Several Centuries Ago
"Captain Robert Cross. You have been summoned to this august body to give an honest accounting of Blackwatch and Gentek dealings, to the best of your knowledge. You are not and will not be subject to any investigation or censure. Please be as thorough as you can be," says the heavy-set congressman, silence echoing in the chamber after his opening statement. The captain is stoic as grim faces belonging to the most powerful Congressional committees—Armed Forces to Appropriations—stare at him.
He knows this is his one true chance at redemption: ensuring the mistakes of Blackwatch are not repeated. He is sure the representatives will be his allies—some had started investigations into Blackwatch even before the outbreak.
Captain Robert Cross says, "Blackwatch was a top-down organization. It had—has—little to no regard for scientific ethics, national and state laws, or keeping to the promise of the Constitution. Soldiers and civilians were subjected to experiments: inhumane atrocities that yielded little to no practical results or evidence of long-term planning—these men and women were, in effect, little more than guinea pigs.
"The various experiment aims and goals were dictated by Randall and other non-scientific persons. Their policies led to wasteful use of funds and equipment." His composure cracks for a moment: "They were playing darts—tens of millions of dollars of darts—with almost nothing to show for it."
A different Congressman says, "What of CARNIVAL 1 and 2? The process for which—if I am not mistaken—led to the successful implementation of the D-Codes?" The thin, gangly, and focused individual is Gregory Smith, who looks with barely-restrained hunger in his bloodshot eyes.
"While the illegal human trials," Cross says, "went well, newer data indicates D-Codes will suffer from a host of maladies and organ failures in less than a decade; they all have an expiration date."
Gregory Smith is unperturbed. "But Captain Cross. You were at the head of many forays into the outbreak zones—so tell me, how were D-Codes fairing against these…Hunters?" Shuffles his papers: "They weigh around half of a car. And—after action reports noted they could, pardon my bluntness, chew up an entire platoon without proper fire power." Smith looks up, smiling: "So please tell me, from your own…experiences, how D-Codes helped stave off casualties?"
Captain Cross is perturbed. Hiding it—this should have been a reckoning against Blackwatch—he says, "In my experience, casualties were lower when D-Codes were present." Raises a finger: "However, our most consistent casualty-reducing efforts came from the combined arms doctrine. D-Codes performed suboptimally against Hunters. D-Codes frequently suffered from friendly-fire incidents; close proximity to the infected is not ideal and is not needed with modern arms."
"All very true—but the cost per D-Code is less than newer tanks or even javelin launchers. We've compared the costs of ammunition, training, and development." Bloodshot-eyes wide, Smith holds up a summary: "It sure looks like D-Codes work damn well on a shoestring budget. Let soldiers sign waivers for the process. They should be fucking glad to serve their country to its fullest extent." Other Appropriations committee members signal their approval. Captain Cross can almost see the schemes they are devising to minimize blowback: bonuses; free healthcare, for the time they have left; better rates on home loans; and anything else that balances their balance sheets. He can hear mutters about the overall savings; soldiers were mindless dolls to them.
Cross feels anger, hidden, ice-cold anger, as his worst fears come true. The questions take hours. The representatives are all the same.
"Hope, Idaho was a tragic mistake. From now on, all testing and development should be outside US borders."
"Alex Mercer destroyed an entire strike team in under a few minutes. Could you imagine—the next Afghanistan and we have ten of him?"
"All organizations have dirty laundry, Captain Cross. We don't need to hear about their failures. We need to hear about their damn successes."
The representatives are all happy. Captain Cross sees them wave away the horrors and mistakes time and time again; latch onto positives like self-proclaimed wise men. His facade remains the same: a stony-eyed look that betrays away nothing.
He says nothing—too horrified to say anything—when he has a reprieve. He listens to different committees argue and debate each other: business-like, calm, careless like the crimes he confessed to were unfortunate little accidents. He wonders why he ever swore to defend them.
Captain Cross is silent as they discuss the merits of inflicting the virus on other people—not Americans.
Finally, the meeting comes to a close. It is his last chance that day—maybe ever—to convince them to turn back; to get them to understand how atrocious it all is.
Captain Cross says in his closing remarks, "It is my sworn duty as a soldier—and as a patriotic American—to uphold the Constitution to the best of my ability. And I have upheld my duty for decades. Distinguished members of Congress, I tell you the experiments done on US soil violated it to the utmost degree: often haphazard, always a clear and present danger to American citizens, always a violation of rights and dignity and humanity." Takes a deep breath: "I believe continuing the program is not conducive to the safety of the nation."
"You are correct, Captain Cross," the heavy-set congressman says—was he finally being listened to? "Which is why we will move operations outside the country. No need to shit in our own backyard." No. Nods and murmurers of agreement went around the room. He feels bile creeping up his throat; he wants to burn the uniform and everything it stands for.
Gregory Smith says, "Captain Robert Cross. Thank you very much for being here. We appreciate your feedback and insight." Voice dismissive: "We will authorize a new project—and we will have the President's approval. One hundred fucking percent. Please prepare possible locations for yourself and Blackwatch; we're all grateful for your loyalty and discretion."
Another faceless, mindless, heartless Congressman speaks, conciliatory: "We understand how difficult this meeting is. You must understand the situation we face: desperate times are ahead. Our influence and manpower are waning; hostile nations will seek to take us by surprise. That cannot be allowed—but how can we pursue this further without endangering our people? Simple: Blackwatch's biggest mistake was keeping this in-house. We see now the wisdom of operating these…experiments outside our borders—much like other…unsavory programs."
The head chairman of the hearing clears his throat. He says, "Thank you for your service Captain Cross. The government is pleased to know good men remain in our forces. You are dismissed."
"I serve at the behest and pleasure of my superiors and the United States government. Whatever the orders may be, I, and everyone at Blackwatch, are ready to obey." In Captain Cross' eyes, a dark storm thunders: invisible to the representatives, cold, vindictive feelings morph into grim determination.
He had failed.
As Captain Cross exits the room, he takes out a notepad. He writes on it, keeps writing on it through his exit from the Capital; keeps writing on it through the train back to Blackwatch headquarters. In his temporary—and private—bunks, he stares at the list: names spanning several pages, crossing party and moral lines. He does not feel sick or like a traitor; he feels like a janitor cleaning up shop. A deep exhaustion fills him.
Captain Cross stares at his orders, their orders—Colonel Rooks is beside him. It is infuriating; with the destruction of Manhattan averted and clean-up operations well underway, the both of them believe their jobs are done: the spotlight has shined on them long enough. The time has come for Blackwatch to return once more to the shadows. Yet Fate and Congress have other plans.
Captain Cross has kept secrets from the other man: his 'alliance' with Mercer most prominently. He knows that Colonel Rooks has an inflexible mindset: a world of black and white and orders. But the Redlight virus splashes color on that line of thinking; Rooks had been shaken when Cross had revealed the true origins of that virus and the disaster at Hope, Idaho. To an extent. Mercer's disposal of a nuke has not lessened Colonel Rook's opposition to that man. Which is a shame; Cross, upon learning hatred remains, had not tried to feel him out for further sympathies or discontent.
Part of Captain Cross itches to try again after the latest news: Blackwatch has been titled 'Saviors of Manhattan'. From being threatened with investigations to this farce, he thinks. And some political maneuvering—of which he knows only the barest glimpse of—has made Congress come up with a brilliant idea: to go all in with their organization. With some painful stipulations: more funds for Blackwatch, including its less ethical divisions. He reads the transparent message loud and clear; withholds a scream of rage as Committee members in both Houses seek to continue Blackwatch's mission and biological experimentation.
The other attached message is no better: Blackwatch command is to undergo a restructuring, leaving those who knew its history, those who actually saved the city, a small group that can be counted on one hand. Two of whom were himself and Colonel Rooks, who is also in disbelief. At the orders, at what they represent: far from being horrified, Congress has taken a serious interest in the further development of certain Redlight and Blacklight strains; they see Manhattan as an unavoidable accident by a deranged scientist, rather than the result of decades of intentional harm and mismanagement. No one would really be punished in the end, Captain Cross thinks.
"Sir, this isn't right," he says to Colonel Rooks. His superior has always valued honesty.
"Rarely do we have the luxury of determining right or wrong when we wear this uniform and swear our oaths. Blackwatch has eyes everywhere on it now." We can't afford to buckle the leash, is unsaid by Colonel Rooks. He answers the unspoken parts of Captain Cross' statement: the President and Congress want to restart everything.
This time however, it will be off American soil. The government does not want a repeat of New York City—at home. Japan is a pliable nation; some within call themselves a 'Vassal State' to the American Empire, a title no red, white, and blue blooded official will lose sleep about. Captain Cross knows Blackwatch has already begun—under orders, in secret—construction of a new base in Iya Valley. The nation is the perfect testbed: islands, isolated by a few hundred miles from nearby countries; a culture which values conformity and obedience; and dense networks of cities and rapid travel throughout the country.
Colonel Rook stares at the embers dying out in the city, conflict striking across his face for a moment, then says, "If we won't be there, there's no one else to stop it. They'd continue with or without us." Turns around to stare at Captain Cross: "Our profession is not kind to those who don't follow orders. Their retirements tend to be abrupt; final. You have your orders, and I have mine. Get to it, soldier. Dismissed."
And with that, Captain Cross neatly salutes Colonel Rook as he walks past him.
After footsteps fade to nothingness, Cross reaches into his pocket. He hesitates—not for privacy concerns but moral—before pulling out a discrete recording device: similar to a MP3 player at a glance, but more secure. He initiates a new message.
Cross says to the device, "Mercer, they're going ahead with the project. I did my part, but they didn't listen to a damn word I said. I need you now, just as I needed you before. I'll write the appropriate coordinates the usual way." He references the dead drops set up between them. Pauses. The burden of his actions settle on his shoulders; he's Atlas holding up the weight of a nation's sins and failures. Saying with every ounce of uncomfortable sincerity: "Even if no one remembers what you did, I do. And so do some of the men. You won't go it alone, I promise; when the time comes, you'll have support. While we prepare for the trip…"
He tells Alex Mercer many things: the names of the representatives, others who supported and developed the plan, and the scientists slated to join the program will also be provided the usual way; and bluntly states on neutralizing the targets: anything is permitted, so long it couldn't be traced to them.
"...Blackwatch units suffered heavy casualties from the fighting. Most are combat ineffective. What's left and not aligned with us will be located at specific bases; the rest are coming with us." Regret flashes across his face: "No one is going to admit an entire base of soldiers are dead. Use that. Good hunting." The recording ends. He takes out his notepad and stares at the list.
Captain Cross prepares the information for the dead drop. The documents will also have the next location for the deliveries. A few minutes later, he tucks it away safely in his coat. Thinks, whatever comes next, he prays he'd have the strength to see it through. He's already spent the blood of Colonel Rook—it better be worth it. Enough good soldiers have died, and because of him, more will. The cost has to be worth it.