Apocalypse NCIS
Disclaimer: I do not own either the TV show NCIS or the film Apocalypse Now.
Summary: When a US Navy Patrol Boat washes up on the banks of the Anacostia River, a tributary of the Potomac, the NCIS Team stumbles upon the aftermath of a Vietnam War black operation.
"This is the end. Beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend, the end. Of our elaborate plans, the end. Of everything that stands, the end. No safety or surprise, the end. I'll never look into your eyes...again. Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free. Desperately in need of some stranger's hand. In a desperate land. Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain...and all the children are insane..." - The Doors.
"I took the mission, what the hell else was I gonna do?" - Captain Benjamin Willard, Military Assistance Command, Vietnam - Studies and Observation Group (MACV-SOG).
21 October 2003, 0845
Anacostia River, Vicinity of Bladensburg Waterfont Park
District of Columbia, United States
"Navy PBR." Gibbs said as he identified the grounded boat.
"I thought they retired those things after Vietnam." DiNozzo remarked as he followed Gibbs, slightly behind and to the left of his boss.
"I think I've had my quota of boats for the month." Kate quipped as she walked towards the boat, it's bow crushed inward from impact against the high bank.
A Maryland State Trooper approached Gibbs just then, a slightly portly fellow about five or six years older than Gibbs. "Damndest thing, this big green boat comes speeding by one of my river patrol boats, totally out of control and bumps over the sandbar and right into the embankment."
"What happened?" Gibbs asked.
"That's why we called you in. Big green boat sounds like a Navy type thing to me." the State Trooper said, "And when we got a closer look at it we found out the thing's got enough weaponry aboard it to seize a small island. Definitely a military boat."
Indeed the vessel was olive green, its bow largely smashed into the rocky embankment. Clearly the waterjet propelled craft wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
"Crewmembers?" Gibbs replied.
"Just two." the State Trooper said, "The EMTs are over there treating them."
He indicated the beach nearby where two men lay on their backs as EMTs had begun to start examining them.
"DiNozzo, Kate, go check on the two casualties. McGee, get the statements from the river patrol guys." Gibbs began.
"Where are you going?" DiNozzo asked.
"I'm going to have a look at the boat." Gibbs replied and climbed aboard the wrecked vessel.
The thing Kate and DiNozzo noticed straightaway was the fact that both men were in some form of military uniform. One with longish blonde hair, a skinny fellow almost six feet tall at 5'11, wore olive green fatigues and black steel toed boots with a red and yellow patch on the left shoulder. His nametape read Johnson and his service read U.S. Navy.
The other one wore green and black tiger stripe camouflage fatigues. He was around 5'7", shorter by four inches, with a similarly lean build to the first one and brown hair. Lying beside him, between him and Johnson, was an M16A1 rifle, with a 20 round magazine still in it. His nametape read Willard and his service read U.S. Army.
Both sported days worth of beard growth, their uniforms stained with grime, sweat, and not an inconsiderable amount of mud. Kate noted that as she knelt by the one called Willard and reached inside his shirt.
"Isn't that assault?" DiNozzo remarked.
"I'm looking for dogtags." Kate replied, "We might get lucky…"
"Walked into that one." DiNozzo quipped.
"Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, we might find a full name and social for each of these guys. Go check the other guy." Kate replied, then took out her PDA to note the first man.
She took down the information onto her PDA: Willard, Benjamin L.
"Hey, Kate, tell me if I'm wrong," DiNozzo began as he reached inside Johnson's shirt, "But if I'm not mistaken uniforms like this haven't been issued to the military in almost thirty years."
"Find any dogtags?" Kate asked.
"Yeah." Tony replied.
"Ok, read off the name." Kate asked.
"Johnson, Lance B." Tony recited.
Once she took down the information of the two men Kate donned her latex gloves and reached over for the M16A1 rifle, lying behind her. She held it by the pistol grip in one hand and hit the magazine release with her other hand.
DiNozzo turned away from Johnson and he caught the 20 round magazine before it hit the sand.
"Mostly empty." DiNozzo remarked.
"Handguards and barrel are hot. The rifle's been fired recently." Kate remarked as she ejected the chambered round and looked down the chamber of the M16 before placing it on safe.
"Gibbs," Kate began, holding the rifle in her hands, muzzle pointed towards the ground, "This weapon's been fired. Recently."
Gibbs, who had been standing by one of the M60s on the boat's starboard side, the side closest to where the EMTs were examining the two unconscious men. "So has this one."
"Come up here." Gibbs directed.
Kate looked up, the boat was pretty high.
"I could give you a boost." Tony remarked.
Kate rolled her eyes, and slung the rifle across her back before reaching up and grabbing the rails, pulling herself up and and attempting to hook her right leg around a rail, but missing.
She felt a hand at the bottom of her foot and Tony said, "Pull up and I'll push you up there. I told you I'd give you a boost."
Kate shot him a dirty look but pulled and Tony pushed the bottom of her foot with both of his hands, thus giving her the necessary boost to get into the boat.
"Want me up there too, boss?" DiNozzo asked from the bank.
"No, go help McGee get the statements from the Maryland River Patrol guys." Gibbs called back down before turning towards Kate.
"What does this look like to you?" Gibbs asked.
Kate looked around the deck of the boat. There were casings and machinegun belt links all over the deck, 7.62mm from the M60s, 5.56mm from the crew's M16s, even .50 caliber casings from the boat's larger guns, even a couple 40mm grenade casings.
"Wherever this boat was, it was last in a battle." Kate replied as she walked from the aft section towards the small, semi-covered pilothouse. She noticed a bloodstain on the deck.
"And they took casualties." Kate added, "Gibbs, doesn't a boat like this typically have a bigger crew than two people?"
"US Navy PBR, usually a crew of four sailors." Gibbs replied.
"PBR?" Kate asked.
"Patrol Boat, River." Gibbs supplied as he rummaged around the console where the steering column was, looking for the radio log.
"Why can't the Navy just say something simple like River Patrol Boat?" Kate mused.
"Who knows. I never was in the Navy, I was in the Marine Corps, remember." Gibbs said with a smirk.
Kate returned the smirk and noticed a surfboard, red and black with a big yellow shield with a diagonal black strip running roughly down it's center below a black horse head beside a pair of waterskis and a strap.
"Looks like these guys were also serious about their recreation on the water." Kate commented.
"So we've got a wrecked Navy patrol boat, a model that has been retired since the late 1990s, two men in Vietnam war era uniforms, Vietnam era weapons. Does this seem out of place to you?" Gibbs began.
Kate shot him a look, "It's obvious it is extremely out of place. I mean how does a Vietnam War era anything wind up on the banks of the Anacostia River?"
"DiNozzo, McGee, how's that interview coming along?" Gibbs called.
"I got the statements boss." McGee said, "But the EMTs want to get the casualties transported."
"Direct them to Walter Reed and go with them." Gibbs began, "DiNozzo, you're with me. And Kate…"
"I know, with the boat, right?" Kate said.
"So did you learn mindreading in the Secret Service?" Gibbs asked.
"No, but within the last month I've accompanied two tow trucks back to the Navy Yard, it seems like this was opportunity number three." Kate replied, with mild annoyance in her voice.
"Before you go, give Abby a call and have her run the names of the two crewmembers we have." Gibbs said.
Kate pulled her phone out and dialed Abby's number before heading over to the tow truck.
NCIS, Washington Navy Yard,
1100, 21 October 2003
Washington, D.C.
United States
"Abby, any luck with running those socials and names?" Gibbs began as he walked into Abby's lab.
"Depends on what you call luck, Gibbs. I ran the names and socials of the two men Kate called about. But there's something really hinky about all this." Abby said as she took a sip of Caf-Pow, "For starters both these guys have really common first and last names, I mean really common, there are a lot of Willards and Johnsons on the planet, at least in the Western world and..."
"Abby," Gibbs said, patiently, "Get to the point."
"I ran a search for any Lance B. Johnsons in the Navy and any Benjamin L. Willards in the Army." Abby said, "But they didn't return any results for currently serving men. I expanded the search parameters further to the early 80s, the age of the Flock of Seagulls and hair bands, still nothing. So I kept on expanding it then I got hit."
"Which was?" Gibbs began, noticing that Abby was on her second Caf-Pow and it had just turned eleven o'clock according to his watch.
"Well my records search revealed that the only people with those names were in service during the Vietnam War. And more specifically the last known whereabouts on either of these men was at Nha Trang, Vietnam before they were listed as Missing in Action." Abby replied, sipping another Caf-Pow and bringing up both Johnson and Willard's service records, "Now what's really hinky is Willard's service record is largely classified. It mentions service in the 173rd Airborne Brigade from 1965-1966, attending the Special Forces Qualification Course in mid 1966-1967, and then service with Military Assistance Command, Vietnam in the Studies and Observation Group around 1967 and then it seems like he almost disappears from Army records."
Kate walked into the room just then, "The boat is ready for Abby to look it and I think I have hit my tow truck quota for the calendar year."
"But it is a new fiscal year, which is how I define the tow truck quota." Gibbs said with a wry grin.
Kate flashed him an 'if looks could kill' expression before asking, "Are those the results on those names and socials?"
Kate looked over at a monitor that showed the records and official photographs of Gunner's Mate 3rd Class Lance B. Johnson, US Navy and Captain Benjamin L. Willard, US Army.
"Wait, that can't be right." Kate remarked, as she pointed at Johnson's and Willard's records in turn, "those records show them as serving during the Vietnam War. But the two men on that boat looked to be around 19 and 30 respectively."
"They were 19 and 30 in November of 1969." Gibbs remarked.
"Whoa." Kate remarked, pointing at another monitor that had a map centered on Nha Trang, Vietnam displayed, "So you're telling me that those two guys on that boat somehow found themselves ashore thousands of miles and almost thirty-four years into the future from their last known whereabouts?"
"It's looking like that." Gibbs said.
"Ok, putting aside the straight out of a Bemuda Triangle story piece for now, I also noticed something." Kate replied, pointing towards Willard's service record, "Any reason that Willard's record seems to be largely redacted after 1967?"
"I was just getting there." Abby replied, "He joined some organization called MACV-SOG in mid-1967."
"MACV-SOG?" Kate asked.
"Military Assistance Command Vietnam - Studies and Observation Group." Gibbs replied, taking a sip of coffee from the cup he had been carrying, "A highly classified multi-service special operations unit, disbanded in 1972."
"Ok, so that explains the redacted service record, but how those two guys look like they haven't aged a day in thirty-four years is the mystery here as well as what happened to the other people on this mission." Kate replied.
"I'd say its the latter more than the former." Gibbs replied, "The how they got here part is a bit less important."
"This is hinky, though." Abby said, "It's just like the Bermuda Triangle legend where that pilot landed and his watch and read several days in the past but he landed several days in the future."
"Abby, I don't think that there's anything remotely resembling the Bermuda Triangle anywhere in vicinity of the Mekong River." Gibbs replied before his cell phone started to ring.
"Gibbs. Hang on, I'm putting you on speaker."
Gibbs tapped the speakerphone button, "Boss, it's McGee. One of the men is awake. It's Willard."
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
1045, 21 October 2003
Washington, D.C.
United States
"Hey probie," DiNozzo asked, "Any change with the two unconscious guys?"
"No." McGee said, "They're still out like lights."
Indeed both Willard and Johnson, clad in hospital gowns were currently lying in hospital beds in the Isolation Ward of Walter Reed Army Medical Center, an isolated wing of the hospital.
Thanks to the plate glass window in the small waiting room McGee and DiNozzo could see the two men each hooked to an EKG, the beeps came steady, just showing two men who were unconscious but under observation.
One member of the team was going to remain with the two men while the others divided their time between research on the PBR and the mission of its crew.
"Hey probie, mind covering for me for a few minutes, I have to use the bathroom." DiNozzo said, standing up from one of the small cloth cushioned chairs in the waiting room.
McGee glanced up just in time to see DiNozzo's line of sight, a pretty blonde nurse was walking past the Isolation Ward waiting room.
"Sure." McGee replied, fairly sure DiNozzo's desire to have McGee cover part of his shift had nothing to do with a desire to use the bathroom at all.
He sighed tiredly and looked through the glass pane that allowed him to get a look at the isolation ward. Right as he was about to turn around and go back into a months old issue of National Geographic Magazine when he saw Willard's eyes open and the man sit bolt upright in bed.
He was on the phone to Gibbs, the article on African Wild Dogs entirely forgotten, "Boss, it's McGee. One of the men is awake."
"Did you not assassinate a government tax collector...Quang Tri Province, June 18, 1968?" - Colonel G. Lucas, Military Assistance Command, Vietnam.
"How many people had I already killed? There were those six that I know about for sure...close enough to blow their last breath in my face." - Captain Benjamin L. Willard, Military Assistance Command, Vietnam - Studies and Observation Group (MACV-SOG).
18 June 1968, 1900
Quang Tri, Quang Tri Province
Republic of Vietnam
Huynh Dak Ho smiled as he walked from the hotel. Not only was he able to get enough money to his North Vietnamese handler, but he was also able to skim away just enough for another bit of comfortable living. He not only had a wife and three children, but also a mistress to keep happy.
He had no idea that within the hour he was going to die. Huynh had been at his mistresses house, celebrating his good fortune. The money this man was skimming off of taxes wasn't entirely going to the Government of South Vietnam, and not entirely to his mistress or his family.
That, I don't care about. Willard thought. I care that the prick's been giving money and info to the Vietcong. And that Manfredi's team paid the price for it six months ago.
Taking the KaBar knife from its sheath silently from underneath the black civilian shirt he wore, the soft soled tennis shoes he wore making his movements on the largely unpaved street silent.
Running the last few steps, silently moving towards the man he was about to kill. Huynh was lighting up a cigarette as he was walking back towards his home. Shifting the grip on the knife slightly then grabbing Huynh into the nearest alleyway, a hand over the mouth, dragging the smaller, slighter Vietnamese man into the darkness while thrusting the knife into his back. Stabbing in, repeating names with each thrust, "Sergeant First Class Vic Manfredi, Sergeant Dave Shapiro, Specialist Four John Provo. That's for Recon Team Mojave."
Grabbing the knife, then flipping it over, stabbing into the neck, slitting the throat and caratoid arteries, releasing his hand from Huynh's mouth, the smell of the man's tobacco scented breath mixing with the fermented fish sauce that flavored his last meal.
Willard wiped the knife on the inside of his shirt, tucking the knife back into his belt, making his way back to the Quang Tri safe house, the place the CIA maintained for just these sort of black operations.
Opening the door, instead of the CIA Case Officer he had worked with all he saw were eight people. And these were eight people he had killed, at least the eight he knew for certain, close enough to have breathed their last breaths into his face.
At the center stood the gaunt Colonel Walter E. Kurt.. His body covered with the lacerations the machete had caused. The machete that he had wielded, the one he had swung several times to carry out his last mission.
Kurtz uttered his final words, "The horror! The horror!"
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
1100, 21 October 2003
Washington, D.C.
United States
Willard sat up in bed, bolt upright, eyes opening, regarding the room. Room, what the hell? And it looks like a damn hospital ward? What the Hell?
He looked around the room noticing he was clad in a hospital gown and that he was connected to an EKG. He could hear a similar machine behind another blue curtain. Lance?
Willard would utter the first five words he would ever utter in this new century. "Where the hell am I?"
To Be Continued...