Legal disclaimers: I don't own or lay claim to Resident Evil or anything directly associated with it in any way, shape or form, it belongs to other people who earn far more money than me. I'm borrowing the idea and one of the characters, Chris Redfield, for this story, however.
Disclaimers: Anything original to this story is the product of nothing more than my imagination, so ask if you want to borrow any of it. Also, this is Resident Evil, so expect bloodshed, gore and death in large amounts if you read on from here.
Important note: This is a prequel to Matt6's story "Operation: Falling STARS" focusing on the character of Serena Baccarin. It covers how Chris Redfield came to be thrown out of the Air Force for insubordination and ended up joining the S.T.A.R.S. while focusing on how Serena fits into the overall story. Credit where credits due, Matt6 and SportyGirl indirectly gave me the idea of doing this. If you see words surrounded by this symbol / then it denotes characters thinking or something important highlighted. Advance apologies if my knowledge of firearms isn't up to much, I'm afraid this just isn't an area I know much about. I made up the fictional location in Iraq, too. Do I really need to state that Umbrella will be popping up in here somewhere? All reviews welcomed.
Lost Souls Chapter One
/April 1st 1996, Kuwait/
The fires were all out now, she couldn't help but notice every time she looked out of the window. She'd last been here five years ago-a different time, a different life, a different woman in more ways than one casually thought about-and had seen the gouts of bloody fire, sick black smoke, heard the echoing, rumbling roar of the blown oil wells exploding into the sky with her own eyes and ears. It had turned brilliant day to darkest night as though a shroud of grey-black smoking cloud had been drawn across the sky, made it almost impossible to go outside at all-and, she recalled with particular clarity, from a hundred metres away the heat had melted the soles of rubber boots on the feet. It had nearly killed her, come to think of it, the closest they'd come after all they'd tried...
Brilliantly lit by a burning-bright sun, crystal clear pale-blue cloudless sky dominated everything now, except the almost pearly white endless swathes of desert sand that swept away from the city almost as far as the eye could see-north, south, east and west. Thin lines of grey-black tarmac cut through it here and there, while, closer still, tall, pale-painted buildings rose out of the desert as though they were shards cast down by the moon. Few dark buildings were anywhere to be seen, the poor weather that often attended this part of the world making a mockery of attempts to be lurid and "stylish" as desert winds and harsh sands stripped away paint and headings as less than nothing.
Somewhere far down below her the beep of horns, the grind of metal and the shouting of men spoke of a recovering city at last staggering to its feet, fighting its way back to a kind of normalcy that, once upon a time, would have been the only thing everyone in it could have ever imagined. What the Hell did /they/ know? Normalcy was a figment of the imagination that protected you from the truth, all it really did was keep you sane-and she should know.
The name of the hotel didn't matter, nor the city, it was all just a means to an end, a point between where she was coming from and where she was going. She needed a day to breathe, think and prepare, that was all, so she'd arranged this.
The top floor below the Penthouse suite would have, to some people, seemed either extravagant or obvious, or both. It was neither, even she didn't know why she was here, she'd been given a mission and she would carry it out, to the letter. If she received further orders, she would simply carry out those too. Something else people would never understand about her, that-they all knew she knew damn well that the penny pinching, bloated, useless and helpless politicians and bureaucrats in the House and Hill would never have either the guts or the drive to get off of their candy soft often-violated backsides and even attempt to do something like this.
They were all more concerned with banging the female Interns, courting big business so that it would write them big cheques for anything they wanted and running the US Government like it was their big, personal Piggy Bank, something the people had no right to make demands on-but she still carried out orders without question, and committed truly awful acts without a moments hesitation. She could have told them why, but that was no part of the job description. For one thing, if anyone who did what they did couldn't see past the fact that they served the nation, not the state, then they were the ones who didn't understand what they were doing. America was in her Soul, not her heart, she existed to serve-now, at least. That she knew enough to protect herself was another matter.
Stepping back from the bathroom window, she pulled fully across the dark curtains before turning towards the sink. Studying herself in the big, clear mirror, she allowed herself the slightest smile. At least, something she could be proud of.
An inch shy of six feet tall, her almost Amazonian physique could have drawn eyes anywhere if that mattered. Muscles rippled and shifted across her toned body, up and down her arms and legs as she shifted, eliciting a purr of pleasure. Smooth jet-black hair fell to her waist, rolling over shoulders, chest and back as softly as a lovers touch, caressing soft curves and silken skin with sensual ease.
Her skin was tawny, a light mahogany brown with traces of a darker tone, a luxurious mixture of South and North America, a gift from her northern Caucasian father and half-Indian southern mother. Brilliant sapphire-blue eyes gleamed in a flawless, fine-featured face that made men whisper behind their hands, women stare and glare.
All a tool, unless she wanted it otherwise. Her Instructors had always told her that she could have had anyone she wanted, at all, from anywhere, at a look. /But/, they'd also taught her that desire makes you stupid, while love makes you a fool. "Use what you've got while you've got it" was the best motto to live by according to them, and she tended to agree. It was true what they said, youth was wasted on the young...
Of course, at twenty-six she was hardly old, but in five years she often felt like she'd aged fifty in ways she didn't want to think about. "Came with the territory" she'd been told-and she believed it.
That there was nothing to be missed anywhere on her she was sure of, due to the fact that she wore nothing more than jet-black shorts and her hair, as usual, before final preparation. However, on her left breast, over her heart, she saw, again, the tattoo, and her mind cleared in a moment. The Phoenix, the Firebird, life after death, rebirth, her in a word. It was past time she stopped thinking about all of this and got to work, she had a job to do.
A touch of expertly applied make-up darkened the skin, while the application of a certain liquid made sure that it wouldn't run or smudge in the heat. Contact lenses changed brilliant blue to dull and dark brown, while a dark-blue dress and light-blue veil which covered her lower face and a headdress, under which her dark hair was bound up tight, changed her face and looks.
She spoke all of the dialects like a native right down to the accent, knew her way around the country blindfolded after hours spent studying maps from every direction and could have told anyone all of the local customs without blinking an eye. She also knew the layout of Saddam's forces where she was going better than the local commanders, had all of the papers she might need, up-to-the-minute intelligence memorised and a two-shot miniaturised Magnum pistol hidden in a sling holster that ran around her chest just under her breasts.
Men, she knew from experience, almost invariably took one look at a beautiful woman then stared at her chest as though there was nothing else in the world, no matter what they said or-in most cases-did. However, it was even more entertaining when one considered the fact that, even given a professionals thoroughness, at least half were more interested in giving her breasts a squeeze than checking whether or not any object that was strapped practically around them should be there or not.
Her name was Serena, Serena Baccarin. Once upon a time it had been Serena Liparti, but that didn't matter anymore...
She was ready, now to the Ba'Hakar Valley she went.
/May 30th, the USA, the Pentagon/
/What am I doing here?/ was all that went through Chris Redfield's mind when he first received his summons to the Pentagon. When he got there, dressed in dark-blue air force uniform and tie with a sky-blue shirt, his uniform cap on his head, the question didn't change. It still didn't change when he was handed a Pass at the front entrance that gave him a Clearance he hadn't even heard of before once he showed his papers.
It /did/ change when he reached the briefing room early-ten minutes early, in fact, just to spite his frequently annoyed superiors, who hated his relentless determination to do things his way, often against orders-to /What the /Hell/ am I doing here?!/. This was, he would later admit, probably a very stupid question to have been asking given where he had ended up, having followed a very specific set of instructions and used a Coded Key-Card to access a sealed, closed room. Once he'd gotten where he was going, he should have asked /why/ would a pilot out of the Air Force, aged only 23 and with a mere four years experience in the military, have been called to a closed meeting at the Headquarters of the whole US military? /Why/ as in "what could they want with me?"
The room was fifteen foot long by ten wide by seven tall. At the far end away from the single door a projection screen covered most of the wall, while in the centre of the room a horseshoe shaped table of transparent pale plastic was set so that the empty heel of the shoe faced the door directly, meaning that no-one could enter without being seen by those at the table first. Seven swivel seats were set around the table, hardback tough plastic chairs on metal bases set into the carpet-less floor, while windows and other viewing points were simply non-existent. The entire room was lit by dull white lamps set into the ceiling, three of them set along the centre of the room from back to front. The only other ornamentation was the door lock. There was no handle, just a card reader set vertically into the wall besides the door which flashed green to signal open, red for locked. The door fitted flawlessly into the wall, he couldn't even pick out an edge.
Given that everything in the room but him was coloured jet black, it gave him the distinct feeling that he was dead and in a tomb. From what he'd heard of this place, that probably wasn't such an exaggeration, although he hoped that at least some of the wilder tales had been exaggerated.
It was the briefing room known as "The Chamber" to those who'd both been there and heard of it, the place which had never existed on any floor plans and couldn't be found unless the owners wanted it to be. People came here to be given missions that were never discussed outside the room and, more often than not, had "never happened".
Suspected to be one of very few rooms outside Langley in any building that could be rated as "Above" Top Secret, it was the kind of place that no-one would ever even attempt to bug because they would never be able to find it. Worse, if they somehow did, "kind men" in white coats would escort them away in a Straitjacket doped to the eyeballs with tranquillisers and leave them locked in a padded room for the rest of their lives. No one would ever ask after them, not even families.
Worse, if you were officially invited there you more than likely stood only a fifty/fifty chance, at best, of coming back from wherever you were being sent. Given that missions which were so illegal that those who carried them out had had to go into hiding under an assumed identity abroad for the rest of their lives at the height of the Cold War had been set up from this room, he didn't doubt it for a minute. Of course, almost all of what had just run through his head was hearsay and rumour, but it had been his experience that sometimes, in the forces, these were the only truths.
It crossed his mind that maybe he was here because he'd put his commanding officers nose out of joint by explaining where he could shove certain orders in graphic detail when he was on a mission one too many times, but he dismissed the thought immediately. His CO might have wanted to strangle him with barbed wire in his sleep as often as not, but even he had to accept that Chris was an ace pilot who was unafraid to take risks, risks best described as suicidal in some cases. He didn't let being in trouble stop him from carrying out a mission, would keep going far past the point of no return if necessary to get the job done and had gotten into and through more trouble and real danger than a number of soldiers would ever know.
His habit of doing whatever it took had started when he was seventeen, he would always remember, when his kid sister, Claire, was eleven, when he had seen his parents car, with them inside, get run right over by a tanker truck which had come around a corner far too fast... After a while, once some semblance of sense had come back into his life, largely thanks to his tough old grandfather, Pierce Redfield, who had spent all of his sixty-eight years (at the time) not taking any shit from anyone and teaching his son to do the same, then his grandson, he'd thought it through, and realised what he had to do. From then on it was just him, him and Claire, and he just had to find a way to make it work, no matter what it took...
He sat down at the head of the table, where the senior officer would sit in any briefing, and smirked. Pulling off his uniform cap, he placed it on the table to the side, then leant forward so that he could see his reflection in the tables reflective surface as he ran his hands through his hair. He'd changed a /lot/ since seventeen, it had to be said...
He'd gained an inch in height to reach 5'10 and a half. He'd put on weight, the lanky teenager becoming the hard-muscled young man. Bright light-brown eyes, once filled with nothing but a sense of childish mischief and an almost innocent sense of adventure, now gleamed with intelligence and hard-earned experience that had taught him a few things about life, some of which he'd never wanted to know. Light-brown hair flared up from his forehead and swept back towards his neck, although it was cut close back and sides, while a strong face and the good looks granted by youth enhanced by genetics made women take a second look.
He was an up-and-coming member of the Air Force who would have been much further along the line where promotion and juicy assignments were concerned if it hadn't been for his continual disrespect of his superiors. The problem was, he didn't care, nobody talked down to him without earning the right, which just wearing a fancy uniform certainly didn't grant one.
The door suddenly beeped and unlocked, giving Chris barely enough time to assume a comfortable slouching position in the chair before he shot to his feet and saluted so fast he almost fell over. The man who walked through the door didn't just command respect by weight of his achievements as much as his position, he made one want to grant it as a matter of course just by being in the same room. Very, very few people commanded that kind of attention to Chris's mind, fewer still truly deserved it once one got past the tough outer shell and bluster. This man would have made George Washington snap to attention and be proud he had a lifetime later.
General Lucas Moralto was Italian American with swarthy looks, dark-brown eyes and a full head of slightly curled silver hair, once jet-black, that had made the fact very obvious. Six feet tall with an athletes slim build, with ever-craggy features and cold eyes that had seen sights that would never be spoken of, even more evident now he was in his late sixties, he wore an air force uniform and cap, exactly the same as Chris's but carrying more badges and medals than some people even knew existed. More obviously, he dominated the room from the moment he entered it with a glance.
Given just his list of known accomplishments after a fifty-year career in the forces Chris wouldn't have expected anything less. No-one stood on a battlefield as many times as Moralto had and got remembered by his troops without having the kind of presence and force of will that Politicians would pay for for the rest of their lives just so that they could demonstrate it even once. More to the point, Moralto had come up through the ranks the hard way, starting as a Private in the army before even the Korean War, in which he had served with distinction.
He'd served with the Army, Navy and Air Force in his time, and every one of his Commanders had had the highest respect for his ability, but had often done all that they could to prevent him rising through the ranks. He'd always done whatever it took to make the mission a success, but had so rarely followed orders, even right from the top, to the letter, that he'd had his Senior Officers at their wits end while his men would have followed him into Hell without a moments hesitation.
It was common knowledge that he should have retired years ago with every award and medal there was at the minimum ranked among the Joint Chiefs, but instead he had insisted on staying on until he could no longer serve. He had only been promoted to General when his retirement speech was evidently about to be read out from the Podium to silence critics of the Chiefs of Staff. His decision to delay his retirement had turned plans made by very senior staff in the Pentagon concerning his departure and subsequent, unknown to him, long-planned retirement from public life upside down. That done, he'd just gone on as though it was the most normal thing in the world to decide, pretending to ignore frantic shredding of documents and rather more obvious hair tearing-out in back rooms.
He was number one on Chris's short list of people who he not only wished to meet, to pay his respects at the very least, but serve under if it ever became possible. If even a tenth of his reputation was justified no soldier could ask for a better officer or leader, and Chris didn't doubt that it was /all/ true from the moment he saw the aged General. He felt the heat in his cheeks in a moment, but couldn't do a thing about it. He'd been caught playing the fool by his idol, the only thing more embarrassing and humiliating he could possibly have done would have been to be caught naked or "preoccupied"...
Moralto just smiled at the sight as Chris wondered whether or not he should just take poison and get it over with now. Then he spoke, and what he said was close to the last thing that Chris had expected.
"At ease, soldier, if you were some stiff-necked army politician who kissed butt at every opportunity and did only what you were told you damn well wouldn't be here. I want men who can think, act and react on their own and don't need their hands held while they shoot a gun. You struck me as one, so don't change my mind now" said Moralto, his voice deep and strong with an accent that linked him to too much time spent in Washington.
That said, he waited until Chris remembered where he was standing, grabbed his cap and leapt out of the way before seating himself at the head of the table. He winked at Chris, then pulled off his own cap and sat down to wait for the others to arrive. It didn't take long after that.
A man in the light-brown uniform of the army Corp of Engineers came in next, a man as tall as Moralto, but with shoulders like a bull and huge long arms atop a runners legs he dwarfed anyone else in the room where sheer physical presence was concerned. Forty years younger than the aged General, corn-blonde hair and cloud-grey eyes were obvious on a tanned, powerful body, while his Texas drawl was obvious when he saluted Moralto and reported for duty. He was introduced as Lieutenant Aaron Bradley, call-sign "Techno", a tech and explosives genius, by Moralto when everyone had arrived.
The next arrival turned up in the uniform of the US Rangers, a Special Forces unit Chris knew was made up of deadly bastards who got the job done, he'd seen them work. Five-eight tall with the slim build of a natural athlete added to by vigorous regular workouts, he looked and was whip-quick with cold blue eyes that missed nothing and blonde hair the colour of the midday sun. He was introduced as Sergeant Tom Brown, call-sign "Iceman", Heavy Weapons Specialist.
Corporal "Mad" Bill Stamper came in last but one, a man dressed in the tan brown colour of the army. Five-seven, slim, thin and pale, he was the physically smallest man in the room and stuck out like a sore thumb because of it. Prematurely grey hair and a moustache made him look older than his late thirties, while limpid light green eyes seemed dull and almost dead. Chris wasn't fooled, nor were any of the others. Stamper was the kind of man no-one was a friend of because he didn't need or want them, added to the fact that he was the kind of man no-one outside of Special Op's would employ due to certain very unhealthy habits. When he was introduced as a Chemicals super-freak no-one blinked an eye. He didn't have a call-sign, apparently.
The last man arrived exactly on time, to the second. Chris was so surprised by the sudden entrance that he found himself staring at his watch to avoid the mans eyes, letting him know the exact moment.
Colonel Mickey Webb blasted into the room as though he owned the world, stared down everyone but Moralto, whose eyes he refused to meet, then grinned, flashing pearl-white perfect teeth. At six-three tall he was the tallest man in the room. With corded heavy muscles that strained his tan army uniform, black hair and blue eyes shining in the light, his face smiled but his eyes were as cold as Arctic ice. In his mid-thirties, he looked ten years younger and moved with a speed and grace the envy of anyone. He looked like the kind of man who knew his business and could carry it out like a professional, with eyes that were sharper than any sharpshooters Chris had ever seen and strong, dextrous hands that looked sculpted to hold weapons of all shapes and descriptions. Bradley was the only man who was built on the same scale, but everyone in the room would have put their money on Webb in a hot New York second. He was a senior Delta Force officer of considerable experience, call-sign "Sweeper", and the team commander. Moralto looked at him for less than ten seconds before Webb stopped posturing and took his chair at Moralto's right hand. Chris just smiled, where no-one could see.
The lights abruptly dimmed and the screen at the end of the room came on. It showed a satellite photograph of a steep-sided valley, with huge brown-rock cliff sides on the north, east and west, a small dirt track leading in from the south. The structure was large and rectangular, coloured a mixture of dull brown and gold which almost blended it with the sand. It took Chris a moment to realise that all of the features on the photograph were too sharp, it took him almost as long as it took Moralto to walk to the screen and begin to talk to realise that not only had the photograph been enhanced and enlarged, a lot, it had been gone over with digital imagery. Someone had been very, very serious about getting a good picture of this place...
"Men, before I begin, I remind you that all here are bound by written promise, spoken word and your accepted codes as soldiers, as well as a variety of laws far too numerous to go into now, to not discuss anything you may see, hear or come to know of in this room with anyone, even each other, outside of it. Should any of you even so much as think of breaking these promises, you will all forfeit your careers, your freedom and, quite possibly, your lives, in that order. No-one will talk, no-one will look, no-one will know, no-one will care. I trust that we are all clear on this?" began Moralto, his voice easily carrying around the room. A chorus of affirmative answers sounded, so he continued. Chris silently began wondering just what he was getting into here, but reasoned that, with Moralto here, it couldn't be all bad. After all, the old man wouldn't be involved in something out and out suicidal, surely...
"Thank you. Now that the necessary unpleasantness is out of the way, we can begin. You see before you the Ba'Hakar Valley in northern Iraq, until three months ago believed to be nothing more than maybe a suspect storage facility for either weapons and ammunition for the region or Weapons of Mass Destruction, both of which possibilities were being investigated by the CIA in preparation for possible air assault if WMD were confirmed. What they found was something else, which is where we come in" continued Moralto, the picture on the screen changing to show pictures of three men in ragged prison clothes facing off against six Iraqi soldiers with AK-47's. This picture was clearly taken from somewhere inside the valley-but, as the film started to run, Chris stopped caring where and when it had been taken.
All six soldiers opened fire on the men in prison clothes at close range, who made no attempt to dodge, making their bodies jerk as though they were marionettes on the strings of a demented puppeteer. Blood sprayed, fragments of flesh and bone flew, ones left arm practically disintegrated below the elbow, then they all collapsed, riddled with a hundred bullets after less than thirty seconds of shooting.
Chris nearly threw up, he wanted to, only Stamper failed to react, so he moved to ask Moralto just why the Hell they had just been forced to watch a cold-blooded field execution without warning-then froze, as the film kept running. The "dead" men moaned, twitched-then opened their eyes and began to slowly sit up. Their bodies were ruined, but it just meant that they took longer. They all saw the glassy eyes, pale, sickly skin, seeming lack of breathing, the blood pouring down, staining the pale golden sands as well as pale flesh and clothes a deep, dark, disturbing crimson red, they all heard the ungodly faint moan as the things mouths opened. Just as they were about to stand, the Iraqi's stepped forwards and shot the moving corpses again, even as dead hands reached out for them. This time, when the things fell back down again, they twitched-then stopped moving forever.
Chris realised that he'd stopped breathing and forced himself to start again. He should have said something, but his conscious mind had hidden in a dark corner and didn't want to come out after what he'd just seen, so someone else beat him to it.
"What, the fuck, was that, sir?!" Webb asked, his tone of voice suggesting that he'd seen worse, but not by much. Whether or not he'd admit it, there was also a strong suggestion in his tone of voice that "disturbed" was too weak a word to use as a description of how he felt after seeing the film, which had ended when the Iraqi's shot the moving corpses a second time.
"I think I know of drugs which can do that" muttered Stamper, not speaking to anyone in particular. He didn't notice, for several long moments, that everyone but Moralto was staring at him after he made the comment. Once he did, he just shrugged. "Hey, its what I do!" he offered, raising his hands to the sky in a sign of helplessness. Everyone kept staring at him until Moralto coughed to get their attention back.
"I wish I knew, Webb, I wish I knew. That, however, is the question everyone is asking, but no-one has managed to answer yet. The CIA and NSA are all over this since were keeping it in-house until /we/ know just what the Hells going on, let me be clear on that, but not one squeak of useful information has leaked out of any source since they started trying. However, they have been able to determine that there is a part of the facility so secure that you have to be personally cleared by Saddam himself, or a higher power, to get in. If you try and aren't cleared, you will simply be shot" stated Moralto, his cool tone matter of fact. He paused to look at everyone, one at a time, before continuing. The only person who showed any real expression, apart from mild distaste, was Stamper, who was staring at the scream almost dreamily, seemingly fascinated. Moralto nodded imperceptibly, just what he'd expected.
"So, given that we have information proving a highly probable real threat here and a complete unknown that may be situated underground to protect it from air assault, we come down to the chosen option: us, or, rather more particularly, you men gathered here in this room, excluding myself. I'm sure that all of you want me to get on with the briefing now, but I need to make certain facts clear first" said Moralto, pausing to gather himself.
"This mission is Shadow Ops, you will all be flying so far below the radar if you do this that not one of you can be seen again should you fail. To this end, AWOL notices will be arranged for everyone to cover the period in question, which will leave a permanent black mark on your Dossiers, but an unofficial good word will ensure that only those who cannot know will not understand that you were serving your country above and beyond the call of duty. The Pentagon and all regional headquarters have cover stories in place to account for your absence and return, for those of you who both succeed and survive, the details of which I will not go into. Your family, friends and loved ones will be prevented from asking too many questions by the FBI and, if necessary, the CIA-but, you will be allowed to write a brief explanation note which will be "found" in the personal quarters of each of you on the day of the mission start.
Most importantly, physical remains can be identified through more means than any of you here know, which cannot be allowed, so all of you will be fitted with implants tuned to your heartbeats. These implants contain phosphor and another chemical which will propel the phosphor throughout the body in ten seconds, to which there is no "antidote". The fire will destroy the body completely, and everything else flammable in three feet, so if one of you is hit do not stand anywhere near that individual. Am I understood?" asked Moralto, his expression not changing as he looked at Chris, who had rapped the table with his knuckles to get attention.
"Sir, I understand everything so far, including the possible consequences, but I have one question. There have to be people much better qualified than us to carry out this kind of mission, professionals so to speak. Why aren't they being given a mission that is apparently of no small importance like this?" asked Chris, at which Moralto's expression became grim.
"Son, you are considered expendable by some, worthless by others and, worst of all, an individual in a man's army when everything important is really done by teamwork-or so they say. All of you here are, but I, personally, believe that this very fact shows a strength that will make this mission succeed no matter what. Also, those professionals you mention /will/ be involved in this. You will only know of one of them, but that individual will get you in and out if at all possible, so have faith in your comrades, carry out your mission in good order and time and carry plenty of ammunition as well as a very sharp knife. Anything else? No?" asked Moralto.
Webb hit the table with the palm of his hand, a hard thump that almost seemed to echo around the small room. Then he looked directly at Moralto, looking the old general straight in the eyes. "I think that I speak for everyone here when I say heard and understood, sir. We all joined up with the intention of doing our best for this land of freedom and plenty when we signed the forms, that ain't changed to me or any of us. So, can you cut out the creepy crap and just tell us what it is you need us all to do?" said Webb. Later, Chris couldn't help but think that Webb must have wanted to be John Wayne when he was a kid the way he looked and sounded sometimes...
Moralto smiled as though he hadn't heard anything sweeter to his ears since Vietnam, the expression almost taking in his ears. "Thank you, Webb. But I am just the conduit, you men are the tool. I'm going to get you in there, once you get there its all up to you. Your mission is to get in, get a sample of whatever Virus, drug or disease it is that their using to do what you saw to people, blow the place and get out again. I would say enjoy, but this is work, not pleasure. Just be careful, don't get yourself killed and remember to take care of all of the Scientists just in case. After all, you really don't want this stuff coming back at you" said Moralto, shaking his head...
***
/Well, that's the first chapter over and done with. Reviews, please? More coming/