by C. E. Martin
"You'd be surprised," Kenslir answered. Then he placed the tip of the blade against Smith's left pectoral muscle and held it there. Blood ran down the blade, finally touching his skin.
Kenslir then drew the blade across his chest, cutting Smith's skin open in a three inch long cut.
Smith grimaced at the cut. "Why can’t that just be injected?”
“Werewolf’s curse requires that your blood be spilled by a werewolf, mixed with a werewolf’s and that you survive.”
“So how come you aren't hairy and walking on all fours?"
Kenslir put the knife aside. "Same reason I'm not solid stone- I can resist the werewolf's curse."
"But you still carry it?"
"Like a disease, unfortunately," Kenslir said.
"What happened to it?"
"To what?" Kenslir asked.
Dr. King now stepped in and held one of Smith's eyes open and applied several drops of liquid.
"The werewolf- the one that you said bit you."
"I killed it."
"I thought that broke the curse," Smith said as Dr. King put drops in his other eye. The chemical worked fast and he had to squint as his pupils dilated and the lights in the room became overly bright.
"That only works in movies," Kenslir said. "And that's vampires."
Smith tried to peek, but the lights were still too bright. "There are vampires?"
"Can we get the lights turned down?" Dr. King called out to the technicians watching from the edge of the Fountain.
"Sometimes. We do our best our best to keep their numbers down," Kenslir said grimly.
"Man, this just-" Smith started to say. Instead he started screaming as every nerve ending in his body began to burn.
The Moon was rising.
He couldn't believe how fast the werewolf blood in him was working. He could feel it, liquid fire in his veins, running throughout his body and even into his brain. Then he could feel himself thrashing and twisting on the table. Strange cracking noises could be heard- his bones expanding and reshaping themselves.
The table he was strapped to lurched as the platform began lowering. He quickly felt warm water rise up over his feet as the Colonel tilted his surgical table upright. The water felt cool and warm at the same time, drowning out the burning of his transformation. Then a feeling like relaxation swept over him, up from his feet into his legs, his torso his arms and finally his head.
He let out a breath and opened his eyes.
The lights in the Fountain Chamber were dimmer now, and the burning pain he had felt was gone. He looked down at his arms and almost gasped. They were bulging with muscles- great corded strands that threatened to split his skin and erupt outwards. Nothing like his slim runner's body- a body of lean muscle and grit he'd kept trained and fit for years.
"Wha-?" he asked.
"Now, remember, Commander," Dr. King said stepping in front of him, holding a shoebox-sixed, metallic box. "Both eyes open, look straight ahead. It is absolutely crucial you do this correctly. Both eyes- at the same time. "
"I understand," Smith said, leaning his head back.
Dr. King placed the silver box over his face- it was molded to fit a face, much like some of the older nightvision goggles he's used early in his career.
"One... two..." Dr. King counted. "Three!"
A dark panel in the back of the box sprang up and Smith found himself looking into two yellow eyes. On the left was an eye that seemed like that of a lizard's. On the right, a more human-looking eye. Both glowed a bright yellow, then flared, even brighter, like the sunrise.
A cold chill swept over Smith, radiating out from his eyes, spreading over his face and down his body. It enveloped him in less than a second- a feeling of cold and numbness at the same time. Then the glowing yellow eyes disappeared behind a panel again.
The metal box pressed against his face was pulled away and Daniel Smith realized he had no longer felt it.
"How do you feel?" Dr. King said after he set the box down. He stepped up and began shining his light in Smith's eyes again.
The light was very bright, but it didn't hurt his eyes. When it was removed, Smith looked down at himself.
His dark brown skin was now gray- the gray of concrete or polished stone. It seemed roughly textured, yet somehow smooth at the same time. He opened and closed his right hand and marveled at how the stone appendage moved, yet looked solid at the same time.
Smith opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Dr. King put a hand on his chest, patting him lightly. "Your autonomic functions have stopped, Commander. You can't speak because your lungs aren't working."
Smith drew in a deep breath, feeling his chest expand. Then he let it out slowly. He couldn't feel the air blowing over his lips. They felt numb, deadened.
Dr. King began unfastening the straps that held Smith to the metal table. "Now, your nerve endings are no longer fully functional- you'll notice a significant reduction in tactile senses."
Smith swung his leg off the table and set it on the metal grating. It made a loud noise but he felt very little. It was as though his foot were asleep. He stood and tried to take a step.
Despite the strength in his limbs, Smith felt himself pitch forward.
Colonel Kenslir reacted quickly, his hand snaking out and grabbing Smith. Where the Colonel's dense skin touched stone, a green glow sprang to life and Smith felt his hard stone body soften- then turn to flesh.
The Colonel steadied him and helped him stand, then removed his hand. The soft patch of flesh on Smith's arm, shaped like Kenslir's hand, turned gray again and the green glow faded.
"Kenslir could see the questioning look on Smith's face. "Like I said, I'm resistant to magic.
***
Barbod Zaman lowered the binoculars from his face and smiled evilly. The orange glow of the American supply depot was finally starting to ebb- the last of the cursed invaders having been consumed by the flames. By morning, only ashes would remain. Ashes that would be swept away by the desert winds.
Zaman stood and stretched. It had been a good night. More Americans dead, his land one step closer to being free of Imperialists. One step of many he would take on the road to restoring his beloved homeland to its rightful place. Saddam might be dead, but Iraq would live forever.
Zaman tucked his binoculars away in a belt pouch then regarded the large ring on his right hand. He held it up so the light from the waning fire would reflect off it. For the thousandth time, he stared at the six pointed star on the ring and smiled.
***
Daniel Smith was tired of training- mentally tired. He didn't get physically tired anymore- his new stone body never tired. But he grew bored.
Smith understood the importance of training- it was something that had saved his life as a SEAL countless times. But that was in another life, another body. His stone body was a weapon all its own. And weapons didn't need training- they needed to be used.
"This is ridiculous," Smith said, lowering the heavy machine gun he was holding and turning away from his target. He'd been shooting all morning on the indoor range inside Argon Tower- the headquarters for the Joint Forces Detachment he was now assigned to. Detachment 1039.
"I've been using heavy weapons like these for years."
Colonel Kenslir watched him with his weird, greenish, almost-black eyes, his face an emotionless mask. "Look at your weapon, sailor."
Smith looked down at the front grip of the M-60E2, belt-fed machine gun, dreading what he would see. Sure enough, the hard plastic grip of the rifle was cracked and compressed- squeezed by the incredible strength of his stone hand. A hand that had very little feeling to it.
"Until you can cradle that machinegun like a newborn, you keep training," Kenslir said. "You've got to get used to this new body, or you won't do anyone any good."
Smith was about to protest when the door to the indoor range opened and a Major in Army dress uniform came in. Smith recognized him as Major Campbell, a salt-and-pepp
er haired career officer who was Kenslir's right hand man in the Detachment. And who looked several years older than the possibly immortal Colonel.
The two men talked quietly and Campbell handed a printed message over to his superior. Kenslir read it quietly then got an even more pronounced frown on his face.
"Pack it up, Smith," the Colonel said, handing the paper back to the Major as he turned back to Smith.
"Sir?" Smith asked.
"Training's over," Kenslir said. "We've got a mission."
***
Being made of stone meant more than just being indestructible. It meant that Commander Daniel Smith couldn't walk around in public. His existence was a highly classified secret. But luckily, Colonel Kenslir had a solution to that.
In the bowels of the office building-turned-military base, there was an underground harbor of sorts- big enough for several speedboats. Smith and Kenslir took one of these and headed down a long, lighted, subterranean tunnel filled with water.
"What were these tunnels originally for?" Smith asked.
"Cold war bunker complex- allowed the transfer of men and material between Argon and the Airbase," Kenslir said as he drove the speedboat. "We filled them with water in the 70s- it's a lot quicker than an electric cart. And the tunnels tend to fill up anyway."
By airbase, the Colonel meant nearby Homestead Air Force Base, located just a mile from the gleaming back glass Argon Tower and all its secrets. And at full throttle, the Colonel drove them there in just a few minutes.
They arrived in a similar subterranean harbor- this one manned by Air Force Security Forces with dark blue berets on their heads and M-16s on their shoulders. The Airmen saluted as the speedboat pulled into a slip then helped secure it.
Kenslir stepped out then turned and offered his hand to Smith. The SEAL started to take the hand, then caught himself.
Kenslir smiled. "That took long enough."
Smith tried not to frown, but couldn't help himself. The Colonel had taught him quite painfully- with crushing force- that he could not touch the Colonel without temporarily losing petrification in part of his body. It was a lesson the Colonel had worked hard to drive home over the past few weeks of training and which Smith swore he could still feel in his stone hand.
Once in the slip, Smith followed Kenslir toward a set of steel doors, carrying a large duffel bag that matched the Colonel's and their six-color desert camouflage uniforms. Once through the doors, they proceeded to an open-walled lift and rode it the short distance to the surface.
"So, why the outdated camo?" Smith asked as the lift slowly rose.
"I like this pattern," the Colonel said.
"You try the new MARPAT?" Smith asked. "It looks pretty effective."
"I have my uniforms tailored," the broad-shouldered Colonel responded. "I'll consider something newer when these wear out."
"These?"
"You're wearing one of mine- taken in a bit. We didn't exactly have anything in your new size."
The lift finally reached ground level- opening out into a large aircraft hangar on the southeast corner of the airbase. Inside the hangar sat the two aircraft Smith had been briefed on just days before.
Long, black, with pointed noses and huge engines under an almost delta wing, the MF-12 multipurpose, high-altitude jets looked like something out of a space opera. Smith knew they were modified AA-12s, the predecessor to the SR-71 Blackbird, but they looked just different enough to seem alien. Not that he'd ever been up close to a Blackbird.
"How long a flight is this again?" Smith asked.
"Watch a movie or something," Kenslir said, sitting down in a coffin-like metal tube on a rolling cart. Ground crew helped him lean back and strap into the aerodynamic tube, laying his duffel across his legs and snapping straps onto it.
Smith moved to his own transport tube and laid down, thanking a ground crewman for help getting situated. Once he was comfortable- which wasn't easy in a stone body- he lowered the large, over-sized black goggles on his forehead down over his eyes.
The goggles sparked to life, text and readouts springing to life on the slightly-tinted lens.
"Good for comm?" Kenslir asked- his voice coming out of tiny speakers sewn into the headstrap for the goggles.
"Good," Smith said, watching as the ground crew swung the heavy hinged upper half of his transport tube down over him. It latched shut with an ominous thud, then he could hear the hiss of air as an inflatable ring sealed the gap around the tube.
>>>SWITCHING TO TEXT<<< Colonel Kenslir transmitted from his tube. His message scrolled across the upper field of Smith's view in glowing green text.
"See you in Iraq, sir," Smith said. He positioned his arms better in the tube, so he could rest his right hand on the small keypad strapped to the back of his left wrist. He doubted he could type without looking and since his skin was stone, cybernetic control of the tactical targeting visor was out.
>>>ROGER<<<
Smith's transport tube was quickly rolled over to the belly of the closest MF-12. He could almost feel as the cart lifted it up to the plane and bolts were secured, anchoring the tube to the underbelly of the sleek black aircraft. He knew the Colonel was similarly being attached to the same aircraft.
Several minutes later the TTV revealed the plane's movement- its displays showing a ground speed, compass heading and outside weather conditions. The MF-12 was rolled out of the hangar and onto the night time tarmac. Twin engines roared to life and the plane began moving under its own power.
From a parking apron all the way to the runway, the plane rolled along smoothly, only the faintest jarring giving away their movement. At the end of the runway, the plane paused long enough to bring the huge engines up to full power.
Smith could feel the vibrations through the aircraft even with his stone body. Then the plane surged forward, down the runway, rapidly bringing its nose up and leaping into the sky like a rocket. Smith could feel the G-forces pushing him down, his feet aimed toward the rear of the plane. It was like he was standing.
They eventually climbed to 80,000 feet and the plane swung eastward and leveled off.
>>>SOME RIDE, RIGHT?<<< Colonel Kenslir texted.
"I prefer boats," Smith said loudly, hoping his voice could be heard over the roar of the twin engines on either side of his and the Colonel's transport tubes.
***
Five hours later, after two air-to-air refuelings, the MF-12 was in position over the Middle East. The nose began to drop and the TTV scrolled out a message about an approaching drop zone.
Despite all his briefings on this tried-and-true rapid transport the Detachment had been using for years, Smith cringed when the twin passenger tubes were jettisoned at speed- plummeting earthward like guided bombs. At a thousand feet, large parachutes in the tails of the tubes deployed and slowed their descent. Just a minute later they dropped onto the pre-dawn sand of the Iraqi desert.
Explosive bolts sounded and Smith knew he could climb free. He pushed the heavy lid of his tube open and sat up.
The large parachutes attached to his tube billowed in a gentle wind. A hundred feet away, the Colonel was already out of his tube, folding up his parachutes and tucking them inside.
"Rise and shine, Smith- we have a schedule to keep!"
Smith climbed from his tube and quickly packed up his own parachutes, then grabbed his duffel and headed over to meet the Colonel.
Kenslir already had all his gear on now- a six color desert camo combat vest, low-hanging thigh rigs on each leg, and a USAS-12 autoshotgun with underbarrel grenade launcher slung across his back.
"Get your gear on," he directed, watching the area around them. So far, only the desert wind showed any life in the open desert.
"I thought we were supposed to have transport?" Smith asked, opening his duffel. He quickly put on his own vest and gear. He carried an M-60E2 machine gun as his main weapon- one with solid steel grips the Colonel had hastily fabricated in a machine shop before they left the States.
"Damn zoomies," Kenslir growled. "Can't read a map to save their lives."
"Sir?" Smith asked, wondering if the Colonel was talking about their pilot in the MF-12.
"USAF patrol was supposed to put a Sandrail here," Kenslir said. "Their GPS probably went out and they got lost. Hold on a sec."
The Colonel quickly tapped into a satellite network with his TTV. Using a dedicated satellite reserved for their mission, he quickly located the ground vehicle.
"Two klicks," he said, pointing.
Kenslir then set off at a run, heading toward the distant military dune buggy. Smith fell into step behind him, running along at a pace he knew no normal flesh and blood soldier could manage.
After a good run, they finally reached the sandrail- an Army vehicle equipped with a grenade launcher and machineguns. Smith relaxed a little when he saw the car- he'd used one before. He slid in the front passenger seat as Kenslir got behind the wheel.
Their TTVs now displayed a distant beacon on the horizon- their destination.
"Why do we even need a buggy?" Smith asked.
"Because if we come running up on foot, someone's bound to get suspicious," Kenslir said. Then he punched the gas and they shot off across the sand.
***
When they reached their destination, the sun was just beginning to rise. The morning light revealed the thick ashes and wisps of smoke still rising from the ruins of what had been a remote checkpoint- something little more than a stop on the long highway connecting a remote Iraqi village to the rest of the country.
Colonel Kenslir was first out of the sandrail and carried his auto shotgun across his chest, ready for action. Smith followed a step behind him, his own M-60 slung across his back.
"Looks like whatever happened is long over," Smith said.
Kenslir frowned and pointed the barrel of his rifle at a nearby smoking pile of ashes. "Not too long, or there still wouldn't be smoke rising."
A large, billboard-sized box sprang to life in the air above the checkpoint- or at least the TTVs made it seem that way to both men. Dr. King's face appeared in the box.