Genomorph

Chapter 1

Genomorph
By Scott Ramsey
Edited by Janet Nolan, Carla Winters and Amelia R.


CHAPTER 1
Northwestern Iraq, near the Syrian Border, March 2003

The night was moonless. The stars were obscured by a heavy overcast, blanketing the bleak landscape with total darkness. A lone sentry patrolled a section of the high chain link fence that encircled the compound in the desert, unaware as a laser dot appeared on the back of his skull. Even if it had been on his face, he could not have detected the dot, which was visible only with the aid of night vision gear. Then in the next second his head snapped forward as a silenced nine millimeter bullet impacted at the base of his skull. He dropped lifeless to the sand.

Lieutenant Commander Brandon Anderson, United States Navy SEALs, lowered his MP5SD and scanned the compound for any sign that the death of the sentry had been observed. All was quiet, and as he motioned the two SEALs with him forward, reports echoed in his ear from the rest of his platoon, informing him that the other sentries around the perimeter had been dispatched with equal efficiency.

The mission had begun more than thirty miles to the south at an altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet. The platoon of sixteen SEALs had performed a HAHO, High Altitude, High Opening, parachute insertion, and then covered the remaining two miles to the secret bunker on foot. After reaching the Iraqi compound, there had been an agonizingly slow crawl through the minefield around the perimeter fence to where the mission had begun in earnest with the neutralization of the perimeter patrols.

Now they were on the clock. It was only a matter of minutes before one of the patrols would be missed. Brandon motioned Petty Officer Greg Jennings forward. While Brandon and Seaman Andy Talbot maintained watch, Jennings quickly cut through the fence, then slipped through the opening. Once through Jennings swung his MP5SD forward and took up watch as Brandon and Talbot slipped through the opening.

Once through the fence Brandon dropped to a knee and waited for the rest of the platoon to report. Seconds later the radio informed him that all the elements of the platoon were in position.

“Go, go, go!” Brandon hissed into the throat mike, and he and his two companions moved forward.

Brandon took the lead, followed closely by Jennings and Talbot. They crossed the compound fast and low, reaching the front of the bunker and taking up positions around the small door next to a big roll-up door. They were joined seconds later by three more SEALs, led by Senior Chief Petty Officer Charlie Wright. When the rest of the platoon signaled that they were in position, Brandon turned to Jennings.

“Blow it,” he ordered, and then spoke into his radio, “kill the lights.”

Jennings stepped forward, placing a pre-assembled breaching charge over the locking mechanism and hinges of the door. The SEALs drew back, taking cover to the sides of the entry and Jennings triggered the charge. With a thunderous boom the door was blown inward, taking out the guard on the other side in the process. Simultaneously there was the sound of an explosion across the compound as the generator was taken out. The interior of the bunker was plunged into darkness. Brandon stepped through the doorway, sub-machinegun at the ready, followed closely by the other five SEALs.

The bunker was really just a large warehouse, with wooden pallets scattered everywhere. The pallets were stacked with shiny silver cases, apparently seamless, of various sizes, some quite large. Once through the door, the SEALs spread out and began picking their way forward to clear the bunker, scanning the darkened interior with the aid of the night vision gear they wore.

The first Iraqi soldier to round a pallet stacked high with the silver crates barely had time to register surprise before a three round burst from Brandon’s MP5SD ended his life. The integral silencer of the weapon reduced the report to a barely audible whisper. The six SEALs continued to search the interior.

Outside, the rest of the platoon moved in on the barracks and the security building. Most of the opposition that was awake had been neutralized silently already. The others stumbled from their racks to find themselves staring down the weapons of the SEAL platoon. Those few who did attempt to fight were neutralized easily, with only a brief exchange of fire.

It was over in minutes. The compound was secured and Brandon set his men out to watch the perimeter. He then called in the cargo aircraft that would take away whatever it was they had come to snatch.

As he waited for the planes to arrive, Brandon considered the mission they were on. He was not even supposed to be here. At thirty-eight, he was being promoted and should have already taken over as Commander of SEAL Team Eight, to which the platoon was attached. But the word had come down that this was a critical mission and he had been given the job. It was the price of being the best. Still Brandon had eagerly accepted; once he was team commander his days of field ops would be basically at an end.

Fifteen minutes later two C-130 cargo planes taxied down the compound’s runway and up to the bunker. This was the most dangerous part of the operation. As long as the aircraft were on the ground they were extremely vulnerable. Brandon fervently hoped that their intelligence brief had been right, that there were no Iraqi forces within striking distance of the facility. They were well out in front of the advancing American forces. Baghdad had not been taken yet and they were well to the northwest of there.

As soon as the ramps on the two aircraft were down, a pair of Humvee’s with mounted fifty caliber machine guns sped out of the cargo holds. They took up positions to lend fire support to the perimeter if necessary. After the hummers were clear, they were followed by a pair of heavy duty fork lifts that would be used to load the pallets from the bunker onto the aircraft.

“Time is of the essence Commander,” A woman’s voice said from behind him. Brandon turned to face Dr. Susan Covington. He regarded scientist for a moment as the support team began moving into the bunker.

She was certainly very pretty, in her late thirties with long, dark brown hair and a nice figure. She was dressed like everyone else in desert pattern BDUs, but there was no mistaking that she was a woman. Brandon had considered the possibility of asking her out once the mission was over, but he felt fairly certain she would not accept.

She had also proven to be a first class pain in the ass. Brandon had not even wanted her to accompany them, as she was just one more noncombatant to worry about. But, he had been overruled by the brass. Still, he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, and he sensed that she was not usually such an aggravation. Now was not the time to let this get on his nerves however.

“I’m aware of the situation Dr. Covington,” Brandon replied tersely. “The crews are moving to load the aircraft as we speak.”

“Perhaps some of your men could assist and speed things up,” she suggested.

“My SEALs are maintaining the perimeter and that is where they will stay,” Brandon told her. “We are out on a limb here, Doctor.”

*****

Thirty miles to the west, just over the Syrian border, a convoy of trucks loaded with Iraqi troops, members of the elite Republican Guard, left their concealed positions and began speeding towards the east.

*****

“The last two loads are coming out now Skipper,” Lieutenant Matt Branch, the platoon executive officer informed Brandon. Branch was slated to take over as platoon leader after Brandon moved up to Commander, SEAL Team Eight.

“Fine Matt, start pulling the perimeter in,” Brandon told him. Branch jogged off to over see to the withdrawal of their men from the perimeter.

Brandon watched impatiently as the last pallets were being pulled from the bunker by the forklifts for transfer to the C-130s. It was taking far too long and they were in decidedly unfriendly territory. He had no clue as to what was in the containers, and did not really care. His job was to see that they were safely removed from Iraq and that was it. As one of the forklifts began moving the next to last pallet, he began to think they might actually get away clean.

“Skipper we got trouble incoming,” Chief Wright said in a hushed tone as he stopped beside Brandon. “We just got word that a force of Iraqi troops crossed over from Syria over an hour ago, at least a reinforced company. They could be here anytime.”
“Can it get any better than this?” Brandon asked rhetorically. “How the hell did they get into Syria in the first place? I thought the fly boys were blasting everything that tried to cross the border.”

“Intel thinks they were pre-positioned and monitoring this place,” Wright said.

“Typical,” Brandon muttered. It was exactly the type of information that should have been included in his mission briefing and was not, probably because some intelligence weenie decided the SEALs did not have a need to know.

The last pallet was being pulled from the bunker and the fork lift began making its way towards the second cargo plane, even as the first C-130’s ramp began closing, its engines revving for take off. Maybe they would get lucky, Brandon thought as he turned to Susan.

“Time to go Doc, I want you on that plane now,” Brandon said.

“Commander Anderson…” Susan began protesting, but Brandon cut her off, turning to Chief Wright.

“Chief, escort the Doctor to her seat,” He ordered. “If she gives you any trouble, pick her up and carry her.”

Chief Wright smiled politely and gestured towards the waiting cargo transport. With a glare at Brandon, Susan turned and allowed herself to be escorted on board. They had just reached the foot of the ramp when the night air was split by an explosion as a rocket propelled grenade slammed into the front of a one of the humvees, sending the vehicle somersaulting into the air. It landed with a crash and exploded again. Small arms fire immediately erupted from the darkness.

Flare rounds arced into the night sky and began bursting, illuminating the darkness, as the SEALs returned fire. The Iraqis were advancing in company strength or better, at least two hundred men against his sixteen SEALs.

Another RPG round streaked through the air, scoring a near miss on the second hummer. The gunner manning the fifty caliber machine gun mounted on the vehicle was shredded by shrapnel and the gun fell silent.

“See if you can get some air support in here pronto!” Brandon ordered his radioman, and then he sprinted for the Humvee. Bullets ricocheted off the vehicle as he climbed aboard, pulling the body of the gunner from the cupola and then slipping into place.

Brandon opened fire, cutting into the advancing enemy as he barked orders over the radio and directed his SEALs. They were receiving a heavy volume of small arms fire from the advancing Iraqis. Though the SEALs volume of fire was smaller, it was more effective, and the Iraqi advance began to falter. That would change as soon as the platoon began to withdraw to the plane though, unless some kind of fire was maintained to support the withdrawal.

“Branch, pull squads three and four back to the Herk!” Brandon ordered his executive officer over the radio. “One and two hold for my order to fall back.”

The C-130 was loaded and the sound of the engines turning over rumbled across the desert as the battle raged. Brandon gave the order to the remaining two squads to fall back as he reloaded the machinegun, and then began to pour fire from the fifty cal into the advancing Iraqis. The advance faltered once more and the enemy pulled back.

Squads one and two were falling back, nearly to the aircraft when more fire came from Brandon’s right. Another group of Iraqis was moving in to flank the withdrawing SEALs and placing the still vulnerable C-130 at risk. Brandon swiveled the fifty around and opened fire once more. Another RPG was fired at the hummer and again missed. Shrapnel hissed past Brandon as he continued to fire.

“Pull this thing back soldier!” Brandon shouted down to the driver, who was crouched behind the engine of the hummer, engaging the enemy with his M16. The soldier ceased fire, climbed in and tried to start the vehicle. There was a grinding, metallic sound as the starter tried to turn over.

“No go, sir, the motor is FUBAR!” The driver shouted from within the vehicle. “We gotta get outta here!”

“Go!” Brandon ordered as he continued to pour fire into the advancing Iraqis. The driver bailed out and headed for the C-130 at a run.

Brandon spared a glance to make sure the driver got clear and saw him stumble to the ground. His helmet came off revealing close cropped red hair, and fire from the first group of Iraqi troops began to creep towards him as he scrambled back to his feet. Brand traversed his fire left briefly, forcing the Iraqis firing at the soldier to dive for cover. The driver found his feet and ran for all he was worth to the C-130 as Brandon redirected his attention back to the flanking element.

In that instant, Brandon made his choice. Without the fire from the fifty to delay the advancing enemy, the last C-130 would likely never make it off the ground. The entire SEAL platoon, all the support personnel and Susan would be killed or captured. In truth, he had made the decision the moment he had manned the machinegun; he would hold the line.

The second group of Iraqis began to withdraw as the machinegun came up empty a second time. Brandon dropped into the hummer and hauled another box of ammunition up top. He had just snapped the receiver down and charged the weapon when gunfire erupted once again from the direction of the first group of Iraqis. He could hear Chief Wright shouting over the radio piece in his ear as he opened fire once more.

“Skipper we’re loaded! Get the hell out of there!” Wright’s voice pleaded over the radio.

“Get that aircraft off the ground Chief!” Brandon barked as he continued firing. “That is an order!”

Something hit him in the left side like a hammer blow, and Brandon felt a warm wetness spreading there. He knew he had caught at least one round but did not think it was too serious, his body armor taking the brunt of it. Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder he saw that the last of his SEALs were bounding up the ramp into the C-130, the lumbering aircraft already beginning to roll forward. Brandon resumed fire, the fifty caliber rounds exacting a terrible toll on the Iraqi troops. Once more the advance was halted. The fifty came up dry again and Brandon dropped down for another case of rounds.

He popped back up and quickly reloaded the machine gun. As he returned his attention to the advancing Iraqis, he saw the smoking trail of another RPG round streaking towards the hummer. He scrambled to pull himself up and out of the Humvee, knowing he would be too slow.

The explosion propelled him upward from the gun mount, his senses overwhelmed by light and heat and pain as his body tumbled through the air. He hit the ground hard and rolled across the rocky sand. His senses seemed galvanized and as he tumbled it felt as though he could feel each rock, each pebble, each grain of sand, boring into his tortured flesh.

When at last he came to a stop, he tried to lever himself up with his arms, but his right arm could not be made to work. He managed to push himself up with his left and looked down.

The lower half of his body was a smoking, bloody mess. His right leg was horribly mangled, nearly severed below the knee. His left leg was nearly stripped of skin from the knee down and blood was pouring from his pelvic area and groin.

“Oh shit!” He screamed as the pain grabbed him fully. The last thing he saw before passing out was a pair of Apache helicopters swooping overhead, chain guns blazing.

**Two Years Later**

Stairs were the worst, and there were a lot of them on the University of Florida campus. There were elevators in most of the buildings certainly, but despite his disability Brandon refused to take an elevator unless his destination was more than one floor up.

He should have died on the desert sand, but somehow, even as he lost consciousness his body had refused to give up. As his life’s blood had flowed he had fought to hang on to that last thread of life. Even then it had only by the best of luck he had survived. A Dustoff chopper and its escorting gun ships had heard the SEALs’ call for air support as they returned from an unsuccessful search and rescue mission. The Apache’s had shattered the remaining Iraqis, and the medic on the Dustoff bird had stabilized him on the flight to a field hospital.

The fact they had been able to save his legs was nothing short of a miracle; that’s what all the doctors said. But they could not make them completely whole again. He had lost a good portion of the inner thigh of his right leg, and most of the calf. The shattered bones below the knee had been pieced together with pins and screws like a jigsaw puzzle. His left leg had faired better, it could still support his weight unlike his right, which required a cane to provide support. His right arm had made a nearly full recovery, though he was still undergoing physical therapy to try and restore its full range of motion.

Perhaps to some the worst injury had been to his genitals, which were so badly mangled they had to be removed entirely. And if that had been the only injury Brandon would likely have been more upset over the loss of his ‘manhood’. As it was, he didn’t give a damn about that, not that his male equipment hadn’t provided a lot of enjoyment over the years. He was a ruggedly handsome guy who had never had a problem finding female companionship. But his life was the Teams; his passion was the job, the fight. He could have done that without his genitals, but he couldn’t do it without his legs. He had been a powerful, athletic man and now he hobbled along, barely able to walk.

There had been months and months of reconstructive surgery and there was still more to come. Naturally the majority of the surgery had concentrated on his legs. He could deal with sitting down to urinate, but being confined to a wheelchair for a year had been sheer hell. The physical therapy was like torture at times. He often found himself thinking, after a grueling session, that they should put terror suspects in the care of a loving physical therapist. One or two sessions and they would give away their mothers.

Most of all he hated the feeling of helplessness; having to walk with a cane, the loss of mobility. He hated knowing that despite all the surgery and therapy in the world he would never run again.

He made his way from the VA hospital, across Sixteenth Street to the parking garage. Though he was only parked on the second level he broke his own rule and took the elevator; he was just too tired after today’s therapy session.

Waiting beside his Ford SporTrac was a familiar woman and Brandon found himself smiling. Despite their rather rocky introduction, he and Susan Covington had become good friends. She had visited him frequently in the hospital, and he knew she had harbored some guilt over his injuries. It was silly, and he had told her so. It could have happened on any one of the dozens of combat missions he had been part of; it was part of the job.

Susan smiled as she saw Brandon approaching, though he detected a bit of apprehension in her eyes. They embraced and she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“You’re looking well, Brandon,” she said.

“And you look fantastic as always,” Brandon told her. He pushed aside the thoughts of what might have been and accepted what was.

“What brings you down from your secret mountain top lab?” He asked her, only half joking. Since the desert, he knew that Susan had been involved in something regarding the containers that had been flown out of Iraq, and he also knew not to ask what it was.

“Well, you do actually,” she smiled. “I thought you might like a tour of the place.”

Brandon stopped and stared at her, as a black Chevy Suburban pulled up next to them.

“Brandon you know the way these things work,” she said, her face serious now. “I can’t tell you a lot. But I am offering you a chance to be whole again, to heal your injuries completely. If you aren’t interested, just tell me and I’ll get in the car and leave. If you want to know more, we get in together. But once you get in, there’s no turning back. And before you make a decision, I have to warn you that this is not without risks.”

Brandon leaned heavily on his cane, and then smiled and gestured towards the waiting SUV.

“After you, Doctor Covington.”

*****

The trip to the airport was made in relative silence, with only a few attempts at small talk. Brandon knew there was no point in asking questions; Susan would not talk about her offer in detail until they were in the air at least. At the airport they boarded a waiting Cessna Citation.

“Would you like a drink?” Susan offered once the twin engine jet was airborne.

“I would like you to tell me what is going on,” Brandon answered. “But since you offer, I’ll take a beer if you have one.”

“Of course” Susan smiled. She took two bottles of Killian’s from the cooler in the bar and twisted the tops off. She passed one to Brandon, then sat down and took a drink from her own.

“You expected me to accept,” Brandon said, smiling as he took a swallow of Killian’s, his favorite.

“I suspected you might,” Susan admitted. “Of course I like Killian’s too.”

Brandon took another swig of the lager, and then waited for Susan to speak.

“It all goes back to that night in the desert. Did you ever wonder what was in those containers that were flown out that night?”

“Wasn’t my job,” Brandon replied. “I was there to see that they, and you, were protected.”

“Well they contained…artifacts,” Susan continued, watching him closely. “Alien artifacts to be exact. Advanced technology left here by beings from another planet.”

If Brandon was shocked he showed no sign, though in truth he was surprised by her statement. Regardless, he continued to return her gaze, stone faced, as he waited for her to continue.

“You’re no fun at all,” Susan complained and pouted slightly. “The majority of the artifacts turned out to be a machine, a medical device, capable of manipulating the genetics and cells of living things like, well like magic. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying that any sufficiently advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic. This device certainly qualifies.”

“And how does this apply to me?”

“We’re ready to begin advanced testing of the machine,” Susan informed him. “I believe that with it we can repair the damage from your wounds; restore you completely as though you had never been injured.”

“So what’s the catch?” Brandon asked, knowing there had to be more to this offer than Susan had told him.

“There’s no catch,” Susan replied. “The machine has been in testing for eight months and every test has been successful. We have re-grown limbs and even corrected birth defects in test animals. After the procedure, you’ll be put through a few weeks of tests and kept under observation, and then you’ll be free to get on with your life. We will ask you to come back once a year for a week of follow up testing.”

“Why me?” Brandon asked her.

“Because we…because I owe you. Without what you did we wouldn’t have this technology,” Susan told him. “Also, you fit the profile. Other than your wounds you are in excellent physical condition. You have already been cleared through numerous exhaustive security checks and you are still bound by the oath you took as a SEAL. Also you, well you…”

“I have no family to miss me if something goes wrong,” Brandon finished for her. His parents had been killed during his second year at the Naval Academy in a home invasion. It had been a brutal, senseless crime and had influenced his decision to join the SEALs. He saw it as a way to get back at the evil in the world in a more direct manner than he could as a typical Naval officer.

“So where are we going?”

“Oh, a little test site in the Nevada desert.”

“Not Area 51?” Brandon asked with a grin.

“Of course not!” Susan exclaimed, a look of mock disgust on her face. “Area 51 is strictly for tourists … we moved the real alien artifacts out of there several years ago.”

They chatted for a while about their lives since they had last seen one another, and finally lapsed into silence for a long time. Brandon began staring out the window, his mind awash in thoughts. To be whole again, healthy and complete … he knew he would do anything for that.

“I would have said yes,” Susan said a short time later. She had been watching Brandon for some time as he stared out the window.

“Yes, to what?”

“If you had asked me out,” Susan explained. “I knew you wouldn’t though. I was pretty much a bitch that whole mission.”

“Well you had a lot on your plate,” Brandon said.

“I’ll tell you what,” Susan suggested. “How about when this is over, we spend a few days in Vegas. See some shows; waste some money in the casinos.”

“You have a date,” Brandon smiled.