by Bob Mayer
"They didn't have weapons until they took them from your men," Lewis answered weakly.
"Your men in the van were killed with their own weapons," Riley reminded him. "The helicopter was shot at with that MP-5 we found lying outside. You heard the pilot's radio call that the creature was armed." Riley shook his head. Trying to discuss what had already happened was futile.
The sound of an incoming helicopter pounded through the walls of the van.
"That should be Doctor Merrit now." Lewis stood. "You can find out what else you need to know directly from her."
Fort Campbell
4:00 P.M.
The alert for the 5th Special Forces Group started in Colonel Hossey's office. It went to the battalion commanders, who in turn called each company commander. The company commander notified his sergeant major and five team leaders. The team leaders passed the word to the team sergeants.
There are three battalions in 5th Group, three companies in each battalion, five teams in each company, plus service and support units: almost a thousand men and women all told. By 4:15 P.M., arms rooms were being opened and humvees were being dispatched.
The soldiers of 5th Group were used to alerts, but one on a Friday afternoon that encompassed the entire group was somewhat out of the norm. Alerts were usually called in the early hours of the morning under some strange theory that all crises would happen at 4 A.M. The last time that anyone could remember the entire group being called out was the initial alert for the Persian Gulf crisis. But then, after the alert, it had taken almost a month for the whole group to deploy because of limited aircraft capability.
This afternoon, though, was different. The only word coming down the chain of command was for the teams to mount up and be prepared to move out by ground vehicle, locked and loaded. No word of movement to the airstrip or inbound aircraft.
Hossey, satisfied that his own unit was getting ready to roll, now moved on to his hardest task. He'd already called the post chief of staff and scheduled a 4:10 P.M. meeting with the post commander. Major General Williams, at the Fort Campbell headquarters. As his driver dropped him off in front of the old World War II-era building, Hossey tried to figure out the best way to present what he had.
"Sir, Colonel Hossey reports."
Williams was wearing camouflage fatigues and was seated behind his massive desk. "Afternoon, Karl. Have a seat." He waited until the Green Beret colonel was settled. "Now, perhaps you can tell me what the crisis is."
As calmly as possible, Hossey started with the dispatch of the team yesterday at the behest of the DIA. Williams nodded when he was done. "All right. But what does that have to do with right now?"
Hossey then launched into the sequence of events described by Riley in his messages, concluding with 682's present position in the Land Between the Lakes, the discovery of the downed helicopter, the deaths of Knutz and T-bone, and the fact that three of the creatures were still on the loose.
Williams looked at Hossey long and hard. "You expect me to believe this? Killer monkeys running around murdering people?"
"Two of those people were my men," Hossey replied. "I believe it."
Williams frowned. "But monkeys using weapons?"
"Altered monkeys, sir. We don't know what was done to them in that lab. You can verify that the alert from the DIA was phoned in here yesterday morning."
Williams drummed his fingers on the desktop as he collected his thoughts. "You realize, of course, that your man has broken security, and that you yourself have broken security by telling me all this?"
"Yes, sir."
Williams thumbed his intercom. "Mary, get me General Trollers at DIA on the secure line and speaker phone, please."
"Yes, sir."
They waited fifteen seconds, then the phone buzzed.
"4602. This line is unsecure."
Williams reached forward and pushed a button on his phone. "Go secure, please."
There was a hiss from the other end. "Secure."
"This is General Williams calling from Fort Campbell. I need to talk to General Trollers."
"Wait one, sir."
After almost half a minute a deep voice came on. "Trollers here."
"General Trollers, this is General Williams from Fort Campbell. I've got a problem here and I'm going to take care of it with or without your help."
Clarksville, Tennessee
3:04 P.M.
"Don't you touch me!" Emma Plunket screamed as she ducked.
Her husband's fist smashed into the wall barely three inches from her head, denting the side of the trailer. Emma moved with remarkable dexterity for a woman who stood five foot six and weighed almost two hundred pounds. She faked right, then darted left. Eight Milwaukee's Best had left Billy Joe a little slower than normal, and Emma made it out of the trailer, the torn screen door flapping behind her rapidly scuttling butt.
"You get your ass back here, you fucking bitch!" Billy Joe bellowed as he tore the door off its hinges and stomped out in the parking lot. He was just in time to see the taillights flash briefly on his '75 Ford pickup as Emma squealed out onto 41A, narrowly missing a car.
Billy Joe was really livid now. Not only had she taken his truck, but he hadn't had dinner yet and there was nothing on the stove. In fact, now that he thought about it, that was how the fight had started. He'd come home after earning a bust-ass day's pay to find that worthless bitch sitting in front of the TV with no goddamn food on the stove and sporting a smart-ass attitude. Billy Joe popped a brew and sat down on the wooden steps, letting the cold beer fuel his anger. He'd bust her ass for sure when she came whimpering back home.
Whimpering home wasn't high on Emma's list of choices as she took the left-hand fork where 41A and 79 split, ending up on 79 West to Dover. With the sun in the western sky glaring into her eyes and Clarksville receding behind her, Emma considered her options. She knew one thing for damn sure: She was tired of Billy Joe busting her up every time he felt like it. She'd put up with that shit for six months now and enough was enough.
It took her thirty minutes to reach Dover. Emma rolled through the town and then turned left into a neighborhood of beat-up old houses. She pulled into the driveway of a two-story dwelling, got out, and headed up the walk. An old man sat on the porch, newspaper in hand. He lowered the paper and watched her approach without a flicker of emotion.
Emma's voice crackled with apprehension. "Hi, Dad."
"What are you doing here?"
"Is Mom inside?"
"I asked you a question, girl."
Emma didn't answer, shifting her considerable weight from one foot to the other.
"Billy Joe know you're here?"
Her voice moved up an octave into the whine range. "He been hitting me, Dad. I just couldn't take any more."
The old man moved for the first time. He threw down the paper and reached Emma in two swift strides. The force of his open right hand left a smudge of red on her face. "He's your husband, girl! He can hit you any damn time he wants. What'd you do?"
Emma's voice sank to a whisper. "Nothing."
"Don't you lie to me. What did Billy Joe say you done?"
Emma looked up, over her father's right shoulder, and saw her mother standing there, in the dimness of the foyer. She caught her mother's eyes, imploring her to come to the rescue. Her mother turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Emma did an about-face and headed back to the pickup. Her father stood on the stoop, hands on hips. "You go back to Billy Joe and you do what you're told to do. I don't want to see your ass out here again unless Billy Joe is behind the wheel of that truck."
Emma threw the pickup into reverse and spit gravel as she backed out into the street. She drove back up to 79 and hesitated there at the stop sign. Turn right, back to Clarksville and Billy Joe?
"Uh-uh," Emma whispered to herself. At least not tonight. Maybe by tomorrow he'd have cooled off a little. At the very least he wouldn't be as drunk, she hoped.
Emma turned left onto 79. S
topping at a Minit Mart, she bought a twelve pack of Busch — her favorite beer. Billy Joe wouldn't let her drink it at home. He said it was too expensive. Emma figured that it didn't matter what she bought, she was in trouble anyway — might as well go first class.
She took the poorly marked right turn onto the Trace, the tarred road leading to Lake Barkley. A small parking area by the lake was her old high school hangout. This time of year it was empty, but in a month or so there would be several cars out there on weekend nights, full of teenagers with surging hormones.
Emma parked the truck facing the water and turned off the engine. She got out and climbed into the bed of the truck, twelve pack in hand, the shocks squeaking as she moved about. Sitting on the right wheel well, she popped the top on the first beer. She slammed the entire thing down in one long gulp — a quality that had endeared her to Billy Joe early in their relationship. She tossed the empty out toward the water.
Seven beers later Emma felt a certain pressure in her lower abdomen. She belched and lumbered off the back of the truck. Another couple of brews and she'd be ready to crash. Emma finished her call of nature in the woods and then headed back to the truck, straining to button her jeans at the same time. Twenty feet from her steel bed she halted and blinked.
Someone was messing with the driver's door. Billy Joe sure as shit wouldn't like that. Emma's voice was saturated with drunken indignation. "Get your ass away from my truck!" She picked up a rock and threw it.
There was no answer. Then the shadowy figure turned and Emma felt her stomach plummet. It was no person.
Something moved off to her left — another figure, this one with a rifle in its hands. What little higher-level cognitive functioning Emma had left shut down. She turned and ran; the creatures kept their distance, herding her to the east up an incline.
Emma pushed blindly through the undergrowth, bouncing off trees, thorns tearing at her skin. The drive went on for almost fifteen minutes. Every time Emma tried to stop and turn, one of them would be there, heading her in the desired direction.
Finally, Emma broke through some undergrowth and there was nothing beneath her feet but space. Her last thought as her legs pinwheeled in the air was relief that the running was over.
Chapter 14
Land Between the Lakes
4:08 P.M.
The skeleton of the helicopter smoldered on the side of the knoll. The riddled DIA van sat on four flat tires, the interior full of smashed equipment coated with blood. All the corpses were in body bags and laid out in a row. ODA 682, augmented by the surviving DIA men, maintained a thin perimeter around the top of the hill.
Riley, Lewis, and Merrit all clambered on board the other helicopter to fly back to Biotech, where Merrit insisted she had something to show them if they were truly going to understand the threat posed by the Synbats. Riley thought that the battlefield they were leaving was ample proof of the creatures' destructive capabilities. He couldn't imagine anything worse.
They landed and walked into the building to an office where Lewis's men had set up a radio hookup. A VCR and TV stood in the corner. Lewis took the radio controls from his man and gestured for him to leave the room, then he looked away from his machines for a moment and addressed the others. "I've got a speaker box and room mike set up. We're going to have a conference call so all of us get to hear what Doctor Merrit has to say. Then we can work out a course of action. The other people who will be on the line are General Trollers, my boss, who is presently in the air en route to Fort Campbell; General Williams, who commands Fort Campbell; Colonel Hossey, the commander of the 5th Special Forces Group; and the duty officer at our headquarters in Fairfax."
Lewis flicked a switch. "This is Search Base. We are prepared on this end."
A loud voice boomed out of the speaker. Lewis scrambled to turn down the volume. "This is General Trollers. On line."
A new voice. "This is General Williams from Fort Campbell with Colonel Hossey. On line."
"This is Colonel Statmore at Home Base. On line."
"This is Colonel Lewis. I've got Doctor Merrit with me here, along with Mister Riley from the 5th Special Forces Group. Doctor Merrit is the most knowledgeable person we have concerning the Synbats. Mister Riley has been in charge of the team that was part of the initial response to the escape of the Synbats, so he's our expert as far as fighting them."
"Doctor Merrit, this is General Trollers. What we need from you is information."
Riley wasn't surprised by the anger in Merrit's voice when she spoke. "I thought you had all the information you needed from Doctor Ward's briefings and status reports."
Trollers made a vain attempt to speak in a soothing voice. "I do have quite a bit of information, but I need you to give General Williams and Colonel Hossey a briefing on the Synbats. Their troops are in the process of being alerted and will be responsible for the neutralization of our problem. I have the overview of the Synbat project, but we need details now. We need to know the extent of the threat and how we can destroy the animals."
Merrit leaned forward and closed her eyes in concentration as she organized her thinking. Then she spoke. "Synbat stands for synthetic battle form. We were attempting to use artificial processes to develop an organic form that could function on the battlefield.
"We were working with baboon and human genes using transgenic manipulation, more commonly known as splicing, to produce a large and quick-growing mutation. We came up with a creature that, upon maturation, was approximately forty percent larger than a normal baboon and grew at a factor of roughly fifteen times faster.
"The creature retains some of the phenotype of the original baboon species but we — "
General Williams's voice cut in. "Could you please define phenotype?"
Merrit thought for a few seconds. "Phenotype is the observable appearance of an organism as determined by genetics and environment. There is also genotype, which is the genetic constitution of an organism, which may or may not be expressed physically."
Trollers's voice was tinged with impatience. "That's all fine and well, Doctor, but we're just concerned with what we have to face and how to kill them."
"You need to understand the concepts, General," Merrit shot back at the radio, her voice rising almost out of control. With visible effort, she continued. "I'll explain why in a little while. The Synbat is both human and baboon. We don't know the exact extent it is of either one. In reality it is a totally new species."
"You've created a new species?" Williams exclaimed in disbelief. "How could you do that?"
Merrit backtracked. "Biotechnology is a relatively new field. In terms of history, 1977 is considered year one, the year when scientists first coaxed microorganisms to manufacture insulin for humans, and first produced somatotropin, which is a growth hormone, as well as interferon and some oil-eating microbes. The capability to manipulate genes has been around for more than a decade."
"Then why has no one done it yet, other than your lab?" Williams asked.
"People have done it, just not with human genes. Federal regulations released in June of '86 prohibited that, except under controlled and approved guidelines. The possibility of mutating a microorganism inimical to man was too great. A technology that deals so directly with the basic life processes is fraught with great dangers and is very tightly controlled.
"To get back to what we did. As I said, the technology and knowledge to do it have been in place for more than a decade. With a — "
"Excuse me, doctor," General Trollers interrupted. "Getting back to General Williams's question, I think everyone should know that there is a very strong belief that the Russians worked on their own version of the Synbat project as early as 1983, although our best intelligence estimates put them years away from achieving any sort of success. With the breakup of the Soviet Union we're not sure what the present status of their project is."
Riley had expected some sort of justification to be offered for the project. Even though the world had changed great
ly in the last few years, it was interesting to see that the Russian boogeyman was still alive and well, even if in a diminished form. Riley was tempted to point out that in these circumstances they had met the boogeyman and it was ours.
Merrit tried again to pick up the story. "With a waiver from the Pentagon, we worked directly with human and baboon genes, splicing them. The splicing was easy. What wasn't easy was getting a viable splice. The Synbats you are after are the fourth generation of our first viable splice, which occurred after approximately twenty thousand attempts.
"Physically, again referring to their phenotype, the results are obvious. The Synbats are slightly smaller than the average human but far larger than the average baboon. Their feet are prehensile, which means they can use their toes for grasping and climbing. The hands, however, are mostly human, facilitating use of equipment designed for humans. They have a tail that is functional. Their skin is covered with a thin layer of brown hair.
"Their heads are perhaps the most unique part. They have extended jaws, retaining the fangs that baboons have. However, the forehead is not sloped back as in most primates. And that, General, is why you need to understand when I speak of what is visible and what isn't. We don't know the true capabilities of the Synbat. There are several reasons for that."
Colonel Hossey spoke for the first time. "Why don't you tell us about the capabilities you do know about, and then we can get into the speculative area. I'm particularly interested in their facility with weapons."
Merrit's voice settled into a dull monotone as she recited the facts. "The purpose of the project was to produce a replacement for the individual soldier on the battlefield. There were several base requirements given the project by the Pentagon. One, obviously, was the physical size and capability. We achieved that using genetic manipulation. Another was the ability to reproduce or grow these creatures rapidly. The theory was that we could create an army out of a laboratory given a limited time constraint — in effect having a test tube army always on standby. 'Minimal cost for maintenance with rapid potential' I believe was the phrase Doctor Ward used. We partially achieved that through manipulation of those genes that affect growth. That was Doctor Ward's area of expertise.