“Few have,” she responded.
“How’d things go wrong? What were the problems? Exactly,” Dale demanded.
“Rapid mutation adversely affected the subjects when the first tests were underway. Mostly animals, though later prisoners. They were injected with his compounds, each time he was getting a little closer. Usually, the mutations would kill the subject. Later, certain parts, certain genetic growth would occur. However, cellular structure was a tough obstacle, and often the compound killed the host.”
“Picking a fight with mother nature and losing, eh?” Dale commented.
“I suppose,” Svetlana said, unclear on exactly what he meant. “In the end, though, he created a bio-agent that in theory would work. It was all about the mixture of chemicals. If done precisely, it was theoretically possible for this to be successful. The delivery system was important, hence the need for it to be in gaseous form.”
“And turned these Mujahideen guys into . . ?” Dale questioned.
“Monsters,” Svetlana.
“Fucking commies,” Clements muttered.
Thompson laughed, he couldn’t help it.
The thought was ludicrous.
68
Dale asked, “What exactly is this chemical? What does it do, and will it have any effect on my team? Don’t need my guys getting sick or anything.”
“The compound is classified,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sorry, but I cannot answer that. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It has no residual effects. Within twenty minutes of breach, the chemical could do no more damage. Your men won’t be harmed, nor will you need biohazard suits.”
“The reason she can’t answer is because she doesn’t know,” Svetlana admitted.
Elizabeth glared. “We don’t know its exact properties, that’s true. We have some guesses, and those are classified. We don’t know what happened to Dr. Ivanovich. His research was lost. Regardless, the results were instant. The toxins mixed, filled the cave and dissipated. Everyone inside succumbed to one of two fates. Death, or mutation.”
“They mutated?” Dale asked, once more confirming. It was as if he needed to hear it over and over again for it to make sense.
“Yes. Mutated into humanoid creatures with a lust for killing,” Elizabeth answered.
“How many we talking?” Dale asked.
“Enough to fill a cave,” Elizabeth replied. “I’ll allow Svetlana to fill in those gaps. The Soviet Union kept pretty good tabs, and our count should be close.”
All eyes were back on the Russian woman as she spoke.
69
Svetlana intimidated the men, though she’d never know it. Her looks were enough, for most men, all except Thompson maybe, would be intimidated by her features; her body, her face. Everything so perfect.
But it was her intellect that got them most. She was an idealist, they could tell right away. No doubt anti-war, no doubt a believer that mankind can set aside its differences.
Svetlana went on to explain the best she could. Laymen’s terms were something she wasn’t accustomed to.
“It starts with DNA manipulation. As we age, our DNA is constantly replicating, but the older we get, its starts replicating glitches. This is the natural process of life—decay of the cells. And eventually we die because our vital organs break down due to these glitches,” Svetlana explained.
She waited a moment, as if maybe there’d be questions. There were none, so she kept speaking, “Ever since Galton coined the phrase ‘Survival of the Fittest’, and the word Eugenics—which means well-born, by the way—there’s been a world-wide movement to convince people that genetics are our destiny. That our bloodline is everything, that some are better than others. According to this hypothesis, our genes supposedly determine our innate superiority, or inferiority. Now, this is true in some instances, though not always.”
“I’m sorry,” Clements said, raising his hand. “I’m a bit lost.”
“That’s no surprise,” Rivers said.
“Vanilla Seal,” Clements shot back.
Svetlana continued, ignoring the interruption, “Fact is, very little in life is genetic, like we’re told. For example, most diseases arise from a complex mixture of genes we inherit from our parents. That’s why your doctor asks if you have any history of cancer in your family.”
“Yeah, so?” Clements said.
“But it’s not always the case. The push for genetics is because of an agenda, not truth. Truth is, our environment plays a vital role, possibly much more than genetics.”
“And why does this matter?” Rivers asked.
“The toxins we breathe, ingest, absorb from the air and water, all factor into our health. Whatever was created was done by means of its environment. A perfect blend of chemical and biological agents. They tricked the human genes, which have a willingness to fight back when attacked. But this compound did the trick. In this case, the compound, in its gaseous state, filled their lungs, soaked into their pores, and literally began modifying their gene functions. Within minutes, they began changing. It would have been agonizing. Their flesh would peel off, and heal itself instantly. Their hair would fall out and begin re-growing. Their bone structure would alter, expand even.”
“My God!” Dale expressed.
“It gets worse. Your question earlier was how many. I’ll give you our best numbers, and how we came to the conclusion. But first, you must ask another question.
“Is this Kung Fu hour?” Dale said quite rudely. “Let’s get to it.”
“These . . . people kept certain genetic memories. Remember, this cave housed some of the top Mujahideen leaders, including a man named Ahmed Massoud. They were an important group, important to the cause, and up until mid nineteen eighty-four, they were successful in their efforts. Ahmed was especially a thorn in the side of the Soviets. After the experiment, nothing was heard from them again. Ahmed was no more. So, new warlords took over, the Mujahideen carried on the fight, and only myth and legend remained. What’s important for you to realize, is not that these people have superhuman abilities, but they also carry with them a certain . . .” Svetlana paused, searching for the word.
“Rage,” Elizabeth finished for her.
“That’s correct,” Svetlana agreed. “The problem isn’t as much how many, but what they’re capable of. These . . . things are genetically altered humans. Their molecular structure isn’t like ours, it’s altered, only half human. They’re constantly evolving, changing, growing. These things also have a gene trait that triggers aggression, and hate. Hate is the right word, for their last genetic memory was that of the Soviets firing a chemical into their cave. They would be enraged still, to this very day. That single moment would haunt them forever.”
“If that’s true, it might explain the attack on Delta,” Dale said, thinking.
“Perhaps that’s correct.”
“Again, how many?” Dale asked.
“That’s our problem, we can only guess.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we think these things can breed,” Svetlana replied. “In a world that is out of balance, if they are breeding, these things represent the future. A few dozen, a few hundred would never matter. But if what York says is true, they’re breeding. And each generation is faster, more animal than human.”
“We’re really fighting monsters?” Dale said, shaking his heads.
“We call them humanoids, Sergeant,” Svetlana said.
70
“Psst. Thompson,” Clements whispered, pulling at the man’s sleeve. “Thompson.”
“Yo.”
“Who’s that chick again?” he asked.
“Dunno.”
“What’s all this science shit she’s talking about?” Clements asked.
“Dunno. Guess we’re fighting monsters or something,” Thompson said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Like, real monsters? I don’t get it, man.”
“I don’t either, but I know one thing.”
“What’s that?�
� Clements asked.
“I’d fuck her.”
Sergeant Thompson was young, good looking, overly confident but not enough to piss anyone off. He had a sexy, young wife and a three-year-old boy, yet Thompson was here of all places. The guy liked the action, hence why he was here. And like Clements, who remained quite single, Thompson couldn’t help it. He loved his job, his team. Loved them more than his own family, perhaps, though his son was always his first thought.
“Yeah, I would too,” Clements agreed, his voice still low. Then he looked to Thompson, a grin on his face. “What, you thinking about it?”
“Yup. She looks like she needs a good wargasm.”
“Ha! Good luck, bro,” Clements said.
“Hey, at least I have standards. Saw what you tapped last time we were in the States,” Thompson said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Clements said, hanging his head. “Nailed something worse a few months before that. Got pussy starved, ya know?”
“Worse than that chick . . . Andrea, was her name?”
“Yeah, worse.”
“Doesn’t make sense, bro,” Thompson said. He almost felt sorry for his friend’s lack of good taste.
“You take the cake for being picky when we do get leave,” Clements said in his defense.
“And I still get laid. Just don’t fuck the fatties, is all.”
“Yeah, can’t help it. The thought of turning down pussy . . . can’t imagine.”
“Your point? She’s no fattie,” Thompson gestured with his head toward Svetlana.
“Really think you got a chance?” Clements asked.
“To fuck her? Dude, I’ll probably fuck her in the next forty-eight hours,” Thompson said, quite serious about the matter.
Clements believed it. Thompson would try, and most likely would succeed. It bothered Clements, and in denial he said, “You’ll try . . . and fail.”
“A week at the most if she stays around.”
“And break your forty-eight hour rule?” Clements asked sarcastically.
“Yeah, with most chicks, if I can’t fuck ’em in two days, it’s not worth my time. But for her, I’ll give it a week. Ya know, ’cause of the language difficulties.”
“You won’t fuck her,” Clements argued.
“How much?”
“Twenty bucks,” Clements responded.
“Okay.”
“Ha! I’m going to spend that twenty bucks on a fat chick next time we go on leave.”
“Shhh,” Thompson said, attempting his hardest to maintain his laugher, trying much harder to not stare.
Clements did no such thing.
“Listen,” Thompson added. “She’s talking about sex, I think.”
*
“Mutation was instant. As their cellular re-growth took place, it was rapid. Almost too much for the body to withstand. But it held, and with that, other things hurried along. We estimate gestation is three months, not nine,” Svetlana said.
“Say again?” Dale asked. He gave the Russian woman a hard, cold look. “You’re saying these things are breeding?”
“Yes, sir,” Svetlana replied softly, lowering her head. The men in the room intimidated her, the Colonel perhaps the most. It wasn’t for lack of safety; no, she didn’t feel that. It was something else. The sheer intensity of the situation, the calmness of the men. That’s what scared her most.
“And they have babies every three months?” Dale asked.
“Yes, sir. Like the report says, their gestation period is three months. This is a guess, of course. We can’t be sure. But we’ve estimated how long they’ve been breeding. The compound reacted quickly, and most certainly the incubation of a child would increase. Anyone pregnant at the time would give birth a few weeks early. Any woman who got pregnant after the gas, the process quickened. And as they develop, as they breed, they seem to at furious rates. Like rabbits . . . that’s a saying in your country, no?” Svetlana said.
“Something like that,” Dale muttered. He was dumbfounded, as were everyone in the Delta group. Only Elizabeth seemed as if she knew the truth to the matter.
“Ma’am,” Rivers began, looking at Svetlana. “Don’t mean to interrupt, but I think we’re just trying to make sure we get this straight. You’ve stated that these people breed every three months, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant Comstock asked a question you still haven’t answered. How many?” Rivers repeated.
“It’s impossible to know for sure,” Svetlana replied. “What we know of them is little, and we must assume much. We’ve ran algorithms, liberal numbers for safety sake. We assumed on some things,” she said.
“If you assume anything in battle, you die,” Dale stated.
“We did so the other way, Sergeant. We assumed the worst case scenario. To our best knowledge, we estimate the original count inside the cave numbered around eighty. A hundred at most. According to old reports, we calculated the cave had at least forty or fifty men. Most were probably young, maybe even in their late teens. As for child-bearing women, we estimate twenty. We hope much less.”
“We sure do,” Dale agreed.
“If we assume the worst, it’s this—twenty women could hypothetically be impregnated three times a year. Maybe even four.”
“Damn, three or four babies a year?” Dale asked.
“That is, if they don’t die in childbirth, sure. Again, we’re estimating to judge the scope of the matter. It could be less, but we’ll estimate more,” Svetlana said.
“Keep going,” Dale encouraged.
“That’s up to sixty, maybe eighty babies a year. This happened in nineteen eighty-four. About twenty- six years ago,” Svetlana said.
She noticed they were all trying to do the math in their heads, their eyes all looking up.
“That comes out to over eighteen hundred possible creatures you must kill. We actually rounded our numbers up to two thousand, just to be safe,” Svetlana said, delivering the mind blowing news.
Everyone was silent.
Mouths open.
Throats dry.
Then, one confused voice spoke, cracking, Thompson asking, “Now wait a minute, are you saying these things fuck?”
71
“War is ever evolving. From World War II, to the way we fought in ’Nam, to now. Vietnam taught us two nasty lessons. First, that unconventional warfare can win wars. And two, that when you force men to fight, they’re less successful. What happened to us in ’Nam is what happened to the Soviets in the eighties. The Muj were too much for them. Not because they had better technology or better equipment, because they didn’t,” Reynolds explained.
“No different now,” Clements said. “We walk into villages and have no clue if that guy walking up is Taliban or some regular guy. Either way, he has that smile. I’ve learned not to trust. Not ever.”
Hernandez, the Hispanic man from east Los Angeles spoke up. He was usually the quiet one, didn’t care much for meetings and game plans. Didn’t understand science much either, or really anything they were talking about. He just wanted a good fight. He looked to Clements, nodding his head, saying, “Yeah, I only trust my homies out there. Even the Afghanis on our side, I don’t trust ’em. Never will.”
Reynolds eyed the man, asking, “And why is that?”
“Because of their ways,” Hernandez said.
“Yup. Fucking IEDs suck, man,” Clements chimed in. “Never know if the road is gonna explode, if that woman is gonna blow you up, or if some guy will shake your hand and cut your throat with his other hand.”
“That’s exactly right,” Reynolds agreed. “Their tactics are what’s tough, what’s causing the animosity we form while over here. It’s also why you guys are trained in such ways. You can think like them, you hunt them the way a lion hunts another lion. You also do things to mess with their heads. I know, even if you won’t say aloud. Thing is, in this new war on terrorism, we must adapt.”
“Sounds good and all, Colonel, but what’s the p
oint?” Dale asked.
“You’ll be outnumbered first and foremost. We hope you have the element of surprise. You’ll go in quiet, maybe catch them off-guard. You’ll be doing this during the daytime, but that’s only because of one thing,” Reynolds said.
“What could that possibly be?” Clements asked, baffled, because an op like this should be conducted at night.
“They have the advantage at night. Their sight is better, even with fifth generation night vision goggles, they’ll see better.”
“The chemical let ’em see at night?” Clements asked.
“It helped. Remember, too, these things have remained in the cave for over two decades. They live in pure darkness. They’ve adapted to it, the compound strengthening that evolution.”
“This is a nightmare,” Clements said.
“It gets worse,” Reynolds stated. “The daytime mission helps us with imagery. That’s been a huge problem. Satellite imagery is blurry, at best.”
“What about drones? Planes?” Clements asked.
“Can’t fly ’em over.”
“Say what?” Dale said. “Who’s rules are these and why can’t we break them?”
“No, you’re missing my point,” Reynolds said. “We can’t fly them over. We’ve tried, many times. We’ve lost one F-16, one Apache helicopter, and seven drones. New ones, too.”
“Since when?”
“In the past three weeks. We stopped trying. Anything that crosses over that valley simply stops working. Altitude doesn’t matter, either. The F-16 was at thirty-eight thousand feet when it lost all power, all control,” Reynolds said.
“Now I would have heard of that. Keep tight with the pilots,” Jefferson spoke up. “Cool guys who get us out of trouble when need be.”
“The pilot luckily was on a straight course and going fast. The plane glided quite a distance away. We sent a quick recovery team in.”
“Pilot all right?” Jefferson asked, a bit concerned.
“Nothing worked on the plane . . . including his ejection seat. They recovered his body, blew up any important parts of the jet, though there weren’t many.”
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