by AJ Tata
Joint Special Forces Command, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Colonel Jack Rampert, commander of the U.S. Army’s elite commando force, put down the phone and looked at Dr. Ted Tedaues.
“Okay, we’ve got the word.”
Tedaues’ calculating eyes stared back at him blankly.
“You think he’s up to it?” Rampert asked.
“No,” Tedaues said. Then he added, “But do we have a choice?”
“He’s got no choice,” Rampert said, turning toward the window. In silence they stood and watched the man on the treadmill, who was breathing into a spirometer, measuring what turned out to be the incredible volume of his lung capacity. Each steady, forceful breath slammed a small ball to the top of the plastic casing every time he exhaled.
“What is his assignment?” the doctor said.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Look, our man in there is a human being, and I’m assuming he’s got family and friends and all that. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember who he is.”
“Ted, we’ve been through this. That soldier in there died a year ago,” he said, pointing through the one-way glass. “His family has mourned his loss. They’ve buried him. But now he has the opportunity to do something very important for this country.”
“You think he’d do it if he remembered who he was? It’s a fair question.”
Rampert studied his friend.
“I know he’d do it. That’s why I was recruiting him to join our team in special ops.”
“I don’t like it. But he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. Really a physical specimen, as a matter of fact. He’s been running five-minute miles on the treadmill, benching 320 pounds, and climbing ropes like he’s Spiderman. Based on what you’ve told me, he seems more physically fit than before his ‘death,’” Tedaues commented.
“He’s a warrior. A natural,” Rampert said.
“We’ve had great improvement, but I’m still concerned,” the doctor responded, continuing his prognosis. “Physically, he couldn’t be better. But mentally, his mind collects and retains information today as if he were a genius yet he has no apparent memory prior to the incident. I don’t know . . . I feel like I’m building Frankenstein in there. And I still don’t know his real name. That’s not right. I’d like to know that, at least. He’s been my patient since you brought him to me in a coma.”
The colonel looked at him with dark eyes, no differentiation between the iris and pupil, just stone cold blackness providing windows to the mysterious soul of the most notorious commando in modern U.S. history. Rampert’s face was cragged with age and battle scars. A modern day Achilles, Rampert had been cycling through the commando and Special Forces communities since Charlie Beckwith, his mentor, created the secret organization.
As for Tedaues, he had served with Rampert for ten years as the combat surgeon on every big mission they had executed.
“Ted, you’re the best combat doc I’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you what you need to know in due time. I’ve never steered you wrong. Just finish the job.” Rampert spoke in the same manner he had given the order to destroy Taliban and al Qaeda fighters.
Jack Rampert’s Army combat uniform, too, told the story of the military’s premier warrior, with combat infantryman’s badges from three different conflicts, three gold stars on his master parachutist wings indicating combat jumps into Panama, Afghanistan, and most recently, the Philippines, and a right-shoulder combat patch of the Joint Special Forces Command. Rampert’s career had been filled with unique missions, all an extension of his Special Forces bona fides. Combat jumps, reconnaissance deep behind enemy lines, and interrogation of high-value enemy prisoners of war all fill his portfolio. He saw the exhaustion and frustration etched on his friend’s face.
Tedaues shifted around a bit, kicking at the floor.
“What’s the problem?”
“No problem, sir.”
“All right, then. He’s going to go kill us one bad actor.”
“Ballantine?”
Rampert paused, then stood and walked toward the door, which he checked to ensure it was locked.
“That’s right. Ballantine.” He sighed and then continued. “All right. In Iraq we lost one of our deep black ops guys. He was right next to Hussein, was gonna take him. Somehow he got caught. He was due to rotate back. I was going to put him on the Ballantine mission—”
“I remember.”
“They iced him. Strung him up by his thumbs, beat him with a baseball bat, then shot him through the eyes. After that, they dumped him in front of Baghdad International, right in front of the headquarters. They were saying, ‘Don’t mess with us anymore.’”
“Then we know where Ballantine is?” the doctor asked.
“Yes. He’s an Iraqi general from the first Gulf War. He laid low during this go around. Might be connected to what just went down today. Don’t know, but we think so. We’ve got signal intelligence and some imagery suggesting that he is running a fishing guide service out of Canada. We’ve monitored some intel that says he’s been orchestrating something. Now that these attacks have happened, we think he’s the one.”
“All right. Connect this thing.”
“This soldier in here,” Rampert said, pointing through the window at the young man on the treadmill. “Damn Canucks refuse to cooperate, won’t let us go in there with guns blazing. So we need to do something; we need to send someone. Then why not send someone that we can deny ever existed? This soldier’s supposed to be dead. He no longer exists. And with a new name, we can get him in close to Ballantine.
“I lost my best guy. This is the only other soldier I’ve ever seen who could do what needs to be done, alone. He’s a paratrooper, a fighter. He’s killed and he’s been killed.”
Rampert watched Tedaues consider his comments. No doubt, Rampert figured, that the good doctor was thinking that a one-man mission was insane, unheard of, and Rampert needed to allay the concerns of the only man who knew about their resurrected man. Rampert broke his gaze from Tedaues and looked at his protégé thumping on the treadmill at five minutes per mile as though he were on a Sunday walk.
“What about his family, Colonel? You’re telling me to go back in there and finish this series of experimental coma-release treatments, which you and I both know could erase what is left of his memory. It’s like reformatting your hard drive.”
Rampert looked back at Tedaues. “We’ll worry about that when the time comes. His family has grieved its loss. Why not let him do this mission and see what happens?”
“What if he has lost his instincts? What if he wants to be an artist when you brief him on this mission? This is like jump-starting a car, Colonel, without knowing where the positive and negative terminal posts are. Cross the wires and we might do something terrible. Then again, just like a broken bone heals stronger than it was before, his memory may suddenly appear in Technicolor before his very eyes.”
“To everyone else, he’s already dead. I’ll take my chances. He’s ready now, you said so yourself, and I know this son of a gun. He’s the best damn soldier I’ve seen. He’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve seen him train. You can’t tell me you don’t see his instincts in what he’s doing. It’s just his memory—”
“Until he remembers something from his past life in the middle of this mission and he comes unraveled. It’s that simple.”
“Yes, it is that simple.”
Tedaues studied Rampert. The two friends let a long moment pass between them. Rampert had pushed the envelope so many times in his career that, truthfully, this mission seemed rather ordinary to him.
“So the key is that he’s expendable, and deniable?” Tedaues asked.
Rampert didn’t need to answer. His glare said more than words. Rampert knew that Tedaues and the other unit members were aware of some of his prior questionable activities. He knew what the doctor was asking.
“Ted, just know that he’s a soldier, and he can do soldierly things. It’s not
like we’re trying to fix up a civilian here to do these things.”
“It’s risky,” Tedaues said, “and unethical.”
The colonel looked at him hard.
“I’ll have him ready.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” The colonel unlocked the door, opening it as a dim light flowed into the dark room, then turned his head and looked over his shoulder. “If you’re still worried about our boy here, you’re welcome to accompany him on his mission when the time comes . . . to keep an eye on him.”
“Yeah, right,” Tedaues said with a chuckle. “I’ve been on enough of those. The only cutting I want to do is with this scalpel.” The shiny blade glistened in the crease of light.
“Call me in an hour,” Rampert said.
He nodded as the colonel departed and turned back toward the treadmill. The patient was on his seventh mile, no slack in his pace. Truly amazing.
He had given a dead man a new life . . . only to send him to his death.
CHAPTER 13
Video Teleconference
Meredith sat in the video teleconference room of the alternate command post in Middleburg. It was equipped with bright lights, a large plasma screen, and two cameras. The vice president was seated to her left. No one else was in the VTC room with them, though the Pentagon and White House were also connected. Meredith noticed the secretary of defense, Robert Stone, and chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General “Shark” Shepanski, on the Pentagon feed. President Davis and Roger Houghton, the CIA director, were on the White House feed. Too many people, she thought.
Colonel Jack Rampert began speaking and talked with a slight country drawl Meredith couldn’t exactly place, maybe Arkansas, or Texas. Somewhere in the South, she was sure. Wearing his Army-green uniform, he looked every bit the elite warrior that his reputation purported him to be. His crew-cut hair, rough-hewn face, and lean frame fed the image of his standing as a no-nonsense combat veteran.
The surgeon who had operated on the man they called Boudreaux was seated next to Rampert. Meredith guessed he was in his late thirties, handsome, but he seemed to have a certain hardness that was out of synch with the rest of his character. Perhaps all of these guys were that way. They have killed and have been shot at who knows how many times. It probably took something different to deal with that lifestyle.
“This is Dr. Ted Tedaues,” Rampert said. “He’s our surgeon, and quite frankly, one of the best all-around doctors in the country. He’s jumped into combat from an airplane flying five hundred feet above the ground; he’s been on multiple special operations missions that served the vital interests of this nation; over the past year he has helped Boudreaux rehabilitate from combat wounds, and now he is ensuring Boudreaux is ready for Operation Maple Thunder.”
Rampert’s voice trailed the movement of his lips because the secure satellite delayed transmission of the visual images by a fraction of a second. Meredith watched as Rampert punched a button on a remote, causing a PowerPoint slide to appear on the VTC screen.
“This chart shows our patient’s progression over the past eight months. He was in a solid coma for two months,” Tedaues explained, pointing at a matrix on the chart. “He first showed signs of recovery in September of last year. His right hand had a muscle spasm, not altogether uncommon for coma patients.” He paused and looked at Rampert, then flipped another slide onto the projector. It was a picture of a skeleton with muscle mass.
“But what followed was an immediate contraction of the bicep, here, and an extension of the forearm muscle, here. For two weeks we had no other movement.”
Tedaues paused again and Meredith began to wonder where all of this was leading.
“Then we saw a series of similar muscle movements in the opposing arm and in both legs. It was as if the patient was trying to force himself out of the coma. Really quite extraordinary. Naturally we had twenty-four-hour camera coverage of his entire body. In early October the patient lifted his head and opened his eyes.”
Another pause and another chart.
“From that point, he was officially conscious and registered a three on a fifteen-point scale that certified neurosurgeons use to classify coma patients. Our patient was different, however, than others that I have worked with and any other that I could find in my research. From the moment he became conscious, he had almost all of his physical capabilities. Only his cognitive abilities lagged behind his ability to move, sit up, and shortly thereafter, walk.”
Meredith cocked her head. Remarkable.
“This individual, before going into his coma, was an impressive physical specimen. He remains one today. Throughout his dormant stages, his body would go through a series of muscle spasms every day. Over time it appeared as though his subconscious was performing isometrics, stationary exercises. For example, his bicep would tighten for about a minute then relax. Then his forearm would flex, and relax. Most of his major muscle groups got some form of isometrics every day. Craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Who is this person?” Hellerman asked.
Rampert interjected quickly and said, “His name is Winslow Boudreaux. He’s from Louisiana. He is a special operations soldier. And he is ready for the mission.”
Meredith looked at the vice president, wondering why he would ask that question. Her curiosity was piqued. She turned back toward the VTC screen, looking at the chart and then the doctor. She also wanted to ask what the patient’s real name was but knew she would be rebuked. Even at her level, these things were best kept secret. Plausible deniability was a very real fact of life in the national security business and knowing just a bit of Rampert’s reputation for risk-taking, Meredith logged a red flag in the back of her mind.
“For the past two months, he has been more physically active than most Olympic athletes,” Tedaues said. “Every day he has been running, swimming, jumping from airplanes, lifting weights, and training with weapons.”
“Mentally?” Meredith asked.
Tedaues hesitated, looking at Rampert. “Operationally, he’s fine. He only lacks a recollection of experiences prior to his coma. But his instincts are formidable. He cannot tell you, for example, his name or phone number prior to his accident, but from the minute he woke up, he has been an expert marksman, just like before.”
Meredith sighed and looked down at the table. This was a more complicated problem than she had originally considered.
The door opened, producing a short male dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie, with khaki pants. He looked harried, racing toward Hellerman. Ralph Smithers, Meredith noticed. Usually the bearer of bad news.
“Sir, we’ve got a confirmation. Over five hundred passengers and crew members were killed in the train derailment. We’re still working the Charlotte Coliseum and Mall of America, but it’s . . . it’s bad,” he said.
The VTC room fell silent, and Meredith could tell that everyone in the president’s situation room and the Joint Operations Center at Fort Bragg had heard Ralph’s comment.
“When can he go in?” The president’s voice was crisp and sure.
“Sir, he’s ready now.” Rampert’s voice was decisive.
Meredith looked at Hellerman and nodded. He returned her knowing glance. They were about to send Frankenstein to meet Ballantine.
The vice president turned to the video camera with a confident stare. “Mr. President, I recommend we execute Maple Thunder, now.”
CHAPTER 14
Vermont
“This way,” Matt whispered to Peyton.
Looking at her in the moonlight, he could see a hardened edge to her expression. Her eyes darted back and forth, focusing and searching for danger. He grabbed her arm and guided her through a small thicket of woods toward a distant gathering of lights. The air was cool but not frigid. Their adrenaline was sufficient to keep them warm as they raced away from the terrorist camp.
“Any idea where we are?” she whispered, keeping up with him.
“Don’t know, but these fir trees and maples
make me think we’re somewhere up north, maybe New England. The airfield was small and remote, so I don’t remember much other than the landing heading on the runway. It was 355 degrees, almost due north. We banked hard after the woman was killed and didn’t turn much on our final approach, so I have to say that we are north of where we started.”
They continued to jog through the forest. After he figured they had run a couple of miles, Matt slowed to a brisk walk, steam pouring from his mouth with every breath.
They continued walking, side by side, along the deserted road. Matt let some silence pass.
“Who was that guy?” Matt asked.
“What guy?”
“The mad scientist you wanted to rescue.”
“Oh, him. Don’t have any idea.” Her diminishing voice seemed elusive to Matt. He gave her a sideways glance.
“He was a prisoner just like us. Why wouldn’t we want to save him?”
“Why didn’t he come with us?”
It was a cool spring morning. Dense fog was settling into the low ground.
They had come upon a gravel country road running perpendicular to their axis of escape. Peyton had discarded the shotgun while Matt maintained control of the pistol, which had two rounds of ammunition remaining. He had noticed during their escape that Peyton was in superb physical condition. She had been able to keep up with him the entire way, and truthfully, had pushed him early on.
Matt ran his hand along his ribcage, pressing down slightly, feeling the scar tissue and the razor-sharp pain that accompanied the year-old wound.
“Okay?” Peyton asked.
“Fine. Now, answer my question.”
“How the hell do I know?” she snapped and left it at that.
They approached an intersection with a two-lane asphalt road with faded yellow stripes down the middle.
“Which way, Kemo Sabe?” Peyton quipped.
Matt looked at his watch: one a.m. Looking up, he stared at the black sky, picking out a quarter moon sitting low along the treetops to his right. He had noticed the moon directly over their heads a couple of hours ago, and so he knew they would be traveling west if they turned to the right.