Pershing slowly looked down at Patton and then his eyes went to the sealed envelope he held. He placed it on the map and slid it across. “Sorry for drifting. Your orders Lieutenant, precise and clear-cut. You are to cross the Rio Grande River and enter Mexico and destroy the hacienda indicated on the map at the aforementioned coordinates. You will treat all persons you come in contact with as hostile. After the property’s population is…,” the general looked away for the briefest of moments before finishing. He touched his graying moustache and then caught himself once more … “eliminated, the hacienda and outbuildings are to be burned. No structure is to be left standing.”
Patton looked at the envelope. He knew he didn’t need to read the orders inside. The general’s demeanor told him what he needed to know. He had just been given orders for a murder raid across the border into a sovereign nation.
“Your main target is an American citizen. He owns the property and is responsible for all that has happened there.” Pershing looked at Patton and his visage became stern. “The American’s name is Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose. You are to confirm the death of this professor personally, Patton. This order comes directly from the president of the United States. You are to eliminate everyone in the compound and burn any papers, laboratory equipment, or specimens you may come across.”
“Villa being in this neck of the woods was only a ruse to send in the troops?” Patton finally asked.
“Yes, Lieutenant, a ruse, lie, use whatever word you want,” came a voice from out of the fog.
Patton turned to see a small man in dungarees and a blue denim work shirt. The man actually wore a kerchief around his neck and a black cowboy hat cocked jauntily to the right side of his head.
“This is Lt. Colonel John Henry Thomas, a personal representative of President Wilson. He is present this morning to assure the president that the mission parameters have been fulfilled.”
Patton looked the man over. “What is your unit, sir?”
“Lieutenant!” Pershing said in anger at the presumption of a first lieutenant questioning not only a lieutenant colonel but also a representative of the president of the United States.
“I am attached to the National Archives, Lieutenant. And while my answer creates more questions as to my affiliation, that will have to be enough, okay Lieutenant?”
“I have my men to watch out for, sir, that is my only concern.”
“You not only have them to watch out for young lieutenant, you have me. And as you now know, I have at least one powerful friend in office. So don’t let me down, son.”
“Yes, sir, but these orders are ambiguous at best.”
“Exactly, because we don’t know what it is we will find across that river,” said the small man as he removed his hat and wiped the brim with another handkerchief he produced from a pocket.
“Just follow your orders, Lieutenant.” Pershing once more looked up and into the thickening fog. He placed his hands behind his back, turned away, and slowly moved a distance from the armored car. “Good luck Lieutenant, Colonel Thomas … God’s speed.”
George Patton watched as Black Jack Pershing melted into the thick veil of fog. He looked at the envelope in his hand and then quickly unbuttoned his tunic and slid the orders inside. Patton turned and made his way forward toward his waiting company.
Ten minutes later elements of the 8th United States Cavalry crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico.
* * *
The two Apache scouts from C Troop, only recently released from their imprisonment in St. Augustine, Florida, returned from the small valley that hid the hacienda. One of the men shook his head and removed his campaign hat, allowing his long black hair to shake free of its confinement. Lieutenant Patton waited for the report as patiently as he could, knowing that the lt. colonel from the National Archives was listening intently.
“Nothing but women and children as far as we can see. They seem to be doing their chores and nothing else,” the larger of the two Apache scouts said as he replaced his hat. “The fog has almost completely lifted near the hacienda, so we will have no cover in the charge.”
Patton looked down at his pocket watch, which was almost impossible to see in the night. He looked up and saw that every minute they delayed the attack allowed the fog to lift that much more.
“Five fifteen in the morning and women are already doing their daily tasks.” Patton looked at the two scouts and then over at the mysterious man sent here by the president. “Doesn’t seem too damn threatening to me.” The young first lieutenant shook his head. “I sure hope Washington knows just what in the hell they are doing.” Patton looked away from Lt. Colonel Thomas, clicked the cover of his pocket watch closed, and then turned and mounted the large roan, which pawed the ground anxiously.
“The orders regarding the women and children, Lieutenant, do they still stand?”
Patton looked down at Second Lieutenant Roland McAfee, a recent graduate of West Point on his very first field assignment, then again at the man from National Archives. Patton then scowled at the colonel and angrily shook his head. “No. If hostilities are evident, only then are the men to fire on anyone. If you can, I want the women and children scattered. Our main target is this Professor Ambrose and any other men of fighting age in the compound. I am not firing on women and children. Now, report to your troop and let’s get this over with.” Patton looked once more at the colonel. “Report it if you want to Colonel. I will not kill women and children without more of an explanation from Washington as to the why of it.”
Thomas looked taken back. “Lieutenant, you are in operational command of this mission,” he started and then smiled. “Hell, son, I would have refused that order myself.”
“Yes, sir,” McAfee said looking from Thomas and back at Patton, not understanding the back and forth between the two officers.
“Colonel Thomas, just who in the hell are you, really?” Patton asked, knowing this man wasn’t just an ordinary U.S. Army officer.
“Just a soldier on detached duty to the National Archives, young lieutenant, that’s all. I’m no one really.”
With a dubious look at the now smiling Thomas, Patton spurred his mount forward and joined the long line of cavalry with Thomas turning toward the rear of the mounted line. Patton rode to the front of the skirmish line and absentmindedly reached for his saber, actually forgetting he had ordered the useless weapons to be left behind for noise reasons. Instead he raised his gauntleted right hand and waved the line forward just as the last of the fog lifted and the first rays of sunshine eased over the rise to the east.
“Company, forward at the cantor,” he ordered in a not-too-loud voice.
The 8th United States Cavalry started forward at the trot. Ninety-eight men pulled their British-made Lee-Enfield rifles from their scabbards and Patton withdrew an old Colt .45 Peacemaker from its holster. He then thought better of it and replaced the old six-shooter with a model 1900 Colt .45 automatic. The line moved steadily forward, and the hacienda was now seen in all its large glory. The men now knew the task at hand was a large one.
“Bugler, sound the charge!”
The early morning bugle call was heard throughout the small valley south of the Rio Grande as men of the 8th charged the ten-acre hacienda known as Perdition’s Gate.
* * *
Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose stood in front of one of the subject cells buried far beneath the hacienda and watched test subject 197 as he squatted in the darkened corner of his cell. The young man was one of a slew of dregs from the barroom alleys of Laredo, just across the Rio Grande, as were another four of the ten subjects he had under medical observation. The professor had not moved since administering the final dose in the series of injections that would complete the full script of medicinal delivery.
Ambrose was dressed in a filthy white lab coat and the tie he wore underneath was askew. His gray hair was tumbled and his beard still held food from the day’s evening meal. The deep scars from that long-ago night on London’s Ea
st End held firmly to the left side of his face, creating a permanent scowl. His clothing covered the rest of the burns he had received, several of which still broke open and bled on occasion. Ambrose hardly noticed when he heard the footsteps descending the stairwell from the hacienda two floors above. The door opened and the professor spared a glance at the object of the interruption.
His East Indian servant, RaJan Singh, a Sikh that stood six feet six inches in height and was well over three hundred pounds, was his ever resplendent self. His blue turban was covering hair that when loose would travel downward to his hips. His black beard had two luminescent streaks of white coursing down either side of his whiskers. His long white jacket covered bright-blue pants that made the Sikh the complete opposite of Ambrose in size, demeanor, cleanliness, and dress.
“I gave orders not to be disturbed until the final doses of the drug had been administered. I have nine more injections to give to complete the series on these subjects.”
“Excuse me, Sahib. I have held my tongue for far too long. You need rest. You are not seeing things as you once did. While at one time your direction was merely reckless, it has now turned onto a road which will not only be your destruction, but many others on this plantation as well.”
Ambrose smiled and turned with a fresh syringe in his thick fingers. “Do I include you as one of those others, old friend?”
“My life has always been yours to either end or prolong. But was it not I that gave you the rare poppy which in turn gave you your life’s work? I would like to see the potential of the experiments proven. Still, we must realize that our actions have attracted attention from north of the river, Sahib.”
“I am too close to finishing this. With soldiers such as these that I have created, foolish governments could never afford war mongering. If I had gone uninterrupted in London, the problems in Europe would have ceased before they started. Men such as these in the holding cells would make moot the art of warfare—men that will kill and die without a second’s hesitation.”
Singh stepped up to cell number nine and looked at the man-animal crouching in the dark corner. The man was staring at him with eyes wide and his drooling mouth agape. The look of sheer murder that coursed through his rough features was enough to make the giant Sikh want to turn away. For as large as he knew himself to be, he also knew the man in the cell could take him apart, piece by piece.
“For years I have watched you make men into something that was never meant to be. We have gone too far, Sahib. The taunting of the British authorities almost twenty-seven years ago nearly brought the world down upon us. Your decision making was flawed then, and it is now becoming more so.” He watched the eyes of the professor as they remained neutral as he spoke. He decided to press further. “I was willing to allow this to go on as long as there were no more killings of the innocent. But it is now starting all over again. I assume you are planning to test these … soldiers on living subjects?”
Ambrose finally turned to fully face his manservant. The syringe he held dripped amber fluid from the needle and struck the professor’s filthy boot.
“You were willing?” Ambrose chuckled as he ignored the stated question. His laugh was a cold, harsh sound in the darkness of the subbasement. “Wasn’t it you who carried me to Whitechapel in the old days in the coach? Was it not you who assisted in luring women to that coach?” Ambrose took a step toward the very much larger Singh, who to his credit stood ramrod straight. “Old friend, was it not you who originally saw the potential of the splicing of the flower and its new seed? Maybe you were once just a willing participant, but now I believe you may be considered one of the architects of Perdition’s Fire.” This time the smile did reach his eyes just before he turned to unlock cell number two. “After tonight there will be no more need for test subjects. Outside of training these men to not attack their own people, the process is perfected. Can you imagine a whole division of Berserkers? The earth would tremble.”
“And what nation would be willing to pay your price?”
Again, the laugh. “Just as soon as one side or the other starts losing the war in Europe, we will have plenty of takers.”
The manservant watched as the cell door was opened and Ambrose stepped into the darkness. He heard the sharp rattle of chain as the test subject, a young Texan he himself had found sleeping off a drunk by the river, charged Ambrose. With every inch of thick chain around the subject’s neck stretched to its limit, the boy growled and hissed at Ambrose who calmly kept his ground just inside the cell door. After a moment the subject settled and started sniffing. The test subject’s drool coursed down his chin and neck as he took in Ambrose. Only five previous injections had brought the test subject to this point of barbarity. The last injection would make him into what Ambrose dreamed—a lethal, brilliant killing machine—just as he had proven with himself as a test subject in London. This man would soon be a soldier that was able to plan and carry out the most animalistic attacks ever seen. A soldier never seen before. The strength of a bull and the intelligence of the very man who made him into what he had become. He was now a beast that would send any civilized enemy running through sheer terror. And all of this was because of two small, little-known poppy flowers that grew only in the remotest northern regions of India. That coupled with the stem serum would open up that which God may never had intended to be used—the opposite side of the brain. Full brain function coupled with animalistic fury.
As Singh watched, the professor slowly lifted his free hand and allowed the subject to smell the oils and sweat emanating from the pores of Ambrose. The smell seemed to calm the boy down and the chain slackened somewhat as the man knew one of his own. Someone who released this scent told the Berserker he was amongst one who had also taken the formula. Ambrose had absorbed enough of Perdition’s Fire into his system over the years that anything that had also been injected with the script would know the other as an ally, one not to be feared or attacked. It was a system of protection the professor had worked out years before through trial and error.
“Is it not amazing to you my old friend how the brain of the subject, even though it is ravaged with cancerous growth caused by the long-term injections, is still able to use its higher brain functions? This subject tested out at over a 165 IQ. Amazing, Singh, just amazing. This opens up not just one avenue for the eventual benefits of Perdition’s Fire, but so many more.”
“It is not the benefits of higher brain functions that is the concern here, Sahib. It is the murderous abilities coupled with that intelligence that is the true danger.” Singh stepped toward the open cell, and that was when the test subject lunged at the manservant, almost knocking Ambrose over.
“That is not wise my friend,” Ambrose said as he quickly reached out and jabbed the needle home into the arm of the boy. The test subject was so absorbed in his want, his very need to get at Singh, that he never felt the sharp jab. Ambrose quickly stepped from the cell and closed the door. “There, eight subjects more to go.”
“Sahib, we must—”
Suddenly, and before Singh could finish, the basement door flew open and a man came through. He was armed with an old Winchester and wore the white clothing of one of the field workers.
“We have soldiers approaching, Jefe. They crossed the river an hour ago.”
Ambrose reached for another of the syringes and then turned to look at one of the many guards he had posted around the hacienda. “Federalies?” he asked.
“No, señor, Americanos,” the man said as his eyes saw the boy inside the cell for the first time. The peasant saw the way the beast inside had the restraining chain stretched to its limit as it growled, sending the guard back a step. “There must be over a hundred of them,” he said, in a hurry to finish his report.
Ambrose slammed the syringe onto the table’s top, denting the barrel of the tube, and then grabbed the guard by the shirt. It was that quick motion that not only sent the two men who had the final series of injections into a frenzy of movement and ang
er, but the other test subjects as well. Animal sounds started filtering through the darkness of all ten cells, sending chills down the spines of both the guard and Singh.
“You and the other guards will delay them as long as you can, dying in the effort if you have to.”
The guard looked shocked. He knew he and his men could never take on an experienced charge of light cavalry. Ambrose angrily shook the man, sending the test subjects into a fresh round of growling and other sounds that could never have emanated from the throats of mere men.
“If I do not receive the time I need, I will release these men into your village after they have finished with the soldiers. Your wives, your children, they will all die a horrible death. Now go and delay this force of men while we get ready to abandon the hacienda.” Ambrose shoved the shocked and stunned guard away.
Singh half turned and watched the man leave the laboratory. He then faced his employer. “You would release these creatures into the villages around the hacienda?”
Ambrose grinned and then took another syringe from the table. “I would release them into heaven or hell to get the time I need. Now you go and retrieve the Perdition journals in my office. The up-to-date series of formula is in notebook number thirty along with the antidote. That is most important. As for the viles of powdered solution in the secondary laboratory, dump them into the sand. The powdered form is far too strong. With the liquid solution we have more control. Now go my friend and do as I—”
He stopped talking when the pistol appeared in the Indian manservant’s hand. Ambrose raised his thick brows at the sudden appearance of the weapon. It seemed as though the professor wasn’t surprised in the least by this latest development.
“This ends here, tonight, just as I should have allowed it to end in Whitechapel.”
“You brought the soldiers here, didn’t you Singh?” Ambrose asked as his eyes roamed to the still-unlocked cell door of test subject number two.
“Yes, I knew the American soldiers that are searching for Pancho Villa were within a hundred miles of here. I have arranged your demise through forces working with the president of the United States, Sahib. Forgive me, but I have been communicating with your government for over three years now. I have been reporting on your progress—progress that has now gone too far with the new series of script you have begun. These men will never be controlled as you believe, and the Americans want this stopped.”
Ripper Page 5