Fox

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Fox - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Demon Seed

The old man had lived on this planet for over a hundred years. He resided in the village on this mountain upon which his ancestors dwelt since the beginning of time. His people gave birth to new generations, built homes, hunted and farmed, worshiped their gods, defended their land and buried their dead. He was a hunter/gatherer until he was too old to do so. He was now venerated as a shaman who shared the traditions of the past and interceded with the gods on the behalf of the village.

Over the past two decades there had been more frequent intrusions by the lowlanders. They came in packs with their firearms and spoke through interpreters. They warned of enemies who would steal, kill and destroy. They asked for volunteers to aid their cause. Sometimes the young, strong and adventurous would leave with them, never to return. Over time the village chief would order the youngsters to go into hiding until the intruders left. Yet there were always those who would follow them to the lowlands and never came

got, the closer he got to the spirit creatures and the gods. He saw visions and had back.

The older he strange dreams. The lowlanders waged war among themselves, and hundreds that died left their spirits behind. The spirits restlessly sought peace and roamed across the land. Some brought the evil that they had wrought throughout their lives. The old man would cast spells to drive them away.

As time passed, the vessels descended from the skies in greater frequency. Some would arrive to bring warriors and messengers from the heavens. The one that he saw this morning filled him with foreboding. This one was bringing with it great death and destruction. It was one with the swirling blade, the one that cast winds and made great noise. Normally it brought small groups of warriors. On this day it brought just one.

The old man prayed fervently that it was a gift from Xo.

The tall, auburn-haired man exited the helicopter and watched as it returned to the sky and disappeared. He tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder and crossed the small landing field on the way to the gravel road that was mentioned. It entered the treeline at a clearing where a young woman suddenly appeared.

“You must be Sergeant Mc Cain.”

“So I'm told. And who might you be?”

“I'm Loki. I work at the camp.”

She was a lovely Vietnamese woman standing five-four with a slender figure and a tight bosom. She wore a silk summer dress that clung to her body as a second skin. Her long black hair reached to her waist, and her almond eyes complemented her ruby lips.

“I'm sure you know I'm reporting for duty. Which way is best?”

“Let me see your left palm.”

He raised his hand and she gently set hers beneath it.

“This is your map,” she explained. “The short road leading west leads to the Eagle's Nest. The Lieutenant lives there. He is a spiritual man and guards the jungle area. He does not like to be disturbed. The next road to the right goes to Deadwood. It is where the Guardians reside. The middle road leads to Dogpatch, where the camp followers and villagers stay. South of that is the command post where the Captain controls all things. The last road leads to the Castle, where no one goes unchecked.”

“Lots to unpack,” he grinned. “Take me to your leader.”

“Path Number Four,” she pointed to the fourth dirt road leading down into a steep valley. “Good luck.”

“So what'd you think of Loki?”

“Very attractive, very helpful.”

Richard Mc Cain sat in a metal chair facing the desk of Captain Fred Federer. The CO (*commanding officer) ran the camp from a double wide trailer that was fashioned as a command post replete with wall maps, chalkboards, work stations and a large table sculpture in a far corner that replicated the landscape of the North-South border area of Vietnam. There was a small compartment in the opposite corner where Federer ate, rested and slept.

“She's quite a character. Personable, knowledgeable and resourceful. Just don't let her get too friendly, she'll play you like a harp.”

Federer was a squat, chunky man with blue eyes that pierced through his bifocals. There was a streak of gray hair resembling a tuft of feathers that was combed back over his boulder-like skull. He smoked cigars from sunrise to sunset and only set one down in an ashtray when he had a point to make.

“I suggest you get changed, it's hell up here. You can use the restroom,” Federer motioned at Richard's dress uniform. “You can leave your bag here while you admire the scenery. You can stay in the barracks or set up your own shop. Thing is, if you go shotgun shack, you'll be responsible for your spot along the perimeter.”

“Roger that.”

Richard changed into a dark green T-shirt, camouflage pants and combat boots, strapping his .44 Magnum to his belt and his bayonet to a calf sheath before heading down into the valley. Out of curiosity he decided to check out The Castle.

It was a single-wide trailer that was painted black, replete with tinted windows and black screens. A facade had been appropriated from an amusement park which made the front of the property appear as a castle with a drawbridge entrance and turrets on either side of the roof.

“Halt. Who goes there?” a voice came from a speaker horn at the entrance as he approached the drawbridge.

“It's the FNG (*Fucking New Guy)”.

He heard a buzzer and entered the trailer as the door sprang shut behind him. It was a shadowy room lit by red light along the walls. A tall figure rose from a thickly-padded recliner along the far wall and came to greet Richard. They were as mirror images, standing six feet at two hundred ten pounds of muscle.

“Richard Mc Cain.”

“Fritz Hammer.”

“Quite an accent.”

“I was about to say the same thing.”

“St. Joseph, Missouri.”

“Bismarck, North Dakota.”

Richard took a seat on a sofa to the right of the recliner. The room temperature was comfortably set at seventy. Fritz pulled a bottle from a case by a night table and handed it to Richard.

“It's a home brew from the Old Country. I get a couple cases sent out every month. Out in the heat, a six pack will set you back on your heels.”

“Great stuff,” Richard took a swig and admired the chocolaty stout taste. He knew it came in around 40% alcohol.

“I take it you're looking for a place. Have you been to Deadwood?”

“Don't get me wrong, I'm a team player. I fight for the brand. Only I like being off by myself at times. This setup you got here is great. I'd like to hang my hat across the clearing if it's okay.”

“No problem. I'll send the Crazy Eight to help. Tell them what you got in mind and they'll get it done. Anything you need, have them get your list to Loki. I'll cover the tab, just don't get carried away. We don't want to get off on the wrong foot. I'm sure a man like you knows how to stay on budget.”

The Crazy Eight were two fire teams selected by Fritz as his personal combat unit. They were BruMontagnards who had strong reputations among their people as hunters. They wore long black hair with copper-colored skin, stripped to the waist, clad in Army fatigues and combat boots. It amused Richard that they barely reached his shoulders in height. They were very friendly and were glad to take Richard's shopping list once it was completed. They bowed and grinned as they returned down the road back to the valley.

Richard set up a pup tent along the perimeter of the clearing. He set up a M-60 machine gun nest alongside his camp so as to honor the agreement. At the crack of dawn, he heard a sound and quickly rolled into the nest. He scanned the clearing and marveled at the sight of the Eight setting the foundation for his cabin almost noiselessly as to not disturb the sleeping commandos.

“So what've you got going there?” Fritz came out to his park bench with two cups of Irish coffee and two espressos.

“I want it to look like a carnival booth,” Richard sat alongside him. “Fellows can come by and have drinks at the bar. I don't expect to be spending much time indoors, so I won't need much space.”

“Those little guys work pretty fast,” Fritz noted. “They should have you situated before dinner time.”

Richard was used to having meals with the A Team wherever he had been stationed. Having his meals brought to him by caterers from Dogpatch was a novelty. He perceived that Fritz enjoyed his privacy, so did not offer to join him for dinner. He was indifferent as to dining alone. He had spent so much time alone while camping and hunting as a teenager that it did not matter.

The next morning, the repercussions were felt. There was a knock on the booth stand, and Richard came out to where Lieutenant Jim Tate stood.

Jim was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian. He had copper-colored skin and thick black hair that was two inches longer than Richard's. He was two inches taller at 6'2” and 240 pounds. There was a feral aura about him accentuated by his steely gaze, but his voice was surprisingly gentle.

“Looks like you got one of these,” he nodded at Richard's doorpost as he waved a sheet of paper. Richard pulled it off and snickered at it.

“Are these people kidding?” Fritz came over from The Castle with his own document. “This is old school green beanie crap.”

“I'm thinking they're feeling like we're being snobbish,” Jim replied, shaking hands with Fritz. Richard sensed a strong bond of respect between them.

“A summons,” Richard chuckled. “Now I've seen everything.”

“Well, we'd best go in together. We can act as each others' advocates,” Jim smiled.

“I'll give them a fricking advocate,” Fritz growled.

“Now, now,” Jim chided. “All for one and one for all.”

They made their way down into the valley along Path Two. There was a small dirt clearing bracketed by wooden shacks resembling a Wild West hamlet. Fritz led them onto the boardwalk where Betty's Battalion sat.

Betty was the widow of an Army lieutenant whose saloon in Saigon was destroyed by the Viet Cong during the Tet Offensive. III Corps officers met with her and explained that they would be unable to fully compensate her for her losses. They did advise her of opportunities in I Corps near the village of Dong Ha. Despite the admonitions of her relatives, she accepted the offer and opened a new saloon in Deadwood.

She was an attractive though crusty woman who rarely smiled. She had four barmaids and two bartenders who helped her handle the rowdy customer trade. She nodded toward the rear of the table area where eight Green Berets in their fatigues awaited at a row of tables joined together. The three invitees took seats at separate tables, facing the teammates.

“We're taking a ride down to Saigon this Friday,” Jerry Brown spoke up. He was a massive albino with a Cajun drawl, easily a physical match for Jim. “We want you with us but we'll be showing our colors. You fellows will need to get patched.”

“I've already got a patch on my beanie,” Fritz sneered.

“C'mon, get with it. You been spending too much time in your ivory tower,” Jerry growled.

“Ivory?” Fritz looked from Jim to Richard. “It was black the last time I looked.”

“We haven't rolled down there since Tet,” Jerry replied. “We got business with the jarheads and we don't want to look weak. Everyone knows the situation with Fred. Only we asked you nice last time, Jim, but you had that Injun thing you were playing.”

“You're not dissing my thing, are you, Jerry?” Jim was menacing.

“C'mon, guys, where's the team spirit?” Steve Korn spoke up. He was the communication specialist, a cherubic man of Jewish descent. “Look, I had no plans to join a biker gang. I just wanted to fit in. The initiation wasn't pretty, but I'm glad I got through it.”

“Okay, let's get this over with,” Fritz feigned a yawn. “We can run a gauntlet. I'm just letting you know up front. If you fellows get carried away, at least a couple of you will end up in the infirmary.”

“Not this time,” Jerry grinned wickedly. “The guys you replaced trained with the LURPs (*USMC Long Range Reconnaissance). They drove it in deep and hard. Now, Jim, we know you and the Yards have been doing some heavy stuff out there past the Minefield, and we respect that. Same with you, Fritz. Now, Mc Cain, we know you built a rep during Tet. Fifty registered kills, I hear.”

“More like a hundred, as I recall,” Mc Cain was casual.

“A hundred!” Jerry howled. “Je l'aime!”

“Here's the deal,” George Bullski, a swarthy Chicagoan, narrowed his eyes. “It's what the Injuns call counting coup. I don't think Jim should have a problem bringing us back a scalp. Maybe he can show Fritz how to do it. If Mc Cain's not up to it, we can let him ride along as a prospect until he passes muster.”

“So you're gonna turn this into an Indian thing,” Jim blazed.

“No, no, no,” Fritz held up a finger. “I got this.”

“No, I got it,” Richard gave George an icy smirk. “We'll have your souvenirs first thing in the morning.”

“Listen, Mickey---” Fritz sidled over to him.

“You listen, Squarehead. I got this.”

The meeting ended as a tense atmosphere prevailed. The three men left the saloon after politely declining a round of drinks. Jim bade the two farewell as he headed back to The Nest. Fritz and Richard returned back up the slope to Path Five.

“Want me to send the Crazy Eight?” Fritz asked before retiring.

“I know where to find them. See you tomorrow.”

Richard had a vision that evening of his great-grandfather, Henry Geronimo, leading him along the dirt road past the Minefield towards the DMZ. Grandpa was in blackface, clad in black fatigues, carrying an exotic bow and arrow sheath. He remained far ahead of Richard, using hand signals to coordinate their movement. They moved further and further into enemy territory until, in the utter blackness, Richard fell down a rabbit hole.

He plummeted for what seemed as centuries until at last he landed in a jello-like substance along a midnight landscape. As he struggled to his feet, he realized it was clotted blood. He wiped his eyes and could see bloody skeletons rising from the gore to surround Grandpa. The diminutive warrior fought valiantly, severing limbs, slicing off heads and separating torsos. He chopped down over a dozen before he turned to Richard and spoke telepathically:

This is what you must do.

At once the ground exploded as a blackish mountain rose at Grandpa's feet before he disappeared. Richard staggered erect and saw bloodied skulls spewing from the mountain as from a volcano. The mountain became a pile of skulls, hundreds of thousands tumbling from within. At length a flagpole rose to end the flow at the peak, and from it an American flag unfurled.

Do us proud, my son. Do us proud.

Richard passed into unconsciousness.

At the crack of dawn, the residents at the barracks in Deadwood heard a commotion at the door. Jerry Brown cursed the slopes for sleeping on duty. He rolled out of his bunk and opened the door, puzzled by the large sack at the doorstep.

At his feet were eight heads in a duffel bag.