THERE BE DRAGONS (16 page)

They stepped out onto the sidewalk. The sound of Christmas carols embraced them. A few snowflakes touched down onto his nose.

His grandfather knelt by him and pulled the collar of his jacket up to keep the chill of the breeze from him. He said something about keeping Jack Frost out of business.

His grandfather was so caring. Always looked out for him.

Then the thunder came.

The dragon dove at them.

It contracted its neck. It shot a fireball.

His grandfather pushed him into the snow.

The flame hit the old man and engulfed him. He was consumed by the inferno. His flesh was cooked. He screamed and waved his arms. Then fell to the ground and began to roll.

The screams stopped. The rolling did too … but the fire raged on.

A snowman that stood over the fiery body began to melt. Its coal eyes slid down its face. The carrot nose started to tip to the side. It looked like an icy Picasso.

The young boy stood up. He dropped the candy cane and began to cry.

The tears froze on his cheeks, the cold of them biting into his skin. He tried to pull them from his face but he couldn’t.

More tears came, a wave of them, a massive gushing wave. They washed down his body and onto his feet.

The water covered them and began to move up his frame. It froze as it did.

Soon he was fully incased in the ice, a horrified expression etched onto his face.

The dragon spat fire again.

The little boy melted into the same pool as the snowman.

The water took up the candy cane in its flow and it washed into the gutter.

A pickup truck ran over it.

It shattered.

• • • • •

The dragon dropped Jacobs onto the hard orange dirt.

It hadn’t dropped him from a great height. Only from a few feet, but the impact was enough to wake him.

Enough to shatter his candy cane.

Jacobs looked into the blue sky and saw the dragon flap and land by him.

Jacobs tried to stand and run but he fell back as quick as he had stood.

The dragon looked into Jacobs’s eyes and placed a clawed foot onto his chest. It held him in place. The wound of its eye had dried over and scabbed. The blood had congealed.

The dragon roared.

Jacobs squinted. The noise hurt his ears. Hurt his head. His whole body was sore. His shins had been cut to bits. He could feel a sting on them as wind blew. Some ribs had been broken. He found it hard to breathe. His chest and shoulders bled from the claw grabs. His back was bruised and probably fully black from the fall from the tree.

He heard someone shout in a foreign language, in Vietnamese. He heard the sound of feet as they ran on dirt. He heard the clatter of military equipment on a soldier’s webbing.

An NVA came into his field of vision. The enemy pointed his rifle at Jacobs’s face and said something foreign.

“Why isn’t the dragon attacking you?” Jacobs croaked out.

He heard thunder and then saw another dragon land at the side of One Eye.

They shrieked at each another. One Eye snapped at the little one.

Little One moved his head away just in time.

The NVA called over his shoulder. Jacobs heard more footsteps.

Next he saw another figure over him. This one was different. He wore a black camo uniform.

Black Camo smiled down at Jacobs. Then he kicked him in the ribs.

The pain shot through Jacobs’s body and he coiled into the fetal position as the dragon removed its claw. Tears ran down Jacobs’s face. He coughed.

Another boot hit. This one struck the arms Jacobs used to hug into his stomach, but the kick still hurt. He breathed in air. He coughed up blood. He breathed in air. He coughed up blood.

A boot was placed on his shoulder and with a push he was rolled onto his back again.

Jacobs coughed.

Black Camo spat on him. A dragon hissed.

Jacobs took a breath.

Black Camo guy spoke to the dragons in a foreign tongue. Not Vietnamese, though … but Russian. One Eye appeared to listen and it tilted its head.

Jacobs coughed.

The Russian petted the dragon then pointed to somewhere beyond Jacobs’s vision. Then he shouted something in Russian.

Thunder snapped.

The dragons were gone.

Jacobs took a sharp breath.

The Russian looked to the NVA and he spoke this time in Vietnamese.

Jacobs coughed up more red.

The NVA nodded at Black Camo. He hit Jacobs in the face with the butt of his AK.

Blackness befell Jacobs once more.

• • • • •

Stephens entered the CP to see Moore standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing new green army fatigues; no insignia or division markings adorning them. He had a CAR-15 slung over his shoulder, the same snub-nosed rifle as the sergeant’s.

“Thanks for joining me, Stephens. Are the men assembled?”

“Yeah, did you manage to get me what I asked for?”

Moore walked to a table in the center of the CP; an olive sheet covering it. He pulled the cover away to reveal a black chrome bow and black chrome arrows.

“A compound bow,” started Moore, “it can be broken down into three pieces, a metal handle and two wood-fiberglass limbs. The end of each limb is slotted and curves towards the archer, instead of away. The slotted end of each limb is equipped with an eccentric cam wheel. The cable attached to the bowstring interconnects the wheels. The archer has three strings stretched taut before him. You use only one to draw the arrow. You don’t have to bend the bow to attach the string. The string and cable are already secured to the wheels.

“To assemble the bow to function, all you have to do is snap each limb into its handle slot, turn each limb bolt, being careful to balance the pressure, one turn at the top, one at the bottom, until stable. As the limbs become secure, the cable and string will automatically tighten around the eccentric wheels.

“The wheels are like a system of pulleys. They ease the archer’s effort. At a standard thirty-inch draw, the archer’s effort will remain the same until twenty-seven inches. The force exerted will be reduced dramatically, by 50 percent or so. At a full thirty-inch draw, sixty pounds of effort will dwindle to thirty.

“When the archer let’s go of the string, the bow will release its energy in a more controlled fashion than conventional wooden bows, adding thrust from thirty to sixty pounds, instead of applying the sixty pounds at once.

“This stops the fight of the arrow against the assault. It will stop it from staying in place, for that microsecond, stop it from buckling and stop wasted energy, making the exertion of pressure more efficient. The wheels on the compound bow compound the thrust, hence its name, as the arrow is propelled, hesitation and buckle gone. It shoots perfectly straight, as fast as possible. The arrow can streak at 250 feet per second.

“It’s electrostatically painted so the finish will not scrape; it will prevent any glint that might attract an enemy’s attention. Its handle is magnesium, that makes it as strong as aluminum alloy but with less weight, the limbs are carbonized fiberglass with maple sandwiched at the core.

“Because the handle is only twenty-one inches long and the limbs even shorter, eighteen inches, when the compound bow is disassembled it can fit into one of the twenty-two-inch quivers, which can be strapped to the archer’s leg.

“The arrows can be taken apart too, their thirty inches unscrewed in the middle and reduced by half, that allows them to be completely contained in the quiver. The arrows’ design is as sophisticated as the bow. The shaft ain’t wood but fiberglass. Also black, strong not heavy. Four-bladed, razor-sharp, saw-edged blades, one inch wide, two inches long, anodized black, the same as the bow and shafts. Serrations on the blades have been designed to stop the broad head from glancing off bone; it’s called a Copper Head Ripper and its head can imbed into almost anything. It has penetrating capabilities of a copper-jacketed bullet. Instead of feathers, black nylon fletches’ they won’t wilt or lose accuracy in this humidity.”

“Like I said, Moore, space-age stuff,” said Stephens.

“Will this do?”

“Yes, it’s just what we need for a silent approach into the base.” Stephens dismantled the bow and fixed the pieces in the quiver, along with the arrows. He tied it to his leg.

“Are you a good shot?” asked Moore.

“I have Navajo blood in me. I was a great shot even as a kid. The rifle might have been the main choice for hunting on our reservation, but many of the elders were still proficient with a bow. My grandfather was my instructor; he taught me strength was important, but skill and concentration more so.

“My grandfather walked with a cane. He seemed ancient to me as a young boy. But I saw him draw back the strings of bows that I couldn’t, even when I grew more muscular in my teenager years. My best efforts couldn’t match him. He could strike the bull’s-eye on a target more than thirty yards away. He said mind and spirit drew the bow. Not the body.

“I didn’t and still don’t believe his spirit was responsible for his ability, but years of practice. So I trained, I studied. Soon it became instinctive to me and I was able to hit the same target with the same ease he could. I studied the history of archery too. I became fascinated by it. It has existed over thousands of years, you know? It was the most feared weapon until gunpowder and bullets began to replace it.”

“You are very lucky to have this the compound bow,” said Moore. “Not many have it. It wasn’t easy for me to acquire.”

“It will not be wasted effort, Agent Moore. Trust me. You will find it invaluable. It will give us an advantage, aid with surprise.”

“We need to kill everyone at that base. Just blowing up the Russians’ secret compound is not enough. No enemy, no matter which type of commie, must survive,” said Moore.

“Like the bow, I am very experienced and gifted at killing. The mission will be a success. Leave the men to me and I’ll leave the compound to you. You can deal with the C-4 and its placement.”

“Even though we’ll be bringing C-4 with us, enough to blow the hidden compound and labs, we will most likely not need to use it.”

“And why is that?” asked Stephens.

“We have it, on good authority, that the base is wired to blow. A fail-safe mechanism the Russians have in place. In case their research falls into the wrong hands, I imagine.”

“Your hands?”

“We’re not going there to gather intel. It has been deemed top priority to destroy all the Russians’ research,” said Moore.

“That seems like an unusual approach for the CIA.”

“I have my orders and I’ll follow them,” said Moore.

“But you wish you didn’t have to?”

“It seems a mistake to waste so much advancement in the study of these creatures. It would save our guys time and give them new ideas.”

“But the existence of the thunderbird and what it could signify, is bigger than them just being used as a weapon?” asked Stephens.

“It appears so.”

“So we kill all and any dragons at the base?”

“What do you mean by any?” Moore was confused.

“Any age?”

“Yes. Any age. Hatched or not.”

“How many of these things can we expect?” asked Stephens.

“I’m afraid I can’t confirm the number,” said Moore. “Our sources have had difficulty with the count. Plus, you need to be aware that our journey makes it a possibility we’ll run into wild dragons not yet captured by the Russians. It’s unlikely but possible, since we’ll be travelling through the section of jungle most of the Russian expeditions have taken place.”

“My men will stay alert. They will do you proud. I have chosen the best of the platoon,” said Stephens.

“Introduce me to the men and we’ll get underway.”

“What will happen to the remainder of the platoon?” Stephens asked.

“They will be taken care of.”

• • • • •

Jacobs felt an overpowering ache in his head and could still see only darkness.

The pain extended into a run that went down the back of his neck and joined onto the other wounds of his body. “I’ve become one mass of soreness and many forms of excruciating, Lynch.”

He opened his eyes slightly and looked through his eyelashes. They had become encrusted with sleep. “This sleep hasn’t formed after a restful night but from unconsciousness induced by the butt of an AK-47 rifle pounding my skull and making my brain swish around my head, causing it to hit off the hard bone of my cranium.”

He could see above him, the roof of a hut. “I’m still in the camp where the dragon brought me.” He could also make out a light. It flickered briefly. It came from an incandescent bulb.

Under his back he could feel something poke into his bruises. It felt like bamboo. He was on a table of sorts. “I’d find better cushion on the jungle floor.”