in operational command of this mission,” he startedand then smiled. “Hell, son, I would have refused that order myself.”
“Yes, sir,” McAfee said looking from Thomas and back at Patton, not understanding the back and forth between the two officers.
“Colonel Thomas, just who in the hell are you, really?” Patton asked, knowing this man wasn’t just an ordinary U.S. Army officer.
“Just a soldier on detached duty to the National Archives, young lieutenant,that’s all. I’m no one really.”
With a dubious look at the now smiling Thomas, Patton spurred his mount forward and joined the long line of cavalry with Thomas turning toward the rear of the mounted line. Patton rode to the front of the skirmish line and absentmindedly reached for his saber, actually forgetting he had ordered the useless weapons to be left behind for noise reasons. Instead heraised his gauntleted right hand and waved the line forward just as the last of the fog lifted and the first rays of sunshine eased over the rise to the east.
“Company, forward at the cantor,” he ordered in a not-too-loud voice.
The 8th United States Cavalry started forward at the trot. Ninety-eight men pulled their British-made Lee-Enfield rifles from their scabbards and Patton withdrew anold Colt .45 Peacemaker from its holster. He then thought better of it and replaced the old six-shooter with a model 1900 Colt .45 automatic. The line moved steadily forward, and the hacienda was now seen in all its large glory. The men now knew the task at hand was a large one.
“Bugler, sound the charge!”
The early morning bugle call was heard throughout the small valley south of the Rio Grandeas men of the 8th charged the ten-acre hacienda known as Perdition’s Gate.
* * *
Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose stood in front of one of the subject cells buried far beneath the hacienda and watched test subject 197 as he squatted in the darkened corner of his cell. The young man was one of a slew of dregs from the barroom alleys of Laredo, just across the Rio Grande, as were anotherfour of the ten subjects he had under medical observation. The professor had not moved since administering the final dose in the series of injections that would complete the full script of medicinal delivery.
Ambrose was dressed in a filthy white lab coat and the tie he wore underneath was askew. His gray hair was tumbled and his beard still held food from the day’s evening meal. The deep scarsfrom that long-ago night on London’s East End held firmly to the left side of his face, creating a permanent scowl. His clothing covered the rest of the burns he had received, several of which still broke open and bled on occasion. Ambrose hardly noticed when he heard the footsteps descending the stairwell from the hacienda two floors above. The door opened and the professor spared a glance atthe object of the interruption.
His East Indian servant, RaJan Singh, a Sikh that stood six feet six inches in height and was well over three hundred pounds, was his ever resplendent self. His blue turban was covering hair that when loose would travel downward to his hips. His black beard had two luminescent streaks of white coursing down either side of his whiskers. His long white jacket coveredbright-blue pants that made the Sikh the complete opposite of Ambrose in size, demeanor, cleanliness, and dress.
“I gave orders not to be disturbed until the final doses of the drug had been administered. I have nine more injections to give to complete the series on these subjects.”
“Excuse me, Sahib. I have held my tongue for far too long. You need rest. You are not seeing things as you oncedid. While at one time your direction was merely reckless, it has now turned onto a road which will not only be your destruction, but many others on this plantation as well.”
Ambrose smiled and turned with a fresh syringe in his thick fingers. “Do I include you as one of those others, old friend?”
“My
“Yes, sir,” McAfee said looking from Thomas and back at Patton, not understanding the back and forth between the two officers.
“Colonel Thomas, just who in the hell are you, really?” Patton asked, knowing this man wasn’t just an ordinary U.S. Army officer.
“Just a soldier on detached duty to the National Archives, young lieutenant,that’s all. I’m no one really.”
With a dubious look at the now smiling Thomas, Patton spurred his mount forward and joined the long line of cavalry with Thomas turning toward the rear of the mounted line. Patton rode to the front of the skirmish line and absentmindedly reached for his saber, actually forgetting he had ordered the useless weapons to be left behind for noise reasons. Instead heraised his gauntleted right hand and waved the line forward just as the last of the fog lifted and the first rays of sunshine eased over the rise to the east.
“Company, forward at the cantor,” he ordered in a not-too-loud voice.
The 8th United States Cavalry started forward at the trot. Ninety-eight men pulled their British-made Lee-Enfield rifles from their scabbards and Patton withdrew anold Colt .45 Peacemaker from its holster. He then thought better of it and replaced the old six-shooter with a model 1900 Colt .45 automatic. The line moved steadily forward, and the hacienda was now seen in all its large glory. The men now knew the task at hand was a large one.
“Bugler, sound the charge!”
The early morning bugle call was heard throughout the small valley south of the Rio Grandeas men of the 8th charged the ten-acre hacienda known as Perdition’s Gate.
* * *
Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose stood in front of one of the subject cells buried far beneath the hacienda and watched test subject 197 as he squatted in the darkened corner of his cell. The young man was one of a slew of dregs from the barroom alleys of Laredo, just across the Rio Grande, as were anotherfour of the ten subjects he had under medical observation. The professor had not moved since administering the final dose in the series of injections that would complete the full script of medicinal delivery.
Ambrose was dressed in a filthy white lab coat and the tie he wore underneath was askew. His gray hair was tumbled and his beard still held food from the day’s evening meal. The deep scarsfrom that long-ago night on London’s East End held firmly to the left side of his face, creating a permanent scowl. His clothing covered the rest of the burns he had received, several of which still broke open and bled on occasion. Ambrose hardly noticed when he heard the footsteps descending the stairwell from the hacienda two floors above. The door opened and the professor spared a glance atthe object of the interruption.
His East Indian servant, RaJan Singh, a Sikh that stood six feet six inches in height and was well over three hundred pounds, was his ever resplendent self. His blue turban was covering hair that when loose would travel downward to his hips. His black beard had two luminescent streaks of white coursing down either side of his whiskers. His long white jacket coveredbright-blue pants that made the Sikh the complete opposite of Ambrose in size, demeanor, cleanliness, and dress.
“I gave orders not to be disturbed until the final doses of the drug had been administered. I have nine more injections to give to complete the series on these subjects.”
“Excuse me, Sahib. I have held my tongue for far too long. You need rest. You are not seeing things as you oncedid. While at one time your direction was merely reckless, it has now turned onto a road which will not only be your destruction, but many others on this plantation as well.”
Ambrose smiled and turned with a fresh syringe in his thick fingers. “Do I include you as one of those others, old friend?”
“My
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