The Viper's Tale

by alienissimus

As a Cobra Viper, Mercer had everything—rank, privilege, prestige. He also had dreams. Terrifying dreams. Unlocking his past and uncovering his identity can free him from the nightmares. But answers come with a price...

The Viper's Tale

As a Cobra Viper, Mercer had everything-rank, privilege, prestige. He also had dreams. Terrifying dreams. Unlocking his past and uncovering his identity can free him from the nightmares. But answers come with a price...

An army draws blades. Evil approaches from south. More enemies ride from north. Steel resounds against steel, flashes like lightning before two fronts. Proud, innocent countrymen of Timis scream for mercy as they're slaughtered, their corpses dumped into mountainous heaps. The enemy has won.

Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna weeps for her country, for her people, for her husband.

And we weep for her.

Clouds gather in the east. Baroness Anastasia stands alone, faces her enemies and walks the Elysian Field. New resolution flows. One by one we amass behind her. On our blood-sworn honor we pledge our lives to her selfless love, to her glory. We, the First Sons of Timis, are the storm.

"Honor your duty," an omniscient voice commanded.

Mercer woke with a surge of power. A noble purpose drove humiliation and atrocity back to dream. He stood straight up, breathing hard.

Across the parlor Vypra and Bayonet woke and jumped to their feet, both of them out of breath, too.

They're alive. Love and comradery warmed Mercer's chest.

Vypra and Bayonet rushed toward him with anxious relief in their expressions. Mercer met them in a tight embrace at the center of the gold-gilded parlor, their combat boots squeaking against a polished parquet floor.

Mercer wasn't alone anymore.

Bayonet's strength would protect him.

Vypra's integrity would guide him.

And as long as he commanded, Mercer would take every risk to ensure their safety.

He squeezed Vypra and Bayonet tighter. Tears lined his eyes. He thought that they had died, that they'd been cast onto the heaps of dead. That he'd lost Vypra forever.

But together again they were whole.

Together they were unstoppable.

Together we are Vipers.

"I have new orders for you," Christophe Balinsky said with the same voice as the omniscient narrator from his dream. He sat calm and cross-legged in a high-backed chair and stared, his sharp dark eyes seemed to peer into Mercer's conscience.

Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet's embrace demurred as the first movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony faded to its ominous conclusion. A wood fire crackled in the hearth. Vanilla scented the air.

Christophe shifted in his chair, crossed his legs the other way and said, "You will travel to New York. You are to provide security. And for the duration, you are assigned to Firefly."

Firefly. Mercer's memories and history converged. Desperate times, victories, celebrations with a trusted comrade. A protector. A brother.

"Now, honor your duty," Christophe said.

Mercer saluted with a right fist over his heart and said to Christophe Balinsky, "Thank you for this mission and I look forward to our next debriefing."

"I, as well," Christophe replied.

Mercer marched his team out of the parlor, through Castle Cisarovna's main hallway. Plush crimson carpet crushed under foot. Oil painted portraits of long dead barons eternally scowled from the walls, their hand carved frames worn with the centuries. Mercer bowed to the newest portrait, thanked Baroness Anastasia's dead husband, Baron Marius Cisarovna, for his devotion to Timis during his brief life.

The grand foyer glimmered in a warm chandelier glow. Mercer squinted against the light as he marched by marble busts of grim faced men. Cold testimonies to the country's stern history.

Mercer exited the castle into a frigid November morning. A black limousine waited. He slid into the back seat, followed by his team.

Steal fangs shined in the pale light near the front. Firefly smiling, said with a thick Irish brogue. "Good to see you all."

"It's been too long, old friend," Mercer said. "We're fortunate to work with you again."

"Aye."

Vypra pulled a small radio frequency scanner from her pocket.

"Cautious as ever, love?" Firefly asked.

Mercer grinned as Vypra winced. She hated effeminate terms.

Vypra pointed her scanner at Firefly, flicked a switch. The devise beeped once. "I'm detecting a strong bullshit signal in this direction."

"Is there any way to jam it?" Bayonet asked.

"Nothing a meter of duct tape and a boot to the balls can't handle."

Firefly, Mercer and Bayonet laughed.

Vypra nodded to Mercer. He understood, her scanner showed the limousine free of listening devices. They'd worked together long enough to communicate nonverbally. She'd been Mercer's closest ally for five years. He'd held her hand when she had both breasts amputated. She kicked morality into his groin when he tried to visit a Serbian rape camp. They'd grown into a single unit of equals for a mutual benefit. But something prevented him from speaking to her beyond rank and mission, an inner voice that forbid intimate conversations.

Outside the limousine snow covered the Southern Carpathian Mountains. The rugged landscape along Romania's western edge defined Timis's beauty, and horror. Ancient rumors evoked an uneasiness in Mercer. Monsters hid behind the mountains, sheltered in shadows and lived among dreams.

"You look about a size thirty-six American," Firefly said to Mercer, then to Bayonet, "And a forty-two for you?"

"So this is a suit-and-tie job?" Mercer asked.

"The first part. I'll call it a dress-and-heels job for Vypra."

Vypra shuttered. "I'll wait in the car." She disliked undercover work. Business outfits never fit properly unless she wore a prosthetic chest and she complained that those impeded tactical reaction.

Mercer had witnessed the incident, when they were pinned down by gunfire and she raised her weapon only to have the buttstock snag a breast. Vypra cursed, tore off the prosthetic and flung it away. Explosions, human screams, bullets zipping near their heads, yet Mercer couldn't help laughing as fake boobs twirled into the air.

Vypra was a pure warrior.

"Sorry, love," Firefly said. "You're too important to sit this one out."

*2*

Wide, terrified eyes. Scared children. Townspeople begging for their lives. Begging me for their lives. I turn away. More screams. Machine guns. Silence.

Mercer roused to a strumming guitar. His hands shook, sweat chilled his forehead. The dream felt so real, but the people, the town, he couldn't remember. Was he actually there? Did he allow children to die?

He glanced over. Bayonet and Firefly sat together discussing plucking techniques at the front of the private jet. Vypra was nowhere to be seen.

"How long was I asleep?" Mercer asked. He breathed deep, settled his nerves. That couldn't have been me. I would never let that happen.

"About two hours," Firefly said. "You used to hold your liquor better than that."

Mercer put a hand to his forehead, still groggy from a few shots of Irish Whiskey coupled with low cabin pressure. "Yeah, Christophe's been cutting us back. It's not like the good old days."

"Probably for the best. Pull yourself together, we've a meeting in an hour."

Vypra came out of the lavatory.

Mercer's breath stuttered.

She wore a black business jacket over a silver blouse with a plunging neckline. The ensemble accentuated her stout figure with tapered angles and clean lines to reveal the woman too often hidden in combat fatigues.

"You know I hate this," Vypra said to Firefly. "You set up the mission so I'd have to wear a skirt, didn't you."

Mercer saw her small nose crinkle, thin lips tighten and her chest, above the flesh-colored prosthetic, flush red.

"No. The mission wasn't mine, but I couldn't think of a better team for the job. We'll be done here in a few hours. Consider it business camouflage." Firefly strummed a chord.

"This better be worth it," Vypra said.

Mercer glimpsed her patent heels and thick calves in sheer black stockings. It already is.

*3*

Mercer exited the plane and took in the view of Long Island's skyline, the smell of the East River, the busy roar of La Guardia Airport. Despite his travels across Europe, zigzagging through Asia and numerous campaigns around the Middle East, nothing compared to the industriousness of the United States. It reminded him of home, though he couldn't recall a home other than Castle Cisarovna in Romania.

Another limousine parked beside the jet. Firefly got in, Mercer followed.

Mercer immediately stiffened. Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna sat toward the front with a glass of red wine.

Firefly leaned over, kissed her cheek. "Ravishing as ever, my lady."

The Baroness forced a smile.

She had taken over her husband's official duties after American planes bombed a Serbian headquarters he'd been visiting in April, 1994. In the two years since she'd pulled away from social affairs, buried herself in business and administered from the upper stories of her lonesome castle. Gone was the carefree spirit she'd once been known for, yet she still radiated power and authority.

The limousine drove into Manhattan's steel and glass chasms. Mercer's mission, to provide security, became the hardest job he'd ever accepted. Building after building of potential sniper blinds. So many cars. So many bicycles.

The driver stopped for a lady crossing the street. She could be the distraction for an ambush. Mercer glanced at Firefly. Firefly didn't look worried. He seemed calm, amused even.

They drove along West Street, around the World Trade Center buildings. Mercer had seen photographs, but the sheer size of the Twin Towers, reaching a half kilometer into the sky, stole his breath.

The driver pulled into an underground parking garage and stopped. Firefly got out. "Keep close to our dear Baroness."

The Baroness scoffed into her wine glass.

The limousine drove forward again. Mercer glanced back, but Firefly had disappeared. Mercer shifted in his seat. Security, trust, responsibility bore down on him with all the weight of the World Trade Center Towers above. I'm not qualified to guard royalty.

Bayonet, too, appeared uneasy, glancing sideways at Baroness Anastasia every five seconds. But he was strong, a Snow Viper graduate and an Eels qualified diver who loved the bitter cold. Bayonet never doubted himself and always believed in his purpose, yet seated before royalty his nervousness showed.

The limousine stopped beside an express elevator. Mercer and Vypra got out, checked side to side. Bayonet pressed a button and went around the back. Metallic doors slid open.

"You need to calm down," Baroness Anastasia said as she exited the car and walked directly into the elevator. "I'm under no threat."

Mercer's cheeks flushed. The Baroness, his savior from dream, spoke to him. "With… with all due respect, ma'am, we'd like to take every precaution."

Vypra and Mercer entered the elevator. Bayonet would catch the next.

Baroness Anastasia touched button one hundred and ten. The penthouse suites.

She intimidated Mercer. He wanted to say something, mention the castle, the paintings, the weather, yet he couldn't utter a syllable of small talk. Rumors said she was a cunning agent, that she could slit a throat, but Mercer didn't see the ability within her.

"Your shoes are lovely," Baroness Anastasia said to Vypra. "You have wonderful taste."

"Thank you, ma'am," Vypra replied.

Mercer heard Vypra speak Romanian, but recognized the accent of… an American?

Vypra went silent after that. She handled knife fights better than compliments.

The elevator door opened to a modern reception foyer. A frosted glass wall with the corporate logo Extensive Enterprises etched clear across double doors separated the office space. A chest high desk to the right curved around the cheery receptionist with too much makeup and too poofy hair. Despite the wide smile, Mercer caught her quick glimpses evaluating them for threat. One equally cheery, equally menacing, doorman in a black business suit attended the entrance. Both employees wore crimson ribbons on their lapels.

"Ms. De Cobray, Mr. Paoli has been expecting you," the receptionist said.

An alias? Her real name is so much more powerful.

The doorman waved Baroness Anastasia, Vypra and Mercer through with an upturned palm. The motion was cordial, but Mercer saw his hand centimeters from an inconspicuous lump under his jacket. A gun.

The wide open office's décor matched the cold glass and steel of the building's façade. Windows wrapped around two sides and overlooked Manhattan.

Another man locked eyes with the Baroness from across the room. "Anastasia," he said with a hint of an accent Mercer couldn't place. The man took her hand, kissed both of her cheeks. "It's good we finally meet in person."

The Baroness smiled. "Yes. Tomax, is it?"

Tomax nodded.

"Please excuse my delay. I'm afraid I've lost sight of priorities."

A small heat rose in Mercer. The excuse was beneath his Baroness. She apologized to no one, especially a common stranger in a foreign land. And in that moment Mercer stood ready to kill Tomax for compelling her to consider such debasement.

"Nonsense. We have met at the perfect time. May I offer a drink? I have a superb Barolo."

Tomax poured a glass of red wine almost before the Baroness accepted. He poured a second glass for himself, but none for Mercer or Vypra. He never glanced at them, never acknowledged their existence.

The Baroness swirled the wine, breathed the aroma. "This is superb."

"Come. Please, let's sit." Tomax guided Baroness Anastasia to a bright nickel-satin velour post modern sofa.

Mercer peered at Vypra. She obeyed his unspoken command with a slow blink. She would watch the Baroness while he looked around, took in the sights, scanned for danger. Mercer gazed over the city. No other building offered clear sniper shots. The only threats would come from inside.

"Yes, this is a favorite of my brother's."

The Baroness sipped. "And how is Xamot."

"He is keeping busy these days on some project to deregulate the U.S. banking system. He says it will offer fresh avenues for discreet accounting."

"Sounds interesting."

Mercer faced away from the window, sent Vypra the silent message that he watched the Baroness and she could snoop around.

Tomax shook his head. "How my brother's mind works. I prefer the tried and true methods, but I guess we all must grow."

The Baroness sipped again. "And have you been in contact with Destro?"

Tomax examined the contents of his glass by the ambient light. "Yes, funds have been transferred, the shipping companies contracted and equipment is on its way. And you, I trust, are ready on your end?"

"A mechanized division is waiting and a close support air wing is standing by. Our South Asia ally is poised to move. Once this begins, events will happen quickly. We'll need money to flow in and out effortlessly."

Tomax smiled, swirled his wine. "That is our specialty."

"So I am to understand. But is a twenty-five percent commission necessary?"

"I know. It is dreadfully high. Unfortunately our overhead in such matters demands the expense."

Mercer cracked his knuckles. I'll bring him down to zero percent in one minute.

The Baroness sipped, stared over the rim of her glass. "Of course, there will be… perquisites on the back end of this venture."

Again, Mercer heard the Baroness belittle herself. She was above negotiation. This businessman extorted nobility. He had no pride, no dignity. I should tear his head off.

"This is an area my brother is more comfortable with than me, but I will listen."

The Baroness crossed her legs, sipped wine through a contented smile. "We will have unfettered access to all Australasian markets."

Tomax sat up.

"Banking, investing… gambling. We will open fresh avenues for discreet accounting as well."

He stared into her eyes, glanced out the window, then back to her. "I could manage twenty percent."

"Considering the volume of potential, ten percent strikes me fair."

"Fifteen."

Mercer breathed heavier. She didn't need his money. The people of Timis adored her. She had the backing of half of Romania and Serbia. The counter offer was an insult.

Baroness Anastasia raised her wine glass and said simply, "Cheers."

*4*

Mercer took a long draw of whiskey and stared out the private jet's window. Why would Baroness Anastasia negotiate with anyone? The plane flew in a crisp blue sky above gray clouds layered over the sea like an old wooly blanket. An hour after the meeting his anger still burned. Vypra and Bayonet chatted about the city, the buildings, the traffic. Firefly strummed his guitar. Her degradation is an affront to us all.

Bayonet switched seats, sat beside Mercer. Mercer caught a scent of old sweat. The mild New York winter was too warm for him.

"You seem down," Bayonet said. He poured more whiskey into Mercer's quarter full tumbler. "The mission was successful. Plus, the Baroness knows who we are now."

Mercer turned to Bayonet, saw the sincerity in his steely blue eyes. But Bayonet wasn't in the office. He didn't listen in silence as the Baroness humiliated herself. Turbulence bumped the plane. Mercer raised his arm, held his glass still. "Was she ever in real danger? Did we do anything useful?"

"Maybe no, but we got to see New York. Though, I would've liked to have caught a Broadway show."

Bayonet could see the bright side in everything. A true optimist. Mercer took another drink. Vapors burned his throat, his sight drifted off center. "I should've killed him."

"Probably," Bayonet said. "But then we'd never get to come back to see a show. Who're you talking about, again?"

Mercer sneered. "I should've choked out Tomax and stomped his face for making the Baroness negotiate. He humiliated our nation."

Firefly muted his guitar. "Anastasia handles business all the time. She's good at it. And don't think for a second that you have any advantage over Tomax. He and his brother are elite hand-to-hand fighters."

"I still would've—"

"Doubtful. Anastasia performed perfectly. She secured the financial commitment and brought the commission down forty percent on a promise. Her words saved Timis hundreds of millions of dollars. Probably trillions of those worthless Romanian Leu, if that's what you're using. Now, please, go on about national insults."

Mercer huffed, finished his whiskey in one gulp. Firefly wouldn't know what it meant. He wasn't from Timis. He was a loner from Ireland. How can he possibly understand what national humiliation means?

*5*

"Do it."

The voice holds authority, holds familiarity, holds consequences. A bright flash and pistol report. The gray woman falls into the gray heap of dead humans that stretches as far as I can see.

Someone shoves me. I freefall toward the heap.

Mercer screamed, sat bolt straight, clawed at the jet's armrests.

"Take it easy," Bayonet said. "That was just a little turbulence."

Mercer glanced around. Vypra and Firefly both smiled at him, amused.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just had one of those dreams where I was falling."

"You need to relax."

Mercer panted. A cold sweat chilled his forehead. He twisted the air vent nozzle closed. Outside, the gray clouds stretched to the horizon like the backs of the dead in his dream. His stomach fluttered, threatened to heave. He slammed the window shade shut and hung his head between his knees.

"You'd better not puke in my plane," Firefly said.

They're only clouds, they're only clouds. Who were those people? Who commanded me? Why did I execute the lady? Mercer clinched his fists, gritted his teeth.

"There's something wrong with him," Bayonet said.

That's not who I am. Mercer sat up and drew a breath. "No, I'm alright. I just need a drink."

"I think you've had enough," Firefly said. "We'll be seeing important people and you'll prefer to meet them without booze on your breath."

Mercer put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. He could smell the whiskey as he exhaled. Another bump of turbulence. Mercer glanced around. Everyone stared at him.

"Why don't you take a few minutes to yourself." Firefly said.

Mercer quietly agreed. He walked into the lavatory, ran water and splashed his face. The dream felt too real, more like a memory trying to escape. He pushed his fingers into his eyes, sucked water from the spigot. So many people. And he participated.

Mercer muttered to himself, "It's just the whiskey." He wiped water off his face, peered into the mirror. His dead eyes, vacant of human dignity, reflected a monster.

"Get a grip. It was a dream," he muttered again as he dropped his slacks and sat. Images of the gray clouds returned, superimposed over his dream of the gray heaps of people. Tears welled, a spasm fluttered in his chest. Mercer held his face, leaned over his elbows and cried alone on the toilet.

*6*

"Are you sure you're alright?" Firefly asked Mercer. "We're not going to have another ludicrous display, are we?"

"No, sir." Mercer gazed out the limousine window at children riding bicycles. November in the Scottish Highlands resembled autumn in Timis. Snow dusted hills, shepherds tending flocks, smoky farmhouse chimneys dotting the countryside. And gray clouds hanging over the land. They passed through a rustic village with inns and a pub, a bit of industry on the outskirts. As they wound through low rolling hills the paved road turned to gravel, then to dirt.

Tucked inconspicuously among the hills a modest seventeenth century castle rose out of the thin forest. Manicured shrubs lined the driveway, swans swam on the lake in front and a helicopter sat parked around the side. The limousine stopped at the foot of a dozen granite steps.

"Now it's time for fun," Firefly said.

A house maid opened a massive carved oak door, met Firefly with smiling eyes and a trembling lip. She tipped her head contritely, though she seemed hardly capable of restraining her excitement. She loves Firefly.

Firefly led them to an elevator and down into a stark white basement stacked floor to ceiling with crates and boxes. Vast rows of tool chests lined one wall. Benches with rifles in various stages of construction lined another. Mercer didn't recognize the rifles. They weren't NATO or Warsaw Pact standard issue.

Firefly marched to the most prominent figure in the room, a man a decameter taller than Mercer in a black suit, shiny leather shoes and a polished chrome mask covering his head and face.

Firefly grinned. The mask never moved. The two men shook hands.

"These are Anastasia's Vipers," Firefly said to the masked man. "Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet, meet Destro."

Mercer tilted his head up, nodded to Destro. Destro scanned him over from behind the chrome mask, yet he said nothing.

A fidgety little man with a handle bar mustache and thin beard stepped beside Destro and cleared his throat. He wore an odd military uniform complete with gold cords and epaulettes, though no insignias representing a known army.

"This is General Voltar," Destro said in an echoing baritone. "He'll equip and train you this week."

General Voltar jutted out his chin and clicked his heels together, then said in an Algerian French accent, "They do not salute generals? What kind of soldiers do you bring me?"

General Voltar? He's a clown.

Destro's gleaming mask held still. Firefly leaned over, whispered, "He'll be your commander for a while. Treat him like it."

Mercer hesitated. Firefly handed them to a foreign general. His friend had committed the worst offence of command. Mercer glanced back. Firefly and Destro talked close together in the way of old friends.

Mercer slowly raised his fist to his chest. Vypra and Bayonet did, too.

"This is better. Come with me." General Voltar pushed through the group, marched with an abbreviated goosestep.

Mercer had heard of Destro in hushed conversations, understood him to be an important man, one deserving the utmost reverence, but the mask and his peculiar general….

This is becoming a freak show.

"Take one." General Voltar pointed to a crate. Bayonet opened the lid. All three pulled out helmets. Voltar pointed to several more crates along the shelf, each with a different piece of head gear. Breathing mask, goggles and an opalescent face shield.

The General handed each person a rifle, the strange ones from the bench, but fully assembled, and ordered them to grab ammunition cans from separate piles.

Mercer read the stenciled caliber designations on the side of each can. Same guns, but different ammo?

Voltar led them into a long corridor. Every pace accentuated in a measured heel strike that sounded bigger than his meter and a half height.

They emerged onto a sprawling field. Mercer's breath puffed white in the cold, though the temperature was mild enough for his sport coat alone. Bayonet took off his coat and tie and opened a couple shirt buttons. He would've stripped naked if he'd been given the choice.

Voltar stopped at a row of tables, ordered them to set their equipment down. A familiar thrill excited Mercer, one that excused Firefly and tolerated General Voltar for the moment. He noticed Vypra smiled, too. They were about to fire live ammunition on a closed rifle range.

Voltar walked to Bayonet's table, clicked his heels together and lifted the rifle for everyone to see. The barrel seemed too fat to Mercer and the magazine extended at a peculiar angle. Collapsible buttstock, forward grip and a grenade launcher. Nice.

"This is the MARS, Multiple Ammunition Rifle System," Voltar said. "It fires the 5.45 by 39, the 5.56 by 45, the 7.62 by 39 and the 7.62 by 51."

Vypra's hand went up.

General Voltar ignored her.

"A two part barrel twists and adjusts to accommodate the five and seven millimeter ammunition." As he said it Voltar pressed a button near the buttstock, the rifle broke open. He slid out the bolt carrier and held it up to inspection.

Not too different from any others Mercer had seen. Guide slots, rotating bolt, extractor claw, firing pin.

"This bolt carrier automatically adjusts to extract the ammunition you use."

Okay, that's entirely different.

Vypra's hand rose again. Voltar ignored her. "When it meets this part." He pushed another pin. A cylindrical piece slid out of the breech. "It rotates to lock the bullet in the chamber."

Vypra's hand went half way up, then slowly sank. Voltar showed several breech blocks, explained the color coordination—blue for NATO ammunition, red for Russian.

Mercer opened his ammunition can and pulled out a carton of bullets.

"No," Voltar said. "You have not been instructed to load your weapon."

Mercer closed the ammunition can.

Voltar explained field stripping, maintenance and cleaning procedures for another two hours.

He moved to the headgear and droned about a mask everyone knew how to wear, the special ear muffs, details of the helmet as if one was ever different from another. Adjustable webbing, impact resistance levels, chinstrap, batteries? He held up the opalescent face shield, fitted it to the helmet and against the mask.

Mercer donned his headgear. The landscape sharpened, finer details stood out. There's something to this face shield.

"The face shield is polarized. It also adjusts brightness for dim environments. It has infrared interpolation for night operations and is paired to imaging devices on your rifle. You will see green ghost outlines from the rifle layered over the shield's forward view. Now, touch the button under your chin. This controls the face shield options."

Mercer felt a small circular protrusion on the underside of the breathing mask. It rocked in four directions. One switched to infrared. Another direction turned on and off a map, the third magnified his view and the fourth sighted through the rifle's camera.

These guns, these helmets, they have to cost a fortune. To outfit a small army could bankrupt a country like Timis.

On the frosty range in a business suit, combat helmet and face shield, Mercer realized what Baroness Anastasia had done. In negotiations with the foreigner, her country's pride and dignity were sacrificed to protect him. And in that moment Mercer felt the Baroness's undying love.

But the equipment needed real world testing. And for that Firefly selected Mercer and his Vipers.

Silhouette targets popped up a hundred meters across the field. Voltar said, "Open your ammunition cans. Prepare your MARS weapons for the specific calibers and fire on your targets."

Mercer beamed behind the face shield. He opened the ammunition can, removed a bullet. By its weight, its diameter and slope of the smooth brass case he recognized it as a 7.62 by 51 millimeter NATO round. His favorite ammunition. He twisted the barrel knob, switched the breech block, made sure the blue follower showed and proceeded to load twenty bullets into the magazine. Locked in place, round charged, sights lined up… fire.

He missed high and to the right, but the weapon operated smoothly. He smelled burnt powder and lubricant. This is why I love the military.

Mercer emptied his magazine. So did Vypra and Bayonet. Voltar had them switch tables. They modified their equipment to match different ammunition, fired another twenty or thirty rounds and switched tables again. For the rest of the day they trained on the MARS weapons, moving between tables, adjusting the rifles in faster and faster intervals.

The temperature dropped with nightfall. Voltar denied them night vision use from their face shields. Mercer's fingers tightened with the cold and fatigue, but he and his Vipers persisted until the motions became automatic, until each person changed configurations in less than one minute by feel alone.

They ran out of ammunition around one in the morning. Mercer flexed his aching hands, rubbed his tender shoulder. General Voltar fed them and showed them to a dormitory in the servants' quarters of Castle Destro.

Maybe these clowns aren't so bad after all, Mercer thought as he drifted to sleep.

*7*

"Everyone awake," General Voltar shouted and flicked the lights on.

Mercer glanced at the clock, three hours and twenty-two minutes of sleep, and remembered why he hated the military.

"You have new uniforms. Get your rifles and helmets and receive your instructions."

Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet jumped off their bunks, started dressing from three piles of clothes on the floor. Bayonet's shirt fit tight across the shoulders. Vypra's hung like a tent.

"What are you doing?" Voltar said. "Look at each other."

Mercer chuckled, handed his shirt to Vypra and took the shirt from Bayonet. They donned new, proper fitting combat fatigues with sturdy boots and a full set of body armor. Emblazoned on their left breasts, an image of a crimson cobra.

Mercer led Vypra and Bayonet through the corridor toward the rifle range. A translucent-green message flicked onto the left side of his face shield. Orders and objectives. A small map appeared on the right side.

"You two see this?" Vypra asked.

"Yeah," Bayonet said. "What is it?"

"Our first assignment," Mercer said.

They marched out of the long corridor onto the rifle range and waited for the General, but Voltar didn't show.

I have the directions. I don't need to hear orders from a clown. Mercer waved to Vypra and Bayonet, said, "Let's go."

Under full armor they jogged across hoary fields, over rolling hills and into a thin pine forest. The crisp air, exercise, new weapons and armor, all of it invigorated Mercer and put the bad dreams and negative thoughts out of his mind. Whatever the Baroness and Firefly wanted with the clowns no longer bothered him, not when he had someplace to run to.

Ten kilometers over the countryside they arrived at the location on the visor maps. Beneath a shrub Mercer found an ammunition can loaded with 7.62 by 39 millimeter bullets and a message. Vypra and Bayonet switched their weapons and distributed the new ammunition evenly as Mercer read the note aloud. "One hostage in a barn eight kilometers south-west. Identified by blue shirt. Neutralize hostile contingents dressed in camouflage. Secure hostage and provisions. Get cargo to a transport sixteen kilometers east. Trust your armor."

Mercer tore the note into thirds. Each ate a piece of the paper.

Vypra took the point position. She scouted ahead, watched for tripwires, checked for radio signals.

Mercer trusted her. She was thorough, chose the safest routes and liked to lead out of a sense of responsibility. He'd follow her into ambushes confident she'd get him out alive. And at quiet moment over long hikes through treacherous territory he could admire her working physique without notice.

Five hundred meters out Vypra spotted the barn. Mercer magnified the view. A farmhouse to the right, a wire fence all around and a flock of sheep in between. No quiet way to get through.

Two could sneak through the wire fence and sheep while the third acted as sniper lookout, but the 7.62 by 39 ammunition was questionably accurate at five hundred meters. The eastern side offered the narrowest view from windows, but it was the longest way around.

"We can storm the farmhouse first," Vypra said.

"To easy to sound an alarm," Bayonet said.

"No, we'll go with Vypra's idea," Mercer said. "There's no way to get to the barn without being seen. If we secure the house first, we'll have a chance. We sneak up from the east side. Vypra, you cover the north side, Bayonet, the south. I'll go through the front door, get info from anyone inside, then we'll attack the barn."

"I don't like it," Bayonet said.

"Neither do I, but we're not waiting until night."

Mercer hustled around the farmhouse in a quick, cautious march, flicking between magnified and regular views. His face shield was becoming as easy to use as his MARS weapon. They held, examined the farmhouse. No snipers in the windows, no spotters in the field. Mercer led them single file in a sprint over the fence and across the front yard. Vypra and Bayonet scurried around the back to guard their posts. Mercer bashed the front door inward. An old man and woman jumped in their seats.

"Nobody move!"

The couple obeyed, fear combed across their faces. Empty plates sat beside them. A subtle hint of boiled cabbage and mutton lingered while a laugh track sounded from the television. They'd taken lunch.

"Everyone's waitin' for you in the barn, ya dobber," the old man said.

"How do they know I'm coming?"

"They left ya the note. What do ya think, yer jes gonna find secret information in the woods? Come on, man. Think it through. And point yer gun away from my wife."

Mercer stood straight, lowered his aim. The note read broadly. He wasn't sure how realistic the simulation had been intended. But the fear in the couple's eyes was real, as real as the fear stricken eyes from his dreams.

"Sorry about the door." Mercer walked out, a string of curses following. He met Vypra around the other side, called to Bayonet. "The house wasn't part of the training."

"What happened?"

"Scared some farmers. We're expected in the barn. We'll play the game and secure the fake hostage."

As Vypra opened the barn door, Mercer and Bayonet charged inside. Human shaped targets painted in camouflage stood near a single wooden cut-out in blue. Mercer and Bayonet opened fire. They blasted each of seven targets within two seconds. Vypra came in behind, checked the dark corners, cleared their flanks.

"Easy enough," Bayonet said. "What now? We carry a sheet of plywood to the transport? Maybe fix a roof at the castle?"

"Search for ammo," Mercer said. "Grab any food and med kits."

"Hold your fire," a woman said from the shadows.

All three spun, aimed.

"Lower your weapons." She spoke with a groomed Oxford accent.

"Who are you?" Mercer said.

"Armada. But you will call me Mistress. I work with Destro and Voltar and have instructions for the next leg of your training."

Mercer relaxed, approached Mistress Armada. Early thirties, honey toned hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head and wire framed glasses. She carried a demeanor as though she couldn't enjoy herself unless someone else suffered.

"You are each to transfer forty-five kilograms of supplies to a transport sixteen kilometers east. Rucksacks are in the corner. Ammunition and equipment are in crates. You are also required to deliver the green cargo box. And you have four hours to complete this mission starting now."

Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet dashed to the corner, opened the crates and stuffed their rucksacks when Vypra said, "This is all five-five-six."

"So. Just load it up. We've got to move," Bayonet said.

"No, she's right," Mercer said. "We don't want to switch over during a firefight."

"This is only training. We won't get into any firefights."

"Your commander is correct," Mistress Armada said.

Mercer thought ahead about the new system and earned validation from the strange Mistress. "Switch 'em up."

In well-practiced motions, all three ejected their magazines, cleared the chambers, then cracked open the MARS weapons to replace the breech blocks.

"The funny thing about firefights," Mistress Armada said, "is that you never know when you'll find yourself in one."

Two shots cracked. Vypra lurched, fell backward screaming. Another two shots knocked Bayonet down. Mercer spun, stared Mistress Armada up the sights of her pistol. He stared into her cold, smiling eyes and saw the last visions of his victims from dream.

"No, please don't kill me." Mercer begged, but knew it wouldn't help. No amount of begging ever helped.

Point blank. Muzzle flash.

*8*

I cradle Vypra's cold, lifeless body in my arms atop a heap of dead people. Bayonet sprawls beside us, bullet holes in his chest. I finally feel peace, but I've waited too long to say that I love her. Vypra is dead. I can never express to her how I feel. Perhaps after I die.

"Come on, Mercer. Wake up."

Vypra's voice sounded transcendent, as though sung from Heaven. Then pain. Mercer's head ached as if he'd been hit by a truck.

"What happened?" he asked. Bayonet drug him to his feet. Hazy images of Mistress Armada coalesced. A pit sank in his stomach. The lady he'd trusted shot him in the face.

"Trust your armor. It's the best in the world," Mistress Armada said.

"She wanted to prove the armor works," Vypra said.

"And your face shields will stop one or two pistol rounds."

"You could've just told us that," Bayonet said, rubbing his chest."

"What good is trust without knowledge?" Armada said with a snicker.

Mercer saw the malevolence in her grin. She enjoyed shooting them.

"And this brings us to another lesson. Since you never know when a firefight might erupt, you'd best not disassemble all your rifles at once."

"Yeah, you could've told us that, too," Bayonet said.

Mercer finished converting his rifle. With every bullet loaded, he thought of shooting Mistress Armada, every grenade he packed he imagined throwing at her head. Where is Firefly? And why did he give us to this psychopath?

Through snow dusted grass, over hills and icy bogs they hiked, each beneath forty-five kilogram rucksacks while they rotated carrying one side of a sixty kilogram cargo box. Their legs burned, shoulders ached and the longer they marched the quicker they switched.

The physical strain, the destination, the parts of the mission Mercer had enjoyed faded behind a sad veil. Dreams that felt like memories of times and places he couldn't recall hovered above other thoughts. The faces, so desperate, then blank. Over and over and a thousand times over until the heap of corpses reached the horizon.

The gun to his face exposed Mercer's shallow desperation. And his desperation connected him to the heaps, to the millions that begged for their lives. Vypra's blank stare. Bayonet's hollow eyes. What's left for me, but death?

And the strange command, Do it. Whose voice did his dream obey? He knew the voice, but he couldn't place the tone. Crunching through iced mud, the weight on his back pulling him under while the simple command haunted him. The gray woman was frightened, begging for her life. Nothing she did deserved a bullet, yet he shot her on a two word order.

Bayonet and Vypra chatted about the contents of the cargo box. Weapons of course, but what kind they'd spent hours trying to guess. Neither seemed aware of the heaps. Mercer, as with Vypra and Bayonet, served Baroness Anastasia and Timis proudly. And if the Baroness required his sacrifice, he'd face death, but he'd been given to clowns, shot in the face by a lackey and forced to haul cargo. Who was he supposed to take orders from? Why won't these dreams go away?

"There's our ride," Bayonet said.

Mercer magnified his view. Across a flat, snow-glittered field, General Voltar waited at another small farmhouse behind a flat-bed transport. Mistress Armada stood beside him.

"We've got two minutes left," Vypra said.

What's the purpose of all this and what's the consequence in failure?

Bayonet and Vypra would break themselves to appease whoever ruled them. Mercer felt the compulsion, too, though his service no longer made sense.

Mercer's legs and shoulders trembled. Bayonet took over for Vypra, pulled a little harder. Thirty seconds. Mercer stumbled. So did Bayonet, but they kept pace. Vypra helped Mercer for their final push.

"On the transport," Voltar commanded. "Everyone and everything goes on the transport."

Bayonet heaved his end of the box onto the truck bed. Mercer and Vypra pushed the rest of the way. Bayonet tossed his rucksack up, climbed inside. He grasped Vypra's wrist and hauled her on. Both of them pulled Mercer aboard.

"Congratulations," Mistress Armada said. "You made it with six seconds to spare. You'll have to move faster tomorrow."

Mercer dropped his rucksack and collapsed. How can I go on like this?

*9*

"Is this seat taken?"

Mercer waved a dismissive hand. A young woman sat on the barstool beside him. He finished his pint of lager, signaled the barman for another. A jovial roar went up. The locals watched football on the television. Mercer wasn't interested. His entire body ached after a week of intense training. Voltar had been relentless. Running, swimming, heavy weapons, demolition, interrogation resistance. All the while his dreams and doubts persisted.

"Not a footy fan?" the young woman asked. Her green eyes shimmered with hope, or knowledge, but not lager. Her fire red hair hung loose in a pony tail. She seemed too pretty, too talkative, for a single woman at a local pub.

The barman brought another pint. Mercer drank deep, sucked his lips and said, "No."

Groans erupted. One of the local men shouted at the television as though the referee could hear him.

"You're not from around here, then."

"No."

The barman brought her a pint. She sipped. "I don't think I'll be able to finish this."

Another quick glance. Freckles smattered her cheeks and nose. She had a sturdy build, tall, thick shoulders and forearms, hands used to heavy work, but she didn't look like a lager drinker.

"So where are ya from?"

Mercer sighed, drank again. The questions, the young woman, the effort to respond seemed useless. Cute, yes, but he'd be on a plane in two hours and wanted that time to get drunk and sort his thoughts. Besides, she wasn't Vypra. "Romania."

"You're jokin'."

Mercer scowled at her over the rim of his glass.

"Your accent, it's American."

American? Every impression Mercer had of himself was Romanian. "What's your name?"

"Scarlett."

"Sure. Because of your hair."

"Okay, so what's your name? Mr. Brown from out of town?"

He huffed a short chuckle. "Mercer."

"Is that your given name or do you go by your surname like a pretentious bastard."

Scarlett smiled, sipped again as if to avoid saying any more.

Mercer downed the rest of his pint and walked out of the pub. People cheered behind him.

He got in his borrowed car and drove for Castle Destro.

The entire drive back one question echoed in Mercer's mind. What's my name? He had to know, but couldn't recall if Mercer was his first or last name, or if it was a name given to him by his parents at all.

Mercer… Mercer what? He recited his name forward and back, tried to combine sounds into something familiar. Nothing worked. Vypra? Vypra…. He couldn't recall any normal names for her either. Nor Bayonet.

Mercer pulled up to the servants' quarters, shuffled inside. Vypra read a book. Bayonet cleaned his rifle. They seemed happy.

"You're back early," Vypra said, though she never looked up.

Mercer climbed onto his bunk. His armor and rifle were prepped and packed and his business suit dry-cleaned before he'd gone to the pub. He stared at the bottom of the bunk above him—followed the mattress's stitching, noticed where the sheet folded under—anything to get his mind off of Scarlett. "What's my accent sound like to you guys?"

"That's a dumb question," Bayonet said. "You don't have an accent."

"But where do I sound like I come from. You know, if you didn't know me."

"I'd say Timis."

"Yeah, me too. Timis," Vypra said. "Why?"

Mercer shut his eyes. He wasn't certain how Vypra or Bayonet would respond to the idea of their real names, or believe a lady thought he had an American accent. "A trollop at the pub said I sound… Polish."

For the first time that Mercer could clearly remember he kept a secret from Vypra and Bayonet.

Bayonet laughed. "Can you and some of your buddies screw in a light bulb for me?"

*10*

Mercer listened as Firefly and Bayonet strummed a guitar at the back of the jet. They took turns practicing the crescendo to the first movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. It was a work in progress, but the simplified tune brought Mercer feelings from the past. Memories immediately after Christophe Balinsky's debriefings, when he woke to that song surrounded by beloved friends, people who knew him and accepted him for who he was… and what he'd done.

But what he had done he wasn't sure and who he was remained uncertain.

Vypra sat alone reading her book. Her trousers hung loose and hid her muscular thighs and calves. A tight fitting white cotton tee-shirt clung to her developed pectorals. Mercer watched muscles in Vypra's brawny forearms bunch and stretch as she turned the page. A tear dangled on her eye lash. In those waking moments immediately after debriefings Mercer loved her, but not romantically. Though in his dream, atop the heap, he longed for true opportunities to express himself. He wanted to kiss and be kissed, not grasp at cold flesh lamenting the past.

The jet adjusted for landing. Mercer breathed deep and gazed over a verdant jungle that spread across the clear horizon. Nothing dull, nothing resembling wintery Europe, nothing to remind him of his dream.

"It looks hot down there," Mercer said.

"Ahhh shit," Bayonet said. Then to Firefly, "You know I don't like the heat."

"Sorry. You guys are the best Viper unit for the mission. I couldn't cherry pick teammates based on personal comforts."

"How long are we going to be stuck here?" Bayonet asked.

Vypra turned another page. Her lower lip trembled.

"All that nonsense in Scotland raised your stock. If everything goes well these next few weeks you can have any assignment you want."

"I think our next assignment will be in Tahiti," Mercer said.

"No! No place hot," Bayonet said.

Mercer and Firefly chuckled together.

The jet circled a narrow runway cut out of the jungle. An adjacent camp became visible with a central structure and a few surrounding buildings covered in foliage.

The trees came even with the windows. Then the jet touched down, its nose dropped, reverse thrust roared as it came to a stop. The cabin door opened. Mercer, Vypra, Bayonet and Firefly each hefted their heavy rucksacks and stepped out.

Bayonet groaned the moment hot, humid air touched his face.

The tarmac looked like the red clay dirt all around, but it was hard and clean enough to land a jet. An Asian man dressed in heavily worn camouflage fatigues waved them over, said something in a language Mercer had never heard and motioned to the black off-road truck behind him.

"Firefly?" Vypra asked.

"We're mostly in Vietnam, love."

"Why?"

"Because this has quietly become the most important place in the world."

"No place this hot can be important," Bayonet said.

"You'll see."

Mercer agreed with Bayonet.

The truck drove past soldiers jogging in formation, lugging gear, saluting to rank with fists over their hearts. Same as any military base.

A step pyramid stood at the center. Trees and dense brush grew on each of the five tiers. Mobile anti-aircraft artillery aimed at the sky from each corner.

Sophisticated headquarters this deep in the jungle?

Columns of strange vehicles sat parked at the jungle's edge. Tanks, but of an unconventional design. High broad tracks with overhanging cockpits that went against contemporary design, topped by turrets with twin cannons. Crewmen crawled over their vehicles, loaded ammunition, or tinkered inside engine compartments. Beneath camouflage netting, along the outskirts sat scores of small one-manned helicopters.

That's not communist surplus. Those are specialized designs. These people are serious.

The truck stopped. Mercer followed the driver into a side-building, down a reinforced concrete corridor deep underground. The walls felt damp, the air stale, yet people moved freely. The driver showed them to a small private dormitory, thumped his chest in salute and backed away.

"I miss the servants' quarters at Castle Destro," Bayonet said.

"Me, too," Mercer said.

"Uniforms, girls and boys, and mind your manners," Firefly said. "Life and death are the same to these Cobra cultists."

"It's too hot for full armor," Bayonet said.

"Get used to it. From now on you're representing Baroness Anastasia."

Bayonet groaned again.

Mercer stripped off his sweaty business clothes, slid into the fatigues he'd received from General Voltar.

Vypra turned away, though more out of habit than modesty. Everyone was comfortable with her bare chest.

As Mercer buttoned his pants, he caught a glimpse of Vypra's backside. Purple scars slashed across her pale copper flesh, marks from a long-ago knife-fight. Her broad shoulders curved down her ribs and narrowed at her waist. As he caught the profile of her strong posterior, she pulled up her pants.

Firefly's expression turned grim, almost scared. He donned his gray-black camouflage fatigues and attached a dagger to the left brace of his gear webbing, one Mercer hadn't seen before. Long and double edged with two serpents coming together to form the hilt. A bass relief image of a cobra's head on the pommel stared forward like a badge of allegiance. But who can Firefly be scared of?

The door opened. A grizzled Caucasian man, mid-fifties, one eye covered with a patch, the other cold as a stone, stood and surveyed Mercer and his team.

Firefly straightened, saluted with his right fist to his left breast and said, "Major Bludd. These are the Vipers Baroness De Cobray promised."

Mercer heard the alias again.

"Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet," Firefly said pointing to each in turn.

Major Bludd's salt and pepper mustache bristled. "Right. Come with me," he said in a heavy Australian accent.

Mercer glanced at Firefly. Firefly jutted his head for Mercer to follow, said, "He's your new commander."

Mercer's neck and face warmed. In a strange land, on a cult compound Firefly passed command to another clown.

Major Bludd marched across the camp into the shade of the pyramid. A phalanx of soldiers stood at attention, Kalashnikov rifles held across their chests, faces stern, though they breathed heavily. They were the soldiers Mercer had seen jogging when he'd arrived.

"You'll each command two platoons," Major Bludd said. "Most of them know some English, the rest understand orders. You've been promoted to lieutenants. Take command. Training starts now."

English?

Major Bludd handed slips of paper to Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet. They slung on their helmets, entered the data and ate the coordinates to a location twenty kilometers through the jungle.

"Get there by 1800 if you want a ride back. Remember, they don't like Americans, so you'd better show them who's in charge. Now go."

Americans? Mercer raised his hand. One of the Vietnamese soldiers approached. He carried the hard look of a combat veteran. Around age thirty with a thick, puffy scar covering half his face. Probably a napalm burn from his early childhood.

He hung a Dragunov sniper rifle over one shoulder, saluted with his fist to his chest.

"Sergeant, do you speak my language?" Mercer asked. His voice sounded Romanian to his ears.

"Yes, sir."

"What's your name?"

"Scarface."

"Is that in Vietnamese or my language?"

"Both," the Sergeant said, a bitter sneer in his lip.

"Let's move out, Sergeant Scarface."

Scarface waved and the column of soldiers jogged lock-step into the jungle.

Mercer spotted Vypra. She, too, talked to her sergeant, got her soldiers moving. She turned to follow, but hesitated as she noticed Mercer staring. Her blank opalescent face shield hid her small nose and thin lips. She waved to Mercer and ran to her platoons.

"Not the right time," Mercer said to himself.

"Not the right time for what?" Bayonet asked.

A flush of sweat broke across Mercer's forehead. He glanced over his communications status. His com line was open. "Nothing," he said and sprinted for his troops.

The heat and humidity wore Mercer down within twenty minutes. His troops ran around banana and giant parashorea trees, cut through ferns and mango bushes like tigers. They moved fast, needed few breaks, though they didn't wear heavy body armor.

After two hours Mercer's muscles ached. He'd pushed hard to stay with his troops, but he needed a chance to drink some water and catch his breath.

No, I can't stop. I have to show them I'm in charge.

Major Bludd had allowed plenty of time. Seven hours remained. With four kilometers to go Mercer could be done in one hour, if he kept the pace. But in Scotland, Mistress Armada and General Voltar gave Mercer and his Vipers nearly impossible deadlines. Every mission they had finished with mere seconds to spare. But then none of their training missions were as simple, either. Armada and Voltar always added something unexpected. An extra objective, a heavier load, or a gunshot to the face.

Mercer scanned his troops, nobody worried about traps. They wanted to get home fast. An image of Armada's gun barrel flickered in Mercer's head. We're running into an ambush.

"Sergeant Scarface," Mercer said. "Circle everyone around me."

Scarface shook his head no. "The men don't want to slow."

"This isn't a race. It's war. Do what I say."

Scarface clenched his jaw, turned and shouted a few syllables. Within moments, forty soldiers surrounded Mercer. Everyone breathed heavily, some leaned over their knees.

"There's an enemy out here waiting to strike. We need to be careful, watch for ambushes and traps."

Scarface translated.

Mercer doubted his troops believed him, but this was training, they had to take it seriously. He picked the two youngest faces, eighteen, maybe sixteen, and sent them ahead as point men.

"You are wasting our time," Scarface said.

"These are my platoons and I train for war."

Scarface waved his rifle in front of Mercer's stomach and fell in line with the rest of the troops.

Mercer kept Scarface well in view. He was the one Major Bludd had warned about. Scarface would have to come in line, but he didn't appear susceptible to displays of strength or modest torture. He was a good soldier, his men respected him. I have to be a better soldier.

Their pace slowed, they took precautions, paid close attention to their surroundings. After an hour creeping through the jungle, an older soldier in the column spotted something. He called to the point man who halted in place. Not quite a glimmer, though the sheen was metallic. Mercer magnified the view. A mortar tube at the top of a hill, camouflaged in the underbrush, trained out over the valley. Then he spotted a possible machine gun nest nearby. Whoever's guarding this hill armed it well.

Scarface said, "We'll spilt the platoons and attack from two sides."

"No," Mercer said. Images of the scared elderly couple returned. They weren't part of the training. The hilltop fortifications might not be, either.

"Why don't you face your enemies?" Scarface asked. He seemed eager for a fight.

"I don't know who they are. These could be allies."

"There are no allies. Everyone in this jungle is my enemy," Scarface said.

Mercer caught the harsh tone and cold glare.

"We're going to use our speed to cut up the front of the hill, then around the slope. We'll be in machine gun range, but it'll be a long shot. They'll have to reposition their mortars to engage. Go in pairs. Stay low and hidden and move fast. We can pass this hill without being spotted. And Sergeant Scarface, you take the lead."

Scarface nodded, though visibly annoyed. They were his platoons a few hours earlier. He crouched low, ran and dove between stands of cover, peeked through bushes, scraped over dirt and leaves, beneath logs and boulders. Teams followed, scampering from one protected zone to the next.

Mercer noted their agility, their innate comfort with the environment. They didn't need him for a leader, not if they took orders, understood the intent and actively operated to fulfill their assignments.

Out of mortar range, behind a dense thicket, Scarface sat back and took a breather. The other soldiers followed. They stretched their backs and drank some water.

Mercer stood over his troops, staring silently. People fidgeted as his opalescent face shield settled on them. I'll never be one of them. But I am their commander.

"Sergeant Scarface." Mercer said. "Get going."

The youngest of both platoons led at the point position again. They'd seen what veteran eyes could see and paid close attention to every leaf and twig, sound and flicker as they snaked through the jungle.

The sun arced into the late afternoon. Chartreuse clouds glowed like fiery pillows in the dark blue sky. The jungle gave way to a placid lake hidden in a quiet valley. Orange and blue reflected off the water's still surface, contrasting against the jungle's green and brown shadows. Scarface and the young point-man talked together in Vietnamese. Neither spoke to Mercer, yet the discussion continued as though a plan was forming.

Mercer enhanced the view. Across the lake, scores of strange tanks from the base sat at the water's edge. Standing out of the gunner's post atop one tank, Major Bludd stared at Mercer through a single ocular of his binoculars.

"You failed," Mercer said to Scarface. "That's Major Bludd and he sees us. If everyone in this jungle was your enemy, then we'd all be dead right now. Take the point position and get us around the lake before he decides to leave."

Scarface glared at Mercer. "Yes, sir."

He slung his Dragunov higher on his shoulder and marched into the brush. The rest of the soldiers followed quietly.

Mercer scanned the shore again. Major Bludd continued to watch.

Without direct orders Scarface took a path behind the shoreline, through marshes overgrown with elephant grass and vines. Their forward progress slowed, mired in the bogs, but they stayed out of Major Bludd's view.

Mud clung to everyone's boots tracking the decomposed swamp stench with them. In a heel print ahead of Mercer, an earthworm wriggled in the muck, squeezed from its dark home by a soldier's boot. Mercer blinked, lunged to avoid the worm, the last living thing among heaps of rotting mass. The worm resembled images from his dreams. He shook his head.

Scarface led both platoons into a clearing at the rendezvous. Firm sand and a crisp scent of clean water displaced the bogs and stench. Across the way Vypra stood with Bayonet. Mercer wanted to talk to them, wanted to melt into their familiarity and find out if they had problems with their sergeants, too, but he reported to Major Bludd first.

Mercer straightened at attention and snapped his fist to his chest. "Sir, I await your command."

"Right. How many did you lose?" Major Bludd asked.

"I don't follow, sir."

"How many men did you lose at the hill top bunker?"

"None, sir,"

"You did better than your friends. Take the gunner's post on 788 and order your soldiers into the HISSs."

"Yes, sir."

Armored doors opened at the rear of the strange HISS tanks. Mercer's troops loaded into the vehicles as he climbed through the turret hatch behind a pair of cannons. He glanced at Vypra and Bayonet, both standing in their gunner's posts. How many casualties did they suffer?

Bludd didn't seem bothered by the loses. Did he use hostile forces for training? Mercer recalled Firefly's warning, "Life and death are the same to these cultists."

A shiver prickled up his neck. These could be friendly forces shooting their own.

Major Bludd waved his hand forward. At once twenty tanks started their engines, their collective roars echoed through the jungle. Bludd's tank headed straight for the lake and into the water. He didn't flinch as great sheets cascaded into the air. More water churned and boiled behind the tracks.

Mercer's tank followed. He gripped the sides of the turret, squatted, ready to jump out. His HISS tank plunged into the placid lake, threw water up like a liquid veil that bent and distorted the purpling twilight around him. The hard grind of dirt and rocks gave way to a smooth buoyant glide. Mist condensed into droplets on his face shield. Behind him, twenty amphibious tanks swam like a school of armor plated fish bristling with cannons, ready to disgorge an army onto enemy shores.

An army.

At that moment, in the middle of the lake, Mercer saw the pieces of the puzzle come together. Money, weapons, machinery, experienced soldiers along with sheer numbers. Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna alone negotiated finances with business people, enlisted the help of clowns and forged ties to a stateless militia to create a global organization. A rival to the standing armies of the world. A force to drive off the evil that humiliated her countrymen and killed her husband.

This is the gathering storm.

*11*

Mercer leaned against the cinderblock wall in the small dormitory assigned to him and his Vipers. Subterranean coolness leached through his combat fatigues. Vypra and Bayonet sat on their mats, each scraping off dirt, scrubbing out blood, cleaning their armor the best they could after a solid week of combat training. Firefly had been scarce, like in Scotland, though he'd stopped by after breakfast and said to spit-shine their attire, that they were expected at a high level meeting.

Mud clogged Mercer's boot tread. A chunk the size of his thumb dropped onto his mat. A thin scent of swamp gas wafted over the perennial body odor.

Sulfurous, decomposing, the smell triggered memories of the tiny worm and brought back his dream. The new dream. Where he wriggled around, the last living creature atop the decomposing waste of the world. Where he saw the light, the truth, and it hurt. And beside him, like one worm in the mud among billions, Vypra. Gray, rotting, lost to him.

"It's just going to be Major Bludd blathering about his HISS tanks," Vypra said.

She looks so tired. Mercer had meant to tell her that he loved her, but Major Bludd had them training with their platoons, integrating with armored units, coordinating close-support airstrikes with the pilot Wild Weasel the entire week. He had no time, no privacy to express his true feelings for her.

"I don't think that's it," Bayonet said. "Bludd doesn't need clean uniforms to talk about himself."

Another clod, another waft of rot. Mercer sat his boot aside, scrubbed at a blood stain on his torso armor. The soldier he'd set on point found a machine gun nest the hard way. He had hurried the young man down the hill, but he died draped over Mercer's shoulder.

"You think there's going to be some kind of inspection?" Vypra asked as she buffed her face shield.

The young soldier was collected, stripped and thrown onto a heap in a mass grave. All the fatal casualties of training were buried that way. A few less than fatal casualties as well. Mercer had lost six men taking the hill he'd avoided the first day. Vypra lost thirteen and Bayonet lost an entire platoon. They each attacked a separate hill along a ridge, each called for armor and air support. A couple HISS tanks answered the mortars. Wild Weasel in his Rattler jet, hammered the fortifications and took out mobile anti-armor elements.

That was yesterday. The past. Gone.

"Maybe they're going to march us in a parade," Bayonet said.

These people don't care enough about life to celebrate with a parade. The blood wasn't coming out. Mercer went back to his boots. "Nobody's giving anyone a parade."

"They might."

"Not after you—"

Firefly poked his head through the door. "Quick, suit up. You've got about one minute."

Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet glanced at each other and shinnied into their uniforms. Shirt tails tucked into pants, pant cuffs tucked into boots. Torso, arm and leg armor strapped on and as soon as Mercer buckled his belt, Firefly opened the door wide, said over his shoulder, "This way, my lady."

Mercer's vision of glory appeared. Baroness Anastasia entered. All three saluted with a hearty thump to their chests.

Then he saw her wince at the room's odor. Cold sweat damped his hands. Dread, anxiety, embarrassment before royalty warmed his neck and cheeks. He offended her dignity with a smell far beneath her station.

The Baroness stepped forward, stared Bayonet in his eye and handed him a dagger. "Congratulations. You are hereby a Cobra Viper." She stepped before Vypra, handed over another dagger and repeated herself. The Baroness stared at Mercer, a thin smile cracked between her lips. She handed him the dagger, double edged, a cobra symbol on the pommel, and proclaimed him a Cobra Viper.

"I remember the three of you from New York."

A lump caught in Mercer's throat.

"What are your names?"

"Bayonet, ma'am."

"Vypra, ma'am."

"Vypra with the lovely shoes," Baroness Anastasia said with a brighter smile.

"Yes, ma'am."

The Baroness glanced at Mercer with an expectant light in her eye.

Mercer put his lips together, stuttered, "Fe… Fe… Fe…."

A single thin eyebrow rose on her creamy forehead. She cast a glare at Firefly, one with meaning beyond the simple question of a name.

"It's Mercer, ma'am," Mercer said at last.

Her smile returned. "Well Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet, Timis is proud of you and I hope to soon see you again at Castle Cisarovna." She backed out of the room and disappeared down the hall.

Firefly sneered at Mercer. "Fix your daggers point down on the left side of your chest and meet me outside."

"You forgot your own name?" Vypra asked.

"Star-struck, I guess." But Mercer didn't feel like his name. Baroness Anastasia's question compelled an answer he couldn't recall. As he fitted his dagger, Mercer tried to remember where he'd come from, his school, family, friends. His mother and father loved him, nurtured and cared for him, but his parents as individuals who acted out, or said funny things were blank. No prominent birthdays, or pets, or bicycles. Everything existed, though only as feelings and impressions.

Bayonet stepped out of the room. Vypra followed. Mercer went last.

"Do you remember your first bike?" Mercer asked Vypra.

"Of course."

"What was it like?"

"Two wheels, a seat and handle bars."

Exactly like his. Exactly like all bicycles. "What style was it? What color?"

"I haven't got time for this," Vypra said as they exited the barracks.

Firefly waited by the entrance. He appeared uneasy, anxious even. He straightened Mercer's dagger, said, "When you salute, place your fist beneath the Cobra insignia. Keep your helmets off and only speak if spoken to." He turned, jutted his head for them to follow and marched across the tree-covered courtyard to the pyramid complex.

Guards stopped them at the entrance. Two snarling German Shepherds growled at Firefly, Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet. Firefly spoke and the guards pulled their dogs away.

Bright fluorescence lit a corridor wide enough to drive a truck into. Incense smoke spiced the air in rich, sweet scents. Hundreds of enameled shrines lined both walls and celebrated various incarnations of snake gods with flickering candles, fresh flowers and food offerings. Armed soldiers put their hands together, bowed and said a few words as they passed favored memorials.

At the corridor's end a solid gold medallion three meters across, forged into a forward view of a cobra with its fangs bared and hood spread wide, stood as king before the other shrines.

Two meters from the medallion a human sized door opened to the left in what appeared to be seamless concrete. Firefly led Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet into the unlit hallway. The door shut on its own behind Bayonet's heel. Black enveloped them. A desolate, lonely black that stripped gold of its luster, stole friends from sight, abandoned souls to the monsters they bore.

"Helmets on," Mercer said as monsters crept from the dark of his mind. He slung his helmet over his head, positioned the mask and touched a button. A faint ghost image of Firefly ahead of him settled a nerve and tucked the monsters back into the dark. He glanced back. Vypra and Bayonet both wore their gear.

"You've got to learn to embrace the dark as an ally," Firefly said. "Gadgets are useful, but they'll fail and then you're left wishing over junk."

Twenty, thirty, fifty meters through the narrow hallway, the air seemed to thicken, Mercer's visor dimmed. The weight of the pyramid threatened to crush him with blackness. A cold sweat broke out across his brow. "Where are we going?"

"You need to relax and listen to me," Firefly said. "Take off your helmets and walk a straight and sure path into darkness. People are watching."

"But I can't see."

"Do it."

Mercer breathed heavier, pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Firefly's curt tone held a quiver of fear. Sitting through artillery bombardments, sneaking onto top secret military bases, outgunned facing petty warlords, none of it scared Firefly. But maybe we're representing him. Maybe it's his life that's tied to us.

Mercer wiped sweat off his forehead, touched his cheeks, nose, chin, to grasp a sense that he still existed. One hundred meters in, a sliver of light beamed from the hallway's far end. The perfect vertical ray widened until a human sized doorway opened.

They walked into a wide cluttered room. Computer consoles, enormous television screens and communications equipment wrapped around three walls. A sculpted golden cobra's head, four meters tall, dominated the fourth wall.

At the center, beneath industrial lights, a knot of people surrounded a glowing table. Mercer immediately caught the chrome glint of Destro's polished mask. Behind him stood Baroness Anastasia. She didn't look well. Her black hair hung around her face, her eyes sagged as though she hadn't slept and her mouth remained a perfect frown. At the opposite end of the table a set of eyes, deep and piercing, locked onto Mercer from two holes cut out of a cloth worn over the man's head and face. Another clown? But this clown held a murderer's gaze—a murderer's gaze tempered by ambition. Mistress Armada stood beside him, though her posture skewed slightly diminished. Everyone's posture angled to or away or below the hooded man's presence.

Firefly saluted, his right fist to his left breast. "Cobra Commander, your Cobra Vipers. Mercer, Vypra and Bayonet have proven strong fighters and brilliant tacticians."

Mercer saluted, felt a rush of pride warm his cheeks. Even if the compliments were said to a clown, he appreciated Firefly's acknowledgment.

Cobra Commander ignored Firefly, said in a voice too high and raspy for his stature, "Major Bludd, give them their mission."

*12*

Mercer's stomach turned. He'd gotten used to the roll of the sea after a week, but sitting in the back of a HISS, inside the hold of a cargo ship with only small glints of light from the driver's console to focus on, his sea sickness returned. One of his soldiers showed symptoms. I'll bet the others are feeling it, too.

He stared at the console lights, transfixed on the glow. Darkness pressed from every other direction. And darkness held monsters.

Helmet on, night vision activated.

Two days earlier, at the ship's bow with the sun setting, Mercer expressed his feelings to Vypra. He said he loved her. And his fear came true. Not that she didn't feel the same, or that she wanted someone else, but that she couldn't love him because she wasn't allowed to. Allowed by who, he had asked. There was no answer. There was no person or specific rule keeping them apart. Like his bicycle or parents, she felt the rule more than recognized it. She fled and never spoke to him alone for the rest of the trip south.

The ship rose with a sea swell. Air inside the tank turned stale. Too many people breathing too heavily. The ship tipped down. His soldier vomited. The smell compounded Mercer's stress. He tightened his stomach, swallowed hard against sickness and regret.

"Prepare to swim," Major Bludd said over the radio.

The HISS's engine fired up, vibrated the armor plate. It lurched forward, banked right and dropped off the ship. Sudden freefall sent a tingle through Mercer's abdomen. He heard waves slapping the armor plate above his head as the amphibious tank bobbed in the ocean and treaded across Ambon Bay.

0300 local time. The mission: take the island of Ambon. A small Indonesian island in the Maluku archipelago. Less than a half million people, corrupt government, deep harbor, decent airfield.

Vypra had the hardest objective. Cut off and subdue the local military base. Bayonet had the easiest. Secure the airfield at the north end of the harbor.

Another surge hit Mercer's stomach. The military base was supposed to be quiet at three in the morning. Firefly had landed earlier to sabotage power and communications and Vypra had priority for air support, but Mercer feared the lucky shot, the one that would dump her on the heap.

He had asked Major Bludd to switch his assignment for hers, but the Major said no. He wanted his best commander taking the city and second best attacking the military base.

Mercer's objective—seize government buildings, arrest local politicians and bring the island's capitol, Ambon City, under Cobra control—seemed easy enough even for the second best commander.

A grind and scrape echoed into the passenger compartment. The HISS tracks hit sand and drove for the heart of the city.

Mercer listened as Major Bludd gave commands. Wild Weasel checked in, let everyone know he was airborne. Bayonet announced his assault on the airfield, no resistance. Vypra began her charge, called Wild Weasel to hit a couple tanks while her two platoons stormed the base.

Mercer's HISS stopped, the rear doors opened to the heart of the city. A rush of fresh air and stable ground settled his stomach. He stormed the city hall, then the courthouse while Scarface captured the police, television and radio stations.

They arrested prominent politicians, interrogated prisoners for more names, rummaged through government files for anyone else who might organize resistance. By dawn all political figures, local entertainers and police had been detained. No military elements interceded. Vypra had held them to their base.

Mercer sent four-man teams house to house confiscating guns. He positioned armored units throughout the capitol. Nobody could move without facing overwhelming force.

By midday Mercer controlled Ambon City. Forty-seven civilians, nine police officers and sixteen Cobra soldiers had been killed, mostly from Vypra's platoons. Far fewer than expected.

Mercer looked over the dead. The seeds of the heaps.

*13*

By late afternoon Ambon Island belonged to Cobra. Cargo ships docked, secondary forces landed and hardware spread across the island. FANG helicopters began aerial patrols while Stinger off-road vehicles transported supplies and supported ground forces throughout the populated areas.

Mercer had commandeered the island's largest hotel. He met Bayonet in the dining room. Vypra appeared a moment later, battle weary and tired. She'd had a rough time. Two of her eight HISSs and a third of her troops were lost, but she broke her enemy. She dropped her helmet on the floor, leaned her rifle against the table as she sat beside Mercer.

Slanting sunshine spread a golden hue through the dining room and cast warm light into the dark hollows around Vypra's eyes. Imitation gold fixtures, door handles, salt and pepper shakers, glittered against the black carpet and creamy white walls.

Together again.

But Vypra kept a cold distance from Mercer. The same distance she'd measured the moment he'd said he loved her.

Bayonet returned from the bar sweating with a bottle of Irish Whiskey and poured a round for all three. He held his tumbler high. "To Cobra."

"To Cobra," Mercer and Vypra repeated and the three downed their drinks in one gulp. Hisses and boisterous exhales rounded the table.

"I don't know how you guys put up with this heat." Bayonet pulled off his torso armor. "As soon as I get a chance I'm headed for Minsk."

Vypra smiled politely, but she was too tired for small talk. Mercer poured her another drink.

The clack and rush of a metal door sounded behind Mercer. He turned, saw a Cobra soldier exit the stairwell with a shot gun in hand. The same black mask covered his nose and mouth, but the eyes weren't Asian and the uniform was too short at the wrists.

Bayonet noticed too. He stood, faced the soldier. "Who are you?"

Vypra finished her whiskey, glared at the soldier.

"I was just sweeping the hotel for hostiles, sir," the solider said in English with an American accent.

Imposter. Mercer reached for his rifle.

A shot gun blast struck his back. He flopped over the table. Another blast. Bayonet flew backward. A third blast. Vypra crumbled to the floor as the imposter ran out of the hotel.

Mercer growled against the pain. His torso armor absorbed the shot. He rushed to Vypra, lifted her head into his lap. Mercer cried for his love, lifeless in his arms. As she was in his dream.

Blood trickled from her scalp and over Mercer's forearm. Her head was intact. He checked her neck, felt a pulse. Mercer put his face to hers. Warm breath wisped across his lips.

She's alive.

The armor along her left arm was full of buckshot. She'd covered her head in time.

Mercer held her to his chest and wept. Vypra's hand rose, grasped his wrist. He gazed into her bleary brown eyes, but she didn't hold his stare. She glanced over, said in a weak voice, "What happened to him?"

Bayonet lay flat on his back, his chest caved in with the shot gun blast. Mercer's joy turned to rage.

"I'll be back." Mercer set Vypra's head down gently, jumped to his feet. Fiery pain radiated up his spine. He grabbed his rifle and helmet and ran outside.

Mercer waved down a passing Cobra patrol. He hopped into a Stinger, ordered the driver to go. Where, he wasn't sure.

"Be advised," he called over the radio. "An imposter is loose. Male, about two meters tall wearing a standard Cobra uniform. He speaks English with an American accent. He is armed and dangerous."

Others reported a suspicious soldier on a motorcycle headed east, but they'd lost him. As Mercer combed the city, Bayonet's caved-in chest lingered in his mind along with Vypra's warm breath on his lips. He clinched his fists. "I'm going to kill him."

More calls came through. Someone murdered two soldiers at the airfield and stole a FANG helicopter. Mercer and and the driver headed around the harbor. "Wild Weasel, find the imposter and take him out."

"Copy. Airborne in two minutes."

Mercer spotted a lone helicopter a dozen kilometers away. He magnified the view. "There he is."

He ordered anti-aircraft batteries to target the single FANG headed east. Within moments vermillion tracers streaked the sky.

The helicopter banked, fired all four rockets. The tracers ceased.

A heavy electric hum sounded from behind Mercer. The whine became a roar as Wild Weasel's Rattler raced overhead and curved gently toward the imposter's tail.

Wild Weasel fired his Gatling gun.

The imposter arced up, swooped around and behind as the Rattler flew past.

He's an expert pilot.

Wild Weasel doubled back, launched a missile.

The imposter nosed over and spiraled for the jungle canopy. He pulled up, skimming the treetops. The missile veered off, exploded in the distance.

Wild Weasel fired his Gatling gun again. Armor piercing bullets severed the helicopter's tail section. White smoke gushed as it spun out of control and fell into the trees. Wild Weasel circled around, said over the radio, "No signs of life. Should I carpet bomb the area?"

"No, I'll find him," Mercer said to Wild Weasel, then to the driver, "Get me to the crash site."

The Stinger pulled off the paved street, headed into the jungle. With every rock and rut pain raked through Mercer's back. His shoulders tensed, neck kinked to isolate the agony. "Faster."

The dirt road dwindled to a footpath. The driver sweated, spinning the steering wheel left and right, shifting up and down, his eyes sharp for obstacles beyond the Stinger's abilities.

Mercer pointed with a flat hand. "The crash site is over there."

The driver spun the wheel, turned off the path and tore through primeval jungle. Smooth leaf litter concealed a jagged landscape of narrow gullies, tree roots and rocks. Always rocks. The Stinger hit a bump, its front passenger-side wheel bounced off the ground. It slammed down, spiked a bolt of pain up Mercer's spine. He gritted his teeth, bore down and gripped the dash board.

Orange flames flickered between trees. The Stinger pulled alongside the wreckage. Mercer hopped out, shouldered his rifle. "Stay here."

Wisps of smoke rose above hot debris scattered throughout the leaves.

Mercer examined the scene. No signs of life. No signs of death either. He widened his search. An intermittent trail of disturbed leaves caught his eye and led away into the cooling night. Mercer switched to thermal imaging. Subtle changes to ambient temperature corresponded with the trail. The imposter survived.

Mercer followed the path, listened for a moment. The fire crackled behind him, oily smoke displaced the moist, earthy scent. He crunched through the jungle, his back pulsing pain.

A woody crack echoed from Mercer's right. A rock hit a tree. He turned left, glimpsed a stick an instant before it bashed his face shield. His head flung back. His rifle yanked forward, but Mercer held on. More blows to the head. Mercer pushed and pulled his rifle, cleared some distance between him and the imposter.

A hand grabbed Mercer's dagger, tried to pull the blade. Mercer angled away. The imposter drove a knee into his groin, reached for his pistol. Mercer spun and struck him with the rifle stock. The imposter stumbled, sprung forward with a flurry of punches. He yanked Mercer's helmet. Mercer's head moved, but the face shield stayed in place. The imposter jerked at the rifle, snatched at the dagger, punched and kicked and bit Mercer's wrist. Mercer punched back, held the rifle, protected his dagger and pistol.

A loud thump and the imposture went down. The Stinger driver stood at Mercer's side with his Kalashnikov held as a club. He shouldered his rifle, aimed for the imposter's head.

"Hold fire," Mercer said. "I've got questions." He panted, leaned against a tree, grunted against the pain from his groin. "Take him to the truck."

The driver cuffed the imposter's hands and feet and tossed him in the back of the Stinger.

Mercer got in, ordered the driver back to Ambon City.

More rocks and ruts. More pain. Mercer stared at the imposter's limp body. Memories flashed, the hole in Bayonet's chest, Vypra's bleeding scalp, images of the heaps of corpses with his friends slumped on top. He's going to pay.

He dragged the imposter into the local jail, handcuffed him to the lowest bar in the last cell. All his rage, all his fear, all his dreams now had a real enemy to focus on, but first, Vypra.

Mercer ran for the hospital, burst through the door and grabbed the first Cobra medic he saw. "Where is Lieutenant Vypra?"

The medic pointed to the waiting room.

"And Lieutenant Bayonet?"

"In surgery, sir. His condition, it's bad."

Mercer walked into the waiting room, into Vypra's view. But she didn't respond. Vypra sat alone, staring blankly. Mercer shuddered. He'd seen the same dead stare before in his dream.

*14*

Mercer smacked the side of his leg with a bamboo cane as he walked through the overcrowded jail.

Whip-slap.

Prisoners shuddered at the sound. Many had felt its bite. They bowed and begged for mercy.

Whip-slap.

He saw fear in their eyes. The same fear as his victims in dreams. Mercer struck his leg harder. Pain dulled the memory.

But one prisoner, the imposture, Flint, pretended to be immune to the cane and resisted all questions. He'd put up an admirable defense the first time Mercer interrogated him. Though Mercer didn't want information as much as revenge. He wanted to make the imposter hurt as bad as Vypra hurt, destroy him the way he'd destroyed Bayonet and if Flint refused to talk, all the better.

Flint kneeled on the dirty concrete, his hands cuffed to the bottom bars of the cell. Stripped naked, Mercer saw puffy scars raked across Flint's back. He'd met the cane before. Mid-fifties and the only American on the island, Flint had had a fifteen year old prostitute with him when the hotel was commandeered. Mercer had found the girl, she admitted her business, but didn't know anything more about Flint.

Whip-slap. Mercer struck Flint across the back.

Flint cried out.

"Tell me your real name." Mercer whipped him again.

"You know it."

Another whip.

"Does it feel good, Flint? Do you like this?" Mercer struck him again.

"Fuck you."

Whip-slap.

Flint growled against the pain.

"Why won't you say your name? Are you wanted? By the FBI?"

"Maybe," Flint said between breaths. "But can I ask you something?"

Mercer thought a second. A thin smile stretched. Any question would earn a whipping. "Why not?"

"Why do you flinch when people scream?"

Mercer's teeth clenched, his grip tightened on the bamboo. Did he flinch when people screamed? He expected a question about Cobra, about the takeover. Not something personal.

He calmed his thoughts, forced a smile. "What makes you think I flinch when people scream?"

"I've seen the look before." Flint squirmed on his knees, moved the handcuffs up his wrists and massaged the skin beneath. "You've heard too many screams."

Mercer watched blood trickle from Flint's back and drip into a crimson puddle. He couldn't remember where he'd heard the screams, only from his dreams. But those felt real.

"Try to ignore them and soon they'll become your screams."

"I hear nothing." Mercer hit Flint again and again. Each whip with more power, more hatred behind the strike.

Flint's legs flailed, he pulled against the handcuffs, but Mercer continued. Ten, fifteen whips. Flint's skin split. A hideous shriek echoed through the jail. Blood splashed, his bowels released and Flint went silent, face down on the concrete.

Mercer stood, peered down at his enemy bloodied and foul. He struck Flint once more. Disgraceful.

Rot and sewage odors returned memories of cold flesh. Mercer's stomach clenched, his head spun. He closed his eyes and covered his face. Images of dead people flashed to mind and atop the heaps of corpses blazed the Cobra insignia, bright and bloody.

Mercer opened his eyes, shivered at the sight of Flint. What had he done? What did he get from beating a helpless man unconscious? He backed out of the cell, staggered toward the exit. Mercer felt the prisoners' glare follow him as though he were a monster.

Outside the tropical sun stung his eyes, the heat stole his breath.

Then all of the screams from his dreams, the lady, everyone inside the jail, Flint's last animalistic shriek, rose at once. They begged, they squealed with their last gasps as Mercer tortured and killed everyone.

"No!" He stood straight, looked around. One small boy stared at him from a second story window above a produce market. Mercer's breathing stuttered as he staggered for the hotel. What was Flint talking about? How does he know?

Mercer entered the hotel lobby. Vypra met him midway to the elevator, excited and smiling. "Bayonet is going to live," she said. "He'll have to breathe with a prosthetic diaphragm for the rest of his life, though."

Mercer nodded, stared into her eyes. He saw her lifeless gaze, glazed and distant, but she was alive. He brought her close, hugged her tight. Her touch, her warmth, released emotions that had been suppressed. Love, empathy, disgust. Tears leaked, a low choppy moan escaped and Mercer cried on her shoulder.

"Stop it. You're a Viper."

Mercer buried his face in her neck. "I don't know what I am."

"Pull it together, man. Go get a drink, or something." Vypra broke the embrace, glared at him sideways and walked outside.

Mercer went to the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vodka and headed for his room.

Alone inside the elevator, Mercer heard crying. Echoes of himself crying. And people's screams. Terrorized screams that he had drawn with his bombs and guns and orders.

They all… they all belong to me.

*15*

"What did you do to yourself?"

Mercer recognized the voice more than the words. Comradery and trust accompanied the Irish accent. Firefly.

"Come on, now. Get out of bed and into the shower. We're to meet Cobra Commander shortly."

Mercer lifted his head, blinked a few times. A morning light pressed hard against his sore, hung-over eyes. He stood, wobbled. Firefly caught him and hustled him into the shower.

Mercer drank from the showerhead as steam clouded the bathroom, closed him in a white vapor bank and separated him from the physical world. But not his mental world.

That was a lot of whiskey. Then recollections of vodka. The scent returned, upset his stomach and he vomited.

"That's it," Firefly said from outside the door. "Get it all out."

Mercer angled the showerhead, rinsed his legs and feet. He doused his face again. His eyes felt puffy, cheeks sore as fragments of the evening filtered in. Crying uncontrollably, punching the wardrobe until his knuckles bled, beating the imposter. Vypra. He needed her, needed someone close to confide in. But she lived by rules that didn't exist. Like the bicycle she had, but couldn't remember. The family he had, but couldn't recall. The names both of them must've been given, yet never knew. Why wasn't she compassionate?

A couple knocks at the door. "Hurry up."

Firefly, his old friend and mentor—the battles they'd fought, the narrow escapes, the victories side by side. The places seemed distant, the faces a dream. So many, but who were his enemies?

Then, the heaps.

The heaps had changed. Smaller, but no longer dreams. They'd became real overnight. Tangible places he'd helped fill with scared, screaming people.

Soap broke the sweaty sheen. Who is Vypra? Who is Firefly? Who am I? He shut off the water, toweled himself dry.

"Good. Shave and get dressed. We're expected in ten minutes."

Mercer's head swirled. Firefly handed him a razor and some shave cream. He treated Mercer with genuine kindness and friendship. Lather, scrape, scrape, scrape…

Firefly threw him his uniform. "Come on, we can straighten you up in the lift."

Shirt buttoned, boots laced, pants belted. No need for armor.

Firefly rushed Mercer to the ground floor and out of the hotel. Bright sunlight burned his eyes. Sweat speckled his forehead. His stomach churned.

Columns of soldiers stood at attention. Vypra, in front of her platoons, waved and pointed for Mercer to stand with his troops. Scarface saluted Mercer. Major Bludd stood with Bayonet's platoons.

A parade? Bayonet would love this.

A stretched limousine stopped in front of the columns of troops. The driver ran around, opened a rear door. Cobra Commander, dressed in a dark blue uniform with bright brass buttons wearing a Viper face shield stepped out. Behind him, Destro. His shiny chrome mask glinted in the sun. He immediately donned a black fedora that matched his tailored business suit. Baroness Anastasia emerged. She maintained a professional composure, her movements fluid and purposeful, but something was different. Mercer didn't gasp when she appeared. She seemed less magnificent than he remembered. Her sharp, measuring gaze flitted back and forth as though she searched for opportunity, or hunted out weakness.

Christophe Balinsky stepped beside her. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, hung his trench coat over one arm.

Icy cold flushed over Mercer's skin. Christophe belongs in Timis, not Ambon.

Balinsky dealt with no one else but Bayonet, Vypra and Mercer. That meant he'd flown to the island for them. He has something to do with the rules. And if he can plant rules, he can suppress memories, too.

Cobra Commander, with Baroness Anastasia at his side, stood before Vypra. He shook Vypra's hand, congratulated her on her heroic conquest of the military base and hung a medal around her neck. The Baroness shook Vypra's hand and kissed her on the cheek. They awarded her sergeant and passed out campaign ribbons to the rest of her troops.

Cobra Commander addressed Mercer, shook his hand, said in a high raspy voice, "Thank you for your service. Your capture of the city with so little damage was heroic." He placed a medal around Mercer's neck. The Cobra insignia with the word VALOR spelled in black letters across the top hung from a crimson ribbon.

"Thank you, sir," Mercer said. He saw himself reflected in Cobra Commander's face shield. Sick, gray, distorted. A monster.

"Stay after this ceremony. I want to meet this imposter you captured."

"Yes, sir."

Baroness Anastasia stood on tip-toes and kissed both of Mercer's cheeks. She smelled of vanilla. Memories of her gilded parlor, of the first movement to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, of the oneness he shared with his Vipers and the love he felt for the Baroness retuned on the simple, insubstantial scent.

"You are hereby a First Son of Timis," Baroness Anastasia said.

"Thank you, Baroness. It is my blood-sworn honor to serve you." The words came out naturally as if he'd been conditioned.

Cobra Commander moved onto Scarface and the rest of the platoon. Baroness Anastasia fell in with Destro and Christophe Balinsky. Firefly mingled among them. They stood near each other, but didn't talk.

Major Bludd and Bayonet's sergeant and platoons received their awards. A few more glorious thank yous, a few nostalgic comparisons and Cobra Commander dismissed the troops.

"Lieutenant." He approached Mercer, said, "Show me your imposter."

Mercer held down another purge and led Cobra Commander to the jail.

Flint lay face down on the concrete, arms stretched over his head. Flies gathered around a score of lacerations on his back. None moved at the slow rise and fall as he breathed.

Cobra Commander reached into his backpack, removed a long metallic cylinder with a handle and trigger like a pistol, but knobs and circuitry around the outside. He pointed the end with narrow horizontal slats at Flint, turned the knob and fired.

Flint arched back, groaned in pain while the flies exploded into goopy puffs of white.

Mercer flinched, said, "Get up."

"Where's your cane?" Flint asked. "Feels like you had to find something better than a stick." He rolled to his side, his head lolled back for a clear view.

"I recognize you," Cobra Commander said. He held his weapon out for Flint to see. "And you recognize my microwave coil, don't you."

Flint rolled to his stomach. "Yeah."

"He isn't just an imposter," Cobra Commander said to Mercer without looking at him. "He's a spy."

Mercer stared at Flint. How do American spies know about Cobra Commander?

"Get it over with, Copar," Flint said.

"How did you know I'd be here?" Cobra Commander asked.

"I didn't. And I wouldn't have come if I had. You made your point last time."

Cobra Commander adjusted the knob, pulled the trigger. The weapon hummed. Flint tore out a deathly scream.

Mercer closed his eyes, tried to think of other sounds.

Flint's cries settled to grunts and whispers. Mercer opened his eyes. Steam rose from the cuts.

"Obviously not clear enough." Cobra Commander chuckled. He activated his weapon again.

More screams. More begging.

Cobra Commander enjoyed torturing Flint.

Then Flint talked.

He admitted his real name. "Dashiell Fairborn." He named his commanding officer. "General Clayton Abernathy." Told Cobra Commander the location of their headquarters. "Subic Bay." And the title of the State Department spending provision he was employed under. "G.I. Joe!"

"I know this already." Cobra Commander blasted Flint again and asked more questions.

Flint lost strength, his words slurred together. Spit and tears mixed and ran off his chin. "Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command's Philippines Liaison Office." He wiped his mouth. "It's a front so that Abernathy can spy on your Cobra Cult." Flint breathed deep. "He just wants to bring Calvin Copar home."

Mercer noticed Cobra Commander straighten out at the name. Flint had called him, Copar a moment earlier. They know each other.

"Stop wasting my time," Cobra Commander said. He adjusted the knob on his microwave coil and fired. Flint wailed, his eyes opened wide, blood-shot with pain. His flesh cooked gray, blood boiled and scabbed and cracked. Cobra Commander let off, said above Flint's whimpers, "Tell me who Snake Eyes is."

"Please… please don't shoot. I… I don't know."

The screams, the begging, the jittery confessions…. Mercer's hands trembled, his knees quaked. He grabbed hold of a cell bar to steady himself

An hour passed. Cobra Commander said to Mercer as he walked away, "Get him some water. He's still not telling us everything. But we will find out tomorrow."

Mercer slumped to the floor, held his face. Cobra Commander said, 'we.'

"Water." Flint's words came dry and scratchy, as though moisture had been burned out of his throat.

Mercer peered between his fingers. Flint lay face down, exhausted, smoldering. He shot Bayonet and Vypra and killed my soldiers. He deserves the heap.

Mercer stood, wiped his tears and staggered to a sink at the rear of the jail. He poured a small cup of water, set it within Flint's reach.

Flint struggled to bring his hands close enough to drink. Water splashed over the cup's edge. Flint stretched his lips, managed a single mouthful before he dropped the cup, spilling the rest.

"Pathetic," Mercer said.

"I saw it."

"No you didn't."

"You're hearing… the screams." Flint flicked his fingers, signaled Mercer to come closer.

Mercer hunched down. "Say the wrong thing and I'll kill you."

"I've been dead inside since 1975."

Mercer paused. His life means nothing to him?

"You've got to stop hurting people."

Mercer heard a lifetime's worth of regret in the dry tormented voice.

"Then you have to stop others from hurting innocent people, too."

"I'm not setting you free."

"I'm not asking." Flint coughed, licked water off the concrete. "You're going to decide what side you're on."

"I'm a Cobra Viper." Mercer squeezed the medal in his hand, felt the recognition and gratitude flow.

"Listen Cobra Viper. There's a one-armed American at a bar in the Philippines. He'll be drinking away the screams, too. He can help you."

"I'll find your friend and kill him. How about that?"

"Do what you have to." Flint held up the cup, found a last drop of water at the bottom. "Copar will come back tomorrow and he'll drag you along. Can you handle that?"

"I'll be here because you're my enemy." Mercer walked out of the jail.

Air outside hung heavy and humid. Sunlight reflected off white cement buildings. Mercer shaded his eyes with both hands. Across the street Scarface commanded a guard detail escorting sixty locals from their homes to stores and markets for supplies. Women with toddlers in tow, young boys and girls, very old men. No fighting aged males. They looked scared, pushed around by foreign soldiers with guns.

Nobody knew what had happened, why they'd been taken over, or who their new masters were. Not really. Propaganda flowed since Mercer's troops had stormed the radio and television stations telling everyone to open their arms to their liberators, that the corruption of the previous regime was over. But there wasn't any indigenous dissent with the previous regime before Cobra had landed.

A toddler cried, squirmed in her mother's arms. The mother glanced at Scarface while she tried to calm her baby. The fear in her eyes, Scarface's visible annoyance. She couldn't control the child. Nobody could. Not without overwhelming force.

Overwhelming force.

That's what Mercer had brought to Ambon. Tanks and soldiers and planes. Overwhelming force descended on a lazy tropical island.

Scarface shouted at the lady.

She doesn't speak Vietnamese.

She shrank away, cuddled her baby's head to her breast.

Despite the propaganda promising a brighter, freer future, Mercer dreamt, felt, knew, the lady and her child were destined for the heap. He shaded his eyes, looked at his feet and walked into the hotel. I still have vodka.

"Mercer," Firefly called out and waved from the dining room.

Vodka can wait.

Mercer joined Firefly. He hoped a moment of comradery would silence the screams. Firefly ate a local dish. A spicy seafood medley served over white rice with stir-fried bananas.

"I hate when they leave the heads on the prawns," Firefly said. "I don't care if that's where all the flavor is, I don't want to clean my food before I eat it." He set the prawns beside his chop sticks and scooped rice and vegetables with his fork.

"Feeling better after that award, I bet," he said.

Mercer laid his medal on the table. "You could've warned me yesterday." A waiter approached, bowed slightly. Mercer pointed to Firefly's dish, nodded and pointed to himself. The waiter bowed again and scurried off.

"I only heard about it this morning, too." Firefly ate a slice of banana, wrinkled his face and pushed the rest beside the prawns. "It's nice to be recognized once in a while."

But Firefly didn't receive any awards. He mingled among the Europeans as though part of an exclusive club rather than a violent military excursion. Mercer looked at the pooled crimson on his medal, saw the pile of prawns, remembered himself standing beside heaps of bodies.

The waiter returned, set down a bowl of food and scurried away again. Some rice. Some vegetables. The stir fried bananas melted on Mercer's tongue. Heads and shells on the prawns didn't bother him, but he'd related them to his dream.

"What did Baroness say to you?"

Mercer sipped water, cleared his throat. "She declared me a First Son of Timis."

"Congratulations." Firefly grinned, held up his glass of water and toasted. "Now you're somebody."

Somebody. But who? He stared at Firefly, his old friend, brother in arms. Firefly was somebody to the Baroness and Destro. Do they know his real name? He finished the bananas as if he ate his last meal and asked, "What's my name?"

Firefly paused in the middle of a bite, his glare fixed. "Your name is Mercer."

"What's your name?"

"Firefly."

"We're old friends and I don't even know your real name."

Firefly spread a cagey grin. "Let our friendship be enough."

"And if it's not?"

"Consider carefully what's more important, our long history together or a couple of words." He lowered his head, peered at Mercer from beneath his brow. "I suggest you value our history."

"History it is, Firefly." Mercer wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood and walked to the elevator. He glanced back as he pushed a button. Firefly stared at him hard until the doors closed.

Mercer's memories, all the times they'd shared, were based on lies. They weren't friends, they never were. He felt the deepest admiration for Firefly, but couldn't recall exactly why.

The elevator door opened. Vypra waited in the hall. Her motionless, downcast expression reveled every feature Mercer found beautiful, though he saw in the set of her jaw that she had orders.

"You and I should run away together," Mercer said. "Start new lives in Mexico. Dogs, kids, peace."

Vypra stepped aside for Mercer to exit. "We've got responsibilities here. We must honor our duty."

"What's our duty?"

"To protect Baroness Anastasia and serve the glory of Timis." Vypra trailed close behind Mercer as he headed for his hotel room. She guarded him, kept him from doubling back.

"Do you remember your first bike?" Mercer asked.

"That's a pointless question."

"Why?"

"Who cares about a bike?"

"Try to remember it. You can't because somebody's been fucking with our heads."

"You're paranoid."

"What language am I speaking?"

"Stop talking."

"I speak English with an American accent. You do to, but we only hear it as Romanian."

"You're speaking nonsense."

"Haven't you had dreams? Ones that feel perfectly real, but you can't explain them?"

"Of course." Vypra paused, her eyes reddened. Tears glistened around the lids. "But I won't let a few dreams affect my duty."

"That's what I'm saying. How do we even know what our duty is?"

His hotel room door opened. "Because I tell you what your duties are," Baroness Anastasia said.

Mercer startled. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony played in the background. Christophe Balinsky peered at him from the back of the room, his bushy eyebrows pushed high on his forehead.

"Come inside." The Baroness invited Mercer with an open palm.

Vypra pushed him in.

Christophe would steal his name, dull his memories, quiet the screams. And why should I care? Recognition, comradery, Vypra. Christophe can secure all of those and give me good feelings, too.

"Please sit," Christophe said.

Vypra sat in the half circle chair with tan upholstery, Mercer at the foot of his bed.

"Mercer," Baroness Anastasia said. "Remember, you are a First Son of Timis." She smiled. Stainless steel fangs glinted in the hotel room light. She stepped out of the room and closed the door.

Christophe draped a red veil over the lamp, bathed the room in a dark, rich crimson. "It is good to see you both again. Let us close our eyes and take a trip, a pleasant walk through meadow grasses…"

There aren't any meadows here. It's only jungle. Mercer glanced at Vypra. She had her eyes closed, assured smile on her thin lips. Balinsky focused on Mercer, shook his head slowly, though his tone and the story never fluttered.

Mercer closed his eyes, listened to a winding tale set a relaxing mood.

But it's not real. The heaps of dead people, executed by his hand, felt real. The fear Scarface imposed on the lady with the baby was real. The clowns—Cobra Commander, Destro, Voltar—they commanded him to commit real destruction. And the imposture, Flint, he suffered real torture, but told the truth. A man condemned to death was the only person Mercer could remember that told him the truth.

"… rolling hills of Timis, destroyed by the jealous armies of…"

Hatred swelled inside Mercer. He wanted revenge on the jealous armies. He wanted to march over their flags. What armies? No country is destroying Timis. Christophe is making me believe lies. He glanced at Vypra. She scowled, hateful and more determined than before.

And she's believing the lies.

Mercer turned to Christophe. Christophe's stare beamed anger, but his tone remained pleasant. Mercer shuddered. Fear of disappointing Baroness Anastasia, of unstated reprisals, of the heaps forced his eyes closed.

An easy, pleasant feeling overcame him. Glorious impressions flourished, of Timis, of selfless service, of Baroness Anastasia's love.

None of this is real.

He fought back, remembered his dream, the scared faces, the heaps, the command that said, Do it.

The tone was familiar, it came from someone close, a friend. Firefly!

Mercer shot to his feet. Christophe stood with him, glanced at Vypra and continued his hypnotic story. Mercer punched Christophe Balinsky in the mouth, knocked him unconscious. He took Vypra by the hand, said, "Come with me."

Vypra opened her eyes, glared at Mercer with a blithe smile and followed his direction. She stepped over Christophe, asked in a high, airy voice, "Why is he dead?"

"He's not dead." Mercer yanked her out of his hotel room and ran through the hallway, past the elevator and down the stairwell, circling flight after flight.

"Does Christophe need our help?"

"No, Christophe just fell asleep," Mercer said. "Right now we need to run far away. As far as we can."

"Okay."

She's still under Christophe's hypnosis.

Mercer drew his pistol, barged through the metal door into the dining room. No Firefly, though his messy dish and heap of prawns hadn't yet been bussed. Probably left with the Baroness. Mercer glanced around, gun held at eye level, ready to shoot Firefly at the first sight. They stepped out of the hotel and into tropical heat. The bright sunshine washed over Mercer, purged the darkness and showed him Cobra's truth.

I need more.

Mercer and Vypra rushed along the street toward the jail. He refused to let go, afraid she'd come out of her tranquil state too close to allies.

Some Cobra soldiers glanced as they escorted civilians, but nobody questioned their lieutenants holding hands out loud.

Two city blocks down. Vypra's stubby fingers and calloused palm felt good in Mercer's hand. He'd waited so long to tell her he loved her and in the partial hypnosis she couldn't resist. Perhaps when the effects wore off she wouldn't have to obey the unspoken rules. Maybe she would take the time to love him back. But that'll only happen if we can get off the island.

Mercer entered the jail. Prisoners hushed as he approached. They hated him. Mercer hated himself for capturing them. But they could wait. He went to the sink, poured a cup of water and squatted in front of Flint.

"Please… I can't take anymore," Flint muttered into the filthy concrete.

Mercer set the cup in front of him. "I need answers."

"I told you everything."

"No, you said you knew a man that could help. I need to know where to find him."

Flint raised his head, locked eyes with Mercer. "These cuffs are kind of tight."

"I'm not freeing you."

Flint sipped the water.

"Don't make me get the cane."

Flint smiled through his graying stubble, took another drink. "I've taken your best. Something tells me I can hold out longer than you." He finished the water.

Mercer glanced the length of the jail. He'd beaten Flint unconscious, he could beat him to death, but that wouldn't help him escape. Christophe Balinsky could wake any second and sound alarms. Mercer ground his teeth, squatted and unlocked the handcuffs. "Where is he?"

"Philippines."

"Where specifically."

"Get me into the jungle and I'll tell you the rest." Flint rubbed his wrists, used the bars to help himself to his knees.

Mercer gripped Vypra's hand tighter. He'd crossed one boundary, the heap waited for him either way. "You'd better keep up."

"Get me to the jungle and we'll see who keeps up with who."

"I don't think we should do this," Vypra said. Mercer heard in her voice that she was waking from Christophe's suggestive state.

Mercer marched through the jail, Vypra in hand.

Prisoners gasped at Flint's naked bloody body as he staggered behind.

Outside Mercer stopped a patrol convoy, ordered three soldiers out of a Stinger. He helped Flint into the truck bed. Vypra climbed in beside him. Mercer took the passenger's seat.

The driver hesitated. He'd helped capture Flint, knew Flint shouldn't leave the jail alive.

Mercer said, "Drive."

He glanced at Vypra. How do I get her off this island?

The convoy rounded the far side of the bay headed for the airfield. Flint could fly them out, but Wild Weasel would shoot them down. Mercer could disappear in the jungle, but he couldn't hide forever. Cobra gun boats patrolled the bay. Open ocean lay to the north and south. East. Flint was headed for the small islands east when I caught him. That's where we have to go.

Mercer radioed the other Stingers to continue with their patrol. He ordered his driver to break from the convoy and head along a dirt road into the jungle.

The bay disappeared behind a thick wall of green. Treetop canopies covered overhead. Jagged rocks stuck out of the road and jammed at the remnant ache in Mercer's back. Where he'd been shot a day earlier. By the imposter. By Flint. It's time for him to talk.

The driver pulled over. Mercer got out, said, "We're in the jungle. Tell me where your friend is."

"Subic Bay."

"Where exactly?"

"Check the Yacht Club bar. He'll be in the corner drinking alone."

"What's his name?"

"I'll get to that, but right now you've got bigger problems."

Mercer followed Flint's glance down the road. Another Stinger approached.

"What's your plan?" Flint asked.

Mercer paused. I never had one.

The radio squawked. He and the driver met eyes. The driver reached for his Kalashnikov. Mercer drew his pistol, shot into the Stinger's cab.

The driver slumped dead against the steering wheel. Mercer holstered his pistol, collected the Kalashnikov and a few ammunition magazines. Not enough to win a firefight.

Flint crawled off the truck, shambled for the jungle. "You'd better follow me if you want to get out alive."

Mercer gazed into Vypra's eyes, looked back at the approaching Stinger, then the jungle. He sighed. Flint held the contact's name. There was only one choice.

Mercer took Vypra by the hand, rushed her out of the truck and into the bush.

"This isn't right," Vypra said.

"It's what we have to do."

A hundred meters into the thickets, Mercer heard a muffled hum. The second Stinger had stopped. Someone would report the situation, then chase.

"We've got to hurry," Mercer said to Vypra.

Flint was hard to keep pace with. Thirsty, hungry and wounded, he zigzagged through the brush, skipped over rocks, broke branches and shuffled leaves at peculiar junctures to throw pursuers off the trail. He never slowed, he never stopped working to escape even as the slashes across his back opened and bled down his legs.

Vypra plodded behind, muttering to herself.

"Come on. We have to keep up," Mercer said in a smooth, encouraging tone, but he saw confusion in her expression.

Flint marched ahead. He didn't wait for Vypra, didn't consult with Mercer. Five meters away, he nearly disappeared behind the foliage.

"Please hurry," Mercer said.

Vypra nodded and stepped a little quicker. He gave her a thankful smile. She was still suggestible.

He glanced again, but Flint was gone. A distant roar inundated the jungle. Wild Weasel searched in his Rattler.

Alone, hunted by land and air with no one to guide them, Mercer put his face in his hands. Thoughts of the heap returned. Him and Vypra dead and discarded. Keep hiking east. That's all we can do.

Flint popped out from behind a rocky outcrop.

Mercer flinched, aimed his Kalashnikov. "Shit. I almost shot you."

"Give me a gun."

"No."

"In about five minutes, a group of soldiers will walk right through here. They'll follow the low ground and funnel together between these rocks and those marshes. When they get to here," Flint said pointing out terrain features with two outstretched fingers, "you open up on their point man. That'll draw their fire while I flank from those bushes. Now give me the pistol."

Mercer surveyed the narrow pass. Flint was right. The terrain formed a natural choke point and a burst of interlocking fire would leave no place to run. But Mercer feared the animal he'd tortured.

"I won't give you a gun."

"Then give it to princess moon-face. This is where you're going to escape."

Flint held the focus of a hunter. Cold as a stone, certain, haunted. He'd worked for and found his opportunity. A place where he could eliminate his pursuers. Or his interrogator.

Mercer doubted Vypra's ability in her compromised state. She might not pull the trigger, or simply hand the pistol to Flint.

Flint stared, naked and unashamed. "You let me go once, so I'll let you go once. I'll find you later, but right now I want to get off this damn island."

Mercer measured Flint. No friendship, no forgiveness, but he recognized a mutual interest, one that trumped past offenses. He breathed deep, handed Flint the pistol barrel first.

Flint grabbed the gun, but Mercer held tight, finger on the trigger. "Make one move I don't like and I'll kill you."

"Why wait? Kill me now, or shut the fuck up."

Mercer's finger twitched. No amount of pain, no threat of death scared Flint. Mercer wanted to march him to the heaps, show him that life was worth begging for. Then he released his grip.

Mercer aimed the Kalashnikov at Flint.

"You worry about the wrong stuff," Flint said as he shuffled into the brush.

"This way," Mercer said to Vypra. They ducked behind the rocky outcrop. He aimed along the firing lane Flint had established.

Vypra whispered, "Why are we doing this?"

Mercer drew a blank. He couldn't answer. Freedom? Love? Neither of those fit. He sat ready to shoot men that fought by his side. Why was he betraying them? He searched for a reason to justify their murders. His dreams? The heaps?

Not good enough.

An image flashed in his mind. There and gone within a moment, but the recollection lingered. He felt an impression of a bright yellow frame with black handle bars, seat and wheels—his bicycle. A memory, real and personal.

That's what this is for.

The point man rushed passed Flint's mark. Three more Cobra soldiers followed. I thought there would've been five. Mercer pinned the Kalashnikov's iron sights on the point man's chest. Fired. Swung to the second man. Shot him down. Pistol reports echoed and the last two soldiers dropped dead.

Flint emerged from the brush like a wild animal, blood and mud and leaves coating his bare skin.

Mercer aimed the Kalashnikov at Flint. One more trigger pull and I'll be done with you.

Flint threw a challenging nod. "Do it."

Mercer lowered his rifle.

"Those were our people," Vypra said. "Why'd you kill our people?"

"They were hunting us. They wanted to kill us."

"How do you know?" Vypra's glare held a stern curiosity. She didn't accept Mercer's simple explanation.

"I heard it over the radio in the truck."

"Kiss your girlfriend later," Flint said, dressing in bullet riddled fatigues much too small for his build. He slung two Kalashnikovs over his shoulders, held one in his hands. "I expected five men."

"Me, too." Mercer took Vypra's hand. She yanked it back. Pain spiked through his heart as if he'd been shot. He was trying to save her life, save her from the heaps, yet she refused his touch.

Flint headed east.

Mercer hiked after Flint.

Vypra marched behind. She hadn't fully woke from Christophe's hypnosis.

Sweat and flies, heat and hills. Flint moved at a relentless pace. Barefoot he crossed thorny branches and scuttling ants without a sound. Blood saturated the back of his shirt. He picked fruits and ate flowers as he hiked, found fresh water in the kinks of trees.

"How much farther?" Vypra asked. She'd opened the top button of her shirt.

Mercer watched a bead of sweat trickle from her neck down her flat sternum. "We're almost there," he said, but he didn't know where the coast lie.

Three hours hiking through dense undergrowth and a salty scent mingled with the jungle's damp, rotting must. Flint slowed his march, bent his course, wound left and right. With each correction, Mercer watched for pursuers, though he saw no signs they were followed.

Blue ocean water shimmered through the jungle green as they approached the eastern coast. Flint ducked below a small sand berm. Mercer squatted beside him. A primitive fishing village stood at the jungle's edge. Small bamboo huts raised a meter off the sand, old women cooking, weathered men smoking cigarettes and mending nets beside small rickety boats.

"There's one skiff with a motor," Flint said. "I'll trade a rifle for a ride to the next island. But we'll have to wait until the sun dips lower. We'll be harder to see from the air."

Vypra asked again in a soft tone, "Why are you doing this?"

"To get away from the bad guys," Mercer replied.

"Why are you taking me?"

"You need to get away, too."

"I'm not sure that I want to."

Mercer stared at Vypra. Her eyes cleared. She'd come out of Christophe Balinsky's trance. She needs real answers.

"You have to come with me because I love you."

Vypra blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"And you love me."

She looked away, over the sea.

"We've always loved each other…. But the rules… the rules kept us apart."

"I can't handle this crap," Flint said. He stepped out of the bush and waved to the villagers. They noticed the guns hung over his shoulders. Mother's scooped their children into huts. Men took up machetes and gathered to meet the stranger.

"I love you, Vypra. I want us to be together, but we can't do that if we stay here."

Waves washed up and down the sand, seagulls cried, wind sifted through the palm trees. Everything was perfect. She is perfect. Mercer told her how he'd felt before, but this time he said what he wanted for the future.

A twig snapped. Mercer spun.

Scarface pointed his Dragunov between Mercer's eyes. "Traitors!"

Mercer raised his hands over his head.

"Both of you."

Vypra raised her hands, too.

"They said we could trust you…. I trusted you." Disappointment, rage, murder, burned in Scarface's eyes.

"Please don't kill me." Mercer felt the scared woman from his dream, felt her fear and desperation at the final moment of her life. How everyone in the heap had felt the moment before their execution. And Vypra beside him, helpless to the same end.

He loved her. He couldn't stop her murder, but his desertion wasn't her fault. "Please don't kill her. She had nothing to do with it. She's a loyal soldier of Cobra."

That felt right.

A small outboard motor stuttered over the crashing waves.

"No. You both are traitors."

A zip tore the air and thumped against Scarface. Scarface spun and fell to the sand. Mercer looked back. Flint stood waist deep in the surf, his rifle aimed high. He waved to Mercer, shouted, "Come on."

Mercer leapt to his feet, grabbed Vypra's hand again.

"No," Vypra said. "I'm not going with you."

Scarface moaned, rolled to his back, holding his side. Blood drizzled over his sandy fingers.

"You have to. I love you."

"I won't leave. My duty is here."

Flint shouted again. The outboard motor whined. A subtle scent of burnt oil carried from the boat into the jungle.

"You don't know what you're saying. Christophe Balinsky brainwashed us."

"You're wrong. My name is Anna and I never owned a bicycle."

Mercer knelt in the sand. "But, the dreams, how do you—"

"I am a Cobra Viper." Her clear eyes flared with spite. "I won't leave."

Scarface growled, rolled onto his knees and clutched his rifle.

Mercer stared into Vypra's eyes. She held frozen, showed no affection, no sympathy. They'd served so long side-by-side, saved each other, laughed together. The time meant more than service to him, but in the sand at the edge of a jungle, Vypra chose servitude, hardship and cruelty over Mercer.

"Please." Mercer begged Vypra for something more important than his life. "Please." He begged for her love.

"No."

Scarface raised his rifle. Sand dribbled out the barrel.

"Please Vypra… Anna," Mercer said with tears in his eyes.

"No."

Scarface's gun shook in his hands.

"I'm so sorry." Mercer bounded over the sand berm and ran for the sea. Gunshots cracked. Bullets zipped through air, popped the sand in front of him. Flint sat in the boat, his hand on the motor's throttle, head ducked. Mercer splashed into a wave, clung to the small boat's gunwale as Flint gave the gas.

Mercer looked back. Vypra stood staring at him, her hand on Scarface's rifle holding the barrel down.

The boat skimmed over the waves as Mercer climbed aboard. Another glance back.

Vypra was gone.

*16*

From below his wide brimmed Panama hat, Mercer studied each person that stepped onto the bus. A long glance, a jittery hand, something to reveal the Cobra operatives he'd expected every second for five weeks.

The bus chugged forward. People swayed together, but nobody bothered him. Of all the places he'd visited in two thousand kilometers of flying, sailing and hiking across hundreds of islands loosely claimed by Indonesia and Philippines without money, documents or friends, Subic Bay was the largest, richest center of civilization. As the bus drove he watched children ride bicycles on paved streets, play outside wearing store-bought shirts and shorts and shoes. Houses built of plywood, businesses with fresh painted signs. Blues and reds mixed with off shades of green. Subic thrived in modern economies.

An aisle seat at the back of the bus gave Mercer the best view and kept potential enemies in front of him. But it also hindered escape. None of the busses he'd taken were built after the 1950s. They didn't have second doors near the rear. Even in Subic, on the nicest bus yet, he still envisioned an escape out a side window.

Flint had left him the moment they landed on the nearest island. He gave Mercer a name and a message, then staggered into the jungle saying he needed to find a bar and hospital in that order. That was the last Mercer had seen of Flint. No fare-wells, no good-lucks, no thank-yous.

Small Japanese motorcycles spewing white smoke swerved in and out of traffic. A commercial airliner roared across the bay. So many alleys, so much jungle. Mercer plotted escape plans as if he were the assassin sent to kill himself. Approach on a motorcycle, make the hit, hop a plane and head south for Indonesia. And then he chuckled quietly. The tired fantasy was a momentary relief from the constant fear he'd lived with.

Vypra remained in his thoughts like water under a boat, always there, ready to drown him. How could she know her name? And if she could remember that, how could she stay with Cobra? He'd asked himself the same questions a billion times over without a single plausible answer.

The bus stopped, two people got off. A baby cried. Change clinked in the toll. Two teenage boys got on. Grim faced, yet disconnected. They took the first seats available toward the front. The bus moved on.

Recognized as a First Son of Timis by Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna herself, given troops, rank and a medal by Cobra Commander, trusted with cutting edge weapons and armor by Destro. I've thrown it all away to meet a one-armed drunk named… Shit Head?

The bus followed the coast. Midday sun flickered across the ocean. Pleasure boats drifted on the breeze, tourist yachts and fishing crafts meandered on the sea. Subic Bay resembled Ambon. A city carved out of the jungle beside a long natural harbor, though Subic was much bigger. Homes and businesses, schools and churches gave way to fish markets and dry docks. Mercer caught sight of tall masts lined in rows and columns, like a forest of trees stripped to their metallic centers. There's the Yacht Club.

He reached up, tugged the string. A bell rang and the driver pulled to the side of the road. Mercer walked the aisle quickly, listened for rustling clothes or clicking safeties behind him. Past the teenagers, past the old woman, past the crying baby. Nobody moved. Nobody cared.

The breeze tussled his hat the first step off. He adjusted it, pressed it deeper onto his head. The bus growled, puffed a black cloud of diesel smoke at Mercer as it trundled away. Mercer walked the water front to the Yacht Club. White plaster façade with dark wood trusses. Splintery waist-high pylons, bound together by rusty anchor chains, separated the walkway from landscape features. Mercer rounded a bird-shit covered pylon, pulled open a heavy teak door.

The maitre d' greeted him. Mercer didn't understand the language, but made a drinking motion and pointed to the bar. The maitre d' nodded, invited Mercer inside.

A few customers sat in the dining room, mostly Europeans, some locals, one man sitting alone at the bar with his face buried in an empty glass. The barman blinked at Mercer. Mercer held up two fingers, said, "Whiskey," and pointed to the loner.

He approached the loner, well built with a stare that watched the ghosts within his own head. One sleeve of the Hawaiian shirt dangled empty. This has to be him.

Bottles bumped together as the barman prepared the drinks. Ukulele music played softly in the background, sold the tropical ambiance Westerners tipped heavily for. The man peered at Mercer from the corner of his eye, but never raised his head. Mercer hesitated a second, then said, "Are you Shit Head?"

The lone man bolted from his seat, punched Mercer's right cheek, kicked him hard in the groin.

Mercer staggered back, buckled at the waist, coughing. "Wait a second. Just wait."

The man held still, his one hand balled into a fist, ready to strike.

Mercer bore down against the pain, continued through gritted teeth. "I was sent here by your friend, Flint."

The man punched Mercer in his nose.

Mercer jumped back again, felt blood run down his chin. "What the hell's your problem?"

"Flint's not my friend and my name is Beach Head, not Shit Head."

The barman snickered, set both drinks down and tossed a towel to Mercer.

"Fine, but Flint sent me to find you."

"Too chicken to face me himself?"

Mercer stood straight, felt sharp pain radiate into his abdomen. He held the rag to his nose. Whiskey vapors in the cotton lingered against quickly closing sinuses.

"I'm not here to settle your issues. I've got information and Flint said you're the person to talk to." Mercer blinked back tears, tried to clear his vision. He pulled his dagger from inside his waistband and set it on the bar. "It's about Cobra."

Beach Head studied the dagger. His drunken scowl twisted to seriousness.

Mercer tilted his head back, touched gingerly around his cheek, measured the swelling. He ran his tongue over his teeth. All there.

"First off, who the hell are you? Second, how'd you find Flint."

Mercer sat on the bar stool, his legs spread wide. He drank his whiskey in one gulp, tasted a hint of blood and said with a juicy, nasal tone, "Name's Mercer. I was a Cobra Viper, but I defected."

Beach Head drank deep, eyes pinned to the dagger.

"We captured Ambon Island last month. Flint was banging underage prostitutes when we took over. He killed several of my men and stole a helicopter. We shot him down, then I captured him in the jungle."

Beach Head cracked a smile. "Sounds like Flint." He waved to the barman, ordered the entire bottle of whiskey.

"Flint said I need to talk with you, that you could help with bad dreams."

Beach Head lowered his gaze, poured another drink. "This'll help," he said and pushed the glass closer to Mercer.

Mercer downed his whiskey. His head swayed and his stomach turned, though the pain in his groin subsided. "I think people are after me. Is there any place safe we can talk?"

"Let's go." Beach Head grabbed the dagger and the whiskey bottle in one hand and walked out of the Yacht Club.

He got into a brown, late 1980s Toyota Celica and started the engine. Mercer sat beside him, caught the drunken, depressed glaze in Beach Head's eye and buckled the seat belt before they started moving. "We didn't pay."

"You keep your mouth shut about certain favors and certain people cover your expense account. That's how the U.S. government is paying for Flint's hookers."

Beach Head shifted the automatic transmission into drive and tore onto the street.

Mercer held on tight as Beach Head swerved in and out of traffic, drifted off the road and blew through a stop sign. One hand on the steering wheel, the bottle of whiskey between his legs, he drove fast, wild, like a man who didn't care if he lived or died. Like Flint.

Buildings, boats, pedestrians flashed by in a blur of speed. They raced through the city, onto a two lane road, verdant jungle to the left, glistening ocean to the right.

Beach Head turned off the main road toward the port complex, slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop nudging the black and white guard rail at the vehicle checkpoint station. Two security guards, dressed in sharp blue shirts and dark slacks, shouted at Beach Head in the local language. Beach Head dug out his wallet, flashed his credentials and yelled back. As soon as the rail began to rise he floored the accelerator, smoked the tires and dusted the guards.

Mercer chuckled. He saw both men raise their fists as Beach Head sped away.

"Overpaid crossing guards." Beach Head raced across a sprawling civilian port complex where enormous cargo ships docked and passenger planes taxied along the runway. He stopped in front of a long flat cinderblock office building with high louvered windows covered from the inside.

Beach Head got out, said to Mercer, "Follow close." He pinched the whiskey bottle under his stump of an arm, twisted off the cap and took a long swig. He passed it to Mercer, but Mercer handed it back without drinking.

Inside the offices cool air blew softly. Secretaries talked and typed. A janitor mopped speckled linoleum, said hello to Beach Head, then Mercer. Beach Head ignored the janitor, marched through the hallway as if headed for a fight. Mercer offered a polite smile.

Beach Head barged through a door with Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command: Philippines Liaison Office stenciled across the front. He said to the older American man sitting behind a stamped sheet metal desk, "Flint sends his regards."

The older man, with a hard, experienced expression, eyed Mercer. His name plate read General C. Abernathy. He appeared serious, respectable, not a clown like General Voltar.

Mercer stood tall, felt a compulsion to salute, but this wasn't Cobra and he wasn't a U.S. soldier.

Decades of cigarette smoke hung in the small office. Filing cabinets, a couple chairs, though the walls were bare, like he was ready to evacuate at a moment's notice.

"Sit," Abernathy said.

Mercer obeyed.

General Abernathy leaned his elbows on the desk, stared at Mercer from beneath bushy silver eyebrows. He lit a cigarette. "What did Flint do?"

"Nothing. This isn't about Flint." Mercer held his breath. He didn't know these people. How could he confess to them what he couldn't confide in his best friends? How would they take his story? Acceptance, denial, revenge? It doesn't matter. Someone needs to hear.

Mercer closed his eyes, breathed deep and said, "This is about Cobra." He started from his earliest memories of the battles he'd fought in Serbia. He explained the connections between Timis, New York, Scotland, Vietnam and Ambon. How he'd wake from dreams that felt like memories of heaps of bodies and how Christophe Balinsky would brainwash him. How his doubts started with a lady in a pub named Scarlett that thought he was American. He told of the incredible weapons, amphibious tanks, close support aircraft, the army of Vietnamese soldiers, of Major Bludd, and Cobra Commander, the embodiment of the Cobra Cult.

Mercer talked about the microwave coil used to torture Flint at which Abernathy and Beach Head exchanged meaningful glances followed by meaningful whiskey drinking. Then he told about his escape, how he parted ways with Flint and the long, treacherous ordeal to get to Subic Bay.

Mercer leaned on his knees and hung his head over his knotted hands. He'd revealed what monsters existed and whether Abernathy punished or forgave him, his conscience had eased.

"That's a hell of a tale," Abernathy said. He shook an empty cigarette package, but nothing fell out. He'd smoked two packs in the hour that Mercer talked. Beach Head had finished his whiskey and fallen asleep on the floor. "There's a few more people who will want to talk to you. I'll get you a secure room here. I've got to make some phone calls."

"General Abernathy, one more thing."

Abernathy's eyebrows drew down, he crumpled the empty cigarette package in his fist.

"I need to know my real name."

Abernathy smiled. "I don't see the harm in that." He stood, stepped over Beach Head and rifled through a filing cabinet. "You're a brave young man," he said and plucked a file folder from a drawer. He flipped open the cover, glanced at Mercer, then back to the file. "Mr. Felix Parker Stratton from Spencer, West Virginia." The file drawer squeaked closed.

Mercer blinked, pointed to himself.

Abernathy nodded and continued. "We've been tracking you for a while. I just want to let you know that you're doing the right thing." He kicked Beach Head's legs. "I'm flying in a psychologist tomorrow. He'll unravel this Chrystal Ball brainwashing business."

Abernathy jostled Beach Head again, pulled him by the shirt to sitting and gave him a slap across the face.

Beach Head woke, looked around and snickered. "I thought I was in Ecuador."

"Get up you drunken lout. You've got a job to do."

Beach Head wobbled to his feet, glanced at Mercer. "Oh yeah, this asshole."

"You'll be safe here," Abernathy said to Mercer. "Beach Head will escort you to the cafeteria. Get whatever you want. Then he'll show you to your quarters."

"Yes, sir," Mercer said. "And thank you for listening."

"Come on," Beach Head said and staggered out.

Mercer exited General Abernathy's office with an identity, a real name. Felix P. Stratton. He smiled as familiar sounds fell into comfortable places. Felix. Felix. Felix. He was free from isolation, from suspicion and secrets, except one. He'd never mentioned Vypra. And no matter what they asked, he'd never reveal his love.

Rest, a bed, a shower. No more sleeping in the jungle with one eye open, no more rinsing in salt water, eating bugs, or dead fish. No more coldness or exposure, no more looking over his shoulder in constant fear. And soon no more screams.

He walked by the janitor, still mopping. "Watch your step, Felix," the janitor said in English. "And Firefly says he misses you."

"How do you know who I am?"

"Because we know everything." The janitor flashed a wicked smile. "And knowing is half the battle."

Mercer charged at the janitor. The janitor swung his mop, hooked the back of Mercer's ankle and pulled. Mercer's heel slid out on the soapy tile, he fell backward. The janitor kicked him in the groin, drew a slender Cobra dagger, lunged for Mercer's stomach. Mercer parried the stab, punched the janitor in the mouth.

The janitor stood, knife tip pointed at Mercer's throat.

One gunshot. Two, then three. The janitor spun and bolted down an adjacent hall. Mercer groaned, found his feet. Beach Head leaned against the wall, Colt forty-five automatic held out wandering through his drunken aim.

Mercer's skin chilled. They've always known my real name.

Beach Head grabbed Mercer by the shirt, shoved him limping into Abernathy's office and went looking for the janitor.

Mercer held his breath, bore down against the pain. Of course they knew I'd be here. Flint told Cobra Commander everything.

He gave a quick explanation between choppy breaths.

Abernathy picked up the phone. "Lady Jaye, lock down the complex. Sounds like our ghost has struck again." He stared at Mercer. "Congratulations. You're only the second person to tangle with Zartan and live."

Cobra knew his identity, they knew where he'd be and sent an assassin ahead. And in the small office, at the end of his options, Mercer realized that no matter how far he ran, or who he hid behind, there would always be a place for him atop the heaps of corpses that he'd helped fill.