CNI Classified: Volume 1: Code Name: Intrepid

By Robert J. Mendenhall

The 1930s. A turbulent and perilous time for America as it faces destruction from a fiendish, shadow organization using fringe science, the occult, and the supernatural in its evil quest for world dominance. To protect the nation from these unnatural threats, a unique task force consisting of highly-skilled military and civilian daredevils is formed, code name: Intrepid.

 

CNI Classified, Volume 1. Five action-packed adventures from five intrepid authors.

• Wayne Carey
• Teel James Glenn
• Robert J. Mendenhall
• Charles F. Millhouse
• Bobby Nash

The Nation turns to Intrepid, because extraordinary threats require extraordinary measures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Planet Press, LLC
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954678194

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

CNI Classified

Volume One

Robert J. Mendenhall

Wayne Carey

Teel James Glenn

Charles F. Millhouse

Bobby Nash

Blue Planet Press, LLC

Contents

Title Page

CODE NAME: INTREPID

CASE GRAY

THE DEEP SIX AFFAIR

THE DRAGON OF ATCHAFALAYA

THE SURVIVORS OF GHOST ISLAND

THE MENACE OF RUYI JINGU BANG

ROBERT J. MENDENHALL

BOBBY NASH

TEEL JAMES GLENN

CHARLES F. MILLHOUSE

WAYNE CAREY

MORE CODE NAME: INTREPID

CODE NAME: INTREPID

CNI CLASSIFIED

Volume 1

Edited by Robert J. Mendenhall

Case Gray copyright © 2014, 2020, and 2023 Robert J. Mendenhall

The Deep Six Affair copyright © 2023 by Bobby Nash

The Dragon of Atchafalaya copyright © 2023 by Teel James Glenn

The Survivors of Ghost Island copyright © 2023 by Charles F. Millhouse

The Menace of Rui Jingo Bang copyright © 2023 by Wayne Carey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Blue Planet Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information or permission, contact Blue Planet Press, LLC via email at [e-mail].

This is a work of fiction. The character of Colonel DeWitt Peck is a historical figure. The resemblance of any other character in this book to a real person is coincidental.

Code Name: Intrepid® is a trademark registered by Robert J. Mendenhall and Blue Planet Press, LLC

Covert Art by Plasmafire Graphics

ISBN-13 9781954678194

First Electronic Printing, September 2023

WAR DEPARTMENT

OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF WAR

WASHINGTON

OSW-91-8                              25 Jan 1932

MEMORANDUM TO: Frederick H. Payne.

Assistant Secretary of War

SUBJECT:       Special Actions Team

By presidential order, a special actions team is hereby formed, code name: INTREPID. This unit will consist of highly-trained individuals from the Army and Navy, as well as exceptional professionals from the civilian community.

INTREPID’s sole function will be to investigate incidents and situations which threaten the security of the United States that are outside the realm of normal occurrence.

Administrative and operational support for INTREPID will be provided by the War Department’s Office of Special Actions. Intelligence support will be provided by the Military Intelligence Division (G-2), Office of Naval Intelligence, and Bureau of Investigation.

Lieutenant Colonel Rick Justice, U.S. Army Air Corps, is assigned to serve as team leader. Since these incidents are of extraordinary or unnatural order, Justice and the INTREPID team will receive top priority. 

= ORIGINAL SIGNED =

PATRICK J. HURLEY

Secretary of War

Distribution:

Secretary of the Navy

Chief of Staff of the Army

Office of Special Actions

CASE GRAY

By Robert J. Mendenhall

This mission previously reported in

MEMBRANE, an anthology by Dreadful Café Press, January 2014, and

in PULP ADVENTURES #36, by Bold Venture Press, July 2020

Delaware Coast

17 March 1933

THE BODY LAY sprawled over the Delaware beach, its face distorted into a mask of fear and agony. Its arms and fingers stretched outward like claws locked in rigor and desperate to keep something terrible at bay. But it was the mottled flesh of the face and the rancid odor wafting from it that left the police detective white and shaky. Lieutenant Colonel Rick Justice, U.S. Army Air Corps, knelt in the sand and studied the corpse, unaffected.

I don’t know why they called in the Army, said the detective, standing a good ten feet away and upwind. My department can handle this. His words were hollow, meant to bolster his own stature and nothing more.

Justice stood and faced the policeman. I’m sure of it, Detective, Justice told him. His deep voice, smooth as syrup, coated the policeman with reassurance. Justice had that effect on people, the ability to bolster confidence with only his voice.

Justice removed his uniform cap to reveal a thick shock of hair the color of summer wheat, cut just to military regulation. At five inches over six feet, he stood a head taller than the detective. Eyes blue as a noon sky looked over firm cheekbones and a square jaw. His shoulders were broad, rounded, and solid, bulging beneath the khaki uniform shirt. His chest strained against the material, as did his substantial arms.

The police detective nodded, accepting the statement with relief.

When was the body discovered? Justice asked.

A little over an hour ago. Found by a young couple on a morning stroll along the shore.

And they flagged down a patrolman?

Yes, and he reported to headquarters on the call box. A runner was sent to my home, and I came directly here. You made it here rather quickly, Colonel. I’m surprised.

I was already in the area, Justice told him. He didn’t tell him he had been called out hours earlier by Assistant Secretary of War Harry Hines Woodring, when a body in this very condition had been found farther up the coast. That body had been the third in two days. This was the fourth.

Have you identified the victim? asked Justice.

Yes. Samuel P. Jenkins. He works for—

The War Department.

Yes. How did you know?

Justice did not reply. He didn’t tell the police detective the other three victims had also been civilian employees of the War Department.

Justice scanned the area. The sand was undisturbed around the body. No footprints up to or leading away from it. The tide was receding. The sun was well over the eastern horizon. The sky was clear in all directions, as was the Atlantic. In the distance, gray gulls glided randomly. A darker form flew straight and slow, close to the horizon.

I’ll need the body taken to the Norfolk Naval Hospital. Can you arrange that? Justice asked.

In Virginia? Sure, but that’s almost four hours away. Sacred Heart Memorial is closer.

One of my team is on staff at Norfolk, said Justice.

Your team?

Again, Justice didn’t reply. He focused on the dark shape, far out over the ocean.

Ah, sure, the detective said. I can arrange that for you.

See to it that no one else has contact with the body. It is imperative that only trained medical staff touches it. Especially the exposed skin—

The police detective jerked back, falling onto his backside. His pale face was now bleached white, his eyes round as nickels. His jaw lay open nearly to his heaving chest.

D-did you... did you s-see? the detective wheezed.

What did you see? Justice asked with deliberate calm.

The police detective pointed a trembling finger at the corpse. He... it moved.

Justice looked at the inanimate body, then back at the detective. He’s dead, Detective. He couldn’t have moved.

The police detective scampered backward like a crab, kicking up sand in his wake. T-then what do you call that?

Justice looked stone-faced at the corpse. He watched as its left arm twitched. Then its right. The dead man’s eyes popped open, their oily pupils clouded and blank. The dead man grunted a hungry snarl, like a wild animal circling its prey. It sat up in a jerky motion. It twisted its torso until it was erect. The odor that wafted from its gaping mouth was pungent as rotting fish.

Can you understand me? Justice asked the animated corpse.

It gave no indication that it understood Justice. It looked blankly past him, its putrid breath short and shallow.

Justice circled the dead man, observing every angle of its body, noting every blotch and each dry wound. If a dead man suddenly coming to life had startled or frightened Rick Justice, he gave no indication of it.

Do you know where you are? Justice asked as he angled back into the corpse’s line of sight. It continued to look blankly past him with eyes devoid of color.

The police detective was back on his shaky feet. What the hell is happening?

Justice continued to study the dead man as its breathing grew deeper, longer. With each exhale, a rancid stink puffed from its mouth.

Justice recognized the distinctive sound of metal on leather. He turned toward it as the police detective drew his service revolver from his hip holster and leveled the handgun at the dead man in a trembling, two-handed grip.

Don’t, Justice said, his voice now rigid steel.

The detective fired at the reanimated corpse. The bullet tore through the dead man’s left arm. Blood, grainy and the color of dirty rust, splattered the sand. The dead man snarled. It turned its head in a cockeyed roll. It thrashed upright, its arms swinging in a rage.

Stop, Justice commanded.

Neither the dead man nor the detective complied.

Four more shots tore into the chest of the corpse as it flailed toward the police detective.

Another shot and a click-click-click from the revolver.

A guttural wail from the corpse. A bellow of fear from the detective.

With scaly hands only inches from the police detective’s throat, another shot rang out, this one an explosion compared to the revolver. The .45-caliber bullet tore into the side of the dead man’s head, blasting an exit wound that ruptured much of its face and skull. The body sank to the sand like limp laundry.

Rick Justice holstered his pistol.

The police detective stared wide-eyed at the corpse. Is... is it dead?

Yes. It is still dead.

The detective looked at Justice as though he had made a bad joke. Justice knelt beside the dead body and methodically searched its pockets, impassive as if the incident that just occurred was simply commonplace. In the inside jacket pocket, Justice found something interesting.

A soldier waiting for Justice at the top of the bluff raced toward them sideways down the steep, sandy grade.

Sir, I heard shots, the soldier called out. Are you... At the sight of the bloody, nearly faceless body, the soldier stopped in his tracks.

We’re fine, Corporal. Justice stood and pocketed his discovery. The detective is going to arrange for an ambulance. I want you to take the car and follow the body to Norfolk Naval Hospital. Make sure nothing happens to it along the way. It’s to be turned over to Doctor Steven Lester and no one else.

Yes, sir, said the corporal. But what about you?

The sound of an engine, high-pitched and revving fast, resounded from the ocean. The detective looked out, expecting to see a speedboat heading toward shore. Instead, what he saw made his jaw dropped again. It was a boat, all right. A flying boat.

What in heaven’s name is... the detective said as he stared at the odd craft angling through the sky. It cut into the surface of the water, the sharply angled keel slicing through waves in a neat cleave. The gulls scattered, cawing in protest.

It looked like a boat. But it had a significant tailfin, and a long wing mounted laterally across the closed hull and attached to the boat’s sides by pylons. Small pontoons protruded from the wing at each end, skimming through the water. A pair of huge motors were mounted on the wing’s leading edge.

What is that? the detective asked.

"That is a Consolidated Aircraft PBY Catalina. A prototype flying boat the Navy is considering."

The Navy? Aren’t you Army? the detective asked. He looked back at the Catalina. What’s it doing here?

It’s here to pick me up, Justice replied. He walked past the detective and waded into the surf as the Catalina bobbed its way to shore. The gulls regrouped safely away from the strange flying machine. The faraway dark shape changed direction.

Pick you... The detective let the exclamation fade as he watched as the flying boat slowed and a side hatch opened. Just who the devil are you?

The twin engines whined to a low pitch but didn’t stop. A man’s head popped out of the open hatch.

It was an unusual head, large and square, with wiry hair the color of clean copper. The face below was equally unusual, eyes large and round with pupils nearly the same shade of metal as the hair. The nose was squat and pugged as if more than once it had been struck by a fist. Thin lips were wide in a grin, exposing teeth that were uneven and more ivory tan than white. His skin was coarse and pockmarked.

Need a lift, Colonel? the coarse man shouted over the roar of the twin engines. His voice was gravely and baritone, not at all incongruous with his rough appearance.

Justice removed his service cap, angled around the wing, and took the offered hand. Once inside, the coarse man secured the hatch. Justice slipped sideways past him and dropped into the right-hand copilot’s seat.

Secured, the coarse man called up to the pilot.

Strap in, Guns, the pilot answered.

The coarse man was Gunnery Sergeant Dexter Guns Preston, United States Marine Corps.

Airstrip, Colonel? the pilot asked, glancing at Justice. Lieutenant Commander Roger Sky Hawk Winchester, United States Navy, was a tall, lean-muscled man in his late thirties. His hair bordered between brown bark and rust red, depending on the light. He wore a Clark Gable mustache above a perpetual grin. His cheeks were prominent, his jaw round and cleft. His complexion, while not as abrasive as Preston’s, had the weathered texture of a man who spent a great deal of time in the wind. The eyes were his most noticeable feature. They were sparkling and bright emerald in color, not the dull hazel of most green-eyed men and women. When you looked at him, you looked right into those eyes. You couldn’t help it. Winchester often used that to his advantage.

Guns Preston and Sky Hawk Winchester were members of a special actions team, code named Intrepid. Each member of Intrepid was a highly trained expert in a variety of military and civilian professions. Administrative supervision of Intrepid was the responsibility of the War Department’s Office of Special Actions. Overall accountability was to the Assistant Secretary of War. Command and leadership of Intrepid rested solely with Rick Justice.

Not yet, Justice replied as he strapped himself into the copilot’s seat. He donned a heavy set of earphones. Follow the coast south a bit.

Winchester didn’t question the order. He deftly pivoted the Catalina through the water, primed the throttle, and goosed the engines. The flying boat gathered speed, bouncing, and skipping over waves. In a surprisingly short distance, the Catalina sprang into the air and thrust upward at a sixty-degree angle.

Guns, Justice said over the din of the engines. Fire up the fifty.

Preston unstrapped his belt and leaned between the pilots’ seats, grinning. Trouble, Colonel?

Bogey at our eight o’clock. I spotted him on the beach. He’s been keeping a distance, but not anymore. He’s heading right this way.

Hot damn, Guns shouted as he pushed off and sidestepped to the middle section of the Catalina.

Winchester craned over his left shoulder and spotted the approaching aircraft. Can’t make out what it is. Can you, Rick?

It’s a Fokker D VII.

Winchester shot a glance at Justice, half-expecting the Air Corps ace to be joking. But Justice rarely did. He was serious. How can you...

I caught a brief silhouette on the beach. It was enough to make out the staggered wing configuration, open cockpit, and one head.

Winchester looked back at the rapidly approaching airplane. I can barely recognize it from this distance. How can you... never mind. I forget about those telescopic of yours.

Preston opened an overhead hatch and cranked a telescoping mount through the opening. Atop the mount was a Browning, air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun. It was one of the many modifications Justice had made to the Catalina’s design. Preston dropped heavy-gauged goggles over his eyes and climbed through the opening. He fed the ammo strap through the weapon and pulled back on the charging handle.

Set, Preston shouted.

Let’s see who they are, Justice said. Come about, Hawk.

Aye, aye.

Winchester banked the aircraft up and over, setting a speeding course nearly dead-on to the approaching airplane. The engines roared. Winchester drove the Catalina faster and faster.

Preston thumbed the safety off.

Twin Spandau 7.92mm machine guns mounted to the Fokker’s fuselage and synchronized to the rotation of its propellers spat flaming bullets at the Catalina. The shots narrowly missed them, their trajectory restricted by the biplane’s flight path.

Holy smoke, Hawk! Watch your flyin’,Preston yelled.

This isn’t a fighter plane, Guns, Winchester called back as he banked away from the Fokker. It’s a bathtub with wings!

The Catalina’s swivel-mounted .50-caliber gun didn’t have the same straight line-of-flight restriction as the biplane. Preston swiveled the .50 and lined the forward sight well ahead of the biplane’s course. He depressed the trigger and the Browning belched.

The biplane flew into the stream of bullets. Its fabric and wood upper wing and fuselage shredded. Smoke spewed from the engine’s side vents. The airplane tilted right and careened toward the water. The Catalina banked up and away from the spiraling biplane, then angled around.

The biplane hit the water at a sharp angle, breaking up in a spray of ocean. The bulk of it, heavy with the plane’s engine and sheet metal cowling, sank quickly in a cauldron of foam and spilled fuel.

No chutes, Winchester said as he circled the remaining debris. And no body. Pilot went down with it.

The plane didn’t have any markings. Any idea who they were, Colonel? Preston asked as he lowered the Browning and secured the hatch.

The colonel’s jaw set.

Yes, I do, he said simply.

#

Thirty minutes later, using its retractable landing wheels, the Catalina touched down on the sole runway of Ingold Airstrip. Ingold was a decommissioned airship base originally built to provide homeland defense after the Great War. The strip was now the base of operations for Intrepid.

A doorless utility vehicle, its windshield folded forward on its hood and its bulky tires spraying dirt and gravel, sped toward the Catalina. Behind the wheel of the utility vehicle sat a short, barrel-chested man, bald, with a flowing handlebar mustache, waxed to a licorice gloss and clearly not regulation. The shirtsleeves of his sweat-stained khaki uniform were rolled up his beefy forearms.Fingers, each thick like rolls of quarters, gripped the steering wheel.

Master Sergeant Michael ‘Hammer’ Downe, United States Army, was Intrepid’s resident mechanic. There was no engine in a land, sea, or air vehicle he could not fix.

The utility vehicle fishtailed to a dusty stop mere feet from the Catalina, as the three