Extinction Red Line (The Extinction Cycle Book 0)

by Tom Abrahams

  “You’ll insert here,” pointed out the colonel. “You’ll fast-rope out of the Chinook to the LZ. We’re not planning on putting down there. There is a lot of enemy activity.”

  Brett tapped the map. “Is that rice paddy?”

  “Yes,” said the colonel. “We’ll drop you at the edge of it. It’s maybe knee or waist deep. You’ll have to move through it. Once you’ve cleared it, there’s a ridgeline here.” The colonel ran his finger back and forth along the topographical representation of their target. “Just beyond the ridge is the village.”

  “What will we find there?”

  “We’ve hit it a couple of times,” said the colonel. “So a lot of the green cover is gone. Still, recon aircraft images are showing there’s a nice little gathering there. We expect you’ll see some resistance.”

  “Is there a strategic component to this village?” asked Brett. “It seems like it’s not really contiguous to—”

  “The VX-99 is the strategic component, Lieutenant,” answered Major Gibson.

  “V what?”

  Gibson held up the vial, presumably for effect. “VX-99. It’s what you’ll be injecting into your bloodstream before moving into the village. This is an area that likely has lingering Agent Orange particulates. We think it’s a good place for our testing.”

  “So we’re injecting it? It’s not a pill or something?”

  “Correct,” said Gibson. “All thirty-two men in your platoon will receive syringes. Buddy up into sixteen teams. One man stands watch while the other breaks the plastic tip and jams the needle into a vein. The wrist or forearm is preferable. Once you’ve punctured a vein, depress the plunger until all of the VX-99 is in your system. Then switch.”

  “When do we do this?”

  “Tomorrow. Ten July.”

  “What kind of side effects are there?”

  Gibson shook his head and shrugged. “Minimal.”

  “What are they?”

  “Headache. Maybe some nausea. A little burning sensation at the injection site. Nothing more than that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You provide additional intelligence on that village and take out what resistance you meet.”

  “No, Colonel,” said Brett. “What do you do to us afterward?”

  “Simple,” answered Gibson. “We take blood samples. We thank you with cold beer and hot food. You move on. We punch your ticket back to the States one hundred and eighty days earlier than it was when you walked into this tent.”

  “All right then,” said Brett. He stood at attention and saluted. “All right then, I’ll tell my men. Anything else, sir?”

  “That’s all, Lieutenant.”

  Brett snapped to attention and saluted. The colonel returned the salute. “Dismissed.”

  More than forty-three hundred and eighty days later, Rick Gibson still hadn’t kept his promise to Trevor Brett. Brett was still in the jungle. More than that, he’d become part of it. He was one of its dangers.

  — 14 —

  Near Hòa Bình, Vietnam

  April 20, 1980

  Jimmy Linh was listening to his uncle, but his attention was on the swollen, raging Da River. It ran parallel, north and south, to TL 317, the highway that took them into Hòa Bình. They’d left a little more than two hours earlier. The ride was rough. The river and the men and women working alongside it, even in a monsoonal rain that had dogged much of their trip from Hanoi, were a nice distraction from the road and Uncle Due’s lecture.

  Due was driving with one hand on the wheel. The other was wagging a finger nonstop at Linh. No doubt, Linh’s father had gotten to him and given him a laundry list of talking points. Linh noticed the finger was moving with the same metronome-like precision of the windshield wipers that swung back and forth with a comforting squeak.

  “You are too smart to tell stories,” said Due. “You have a business mind. You’re like your father and your mother. You should be running a business. You should be making good money and thinking of a future. You can’t be…”

  Linh tuned him out. He’d heard the argument before. He could almost recite it. It didn’t matter except that it did. Linh wanted his family’s approval; he wanted its support. Enough was enough.

  He stopped his uncle’s soliloquy and drew a raised brow of offense. “Uncle,” he barked, “I hear you. It changes nothing. I am here to tell stories. You either help me and stop berating me with my father’s words, or you pull over, stop, and let me out.”

  Due’s already pouty lips turned down at the corners. His eyes widened, and without taking his eyes from the road, he shifted into neutral and slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed and came to a squealing stop.

  Linh was looking at his uncle, not at the road ahead. “Seriously? You’re just going to leave me here? I—”

  Due glanced at his nephew and pointed to the road. “Look.”

  Linh followed his uncle’s finger and looked at the road ahead. It disappeared into a slop of mud and debris. There was no driving around it.

  “I guess you’re getting out here whether I stop talking or not,” said Due. “You need to pay me now.”

  “Pay you?”

  “Pay me,” said Due. “One thousand.”

  Linh rolled his eyes and pulled the cash from an envelope in his satchel. He handed it to Due, who counted every single bill. He stuffed it in the glove box at Linh’s knees and locked it.

  Linh craned his neck to look beyond the road. “There must be a path around it. We can’t be stuck here, can we?”

  Due shrugged. “We are.”

  Linh shouldered open the passenger’s side door and stepped out of the car. He was immediately slapped with thick, cold raindrops that drenched his head and shoulders by the time he’d rounded the hood of the car. He planted his hands on his hips. The mud sloped into a mound that must have been at least three or four feet thick. More of it oozed with purpose from the broken retention wall to the right of the roadway. It was an impassable mess.

  Linh ran his fingers through his hair and shook the water from his fingers. He looked back at his uncle through the windshield wipers, but the curtain of rain made it difficult for him to see him. He trudged back to the driver’s side and motioned for Due to roll down his window.

  “What?” Due asked through a thin crack.

  “What do we do?”

  Due laughed. “We? Funny. You walk.”

  Linh knuckled water from his eyes. “You’re not coming with me? You’re going to let me walk the remaining mile alone?”

  Due rolled his eyes before rolling up the window. He turned off the ignition, reached into the backseat, and emerged from his car with an umbrella. He popped it open and shut the car door. He mumbled something about his nephew “the storyteller” being a baby and marched ahead, trying to avoid the deepest part of the mud pit.

  Somewhat taken aback at his uncle’s change of heart and derision, Linh stood at the car, watching Due pick his way past the roadblock. He wiped his face with his hands and picked his soaked shirt from his chest.

  Due stopped and turned. “You coming?”

  Linh nodded and bounced forward, toward the muck. He held tight to his leather satchel, trying to keep its flap tightly wrapped across the top. “I’m adjusting my bag. I can’t get it too wet.”

  Linh sighed and stepped off the road, trying to maintain his balance as the mud sucked at his feet. He slipped but caught himself with his hand. Still he slid a couple of feet sideways down an embankment. A rotting tree stump caught the side of his foot, preventing him from tumbling down into the underbrush that separated the road from the riverbank. He steadied himself and looked up to find his uncle laughing at him. The pounding rain and rush of the river below drowned out his uncle’s taunts. It was just as well.

  Linh clawed his way back to the road on the other side of the mudslide and found solid ground on the road. Once he was back on the pavement, Linh picked up his pace and jogged to catch his uncle.

  “Thanks f
or waiting for me,” said Linh.

  Due shook his head. “You want me to come,” he said, holding the umbrella low over his head. “Then you don’t want me to go too fast. I don’t understand.”

  Linh opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it. His uncle, however acerbic, was here with him. He’d offered his home, he’d gotten up early to drive to the jungle, and now he was slogging through a deluge to keep him company. Uncle Due didn’t even know why they were going to Hòa Bình. He’d not asked and Linh hadn’t volunteered it.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” he asked his uncle. “Why we’re doing this?”

  Due stepped around a large puddle. “So you can tell a story.”

  “You haven’t asked what story I’m telling.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It’s about a legend.”

  “An untrue story, then.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Linh, walking ahead of his uncle so he could see the man’s reaction to what he’d say next. “I’m writing a story about Ma Trang.”

  Behind the curtain of water dripping from the umbrella, Due froze. His eyes opened wide. His jaw dropped before he pressed his lips tightly together. He stared at his nephew without responding.

  Linh immediately regretted having said anything. He swallowed hard. “What?”

  “Ma Trang is not a legend, nephew,” said Due. “It is real. The American White Ghost haunts this land. He seeks revenge on our people.”

  “You know about Ma Trang?”

  “Everyone knows about Ma Trang.”

  Linh shrugged. “Well,” he said, “that’s my story. I’m here to talk to people who know about the White Ghost, and get a picture of it.”

  Due narrowed his eyes and tilted his head like a dog before erupting with laughter. He threw his head back, seemingly for comic effect; his shoulders shook back and forth.

  Linh clenched his jaw. His uncle was making fun of him again. Linh turned, wiped the rain from his eyes, and walked away from the laughter. It was better not to talk about anything with Uncle Due. The man was worse than his father. He was judgmental and condescending.

  As Due finished his fit, Linh looked toward the river. The rain was beginning to lessen. It wasn’t much more than a thick drizzle. The river was angry. It was moving fast. A pair of fishermen stood on its banks, nets on the shore. The men were talking to each other with their hands, evidently frustrated by their inability to ply their trade.

  Linh stopped and nodded toward the men. “I’m going to talk to them.”

  “I’m going to stay here,” Due said.

  Linh moved toward the embankment. “Suit yourself.”

  He carefully worked his way down the steep gradient, stepping on rocks to help his footing. He reached the bottom and walked cautiously to the pair of fishermen. He waved and smiled, hoping his cheer would put them at ease. He spoke to them in Vietnamese, using the pre-war dialect they likely spoke.

  “Hello,” he said. “My name is Jimmy Linh. I am from the United Kingdom.”

  The fishermen glanced at one another. Both men were older, their faces creased like the dry riverbeds that branched outward from either side of the Da. Their eyes were narrowed by the sun, their leathery necks unprotected by their wide-brimmed hats and traditional rounded-collar shirts.

  One man was taller and thinner than the other. He was holding a net with both hands. “What do you want, Jimmy Linh?”

  Linh measured both men as best he could. They’d know if he was lying or beating around the bush. There was no doubt. It was best to be straight and honest up front.

  “I’d like to ask you about Ma Trang.”

  Both men stepped back, closer to the water. The one holding the net shook his head. “Why?”

  Linh reached into his wet leather bag and pulled from it the microcassette recorder. He held it up to the men and pressed the record button. “I’m a reporter for a newspaper. I’m writing about Ma Trang.”

  The shorter man pointed at Linh. His fingers were curled toward his palms, arthritis having disfigured them. “It’s not safe, you know,” he said. “We don’t say the name. It’s bad luck. What is that?”

  “It’s a tape recorder. Why is it bad luck?”

  The man’s eyes widened with genuine fear. “Because he hears it,” he said, his fingers trembling. “He thinks you’re calling him, offering a sacrifice. Is that taking my picture?”

  Linh looked at the device in his hand. “No. It’s recording your voice.” He took a step toward the men. “Could we talk about him without using the name?”

  The taller one shrugged. “You’ve already said it. You should go.”

  Linh held his hands up in surrender. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go. One question, please. Who is he?”

  “An American,” said the taller one. “He fought in the war. He died a horrible death. Now his ghost comes to haunt us. He’s not himself anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The shorter one drew his hands to his mouth. “His lips and his teeth,” he said. “They’re not human. His lips are round. His teeth are fangs.”

  “And he is very fast,” said the taller one. “He runs like a panther. His joints make a noise when he runs.”

  The shorter one made clicking and popping noises with his mouth. “Like that,” he said. “It’s like the bones don’t fit the joints.”

  “And his hands are like claws,” the taller one added.

  Linh stood quietly, soaking in the information. He’d asked one question. They were answering twenty.

  The shorter one nudged his friend. “I saw him once,” he said. “He was eating something. I could hear the slurping sounds. His skin was white like rice. He was a…”

  Linh finished the thought. “White ghost.”

  The men nodded in unison. The short one waved his hands at the embankment behind Linh. “You said it again. You need to go. Now.”

  Linh thanked the men and deliberately climbed back up the embankment. The rain had stopped; the mist was subsiding. He reached the top and wiped his muddy hands on his pants.

  Uncle Due was leaning on the collapsed umbrella. “Any luck?”

  “Yes,” said Linh. He nodded toward Hòa Bình. “But they told me to leave.”

  “Why?”

  Linh started walking. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to adjust the damp clothing on his legs. “I said the name Ma Trang. They told me it was bad luck and that saying the name summons the ghost.”

  Due opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, a loud shriek pierced the air. It was primal and chill-inducing. The call echoed, and before the last of the reverberations had ended, another scream ripped through the dank, humid air. The second was more terrifying than the first.

  It was impossible to know from where the cry came. It could have come from a mile away or twenty meters. Linh’s stomach turned. An involuntary shudder rippled through his body.

  “What was that?” asked Linh, already suspecting the answer was one that would both excite and frighten him.

  Uncle Due looked his nephew in the eyes. “You mean who was that?” he said. “And I think you know the answer.”

  — 15 —

  Black Site Installation NSS-1018, Northeastern Iran

  April 20, 1980

  Nick Womack was never much for sand. He didn’t like beaches unless they were topless, he wouldn’t play games with hourglasses for timers, and he sure as night didn’t like the Middle East. It wasn’t as bad as the jungle, but it was close.

  “It’s freakin’ everywhere,” he complained. “I got sand in cracks I didn’t know I had.”

  “I’d rather the desert than the jungle,” said Wolf. “I’ve seen enough of Charlie and boot rot for a lifetime. Hit me.”

  Ferg’s expression squeezed into a tight ball of disapproval. “You’re at nineteen,” he said. “You really want another card?”

  “Hit the man,” said Wilco. “Idiot wants to bust. Let him bust.�
�

  Fern shrugged and dealt the next card faceup. It was a two of spades. “Mother—”

  “Ha!” said Wolf. “I’ll take being an idiot who wins over a righteous SOB who loses any day.”

  Wolf reached to the middle of the large round table and wrapped his hands around the pot. Wilco grabbed his wrists.

  “How’d you know?” he asked Wolf. “You cheating? That’s the sixth hand in a row you’ve won.”

  Wolf wiggled free of Wilco’s grasp. “I ain’t a cheat,” he said. “I just know what’s coming. That’s all. I know what’s left in the deck. We’re almost finished with the deck, and a two hadn’t come up yet. It was bound to happen.”

  Wilco grunted and flopped back against his seat. “Figures.”

  Shine, who’d been quiet for the two hours they’d been playing cards, rocked his neck back and forth. It cracked repeatedly. “I’d rather play Texas Hold ’Em,” he said. “This game is crap.”

  Womack laughed. “I’d rather be working,” he said. “I’m sick of playing cards and eating lamb and hummus.”

  Wolf nodded toward the small kitchen adjacent to the table. “There’s a cabinet full of C rations.” He chuckled. “I bet you’d get your first pick. Hams and muthas?”

  Womack glared at Wolf, pushed himself from the table, and stood. They’d been at the black site for a day. It was a small nondescript farmhouse a good click or two from anything else. There were two other buildings on the compound. They housed the bunks. The main house, where they were playing cards, was the only one with working electricity and fans. The only bathroom was an outhouse next to the goat pen.

  Despite pre-arrival information indicating another team, or two, would be housed at the site, nobody else was there except for a single military liaison and an Iranian translator. Womack figured the translator was more likely an agency asset.

  Their initial briefing was vague and uninformative. The liaison had essentially told them to sit tight, get some rest, and await further instructions. He’d left with the translator about an hour later and hadn’t returned.