Free Project StrikeForce by Kevin Lee Swaim Page B

million little needles crawling through him, no escape,
the bright glow spilling through his eyelids, and a voice calling for sedation.
    He hit the cot, his heartbeat in his throat, his
limbs cold. He trembled, clawing at his wrist, trying to find his heartbeat to
make sure he still had a pulse. His tongue was thick and swollen, dry as the
desert in Iraq. He had an overwhelming urge to urinate and he staggered to the
bathroom, voiding his bladder in to the toilet, the stream splashing wildly
around the toilet bowl.
    He beat against the wall until he found the
light-switch and flipped it, the harsh light shocking him back to reality.
    There was a knock at the door. He stopped shaking,
forcing himself calm. He made it to the door and opened it. John recognized the
man standing there, the kind brown eyes, the commanding presence, and the
relief settled his stomach. He saluted. “Master Sergeant!”
    “You don’t have to salute anymore, John,” Eric
said. “You’re in Delta now. We aren’t big on salutes.” He strode into the room.
“What’s wrong? You look like shit.”
    John relaxed. “Sorry sir. Bad dream.” He felt his
heart slow and the impending sense of doom lift. He remembered the warehouse,
glass windows up high, light streaming through the dusty streaks. The two
filthy and sweaty insurgents, their stink heavy in his nose, delighting in his
pain as they beat him. Then, light and hope, Wise bursting in, the two men
shot, and his hand finally cut free.
    “I just—just can’t thank you enough for saving
me.”
    Eric smiled. “It’s what we do, John. I’m a little
concerned that you’re still having flashbacks, though. Doc Barnwell said you’d
be getting better by now. How’s the scar? Feeling okay?” He reached out and
lightly touched John’s abdomen, to the right of the solar plexus.
    John was baffled. “Scar, sir? What scar?”
    Eric frowned. “The scar from the Implant. Don’t
you remember?”
    “The Implant?” He felt it then, an ache in his
belly. He lifted his shirt and looked down at the inch-long scar over his
abdomen, held together with butterfly tape. “How’d that get there?”
    “It was the first stage of the project. They put
in the Implant three days ago. You don’t remember that?” Eric’s voice was
filled with concern. “What’s the last thing you remember?” He sat at the desk
and motioned for John to sit on the cot.
    John sank down on the cot, confused. “I remember
you and Master Sergeant Freeman in Iraq. You said my country needed me. Then I
remember out-processing. Coming home. My parents. I was at their funeral. I
remember Washington. I was in DC?” As he said it, that part did not sound
right.
    “John, your parents died two years ago. Right
after you went back to Iraq, your unit was on patrol you were hit with an IED.
You were laid up for a month. We came to you after you recovered. You
out-processed months later and we put you up in DC. We picked you up a week ago
and brought you here. You’ve been resting since they put in the Implant and
reading your briefing material. Doesn’t this sound familiar?”
    John thought about it. “Yeah, it sounds familiar,”
he lied.
    Eric nodded. “I’ll send Doc Oshensker to see you.
I’m concerned about your concussion. Now, how about the Implant. It isn’t
hurting, is it?”
    “Uh, not really sir. It’s just a dull ache. What
the hell is it?”
    “It’s part of the program. To make you a better
soldier. We can inject you with painkillers or stimulants to help you on
missions. You really don’t remember?”
    They had implanted a device in his abdomen? He
felt ill. “Not really.”
    “It’s okay, John,” Eric said. “It’ll come back to
you. Project StrikeForce, remember? We’re going to turn you into the greatest
soldier the world has ever known. That’s why we put the mesh on your skeleton.”
    Mesh? “I don’t remember that either.”
    “We coated your skeleton in a nano-carbon mesh.
Your bones are