Chapter 1: Prologue

For what can war, but endless war, still breed?

John Milton

Paradise Lost

…

1421 Hours, September 20th 1967 (Gregorian Calendar) Somewhere Along the Vietnamese/Cambodian Border

Private First Class Derrick Dawson crept through the thick jungle underbrush. He did his best to ignore the flies swarming around his neck, the sweat soaking his olive drab camouflage, and the thin layer of moisture glittering off of the muzzle of his M16. He closed his brown eyes as another carpet of green leaves hanging from a low branch swung towards his face. Dawson felt the foliage brush up against his cheeks which were just beginning to recover from the acne of his adolescence. Of course, as Dawson would sometimes reflect, he was still very much in his adolescence. What greeted him when he opened his eyes caused him to lower the muzzle of his rifle and his mouth to hang open.

Bodies littered the jungle floor in front of him, their arms and legs twisted in odd angles, at least the ones that still had their limbs firmly attached. A corpse slumped up against a tree, AK-47 rounds gathered in and around his lap, had his face smashed in. Dawson could see the pulsating pink goo of what had once been the man's brain, and all around him the stench of death invaded his nose. He attempted to count the bodies, but soon gave up, willing instead to attempt to divert his eyes from the carnage in front of him. He took a step forward and his black boots sank a few inches in fresh red mud, sending a fresh wave of nausea.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, scanning the faces of the men around him. They had pushed through the underbrush at an even five meter spread, but once they hit the clearing the entire platoon bunch up, showing the same look of both awe and disgust at the carnival of death. What felt like a rain drop hit the top of his helmet and Dawson looked up, only to be pelted again on his forehead. The body of a dead Viet Cong hung upside down hanging precariously by what was left of his legs which were stripped near to the bone, the flesh revealing tell tale signs of burn marks. His stomach had been cut wide open and the intestines had become tangled in the branches, his eyes holding a blank stare of absolute fear and panic.

"Jesus mother fucking Christ," Dawson repeated. "Who the hell is this guy?"

"I don't know man," the soldier next to him said. Private Reyes' eyes darted back and forward with a look of constant paranoia. "But I'm not sure who freaks me out more. Him or the damned gooks."

Dawson shook his head. The man had appeared out of nowhere, as if spawned from the womb of the jungle highlands itself, like something out of a Joseph Conrad novel. Dawson had overheard some of the conversation the man had with Lieutenant Rain, a man Dawson had always thought was nothing more than a ninety day wonder. The type of officer who held contempt for the opinions of the more experience enlisted men, the kind of officer that would get men killed because he actually believed he knew what he was doing better than anyone else. Private Dawson had overheard something about a CIA operation, a few things about Cambodia, and at least one mention of the Russians, but other than that he was left in the dark. What he did know was that this man, who apparently was Navy Spec. Ops., had been given tactical command of the entire platoon. He had garnered some enjoyment out of Lieutenant Rain's frustrations, but that soon ebbed as what was supposed to be a two week patrol turned into four, and then stretched on the verge of five. Then of course there was this.

"He we got a live one over here." The shout broke Dawson out of his internal contemplation and he raised his rifle again, quickly finding the intended target. The sat slumped up against a fallen tree which swarmed with insects, the creatures jumping freely onto his battered and blood stained clothing. The Vietnamese man had his arms wrapped around his shoulders and was rocking back and forth, muttering what Dawson called gook speak underneath his breath.

Suddenly the man's eyes widened and he began shouting, "Quỷ! Quỷ!" From somewhere on his hip the enemy soldier pulled a TT-33 handgun and pointed at a place somewhere in the tangible darkness. Around him Dawson heard more rifles being raised, safeties being clicked off, and his own finger moved to squeeze gently down on the trigger.

"Hold your fire." The voice that came from the darkness was calm and slightly baritone. The man stepped out of the dense foliage, his uniform holding no insignia other than the flag of the United States. His jet black hair was slightly longer than regulation length, his face that of a man in his early twenties with rugged if not somewhat primitive features. Those that knew him as a child said that he looked strikingly similar to his mother, except of course for his eyes. Those deep blue ice water eyes were exactly like his father's, and even though he was only looking at the man from a sideways perspective Dawson felt his knees give slightly as he looked at them. He stood several inches higher than even the tallest man in the platoon, his build that of almost pure muscle, a thin scar tracing itself along his left cheek bone. The man slung his own rifle onto his back and held up his hands in front of the Viet Cong.

"Quỷ!" the Vietnamese soldier repeated, the pistol shaking in his grip.

The dark haired man spoke, his accent and pronunciation perfect, "Tôi sẽ không làm tổn thương bạn." He reached out a hand towards the pistol as me moved closer with steady steps towards the Vietcong. "Chỉ cho tôi súng của bạn." There was a click as the Viet Cong pulled the trigger and Dawson felt his body jump. The dark haired Navy man did not so much as flinch. Dawson blinked, and that time was all it took for the Spec. Ops soldier to remove the gun from the enemy soldier's hands and place it on his own him. Tears began to stream out of the Vietnamese man's face and he hunched his body over to resume his rocking posture, shaking his head violent back and forward.

"Medic," the dark haired man shouted, and Dawson saw Franklin jog forward from a position a few meters behind him. "Treat this man. Give him any water if you have it."

Franklin looked at the shivering Viet Cong and then back at the dark haired man, "You mean the gook Chief?"

"Yes," the Chief said. "Dawson, Reyes. Guard him." The Chief moved past them without so much as a second glance, melting once again into the underbrush. Dawson never got use to that, how the Chief even being as big as he was could move so soundlessly, seeming to have the ability to disappear and reappear at will.

"This is fucked up," Reyes said as he took a knee beside Dawson. "You know I've heard things about those CIA freaks."

"You always hear things," Franklin said, handing the Viet Cong a mostly full canteen. The prisoner looked at the container as if he had never seen it before, and then lunged at it, emptying more water onto his face than into his mouth.

"No I'm serious this time," Reyes insisted. "I got one of them spooks talking in a bar one night. From what he said the government has been running experiments. There is a group of them that are convinced that there are other realities, other worlds all around us. From what that spook said they've been trying to open a window." Dawson reached out his hand, palm wide open, towards Reyes. "What do you want?"

"You're grass," Dawson replied. "You've been smoking too much of that shit. It's making you paranoid. Reyes gave him the finger and Dawson made a light, if not somewhat reluctant chuckle. "I'm guessing you have a point."

"Yeah," Reyes said. "I'm saying that whoever the Chief really is he has something to do with that stuff. No guy can wipe out an entire platoon of VC and not have a scratch on him."

"Whatever he is," Franklin said as he began to open his med kit. "This guy seemed to have a pretty good idea. The word he kept saying, quỷ. It means demon."