“Ladies and gentlemen, the pilot has turned on the fasten seat belts sign for our final approach into Dulles International Airport. Please return your seats and your trays into their upright position.” The nasal voice of the flight attendant droned on, making Bronson Rudan want to stick a sock in her mouth. “I will be around to collect any remaining trash you may have."
True to her word, she went down the aisle holding out a bag, collecting bits of trash from the passengers on United’s flight 932 from London. As the woman with too much make-up was making her way between the rows of seats, the pilot came on. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for choosing United today. The current time is 5:52 a.m., and the weather in Washington D.C. is a cold and blustery thirty-three degrees, with sleet and wind, which will make our landing a little bumpy, I’m afraid. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a full stop at the gate. Again, thank you for choosing United Airlines as your travel choice.”
After spending over twenty-three hours traveling from Kabul, Afghanistan, the only thing Bronson wanted to do was take a shower and fall into his own bed for the next twenty-four hours. It had been six long months since he’d been able to sleep in his own bed, and he was looking forward to it. The only thing keeping him from the warm comfort of his bed was the final leg of his journey, the drive from Dulles to his apartment on ‘M’ street. The worst part was he knew that he was going into the city during rush hour. Of course, if his publisher at the Washington Post wasn’t such a cheap ass bitch, she’d have a car waiting for him, but Bronson wasn’t holding his breath. Even with the stories he’d been turning in, which had all made international headlines, he’d be surprised if he even got a ‘good job’ out of the bitch.
Walking into baggage claim, Bronson stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his editor, Tom Picks. Looking at the poor guy, who always seemed to look as if he’d slept in his clothes, he couldn’t help but wonder what the deal was for Tom to be at the airport to pick him up at this time of the morning.
“Welcome home, Rudan.” Tom Picks smiled as he met Bronson at the luggage carrousel.
“And what did I do to deserve this honor, Tom?” It wasn’t that Bronson wasn’t happy to see his editor. He was just surprised.
“I thought I’d meet you to congratulate you—again,” Tom said with a wide grin which showed his coffee stained teeth. He was holding a cup of coffee up in a mock toast.
As long as Bronson could remember, he’d never seen the man without a cup of coffee in his hand. He wondered how he’d managed that while he was in the field as a foreign correspondent years ago.
“Congratulate me for what, Tom?” Bags started appearing on the metal conveyor belt.
“You have been nominated for a Pulitzer, my dear boy—again,” he replied before sipping noisily from the steaming cup of coffee.
“Wow, thanks. Which one was it this time?” Bronson had already been nominated twice previously but hadn’t won. The first occasion was for a piece he had written on Fallujah, Iraq, and the second for the US pull out from Iraq.
“Remember that piece you wrote about the escape of some special Marine unit that had been captured while rescuing a doctor?” Tom said as both men turned towards the bags which circulated past them. Even at this early hour, the airport was already bustling with activity.
“Cool.” Bronson smiled despite his exhaustion. “I’m glad those guys are getting the recognition they deserve. They’ve been through a lot, and it was one helluva story. I didn’t do much. I just wrote it out.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Bronson,” Tom replied as he slapped Bronson on the back.” You’re one of the best journalists in the field, buddy, and you deserve this, especially at your tender age.”
“Thanks, Tom, I appreciate it.” Bronson stepped away to pick up a large backpack and a military style duffle bag from the cluster of other bags twirling about the room on the metal conveyor belt. He turned back to Tom. “Let’s get out of here, I’m beat.”
Tom had hired a car to drive them, so they were soon settled comfortably in the deep leather seats in back for the ride into D.C. Bronson felt fatigue taking over, his body almost numb.
“I gotta tell ya, Bron, I’m hoping you’ve got something up your sleeve for a new article.” Another loud slurp punctuated Tom’s last remark. “Cathy is chomping at the bit again, going on about material justifying the cost.” Tom did the little air quote thing with his fingers. Bronson could visualize the witch of a publisher Cathy Waine as she said that, another one of her little catch phrases that drove everyone nuts.
“Don’t worry, Tom, I have something, and this time even I think it is going to be big,” Bronson said, mid yawn. “The only reason I’ve not sent it in before now is that there is no real end as yet. Whatever is going on over there, or was going on, just stopped. No reason and no explanation as to why it stopped, or even why it started, for that matter.”
“They still haven’t figured out what it is?”
Bronson had hinted at what had been going on over the phone, but hadn’t gone into any great detail with Tom.
“Nope, they don’t have a clue. They’ve had some of the top medical people going over those bodies with a fine-tooth comb, and they can’t explain it at all. The Afghanis are starting to get suspicious, thinking it is something that the government is doing covertly, and I can see why they would think that.” Bronson looked over at Tom, the streetlights flashing inside the dark car as if they were on a slow strobe setting. “What makes things even worse is that it all just came to an abrupt end, making it look as though the US Government felt the heat and stopped it.”
“How many so far?” asked Tom.
“Well over a couple of hundred, and they have no clue if that is all or not. There are so many hidden Taliban and/or Al Qaeda cells, so deeply embedded into those mountain caves in the mountains; they have no way of knowing if there are more bodies just lying there waiting to be discovered.”
“Whoa, that’s some shit,” Tom exclaimed. “And no one else has this story?”
“No, and I’m damn lucky that I do. The only reason I do is I was with that platoon when they discovered the first two cells. It was damned creepy. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Bronson took a sip of the strong black coffee that Tom had ready and waiting in the car. “There was no sign of a struggle, but then there was nothing to indicate that there had been anyone sick either. It was…they were just dead. Lying there as if they’d simply dropped dead for no apparent reason other than they had no blood left in them. What makes it even more alarming, is that there were no visible wounds. No explanation as to why they had no blood. They were…just dead.”
Tom, let out a low whistle. “And they think it is a disease of some sort?”
“That is the assumption they are going on. What else could it be?”
“An outbreak of vampires?” Tom laughed at his own little joke.
“Yeah, right. An army of vampires has decided to get into the political arena and go after the Taliban and Al Qaeda.” Bronson scowled at his frumpy editor. “Funny, Tom, but I doubt they’re going to go for the vampire theory.”
“So what’s the issue here?” Tom was clearly wanting another story from Bronson to justify the expense reports he was about to hand in.
“Like I said, there is no real end to the story. Yet, that is,” Bronson answered. “It came to a stop for no reason, and there is no way to wrap it up.”
“Ahh, I see.” Tom apparently saw his quandary. “I have faith in you. You’ll come up with something, but get it in, or at least a synopsis that I can show.”
“Okay, I hear ya.” Bronson understood the politics back at the office. “I’ll have something for you to show come Monday.”
“Thanks, Bron, you’re a real team player. I just wish everyone understood this shit as well as you do,” Tom said.
Luckily for Bronson, the conversation and the long drive were nearing completion as the car turned down ‘M’ street.
“I’ll come into the office Monday,” Bronson said as he took his luggage from the driver.
“Great, and thanks again, Bron. Get some rest this weekend and I’ll see you Monday.”
“Thanks, Tom, and thanks for the ride. It beats the hell outta taking a cab!”
* * * * *
“I don’t know why we have to give up on the mission we were meant for, just to pull their asses out of the fire,” Sergeant Burrows huffed.
Lieutenant Farragut was getting more and more tired of Sergeant Burrow’s seemingly negative attitude towards everything. The Marine was never satisfied with anything they were doing. When this entire mission was presented to him, he had been hesitant to okay Sergeant William Burrows to join them. Now, once again, he was second guessing his decision.
“Come on, Burrows, you know as well as I do that we follow a chain of command. It just so happens that we now have a higher chain to climb, is all. The Committee has final say in everything we do, and you knew that going in.”
The drive from the Willard to the old Marine Barracks at 8th and ‘I’ Streets was short, but to Lieutenant David Farragut it felt much longer with the moody Burrows sitting next to him.
The dark diplomatic car cut its lights off before pulling up to the curb a block away from the side entrance to one of the oldest buildings in Washington D.C. The Barracks was an historic landmark, and quite visible, which may have seemed an odd choice to house the most secret military unit in existence. However, sometimes right out in the open was the best camouflage; no one would ever expect the unexpected. With the exception of storage, the building they were in had not been used in years, but the extensive recent renovation had changed all that.
The two Marines waited the required sixty seconds before getting out of the car, thus making sure the coast was clear, and then they disappeared into the dark. Human eyes would never have been able to detect their speed as they moved to the secret street access which led directly into their private and newly renovated sanctuary.
“Get the men together in the control center, Burrows. Woodford will be here shortly to fill us in with all the details,” Farragut ordered.
Lieutenant Farragut, or ‘Sarge’ as everyone called him, was the commanding officer of the V-Unit, and knew that this mission that they had been handed was something big. It wasn’t what the unit had been created for, but then again he had wondered what the unit would be used for, once the original mission had been completed. This gave him a little better idea of what they could possibly face further down the road.
Sarge walked into the control center, the room that had been specially created for them to plan their missions. It was a technological masterpiece, with every conceivable piece of equipment needed for covert information gathering. A direct link into the CIA was ghosted in, allowing the unit to stay abreast of everything going on in the world but without detection.
“ATen-Hut!” Twenty uniformed men stood at attention as Sarge entered.
“At ease, men,” Sarge commanded. “We have a new mission, and this is going to be a learning curve for us, I believe. Committee member Thomas Woodford will be coming to give us all the details. What this means in the short term is that we are going to be staying here in the states, and I believe here in D.C. for a while.”
“Evening, Gentlemen.” Thomas Woodford interrupted him. He spoke with a slight accent that wasn’t quite English, but something very close.
All eyes turned to Thomas Woodford, the men obviously taken aback that he was able to come into the room without anyone hearing or noticing him, especially Sarge. He was dressed all in black, making his pale skin seem even more so, but it was his smile that disarmed them. He knew that he had surprised them, and was taking great pleasure in the fact.
“Welcome, Mr. Woodford,” Sarge said, stepping forward to shake the Committee member’s hand, recovering quickly from the shock of him being there.
“Thank you, you are too kind, sir,” Thomas Woodford said with a smile. His manner of speech was of a bygone era.
“I was just informed by Corporal Cates, that there has been some chatter over the bodies that have been found in Afghanistan.” Sarge’s worried expression revealed his concern about this new information.
“Sometimes these things cannot be avoided, Lieutenant Farragut.” Woodford waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “If the Committee needs to step in, we shall, and take care of it. Do not worry about it for now. You and your brave men here have done nothing wrong.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Sarge said with relief.
“Shall we attend to business then?” The rich timbre of Woodford’s voice echoed in the near empty room.
“Certainly, sir,” Lieutenant Farragut answered, as he pulled out a chair for their visitor. Sarge couldn’t help but notice, not for the first time, how handsome Thomas Woodford was. Maybe it was his imagination, but there seemed to be the slightest spark between them.
“Thank you fine gentlemen for helping with this… situation,” Woodford began as he took the proffered seat.
“Just what is the situation, Mr. Woodford?” Sarge took the seat next to their visitor.
“Please, let us dispense with the formalities while in such close quarters. Call me Woody, as my friends do.”
“Very well, Woody, fill us in,” Sarge said, admiring the twinkle in the bright blue eyes of the handsome man sitting next to him.
“I will tell you what I can at this point. There are some things that I cannot, since they would only be speculation.” Woody looked at the expectant faces staring back at him. “We have a disgruntled brother, or sister, who has decided that he knows better than those of us on the Committee, and has taken matters into his or her own hands. They have created tribes of rogue vampires that have no training whatsoever. Of course, he has broken the law against creating others such as ourselves, by not seeking prior approval. The resulting consequence is that they have populated each continent with such creatures who are killing humans. Not only killing them, which breaks yet another law, but doing so in plain sight, out in the open where anyone could witness these attacks.”
The somber, dark timbre of his deep masculine voice was not lost on the others. “It is his goal to populate the world with enough vampires so that it becomes obvious to the human governments, and their people, that we do actually exist. He wants to be treated as equals among the living. Of course this is another law broken, the penalty for which, unfortunately, is death.”
“Meanwhile, we have these poor rogues roaming about major cities, doing what comes naturally to them, feeding until death, not really knowing any better.” Woody’s voice was sad as he finished his elucidation.
“Do we know how many we have here in D.C.?” Corporal Keith Aguilar asked.
“I am not certain as to the exact number, Corporal, but my guess would be close to thirty,” Woody answered the handsome Hispanic Marine. “Although I am certain that a good many of them have banded together and are often going out in groups. The last victims of their feeding earlier this evening proved that point. There were two victims and even though we were able to have the cleaners there almost immediately, there was no way that only one vampire could have dispatched two from the evidence that was found at the scene.”
“The bodies were still warm, so they couldn’t have been more than a few minutes away,” Sarge informed his men. “I think the first thing we need to find out is where the past victims were found and see if there is a pattern here. Maybe they are hunting in the same places.” Several of the men were nodding in obvious agreement with him, as though they thought this was the natural course of action. “Then we can start doing patrols, breaking off into groups. See if we can’t find out where their lair is.”
“That sounds like a logical course of action, Lieutenant,” Woody replied quickly. “Why don’t you come back to my townhouse where I have most of the information you require. Anything I do not have, I will make sure that you receive it as quickly as possible.”
“Sounds good, Woody.” Sarge got up from the conference table. “The rest of you keep your ears to the ground. Go on out and see what you can find out in the time left tonight, but make sure you are as inconspicuous as possible. You might need to invest in some more civilian attire to blend in with the general population. We might be on this one a while.”
“Yes, sir,” the group responded.
“Dismissed, men.” Sarge left the room behind Thomas Woodford.