Mark Olson, Special Agent of the FBI, stood dumbstruck as a blinding flash of incongruity assaulted his mind. Reality loosed its bonds on a bright, cloudless day in June and his world faded to nightmare flashbacks of tracer rounds, exploding bombs and bloody swards littered with the broken bodies and shattered dreams of idealistic young men. Gruesome images of the hideously rent flesh of comrade and foe alike pressed upon him and threatened to crush his carefully constructed psychological armor. An uncontrollable trembling began in his bullet scared leg and a wintry chill suffused his whole body. Olson closed his eyes but couldn't escape the searing memories of the anguish and the pain.
Special Agent Bradley Stevens mounted the top landing on the front steps of the Fulton County Middle School before he realized his superior had stopped. When he glanced back the expression on Olson's face froze Stevens mid-stride. His heart lurched and he reflexively reached for his gun while his eyes arced wildly as he scanned the immediate area for signs of danger. Stevens saw nothing to alarm him and started breathing again. He turned back to Olson.
"Jesus, Mark. You look like you just saw a ghost!"
Olson stood with eyes wide staring and his mouth agape. He said nothing and didn't acknowledge his partner's remarks or presence. In fact, Mark Olson had seen a ghost. He slowly turned, his body rigid-an automaton-to gaze at the young black man who'd walked passed them after exiting the building. Olson's entire being was torn between the reality he'd not questioned for more than thirty years and the brief flicker of hope his logical mind knew was futile.
Stevens had categorized the man as the physical education teacher or a coach. He was tall, at least six feet, with a very muscular build and obviously physically fit. He'd nodded to them and Stevens had returned the gesture. "Is he someone you recognize, is he on the list?" Stevens referred to the FBI's ten most wanted list. "Should we question him?"
Olson didn't answer.
"Mark, talk to me!" Stevens demanded and walked back to place a hand on Olson's shoulder. Olson shuddered and clinched his fists. He tried in vain to deny that which threatened his sanity. It took a monumental effort for him to focus on his anxious young companion. He stood mute and shook his head slowly from side to side. His eyes were still wide and disbelieving. He was stunned and didn't speak until Stevens tightened his grip.
"No..." Olson answered hesitantly, "He...he looked so much like someone I knew a long time ago...but...it's not him...he couldn't be."
It was him! But it couldn't be him! Have I lost my mind?
Olson begrudgingly turned away and walked slowly up the remaining steps to the front entrance. Stevens, after a moment of indecision, followed a step behind. Olson's mind was still in raging turmoil when he grabbed the handle but he didn't open the door. Instead he half turned and peered over his shoulder to stare at the black man as he walked along the circular driveway. The man moved with a smooth and powerful athletic grace. He appeared to glide, more so than walk.
Stevens stopped and gazed alternately at Olson and the black man until he disappeared around the side of the building, presumably to the staff parking lot. Olson released a pent up breath as both agents turned in unison and entered the school. Stevens cast occasional sideways glances at Olson while they followed directional signs to the main office. He was becoming concerned about his boss and mentor. During the two years Stevens had worked out of the Birmingham Alabama Field Office, he had displayed an uncanny ability to maintain his composure in any given situation. Olson had been a member of the elite FBI Hostage Rescue Team for more than ten years and rose to command the unit. His reputation in the Bureau as a superior agent and dedicated supervisor was well deserved as far as Stevens was concerned. However, this case was proving to be an extremely unusual and difficult one. The social ramifications and intense political pressure resulted in Olson; the Agent in Charge of the Birmingham Office, leading the field investigation while the DDO (Deputy Director of Operations) second-guessed every move from Washington.
The crime scene photographs had impacted both
agents pretty hard. Olson had been particularly affected. His youngest
child, born late in life, was twelve years old. The same age as Treanna
Lynn Johnson when she was kidnapped, raped, brutally beaten and murdered
by some animals in human disguise. Three days of chasing down leads had
netted them exactly zero progress beyond the findings of the Fulton
County Sheriff's homicide investigation. Olson became more than a little
disturbed as they learned the horrid details of the little girl's last
hours of life. The zoned-out act after mistaking the teacher for someone
else was the topper. Olson continued to walk in a mechanical manner and
seemed barely conscious of his surroundings. He looked thoroughly
spooked. Stevens thought his behavior was beyond strange. He'd come to
view Olson as larger than life and regarded him as more of a father
figure than his superior.
Olson's thoughts were chaotic and he found it
impossible to concentrate. He was fighting the urge to turn back, to
run to the black man and confront him...to look into his eyes. His mind
shied away from that-madness lurked there. He clung desperately to a
precarious hold on reality and fought a losing battle against the
downward slide into a nightmare realm as his subconscious dredged up
long suppressed memories...
...CRAACK!
He was two steps from cover when the bullet
from an AK-47 Assault Rifle struck a sledgehammer blow to his left leg
and knocked him off of his feet. The earth rose up to meet him and he
slammed hard to the ground. He rolled against an ant hill and reared up
to fire a whole magazine, in one long burst, back along his track. He
was rewarded with a scream of pain. He glanced down at his leg as he
ejected the empty magazine. Blood gushed from an exit wound in his
thigh. The bullet had missed the bone but a major blood vessel had been
severed and there was massive tissue damage. He grimaced in fear and
outrage. The pain was just starting.
Have to stop the bleeding soon...
Immobilize the wound...
Beware of shock!
His thoughts careened while he methodically
inserted a full magazine, slammed the bolt release and chambered a
round. He waited for several anxious moments but no more enemy soldiers
appeared. Olson used his M-16 as a crutch and struggled to his feet.
He dragged the injured leg for several yards and found better cover
behind a larger ant hill. He clamped a hand on a pressure point and
slumped back against the earthen mound with his eyes closed and teeth
clenched from the mounting pain.
He knew that he couldn't stay there very long. If the NVA didn't find him, the ants, attracted by the blood, would eat him alive. Working quickly, he removed the scrap of parachute cloth he used as a sweat rag, tied it around the leg then used the hilt of his K-Bar to tighten the makeshift tourniquet and stopped the bleeding.
His head jerked up when a sound startled him. The muzzle of an AK-47 pushed through the grass on the far side of the clearing-thirty feet away. The glaring, hate-filled face of an NVA soldier appeared behind the weapon.
Olson lunged for his rifle but he knew that it was too late...
Olson shuddered and tried to banish the images. His mind reeled and careened from the wild, brain numbing shock of who he'd just seen on the front steps of the building to the soul wrenching memories that made that sighting impossible. He was pale and in a cold sweat. He felt the walls closing in but made a supreme effort to regain control of his emotions. He glanced furtively at his partner who seemed to be preoccupied with the hallway.
Stevens shook his head in disgust. God, what a dump!
He hadn't lived in the south long enough to become jaded to the lower standard of living. His middle class upbringing was something he'd taken for granted and never questioned. Poverty was the realm of TV sit-coms, a world far removed from the Madeira suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio where he grew up. The trip to the victim's foster home left him wondering how anyone managed to grow up normal in those conditions. The school building was no better. The walls looked as if they had not seen a fresh coat of paint in a decade. Most of the lockers looked as if battering rams were used, instead of the combinations, to fetch books. They turned a corner and saw two black custodians engaged in an animated conversion who stopped when the agents approached. Stevens figured the Johnson murder was the topic of conversation, as it was in the entire South and much of the nation. The custodians didn't return Steven's greeting as they walked past. He opened the office door for Olson and glanced back down the hall. The two men stood staring sullenly at him.
Damian Alan Logan sat behind the wheel of his late model SUV pondering the implications of what had just transpired. It was obvious that Olson recognized him.
Ha, thought you saw a ghost, didn't you, Sandman.
Logan's smile was grim. He could imagine Olson's current state of mind. The chance meeting had surprised him too. He'd last seen Olson
when they had taken part in an ill-fated reconnaissance mission across the DMZ into North Vietnam during the latter stages of direct U.S. involvement in the conflict. Their mission had been the gathering of intelligence on the buildup of Communist forces just north of the border. Logan sat for several minutes. His mind was awash with memories of his time in Vietnam with the 3rd Marine Division, Force Reconnaissance Company. His eidetic memory recalled, in vivid detail, all of the crazy times, the brotherhood, the bloodshed and death...the tragic ending.
Mark Olson, the Sandman, here in Eddiesville, Alabama!
He laughed out loud. What were the odds of the two of them crossing paths after so many years? It was an interesting development but it complicated things for Logan. It was obvious that Olson and his companion were armed and members of some law enforcement agency, probably the FBI. No doubt they were involved in the investigation of Treanna's murder and the ultimatum. Perhaps he could turn it to his advantage.
Logan turned two knobs on his radio in sequence and pushed another. A hidden panel in the dashboard slid open to reveal a complex electronic control board. He punched a series of buttons that activated the communications module and switched to the surveillance circuit attuned to the listening device he'd planted prior to her interview with a Deputy Sheriff. The speakers erupted with the sound of a knock on the Principal's door.
((Yes, Mildred))
((I'm sorry, Mrs. Adkins, I know you're really busy, but there are two FBI agents here to see you...))
Logan listened intently as he started the engine and drove slowly out of the parking lot.
Stevens set the record mode on his mini-recorder and nodded for Principal Joyce Adkins to begin. After identifying themselves and explaining the reason for their visit, the agents gave her several moments to compose herself and collect her thoughts. They wanted her interview to be as detailed as possible. Adkins was a short, slender woman well into her sixties. Her lined face was framed by auburn hair streaked with gray. Her hands fluttered constantly in concert with her words.
"I'm not sure if I can add anything more than what I've already told the Deputy Sheriff," Adkins began, visibly struggling to control her emotions. "Treanna was a very bright student and a sweet young girl. She was so full of life, everyone who knew her was touched by her enthusiasm." Adkins pressed a hand to quivering lips, closed her eyes and slowly shook her head, unable to completely hold back the tears. "How could they do that to a child? How could they?"
Neither agent had an answer for her. Olson offered his handkerchief but she politely declined and reached into her desk drawer for a tissue. The photographs from the crime scene flashed through his mind again. All three of them sat in perfect silence, mourning the young victim. Olson watched the grieving woman. She seemed symbolic of all the survivors of the prematurely deceased-questioning the unfathomable. He reluctantly broke the silence.
"Your statement that the Alabama Young Rebels may be responsible for the abduction and murder of Treanna Johnson is our main concern. Of all the interviews conducted in the course of the Sheriff's homicide investigation, yours was the only one that contained a reference to the Young Rebels. As you probably know, the ultimatum from the African-American Defense Force, the ADF, named unidentified members of the Young Rebels as the perpetrators. That was several days after you mentioned them in your statement."
The principal regarded him solemnly. Her eyes
still brimmed with tears but wariness began to creep in. "I..."
She didn't finish. Olsen thought she was on the brink of confiding in
them but she pulled back and took a deep shuttering breath. "I don't
know how much time you gentlemen have spent in the South, I was born
and raised in Chicago. I followed my husband here after we graduated
from college and married. That was over forty years ago. In all these
years I've not managed to understand how black people down here maintain
any semblance of sanity. On a daily basis I see white people, some of
them dirt poor and worse off than many blacks, display an attitude of
superiority and open hostility towards minorities that in my opinion
borders on mental illness."
Olson didn't comment but nodded to indicate he understood. Indeed, he was well aware of the pathological hatred some bigoted whites held toward black people and other minorities. Sixty percent of his caseload, since being banished to Birmingham, the southern Siberia of the FBI, consisted of ethnic intimidation charges. The economic downturn in the third year of the new millennium resulted in a sharp increase in racially motivated murders, assaults and other hate crimes. Two years later, a full third of the Bureau's resources were dedicated to the investigation of violations of the Federal Civil Rights laws.
"Mr. Olson, there isn't a single man or woman in this county, black or white, who has a reasonable doubt that the Young Rebels are behind this and numerous other attacks in the weeks leading up the Treanna's murder. The blacks are afraid to speak out and the whites are either too ashamed or related to one of the Young Rebels." Adkins paused to calm herself. She regretted letting her anger and frustration bubble to the surface. "Most white people down here are decent folks, but there is something about race relations that defy all logic. Black people have never been a threat to white control of local government or business interests but some whites have this fear that is all out of proportion to the number of black people in our society. Why? Why all the hatred, the hurting and killing?"
Again, they had no answer for her. Stevens felt ashamed and found it difficult to meet her eyes as memories of his high school days came flooding back. One of the favorite past times of the group he ran with was getting tight on beer, driving through the black neighborhood of Madisonville and beaning pedestrians with the empties. The practice came to an abrupt end when an angry black motorist who'd witnessed a beaning, forced their car off the pavement into a drainage ditch along Camargo Road. Bobby Pritchard, his best friend, took most of the heat for that fiasco. His parent's car, nearly totaled, had to be towed to a repair shop. They never told the police or their parents the truth about the cause of the accident. Bobby failed a sobriety test and lost his license for a year. Stevens absent-mindedly rubbed his nose that was still slightly crooked after being broken in the crash.
"Mrs. Adkins, do you have knowledge of anyone making threats of revenge against the Young Rebels, prior to the ADF broadcast?" The direct question from Olson brought Stevens back from his reminiscing.
"Well..." She hesitated; looking from one agent to the other, unsure if she wanted to go on record with what she knew.
"Mrs. Adkins, we need your help. We're trying to keep the lid on a very tense situation down here. I don't have to tell you what will happen if the ADF makes good on their threat and take some vigilante action against one or more white men in this county. It would ignite widespread violence and a bloodbath between the races."
Adkins stared hard at Olson for a long moment then nodded in agreement. When she spoke, her voice was profoundly sad. "Treanna was more than just a good student, she was a Light-Bright," No further explanation was necessary. The term, a designation for light skinned Negroes with an attitude of superiority, had been a part of the slang in the African-American community for generations. It became a part of the national dialogue early in the new Millennium and now referred to students of mixed race who excelled academically. The number of Light-Brights crowding the top ranks of National Merit Scholars had become a subject of intense debate and study among the elite of the nation's educational establishment. "She was Mr. Logan's top-"
"Who? You said Logan!" Olson felt electrifying jolts of emotion cascade across his mind. He'd become flushed and had that wide-eyed look again. He was perched on the edge of his seat, his right arm extended-rigid, in a white knuckled grip on the edge of Adkins' desk. The violent reaction had frightened her and surprised Stevens. He feared Olson was on the verge of having a heart attack. Olson sat back onto his chair slightly embarrassed when he realized he'd startled her and struggled to regain control of himself. He was deeply shaken. He'd almost rationalized away the striking resemblance but now he was confronted with something even more disturbing.
The same last name! Coincidence? What are the odds...but how else can you explain it? When Olson spoke, it was through lips drawn tight, with barely suppressed intensity.
"Mrs. Adkins, are you referring to Damian Alan Logan?"
"Noooo," She began hesitantly and glanced at Stevens for a clue to where Olson was going with his line of questioning. Stevens stared at Olson, unsure of what if anything he should say or do.
"I meant Jason Logan, our math and science teacher," Adkins was becoming leery of where the interview was taking her. "He also founded our 21st. Century Club for gifted students. We placed three students in the top one percent of National Merit Scholars last year," She stated proudly and then added, "Treanna was our best student."
Olson settled back and took slow deep breaths to force himself to relax but remained transfixed on every word she spoke.
"Mr. Logan has no family of his own, which is rather strange considering how handsome and...well...how handsome he is," She blushed. "I guess the 21st. Century Club became his family. He donated a large portion of his personal income to pay for their projects and sometimes directly to them for extra curricular activities that the County wouldn't fund."
"Why the county?" Stevens asked.
"All but two of the club members are wards of the Fulton County Department of Social Services. Some, like Treanna, live with foster parents. If the per pupil special activity budget did not accommodate a trip to...oh, lets say the National Conference of Junior Mathematicians, Mr. Logan would foot the bill for the club members. He's invested an enormous amount of time and effort as well as his money into these kids and now he may be leaving." She paused to dab a tear from the corner of her eye. The hum of the air-conditioner was the only sound in the room. The two agents, preferring to let her proceed at her own pace, didn't press. Over the years Olson had found that witnesses recalled more details and were more forthcoming with information when allowed to proceed at their own pace without pressure from investigators. Their patience was rewarded.
"He sat in that very same chair with tears rolling down his face," She indicated the seat Stevens occupied. "He had a special relationship, a bond, with Treanna and the rest of his students. He's that kind of teacher, one in a million. Any staff member will tell you that. Treanna was like a daughter to him. In fact, she sort of adopted him. She said on many occasions that when Mr. Logan found a wife he would adopt her and she would have a room all her own, with pink curtains and a hundred stuffed animals, just like in the movies." Adkins grabbed another tissue to stem the tide of tears she could no longer hold back.
Stevens glanced over at Olson. He seemed to be somewhere off in his own world.
"He was very distraught over her death," Adkins continued, her voice quaking "I didn't know how to comfort him. I've never lost a student this way myself. Then, a strange thing happened. One second he was sobbing like a child, then he looked up at me and said; "They won't get away with it, that I promise you. Nothing on earth will save them." It wasn't what he said but..." Again she hesitated, unsure of how to describe what she had seen, but she was determined.
"His face changed!" She blurted out. Now, I've said it. Let them make of it what they will.
Olson didn't comment. He was subdued and inclined to let her continue without comment. Stevens was curious and wanted the taped record of the interview to be as complete as possible. "Changed how, Mrs. Adkins?" He asked gently.
She looked at him but seemed to be focused on something far beyond. "Well, one second we were both crying and the next he looked up at me and his face had changed. It's hard to...to describe. He was still Jason Logan but he was different...somehow. His face had become leaner and harder. His eyes...his eyes were so cold!" She struggled to compose herself then looked at each agent in turn. "You've seen those National Geographic close-ups of birds like eagles and hawks. "His eyes were like that, like he was searching for prey, totally devoid of emotion and of mercy. It was eerie and very frightening."
The room went totally silent again for several moments while they considered her last statements. She took a deep breath and resumed her story. "I became concerned at that point and cautioned him to let the Sheriff handle it and not do anything rash. He answered; ""Rash, no, I won't do anything rash, just what should have been done thirty years ago. If I'd done something about them then, Treanna would be alive today." Then he said goodbye and walked out. I didn't realize how strange that statement was until I was driving home. How could he have done anything thirty years ago to change what happened? I checked his personnel file the next day to confirm what I already knew. He's only twenty-seven years old. He had not been born yet thirty years ago." She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair.
Stevens frowned. He was trying to decide how much validity to give to her statement.
"That's all I can tell you that I didn't tell the Sheriff." She waited for the agents to question her further. Her body language said the interview was over.
Olson paused at the door as they were leaving. "One last thing, Mrs. Adkins. Do you have a photograph of Mr. Logan?"
They returned to the temporary field office in the County Administration building and spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening discussing the Adkins interview and reviewing other evidence. Olson was moody and withdrawn during the twenty-minute drive to the I-65 interchange and the Ramada Inn. He continued to stare at the teacher's photograph. Dinner turned into a strategy session and Olson gave Stevens last minute instructions before retiring to his room. Olson fell into bed emotionally and physically drained. He stared at the ceiling a long time before drifting off into a restless sleep...
...Olson ran for his life! He could hear the NVA closing in from the left. He angled to the right and slowed his pace to minimize the noise he made. Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked several times to clear his vision. He pushed into a thicker clump of elephant grass and stopped to listen. The enemy soldiers were not fooled by his maneuver.
"Fuck, I'm in deep shit now!" He muttered and wondered about the other members of the patrol. His objective was to reach the secondary rally point for extraction.
"Fucking asshole!" He cursed the new Lieutenant. Logan had tried to warn him that the NVA squad they observed crossing a valley towards their position was probably the point element for a larger unit but he wouldn't listen. It was the Lieutenant's first patrol and he was eager for some action. He ordered a hasty ambush and they cut the five soldiers down without a single round of return fire. They were searching the bodies for documents when a burst of AK-47 fire shattered the silence. No one was hit and they quickly laid down suppressing fire and withdrew on the run. An orderly retreat toward the PZ turned into a rout when a large enemy unit joined the pursuit and started dropping mortar rounds on top of them. When enemy flankers cut off their escape route, the Lieutenant panicked and ordered them to scatter and rendezvous at the secondary rally point. A wild melee ensued as the Marines fought their way out of the trap as individuals.
"Dumb ass brown bar!" Olson cursed the Lieutenant again and pushed through the thick grass. He was confronted by a clearing that stretched for many yards in each direction. Several large anthills dotted the landscape before the grass continued twenty yards beyond. He scanned the surrounding terrain and then dashed toward the nearest anthill.
...CRAACK!
He was two steps from cover when the bullet from an AK-47 Assault Rifle struck a sledgehammer blow to his left leg and knocked him off of his feet. The earth rose up to meet him and he slammed hard to the ground. He rolled against the anthill and reared up to fire, emptying a whole magazine, in one long burst, back along his track. He was rewarded with a scream of pain. He glanced down at his leg as he ejected the empty magazine. Blood gushed from an exit wound in his thigh. The bullet had missed the bone but a major blood vessel had been severed and there was massive tissue damage. He grimaced in fear and outrage. The pain was just starting.
Have to stop the bleeding soon...
Immobilize the wound...
Beware of shock!
His thoughts careened while he methodically inserted a full magazine, slammed the bolt release and chambered a round. He waited for several anxious moments but no more enemy soldiers appeared. Olson used his M-16 as a crutch and struggled to his feet. He dragged the injured leg for several yards and found better cover behind a larger anthill. He clamped a hand on a pressure point and slumped back against the earthen mound with his eyes closed and teeth clinched from the mounting pain.
He knew that he couldn't stay there very long. If the NVA didn't find him, the ants, attracted by the blood, would eat him alive. Working quickly, he removed the scrap of parachute cloth he used as a sweat rag, tied it around the leg then used the hilt of his K-Bar to tighten the makeshift tourniquet and stopped the bleeding.
His head jerked up when a sound startled him. The muzzle of an AK-47 pushed through the grass on the far side of the small clearing, thirty feet away. The glaring, hate-filled face of an NVA soldier appeared behind the weapon. Olson lunged for his rifle but he knew that it was too late...
CRAACK!
CRAACK!
A bullet struck the NVA soldier in the throat and knocked him violently aside. A wild shot from the dying man's weapon thumped into the anthill, missing Olson by inches. After he got over the surprise of being alive he looked around, searching the grass. The wall of green parted and an apparition in camouflage face paint glided towards him.
"Shadow!" Olson breathed a sigh of relief.
"Hell of a time to take five, Sandman!"
"There's more coming up behind me!" Olson blurted.
"They won't be bothering us," Olson noticed the blood on his hands and jungle utility shirt. Logan quickly checked the tourniquet, hurriedly bandaged the wound and gave Olson a shot of morphine. "Let's go dude, break time is over."
Logan joked as he hauled Olson up to a shaky one-legged stance. They angled away from the sound of heavy firing. Their pace was slow with Logan half-supporting Olson. Several times Logan left him concealed in the high grass and decoyed enemy soldiers away from their route. It seemed an eternity to Olson's drug fogged mind before they reached the rally point.
Cpl. Andy Reinhart, the team RTO was the only one to make it before them. Reinhart lowered his rifle and took a deep breath after he determined they were Marines.
"Shadow! Sandman! Man am I glad to see you guys!
I thought I was the only one left," He beamed. The huge grin was in
stark contrast on his fierce grease-painted face. "I waited as long as
I thought I could before making the call. Evac is inbound, twenty mics!"
Reinhart finished, relieved Logan of his burden and lowered Olson to the
ground.
"No one else showed up?" Logan asked.
"Naw, I think they're all wasted or lost in the bush."
"What happened to the Lieutenant, I thought he would stick with the radio?"
"That shitbird wanted to call in an air strike without knowing everybody's positions. He was scared out of his mind and headed in the wrong direction so I left his sorry ass!" Reinhart's face was grim. His arm was bandaged just below the elbow.
"You hit bad?"
Reinhart peered up at Logan. "Just a flesh wound but it's my third Purple Heart. I'm going home early, man!" Reinhart was a short-timer, with less than fifty days left on his tour.
Logan placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm happy for you, Hawk," and he was. Next to Olson, Reinhart had become his closest friend. "First we have to catch that bird."
They tended to Olson and set up a hasty perimeter in an old bomb crater from some long forgotten battle. They jumped when distant gunfire resumed. Tension began to mount while they listened to the occasional bursts of automatic rifle fire draw closer. It sounded as if other members of the patrol were still alive and fighting to reach the rally point.
"Come on guys, you can make it!" Reinhart whispered encouragement.
They checked their weapons and readied magazines and grenades. The twenty minutes seemed like hours. They waited in vain for the other members of the patrol. Olson and Reinhart were hommies-both were from the Cincinnati area. They talked in whispers about what they missed the most and the first thing they would do when they got back to the world. In spite of their desperate situation Logan had to laugh at their argument over which hamburger, the Frisch's Big Boy or the upstart Burger Chef, was the best.
Logan heard the approaching helicopter. "Hear it comes, saddle up!" Reinhart got on the radio to give landing instructions to the pilot.
CRAACK!
The single shot sent them scrambling for cover. Then all hell broke loose.
CRAACK!
CRAACK!
CRAAAAACK! CRAAAAACK!
Suddenly they were receiving fire from several AK-47s. Logan and Olson returned fire furiously while Reinhart screamed into the radio.
KARRUMPT!
KARRUMPT! KARRUMPT!
Mortar rounds exploded twenty yards away but the
concussion picked them up and slammed them to the ground with stunning
force. Logan was the first to recover; he rose up and fired his M-14 on
full automatic. The heavy 7.62 mm rounds cut down three NVA soldiers
using the mortar barrage as a diversion to rush their position. He
flopped down to reload and Olson opened up with his M-16 as more NVA
continued the assault. Logan watched Reinhart crawl several yards and
throw a smoke grenade into the clearing behind them. He looked up and
saw the Huey's nose rise to kill its forward momentum and start it's
descent.
"Reload!" Olson yelled and ducked down. Logan popped up and fired at the NVA again. Several bodies littered the approaches to their position but the NVA soldiers kept coming. The incoming rifle fire was overwhelming now. Reinhart crawled back into the crater. Impacting bullets kicked up dirt around him as he joined them on the firing line and emptied a magazine in two quick bursts.
KARRUMPT! KARRUMPT! KARRUMPT!
More mortar rounds landed closer to their position. The explosions forced them to cower lower into the shell hole. A hot shard of bomb casting lanced the shin of Reinhart's shoulder. The concussion hammered their eardrums and took their breath away. Debris from the explosions rained down on them.p
"We've got to hat-up now, sarge!" Reinhart screamed.
Logan's ears were ringing and he could barely hear him but his body language was clear. He crabbed closer and yelled into Reinhart's ear.
"You help Olson to the chopper, I'll cover you!"
Reinhart stared at Logan and started to protest but realized there was no other way. He crawled over to Olson and told him the plan.
Olson looked over to gaze into his friend's eyes and nodded grimly as something passed between them, something indefinable, something only men standing in the shadow of death can begin to comprehend. On the count of three they all fired a full magazine in one sustained volley. Two NVA soldiers were smashed to the ground and the rest sought cover from the deadly fusillade
"Go! Go!" Logan screamed as he lobbed a grenade and flopped down to reloaded.
Reinhart helped Olson struggle to his feet and they stumbled off in a clumsy three-legged run for the helicopter while Logan continued to fire on the NVA. Now the door gunner had the situation sorted out and opened up on the enemy skirmishers with his M-60 machine gun.
"Come on, hurry the fuck up, goddamnit!" The crew chief urged as they neared the helicopter. He grabbed Olson when Reinhart heaved him up through the hatch and quickly followed.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Pzing!
A swarm of AK-47 rounds rocked the chopper after the NVA shifted their fire. The door gunner screamed and fell back, his black face glistening with sweat and grimacing in pain from a bullet shattered right arm. Reinhart jumped up to man the machine gun and sent more deadly 7.62-mm rounds into the enemy skirmish line.
Olson heard the crew chief yell again and levered himself up on one arm to peer through the hatch. He spotted Logan, who'd abandoned his rifle, pack and web gear, sprinting towards the helicopter. Tracers from the M-60 passed within inches over his head while the ground around him erupted from the impact of gunfire from the enemy.
KARRUMPT! KARRUMPT! KARRUMPT!
Logan disappeared in a blinding flash of light and exploding mortar rounds.
Olson flinched and blinked to clear the searing retinal after-image. When he looked back, smoke and dust from the explosions had billowed out to completely obscure the impact area.
"Logaaaaaaan! Noooo! Logaaaan!" Reinhart howled over the engine noise and gunfire. The crew chief, his hands slick with the blood of his door-gunner, grabbed Reinhart before he could jump out and screamed for the pilot to take off.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thump! Thwack!
More incoming rounds ripped into the copter as it climbed. The crew chief convulsed when a bullet drilled through his flack jacket, splintered two ribs and ripped into his right lung. All breath left his body but he hung on to a frantic, sobbing Reinhart.
"Nooo! No, goddamnit, no!" Olson shrieked and lunged for the slumping crew chief. "We can't leave him, you motherfuckers! We can't leav-"
Olson woke up screaming. The sheet he'd twisted in a death grip was soaking wet with sweat. For a terror filled moment he feared the chopper would be shot down and plunge him to his death. Then he realized where and when he was; the guilt came flooding back. The shame of having survived returned as strong as three and a half decades before. His heart and psyche had been ripped apart by the guilt and self-reproach from leaving behind a fellow Marine, a friend. But the base instinct for survival could not be denied.
He fumbled for the lamp switch and turned away when the light lashed his retina. He was still groggy when he picked up the photograph and stared through squinted, tear filled eyes.
Stevens became more concerned about his superior the next morning. Olson had toyed with his breakfast and ate very little. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all the night before. His eyes were hollow and distant. Every five or ten minutes he'd pull the teacher's photograph from his pocket. He handled it like a fragile, ancient parchment. Stevens didn't understand what was bothering Olson and was at a loss for words that might help. He tried to ignore his boss's strange behavior while reporting what he'd discovered.
Information gleaned from the interview with Mrs. Adkins added a new angle to the investigation. It was obvious that Jason Logan was an important lead. The teacher was, in his opinion, on top of the list of possible leads to the ADF. As instructed, Stevens had spent half the night on the phone with the Birmingham office organizing an investigation of Jason E. Logan. The results generated more questions. The preliminary background search had turned up very little beyond his employment record at the school. His academic history and credentials proved to be fakes. He seemed not to have existed prior to accepting the teaching job with Fulton County.
"What do you make of that?"
Olson gave him a blank stare. What am I supposed to think? I don't want to think!
They were leaving to interview the mysterious Mr. Logan. Stevens watched Olson trudge heavily to the car, enter on the passenger side to sit and stare through the windshield. Stevens got behind the wheel but didn't start the engine.
"Okay, boss! Now that I'm sufficiently worried, you want to tell me what's got you so rattled?"
Several tense seconds passed before Olson responded. "I don't know where to begin." His voice sounded vacuous and uncertain. Stevens was not sure if he wanted to hear it or not. An unwelcome feeling of foreboding closed in. Stevens looked at Olson, hunched his shoulders and smiled as he started the engine.
"The beginning is a good place to start."
"Yeah," Olson said. "The beginning is always best, I guess." He paused to collect his thoughts. "I first met Logan in Vietnam, in 1970..."
...Corporal Mark Olson turned his body and pulled his bush hat down over his eyes as sand, driven by the prop wash from a Huey helicopter, peppered his bare back and arms in a thousand places. He was a one-man detail sent to meet the weekly mail run and escort a replacement back to the platoon's compound. He slowly turned as the helicopter lifted off and gained altitude. The mini sandstorm subsided. The cherry knelt on the edge of the helipad, his head down to protect his eyes. The satchel containing the Platoon's mail lay on the ground along side his waterproof (WP) bag of personal belongings. When he stood up and adjusted his utility cover he spotted Olson approaching.
Mark saw a powerfully built black man around six feet tall. He was brown skinned with facial features that were not as full as the average Negro. When their eyes met Olson was struck by their intensity and near perfect match with his brown complexion. The replacement picked up both bags and walked to meet him. Olson noticed that he seemed to glide rather than walk. He wore sergeant's chevrons on his collars.
"Welcome aboard, Sarge. I'm Cpl. Mark Olson, acting first fire team leader. I'm here to escort you to our platoon area. I'll take the mail." The black Marine handed him the bag.
"Logan, Damian, A." He responded. Their handshake was firm and in those brief moments the beginnings of a bond of friendship formed between them. Olson shouldered the mailbag and started toward the compound gate. Logan picked up his WP bag, reslung his M-14 rifle over a shoulder and followed. As they walked, Olson pointed out significant features of the Special Forces compound that was set apart from the rest of Quang Tri Combat base in the I-Corps of South Vietnam. They approached two Marines returning from a beer run and exchanged greetings.
"Hey, Sandman," Reynolds bellowed after they'd passed. "Who's your shadow?"
Olson frowned and ignored the comment. He glanced at the new sergeant who displayed a wry smile. Olson left Logan at the platoon leader's hutch and headed toward the mess tent to sort the mail. The two men they'd passed, Reinhart, his teammate and Reynolds, a Marine from the second fire team, were sitting at one of the tables, gulping beer. Reinhart tossed Olson a can when he joined them. He sipped the cold brew while he briefed them on the new guy.
"Fuck! Just what we need right now, a cherry sergeant to break in with a new Lieutenant on board." Reinhart complained.
"And a nigger to boot," added Reynolds, a massively built red headed native of Texas, who disliked blacks. "I'm glad he's not bunking with us, no fucking way, man." He drained the last of the beer and crushed the can like a paper cup. Olson and Reinhart fell silent when his comments became blatantly racist. The three of them made short work of the mail sorting detail while Reynolds ran through his collection of nigger jokes.
Afterwards, Olson got up to distribute the mail. He looked back at Reynolds. "I don't think he's a cherry. There is something about him that's strange and...I...I'm not sure. One thing I do know, Reynolds, you'd better be careful around him. He's different."
Reynolds laughed. "All niggers are strange, Olson. Don't you know that? And I'm gonna have some fun with that boy too."
Olson walked away shaking his head...
The peal of the radio-cell phone interrupted Mark's narrative. He reached over and punched the talk button.
"Olson."
"Peterson here, Mr. Olson." Special Agent James Peterson was the junior member of the FBI contingent. He was a recent graduate of the FBI Academy and newly assigned to the Birmingham office. He was acting as the liaison with the local authorities.
"Sir, I was just notified that a male white assault victim was dumped at the County General emergency room last night. He was in shock and barely able to speak coherently. He required extensive medical treatment. The doctors took three hundred stitches to close multiple knife wounds. His right knee, left wrist and three fingers were broken. He has head injuries including a severe concussion. When a Deputy Sheriff questioned him this morning he identified himself as John Gates, and a member of the Young Rebels. He claims he was held captive and tortured into revealing the names of members of the local chapter and the names of three men whom he suspects of involvement in the Johnson murder."
Olson had jerked upright and remained tense while Peterson recited the laundry list of injuries. Stevens glanced over at him for a moment then back to the road ahead.
"Peterson, are the broken fingers, the index,
little finger and thumb of the right hand?" Olson asked in a strained voice.
"Yes sir, how did you know?" Peterson answered.
Olson thought about it for a second then shook his head. "I'll fill you in later. We're on our way to the hospital to see your patient."
Olson pushed the end button, sat back in the seat with his head pressed against the rest. He took several deep breaths before he opened the street guide. Stevens stole glances at Olson as he studied the map to find a route to the hospital.
"How did you know?"
Olson continued his scrutiny of the guide and didn't answer right away. Stevens was about to repeat the question when Olson looked up from the map.
"It's what we did to a prisoner...in Vietnam. He's sending me a message, Brad. He recognized me yesterday and he knows that I recognized him," Olson was silent for long moments than said, "Turn left at the next light. I don't want to say anymore until we talk to our fine Young Rebel. I need to hear it from him."
The smell of antiseptic, body fluids, sickness and death combined to produce the peculiar hospital odor that never failed to make Stevens' stomach churn. He flashed his ID at the young Deputy Sheriff guarding the patient's room.
"Yes sir, I was told to expect you 'all. He's awake now. One of the doctors just left. His name is John J. Gates and he's one freaked out individual." He glanced suspiciously at Olson who barely broke stride as he approached the door and entered.
"Thank you, Deputy." Stevens responded and followed Olson into the room.
Gates' upper body and arms were almost completely covered with bandages or casts. The body surfaces that were not covered were bruised and discolored. A cast covered his right leg from ankle to mid-thigh. It was held suspended by a rather complicated metal-framed contraption. His face was bruised and swollen. His lower lip was twice its normal size; the split had required eleven stitches. He watched them enter with weary eyes. Olson stopped at the foot of the bed while Stevens positioned himself to conduct the interview.
"Mr. Gates, I'm Special Agent Stevens with the FBI. He's Special Agent In Charge, Mark Olson," Gates blinked several times trying to focus on Stevens ID. "We're here to talk to you about the assault. How many people were involved? Can you describe any of them and tell us what happened?"
"There wa-" His voice was weak and raspy, barely a whisper. "Water." He croaked. Stevens helped him sip ice water through a straw. After a few sips he tried again.
"There was only one," Gates said. "He...he was waiting for me, broke into my house, attacked me when I walked in..."
...John Gates fumbled in the dark and finally managed to unlock his front door. He flicked the light switch and tossed the keys onto a small wall shelf. He'd taken a couple of steps toward the bathroom before he noticed the black man seated in the far corner of the living room.
Gates froze!
The shock was total and then their eyes locked. The stranger's eyes held Gates until his surprise gave way to outrage.
"What the fuck you doing in my house?" Gates roared and advanced on the intruder, his hands balled into enormous fists, his rage building. Gates was a big man, six-five, two hundred and forty pounds. He was a body builder, had pumped iron for years and was no stranger to physical violence.
"Sit down Gates and be quiet." The black man said
calmly and never moved a muscle. Something in the way he spoke stopped
Gates dead in his tracks, the way the man just sat there, in Gates'
favorite chair, as if he owned the damned place. Gates' rage spilled over
and he lowered his shoulders and charged, not thinking, just wanting to
hurt the insolent black bastard. Gates was within arms reach, his huge
hands just inches from closing around the man's throat...then...suddenly
he wasn't sitting in the chair anymore and Gates was hurting from the
explosion of pain in his right hand. The black man had moved with
incredible swiftness and perfect timing to intercept Gates' right hand
and viciously break his thumb.
Gates screamed!
The black man remained a blur of motion and before Gates could sort things out he sent a pile driving kick into Gates' right knee that shattered the joint. Gates' second scream was ten octaves higher than the first. The leg buckled and as he collapsed his face slammed into the solid oak arm of the chair. He saw a blinding flash and a wave of pain washed him to the brink of unconsciousness. He felt hands lift and toss him roughly into the chair. When he opened his eyes the black man was sitting on the edge of the coffee table as calm as before.
"Now, can we talk?" He asked, almost politely. "I have it on good authority that you are very active in the Young Rebels. Is that correct?"
Gates found it hard to think around the pain. He'd suffered broken bones before, but this was different. As Gates came to accept the vulnerability of his position a knot of fear began to grow. The fear and pain, more than hatred, stilled his tongue. The black man continued to act as if he was discussing the weather. He seemed not in the least bit excited or angry. His absolute calm was somehow more menacing.
"I understand that you are the membership chairman of your little social club and that you might have reliable information about the people responsible for the murder of Treanna Johnson."
He said it in the same casual tone but it sent a chill up Gates' spine. Gates' tried to withdraw further into the chair. His right hand was pressed against his chest; the left clasped his ruined right knee. He was dammed if he was going to tell him anything. The black man read the message in Gates' eyes. He was on Gates in the blink of an eye. Before Gates could react, could defend himself, the black man captured his right hand and broke the index finger. Gates screamed and swung at his assailant with his left. The black man easily slapped the punch aside. When Gates tried to pull his right hand back he felt the baby finger pop and shoot lances of new, more intense pain up through his arm. Pain from this fresh assault reverberated through Gates' brain. He fought through the mind numbing agony and tried again to defend himself. He reached for the black man's throat. This time, after intercepting Gates' left hand, he bent the wrist back until the joint ruptured, Gates blacked out. He regained consciousness, sputtering. The shock of cold water gave way to wave after wave of searing pain from his injuries. After Gates' vision cleared the black man was again calmly seated on the table, an empty glass in his hand.
"I really want to know the names of the men who killed Treanna Johnson." The black man said in the same calm voice. The fear was now a living thing in Gates' chest that threatened to take his breath away. It took him an eternity and all the courage he could summon to respond.
"Fuck you, nigger!"
A fist ballooned in Gate's vision, crashed into his mouth and brought back the darkness for...he didn't know how long. More cold water!
When he regained consciousness, Gates tasted blood from a split lip. When he could focus, his eyes riveted on the knife. No! It was a short sword the black man casually held.
"Where do you keep the list of members?" The black
man asked with the same maddening calmness. When Gates didn't answer,
the man's arm blurred and the blade slashed deeply across Gate's chest and
left biceps before he could move. The massive wounds tingled, then
burned and finally blossomed into the most exquisite pain Gates' had
ever experienced. He screamed in terror. Blood quickly pooled in his
lap. The sight and smell of his own blood and ripped flesh brought on a
new level of fear. When Gates opened his mouth to tell the black
son-of-a-bitch where to go, the information he demanded spilled out of
Gates' mouth at its own volition. Gates could not help himself.
He told his inquisitor about the membership rolls concealed in a gun
chest in his basement.
He told him about the rumors of a rape club that preyed on black women.
He told him the names of the leaders.
He didn't stop talking for many minutes and babbled frantically when he ran out of pertinent information...
Tears rolled down Gates' battered face.
Olson had listened stoically to Gates' story. He stood next to Stevens now and held the photograph of Jason Logan inches from Gates' face.
"Is this the man who assaulted you, Mr. Gates?"
"That's him! That's the bastard who cut me up." Gates wailed. The agents waited until he composed himself.
"There was a message. What was it?" Olson asked.
"After he...after I told him what I knew about the girl, the rumors about Billy Carter, the Lt. Governor's son, and his buddies, he told me to ask to talk to the FBI and that an agent named Olson would come to see me. He said that after I told him what I knew about the killing, to tell him...tell you that it's just like Qua Viet, the Shadow and the Sandman."
Olson turned stark white and took an involuntary step away from the bed. He was speechless.
"Is that all? Nothing else?" Stevens wore a perplexed frown as he looked from one to the other. Gates didn't respond. His eyes were closed but silent tears rolled down both sides of his battered face. He seemed to have run out of energy now that he had relayed the message. Olson recovered quickly and at his signal they turned to leave.
"You'll have to shoot him." Gates spoke softly to their backs. Stevens stopped and returned to Gates' bedside.
"What did you say, Mr. Gates?" Olson appeared not to have heard him but stopped at the door when Stevens turned back.
Gates swallowed and looked directly at Stevens. "You'll have to shoot him to stop him. He won't go down easy. I ain't never seen a man move that fast. He's ice cold and he's a killer. He said he'd come back and finish the job if I didn't deliver the message." Gates' face clouded with emotion, his lips quivered. "He let me live just so's I could deliver the message to Mr. Olson," Gates fell silent for a few moments then asked, "Who is he?"
"That's a good question, Mr. Gates."
Stevens decided his superior was performing his zombie routine again. Olson was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he paid little attention to the world around him. He bumped into two people after leaving Gates' room. Olson's thoughts were tumbling, confused and chaotic. He'd almost convinced himself that the man he'd seen was just someone who bore a striking resemblance to Logan. Having a last name in common could be a coincidence.
But how could he possibly know about an incident that happened in a previous century on the other side of the planet? When they came abreast of a nearly empty coffee shop, Stevens steered Olson into a window booth in the far corner. He walked to the serving line and returned with two large cups of coffee.
"Okay, let's hear it boss, talk to me! What's all this about? What is this Qua Viet business? How did you know there would be a message for you? Who is this guy, this Logan?
Olson gazed at Stevens for long moments. Brad returned the stare with one of determination; ready to do battle in a contest of wills. Olson finally relented. He sighed deeply and reached up to massage stiff shoulder muscles. When he spoke his voice was subdued.
"Qua Viet was a small village north of Quang Tri City, in South Vietnam. It was a pacified village, had been for years. There was a CAP, a Civil Aid Program, supported school, that I and several other Marines from our platoon helped out in our off duty time between missions. It was written up in the Stars and Strips as one of the success stories of the program. I guess that's why the Viet Cong targeted it. Early one morning a VC political unit infiltrated and shot up the village, killed several people and kidnapped one of the teachers. Their timing was well thought out and planned. A group of us arrived later that same morning to work on an expansion of the school. The building had been burned out and four mutilated bodies were left on the ground. That was the scene that greeted us that morning," Olson paused for a few seconds. His face was solemn and revealed an eternal sadness.
"The missing teacher was... I loved her...I was going to marry her. I had not hated the enemy up to that point, but what they did that day change my life forever. One of the villagers, a kid we'd befriended, approached us with information about the men who'd attacked the village and the location of their base camp nearby. I went after them-against orders. Logan sent the rest of the work detail back to Quang Tri and came after me. He realized that he'd have to kill me to stop me. We tracked them to their camp, but not before they'd raped and murdered her. We killed every one of them except one, the political cadre. We captured and questioned him. I wanted to know why. Logan didn't care; he just wanted to waste him so we could get the hell out of there. We were at least three klicks from the Quang Tri perimeter, in VC controlled territory and didn't have much time before their comrades came to investigate the gunfire." He looked at Stevens in an odd way for a few moments.
"I was brutal. I broke the man's right thumb, index and baby fingers, broke his left wrist and stomped his right knee until it was jelly. When he still refused to talk I went to work on him with my K-bar. All the while Logan was questioning him in Vietnamese. The son-of-a-bitch finally broke and talked. He was still talking, begging for his life when I cut his throat." He closed his eyes from the painful memories. "We carried her body back to Qua Viet." Olson finished his story, bowed his head and gazed into his coffee cup.
Stevens didn't say anything for a while. He was trying to reconcile the soldier who committed such a brutal atrocity with the staunch law and order advocate he knew Olson to be. They both sat and sipped coffee while he thought over what he'd been told. Olson never talked much about his wartime experiences. Stevens was aware that he was a Vietnam veteran and had served in the Marine Corps' Special Forces. He knew that Olson had spent several years with and rose to command the elite FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT); that he had requested reassignment after the fiascoes at Waco and Ruby Ridge. Out of frustration he'd made statements to a reporter that were not very flattering to the FBI's handling of the cases and was rewarded with the command of the Birmingham Alabama field office, considered second only to the Juneau, Alaska office as the most disadvantageous of career moves. It was clear now in Stevens mind where Olson's thinking was leading him.
"Are you trying to tell me that the Logan who served with you in Vietnam is the same man who attacked Gates last night?" He asked softly, incredulously.
Olson was unresponsive for several moments then he glanced across the table. "I'm not sure, Brad...no. I know that Logan is dead. I saw him die after he saved my life."
He told Stevens the whole story; the ambush gone wrong, the harrowing run to the alternate PZ, Logan's
death, the stuff of his reoccurring nightmares. Afterwards he stared out the window for several silent moments.
"All that I have, all I've become or accomplished, I owe to Logan. There hasn't been a single day in the last thirty-five years I haven't thought about him...and thanked him," After another long pause, "I saw that man walk past me
yesterday. He was as young as he was thirty-five years ago. I know it's crazy...but it was him! I could never mistake that." He turned his head to face Stevens, held his eyes until Brad was forced to look away.
"You know the old saying, we all have a twin somewhere," Stevens replied. "Or it could be his son."
"No!" Olson answered vehemently. He knew that walk, the stride, and the way he moved as if he glided, the eyes!
"Think about it, Mark. If he was Logan, he would be as old as you. That guy was about my age or younger."
"I know...I know!" Olson whispered and after a long silence. "But this man knows things that no one else in the world knew, except me...and Logan."
Stevens thought that over for a few moments. "Well, there's one sure way to settle this," he said. "Let's go have a friendly chat with Mr. Damian 'Eternal Youth' Logan.
It came as no surprise to Olson when Mrs. Adkins sadly informed them of the resignation letter from Jason Logan. Attached was another letter addressed to Olson. Mrs. Adkins handed him the sealed envelope.
It was a request for a meeting.
"You're going to meet with him aren't you?" Stevens asked as he pulled out of the school parking lot and drove towards the Sheriff's office.
"I have to." Olson responded after a long thoughtful moment.
"I'm going with you." Stevens stated categorically.
"No! He wants to talk privately."
"No way, Mark, are you out of your mind!" Stevens barked. "This guy is homicidal. He's probably in league with the ADF. You don't know what his game is and I can't let you go alone."
Olson pursed his lips. He was silent for a long
while then spoke in a low, serious voice. "Listen to me, Brad. I know
this man. I realize that sounds crazy, but I trust him and I need to
talk to him. Olson only half listened to the rest of Stevens' arguments
against making a solo contact. The tension between them mounted as they
drove to the task force meeting they had been informed of before
leaving the hotel.
Neither agent noticed the silver-gray Toyota
4Runner merge into traffic three cars behind. They had no inkling that
a listening device, planted in their car, transmitted every word they
spoke to a receiver in the SUV.
Logan listened, with amusement, to their
conversation.
The night sky was cloudless; a half moon painted the
landscape a dark gray with deep stygian shadows. The grass was over three feet
tall and shrubbery was growing wild across the crumbling stone walk. Insects
buzzed and swarmed, as he brushed past. A small animal scurried into the
undergrowth. The house was completely dark, when he mounted the wooden steps
they sagged and squeaked under foot. The front door was unlocked so Olson
pushed it open and walked in. He closed it behind him and stood in an empty room
that was musty from months of non-use. He flinched when a strip of light
appeared under a door and headed that way after a few moments of hesitation. He
slowly turned the doorknob and pushed. The door swung open on rusty hinges. A black clad figure stood at the window with his back to the room. A card table with a battery powered lamp and two folding metal chairs were the only items of furniture.
"Logan?" Olson called softly. The figure turned and Olson
gasped.
"It is you!"
"Hello, Sandman," Logan replied with a wry smile. "It’s been a long time."
Olson felt light headed and couldn’t think. His emotions
flared, plummeted, bottomed out and then rebounded. The roller coaster ride
left him confused and off-balance. His mind refused to settle on one line of
thought. He wanted to say more but unreasoning fear seized his vocal cords and
his voice failed him. They stood for what seemed an eternity staring at each
other, saying nothing. Olson felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. At
the same time he longed to run to Logan and embrace him.
"You’re not loosing it, Mark, let me
assure you. Please, sit down. We have a lot to talk about." He moved in the
fluid way Olson remembered so well and sat down at the table. He was dressed in
a form fitting black outfit that was festooned with multiple pockets and
attachments. The garment resembled the ballistic uniforms worn by SWAT teams but
the material resisted the eyes attempts to focus on any one part. Olson walked
stiffly forward, sat down opposite him and placed both hands, palms down, on
the table. His eyes never left Logan—the man who sacrificed his life for him.
"How? I saw you die." Olson murmured after finally gaining
partial control of his emotions.
Logan leaned towards him with his elbows on the table and
chin resting on intertwined fingers.
"In fact, I did die, Mark. I suppose a doctor trained in
modern medicine would have declared me clinically dead. Someone intervened, a
higher power you might say, and brought me back."
"Resurrection…that’s bullshit!" Olson blurted but instantly regretted his outburst.
Logan smiled. "Not by a God like you’re thinking, Mark."
Olson took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts.
He couldn’t shake the eerie feeling. He felt as if he were conversing with a
spirit and couldn’t control a shiver that racked his body. His logical mind
searched desperately for an explanation.
"Its obvious that you were wounded and captured by the NVA. We’ve suspected all along that the North Vietnamese turned many POWs over to the Soviets and Chinese. Some were probably brainwashed. You’re one of them.
Are you working for the Russians or the Chinese?"
"That would be a plausible explanation…except,” Logan
paused. "How old do you think I am, Mark?"
Olson pondered that for a few moments.
"Plastic surgery. Hell, Dick Clark still looks forty years
old."
"That won’t wash and you know it, Mark," Logan responded. A brief expression of impatience crossed his face. "Look, I have a story to tell
you, a fantastic story, one that you will find difficult to believe but please
hear me out before you pass judgment. Let me explain and then I will offer
proof for you and your superiors."
"Olson sighed and raised his hands in surrender. "Okay," he replied. "I’ll listen. I’m here, aren’t I?"
Logan looked at his friend and felt great sympathy for him. He regretted what he was about to thrust upon Olson. He crossed the point of no return and began his story…
…The Reiign was an ancient race, with a far-flung stellar confederation, when nomadic bands of primitives roamed the Earth. Their golden age spanned many millennia and brought their philosophy of peaceful co-existence and technological exchange to over a million solar systems and nearly a thousand sentient races in their spiral arm of the Milky Way Galaxy. The philosophers of the time spoke of manifest destiny and a galaxy united under their benevolent guidance until their march toward universal self-determination was shattered by an invading menace.
In the twenty-third millennia of their reign, evidence of an advanced culture in the Large Magellanic Cloud was discovered. After many failed attempts to communicate through tachyon transmissions and unmanned probes, the decision was made to dispatch a manned exploratory mission. The three ships vanished without a trace. No distress signal was ever received. The ten-ship rescue mission likewise failed to return or communicate concerns of eminent danger.
The Reiign at that point were confronted with a dilemma that tore at the very fabric of their non-violent philosophy. It was obvious that the missions had fallen prey to hostile actions. The Reiign were not without the means to wage war but for thousands of years had done so only as a last resort—in self-defense. The Reiign never succeeded in establishing contact with the race of beings that attacked their intergalactic peace missions without provocation. No further attempts were made to communicate and the events became a part of the vast archival record.
Three hundred and ten years later a full-scale inter-galactic invasion was launched from the Magellanic Cloud. The Cloud—for there was no other name for them—proved to be a ferocious and relentless adversary. Their level of technology was equal to and in some respects superior to that of the Reiign military establishment and its Confederation allies. Their penchant for waging war proved to be far superior. The clash of equally advanced but diametrically opposed cultures left the Reiign, a race nearly genetically cleansed of aggressive tendencies for hundreds of generations, facing annihilation.
After a century of warfare, a faction of the
Reiign military-scientific community came to realize that the key to defeating
the Cloud lay not in superior armaments or numbers but in superior strategy and
execution of military tactics. In other words, a regression of the Reiign
psyche and culture to a more primitive level was required to successfully
defend the empire.
The realization came too late.
After four more centuries of defensive war—fought largely by Confederation allies who still retained some of their primitive aggressive tendencies—the Reiign Empire was shattered and reduced to isolated strong points and streams of frightened refugees fleeing the onslaught. Thousands—millions of small groups of survivors fled as far and as fast as was technologically possible. The better-equipped and organized bands of
survivors established planetary outposts in many uncharted and unsettled
regions of the galaxy.
Desperate times breed desperate measures!
One of the bands of refugees, a splinter group of militant scientists—considered social throwbacks, at the time, by the mainstream Reiign scientific community—along with their families and military sympathizers, crossed the great rift and escaped to an adjacent arm of the galaxy…Earth’s spiral arm.
In a last ditch attempt to save their empire, they devised a plan to counter the threat of the Cloud. An exhaustive survey of the life bearing planets, with oxygen-nitrogen atmospheres, in this spiral arm was conducted and many candidate species, one of which evolved on the third planet of an insignificant G3 star, was identified for their project. A discredited and banned experimental procedure—Genetic Optimized Development (GOD)—the combining of the genetic material of two or more species in eugenic programs that included manipulation of mutation rates—was performed on the primitive, indigenous beings of hundreds of planets. The geno-biological experiments if successful, would result in the creation of hybrid Reiigns better suited for conflict, super soldiers.
The quest for a Mutation Accelerated Nemesis (MAN) began in earnest.
All contact with and hope for their parent civilization was lost after a hundred and fifty years. As more time passed the surviving scientific missions isolated on planets in distant solar systems eventually evolved into more than a hundred planetary settlements. The GOD project achieved varying degrees of success in mutating the dominant life forms of many planets but failed to produce a MAN in the short term. After more hundreds of years and many half-successes or failures, the various colonies separated by light-years, gradually lost their cohesiveness and sense of common purpose. Some failed to establish long term viability and perished. Others continued to pursue the original goal in isolation, while others lost their technological level of existence and regressed to a primitive technological state. A few groups committed the ultimate folly and physically mated with the mutated indigenous populations. Information sharing between the colonies diminished as the millennia passed and the following generations of Reiign gradually replaced scientific cooperation and discourse with economic exchange and competition.
The Earth bound Reiign were successful, as other teams were, in mutating the sentient life form of their adoptive planet and likewise failed in their attempt to breed a MAN. However, they did not abandon the quest. They used advanced technology to establish tribes of primitives in widely separated enclaves on various continents. Over a period of time the racial variants were developed to investigate different genetic combinations. The Reiign taught the primitives language, art, and social structure. The contact between the Earth-Reiign and the primitives resulted in the development of religion and many religious factions. The original Reiign, though long lived, eventually died off. Later generations of Reiign fractured into autonomous groups and the inheritors of the GOD project set themselves up as Gods with dominion over the enhanced human primitives. The Reiign used slave labor to build great monuments to themselves and their lost culture. Many became harsh and ruthless in their domination, often to the point of demanding human sacrifice. They continued to ferment internecine warfare on an even grander scale in search of the elusive super warrior class.
Over time the manipulation of humans became a gruesome pastime—a decadent game. The games intensified into proxy wars—fought with humans—and eventually escalated into open warfare between the Reiign themselves.
The war of the Gods ensued!
The period of open civil war spanned hundreds of solar years. In the end, the two strongest antagonists faced each other across a devastated planet. The final battle culminated in the destruction of most of the Reiign settlements. The victors elected to abandon the earth in favor of a more suitable home. They settled on the planet Vega in what is now called the Lyra constellation and began a long period of rebuilding and conquest of other Reiign colonies that would span thousands of years.
Earth’s wounds healed over time and the surviving mutated humans, left to their own devices, overcame the resulting ice ages and other environmental challenges to extend their domain over the entire surface of the planet. Earth remained one of many planets in the expanding Vegan Empire that served as vast experimental breeding grounds were subjected to periodic biosocial manipulation and harvesting of proxy soldiers for the Vegan-Reiign wars of conquest.
In the Hadar solar system, four hundred and eighty-nine light years from earth, the Reiign choose a different course. They intermingled their genetic material with that of the indigenous life form and later bred with the mutated species. After a hundred generations little of the Reiign culture remained. What was left in its place was a hybrid race of supremely intelligent, highly aggressive feline beings. The Hadar-Reiign, after obtaining dominion over their adoptive planet and solar system, sought to extend their dominance to nearby solar systems.
They had become what they hated most!
Brief interstellar wars resulted in their defeat of the neighboring colonies and establishment of a local hegemony. The conquests and expansion continued until they encountered the Vegan-Reiign. The resulting war stalemated after many decades of vicious fighting. Skirmishes between them have continued for centuries.
The Reiign on both sides continued their conquests and enlarged their respective empires in different directions along this spiral arm of the galaxy. Both redoubled their efforts to develop the superior warrior—the Hadarans through continuous genetic programming of their hybrid race and the Vegans through continued manipulation and experimentation on various mutated races on Earth and several other planets.
While the theory that the mixing of the racial variants and social conditioning would eventually lead to the best combination of genetic attributes was correct as it was practiced on the human specimens transported to Vega, the Reiign scientists failed to realize that a quirk of the mutated human genetics allowed only the first born of human matings to transmit an essential trait. They were successful in breeding several poly-racial genome-adepts of various levels of enhanced ability.
After fifty millennia the Vegan-Reiign unknowingly succeeded. Over thousands of years the wandering groups of humans, left to their own devices, banded together for mutual protection. After more thousands of years, humans formed complex social groupings and modes of governing for a better way of life. The United States of America, by virtue of its multi-ethnic population became the first societal repository of the entire genetic code of the mutated species. The increased mixing of the races resulted in the birth of many threshold genome-adepts. Eventually two first-born adepts, who were themselves the first-born of a long line of first-borns, mated and produced the first MAN. That MAN was included among the warriors gleaned from earth by the Vegans, during the Vietnam War.
Shortly afterwards the Vegan-Reiign suffered a string of defeats that forced them to abandon the sector of their empire that contained Earth. The Hadaran offensive stagnated after ten years and the war was stalemated again. Earth, though not in the main line of advance of the Hadarans, was isolated in a contested region of space. The standoff lasted over twenty earth years until a recent strong Hadaran offensive threatened to engulf Earth in a raging war of total conquest and annihilation…
Olson’s body felt stiff. He hadn’t moved the whole time. As the story unfolded he’d hardly drawn a breath. His mind reeled with the impact and implications of Logan’s narrative. He found it nearly impossible to believe what he’d heard; yet his friend seemed sincere. He’d been very convincing but what evidence was there? Olson was a law school graduate
and a trained investigator whose mind dealt in logical arguments and
conclusions. Was the proof of what he’d heard sitting calmly less than four
feet from him? To make matters worse, if what he’d been told was true, he and everything he held dear, the whole of humanity was the result of a military-scientific project—an experiment. What had happened on earth was not unique, but one of many genetic breeding programs, Genetic Optimized Development. GOD! A cold-blooded procedure designed to produce a super soldier to fight in an intergalactic war for the survival of the Reiign race, the Reiign empire.
Logan sat quietly while Olson struggled with his desire to
believe his friend and his mind’s inability to accept unconditionally what he’d
been told. Olson finally managed to drag his mind back from the land of
imponderables and focused on the man in front of him. He shivered as he
mentally crossed over into a frightening realm he really had no desire to
contemplate.
"And you are that…that MAN?" He asked.
Logan nodded.
If you enjoyed this preview of my novel, it is now
available for order by telephone and over the internet through iUniverse.com,
Amazon.com, Borders.com, Booksamillion.com and bn.com(Barnes & Noble's website).
I hope you enjoy reading the complete novel
as much as I enjoyed writing it.