Chimera (The Subterrene War)

by T. C. McCarthy

  “You’re riding on top?” he asked. “Why not inside? Are you that claustrophobic?”

  I lit another cigarette and grinned from the deck of an APC. “It’s not claustrophobia. You didn’t learn this one in the tanks?”

  He shrugged. “Learn what?”

  “These types of APCs have one large compartment, so when they get hit by a rocket, the overpressure liquefies everyone inside at the same time it cooks them. Ride on top, and you’ll get blown into the air but maybe survive. I’ve seen about five guys live because they made that decision, to sit on the top instead of inside. I was one of ’em.”

  Ji glanced at the loading ramp and then looked back at me again before he sighed and grabbed hold of a tie-down, lifting himself using the nearest tire as a ladder. He had just settled when Colonel O’Steen jogged up. The colonel handed me a computer chit and shook his head.

  “Priority transmission from your CO at SOCOM, Momson. For your eyes only.”

  “Thanks, Colonel,” I said.

  He nodded and crossed his arms. “You boys see any trouble down in Khlong Toei yesterday? Maybe a group of Koreans with clubs?”

  Ji and I looked at each other, and I smiled.

  “No. Why?”

  “Witnesses said that a Japanese guy and an American shot three Koreans and then ran yesterday. The Koreans had passports and visas, but there’s nothing on them in foreign ministry databases.”

  “Wasn’t us,” I said. “And besides, Chong here is Korean, not Japanese.”

  “Well, it’s funny because they also caught the guy who took a shot at you in the hotel, and he was Korean too. Found him near one of the Khlong Toei gates, and he still had his Maxwell. They’re interrogating him now.”

  I shook my head, worried, but then again not; once we hit the bush, it wasn’t like they’d be able to send anyone to arrest us. “It’s a hell of a world. Strange things happening every day.”

  O’Steen stared at me and frowned, the seconds ticking off. He nodded. “Well, whatever’s on that chit, the Thai Army is treating you like special cargo to be delivered at any cost, the highest priority. Good luck up there,” he said and left.

  I made a mental note of the fact that our pursuers had been Korean, not sure of what to make of it, then settled back into the wait. Then we waited some more. The Thai soldiers laughed and smoked, half of them wearing ancient surplus armor—the only stuff we sold them and which didn’t have chameleon skins—and the other half dressed in even more ancient tiger-striped battle suits. Battle suits were basic rubberlike undersuits that had been equipped with cooling units and that were one-piece garments that zipped up the front and had a hood with a clear plastic face; the hoods sealed over the suits’ shoulders and would protect their wearers from chemical or biological attacks. Each had backpack power and air filtration. I took a drag and exhaled, thinking how much they’d need the gear where we were going, my cigarette smoke sinking the same way I’d once seen clouds of gas blown over my trench in the bush so that the image made me break out in a cold sweat; gas was the worst. You had to stay buttoned in your suit after they hit because armor was the one thing keeping you alive. Decontamination could take days or weeks—if they got around to it at all—and by then you’d be so crazy from smelling your own sweat that it was almost better to let the stuff take you down in the first place. The mission was getting to me, I decided. The computer chit glinted in my hand, and I turned it over, wondering if I wanted to see it until finally Ji grabbed the thing and slid it into my forearm slot. It took a moment to slip on my vision hood.

  It was Colonel Momson. His face flickered onto my heads-up display, and I barely heard him when the camera zoomed out to show Phillip, smiling as he held a Popsicle. The kid’s hair hadn’t been cut. I grinned at that and almost started crying because it meant the bastards hadn’t gotten into his head yet, hadn’t corrupted it with the same filth I’d had to endure by choice. He was out, and it was all that mattered for now; I’d worry about getting him later.

  The image faded then, and it switched to an audio track with Momson’s voice. “There have been new developments since that last time we met. A week ago we sent a team into Wonsan, Unified Korea, to recon the area and see if they could get any information based on the names and addresses you provided us with from the Madrid operation. Unified Korean operatives picked them up within a few days. They held the men in isolation and tortured them until finally one of our guys escaped, barely making it to the US embassy in Pusan, where he told our liaison that the Koreans had been asking about the American in Spain, Stan Resnick—who he was and what the operation was all about. It’s no surprise. By now the Koreans have a holo image of you and will be on the lookout for your biometrics, so our analysts advise that if you’re still in Bangkok, you should change your appearance as soon as possible. Already Unified Korea has lodged a formal complaint with the State Department, and we’re getting a lot of heat from POTUS, who hasn’t been briefed yet on the Spain op. Pusan is pissed that you killed all their people, Bug; be careful.

  “There’s something else. We didn’t tell you about a crucial component of your mission because at the time there wasn’t a need for you to know, but all the mothballed Germline ateliers are being reactivated, and construction of new ones began just before you left for Madrid. In two weeks, State will announce that we’re formally withdrawing from the Genetic Weapons Convention. China just finished taking the western districts in Russia, and reports are coming in from all over that they’re repositioning forces, moving troops toward India and Burma. The Indians, Thai, Vietnamese, Laotians, and Cambodians are screaming for help, and three carrier groups are already prepping to move out.

  “As part of the new training regime for genetics, we’re going to include a manual called the Book of Catherine—the same sato who was with Margaret when the two escaped from Russia and traveled through North Korea. She’s someone that the Joint Chiefs spent a lot of money to capture, a perfect killer. We debriefed her as best we could, but once in our custody Catherine just gave us basic information and then demanded discharge. But one thing came through during the sessions: she considered herself to be in direct communication with God. We don’t consider this insanity because it’s what they’re trained to believe, and it made her totally fearless. Deadly. What was odd was that at over three years past expiration, she was in better mental form than when she was first fielded; totally fearless instead of being a mental basket case. Margaret likely absorbed some of Catherine’s ideas, and from the little information we have, she’s more than just a sato to the other escaped genetics in Thailand, and considering the shit that’s about to rain down over southeast Asia, we’re canceling your kill order; the higher-ups want Margaret alive. In the coming months we may need those satos to slow down a Chinese advance if they decide to invade Thailand because we’re not ready yet and production will take time. Get the word to Margaret; convince her any way you can that we’re on the same team and that she needs to slow down a Chinese invasion force if one should cross the Thai border; only then proceed with the plan to find Chen, whose voice and physical biometrics are now uploaded to your system. Your mission just got bumped up to priority one. End of message.”

  “Real special,” I muttered and then worked my forearm controls to delete the video portion of the chit; there was no reason for Ji to see Phillip, but whether the message was for me alone or not, he needed to hear Momson. I yanked the chit out and handed it to him. “You gotta freakin’ hear this.”

  “It said for your eyes only.”

  I pulled my vision hood off and picked up the cigarette I’d placed on the APC deck, taking one last drag before tossing the butt away. “Yeah, but you’re not going to freaking believe this one.”

  “I was looking at your backpack computer unit,” Ji said. He inserted the chit into his slot. “It’s bigger than any I’ve seen. You have a semi-aware in that thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “How do you keep it juiced? Those things suc
k power.”

  I pointed to my helmet and shoulders. “The chameleon skin polymer is also doped with a photovoltaic material, and the suit’s inside is coated with a piezoelectric nanocoating. So anytime I’m in sunlight or moving, my batteries and fuel cells get a little extra charge.”

  He laughed. “I never would have guessed it—that you, of all people, would have a semi-aware.”

  “This one’s different,” I said. “This one is female and has a really sexy voice and promised not to tell anyone my secrets. She’s the only girl for me.”

  Jihoon slid his vision hood on. A few minutes later he yanked it off and slid the chit out, snapping the paper-thin plastic between his fingers. “Looks like a mission.”

  “Yep.” Thai officers blew whistles, and everyone loaded up at the same time the APC engine ground to life beneath me. “But it’s some mission.”

  There was no forgetting that road. The highway took us over a bridge to the far side of the Chao Phraya River, in an endless line of vehicles that downshifted and ground their gears as the gaps between them shrunk and expanded so that from above the convoy must have resembled a spring. Seven years hadn’t changed anything. My mind had altered the memories and played tricks, the kind where I swore that a particular fuel-alcohol station had been on one side of the road but was actually on the other, and some places had been torn down to be replaced by new buildings, but it didn’t take long to repair the image in my mind. It wouldn’t be long, I thought. Not much farther until we hit the endless rice paddies and fish farms, beyond which the jungle would form a dark green scar on the horizon.

  Jihoon had laid out his equipment on the bouncing APC deck. He checked and double-checked the Maxwell carbine, its long barrel a dull black and formed by bands of ceramic under which coils of superconducting wire would juice themselves into magnets at the squeeze of a button. Unlike the smaller police models I’d seen in Spain or used in Sydney, these ones were for combat. A long flexi-belt fed thousands of fléchettes from the carbine’s breach to a hopper that would perch on the left shoulder, the weight a comforting reminder of the power in one’s hands.

  “Seven years,” I said.

  Jihoon yelled over the noise. “What?”

  “Seven years. Seven years since I’ve been back in this awful country.”

  “What’s wrong with Thailand?”

  Jihoon could have his equipment. I searched my pack for one of the bottles I’d brought and uncapped it, offering him some but he declined. “There’s a different way of doing things out here, Chong. Not like in the simulators. We’ll see if it makes you sick.”

  “You think I can’t hack it?” he asked.

  “I think after the BAI you did your time in the regular Army, just enough to find your way into Special Forces. I also think you’re a good Korean American who salutes the flag every day and jerks off while reciting the pledge of allegiance.”

  Ji started packing his kit, making sure that everything went in the proper place. “You really can’t stand Asians, can you? Not just me, I mean anyone who even resembles one.”

  “That’s not true. I love Asians. Bangkok has some of the best hookers around; it’s a real shame there wasn’t time to try one or two while we were there.” The bourbon went in smoothly and took the edge off, but you couldn’t mess around in this heat, even with the suit’s climate control; I reminded myself to drink plenty of water once I’d finished.

  “All right. If you won’t tell me why you’re such a bigoted prick, how about you tell me why you hate satos so much?”

  I thought about that one. It was a good question, one that warranted another drink because it was the second time he’d asked it and the guy wouldn’t give up. But even then the answer wouldn’t come, and several responses swirled in the cesspool of my brain, each of them almost right but none of them close to the whole truth.

  “You were there, in Khlong Toei,” I said. “Didn’t you see that betty?”

  Ji nodded. “Yeah. I saw her. She looked exactly like the pictures I’ve seen, but nothing there to hate so much.”

  “Give it time. Maybe one of them will shove her hand through your best friend’s stomach and snap his spine while quoting their bible. You ever read their combat manual, Chong?” I didn’t bother to look if he nodded since it was likely he hadn’t read it. “It’s not about small unit tactics; it’s about how to get closer to God through killing. None of them should be breathing the same air as you or me. And some asshole like you and me made them.” Assholes like Phillip’s father.

  The convoy slowed, and ahead of us the lead vehicles took an exit ramp off the highway so they could turn onto a two-lane road, heading northwest into haze. It was late morning. We had our hoods and helmets off so the hot wind blew across my face, and the trucks’ exhaust made the air wetter, their alcohol-burning engines screaming as they shifted into low gear to slow down. When it was our turn, we took the ramp slowly, spiraling around until facing the right direction again and in front of us saw nothing but green. Rice paddies lined each side of a small country road, and I wondered how many armies had taken this route north. You almost smelled the leftovers of war in this place, and thinking about it didn’t help because the more you thought about it, the more you wanted to pick up your Maxwell and hold it close, keep it ready. Paddy dikes could conceal anything. The trees topping them would make good cover, and before I could catch myself, I’d started to reach for my vision hood to take a closer look, scan the road ahead for signs of ambush, but the rough canvas was like sandpaper and made me laugh at the thought, so instead I took another drink.

  Thailand made me feel old, I decided, but then it didn’t take much to make me feel old these days and Wheezer should have been there, not Jihoon. Wheezer would have gotten everything, could have said something to pull me out of the gloom. It was funny how dark everything had become despite the fact that the sun couldn’t have been more brilliant on its climb upward from the horizon, and the thought occurred to me that it had been years since I’d seen the ocean—really saw it, not just flew over or drove by. The last time had been with Phillip when he was two. In Beaufort. It had been a strange place where the forest went almost all the way to the ocean and where the surf pounded in booms so loud they drowned out the noise from the naval air station and its constant, roaring fighters. And there it was, the entry of another memory, one that I wanted least of all because it threatened to ruin the focus I’d need to complete the task at hand. Old age rode the APC next to me, laughing not at my jokes but at me, poking its finger in my eye because it knew that there wasn’t anything a guy like me could do and that the cracks had started to show, cracks into which it could push its fingers and work to wedge them even wider. Old age and a rube named Jihoon were the APC’s only other riders.

  “They took Phillip out of the academy.” The words left my mouth before I’d thought about it, and after they did I wanted them back, but it was too late.

  Ji glanced at me. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered before chugging the rest of the bottle. “And here I am.” Wondering why it is that I care about another guy’s kid.

  We spent the rest of the morning cruising northwest along narrow paved roads, forcing oncoming traffic to pull off to the side or risk getting crushed under the ceramic-armored APCs, and people stopped to stare with quiet curiosity. We had jumped back in time. Despite the progress of the last two centuries, here were old men walking behind water buffalo, their feet protected by nothing except sandals as they guided plows through the clay. There were women in conical hats; they stooped over in a dry field, yanking rice from the ground with hands that were darker than the clay itself, the sun having baked everything to well-done. Some wore white turbanlike things on their heads. But they all stood when the convoy roared up, holding both hands to their eyes, shielding them from the sun. Jihoon pulled an item from his kit, a tiny rectangle, and placed it against his face. It took me a second to realize that the guy was taking pictures.

  I was ab
out to laugh and give him hell for it when something else caught my eye. We were moving out of one farming area into another, and there were no fences to delineate separate areas, but I sensed it from the tree line and the fact that the new area hadn’t been tended as nicely; huge weeds and brush had overgrown much of its fields. To our front, a narrow concrete bridge spanned a canal. From where I sat, it looked like something was on the bridge so I yanked my vision hood on and stood, grabbing hold of the APC’s turret rear so I could see over the forward vehicles while zooming in. A truck had broken down. It looked like an ancient vehicle, rusted out in spots, and the engine hood had been propped up as if the truck had stopped and been abandoned when its owner couldn’t fix the thing. I looked back. Jihoon was still taking pictures, but the farmers had stopped staring and were moving in the opposite direction, some of them sprinting away once they climbed the dike and made it to the road.

  “Chong!” I yelled, dropping back to the deck to grab my helmet. “Ambush. Get your hood and lid on, and let the Thais know that the vehicle ahead is part of a trap.”

  He didn’t even pause, and I had to give the guy credit. Jihoon slipped the camera into a pouch and geared up in under ten seconds, calling over our radio in twangy Thai that crackled in my ears. But it was already too late. Our road ran along the top of a dike, with steep dirt and gravel sides that dropped about ten feet into the fields on either flank; although the APCs could make it down such a slope, the trucks would have to stay put.

  I had just grabbed my carbine, which had been slung over a shoulder, when the first rocket streaked out of the tree line ahead of us, clanging into the lead APC after a loud whoosh. Time stopped. I don’t remember deciding what to do or telling Jihoon to follow, but we leaped from our APC as it screeched to a stop, and both of us rolled down the sides of the dike after an impact that snapped my jaws together; I tasted blood from having bit the inside of my cheek. Jihoon rolled to a stop beside me. We stood in a crouch and jogged toward the trees where the rocket had come from but kept to the area where the fields met the dike, our feet sucking in and out of thick mud in a shallow ditch. We had made it about ten meters when daisy-chained geysers of asphalt and clay leaped up to our left. At first it didn’t register. Then I noticed that my speakers had cut off to shield my ears, and shadows appeared where none had been before, so there was just enough time to look left and see the line of explosions work their way down the road, hitting the APC on which we had just ridden. The vehicle leaped up. A fraction of a second later the fusion reactor went and small jets of plasma shot out from cracks in the hull. The vehicle broke in two, already burning before the separate pieces landed. A few seconds later my hearing came back as bits of uniforms, armor, and ceramic chunks from the vehicles either floated down around me or thudded into the brush, along with, miraculously, our packs; they hadn’t even been singed.