This Green Hell Page 4

  Hammerson had hoped it would at least give Alex some sort of life; perhaps assist in a basic form of recuperation. But within weeks of the treatment starting, he got a call: Alex Hunter was awake. But there was more: he was awake … and well.

  Preliminary scans had shown that his brain had dealt with the trauma by enfolding the bullet and rerouting blood to sections of his brain that science categorised as unused or unknown. Over time, the changes had become more significant. Hunter’s brain had begun to increase its neocortical mass by refolding along both sides of his interhemispheric fissures. His body changed too: normal cells acted more like stem cells; and his chemical engine room went off the scale, producing natural steroids, adrenalin and interferons on demand. His system was like a biological powerplant.

  Alex Hunter had been returned to life – but as a different kind of being. He had been wounded and broken a hundred times, and each time he emerged stronger, more powerful, than ever. Captain Hunter was now a project; a secret file codenamed ‘the Arcadian’.

  The treatments had continued even after Alex’s recovery from the initial trauma; UMD had convinced Hammerson that stopping would risk a total regression to his former vegetative state. But with further treatment came further change. Alex developed new abilities – some, perhaps, that evolution had allowed to dull in mankind through its immersion in modern life. Others that may never have been meant to become apparent for another millennium.

  At first, Hammerson had been delighted by the strength, speed and enhanced mental acuity his young HAWC had displayed. However, the more Alex changed, the more Hammerson became aware that the UMD regretted returning him to the HAWCs. Attempts to create another Arcadian subject had failed. After several years, Alex was looking more like an accident – a perfect collision of physical change caused by the bullet trauma and biological enhancement through the treatments. Individually, either may have resulted in nothing but coma or death; together, they had turned a dying man into something unbelievable.

  Jack Hammerson had been around long enough to save a few hides and develop a circle of friends in very high places. Through bullying and bargaining, he had been able to keep Alex in the field. But the deal was not infinite, and UMD were impatient for their prize. Hammerson had been told Hunter had one more year until he was to be … retired.

  Bastards, Hammerson thought as he flipped another page of the report. Trying to engineer reasons to pull him in early, aren’t you, you sons of bitches.

  He ran his eyes down the diagnostics on Alex’s alpha, beta and delta waves, and the summary that was included below. He rubbed his brow and compressed his lips for a second; there were those words again: ‘lethal instability’. It seemed that Alex Hunter’s heightened brain activity had a price: the cyclone of electrical impulses occasionally triggered hurricanes of rage that were physically terrifying. Alex had learnt to master the rages through psychological conditioning, using his conscious strength to contain and even focus his furious impulses. But deep down within the man, there was no control. When that subconscious boiled up and ran free, Alex Hunter became potentially lethal. Another phrase caught the Hammer’s eye: ‘psychopathic potential’.

  Not everything goes to plan, he thought as he exhaled and closed the report, asking the empty room: ‘Who will win, Alex? You or the furies?’

  He rubbed his eyes hard with a thumb and finger. He couldn’t keep lying to the soldier forever, and damned if he was going to let them cut him up in some military lab.

  He blinked a couple of times to refocus, and picked up the next folder. It was titled ‘Operation Green Shield – Eyes Only’, dated and time-stamped just hours ago. He took out a small disc and pushed it into the sleek computer on his desk. The image on the screen – the lightning bolts and fisted gauntlet of the US Strategic Command – dissolved as the hard drive accessed the information, and the menu for the operation dropped down. Hammerson selected the overview to read.

  Seemed the friendly government in Paraguay had discovered an enormous gas field with a potential 50 trillion cubic feet of natural gas a few miles below its surface. It would make the small country one of the region’s energy superpowers. They were planning to extract the resource and pipe it to the coast, where it could be sold into a fuel-hungry world economy. Good news for America, as the friendly relationship meant trading would be open, honest and long term. Good news for America, but obviously bad news for some of the less friendly neighbours, like Venezuela, Bolivia and a half dozen others that had tried to claim that the gas bed extended under their own country’s borders. When this was proved false in the international courts, a different kind of pressure was exerted. Bandits had been disrupting drilling, and when the bodies began to pile up, Paraguay had asked for help – firstly from a team of energy experts to assist with the identification and rapid extraction of the gas, and then recently for something a little more covert and muscular.

  It was a typical political–military skirmish situation. The rebels could strike and run; if they retreated across the border into a neighbouring country, then the Paraguayan troops couldn’t follow. The USA had regular army bases down in South America, but for domestic political purposes it couldn’t be seen in any way to be governing, co-opting or even influencing the gas-bed economics. Worse would be to deploy an active ground troop operation within another foreign country – even if requested. Still way too much baggage after the Middle East for that. So the classified decision had been to deploy a small six-man unit of highly skilled Green Berets. Should have been more than enough to deal with a small rebel interaction … but that’s where things got real strange.

  Hammerson clicked on some audio transcripts from a Captain Michaels out in the field and turned up the volume. At first he thought he was hearing white noise, then recognised the sounds of the jungle – the hum of millions of insects and animals going about their hectic, crowded lives. And then, oddly, total silence, as if the jungle had held its breath. Hammerson frowned and turned up the volume, only to turn it back down quickly when the automatic gunfire rang out. After a few more seconds there was heavy breathing – either exertion or fear. The jungle slowly began its buzz again, before a man’s voice could be heard – a barely coherent, hurried staccato. ‘It’s out there … it’s coming back … we can’t stop it.’

  More gunfire, and a roar that immediately hushed all the noises of the jungle. Only the sound of the captain’s swallowing and rapid breathing remained. Hammerson narrowed his eyes and listened intently. In those small sounds, he could sense the man’s abject fear—the juddering breath, the slight wetness of the inhalations, as if his nose was running. He knew adrenalin was coursing through that body – fight or flight. Come on, soldier, this is what you trained for, he thought, willing the young man to pull himself together.

  There was a tearing sound, then a thump that could have been a tree falling, and then a roar so loud that it made Jack Hammerson sit up in his seat. It was close, and followed by the panicked yell of the young captain. ‘Anybody, if you’re there – they’re all dead. Come in … please, come in.’ There was a pause and then what could have been sobbing.

  Hammerson wished he was there. He knew battlefield panic – without someone taking immediate control, things would quickly go to shit. The sobbing stopped only to turn into a shout – ‘This goddamn green hell!’ – and then more gunfire. There was another roar, a grunt of pain and the sound of cloth or something soft being ripped, then nothing but the real white noise of severed communications.

  The recording stopped and the menu reappeared. Hammerson’s brow furrowed and he said angrily to the screen, ‘What the fuck was that?’

  The final menu item displayed was titled ‘Current Operational Status’. Hammerson read it quickly; it was a brief information squirt from command: All contact severed. Green team 1 assumed neutralised.

  An advanced VELA satellite had been redirected and, although it was partially blinded by the thick growth of the jungle, it had used its thermal, motion and e
nergy signal scans to confirm no movement and no intact human heat signatures from the potential skirmish zone.

  Thankfully, the local and American scientists and advisors were well away from the hotzone, but they would eventually need to enter it to continue drilling. Hammerson ran his eyes down the list of names and came to one he immediately recognised: Dr Aimee Weir – Independent Petrobiological Consultancy.

  ‘Ohh, shit.’

  The Hammer knew what was coming. When a squad like the Green Berets were taken out, you didn’t just send in more GBs. Instead, you changed the extent or category of force. There were three options: one, send in about a hundred regular army with heavy ground support; two, burn the entire zone from 10,000 feet; or three, send in the HAWCs.

  Hammerson also knew that once Alex Hunter found out Aimee was in a hotzone, nothing would stop him going in, with or without authorisation. And if anything happened to Aimee down there, burning from 10,000 feet would have looked like the soft option.

  He picked up the phone. He didn’t need to dial, and the call was answered immediately. He spoke slowly, not taking his eyes off his computer screen. ‘Find Captain Alex Hunter and get him in here, immediately.’

  FOUR

  Alex Hunter crouched at the tree line and sucked in a deep breath of pine-scented spring warmth. Using his hand as a shield, he squinted into the distance at the crystal, tumbling waters of the French Broad River – wouldn’t be long before it had a fly fisherman or two in its shallows. Asheville this time of year was magnificent, and with the national park close by, a small population of folks who were more than happy to mind their own business, and plenty of white-tailed deer, elk and rabbit, it was a place where you could really live. And, if you wanted to, it was also a place you could get … lost. Perhaps that’s why his mother had settled here after his father passed away. The property at the foot of the Black Mountains was a lot of acreage for one woman, two horses and an enormous German Shepherd, but Alex guessed she was happy to let nature share it with her; and if it decided to intrude from time to time, so be it.

  Alex kept his eyes narrowed. Though the sun was behind him, he was a mile distant from the property and even his enhanced vision had trouble picking out the details. He pulled a small scope from his pocket and thumbed the resolution button. As he’d expected, his mother was on the front porch, a magazine open on her chest as she lay snoozing on her favourite swing bench. Her dog, Jess, lay in front of her – close by as always.

  His mother looked content, peaceful – maybe a little greyer than he remembered, but otherwise no different. He wished he could talk to her. His father had been gone ten years now, and a few years back she had been told that Alex, her only son, had been killed on a mission overseas. She probably thought she had lost everyone, but she hadn’t. Alex was very much alive, and every day he longed to tell her that she wasn’t alone.

  But it was impossible. After his accident, the treatment and his recovery, and the resulting physical and mental changes, his entire existence now belonged to Hammerson and the HAWCs. His fighting force was one of the most lethal and covert that had ever existed – they were ghosts. Hammerson once described them as ‘cleaners’ – someone makes a mess and the HAWCs clean it up before it gets any worse. No headlines or applause.

  In Alex’s line of work, friends were rare, but enemies were numerous. Enemies who would think nothing of wiping out an entire family if it meant an opportunity to bring pain, even indirectly, to a HAWC. His abilities made him nearly untouchable, but his mother …

  He gazed at the sleeping woman and dog on the sunny porch, his face a mix of regret and resignation. While he was dead, she was safe.

  The German Shepherd waggled her ears to bat away an over-attentive bee and lifted her head. A bit more silver in the muzzle, but at about a hundred pounds of muscle still formidable enough to see off the largest intruder – four- or two-legged.

  Look after her, Jess, Alex thought.

  The dog raised her head and tested the air, then looked towards the tree line where Alex crouched. He froze, keeping his eyes on the house. His comm unit vibrated once in his pocket and he ignored it, but in another few seconds it double vibrated – urgent. He pulled the small silver box free. On its screen were just three letters: HIR.

  Alex grunted: HAWC-Immediate-Recall. He melted back into the trees.

  Alex listened to the recording in silence.

  ‘Play it again,’ he said, and this time he leaned in and closed his eyes.

  Colonel Jack Hammerson sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘Sounds like a grizzly attack.’

  ‘Not a bear … not any animal. That sound came from a human throat.’ Alex opened his eyes and looked at his superior officer, his face unreadable. ‘It’s not a language, Jack, or not one that I know of. Human vocal cords definitely produced it, but there’s something wrong with the throat – it’s warped somehow, or there’s something stuck in it.’

  Hammerson knew Alex’s hearing was acute enough to pick up the super and subsonic ranges. If he said the noise came out of some guy’s mouth, it did.

  ‘Captain Michaels and the rest – we believe they’re all dead. Something down there surprised them and took ‘em all out – and that isn’t easy to do to six heavily armed Green Berets.’ Hammerson was sitting forward in his chair now, his fingers locked together.

  ‘And now they want us to take a look?’ Alex said.

  Hammerson gave a humourless half-smile. ‘Yes and no. I’ve requested this one, for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s a critically important project for the USA, and as the whole region down there is a little anti-Uncle Sam we need to deal with this delicately – and be mindful of how others see us dealing with it. We can’t park the seventh fleet off the coast of Brazil and fly low-altitude sorties over the jungle, or march 200 marines in there. Paraguay is a small pool of friendship in the midst of an ocean of distrust and aggravation – we have to respect their sovereignty and requests. At this point, they want us to help but not be ham-fisted about it.’

  Alex nodded. The rationale didn’t really matter to him. If his friend and mentor asked him to lead a team into hell, he would oblige. ‘I haven’t caught up with the teams yet. I’ll need to find out who’s available. I’m not sure who’s on base or still out in the field.’

  Hammerson grinned. ‘It’s already done. I’ve pulled in Mak and Franks, and I believe Sam has just completed his rehabilitation. He’s still sore, and probably needs another few weeks of physical therapy, but you know Sam – he’ll be ready to go whenever we say.’

  Alex nodded. ‘What about Adira? She could be useful.’

  Hammerson shook his head. ‘Not ready yet, and I want to keep an eye on her for a bit longer. Just to make sure she’s serving the HAWCs first; Mossad, and anyone else, after that. I think we both know she didn’t join us because she wanted to be a HAWC.’

  Alex raised his eyebrows. ‘She says she’s my guardian angel. She’s not going to be happy to be left behind, Jack.’

  Hammerson gave Alex a my-judgment-is final look. ‘Team’s picked. I’ll deal with Captain Senesh. I agree it’s not a big team, but after you find and neutralise what hit our GBs, it’ll probably end up as a babysitting mission for a week or two.’

  Alex chuckled. ‘The last time you used the words babysitting and mission in the same sentence, we spent some interesting time under a certain southern ice cap being chased by something I still have nightmares about.’ The smile fell away as Alex sensed something else behind his superior officer’s rough features. ‘What is it, Jack? You didn’t have me pulled in from some downtime for a simple search and secure. What’s the urgency? Wait a minute – you said firstly. What’re the other reasons?’

  Hammerson looked at Alex for a few moments, weighing what he should tell the young man and what he should hold back. He said slowly, ‘Only one other reason, son.’

  He pushed the Green Shield personnel folder across the desk for Alex to read, and saw his eyes st
op where he’d expected.

  Alex slid the folder back and stood up, his face like stone. ‘Yes, I see. I need to go now.’

  ‘Sit down. She’s okay. I spoke to Alfred Beadman at GBR – you remember him? He tells me her job down there will be wrapped up in the next few weeks, and she’s not in any danger. But I reckoned with her involved, you’d like to oversee this one personally. You leave in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Sir, I can be there in twenty-four hours.’

  Alex began to pace the office and Hammerson could tell what was happening. He was feeling frustration, which would soon build to anger, and then … Hammerson knew he needed to bring him down, quickly.

  ‘Sit down, soldier, that’s an order. Beadman’s talking to her daily, and I’ve recalibrated a VELA satellite so we can have a little look-see. You need to be—’

  ‘No! We need to go in right now. She’s in trouble – I can feel it.’ One of Alex’s hands had curled into a fist.

  ‘Arcadian!’

  At the shout of his codename, Alex stopped pacing, shook his head slightly and rubbed one of his temples. Another headache, I bet, thought Hammerson. He watched the HAWC for a few more moments, assessing him. He was on edge … volatile.

  ‘When was your last visit to Medical Division?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah … three weeks ago. I’m due back again at the end of the month.’

  Hammerson nodded. He had already known the answer before he’d asked the question. ‘Anything interesting? What did Captain Graham have to say?’

  Alex fell back into his chair and exhaled. ‘Same as usual – the migraines should ease off eventually – nothing to worry about. Gave me some stronger codeine; some sedatives for the nights if I feel I need them.’ He held his hands up in a brief gesture of resignation or weariness. ‘He gave me some shots, took more blood, looked pleased with the latest scans of my brain – didn’t say why. I asked again about the unusual physical manifestations, the accelerating extra-sensory symptoms. He reckoned they might slow down, stop or even reverse at any time. Said I should be patient.’