The Mindwrks Project

By Richard Wayne

During the Vietnam war, the CIA developed a secret program specicially aimed at increasing the motivation of the South Vietnam army. As a result of expermination, by mistake, many US soldiers were subjected to the harmful effects. One such vet was William Patterson. Patterson for no reason, shot and killed three Maryland State Troopers. The wind

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Carrell Books, LLC
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781087984148

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Quang Tri Province

South Vietnam

It was an ugly night in early July of 1970. With low visibility and nasty crosswinds, the young Army pilot wrestled for control of his helicopter. He hated to fly at night, especially in the rain. Unfortunately, at that time of year, it rained almost every night. Dropping out of the murky darkness, the UH-1-A helicopter resembled a giant, green spider sliding down a transparent web. Almost to the ground, the chopper was slammed by a sudden down wind, driving the skids into the muddy landing zone. Mustering all his skills, the frustrated pilot steadied his craft, eventually leveling the skids that barely touched the ground.

With the chopper finally stabilized, three men, in dark green ponchos, struggled to the ground. After clumsily ducking under the spinning blades, they rushed to get away from the wobbling chopper. Again fighting the gusting winds, the pilot slowly began a steady withdrawal. Awkwardly, the chopper began to rise. Within moments, it disappeared into the rain-filled, Vietnam sky.

Without looking back, the three military officers, squished through ankle deep muck toward a huge camouflaged Quonset hut.

Accompanied by his two junior officers, Colonel Walter Buzz Richardson was the last to finally duck into the large canvas shelter. Just as he closed the canvas door, a cloudburst sent a huge stream of water down the canvas roof, splashing to the ground.

Richardson, a five-year veteran of war, had been in command of the troops of the 1st Air Cav that reinforced the Marines who had engaged the North Vietnam 4th Regiment in the bitter struggle for the Imperial City of Hue. It was by everyone's measure, one of the fiercest battle of the Tet Offensive. Even two years later, that battle left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was his firm belief that the CIA had not done enough. He thought they should have foreseen the January offensive of 1968 that paralyzed South Vietnam and ultimately was the harbinger of bad things to come.

Located on Fire Base 11, a short distance from Quang Tri City, the hut was set apart from the main American Army bivouac. Quang Tri City, the provincial capital of the northern province of Quang Tri, was not far from the long and bloody battle at Khe Sanh, another battle that Richardson thought was mishandled. It was his firm belief that the military was being held hostage by the politicians and even worse, the CIA. He felt almost alone in his position that the CIA had usurped too many strictly military matters.

As the rain continued to pound on the canvas walls, the three men began to shed their rain gear and shake off their mud soaked uniforms. In the dim, generator-powered light, an already irritated Richardson immediately noticed the purpose of the trip. Stretched out on a wood frame cot was a young American soldier, attended to by an ARVN nurse. Still dressed in muddy fatigues, the soldier's sweat-stained tee shirt showed signs of recent combat. Beneath the cot, lay a pair of muddy combat boots and a camouflage bush hat decorated with the crudely scrawled phrase, Live Free or Die. Unusual, the soldier wore no nametag, no dog tags, or any signs of rank. He was, as the military said, sterile.

Richardson, a tall, athletic looking man with short-cropped gray hair, surveyed the musty smelling room. He did not like what he saw. Surrounding the cot were a dozen or more military officers and one civilian. They all appeared uneasy and tense. They knew fireworks were about to happen.

Stepping forward, his hazel eyes wide as his teeth clenched a well-worn pipe, he curtly acknowledged the other American officers, but intentionally ignored the two high-ranking Army of the Republic of Vietnam officers. His dislike for the South Vietnamese troops was well known. The ARVN troops don't know what they are doing and take a long time to do it.

At a meeting a year before, he had suggested to a commander of an ARVN battalion that he issue each troop a pair of sneakers so they could run away from the battles faster. When he had heard about the new plan to get the ARVN to take over the war, he had laughed.

Turning to Army Captain Melvin Morgan, his top aid, Richardson bellowed, I don't give a shit who knows it, this garbage makes me sick! If it wasn't for the telexed order from MACV, he hesitated and looked around at the American officers, I would court marital all of you.

A stony silence engulfed the room. It was an uncomfortable moment for everyone, even Richardson. Then with a genuine look of disgust, he surveyed the soldier, lying still on the cot. Under his breath, he mumbled, For God's sake. What have we become?

It wasn't a question, but even if it had been, no one had the courage to respond. But then, before any more could be said, the tense silence was interrupted by sounds from outside of the hut. The metallic sound of grinding gears grew louder as a jeep slugged its way down the muddy access road. It stopped abruptly at the door. Everyone's attention was riveted to the Quonset hut door. From out of the wet and stormy night, two civilians burst into the room. Pausing momentarily, to sweep away the wet, the two men struggled out of their rain gear.

They were a peculiar looking pair. The first, a small Asian, was carrying a leather satchel. After shedding his rain gear, he moved directly to the soldier on the cot. The other man, obviously European, and much older, slowly removed his raincoat and soaked fedora to reveal an expensive looking dark blue suit and white shirt with a red tie. Among the brown and green military uniforms, he looked oddly out of place.

The Asian, called Trang, had put on rubber gloves and proceeded to remove a number of items from his bag. He had come fully prepared to work, wearing a clean, white lab coat under his rain gear. He was short, very thin with a pitch black thatch of wild hair contrasted to his milky-white skin. His horn-rimmed glasses were much too large for his small face, making it necessary to constantly push them up his nose with his index finger. Small of stature, he moved through the crowd with confidence and self-assurance. After he acknowledged the others in the room with a simple nod, he focused on Richardson and held his stare. It was obvious to everyone; the two men had met before, and just as obvious, with no love lost.

Richardson returned Trang's stare without directly acknowledging him. It appeared he was trying to act unobtrusive, but everyone present, knew the two would eventually clash.

Trang's European associate, Dr. Herbert Bower, seemed unconcerned with the developing tension. Trang disregarded Richardson's disrespect and began to carefully examine the soldier on the cot. After looking into the soldier's eyes, he motioned for the attending nurse.

The small crowd spontaneously moved to encircle the cot. With trained precision, the Vietnamese nurse began organizing the small vials she removed from Trang's satchel. While the nurse went about her chore, Trang walked to the back of the crowd and quietly conversed with his associate, Dr. Bower. After their hushed conversation, Trang returned to the cot.

With a touch of arrogance, Trang barked instructions at the Vietnamese Army nurse. Responding, she handed him a long, ugly looking hypodermic syringe. With a quick flex of his thumb, a thin line of liquid shot harmlessly into the air. Gently, Trang lifted the soldier's arm and at the same time, the nurse scrubbed a spot midway in the soldier's forearm.

Expertly, Trang guided the syringe into the soldiers arm. With a moan, the soldier rolled uncomfortably.

Move to the next phase, if you please, Trang ordered in Vietnamese.

In anticipation of the next procedure, the nurse had already removed another vial; preparing another syringe.

Slowly, removing the first needle, Trang addressed the group, He will now be brought to the second stage. It will be a few minutes until we can use the next serum. Any questions? His English was smooth, barely a hint of an accent.

One of Richardson's aides stepped forward and said to no one in particular, When was he brought in?

A South Vietnamese army officer, standing across the room, responded, Almost twenty minutes ago. He came right from the bush; from the sixth quadrant, map 201RZ.

Responding with a nod, the aid then looked directly at Richardson for his reaction. Richardson appeared more than just annoyed. With eyes narrowed, he clamped down tighter on his pipe as he glared at the ARVN officer.

Watching the growing confrontation with interest, John Steel opened a manila file marked, Mindwrks Activity Roster. He noted the first page:

He focused on a hand written notation at the bottom of the page: Last mission from FOB near Cua Viet River, no other survivors. When Steel looked up after reading the file, he noticed Richardson staring directly at him. Calmly, Steel ignored Richardson's attempt to intimidate and closed the file.

As the on-lookers nervously waited for the injection to take effect, an odd stillness seemed to take over the room. Within moments, the soldier had fallen into a restless, semiconscious state. With the second injection, this time by the nurse, the soldier's eyes fluttered open and at the same time, he became very still. He was fully awake, but in a trance-like state.

After the nurse removed the second syringe, Trang checked the soldier's pupils, and then turned to the group and announced, We're ready to proceed.

Richardson pushed his way forward and scowled at Trang. Wait, he said. I want to talk to you. He motioned toward a corner of the hut. Steel silently followed. Abruptly, Richardson swung around and growled at Steel, Alone, if you please.

Steel reluctantly retreated, prudently holding his temper.

While Trang waited impatiently, Richardson stopped and attempted to light his pipe. Appearing in no hurry, he fumbled with soggy matches, finally giving up. Frustrated, he cursed under his breath and then turned his attention to Trang.

You know how I feel, Richardson began. This is such a bunch of bullshit. I thought you were not going to use American GIs for your fucking little experiments. Especially after My Lai!

Wait one minute. I didn't have anything to do with My Lai. It wasn't my decision, Trang angrily snapped back.

I don't believe you.

But that doesn't have anything to do with tonight.

Why not

This soldier is part of the Phoenix Program. He's a volunteer.

Richardson's jaw tightened as he looked down at the soldier. Who gave you the orders?

Your CIA. You should talk to Steel. His superior approved it.

Well, fuck him! I'm in charge here! Richardson barked.

Wait, one second, please. Trang then turned to Steel and waved him forward. Calmly, he said, Please, Mr. Steel.

Steel, cautiously approached. Quietly, the two men conversed in Chinese. More than once, Steel glanced over at Richardson. As Steel moved away from Trang, he turned toward Richardson and said, With all due respect, I have my orders, all approved by CINCPAC. and MACV. Now, if you don't like what's happening, I suggest you take your objections up with them.

Richardson's face went beet red. He paused to gain control. All I got to say is I don't want my men used as guinea pigs. He stopped as he again struggled for emotional control. Another thing, I was not briefed on this shit until yesterday. I should have known before. I don't understand what in the hell you are doing.

Understand? Steel responded. What do you mean, you don't understand? He laughed sarcastically. Wasn't it you, at the last Division meeting, who said you would like your men to kick ass and fight like the Koreans, like their ROK Blue Dragon Brigade? You, of all people, should understand.

Wait a fucking minute! Richardson blasted, I said that maybe we are too soft and we need to be tougher, but I didn't mean we had to do this kind of shit! He gestured toward the soldier on the cot.

You can't have it both ways, Steel interrupted. Don't you understand?

Understand? I thought you guys were using ARVN troops!" Richardson's voice rose as he took a step toward Steel.

At that point, Captain Morgan, Richardson's aide moved in between the two men to try and keep them apart.

We were? Steel said. But we were told that it was safe enough for our people. What in the hell do you think? Do you think we want to hurt our own men? At the same time, Steel took a step back in retreat, unsure of what Richardson was going to do.

My men are not for experiments. I don't care who says it's safe, Richardson yelled. He stopped and again wrestled with his anger.

Colonel, would you like to talk to the Ambassador about this? How about General Abrams? They will straighten this out. Steel softened his voice, making an effort to reduce the tension of the confrontation.

Richardson took the unlit pipe out of his mouth, blew out a heavy breath, and then said, Are you telling me what to do here?

Well,.. yes. I guess I am, Steel replied. You should remember, the Phoenix program is our baby and the men are all volunteers. You know that.

Volunteers my ass! Richardson turned his head slightly and muttered something unintelligible, then looked back at Steel. Go ahead, if you have to, but I'm on record that this is wrong.

So, noted, Steel said, with a relieved, grin. He then turned back to Trang and said, OK. Let's go.

While the argument had been going on, Bower had stepped forward and quietly conferred with Trang. He then approached the cot. Bending directly over the soldier, Bower said softly, Can you hear me?

Hesitantly, the soldier turned his head toward the sound and mumbled, Yes, sir.

Please speak up.

Yes, sir.

Thank you. Bower paused and stared down at the soldier. How do you feel?

Fine, sir. I feel fine. The soldier's eyes were now closed, his speech was deliberate, each word formed in perfect cadence.

Are you thirsty? Bower asked.

No, sir.

I want you to relax and take a few deep breaths, like this. He demonstrated audibly.

The soldier did as he was told and took two long breaths and exhaled.

Thank you. Bower took out a tissue and wiped the moisture from his rimless glasses. Even though it was hot and sticky, Bower made no effort to remove his coat and tie.

Silently, the others looked on, forming an even smaller circle around the cot. Deathly still, the only sound heard was the steady rhythm of the rain against the canvas roof.

Now, I want you tell me what happened out there, Bower asked the soldier.

The soldier twitched slightly, licked his lips and swallowed. He opened his glassy eyes and stared up at the ceiling. It was bad, real bad, he began. Again, he twitched slightly, as though a small electric shock had been sent through his body. We didn't have a chance. It was like they knew we were coming.

Where was he? Richardson asked.

Laos, Steel snapped back.

Richardson nodded. I should have guessed.

So, explain what happened, Bower asked again. Just relax and tell me everything. His voice was calm and measured, with a slight German accent.

Completely devoid of any emotion or expression, the soldier spoke. Meanwhile, Trang had stepped to the back of the group and sought out Richardson. Quietly and patiently, he did his best to explain what Bower was doing with the soldier. But Richardson wasn't impressed and loudly responded, You mean he won't have any memory; none at all?

None. It will all be erased, Trang answered. That's the beauty of the program.

Richardson turned to his aide and barked, Call in the chopper! I have seen enough! I will not be part of this insanity. He turned his attention toward the soldier on the cot. With disdain, he yelled, Let's get the fuck out of here. He grabbed his raincoat and marched towards the door, closely followed by his two aides. Without stopping, they marched out into the rainy night.

After the disruption, the interrogation of the soldier continued. I was part of a group of snipers. Our mission was to find and kill Viet Cong officers. Over the next hour, the soldier recounted, in explicit detail, the day of horror for him and the other men in his unit.

It had been a nightmare for the Phoenix Program volunteers. The soldier would describe the heat and the steady all day rain. While the jungles are never comfortable, they somehow seemed to alternate between hot, sticky, damp, and cold.

The humidity was so heavy the telescopic sight on my rifle was so steamed up it was almost of no use.

As part of the top-secret Phoenix Program, he and the others would work with troops from Laos and Cambodia, both countries considered neutral at that time. The CIA backed, so-called volunteers, carried out clandestine missions inside the two countries, aimed at stopping the Cong from using the borders as safe havens. Frustrated and handcuffed by politics, the CIA ignored the civilian restraints and struck back.

Earlier that day, a tall American dressed in plain green fatigues sat under a jungle canopy, looking at a map and talking on a field telephone. Code named, Baker 1, he squinted in the early morning light and called in coordinates. After completing the call, Baker 1 waved a group of thirty or so Laotian soldiers to follow as he moved cautiously along the jungle trail toward Route 16, near the Vietnam border with Laos. They would leave the area just ahead of a major elite North Vietnam Army force and Cong moving south along the Laotian leg of the Ho Chi Minh trail. Baker 1 had done his job; the target was set.

Just before the morning sun had risen into the humid sky, a lone chopper clipped the top of the trees, suddenly dipping below the jungle line and into the predetermined landing zone. Like a troop of large green monkeys, the five heavily armed men scampered off the chopper and into the high grass scrambling to find a hiding place to wait for their prey.

Looking for a field of fire, the well-hidden snipers patiently sat and waited for the right time, the killing time.

It had been a bloody morning, filled with high-powered rifle fire and returned fire from automatic weapons. The VC would rip at the jungle thicket in an effort to get lucky. One by one, the snipers were tracked down and forced from their hiding places. Running through the thick vegetation, falling down and crawling in the muddy rain filled ditches, they all would die, except for one.

I stayed hidden until the chopper would return for me. He licked his lips and continued, I was the only one left. He blinked, but showed no real emotion.

When the soldier had finished. Trang, with the help of the nurse administered the last needle, sending the soldier into a semi-conscious twilight state. Within moments, he succumbed and finally closed his eyes.

When he awakes, he will have no conscious memory of this day. It will be erased, forever. As Bower stepped away from the cot and into the background, Trang asked whether anyone had any questions. Since no one spoke up, Trang gave the nurse some instructions and then joined Steel.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

Copenhagen,

Denmark

The city had been drenched in bright sunshine and unusually warm weather for late September, in 1962. As night fell, the lavender colored sky brought forth the cool of the night. It was a perfect Danish evening. On this beautiful evening, The Royal Theater was opening with the London Festival Orchestra performing Rossini's The Barber of Saville.

Across the tree, shaded Kongens Nytorve, the famous King's Square, sat the venerable Hotel D'Angeleterre. Built in 1755, placid in its luxury and civility, the hotel was hosting the International Society of Psychologists and Hypnotists. The huge wooden doors to the main ballroom were closed.

Inside, a lecture was about to begin.

With gilded mirrors set between the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the main ballroom was magnificent. The sound of laughter and loud voices filled the huge room as the assemblage, fresh from drinks and dinner, wandered in anticipating the main presentation. Amid the noise and confusion of people finding their seats, a tall, rather roundish looking man in his late 50s took the podium. Somewhat clumsily, he poked the microphone with his index finger. Satisfied by the dull thumping sound, he patiently waited for the room to come to order. Finally, the moderator was rewarded with silence.

In a clear, deep voice, he boomed, "Good evening! We are fortunate to have with us from Heidelberg, the esteemed neurologist, Dr. Victor Hammer. As we all know, Dr. Hammer has published many books on the subject of the brain. Recently he wrote an article for the New England Journal of Medicine titled, Brain Chemistry and Behavior To paraphrase the article, Dr. Hammer, with his esteemed research staff, has concluded that much of human behavior may be the product of the brain's production of chemicals. I'm sure we are looking forward to hearing his theory. After a pause, he said, It's my great pleasure to welcome Dr. Hammer."

To the left of the speaker's podium, a graying, middle-aged man in a plain dark, blue suit and red bow tie, shuffled up the small staircase. After politely shaking hands, Hammer turned toward the audience. Angular in stature, he twisted forward slightly, bending toward the microphone. After he paused to arrange his notes, he cleared his throat and began, I first would like to thank this esteemed body for this invitation. Normally my audience is a group of tired old men. Looking around this room I find that this audience is...well...I guess... He then stopped and looked out at the audience. With a deep breath and a slight grin, he said, Well,... moving right along. His satire was met by spontaneous laughter.

After he paused to allow the room to settle down, he began again, To quote the renowned Dr. Israel Wechsler, 'Science is nothing more or less than a well tested method. If one follows this method, the results may be regarded as scientific. It is in this vein that I bring you what we believe is the latest science of brain chemistry. He stopped to clear his throat, and then said, "Now, we know the study of the brain can be traced at least back to Plato and Aristotle. While Plato was not a true scientist, he did make the observation that the brain was responsible for the production of semen.

Interestingly enough, he also felt that for this reason women's brains had no role or function. Many historians believe that this observation alone held women back from positions of power. Of course, we all know that Plato never married and now I guess we know why."

Once again, the room erupted in laughter.

It should be noted that Plato, in his unscientific observation, basically stated crudely what we now believe. No! Not the part about women's brains.

More laughter, then more silence.

But that the brain is truly a secretory organ that does produce chemicals. As discussed in the various publications, our institute has recently concluded that, at least in small animals, the brain produces chemicals that not only seem to control the body, but in our humble opinion can control behavior as well. Most of us have grown up on the theories of behavior control as related to the brain sending electrical signals or impulses. It has always been believed that the brain is an electrically driven, computer-like device. However, recent studies, especially in dogs, conclude that the brain produces chemicals or mixtures of chemicals that may control activities associated with behavior.

Toward the back of the room, near the two huge, hand carved wooden doors, a young Asian man sat engrossed in the lecture. Shorter in stature and thinner, as well as younger, than most of the other men, his stylish clothing also contrasted with the sober, conservative dress of the others. Dressed all in black and wearing expensive jewelry, he appeared to be anything but a scholar. As Dr. Hammer spoke, the young man turned to look across the room, watching the expressions of the other listeners. He was fascinated by the lecture and wanted to confirm that the others felt the same.

Our experiments have opened up a new world of discovery, Hammer continued. Working under the theory that the brain is not merely a bundle of electrical impulses, but a combination of different kinds of agents working together, has led us to the conclusion that the brain may be considered a gland. He then paused and looked up from his notes to emphasize the full impact of the statement. A gland. A gland like others in the body, which produces chemicals or hormones that act as control agents that stimulate and regulate the body, and as we now believe, the emotions. Since we have data only from experiments with dogs, we cannot make an absolute hypothesis; but we are safe in saying that a conclusion can be drawn that the human brain works in a similar fashion. The comparison is not out of the question. One of your own colleagues, his eyes moved toward a table off to the left of the podium, Dr. Herbert Bower has joined me in the preliminary work in an effort to merge our studies with that of psychiatry. Dr. Bower has recently taken our work one step further and has began researching the methodology of procedures to test the new theories. That is, if and when, we can begin to use humans in our studies. Doctor, if you would stand please.

Bower stood and smiled, acknowledging the smattering of applause. Appearing somewhat embarrassed, he nodded to Hammer, and then sat back down.

Dr. Hammer resumed. In time, we hope to have the medical tools to apply our theories to the human experience. Our work is somewhat limited, owing to the fact that we have many legal and scientific problems associated with moving our research to the human brain. However, we do believe that with the new scientific equipment and medical tools, such as the new microscopes and radiology equipment, we can be successful with our research. As logical as this next step seems, it is looked upon as dangerous. After all, we don't want to use human beings as guinea pigs. He paused for dramatic effect. After all, that would be an insult to the pigs.

Once again, scattered laughter drifted around the room. He smiled, and then continued, However, we are moving to that eventuality. It will make the research that much more difficult, but none the less, much more rewarding.

At that juncture, Hammer turned to the technical data to explain his complex theory. After almost twenty minutes of dry and detailed statistics, he paused, and then looked out at the audience. To sum up my findings, and those of my colleagues, the door has been opened to a new theory of behaviorism. Treating the brain not merely as divine, but as the largest and most powerful gland in the body. If we use our research and consider the possibilities, we truly can foresee an exciting future. I want to thank you all for your attention. It may come as a surprise, but I really didn't see anyone sleeping during my program. I commend you all. He bowed slightly to polite applause.

As the room began to empty, Hammer gathered his papers and moved off the podium. Walking toward the back of the room, he was joined by Bower. When the two men stopped to chat with some their colleagues, the young Asian approached.

May I ask you a question, Dr. Hammer? the Asian asked. His voice was deeper than one would expect.

But of course.

First of all, I really enjoyed your lecture. I have been following the research. May I ask how soon you think you will be moving into the area of human experiments?

Dr. Hammer glanced over at Bower, then shook his head and said, Well, to be honest, it will be most difficult. We have been approached by various hospitals offering assistance, but it's quite difficult to arrange any meaningful programs. With a grin he said, Would you like to volunteer?

The comment brought a perplexed look from the young man. Undaunted by the jest, he responded, I'm sure you will run into road blocks, but unless you can use humans, it will be difficult to truly prove your theory.

Why yes, Hammer replied. You are correct. In time, we hope to move toward using human. However, we must balance the need for research with the respect of human life. After all, that is what separates us from animals.

The young man thoughtfully considered the remark and politely nodded. He then asked more questions and offered some of his own theories. Quite impressed by the young man, Hammer listened with approval. At one point, he glanced at Bower, who too was clearly impressed with the young man. May I ask your name?

I am called Trang.

The men shook hands and as they walked toward the door to the lobby, they continued their conversation. Bower followed a step behind, but listened intently.

Do you really believe you can really control human behavior by the use of brain chemicals? Trang asked. By that, I mean real control?

So far that is my real theory, Hammer said with a grin. But only time will tell how much a part brain chemicals play in human behavior.

Trang nodded. I agree. I believe you are correct, but it will take much work.

Also much money, added Bower.

Correct. Hammer looked at the young man and thought to himself that he was somehow special. There was a look in the young man's eye that revealed an inner fire. After Hammer said goodbye, he joined Bower and continued through the crowd. Trang watched as the two older men made their way slowly out into the hallway and then, out into the beautiful autumn evening.

Washington, DC

It was 1985 and over 10 years after the fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War and, many military experts shook their heads in disbelief, Cambodia was about to fall to the evil and deadly Khmer Rouge. Still stunned and disillusioned by the fallout from the war in Southeast Asia, the Pentagon searched for answers to the questions generated by the dirty and expensive war. Meanwhile, the economy struggled to recover from inflation and high interest rates, another outgrowth of the War.

It was going to be another sweltering July day. As on so many summer mornings in the nation's capital, although the sun had not yet risen above the horizon, the temperature was already a muggy 82 degrees. The previous night's rainfall left an oppressive humidity that filled the air with an almost suffocating texture. With the rising temperature came a soft mist from the dew-laden grass. It was going to be another hazy, hot Washington summer day.

Jogging alongside the Reflecting Pool, Mark Zerwitz slowed to a walk, then finally stopped just short of the edge of the meandering black wall of the Vietnam Memorial.

In the shadow of the wall, he ran his hands through his thinning hair now dripping with sweat. Taking deep breaths, he stretched his muscles, feeling the pleasure of nearing the end of his morning run. With his pulse returning to normal, he decided to walk along the long, polished stonewall. He had been there many times. It had become almost a ritual, if not a bizarre habit. Somehow, he seemed to be drawn to the black wall. He guessed he probably was drawn more to the memories of the war.

Since ancient times, he knew, warriors had erected monuments to their fallen comrades with the hope that they had attained eternal glory. Nevertheless, he had come to his own conclusion. To him, from what he had seen, war's only eventual product was death, not glory.

He paused and listened. The stillness of the morning that day rang in his ears. He had always felt he could hear what others couldn't. In the morning mist, the wall's deadly silence became a broadcast beacon of far off sounds of the war and the death. Those sounds are never forgotten. It was as if he could hear the almost forgotten cries of anguish, cries of sorrow, and finally cries of death, all captured in the black rock panels. It was an odd sensation, which made him wonder if others felt and heard the same things.

He had slowly become depressed. He was confused about his job. Some of the things he had done over his years with the CIA had troubled him. Was he still a patriot? Was he doing the right thing? At best, he didn't know. At worst, he had forgotten why he cared.

As his eyes surveyed the monument, something caught his attention; a flower had been left at the base of one section of wall. It sat alone. He paused to look up at the parade of names directly above the little flower. He noticed the contrast of it all, the flower, so small, so fragile, yet the black wall above, a monstrous black tidal wave seemingly ready to crash down on the nearly empty shore. What story was connected to that flower, he wondered. Probably a story of supreme sacrifice. Probably stories like so many others: a young, innocent soldier dying in an alien land and probably not knowing why. Probably a story of a loved one left in confused isolation, wondering why it was all really necessary.

Walking slowly, he reluctantly decided to finish his morning run. He began with a slow jog, keeping rhythm with a silent drummer in his head. Running faster, he moved with more deliberate motion, staring straight ahead. He was always overcome by an odd sensation when he left the monument. Even though he was relieved to escape the sadness of it all, he knew he would return again. He would again return to feel the sorrow and to somehow try to reconcile the fact that so many died without making a difference. It still struck him how absurdly the war had been fought; with confused purpose and with the death and destruction of so many young lives. Nevertheless, it occurred to him that possibly he had been saved from death for something more important. Like all those who did make it back, he was thankful, but sometimes wondered why he had been chosen to live.

CHAPTER 2

Baltimore,

Maryland

It was an old neighborhood of mostly turn-of-the-century, stone and brick townhouses. Once the center of culture and the dignified extravagance of the Post Depression rebirth of the city, it struggled now to maintain an air of elegance not often seen in modern times. It reflected a time past, when the city was a safe place to walk late at night. In this city, like any city, the night seemed to belong to the foolish and the evil.

This well-kept, tree-lined street bordered on a small park. It was quiet as the night moved toward early morning. Of course, there were noises, city noises like the occasional automobile bouncing over potholes or the sound of the newspaper truck dropping off the morning edition.

On that early morning, all the homes were dark, except for one. With its massive brick walls, the house rose three stories. From a third floor room, the faint luminescence of a video monitor could be detected in the darkness.

Dr. Paul Reed, psychiatrist, had been watching videotapes since hours before midnight. Secluded from the world, Reed, in his third floor room, set out to search for clues and insight into the inner world of a troubled man. Over the course of the evening turned morning, the video record of almost a dozen client sessions passed in front of his tired eyes. Exhausted, his eyes red and tired, he wanted to quit, but the tapes were very compelling and a report of his findings had been promised for weeks. As he watched and listened, he took a drink from a Styrofoam coffee cup. He grimaced; the coffee was cold and tasted awful. Throwing the cup into a waste can, he returned to his work.

When Reed had received the call to work with the patient, he had been told the work would be top-secret. His instructions included furnishing a detailed report using only a code name and using strict security procedures. A special courier would pick up and deliver the reports. There was to be absolutely no other form of contact with the Company. In addition, like the others before, he was not to refer to any names or organizations, but use the codes provided by the Company. Above all, he was required to destroy all unnecessary information and keep no active files.

While he liked working for the Central Intelligence Agency, or the Company, as many insiders called it, he was growing tired of the loneliness of his work. He knew many of the things he had seen and reported would make wonderful studies and the subject of much discussion within the scientific community. He really wanted to break away. It was not that he did not like the work, but he wanted to have more authority and input into the projects. In the past, he had suggested leaving the Company, but was told, in so many words, it was not an option.

Over the years, he had experimented with the use a video camera to record the consultation sessions. Having the tapes allowed him to review the sessions so as not to miss anything important. He was always surprised at how much more he learned from reviewing the taped sessions. Many times, he would go over a session four or five times before, he made a significant note in a patient's file.

Lately, he had been given several patients that all were quite similar. He was beginning to see a disturbing pattern begin to develop. All of the patients had developed the same or similar problems and the patterns were very troubling. As usual, the Company wanted to know what was wrong, but more importantly, why.

Reed had been sent that particular patient almost a year before. His initial examination had covered the usual ground and produced findings more or less typical for a Vietnam veteran. The patient had settled into a pattern of a combination of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or as it is called, PTSD, and a very unusual sleep disorder, which was accompanied by bouts of insomnia. Also, the patient had developed migraine headaches that seemed to have worsened over the last year.

He had reviewed records of the patient's previous exams and tests.

The patient had been tested at the base hospital at Fort Bragg and subsequently treated by Army doctors for the headaches, nausea and occasional vomiting. His EEG and brain testing was not remarkable, but not totally normal either. He had been given a Positron Emission Tomagraphy or PET scan to check his brain activity. It revealed some noteworthy changes. Over the preceding four years, some actual brain activity clearly had demonstrated problems associated with altered states of consciousness. While the patient denied any substance abuse, traces of diacetylmorphine were found. They indicated the use of either cocaine or heroin. As in all of the previous cases, Reed knew nothing about the patient's involvement with the Company. He knew the CIA had expunged the patient's record of any relationship to any clandestine projects sponsored by the Company.

After reading the patient's profile and medical records, Reed was to determine the patient's long-term mental stability and chart his progress from previous testing. Like the others before him, Reed was to make recommendations. As with the others, he found, it appeared the patient was in the first stage of a curious mental breakdown. Unlike the others, this patient appeared highly unstable and possibly volatile.

As Reed reviewed the tapes, he tried to chart specific patterns. Even though he used his original notes, he refreshed his memory by watching the tapes. He began his review from the initial meeting. As was his custom, at any first session, he spent the time talking about the patient's history and background. He also tried to get the patient to feel relaxed and comfortable. Usually, not much was learned.

In the second full session, Reed had discussed the patient's dreams. Each time a dream was related, Reed found the patient had become animated at first, and then seemed to fall into a quiet depression. At that session, Reed had introduced his most important tool, hypnosis. Reviewing the video of the first hypnotic session, Reed found the patient was cooperative; nevertheless, he did not reach REM or a deep trance. The patient was extremely restless and anxious. He seemed to avoid the concentration necessary for a hypnotic session.

It was during the second full hypnotic session that the patient was induced with Valium and reached the deep trance. Reed would later write in his report, The patient, at first, had been nervous, but after the Valium took affect, he became somnolent, but totality responsive. In addition, at that second hypnotic session, along with the Valium, Reed used a small electronic box, which periodically flashed a bright light. Quickly, the patient developed the relaxed manner that allowed a cooperative flow of information. Almost magical, the patient's inner self began to emerge.

It had not taken long for Reed to realize that the patient was slightly different from the others. He was far more intense than the others were. There was no doubt; he was also extremely dangerous.

The tape of the fifth session was the longest, since Reed had extended the session an additional hour. Each time he played that particular tape, he found something important. As that long session had progressed, Reed's questions had been more probing and took on a sharper tone. Some questions had excited the patient causing his face to contort with rage, then for some unexplained reason, the man's emotions would change to elation. Reed noticed that any question using the word violence caused the patient to react.

Again, Reed noted in his report, When the patient was questioned about his past use of violence, the patient had responded, Violence! I must use violence to protect and to stay alive." Reed found that talking about violence had opened up a floodgate of emotion. During that session, the patient's continuous flow of bizarre and confusing thoughts kept Reed furiously asking increasingly probing questions.

With each replay of that particular session, Reed noticed that when the patient used the word violence, the patient twitched and made subtle hand movements. He noticed that the patient seemed to have strong aggressive tendencies, but expressed them in an odd, disjointed and confusing details.

Near the end of the session, the patient gave a clear expression of vivid details in response to a question about past violence. He began with no explanation or introduction, jumping head long into a previous event.

One of the teams got trapped. We were late taking off and fell behind, losing contact with the main force. When we reached the LZ, the two other teams had already landed. The first team took off for cover, but the second team got hung up. The chopper could not get down due to the heavy winds. As a result, the chopper hovered about ten feet off the ground. One of the men jumped and looked like he got hurt. Automatic weapon fire had been coming from the trees and pinned down the first team. Our pilot had radioed that he couldn't go in. I heard the voice on the other end, as clear as a bell, say, 'Get the fuck in there and get out.' We landed in the center of all the shit and took a couple of rounds in the rear blades. Our chopper moved slowly in circles, took more hits, and crashed. I was able to get down and had dug in and returned fire. Moving into the trees, we heard the sound of planes and all of the sudden the trees lit up like a campfire. Some F4's came in low and juiced the area. It was like watching an out-of-control forest fire. The smell of gasoline was everywhere. After we cleaned up the site, we moved on to our mission. We took heavy loses, but nobody quit.

The patient had smiled and nodded his head. We kicked the shit out of the slope, headed little fuckers. Later we found out that we were dropped smack into a battalion of North Vietnamese regulars retreating across the border. We took some hits, lost four and had three hit real bad but nobody quit.

Reed also noted that while talking about the battle, the patient had changed his voice, just slightly. His normal low voice seemed to take on a higher pitch and at times, it became almost shrill. Reed made the following note: After finishing the rambling discourse, the patient became sullen, then suddenly blurted out, The violence was necessary. I had to do it. I had no choice."

As the tape rolled, Reed noticed the patient jerk and move his head side to side when asked about why he thought violence was a necessary thing. With each answer, Reed noted, The patient moved his body in an unusual fashion, seemingly reacting to his own answer.

He made another note stating that the patient initially seemed to resist questions that had anything to do with past violence. It was as if he had been trained to avoid the subject. It also appeared to Reed that the subject was trying to answer the questions, but was having difficulty. Something seemed to block him from answering. There were times when even the preliminary relaxing questions seemed to cause the patient concern. However, once he got started, he became very detailed.

Another video session included some dream study. Each time Reed asked about his latest dream, the patient would argue that the dream was not a dream, but a thing that was happening in his head. Repeatedly, Reed noted, the patient would argue that it really wasn't a dream, but merely something that had happened in the past. Also, Reed found the patient's responses odd, at the very least.

When Reed asked the patient to explain what he meant, the patient answered, I don't know. I don't know. Reed made a note: It was near the end of that session when the subject started to get upset and angry. When asked about whether he liked his dreams, he contorted his face and answered in the following, I saw a pile of dead people with their heads missing. They were so close that I could see the hole where the head used to be. I saw a man get his dick cut off and stuffed in his mouth."

Reed also noticed that when the patient talked, he licked his lips as though he was thirsty. When Reed asked where the patient saw these so-called dead people, he responded, Over there. You know, right over there.

After Reed reviewed the tape, it appeared to him that the patient, at that point, had been indicating a spot in the corner of the room. In addition, Reed noticed, at one point, the patient had sat up, opened his eyes, and started to cry. When asked why he was crying, the subject had answered, The babies would be killed. When asked about the babies, the patient wouldn't answer. It seemed to Reed that the patient intentionally refused to give an explanation. Reed found that behavior very odd and disturbing.

The tapes of the six and seventh sessions produced almost the same results except, during the seventh session, the patient had talked about a mirror that had come to him in his dreams. He said there was always a mirror in his dreams, Reed wrote in his report. Also, Reed made a note that when the patient talked about his dreams he spoke very quickly, at times unintelligibly He also noted that at times it appeared that his patient was on the verge of saying something, but nothing would come out.

Very disturbing, Reed wrote.

Toward the end of one session, Reed had noticed that the patient was making references to the country of Laos. His face took on an expression of livid anger, Reed put in his report. With a mean, almost angry voice, the patient had said, Fucking Laos is where they would go, but we went after them. No one knew it until later, but we got a lot of them. We had no fear. We were invincible. We kicked their fucking ass."

Reed added a note, "When the patient spoke, his face contorted with rage.

He thought the next to last tape, was perhaps the most meaningful.

During the session, a trance had been induced, with the patient going deeper than ever before. Reed had used the session to gauge the memory of the patient. Reed observed, When asked about his experiences in Vietnam, he became apprehensive and guarded. Obviously, he was again resisting answering certain questions.

The Company had particularly requested that Reed test the patient's memory of his involvement in operations as a sniper. When Reed asked him about being a sniper, the patient denied it at first. When asked again, he resisted again, but with certain key words provided by the Company, Dr.

Reed was able to get the patient to open up. When he began to describe being alone in the jungle, he talked in a very measured voice, almost devoid of any real emotion. However, when he began to detail the horrible events, his voice began to waiver. With a voice quivering with emotion, he talked about spending the day in knee-deep water, fighting the disgusting wet conditions. He said:

My body was constantly being attacked by these small snakes and insects, but I was unable to cry out. I got my chance. I shot him through the neck from about one hundred yards. He oozed like a worm that had been cut in half. I was using my Winchester 70 with my scope. I got this woman who was with them. I didn't want to do it but I had to. I got that bitch. I got her between the eyes. I never felt so good in my life.

Toward the end of that session, Reed had paused to catch his breath when the patient blurted out, I killed a bunch of them bastards. It was a beautiful thing. Without asking he began to talk about being used to track down and kill a Vietcong sniper who had killed a large number of American men in Laos. Reed noted a curious look had come over the patient's face when he said, I got that son-of-a-bitch in the head.

After watching that video, Reed felt a chill. He turned off the monitor, and took a break.

He would review two more sessions. Each tape revealed to Reed the confused, sometimes violent unconscious mind of the patient.

Reed watched the next to last session in which the patient spoke about fire. As if describing a past event, the patient told a story of people being burned in a fire that destroyed the entire earth. Vividly describing a story of death and destruction by fire from the air, the patient became very quiet and intense as he talked of flying into a storm of fire and heat. With animation, he said, There was this baby sitting in the road. My team leader said to shoot it. I yelled to him that he was crazy. He said that I was refusing an order. I told him that I was not shooting a baby. He walked by me and shot the baby causing a huge explosion with shit flying everywhere. The baby was sitting on a booby trap.

At that point, Reed noticed the patient lick his lips and become emotional as he talked of dead bodies. I caused dead bodies. I did.

When the session ended, Reed wrote, The patient showed signs of stress. He was depressed and complained about headaches. He stared up at the ceiling without speaking and left the room without saying good-bye."

After again reviewing that peculiar session, Reed made the following note: I find his reaction very unusual and very troubling. The patient has developed a distinct pattern of responses that are a combination of pleasure versus pain. He sees everything as either pleasure or pain. He has a problem with understanding the reasons for his actions.

The last session Reed reviewed was far different from the others. At that session, he found the patient had been with drawn and found it difficult to speak. Reed wrote: When asked what was wrong, the patient had replied, I cannot tell you. I will be killed and my entire family will be killed. When I pushed him, he said, I know I killed. I killed in cold blood. I see his face every night. I shot him because I had to. Reed noted that the patient's voice was flat; it lacked any real emotion. He appeared spent and exhausted by the end of the session."

After Reed reviewed the last session, he turned off the monitor. The room was thrown into total darkness. Faint light from the coming dawn began to outline trees outside the window. Sitting back in his chair, Reed closed his eyes. He was tired, but also he felt uneasy about what he was to report. After he had gathered his thoughts, he began to conclude his findings. The physical findings seemed to be inconsistent with the patient's mental state. All of the physical tests have been relatively negative, except the PET scan. The profiles seemed normal, including Bender Gestalt and MMP. However, the patient is very troubled and appears headed for further problems. It is my understanding that I am to comment on this man's present state of mind. I see a very troubled individual with a combination of PTSD and a developing dissociate personality disorder. From reading his charts and talking to him, it is my opinion he is a very dangerous person if left in his present state. He seems to have no real understanding that the sleep disorder and the rambling he interprets as dreams are his recall of traumatic events he was exposed to in his violent past. It appears that he is caught between his need to express himself as he was and the need to proceed as he was taught.

He paused and reflected for a few moments, then continued, He has a rather vivid memory, but most of it is seems distorted, presumably by the deprogramming procedures used. I do caution, however, that he still seems to remember parts and pieces of his episodes from past years. Whatever deprogramming procedures are now being used are not working very well and present a clear danger to him and anyone he comes in contact with.

Again, Reed paused and rocked back and forth in his chair. He then continued: Almost all combat soldiers suffer from some form of psychological trauma, but this patient did not exhibit those typical signs which include periods of real anger. The patient showed no signs that would classify him as a true case of PTSD. Most of what he suffers seems to be contained in his dream state or his unconscious state. He never reveals any anger in social environments. This young man, at least on the surface, appears normal, but could be headed for Armageddon. It is my belief that the dreams and the headaches will persist and in fact, will become more acute. While he may not be committing violent acts now, they are close to the surface and can be triggered easily. What is very strange is that his conscious and unconscious minds are not in anyway interrelated. While not that unusual, the lack of association combined with the very detailed recall of events, is very unusual.

He then quoted from the famous psychiatrist, Jung, The dream gives a true picture of the subjective state while the conscious mind denies that this state exists or recognizes it only grudgingly. The dream comes in as the expression of an involuntary psychic process not controlled by the conscious outlook. It represents the subjective state as it really is.

Once again, exhausted, he paused to reflect on his theory. He then continued: The subject shows a rather bizarre dialogue of somewhat repetitive responses, almost reminding one of the way a child repeats his parent's accent or expressions. There may a clue into the subject's headaches. It appears that the conflicts apparent in the patient's unconscious may be the cause of the repetitive symbols and the somewhat distorted reality. While he has managed to combine his memory with a confusion of dreams, he seems to have developed two distinct memories. One memory is his past recollection, without the many traumatic war experiences. The other is all vivid recollection of killing and being a so-called murderer. It is my subjective opinion that he suffers from a dissociate identity disorder in which he has managed to integrate two different life experiences into his unconscious. It would appear that one personality isn't aware of the other. The unexplained headaches may be the results of chemical changes that seem to follow the events such as sleep problems and the association of the other behavior patterns. It is odd, however, that the onset of these problems has occurred at this point in his life. I find nothing to compare with this situation or behavior. He fits somewhere into DSM-IV, but again, the mechanics of the thought process are not within normal limits. A very unusual situation; a dangerous situation.

Reed stopped, closed his eyes and sat back in his chair feeling fatigue set in. He pushed himself to begin again: It is extremely important that a therapist take hold of this person and try to resolve the problem by uniting the two personalities. There must be a frank discussion of what has been done to this person to reach the proper conclusion. I highly recommend that anyone else exposed to the same or similar project be evaluated and treated accordingly. Left untreated, this patient's two personalities may clash and produce profound influences on his behavior.

Once again, he stopped and reflected upon what he thought he should say. He knew that his report would not be well received. He began, "I would caution that in no uncertain terms, all the procedures used on this patient should be reevaluated and either discontinued or adjusted accordingly. There is little doubt that what has been done to him and the others like him will at some time result in uncontrollable behavioral problems. The consequences of taking no action may result in the production of men who will prey on our society. This man may