Unspeakable, p.1
Unspeakable, page 1
UNSPEAKABLE: THE KILLING SCHOOL
MURDER ON THE MEKONG, BOOK THREE
HART RIVERS
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CONTENTS
Khung-Bo
Nightbird
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
The Professor’s Notebook
Chapter 5
Untitled
Fish Sauce
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The Professor’s Notebook
Untitled
Untitled
Fish Sauce
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Happy Trails
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Untitled
Fish Sauce
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
The Professor’s Notebook
Untitled
Fish Sauce
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Untitled
Acknowledgments
Before You Go…
Also by Hart Rivers
About the Authors
For the ones who hold us close
When the darkness is deep
One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.
CARL JUNG, THE PHILOSOPHICAL TREE, 1945
* * *
NIGHTBIRD
The Nightbird flits from tree to tree, following the chase through the sultry jungle. The moon is full and bright here along the Mekong River and there is the glistening of dark arterial blood on the leaves.
Fear and death perfume the dank air. It mingles with the sound of labored breath and pounding boot-clad feet. A young Vietnamese soldier cries out:
“Người lính ma!”
Ghost Soldier.
“Người lính ma! Người lính ma! Bao—”
Bao, his commander’s name, is the last word he speaks.
Bao, leading the way forward, whirls around just in time to see the boy drop. A too-young recruit picked-off on his watch. But his other men, they are hardened jungle warfare killers and in quick succession he sees first one neck, then two, then all but his own neck snap side-ways, raised weapons falling just before their bodies begin to resemble beached squid with their collective limbs going flop, flop, flop.
He has seen so much horror in this war, but never has he seen anything like this. His men, his entire squad, must be the victims of some insidiously poisoned darts aimed with deadly precision from a well-hidden enemy. For whatever reason he has been spared, and not for a minute does he believe it is from the amulet his grandmother placed around his neck for protection.
Ghost soldier.
He remembers his grandmother’s warning to beware of Con quỷ—a demon that only exists in the minds of those who believe in the supernatural, which Bao does not.
Still, he feels his heart slamming against the amulet; a shiver of foreboding snakes up his spine.
“Bao,” calls a voice he’s never heard before, from what direction he cannot tell. “Tôi đang đến, Bao! Sẵn sàng hay không ở đây tôi đến!”
I am coming, Bao! Ready or not, here I come!
This is not the same game of hide and seek he once played with his twin brother as he crouched, quietly snickering, in the hidey hole of a familiar, fallen tree. No, it’s not like that at all with the sweat slick on the back he plasters against the spiny bark of a huge palm where he tries to blend into the waving fronds and debates: Prepare to fight, to die, to flee?
The dagger strapped to his chest, pried from an enemy’s rigor mortis grip with GERBER USA etched into the blade, is more reassuring than a mother’s milk laden breast. And the AK-47, clenched in his sweaty palms, will now and forever be his most cherished possession.
For all the good the same weapons did his men, all of them eliminated by some wraith-like creatures—surely not just one—still waiting for him.
Ghost soldier.
“Ready not, here I come,” Bao whispers in broken English just as he leaps from his hiding place and sprays the surrounding area with a fresh round.
He saves a single bullet for himself, just in case.
And then it is eerily quiet. Only the sound of a lone bird calls from a branch overhead.
Bao glances up.
A figure that belongs in some super-human cartoon streaks down.
And then Bao is on his back, knife drawn from the sheath bandoliered at his chest, blade tipped into the hollow at his throat.
“Gotcha,” says the human-creature with a grin. “Time to go to the Fun House.”
“Kill me.”
“Sorry, buddy, but you’re not getting off that easy.”
“Con quỷ.”
“Oh, I’ve been called much worse, trust me. Sticks and stones and all that.”
“Người lính ma!”
The Nightbird cocks its head and takes flight with the sound of dark laughter beneath its wings.
CHAPTER 1
The Republic of Vietnam
Undisclosed Location
Summer, 1969
The last time Jerry Prince closed his eyes he was in full psycho ward restraints stripped down buck naked on a stretcher. When his eyes slid slightly open he could see stars in the sky outside the chopper he had been boarded onto. Given his latest killing spree that the Army brass needed to keep hush-hush, he was pretty sure their best course of action was to toss him out over the South China Sea to become just another poor GI MIA never to be seen or heard from again.
Which meant if he was still alive what they had planned was going to be worse than death. Like ending up in a padded cell deep in the bowels of the military version of a facility for the criminally insane where he could expect to be living out the rest of his miserable life.
Moving his fingers and muscles like a reptilian Houdini, his stretching brought to life the extraordinary Irezumi tattoo of the mythical Nightbird across his chest, its head sweeping up to his neck in blue-black detail. The wingspread slightly rippled as he weighed the odds of taking out the Special Forces guards—one at his head, two at his feet—before overtaking the pilot.
Although he was careful to appear still sedated, over the loud bleat of chopper blades a familiar viper-like voice whispered into his ear, “Going somewhere? I don’t think so. Why don’t we poke out the bad birdie’s eye?”
Jerry felt the plunge of a needle go straight into his neck.
The last thing he heard was the mocking, dark laughter of Agent J.D. Mikel.
The next time Jerry Prince opened his eyes he was alone. He thought.
He let enough time pass to determine there was no one else breathing within range of his highly attuned ears before blinking…then blinking again, rapidly, to fully wake up because clearly nothing he was seeing, feeling, was real.
He tested his arms, his legs. No restraints. He did the old cliché and pinched himself and…okay. He was actually awake and in a room with a cream colored ceiling. A white fan turned overhead. Beneath his back was a very comfortable mattress on a real bed with real sheets and a nice cushy pillow under his head. He heard the tropical calls of birds. The soothing trickle of a fountain. Wind chimes tinkling.
This was all wrong.
There was some good quality rattan furniture with batik style cushions and a nice rattan desk with an Oriental lamp. Next to the desk was a carved teak chair with some inviting clothes draped over it.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was back on R&R in Thailand.
Jerry got up, put on a white te
He suspiciously eyed a screened door. Tested it. Unlocked. This was all very nice. Too nice. What kind of crazy mind game was this?
Intending to find out he stepped onto a palatial veranda filled with vases of white jasmine and red geraniums. A fine table covered in white linen was set for two with a large silver domed tray in the middle.
Might there be a claymore mine hiding under the silver, just waiting for his lift of the dome to take him out permanently while Mikel laughed from his hiding place?
But, no, that wasn’t Mikel’s style. He would look you in the eyes while he killed you.
Of course, that was half the fun.
A sweep of his gaze beyond the veranda only heightened Jerry’s certainty that someone was fucking with him big time:
In the midst of a beautiful garden that looked like it belonged in a LIFE magazine was a man in a real cowboy hat with an authentic looking rattlesnake band around it. He was wearing a very white, precisely pressed doctor’s lab coat over a fancy blue rodeo shirt, the kind with pearl buttons. A large silver and turquoise buckle rode the center of his faded, old jeans. The cowboy was pruning a gardenia bush.
The guy gave him a wave and Jerry noticed the feet approaching sported a pair of highly polished snakeskin boots tipped in silver.
“Howdy, pardner!” he called in a deep, Texas accent, and as he stopped, nearly toe-to-toe, Jerry noticed he was as tall as himself—well over six feet—and a little older, say early 30’s. He reminded Jerry of Rowdy Yates on Rawhide, kind of Eastwood handsome and tough. Longish chestnut colored hair, steely blue eyes. All Tex needed was a horse to go along with his polite invitation.
“Join me for breakfast? I can brief you on your first assignment.”
Jerry hesitated. It’s always better to escape as soon as possible, here’s your chance to cut and run. This guy looks easy to kill if he tries to get in the way.
“Now Jerry,” said Tex with a big, friendly smile like he was a mind reader, “Don’t run. Hear me out. C’mon now, at least have a nice breakfast before you go. Besides, Old Hoss, I got snipers up in the trees in four directions aiming right at you, right now.”
Jerry smiled back. “Okay, why not?"
Once seated across from each other, Tex poured the dark brew from a silver carafe and pushed forward a crystal container filled with condensed milk.
“I believe you like it with two heaping spoonfuls? Hope you don’t mind I took the liberty of ordering up your favorite bacon omelet. Here, the croissants are excellent, especially with some of this fresh mango jam.”
Jerry raised a brow.
“Now you don’t think I’d go to all this trouble just to poison you, do you?” Tex guffawed like a good old boy and took a forkful of Jerry’s omelet before washing it down with his own coffee that had come from the same carafe.
Smell test passed—and it did smell delicious—Jerry put his own fork to good use.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said between bites. “Just who the hell are you, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Doctor Ronald Miles, MD, PhD—but don’t call me Doctor-Doctor, just call me Miles—Director of the Institute for the Study of International Conflict. In Spook speak that’s ISIC, or the joke of course is `I SICK.’ Everybody here though just calls it The Killing School.”
Miles took off the cowboy hat, finger brushed his hair back, and studied the predator relishing breakfast across from him. So much energy pulsed from each lift of his fork and gulp of coffee that Miles could easily envision this killer of all killers suddenly planting the cutlery into his own very fine brain.
Jerry Prince was easily capable of far more than that. Which was exactly the reason the mastermind behind this whole operation—The Ambassador, Phillip Jordan—had ultimately agreed to have the infamous Ghost Soldier sent here.
The sense of pulsing energy that could easily turn fatal had Miles darting his gaze to the tree tops where his snipers were stationed. His pupils weren’t liking the sun and the energy waves felt like they were creeping under his skin. Possibly a consequence of his usual Monday morning 1ml micro hit of Lysergic Diethylamide Acid.
He took his favorite Ran-Bans out and put them on. Much better.
Miles fleetingly wondered if Jerry Prince had any affection for the drug himself. Unlikely for a full-time predator, though such stats weren’t included on the psych report Miles’s freakish eidetic image photographic memory pulled up. He could see it as if the report were sitting right in front of him and zoomed in on the most essential details:
NAME: Jerry Prince aka Milton Kastanski aka David Smith aka multiple other aliases
VITALS: U.S. Army Captain, Special Forces. 6'2” 188 pounds. Age 26. Right handed. Martial arts expert.
PERTINENT HISTORY: Prince is the product of a rather cruel childhood followed by mostly punishing foster homes. He was a murderer at the age of 15. The resulting personality combined with a high intelligence and gifted physical attributes presents a unique package of killing ability. Indeed, his Lethality Index is a remarkable 9.5 out of 10. Hand-eye coordination and speed are superior. Pain threshold very high. Capacity to inflict pain and suffering high to the point of indifference though the psycho-sexual sadism response is actually quite low. His empathy responses are acute in the way of a highly sociopathic character disorder.
HIGHLY CLASSIFIED: Prince initially joined the Army in 1964 and quickly displayed unique abilities that escalated his advancement until 1966 when a consensus was formed he was responsible for the serial murders of soldiers under his command. To avoid public scrutiny he was quietly transferred to Madigan General Hospital’s locked ward (see Attachment A) where he managed to escape in 1967. Under the alias of (redacted) he again enlisted under the assumed identity of a college graduate with ROTC credentials and then quickly rose in the Army’s ranks as a highly valued Special Forces military asset. The details of his tenure, and especially the storied and infamous Ghost Soldier escapades in 1968 through 1969 necessitating the CIA to bring in their best hunter assassin to finally capture Prince, insured his (1) being rendered to ISIC for researching and exploiting his established assets and (2) training and harvesting of any untapped abilities. (see Attachment B).
As Miles continued to mentally flip through well over 200 pages of documentation while honing in on the most tasty and relevant bits, his anticipation rose to elation at the prospect of working with such an anomaly of nature.
One of the great things that Jerry Prince had going for the purposes of The School was that he was really not impaired at all in the way most would consider him to be on the evidence of his history. He was not a wacko-psycho or clinically incapacitated crazy. No, in fact, he was wired in a way that allowed him to be rather skilled at reading other people’s needs and wants, of being charming and disarming, sensing vulnerabilities, being manipulative, being very likable when he chose.
He was exactly what Miles was looking for. This creature could quite possibly be highly functional and productive in the right milieu. That milieu would involve giving him challenging, productive work in a challenging environment which, Miles knew, was how Jerry liked it. As one of the top predators on the planet he would be mostly content with his tracking, capture and killing assignments. Of course, he was driven by the usual blend of revenge, resentment, and "pathological narcissism,” as his fellow shrinks liked to call it.
