Project Erlosung I

A new serialization begins.

"Nowlan, says the Major in my dream. I try to ignore his pig face. "Nowlan," he says again. "Captain Nowlan!"

Wake me up. Please wake me up. I don't want to see this again. The bloody major pig grows larger. He looms. He insists.

"Captain Philip Francis Nowlan!" He uses my full name like it's a cruel talisman to compel compliance. Digging in the spurs.

"Yes Major," I say in defeat. There's no beating the dream. Believe me, I've tried. Somewhere else, I squirm in my hospice bed. Like a worm on a hotplate.

"Embassy in Tehran reports hot contact," says the pig. Bloody streams trickle down his snout. Ivory tusks gleam. "Your company is QRF. Mount up and go rescue the jarheads."

I try to resist. I try to say no. Then I try to say nothing. The pig rants at me. Frothy blood splatters my face. The pressure mounts.

"Yes Sir," I finally say. And I'm there. Screaming. Explosions booming. Rifles rattling. Machineguns barking. Drones droning. My boys spread out. Hit dirt. Shoot. Move. Communicate. Die. A proper soup sandwich.

They say an officer has to love his unit. And be willing to kill that which he loves. In the dream, my boys are all Old Yeller. I pull my trigger. "Move out and draw fire," I yell. "Secure my LZ!" I squeal like a pig.

I move to the sound of the guns. Embassy guards at the gate are under heavy fire. A man tries to bound back to my line. Gets hit. Falls. His buddy tries to reach him and goes down himself. I'm carrying buddy on my back but the FPV drones keep chasing us. The buzzing. The buzzing. Arabs call it Al Azif. Demonic buzzing. All around me, my company dies.

I wake up with a strangled scream in a hospice bed. My fellow inmates on the floor curse me. They are tired of me. And my dreams. I yet live. There is no justice.

Unhappily awake, I stare at the slowly turning ceiling fan. I let it recall the spinning blades of the tilt-rotor gunships we rode. Part of me yearns to ride again. To be young and invincible again. Another part of me wants nothing else but to forget. To sleep forever.

Orderlies arrive and help me wipe down and change into fresh paper pajamas. They don't sucker punch me any. If only because I can hit back. Then they're pushing my wheelchair to group. My nightmare continues.

Group is in the hall. There's a ring of metal folding chairs. The ring is decorated with the occasional man on wheels. Like myself. Lost boys shuffle in. The broken and soul-sick and the wisely weary. A thousand yards of seen too much.

The ringleader of our little circus waddles in. Her wrinkled and shabby lab coat follows behind. She claps her hands. Her wrists jiggle. We begin. I make myself small and hope to avoid notice. Just let the voices wash over me.

"Phillip," says the fat chick in the lab coat. "Phillip!" Her name tag reads as Doctor Miranda. We know her as She Who Must Be Obeyed. "You know the rules. Everyone has to participate in group."

"I've told you doc," I say. "Call me Nowlan. And this is a waste of time."

"Philip," she says. "Please introduce yourself to the group."

"It's the rules," we chorus before she can. She smiles thinly. Annoyed at our insubordination.

"I'm Philip Nowlan and I lost my legs in Iran," I say, trying and failing to stop my eyes from rolling. The rote opening statement is made ridiculous by my limp legs in the chair.

"Hi Phillip," choruses the group. Playing along for lack of other entertainment.

"Army grew me new ones," I amend. "But they ain't never worked right."

"I'm curious, Phillip," says Doctor Miranda. "Your medical records show there's nothing medically wrong with your cloned leg transplants." She actually has files open. They might even be mine. "Why do you think that is?" I shrug at her.

"Somethings just don't work," I say. "Like VA medicine." The group laughs.

"Have you considered the possibility that your condition is psycho-somatic?"

"I might be psycho," I say. "But I don't see what that has to do with it."

"Phillip," she says. "I would appreciate it if you would take this seriously."

"Look Doc," I reply. "I've had all the tests. I've had the genetherapy, the chemotherapy, the drugs, even the fucking pins and needles. I've done the sweat lodges and the meditation and even smoked government dope and gazed into government crystals. I've had three different head shrinkers rooting around in my noggin. Ain't one of 'em worked."

"Well, then," she says primly. She looks at me. Like I'm a lab rat. "How about we try something new?"

"Like what?" I ask. "Cut 'em off and clone new ones?"

"That is an option," she says. "But I was thinking of enrolling you in my Induced Neuroplasticity study."

"Induced?" I tilt my head. "Induced how?"

"We're investigating the therapeutic potential of direct neural stimulation by emission of radiation," she says.

"Can I have that in dumb army grunt?" I ask.

"I want you to play a Neuralgear game," she says.

"What?" My head tilts harder.

"I understand your skepticism, Philip," she says. "But we have had promising results already with other neural cases, and Musksoft-Blizzard is offering substantial social credit for study participants."

"Money for nothin'" I mutter. "And chicks for free." Doctor Miranda pretends she doesn't hear me. But her bushy eyebrows furrow.

"Shall I take that as a yes?" I open my mouth to smart off but she continues. "Need I remind you that grant approvals are coming up? Should we begin letters to your family asking for support?"

This bitch hits below the belt. Cindy left me before I was even medically discharged. She sure as shit doesn't like me calling. Begging for letters to the committee to fund my upkeep. Please ma'am, may I have some more?

"Sure," someone says. "I'll play your game." It's me. I say it.

This is Part I.

Go to Part II here.