Secret Missions: Code Name: Intrepid

By Robert J. Mendenhall

In the turbulent 1930s, a madman begins a calculated and ruthless rise to power that would, in the span of a decade, plunge the entire world into global conflict. In his quest, he deploys a secret squadron to exploit the occult and supernatural, develop devastating weapons of war, and create bizarre, unnatural soldiers. To protect the United States from these terrifying threats, an elite task force is formed, code named Intrepid and led by Lieutenant Colonel Rick Justice, U.S. Army Air Corps.

Secret Missions: five stories of theIntrepid team as they battle mutants, witches, werewolves, and more.

The stakes are high; the risks are great. The consequences for failure—catastrophic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Mendenhall
• Release date: Feb 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954678118

Robert J. Mendenhall

Robert J. Mendenhall is retired Air Force, a retired police officer, and a former broadcast journalist for the American Forces Network, Europe. A member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, Short Mystery Fiction Society, and International Association of Media Tie-in Writers, he writes across genres including science fiction, adventure, crime and suspense, and the occasional horror. He currenty writes the pulp action and adventure series Code Name: Intrepid. He lives in Southwest Michigan with his wife and fellow writer, Claire. And many animals. So... many... animals.

Book preview

SECRET MISSIONS

Five CODE NAME: INTREPID Adventures

Robert J. Mendenhall

Blue Planet Press, LLC

For Leo, Jake, CJ, Barkley, Roxie, Molly,

Mac, Linus, Lucy, and Yoshi.

We miss you.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

CODE NAME: INTREPID

ATTACK OF THE AQUATICS

LIEUTENANT COLONEL RICHARD RICK JUSTICE

THE FORGE OF DEATH

THE TOMB OF NECROHOTEP

RITA MARSHALL

CASE INDIGO

OPERATION SILVER BULLET

MASTER SERGEANT MICHAEL HAMMER DOWNE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ROBERT  J. MENDENHALL

ABOUT CODE NAME: INTREPID

ALSO BY ROBERT J. MENDENHALL

CODE NAME: INTREPID

SECRET

MISSIONS

War Department Memo

ATTACK OF THE AQUATICS

This mission has not been previously documented.

ATTACK OF THE AQUATICS

The Everglades

Near Robeson Army Air Field, Florida

April 1933

T

HE NIGHT AIR WAS thick with humidity and the stink of swamp vegetation. And fear. A heavy mist obscured the Seminole Indian’s vision, so he could see only a few feet in front as he trudged through the murky water. His bare feet sank into the soft silt and it took effort to pull them free. Effort that slowed him, kept him from reaching firmer ground and the safety of the village. The sounds of the swamp did not sing to him tonight. The insects and the birds, even the alligators were silent, as if they had taken refuge from the thing that hunted him.

He could see the fire from the village, acting as a beacon for him. His heart thundered like the water drum. Each step after mud-sucking step drew him closer to the safety of the tribe. He could hear their chants now. Faint, but another tether for him to take hold of.

Sweat slid down his face, matting the long tangles of his hair and stinging his eyes. The air he sucked into his lungs burned them. The lean muscles of his legs screamed as they never had before. He gripped a string of beads in one tight fist.

The first rake of talons across his bare back drew blood from shredded flesh. He fell forward, screaming. Swamp water filled his mouth, cutting off his cries. A scaly hand, rough and webbed, gripped his head, claws digging into his scalp, lifting him from the water as if he were a small totem. His lips moved in a Seminole prayer, but only gurgling noises came from his mouth. The stench of dead fish and rotting vegetation enveloped him like a wet blanket.

As the creature’s other clawed hand slashed open his abdomen, the man shrieked so loudly, with so much torment, the chanting from the village stopped.

His screams bubbled off as the creature pulled him under the churning water.

The chanting did not resume. The fire ebbed away. The water calmed. After a time, the nocturnal music of Everglade wildlife began again.

As if nothing had happened.

If one were to look upward into the spring sky, at the slow, eastward parade of clouds over the rippling Atlantic Ocean, one could appreciate the beauty of the scene. A single cloud formation, slightly grayer than the surrounding cotton-white cumuli, may not have aroused suspicion. That this darker cloud was moving in the opposite direction just might.

The gray cloud was long, easily six hundred feet from wispy end to wispy end, and half as wide and high. It crossed over the Delaware coast and continued its westward path, slowly losing altitude. When it reached a dust-covered, seemingly abandoned airstrip, the cloud slowed, passing over several boarded-up shacks. The cloud stopped moving and hovered above an immense, dilapidated hangar building. With a grinding of gears, the hangar’s wooden roof split open at its peak, both sides pivoting away and providing an opening into the hangar. The cloud descended slowly through that opening. As it cleared the roof, the distinct sounds of propellers and motors echoed through the building. The cloud brushed against the bare ground, whipping up eddies of dust and dirt.

The whirl of propellers ebbed and the whine of motors diminished to an idle. A subdued hum, disguised by the engine noise, could now be heard. The hum diminished after a moment until it stopped altogether. As it did, the grayish cloud dissolved and, in its place, rested a long and sleek dirigible.

A hatch at the rear of the airship’s passenger gondola opened and two men jumped out. With precision, they gathered rope coiled nearby and tethered the airship to the ground as the roof clanked to a close.

The two men were garbed in military uniforms. The first was a stocky man with a solid body supported by stout legs. His squarish head was capped with crew-cut hair the color of a newly minted penny. His face was unpleasant to look at, with pockmarked skin, a boxer’s nose, and irregularly spaced teeth. He had wide eyes, with pupils an unusual shade of dark amber. Enlisted chevrons were sewn on both sleeves of his khaki uniform shirt. This was Gunnery Sergeant Dexter Guns Preston, United States Marine Corps.

The second man removed a circle-brimmed campaign hat from his head, revealing a gleaming, bald pate. This man was shorter than Preston, barely clearing the minimum height requirement for military service. He was rotund, with a pronounced midsection that suggested a liking for lager. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up on his hefty forearms. His hands were meaty, with fingers thick as sausages. His round face emphasized his puffy jowls, bulbous cheeks, and non-regulation, handlebar mustache. Like Preston, his shirt sleeves displayed enlisted chevrons. This was Master Sergeant Michael Hammer Downe, United States Army.

I don’t know about you, Hammer, Preston called out over the whining of the engines. But I could go for a steak, a beer, and a shower. In that order. The sound of his baritone voice was coarse, rough.

Beer first for me, Guns. Downe chuckled as they hooked a long, wooden ramp to the gondola’s open hatch.

Movement at the far side of the hangar caught their attention. A man, clad in a beige raincoat belted at the waist, collar turned up, stood near the open door of the hangar office. A wide-brimmed fedora obscured his face. He gripped the handle of a briefcase tightly in one hand.

Looks like we’ve got company, Preston said.

I’d better let the colonel know, Downe said. He remounted his campaign hat and bounded up the ramp.

One by one, the propellers of the six Maybach VL-1 twelve-cylinder engines that motored the airship spun down and finally stopped rotating altogether. The last of the cloud material dissipated and the dust settled. The airship hovered a few feet above ground, kept aloft by the helium in its interior gas cells. A moment later, two more individuals made their way down the ramp.

The first was a tall, gangly man, with wiry hair atop his head easily mistaken for loose filament. His complexion was nearly as white as bread flour, made more apparent by the dark-framed eye glasses he wore. The lenses of those specs were thick, like the bottoms of Coca-Cola bottles, and made his eyes appear much larger than they were. His gait was erratic and aided by a crutch, necessary thanks to polio. This was Professor Lucius Specs Wellington, professor emeritus at Princeton University.

Wellington held the arm of a striking woman. Shorter than the academic by a head, she nonetheless seemed larger than life. She wore her long, auburn hair to her shoulders and styled as actress Katharine Hepburn did in many of her films. Her facial features were soft and milky-smooth, with almond-colored eyes glistening under dark brows. Nose, delicately sloped with gently rounded nostrils. Symmetrical cheekbones and apple-red lips. She wore an unadorned khaki uniform shirt, with sleeves rolled midway up her sinewy forearms and a bark-brown uniform tie knotted just below the shirt’s open collar. Riding breeches flared at her hips, then tapered down each firm leg into leather boots that rode high on her calves. This was Rita Marshall, United States War Department.

Rita guided Wellington down the ramp and when they were was on firm ground, he released her arm. The woman stood on her toes and placed a gentle a kiss on Wellington’s pale cheek. His blush did little to improve his pallor.

Guns Preston angled his face and presented his own cheek to her, his tight-lipped smile a wide semi-circle on his hopeful face. Rita gave him a scowl.

Moron, she said as she side-stepped him. Preston and Wellington watched her sashay away with appreciation.

I think she likes me, Preston said, still grinning.

Guns, Wellington said, I do believe you have an affinity for renunciation of the obvious.

Huh? Speak in English.

He said you’re slaphappy. The newcomer sauntered down the ramp in an easy swagger. His voice carried a subtle southern twang and sounded remarkably like Clark Gable. In fact, the man resembled Gable to such a degree he could have easily been mistaken for the actor. His lazy grin and pencil mustache only added to the resemblance, though this man’s face was weathered by years in open cockpits. Sweat darkened his khaki uniform shirt at the armpits and collar. A tan aviator cap sat slightly back on his head, the shiny black bill of it crowning his emerald eyes. This was Lieutenant Commander Roger Sky Hawk Winchester, United States Navy.

As he strode up to Wellington and Preston, Winchester pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his uniform shirt pocket and offered one to Preston. Preston pulled a cigarette loose from the pack. Wellington declined. Winchester flicked a stick match to life with his thumbnail and lit Preston’s smoke, then his own. He extinguished the match with a wave, and nodded toward the office.

Who’s the bruno? Winchester asked.

Don’t know, Hawk, Preston said. But I’m bettin’ he ain’t here to see me or you.

He’s here for me. The smooth voice behind them was so unexpected, all three men jumped. Wellington nearly toppled over, but the speaker steadied him before he could fall.

Geez, Rick, Winchester complained. Don’t do that.

The man named Rick had come down the ramp and walked over to them in complete silence which, considering his stature, was an accomplishment. He stood five inches taller than Winchester’s six feet and was amply muscled, as evident by the straining of his chest, shoulders, and arms against the material of his uniform shirt. Thick hair the color of summer wheat. Eyes blue as the noon sky. Solid, square jawline. Silver oak eaves decked out the collar points of his khaki uniform shirt and the gold ring of the United States Military Academy at West Point adorned his right hand. This was Lieutenant Colonel Rick Justice, United States Army Air Corps. Justice led a specialized team of the War Department’s Office of Special Actions, code named Intrepid. Winchester, Preston, and the others were all members of this team.

But not the man wearing a raincoat and fedora on a sunny day in April.

Wait here, Justice told them. He marched toward the hangar office in measured steps and stopped several feet in front of the man.

Colonel Justice? the man asked.

I am.

Is there somewhere we can talk in private?

Possibly. Once you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.

The man slipped his free hand beneath the raincoat and pulled out a leather flip case. He handed it to Justice. The case contained a gold badge, adorned with an eagle and embossed with the words Bureau of Investigation. A card identified the man as an agent for that organization.

We can use the office, Justice said, handing the ID back.

Justice closed the office door behind them.

Downe thundered down the airship’s ramp and joined Winchester, Preston, and Wellington. They watched Justice and the agent through the office window. The conversation between the two lasted for several minutes with Justice listening intently as the agent spoke. Finally, the agent handed the briefcase to Justice and the two left the office. After a few parting words, the agent walked out the hangar to a waiting sedan and Justice rejoined the others.

What’s going on, Rick? Winchester asked.

Justice did not answer. Instead, he turned to Downe. "Hammer, how long before the Liberty is ready to head back out?"

"Well, I need to restock the ammo locker, refuel the A-Gees, and top off the Cloud Cover’s water tank. And I should inspect the gas cells and service the Liberty’s motors. I could have her ready to lift by morning."

Good, but swap out the auto-gyros for the gyro-boats.

Wilco, sir.

Specs, Justice said, we could use your help on this.

Absolutely, Colonel. I have a few academic matters that require my attention and I must advise the university of my continued commitment to the government.

Justice nodded. Guns, give Hammer a hand. The three of you will lift off in the morning.

Will do, Colonel.

What about me, Rick? Winchester asked.

You and I leave immediately.

Where to?

The Everglades.

Thirty minutes later, Rick Justice and Sky Hawk Winchester took off from Ingold Airstrip, Delaware, in their Consolidated Aircraft PBY Catalina, a prototype flying boat under consideration by the U.S. Navy. Eight hours after that, they touched down on the sole runway at Robeson Army Airfield, Florida, as the sun sank below the horizon in the distant west.

Winchester taxied the Catalina to an open maintenance hangar and shut down the two 825 horsepower Pratt and Whitney engines mounted on the leading edge of the aircraft’s overhead wing. A doorless utility vehicle idled just outside the hangar door. As Justice and Winchester deplaned, the driver of the utility vehicle set the brake and approached them.

The driver snapped to attention and rendered a crisp salute. Justice returned the salute with a sharp slice of the air. Winchester gave a more relaxed gesture.

Sir, are you Lieutenant Colonel Justice? the driver asked.

I am, Justice said.

Sir, the airfield commander would like to see you right away. I’m to take you to him.

Very well, Corporal, Justice said. Lead on.

The three men mounted the utility vehicle and drove past the small airfield’s few support buildings to the operations center. The driver escorted them into the building, down a long, dimly lit hallway and directly to the airfield commander’s office. He rapped twice on the door, then entered. Justice and Winchester waited in the hallway until the driver popped his head out the door.

Colonel Kedzie will see you now, sir, the driver said, swinging the door inward to allow the two men into the office.

Justice and Winchester entered; their service caps tucked under their arms. Justice scanned the small room with a quick sweep of his eyes. A gray, metal desk stood before a shade-less window that overlooked the airfield, its desktop obscured by cardboard file folders, an overflowing inbox, and stained paper coffee cups. On the wall to his left, Justice noted a bank of olive-drab colored file cabinets and an iron combination-lock safe. To his right, a bookcase, laden with manuals and stacks of loose paper, and hanging on the wall above the bookcase, painted plaster molds of the U.S. Army seal and the Air Corps roundel. A pair of metal, armless chairs upholstered in gunmetal gray plastic sat in front of the desk. In his peripheral vision, Justice noticed a couch behind them, partially obscured by the still-open office door.

A slender man in his late fifties came around the desk. Like Justice, he wore the uniform of an Army Air Corps aviator, but with a full-bird colonel’s rank on his color points. His face was creased and lined, and his slate-gray hair combed straight back. He offered his hand to Justice.

Colonel Justice, Kedzie said. A pleasure.

Justice took the hand. Thank you, Colonel.

And you must be Sky Hawk Winchester, Kedzie said, shaking the stunned pilot’s hand.

Yes, sir. But…?

I’ve heard a lot about you in the past few hours.

Really? Might I ask from where?

A voice from the couch answered with a thick, southern accent. I think you mean from who, Fly Boy.

Winchester turned and his lazy, Gable grin broadened. Son of a bitch, he said. Sting Ray!

The man sitting on the couch rose and met Winchester. They grasped hands and slapped shoulders. He stood half a head shorter than Winchester, and wore his blond hair in a tight crew cut. A slight scar on his cheek stood out on an otherwise unblemished face. He wore the British-style, double-breasted blue coat the Navy had adopted after the Great War, with the gold stripes of a Lieutenant Commander on each cuff.

Rick, this is Kenneth ‘Sting Ray’ Niles. We were midshipmen together at the academy.

Commander, Justice said.

Last I heard, Winchester said, you were an instructor at the Navy Dive and Salvage School.

Still am.

Winchester grinned. Do a lot of deep-sea diving in the Everglades, do you?

Niles’ face sobered.

Colonel Kedzie said, Gentlemen, take seats and we’ll get down to business.

Justice and Winchester sat in the guest chairs and Niles dropped back onto the couch. Kedzie pulled a cardboard file folder from a stack on his desk.

You received the intelligence reports I gave to the Bureau of Investigation? Kedzie asked Justice.

Yes, sir.

All right, then. He pulled a map of the Everglades from the folder and handed it to Justice. There have been several more sightings of these… creatures since my last report. And several mutilated bodies have turned up near those sightings.

Justice studied the map and said, I see nearly all the sightings have been near Indian villages.

Indians? Winchester said. In Florida?

Yes, Kedzie said. Seminole Indians.

Justice nodded. The Seminoles are an offshoot of the Creek Indians. Back in the early 1800s, Spain still owned what we know as Florida until it became a U.S. territory in 1821. As American settlers moved into the region, the Indians who resided there began to oppose the white man’s incursion. Often violently. The U.S. Government sent in troops to relocate the Indians to reservations in the West. The Seminoles resisted, which resulted in three separate Seminole Wars, the last one ending in 1858. Much of the Seminole tribe had either been killed or resettled during the wars. Some survivors escaped into the Everglades and the U.S. Government didn’t actively pursue them, since the Glades were largely unsettled by the Whites and had no agriculture or industrial development.

Kedzie took over. That all changed in the 1920s. A wealthy businessman named Barron Collier acquired much of the land in the area and began dredging a nearby river to expand the small town of Everglades City on the western edge of the Glades and build a foundation for a road to link Tampa with Miami. Once the road was finished, Everglades City transitioned to commercial fishing. This was about the time the first sighting of a fish-creature was reported.

Fish-creature? Winchester asked.

By that I mean fish or water-breathing creatures we’ve not seen before. The initial reports were vague, based on second- or third-hand accounts. Rumors. Folktales told in saloons. The descriptions were fantastic. Snakes with ears. Fish with arms. Alligators with opposable thumbs. None of these creatures were aggressive.

But that has changed, Justice said.

Kedzie nodded. Yes. About a year ago, bodies began washing up in Everglades City. Mutilated bodies. Most were Seminole Indians from the villages scattered along the banks of the Glades. Lately, a few White men were attacked and killed. Last week, a creature was spotted on the outskirts of the airfield.

But Robeson is a half-a-dozen miles from the Everglades, Winchester noted.

Four point five miles, Kedzie said.

Winchester raised an eyebrow. You’re saying a fish creature, what, walked over dry land for four-and-a-half miles?

Not just one. Several. And they walked upright, like men. We’re calling them aquatics, to differentiate them from the other mutations we’ve seen. So far, the aquatics have not breached the perimeter fence.

Justice said, I’d like to speak with the sentries.

Of course.

Winchester twisted in his seat to face Niles. So, why are you here, Ken?

Niles leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. An instructor at the dive school, a friend of mine, Lieutenant Billy Asseola, is part Seminole and has extended family in the Glades. He went on leave last month. Came down here to visit. He never reported back to the school.

Any chance he just deserted? Winchester asked.

Not a chance in hell. Billy loves the Navy. Loves diving.

Justice rose and took the map to Niles. Where would he go?

Niles studied the map. Here, he said, indicating a point deep in the Glades cluttered with sightings.

That’s our first stop, then, Justice said.

Niles stood up. When do we leave?

Justice folded the map. First light.

As the sun broke the eastern horizon, the Catalina barreled down the runway. Once airborne, the wheels retracted into recessed wells in the side of the flying boat’s keel and the craft banked to port on course for the Everglades. Sky Hawk Winchester sat in the pilot’s seat, his service cap resting on the back of his head, an unlit Lucky Strike cigarette dangling from his lips. Sting Ray Niles, now wearing khakis like Winchester, sat beside him in the co-pilot’s seat. Rick Justice sat behind them in a side-facing rumble seat, studying the documents given to him by the agent from the Bureau of Investigation.

Less than fifteen minutes after takeoff, the Catalina circled the Seminole village. From the air, the village resembled a series of concentric circles and appeared deserted, except for the dissipating smoke of a recently extinguished community fire pit at the very center. Huts of various sizes, many made of cut lumber, encircled the pit in orderly rings. A perimeter of small huts formed the outside ring,