by Russ Linton
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FOREWORD
This collection of short stories can be read as a primer to Crimson Son, as a background piece for both that novel and the upcoming sequel, or it can be enjoyed as a standalone. WARNING: Without Spencer's snarky commentary, this is a bleak, bleak world. Jefferson Smith, on his review site Immerse or Die, perhaps best captures the tone and intent of these stories:
"Linton takes the horror of the atomic bomb's emergence in WWII and transforms it into the emergence of laboratory-grown super soldiers — but with similarly horrific consequences and the same desperate global struggle to cram the genie back into the bottle afterward. It gives the entire story world a grittiness and gravitas that we rarely see in superhero stories. And that darkness makes it chilling."
I hope you enjoy your read and as always, thanks for joining me on this journey.
Russ Linton
www.russlinton.com
THE 'CANE TRAIN
1968. Long Range Recon Patrol Alpha based out of Pleiku. Deep in-country, east of the North Vietnam, Cambodian border.
"Okay, don't move. Stay calm."
Private Ingalls looked down. Nothing to see but his boot and a mat of trampled grass. Was it grass? No, grass could be cut with a push reel mower. This waist-high brush was a job for a tractor or maybe a chainsaw.
"No problem with the first one, sir," Ingalls replied. He licked his dry lips and wondered where all the moisture in the oppressive jungle air had gone. "But I'm way past the second part of that."
"You'll be fine." The lieutenant's voice was calm, insistent.
Ingalls had always felt uncertain at basic training and a month in Vietnam hadn't changed that. His Drill Sargent back home had yelled at him like he'd signed up for this. Demanding to know why he wasn't better at being a soldier. Always asking how he stayed so fat on military rations. Eventually he stopped listening but that voice never quite left his head.
The leader of Long Range Recon Alpha, a lieutenant everyone called Hound, wasn't like that. You wanted to do exactly what he said. Right when he said it.
So when Hound had barked "Ingalls, stop!" he'd done precisely that.
Ingalls watched the rest of the patrol back away through the grass, getting their distance. Reggie, their point man, was the last one to go by. He gave a final nod … like a nice-knowing-ya, and faded away.
"You sure there's something there, sir? I mean, I don't see nothin'," Ingalls called out. "Didn't hear a click."
Behind him, Hound gave more orders, directing the platoon through the clearing like they were blind sheep. Between commands, he heard him inhale through his nostrils. "Yeah, there's something there alright. If you'd heard a click, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
He looked again. That damn thick-bladed grass. A little dirt visible. A shitty black boot that always felt too tight. Nothing else. He really wanted Hound to be wrong.
But he wasn't. Ever.
Hound was an Augment, part of a top-secret super soldier program from WWII, but there was no keeping the lid on that program. Especially once those soldiers headed into battle. There were guys who could deflect bullets, bend tank cannons with their bare hands, or even walk away from a bomber downed from its perch thousands of feet in the air. Hell, there were rumors of guys who could fly formation with bombers—sans wings, engines and airframe.
Most of the Augments went freelance after that war. People thought governments shouldn't have control of weapons like that. But Hound stayed on, flew under the radar with a more limited power set. He could smell stuff, and it was rumored he could hear dog whistles.
There'd been plenty of jokes on base. A few of the seasoned vets prided themselves on convincing new recruits that Hound would sniff their asses as part of inspection. That was one of the tamer ones. Out here, though, you came to appreciate what he could do. Unless you were the one standing on the mine.
"How long do I have to stand here, sir?"
"Hang on. Let me think."
Ingalls strained to hear the conversation behind him. The wind had picked up, thrashing the giant grass. He tensed and wondered if that was enough to set the mine off. He tried to remember all the different kinds they'd taught him about in basic. Anti-personnel. Anti-tank. Bouncing Bettys and claymores. Charlie'd even improvise and trigger anti-tanks with anti-personnel mines to blow up as many Yankees as they could. None of this training was helping him stay calm. Sweat streamed down his face, but his mouth stayed dry and swollen.
"Relax. It'll be fine, son." Hound again. The guy not standing on a DH 5. Or 10. Or whatever they were called.
Fuck that drill sergeant in Basic. He could hear him yelling now: Ingalls! Get your head out of your ass! You looking to have a Betty put it up there for you?
Fuck him. Got to relax. Like Hound says.
While the wind drowned out the anxious chatter, the radio call wasn't completely masked. You couldn't whisper into the handsets and hope to be heard. Everyone had tried it out here, where death waited up every tree and under every open field, but it was no use.
Calm, in control, Hound rattled off the grid coordinate of their location. Great, mark the map so nobody else dies. Was that a call for medivac on standby?
They don't make these mines to kill you, dumbfuck! They want to cut you off at the waist so we spend precious resources getting your bloody stump home!
God, that's right. There wasn't any way out of this.
More jabbering on the radio and he could only make out every other word. The patrol must've all moved back beyond the tree line. He was their scarecrow, like he'd helped his mom make for their little suburban vegetable garden back home. Only here the crows weren't the ones afraid.
He heard Hound's commanding voice fire a few curses. Then he could've sworn he heard him mention R&R. Okinawa. Was that iron-spined bastard planning his vacation?
Chatter fell silent. Ingalls heard Hound creep closer, inhaling and exhaling in short bursts while he moved.
"I'm dead, aren't I."
"Excuse me, private?"
"I'm dead, sir."
"Son, if I talked to dead soldiers, I'd never have a minute of peace." Hound came into view. He was low to the ground, nose twitching and his eyes roving the grass. "Truth be told, I'm surprised you're here," he muttered.
"What does that mean?"
Hound probed the ground with a stick, coming closer to Ingalls' boots. His face scrunched and he held the stick up and sniffed the tip. He growled and shook his head.
"What?" First his chest, then his arms tensed as the word exploded from his lips and he only just stopped the tremor that ran down to his leg. Hound stood and gently touched his shoulder.
"Calm, remember?" The lieutenant took several measured breaths, and Ingalls tried to match his cadence. "Now, there ain't any reason this mine hasn't already exploded. A goddamn miracle." Hound's grip tightened and he locked on with his steely eyes set under tangled brows. "Could be a dud."
Ingalls' heart raced at the thought. Hound's hand stayed firm.
"But don't. Fucking. Move."
He fought the urge to nod.
"A dud? Sir?"
"Maybe. All I'm sure of is that you're standing on a mine that ain't gone off yet. Best way to keep that from happening is to keep the situation static. Eyes forward, Private. Locked formation. You're green but you've done this on the parade ground plenty of times."
Yeah, plenty of times. That was another regular torture at Basic. He still had a scar from face-planting on the asphalt on a sweltering summer day.
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You can't even stand right, soldier! How do you expect to make it out of a warzone without being on your back?
"I can't do it, sir."
"'Course you can."
"I really can't, sir." Tears mingled with his sweat. He hoped the lieutenant couldn't tell the difference.
You miss your mommy? You want a blankie? Sorry fat-ass, Airborne can't spare a parachute and your mommy said she don't want to see you until you become a soldier.
He did miss his mom. He missed building that stupid scarecrow that fought away the demons. Twenty years old, and he wasn't anything but an overgrown kid.
"Son, I'll be standing right here until help arrives." Hound sighed and checked his watch. "No more yappin'. Keep quiet so I can hear. War going on around here and all."
The breeze picked up again. He thought he heard the thwump of a helicopter in the distance but it was lost in the rush and cry of the surrounding jungle. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. It was hot, humid, exactly like that day on the parade ground when he'd eaten the pavement. His legs felt numb and heavy.
He wanted to wiggle his toes, a trick his bunkmate had taught him to keep the circulation going, but he didn't dare. In his mind, he started to build that scarecrow. An old shirt stuffed with straw, topped by a pillowcase on which he'd drawn a face. The eyebrows took on a thick, scruffy look as he dug into the memory.
Want to know your new name Private Ingalls? P.F.C Liable. Do you know why? 'Cause you're fucking liable to get everyone around you killed.
Ingalls realized he didn't know much about Hound. He didn't even know his real name. A man standing there close enough to share whatever fate had in store. After being shuffled around from unit to unit, Ingalls'd finally ended up on a Long Range Recon patrol, all because he'd made the mistake of mentioning he'd done some hunting back on his grandparent's land. Once he'd said it, Hound just walked up, glared at him from under his intense brow and said, "You."
"I can't hunt real good, sir." Given the situation, Ingalls felt an urge to tell Hound the truth.
"Goddammit, what now?" Hound looked him up and down before returning to scan the horizon.
"I said I hunted out on my grandpa's land. I wasn't any good at it. I shouldn't be out here."
"That ain't why you're here."
"Then why?"
Hound checked over his shoulder, back toward the rest of the platoon. "I'll tell you later."
Later. Was there even going to be a later? He was going to die here or be mutilated. He'd rather it be the first one. He risked a look at Hound again. Stoic. Ice in his veins. That was a real soldier.
Ingalls swallowed. "Head back to the group, sir. I'll step off—"
Hound stared at him, his gaze piercing. "You givin' orders now, Private?"
"No, sir, I just—"
"You what? Want to be a hero? There ain't no heroes. Only dead soldiers and live soldiers. I keep my soldiers alive, understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Wind shifted again. The grass bent flat to the earth. A deep percussive rumble filled the clearing.
Hound leaned into him. "Steady, son."
Ingalls checked the sky, looking for jets but it remained empty. Frantic, he scanned the edge of the clearing. A tank? Chances were it was theirs, but who knew? As quick as it came, the sound was gone and the grass sprang up. A voice called out behind them.
"What kinda mess you got yourself in now?" The voice sounded happy. Relaxed. Like they were shooting the shit at basecamp. He wanted to see who the hell this guy was, but he couldn't turn.
"'Cane!" replied Hound. "'Bout time you got your scrawny ass over here."
"Yes, sir!" Whoever it was moved in closer and Hound's hand left his shoulder. "You know those damn maps. Coordinates ain't always on target. Had to make a few passes to find you."
"Are you from the plane I heard? Did you drop in from Airborne?" Ingalls asked, staying eyes forward.
"Hell no. Ain't no flights outta Japan to this LZ."
Behind him, he heard a light smack. A pat on the back, maybe a handshake, and Hound muttered, "All yours." Then help stepped into view.
He was skinny; the lieutenant was right about that and it was damn easy to see. His face looked drawn, skin pulled tight across his bones. He was wearing an open Hawaiian shirt, holes where the buttons should've been, and below that, a pair of black speedos. He was looking Ingalls up and down, his tongue peeking out between his lips. Behind his eyes was a crazy sort of look.
"Whatcha weigh?" he asked.
"Umm. I …"
"Don't be shy, ain't nobody judging here." He wagged a finger. "I'd bet two and a dime."
Ingalls nodded and 'Cane's face lit up. "Pretty close. Two-oh-five without all the gear … sir?"
"Naw, none of that." He leaned in and brought a hand up to hide his lips. Ingalls smelled the ocean and a distinct aroma of Vicks VapoRub. "I ain't technically here, if you get my drift."
He didn't.
The man knelt to check the ground. "Yep, Hound's right. A damn miracle. You're one lucky S.O.B. Triggering mechanism musta jammed." He stood and spit a foamy white blob into his hands and rubbed them together. "So, on the count of three, we're gonna do this."
"Do what?"
"One …" The man leaned forward, splaying his arms out to the side and rubbing his fingers together in anticipation. The crazy on his face went to full-blown mental patient, and Ingalls swallowed.
"The lieutenant said it might be a dud …"
"Two …"
"What exac—"
All the air left his lungs. The world changed. A moment that stretched and warped. A blur and the colors around him bled together and reversed.
Then he was standing at the edge of the clearing. That crazy face still right in front of him. The man held the same position. Waiting, anticipating this time, not spring-loaded for action. Ingalls felt the ground spin beneath him and the hands grabbed his upper arms, holding him steady.
In the clearing, a ball of fire plumed into the air. Heat and sound washed over them. The thick canopies surrounding the field came alive and unseen flocks took to the sky, their white bodies stark outside the shadows where they'd hidden. Ingalls could only stare. The man released his arms.
"Three."
He stayed watching the clearing as the man stepped around him. A procession of hands clasped his shoulders and smacked his helmet, but he didn't turn. A silent cheer from his platoon. He was vaguely aware of voices.
"Woo-hoo! That was a doozy. Musta been a goddamn bomb they rigged along with that AP. Y'all get on out of here. I'll run interference."
"Thanks, 'Cane. I owe ya one."
"One? That all? Psssh. Stop by Okinawa and buy me a beer sometime."
"You got it."
Another thump resonated through his chest and the wind rushed past, fanning the grass at the edge of the clearing. Hound issued hushed commands. His ears ringing, Ingalls heard them as a faraway buzz. A hand tapped his shoulder.
"Gotta move, Private."
He mumbled agreement and took in the crater where he'd been standing one last time. The empty space belched a line of black smoke into the air. Everything else seemed clear and vibrant. He saw movement at the far side; Charlie coming to check out the commotion. He traced the trails in the grass where they'd first entered, saw where he'd wandered outside the footsteps of the man who'd gone ahead of him. He'd fucked up and been given a second chance.
"You said you'd tell me why, sir. Why you picked me."
Hound didn't turn around as they fell in with the patrol. "Son, you've been on the verge of doing something stupid ever since the first time I laid eyes on you. You needed to wake the fuck up. You'll be okay now."
Ingalls believed him.
***
1974. Transcript of an interview with Toshiko Aratani, survivor of the Augment Assault on Hiroshima, August 6, 1945. His account varies from official documents, which record only two members of Augment Force Zero taking part in the operation: Hurrica
ne and Fat Boy. Both had been transported by the Augment B-52, who returned to Nagasaki days later with Tomahawk and Minuteman. Several times, the survivor is interrupted by an unknown interviewer, their voice muffled and difficult to hear.
Of every day in my life, this one is the most clear. Age doesn't cloud it. They fell from the sky like ghosts on black wings.
I used to sleep with the doors open to the hallway and the courtyard beyond. The drone of the cicadas would put me to sleep. They were my friends—I never hunted them like the other boys. I let them have the courtyard as their sanctuary, and they gifted me with sleep.
None of the boys had time to hunt cicadas that year. We spent most of the day at school. The rest, we tore down houses. They said it would help stop the fires if bombs ever came to us. The cicadas called long and deep into those nights.
That night, I lay awake, hoping for the gift the cicadas used to bring, but it never came. They sounded urgent. There were so many more of them. Maybe they were lonely and uncomfortable, waiting to shed their robes until the boys could chase them again.
Our city dark to hide from planes and bombs, I thought I saw three stars floating to the ground. I crept out to the hall and watched them in the sky. Falling like leaves, I saw their black wings spread above them.
I ran to the courtyard to watch. It was late. My grandfather was asleep and I was supposed to be as well, but the cicadas wouldn't let me. They wanted me to see this.
I climbed onto the top of the wall; there was a maple I could shimmy up which bent toward the ledge. There I sat, wondering why the three ghosts were here. When the ghosts disappeared behind the rooftops in the center of town, the cicadas fell silent. Orange light flared among the buildings.
Interviewer interrupts.
I understand. But when I say these were ghosts or spirits or demons, or that they spoke words men cannot comprehend, that is what I mean. That is what they were then, in that moment. That is what they are to me, even now.
I can't say why, but I dropped to the path outside our home. Grandfather would be furious if he knew I'd left. His ghost is angry to this very day about how disobedient I was. My father had bade him look after me before he'd left to be a pilot in the war two years before. He never came home. My mother had recently killed herself. I was Grandfather's responsibility. It was wrong of me to be so selfish.