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THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER, Part Four

Short story By: Philip Roberts
Science fiction



Science-Faction story about DARPA and its evil bid to genetically mutate U.S. soldiers into amoral super-human monster soldiers.


Submitted:Sep 17, 2011    Reads: 10    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


PART FOUR:

2.

REPORT FROM PRIVATE RAE LAWSON, MADE ONE MONTH AFTER SERGEANT OTIS P. WAUGH'S REPORT:

After the chopper exploded I dived to the ground, covering my head with my hands, as though that could somehow save my life if a major portion of the troop-carrier fell on top of me.

After more than ten minutes I finally dared to look up at a scene that looked like it came from Salvador Dali's vision of hell. Burning crates, burning troopers, and severed, burning limbs, heads, and torsos were scattered for hundreds of metres in all directions.

Finally the light of the fires began to die out a little and the awful sights around me began to fade into the darkness.

Hearing Sergeant Waugh groaning, I reached into my backpack for a small doctor's flashlight, and, despite my reluctance to re-illuminate the gruesome killing field, I switched on the torch and crept across to where the sergeant and Lance Corporal Williams lay together, face down on the ground a short distance away.

"Oh, Lord!" I said, seeing them both coated in their own and each other's blood.

"Holy … !" I said in shock, realising it was only Lance Corporal Williams's head and chest that lay beside the sergeant.

Trying my best not to look at the half soldier, whose death seemed as pointless as the deaths of the fifty plus troopers, and fifteen-hundred townsfolk before him, I turned toward Sergeant Waugh, who had become like a second father to me over the last thirty-six hours or so.

"Oh, God … !" I said, seeing that his left leg had been severed above the knee, and his right leg was peppered with lethal-looking chunks sticking out of it.

Doing my best not to throw up, I hurriedly removed what bandages remained in my backpack and tied the tightest tourniquet I could manage above the lost leg, then tried to bandage his other leg as best I could (having found more bandages in the sergeant's backpack), knowing better than to even think of trying to remove the imbedded shrapnel shards.

I was feeling less light-headed now, as though working to save the life of this man I admired, had given me renewed strength of character and physique in the midst of this loathsome death zone. So, reaching into the sergeant's breast pocket I extracted the red mobile phone and recalling what Sergeant Waugh had done earlier, I depressed the red light, waited five seconds, and then turned it back on.

"Yes?" came what sounded like the same female voice.

As concisely as I could, I related what had happened.

"Hold on," she said and the line went dead for a couple of minutes. Finally she said, "We will send three helicopters from Weaver State Airforce Base. Two to hunt the monster soldier; one to airlift you both to safety."

"When?" I asked.

"They should arrive just after first light."

"What!" I demanded. "That's ten hours off. Sergeant Waugh will probably be dead if he doesn't get medical attention before then."

"Sorry, but DARPA won't risk losing any more troops or equipment by coming at night."

I tried to reason with the bitch, but she suddenly hung up on me. And even when I depressed the red light off and on again, she did not respond.

"Shit! Bitch!" I said, giving up after my fifth unsuccessful attempt to get her to come back on the line.

Placing the mobile phone back into the sergeant's breast pocket, I continued to try to tend to his wounds, without really knowing what I should be doing.

My efforts to help him became substantially harder an hour or so later, when Sergeant Waugh finally awakened and started shrilling in agony.

"Oh Jesus, just let me die!" he shrieked.

"Hold on, Serg," I said. Hunting through our packs for the last remaining medical supplies, I found six codeine-forte tablets and managed to coerce three of them down his throat. Which stopped his screaming as he fell asleep.

Sitting, cradling the old soldier's head in my lap I only hoped that I had not killed him by giving him such a strong dose. But soon he was in a deep, but fitful sleep.

Near dawn I gave him the last three pain killers, hoping that rescue could not be much longer now. Looking at his shattered body, and thinking of the remains of poor Murray Williams I wondered, What the hell do I do if the monster soldier turns up before the choppers arrive? With Murray dead, me with no experience at killing, and frankly the Serg in no state to fight off a little old lady wielding a bunch of daffodils. Let alone a monster soldier with a rocket-launcher!

Despite the bitch's reassurance that it would be just after dawn that the choppers would rescue us, in fact it was more than two hours after dawn when I finally heard the distant drone of rotors.

Removing the mini-oculars from Sergeant Waugh's coat pocket, I started to look round for the monster soldier.

For seven or eight minutes it seemed as though he had departed the burnt out ruin of Springfield. Then, I saw a hint of movement amongst the rubble near the Northern most end of town. I watched the rubble intently until the three choppers were nearly at the outskirts of town.

"Easy, sleeping warrior," I said to the man whose head I cradled in my lap, "help is almost here."

Yet, even as I spoke the rubble fell away as the monster soldier stood up, holding a loaded rocket-launcher.

"Jesus!" I said dropping the mini-oculars, not caring when I heard them shatter.

Hurriedly grabbing the mobile phone from the Serg's other breast pocket; I depressed the red button not sure if the stuck-up bitch would answer this time. And for a moment, it seemed that she was not going to. But finally, sounding as weary as I felt, she said: "What is it now?"

"The soldier's in the rubble with a rocket launcher," I said.

"Why are you telling me?" she said to my surprise. "Depress the yellow light and you can speak directly to the chopper pilots."

Doing as instructed, I repeated the message to the pilots.

"Thanks, you're a life-saver," said the pilot of the command chopper, gratefully, surprising me after the surliness of the bitch telephonist.

The two armed helicopters wheeled off toward the Northern end of town of town.

For a moment I wondered if they were just hastening to their doom. Then they started firing their own rockets with roaring whoosh after whoosh toward where the monster soldier was now standing out in the open, no longer even bothering to hide.

As explosion followed explosion, I put the mobile phone back into the sergeant's breast pocket, without bothering to try to see if the choppers had got the soldier. The sergeant's mini-oculars were broken, and although Murray Williams had had a pair also; I had no intention of going over to the truncated remains of the lance corporal to ferret through his shirt pockets.

Overhead I heard the approaching whir-whir-whir as the third Lockheed took advantage of the raging rocket battle to land unseen by the monster soldier.

"Over here!" I shouted as medics raced from the chopper, ducking to avoid decapitation from the rotors which had slowly, but not stopped.

"Relax," said a female medic, "we'll soon get you both to the Weaver State Military Hospital."

Then, with what seemed like obscene haste, she checked the sergeant over, applying a better tourniquet over the stump of his severed leg, although she praised my efforts. Then removing the largest syringe I ever hope to see in my life, she gave the sergeant three injections in rapid succession. After each of which the sold soldier screamed aloud in his sleep.

"Relax," said the medic, as though she thought that the unconscious man could somehow hear her.

Still with obscene haste, they heave-hoed the sergeant onto a stretcher, making him scream out again and almost awaken - although I realised by now that one of the injections must have been a powerful sleeping draught.

Then hefting the stretcher they almost ran back to the chopper, crouching under the revolving rotors without even slowing.

"You'd better run, if you don't want to be left behind," said the female medic. "We aren't stopping here a second longer than necessary."

Taking her at her word, I almost fell on top of the stretcher in my haste to get aboard the chopper.

Even as the door was slammed into place, the female medic hammered on the connecting wall to the cockpit, calling, "Go! Go! Go!"

Since they had never completely stopped the rotors, we were able to swiftly take off, throwing myself and the chief medic (as I assumed she was) both to the floor of the surprisingly small passenger section of the chopper.

"Shit in a hand basket!" said the female medic, reminding me of the old saying, 'There is no room for ladylike behaviour in the U.S. military.' Mind you that predated Bill Clinton cracking down on homophobia in the armed services.

Climbing back to a sitting position, she said, "Don't worry, we'll soon be back at Weaver State Hospital. They've got some of the best medical facilities in the U.S."

As she spoke there was a massive explosion from behind us."

"I think they got him," said the chief medic, whose name tag said, Jessica Cortez, too optimistically.

As we watched out the back window of the chopper, with a roaring whoosh a rocket zoomed out of the rubble, exploding on impact with the command helicopter.

"Jesus wept!" I said as the chopper exploded, the rotors flying off in different directions. One of them just falling short of our copter.

With another eerie whoosh a second rocket zoomed out, as the second armed Lockheed tried too late to abort the mission to run for safety.

"Holy …?" said Jessica Cortez, knowing in advance what would happen, even before the rocket struck the second chopper which went off like a giant, flying grenade, raining metal and body parts down upon the murdered township.

"Go! Go! Go!" shrieked Cortez frantically as a third rocket zoomed out after us.

"Oh, Jesus!" I said thinking, He's going to win after all, wiping us all out, along with four helicopters and God knows how much munitions!

"Relax," said Jessica Cortez, sounding anything but relaxed herself, "we're safely out of range."

And almost as she spoke the trailing rocket looped back down to explode harmlessly in the long grass outside the dead township.

"Told you," said Cortez, sounding every bit as relieved as I felt, although both of us were doing our level best not to do an Al Gore and be the first to sigh out loud in relief.

The flight to Weaver State took less than an hour; however, it seemed to take infinitely longer, since we were all on edge half expecting to be hit by a rocket fired by the monster soldier, even when we had left him well behind. Although much faster on foot than any human troops, even a monster soldier could not keep up with a helicopter in terrified flight.

"We're here," said Jessica Cortez, stating the obvious as we finally landed on the heliport upon the roof of the massive military hospital, which seemed almost as large as the whole town of Springfield had once been.

"Come on," she called to another medic, sliding the door to the passenger section open.

Two male medics lifted the stretcher -- which they had been kneeling, holding onto throughout the flight to steady it - and we started outside.

Outside to where two orderlies were waiting with a metal trolley to race Sergeant Waugh into an operating theatre.

Helping to push the trolley as we charged down corridor after corridor, I suddenly found my path blocked by a burly orderly as we finally reached the theatre.

"Please wait here," he said, making it plain that it was an order, not a request, as they wheeled the sergeant into the theatre.

"All right," I said, frustrated, but not wanting to cause a scene when the Serg's life was on the line.

* * *

Sitting on a hard wooden bench just outside the operating theatre, I waited for what seemed like days. Then finally the chief surgeon emerged.

"How … how is he?" I asked.

"He'll live," said the surgeon, "but we weren't able to save his other leg."

"Oh, shit!" I said standing in shock and almost falling. "When … when can I see him?"

"Not for at least a week or two. It'll take that long for him to get over the worst of the trauma. Though he could be in the hospital for a year or longer."

"A year …?" I said, realising as I started to speak that that could be an understatement considering the amount of injuries he had sustained.

* * *

It was nearly a month, in fact, before I was allowed to visit Sergeant Waugh. When I finally walking into the private ward, carrying flowers and a big box of chocolates - not sure what else to bring him - I saw the sergeant sitting up in bed, holding onto the handrail of a lifting mechanism suspended above the bed.

He had the red mobile phone in his hands and was recording the last of his own report about the time we had marched through the valley of the shadow of death, with an almost supernatural mutant monster leading us to our doom.

Doing my best not to wrinkle up my nose at the smell of antiseptic, blood, and faeces, I said, "How are you doing, Serg?" and immediately regretted my own stupidity.

"Sorry … I," I stammered.

The sergeant smiled an ironic smile and said, "Don't worry, Rae, I'm doing a hell of a lot better than poor Murray Williams, Suzette, Deke, and the others."

Not knowing what else to do, I held out the flowers toward him.

"Rae, you shouldn't have," he said taking them.

"That's okay," I said lamely.

"No, really you shouldn't have," he teased in a bid to cheer me up; "I would have preferred a half bottle of Bundaberg Rum. As a rule men aren't overly keen on receiving flowers."

Dropping the candy onto the bed, where his legs should have been, I leant across to give him a long hug. Doing my best not to burst out into tears.

"Calm down, Rae," he said, putting his arms around me. "At least I'm alive. That's more than you can say for anyone from the abandoned town of Springfield."

"Then they …?" I began, thinking of little Jacqui, Don, and the old man whose eighty-year-old daughter had been killed.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have blurted it out like that," apologised the Serg. "But yes … they did. So there were no survivors from Springfield in the end."

Who were the real monster soldiers! I thought in anger at the brutal insensitivity of DARPA and the U.S. military.

"Oh, well," he said, "at least I'll never have to deal with a monster soldier again."

We lay like that for half an hour. But hearing footsteps approaching from the corridor I reluctantly straightened up again.

Just in time, as Doctor Jethro Samuelson, a DARPA special medicals surgeon entered the room.

"Sergeant! Private!" he said curtly, by way of greeting. "How are you getting along with your report Sergeant Waugh?"

"Fine, fine, I should have it finished by tomorrow."

"Good, DARPA are getting a little impatient, since they hope it may shed some light on how to deal with escaped monster soldiers in future."

"You could always stop mutating troopers to turn them into amoral killing machines," I said, ignoring the sergeant's shaking head. "Then there would be no need to deal with escaped soldiers."

"My dear girl," said Doctor Samuelson patronisingly. "That is hardly a practical solution, considering the increasing dirty and dangerous wars that the United States has been waging against the Arab world for over two hundred years now! Without monster soldiers we would be at the mercy of terrorist nations."

I was tempted to suggest that perhaps the United States was the biggest terrorist nation we had to worry about, when, perhaps sensing my intent, Sergeant Waugh cleared his throat noisily and asked, "What about this particular monster soldier … LV11470?"

"You have a good memory, for military details, sergeant," said Samuelson, sounding genuinely impressed. "He seems to have gone to ground at the moment. They sent in waves of choppers to bomb the remnants of Springfield and the surrounding countryside to oblivion. But found no monster soldier corpse in the rubble."

"Then the Springfield survivors were murdered in vain!" I demanded.

"Liquidated," corrected Doctor Samuelson. "Not at all, we will find and liquidate the monster soldier before he is identified as anything but a human terrorist."

"Still, why did you have to murder the townsfolk when they thought it was a rogue gorilla?"

"Because," he said sighing in obvious contempt at my stupidity, "in time they would have realised that even rogue gorillas do not carry tonnes of weaponry around with them. And that even if they did, they would not know how to use them. A brilliant gorilla has an I.Q. of fifteen or less on the human scale. Even the monster soldiers have I.Q.s at least three times that level!"

"Well, why couldn't they have been locked up," I protested. "If necessary for the rest of their lives."

"The United States Constitution does not allow for American citizens to be imprisoned without trial or legal representation for more than twenty-four days."

"But it does allow DARPA to murder innocent Americans?"

"In rare cases when the interests of national security are at stake," confirmed Jethro Samuelson. Looking at Sergeant Waugh he said, "I think I'll return later when you are alone."

Then, before, I could say any more the doctor turned and almost goose-stepped out into the corridor.

"Rae, you haven't made any friends there," said the Serg, laughing for perhaps the first time since he had awakened to discover that he had no legs.

"Ah, I'm not afraid of him," I said, making the Serg laugh again.

I stayed until nine PM when the nurses all but carried me out into the corridor - having been reminded by the Serg about the half bottle of Bundaberg next time instead of flowers.

* * *

Over the next ten days I spent as much time as I could visiting Sergeant Waugh to cheer us both up. Although DARPA were already bugging me to return to active service.

On the Serg's recommendation I was being promoted to sergeant to replace him, and would soon take command of my own troop of fifty-two troopers. I had been offered the role of sergeant of a troop of monster soldiers to replace Sergeant Lesley Phelps (at twice the pay of a sergeant of human troops). But understandably I had declined.

Sergeant Waugh had been in hospital for nearly six weeks when I visited him for the last time. By that time the sergeant had finished his own report on our futile hunt for the monster soldier and had submitted it to DARPA. I had also finished my report, or so I thought, but would soon have to update it.

The last time I visited Sergeant Waugh I was in my civvies, enjoying a few days rest in my parents's house before starting my new posting.

"Ah, Rae, you almost look like a woman," teased the sergeant as I came into the ward carrying a large box of chocolates and smuggling in a half bottle of Bundaberg Rum. Being careful not to let the nurses see it.

"I do my best," I responded. Looking round to see that we were alone, I quickly slipped the Bundaberg to the Serg. Who equally quickly sneaked it into the bedside cabinet.

Patting the bed beside him, he said, "Sit down."

Opening the box of chocolates, I held them out so he could take a couple. Then I took a couple also.

"So what did your parents say about your promotion to sergeant?"

"Not much," I said struggling to talk around a mouthful of cherry ripe. "They were never very keen on me going into the army."

"What did they want you to do?"

"Take up a traditional female role such as modelling, beauty technician, or newsreader."

"Oh ... I see," said Sergeant Waugh.

"Of course, they assumed that as a soldier I'd be in the thick of battle. Unaware that we have monster soldiers to do the fighting for us these days."

"That's true," he said taking a couple more chocolates. "But you were in the thick of battle a month and a half back."

"Yes, I was," I agreed. "What about you? What did your parents think of you becoming a soldier?"

"Oh, I come from a long line of killers," said the sergeant. "My father was a soldier, my grandfather on both sides, my great grandparents all were, and so on back to the days of the ancient wars in the twentieth century. Waugh by name, war by nature."

"So they were supportive?" I asked.

"No, they were terrified I'd get killed. They wanted me to be a science-fiction cartoonist or something safe like that."

I laughed, not sure if he was joking or not.

The sergeant reached into the drawer of the bedside cabinet to remove the half bottle of Bundaberg, broke the seal and handed the bottle to me.

After a moment's hesitation, I took the bottle, swigged deeply and immediately started coughing as my throat seemed to burst into flames.

Grabbing the bottle before I could drop it, the Serg said, "Easy, Rae, sip, don't gulp."

"Now you tell me," I gasped out, struggling not to throw up.

Reaching over he started patting me on the back, until I recovered.

Then we continued sharing the chocolates with Sergeant Waugh occasionally taking sips of the rum.

"Just for medicinal purposes," he said, making me grin like a school girl sharing a guilty secret.

Eventually though, it was time to leave, so I leant across to hug the sergeant. Unaware as I did so that it would be the last time that I ever saw him.

"Well, I'd better be going," I said as the alarm went off to signal first visiting hours were over.

"I guess so," agreed the Serg, though neither of us wanted me to leave. Holding up the Bundaberg he said, "Thanks for this."

"I'll bring you another bottle tomorrow if think you can get through that one in a day."

"Trust me … I can," said the sergeant and we both laughed as I waved, then reluctantly turned and walked out into the corridor.

I headed down the sterile white corridor toward the elevators, receiving disapproving looks from pink-uniformed nurses, who I think suspected that I was smuggling alcohol in to the Serg.

I hadn't told Sergeant Waugh that on being offered the promotion, I had asked about being discharged. But had been told by a DARPA colonel, "These days we won't grant honourable discharges without you proving severe medical grounds, until you have served your minimum twenty years."

Although my parents had not wanted me to be a soldier, I knew that they would be devastated if I were dishonourably discharged. So, I had reluctantly accepted the promotion instead.

Lost in my thoughts I had taken the elevator to the ground floor and almost walked into the twin glass doors, when I was recalled from my reverie by hysterical screaming coming from the lawn outside the hospital.

"What …?" I said, pushing the doors open to step outside.

Just in time to avoid being pushed back inside by the stampede of hysterical patients and visitors running into the imagined safety of the military hospital.

"What's up?" I shouted.

"A gorilla's out on the lawn!" shouted a tall brunette racing past me even as she spoke.

"A gorilla …?" I said, feeling the blood rush from my face.

Despite my inclination to spin around and race after the brunette, I forced myself to push through the rapidly thinning crowd to reach the concrete path outside.

As I had suspected the monster soldier stood on the recently mown lawn, glaring up toward the sixth floor of the hospital.

Stepping a little out onto the lawn, I looked up and could clearly see Sergeant Waugh enjoying his last ever sip of Bundaberg Rum.

Still having not seen me, the monster soldier reached onto the clean smelling lawn behind him to pick up a rocket launcher. He grabbed a small rocket beside it, slammed the rocket into the front of the rocket launcher and began to raise it.

"Nooooooooo!" I shrieked as he aimed the rocket launcher at the Serg and fired, all in one motion.

With the awful whooshing sound I had heard too many times already, the rocket zoomed to the sixth floor and exploded, raining deadly shrapnel, bricks, mortar, and body parts toward me again.

Staring up in disbelief at the blackened, burning hole in the side of the damaged hospital, where my friend and mentor had just died, I did not even bother to duck as the deadly chunks of broken building fell all around me.

"Nooooooooo!" I shrieked again crying unashamedly.

Looking round and seeing me for the first time, the monster soldier's eyes lit up as he obviously recognised me as the last of the hunters that he had to kill.

Grinning like an insane politician at election time, he reached behind him for a second rocket, rammed it into the rocket launcher and began aiming it in my direction.

In civvies, without even a sidearm I was defenceless. Nonetheless, rather than submit to being killed, I reached into my handbag and desperately started hunting through my great collection of knickknacks.

Just in time, I found what I was looking for.

Raising the black saucer-shaped object over my head, I lobbed the plastic object at the feet of the soldier.

Shrieking in terror, the soldier dropped the rocket-launcher, span round on his heels and raced off across the newly shorn grass, screeching in terror as he loped.

Reversing direction myself, I raced back into the hospital building, running up three flights of stairs, before stopping.

* * *

3.

REPORT BY DARPA CHIEF MEDICAL SPECIALIST JETHRO T. SAMUELSON:

Having read the above two reports with a mixture of interest, scepticism, and outright contempt, I find myself wondering if Sergeant Otis P. Waugh and Sergeant Raelene Michelle Lawson should have been liquidated along with the folk from Springfield to help tidy up the soldier LV11470 matter.

They both seemed too highly motivated by old-fashioned concepts of right and wrong to truly be reliable DARPA troopers. Potentially letting them live, presented us with the same danger as we would have faced if we have been foolish enough not to liquidate the Springfield massacre survivors!

* * *

Fortunately I had been in another wing of the hospital during the rocket attack. Although it had felt as though we were going through an earthquake, our wing of the building did not collapse.

"Oh God!" cried a pink-clad nurse staring out the window.

"What …?" I asked striding across to the window to look out. To my amazement I saw the smoking ruin of G-Wing, which was slowly falling in upon itself.

"What is that?" demanded the nurse looking down to the lawn.

Looking where she was pointing, I saw the ape-like figure of the rogue monster soldier.

In front of the soldier stood the figure of Sergeant Raelene Lawson. Dressed in civilian clothing, she had no weaponry, and (I thought) no chance of surviving against the monster soldier.

Then, to my surprise, she reached into her purse and took out a black cylindrical object which she threw at the soldier.

"What did she throw?" asked the nurse beside me.

Dropping the rocket-launcher the monster soldier raced off into the distance, allowing Sergeant Lawson to race back to the relative safety of the damaged hospital.

"Don't ask me," I said, taking a pair of mini-oculars from my lab coat. I focused onto the black cylinder which had fallen open to spill out eye shadow, rouge, and lip gloss.

Lowering the binoculars I said, "My God, she scared it off with her makeup kit."

"What?" asked the nurse, staring wide-eyed at me.

"She threw her compact at it," I explained, making the nurse look as astonished as I felt. "It was just a compact. But it saved her life!"

Having taken an instant disliking to Raelene Lawson, I now felt a grudging respect for her. If only all troopers today had that kind of will to survive!

* * *

With alarms blaring like I had stepped into an episode of Star Trek, I was forced to put away this report for nearly a week.

Having returned to this report, though, I would like to recommend Sergeant Otis P. Waugh for a poste humus purple heart for valour under fire.

I also recommend that in future all never-dying monster soldiers have a small device like a pacemaker inserted near their hearts. So that when they have to be liquidated, instead of the time-consuming process of poisoning them one at a time, they can be killed at the push of a button. Which would activate the 'pacemaker' to stop their hearts and kill them.

Then in the advent of a soldier escaping. Instead of having to airlift in vast amounts of weaponry that would possibly be useless against the monster soldier anyway, the human troopers need only carry a remote device. As they hunt they would press the liquidate button from time to time, and when they got within range, the pacemaker would kill the monster soldier without the troopers ever having to put themselves in any real danger.

Even monster soldiers, cunning as they may be, cannot perform open-heart surgery upon themselves to remove the pacemakers - even in the unlikely event that they somehow find out about the pacemakers.

I also recommend the termination of the program to slightly increase the I.Q. of troopers so that they are no longer quite imbeciles. And I recommend the immediate liquidation of all second generation 'smart' soldiers.

Regarding the latest attack by the monster soldier, I recommend that you continue to claim an escaped gorilla did the attack, since this is what eye witnesses are claiming.

I further recommend that these latest witnesses not be liquidated, since it would be too difficult to explain. If they start to change their stories, we can always use drug-assisted hypnosis to make them return to believing that it was a gorilla all along. Although some will die and others suffer permanent brain-damage due to this procedure, we can explain that away as, 'trauma caused by the gorilla attack.'

I lastly advise DARPA that when this soldier is finally killed, we need only take a gorilla from a local zoo - if necessary burning the entire zoo and all of its animal and human occupants to the ground. Then we can dress the gorilla in a soldier costume, kill it, and present it to the news media as the 'rogue gorilla' that did all of the killings!

* * *

4.

REPORT BY PHILIP ROBERTS, THE WRITER OF THE PRECEEDING STORY

The story you have just read is an example of what I call science-faction. Faction is a style of writing popularised throughout Europe by George Orwell and other writers in the period 1920-1950 approximately. Basically faction is written like fiction, but is at least thirty Percent truth. George Orwell's faction books had so much fact in many of them that scholars still debate which of his books should be called non-fiction, and which should be called novels. His official biographer Bernard Crick regards "1984" as non-fiction because it has basically all come true.

My motivation in writing this story came after watching on television an ABC (Australian Broadcasting Commission) program where they interviewed the director of DARPA, which at age fifty-four I had never heard of until then. To my astonishment and horror the director said unashamedly, "DARPA's number one objective at the moment is to create genetically mutated never-dying monster soldiers who would be bullet-proof, virtually grenade proof, and who could stay in active service for at least sixty to seventy years, and would be able to stay awake in combat for at least seventy-two hours without it effecting them performance. DARPA discovered [don't ask me how, this is what the director claimed] that in World War Two eighty Percent of American soldiers were too human to ever fire their weapons at the enemy no matter how much propaganda they were subjected to. Their basic sense of right and wrong stopped them from murdering strangers even in a war zone. So DARPA decided that our monster soldiers should be bred to have no human emotions at all. No mercy. No compassion. No guilt. And most importantly, so sense of right and wrong. They must be unthinking killing machines who will murder anyone they are told is the enemy, or anyone they find in the war zone." [I have paraphrased a little since I am going by memory over at least two months, but in essence this is what DARPA's director of operations boasted.]

I would have been shocked and horrified by this admission anyway. But I was even more shocked, since I had only recently seen the controversial WikiLeaks program, also on ABC television, which showed two unbelievable acts of gross human rights violations by American troops in the Arab world. The first had them about to blow up a terrorist hide out as an innocent civilian happened to walk past. Since the explosions were to be detonated by a remote control device, not a timer, they could have waited thirty seconds for the civilian to get away. But as he reached the doorway where they had planted the explosives at their agreed detonation time, they pressed the button on time and knowingly atomised an innocent civilian. The second incident involved them murdering an innocent civilian who they mistook for a terrorist. When parents taking their children to school stopped to help the innocent man, the troopers machine-gunned down the parents in front of their children, laughing and saying, "It's the parent's own fault for bringing children along on a terrorist mission." "Yeah, that's right," said a second soldier. But, of course, the parents were not terrorists. The only terrorists there were the American soldiers!

Unbelievable U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton befouled herself in public, by chucking a psycho fit over the irrelevant issue of how Julian Assange and WikiLeaks got hold of these videos. Since the videos show American soldiers committing gross human rights violations on par with anything that the Nazis ever dreamt of doing, only a totally bird-brained idiot would waste time on the trivia of how the videos were obtained. The real issue is when will these U.S. terrorists be tried, convicted, and executed for their monstrous acts of human rights violations?

The answer is never! They were trained by DARPA to do exactly what they did!

At the end of the video Julian Assange wrongly says that their acts show how mean-spirited U.S. troopers are. In reality, though, this is an indication (as are some of the almost unbelievable examples of friendly fire by U.S. troops in the Gulf War of 1991) of just how far this evil organisation DARPA has gone in producing its never-dying monster soldiers devoid of mercy, compassion, conscience, or any sense of right and wrong. They have not yet physically mutated them so that the soldiers no longer look human or are yet bullet-proof. But they have so already produced monstrous soldiers with no soul, no compassion, no sense of justice, or right and wrong!

In late 2008, my mother, who I was very close to, died and I started to suffer from suicidal levels of depression. My doctor prescribed a drug called Citalapram. This legal chemist-only medicine was a strong enough emotion-retardant that in just three days I was no longer suicidally depressed. In three weeks I no longer cared that my mother had died!

Now if we assume an evil organisation like DARPA has even stronger emotion-retarding drugs that are not legally available outside the U.S. military, the puzzle of how U.S. soldiers could have acted so monstrously inhuman is no longer a puzzle. If Citalapram could stop me caring about the death of my own mother, how much easier is it for stronger drugs to make troopers trained to kill have no human emotions and no feels of right or wrong when in a battle zone dealing with innocent civilians whom they do not even know!

Frankly the genetic-mutation experiments that DARPA are engaged upon in real life seem like something out of a Nazi war-crimes trial. Although I am not entirely convinced that even Josef Mengele could ever have been monstrous enough to seriously consider engaging in such gross human rights violations. The way that the United States is currently doing!

That's why the above story is science-faction, not science-fiction. It is so close to the truth of what the most evil terrorist organisation in the history of the world, DARPA, can already do. In 1985 I was shocked and horrified when Iran referred to the U.S.A. as an evil empire. But if America is not already an evil empire, it soon will be unless DARPA is immediately classified as an evil terrorist organisation, and all of its monstrous experiments are stopped and people more clued up than Hillary Clinton take a serious look at the monster soldiers already created by DARPA, and the colossal acts of gross human rights violations that DARPA's monster soldiers have already committed in Afghanistan, Iraq, and other parts of the world!

THE END

© Copyright 2011

Philip Roberts, Melbourne, Australia





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