Synbat

Chapter 13

Knutz's and T-bone's bodies lay on the backseat of their humvee. Both men were smeared with mud and blood. Knutz's throat had been cleanly cut. T-bone had obviously had the opportunity to put up more of a fight. His face and arms were slashed, in addition to his throat. Knutz's pistol was still in its shoulder holster, indicating that he'd been taken unaware. T-bone's holster was empty.

"Knutz was caught underneath his vehicle," Bob Philips explained. "It was stuck in the mud and Top must have gone back there to try and push it out. We had to winch it out to get it off his body. T-bone was lying near the driver's door." Philips handed over a Beretta 9mm. "His pistol was in the mud next to him. No rounds fired."

Riley silently took the pistol and stuffed it into his pants cargo pocket.

"Both M16s were gone, along with their LBE."

"Cover them up," Riley ordered. "Trovinsky, I want you to move that humvee to cover approaches from the east, and man its fifty."

"Yes, sir."

"Bob, I want you to cover the south."

"Roger that, chief."

The rain had finally stopped, leaving a damp fog in its place. Riley walked to the van where Lewis was ensconced. He slid open the door without knocking and stepped in.

Lewis looked up as he spoke into the phone. His face was haggard. "I'll get back with you in a little bit." He hung up. "Mister Riley, I apologize about everything that has happened. I'm very sorry about the loss of your men."

Riley sat down and laid his M16 across his knees. He stared at Lewis for a long minute. The other men in the van were very quiet. Freeman was squirming in the corner, trying not to be noticed, a difficult thing for a man his size.

When Riley spoke, all emotion was out of his voice. "Tell me the truth now. What are those things?"

Lewis rubbed his eyes. "I really don't know what the Synbats are or what they're capable of." He held up a hand to forestall Riley's outburst. "No. Listen to me. I don't know. Probably the only person still alive who does know is Doctor Merrit, and I've got her on the way out here to brief us. I can tell you what they were supposed to do and how far along Doctor Ward reported they were. But other than that, you know as much as I do.

"What I told you earlier was mostly true. The Synbats are genetically altered creatures designed to be soldiers. But not just haulers of gear. They were supposed to be infantrymen. Grunts. Expendable ones. Ones that we could give a weapon to and send out, and not have a public outcry when they got killed. Not only that, they were supposed to be even better than the present infantryman. More aggressive. Stronger. Faster. More adaptable to harsh environments.

"It was a long-range project. You've seen what they can do now. In a few years they would have been even better."

Riley broke in. "What about the weapons? Where'd they learn to use them?"

"At the lab. We sent in some paramilitary folks to work with them. I know that Ward had them out at ranges on Fort Campbell a couple of times."

"How'd they control the animals to take them to the ranges?"

"Ward drugged them constantly, making them more complacent. We just found that out ourselves. The Synbats went to the range only a couple of times and were at a rudimentary level with the weapons."

"What other training have they received?"

"That's about it. The initial goal was to simply have them fire a rifle with a certain degree of accuracy."

"They've achieved that," Riley acknowledged sarcastically. "Do they know how to reload?"

Lewis shrugged. "As far as I know, they can point a weapon and pull a trigger. That's it. If there's more, Merrit can tell you when she gets here."

"Why didn't you tell me before about the weapons capability?"

"They didn't have weapons until they took them from your men," Lewis answered weakly.

"Your men in the van were killed with their own weapons," Riley reminded him. "The helicopter was shot at with that MP-5 we found lying outside. You heard the pilot's radio call that the creature was armed." Riley shook his head. Trying to discuss what had already happened was futile.

The sound of an incoming helicopter pounded through the walls of the van.

"That should be Doctor Merrit now." Lewis stood. "You can find out what else you need to know directly from her."

The alert for the 5th Special Forces Group started in Colonel Hossey's office. It went to the battalion commanders, who in turn called each company commander. The company commander notified his sergeant major and five team leaders. The team leaders passed the word to the team sergeants.

There are three battalions in 5th Group, three companies in each battalion, five teams in each company, plus service and support units: almost a thousand men and women all told. By 4:15 P.M., arms rooms were being opened and humvees were being dispatched.

The soldiers of 5th Group were used to alerts, but one on a Friday afternoon that encompassed the entire group was somewhat out of the norm. Alerts were usually called in the early hours of the morning under some strange theory that all crises would happen at 4 A.M. The last time that anyone could remember the entire group being called out was the initial alert for the Persian Gulf crisis. But then, after the alert, it had taken almost a month for the whole group to deploy because of limited aircraft capability.

This afternoon, though, was different. The only word coming down the chain of command was for the teams to mount up and be prepared to move out by ground vehicle, locked and loaded. No word of movement to the airstrip or inbound aircraft.

Hossey, satisfied that his own unit was getting ready to roll, now moved on to his hardest task. He'd already called the post chief of staff and scheduled a 4:10 P.M. meeting with the post commander. Major General Williams, at the Fort Campbell headquarters. As his driver dropped him off in front of the old World War II-era building, Hossey tried to figure out the best way to present what he had.

"Sir, Colonel Hossey reports."

Williams was wearing camouflage fatigues and was seated behind his massive desk. "Afternoon, Karl. Have a seat." He waited until the Green Beret colonel was settled. "Now, perhaps you can tell me what the crisis is."

As calmly as possible, Hossey started with the dispatch of the team yesterday at the behest of the DIA. Williams nodded when he was done. "All right. But what does that have to do with right now?"

Hossey then launched into the sequence of events described by Riley in his messages, concluding with 682's present position in the Land Between the Lakes, the discovery of the downed helicopter, the deaths of Knutz and T-bone, and the fact that three of the creatures were still on the loose.

Williams looked at Hossey long and hard. "You expect me to believe this? Killer monkeys running around murdering people?"

"Two of those people were my men," Hossey replied. "I believe it."

Williams frowned. "But monkeys using weapons?"

"Altered monkeys, sir. We don't know what was done to them in that lab. You can verify that the alert from the DIA was phoned in here yesterday morning."

Williams drummed his fingers on the desktop as he collected his thoughts. "You realize, of course, that your man has broken security, and that you yourself have broken security by telling me all this?"

"Yes, sir."

Williams thumbed his intercom. "Mary, get me General Trollers at DIA on the secure line and speaker phone, please."

"Yes, sir."

They waited fifteen seconds, then the phone buzzed.

"4602. This line is unsecure."

Williams reached forward and pushed a button on his phone. "Go secure, please."

There was a hiss from the other end. "Secure."

"This is General Williams calling from Fort Campbell. I need to talk to General Trollers."

"Wait one, sir."

After almost half a minute a deep voice came on. "Trollers here."

"General Trollers, this is General Williams from Fort Campbell. I've got a problem here and I'm going to take care of it with or without your help."

"Don't you touch me!" Emma Plunket screamed as she ducked.

Her husband's fist smashed into the wall barely three inches from her head, denting the side of the trailer. Emma moved with remarkable dexterity for a woman who stood five foot six and weighed almost two hundred pounds. She faked right, then darted left. Eight Milwaukee's Best had left Billy Joe a little slower than normal, and Emma made it out of the trailer, the torn screen door flapping behind her rapidly scuttling butt.

"You get your ass back here, you fucking bitch!" Billy Joe bellowed as he tore the door off its hinges and stomped out in the parking lot. He was just in time to see the taillights flash briefly on his '75 Ford pickup as Emma squealed out onto 41A, narrowly missing a car.

Billy Joe was really livid now. Not only had she taken his truck, but he hadn't had dinner yet and there was nothing on the stove. In fact, now that he thought about it, that was how the fight had started. He'd come home after earning a bust-ass day's pay to find that worthless bitch sitting in front of the TV with no goddamn food on the stove and sporting a smart-ass attitude. Billy Joe popped a brew and sat down on the wooden steps, letting the cold beer fuel his anger. He'd bust her ass for sure when she came whimpering back home.

Whimpering home wasn't high on Emma's list of choices as she took the left-hand fork where 41A and 79 split, ending up on 79 West to Dover. With the sun in the western sky glaring into her eyes and Clarksville receding behind her, Emma considered her options. She knew one thing for damn sure: She was tired of Billy Joe busting her up every time he felt like it. She'd put up with that shit for six months now and enough was enough.

It took her thirty minutes to reach Dover. Emma rolled through the town and then turned left into a neighborhood of beat-up old houses. She pulled into the driveway of a two-story dwelling, got out, and headed up the walk. An old man sat on the porch, newspaper in hand. He lowered the paper and watched her approach without a flicker of emotion.

Emma's voice crackled with apprehension. "Hi, Dad."

"What are you doing here?"

"Is Mom inside?"

"I asked you a question, girl."

Emma didn't answer, shifting her considerable weight from one foot to the other.

"Billy Joe know you're here?"

Her voice moved up an octave into the whine range. "He been hitting me, Dad. I just couldn't take any more."

The old man moved for the first time. He threw down the paper and reached Emma in two swift strides. The force of his open right hand left a smudge of red on her face. "He's your husband, girl! He can hit you any damn time he wants. What'd you do?"

Emma's voice sank to a whisper. "Nothing."

"Don't you lie to me. What did Billy Joe say you done?"

Emma looked up, over her father's right shoulder, and saw her mother standing there, in the dimness of the foyer. She caught her mother's eyes, imploring her to come to the rescue. Her mother turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Emma did an about-face and headed back to the pickup. Her father stood on the stoop, hands on hips. "You go back to Billy Joe and you do what you're told to do. I don't want to see your ass out here again unless Billy Joe is behind the wheel of that truck."

Emma threw the pickup into reverse and spit gravel as she backed out into the street. She drove back up to 79 and hesitated there at the stop sign. Turn right, back to Clarksville and Billy Joe?

"Uh-uh," Emma whispered to herself. At least not tonight. Maybe by tomorrow he'd have cooled off a little. At the very least he wouldn't be as drunk, she hoped.

Emma turned left onto 79. Stopping at a Minit Mart, she bought a twelve pack of Busch — her favorite beer. Billy Joe wouldn't let her drink it at home. He said it was too expensive. Emma figured that it didn't matter what she bought, she was in trouble anyway — might as well go first class.

She took the poorly marked right turn onto the Trace, the tarred road leading to Lake Barkley. A small parking area by the lake was her old high school hangout. This time of year it was empty, but in a month or so there would be several cars out there on weekend nights, full of teenagers with surging hormones.

Emma parked the truck facing the water and turned off the engine. She got out and climbed into the bed of the truck, twelve pack in hand, the shocks squeaking as she moved about. Sitting on the right wheel well, she popped the top on the first beer. She slammed the entire thing down in one long gulp — a quality that had endeared her to Billy Joe early in their relationship. She tossed the empty out toward the water.

Seven beers later Emma felt a certain pressure in her lower abdomen. She belched and lumbered off the back of the truck. Another couple of brews and she'd be ready to crash. Emma finished her call of nature in the woods and then headed back to the truck, straining to button her jeans at the same time. Twenty feet from her steel bed she halted and blinked.

Someone was messing with the driver's door. Billy Joe sure as shit wouldn't like that. Emma's voice was saturated with drunken indignation. "Get your ass away from my truck!" She picked up a rock and threw it.

There was no answer. Then the shadowy figure turned and Emma felt her stomach plummet. It was no person.

Something moved off to her left — another figure, this one with a rifle in its hands. What little higher-level cognitive functioning Emma had left shut down. She turned and ran; the creatures kept their distance, herding her to the east up an incline.

Emma pushed blindly through the undergrowth, bouncing off trees, thorns tearing at her skin. The drive went on for almost fifteen minutes. Every time Emma tried to stop and turn, one of them would be there, heading her in the desired direction.

Finally, Emma broke through some undergrowth and there was nothing beneath her feet but space. Her last thought as her legs pinwheeled in the air was relief that the running was over.