“A group of German animal psychologists in the 1920s believed dogs were as intelligent as humans and might even be capable of communicating intelligently with man. The Nazis were convinced they could breed an army of intelligent dogs that could be taught to read, write, and even talk. As far-fetched as it sounds, scientists envisioned a day when dogs might serve alongside German troops, and perhaps, free up SS officers by guarding concentration camps.”
General Attwood plowed ahead. He had one last card to play.
“The Nazis went so far as to set up a school in the 1930s called the Tier-Sprechschule, which translates to Animal Talking School. There are some documented successes, but these may have been propaganda rather than real achievement.”
“There are also references to experiments in man-to-dog telepathy. Given the absence of these intelligent dogs during the war, we assume the Nazis failed. I believe their early failures with dogs led to the later, and seemingly successful, experiments on other creatures, as in The Devil’s Claw project.”
“Really, General?” a new voice spoke up. “Talking dogs? What’s next?” General Attwood checked the name on the placard: Marcus Q. Kirken.
“Mr. Kirken, with all due respect, how do you explain things such as guide dogs assisting man? Guide dogs didn’t just appear one day. It started with one dog, and it took time, patience, and perseverance, and the belief that man would benefit. Tell me, Mr. Kirken, can you explain the success of carrier pigeons during both world wars?” A blank stare from Kirken. “Are any of you familiar with an award called the Dickin Medal?”
No response.
“It was a medal created in 1943 in England by Maria Dickin. It was given to animals, yes, animals, in honor of their work in war. The award is commonly referred to as a Victoria Cross for animals. As of 2007, the Dickin Medal has been awarded sixty-two times, fifty-four between 1943 and 1949, to thirty-two pigeons, eighteen dogs, three horses, and a cat, to acknowledge actions of gallantry or devotion during the Second World War.”
Attwood’s gaze settled back on Kirken. “Do I have to go on with more examples of animals serving man? Mr. Kirken, if we do not see potential in what we do not understand, then how do we advance ourselves in the world of science?”
It was time to play his final card. “Gentlemen,” General Attwood said, “I have tried to help you to understand the importance and feasibility of this project. I have only one more thing to show you.”
General Attwood nodded to his aide who waved to someone in the hallway. A second aide pushed a small cart into the room loaded with boxes of 8½” x 11” sheets of paper. The general dumped the contents of the boxes onto the table. The papers slid across the polished wood. “Go ahead,” Attwood said, “help yourselves.” He leaned on the table. “I insist.”
Bachman held up one of the sheets. “General, what exactly are we looking at?”
“That was a record for a United States serviceman,” said General Attwood. “I say was because he is now deceased, thanks to one of our many enemies around the world.”
“Why, General?” asked Winston B. Cunningham III. This one was dressed impeccably, the light glinting off his gold Rolex. “What’s the point behind all these service records?”
General Attwood took a deep breath. “I do not believe you understand how many of our brave service personnel have been lost in places like Afghanistan and Iraq, not to mention a long list of other places around the world. Before you are the service records of every man and woman lost in those skirmishes. Thousands of valuable, trained personnel gone, with little or nothing to show for their loss.”
“Isn’t that the nature of your business, General?” said Cunningham. “As they say, some days you’re the dog and some days you’re the hydrant.” Cunningham chuckled.
“Mr. Cunningham, allow me to show you one more service record.” He pressed the button on a remote. Behind him, an image of a young captain in desert camouflage fatigues with full battle gear appeared. The background was arid land, probably Afghanistan, maybe even Iraq. His eyes bored right into Cunningham. Cunningham noticed a resemblance between the image and General Attwood. The same square jaw, the same powerful build, the same look of menace in his eyes.
“That is my son, Mr. Cunningham. Captain Jeffrey Attwood. When that picture was taken he was the dog.” Attwood’s sledgehammer fist crashed down on the table. “Two months later he was the hydrant. Killed in action.”
“I’m…I’m truly sorry, General. I…didn’t know. My sincerest apologies. And condolences, of course.”
“I don’t want your apologies or your condolences, Mr. Cunningham. All I want is for you, all of you, to do the right thing. Have any of you lost a loved one in any of these conflicts?” No one replied. General Attwood stared at his son’s image. “Then you do not know what it is like to wonder day after day if you could have prevented these losses.”
He faced the men. “I ask you one last time to approve this project. We owe it to the men and women who put their lives on the line to defend our nation. And I am sure their families will appreciate your concern come reelection time.”
Right on cue, Winston B. Cunningham III cleared his throat and tugged at his silk tie. “General, I would like to be the first to approve your plan and I encourage my colleagues here to join me.” One by one, the others raised their hands in approval.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Attwood said.
“Please be aware, General,” said Bachman, “that we need to know what is going on every step of the way. If things start to go bad or if animal rights groups get wind of this, then we will need to pull the plug. And, of course, there is the program benefit versus the expenditure issue.”
“Yes, General, I agree with my esteemed colleague,” Cunningham said. “There is a limit as to how long I will support this program, should things not go according to plan.”
“That’s fair enough. You will all be briefed regularly.”
General Attwood hated them all. He could defeat any enemy in the world, but not bean counters and bureaucrats. His aide approached. “That went well, sir.”
“I believe it did, Sergeant,” the general responded. “Now it’s show time. Let’s get this project moving before those spineless jellyfish change their minds. And Sergeant? Those regular briefings I promised? Not a single word goes out to anyone unless approved by me. Not one word.”
General Attwood took one last look at his son’s image on the wall. He thumbed a button on the remote. The image vanished. Just like that, his son was gone. Again.
With support now in place for his project, it was time for General Attwood to contact BoDex Research & Development. They had already proven themselves when it came to guarding classified government secrets at all costs. He also knew that BoDex had the scientific clout to bring his project to life. General Attwood knew these things because he was the one who had clandestinely set up and run BoDex.
General Attwood had become tired of slamming into immovable bureaucratic walls. He decided to make his own rules. First he looked for a remote location, settling on a decommissioned Atlas F missile site from the Cold War in a desolate part of New York’s Adirondack State Park. Next, he put together a group of retired military personnel who had been under his command, and whom he trusted completely. These people, in turn, sought out reliable men and women who had served under them. Attwood formed a pseudo-private corporation that leased government property and functioned like a military unit. That first special project led to many others, and eventually BoDex Research & Development became a convoluted paper trail that no one would ever be able to unravel.
Any feelings of guilt vanished as General Attwood discovered that everyone in Washington had their own secret pet projects. BoDex was his. Most of his BoDex projects allowed the American people to sleep safely at night, so his conscience was clear. There had been a few, like this new one, that would probably give them nightmares, but it was all in the name of defending the country he loved and had taken an oath to protect.
The red Jeep Cherokee pulled off the dirt road and rolled to a stop under a thick stand of trees. “There it is, just like the kid said.”
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Jessica Pruitt said quietly to her husband. Her eyes fell upon the white sign with red lettering attached to the eight-foot-tall chain link fence. The words No Trespassing followed by Violators Will Be Prosecuted To The Fullest Extent Of The Law seemed large and menacing.
“No choice, Jess,” Frank Pruitt said. “This was my dad’s last wish and I intend to make it happen.”
Jessica fought an urge to shiver. “We should have left Jennifer back in the room.”
Frank glanced at his fourteen-year-old daughter in the back seat, earbuds in place and an mp3 player in her hand. Her eyes were closed, her head rocking side to side. “Look, just tell her to stay here. We’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Jen?” Jessica called softly. “Jen? Jennifer!” No response. She tapped her daughter’s knee. The young girl removed the earbuds.
“Your father and I are taking a short walk to the lake with your grandfather’s ashes. We should only be ten minutes. Will you be okay until we get back?”
“Mom! I am not a baby.”
“Okay, okay.” She paused. “You can come if you want.”
“I’d rather wait here. That whole setting grandpa’s ashes free is kind of freaky.”
“Okay, we’ll be right back. Don’t leave the car for anything.”
“Mom! I am not a —”
“I know, I know. You’re not a baby.” Jessica turned. “I guess we can go, Frank, if you’re sure this is worth trespassing on private property.”
“Jess, please don’t —”
She reached for the door handle. “I’m ready if you are.”
They climbed out of the Jeep. Frank opened the rear hatch and carefully lifted the copper urn from a box. “You’re almost home, Pop.”
Steven Pruitt had passed away a few months ago at ninety-two. His only wish was to have his ashes scattered on Hatchet Lake in the Adirondacks of upstate New York. The lake was close to a small town called Eagle’s Notch, which in reality was more of an oversized crossroads. Steven Pruitt had spent most of his summers on the lake with his parents and had continued the tradition with his son Frank. There was only one problem lying in Frank Pruitt’s way of granting his dad’s final wish. Access to Hatchet Lake had been cut off.
From what Frank could find out, the government had gifted the area that included Hatchet Lake to the adjacent BoDex Research & Development facility a few years ago. BoDex was a small company that had quietly sprung up on the outskirts of Eagle’s Notch on a decommissioned United States missile site. It was rumored they worked on secret government projects.
Frank had casually checked around Eagle’s Notch to see if anyone knew a way to get to Hatchet Lake undetected. A group of teens hanging out in front of the town’s general store described a section of fence that could be pulled back enough to allow someone to slip through. It seemed Hatchet Lake was still accessible if you knew the right people. When Frank asked about security, they said they had never seen any. He peeled a pair of twenty-dollar bills from his money clip and handed them to the teens, assuring them their conversation had never occurred.
“Ready, jailbird?” Frank asked, a smile tugging at his lips. He handed his wife the urn, then found the gap in the fence, dug in his heals, and pulled as hard as he could. The sections parted.
“Go ahead, Jess, get through there, quick.”
Jessica ducked her head and slipped through, cradling the urn. When she was clear, Frank released the fence. It closed back up. He took a few deep breaths and pried it open again, then slipped through, letting it snap closed behind him.
“Nothing to it,” he said.
“Let’s just make this as quick as possible, okay?”
“Sure thing, Jess. Let me have the urn. The lake should be pretty close.”
Twenty minutes later, the couple stood on the shore of a small lake, the surface as smooth as glass.
“It’s so quiet,” Jessica said softly.
“Yeah,” Frank whispered. “I had forgotten how beautiful it is up here.” He held the urn. “I guess we should do this.”
“You hear that?” Jessica asked suddenly.
“Hear what?”
“Sounded like somebody blowing a whistle. I’ve heard it a couple of times since we came through the fence.”
“I haven’t heard anything except birds.”
“Let’s just do this and get back to Jennifer. I’m getting nervous standing around here.”
“Yeah, sure.” Frank cleared his throat. “I thought I’d say a few words.”
“Just hurry—” She froze in midsentence. “Did you hear it that time?”
“You must have hearing like a dog. I haven’t heard anything.”
“I swear I heard a whistle again. Let’s go right now. Please, Frank!”
He launched into his eulogy. “Dad, I know how much this place meant to you. It’s only right that it becomes your final resting place. I will never forget our time here, I will never forget you. I love you, Dad, and I miss you. Rest in peace.”
He leaned over the water’s edge and slowly poured the ashes in the lake, watching as they gently twitched and spun on the surface. When the urn was empty, he replaced the top and wiped tears from his cheeks. “Let’s go, Jess. I kept my promise.”
Jessica wasn’t listening. She shaded her eyes and squinted down the shoreline at something in the distance.
Frank Pruitt walked toward his vehicle, deep in thought. He stopped, realizing Jessica wasn’t with him.
“Jess?” No reaction. “Jess!”
“Come look at this, Frank.”
“I thought you were in a hurry to get out of here.”
“I was. I mean, I am.” She pointed. “What does that look like?”
“A dog, maybe a coyote?”
“Whatever it is, it’s just sitting there.”
“Maybe it’s some forest critter stopping for a short cold one from the lake,” he joked. “I guess it could even be—” He stopped.
Whatever it was, it had risen up slowly on hind legs. It easily stood seven feet tall and carried itself like a human. “It—it’s got to be a bear. A huge bear,” said Frank. “Come on, Jess. We have to go—now!”
Too late! A huge head covered with brown fur swung in their direction and locked on to them, like radar picking up a signal. Another one rose from the tall grass. And another. A fourth, then a fifth stood up. Jessica and Frank backed away. Frank stole a glance, trying to gauge the distance to the fence He wondered how fast these bears were.
Jessica Pruitt noticed several people in blue fatigues and helmets and carrying weapons, standing in a group behind the bears. “Do you see that?” she whispered.
One of the bears suddenly took off toward them, the others falling in line. They were fast. Very fast. And they were running on just their hind legs, like humans. These aren’t bears, Frank thought. These are…something else. “Run, Jess! Run!”
They made a mad dash toward the fence. Whistles. Lots of whistles blowing. And growling, shrieking, the pounding of heavy feet slamming the earth.
“Frank!” Jessica screamed, running faster than she had ever run in her life.
“Keep running!” Frank yelled. He could see the fence now. They might make it. If they did, it would be close. Very close. Far behind them, Jessica and Frank could hear the group in blue blowing whistles, charging after the rushing animals.
The Pruitts had no idea that they had stumbled upon abominations resurrected from the ashes of World War II Nazi Germany. The creatures had been created in the genetic lab at the BoDex Research & Development facility for use by the United States military. Their sole purpose was to take the place of human soldiers on the battlefield.
Survivors mourned the loss of human lives, but these things? Who would care? Having a creature killed would be no different tha
n losing a piece of military equipment, only a lot cheaper. The enemy would be forced to use valuable resources in defending themselves. The creatures needed no equipment. Their weapons were their teeth and claws.
They were called Centurions, in honor of the Roman Centurions, whom many considered the ultimate professional soldiers. The men in blue fatigues chasing them were their trainers, known as Blue Team, responsible for keeping the Centurions under control. Right now, madness reigned supreme, for the Centurions were out of control and in a headlong rush toward the two trespassers. Nothing the trainers did could stop them.
Blue Team was being monitored not only by the personnel in the monitoring center, but also by Jonathan Nichols, head of the Centurion project. Each member of the team had a helmet-mounted radio and video camera so all training exercises could be recorded and studied.
Tony Bascombe, the leader of Blue Team, knew Nichols would not be happy, but it was not the first time these hairy demons had gone off the deep end. The timing of their latest breakdown was especially bad since General Calhoun Attwood was at the facility today. Once a month, Attwood’s small Gulfstream jet would touch down on BoDex’s private runway, and the general, along with his handpicked squad of Special Forces soldiers, would spend time in the monitoring center evaluating the progress of the creatures’ training.
Scuttlebutt had it that Winston Cunningham III had reared his ugly bureaucratic head and was threatening to shut down the Centurion project unless he saw some earthshaking results soon. The career politician felt the project had gone on for far too many years with diminishing returns. Bascombe could see his point. He thought they had gone as far as they could in their attempt to teach these man-made things how to kill their enemies.
Bascombe imagined Nichols standing with Attwood, probably up to his eyeballs in damage control. Good, thought Bascombe. I never could stand that son of a bitch Nichols anyway. The Centurions were actually getting harder to control, a concern Bascombe had voiced to Nichols repeatedly, but to no avail.
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