Lewis shrugged. "As far as I know, they can point a weapon and pull a trigger. That's it. If there's more, Merrit can tell you when she gets here."
"Why didn't you tell me before about the weapons capability?"
"They didn't have weapons until they took them from your men," Lewis answered weakly.
"Your men in the van were killed with their own weapons," Riley reminded him. "The helicopter was shot at with that MP-5 we found lying outside. You heard the pilot's radio call that the creature was armed." Riley shook his head. Trying to discuss what had already happened was futile.
The sound of an incoming helicopter pounded through the walls of the van.
"That should be Doctor Merrit now." Lewis stood. "You can find out what else you need to know directly from her."
The alert for the 5th Special Forces Group started in Colonel Hossey's office. It went to the battalion commanders, who in turn called each company commander. The company commander notified his sergeant major and five team leaders. The team leaders passed the word to the team sergeants.
There are three battalions in 5th Group, three companies in each battalion, five teams in each company, plus service and support units: almost a thousand men and women all told. By 4:15 P.M., arms rooms were being opened and humvees were being dispatched.
The soldiers of 5th Group were used to alerts, but one on a Friday afternoon that encompassed the entire group was somewhat out of the norm. Alerts were usually called in the early hours of the morning under some strange theory that all crises would happen at 4 A.M. The last time that anyone could remember the entire group being called out was the initial alert for the Persian Gulf crisis. But then, after the alert, it had taken almost a month for the whole group to deploy because of limited aircraft capability.
This afternoon, though, was different. The only word coming down the chain of command was for the teams to mount up and be prepared to move out by ground vehicle, locked and loaded. No word of movement to the airstrip or inbound aircraft.
Hossey, satisfied that his own unit was getting ready to roll, now moved on to his hardest task. He'd already called the post chief of staff and scheduled a 4:10 P.M. meeting with the post commander. Major General Williams, at the Fort Campbell headquarters. As his driver dropped him off in front of the old World War II-era building, Hossey tried to figure out the best way to present what he had.
"Sir, Colonel Hossey reports."
Williams was wearing camouflage fatigues and was seated behind his massive desk. "Afternoon, Karl. Have a seat." He waited until the Green Beret colonel was settled. "Now, perhaps you can tell me what the crisis is."
As calmly as possible, Hossey started with the dispatch of the team yesterday at the behest of the DIA. Williams nodded when he was done. "All right. But what does that have to do with right now?"
Hossey then launched into the sequence of events described by Riley in his messages, concluding with 682's present position in the Land Between the Lakes, the discovery of the downed helicopter, the deaths of Knutz and T-bone, and the fact that three of the creatures were still on the loose.
Williams looked at Hossey long and hard. "You expect me to believe this? Killer monkeys running around murdering people?"
"Two of those people were my men," Hossey replied. "I believe it."
Williams frowned. "But monkeys using weapons?"
"Altered monkeys, sir. We don't know what was done to them in that lab. You can verify that the alert from the DIA was phoned in here yesterday morning."
Williams drummed his fingers on the desktop as he collected his thoughts. "You realize, of course, that your man has broken security, and that you yourself have broken security by telling me all this?"
"Yes, sir."
Williams thumbed his intercom. "Mary, get me General Trollers at DIA on the secure line and speaker phone, please."
"Yes, sir."
They waited fifteen seconds, then the phone buzzed.
"4602. This line is unsecure."
Williams reached forward and pushed a button on his phone. "Go secure, please."
There was a hiss from the other end. "Secure."
"This is General Williams calling from Fort Campbell. I need to talk to General Trollers."
"Wait one, sir."
After almost half a minute a deep voice came on. "Trollers here."
"General Trollers, this is General Williams from Fort Campbell. I've got a problem here and I'm going to take care of it with or without your help."
"Don't you touch me!" Emma Plunket screamed as she ducked.
Her husband's fist smashed into the wall barely three inches from her head, denting the side of the trailer. Emma moved with remarkable dexterity for a woman who stood five foot six and weighed almost two hundred pounds. She faked right, then darted left. Eight Milwaukee's Best had left Billy Joe a little slower than normal, and Emma made it out of the trailer, the torn screen door flapping behind her rapidly scuttling butt.
"You get your ass back here, you fucking bitch!" Billy Joe bellowed as he tore the door off its hinges and stomped out in the parking lot. He was just in time to see the taillights flash briefly on his '75 Ford pickup as Emma squealed out onto 41A, narrowly missing a car.
Billy Joe was really livid now. Not only had she taken his truck, but he hadn't had dinner yet and there was nothing on the stove. In fact, now that he thought about it, that was how the fight had started. He'd come home after earning a bust-ass day's pay to find that worthless bitch sitting in front of the TV with no goddamn food on the stove and sporting a smart-ass attitude. Billy Joe popped a brew and sat down on the wooden steps, letting the cold beer fuel his anger. He'd bust her ass for sure when she came whimpering back home.
Whimpering home wasn't high on Emma's list of choices as she took the left-hand fork where 41A and 79 split, ending up on 79 West to Dover. With the sun in the western sky glaring into her eyes and Clarksville receding behind her, Emma considered her options. She knew one thing for damn sure: She was tired of Billy Joe busting her up every time he felt like it. She'd put up with that shit for six months now and enough was enough.
It took her thirty minutes to reach Dover. Emma rolled through the town and then turned left into a neighborhood of beat-up old houses. She pulled into the driveway of a two-story dwelling, got out, and headed up the walk. An old man sat on the porch, newspaper in hand. He lowered the paper and watched her approach without a flicker of emotion.
Emma's voice crackled with apprehension. "Hi, Dad."
"What are you doing here?"
"Is Mom inside?"
"I asked you a question, girl."
Emma didn't answer, shifting her considerable weight from one foot to the other.
"Billy Joe know you're here?"
Her voice moved up an octave into the whine range. "He been hitting me, Dad. I just couldn't take any more."
The old man moved for the first time. He threw down the paper and reached Emma in two swift strides. The force of his open right hand left a smudge of red on her face. "He's your husband, girl! He can hit you any damn time he wants. What'd you do?"
Emma's voice sank to a whisper. "Nothing."
"Don't you lie to me. What did Billy Joe say you done?"
Emma looked up, over her father's right shoulder, and saw her mother standing there, in the dimness of the foyer. She caught her mother's eyes, imploring her to come to the rescue. Her mother turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Emma did an about-face and headed back to the pickup. Her father stood on the stoop, hands on hips. "You go back to Billy Joe and you do what you're told to do. I don't want to see your ass out here again unless Billy Joe is behind the wheel of that truck."