Project StrikeForce (7 page)

“I just—just can’t thank you enough for saving
me.”

Eric smiled. “It’s what we do, John. I’m a little
concerned that you’re still having flashbacks, though. Doc Barnwell said you’d
be getting better by now. How’s the scar? Feeling okay?” He reached out and
lightly touched John’s abdomen, to the right of the solar plexus.

John was baffled. “Scar, sir? What scar?”

Eric frowned. “The scar from the Implant. Don’t
you remember?”

“The Implant?” He felt it then, an ache in his
belly. He lifted his shirt and looked down at the inch-long scar over his
abdomen, held together with butterfly tape. “How’d that get there?”

“It was the first stage of the project. They put
in the Implant three days ago. You don’t remember that?” Eric’s voice was
filled with concern. “What’s the last thing you remember?” He sat at the desk
and motioned for John to sit on the cot.

John sank down on the cot, confused. “I remember
you and Master Sergeant Freeman in Iraq. You said my country needed me. Then I
remember out-processing. Coming home. My parents. I was at their funeral. I
remember Washington. I was in DC?” As he said it, that part did not sound
right.

“John, your parents died two years ago. Right
after you went back to Iraq, your unit was on patrol you were hit with an IED.
You were laid up for a month. We came to you after you recovered. You
out-processed months later and we put you up in DC. We picked you up a week ago
and brought you here. You’ve been resting since they put in the Implant and
reading your briefing material. Doesn’t this sound familiar?”

John thought about it. “Yeah, it sounds familiar,”
he lied.

Eric nodded. “I’ll send Doc Oshensker to see you.
I’m concerned about your concussion. Now, how about the Implant. It isn’t
hurting, is it?”

“Uh, not really sir. It’s just a dull ache. What
the hell is it?”

“It’s part of the program. To make you a better
soldier. We can inject you with painkillers or stimulants to help you on
missions. You really don’t remember?”

They had implanted a device in his abdomen? He
felt ill. “Not really.”

“It’s okay, John,” Eric said. “It’ll come back to
you. Project StrikeForce, remember? We’re going to turn you into the greatest
soldier the world has ever known. That’s why we put the mesh on your skeleton.”

Mesh?
“I don’t remember that either.”

“We coated your skeleton in a nano-carbon mesh.
Your bones are stronger now. We’ll begin the treatment to enhance your strength
and endurance as soon as your abdomen has healed.”

John stumbled over the words. “None of this sounds
possible.” He owed Eric his life, but none of it made sense.

Eric grinned. “Don’t worry, son, we’ll have the
Doc look you over. You’ll be fine.”

* * *

Eric glanced up from his paperwork
as Dr. Barnwell entered his office. “How’s he doing, Doc?”

Dr. Barnwell took the empty seat across from Eric’s
desk and paused to accept the coffee Eric poured. “Quite well, actually. The
confusion is normal given what he’s been through. His body is healing. The
Implant is administering small doses of the chemicals into his bloodstream to
heal the brain damage. He’s still in a suggestible state, but as his brain
repairs itself, the new memories will solidify. When you cover explosives, you
can casually mention the Red Cross bombing. Make sure to monitor for any signs
of agitation.”

“Good plan, because after the muscle enhancements,
I’d hate to get him agitated.”

Barnwell smiled. “Dr. Elliot assures me that it’ll
be weeks before the drugs start to take effect.”

“Doc, he’s already gaining muscle mass at an
accelerated rate.”

“So try not to agitate him.”

“You’re a world of help.”

Dr. Barnwell’s smiled grew wider. “Glad to be of
assistance. How are you dealing with this?”

“Now you’re head shrinking me?”

“Everyone sees me on a regular basis. Even Nancy,
though she hates it.”

“What about the Old Man?”

Dr. Barnwell shrugged. “The only confidence
that
man seeks is his own.” He took a sip of his coffee. “A month ago you were
retired, without a job. Now you’re here, in charge of a top-secret organization,
working with a mass murderer. How does that make you feel?”

Eric sighed. “I’m just a grunt, doing my job.”

“Fulton thinks more highly of you than that,”
Barnwell said. “He hand-picked you for this assignment. I should know, I read
your after-action reports for the past eight years. I even listened to the
audio of your hot washes.”

“Hot washes aren’t recorded,” Eric noted.

“Yours were. Delta has a unique way of doing
after-action reviews. You were brutally honest in your assessment of the things
that you did well and the things that needed improvement. Even compared to the
other Delta operators, yours stood out.”

Eric shook his head. “You listened in? That’s
kinda creepy.”

“Don’t worry, I was the only one who heard them.
You had a maturity about you. And, you were a professional, although I’m a
little concerned about your tendency to be manipulated.”

Eric glared at him. “What the hell does that
mean?”

Dr. Barnwell took a long sip of his coffee. “You
have to know, Eric. You find validation in the military. Your father dead, your
mother locked up in that home.”

“She’s not locked up, and it’s an assisted care
facility.”

“What I’m saying is, don’t you see the similarity
between you and Frist? Both soldiers, both dedicated to their country. Both
without parents.”

“I didn’t go crazy and kill a bunch of people.”

“To operate at this level, you have to have a
certain sense of self awareness. You’re in charge of a very complicated
organization,” Barnwell said. “You were an outstanding Operator, but you’ve got
to take it to the next level.” He held up his hand as Eric started to
interrupt. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have accepted the job. You have to
think like a chess player, except the board has an infinite number of chess
pieces and any mistake could get people killed.”

Eric sat back in his chair and pondered that. “Is
that how the Old Man sees the world?”

“He thinks things through,” Barnwell said, “layer
after layer. He has a contingency plan. For everything. He showed up at your
doorstep after you were sidelined and offered you the job. How long did you
stew before you said yes? An hour?”

Barnwell was right, he
had
jumped at the
offer. He shrugged. “I’m a soldier. It’s what I do.”

“Working with Frist…that can’t be easy.”

Eric struggled to articulate his feelings. “The
IED really messed him up and he’s got PTSD for sure, but bombing the Red Cross
crossed the line. What do you think, doc? What makes the measure of a man? His
words or his actions?”

“His PTSD might have been a misdiagnosis. The
amount of brain damage from the IED was much more severe than we anticipated.
Tell me, with all the combat you’ve seen, have you ever experienced any
symptoms of PTSD?”

Eric grinned. “Nice try. You think I’d be stupid
enough to tell you if I did?”

Barnwell sighed. “I’m not trying to catch you in
something, and it’s completely off the record.”

He shook his head. “Doc, if there’s one thing I’ve
learned, is that nothing here is off the record.”

“I could make it an order, if you’d prefer.”

He started to speak, then stopped. Finally he
said, “Honestly? No, I’ve never had PTSD. I’ve had some stress, but nothing
severe. I’ve been keyed up after some missions, but nothing out of the
ordinary.”

Barnwell leaned forward. “Does it make you feel
guilty?”

“I used to wonder if it meant there was something
wrong with me. I don’t know, you’re the doctor. What do you think?”

“I think some of it is luck, frankly. Some of it
indicates you’re remarkably well adjusted. Some of it is probably training,”
Barnwell said. “Perhaps it’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah, I figured that out a while ago. There’s a
hell of a lot of guys who would gladly switch places with me, including Frist.”

Barnwell shook his head. “I’m sure he would,” he
said softly. “If he still remembered. We’ve undone him. He’s just a soldier
now, not a terrorist. As you build that relationship, you will always know what
he did, even though he doesn’t.”

Eric leaned back in his chair and regarded
Barnwell thoughtfully. “Your point?”

“You have to put that out of your head. He’s a
soldier, giving his life to this project. If you focus on who he was before,
he’ll know. Subconsciously, perhaps, but he will detect it, in your posture, or
the tone of your voice. If you want the project to succeed, you have to believe
in him.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then the project will fail.” Barnwell stood and
placed his empty coffee cup on the desk. “Thanks for the coffee.” He started to
leave, then stopped. “A word of advice. When you’re not working with him
directly, don’t ever forget what he did. Always think three steps ahead,
because that man has the souls of five hundred and twelve innocent people
tipping the scales against him.”

* * *

John grunted as he lifted the
kettle bells, swinging them up and across his body. The workout area was loaded
with benches and power cages, but Eric kept pushing free weights.

The aches felt good, the muscles straining and
burning as the weights created micro-tears in the muscle fibers. His mind
certainly felt better, clear of the confusion from the previous weeks.

Dr. Elliot watched and took notes on a palmtop
computer, along with a pretty brunette nurse named Kara. Occasionally they
would present the readouts to Eric, who would holler encouragement.

He liked Eric. He was patient but exacting. He
reminded him of his sergeant in boot camp, except Eric was more astute, with a
boundless amount of information on guns, knives, close combat— everything but
explosives.

He wondered if Eric was afraid introducing
explosives would trigger his PTSD. He reassured Eric there was nothing to fear.
The bad dreams had subsided, and the memory of the IED faded quickly, a little
more each day, until he woke up one morning and realized he had slept through
the night.

He found Deion less likable. Certainly less
approachable. They were both in ridiculously good shape, Eric all muscle and
scars, Deion shorter but leaner, more lithe. The difference was in the eyes.
When Deion smiled at Eric, he meant it—when he smiled at John, something was
missing.

John thought it was something he might have said
or done, some careless word that pissed Deion off. He worked hard to
compensate, trying to learn everything they taught, from the hands-on training
to the never-ending reading material.

The amount they expected him to read was
overwhelming. There was so much information he felt if even one more drop
entered his head, it would explode. Then, the next day, a whole new section of
reading material would introduce him to new procedures, new strategies, and new
tactics.

“Drop the weights and hit the rope,” Eric shouted.

John dropped the kettle bell and picked up the
leather speed-rope. He swung, hopping up enough for the brown leather to swish
under his feet. He spun the rope faster, the ball-bearings allowing the rope to
become a blur. He lost himself in the motion, his body on autopilot,
machine-like in its precision.

His mind wandered to the tech in his body. The day
before, Eric turned a heat gun on his arm, hot enough to burn but not enough to
blister. They activated the pain meds in the Implant and the relief was
instant. It felt so cool and sweet he almost laughed. He tried to explain to
them how good the meds felt, but Eric just stared worriedly.

If only his parents could see him, maybe his old
man would finally approve. A sudden jolt ran through him and he stumbled on the
rope. Eric and Dr. Elliot stopped their discussion, but he smiled at them and
forced himself back into the rhythm of the workout.

So weird. He remembered the news about their
death. A drunk driver crossed the median, just an accident, they were killed
instantly. He tried to make it to their funeral. No, he corrected himself, he
had
made it to their funeral.

The memory was foggy. He remembered the priest,
the people. Nobody he recognized, though. Funny, old man Peterson who lived
across the street wasn’t there. Had Peterson died? What about his mom’s friend,
Pearl? Unless she was dead, as well. Had she died while he was on deployment?
Surely his Mom would have mentioned it.

Eric broke him out of his musing, showing him the
readout. “You set a new personal best. Go hit the showers, then the cafeteria.
You need simple carbs and protein. Kara,” he said, jerking his thumb at the
nurse, “will be by after to draw more blood.”

John headed to the showers. He soaped up under the
steaming hot shower and let slide the thought of the missing people at his
parent’s funeral. It was probably just side effects of the IED.

* * *

John stood in the training room
listening to Eric’s lecture. Deion watched, his mouth quirked in a barely
recognizable smile.

“The thing to remember,” Eric said, “is this isn’t
like the training you received in the Army. Your goal is to survive and to kill
your opponent. You’ve been in battle. Did you ever freeze?”

He was embarrassed to admit it, but he had. He
nodded.

Eric continued. “What did you feel?”

“Fear,” John said. “I aimed my rifle, but when I
squeezed the trigger nothing happened. I thought it was jammed. I cleared the
chamber and tried again, but it was like moving in molasses. Bullets were
whizzing by, I could hear them over the gunfire. It felt like I had all the
time in the world, but my hands were clumsy and my fingers felt like sausages.
Then it was over. My CO came over and slapped me in the back of the head. I’d
had the safety on. Why didn’t I realize that?”