The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

Aiden flung the man to the ground back inside the circle of light from the campfire. The man started to stumble back up, and something inside of Aiden wanted to pounce on him, to sink his teeth into the man’s neck, but he held back, once again disgusted by the animalistic violent nature that usually surfaced when he was in varg form. Deliberately, he stomped on the man’s neck, sending him flat face-first onto the ground. He stomped one more time, and the man’s neck broke with an audible crack.

  A sharp lance of fire hit the back of his shoulder, instantly followed by the sharp report of a rifle. Anger flared within Aiden as he spun to face his attacker. Another round grazed his side.

  Don’t just stand there, idiot! Aiden thought as he dodged to the left, then rushed forward.

  He couldn’t see who had shot him, but he knew the direction, and then another muzzle flash revealed his assailant’s position. His powerful haunches drove him forward, covering the intervening 20 meters within seconds. The merc was trying to take cover behind a large tree, only his rifle, hands, and face visible. His eyes were large in the dim light as he took in Aiden’s charging figure, and he tried to scoot back as he fired, which only resulted in his shot being jerked way off target.

  Aiden had his Tavor, but it was almost forgotten in his blood lust. His shoulder throbbed, and he wanted—no, he required—revenge. With a howl, he feinted to where the man was barely visible, and as the man jumped back, Aiden shifted to the other side of the tree, almost diving around it to catch the man around the waist. The two tumbled to the ground as the man let out an unearthly scream as he pounded on Aiden’s head with the butt of his AK-47.

  Aiden’s varg head was protected by a thick skullcap, and the man’s kitten blows had no affect other than making Aiden push his muzzle into his chest—which brought his front fangs inches from the struggling merc’s throat. It was too much of a temptation. Despite his previous promise to himself to fight like a human, the animalistic side of him took over, and with a sense of what was close to glee, Aiden opened his jaws and bit as hard as he could at the base of the man’s neck.

  The man dropped his AK and shifted his grip to Aiden’s ears, his voice garbled by blood that was pouring into his throat. After a momentary surge of power as he tried to pull Aiden off of him, the strength quickly fled from his arms. Within ten seconds, the life fled the man’s body.

  To his shock—and more than a bit of disgust—Aiden actually shook the dead man in his jaws like a terrier with a rat.

  Shit, Aiden, get a hold of yourself, he thought as he released his hold and stood up.

  He wanted to maintain a grip on his humanity, but still, he couldn’t ignore the thrill that swept through him as he looked at the broken body beneath him. Aiden licked his jaws, his long tongue easily reaching a couple of inches along his muzzle.

  It tasted good!

  A crack of a branch brought Aiden back to the here and now. There was one more drug soldier who had run, and there had to be more at the submarine. Almost immediately, the hunter instinct kicked back in, and forgetting the dead man at his feet, Aiden wheeled and plunged after the fleeing merc, letting his nose guide him. Even with the heavy stink—no burn—of the drug factory, he was able to pinpoint his new prey.

  Aiden still didn’t quite comprehend how his varg brain interpreted data with regards to his sense of smell. It was nothing like how he smelled his mom’s pancakes back in Vegas or Claire’s favorite perfume. As a human, those smells seemed to surround him with an amorphous, cottony feeling, something outside of him that he could glimpse. As a varg, it was not as intense as human sight, but it was just as internal, if that made sense. Aiden knew exactly where the merc was, even if he couldn’t yet see the man. It wasn’t exactly that images were forming in his brain, but still, he just knew it.

  And within a few seconds, Aiden’s eyes confirmed what his nose had told him. The man was huffing and puffing as he struggled to get through a pothole full of reeking mud and water. A few feet to his right was dry land, but in the dark, the man had stumbled into the one piece of swamp in the immediate area.

  Aiden pushed down his desire to jump on the man. Instead, he brought up his Tavor and fired two shots into the back of the man’s head. He didn’t even stay to watch the body tumble forward but turned back to where he heard a voice call out in Spanish.

  The submarine! he realized.

  Aiden had been surprised to learn that with between 20 and 25 subs, the combined South American drug lords had the sixth largest submarine fleet in the world, right after Iran and its 31 subs. The number was constantly in flux as this was obviously something they did not advertise, and some subs were continually being caught by the American DEA and other nations’ navies. Still, the numbers were there, and the subs had proven to be quite effective in smuggling huge quantities of drugs to into the US.

  As Aiden stalked forward, another voice answered back to the first shout. Aiden couldn’t make out what was said, but the stress in the voice was pretty evident. So there were at least two men left, and they didn’t seem to be inclined to run off. Orienting himself, Aiden started to move alongside the river that served as the sub’s highway in and out of the camp.

  Aiden strained to hear anything else, but the jungle was silent, even the sound of the ever-present insects cut off.

  A burst of automatic fire broke the silence. Aiden couldn’t discern any rounds heading his way, so he knew the men were firing at ghosts. They were staying put, but they were on edge. That made them vulnerable.

  Aiden didn’t know how thick the brush was between them. There had to be an easy path for the workers to bring the drugs from the factory to the sub, but the mercs would know that and have it covered. But there was another easy way forward: the river.

  Aiden stepped back across the cleared area around the campfire and eased into the dark water of the river. It wasn’t as bad as the swamp, but it was pretty close. This was a far cry from the clear mountain streams in the Hindu Kush where Aiden had spent the previous year. Aiden carefully stepped forward, sliding his feet in the mud rather than lifting them. All his senses were focused forward. He’d only waded forward about 15 meters and around a gentle bend when the dark shape of the submarine loomed in front of him.

  Aiden had seen photos of some of the captured drug-running subs, but still, he was surprised at the size of the thing. This was a true submarine, not the semi-submersible craft that had replaced the go-fast speedboats as the vessel of choice among the drug runners. Aiden figured it had to be at least 20 meters long, a pudgy cigar-shaped sub with an actual conning tower. He would have loved to look over the thing, but there were at least two armed narco-mercs trying to protect their boss’ investment.

  He did place on paw on the surface of the sub, which felt more like fiberglass or Kevlar than steel, but that was to try and feel for any vibrations that might indicate someone was onboard. The sub was still.

  Oh so carefully, Aiden tried to step out of the water and onto the bank, but as he lifted his left foot, his right slipped slightly, and a small splash broke the heavy silence. Aiden dove to his right as two bursts of fire tore right through where he’d just been, some of the rounds thudding dully into the side of the sub.

  He tried to scramble up the small bank while his legs flayed away like a cartoon character trying to run. A snarl broke out of him as his anger grew. He didn’t want to be cut down simply because he was slipping in the mud. He grabbed a bush at the edge of the bank, but the thing came out by the roots, and he fell back into the water. More rounds whistled around him. At the end of his patience, Aiden swung his Tavor the best he could with his varg shoulders, driving it muzzle-first into the dirt at the top of the bank. With it anchoring him, he was able to pull himself up and out of the river.

  Aiden dove off to the side and lay still as more rounds pounded the area. He heard a magazine being ejected and another being clicked into place as a voice called out, “¿Lo golpeaste?”

  No, he didn’t hit me, asshole, Aiden thought, un
derstanding the Spanish.

  Aiden left his Tavor where it was. The muzzle had to be packed with jungle mud, and it would probably blow up if he tried to fire it. He wished he had the KA-BAR Tanto fighting knife he’d brought with him, but that was back with his pack and clothes.

  Lot of good it’s doing me there, he thought.

  Aiden was far stronger and more powerful as a varg, but he was also more scatter-brained and less likely to think things through. He’d planned for that, promising himself that he’d be logical and careful, but after he shifted, those plans had seemed to dissipate into the heavy night air.

  Let’s just do it, he thought as he pinpointed the two mercs’ positions.

  The first was only eight or ten meters in front and slightly to the right of him. When the man took a step forward, he came into Aiden’s view. Without hesitation, Aiden leapt forward. The man never even looked in Aiden’s direction until just before he crashed into the man, driving him into the dirt almost knocking him out. Aiden backhanded the man, hoping to break his neck. He was tougher than Aiden had thought, though, and he weakly tried to push Aiden off of him.

  Another burst of fire erupted, and Aiden felt the sharp lance of pain in his shoulder. He rolled to the left and out of the line of fire. His erstwhile opponent, though, was too dazed to move, and several rounds hit him.

  Shit, it sucks to have someone like that on your side, Aiden thought as he flexed his right shoulder.

  He could barely move it, and he heard bones grating. He’d been hit twice now and grazed once, and while he was functional, the pain was still pretty intense. And pain made him angry. He tried to channel that anger, the human part of him that was hiding in his mind realizing that uncontrolled anger was a sure recipe for disaster.

  Controlled anger, though, that was a different story. With laser-like focus, Aiden propelled himself forward in one huge leap to where he knew his enemy was. Bursting through some branches, he almost collided with the man.

  Aiden didn’t recognize the man’s weapon, but it looked deadly as the muzzle started to swing around to him. Aiden reached out, and with an iron grip on the flash suppressor, stopped its motion. The man fired a burst of two or three rounds before Aiden jerked the weapon out of the man’s hands and flung it away.

  As he turned back to the merc, the man simply sank to his knees, making the sign of the cross and muttering, “Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo . . .”

  Mother fuck! The guy’s smuggling drugs, and now he gets all religious on me?

  Aiden hesitated as the man clasped his hands in prayer, his eyes closed, his face pointing to heaven as he recited his Hail Mary. It was too much for Aiden, and an uncontrollable anger flowed through him like lava.

  “Go to fucking hell!” he shouted as he swung his roundhouse blow with all the strength he could muster.

  The man managed to get out the final part of his prayer, “maintenant et à l'heure de notre mort,” or “now and at the hour of our death,” just as Aiden’s clenched paw connected and tore the man’s head completely off his body.

  Aiden stood there hyperventilating, not wanting the fight to be over. He was brimming full of energy, energy that had to be released. There was nothing else to do but lift his snout and howl into the night sky.

  Which was a pretty stupid thing to do. Aiden was not sure that all the drug crew had been killed. There could still be more mercs in the area, and puffing up his chest and giving a victory cry would only make him a target. But after gathering himself and conducting a thorough search, he couldn’t find any sign of life. There had been eleven narcos in the jungle camp, and now there were just eleven dead bodies.

  The small denizens of the jungle started to come back to life while Aiden searched the camp. In the distance a loud roar of some sort startled him, but when the insects and frogs kept up their growing chorus, Aiden realized the roar had to be the howler monkeys he’d been briefed were in the area. Part of him—a very strong part—wanted to take off into the dark jungle to track them down, but he knew he still had a job to do, and he still had to get back to the special forces team. If he missed them, it would be a long walk back to the States.

  Aiden gathered up the major pieces of equipment and the barrels of chemicals, initially placing them in the center of the clearing. That was until his varg mind realized he could kill two birds with one stone. He lugged each item over to the sub. He had a little trouble with the hatch on the conning tower as his paws were not particularly suited for manipulating it. He tried for a full minute before he realized he could shift and get it open in a second.

  After shifting back to human, it probably took him all of five seconds to spin open the hatch, but that was enough time for the mosquitos to find his naked skin and start sucking his blood. He swore and shifted back, grateful for his tougher varg skin and fur. He poked his head down into the sub, and piles of white bricks greeted his view. There had to be several tons of cocaine already packed inside and ready for the journey north. He didn’t have a clue as to how much it was worth, but he knew it was more than he’d ever see in his life.

  Carrying the barrels full of chemicals over the narrow gangplank to the sub was a little tricky—not for the weight, which he could handle easily, but for the balance. He dropped one barrel into the water, but he got several inside. He broke open the last of the barrels he dumped inside, the smell almost burning his nasal passages.

  Aiden left the rest of the equipment on the shore next to the sub, surrounding it with more of the chemicals. But now he had a problem. Along with his knife, his watch, and the rest of his equipment, he’d left the two thermite grenades back at where he’d first shifted. Once again, his unfocussed varg mind had let him down.

  With no thermite, Aiden walked back to the campfire, carefully stepping over the dead narcos, and using a bucket as a scoop, picked up some of the hot coals. He headed back to the sub and dumped them into the open hatch before leaning forward to see if they would catch. With a loud whoosh, flames rocketed out of the sub, singeing Aiden’s face as he jumped back and fell off the gangplank and into the river. The water probably saved him from further damage, but it was an embarrassed and rueful varg that crept out of the water, using his Tavor, which was still sticking in the mud, once again as an anchor.

  The little gangway caught fire, and as the flames crept along it to the shore, Aiden clambered along the bank to get out of the way. Only moments later, the rest of the pile of chemicals and equipment on the shore went up with a roar, a wave of heat rolling over Aiden’s head. In the distance, even the howlers quit their calls to the coming morning for a moment.

  Aiden felt the top of his ears. The tufts of hair that normally sprouted from them fell into carbonized filaments. He turned to look back at the blaze that was consuming the camp and surrounding trees. At Camp Lejeune, live fire at the ranges often started wildfires that had to be stomped out, but here, in the midst of all the water, Aiden didn’t think the fire would spread too far.

  Not my problem, he thought as he took one last look at the bodies scattered throughout what had been an operating drug factory.

  His shoulder was shooting pain throughout his body, his side ached, his face was burned, and the top of his head was singed. Still, it had been a pretty good night’s work, he realized, as he started his trek back through the jungle to the special forces team and his ride back home.

  Chapter 2

  Colonel Jack Tarnition leaned back after watching the recording of the fight for the third time. It was not as clear as he would have wanted, given the darkness and the small speck of mud that Corporal Kaas had managed to get splashed on the lens when he’d stumbled into the water, but it was clear enough to see that the Marine had simply devastated the drug camp. The colonel knew that werewolves were not invulnerable, given Kaas’ debriefs of earlier in the week, but it sure looked like they were pretty close to it based on the recording. Kaas had taken out eleven heavily armed and dangerous men, and he’d
been shot at least once, yet nothing had fazed him.

  Not for the first time since he’d gotten control of the young Marine, the colonel wondered just how much of what he’d been told was true. His suspicious mind toyed with the idea that Kaas was downplaying the strength of a werewolf, or “varg” as he called them, and exaggerating the dangers of creating a new werewolf. If he were in the Marine’s shoes, he certainly would. If the colonel were the lone werewolf in the US armed forces, he wouldn’t want to share that position, so trying to discourage others from becoming like him made good sense.

  The colonel was still not sure if Kaas was the only werewolf on the American armed forces. There was Major Ward to consider. The major had been close to a sure death, yet he’d survived. If the colonel were a betting man, he’d throw down a few bucks on the major being one as well.

  And more importantly, there would be another werewolf soon. The colonel had injected himself with some of Kaas’ blood over a week ago, and sometime soon, he hoped, he’d become a werewolf, too, and one he was positive would be a much better fighter. From the records, Kaas had been a shitbird Marine before this “Omar,” who Kaas referred to as his “patron,” bit him back in Fallujah. Since then, Kaas had become a super warrior, a death-dealing machine.

  The colonel stood up and walked over to the small washbasin in his office and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was older now, granted. But despite having never served in combat—too young for Vietnam and too senior for anything other than a staff billet in Iraq—he’d been a hell of a soldier with a keen tactical mind. Part of him knew that not everyone thought of him that way. He’d been called a brown-noser by more than a few peers, but most of them were long out of the Army, passed over for promotion or just not willing to make the sacrifices necessary for someone to serve.

  Screw them, he thought as he looked into the mirror. I’m still here, and I’m about to become better than all of them.