether these are young werewolves or a sect that has lived long enough to develop any gifts, nor do we know whether any of the citizens of the town have been changed. Questions?"
Danny Parker asked quickly, "Is the situation contained, sir?"
"Loosely, at best," the Admiral stated with a wooden voice. "The National Guard arrived on scene exactly two hours ago. They've managed to cordon off Highway 82, running east and west, along with the smaller outlets - Highway 63 and 244. F-22's out of Holloman AFB are flying top cover and have shut down the air space for thirty square miles."
"Cover story?" asked Gator, Python's ATL.
"Undetermined at the present time, Chief," answered the Skipper flatly. "Frankly, that's a White House concern." Gator rolled his eyes. It was a quick gesture but one noticed by Briggs. "Is there a problem, Chief?"
"I didn't say a word, sir."
"You don't have to." The Admiral glared at the operator through his one good eye, "You're not here to worry about those decisions. You're here to neutralize savages and save human lives along the way, understood?"
"Hooyah, sir." The sarcasm on Gator's voice was so thick Helen Keller could have heard it. Hell, she could have seen it.
"You're being flown into Holloman AFB outside of Alamogordo via Raven-77." The Admiral checked his watch. "Helo is wheels up in one hour for your ride to the airfield. That should put you touching down at Holloman by noon. Follow-on sitreps to be delivered to your SICS in-flight. Any more questions?"
"Sir, are the boys from the Guard aware we're coming?" asked Grouch, the team's medic.
"They are aware someone is coming and that they are to let you through. Obviously, they have no clue who you are or what you do; so, suit up after they let you through their cordon. Anything else?"
Everyone shook their heads. They obviously knew their jobs.
"Gentlemen, this is a less than ideal situation, but speed is of the essence. An entire town is on the brink of destruction, and we are the only hope they have. Make no bones about it; you are being dropped into the belly of the beast with little to no support and no cavalry to pull you out of the fray. Watch each others' six; stay true to your training; and, I'll see you when you get back. Good luck."
The room erupted as the men hustled from the Ops Center.
Dane and Gator shook hands one last time.
"Dude, from here to New Mexico in roughly three hours? What the hell are ya'll flying in, the space shuttle?"
Gator smiled as he pumped Dane's hand heartily, "You know the Concorde jet?"
Dane nodded, unsure where this was going.
"Who you think jumped on that contract once the airlines mothballed it?"
"Damn," Dane thought with no small measure of awe, "no shit?"
"No shit, though our engineers customized the insides to suit our needs and that of our operations."
"Wow," said Dane, unable to collect his thoughts and words further.
Gator slapped his shoulder, "There ain't a better funded unit in the military. Find Tweeker and Toad, bro, and come get you some."
"Roger that," Dane said, "stay tight."
"Always," Gator said as he strode from the room to join his teammates.
3)
The Prestige
Three miles west of Cloudcroft, NM
National Guard cordon
National Guard cordon
1230
The blacked out Suburban cruised past the long line of stopped vehicles in the wrong hand lane before rolling to a gentle stop at the head of the National Guard's roadblock. From it stepped two men dressed smartly in nearly identical business suits and dark shades. In fact, as they neared the Guard's perimeter outpost, Specialist Stanley Richards realized their suits were identical, as were their glasses. Only their size and hair color differed. One was tall, lean but muscular, and had a head of brown, neatly trimmed hair. The other was shorter, but even under the suit, Richards could tell the man was very heavily muscled. He was blond and balding, with the kind of hard facial features reserved for lions studying wounded gazelles.
The Specialist decided he had rather talk to the taller man. The short one looked pissed...and, quite frankly, a little crazy.
The Specialist decided he had rather talk to the taller man. The short one looked pissed...and, quite frankly, a little crazy.
The men simultaneously flashed their badges and identification, left them open for less than a split second, then snapped them back closed. While in flight, the men had been given their cover for the mission; and, at Holloman AFB, they had been issued solid and vetted DHS badges and identification. Their covers were immaculate and would send anyone who bothered looking into it down a never-ending black hole of paper trails and back stories.
All of this was standard operating procedure for SKUL operatives.
Richards eyes swam as he tried to focus on both badges at the same time.
He failed.
"I'm Special Agent Mosier. This is Special Agent Rodgers, Department of Homeland Security. Who's in charge here?" asked the taller man by way of introduction while searching uniforms. Richards immediately became very self aware that the man was studying rank.
All of this was standard operating procedure for SKUL operatives.
Richards eyes swam as he tried to focus on both badges at the same time.
He failed.
"I'm Special Agent Mosier. This is Special Agent Rodgers, Department of Homeland Security. Who's in charge here?" asked the taller man by way of introduction while searching uniforms. Richards immediately became very self aware that the man was studying rank.
"That's be Captain Osteen," Richards replied while holding out a hand to shake. He'd been told one of the simplest forms of disarmament was a simple handshake. "I'm Specialists Richards, can I help you?"
The newcomer looked at the hand then back to Richards. It was apparent he had no intentions of shaking hands; so, Richards withdrew his uncomfortably. "Specialist Richards, I need to speak to your CO, immediately."
"Well, ah..." Richards looked around to the rest of the men standing around. They immediately found other, more important jobs to do. Bastards, he thought. "...he's...I'll call him up."
"Thank you," replied the taller man. The shorter man stood stone still and stared at him with a degree of clinical detachment usually reserved for serial killers.
Richards nodded and quickly fumbled with his radio. "Captain Osteen," he said nervously, "they're here." He nodded, then said, "He'll be right out."
After a several minutes of uncomfortable silence, the Captain - a younger man with a high and tight haircut and starched BDUs- stepped from a hooch situated behind the perimeter; but, instead of approaching the two smartly dressed newcomers, he stopped and spoke to the Specialist. Apparently, Osteen's definition of right out varied somewhat from that of Danny Parker. The young officer had an arrogant countenance that Parker and Gator Hicks could see coming a mile away. Immediately, the two knew the conversation they were about to have was not going to be an easy one.
"Let me do the talking, Gator," Danny whispered to his team's ATL.
"Dude's just a kid, Danny."
"Gator, let me do the talking," repeated the TL in a clipped tone.
"Fine..." Gator mumbled quietly as the Captain finally approached.
"Captain Osteen, I'm..."
"I don't particularly care who you are, but maybe you boys can explain something to me," said the Captain rather gruffly.
Boys? Parker could feel Gator bristle and damned near heard his fight or flight reaction - with a hard leaned hard toward fight. "Oh? What's that, Captain?"
"Just why do I have my men out in these godforsaken mountains and standing around stopping traffic in this miserable wind?"
"Because, Captain," Parker said woodenly, "that's your fucking job." Parker took a moment to collect himself while Gator brushed lint off his suit. After a second, the TL added, "If you'll kindly move your Humvee's, we'll get to doing ours."
Osteen took a small step forward, now inside of Parker's personal space, and smiled. He was an arrogant asshole. A weekend warrior that Parker could tell thought much more highly of himself than any truly cognitive person should. He then reached into a pocket, pulled out a cigar, lit it, and took a heavy toke. Osteen then made the ultimate mistake, one every young, arrogant, know-nothing prick will make eventually. At some point in life, everyone unwittingly challenges someone who's bigger and badder than they are. This was Osteen's time to do just that. The Captain pointed his finger right into Parker's sternum and said in a haughty tone, "I'm in charge here. These are my men, and this is my checkpoint. The day I start taking orders from a couple of government suits is the day you find me six feet under fresh dug dirt."
Parker took off his glasses and made a dramatic display of wiping the lenses down. He looked down to the man's pointed finger for a heartbeat, then lifted them back to Osteen. He held Osteen with a hard, cold glare long enough to cause to Captain to fidget in place and divert his eyes. This time, it was Python's TL who stepped closer. The move, a completely foreign one considering the Captain was used to being the one doing the intimidation, wiped Osteen's smirk off his face instantly. In a low yet very dangerous voice, Parker informed the man of his exact place on the food chain. "If you don't remove your finger from it's current location, I'll personally usher your ass into that grave you just spoke of."
Osteen stepped back stammering, "Wh...wha...huh?" The young, National Guard Captain tried to swallow, but his mouth had turned as dry as a sand dune. He finally managed a dry gulp.
"Agent Rogers, maybe you can explain the situation a bit better than I can?"
Gator - a.k.a Agent Rogers - recited mechanically, "Captain, currently there are an unknown number of El Lobo personnel holed up in the town of Cloudcroft. El Lobo, a previously unknown yet ultra-dangerous Mexican cartel, specializes - among other things - in human trafficking, narco-terrorism, and assassination. Intelligence indicates they have recently aligned with the militant state of ISIS - maybe you have heard of them - and are now in possession a certain, flesh-eating biological weapon that would make the Zombie Apocalypse seem pedestrian by comparison. Intel also indicates this weapon may or may not have been dispersed accidentally in the town. The reasons for this dispersal are, at the present time, unknown. It is our job to neutralize the threat and contain the agent. A job, you, Captain, are preventing from being accomplished."
Osteen looked pale. He struggled to form words. When he did, he managed only, "Zombies?"
The two agents nodded silently, and Parker - Agent Mosier - added, "Captain?"
The officer looked back to the two men. "Huh?" he said in a voice of absolute bewilderment.
"It is my job to remind you that as an officer of the New Mexico Army National Guard, you are sworn to uphold and protect the assets and interests of this state and your nation. To do anything less would equate to a negligence of service punishable by..." Parker paused for effect, "...well, more than you are prepared to handle. As such, I suggest you adamantly believe, we were never here, this discussion and what you heard never happened. Ever. You should also see that your men reflect the same, understood?"
"I...well...I don't..." the man had zoned out and was completely unsure of what to do next.
Chief Morgan Hicks made sure he understood fully...he could not help himself. "What Agent Mosier is saying, Captain, is that if you or any of your men open your mouth about what has transpired or what will assuredly be defined as a very fuckin' bad day - ever - a whirlwind of pain and agony will be reaped upon you with so much diligence and purpose that you will wish for your aforementioned six feet of fresh dirt...sir."
The young officer turned varying shades of purple and red, calming and massaging his ego in the process, before he spun away from the two and bellowed, "Let these men through! If those Humvee's are not out of their way in five seconds, I'll have someone's ass!"
Parker and Gator turned back to their Suburban as men began scrambling to carry out the Captain's orders.
"Flesh-eating biologics?" mumbled Parker on the way back to their vehicle. Behind them, the Humvee's were already moving.
"Fuck that arrogant asshole, Danny," growled Gator in a low voice. "I hope the sumbitch has nightmares."
Parker shook his head and, not for the first time, wondered if those Afghanistan scalp stories were really true.
"Well, ah..." Richards looked around to the rest of the men standing around. They immediately found other, more important jobs to do. Bastards, he thought. "...he's...I'll call him up."
"Thank you," replied the taller man. The shorter man stood stone still and stared at him with a degree of clinical detachment usually reserved for serial killers.
Richards nodded and quickly fumbled with his radio. "Captain Osteen," he said nervously, "they're here." He nodded, then said, "He'll be right out."
After a several minutes of uncomfortable silence, the Captain - a younger man with a high and tight haircut and starched BDUs- stepped from a hooch situated behind the perimeter; but, instead of approaching the two smartly dressed newcomers, he stopped and spoke to the Specialist. Apparently, Osteen's definition of right out varied somewhat from that of Danny Parker. The young officer had an arrogant countenance that Parker and Gator Hicks could see coming a mile away. Immediately, the two knew the conversation they were about to have was not going to be an easy one.
"Let me do the talking, Gator," Danny whispered to his team's ATL.
"Dude's just a kid, Danny."
"Gator, let me do the talking," repeated the TL in a clipped tone.
"Fine..." Gator mumbled quietly as the Captain finally approached.
"Captain Osteen, I'm..."
"I don't particularly care who you are, but maybe you boys can explain something to me," said the Captain rather gruffly.
Boys? Parker could feel Gator bristle and damned near heard his fight or flight reaction - with a hard leaned hard toward fight. "Oh? What's that, Captain?"
"Just why do I have my men out in these godforsaken mountains and standing around stopping traffic in this miserable wind?"
"Because, Captain," Parker said woodenly, "that's your fucking job." Parker took a moment to collect himself while Gator brushed lint off his suit. After a second, the TL added, "If you'll kindly move your Humvee's, we'll get to doing ours."
Osteen took a small step forward, now inside of Parker's personal space, and smiled. He was an arrogant asshole. A weekend warrior that Parker could tell thought much more highly of himself than any truly cognitive person should. He then reached into a pocket, pulled out a cigar, lit it, and took a heavy toke. Osteen then made the ultimate mistake, one every young, arrogant, know-nothing prick will make eventually. At some point in life, everyone unwittingly challenges someone who's bigger and badder than they are. This was Osteen's time to do just that. The Captain pointed his finger right into Parker's sternum and said in a haughty tone, "I'm in charge here. These are my men, and this is my checkpoint. The day I start taking orders from a couple of government suits is the day you find me six feet under fresh dug dirt."
Parker took off his glasses and made a dramatic display of wiping the lenses down. He looked down to the man's pointed finger for a heartbeat, then lifted them back to Osteen. He held Osteen with a hard, cold glare long enough to cause to Captain to fidget in place and divert his eyes. This time, it was Python's TL who stepped closer. The move, a completely foreign one considering the Captain was used to being the one doing the intimidation, wiped Osteen's smirk off his face instantly. In a low yet very dangerous voice, Parker informed the man of his exact place on the food chain. "If you don't remove your finger from it's current location, I'll personally usher your ass into that grave you just spoke of."
Osteen stepped back stammering, "Wh...wha...huh?" The young, National Guard Captain tried to swallow, but his mouth had turned as dry as a sand dune. He finally managed a dry gulp.
"Agent Rogers, maybe you can explain the situation a bit better than I can?"
Gator - a.k.a Agent Rogers - recited mechanically, "Captain, currently there are an unknown number of El Lobo personnel holed up in the town of Cloudcroft. El Lobo, a previously unknown yet ultra-dangerous Mexican cartel, specializes - among other things - in human trafficking, narco-terrorism, and assassination. Intelligence indicates they have recently aligned with the militant state of ISIS - maybe you have heard of them - and are now in possession a certain, flesh-eating biological weapon that would make the Zombie Apocalypse seem pedestrian by comparison. Intel also indicates this weapon may or may not have been dispersed accidentally in the town. The reasons for this dispersal are, at the present time, unknown. It is our job to neutralize the threat and contain the agent. A job, you, Captain, are preventing from being accomplished."
Osteen looked pale. He struggled to form words. When he did, he managed only, "Zombies?"
The two agents nodded silently, and Parker - Agent Mosier - added, "Captain?"
The officer looked back to the two men. "Huh?" he said in a voice of absolute bewilderment.
"It is my job to remind you that as an officer of the New Mexico Army National Guard, you are sworn to uphold and protect the assets and interests of this state and your nation. To do anything less would equate to a negligence of service punishable by..." Parker paused for effect, "...well, more than you are prepared to handle. As such, I suggest you adamantly believe, we were never here, this discussion and what you heard never happened. Ever. You should also see that your men reflect the same, understood?"
"I...well...I don't..." the man had zoned out and was completely unsure of what to do next.
Chief Morgan Hicks made sure he understood fully...he could not help himself. "What Agent Mosier is saying, Captain, is that if you or any of your men open your mouth about what has transpired or what will assuredly be defined as a very fuckin' bad day - ever - a whirlwind of pain and agony will be reaped upon you with so much diligence and purpose that you will wish for your aforementioned six feet of fresh dirt...sir."
The young officer turned varying shades of purple and red, calming and massaging his ego in the process, before he spun away from the two and bellowed, "Let these men through! If those Humvee's are not out of their way in five seconds, I'll have someone's ass!"
Parker and Gator turned back to their Suburban as men began scrambling to carry out the Captain's orders.
"Flesh-eating biologics?" mumbled Parker on the way back to their vehicle. Behind them, the Humvee's were already moving.
"Fuck that arrogant asshole, Danny," growled Gator in a low voice. "I hope the sumbitch has nightmares."
Parker shook his head and, not for the first time, wondered if those Afghanistan scalp stories were really true.
***
Cloudcroft, New Mexico
1300
"Alright, guys, listen up," said Parker to his team. Everyone had their suits and helmets on; so, he was speaking to them over intra-squad comms. Gator had also just driven them through town, turning at the ski lifts on the far side - just short of the perimeter set by the National Guard on that end of town, making no contact in the process. "The latest intel report confirms eight savages on site. Their pack behavior has not set in yet; so, they've split apart, taking the town in quadrants. Overhead imagery list two at the high school and two more feeding at Spruce Cabins, a series of small tourist cabins just up the mountain. Me and Cannon will take those. Gator, you, Bones, and Grouch have the other four. There are two in the Western Bar and two more feeding in the Burro Street Exchange. We'll take down the cabins first, then secure the high school. After that, we'll work our way back to you guys. Understand, gentlemen, we're in the middle of these savages right now, and odds are strong we're being watched. If these savages are as young as we think they are, the sunrise has probably confounded them, and they are likely stuck in human form again. Rely on the biometric readings your KtacS shows you. These are going to be tight quarters; so, generous use of Puffers and WIPPs will go a long way to ending the fight before it has a chance to really get started. Lastly, overhead imagery shows that the town is nearly empty; so, it's believed that most of the townspeople were able to escape. That doesn't mean you're not walking into hell; so, steel your minds against what you're about to see. The youth of these wolves may have saved this town for now, but it will be our experience and training that ends the threat completely, understood?"
"Yes, sir!" replied the men as they filed out of the Suburban and prepared to take down a town. Had they not been such battle-hardened men, the sound that greeted their ears would have completely unnerved them. On all sides came the wild howling of crazed animals. The howls came from the town and from the mountains high above. This was not the howling the men associated with werewolves; but, rather, it was the howling of domesticated canines and wild coyotes. The animals were acting as though they were on the brink of insanity.
***
Main Office, Spruce Cabins
1315
Danny and Cannon knelt to either side of the front door to the main office. Each was intently studying the building's blueprints called up on the heads-up display of their helmets. The office was extraordinarily tight but opened up once it fed into the attached domicile of the establishment's owners.
"Gonna be tight, Cannon."
"Yep." The team's sniper was so soft spoken at times he seemed almost mute.
Parker took a quick peek through the large front window. The office was clear, but they had line of sight into a small family room and could see shadows moving further back.
"I'm thinking a couple of WIPPs might make this quick work?"
Cannon nodded in agreement, and Parker yanked two WIPP grenades off his KtacS suit. Cannon let his assault rifle dangle on its sling and unsheathed what SKUL door-kickers colloquially called the Capone. In layman's terms, the Capone was a monstrous semi-auto bored out for 8 gauge loads and was capable of firing anything from flechette rounds to customized Puffer loads. Cannon had loaded the first two rounds with standard 8 gauge lead loads for breaching and followed those up with three rounds of Puffers. He would not need those loads - the environment inside the cabin would not be conducive to their use; so, after the first two rounds were fired, he would drop it and move into the target.
BOOM...BOOM
The rounds disintegrated the pane of glass instantly, and Parker tossed the two WIPPs into the house. Python's TL followed their arc through the shower of glass and immediately came in contact with the first savage. Though the werewolf was in human form, his biometric readout was off the charts - heart rate nearing three hundred beats per minute and a body temp of roughly two hundred twenty degrees. If that was not enough to justify deadly force, the thing had been feeding off the remains of one of the owners, a male; though, now, it was writhing in apparent pain with its hands clapped over his ears. The WIPP had done its job immaculately.
CLAP...CLAP
Parker kept moving through the room and kept searching for the other savage. He knew Cannon was behind him doing the same.
Another two round burst from Matt McCannon told him this threat was over; but, even so, the two took the time to properly clear the entire dwelling, calling out bounding movements over comms the entire time. Finally, both operators reported, Clear.
"Let's move on the high school."
"Roger that," a-firmed Cannon.
On the way out, the operators took the time to put two more rounds in each dead savage and an additional two rounds into the heads of the eaten humans. While being nothing close to palatable to the shooters, this was a security measure to ensure those bitten would not rise during the next full moon to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting.
1315
Danny and Cannon knelt to either side of the front door to the main office. Each was intently studying the building's blueprints called up on the heads-up display of their helmets. The office was extraordinarily tight but opened up once it fed into the attached domicile of the establishment's owners.
"Gonna be tight, Cannon."
"Yep." The team's sniper was so soft spoken at times he seemed almost mute.
Parker took a quick peek through the large front window. The office was clear, but they had line of sight into a small family room and could see shadows moving further back.
"I'm thinking a couple of WIPPs might make this quick work?"
Cannon nodded in agreement, and Parker yanked two WIPP grenades off his KtacS suit. Cannon let his assault rifle dangle on its sling and unsheathed what SKUL door-kickers colloquially called the Capone. In layman's terms, the Capone was a monstrous semi-auto bored out for 8 gauge loads and was capable of firing anything from flechette rounds to customized Puffer loads. Cannon had loaded the first two rounds with standard 8 gauge lead loads for breaching and followed those up with three rounds of Puffers. He would not need those loads - the environment inside the cabin would not be conducive to their use; so, after the first two rounds were fired, he would drop it and move into the target.
BOOM...BOOM
The rounds disintegrated the pane of glass instantly, and Parker tossed the two WIPPs into the house. Python's TL followed their arc through the shower of glass and immediately came in contact with the first savage. Though the werewolf was in human form, his biometric readout was off the charts - heart rate nearing three hundred beats per minute and a body temp of roughly two hundred twenty degrees. If that was not enough to justify deadly force, the thing had been feeding off the remains of one of the owners, a male; though, now, it was writhing in apparent pain with its hands clapped over his ears. The WIPP had done its job immaculately.
CLAP...CLAP
Parker kept moving through the room and kept searching for the other savage. He knew Cannon was behind him doing the same.
Another two round burst from Matt McCannon told him this threat was over; but, even so, the two took the time to properly clear the entire dwelling, calling out bounding movements over comms the entire time. Finally, both operators reported, Clear.
"Let's move on the high school."
"Roger that," a-firmed Cannon.
On the way out, the operators took the time to put two more rounds in each dead savage and an additional two rounds into the heads of the eaten humans. While being nothing close to palatable to the shooters, this was a security measure to ensure those bitten would not rise during the next full moon to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting.
***
Western Bar
1315
Bones Fischer led the team up to the Western Bar, using available cover when he could, sprinting across open ground when their was no cover to be had. The team's ATL, Gator Hicks, followed five meters behind, and Grouch Henderson handled rear security. The little strip of shops lining the streets was constructed to resemble and old West township complete with a raised, wooden boardwalk running each side of the street and hitching posts spaced every ten feet or so.
The three men stacked up on either side of the bar to listen. From inside, they heard the metal clank of a pot hitting the floor. The shooters knew from the blueprints they had studied prior to moving out that the front area was reserved for restaurant goers, and the area was connected to a small back bar. The blueprints also told them the bar was attached to another business, a liquor store, which made for four rooms total counting the kitchen.
Gator hazarded a peek through the plate glass window. The front room - the restaurant area - was littered with the mangled and mauled bodies of about half a dozen patrons. Bodies was a much overstated term. The people inside had been rendered to nothing more than pieces of meat and tissue, and the floor was slick with their blood. Beyond, just at the edge of the bar, a plume of heat flashed across the walkway.
Gator ducked back behind the outer wall. "I've got a least one confirmed savage in the back bar." Just then, angry growling erupted from inside along with the general racket of tables and chairs being knocked over. The savages were fighting over their food and place in the pack. "Check that, we've got two back there. Puffers out..." Gator smiled inside his helmet. "Fry their asses!"
He swung the door open, and the three men lobbed a Puffer each through the back doorway and into the bar. Python's ATL then nonchalantly shut the door again and waited. The sound that the savages elicited when the little grenades released their contents - a fog of aerosolized silver nitrate - was generally reserved for the ninth circle of Hell. Gator, Bones, and Grouch then walked through the door, straight to the back bar and put two rounds into the head and chest of each savage. The werewolves' bodies looked like they had been dipped in boiling acid, and their skin - or, what was left of it - bubbled and dripped from their bones.
"Easy enough," commented Grouch, the form SF medic to the others.
"Yeah," agreed Gator, "a little too easy."
"Cheer up, Gator," chuckled Bones lightly, "I'm sure the wheels will come off this fun-filled amusement park soon enough."
Parker's voice cut off any rebuttal Gator may have had.
"Python-two, this is Python-one. Cabins are secure. Both savages neutralized. Moving to the high school, how copy?"
"Solid, Python-one," replied Gator coolly. "Same can be said for the Western Bar. Moving across the street to secondary target."
"Roger that, Python-two. Stay frosty."
Both elements of Python began moving to their respective secondary target. No one knew just how close to the truth Bones' words would prove to be.
***
The ultimate predator floated near the roof of the small mall of shops. He understood the building was known as the Burro Street Exchange. Such trivialities mattered not, for he was Red Moon, Eldrich wolf, and one of the oldest, most powerful beings on the planet. Red Moon, and the few surviving Eldrich, walked the Earth before the earliest recordings of human history.
One by one, he had felt his newly formed pack succumb to the blight that had dogged his kind so. The death of those that were so young did not pain him; but, it did send a rush of molten anger coursing over his body.
SKUL's here, he thought bitterly, and they are coming.
He could feel the vibrations of their boots thumping on the pavement and the unnatural disturbances upon the air as their suppressed weapons were fired. Worse yet, and most troublesome of all, he could sense the approach of the one element he held no sway over. The one element that would assuredly kill him.
Silver.
And, lots of it.
Red Moon's wolfish features split into an impossible grin that held only menace and stepped from absolute thin air onto the upper level walkway. Deciding to choose his prey carefully, he ducked into a darkened hallway leading to the bathroom suites and an emergency exit. The young wolf on the lower level was already dead, as he would soon come to understand.
One by one, he had felt his newly formed pack succumb to the blight that had dogged his kind so. The death of those that were so young did not pain him; but, it did send a rush of molten anger coursing over his body.
SKUL's here, he thought bitterly, and they are coming.
He could feel the vibrations of their boots thumping on the pavement and the unnatural disturbances upon the air as their suppressed weapons were fired. Worse yet, and most troublesome of all, he could sense the approach of the one element he held no sway over. The one element that would assuredly kill him.
Silver.
And, lots of it.
Red Moon's wolfish features split into an impossible grin that held only menace and stepped from absolute thin air onto the upper level walkway. Deciding to choose his prey carefully, he ducked into a darkened hallway leading to the bathroom suites and an emergency exit. The young wolf on the lower level was already dead, as he would soon come to understand.
***
Bones slid through the front door at a quick yet controlled pace. The building, with its myriad of small shops, kiosk, and hallways, was an assaulter's worst nightmare. The door opened into a narrow entryway that continued to the back of the building. Lining both sides were boutique and jewelry stores. At the end of the hallway a tremendously hot heat signature registered in Bones' FV system. He fired two controlled rounds.
Clap...Clap
The savage and the human whose body it was using as a feeding trough fell to the ground.
***
He watched the men just below him and saw as their silver bullets tore through one of his newest creations. Anger, unwholesome and with an intensity entirely alien to humankind, bubbled just below the surface of his blood red fur. He watched the men as they paused, collected themselves, and decided which move to make next.
They will separate and search each store individually. He smiled at hearing their leader's thoughts voice so clearly in his head, and added to his thoughts, to their doom.
***
"Shops are tiny," Gator noticed, "I say we split up and take this place down."
"Roger," came Bones and Grouch's reply.
"Bones, you take the first one on the left, I'll take the first on the right. Grouch, you got the second one to the left. Clear'em, and fall back here to regroup and do it all over again."
"Roger," came the replies as all three moved into position.
***
With a flick of his hand, Red Moon gathered the available shadows and wrapped them around his body. To a normal man, he would be invisible, though he knew SKUL had heat sensing technology that could not be confounded by such trickery. Still, though, it may help keep him safe. He then jumped over the security railing and landed soundlessly only feet behind the soldier entering the first the first boutique to the left. It was a clothing store specializing in western wear.
The unknown soldier entered the shop with a tinkle of a bell, and Red Moon slid in just behind him.
This was risky given their suits of silver and their ammunition; but, truthfully, he could have taken the three at any time. The only problem with that was simple; he liked to play with his food.
***
From the second Bones entered the store, something felt off.
Wrong.
Strange images, images of horrors he could not explain, played like a closed circuit TV stuck in a loop across his mind. Fear began to icily slink its way up his spine. Fear, the former Green Beret and combat veteran of hundreds of operations, had never been confronted with.
Fear that was not his own, yet it was nearly paralyzing him all the same.
He was five feet from the door when the bell tinkled again.
He spun, but there was nothing to shoot but the little bell.
Sweat built on the crown of his head before cascading over his forehead. Not even the cooling system built into the helmets could stop it.
Tobias Fischer trained his weapon to the left, the right, even as his body became wracked with fear.
Something was in this store with him.
He moved deeper into the store even as a plume of heat with the intensity of a nuclear explosion showed itself for a split second before disappearing.
Bones smiled.
The footprints were still registering. He could follow and kill this thing.
He moved deeper into the shadows of the storeroom area, following the heat signatures of the footprints before they had a chance to dissipate.
This is going to be easy, he thought.
That's when the laughter started.
***
Red Moon allowed the door to clink shut behind them, then he reached up with his long, grotesque finger tipped with the razor claw, and tapped the door's bell.
Cling...Cling
Moving quicker than the human eye, he ducked behind behind the cash register's kiosk on the far side of the room.
Red Moon could sense the fear in the shooter's thoughts.
He smiled.
He watched the soldier for a second then stepped into his peripheral view very briefly before disappearing deeper into the store. He ducked behind a steel locker that he knew would hide his heat signature and laughed silently. He projected his laughter to the man's ears and only his ears. It took a significant amount of effort, but he finally made it through the soldier's protective silver-lined suit and helmet.
The man felt fear; fear he brought on. Even so, he pushed through it and into darkness of the storeroom.
His first step into the darkness of the back room was his last.
Red Moon sprung in a blur of motion, wrapped his arms around the man's neck, and pulled with ancient power.
Bones never had a chance. His world faded to black in concert with his spinal cord being ripped apart.
***
"Bones, where are you?" asked the ATL. "Bones are you clear?" After the Python's point man failed to respond for a second time, Gator switched his comms to a different frequency, "Python-one, this is Python-two..."
The walls exploded with a powerful force sending shards of glass, metal, and plaster in all directions. Behind the tumult was a flash of blood red fur. That was all either man saw.
Red Moon landed deep of their position. Blood fell from his elongated fingers and dripped off his razor sharp claws. A two count ensued before the shooters' heads fell to either side of their bodies. Gator's to the right of his body, Grouch's to the left. Another heartbeat later, their bodies crumpled to the floor like cheap suits.
They never even had a chance to raise their weapons.
Red Moon, last of the Anasazi and Eldrich wolf, stepped from the Burro Street Exchange, took only the slightest to breath in the crisp, arid air, then bounded off to greet his other prey.
***
Silver Moon
Ops Center
1400
Dane was in the Ops Center working on Tweeker and Toad's whereabouts when the call came over. He knew it was bad when the communications sergeant manning the radios shot up out of his seat. The subsequent communication was played for all in Ops to hear:
"Nest, this is Python-one, call sign Cannon. Bones and Grouch are gone, along with Danny and Gator."
"Say again, Cannon?" bellowed the Admiral as he ran into the Ops Center.
"Everyone's gone, sir. Seven savages are down, but there's one still out there. He's faster than anything I've ever seen. He can do...things...he can fly, sir...and he's coming for me...I can feel him."
Everyone in the room was silent. This was supposed to be a simple op, in and out, but now...
"Where are our nearest assets?" demanded Briggs quickly.
"Lima platoon's southeast of Pueblo, Colorado conducting OGR - Open Ground Reconnaissance - training. Approximately a three hour helo flight. Other than that, two teams from Mike platoon are working border protection outside of Nogales, California. That's about a two point five hour helo trip. I'm afraid it's worse from there, sir."
Suppressed gunfire shattered the silence of the Ops Center as Cannon emptied a magazine at something.
"Get Lima rolling," commanded the Admiral though everyone knew it would be too late. "If we send two teams in there, we'll loose two more. I want the entire strength of Lima platoon in the air within the hour!"
"Yes, sir," acknowledged the unknown communications sergeant who turned and began relaying the Skipper's orders.
"Matt...you still there son?"
Clap...Clap...Clap...Clap
"Yes, sir," replied Python's sniper. "I can't hit him, Skipper! He's too fast!"
"You hang tough, Cannon. The cavalry's on the way."
Clap...Clap...Clap...Clap...Clap
"They better hurry, sir. I'm black on ammo."
That was the last transmission SKUL would receive from Cloudcroft...
Epilogue
Silver Moon
Upper port-side deck
Sunrise, two days later
The Moon had been taken off the coast of the United States and deeper into the Gulf of Mexico. Her bow was still knifing southward; so, Dane stood on the port-side deck and savored the salty air and sunrise. This was his favorite time of day. It was the time of day when men gathered themselves against whatever the day may bring. It was a time for solitude and silence, and both were much welcomed in the aftermath of SKUL's latest operation.
Dane dropped his elbows on the guardrail and ran his hands through his hair.
All of them, he thought with no small amount of sadness, gone. In the blink of an eye, just gone.
For the most part, he had only known those men for a moment; but, he knew their units. He knew the heritage and culture of both the Force Reconnaissance Marines and the Army Special Forces. They were prideful, yet quiet professionals who carried out their work with a diligence forged of iron.
And, they were gone.
All of them.
Worse still, at least to Dane, was the loss of Chief Morgan Hicks. To everyone within the Teams, Section 8, and SKUL, he was known simply as Gator. Gator had been a Navy lifer, enlisted then volunteering for BUD/S. After almost eight years with the Teams, he was offered a chance to screen for DEVGRU. Those guys, Dane imagined, did not really know what they were getting when Gator came on board. He made it through Green Team - DEVGRU's selection process - without any setbacks before beginning a career that saw double-digit combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan.
It was after one of these deployments that Dane recruited the Chief to Section 8. Dane promised just as quick an operational tempo, possibly fewer bullets flying overhead when trying to take a piss in the middle of the night, and the ability to operate within US borders. He would be a plank owner in a new unit, a completely different unit than anything ever created.
Hicks had jumped at the opportunity and been an incredible asset to the Section.
And, now he's gone. Dane all but spat the words.
His soul ached. He was tired of the death; and, truthfully, he was starting to feel as though this was someone else's fight when he heard footfalls gaining on him.
"Dane!" came a man's voice behind him. It was Elbert Stratham, the computer analyst he first met on the day SKUL picked him up at Chotard Landing. This was the same man that was assigned to his team.
"Yeah, what?" he asked while only giving a cursory bit of acknowledgement over his shoulder.
"I've found them!" Elbert exclaimed triumphantly.
***
Portland, Maine
One month later
0900
Jenny Hicks came bounding down the stairs and yelled into the kitchen, "I'm going to town. Want me to make anything special for dinner tonight?"
After several seconds, a meek, "No," came from the kitchen.
Jenny closed her eyes tight. She was hurting so bad since her son's death, but she was able to put on the face, as she called it, and venture out into public and be seen. Her husband, Morgan Sr., on the other hand, was struggling even more than she was. And, he had no face. What you saw was what you got with Morgan. As a young woman, she had fallen in love with his good looks and confidence; yet, as they aged, she realized it was his honesty that kept the family from falling apart during the tough times.
And, there had been many. Every single deployment had been tough for them, with the goodbyes and the unknown.
The thing was, this time was different. They had thought for several years their son was dead. They had been told he had been killed on a training operation with his Navy SEAL team. To find out he had been alive, all these years, only to be denied the ability to actually see him was too much.
Too much.
Her eyes were already watering as she stepped into the breakfast area of the kitchen. Her husband looked frail, almost sick, which stood to reason as he had eaten only sparingly since receiving the news of their son's death. On the table was a fifth of Elijah Craig bourbon and a half-full glass. Morgan had never been a drinker, but their son was. He learned of his son's choice of drink when his squadron was on stand-down during his last visit before he was killed...
...the first time.
Morgan and his SEAL buddies had come up for a visit. Both Jenny and her husband had been astounded by the boys' -because, to them, that's what they were - presence, both in a physical since and bearing. The boys were predators, there was no doubt, but they were also funny, rambunctious, and competitive. She smiled behind her husband's back remembering how all of them had crashed out the front door, made the mile and a half run down to the ocean, swam a half mile out and back, then ran back to the house, soaking wet and freezing. Her Morgan had run the stopwatch, and there was a huge argument, jovial but with heat to it, when he proclaimed the winner. The race was that close.
Sadness overtook her. They were just kids. Fun-loving gifts to the world wrapped up in a very dangerous bow. Like all gifts, the true beauty was in what was inside.
And, they were all gone.
Two were killed in Afghanistan, the other three that had visited where said to have been killed in a training accident. Jenny knew enough to know that meant don't ask.
"Hehemm," she cleared her throat. "Morgan, it's Saturday. Don't you think it's a little early for that?"
In her husband's hand was a photo of their son. He was dressed in combat boots, loaded out chest rig, and helmet equipped with night vision goggles. He was also wearing a pair of American flag bikini briefs, his standard shit-eating grin, and a wad of chewing tobacco. The photo had been sent in an email entitled Hard Entry the day after the fourth of July, 2009. Neither of the elder Hicks' picked up on the wordplay, and were completely embarrassed when their friends pointed out the obvious. Tears flowed freely down Jenny's face now though she was laughing all the same.
That was her oldest son in a nutshell.
Morgan took a drink, "None of us are granted tomorrow...that much is obvious." He began to visibly shake. "Can't...I...have...my...time?"
His voice was hard, harder than she'd ever heard it before, and he spoke through teeth he was busy grinding together. Her heart broke, again, for the millionth time; but, she pressed the moment, "Well, Woody's coming in tonight. It'd be nice if..."
"If what?" Morgan snarled. "If i pretended his older brother wasn't dead...for the second time?" Morgan's face fell in upon itself, and he began sobbing. "How could he do this to us? How could he go so long without a phone call, email...anything? Did he not love us? Were we bad parents?"
Before Jenny Hicks could answer her husband, the doorbell rang. She walked out of the breakfast area and back to the front of the house.
"Mrs. Jenny Hicks?" asked a smartly dressed man. He wore a blue suit with charcoal pinstripes - Italian by the look - complemented with richly glossed, leather cap toe shoes. His chiseled feathers, salt and pepper hair, and brilliant smile were striking against the low sun.
"Yes, may I help you?"
"I sure hope so," the man said through another brilliant smile. "My name's Roger Dabbs, and I believe this is yours." She recognized the man's strong, Brooklyn accent instantly. The aforementioned Dabbs handed Jenny a cardboard box about three feet long by six inches tall. "I've handled your son's business for the last several years."
Confused, she stammered, "Woody?"
"Who's here, honey?" asked Morgan Hicks, joining his wife at the front door. His eyes were red and puffy. The man at the door could guess why.
"This is..." she tilted her head toward the man.
"Roger Dabbs, Mr. Hicks," he held out his hand, and the two shook. "I was just telling your lovely wife I have represented one of our sons for several years." He looked to Jenny in order to clarify her earlier statement, "Morgan, actually. I have never had the pleasure of your youngest son's acquaintance."
Jenny looked to the box and back to the man. "Morgan's business?"
"Yes, ma'am. One month after his death, I was to present this to you."
"How...how did you know he was dead? We were told to keep it out of the papers as it would only cause a situation." The last word was like venom on her tongue, but it's the very word that had been used.
"Quite frankly, ma'am, and at the risk of sounding crass, I knew when the payment did not come."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked the elder Hicks in a frighteningly low voice.
Dabbs looked into the father of his client's eyes evenly, "Sir, at your son's bequest, I have held in confidence the contents of the box that's now in your possession. Ours' was a gentleman's agreement as your son insisted on no paper trails. It was a simple agreement in that the first time the amount went unpaid I was to present this box to you. I have no idea as to the contents; but, I will say that over the years, I grew to enjoy Morgan's visits and am saddened with the knowledge of his loss."
He nodded to both, then turned, and walked back to his waiting car. The Hicks' watched him go, wanting to ask the man more but, at the same time, not knowing what questions to ask.
Dear Mom, Dad, and Woody,
One month later
0900
Jenny Hicks came bounding down the stairs and yelled into the kitchen, "I'm going to town. Want me to make anything special for dinner tonight?"
After several seconds, a meek, "No," came from the kitchen.
Jenny closed her eyes tight. She was hurting so bad since her son's death, but she was able to put on the face, as she called it, and venture out into public and be seen. Her husband, Morgan Sr., on the other hand, was struggling even more than she was. And, he had no face. What you saw was what you got with Morgan. As a young woman, she had fallen in love with his good looks and confidence; yet, as they aged, she realized it was his honesty that kept the family from falling apart during the tough times.
And, there had been many. Every single deployment had been tough for them, with the goodbyes and the unknown.
The thing was, this time was different. They had thought for several years their son was dead. They had been told he had been killed on a training operation with his Navy SEAL team. To find out he had been alive, all these years, only to be denied the ability to actually see him was too much.
Too much.
Her eyes were already watering as she stepped into the breakfast area of the kitchen. Her husband looked frail, almost sick, which stood to reason as he had eaten only sparingly since receiving the news of their son's death. On the table was a fifth of Elijah Craig bourbon and a half-full glass. Morgan had never been a drinker, but their son was. He learned of his son's choice of drink when his squadron was on stand-down during his last visit before he was killed...
...the first time.
Morgan and his SEAL buddies had come up for a visit. Both Jenny and her husband had been astounded by the boys' -because, to them, that's what they were - presence, both in a physical since and bearing. The boys were predators, there was no doubt, but they were also funny, rambunctious, and competitive. She smiled behind her husband's back remembering how all of them had crashed out the front door, made the mile and a half run down to the ocean, swam a half mile out and back, then ran back to the house, soaking wet and freezing. Her Morgan had run the stopwatch, and there was a huge argument, jovial but with heat to it, when he proclaimed the winner. The race was that close.
Sadness overtook her. They were just kids. Fun-loving gifts to the world wrapped up in a very dangerous bow. Like all gifts, the true beauty was in what was inside.
And, they were all gone.
Two were killed in Afghanistan, the other three that had visited where said to have been killed in a training accident. Jenny knew enough to know that meant don't ask.
"Hehemm," she cleared her throat. "Morgan, it's Saturday. Don't you think it's a little early for that?"
In her husband's hand was a photo of their son. He was dressed in combat boots, loaded out chest rig, and helmet equipped with night vision goggles. He was also wearing a pair of American flag bikini briefs, his standard shit-eating grin, and a wad of chewing tobacco. The photo had been sent in an email entitled Hard Entry the day after the fourth of July, 2009. Neither of the elder Hicks' picked up on the wordplay, and were completely embarrassed when their friends pointed out the obvious. Tears flowed freely down Jenny's face now though she was laughing all the same.
That was her oldest son in a nutshell.
Morgan took a drink, "None of us are granted tomorrow...that much is obvious." He began to visibly shake. "Can't...I...have...my...time?"
His voice was hard, harder than she'd ever heard it before, and he spoke through teeth he was busy grinding together. Her heart broke, again, for the millionth time; but, she pressed the moment, "Well, Woody's coming in tonight. It'd be nice if..."
"If what?" Morgan snarled. "If i pretended his older brother wasn't dead...for the second time?" Morgan's face fell in upon itself, and he began sobbing. "How could he do this to us? How could he go so long without a phone call, email...anything? Did he not love us? Were we bad parents?"
Before Jenny Hicks could answer her husband, the doorbell rang. She walked out of the breakfast area and back to the front of the house.
"Mrs. Jenny Hicks?" asked a smartly dressed man. He wore a blue suit with charcoal pinstripes - Italian by the look - complemented with richly glossed, leather cap toe shoes. His chiseled feathers, salt and pepper hair, and brilliant smile were striking against the low sun.
"Yes, may I help you?"
"I sure hope so," the man said through another brilliant smile. "My name's Roger Dabbs, and I believe this is yours." She recognized the man's strong, Brooklyn accent instantly. The aforementioned Dabbs handed Jenny a cardboard box about three feet long by six inches tall. "I've handled your son's business for the last several years."
Confused, she stammered, "Woody?"
"Who's here, honey?" asked Morgan Hicks, joining his wife at the front door. His eyes were red and puffy. The man at the door could guess why.
"This is..." she tilted her head toward the man.
"Roger Dabbs, Mr. Hicks," he held out his hand, and the two shook. "I was just telling your lovely wife I have represented one of our sons for several years." He looked to Jenny in order to clarify her earlier statement, "Morgan, actually. I have never had the pleasure of your youngest son's acquaintance."
Jenny looked to the box and back to the man. "Morgan's business?"
"Yes, ma'am. One month after his death, I was to present this to you."
"How...how did you know he was dead? We were told to keep it out of the papers as it would only cause a situation." The last word was like venom on her tongue, but it's the very word that had been used.
"Quite frankly, ma'am, and at the risk of sounding crass, I knew when the payment did not come."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked the elder Hicks in a frighteningly low voice.
Dabbs looked into the father of his client's eyes evenly, "Sir, at your son's bequest, I have held in confidence the contents of the box that's now in your possession. Ours' was a gentleman's agreement as your son insisted on no paper trails. It was a simple agreement in that the first time the amount went unpaid I was to present this box to you. I have no idea as to the contents; but, I will say that over the years, I grew to enjoy Morgan's visits and am saddened with the knowledge of his loss."
He nodded to both, then turned, and walked back to his waiting car. The Hicks' watched him go, wanting to ask the man more but, at the same time, not knowing what questions to ask.
They carried the box inside...
***
Dear Mom and Dad,
First off, if you're reading this, I am dead. Seeing brothers die in combat, I know that sucks; but, I need you to know, I went to Valhalla with a full heart.
After that, I need to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for every night you laid awake wondering if I was coming home. I'm so sorry for that, but I hope you gain some peace knowing that every time I went out, I thought about how I was protecting you. There are bad people out there, bad things, who are content with performing acts you could not begin to stomach. Mom, Dad, I stopped those men...a lot of them. My time in service was filled with some of the finest men on the planet - many of whom you've met - and, I want you to know there's no where else I would have rather been.
You weren't given a body. That's by design and at my wishes. I requested the unit I currently serve to give me a Viking's funeral. A body's for mourning which you've done enough of, I'm sure. Instead of mourning, I'd rather give you gifts.
Mom, you'll need Dad for this, and Dad...you'll need Woody. Follow the directions below. I love you both, and PLEASE tell Woody I love him too. Honestly, my only regret is being a complete sack of shit to him when he was little.
At the bottom of the page was a series of numbers.
"What is that?" asked Jenny.
"GPS coordinates," answered Morgan, a lobster boat captain nearing retirement age. He knew those coordinates like the back of his hands. They would lead him to the sand bar he would take his boys out to in the summer. The particular sandbar was several miles off the beach and only visible for a few hours a day at low tide. It was a big sand bar, and ships tended to avoid it at any point during the day.
"Oh my," gasped Jenny as she pulled a hatchet from the felt bag holding it. The edge gleamed with sharpness, but the flat of it held the black dust of oxidation.
They both simultaneously thought, silver?
On one side it had a shield with crossed axes and the Latin phrase - Per Tenebras Venimus Tamquam Lux - stamped into it on one side, one the other, simply a name - John Luxby.
***
Next day
Woody's boots hit the surf first after he had anchored the boat's bow. His dad allowed it to drift with the tide, tightening the line, before dropping a second anchor. He followed his youngest son - a surgeon - excitedly over the gunwales and onto the sliver of newly formed beach.
"I'm thinking that's probably for us," announced Woody as he noted the silver float lying on the sand. They had not noticed these silver buoys on the way in. Truthfully, Morgan Hicks had never noticed them before.
The two walked over and noted the number drawn on it. The buoy was set on an extremely short rope which would eventually succumb to the high tide. It was no wonder he never noticed it before. The buoy probably stayed under water for close to twenty hours a day.
"Yep, that's my license number." Both noted how fast the water was falling. Morgan grabbed the buoy. Other than the license number, there was a drawing of a shield...with crossed axes...bordered by Latin. "Help me pull this up, would ya?"
Father and son tugged on the chain holding the float. At first, nothing moved, but finally the sand started to bulge. They kept tugging and finally pulled out a large, hardened rubber case. Morgan recognized the maker instantly and knew the contents had been packed in an air and watertight environment. The strongbox was held together by a huge padlock.
"Woody, there's a shovel for clamming on the boat...go get it, please."
Minutes later, Woody was slamming the shovel blade onto the padlock. The connection point finally snapped, and the two knelt and opened the lid. For protection, the contents had been wrapped in oiled cloth so there was a second's worth of unwrapping before Woody gasp. The interior held several - at least a dozen - solid silver bars, along with several books and and envelop addressed to his dad.
"What in the world was Morg up to, Dad?"
"I...I don't know, son," answered the elder Hicks, truly bewildered. The aged man ran his hands over the silver and opened the thick envelope. It held several pages, the first of which read only:
SKUL
Morgan looked up to his son, shrugged, then turned to the page. That's when their lives truly changed forever:
You're reading this journal only because I am no longer there to protect you from the bump in the night. Before I go on, I need to fill in the gaps of my military career. You know about the Navy and later, the SEALs; but, what you don't know is I was a member of an elite unit within the Teams. It was first known as SEAL Team Six though the name has changed a dozen times since. My squadron was Black Squadron, and we were charged with surgical counter-intelligence strikes designed to bring about regime changes. Frequently, this entailed assassinations, either through an unwitting, third party proxy or by way of direct action on our part.
And, yes, Mom, before you get all crazy...we only killed bad guys.
After that, and at a point when I was ready to call an end to my time in the military, I was approached by a man I came to respect like few others. He was also a SEAL, and I owe him enough not to mention his name or the group I worked with. It really doesn't matter what I was doing, anyway, just know I was protecting you all. It was on one of these missions when I was introduced to the true reality of this world. I saw things on that mission that I will never be able to unsee, things I still have nightmares about. You were told that I died on that night; and, I guess, in some ways I did.
No, honestly, I died in every way but my heartbeat.
No, honestly, I died in every way but my heartbeat.
I can't and won't describe what happened that night, where they happened, or what occurred in the aftermath of the mission...I owe the men - my brothers and sisters - too much to disclose that. What I can and will tell you is this...
Werewolves exist. They are in every town, every county, and every state in the Union. I know that sounds impossible, and I know Woody's sitting over your shoulder, reading this through sarcastic eyes and a sideways smirk.
Morgan Sr. looked over his shoulder.
"What?" Woody backed away, shrugging his shoulders. "C'mon, Dad. You don't believe this crap do you?"
Morgan Hicks' eyes turned to slits, "I don't know what I believe anymore, but I know I believe in your brother. You should be ashamed you don't."
"Sorry, Dad," said Woody quietly.
Morgan turned back to the page:
Morgan turned back to the page:
I can't describe it, but I'm tired. I've seen the best and the worst humanity has to offer and some of the most terrifying instances of immortality you can imagine. Many times, I have been unsure as to what's worse. I know my time is drawing to an end; so, I've put down my thoughts on fighting werewolves as I was trained to. The next page is a list of GPS coordinates leading to points much like this. They're marked with the same silver float, license number, and shield. Each one contains automatic weapons, silver ammo, and more bullion. The rifles and ammo are for killing. The bullion's for surviving. Use it well. There are two dozen journals for you to read and learn from. Please do so. They are truly my life's work.
I love you,
Morg
P.S. Dad, shake the first book in the stack.
Mike Hicks did as his dead son asked and many of the inside papers fell out. He unfolded the first and looked. It was a boat title in his name. The second was a photo of the boat and a description. It was a lobster boat. His lobster boat. The third said simply:
To the greatest man I ever knew. I hope this makes up for my short-comings.
Morg
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