Operation Slingshot

Operation Grindstone, part 1 of 3 
Operation Reaper's Grip, part 2 of 3 

ARCHIVES:

OPERATION SLINGSHOT

DATABASE LOG-IN:

WRAITH-15

PASSWORD:

ANCHORAGE-03983049

PROLOGUE

Area 51

Section 8 TOC

0200

“So, I’m here,” General Pete Pattridge, Section 8’s Commanding Officer, said irritably.  “What’s wrong now, Lee?”  The General’s head had just hit the pillow, or so it felt like, only to be recalled to Section’s Tactical Operations Center – or TOC – by his lead computer analyst, Lee Wright.

Wright, sensing the General’s ire, made it as brief as possible.

“Sir, at approximately 2300 tonight, the Grim was hacked.”

Pattridge visibly stiffened.  The Grim was an on-going project that, as beautiful as it was, could put everyone with a fingerprint smudge on its mainframe so far under the prison they would be eating out of rice bowls with wooden sticks.

“What do you mean, hacked, Lee?”  Pattridge sat back feigning relaxation.  He did not manage to pull it off.  “With the encryption and firewalls in place, that’s impossible.”

“In the truest since, you’re exactly right, sir.”  The computer tech looked around the TOC nervously. 

He needed to say more.  That much was clear, but he was what?  Afraid to?  The General grabbed Wright by the elbow and led him to a darkened corner of the vast room.  “I’m sensing there’s a but laying around here somewhere, Lee,” he said hoarsely.

“Well, sir,” Wright said while clearing his throat, “They entered the Grim via an approved access code.  One I’ve never seen before – and, I’ve seen them all, I thought; only, this one I can’t trace.”

Pattridge took a double take at the computer analyst.  “Which files were violated?”

“That’s the weird thing.  Whoever it was had the entire world, literally, at their fingertips; yet they only searched through two profiles.”

Pattridge’s face flat lined, “You better show me, Lee.”

The computer tech nodded, and he stepped to the nearest computer.  Within seconds, he had the profiles pulled up.  The General took one glance then held out his hand.  In it was a thumb drive, and Pattridge ordered, “Copy those files to this then scrub, sterilize, and wipe the system clean of anything relating to the two.”

Lee Wright nodded slowly.  He was not at all comfortable with what he was being ordered to do.  This was the violation of national security on an order of magnitude even his brilliant mind could not comprehend.

After a moment in which his orders were not being carried out, the General barked, “Is there a problem?”

“No, sir,” Wright said sheepishly as he turned to do the General’s bidding.

Pattridge stalked from the TOC silently, though his mind was on fire.  He kept saying to himself over and over, Take care of my boys, Bart.  They’re yours now.  Don’t fail them like I did.

***

Just prior to Operation Reaper’s Grip

“Ooooh IIII, IIII, Oh I’m still allllive.  Heeeeyah, IIIIIyam Oh IIIIyam, I’m still alive,” the man staggered down the icy sidewalk singing an old Pearl Jam song.  He appeared drunk, and the words rolled thickly off his tongue at the top of his lungs.  It was his favorite song, and he sung it just loud enough, and he zigzagged just crazily enough that no one in their right mind would risk eye-balling him. 

Who’d want to catch his attention anyway?

Though the man’s accent was definitely not local, it was surely an indistinguishable one.  In fact, he did not have an accent at all.  It was like his voice sing-songed through various regional timbres without ever really landing on any particular one.  The man, wearing enough clothing to make him look so fat he was round, was dressed for the cold only found in the deepest parts of the night.  A dark ski mask hid his facial features.  It was the dress of the downtrodden and pestilent.  In fact, the only real distinguishable feature about him was that he was really, really short.  Additionally, he reeked of several nights’ worth of alcohol, a week’s worth of piss, and a fortnight of sweat; so, anyone on his side of the sidewalk parted like the Red Sea lying before Moses.  Given the latitude, the sun hung so low the street lights were already blazing even though it was just after three o’ clock in the evening.  Most in this part of the world were already safely tucked indoors.  This was Anchorage in late October, after all, and things were getting a bit chilly.  The unidentified, unwanted vagrant staggered onward, catching a quick glimpse of what he was truly after just ahead slashed across the street side mailbox. 

“Oooooh she walks sloooowly, across a young man’s roooooom!”

At that, anyone left with an ounce of decency toward street urchins veritably launched themselves across the street.  Several, the staggering singer could see, had their ears plastered against their cell phones.

Probably calling the cops, he thought with a smile.  That’s fine.  He would be long gone before any black and white slid from their diner booth.  He swayed against the mailbox like a drunken lover dancing the tango.  He drifted back, meant to hold his girlfriend – the mailbox – at arms length for the big finale.  Only he fell off the curb, into the street, and on his ass.

Nobody looked, yet everybody looked.  It was an unconscious reaction, and he could not blame them.  He would have looked to. 

“What…” he pulled a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 from the inside pocket of the tattered, sweat soaked jacket he had bought at the local Army surplus store, “…you people haven’t ever seen anybody drunk off their ass before?”    

The man got up, dusted the fresh snow off his holey pants, mumbled something about people knowing good music when they hear it, and then staggered on down the street.  Rounding the nearest corner, safely out of sight of the onlookers, his gate straightened, and his paced doubled…then tripled.  Two blocks later, he was running pell-mell down yet another street; and, the whole time, his mind was on the little magnetic key holder that he had taken from under the lid of the mailbox.

***

Across the street, two shadowy figures watched the extreme display of public drunkenness play out with rapt interest.  They were werewolves, and their powerful eyes cut through the dim twilight like high beams on a semi truck.  Their ears picked up the unmistakable sound of metal on metal.  Not even the sleight of hand carried out by the drunken ne’er-do-well with the touch of a magician was lost upon the two as he slipped something into a pocket.

“Do you think they’ll ever get tired of these stupid games?” asked the younger brother of the older.  The younger brother was the doer, the older, the thinker; though, the definition of young and old was highly relative concerning the pair.  Both had been on this earth for nearly two centuries, yet neither looked a day over twenty.  Civil War Johnny Rebs-turned-notorious-outlaws with a bloody reputation in life, the brothers were that and so much more as immortals.  After a botched bank robbery in Minnesota in which their gang was slaughtered, the two were forced to flee a massive manhunt.  They fled to friendlier territory to the south just long enough for the younger brother to fake his death.  After that, they double-backed on their pursuers before fleeing west; whereupon, the two disappeared into the murky western frontier.   

“Doubtful,” replied the older brother simply.  The two crunched across the icy slush coating the street – it would be a frozen, slick mess by midnight – and moved with focused intent up the opposite sidewalk to the mailbox.

“Well, lookie there,” noted the younger brother.  The line of white chalk had been crossed with a slash of blue chalk – also accomplished by the drunk.  “I do declare, Frank, is that an old school dead drop, or are my eyes playing tricks on me?  Didn’t know spooks still used the technique.”

“It’s simple, with low visibility and, unless you know what you’re looking for, nearly impossible to intercept.”  The older man replied.  “They’ve been doing it in some fashion since the Revolutionary War.”

“Always the student,” said the youngest through a grin.  “What’s the play here?”

Frank was the calculating one.  The younger werewolf was just ruthless and always had been.

“Anchorage is a small town, and we have his scent.  Master wants them both, and he wants them dead.  Tolar will lead us to Lattimore.  Until then, we watch.”

Master, as the brothers called him, was the werewolf who turned the two.  Their Master was an incredibly terrifying and ancient werewolf who controlled immense elemental powers.  But, they did not know that at the time of their turning.  To them, he appeared as nothing more than a raving lunatic.  The two stumbled upon the werewolf in an opium den on the outskirts of the dangerous mining town of Deadwood.  He was crazed, likely hallucinating off the drug, and spoke with barely controlled belligerence about the kingdoms he had conquered, the lands his followers had razed, and the cities his armies had slaughtered.  His voice was fervent as he hinted at his secret, and his desire to raise a new army to bring the world to its knees…an immortal army.  The conversation was so spooky and pugnacious it made even the pair of bloodthirsty renegades nervous and uncomfortable.

Besides, all they wanted was a hit of opium, anyway.

That night, the moon was full and ripe.  Perfect for offering the strength needed to survive the change.  While they were in a narcotic stupor, the strange little oriental man came to the brothers again.  Only, this time, he was not taking no for an answer.  He took them, turned them into his image; and, through his bite, showed them both the truth of his words.  Days later, once the madness had subsided and it was apparent they could – and likely, would – survive, he taught them how to feed in seclusion and secrecy and how to blend seamlessly into society.  He spoke of the Eldrich, the most ancient and powerful of their kind.  He spoke of his high-ranking place in the Eldrich court; and finally, he spoke of their plans – plans so tedious and fraught with failure that it would surely take centuries to see them to fruition.  But he assured them that time hardly mattered.  They were werewolves, after all; turned naturally by the bite and succored back to health by the strength of the moon…and they were now immortal.

The two young outlaws were Frank and Jesse James.  Their Master had been known by many names since before human reckoning, but the most famous of all was the one even the two nefarious outlaws recognized.  It was a name known across the globe and throughout history, a name accused of decreasing the world’s known population by forty million souls, and a name that still demanded both fear and respect in equal measure.

That name and the werewolf it belonged to was Genghis Khan.

1)

The GRIM

Just after Operation Reaper’s Grip

Silver Moon

Ops Center

0800

“What do you mean you’ve found them, Elbert?” asked Dane, still reeling from the loss of his old friend and fellow SEAL and Section 8 shooter, Morgan "Gator" Hicks.  He felt weird having to jog in order to keep up with the computer analysis, but Stratham was just that amped. 

Elbert took the stairs down to his computer station in leaps and bounds before skidding to a sliding halt and slipping behind his desk.  He spoke over his shoulder while his fingers flew across the keyboard, “Well, Ansil and Marcus were easy enough to pick up after they were PNG’d from Section 8…”

Dane bristled visibly, and Elbert’s hands froze over the keyboard.

“…Sorry, Dane.  I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

Being PNG’d – or made persona non grata – meant to be completely disavowed by the very organization your were fighting for…and with.  It meant total banishment – no friends, no contact…it never happened.  For a good many darted with the PNG stigma, it was well deserved.  They had either violated the laws of God or man, but either way, it meant they could no longer be trusted.  For Marcus, Ansil, and Dane, however, it meant the exact opposite.  It showed to everyone they would not – could not – lie with regards to a mission and its execution.  Simply put, it meant they saw what they saw and would not back down from it, no matter how crazy it sounded.  In return, their country did exactly two things to protect the men who had risked so much:

     1.    Jack

     2.    Shit

Dane knew the men were telling the truth and knew they were headed for the same fate as he.  He knew it as plainly as the blind man Jesus made to see, because he witnessed it all unfold in real time.   

“It’s fine,” Dane said through a forced smile.  Over the last few days, the two had spent hours upon hours attempting to work out Tweeker and Toad’s location; and, despite himself, Dane had grown to like the computer geek.  He certainly knew Elbert was not intentionally picking at the proverbial scabs; but still, that was one subject which was off limits…to anyone.  Dane took a breath, “Just tell me what you’ve found, E.”

Stratham cleared his throat nervously before returning to his keyboard, “In any case, both men spent the weekend after their discharge in Vegas.  We know that from the security footage at the casino where they were staying.  We’ve also obtained several credit card purchases including plane tickets – Jackson, MS for Tolar and Fargo for Lattimore.  I took the liberty of hacking into McCarran International Airport’s surveillance system…”

“We’ve known all this for several days now, Elbert,” Dane cut in, barely able to hide his frustration.

“Right,” agreed the pasty computer nerd, “but you stated that’s exactly what they wouldn’t do, right?”

Dane reflected on that for a moment.  Elbert was right and had noted this was not at all the behavior Dane had expected. 

“Well, I can see Toad heading home for a little while.  Dude’s a momma’s boy at heart.  Tweeker, on the other hand, hated his dad with a passion; plus, both his parents have been dead a while.  He’s got an older brother there in Fargo that I guess he could have crashed with for a while, but he wouldn’t have stayed long.  He’d never intentionally endanger his brother or his family.  The dude stuck his neck out for Ansil when the seams came off he and his dad’s relationship.”  Dane pulled up a chair and sat beside Elbert.  His eyes where glacial blue and just as cold, “Elbert, you’ve got to understand, even before Mexico we were hunted men.  Did you know that about a year ago a million dollar bounty was posted on a dozen Islamic extremists websites simultaneously.  All they were asking for was information on the unit that was hitting their cells here in the U.S.  Doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know who they were looking for.  It was freaking spooky around Section after that.  We all had to accept that it was only a matter of time before someone’s family member ended up getting their head chopped off on YouTube.”

“Jesus,” muttered Elbert – E – with a cringe.  He shook off the chill worming its way up his spine and plowed on.  “Okay, so all that lines up with our timeline.  They each popped in, said their hellos, and then completely fell off the grid.”

“Again, E, we knew all this in the first five minutes we started looking,” Dane took a breath.  “Would you please get to some new information…please?”

“I am, just hang on,” he said, attempting to deflect Stackwell’s growing frustration with assurance.  “The question I kept coming back to was why would these guys display behavior exactly opposite of what one of their commanding officers - their operations officer, no less - thought they would?  The way they handled things even had General Pattridge scratching his head.” 

Again Dane stiffened, if only minutely.  For everything Dane was to the field units, General Pete Pattridge was to the overall structure of Section 8.  Where Dane was charged with finding the men, training them, and forging the unit into what it had become, General Pattridge was the tip of the flagpole that wormed Section through the loopholes of Posse Comitatus and worked the connections needed to secure the funding for such a monster as Section 8.  Pattridge had been a second father to Dane; yet as soon as the term werewolf had slipped across his lips, he had turned his back on his Lieutenant Commander.  Pattridge, a general who kept an open door policy to every member of Section, became standoffish and aloof in Dane’s presence. 

And, it happened overnight. 

The day Dane was shipped from Section 8 he promised himself that he and Pete would have a very personal, very private conversation regarding the matter.  Dane had to physically bleed his hatred for Pattridge from his soul before responding.  “Interesting question, E, and one I’ve had myself.  The guys had just gotten booted from a unit they helped stand up; so, maybe they just didn’t care anymore?”

“Then why disappear?” Stratham countered.  “Why not just go wherever they were going and relax, find a job, wind up dead…something?”

“That’s a good point, actually,” Dane said before leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in thought.  He laced his fingers and rested them on his forehead.  After a minute, his eyes flew open, and he sat up.  Elbert’s face was bright with a knowing, come on, you got it smile.  “They were dropping bread crumbs.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought,” agreed Elbert.  “I’m just spit-balling here, but I think they may have picked up a tail as soon as they hit Vegas and were leading whoever – and, Dane, we have to think whatever, as in savages, as well – off on a wild goose chase.”

“Savages?” asked Dane with obvious confusion.

“Sorry, savages is the battle slang we use for werewolves.”

“Gotcha.”

“So anyway, at that point, I was pretty much at a dead end until I got to thinking along a different string.”

Dane sat up; he could tell this was where the meat of the conversation lay.

“What if they weren’t dropping breadcrumbs just for their tails but for any friendly who might be checking on them?”

Dane studied him for a second, “Pattridge?  You think the old man tipped them off?”

“I think it’s possible,” said Elbert while nodding slowly.

“He didn’t tell me shit,” Dane growled. 

“Maybe he thought he didn’t need to,” Elbert countered in a tone that said he knew more than he was willing to get into.  “Either way, I then remembered a little known personnel discovery program codenamed the GRIM.” 

Dane’s eyes became saucers of astonishment, “How could you know about that?”

The Global asset Recognition and Information Mainframe – so called the GRIM – was a proprietary software program originally designed to catalog everything from individual internet searches to online purchases, along with half a dozen other criteria, in order to compile a working profile of the target individual – any target individual.  In fact, if you hit on a hot website – even by accident – that carried a keyword impetus the United States government defined as extremist in nature, your files were searched and scrubbed, and you were on a list.  Once identified, the GRIM employed invisible bots to troll a user’s system in order to gather the necessary SIGINT – signal intelligence – needed to acquire and cultivate intel assets and sources the world over.  At the GRIM’s soul was an insidious and intuitive program cloaked behind a two-hundred-fifty-six-bit encryption firewall and an astronomical number of redundancies; at its heart was merciless blackmail.  This was the black program to end all black programs.  The GRIM was a program so well protected that it would take a supercomputer over a year just to crack the system’s redundancies; another ten would be required for the firewall.

This was a good thing as the GRIM violated every privacy law known to man.

“This is SKUL, Dane,” Elbert replied seriously, like he was surprised Dane would eve ask the question, “we know everything.”

“Plus, Elbert used my access code to gain entrance,” added the unmistakably gravelly voice of the Admiral from behind.  His voice sounded like big rocks being pounded into smaller ones and caused Elbert to jump.

“Yeah, that too,” mumbled Stratham a bit nervously.

“What do we have, Elbert?” asked the Admiral.

“Sir, as I was about to tell Commander Stackwell, I used the GRIM to cross-reference assets employed by both men.  There were several – more than a dozen, actually – but one really stands out.”  Elbert tapped on his computer keys, briefly, and called up the photo of a man who, quite frankly, looked like the world had worn him out.  A victim of male pattern baldness, he was pasty white and had a narrow ring of brown hair that encircled his head.  The person in question was also extremely gaunt with sunken cheeks, dark rings around his eyes, and a heavy five o’clock shadow.  He looked, more or less, like nothing more than the seedy man of disrepute he truly was.

“Vinnie Lampwright,” mumbled Dane, “why didn’t I think of him?” 

“So you know him?” asked the Admiral as he leaned over Elbert’s shoulder for a closer look.  “Looks dirty.”

“He is,” Dane agreed.  “In more ways than one; but, he’s got mad talent in the art of ID forgery.  You give Vinnie enough money and a few hours, and he’ll give you a new life complete with enough backstops and top cover to virtually negate the risk of discovery.  He’s dirty, yes, but he’s also really good at his craft.  This would explain how Toad and Tweeker were able to go to ground so completely.”

“Where is he?” asked the Admiral cautiously.  He knew anyone who had dealt with Tolar and Lattimore recently could already be dead. 

“Last known address was a small house in Memphis, Tennessee,” answered Elbert quickly while tapping more keys to pull up security footage from what looked to be a gas station in an urban area.  “He’s going by Frank Danskins right now.”  Elbert pulled the grainy photo in closer and tapped the screen, “But, that’s him.”

Dane leaned in and studied the still before agreeing, “Yeah, that’s the greasy little weasel alright.”

The Admiral checked his watch, noting it read 0845, “I want a team of SI-2s on surveillance ASAP.”  He then called across the Ops Center, “Hey, Toni, can you get over here for a second, please?”

An attractive black woman walked briskly to the Admiral’s side, “Sir?” 

“Moccasin’s active tonight, right?” questioned the Skipper.

“Yes, sir.”

“Send them an activation order over SICS.  Tell them I want them on a bird and off this ship within the hour.  You’re gonna need to clear their flight with Memphis International Airport and arrange for pickup as well.”

“Done and done,” the pretty young woman said with a bright smile.

“Elbert, send everything you’ve got Toni’s way.”

“Already done, sir.”

“Outstanding.  Dane, Elbert, good work.  I want you guys to be in Toni’s hip pocket until Lattimore and Tolar are brought in,” the Skipper said before turning and leaving the Ops Center.

***

Memphis, Tennessee

E. E. H Crump Blvd

1930

“That our guy?” asked Officer Danny Lopez into his mic.  He was referring to the small, disheveled man trotting across the street in the fading twilight. 

“Yeah, that’s him,” replied Lopez’s partner, Chaz Roundstreet.  Both were members of the Memphis Police Department; and both, having come in contact with werewolves at different points in their lives, worked for SKUL’s intelligence division as SI-2s.  “I no longer have eyes on him, but I’ve already run the plates…Frank Danskins.”

“Hello, Frank,” Lopez said quietly through a smile. “Moccasin, you guys in position?”

“Roger that,” came a steady yet unknown voice.  There was a certain level of spooky when working with SKUL shooters.  They just kind of appeared out of thin air and, when the operation was over, evaporated to nothingness just as easily.  “Entry and egress are covered.  We’ve also got a sniper in a helo running overwatch, over.”

“Copy,” a-firmed Lopez, “we’re going to give him a while to get situated before we knock on his door.”

“Moccasin-actual copies all.  You guys holler if you need us.”

“Will do.  Lopez, out.”

Memphis, Tennessee

E. E. H Crump Blvd

2200

Boom…Boom…Boom

The knocks were just firm enough while remaining devoid of threat to elicit a reaction.  Within seconds, the door started open only to slam shut when the little man inside caught sight of the two plainclothes officers.  Luckily, Roundstreet was able to wedge his foot between the door and the jam to prevent it from being slammed in their faces.  The two were on Danskins in seconds and, in short order, had him flexi-cuffed to his own chair.

“Vinnie Lampwright…”

“You…you…you got the wrong fella…fella,” wheezed the little man.  “My name’s Frank Danskins, and I demand you…”

“You don’t demand anything now, Vinnie,” hissed Lopez while Roundstreet bolted the door lock.  “We know who you are, Vinnie, and we know who you’ve done work for in the past.  I need to know the names and lives you gave to two recent clients.  One stands way, way over six feet tall…looks like Thor, only has a worse attitude.  The other is a small, black guy.  He’s packing ropey muscle and manages to hide his Southern accent pretty well.”

“I…I…”  Vinnie looked around the room hoping to find anything that could help him out of this predicament. 

Off to one side of the room, the other police officer began testing the battery power of the hand-held drill he brought.

ZZZ…ZZZZZ…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

He looked up and nodded with a wicked grin.  At the sight and knowing what could possibly be in store, Lampwright’s bladder gave way, and he pissed in his seat and on the floor.  Realizing too slowly what was happening, Lopez lifted his feet out of the puddle and shook the urine off in aggravation.  He nodded toward the kitchen; and, without a word passed between them, Roundstreet fetched a towel and tossed it to his partner.

Lopez spoke with a measured tone while tamping the towel over the urine on the floor, “Vinnie, I don’t have all night.  I need you to understand that no matter what you believe, no matter how tough and smart you think you are, I’m going to get what I came for.  Believe it or not, but I’ll hurt you for the info…”

Just then, a sonorous howl, canine in nature but unnaturally feral, caused the hairs on the three men’s necks to stand on end.  It was so powerful it seemed to hold the South Memphis night in its thrall, even when it shattered it.

In Lopez and Roundstreet’s ear buds, SKUL’s Moccasin team began shouting battle movements.

2)

Snatch and Grab

2215

The two officers pulled their pistols in unison and, while Danny Lopez cut the flexi-cuffs away from Lampwright’s wrists and ankles, Chaz Roundtree pulled the blinds back and checked the street.

“I don’t see anything, Danny,” announced Roundtree quietly as he craned his neck to get a deeper view down the street.

Into his mic, Lopez called up Moccasin, “This is Lopez, you guys have eyes on anything?”

The howling was gaining in intensity and seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.  It was like every single molecule of air housed the voracious sound and had decided to unleash its force at once.  Just when the panic became all but paralyzing, the deep thumping of helicopter rotors tore a hole through the wolfish howls.  The helo buzzed low to the street from east to west. 

Moccasin’s sniper was on scene.

“Negative, Danny,” came the unwavering voice of the team leader he knew only as Moccasin-actual.  It was a steady, reassuring voice.  “Front entrance is covered by two of my guys.  Suggest securing the asset and making your way to them.”

“Roger that,” Danny a-firmed then turned back to Lampwright.  “Vinnie, if you value your life you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”

“Got a subject on South 4^th walking this way…” announced Roundtree in a strain voice, “…yep, werewolf.  He just changed.”

“Move, move, move,” Lopez whispered hoarsely as he pushed Vinnie through the house.

The little man, obviously scared to death and more than a little confused, screamed, “What?  Werewolf?  Where are you taking me?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Lopez even as the clap clap clap of suppressed gunfire and screeching of tires on pavement rent the night air.  “Just run toward the gunfire,” he growled while pushing the little man toward the front door.

The trio spilled outside and were immediately surrounded by three SKUL operators who seemed to materialize around them straight out of the darkness itself.  Vinnie gasped and began to shake.  Given the appearance of the men, it was an understandable reaction.  They were kitted out in black helmets with deep, green lenses of armored glass and respirators that looked for all the world like characters ripped from a first-person shooter video game.  Adding to the futuristic look was their up-armored black body suits draped with strange looking grenades and…tomahawks?  A blacked-out SUV screamed around the corner on two wheels and slammed the brakes only when directly in front of the house.  Danny and Chaz manhandled Vinnie into the backseat while the operators covered their exfil before following them into the back of the monstrous vehicle.  The SUV launched down the street even as the doors were being shut.  While the vehicle veritably flew down Crump Boulevard at breakneck speeds, a mish-mash of voices played out over the vehicle’s sound system, “We’re clear.  Savages neutralized.  Pike, stay on station for overwatch.  Will rendezvous with you at the primary extraction point.”

The inside of the vehicle filled with another disembodied voice, “Roger that.”

Another voice came across the net, “Blowing the house…now!”  The shooter directly to Danny’s left pushed a button on the remote device in his hand.  From behind the fleeing vehicle, the night exploded with a small mushroom cloud of flames and debris and a thunderous boom followed a short second later.

Lampwright finally managed to collect his wits just enough to scream so loud it was damned near indecipherable, “I demand to know what is going on here!”

A helmet turned toward the diminutive man.  This time the voice came straight from the helmet.  It was eerily flat and digitized, “You just died in that explosion back there, Mr. Lampwright.”  The helmet moved threateningly close and added, “We need to find a couple of men; and, Mr. Lampwright, you’re going to help us do that, understand?”

Vinnie’s Adam’s apple snaked up and down his throat as he gulped, “Yes…yes, I understand.”

The helmet nodded then moved to a less threatening distance.

Another helmet turned back to Vinnie and in an identically digitized voice said, “Dude, did you piss yourself?”

***

0400

Dane and Elbert, along with Twitch who had just joined them, entered AR-5 at a run.  AR-5 was one of a series of small briefing and mission planning rooms called action rooms that ran down the hall from the entrance to the cavernous Ops Center.  Toni, the pretty, young black woman who was Moccasin’s lead intelligence officer, greeted them excitedly.

“We’ve found them!” she exclaimed.

Dane pumped his fists and felt the tension that had been building over the last several days begin to bleed away, “Nice work.  Where are they?”

“Anchorage.”  Seeing their looks of bewilderment, she added, “I know, right?”  This was her big break.  Finding the men as quickly as she did could very well mean a promotion and she absolutely could not disguise her excitement.

Dane, on the other hand, mumbled, “Anchorage…in October.”  He had undergone a block of cold weather training in and around Kodiak Island and had hated the entire state of Alaska ever since.

“No kidding,” agreed Elbert, “I guess expecting your buddies to hole up on some beachfront property in the South Pacific would have been too much to ask.”

Dane just shook his head then to Toni asked, “So, we know where they are.  What’s next?”

“We bring them in,” boomed the Admiral’s gravelly voice from behind.  “They’ll have the same opportunity to continue serving their country as you were offered, Commander.” 

He had entered the room unnoticed and the sudden, stony voice caused Elbert to start.  “I hate it when he does that,” Elbert whispered to Dane and Toni as the Skipper cruised past them and began typing in a series of access codes on a nearby keyboard.

“Me too, bro,” replied Twitch whose voice brought visions of surfers and stoned hippies to Dane’s mind.  “Just be glad you didn’t break anything or you’d never hear the end of it.”

“Breaking things here and there, I can handle, Metcalf; but, you make a habit of it,” the Skipper said with little emotion.  It was like he and Twitch were revisiting the same old argument for the hundredth time.  Suddenly, the large, wall-mounted flat screen came to life and revealed a wiry man dressed in the woodland BDUs associated with the Marine Corps.  Though Dane had never laid eyes on the man, there was something vaguely familiar about him, particularly in the eyes.  Stranger still was the fact that his normally flippant and aloof friend, Twitch, had gone completely rigid.  The man, who had been standing at the screen like he knew the call was coming, greeted the Admiral by snapping sharply to attention.

“Sir!” the soldier said firmly.

“At ease, Kyle,” ordered the Admiral, “we’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, sir,” and the man relaxed…slightly.

“Kyle, we’ve got two SEALS in imminent danger somewhere in or around Anchorage.  I need you to lead a squad of your Wraith shooters to find these men and protect them until we can secure an airlift back to the Moon.”

Dane turned slightly to Twitch and noted the man’s eyes were locked fiercely on the screen.  His new friend was so still Dane was afraid he had stopped breathing.  But there, in his eyes – on the surface yet buried purposefully deep in equal measure – was the same fierce intensity as the man on the screen.  Dane knew a bit about Twitch’s history and how werewolves had decapitated his mom in front of him as they hunted his father.  He also knew his new friend, Kris Metcalf, was one of the few legacy shooters – those who had fathers that had served with SKUL.  The pieces to the puzzle quickly began to slide into place.

And, Twitch’s dad’s name?

Kyle.

Same as the man on the screen.  I’ll be damned, Dane thought.

Twitch was still.  No, he was more than that.  He was stone.

The Skipper continued, “Kyle, Toni’s downloading their profiles to your SICS now.  I’ve also got their former operations officer here to answer any personality and background questions you may have.  You guys take some time reviewing the package and then get back with us.  You know the drill.  Whatever you need, you’ll have, understood?”

“Roger that, sir,” the elder Metcalf a-firmed. 

“Thank you, Kyle,” the Admiral said warmly.  “I know this is not your normal mission profile, but these aren’t normal times.  These men have earned our protection and the right to continue the fight.”

“I’ll see it done, sir,” replied Kyle Metcalf firmly.

“I know you will…”

In an unprecedented violation of accepted decorum, Twitch stepped between the Admiral and the screen.  The act was so proscribed Dane flinched.  Twitch took several deep breaths, bundled up his nerves, mustered his infinite amount of courage, puffed his chest out, glared into the screen, and said…

“…Hey Dad.”

Ronald Reagan, the man was not. 

Dane’s hands flew up in the air in no small amount of disgust and frustration.  It’s not like he did not have his own skeletons, either.  Hell, he and Abbey, his wife, had not been able to communicate on any adult wavelength in years. 

But, your dad?  Your dad?

It was pretty obvious to Dane that the two had a shit-ton of unresolved personal issues.  He found himself wanting to scream at Twitch, C’mon man! but he managed to keep his mouth shut as these two emotionally inept alpha males talked…if that’s what you could call it.

The elder Metcalf’s eyes flared wide with surprise only briefly before relaxing, “Hey, son.”

Twitch followed that bit of personal dissertation with, “Stay safe.”

Kyle Metcalf then added the epilogue to what would never be mistaken as the final chapter of War and Peace by saying, “Always do, son.”

He then turned to the Admiral and said, “I’ll report back in two hours, sir.”

“We’ll be waiting,” replied the Skipper.  A second later, the screen went black.  The Admiral turned to those in the AR-5 and ordered, “I want everyone in this room to grab some chow, hit the head, and for crissakes, get some decent coffee going.  Be back here within the hour.  This is going to be a long day, people.”

As they were leaving for the Point – the ship’s mall-like area housing Mac’s pub and the cafeteria among other things – Dane leaned into Twitch’s ear, “Dude, you two need to talk…”

“Shut up,” Metcalf said firmly.

“…maybe schedule some time with a doc or something…”

“Shut up, it’s not like that, Dane,” Twitch snarled.

“…I mean, have ya’ll ever thought about just hugging it out?”

“Fuck!  You!” Twitch said as he stormed ahead.

Dane laughed, quietly, as he was really just kidding around; but then a thought hit him.  Where are my wife and son?  His mood sullied by the thought, he followed Twitch to the café.

3)

Operation Slingshot

Anchorage, Alaska

Great Alaskan Bush Company

2200

The man maneuvering through the crowded tables of fishermen and oilmen was huge.  He was not just big or large; he was huge, massive even.  Standing at over six feet four inches tall and weighing nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, the man would cut an imposing figure without the shoulder length blond hair and arms inked with tattoos of dragons and skulls.  The fact that he was that big and had those tats caused nearly every head in the place to turn long enough to glance but quickly enough so as not to draw his attention.  He wore a tight t-shirt that would normally show an immense frame that held an even more immense amount of muscle, but the black leather bomber jacket covered those muscles…for the most part, anyway.  Completing the ensemble was a pair of jeans and the Solomon hiking boots he came to love during his deployments with DEVGRU to Afghanistan.  He slid into a booth in the back corner of the place, reached his hand across the table, and shook the other man’s hand.

“Good to see you, brother,” Ansil Lattimore said in his nasally, North Dakota accent.

“You too, Tweeker,” replied Marcus warmly.

The two had been talking via dead drops all over town for the last forty-eight hours.  They had both suspected they were being shadowed the weekend after they had been discharged from Section 8.  Instead of making themselves easy targets, the two parted ways and made it look like they were heading back to their hometowns – which they did for just long enough to complete the ruse – then they fell off the grid.  They knew they were living on borrowed time as soon as the news hit regarding the systematic murders of their former Section 8 teammates.  The two were sure the murders stemmed from what they had seen on their last operation down in Mexico.

Frankly, they were scared, and these were hard men unused to the emotion.

Before Tweeker could say anything further, a cocktail waitress approached their table, “Can I get you guys anything to drink?”  The woman had platinum blonde hair and was dressed for a good time in nine-inch pleaser heels and not much else.

Tweeker and Toad took a moment to visually undress the woman.  Given her current state of dress – which is to say she really was not dressed at all – it did not take them too long before they managed to pull their tongues off the floor and order a couple of beers.  They watched her sashay back to the bar before Tweeker asked, “You get any eyes on our tails?”

“Negative,” Toad said as the cocktail waitress delivered their drinks. 

Tweeker grabbed his beer only to have the waitress lay a delicate hand on his forearm.  “My name’s Destiny.”  She leaned close to Tweeker and nibbled at his ear playfully.  In a voice that purred across a pair of pouty lips, she said. “If you need anything at all just let me know.”

“Sweetheart, I promise you’ll be the first person I get in touch with,” Tweeker replied with a wink.  Destiny giggled and then pranced off into the sea of horny clientele.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Toad said irritably.  “They never go for the little black dude.  Shit pisses me off.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure Destiny would go for you, me, and most of the men in this dump,” he said while clinking his beer against Toad’s proffered bottle.

“You’re probably right,” Toad said before taking a pull of his beer.  “So, back to our immediate problem which will most likely result in our painful deaths.  Any idea who’s stalking us?  And, don’t say Destiny.”

“Mmhmm,” was Tweeker’s only reply. 

Something on the far side of the bar had caught the big man’s attention.  Toad followed his gaze and found what – or rather, who – Tweeker was eyeballing.  There were two men sitting directly across from him and Tweeker that were trying awfully hard to look at them without seeming like they were looking at them.  Both men had dark hair cut neatly and while one was clean-shaven, the other sported a seventies porn star mustache.  Marcus was not sure, but he could almost swear he had seen at least one of the men over the course of the last couple of days.

“Marcus…” Tweeker said through one side of his mouth.

“I see ‘em.  Look familiar to you?”

“I’m not sure…maybe."  After a moment's thought, Tweeker added, "Yeah, I think I’ve seen that prick on the right a time or two recently.”  Tweeker turned back to Toad, took a drink, and said nonchalantly, “I think we just made our tails.”

“Maybe, maybe not, Tweeker.  Anchorage ain’t exactly a metropolis.  Could be just a coincidence.  Gotta think.  Seems like every hard-leg in the state of Alaska is in here tonight.  Maybe they just needed a table with a view.”  Toad had always been the rationale one, thinking about a problem from all sides before coming to any sort of conclusion.  He was a keen observer; it’s what made him so deadly at his craft as a Navy SEAL sniper.

“Dude, there’s a few hundred thousand people in this town,” Tweeker argued.  “What are the odds we just happened to cross paths with these two jokers before?  Besides, you don’t believe in coincidences any more than I do.”   

“You make a fair point.”  Toad took another pull of his beer, “So, what’re we gonna do about it?”

“I’m tired of playing these games,” Tweeker said through a smile as he tossed enough money on the table to cover their bill along with a good tip for Destiny.  “Let’s get out of here.  These punks want a fight, we’ll give them one.”  Tweeker slid from the booth with Toad doing the same.

“I was thinking the same thing, bro.”

***

As soon as their targets pushed through the front door and back onto the street, the two men were following in their wake.  Even though they had only been inside the strip club a short while, it had consistently become more and more crowded; so, it was tough sledding to get across the floor and back out the door.  In fact, it took enough time that the two feared they had lost the men they were after.  They were not worried about completely losing their trail for one second; they just wanted to end the pursuit tonight while they had both men together.  Finally making it to the door, the men quickly began scanning the parking lot.  Seeing no one, they bolted for the sidewalk where they found their targets loitering under a streetlight a couple of blocks away.  The men knew from their earlier reconnaissance that their marks were standing in front of a large parking area that would be almost, if not completely, empty by now.  Suddenly, the two fanned out on the sidewalk.  One was a really, really big blond headed man.  He stood next to a very short yet muscular black man.  The loose confidence in which they waited on their pursuers said all that was needed regarding their willingness to stand their ground and fight. 

These men were killers.

“Big Viking looking dude and a small black dude…sounds like our guys, huh?” said the man with the porn star ‘stache to his clean-shaven counterpart.

“It does.  Also, looks like we have ourselves a little Mexican standoff,” replied Clean-cut in a freakishly relaxed tone.

“Huh?” asked Mustache, clearly uncertain of the term.

“Means they’re expecting a fight,” he clarified through a smile that held absolutely no warmth.  He liked fights.  “Let’s go introduce ourselves, shall we?”

***

Toad and Tweeker stood a few feet apart on the sidewalk.  Their minds were racing, but their body language screamed bring the shit on.  The two had seen more death, hell, they had dealt more death, than any two men should ever have to.  For them, this was just another day.  Still though, neither Tweeker nor Toad knew what to expect from the men following them, but it was safe to say they did not expect them to start running toward them.  Even from a distance, they could see no fear in their eyes.

“Marcus, you packin’?”

“Yep,” Toad said simply.

“Well, you may want to get ready,” Tweeker said as he fell into a fighter’s stance.  “These fucks ain’t playin’ around.”

***

WOOP-WOOP-WOOP

Passing at exactly the right time to see guns being drawn, the cop performed a hairpin U-turn at a high rate of speed, before sliding out of control and slamming into a telephone pole.  He managed to extricate himself from the car only to slip and stumble on the ice-slicked street.  “Stop!  Anchorage Po…”

Tweeker and Toad, who dove into a roadside ditch as the car went careening into the pole, came up out of the ditch aggressively just in time to witness the cop being torn in half by a set of massive jaws.  Like a gigantic bear trap, they slammed shut over the policeman’s head and upper body with a sickly crunch.  It was the nightmare Marcus and Ansil first confronted down in Mexico.  It was a werewolf.  A very, very big werewolf.

The two men – Mustache and Clean-cut – where still too far away for their sidearms to be effective, but that did not stop them from sending rounds downrange in rapid fashion.  The sound of tires screeching on the pseudo-icy pavement filled the air as a blacked-out Suburban screamed around a corner.  Toad and Tweeker saw what they assumed was a man lean out of the passenger window.  It was hard to tell as he wore a strange looking black suit, and his head was helmeted.  He shouldered an assault rifle, even as the vehicle sped down the street in their direction, and began firing in the werewolf’s direction.  He walked rounds into the werewolf’s position and managed to clip the thing in the thigh, spinning the beast.  The werewolf howled with rage before leaping over the police car and into the darkness.  The Suburban and the men – Mustache and Clean-up – arrived at their position simultaneously.  Men poured from the vehicle and trained their weapons up and down the street.  Mustache grabbed Toad and lifted him to his feet while Clean-cut hefted Tweeker up and shoved him forward with relative ease, “Move, man!  Get in, get in, get in!”  Both men were led – pushed honestly – to the waiting Suburban as another hail of gunfire erupted.  Toad and Tweeker fell into the spacious rear of the vehicle just before the rest of the cavalry jumped in and slammed the doors shut. 

“Go, go, go, go!” yelled both of the men in plainclothes to the suited and helmeted driver.

The vehicle bucked as it shot off down the streets of slush and ice.  Outside, Anchorage clicked by at an ever increasing pace while inside, pandemonium reigned.

“Anyone have eyes on it?” one man demanded with a digitized voice.  “Does anyone have eyes on it?”

Dane would love this shit, Toad thought, freakin’ Storm Troopers.  I can’t believe it.

“Negative!” called out Mustache from the passenger side as he scanned for trouble outside the window.

“How many?” yelled another, though again his voice was blunted and mechanized.

“One confirmed,” called the helmeted, other-worldly-looking soldier next to Tweeker.  “Intel of the area identified two, Rash, both suspected of being very old.  If they are True Wolves, we won’t last long in this car!”

“Roger that,” confirmed Clean-cut from one of the driver side backseats.  “Wraith-one-five to Nest, we have secured the packages.  We are in contact with a lone savage.  Can not confirm the second on-scene at this time.”

“Copy that, Wraith-one-five.  Casualties?” asked a disembodied voice that was obviously carried across the vehicle via surround sound.

“Negative, Nest,” called the plainclothes soldier calmly.  “Packages are in good shape.  Savage was nicked, but just enough to piss him off.” 

At that moment, something huge rocked the speeding Suburban and threatened to send it careening off into oblivion.  It hit the vehicle so hard, the entire passenger side lifted off the ground for a split second.  Incredibly, the driver maintained control of the speeding vehicle.  A massive claw tore through roof and began peeling it open like a can of sardines.  Tweeker and Toad, knowing they were ill-equipped for this fight, attempted to make themselves as small as possible.  The back of the Suburban erupted in gunfire; and, to the two neophytes in the vehicle, it looked like the werewolf was not only in the Matrix, he could see the Matrix.  The thing moved just that quick, without the benefit of special effects, and every round ended up wide of its mark.  While the barrage may have failed to accomplish its goal by way of blood, the werewolf was forced to flee.  Interestingly enough, and not the least bit terrifying, it did so by way of flight.

The thing just flew away or seemed to, anyway.

“Air!” screamed a helmeted soldier through his filters.  “Christ…air.  Why do they always develop that gift, Rash?”

“No clue,” Clean-cut yelled.  “Nest, we’re in heavy contact but still heading for the airport.  I need a status update on Raven-77.”  The man was crisp and calm – unflappable – yet there was a commanding, professional presence about him that grounded the entire car.  Another violent collision rocked the car.  This time, the entire driver side creased inward about six inches.  The driver lost his grip on the wheel, the windshield shattered, and the car teetered on the brink until he managed to gain control again by turning into the spin.  Still though, they ended up on the sidewalk and their speed was so great, they could not slalom between the light poles to get back on the street.  He was forced to hug a chain-link fence for a few seconds in order to avoid a telephone pole, only scraping it twice – the sparks that created would rival most Fourth of July nights – and took out a mailbox before he cut the wheel, sent the car back on two wheels, and out into the street.

Both Tweeker and Toad had been to several different defensive and offensive driving schools over the length of their special operations’ careers, but the dude driving had to have been some sort of high-speed savant - a veritable Rain Man behind the wheel.

“Nice work, Driz.  Now get us to the fucking airport,” yelled Clean-cut over the whine of the strained engine.  "Preferably, in one piece!" he added as he grabbed a strongbox underneath one of the bench seats lining the back end of the Suburban, unlocked it, and pulled out a M249 squad automatic weapon (SAW).  The SAW is a belt-fed, two-hundred-rounds-per-minute, war-fighter’s wet dream.  “It's time to end this shit!”  Mr. Clean-cut wormed his way through the hole the werewolf had torn in the roof.  A second later, the SAW followed. 

“Guys,” Mustache said in a weirdly quiet voice.  He was pointing through the shattered glass of windshield.  “We’ve got a problem.”

Everyone turned in time to see both savages standing shoulder to shoulder in the street.  Their bodies rippled with muscle and the claws of their much-too-long fingers gleamed in the pale moonlight.  From above, Clean-cut ordered at the top of his lungs, “Punch it, Driz!”  The Suburban lurched forward even faster, stressing the vehicle’s engine to the max.  As Clean-cut shifted his body, the savage on the left pushed the one on the right out of the road.  He hit the werewolf so hard that the beast flew completely out of the on-rushing vehicle’s line of sight.  The one remaining took a posture that resembled an NFL linebacker preparing to take a quarterback’s head off.  It was a confident stance, and it was that confidence that brought about its ruin.  Suddenly, the man hanging out of the makeshift turret cut loose with a nightmarish sequence of gunfire.  Not even the werewolf’s speed could save him.  The end of the beast was almost anticlimactic, if you can call a mythological werewolf made very real all but disintegrating under a hail of gunfire anticlimactic, that is.  Bullets buried themselves in the thing’s thighs, stomach, and chest; and each impact puckered with green blood instantly.  The werewolf’s lower jaw was ripped from its face in a puff of green mist.  In one last act of defiance, the driver of the vehicle swerved and with a blump blump, ran over the dying werewolf.  The thing was so big, the Suburban actually caught air – a lot of air, in fact – before landing with a crash and a thud.  The vehicle bounced on impact, getting half again as much air as the first time, and it's back-end fishtailed wildly before catching enough traction to keep speeding toward Alaska’s only international airport.

Clean-cut, who had only just managed to fall through the hole before the driver - Driz - had used the werewolf as a makeshift ramp, pulled himself off the floor of the vehicle and the two helmeted soldiers who had cushioned his fall.  “Jesus, Driz, how about a little warning next time?”

The driver nonchalantly waved toward the back of the Suburban, “No backseat driving.”

Rash shook his head mumbling something about being too old for this shit then called up his mic.  “Nest, this is Wraith-one-five.  One savage is down; and we have confirmed visual of the second.  It’s still out there.  Need that bird ready to fly.”

“Roger that, Wraith-one-five.  Raven-77 is on the tarmac awaiting your arrival.”

For the first time, the clean-shaven operator showed a hint of emotion by exhaling slowly, “Wraith-one-five copies all.  ETA five mikes.  Wraith out.”  The man then turned back to Tweeker and Toad, held out his hand, and smiled.  “I sure hope you guys are Marcus Tolar and Ansil Lattimore.”

They each shook his hand in turn.  “Yeah, that’s us,” said Tweeker.  “Not that we’re not grateful for the assist, but you mind telling me who the hell you are?”

The older operator smiled even brighter, and the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes grew.  It was apparent the man had seen his share over the years, “My name’s Kyle Metcalf, but everyone just calls me Rash.  Welcome to SKUL, gentlemen.”

***

The werewolf completed nearly a dozen airborne somersaults before gaining control of his flight.  It landed in the nearly frozen dirt and dug its feet in to stop its motion.  In the process, the thing had dug two rather deep trenches with mud and dirt piled up waist-high behind its feet.  The beast managed to witness the vehicle using its brother as a freestyle ramp.  Incensed, the thing roared with anger it never knew being capable of, and then tried to run to its brother.  Searing pain broke his stride.  He wiped his hands over his right thigh and brought away green ichor.  The wound had not healed.  Silver.  The thought caused a moment of fear to slam into his mind until, upon closer inspection; he realized it was a clean pass-through.  It was a flesh wound that would cause him a lot aggravation; and given the silver bullet, would only heal at a mortal’s pace.  But, it would heal.

With the cold reality that he was not entirely impervious to death fresh on its mind, the beast limped to his brother’s side. The thing that used to be its brother was lying in an ever-widening pool of green ichor – the lifeblood of his kind.  With no jaw, Frank James could not speak, but Jesse heard his brother’s agonized and frightened voice deep in his mind.  Frank’s voice was weak and thready as he said his last, “Avenge me.”  Frank James, notorious outlaw and once immortal beast, was no more.

A loan tear rolled down Jesse James’ wolfish face as he picked his brother’s body off the ground, howled a mournful song, and then leaped into the night.  He headed to the only place he knew to go, the only place he thought he may be safe.  Even then, considering he and Frank’s failure, there was no guarantee as to the truth of that for his destination was the single most terrifying plot of ground he had ever come across.  Considering the length of his long life and the truly terrifying things he had visited upon thousands of souls over his long life, that was truly saying something.

He was going to the lair of Genghis Khan.

EPILOGUE

The Great Khan’s lair was an ancient place of power set in some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet.  It was a vast and incredibly tall mountain even among the other vast and incredibly tall mountains that spilled from the wilds of Alaska’s mainland into the mouth of the Prince William Sound.  The mountain itself was constantly changing, growing, and reshaping to suit the needs of its master…of Jesse’s master.  Long ago, over the course of several millennia, Genghis Khan mastered the gifts offered of earth, wind, water, and fire; but his favorite had always been the mastery of the Earth.  With control of it, there was nothing he could not do.  There was no country he could not shape, and no army he could not swallow whole.  With the Great Wars between his kind and the vampires, his strength reached its apex – as did his arrogance – only to be brought low by the gods who lorded over them with an iron fist.  His king, Fenrir, was bound, imprisoned, and taken to the Mist World known as Niflheim, the land of Hel.  Defeated, their lands stripped from them, Genghis Khan and the surviving members of the Eldrich court – the ruling body of the werewolves – were forced to wonder strange and foreign lands in search of succor.  The eons of man’s intrusion became hard for him to tolerate – even with an ample supply of food; and eventually, he slipped from the known lands to create a life more to his liking.  There was no death to mourn, and he left no tomb for his people to worship or curse; he simply moved on.  And thus, it had been for as long as he could remember; yet, even in weakness he held sway over the wild lands of the Earth.  There were few lands, so precious few that could boast the majestic powers felt in Alaska; particularly, where the mountains meet the sea.  Here, still, his power thrummed as it coursed through his body.

The Great Khan knew as soon as his disciple Jesse James’ feet touched his land, and he knew of his great failure.  His eyes, long closed to the world, flew open in a golden rage.  There was but one outcome that would please him.

Pain…

***

As soon as Jesse’s feet touched the ground, he laid Frank’s body gently upon the Earth and knelt gingerly.  Green ichor dripped from the bullet hole in his thigh, staining the fresh fallen snow.  He was in human form, naked, and though a snowstorm had moved in from the Pacific, he felt no cold…only fear. 

He had failed his master, and the punishment would be fierce.  There could be no denying that.  He would face it, endure it, and move past it.

The mountain swayed, blurred, and the night’s darkness began to take shape.  It coalesced into blobs of shadow at first, then built and grew upon itself, gaining more and more shape.  Jesse was frozen in place by the terror that was Genghis Khan.  He could feel the ancient wolf’s presence scratching away at his mind; and unconsciously, he looked away.  Genghis was his pack leader; and, even in thought, the terrible werewolf hulked over Jesse like only a true Alpha could.  The old outlaw, unable to pull together a coherent thought, was petrified with fear as stone began to flow like water around his ankles and wrists only to solidify and hold him in place.

Earthen manacles.  There was no escaping the Great Khan, now.

Finally, the shadows moved forward to reveal themselves.  Their likeness was that of Mongol Warriors in traditional dress only they were not made of flesh.  Their construct was that of the earth.  Each warrior stood over twelve feet tall, and their ancient, protective, ankle-length armor of articulated stone moved in step with each stride.  The warriors gripped long, slender spears tipped in stone in one hand and curved, half moon shaped, stone-bladed swords with the other.  They wore no other garment.  Underneath the armor of each were the skeletal remnants of an ancient race of werewolves.

Jesse knew from the images indelibly etched into his mind upon his turning that these were the ghosts, the golems, of the beasts belonging to Genghis’ first army. 

Though they approached Jesse with caution and swords drawn, the ground veritably shook with each of their steps.  Upon approach, each stepped to his side and raised their sword.  Jesse knew these were Genghis’ executioners, and the earth would be his gallows.  From the dark stone, a mouth formed on each warrior, and a deep, resonant voice spoke through their unmoving lips, “You failed!”  The mountain shook in time with the awesome power of the voice.    

“Yes, master,” he croaked under the strain, “and I lost my brother in the process.”

The mountain seemed to recoil.  It seemed pained on an unexpected level.

“Frank?” the voice demanded as a huge rift within the Earth engulfed a nearby copse of aspen trees.

Despite his fears, Jesse remained silent.  There was no need for speech as Genghis was already creeping his way across his mind.  He could feel the ancient Eldrich wolf’s slimy fingers worming their way through his gray matter.  It sickened him, yet he stood fast.

“You want something?”  This time the voice was so strong it felt like every molecule around him screamed all at once.

“Yes,” Jesse admitted as evenly as possible.  The stone around his wrists and ankles receded smoothly, and he stood.  “I want only to avenge my brother’s death.  I want to hurt SKUL and every man that fights under its shield.”  His voice, already low, dropped another octave yet held nothing but cold menace, “I want to make them bleed.”

The mountain seemed to grow even taller, and those around it cowed ever lower.  Boulders were dislodged from places they had sat for hundreds of years, and lava poured from undiscovered spouts.  The mountain, and more appropriately, Genghis Khan, was laughing.  To Jesse, there was something just below the surface of the undulating mass.  It was a physical presence that felt ecstatic with sheer delight.  “You shall have your vengeance, my child,” the ground rolled with great waves of dirt and stone, yet Jesse rode them out lithely.  “We have only to create our army, and we are close.  The Viking assures us he is very close.”  Jesse was taken up to the top of the mountain on a great wave of earth and placed gently at the feet of the greatest of Mongols.  He was a rather small man, with a long mustache cut in the Fu Manchu style.  He, too, wore the traditional helmet and armor of a Mongol warrior.  Genghis Khan, with eyes of sickening yellow, bore a hole through the last vestiges of Jesse James’ soul; and then, he smiled, “Come, Jesse.  We have much to discuss, and you have much to learn.  There is an Eldrich seat empty at court.  It belonged to a foul beast named, Mictlantecuhtli.  He became known as the Aztec god of the dead, a deity early man both feared and worshipped.  I believe you are ready to challenge for his seat.”

Without another word, the small man turned and stepped into the depths of the mountain.

His home.

His lair.

Genghis Khan never looked back.  He knew what Jesse James had yet to admit, and that was, at Jesse’s core was the heart of an outlaw.  The promise of great power and dominion over men was all that was needed to flip his switch. 

***

“Two minutes!” came the call from the helo pilot over comms.

Tweeker and Toad craned their necks to see out the front of the MH-60 Blackhawk.  Off in the distance, just where the sky met the waters of the Gulf of Mexico was a dark speck that grew in size with every beat of the chopper’s rotors.  Their goodbyes to Rash and his team of shooters known as Wraith-15 were brief, but the wizened warrior had passed on a couple of tidbits of information.

The first was that the Section of Knowledge and Understanding – Lycan, colloquially known as SKUL, was just about the only reason humanity still existed.  Secondly, they had a job with the outfit if they wanted it.  And lastly, and probably most importantly – to them in any case – was that someone they had fought with, trained with, broke bread with, and drank with had survived his own little nightmare and was waiting on them…

…and that someone was none other than Lieutenant Commander Dane Stackwell.

***COMING SOON***

Project Winter's Phoenix

A SKUL tie-in short story