SNAFU: Heroes: An Anthology of Military Horror Read online

  “So we have no real idea what they were doing there?”

  “Not really,” he said, and he sounded wistful about it. “I wish we could have gotten those computer records. I’ll bet there was some cool stuff there.”

  Cool.

  Much as I like Bug, he shares a single characteristic with Dr William Hu. The two of them have an absolutely unsavoury delight for any kind of bizarre or extreme technology. For Hu, the head of our Special Sciences Division, it bordered on ghoulishness. Hu loved to get his hands on any kind of world-threatening designer plague or exotic weapon of mass destruction. A few months ago, when Blackjack Team out of Vegas took down a Chechnyan kill squad who had a hyper-contagious version of weaponized Spanish Flu and were planning on releasing it into the water supply of a large Russian community near Reno, Hu was delighted. A total of fifty-three people dead and an entire water supply totally polluted for God knows how many decades, and he was like a kid with a new stack of comics. He actually admired the kind of damaged or twisted minds that could create ethnic-specific diseases, build super dirty-bombs, and create weapons capable of annihilating whole populations. I’ve wondered for years how much of a push it would take to shove Hu over to the dark side of the Force.

  Bug, though, didn’t have a mean bone in his body. For him it was a by-product of a life so insulated from the real world that nothing was particularly real to him. Only his beloved computers and the endless data streams. Something like this lab was probably no more real to him than a level in the latest edition of Gears of War or Resident Evil.

  For my part, I am not a fan of anyone that would put extreme weapons into the hands of people so corrupt or so driven by fanaticism that they would turn the world into a pestilential wasteland just to make an ideological point.

  Fuck that. For two pennies I’d call the Black Hawk and see what twelve Hellfire missiles and a six-pack of Hydra-70 rockets could do to sponge this place clean.

  “Where’s that proving station?” I asked. He sent a step-by-step to my mobile phone.

  As I made my way along corridors lit only by the narrow beam of my flashlight, I thought about the work that went on here. During the flight I’d had time to go over some of the background on the Koenig Group. They were originally a deeply integrated division of DARPA – the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, which is an agency of the Department of Defense responsible for the development of new technologies for use by the military. Koenig Group people worked on every aspect of DARPA before they went private, and that meant they had the opportunity to see not only what was currently in development for modern warfare and defense, but also what was being looked at for future exploration.

  Of late, I’ve come to realize that when it comes to keeping out in front of the global arms race, there is virtually no line of exploration that’s definitely off the table.

  So, without government oversight, where had the twisted minds here at Koenig gone?

  I reached the end of one hallway and passed through a security door that led to another corridor lined with doorways that looked exactly like the one I’d just come from. So much so that I actually went out the door and stood looking at the previous doors and then turned around and looked at the new set. The absolute similarity was unnerving and disorienting.

  I called up the floor plan on my mobile and studied it.

  “Bug,” I said, “somehow I made a wrong turn.”

  Bug didn’t answer.

  I tapped the earbud.

  “Cowboy to Bug, do you copy?”

  Nothing. Not even static.

  I tapped my way over to the command channel. “Cowboy to Deacon,” I said, trying to reach Church.

  Still nothing.

  I turned around and looked down the hall. The beam cut a pale line that pushed the shadows back, but not much.

  Suddenly I caught the smell again.

  Sulphur, human waste, and spoiled meat. And the aroma of perfume.

  I don’t remember moving or pulling open my shirt, but suddenly my gun was in my hand. Even though the whole place was absolutely still and quiet, I yelled into the darkness.

  “Freeze! Federal agent. I’m armed.”

  My words bounced off the darkened walls and melted into nothingness.

  Then, from behind me, someone spoke my name.

  A woman’s voice.

  Soft.

  Familiar.

  Achingly familiar.

  An impossible voice.

  “Joe…”

  I whirled, gun in one hand, flash in the other, pointing into the darkness.

  A woman stood ten feet behind me.

  She was dressed in black. Shoes, pants, jersey, gun belt, pistol. All black. Dark hair, dark eyes.

  Those eyes.

  Her eyes.

  My mouth fell open. Someone drove a blade of pure ice through my heart. I could see my pistol begin to tremble in my hand.

  I stared at her.

  I spoke her name.

  “Grace…”

  -5-

  I don’t know what time does in moments of madness. It stops or it warps. It becomes something else. Every heartbeat felt like a slow, deliberate punch to my breastbone, and yet I could feel my pulse fluttering.

  She held a pistol in her hand, the barrel raised to point at my chest, and I had an insane, detached thought.

  You don’t need a bullet to kill me. Be her and I’ll die.

  Not, be her, and I think I’ll die, too.

  She licked her lips and spoke.

  “Who are you?”

  The accent was British. Like Grace’s.

  But…

  But the tone was wrong.

  It didn’t sound like her.

  Not anymore. It had a moment ago when she’d spoken my name. But not now. Not anymore.

  “Grace,” I said again, but now I could hear the doubt in my own voice. “I…”

  She peered at me over the barrel of the gun, her eyes dark with complex emotions, fierce with intelligence.

  Very slowly, very carefully, she raised her gun so that the barrel pointed to the ceiling and held her other hand palms-out in a clear no-threat gesture.

  “You’re Captain Ledger, aren’t you?” she asked.

  I kept my gun on her.

  “Who are you?” I asked, but my voice broke in the middle, so I had to ask again.

  “Felicity Hope,” she said. “Barrier.”

  I stood there and held my gun on her for another five seconds.

  Then…

  I lowered the pistol.

  “God almighty,” I breathed.

  She frowned at me; half a quizzical smile. “Who did you think I was?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Felicity Hope holstered her piece and came toward me. “You called me Grace.”

  I said nothing.

  “You thought I was Grace Courtland, didn’t you?”

  “Grace is dead,” I told her.

  “I know.” She stood there staring at me.

  Up close, I could tell that it wasn’t her. This woman’s hair was paler, her eyes darker, her skin had fewer scars. But the height was the same, and the body. The same mix of dangerous athleticism and luscious curves. The movement was the same, a dancer’s grace. And the keen intelligence in the eyes. Yeah, that was exactly the same.

  Damn it.

  When the universe wants to fuck with you it has no problem bending you over a barrel and giving it to you hard and ugly.

  I cleared my throat. “Did you know her?”

  She nodded.

  “Was she… a friend?” I asked.

  Felicity shrugged. “Actually, we weren’t. Most of the time I knew her I thought she was a stuck-up bitch.” She watched my face as she spoke, probably wondering what buttons she was pushing. Then she added, “But I don’t think I really knew her. Not really. Not until right before she died.”

  “How?”

  “What?”

  “How could you know what she was like righ
t before she died?”

  “Oh…we spoke on the phone quite a lot. She was officially still with Barrier and had to make regular reports. I was the person she reported to.”

  “You were her superior officer?”

  She looked far too young. Grace had been young, too, but Grace was an exception to most rules. She’d been the first woman to officially train with the SAS. She’d been a senior field team operative in some of the most gruelling cases on both sides of the Atlantic. There was nobody quite like Grace and everyone knew it.

  Felicity shook her head. “Hardly. I was a desk jockey taking field reports. I know I’m not in Major Courtland’s league.”

  “No,” I said ungraciously. “You’re not. Tell me why you’re here.”

  She said, “Changeling.”

  “Which means what exactly? The name keeps popping up in searches but no one seems to know exactly what it is.”

  “What do you know about transformational genetics and self-directed theriomorphy?”

  “Some,” I said, dodging it. “What do you know about it?”

  “Too much,” she said.

  “Give me more than that.”

  “They’re making monsters,” she said.

  I shook my head. “Not in the mood for banter, honey, and I’m never in the mood for cryptic comments, especially not from total strangers I meet in dark places. This is American soil and a legally-closed site. Spill everything right now or enjoy the flight home.”

  She took a breath. “Okay, but I’ll have to condense it because there’s a lot.”

  “So,” I said, “condense.”

  “Can you take that flashlight out of my eyes?”

  “No,” I said, and didn’t. The light made her eyes look very large and moist. If it was uncomfortable, then so what? I was deeply uncomfortable, so it was a running theme for the day.

  She said, “Ever since the dawn of gene therapy and transgenic science it’s become clear that DNA is not locked. Evolution itself proves that DNA advances. Look at any DNA strand and you’ll see the genes for non-human elements like viruses hard-wired into our genetic code.”

  “Part of junk DNA,” I said. “What about it?”

  “Transformational genetics is a relatively new branch of science that is searching for methods of changing specific DNA, and essentially rebuilding it so that a new tailor-made code can be developed.”

  “That’s not new,” I pointed out. “The Nazis tried that, and the whole Eugenics movement before that.”

  “That’s selective breeding. That’s cumbersome and time consuming because it requires eggs and host bodies and so forth. This is remodeling, and recent advances have opened developmental doors no one imagined would be possible in this century.”

  I didn’t say anything. During the firefight at the Dragon Factory we’d encountered mercenaries who had undergone gene therapy with ape DNA. And there were other even more hideous monsters there.

  “The word ‘theriomorphy’ keeps showing up. What’s that?”

  “Shapeshifting.”

  “Shape…?”

  “The ability to change at will from one form to another.” She smiled through the blinding flashlight glow. “From human form into something else.”

  “At… will?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Like from what to what? You’re making this sound like we’re hunting werewolves or something.”

  Her smile flickered. “Who knows? Maybe we are.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I know.”

  “Wait… hold on… are we really standing here having a conversation about werewolves? I mean… fucking werewolves?”

  After a three count she said, “No.”

  “Jesus jumped-up Christ in a sidecar, then why—?”

  “Werewolves would be easy,” she said, cutting right through my words. “Werewolves would be a silver bullet and we’d take the rest of the afternoon off for a drink. I wish it was only werewolves.”

  I gaped at her.

  Seriously… what do you say to that?

  -6-

  “Okay,” I said, “before I pee my pants here, how do you know about this and what can we do about it? This facility is sealed.”

  She flashed her first real smile, and it looked so much like the battlefield grin Grace used to give me that I almost turned away.

  “When your task force shut down this place,” she said, “they made a thorough video inventory of everything. High-res footage that showed where every piece of paper was all the way down to the way pencils sat in a pot on each desk. Everything, with a second camera filming what the first camera was doing in order to firmly establish the integrity of the scene and contribute the first real link in the sacred chain of evidence. Am I right?”

  Church had told me about that, but I hadn’t seen it. I nodded anyway.

  “So we can’t take or touch anything recorded on that video.”

  “That’s the size of it,” I agreed.

  “The federal order sealing this place contains an authorized copy of that video.”

  “Yup.”

  “And the teams who were here agreed that absolutely everything has been documented – at least in terms of its existence and placement.”

  “Sure.”

  Her smile brightened. “Therefore, anything that isn’t on the video technically doesn’t exist in terms of that Federal order.”

  “Sure,” I said again, “but how does that put us back in a discussion with werewolves? ‘Cause, quite frankly I’m having a hard timing shaking loose of that conversation.”

  The smile dimmed but did not go out. “Not werewolves,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “They’re not werewolves. That’s not what they were doing here.”

  Felicity turned and walked a few paces away, going along the hall in the direction I’d come. She stopped, looked through the shadows. “You were in the storage room?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You were in the storage room,” she repeated, not making it a question this time. “Did you look inside the bathroom?”

  “Sure. Nothing there.”

  She sighed audibly.

  “I wish I could say you were right about that, Captain.”

  Without another word she began walking down the hallway toward the storeroom. She didn’t have a flashlight and my beam was currently pointed at the floor in front of me; however she seemed quite at home in the dark.

  I felt like I’d walked into the middle of a play for which I had no script and no stage direction.

  She paused once in the very outside edge of the light and looked back at me. I had seen Grace turn that way, stand that way.

  Look that way.

  Then Felicity Hope turned and vanished into the black.

  My eyes tingled at the corners and I knew that given half a chance I was going to break down and cry.

  “Oh, Grace… ” I said very, very quietly.

  -7-

  I caught up with her at the entrance to the storage room and followed her over to the small bathroom. As she approached the door she drew a small gun from a shoulder rig.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Getting ready,” she replied crisply, “and I suggest you do the same. I don’t know exactly what’s down in there but things could get very bad very quickly.”

  I almost smiled. “In a toilet?”

  “I trust you have enough faith in Barrier agents to know that we don’t typically feel the need to arm ourselves to take a piss.” She opened the door and we looked inside. Toilet, sink, white-tiled wall, plastic trashcan. And the partial handprint on the back wall.

  I said, “Secret door?”

  “Secret door,” she agreed. “And your Federal task force missed it.”

  “Balls.”

  With her pistol in her right hand she placed her left on the back wall, right over the partial print. She moved her hand to one corner and pressed. The tile tilted inward and
there was an audible click.

  The whole rear wall swung inward on silent hinges revealing a set of metal stairs that went down into blackness. A smell wafted up at us.

  Rotting meat.

  Human waste.

  And… something else.

  A fish stink. Not actually unpleasant, like the way an aquarium supply store smells; or the kitchens at a low-end fish and chips restaurant.

  There were sounds, too.

  Machines. Whirring motors. Rhythmic pumps. Other mechanical sounds, all soft, all muted.

  “How do you know about this?” I asked quietly.

  Felicity shrugged. “This information was hard-won, believe me. Literally blood, sweat and tears.”

  She moved to the top of the steel steps.

  I drew my Beretta. “What’s down there? I mean really, no bullshit about werewolves or boogeymen. What the fuck are we going to find down there?”

  Felicity turned toward me. In the crowded confines of the bathroom she was very close to me. I could smell her perfume. It was the same brand Grace used. What the hell was it, standard issue by Barrier? Or maybe it was the top-selling scent in England and I was out of the stylistic loop.

  Her body was achingly familiar and devastatingly female. It was the kind of body that no matter how well-balanced and normally un-sexist a man is, he can’t help but be profoundly aware of it. Of hips and breasts, of long legs and a slender, graceful throat, of animal heat that was purely, inarguably, powerfully female.

  And yet…

  Standing this close to her, there was something wrong about her.

  Maybe it was because she was so like Grace that knowing she wasn’t Grace made her feel fundamentally wrong. It was meeting a deliberate fake, a double or stand-in for someone I loved. Everything similar suddenly felt like a cheat, like a fraud perpetrated on my broken heart by a cruel and vindictive universe.

  And beyond that, there was one other quality. One other thing that was not anything my senses or my personal pain perceived. This woman, this Special Agent Felicity Hope, seemed strange. Sure, I was still rattled by her sudden appearance in the dark, and by her similarity to Grace, but there was something else. She had a quality that made her not…

  Not what?

  I really had no idea how to finish that thought.

  And no time.