In the hours after it had happened, Thula was given many condolences from fellow agents and Phalanx. That she had no reason to worry; it could've happened to anyone. But defeat stings, and being humiliated by an inferior adversary was a massive wallop to her pride. The Phalanx were the best. They told themselves this like a mantra every day. So when Thula and her team were found trussed up by a group of rag-tags and renegades, the pride of the Phalanx became a statement of parody.
History had shown the greatest special forces had problems with insurgents. The French Foreign Legion with the Viet Minh, the Spetsnaz with the Chechyains, and so forth. But special forces were suppose to be evolving. This would be a tremendous step back for the Phalanx and the cult of The Conclave in general. Now everyone knew that the "tip of the spear" could be bent.
If only the one called "Max" would have slit her throat or dashed her brains out that night, she wouldn't have to face the bureaucrats that ran The Conclave and over-lorded over the Phalanx. But it was just a lesson that Thula would have to face. Phalanx warriors are not afraid of death or impossible odds. Why should a verbal chastising be any different?
The Conclave Internal Affairs branch was like any other bureaucratic office. It could've easily been mistaken for any corporate office until one saw the officers of the United States Police patrol the hallways with their MP5 submachine guns. With dark blue uniforms and blank expressions, they eyed Thula. They even stopped her a few times to check her ID. She knew her strength and what she could do to one of them on the battlefield. But then again, they were just boys doing their job. No more, no less.
On the fifteenth floor Thula came to a door marked 1550. The engraved plate on the side of the door read "Edward Parker: Senior Internal Affairs Director." Proper etiquette and procedure dictated that she knocked three times in an even tempo. A voice from inside gave her the simple order of "Come in".
As Thula opened the door to the office she was met by two distinguished suits. One as a steely eyed blonde man in a dark navy suit. He stood by an oak wood desk where an older black gentleman sat in a leather chair; his hands of the desk poised at attention.
"You must be Thula," said the black man. "Come in and have a seat. I'm Edward Parker, and this gentleman to my left is Lieutenant Director Ben Cromwell."
"Don't forget to shut the door," snarled Cromwell.
As Thula closed the set double doors behind her, she could feel Cromwell's eyes cut into her.
"Why did I have to tell you that? Guess you Phalanx aren't that observant, huh?" said Cromwell.
"Ben, please," said Parker. "Have a seat, Captain."
Thula took her seat across from Parker. She kept her hands folded on her lap and tried to ignore the sneer of Cromwell.
"You know why you're here?" said Parker.
"Yes," said Thula. "It was failure to carry out my mission."
"Pffft! I think it was a little more than that," said Cromwell. "You singlehandedly let one of the most dangerous terrorists slip through your fingers, and you made a laughing stock out of the Phalanx. Now we have agencies galore up our ass wondering if The Conclave is up to the task. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have to talk to these pencil necks and try to keep them from shitting their collective pants? Lest you forget, everything you dickheads do in the field reflects on us."
"Yes, sir. I'm fully aware," said Thula. "Then again, you weren't there, now were you?"
"I think what Ben is trying to say, is that what happened a few nights ago will take some time to get over," said Parker. "Now, due to your outstanding record we want to keep you on as an officer. However, the higher ups from The Conclave are putting you on probation. And you will be until you've completed the following assignment."
"Will I be going after the transgenetic terrorist again?" said Thula.
"Yeah, because you proved yourself so effective the first time," said Cromwell.
Parker shook his head. "Actually, we have something else planned. The Conclave feels that you need to redeem yourself. That's why we're giving you a simple operation."
"Yeah. Nice and easy. Even a fuck up like you could handle it," said Cromwell.
"That's enough, Ben," said Parker. "It's just a simple check up, really. Do you know who Mother Tertullia is.?"
Thula swallowed hard. "She's a priestess. High ranking. She's also the Keeper of the Conclave Standard."
"Yes," said Parker. "She also had a hand in helping Senator Tom Browning create the United States Police. For my money, I'd say she cares more about law and order than another other member of The Conclave."
"Now here's something I bet you didn't know, hotshot," said Cromwell. "She also has a thing for crypto-zoology."
"Come again?" said Thula.
"You never studied," snickered Cromwell. "It's the study of weird shit in nature."
"Well, only if you put it so candidly," said Parker. "Tertullia left with small team of independent researchers on a mission to Maine. The idea was to find a creature known as the Wendigo. Of course, with someone who has her rank, no one is going to question her judgement."
"That is, until she doesn't give The Conclave a communiqué for over three months," said Cromwell.
"What happened to her?" said Thula.
"We don't know," said Parker. "The last official message we got hinted that she was doing research near a town called Sullivan. After that, we lost all contact."
"It wouldn't be so bad, except for this," Cromwell threw a manilla folder in Thula's lap. "Those are articles on missing persons in the Sullivan area."
"Coincidence?" said Thula.
"That's what we want you to find out," said Parker. "Your mission will be to take your team to Maine, and try to gather as much information as you can as to what happened to Tertullia and her research team. You'll be going in under the guise of Secret Service agents. See what it was that she was up to."
"Yeah, and remember: if Tertullia has gone off the deep end, well, you know what to do," said Cromwell.
Thula knew perfectly well what that was code for. At least with talking about one of their own, they didn't come right out and say: "Kill Tertullia". As a professional courtesy, they mentioned it as a last resort.
"Will I be reporting back to White?" said Thula.
"Not for this mission," said Parker. "You'll report back to Cromwell and myself every twenty-four hours. Other than that, it's your call. Find out what happened to Tertullia, and if possible, bring back whatever research and findings you can."
"Understood," said Thula.
"Good. Then that is all," said Parker. "Dismissed."
As Thula got up from her chair and turned to leave, she heard Cromwell's slimy snicker behind her.
"Yeah, and try not to get all tied up, gagged, and helpless this time. Got that, girly?"
"Oh, let's hope not," said Thula. "I mean, God forbid. How could I save your sorry ass in time if I'm in that condition?"
"Leave," hissed Cromwell.
"As you wish, sir," said Thula.
Outside the building, Thula closed the manila folder between her fingers. She turned up the collar to her jacket to meet the autumn chill. Across from the Conclave Internal Affairs office, she saw a couple of workers putting up a sign along a building wall. Stretched over the taupe bricks was an image of a police officer in a dark blue uniform with a matching riot helmet. The caption below him read: "Serve your community and protect your fellow citizens! Join the United States Police Department! Contact your local recruiter today!"
Thula reached into her jacket pocket and produced a cell phone. It was time to get the team back together. She took one more look at the building sized image of a police officer with a big golly-gee-shucks smile through the plexi-glass of his riot helmet. It seemed like everyone was concerned about national security these days, Thula thought.
Only a second more and she would have started to dial. That is, until she head a voice behind. her.
"Hello, ma'am," said a voice ever so friendly.
Thula put her phone away and turned towards the voice. It was just a young man in a suit and tie. He only came up to Thula's solar plexus, but he still looked very sharp. His bear-trap smile was in contradiction to the timid grin of his partner. The young lady bedside him wore a blue headscarf in her blondish hair. Thula looked down and saw a pair of funky yellow leggings coming from her knee length skirt. They had books and pamphlets in hand. Thula could put two and two together, and soon she knew she'd have to blow them off.
"Hi, sorry to bother you. May we have a moment of your time?" said the man.
"Make it quick," said Thula.
The man laughed a bit. "Okay, sure. Well, my name is Victor. And this is my partner Ivanka. We were wondering: do you believe in God?"
"No."
"Really?" said Victor. "Even though all of creation is a testament to His being? I mean, do you think all this came out of nothing?"
"I don't follow."
"Well," Victor cleared his throat. He obviously had his little sermon ready. "I mean, I could look at a painting, or heck, even any one of these buildings, and I know that they were created. Someone created them. See? Can you really look at something as complex as the universe then, and not say it was the product of design?"
"Never occurred to me."
Victor kept his used car salesman routine. "Well, I'm here to tell you, yes. Yes, there is a creator to all of this. Every tree, mountain, and animal. And you know what? He also created all of us, and our free will. The free will that makes us sin against Him. In fact, we've sinned so much, that He's coming back to judge all of us."
Victor handed Thula one of his pamphlets. "You see, the end times are here. You know that meteorite that's going to pass by Earth? It's four times larger than our moon."
"Is God going to flick it towards us?"
"No," Victor laughed nervously. "No, He's... He's going to use it as a tool... to, what's your name?"
"Margaret-Mary," said Thula.
"Well, Margaret... God's going to use that meteor to blot out the sun."
"It'll be dark for almost a week," said Ivanka.
"That's right," said Victor. "It's in the Book of Revelations. God will pull a black cloth over the sun. By putting the Earth into darkness, he'll start judging."
"You guys are always saying that," said Thula. "What the hell is He doing? Procrastinating?"
Victor snorted out another awkward laugh. "No... not procrastinating. He's giving us signs. He's letting us know that He'll be coming back soon. That EMP bomb in two thousand nine, that was one of the seals opening."
"The rider on the White Horse of Conquest," said Ivanka.
"I see," said Thula.
"Yes, the meteor eclipse will signal the coming of Jesus. When all is dark, He'll be the light to guide us all to Paradise. You can come with Him, too. Just submit to Christ. And He will rescue you during the days of darkness."
"Is that so?" said Thula. "And how do you know all this?"
"It's in the Bible. God speaks in poetry," said Ivanka.
"Poetry, huh?" said Thula. "Well, forgive me. But if the BIg Man is going to be fucking around with people's souls, he should be a little more specific then some lame ass poetry. Don't you think?"
Victor slacked his mouth and Ivanka's eyes began to glisten and leak.
"He is very specific," said Victor. "If you come to our prayer group, we can show you some examples."
"He loves you no matter how much you defy and blaspheme Him," bleated Ivanka.
"Tell that to the billions around the world who don't give a fuck about his existence. They already got their own big boogymen in the sky, anyway."
"But... you don't understand..." said Victor.
"No, I do," said Thula.
"What will you tell God when the eclipse comes?" said Ivanka. She flicked a little moisture out from her eyes.
"I don't know. Probably: 'Hey! Quit messing with the light! I'm trying to read here!'" said Thula.
"Okay, you know what?" said Victor. "Good luck. And maybe one day you'll be be more accepting of other people's opinions."
"I'll try," Thula smiled.
It was an out of body experience talking to those people. They made Thula laugh though. A few changes in vocabulary, and they'd be ready for the Conclave. The memories of her more formidable years and the rhetoric she was subjected came to the fore. Humans might be able to tap into the spiritual on their own. But the divine mandate shows its ugliness as being a mere man made tool. The Old Testament vs the New Testament. The Conclave Standard. When you get right down to it, what's the difference?
The Phalanx usually lived on the go. Today would be the last day at their temporary headquarters in Terminal City before making tracks for Maine. It was a pretty nice setup that Ames White had for them. Thula knocked on the apartment's metal door. The sound of footsteps came near, as well as a gruff voice.
"What's the password?" said the voice.
"Your mother sucks cocks in hell," smiled Thula.
Deadbolts began to turn as the door opened. She came face to face with one of her fellow Phalanx soldiers, Davis. He furrowed his brow and shook his head.
"I got a password system for a reason, you know," said Davis.
"Aw, lighten up. It's just me, you dig?"
"Whatever," sighed Davis.
Inside was still business as usual. It was real deja vu, the same members were in the dull grey and spacious training area. Rimbaud was still practicing his capoeira fighting. Taggert sank his fists and knees into a heavy canvass bag that hung from the ceiling. The only other female member of the group, Ursula, was busy polishing off some type of firearm. As Thula got closer, she saw that Ursula was putting the finishing touches on a Winchester 1912 shotgun. It was mid-sized to say the least. The barrel was cut off right at the pump.
"Is that a regulation weapon?" said Thula.
"Who cares? It works," grinned Ursula. "And hey, get a load of this."
Ursula reacher over to a table next to her and grabbed what looked like a long, thin knife. She then slipped it into a socket under the shotgun's barrel.
"Not bad, huh?" said Ursula. "They don't call it a 'trench broom' for nothing, you know. Figure if those bastards want to tango, they can have a nice buckshot shampoo."
Taggert stopped wailing on the heavy bag.
"Hell yeah," said Taggert. "I tell you what, if those motherfuckers try to get close to me, I got a little present for them."
Taggert went to the wall. Leaning up against it was a long olive green scabbard. Grabbing the handle, he pulled out a machete almost as long as his arm.
"I tell you what, that dog boy or lizard asshole wants some of this, WHAM! off goes his head!"
"Put that away," sighed Davis.
"Why? Scared?" said Taggert.
"Are you really gonna run around with that?" said Rimbaud.
"Hell yes!" said Taggert.
"How are you going to conceal that thing?" said Davis.
"I'll get a big trench coat. It should fit under their."
"Dear God, please no," said Davis. "You'll look like an even bigger douche than you already are."
The group began to laugh as Taggert's face turned red.
"Alright, whatever. But just know, I'll be fucking up some freaks while the rest of you are sitting with your thumbs up your asses wondering what to do next," said Taggert.
"Whatever you say, Safari Al," snickered Davis.
"Whatever man," said Taggert as he plunged the machete into the heavy bag.
Typical banter. But it was how they made time pass, and how they tolerated each other. And more than ever they needed a few laughs. Thula herself was a bit emotionally drained, which sapped her energy more than anything. Her private quarters were through a hallway off from the main training area. She needed some respite until the departure for the next day.
In her room was a very spartan setup. Only a single window allowed light to shine on the damp grey walls. Her bed had one olive green sleeping bag and foam pillow. On her desk was a little Dell laptop. Strictly business only. Her desk had the only real personal possession she bothered to drag along and put on display. It was a photo in a plexiglass frame. A picture that harkened back to a more simple time. She looked at herself young and bold. Ready to die if the Conclave asked. Next to her was her old comrade in arms, Gabrielle Sturrock. She took a seat in a wooden chair, and allowed herself to be lost in the memories the photo brought with it.
Gabrielle Sturrock, it seems was the only Phalanx soldier that Thula had pledged her life to. It was mostly implied that all members of the Phalanx would be there for one another when things became dire. But there was something about the first time Thula took a ride into a drop zone with Gabrielle. In that Chinook helicopter, Thula realized the chance that she may very well perish. One's own mortality has a way of gripping the mind. She was glad to have spent it in the presence of Gabrielle. There was just something about how there eyes met, the way they nodded, and the sheer power of the statement: "You got my back?"
Or maybe it had to do with when they were stuck in mud and reeds. Thula was down to her last half box of rounds for her M240 SAW. All Gabrielle wanted was her custom Mercworx Meggido knife. The enemy was raining down automatic fire and lobbing grenades. The stench of gunpowder and scorched flesh wafted in the air around them. Death was a promise. Thula looked at Gabrielle, and realized that this was the Phalanx soldier that she was going to share death with. Her last moments on Earth would be spent with a person who cared more about her more than any Conclave overlord.
The times when they'd have to bear down and accept mortality we're evened out by the moments they could breathe easy. Thoughts on life went well with a few beers and a couple shots of absinthe. Looking at the picture, Thula remembered Gabrielle's signature style and look. She kept her mane of blonde hair secured in a dew rag. The regulation helmet wasn't for her. Gabrielle told Thula many times before that if someone was going to give her a blow to the head there wasn't much she could do about it anyway.
It was Gabrielle's tactical vest that Thula could recall with much amusement and reverence. She usually wore it over nothing more than a black tank-top. The vest itself had patches that reflected her personality. On the back was a poker spade that encompassed the whole middle. Right dab in the middle of the spade was a deathly white jolly roger. It was one of the reasons why Thula's first squad was nicknamed "The Jolly Roger Squad." Above Gabrielle's right breast, was a patch that read T.C.B. The acronym being "Take Care of Business". It was a mantra that Gabrielle would say if a mission was too risky or ethically troubling. All Gabrielle would have to do would be to mention this phrase, and Thula would be reminded of her duty. The Conclave sent Gabrielle letters of complaint to remove the patches as they didn't jell with the Conclave's standards of uniformity. But Gabrielle was very adamant: "The fuckin' patches stay on!"
Thula thought that Gabrielle's arsenal was interesting as well. She never saw Gabrielle with an assault rifle or shotgun. Gabrielle mostly opted for her Meggido knife, a SOG Pentagon knife as a spare, and a push dagger as a holdout piece. And while most Conclave agents carried slick Glocks, Sigs, and H&Ks, Gabrielle opted for her trusty Para Ordinance P-14. As far as Thula was concerned, Gabrielle had a minimalist style of stealth and brutality to be envied.
The picture that she had depicted both of them with happy grins and tired eyes. They were worn ragged, but happy to be alive. With an arm around each other, they shared the pleasure of being able to wake for the next morning, and to be able to draw breath. So many Phalanx soldiers around them couldn't enjoy that privilege. The photograph stood as a testament to a special moment in time. Friendship among the carnage of war. Thula and Gabrielle were soldiers young and proud.
She was about to check for an email from White when she got a knock at her door open ajar.
"Come in," said Thula.
Looking up she saw it was Ursula.
"Guys getting along?" said Thula.
Ursula shrugged. "Typical bullshit. How was the meeting today?"
"Same thing," said Thula. "Typical bullshit.
Ursula walked into Thula's quarters, all the while she wiped the smelly traces of DW-40 off her fingers with a white rag. Thula could see that the photo of Gabrielle had caught her eye.
"Who's that?" said Ursula.
"Make sure you hands are clean before you touch that."
"They are. Honest."
"That's Gabrielle Sturrock. She and I trained together. We were also put in the same squad. Or, I should say the first active combat squad together."
"What outfit?" asked Ursula.
"Omega Unit. Our squad were skirmishers. We got nicknamed the Jolly Roger Squad."
"Oh yeah," said Ursula. "I think I head of you guys. That was back when I was starting out in Gamma unit. I heard she was pretty good with a knife."
"She could cut you from neck to belly-button like she was opening a Ziplock bag."
"Damn," Ursula clutched her neck. "Whatever happened to her?" "Well, she went on to go with Sigma Unit," said Thula. "She was killed at Mesa Grande with all the other members of her squad. Totally senseless."
"I'm sorry," said Ursula. She took a seat at the edge of Thula's bed. "I guess you guys worked pretty well together."
"Yes. Yes we did."
"Do you think that if we had Gabrielle with us, you know, for that tussle a few nights ago..."
"What are you getting at?"
"Well, I mean, if we could have her there with us in fighting those bastards. Do you think things would have turned out differently?"
"I don't know," said Thula. "I don't like to speculate things like that. What's done is done, and there's no use crying over it. But to be honset, most of the people that Gabrielle killed probably didn't even know they were in the same room together. So who knows?"
"Well, it looks like from this picture she loves the blades," chuckled Ursula. "Could've been a real threat to the freaks."
"Maybe. But that's not how I want to remember her," Thula signaled for Ursula to hand back the picture.
Holding the photograph in her hands, Thula ran her fingers over Gabrielle's image.
"She was an outstanding soldier," said Thula. "And she was a good friend."
They sat in silence until Ursula cleared her throat.
"Are we going to track down those punks who gave us the slip?" said Ursula.
Thula shook her head. "Nah. We got a new assignment. It's up in Maine."
"Maine?" Ursula widened her eyes.
"Yeah, it's just a routine check up. It's for Mother Tertullia."
"What's she doing up there?"
"I don't know," said Thula. "She hasn't made contact with anyone in a few months. Maybe she wanted to take a break from the Conclave's stupid shit."
Ursula stood up from the bed and walked towards the door. She pounded on the wall next to the door.
"Dammit," said Ursula. "And I was ready to tear into those pricks."
"In time," said Thula. "We'll just take care of this first. After that, we'll return here. And then it'll be open season on all freaks. I guarantee it."
Ursula turned from the doorway without making a sound. Obviously she still burned from being bound by her own handcuffs. But there would just come a point where she'd have to suck it up. Put on her big girl panties, as Gabrielle would say. Shut up, and take care of business.
Thula fired up her laptop and did a search on Wendigos. There, she found links to vampirism, snow monsters, and a myriad of cannibalism stories. Thula was one for the practical and pragmatic. But a chill came over her with the most blunted question. What on earth was Tertullia doing in the Maine woods for three months studying the trail of bloodthirsty monsters that could posses people and make them cannibals? Suddenly, Thula missed having to only worry about X5-452.