It was a very interesting day at the office today.
First of all, I had to report to the NecroLab (as I call it) to show the Lab Geeks that I have familiarized myself with the new equipment they installed on my body after the Rocky Mountain grenade incident. I apparently satisfied them with my movements and response times, since I was given a release to return to duty. The Head Geek, Dr. Daniel Bernstein--the complete package of Geekdom, from the pencil case in his dressshirt pocket, to the rat-like mannerisms, mussed up hair, and the semi-distracted look whenever he is talking to you--wanted to see about installing some additional 'hardware'.
Basically, they wanted to install weaponry on my body like I am some sort of fricking combat machine. Apparently my success in the mountain raid, and in the incident with the armored car, convinced the bastard Kampmann and his little buddy Dr. Bernstein, that I would make one Hell of a Terminator-type killer. They had these strange little contraptions they wanted to 'install' on my arms with all sorts of wires and other assorted crap that would have given me an 'integrated firing system' and would have allowed me to target with my eyes.
My response to this was rather simple. I found out that I am exactly strong enough to wrap a little mini-gun around the neck of that smug little prick Bernstein! You should have seen the look on his face when I broke the first of the pair of guns in half, and then again when he tried to stop me on the second one--I took that one and wrapped it around his neck! All six of his assistants were trying to pull us apart, which they failed to do, until I was satisfied as his face went from a ghost white of fear, to a satisfying purplish hue.
I wasn't quiet either as I was doing this, but I don't think I said a single word that would be publishable here--I try to write the way I speak normally, but this incident went beyond the pale of what I am comfortable repeating here.
I did however state a new credo of mine, one that I didn't know that I had at the time. I have determined that I will not, under any circumstance, use a firearm. The risk of causing dire injury or death to innocent bystanders or even the risk of killing a suspected perpetrator who may be innocent is just too great. I will NOT end anyone else's life the way mine was ended. I made the decision right there and then, that I would not carry a firearm of any sort, especially not one linked to my nervous system in any way, but that I would stick to non-lethal force when I got into confrontations.
I am not exactly sure why this choice became so clear to me in that instant when Bernstein was beaming with such pride and obvious glee at what I would now be able to do, but it just became clear in that moment of rage and perhaps fear at the thought of what they were trying to make me into. Maybe I watched too many cartoons of superheroes when I was young, or perhaps it was the fact that I had seen and loved such movies as Robo-Cop and the Terminator series, but I just could not allow those last shreds of humanity that I do have left become lost inside this killing machine they wanted to make me into.
As his assistants were trying to untangle their gun contraption from his neck, I left the NecroLab and went looking for Drake.
I found the bastard in the hallway, flanked by a couple of what were probably meant to be impressive looking Goons with Guns (GWG's), heading towards the lab. He stopped dead when he saw me. I pointed towards a nearby interview room and followed him inside. Wisely the GWG's stayed outside.
We had it out pretty damn good in that room. The walls were shaking as I thundered my outrage at his ass. One of the GWG's made the mistake of peeking his head in the room, but quickly closed the door when he saw the newly disconnected telepnhone headed his way. Drake kept to his normal voice, showing no emotion, other than that smugness of his, but he tried to convince me of the error of my ways, and of how important it is that I continue to participate in 'The Program' so they can fully assess what my capabilities are. I came as close as I have yet to seeing exactly how badly he needs air to breathe, but restrained myself in the end.
Eventually, I calmed down enough to point out that I had more than fulfilled any requirement of his amoral, and probably illegal, program, and that I wanted to be reassigned and be treated as a real agent.
He narrowed his beady eyes at that, and said merely, "I see. Well I am very disappointed in you. But if that is the way you feel, I'll see what I can find for you. Luckily, another one of your previous team members appears to be now available for his next step."
I stood there stunned into silence and reflection at what he had just said, and with the way he had just said it as he turned on his heel calmly and walked out. As he closed the door behind him, he looked back and said, "You can go home for now Agent Bones, report to me tomorrow at 9 AM, and I will let you where you will be reassigned to. You have provided extremely valuable information and insight."
With that he left. I felt hollow and empty as I realized another one of my former team mates had been killed.
I also wondered how much of a surprise it was to Drake that another test subject just became available.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
The Conversation-Epilogue
Once I reached the decision to play along with the Director and take the money he was offering, the rest of that meeting was fairly unremarkable in the content of our conversation. It was, however, very revealing in terms of the documents I was given to review and in some cases sign.
The first revelation came when he gave me a thick memo to review that discussed the training regimen that we had participated in up to that moment, including all of the nutrient supplements that we had been given. These supplements were apparently designed to make certain chemical changes in our bone structures as well as our muscle and nervous systems. I had noticed that over the course of the previous year or two, that I had gained about 20 pounds. Strangely though, my clothes seemed to fit, with only slight adjustments needed in a couple of my smaller suit coats and dress shirts. My shoulders were bigger and my muscles did seem denser. I noticed that the regimen would become noticeably stricter in the coming months, which didn't sit well with me at all.
The next surprise came when he presented me with a schedule, showing the tentative dates for me to make certain trips to a location in Hialeah, Florida, a small suburb of Miami in Dade County that is home to perhaps the largest proportion of non-native born people in the United States, mostly Cuban ex-pats. When I questioned him on the reason for that location, the Director just smiled that evil grin of his and said that one of the experts needed for the spiritual preparations lived there and that he didn't like to travel much.
(I can tell you, that THAT guy was even scarier than Drake...even if he did appear to be a spry little old man more likely to be doting on grandchildren at first. He earned his nick-name, El Diablito-the Little Devil, when he put on his magickal personna. He wasn't Hispanic, but he did have an almost imperceptible accent when he got excited. He ran a small, rather specialized shop in a warehouse district of Hialeah that sold magickal supplies and implements catering to Santeria and Voudoun practictioners in the area. I don't know what the name of the store is now, since he has since sold it and moved away, but when he owned it, it was called NextWorld, Inc.)
Finally, the Driector presented all sorts of forms that appeared to be the actual contract, only it was about twenty pages long with extremely small type. The legalese on this form could choke a lawyer, be I read through the entire thing, making his ass wait while I asked questions to clarify points. He smiled with each answer and that little glow in his eyes growing just a little brighter as I flipped each page after initialling off on it.
Turns out that the deal seemed awfully good when I read it, and who knows, how can I really complain when here I am, over a year after I was killed, telling you all about it?
Well, we'll answer that question together over time as I grow into this new existence and share with you my experiences. So far the results are mixed at best.
I think that just about wraps up this crucial conversation with Drake. This was my first hint at the darkness that lies beneath that cold, evil smile of his, but it wasn't until fairly recently that I have really soured on the bastard, seeing him for the evil little prick that he is. Somehow, I wouldn't put it past him to have had a hand in my death....but if he did, he has hidden it well.
I can tell you, however, that I will never stop looking into what happened that night, and if I find out that he, or anyone else in this program had a hand in that, they had better watch out!
The first revelation came when he gave me a thick memo to review that discussed the training regimen that we had participated in up to that moment, including all of the nutrient supplements that we had been given. These supplements were apparently designed to make certain chemical changes in our bone structures as well as our muscle and nervous systems. I had noticed that over the course of the previous year or two, that I had gained about 20 pounds. Strangely though, my clothes seemed to fit, with only slight adjustments needed in a couple of my smaller suit coats and dress shirts. My shoulders were bigger and my muscles did seem denser. I noticed that the regimen would become noticeably stricter in the coming months, which didn't sit well with me at all.
The next surprise came when he presented me with a schedule, showing the tentative dates for me to make certain trips to a location in Hialeah, Florida, a small suburb of Miami in Dade County that is home to perhaps the largest proportion of non-native born people in the United States, mostly Cuban ex-pats. When I questioned him on the reason for that location, the Director just smiled that evil grin of his and said that one of the experts needed for the spiritual preparations lived there and that he didn't like to travel much.
(I can tell you, that THAT guy was even scarier than Drake...even if he did appear to be a spry little old man more likely to be doting on grandchildren at first. He earned his nick-name, El Diablito-the Little Devil, when he put on his magickal personna. He wasn't Hispanic, but he did have an almost imperceptible accent when he got excited. He ran a small, rather specialized shop in a warehouse district of Hialeah that sold magickal supplies and implements catering to Santeria and Voudoun practictioners in the area. I don't know what the name of the store is now, since he has since sold it and moved away, but when he owned it, it was called NextWorld, Inc.)
Finally, the Driector presented all sorts of forms that appeared to be the actual contract, only it was about twenty pages long with extremely small type. The legalese on this form could choke a lawyer, be I read through the entire thing, making his ass wait while I asked questions to clarify points. He smiled with each answer and that little glow in his eyes growing just a little brighter as I flipped each page after initialling off on it.
Turns out that the deal seemed awfully good when I read it, and who knows, how can I really complain when here I am, over a year after I was killed, telling you all about it?
Well, we'll answer that question together over time as I grow into this new existence and share with you my experiences. So far the results are mixed at best.
I think that just about wraps up this crucial conversation with Drake. This was my first hint at the darkness that lies beneath that cold, evil smile of his, but it wasn't until fairly recently that I have really soured on the bastard, seeing him for the evil little prick that he is. Somehow, I wouldn't put it past him to have had a hand in my death....but if he did, he has hidden it well.
I can tell you, however, that I will never stop looking into what happened that night, and if I find out that he, or anyone else in this program had a hand in that, they had better watch out!
The Conversation-Part 2
I sat there stunned for a moment, trying to comprehend how a high ranking official of the fricking FBI could be sitting there trying to talk me into taking part in some sort of impossible, asinine experiment that seemed to be part science fiction, part fantasy. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the concepts this dude was talking about.
“I...I...just don’t see how you can expect me to take this shit seriously,” I stammered. “I mean, you did just say magick, didn’t you?”
The bastard leaned forward, his black, beady eyes seemed to glow for a second with an infernal glare (not that I believed in such things, mind you). “Yes. Yes, I did mention magick. Matter of fact, the particular kind of magick that makes this all possible is actually called Necromancy....”
“Jeezus Christ...” I blurted out, “This is sounding more and more like some very bad B-movie.” I was starting to get up to put an end this whole interview.
“Officer Smith, sit down and hear me out. I happen to know how badly you need your bonus this year, but if you leave this interview before I release you, your participation in this program will be terminated, as will your scheduled bonus payments.”
That caught me off guard. I did need that damn money, badly. My wife’s car was on its last legs, and she was looking wistfully at a minivan that cost damn near $20,000. I slipped back down in the chair, and decided to hear the man out.
“Yes, I thought that might jolt you back to reality. I understand that the things we have talked about today are outside of your normal experience, but you will come to understand enough of what I speak of today to realize that there is a whole world of secrets that once revealed, will truly change how you see things.
“The information I am about to reveal to you is highly classified, and will not be discussed outside of this room at any time, with any person not similarly authorized to receive such information, including your wife, or any other members of your family. Failure to follow this admonition will lead to some very serious consequences, do you understand, Officer Smith?”
I nodded, wondering who the Hell would believe me if I started discussing Necromancy, magick, and any of the rest of this shit. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” With that, he whipped out a typed memorandum and placed it in front of me so fast that it would make a Vegas blackjack dealer proud. “Then I will need you to look over this memorandum and sign it there at the bottom. This merely spells out some of your responsibilities regarding the information you are about to receive, and the rather dire consequences for failing to take the proper safeguards with it.”
I scanned through the document, saw that he was indeed very serious. It pretty much spelled out that the entire content of this meeting was considered Secret, and that serious jail time and hefty fines were involved for any unauthorized disclosure. (Of course, you might wonder why I am writing about this now, since this information is still considered Secret--I will discuss that later. You may rest assured that I am in no danger from this disclosure--I cannot, however, vouch for you, Gentle Reader, so read on at your own discretion.)
After taking the moment offered to read through the document, I signed it and handed it back to him, only to see it snatched from my hand and shuffled back into my file faster than I could blink. Something about this dude just wasn’t right. From this moment on, I decided to pay more attention to this guys’ mannerisms and see if maybe he was a product of his own experiments.
He looked back up at me, smiled in his unnerving way, and continued, “This government, and probably the former Soviet Union as well, stumbled upon some rather amazing, and very secretive, research that had been conducted by the Third Reich at the end of World War II. That research included a number of test subjects and a number of practitioners of certain, let’s just call them, ‘Dark Arts’. At first no one could believe that the Germans had actually made any efforts in this direction, but it quickly became evident that not only had they tried their hand at some things, they had actually made some remarkable progress.
“Once that realization set in, it became a sort of scramble through the ruins of the Third Reich to collect evidence, test subjects, and the few practitioners that could still be located using the SS files that had been recovered in the last days of the war. It is believed that a number of practitioners escaped in the chaos at the end of the war before their importance became known. A number of those individuals fled Europe to South America and other remote regions of the world, but a good number of them were captured and secretly transported to London and Washington D.C. for further study by the American and British governments.”
“Wait a minute sir, are you telling me that the Nazi’s were working on this stuff first, and that the US and the Brits actually continued their work?”
That damn smile again. “Yes, Officer Smith, the US and British governments did continue with some of, but not all of, the experiments that the Nazi’s started. But as you will find out in time, if you continue in this program, the things they were working on were just too important to ignore. Of course these governments went about their studies in a more humane manner than the Nazi’s did, using mostly volunteers.”
“Mostly volunteers?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. The original captives from Germany wouldn’t be considered volunteers, at first, but after they were debriefed and their participation and talents were reviewed, most of them were allowed the choice to continue or not in their research.”
“But not all of them, eh?”
His eyes seemed to light up again at this point. “No, not all of them were given the choice. In any event, some of that research has been developed to the point now that we have the ability to preserve the spirit of a person who has been specially prepared ahead of time. We also believe that we can now tie that specially preserved spirit back into a body that has also been prepared for the procedure, allowing that person to live again, in a limited manner.”
“So let me get this straight.” I just had to interrupt. “You are saying that you can hold a person’s soul after they die, and that you now think you can use that soul to re-animate their body? Pardon me, but this sounds like an attempt to make a real Frankenstein. What the Hell happens to this soul if your plan doesn’t work?”
“Yes, we can and have been able to preserve the souls of particular volunteers. We have not succeeded in re-animating any bodies with these souls just yet, but we have been able to communicate with those individuals and released those who wished to be released. As strange as it sounds, we have tried the Frankenstein approach of building a body out of parts, but that has not succeeded. Our research seems to show that the soul needs to have a tangible connection to the body it animates. In our previous attempts, this just hasn’t been possible, for various reasons. This is where you and your fellow teammates come in.”
I sat there stunned, struck by the irony of having played D&D throughout my youth, having grown out of such fantasies by the time I was eighteen, and now being briefed by a senior government official on their intent to raise me from the dead!
“Look,” I said, “I don’t have any intention of dying anytime soon. So if this plan of your involves that kind of volunteering, you can shove it, and your damn money, up your cold, stiff ass!”
He raised a hand to calm me down. “I understand your concerns. We do not have any intention of causing your untimely demise. But, as I have just mentioned, it appears that we must prepare both the spirit and the body of any candidates. You and I both know that being a police officer is a very dangerous line of work. Every officer lost in the line of duty is a tremendous loss to our nation and a tragedy. What we are offering you is the opportunity to be the beneficiary of an extremely valuable life insurance policy. If something were to happen to you in the line of duty or otherwise, this project would allow us to save the spirit you really don’t believe that you have in the first place and bring you back from the dead. If you choose to continue with this program, and you live to a ripe old age and retire from police work, you will have the option of quitting at any time, and you will continue to receive these payments, tax-free, for the time you remain in the program.
“However, if something dire does happen, and you are killed or die in some unfortunate accident later this year, or the year after that, or any time while you are still in the program, you will have a second opportunity at life to be there again for your family. That is what this program is all about!”
I didn’t believe much of what this guy was saying, but the idea of being able to collect an extra pay check and never really have to work all that hard for it again appealed to me.
“So, sir, you are saying that I could continue in the program, collect these bonuses each year, and then quit the program anytime I wanted to? Will you put that in writing?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. Yes, there are contracts that you will be able to review here in this office for as long as you like before signing. If you agree to partake in this program past today, your participation will remain strictly voluntary. As long as you participate as directed by myself and the other managers in this program, you will continue to receive inflation adjusted, tax-free payments that will help you and your family take care of the little extras that make life enjoyable.
“And really, what do you have to lose? I can see that you really believe that this can actually work, and you even doubt the existence of your own soul. You have no faith that prohibits any of this, and if it doesn’t work, as you suspect it won’t, you will have lost nothing and gained a little extra renumeration for your time. You are a very reasonable man, Officer Smith. I am sure that you can see the benefits of your further participation, and just imagine your surprise if the worst happens and we are actually called upon to show you that this works, and you wake up to a new life with a chance to set things right again!”
I had to agree with his logic. Besides, I seriously doubted that anything like this could ever actually work.What harm could come if I just played along, took the money they were obviously willing to give away, and went about watching my ass so I didn’t have to find out if they could actually do it?
Well, I surely learned the answers to most of those questions. Too bad I had to learn the hard damn way!
Next, I will provide more detail on the processes that I had to undertake in order to continue participating in the program.
“I...I...just don’t see how you can expect me to take this shit seriously,” I stammered. “I mean, you did just say magick, didn’t you?”
The bastard leaned forward, his black, beady eyes seemed to glow for a second with an infernal glare (not that I believed in such things, mind you). “Yes. Yes, I did mention magick. Matter of fact, the particular kind of magick that makes this all possible is actually called Necromancy....”
“Jeezus Christ...” I blurted out, “This is sounding more and more like some very bad B-movie.” I was starting to get up to put an end this whole interview.
“Officer Smith, sit down and hear me out. I happen to know how badly you need your bonus this year, but if you leave this interview before I release you, your participation in this program will be terminated, as will your scheduled bonus payments.”
That caught me off guard. I did need that damn money, badly. My wife’s car was on its last legs, and she was looking wistfully at a minivan that cost damn near $20,000. I slipped back down in the chair, and decided to hear the man out.
“Yes, I thought that might jolt you back to reality. I understand that the things we have talked about today are outside of your normal experience, but you will come to understand enough of what I speak of today to realize that there is a whole world of secrets that once revealed, will truly change how you see things.
“The information I am about to reveal to you is highly classified, and will not be discussed outside of this room at any time, with any person not similarly authorized to receive such information, including your wife, or any other members of your family. Failure to follow this admonition will lead to some very serious consequences, do you understand, Officer Smith?”
I nodded, wondering who the Hell would believe me if I started discussing Necromancy, magick, and any of the rest of this shit. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” With that, he whipped out a typed memorandum and placed it in front of me so fast that it would make a Vegas blackjack dealer proud. “Then I will need you to look over this memorandum and sign it there at the bottom. This merely spells out some of your responsibilities regarding the information you are about to receive, and the rather dire consequences for failing to take the proper safeguards with it.”
I scanned through the document, saw that he was indeed very serious. It pretty much spelled out that the entire content of this meeting was considered Secret, and that serious jail time and hefty fines were involved for any unauthorized disclosure. (Of course, you might wonder why I am writing about this now, since this information is still considered Secret--I will discuss that later. You may rest assured that I am in no danger from this disclosure--I cannot, however, vouch for you, Gentle Reader, so read on at your own discretion.)
After taking the moment offered to read through the document, I signed it and handed it back to him, only to see it snatched from my hand and shuffled back into my file faster than I could blink. Something about this dude just wasn’t right. From this moment on, I decided to pay more attention to this guys’ mannerisms and see if maybe he was a product of his own experiments.
He looked back up at me, smiled in his unnerving way, and continued, “This government, and probably the former Soviet Union as well, stumbled upon some rather amazing, and very secretive, research that had been conducted by the Third Reich at the end of World War II. That research included a number of test subjects and a number of practitioners of certain, let’s just call them, ‘Dark Arts’. At first no one could believe that the Germans had actually made any efforts in this direction, but it quickly became evident that not only had they tried their hand at some things, they had actually made some remarkable progress.
“Once that realization set in, it became a sort of scramble through the ruins of the Third Reich to collect evidence, test subjects, and the few practitioners that could still be located using the SS files that had been recovered in the last days of the war. It is believed that a number of practitioners escaped in the chaos at the end of the war before their importance became known. A number of those individuals fled Europe to South America and other remote regions of the world, but a good number of them were captured and secretly transported to London and Washington D.C. for further study by the American and British governments.”
“Wait a minute sir, are you telling me that the Nazi’s were working on this stuff first, and that the US and the Brits actually continued their work?”
That damn smile again. “Yes, Officer Smith, the US and British governments did continue with some of, but not all of, the experiments that the Nazi’s started. But as you will find out in time, if you continue in this program, the things they were working on were just too important to ignore. Of course these governments went about their studies in a more humane manner than the Nazi’s did, using mostly volunteers.”
“Mostly volunteers?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. The original captives from Germany wouldn’t be considered volunteers, at first, but after they were debriefed and their participation and talents were reviewed, most of them were allowed the choice to continue or not in their research.”
“But not all of them, eh?”
His eyes seemed to light up again at this point. “No, not all of them were given the choice. In any event, some of that research has been developed to the point now that we have the ability to preserve the spirit of a person who has been specially prepared ahead of time. We also believe that we can now tie that specially preserved spirit back into a body that has also been prepared for the procedure, allowing that person to live again, in a limited manner.”
“So let me get this straight.” I just had to interrupt. “You are saying that you can hold a person’s soul after they die, and that you now think you can use that soul to re-animate their body? Pardon me, but this sounds like an attempt to make a real Frankenstein. What the Hell happens to this soul if your plan doesn’t work?”
“Yes, we can and have been able to preserve the souls of particular volunteers. We have not succeeded in re-animating any bodies with these souls just yet, but we have been able to communicate with those individuals and released those who wished to be released. As strange as it sounds, we have tried the Frankenstein approach of building a body out of parts, but that has not succeeded. Our research seems to show that the soul needs to have a tangible connection to the body it animates. In our previous attempts, this just hasn’t been possible, for various reasons. This is where you and your fellow teammates come in.”
I sat there stunned, struck by the irony of having played D&D throughout my youth, having grown out of such fantasies by the time I was eighteen, and now being briefed by a senior government official on their intent to raise me from the dead!
“Look,” I said, “I don’t have any intention of dying anytime soon. So if this plan of your involves that kind of volunteering, you can shove it, and your damn money, up your cold, stiff ass!”
He raised a hand to calm me down. “I understand your concerns. We do not have any intention of causing your untimely demise. But, as I have just mentioned, it appears that we must prepare both the spirit and the body of any candidates. You and I both know that being a police officer is a very dangerous line of work. Every officer lost in the line of duty is a tremendous loss to our nation and a tragedy. What we are offering you is the opportunity to be the beneficiary of an extremely valuable life insurance policy. If something were to happen to you in the line of duty or otherwise, this project would allow us to save the spirit you really don’t believe that you have in the first place and bring you back from the dead. If you choose to continue with this program, and you live to a ripe old age and retire from police work, you will have the option of quitting at any time, and you will continue to receive these payments, tax-free, for the time you remain in the program.
“However, if something dire does happen, and you are killed or die in some unfortunate accident later this year, or the year after that, or any time while you are still in the program, you will have a second opportunity at life to be there again for your family. That is what this program is all about!”
I didn’t believe much of what this guy was saying, but the idea of being able to collect an extra pay check and never really have to work all that hard for it again appealed to me.
“So, sir, you are saying that I could continue in the program, collect these bonuses each year, and then quit the program anytime I wanted to? Will you put that in writing?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. Yes, there are contracts that you will be able to review here in this office for as long as you like before signing. If you agree to partake in this program past today, your participation will remain strictly voluntary. As long as you participate as directed by myself and the other managers in this program, you will continue to receive inflation adjusted, tax-free payments that will help you and your family take care of the little extras that make life enjoyable.
“And really, what do you have to lose? I can see that you really believe that this can actually work, and you even doubt the existence of your own soul. You have no faith that prohibits any of this, and if it doesn’t work, as you suspect it won’t, you will have lost nothing and gained a little extra renumeration for your time. You are a very reasonable man, Officer Smith. I am sure that you can see the benefits of your further participation, and just imagine your surprise if the worst happens and we are actually called upon to show you that this works, and you wake up to a new life with a chance to set things right again!”
I had to agree with his logic. Besides, I seriously doubted that anything like this could ever actually work.What harm could come if I just played along, took the money they were obviously willing to give away, and went about watching my ass so I didn’t have to find out if they could actually do it?
Well, I surely learned the answers to most of those questions. Too bad I had to learn the hard damn way!
Next, I will provide more detail on the processes that I had to undertake in order to continue participating in the program.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Interlude
I have just returned from a very exciting, and unexpected trip to go see my new friend, John Red Bear. I will detail the things I have learned on this trip at a later time, I don't want to compromise a personal investigation that I am pursuing until I have further information.
Instead, I will complete The Conversation, and post additional information about the process by which I came to be this way, since I think this will be of most interest to my readers.
I should also note, that I have begun work on my first book, which will fully reveal my entire history and tell the tale of how I came to be. As the book progresses, I may post excerpts from it, and of course, if I find a publisher, I will post the details of how to get the book. I am in the very beginning of this process, though.
Do not worry, I shall keep posting, hopefully on a more frequent basis as I adjust to my new schedule as an active agent.
Instead, I will complete The Conversation, and post additional information about the process by which I came to be this way, since I think this will be of most interest to my readers.
I should also note, that I have begun work on my first book, which will fully reveal my entire history and tell the tale of how I came to be. As the book progresses, I may post excerpts from it, and of course, if I find a publisher, I will post the details of how to get the book. I am in the very beginning of this process, though.
Do not worry, I shall keep posting, hopefully on a more frequent basis as I adjust to my new schedule as an active agent.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
The Conversation-Part 1
The Director was seated at the head of the conference table with a rather thick looking file laying open in front of him. I could glimpse enough of the file as I approached to see that it was mine.
He nodded almost imperceptibly to a chair to his right, so I sat down without further ado. I was nervous and a little anxious, and I know that bastard was enjoying every moment of it, even if he didn’t show it.
I tried to get comfortable as he resumed examining the contents of the file, flipping from one page to the next as if I weren’t sitting right there next to him.
After about a minute of unnerving silence, I cleared my throat and sat up, determined not to be intimidated, in case he was trying to test me in some way.
“I see that you have passed all of the required tests,” he started without notice, “and that you have not had any trouble meeting the requirements of the program up to now. So tell me, is this what you expected?”
I was a little shocked that he actually asked me a question, but I was cautious, “Sir, to be honest, I think the program has been pretty well run, but I’m not sure I understand everything up to this point.”
His eyes seemed to light up at this, “So Officer Smith, what is it that you don’t understand about the program?”
“Well, sir, to be honest, I can’t understand why you have chosen us in the way that you did. I know that I am damn good cop, and so are my fellow team members, but when all is said and done, we are all still local cops, we’re not federal agents. Heck many of the guys don’t even have a college degree, and I know that most of your FBI agents have master’s degrees. So why do you want a bunch of locals, even high-speed locals, running a special response unit of the FBI?”
He let my words trail off for a moment before answering in that slow, deliberate manner that I now find so annoying, “That, Officer Smith, is perhaps the best question I have heard from anyone on the team. The answers to that question, are in large part the reason for these meetings and for this evaluation.
“I have received permission from my superiors,” he said with a sneer at that last word, “to move on to the next phase of this program. You and your remaining team members have gone as far as you can in this program with the knowledge that you have been given. It is now my turn to share some additional goals of this program with you, and it is time for you to make a choice as to whether to continue forward past this point.”
I shifted in my seat, sat up a little straighter, waiting for him to continue.
“Everyone on the team was recruited on the basis of several criteria. The first of which, is that you had to be a person who professed no particular faith in any religion. The second of which was that you had to be good officers, between the ages of 30 and 50 years old, Third, you had to be willing and able to complete the rather rigorous training program we had in mind.
“You have met all of these requirements, and done very well indeed. But the next step requires a further commitment to a rather radical idea. One that you may, or may not be prepared to accept and embrace.”
My curiousity was aroused now, “What is this idea, sir?”
“I am prepared to offer you an opportunity to become immortal.”
“Say again, sir, ...immortal...what exactly do you mean by that?”
“If you accept this agreement, and sign the contracts and consent forms that I have for you here, you will have an opportunity to become immortal. By that, I mean that your consciousness will be able to continue to exist past your natural death, and that you will have an unprecedented opportunity to interact with, and continue to take an active role in, this world as you now know it. Your soul, if you will accept the religious term for it for a moment, will be preseved and contained within a vessel that will allow this agency to give you a new, or enhanced body, to operate with.”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, “is this some sort of sick joke? You did select us because we didn’t believe in any of this stuff, didn’t you? What do you mean by preserving my soul? I don’t even accept the fact that I have a soul...”
He held up a very bony looking hand, silencing me for the moment, “Yes, yes, I understand your shock and even your disbelief. But I can assure you that you do indeed have a soul, of sorts, and that we now have the means to quantify that and to actually contain that spirit within a special device.
“The reason that only men of no professed faith were selected for this project, is that you and others like you would have no pre-conceived objection to undertaking this project. Since you have not yet been concerned with your soul and where it would, or wouldn’t go after your death, it was felt that you and the other team members selected would be more open to the possibilities of this project.”
“Now,” I spoke up again, “wait a minute.. Are you saying that you picked me because I was some sort of heathen who is consigned to Hell because I don’t believe in any of that shit in the first place?”
“Well, that is a very crass, and blunt way of putting it, but yes, that was part of the decision process on who got selected for this program.”
“Well, I’ll be damned...”
“Precisely. Since you have no vested interest in any afterlife beyond this world, why face that possibility when you don’t have to?”
I was pretty stunned at this point, but I wasn’t quite speechless yet, “OK, I’ll play along with this crap for a moment,” I was quickly losing any respect I had for the man at this point. “Why the Hell would the Federal Government want to get involved with my spiritual immortality, and what does that have to do with this program. I thought we were about stopping religious terrorists and protecting this country!”
“Yes, well, to be honest, the government’s interest in your spirit is puely practical. The government has seen a potential use for intelligent, creative beings who have no fear of being injured or of getting killed in the face of highly dangerous missions. But this is not something that the government can allow just anyone to attempt. We feel that it should be limited to men of strong principles and proven character. Additionally, if your spirit can kept from passing to the next world, whatever that may be, when you die and kept available for use in a new body, then all of the expenses the government has gone to train and educate highly skilled officers can be made to pay off for generations to come.
“Think of it, man, all of the knowledge, the skills you have attained up to now as an officer of the law, can be preserved in a body that will not hunger, tha twill not need to sleep, that will not grow old, that cannot be killed, and that can be repaired if it is injured or damaged. Everything that you have learned up to now, and in the future, will be available to you in a new body that is stronger, faster, more capable than you are now. You could truly become immortal!”
His eyes seemed to be glowing as he spoke, getting more and more intense as his voice grew louder. He appeared almost fanatical in his belief that this project, whatever the Hell it really was, would work.
“You’re talking about making me, and these other guys some sort of robots. Sir, I think you’ve been watching too many movies. Robo-Cop was a movie man, the best damn robots I’ve seen are those stupid furry toys my kids wanted so bad for Christmas. How are you gonna pull this shit off?”
“That’s just it, we are not creating a robot, per se, you won’t be a machine subject to any sort of programming, but a freely thinking person, who happens to be in a body that is modified. This is more than technology run amuck, this is a fusion of magick and technology that will be unprecedented in human history!”
Part 2 to follow tomorrow, time permitting.
He nodded almost imperceptibly to a chair to his right, so I sat down without further ado. I was nervous and a little anxious, and I know that bastard was enjoying every moment of it, even if he didn’t show it.
I tried to get comfortable as he resumed examining the contents of the file, flipping from one page to the next as if I weren’t sitting right there next to him.
After about a minute of unnerving silence, I cleared my throat and sat up, determined not to be intimidated, in case he was trying to test me in some way.
“I see that you have passed all of the required tests,” he started without notice, “and that you have not had any trouble meeting the requirements of the program up to now. So tell me, is this what you expected?”
I was a little shocked that he actually asked me a question, but I was cautious, “Sir, to be honest, I think the program has been pretty well run, but I’m not sure I understand everything up to this point.”
His eyes seemed to light up at this, “So Officer Smith, what is it that you don’t understand about the program?”
“Well, sir, to be honest, I can’t understand why you have chosen us in the way that you did. I know that I am damn good cop, and so are my fellow team members, but when all is said and done, we are all still local cops, we’re not federal agents. Heck many of the guys don’t even have a college degree, and I know that most of your FBI agents have master’s degrees. So why do you want a bunch of locals, even high-speed locals, running a special response unit of the FBI?”
He let my words trail off for a moment before answering in that slow, deliberate manner that I now find so annoying, “That, Officer Smith, is perhaps the best question I have heard from anyone on the team. The answers to that question, are in large part the reason for these meetings and for this evaluation.
“I have received permission from my superiors,” he said with a sneer at that last word, “to move on to the next phase of this program. You and your remaining team members have gone as far as you can in this program with the knowledge that you have been given. It is now my turn to share some additional goals of this program with you, and it is time for you to make a choice as to whether to continue forward past this point.”
I shifted in my seat, sat up a little straighter, waiting for him to continue.
“Everyone on the team was recruited on the basis of several criteria. The first of which, is that you had to be a person who professed no particular faith in any religion. The second of which was that you had to be good officers, between the ages of 30 and 50 years old, Third, you had to be willing and able to complete the rather rigorous training program we had in mind.
“You have met all of these requirements, and done very well indeed. But the next step requires a further commitment to a rather radical idea. One that you may, or may not be prepared to accept and embrace.”
My curiousity was aroused now, “What is this idea, sir?”
“I am prepared to offer you an opportunity to become immortal.”
“Say again, sir, ...immortal...what exactly do you mean by that?”
“If you accept this agreement, and sign the contracts and consent forms that I have for you here, you will have an opportunity to become immortal. By that, I mean that your consciousness will be able to continue to exist past your natural death, and that you will have an unprecedented opportunity to interact with, and continue to take an active role in, this world as you now know it. Your soul, if you will accept the religious term for it for a moment, will be preseved and contained within a vessel that will allow this agency to give you a new, or enhanced body, to operate with.”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, “is this some sort of sick joke? You did select us because we didn’t believe in any of this stuff, didn’t you? What do you mean by preserving my soul? I don’t even accept the fact that I have a soul...”
He held up a very bony looking hand, silencing me for the moment, “Yes, yes, I understand your shock and even your disbelief. But I can assure you that you do indeed have a soul, of sorts, and that we now have the means to quantify that and to actually contain that spirit within a special device.
“The reason that only men of no professed faith were selected for this project, is that you and others like you would have no pre-conceived objection to undertaking this project. Since you have not yet been concerned with your soul and where it would, or wouldn’t go after your death, it was felt that you and the other team members selected would be more open to the possibilities of this project.”
“Now,” I spoke up again, “wait a minute.. Are you saying that you picked me because I was some sort of heathen who is consigned to Hell because I don’t believe in any of that shit in the first place?”
“Well, that is a very crass, and blunt way of putting it, but yes, that was part of the decision process on who got selected for this program.”
“Well, I’ll be damned...”
“Precisely. Since you have no vested interest in any afterlife beyond this world, why face that possibility when you don’t have to?”
I was pretty stunned at this point, but I wasn’t quite speechless yet, “OK, I’ll play along with this crap for a moment,” I was quickly losing any respect I had for the man at this point. “Why the Hell would the Federal Government want to get involved with my spiritual immortality, and what does that have to do with this program. I thought we were about stopping religious terrorists and protecting this country!”
“Yes, well, to be honest, the government’s interest in your spirit is puely practical. The government has seen a potential use for intelligent, creative beings who have no fear of being injured or of getting killed in the face of highly dangerous missions. But this is not something that the government can allow just anyone to attempt. We feel that it should be limited to men of strong principles and proven character. Additionally, if your spirit can kept from passing to the next world, whatever that may be, when you die and kept available for use in a new body, then all of the expenses the government has gone to train and educate highly skilled officers can be made to pay off for generations to come.
“Think of it, man, all of the knowledge, the skills you have attained up to now as an officer of the law, can be preserved in a body that will not hunger, tha twill not need to sleep, that will not grow old, that cannot be killed, and that can be repaired if it is injured or damaged. Everything that you have learned up to now, and in the future, will be available to you in a new body that is stronger, faster, more capable than you are now. You could truly become immortal!”
His eyes seemed to be glowing as he spoke, getting more and more intense as his voice grew louder. He appeared almost fanatical in his belief that this project, whatever the Hell it really was, would work.
“You’re talking about making me, and these other guys some sort of robots. Sir, I think you’ve been watching too many movies. Robo-Cop was a movie man, the best damn robots I’ve seen are those stupid furry toys my kids wanted so bad for Christmas. How are you gonna pull this shit off?”
“That’s just it, we are not creating a robot, per se, you won’t be a machine subject to any sort of programming, but a freely thinking person, who happens to be in a body that is modified. This is more than technology run amuck, this is a fusion of magick and technology that will be unprecedented in human history!”
Part 2 to follow tomorrow, time permitting.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
The Conversation-Prologue
Friday, February 2, 2001.
That was the day of The Conversation, the one meeting that changed my future forever.
All of us had been informed ahead of time, that we would be called in for an evaluation meeting with the Director, Dr. Kampmann as we called him then. It was at this meeting that our future in the program was going to be decided. Our handlers made sure that we understood that the Director was willing to shitcan the entire team and start fresh if he had too, there were no guarantees based on the need for a certain number of candidates going forward. Of course, they also made it clear that if things didn't go well, the bonuses would stop immediately, and there was no chance of getting back on the team if we flubbed up this meeting.
I felt my marriage had become dependent on the extra income from this project, even if the stresses caused by the number of out of town trips seemed to be getting pretty bad. I had ignored my wife's requests for me to drop out of this program and to spend more time at home as just her way of showing she loved me. I figured by bringing home the extra money to buy the new furniture I knew she wanted so badly, or to buy the new car that we needed was my way of showing how much I loved her. Shows how much I understood about love back then.
I was nervous about the upcoming meeting, my relationship with the Director was much more formal and one sided than it is today, I still respected the asshole then.
I arrived early in the morning, having flown in the night before and been put up in a local Holiday Inn for the night. The Director liked to start his meetings promptly at 8AM, and go on through lunch without stopping, until his prey was squirming with hunger and fatigue. He never allowed food in his meeting rooms, and provided only a pitcher of water to drink. A number of the team members liked to see if they could outlast the Director and hold off from taking a drink during any meeting with him, but even though he always kept a glass next to him that was maybe three quarters full, no one could ever remember him actually taking a drink from the thing, so everyone who tried to match him always failed.
Looking back on it with the knowledge I have now of him and what he had done to himself, I completely understand how he could go so long without food or drink. You see, I fully believe that he was his own first experiment. Except that while I am his first subject to have been successfully brought back from the dead, I believe that Drake never died. I am certain that he has made changes to his own biochemistry while he was still alive, sort of like extreme plastic surgery, except I think he replaced his heart, and his whole digestive tract, among other things. I have seen glimpses of him in private moments, and I have seen some of the bizarre equipment he uses to replace his need for food and drink. Most of it involves IV bags with what looks like fresh blood, and some sort of charging device. I guess you could say that he appears to be some sort of living vampire, while I would fit more into the mummy/zombie/Frankenstein category.
The meeting room was in the very back of the rather bland looking office building, and always kept rather dimly lit. The doors to the room were far more solid than anything else in the office, and like the room itself, were completely windowless. There was an intercom near the door, where you pressed this button to speak to whoever was inside. There was no keyhole, or even a card reader to open the door, the Director had a special remoe control for this door, and that was the only known way to lock or unlock the door.
I arrived promptly, and saw Betty, the middle aged receptionist with a beaming smile and a quiet voice, at the front desk. She greeted me with a smile and and a couple of pleasant questions about my family before she picked up the phone and called the Director's office to notify him of my arrival. She looked up from the phone, and motioned for me to head back towards the meeting room as she answered the ringing phone on another line. I have always liked her, and I miss seeing her smile. When I come to that office now, she looks more frightened than happy to see me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I have seen how I look in a mirror, and I would have a hard imagining anyone being happy to see me now. I look more like a serial killer on steroids, or maybe a little like Arnold in the Terminator movies after a couple of messy battles...
I remember the walk back to the meeting room seemed to take a lot longer than the two minutes it actually took, and that the hallway seemed even darker and quieter than normal, or maybe that is my mind adding some dramatic flare to the memories of this day. In any event, I made my way back to the meeting room, and pressed the button on intercom, identifying myself to faceless person (or people) beyond the door. "Officer Smith here."
Instead of any answer over the intercom, the door clikced softly, and opened slowly towards me...
That was the day of The Conversation, the one meeting that changed my future forever.
All of us had been informed ahead of time, that we would be called in for an evaluation meeting with the Director, Dr. Kampmann as we called him then. It was at this meeting that our future in the program was going to be decided. Our handlers made sure that we understood that the Director was willing to shitcan the entire team and start fresh if he had too, there were no guarantees based on the need for a certain number of candidates going forward. Of course, they also made it clear that if things didn't go well, the bonuses would stop immediately, and there was no chance of getting back on the team if we flubbed up this meeting.
I felt my marriage had become dependent on the extra income from this project, even if the stresses caused by the number of out of town trips seemed to be getting pretty bad. I had ignored my wife's requests for me to drop out of this program and to spend more time at home as just her way of showing she loved me. I figured by bringing home the extra money to buy the new furniture I knew she wanted so badly, or to buy the new car that we needed was my way of showing how much I loved her. Shows how much I understood about love back then.
I was nervous about the upcoming meeting, my relationship with the Director was much more formal and one sided than it is today, I still respected the asshole then.
I arrived early in the morning, having flown in the night before and been put up in a local Holiday Inn for the night. The Director liked to start his meetings promptly at 8AM, and go on through lunch without stopping, until his prey was squirming with hunger and fatigue. He never allowed food in his meeting rooms, and provided only a pitcher of water to drink. A number of the team members liked to see if they could outlast the Director and hold off from taking a drink during any meeting with him, but even though he always kept a glass next to him that was maybe three quarters full, no one could ever remember him actually taking a drink from the thing, so everyone who tried to match him always failed.
Looking back on it with the knowledge I have now of him and what he had done to himself, I completely understand how he could go so long without food or drink. You see, I fully believe that he was his own first experiment. Except that while I am his first subject to have been successfully brought back from the dead, I believe that Drake never died. I am certain that he has made changes to his own biochemistry while he was still alive, sort of like extreme plastic surgery, except I think he replaced his heart, and his whole digestive tract, among other things. I have seen glimpses of him in private moments, and I have seen some of the bizarre equipment he uses to replace his need for food and drink. Most of it involves IV bags with what looks like fresh blood, and some sort of charging device. I guess you could say that he appears to be some sort of living vampire, while I would fit more into the mummy/zombie/Frankenstein category.
The meeting room was in the very back of the rather bland looking office building, and always kept rather dimly lit. The doors to the room were far more solid than anything else in the office, and like the room itself, were completely windowless. There was an intercom near the door, where you pressed this button to speak to whoever was inside. There was no keyhole, or even a card reader to open the door, the Director had a special remoe control for this door, and that was the only known way to lock or unlock the door.
I arrived promptly, and saw Betty, the middle aged receptionist with a beaming smile and a quiet voice, at the front desk. She greeted me with a smile and and a couple of pleasant questions about my family before she picked up the phone and called the Director's office to notify him of my arrival. She looked up from the phone, and motioned for me to head back towards the meeting room as she answered the ringing phone on another line. I have always liked her, and I miss seeing her smile. When I come to that office now, she looks more frightened than happy to see me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I have seen how I look in a mirror, and I would have a hard imagining anyone being happy to see me now. I look more like a serial killer on steroids, or maybe a little like Arnold in the Terminator movies after a couple of messy battles...
I remember the walk back to the meeting room seemed to take a lot longer than the two minutes it actually took, and that the hallway seemed even darker and quieter than normal, or maybe that is my mind adding some dramatic flare to the memories of this day. In any event, I made my way back to the meeting room, and pressed the button on intercom, identifying myself to faceless person (or people) beyond the door. "Officer Smith here."
Instead of any answer over the intercom, the door clikced softly, and opened slowly towards me...
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Back in Action-Sort of...
Greetings again. I am glad to be back in my little apartment and to have a chance to renew my posting here in this blog.
I have had a very rough week. After the raid I described in my last post, we returned to our basecamp at an old firefighting campsite in the woods not too far from the actual location of the raid. Things seemed to be going OK at first, when I wrote that last post. However, all Hell broke loose when some of the prisoners who had been hurt in the action found a way to take some of the medical people and their guards captive in the makeshift MedTent. Unfortunately, things didn't go as smooth in taking back control of the situation, as they had in the raid. Abu Majid led the prisoners in taking the hostages, and somehow got ahold of a grenade while one of the others had gotten some sidearms.
The immediate reaction was to try to negotiate with Majid, but he was having none of that, he kept increasing his demands from freeing all of his people to outrageous sums of money and weapons, he knew that none of these demands could be granted. After several hours of a stand-off situation, I was tasked with leading the assault team. It was my assignment to find a way of getting to that grenade and neutralizing it at all costs.
My memories of the assault are actually less than clear, since I did succeed in getting to that grenade. When we rushed into the tent, we were immediately accompanied by a couple of extremely loud sonic blasts that were intended to throw the hostage takers off balance, our guys had been given special ear plugs and a warning of when it would come. The blasts did succeed in their stated goal, as Majid was holding the grenade when I burst through the door, but dropped it just as he was getting ready to throw it at me when the sonic blasts occurred. He recovered quickly enough to try to kick the grenade in my direction, but I was already leaping towards it as the SWAT members following behind me started sniping the terrorists still left standing after the blasts. I was able to scoop the grenade in my arms and fall down directly on top of it, like I had read about so many brave soldiers doing in WWII in order to save their comrades. Of course, I cannot accept any such accolades, since I would feel no pain, and would suffer few consequences, or so I thought.
The blast from the grenade did a significant amount of damage to my body, shredding much of the skin I had left, breaking a couple of bones in my chest, and severing a bunch of my neural pathways. Luckily my body was solid enough to absorb enough of the impact that my fellow officers were unharmed. The terrorists were quickly neutralized, and only one of the med techs had been killed (apparently in the initial hostage taking) and two officers slightly wounded.
After this second assault was over, I found I could not walk, and had very limited movement in my right arm. I had to be loaded onto a special stretcher, and flown back to Virginia for the repairs to be undertaken.
The majority of last week was spent in own special repair bay as the techs had to repair my severed neural pathways, patch on some replacement skin, and mend the broken bones. They also spent additional time reinforcing certain weaknesses from blast impacts, in the hope that I can be of even more use in explosive related cases. So the end result is that I am heavier and sturdier than I was before, since they have started the up-armoring process that will make it more difficult for stray bullets or fragments from explosions to damage my body.
Drake was in his glory when he came to see me, he told me receiving 'high honors' for implementing the program that created me, and has been given the green light to recruit, train, and 'raise' more officers like me. I think the government is really looking into whether or not the process that created me can be used to create a special cadre of elite troops to be used in places like Iraq.
Anyway, I have just returned home, and I am still getting used to balancing as I walk and move. I have been given the next week off, pending any crisis that arises, and intend to do some serious blogging over the next few days. I hope to be able to finish the story of how I came to be, and explore some of the issues that are of new importance to me. You will probably be seeing multiple posts a day this weekend, and more frequent entries during the next week.
Well, I need to think back that first meeting with Drake when he broke out some of the details of this program, and I will get into that later this evening.
I have had a very rough week. After the raid I described in my last post, we returned to our basecamp at an old firefighting campsite in the woods not too far from the actual location of the raid. Things seemed to be going OK at first, when I wrote that last post. However, all Hell broke loose when some of the prisoners who had been hurt in the action found a way to take some of the medical people and their guards captive in the makeshift MedTent. Unfortunately, things didn't go as smooth in taking back control of the situation, as they had in the raid. Abu Majid led the prisoners in taking the hostages, and somehow got ahold of a grenade while one of the others had gotten some sidearms.
The immediate reaction was to try to negotiate with Majid, but he was having none of that, he kept increasing his demands from freeing all of his people to outrageous sums of money and weapons, he knew that none of these demands could be granted. After several hours of a stand-off situation, I was tasked with leading the assault team. It was my assignment to find a way of getting to that grenade and neutralizing it at all costs.
My memories of the assault are actually less than clear, since I did succeed in getting to that grenade. When we rushed into the tent, we were immediately accompanied by a couple of extremely loud sonic blasts that were intended to throw the hostage takers off balance, our guys had been given special ear plugs and a warning of when it would come. The blasts did succeed in their stated goal, as Majid was holding the grenade when I burst through the door, but dropped it just as he was getting ready to throw it at me when the sonic blasts occurred. He recovered quickly enough to try to kick the grenade in my direction, but I was already leaping towards it as the SWAT members following behind me started sniping the terrorists still left standing after the blasts. I was able to scoop the grenade in my arms and fall down directly on top of it, like I had read about so many brave soldiers doing in WWII in order to save their comrades. Of course, I cannot accept any such accolades, since I would feel no pain, and would suffer few consequences, or so I thought.
The blast from the grenade did a significant amount of damage to my body, shredding much of the skin I had left, breaking a couple of bones in my chest, and severing a bunch of my neural pathways. Luckily my body was solid enough to absorb enough of the impact that my fellow officers were unharmed. The terrorists were quickly neutralized, and only one of the med techs had been killed (apparently in the initial hostage taking) and two officers slightly wounded.
After this second assault was over, I found I could not walk, and had very limited movement in my right arm. I had to be loaded onto a special stretcher, and flown back to Virginia for the repairs to be undertaken.
The majority of last week was spent in own special repair bay as the techs had to repair my severed neural pathways, patch on some replacement skin, and mend the broken bones. They also spent additional time reinforcing certain weaknesses from blast impacts, in the hope that I can be of even more use in explosive related cases. So the end result is that I am heavier and sturdier than I was before, since they have started the up-armoring process that will make it more difficult for stray bullets or fragments from explosions to damage my body.
Drake was in his glory when he came to see me, he told me receiving 'high honors' for implementing the program that created me, and has been given the green light to recruit, train, and 'raise' more officers like me. I think the government is really looking into whether or not the process that created me can be used to create a special cadre of elite troops to be used in places like Iraq.
Anyway, I have just returned home, and I am still getting used to balancing as I walk and move. I have been given the next week off, pending any crisis that arises, and intend to do some serious blogging over the next few days. I hope to be able to finish the story of how I came to be, and explore some of the issues that are of new importance to me. You will probably be seeing multiple posts a day this weekend, and more frequent entries during the next week.
Well, I need to think back that first meeting with Drake when he broke out some of the details of this program, and I will get into that later this evening.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Rocky Mountain Raiding
We have just concluded the operation that I had alluded to earlier. It was a successful raid on a domestically based Al Qaeda sympathizer group.
It was learned that a small group of radical (mostly) American dissidents had opened a small training camp in the mountains, and had very foolishly put out word on the web that they would serve as a haven and a training center for like minded activists. Luckily, they weren't the most tech savvy of groups, and failed to realize that their activities might arouse suspicion and observation by DHS and other government entities.
I am sure the media news cycle will be breaking the story before too long, so I will reveal some the details for you.
The group had been contacted by an undercover agent online, and was presented with the possibility of a volunteer coming to join them. It was arranged then that I would be that volunteer and that I would drive an unmarked vehicle to the compound gates as other units moved into position to storm the compound as soon as the signal was given. I was wired up for the CommVan, so that the higher-ups could follow everything I saw and relay that info to the field in terms of numbers and armaments. The terrorists were told that I was a veteran of the Afghan/Soviet war, and that I was severely disfigured from a bomb blast, but that I had valuable experience and could train others to fight that kind of war. They took the bait and set up the time for me to come to their compound.
I was given an extensive makeup job to cover up the bullet wound scar on my forehead, and to give my visible skin a more 'vibrant' hue. My limping stiffness fit in just right with the identity they had created for me.
I drove up in an old beater of a VW Minibus, and was met at the gate by a scruffy young man who offered his name as Abu Majid, and after he searched me (badly, I might add) and the vehicle, he climbed into the passenger seat and directed me to go past the gate and down the long winding drive that led around a fairly steep, but wooded slope and into a small valley. I was directed to park in a small lot with several other beat-up and aged looking vehicles, and led from that lot back into the woods where a small lodge-like cabin had been built, right up against the far slope, possibly showing that they had dug back into the rock for additional protection and space.
I had spotted only two sentries on the way in, one up in a barely exposed tree stand holding a sniper rifle, and a second sitting in a fairly well constructed fighting positon on the western slope of the valley, shrouded slightly by dead brush. It looked like he might have some serious armaments there, as I noted a tripod mounted gun and the tip of what looked like an RPG sitting against the back of the position. I made sure to keep my glances short, but right on target.
Abu Majid led me up to the cabin, and made a series of tapping sounds on the door that I imagine were supposed to be some sort of code. The door openned into the darkness beyond to reveal a large, sparsely furnished entry hall. A stern-faced woman shrouded in black, except for her face and hands silently admitted us. About a dozen pair of boots were lined up along the near wall, and I noticed that Abu Majid was making quite a show of taking his own boots off. When he indicated that I should do the same, I politely deferred, referring to the severe burns I experienced in Afghanistan, and my need to keep my specially made boots on nearly all of the time. He seemed to accept this as legitimate, and he led me deeper into the building as the woman shuffled off through a side door, silent as a ghost.
Even within the dark confines of the cabin, I kept my sunglasses on, since I knew that one good look at my eyes, and I would raise their suspicions.
Abu Majid led me into a large meeting room, that also seemed to double as a lunch room, and indicated that I should wait here, the others would be out shortly after their midmorning prayers. He then excused himself to take care of his own prayers. I sat down stiffly on one of the small, roundish cushions and composed myself for the wait.
I could hear the quiet recitation of the others engaged in their devotions in a room farther back into the rock of the slope. So they had hollowed some caves to make the place more easily defensible. After the prayers were completed, a mixed group of twelve young and middle-aged men can to join me. I stood up, and greeted the leader, who was evident from his salt and pepper beard and his intense eyes. Most of the men seemed to have middle eastern origins, but a couple of them, especially the younger ones, could easily have passed unremarkably in any suburban mall.
The leader extended his hand and greeted me, "I am Abu Mahmoud, I am pleased to meet you and hope that you can help us in our calling."
"Inshallah," (God willing) I replied. "I am honored to meet you and your brothers-in-arms. I also hope that I may be of service."
With those greetings, Abu Mahmoud invited me to sit down again, and began introducing me to his fellows. He also explained that this place was quickly becoming a refuge for muslims living in America who could no longer tolerate the pagan ways of this society. He asked me to decribe my experiences in Afghanistan, and who I had fought with. I briefly gave out the little spiel that had been rehearsed a hundred times now, and told him of the 'time' I had spent with the mujahadeen and rattled off the names of a couple of commanders who were fairly well known, but now known to be dead.
During the discussion, it was revealed that their group composed presently of 20 men of fighting age, 11 women who were the wives of some of the men, and few small children. I was shown to a small room where my small bag had been brought during the time I was otherwise occupied, and given some time to make my own 'devotions' which I pretended to do.
I knew that the raid would not come until nightfall, so I busied myself nosing about the place, with Abu Majid serving as my guide. He was eager to show off their home, and was easily impressed by my fake accounts of fighting against the Soviets.
I was able to get good images of most of the cabin and the compound, knowing that the CommVan would be using these images to plan the assault. I also made sure to record the sizes and numbers of weapons laying around, since I didn't want to see any of my fellow agents palced in any undue jeopardy.
By nightfall, I had taken my leave to perform my evening devotions alone, and to prepare for the assault. I pulled out the collapsible baton from my bag and waited for the assault to begin. Once the noises from the others had quieted down, I slipped out of the room and made my way as quietly as I could out into the main meeting room, baton held down to my side and out of sight. I then slipped into a small nook next to the locked door into their small armory. I knew this would be the place that the young men would rush to once the raid started, and I wanted to limit the number of combatants who would be armed. I knew that Abu Mahmoud had an assault rifle in his possession, but that he didn't trust for all of the men to have such weapons handy with the small children also present.
Once the alarm sounded, the cries of the young men to get to the armory arose. I stepped out from the shadows as Majid and three others made it to this hall. Gunfire and explosions could be heard outside. Women and children were calling out in fright.
Majid stepped forward, eyeing my now extended baton in my right hand.
"You must stand aside, the enemy has found us out! We must go down as martyrs!"
"Not tonight my friend. Just stay back and wait for my friends peacefully."
He glared at me with hate in his eyes. "You betrayed us, you infidel dog." He motioned for the others, "Let's take him!"
The others hesitated just that one nearly fatal second, as my baton crashed into his shoulder, breaking his clavicle. He dropped like a stone. The remainging three tried to bull rush me, but a couple of quick, hard slashes with the baton ended in two broken legs and a severe concussion. They were all moaning or crying in pain as Abu Mahmoud came around to see what the delay way. He had his AK47 ready, and let go a quick burst of rounds that pushed me back against the door for a moment, before I sprang forward and smashed his trigger hand with a powerful swing. A second swing broke his jaw, his eyes wide at seeing me still standing after his 5 round burst had hit me square in the chest.
As quick as that, the assault squads had secured the perimeter, and blasted in the front door. The resistance had ended without much further fighting, since the men left in the cabin had been largely left without assault weapons. In the end, only three of the four sentries had been killed, and everyone in the house remained alive, if not whole. Luckily, none of the children were harmed in the assault, and only one minor injury occurred among the females.
John Red Bear had led one of the assault teams, and he seemed to be genuinely glad to see me when the teams assembled in the cabin, after everything was secure. Other agents were just looking at my fresh bullet holes and looking away again nervously, avoiding having to talk to me. Drake came in after all was secure and beamed with pride to room as he exclaimed what a success his project had been. The bastard treated me like a damn asset right there in front of the assault teams!
Well, I ignored him, and took John aside. "I think I would like to learn about that spirit walking you spoke of before, as soon as we can arrange a time."
He smiled, and gripped my hand in a firm grasp, "We shall make the time soon my friend. Until then, take this."
He had placed a small leather pouch attached to a pair of long, narrow, leather ties in my hand, which I opened to look at.
He closed my hand around it before I could get a good look at it, and he whispered to me, "It is powerful medicine my friend, and will help you until I can show you how to help yourself. Wear it around your neck for now."
I put the pouch and ties into my pocket, and shuffled off to my room to get my things. Drake wanted to take me back to the based camp and debrief me on the hours leading up to the assault.
Back at basecamp, I woodenly answered all of the questions I was asked, and wrote up my reports, but my mind was busy thinking about what it might be like to walk as a spirit...
It was learned that a small group of radical (mostly) American dissidents had opened a small training camp in the mountains, and had very foolishly put out word on the web that they would serve as a haven and a training center for like minded activists. Luckily, they weren't the most tech savvy of groups, and failed to realize that their activities might arouse suspicion and observation by DHS and other government entities.
I am sure the media news cycle will be breaking the story before too long, so I will reveal some the details for you.
The group had been contacted by an undercover agent online, and was presented with the possibility of a volunteer coming to join them. It was arranged then that I would be that volunteer and that I would drive an unmarked vehicle to the compound gates as other units moved into position to storm the compound as soon as the signal was given. I was wired up for the CommVan, so that the higher-ups could follow everything I saw and relay that info to the field in terms of numbers and armaments. The terrorists were told that I was a veteran of the Afghan/Soviet war, and that I was severely disfigured from a bomb blast, but that I had valuable experience and could train others to fight that kind of war. They took the bait and set up the time for me to come to their compound.
I was given an extensive makeup job to cover up the bullet wound scar on my forehead, and to give my visible skin a more 'vibrant' hue. My limping stiffness fit in just right with the identity they had created for me.
I drove up in an old beater of a VW Minibus, and was met at the gate by a scruffy young man who offered his name as Abu Majid, and after he searched me (badly, I might add) and the vehicle, he climbed into the passenger seat and directed me to go past the gate and down the long winding drive that led around a fairly steep, but wooded slope and into a small valley. I was directed to park in a small lot with several other beat-up and aged looking vehicles, and led from that lot back into the woods where a small lodge-like cabin had been built, right up against the far slope, possibly showing that they had dug back into the rock for additional protection and space.
I had spotted only two sentries on the way in, one up in a barely exposed tree stand holding a sniper rifle, and a second sitting in a fairly well constructed fighting positon on the western slope of the valley, shrouded slightly by dead brush. It looked like he might have some serious armaments there, as I noted a tripod mounted gun and the tip of what looked like an RPG sitting against the back of the position. I made sure to keep my glances short, but right on target.
Abu Majid led me up to the cabin, and made a series of tapping sounds on the door that I imagine were supposed to be some sort of code. The door openned into the darkness beyond to reveal a large, sparsely furnished entry hall. A stern-faced woman shrouded in black, except for her face and hands silently admitted us. About a dozen pair of boots were lined up along the near wall, and I noticed that Abu Majid was making quite a show of taking his own boots off. When he indicated that I should do the same, I politely deferred, referring to the severe burns I experienced in Afghanistan, and my need to keep my specially made boots on nearly all of the time. He seemed to accept this as legitimate, and he led me deeper into the building as the woman shuffled off through a side door, silent as a ghost.
Even within the dark confines of the cabin, I kept my sunglasses on, since I knew that one good look at my eyes, and I would raise their suspicions.
Abu Majid led me into a large meeting room, that also seemed to double as a lunch room, and indicated that I should wait here, the others would be out shortly after their midmorning prayers. He then excused himself to take care of his own prayers. I sat down stiffly on one of the small, roundish cushions and composed myself for the wait.
I could hear the quiet recitation of the others engaged in their devotions in a room farther back into the rock of the slope. So they had hollowed some caves to make the place more easily defensible. After the prayers were completed, a mixed group of twelve young and middle-aged men can to join me. I stood up, and greeted the leader, who was evident from his salt and pepper beard and his intense eyes. Most of the men seemed to have middle eastern origins, but a couple of them, especially the younger ones, could easily have passed unremarkably in any suburban mall.
The leader extended his hand and greeted me, "I am Abu Mahmoud, I am pleased to meet you and hope that you can help us in our calling."
"Inshallah," (God willing) I replied. "I am honored to meet you and your brothers-in-arms. I also hope that I may be of service."
With those greetings, Abu Mahmoud invited me to sit down again, and began introducing me to his fellows. He also explained that this place was quickly becoming a refuge for muslims living in America who could no longer tolerate the pagan ways of this society. He asked me to decribe my experiences in Afghanistan, and who I had fought with. I briefly gave out the little spiel that had been rehearsed a hundred times now, and told him of the 'time' I had spent with the mujahadeen and rattled off the names of a couple of commanders who were fairly well known, but now known to be dead.
During the discussion, it was revealed that their group composed presently of 20 men of fighting age, 11 women who were the wives of some of the men, and few small children. I was shown to a small room where my small bag had been brought during the time I was otherwise occupied, and given some time to make my own 'devotions' which I pretended to do.
I knew that the raid would not come until nightfall, so I busied myself nosing about the place, with Abu Majid serving as my guide. He was eager to show off their home, and was easily impressed by my fake accounts of fighting against the Soviets.
I was able to get good images of most of the cabin and the compound, knowing that the CommVan would be using these images to plan the assault. I also made sure to record the sizes and numbers of weapons laying around, since I didn't want to see any of my fellow agents palced in any undue jeopardy.
By nightfall, I had taken my leave to perform my evening devotions alone, and to prepare for the assault. I pulled out the collapsible baton from my bag and waited for the assault to begin. Once the noises from the others had quieted down, I slipped out of the room and made my way as quietly as I could out into the main meeting room, baton held down to my side and out of sight. I then slipped into a small nook next to the locked door into their small armory. I knew this would be the place that the young men would rush to once the raid started, and I wanted to limit the number of combatants who would be armed. I knew that Abu Mahmoud had an assault rifle in his possession, but that he didn't trust for all of the men to have such weapons handy with the small children also present.
Once the alarm sounded, the cries of the young men to get to the armory arose. I stepped out from the shadows as Majid and three others made it to this hall. Gunfire and explosions could be heard outside. Women and children were calling out in fright.
Majid stepped forward, eyeing my now extended baton in my right hand.
"You must stand aside, the enemy has found us out! We must go down as martyrs!"
"Not tonight my friend. Just stay back and wait for my friends peacefully."
He glared at me with hate in his eyes. "You betrayed us, you infidel dog." He motioned for the others, "Let's take him!"
The others hesitated just that one nearly fatal second, as my baton crashed into his shoulder, breaking his clavicle. He dropped like a stone. The remainging three tried to bull rush me, but a couple of quick, hard slashes with the baton ended in two broken legs and a severe concussion. They were all moaning or crying in pain as Abu Mahmoud came around to see what the delay way. He had his AK47 ready, and let go a quick burst of rounds that pushed me back against the door for a moment, before I sprang forward and smashed his trigger hand with a powerful swing. A second swing broke his jaw, his eyes wide at seeing me still standing after his 5 round burst had hit me square in the chest.
As quick as that, the assault squads had secured the perimeter, and blasted in the front door. The resistance had ended without much further fighting, since the men left in the cabin had been largely left without assault weapons. In the end, only three of the four sentries had been killed, and everyone in the house remained alive, if not whole. Luckily, none of the children were harmed in the assault, and only one minor injury occurred among the females.
John Red Bear had led one of the assault teams, and he seemed to be genuinely glad to see me when the teams assembled in the cabin, after everything was secure. Other agents were just looking at my fresh bullet holes and looking away again nervously, avoiding having to talk to me. Drake came in after all was secure and beamed with pride to room as he exclaimed what a success his project had been. The bastard treated me like a damn asset right there in front of the assault teams!
Well, I ignored him, and took John aside. "I think I would like to learn about that spirit walking you spoke of before, as soon as we can arrange a time."
He smiled, and gripped my hand in a firm grasp, "We shall make the time soon my friend. Until then, take this."
He had placed a small leather pouch attached to a pair of long, narrow, leather ties in my hand, which I opened to look at.
He closed my hand around it before I could get a good look at it, and he whispered to me, "It is powerful medicine my friend, and will help you until I can show you how to help yourself. Wear it around your neck for now."
I put the pouch and ties into my pocket, and shuffled off to my room to get my things. Drake wanted to take me back to the based camp and debrief me on the hours leading up to the assault.
Back at basecamp, I woodenly answered all of the questions I was asked, and wrote up my reports, but my mind was busy thinking about what it might be like to walk as a spirit...
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Spirit Walking...?
My apologies for the delay in posting, I was unaware that I would be in so remote a location as to lack even cellular service for my new laptop computer.
However, I am now back at our current base camp, and things are much more tech-friendly here.
I am serving with a task force in a remote Western state location. I cannot yet reveal the details of this mission as it still ongoing, and any premature disclosures could bring unwanted attention to our current anti-terrorist activities.
I have however met some remarkable people here. One of the most remarkable is John Red Bear(as usual his name is changed here to protect his identity), a medicine man among his poeple and a very talented scout. When we first met, he was one of the first people to not visibly flinch when he saw my face in the daylight. After the team briefings, but before we left on our assigments, he approached me and asked for a moment of my time. I gladly agreed to speak with him. Once we were alone, he was very blunt.
"Your body and your spirit are no longer one."
I was taken aback for a second, "Yeah, I suppose that would be a good way to describe me right now."
"This body you use, no longer functions well, why do you stay?"
"Hey buddy, this is what I have to work with, what other options do I have?"
He looked at me with deadly serious eyes that seemed to pierce through my body worse than any bullets, "You could leave this clumsy shell and walk free among the spirits. You should be free to roam the lands of the three worlds."
"Look, I don't know anything about your religion, your beliefs, or even what was really done to me to keep my 'spirit' around after I died. Shit, I didn't even belive I had a spirit until they woke me up."
He smiled. "It is not my religion that tells me of the three worlds and roaming of spirits, but my experiences. If you want, I can show you how to free yourself from the shackles of this shell and teach you to walk as free spirits are supposed to."
"I don't know man, this 'shell' is all I got, and I'm not sure I want to leave it anytime soon, I doubt the Pearly Gates would open up wide for my heathen ass."
He shifted his balance and looked me up and down, "Where you would travel is up to you, but I can also show you how to come back to this body and I think I can show you how to be in better control of yourself when you are there."
"Really? You can show me how to set me spirit loose form this body, and to return to it with better control than I have now? How can you be so sure?"
"I can see your spirit even now, and I can see how ill at ease it is within this shell. I can also see that if you do not free yourself from this prison, at least some of the time, your spirit will wither and die, and what remains will be truly dead. I would not see you, or any other spirit, suffer this fate."
I took this in, and felt the truth of his words in the hollowness of my existence since I had been brought back. "What is it like to walk as a spirit, have you done it?"
"I have walked many of the trails of the three worlds since I was a youth. Yes, you can feel things in ways that are beyond my command of your language to describe. Our time now is short, but I will come to you again when there is time to start teaching you what you will need to know."
With those words, he turned and left to rejoin the team that he had been assigned to. My mind was reeling from the conversation that we had just had. It is weird enough to be walking around in the body of an unfeeling robot, but think about being free to walk around as a spirit, or as a ghost!?
My ex, Katherine, was really big into spirits and tarot cards, and all of that New Age crap as I called it. She would probably understand what the heck this guy was talking about, but I had done my best to avoid reading any of the books or the magazines she always left laying around. She was always searching, she said, for her true path. I don't think she ever found it while we were living together, but she sure read alot and experimented with things. Maybe I should get back in touch with her and borrow some of those books. I can just imagine that phone call now, "Hi dear, this is your dead ex-husband, do you still have that book on Native American Shamanism laying around? Yeah, I could sort of use it now..." No I don't think that would go too good. I'd hate to freak her out. I think she has probably suffered enough because of me, although she might have been pleased that I never took her off of the life insurance policies that I had...I did do one thing right, and made sure that Drake made sure she got her settlements from my death.
I am hoping to get together with him again before we head out on the next mission. I don't know how long it will take for him to teach me this stuff, but I am beginning to consider that it might be worth a try.
More reports to follow as time and the mission allow.
However, I am now back at our current base camp, and things are much more tech-friendly here.
I am serving with a task force in a remote Western state location. I cannot yet reveal the details of this mission as it still ongoing, and any premature disclosures could bring unwanted attention to our current anti-terrorist activities.
I have however met some remarkable people here. One of the most remarkable is John Red Bear(as usual his name is changed here to protect his identity), a medicine man among his poeple and a very talented scout. When we first met, he was one of the first people to not visibly flinch when he saw my face in the daylight. After the team briefings, but before we left on our assigments, he approached me and asked for a moment of my time. I gladly agreed to speak with him. Once we were alone, he was very blunt.
"Your body and your spirit are no longer one."
I was taken aback for a second, "Yeah, I suppose that would be a good way to describe me right now."
"This body you use, no longer functions well, why do you stay?"
"Hey buddy, this is what I have to work with, what other options do I have?"
He looked at me with deadly serious eyes that seemed to pierce through my body worse than any bullets, "You could leave this clumsy shell and walk free among the spirits. You should be free to roam the lands of the three worlds."
"Look, I don't know anything about your religion, your beliefs, or even what was really done to me to keep my 'spirit' around after I died. Shit, I didn't even belive I had a spirit until they woke me up."
He smiled. "It is not my religion that tells me of the three worlds and roaming of spirits, but my experiences. If you want, I can show you how to free yourself from the shackles of this shell and teach you to walk as free spirits are supposed to."
"I don't know man, this 'shell' is all I got, and I'm not sure I want to leave it anytime soon, I doubt the Pearly Gates would open up wide for my heathen ass."
He shifted his balance and looked me up and down, "Where you would travel is up to you, but I can also show you how to come back to this body and I think I can show you how to be in better control of yourself when you are there."
"Really? You can show me how to set me spirit loose form this body, and to return to it with better control than I have now? How can you be so sure?"
"I can see your spirit even now, and I can see how ill at ease it is within this shell. I can also see that if you do not free yourself from this prison, at least some of the time, your spirit will wither and die, and what remains will be truly dead. I would not see you, or any other spirit, suffer this fate."
I took this in, and felt the truth of his words in the hollowness of my existence since I had been brought back. "What is it like to walk as a spirit, have you done it?"
"I have walked many of the trails of the three worlds since I was a youth. Yes, you can feel things in ways that are beyond my command of your language to describe. Our time now is short, but I will come to you again when there is time to start teaching you what you will need to know."
With those words, he turned and left to rejoin the team that he had been assigned to. My mind was reeling from the conversation that we had just had. It is weird enough to be walking around in the body of an unfeeling robot, but think about being free to walk around as a spirit, or as a ghost!?
My ex, Katherine, was really big into spirits and tarot cards, and all of that New Age crap as I called it. She would probably understand what the heck this guy was talking about, but I had done my best to avoid reading any of the books or the magazines she always left laying around. She was always searching, she said, for her true path. I don't think she ever found it while we were living together, but she sure read alot and experimented with things. Maybe I should get back in touch with her and borrow some of those books. I can just imagine that phone call now, "Hi dear, this is your dead ex-husband, do you still have that book on Native American Shamanism laying around? Yeah, I could sort of use it now..." No I don't think that would go too good. I'd hate to freak her out. I think she has probably suffered enough because of me, although she might have been pleased that I never took her off of the life insurance policies that I had...I did do one thing right, and made sure that Drake made sure she got her settlements from my death.
I am hoping to get together with him again before we head out on the next mission. I don't know how long it will take for him to teach me this stuff, but I am beginning to consider that it might be worth a try.
More reports to follow as time and the mission allow.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The Politics of (Un)Death
This will likely be a short post tonight, as I have just returned from a mission brieifing, and will soon be travelling to the (currently) undisclosed location for this mission. I will be sure to blog the mission once it is operationally safe to do so, and I may be able to make some other entries with my shiny new laptop, so I will be not be absent for any period of time...
But one thing that has been bothering me, with the upcoming vote in Iraq, and the inaugurationin DC coming up next week...I didn't get to vote for the first time in my life (or death)!
You see, since I was officially declared dead, I cannot vote using my prior identity, since that person is now legally dead. But I also don't have a birth certificate or any other identification for my present incarnation, other than the credentials issued to me by the Bureau. I am essentially a legal non-entity.
I don't know how he was able to pull it off, but I did twist Drake's nuts hard enough to make him keep paying me a salary to a special account at a bank where I can do all of my banking online. This allows me some freedom to have my own place, and to decorate in my own new and eclectic style--I do most of my shopping online at places like eBay and Amazon.
But it really chaps my ass that I couldn't vote in this past election. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not usually very politically active, I actually hate politicians of all parties. I usually vote against the incumbent in every election, since I don't want those candyass politicians to get too comfortable in their cushy jobs, you know? I guess every vote I ever cast was pretty much a protest vote...vote all of the bums out I say!
Now I don't even get to do that. Maybe that is why I find myself blogging these experiences, in the hopes of having my voice heard by someone, somewhere. Maybe I should move to Chicago, or Lousiana, I hear those places let the dead folks vote too!
If what was done to me happens to many more people, they are going to have to figure out how to handle shit like this. I mean, I can always lean on the Bureau to make something happen, although they fell on their faces on the voting issue, but what if this process is used by the private sector, for profit? What rights will those people (monsters?) have? Will we need an amendment to protect the rights of the Undead? And how the hell do you handle life insurance payments to family members when the dead guy gets up and goes back to work after the funeral?
How will they handle it when someone (something) like me commits a crime? What about a life sentence? Or a death sentence? I think I am already serving that one.
Hey maybe now people can serve multiple life sentences, and be brought back to serve each of them in teeny, tiny cells, staring at a blank wall...what a horror!
How long do I even have? Drake sure as hell doesn't know. He's not even completely sure how this actually worked. 'It's magick, Agent Bones, it's magick,' is all he says when I ask him. I do know that I wasn't the first guy they tried this on, I am reasonably sure though, that I am the first one it actually worked on...lucky me.
Well, looks like my ride is here...packing sure is easy, grab my laptop and duffle with a spare hat, some extra hands (gloves to go over my skeletal looking fingers), and away I go!
But one thing that has been bothering me, with the upcoming vote in Iraq, and the inaugurationin DC coming up next week...I didn't get to vote for the first time in my life (or death)!
You see, since I was officially declared dead, I cannot vote using my prior identity, since that person is now legally dead. But I also don't have a birth certificate or any other identification for my present incarnation, other than the credentials issued to me by the Bureau. I am essentially a legal non-entity.
I don't know how he was able to pull it off, but I did twist Drake's nuts hard enough to make him keep paying me a salary to a special account at a bank where I can do all of my banking online. This allows me some freedom to have my own place, and to decorate in my own new and eclectic style--I do most of my shopping online at places like eBay and Amazon.
But it really chaps my ass that I couldn't vote in this past election. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not usually very politically active, I actually hate politicians of all parties. I usually vote against the incumbent in every election, since I don't want those candyass politicians to get too comfortable in their cushy jobs, you know? I guess every vote I ever cast was pretty much a protest vote...vote all of the bums out I say!
Now I don't even get to do that. Maybe that is why I find myself blogging these experiences, in the hopes of having my voice heard by someone, somewhere. Maybe I should move to Chicago, or Lousiana, I hear those places let the dead folks vote too!
If what was done to me happens to many more people, they are going to have to figure out how to handle shit like this. I mean, I can always lean on the Bureau to make something happen, although they fell on their faces on the voting issue, but what if this process is used by the private sector, for profit? What rights will those people (monsters?) have? Will we need an amendment to protect the rights of the Undead? And how the hell do you handle life insurance payments to family members when the dead guy gets up and goes back to work after the funeral?
How will they handle it when someone (something) like me commits a crime? What about a life sentence? Or a death sentence? I think I am already serving that one.
Hey maybe now people can serve multiple life sentences, and be brought back to serve each of them in teeny, tiny cells, staring at a blank wall...what a horror!
How long do I even have? Drake sure as hell doesn't know. He's not even completely sure how this actually worked. 'It's magick, Agent Bones, it's magick,' is all he says when I ask him. I do know that I wasn't the first guy they tried this on, I am reasonably sure though, that I am the first one it actually worked on...lucky me.
Well, looks like my ride is here...packing sure is easy, grab my laptop and duffle with a spare hat, some extra hands (gloves to go over my skeletal looking fingers), and away I go!
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
In the Beginning...
Sorry for the delay on my posting, I had them remove the skin from my fingers and hands and replace it with these special gloves. Much more supple, much better fine motor control. For the first time, I am able to actually type with my fingers and don’t have to use those damn pencils. Perhaps my posts can be more detailed and longer, as needed.
So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.
Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.
So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.
Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.
After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.
Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.
(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)
In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.
Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.
After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.
Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.
Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.
Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.
I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.
So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.
Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.
So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.
Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.
After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.
Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.
(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)
In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.
Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.
After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.
Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.
Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.
Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.
I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Stumblin' and Bumblin'
I have just returned from my first surveillance assignment. I have been told that this is the kind of assignment that I may expect to see lot of in the future. I must admit that I am very well suited to this kind of work right now.
In my prior life, surveillance was a drag. It comprises about 99% boredom, and 1% heartpounding excitement. It was always a struggle to stay awake long enough so as not to miss any important details. Of course now, I no longer have to worry about hunger, stiffening joints (they are always stiff-but at least I can’t feel it!), or feeling tired. Shit, I don’t even need to blink!
So last night I was assigned to sit and watch this house in a very bad urban neighborhood that is possibly connected to some serious drug dealing. I was made to look like a drunken stumblebum (not a very far stretch, if I do say so myself), and had to wear a natty old hat to cover my obviously fatal bullet hole scar in my forehead and some other tattered clothing to complete the outfit. I was then dropped off a couple of blocks down the street by an obviously distressed cabbie, who sped off like a bat-out-of-Hell when I loudly threw my empty 40 ounce bottle at him. I staggered down the street, mumbling and muttering in the kind of crazy, disjointed talk of many unfortunate street-dwellers, and made my way to just across the street from the target house. There I found a nice pile of abandoned furniture and garabge to strategically collapse into and feign unconsciousness.
I was out there all night and into this morning. I was amazed at the sheer variety of cars and customers that made their way to and then away from that house. They came from all over to this place, from suburban housewives driving their minivans, to sporty little cars driven by middle-aged businessman. Of course, there were plenty of jalopies and hoopdies mixed in there as well, and more than a few strung out addicts walking up to the place for their next fix.
A definite drug dealing location. There were always a couple of semi-obvious lookouts hanging out on various corners of the block, I was able to pick up on the signals they used to indicate potential customers or squad cars. There was also usually a pair of tough guys who would hang out near the door, playing cards and loud music, while barely concealed bulges gave away the locations of their guns.
Before, I prided myself on being a pretty observant cop, one who could pick out a likely perp from a croud of innocents better than the next guy, but I have never before been able to concentrate and observe the kinds of details I picked up on last night. I can literally remember the nicknames of the gangmembers as they greeted one another. I could also pick out many of the customers from a random lineup, and I even memorized the license plates and makes and models of most of the cars I saw. I have never been one to have a photographic memory before, but...this can be a curse as well. It is almost impossible for me to forget anything anymore, and there sure is an awful lot of shit I’d like to forget. You know the really sad thing,..I find I am remembering all sorts of shit I said and did in my prior life. Ain’t that a bitch? Now I get to recall all of the shitty things I said to my ex when we were heading towards divorce, and Hell, all of the things that I said and did before she gave up on my ass and took me to the cleaners. Of course that also means I get to relive all of the shit that was said to me, all the way back into friggin’ grade school. Ugh.
Sorry about that, I’m pretty sure you don’t want read about the nasty things I said to Sally Jensen in the thrid grade, or the things her bigger brother did to me in the boys’ room after that. I’ll try to stick to the story at hand, and try to bring some order to my musings. I just got overwhelmed for a second.
Back to the crack house surveillance. By this morning, one of the lookouts from the western end of the block passed by my body, and actually stopped to take anything of value I might have. I didn’t even stir as he rifled through my pockets taking the $3.89 I had placed in them before I had left the apartment. He kicked my lifeless body and cursed at my rather foul smell. He, or another of the lookouts, must have called in to dispatch about the dead body out front of their house, because they quickly packed in the rest of the scouts and the put up the card game, just before a couple of squad cars and an ambulance showed up. Luckily, the locals had been aware of the surveillance, and played it straight. They loaded me into a body bag, and threw me in the back of the coroner’s van when that arrived later. The bastards didn’t need to zip the damn bag up all the way though, I didn’t like that feeling of being in pitch darkness again, it reminded too much of my first death. As soon as I was safely in the van, and we were rolling away, I ripped that thing open and was figuratively breathed a sigh of relief.
I had to brief the locals in charge of the surveillance operation, and give them the list of license plates and vehicles to run through their systems. I also ran through a couple of photo arrays, and picked out 5 of the principles in the drug ring as being present in the operation.
I am not sure how much they can use my surveillance for court purposes however, since I am unlikely to be called to testify at any trial. One look at my ugly mug, and any defendant is gonna be set free by a jury. I don’t know how well this identity will hold up in a court of law either. I doubt that bastard Drake will allow me the chance to find out either.
In my next entry, I will endeavor to continue the story of how I came to be this way, and hopefully fill in a few more blanks. I am running short on time today, as this hunting and pecking away with two pencils is taking longer than I would like. I must go and rattle Drake’s cage to see if he can get me any more dexterity in these claw-like hands of mine. I can’t even hold a gun yet, and working any small device takes a great deal of time. I fear I am junking up this keyboard even now, and will need to replace it soon.
In my prior life, surveillance was a drag. It comprises about 99% boredom, and 1% heartpounding excitement. It was always a struggle to stay awake long enough so as not to miss any important details. Of course now, I no longer have to worry about hunger, stiffening joints (they are always stiff-but at least I can’t feel it!), or feeling tired. Shit, I don’t even need to blink!
So last night I was assigned to sit and watch this house in a very bad urban neighborhood that is possibly connected to some serious drug dealing. I was made to look like a drunken stumblebum (not a very far stretch, if I do say so myself), and had to wear a natty old hat to cover my obviously fatal bullet hole scar in my forehead and some other tattered clothing to complete the outfit. I was then dropped off a couple of blocks down the street by an obviously distressed cabbie, who sped off like a bat-out-of-Hell when I loudly threw my empty 40 ounce bottle at him. I staggered down the street, mumbling and muttering in the kind of crazy, disjointed talk of many unfortunate street-dwellers, and made my way to just across the street from the target house. There I found a nice pile of abandoned furniture and garabge to strategically collapse into and feign unconsciousness.
I was out there all night and into this morning. I was amazed at the sheer variety of cars and customers that made their way to and then away from that house. They came from all over to this place, from suburban housewives driving their minivans, to sporty little cars driven by middle-aged businessman. Of course, there were plenty of jalopies and hoopdies mixed in there as well, and more than a few strung out addicts walking up to the place for their next fix.
A definite drug dealing location. There were always a couple of semi-obvious lookouts hanging out on various corners of the block, I was able to pick up on the signals they used to indicate potential customers or squad cars. There was also usually a pair of tough guys who would hang out near the door, playing cards and loud music, while barely concealed bulges gave away the locations of their guns.
Before, I prided myself on being a pretty observant cop, one who could pick out a likely perp from a croud of innocents better than the next guy, but I have never before been able to concentrate and observe the kinds of details I picked up on last night. I can literally remember the nicknames of the gangmembers as they greeted one another. I could also pick out many of the customers from a random lineup, and I even memorized the license plates and makes and models of most of the cars I saw. I have never been one to have a photographic memory before, but...this can be a curse as well. It is almost impossible for me to forget anything anymore, and there sure is an awful lot of shit I’d like to forget. You know the really sad thing,..I find I am remembering all sorts of shit I said and did in my prior life. Ain’t that a bitch? Now I get to recall all of the shitty things I said to my ex when we were heading towards divorce, and Hell, all of the things that I said and did before she gave up on my ass and took me to the cleaners. Of course that also means I get to relive all of the shit that was said to me, all the way back into friggin’ grade school. Ugh.
Sorry about that, I’m pretty sure you don’t want read about the nasty things I said to Sally Jensen in the thrid grade, or the things her bigger brother did to me in the boys’ room after that. I’ll try to stick to the story at hand, and try to bring some order to my musings. I just got overwhelmed for a second.
Back to the crack house surveillance. By this morning, one of the lookouts from the western end of the block passed by my body, and actually stopped to take anything of value I might have. I didn’t even stir as he rifled through my pockets taking the $3.89 I had placed in them before I had left the apartment. He kicked my lifeless body and cursed at my rather foul smell. He, or another of the lookouts, must have called in to dispatch about the dead body out front of their house, because they quickly packed in the rest of the scouts and the put up the card game, just before a couple of squad cars and an ambulance showed up. Luckily, the locals had been aware of the surveillance, and played it straight. They loaded me into a body bag, and threw me in the back of the coroner’s van when that arrived later. The bastards didn’t need to zip the damn bag up all the way though, I didn’t like that feeling of being in pitch darkness again, it reminded too much of my first death. As soon as I was safely in the van, and we were rolling away, I ripped that thing open and was figuratively breathed a sigh of relief.
I had to brief the locals in charge of the surveillance operation, and give them the list of license plates and vehicles to run through their systems. I also ran through a couple of photo arrays, and picked out 5 of the principles in the drug ring as being present in the operation.
I am not sure how much they can use my surveillance for court purposes however, since I am unlikely to be called to testify at any trial. One look at my ugly mug, and any defendant is gonna be set free by a jury. I don’t know how well this identity will hold up in a court of law either. I doubt that bastard Drake will allow me the chance to find out either.
In my next entry, I will endeavor to continue the story of how I came to be this way, and hopefully fill in a few more blanks. I am running short on time today, as this hunting and pecking away with two pencils is taking longer than I would like. I must go and rattle Drake’s cage to see if he can get me any more dexterity in these claw-like hands of mine. I can’t even hold a gun yet, and working any small device takes a great deal of time. I fear I am junking up this keyboard even now, and will need to replace it soon.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Rhythm and Blues
Without the normal human biological needs and urges for things like sleep, food and drink, I am finding it difficult to adopt a rhythm to my existence. I had intended for this blog to help establish such a rhythm, by sitting down each day and recording my observations on the events of that day. However, since that incident involving the armored car robbery that I last wrote about (which was my first law enforcement action since being brought back from the dead other than training actions), I have been in a mental funk, feeling blue, if you will.
When I was a beat cop, I thought I wold have given just about anything to be able to act in times of danger and fear without the sometimes paralyzing rush of adrenaline and the tunnel vision that usually accompanies that feeling. What I wouldn't give now to have any feelings at all!
Enough whining. I doubt any of you are particularly interested in reading my pinings for my lost humanity. Perhaps, however, you are more interested in learning more about how I got this way to begin with. Up until now, I have hinted at how I came to be brought back, but it is time to fill in a few blanks. Bear in mind however, that I don't have all of the facts myself, and some of the story remains classified by my handlers.
Late in summer of 1998, I was approached by my police chief. He took me aside into his office and said "I've got a representative here from the Dept. of Justice. It seems they are looking for good cops willling to take part in a series of special training events and meetings to be part of a special task force. They have asked that the officers nominated have no attachment to any particular religion. So Smitty, you haven't gotten any religion since we last patrolled together have ya?"
"Nah chief, nothin' has changed there, I'm still the same heathen who drank your ass under the table at your promotion party."
"That's what I thought. He's reviewing some of your past reports in the training room, I'll bring him to you when he's ready. Don't try any of your smart ass shit Smitty, this guy is serious, and it could mean a nice little boost to your salary, since the DOJ is kicking in some money for your time."
"Alright Chief, I'll be a good officer and see what he has to say."
Later that day, I was summoned back to the Chief's office. Instead of the Chief sitting at his desk however, a thin guy in a dark gray suit with a very intense look about him was sitting behind the desk. The Chief was standing to his side, and excused himself as I entered. The Suit stood up and extended his rail thin hand. Taking the hand though, I had to keep from gasping in pain and shock at the coldness of his fingers and the sheer strength of his grip.
"Hello officer, my name is Drake Kampmann, and I represent the Department of Justice and am trying to organize a special task force of local, state and federal officers. I would like you to join this team."
"OK, Mr. Kampmann, is it?"
He nodded.
I coughed before proceeding, "Chief mentioned that there might be some extra pay in it for me, and I'd like to know more about that, of course. But more importantly, what is this task force being organized to do, and why do you want people with no religious affiliations?"
"Well, these are good questions, Officer Smith, so let me begin with the purpose of this task force. We are organizing this task force so that it can be assembled on very short notice and deployed to virtually any location in the United States in response to a growing threat by religious fundamentalists of all stripes. The Attorney General wants a strike force of dedicated law enforcement professionals who have no affiliations with any religious denominations so that we can act quickly and decisively against any threat before it grows too dangerous. As to your first point, about the extra monetary compensation, the DOJ is going to kick in up to $25,000 a year to each department who contributes an officer for this strike force to compensate for the lost man hours our training and operations will require, and an additional stipend to be paid directly to each officer who completes all of the training exercises and remains a participant in the program each year."
"Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Kampmann, but you know, how big will this stipend be?"
"Officer Smith, the size of your stipend depends on your level of involvement and whether or not you complete all of the required training, but I will tell you that your stipend could easily exceed the amount paid to your department. The first partial payment will be made once these contracts are finalized. There are some additional details that I will only be able to discuss with you in Washington, should you accept my invitation to join this task force."
Shit, once I heard his mention of the size of the stipend, I didn't hear anyting other than mumbling. I signed the contracts and memorandums he put in front of me without much paying attention to the details. The visions of what an extra $25,000 a year could do for me and my family were just too tempting. They had found a sucker alright, and boy was I to learn that over the next couple of years.
More to come with my next few entries. Now I must take my leave to attend to some surveillance operations.
When I was a beat cop, I thought I wold have given just about anything to be able to act in times of danger and fear without the sometimes paralyzing rush of adrenaline and the tunnel vision that usually accompanies that feeling. What I wouldn't give now to have any feelings at all!
Enough whining. I doubt any of you are particularly interested in reading my pinings for my lost humanity. Perhaps, however, you are more interested in learning more about how I got this way to begin with. Up until now, I have hinted at how I came to be brought back, but it is time to fill in a few blanks. Bear in mind however, that I don't have all of the facts myself, and some of the story remains classified by my handlers.
Late in summer of 1998, I was approached by my police chief. He took me aside into his office and said "I've got a representative here from the Dept. of Justice. It seems they are looking for good cops willling to take part in a series of special training events and meetings to be part of a special task force. They have asked that the officers nominated have no attachment to any particular religion. So Smitty, you haven't gotten any religion since we last patrolled together have ya?"
"Nah chief, nothin' has changed there, I'm still the same heathen who drank your ass under the table at your promotion party."
"That's what I thought. He's reviewing some of your past reports in the training room, I'll bring him to you when he's ready. Don't try any of your smart ass shit Smitty, this guy is serious, and it could mean a nice little boost to your salary, since the DOJ is kicking in some money for your time."
"Alright Chief, I'll be a good officer and see what he has to say."
Later that day, I was summoned back to the Chief's office. Instead of the Chief sitting at his desk however, a thin guy in a dark gray suit with a very intense look about him was sitting behind the desk. The Chief was standing to his side, and excused himself as I entered. The Suit stood up and extended his rail thin hand. Taking the hand though, I had to keep from gasping in pain and shock at the coldness of his fingers and the sheer strength of his grip.
"Hello officer, my name is Drake Kampmann, and I represent the Department of Justice and am trying to organize a special task force of local, state and federal officers. I would like you to join this team."
"OK, Mr. Kampmann, is it?"
He nodded.
I coughed before proceeding, "Chief mentioned that there might be some extra pay in it for me, and I'd like to know more about that, of course. But more importantly, what is this task force being organized to do, and why do you want people with no religious affiliations?"
"Well, these are good questions, Officer Smith, so let me begin with the purpose of this task force. We are organizing this task force so that it can be assembled on very short notice and deployed to virtually any location in the United States in response to a growing threat by religious fundamentalists of all stripes. The Attorney General wants a strike force of dedicated law enforcement professionals who have no affiliations with any religious denominations so that we can act quickly and decisively against any threat before it grows too dangerous. As to your first point, about the extra monetary compensation, the DOJ is going to kick in up to $25,000 a year to each department who contributes an officer for this strike force to compensate for the lost man hours our training and operations will require, and an additional stipend to be paid directly to each officer who completes all of the training exercises and remains a participant in the program each year."
"Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Kampmann, but you know, how big will this stipend be?"
"Officer Smith, the size of your stipend depends on your level of involvement and whether or not you complete all of the required training, but I will tell you that your stipend could easily exceed the amount paid to your department. The first partial payment will be made once these contracts are finalized. There are some additional details that I will only be able to discuss with you in Washington, should you accept my invitation to join this task force."
Shit, once I heard his mention of the size of the stipend, I didn't hear anyting other than mumbling. I signed the contracts and memorandums he put in front of me without much paying attention to the details. The visions of what an extra $25,000 a year could do for me and my family were just too tempting. They had found a sucker alright, and boy was I to learn that over the next couple of years.
More to come with my next few entries. Now I must take my leave to attend to some surveillance operations.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Braaaiinss
You should have seen the look on that crankhead's face! By the time I finished with him, he was begging to be arrested by the police, babbling about zombies trying to eat his brains!
I was summoned last night to help out in a nasty hostage situation that some locals had gotten into when they chased a pair of robbers from an armored car heist. The pricks had killed the driver and one other guard was badly wounded. But they didn't notice the local news copter that had seen the heist and called in the law (but not before airing it for their viewers and getting that all important exclusive footage). Once the jig was up the robbers had fled into a nearby house and were holding the old lady and her grandson hostage, threatening to kill 'em if the locals didn't let 'em slip away.
I was called in and sent towards the house as an unarmed police hostage in exchange for the boy. As soon as those bastards saw me lurching up the driveway, things started to go sideways in a hurry. The boy freaked when he saw me and bolted for the cops. The taller of the two crooks took a step outside to shoot the kid, and was dropped by a sniper with a well placed shot. I stepped over his body and into the house to see the fat, balding crook holding the old lady in an armlock with a big ass Desert Eagle .44 Magnum held to her temple. As soon as he got a look at my nasty mug, the bastard went from the flushed red of exertion to pale-as-a-sheet white. He looked into my eyes, and brought the gun up towards my chest. The old lady had some spunk in her as she bit into his other wrist, and did a mule kick into his balls. Dentures and curses went flying, but he never took his eyes off me. He managed one shot before I closed on him, arms extended in my best Frankenstein pose, as I muttered "Braaaiinss". The impact of the bullet was barely noticeable as I grabbed the gun and broke his wrist with one hand, and reached for his neck with the other.
When the local SWAT team stormed in, they found him in a fetal position clutching his nuts in his good hand, barely coherent. I was in the process of handing the lady back her teeth when I had to catch her in mid-faint.
It took a few hours today to debrief and get all the appropriate paperwork signed and the bullet holes plugged up again, but I am finally free to relax here with you, my gentle readers.
It sure is weird going into a situation knowing that I can't be hurt. Sure is different from being a beat cop. Hell even the SWAT goons aren't invincible. There just isn't enough body armor to keep even the bravest officer from getting the shakes after a shootout. Yet here I was, shot through the chest cavity by one of the biggest, nastiest guns out there, and I didn't feel anything other than a shift in my momentum from the impact. I can look at the whole incident with a clarity unclouded by the adrenaline I would've felt just two years ago.
No dry throat. No shakes after realizing what could have happened. No exhilaration at surviving a tough struggle. No real sense of victory or accomplishment. Just a plain, clear knowledge that two lives were saved, and one was avenged.
But what is vengeance when there is no beating heart to burn with the need for it? What have they done to me? What have I become?
Perhaps there are no real answers to these questions, but I am going to find them if they exist. I know with a certainty that I am an experiment. I was the first dumb bastard to successfully fufill that weird contract for them by getting killed, and then be raised back up again. But I know of others who signed up for this too. I owe it to myself, to those other poor saps and to all the living to find out what kind of monster I have become.
It would be too easy to become an impersonal killing machine. The perfect soldier. The perfect robot. A machine with the intelligence and the...soul?...of a man. But a creature who can shed no tears, suffer no pain, feel no love.
The really bad part, the part that no robot would ever face, is the memory of all that is now gone. Oh that bastard Drake says he is working on a better neural system for me, that they are still refining systems that may bring some sense of things like touch back to me, but how can that be the same?
In my past life, I wasn't much for books or even deep thought. Mine was a life that was experienced, both good and bad and everything else in between. Now I must find meaning in my thoughts and in the wisdom of others.
What a strange damn journey is ahead of us. Are you ready for that? Am I?
I was summoned last night to help out in a nasty hostage situation that some locals had gotten into when they chased a pair of robbers from an armored car heist. The pricks had killed the driver and one other guard was badly wounded. But they didn't notice the local news copter that had seen the heist and called in the law (but not before airing it for their viewers and getting that all important exclusive footage). Once the jig was up the robbers had fled into a nearby house and were holding the old lady and her grandson hostage, threatening to kill 'em if the locals didn't let 'em slip away.
I was called in and sent towards the house as an unarmed police hostage in exchange for the boy. As soon as those bastards saw me lurching up the driveway, things started to go sideways in a hurry. The boy freaked when he saw me and bolted for the cops. The taller of the two crooks took a step outside to shoot the kid, and was dropped by a sniper with a well placed shot. I stepped over his body and into the house to see the fat, balding crook holding the old lady in an armlock with a big ass Desert Eagle .44 Magnum held to her temple. As soon as he got a look at my nasty mug, the bastard went from the flushed red of exertion to pale-as-a-sheet white. He looked into my eyes, and brought the gun up towards my chest. The old lady had some spunk in her as she bit into his other wrist, and did a mule kick into his balls. Dentures and curses went flying, but he never took his eyes off me. He managed one shot before I closed on him, arms extended in my best Frankenstein pose, as I muttered "Braaaiinss". The impact of the bullet was barely noticeable as I grabbed the gun and broke his wrist with one hand, and reached for his neck with the other.
When the local SWAT team stormed in, they found him in a fetal position clutching his nuts in his good hand, barely coherent. I was in the process of handing the lady back her teeth when I had to catch her in mid-faint.
It took a few hours today to debrief and get all the appropriate paperwork signed and the bullet holes plugged up again, but I am finally free to relax here with you, my gentle readers.
It sure is weird going into a situation knowing that I can't be hurt. Sure is different from being a beat cop. Hell even the SWAT goons aren't invincible. There just isn't enough body armor to keep even the bravest officer from getting the shakes after a shootout. Yet here I was, shot through the chest cavity by one of the biggest, nastiest guns out there, and I didn't feel anything other than a shift in my momentum from the impact. I can look at the whole incident with a clarity unclouded by the adrenaline I would've felt just two years ago.
No dry throat. No shakes after realizing what could have happened. No exhilaration at surviving a tough struggle. No real sense of victory or accomplishment. Just a plain, clear knowledge that two lives were saved, and one was avenged.
But what is vengeance when there is no beating heart to burn with the need for it? What have they done to me? What have I become?
Perhaps there are no real answers to these questions, but I am going to find them if they exist. I know with a certainty that I am an experiment. I was the first dumb bastard to successfully fufill that weird contract for them by getting killed, and then be raised back up again. But I know of others who signed up for this too. I owe it to myself, to those other poor saps and to all the living to find out what kind of monster I have become.
It would be too easy to become an impersonal killing machine. The perfect soldier. The perfect robot. A machine with the intelligence and the...soul?...of a man. But a creature who can shed no tears, suffer no pain, feel no love.
The really bad part, the part that no robot would ever face, is the memory of all that is now gone. Oh that bastard Drake says he is working on a better neural system for me, that they are still refining systems that may bring some sense of things like touch back to me, but how can that be the same?
In my past life, I wasn't much for books or even deep thought. Mine was a life that was experienced, both good and bad and everything else in between. Now I must find meaning in my thoughts and in the wisdom of others.
What a strange damn journey is ahead of us. Are you ready for that? Am I?
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Journal, my ass...
The Bureau shrink suggested that I keep a journal of my experiences, so that I 'could work out my issues' with my new existence. I don't think he, or my handlers, will appreciate the public forum that I am now using to do just that. But hey, what can they do now, fire me? I don't think so.
You see, when you are already dead, you get an attitude. Maybe its the freedom from all of the expectations and worries of living, or maybe I'm just pissed because I feel trapped in this shell of a body they have set me up with.
I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since this is essentially the same body I died with. Maybe if I had been a little better at taking care of myself when I was alive, I wouldn't be so disgusted at what I see in the mirror, but I don't know how good they can make a body look that's been dead for more than a year after being shot in the forehead.
So, by now you must be pretty confused. I probably should explain a little bit about myself, but this will be difficult since many of the details of my existence are considered top secret, and even I don't have clearance to know all of the details.
I can reveal that the name that I am using here was assigned to me when they 'woke me up'. I was a cop, and a damn good one, before I was killed in the line of duty on October 31, 2003. My life hadn't been a bed of roses, but things were just starting to get good again before that night. I had just finished with a nasty divorce where she got almost everything except my balls, but I was looking so forward to actually using those things again! I had finally sobered up and was in line for a promotion that would have had me sitting pretty until retirement, maybe ten years down the line...damn it all, hold on, my lens is fogging up....
Alright, so maybe I still smoked too much, but a man's gotta have at least one vice, no? So much for worrying about cancer. If I had known I would have ended up like this, I sure would have smoked a few more Cubans. I had this great connection, a fellow cop from Canada. He'd score the Cubans for me, and I'd hook him with the occasional Red Wings tickets. But there was always the nagging, 'You'll stink up the house', or 'You're gonna make the kids sick'. Bah.
Anyway, I was a local cop see, and I made the dumb ass mistake a few years back of signing up for this top-secret experiment with the DOJ. Seems like they had this horseshit theory about keeping a persons soul around after they died. They said they would be able to transfer your soul into a machine, or some hyped up version of your body again, and you could theoretically live forever. Now I didn't believe any of this voodoo bullshit, but they were offering an annual bonus every friggin year you stayed in the program, and as long as you did their little rituals and wore this special little doodad (sorry classified material here) all the time.
Hey, I wasn't religious, figured I had nothing lose, and the extra money sure helped out when things got tight, like they always do. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I woke the hell up in the morgue with all of the bastards in suits and one strange dude in robes looking down at my ass!
Whoah, talk about strange. Last thing I remembered was staring down the barrel of my own damn gun that the punks had taken in the course of the struggle, there was a flash and bang and sudden pain. They were all wearing masks of presidents, and it just figured I'd get whacked by Shrubya.
Hold on, I am getting paged. Looks like I need to wrap this up tonight. I've got so much more to tell you about, but I am on call 24/7/365, and there is stuff that only I can do.
You see, when you are already dead, you get an attitude. Maybe its the freedom from all of the expectations and worries of living, or maybe I'm just pissed because I feel trapped in this shell of a body they have set me up with.
I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since this is essentially the same body I died with. Maybe if I had been a little better at taking care of myself when I was alive, I wouldn't be so disgusted at what I see in the mirror, but I don't know how good they can make a body look that's been dead for more than a year after being shot in the forehead.
So, by now you must be pretty confused. I probably should explain a little bit about myself, but this will be difficult since many of the details of my existence are considered top secret, and even I don't have clearance to know all of the details.
I can reveal that the name that I am using here was assigned to me when they 'woke me up'. I was a cop, and a damn good one, before I was killed in the line of duty on October 31, 2003. My life hadn't been a bed of roses, but things were just starting to get good again before that night. I had just finished with a nasty divorce where she got almost everything except my balls, but I was looking so forward to actually using those things again! I had finally sobered up and was in line for a promotion that would have had me sitting pretty until retirement, maybe ten years down the line...damn it all, hold on, my lens is fogging up....
Alright, so maybe I still smoked too much, but a man's gotta have at least one vice, no? So much for worrying about cancer. If I had known I would have ended up like this, I sure would have smoked a few more Cubans. I had this great connection, a fellow cop from Canada. He'd score the Cubans for me, and I'd hook him with the occasional Red Wings tickets. But there was always the nagging, 'You'll stink up the house', or 'You're gonna make the kids sick'. Bah.
Anyway, I was a local cop see, and I made the dumb ass mistake a few years back of signing up for this top-secret experiment with the DOJ. Seems like they had this horseshit theory about keeping a persons soul around after they died. They said they would be able to transfer your soul into a machine, or some hyped up version of your body again, and you could theoretically live forever. Now I didn't believe any of this voodoo bullshit, but they were offering an annual bonus every friggin year you stayed in the program, and as long as you did their little rituals and wore this special little doodad (sorry classified material here) all the time.
Hey, I wasn't religious, figured I had nothing lose, and the extra money sure helped out when things got tight, like they always do. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I woke the hell up in the morgue with all of the bastards in suits and one strange dude in robes looking down at my ass!
Whoah, talk about strange. Last thing I remembered was staring down the barrel of my own damn gun that the punks had taken in the course of the struggle, there was a flash and bang and sudden pain. They were all wearing masks of presidents, and it just figured I'd get whacked by Shrubya.
Hold on, I am getting paged. Looks like I need to wrap this up tonight. I've got so much more to tell you about, but I am on call 24/7/365, and there is stuff that only I can do.
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