CNI Classified: Volume Two: Code Name: Intrepid

CNI CLASSIFIED

Volume 2

Edited by Robert J. Mendenhall

Blue Planet Press, LLC

Contents

Title Page

CODE NAME: INTREPID

COPYRIGHT

MISSION REPORTS

CODE NAME: IMPALER

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THE EXTRASENSORY CONNECTION

THE MENACE OF THE TWIN MEN

THE HATCHET JOB

TRACKS OF THE BEAST

CAGING THE LION

HISTORICAL NOTE

THREAT OF THE GHOST WARRIORS

ABOUT THE REPORTING OFFICERS

Robert J. Mendenhall

Nancy Hansen

John C. Bruening

George Tackes

Michael A. Black

Jonathan W. Sweet

Ray Lovato

MORE CODE NAME: INTREPID

CODE NAME: INTREPID

CNI CLASSIFIED

Volume 2

Edited by

Robert J. Mendenhall

Blue Planet Press, LLC

Coloma, Michigan

COPYRIGHT

Code Name: Impaler copyright © 2024 by Robert J. Mendenhall

The Extrasensory Connection copyright © 2024 by Nancy Hansen

The Menace of the Twin Men copyright © 2024 by John C. Bruening

Hatchet Job copyright © 2024 by George Tackes

Tracks of the Beast copyright © 2024 by Michael A. Black

Caging the Lion copyright © 2024 by Jonathan W. Sweet

Threat of the Ghost Warrior copyright © 2024 by Ray Lovato

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 admin@blueplanetpress.net.

This is a work of fiction. The characters of Helen Wheatley, Angel Giacomo, and Blu Dog are based on real people with their permission. 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.

Covert Art by Plasmafire Graphics

ISBN-13 9781954678286

First Electronic Printing, February 2024

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

MISSION REPORTS

Code Name: Impaler

Reporting Officer: Robert J. Mendenhall

Mission Date: 5 November 1936

The Extrasensory Connection

Reporting Officer: Nancy Hansen

Mission Date: 15 April 1937

The Menace of the Twin Men

Reporting Officer: John C. Bruening

Mission Date: 12 October 1937

Hatchet Job

Reporting Officer: George Tackes

Mission Date: 6 February 1938

Tracks of the Beast

Reporting Officer: Michael A. Black

Mission Date: 15 October 1938

Caging the Lion

Reporting Officer: Jonathan W. Sweet

Mission Date: 10 August 1940

Threat of the Ghost Warrior

Reporting Officer: Ray Lovato

Mission Date: 17 May 1941

CODE NAME: IMPALER

by

Robert J. Mendenhall

The Netherlands

North of the city of Groningen

1635 hours, 5 November 1936

SQUADRON LEADER CECIL Wildcat Beckham, R.A.F., had seen his share of mutilated bodies in the Great War, but none as oddly disfigured as the one he was currently looking at. It was the way the throat had been opened. Not slashed as if by a knife. Not mauled as if by a wild beast, but... punctured. And delicately chewed.

The wind whipped his scarf like an angry pennant. He tucked it into his flying jacket and buttoned up. The sun was still well above the snowy, northern Netherlands horizon, but the sky was dim and shrouded with overcast. His breath condensed into fog in front of his face.

He knelt by the corpse—a young, nearly naked woman—and examined the wound. Two deep perforations low on the neck over the carotid artery and a semicircle of lesser depressions beneath them. The flesh surrounding the marks was discolored and, in an odd association, reminded him of a romantic love bite, or a hickey as the Yanks liked to call it. But the two perforations drew his focus. Dried blood caked the openings and Beckham saw that the edges were swollen. More blood, dry and brittle in the cold air, lay in broken rivulets down her neck and over her shoulder. And he noticed two more things.

She was as pale as the new fallen snow she had laid in and there were no footprints leading up to her.

What the bloody hell, he whispered. He looked back, saw his own tracks coming from his bi-wing reconnaissance plane, but none surrounding the woman’s body. It hadn’t snowed in days, so unless she had fallen from the sky, she should have left some sign of where she came from.

He looked up. Fallen from the sky. From a plane? Balloon?

Beckham stood. He couldn’t leave her there, dead or not. He lifted her body gently and carried it to his plane, surprised at how light she was. A few moments later, she was strapped into the forward seat of the open cockpit biplane. He pulled his leather flight cap over his head and ears, and adjusted goggles over his eyes.

Once airborne, Beckham set course for the British Isles and it was then the horror of what he had seen hit him. He didn’t know the woman, but what the bloody hell happened to her? What could have done that to her throat?

As an operative for R.A.F. Intelligence, he was used to ferreting information, but he now had more questions than answers. If what he suspected was true, this was big—too big for him to handle alone. He was going to need specialized help from across the pond.

And his superiors were not going to like it.

Classified Location

Somewhere near Norwich, England

1947 hours, 8 November 1936

LIEUTENANT COLONEL RICK Justice, U.S. Army Air Corps, returned Wildcat Beckham’s palm out salute with a crisp, bladed gesture of his own, then extended his hand to the Brit.

Welcome to England, Colonel, Beckham said.

Justice smiled. Good to see you again, Cat.

The differences in their stature were striking. Beckham was a fit man with an average build and thinning hair, but next to Justice’s substantial frame, he seemed almost slight. At 6’5" the American was amply muscled and walked with an easy grace that suggested confidence and control. His hair was the color of Kansas wheat. Sky blue eyes rested in a square and chiseled face. He wore the class ring of the United States Military Academy at West Point on his right hand.

And you, Colonel. Beckham turned and grinned at the third man in the group. Sky Hawk Winchester.

Wildcat Beckham, the third man said, mimicking the Brit. The two men shook hands and slapped each other’s shoulders. The R.A.F. still lets you fly? His voice held the touch of a southern drawl and, with his easy smile and pencil mustache, gave the illusion he was the popular film star Clark Gable. But he wasn’t Gable. Rather, he was Lieutenant Commander Roger Sky Hawk Winchester, United States Navy.

Beckham chuckled. Sod off, you bugger. I can fly rings around you on a foggy London morning.

The three men walked side by side down a corridor dimly lit and smelling of mildew.

I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow, Beckham said as they turned a corner and marched down another dark passageway.

Justice said, "Hammer recently installed two auxiliary motors onto the Liberty giving us an additional twenty-five miles an hour cruising speed. Cut half a day off the trip."

Bloody fast for an airship.

Hammer’s a master mechanical engineer, Justice said.

They stopped outside a metal door. Beckham rapped sharply, the clangs echoing down the empty corridor. A slot at eye level slid open, then shut with a click. Gears ratcheted within the door, and it swung inward. Beckham angled in. Justice and Winchester followed.

The small room behind the door was cloudy with bitter cigarette smoke that hugged the ceiling and swirled in the slow rotation of the overhead fan. Maps covered all four walls, depicting every compass point surrounding Great Britain. Notes were pinned at various locations on the maps, more at some points than others. A bank of desks crowded the middle of the room, each one laden with report folders and stacks of paper. The overall feel of the room was claustrophobic.

Colonel Justice, Beckham said, may I introduce you to Duncan Price of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.

The two men shook hands. A pleasure, Justice said.

The pleasure is all mine, Colonel, Price said. Cecil has told me about your team.

Oh? Justice shot a look at Beckham.

Price said, Nothing classified, Colonel. Rest assured. Only that Intrepid handles those cases that are extraordinary. Or unnatural.

Beckham nodded. We have something here that requires your special expertise, sir.

All right, Cat. What are we into?

Beckham motioned to one of the maps. I’ve been monitoring some suspicious activity in the Netherlands recently. He pointed to a spot on the map north of the city of Groningen.

That’s awfully close to the German border, Justice noted.

Which is why we’re concerned, Price said.

What kind of activity?

Beckham and Price exchanged glances. Beckham cleared his throat and said, Vampire activity.

Winchester’s jaw dropped. Vampire?

Justice remained stoic, betraying neither surprise nor shock. Tell me.

I have an asset providing me information on German movement near the border, especially with the Sonderstaffel headquarters being so close.

Sonderstaffel? Price asked.

Justice nodded. Secret Squadron. It’s a shadow organization tasked by Adolf Hitler with exploiting the supernatural, occult, and border science to create super weapons and super soldiers. Their base of operations is Bremerhaven, Germany, but they have cells all over the world.

You’ve gone up against these blokes before, then, Price said.

Many times. If Mr. Beckham believes this is related to vampire legends, I’m inclined to accept that.

I have to admit, said Price, I don’t buy into this rubbish. Vampires are myths. Horror stories dreamed up by the likes of Bram Stoker and promulgated by the moving pictures.

Mythology, Mr. Price, often has a factual basis.

Quite right, Colonel, Beckham said. But I’m not talking about stories or rumors, though there have been more than a few of those. The woman I found was killed by one. At least I think so.

What do you mean? Justice asked.

Let me show you. Beckham led them to one of the desks and pulled a cardboard folder from the top of a stack. He removed a photograph from the folder and handed it to Justice.

The woman lay on a hospital gurney, her face turned away from the camera so her throat and neck were exposed. Justice studied the wound carefully, then handed the photo back to Beckham.

What about your asset? Justice asked.

Beckham frowned. Her name is Helen Wheatley. I meet with her about once a month. Most times she has nothing for me.

But that changed?

Yes. We have a process in the event she had information that needed my immediate attention. Helen would call one of our dummy phone numbers and leave a specific message. Last week she did that. We met at our usual rendezvous point and she was scared out of her wits. She told me the Jerries were doing something bloody horrible to the edelhert—the red deer. She said deer carcasses were turning up, well away from the herds. Their throats had been mutilated, cut open in peculiar ways, and the blood drained. Almost as if the blood was sucked out of their bodies through the throat.

And the wounds were similar to this woman’s?

I don’t know, Colonel. Helen didn’t have any photographs, and what she described didn’t quite match what happened to the woman.

But you suspect she was bitten by a vampire, Justice said.

Bloody hell, Price muttered. You sound as if you actually believe that.

Justice said, I’ve seen many strange things, Mr. Price. I’m open to all possibilities.

You Yanks are a gullible lot, Colonel.

Justice smiled at Price. Perhaps. Has the woman’s body been examined by a doctor?

Yes, Beckham said. It was confirmed that her blood was suctioned out through the punctures in her left carotid artery.

Justice paced. Could that have been accomplished through artificial means?

Beckham considered that. Well, the wound looks like it was made by a bite. Two puncture wounds by a pair of long fangs plus counter pressure from normal lower teeth, and then the ruptured capillaries that looked like suck marks. And you see here, Beckham indicated a point on Anna’s neck. The wound is directly below the spot where the artery splits into two.

Justice frowned. Just the spot where the most blood would be flowing to the brain.

Bollocks, Cecil, Price said, shaking his head. You’re saying bloody Dracula took a bite of this woman? Have you gone mad?

That’s not what I’m saying at all, Duncan. I’m just telling you what I saw.

Gentlemen, Justice interjected softly, whatever the cause of her death, infighting will not solve her murder.

Sorry, sir, Beckham said.

We need to see these deer. Will we have any problem with airspace?

I can arrange that, Colonel, Price said. We have a working relationship with the Dutch for non-aggressive use of their sky. We just need to give them notice and you will need to validate your passports with Dutch customs.

One more thing, Colonel, Beckham said.

Yes?

My asset... Helen Wheatley... she’s missing.

*

The next morning, a thick fog rolled over the eastern British coast, blanketing the countryside as far inland as Norwich. By the time the sun had risen, most of it had burned off, but enough remained to provide concealment from the air for Intrepid’s airship, the Liberty.

Liberty was the last remaining airship operating in the American military. The crash of the U.S.S. Macon the previous year had doomed the costly lighter-than-air program, but due to the nature of its mission, Intrepid managed to keep its airship in service and well-maintained with the abundance of spare parts available since the program shut down.

Rick Justice, Sky Hawk Winchester, and Wildcat Beckham rode in a doorless utility vehicle over a dirt road that led to the small airfield overlooking the North Sea. A dirt runway stretched for several hundred feet near the edge of the cliff and a number of small buildings were scattered on both sides of it. The Liberty was moored to the ground near the runway, a ramp extending from the rear of the long passenger gondola to the ground. Beckham stopped the vehicle near one of the shacks, popped the clutch, and pulled the hand brake. Justice and Winchester hopped out and strode for the airship.

A portly man in an American khaki uniform thundered down the ramp. He was short by military standards, having barely passed the minimum height requirements for enlistment decades earlier. A sizable belly, made that way by copious amounts of food and beer, strained the buttons of his uniform shirt. His arms were beefy and his fingers thick. But it was his head and face that drew one’s attention. Bald and gleaming, and a face with puffy cheeks and a handlebar mustache that, somehow, just met military regulations. This was Master Sergeant Michael Hammer Downe, United States Army.

Downe called over his shoulder into the gondola. Look alive, Guns. The colonel’s back and he’s got company.

A second man trotted down the ramp, stocky and solid, with short, wiry hair the color of clean copper and eyes nearly the same shade. His face was pockmarked and held thin scars from injuries sustained in the Great War. He smiled, revealing unevenly spaced teeth and when he spoke, his voice was scratchy. This was Gunnery Sergeant Dexter Guns Preston, Unites States Marine Corps.

Hey, Wildcat! Preston called out.

Beckham smiled and waved back.

Where are the others? Justice asked.

Chow hall, Downe said, jabbing his thumb toward a long, flat building.

Let’s join them.

Great. Preston said. I’m starvin’.

You just ate, Downe said. Where the hell do you put it?

Winchester chuckled. That brain of his burns a lot of calories trying to figure out how to move his arms and legs.

Downe guffawed.

Hey! Preston complained.

Beckham smiled. I see nothing has changed with you Yanks.

Not really, Justice admitted.

There was little activity in the chow hall. Most of the few R.A.F. airmen assigned to the airfield had eaten and were on duty, leaving only the mess staff and a few stragglers still at their tables. And the two remaining members of the deployed Intrepid team.

Rita Marshall spotted Justice and the others as they came in. She wiped a cloth napkin over her mouth, eyeing Justice as if he had been away for weeks rather than hours. She smiled and rose, and her movement drew the attention of the diners, who openly appreciated her appearance. She wore a tight-fitting khaki uniform shirt with a bark-brown colored tie knotted just below the shirt’s open collar. Her shirt sleeves were rolled midway up her forearms. Tan riding breeches flared at her thighs, then tapered down each trim leg into leather boots. Her dark auburn hair, currently styled after the American film star Katherine Hepburn, tumbled to her shoulders. Her facial features were soft and rounded and the ogling airmen had no way to know those qualities were in opposition to her fiery personality.

Rick, she sang at his approach.

Good morning, Rita, Justice said in a neutral tone.

Her smile hardened at his casual demeanor, then brightened when Wildcat Beckham came into view.

Cecil! She came around the table and embraced the Brit.

Hello, luv, Beckham said.

Preston held out his arms. Hi, Rita!

I just saw you, you moron, she shot back.

At the table, the last member of the team stood up and trod to the group. He was tall with the look of rugged resilience of one who spent a great deal of time outdoors in harsh climates. His hair was the color of burlap, with streaks of gray at the temples that drifted down into a close-cropped beard. When he spoke, his voice carried an odd intonation, an amalgam of accents that suggested he had lived in a variety of places across the globe. This was Professor Reginald Digs Jasper, Director of Archeology at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, and consultant to Intrepid.

Hello there, flyboy, Jasper said, holding out his hand.

Blimey, it’s the grave robber himself. Beckham said and grasped Jasper’s hand. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.

Rick thought this would be a good chance for me to visit the U.K. and invited me along. It’s good to see you, Cat.

And you, Digs, Beckham said. I dare say, this is quite the fortunate happenstance. We could use your expertise as a mythologist on this one.

Really? Jasper cast a curious glance at Justice. Did you know about this?

Justice pulled a chair from the table and sat. The only thing I knew about this case was that Intrepid was requested by someone high-up in the British military. But I thought since you’re originally from Wales, you might enjoy a little paid vacation. And, anyway, how many of our past missions have involved the supernatural or mythological? It’s what we do.

Preston paused at the table of R.A.F. stragglers gaping at Rita and leaned in. You limeys see sumthin’ ya like?

Without a word, their chairs scratched back and the airmen hustled out of the chow hall.

Preston pulled one of the chairs over and squeezed in between Downe and Beckham. Rita scowled at the Marine. Winchester smiled and winked.

With the dining area to themselves, Justice filled the team in on what they knew.

So, what’s our play, Rick? Winchester asked.

"We take the Liberty across the North Sea to the Netherlands and search for Miss Wheatley. We’ll start in the area where the edelhert were being mutilated."

But first... Preston said.

Justice smiled and shook his head. But first we eat.

*

The Liberty cleared its moorings after breakfast. The fog had burned off and the sky over the North Sea was crisp and clear. They crossed the west coast of the Netherlands a short time later, concealed by a fog of their own making.

Cloud Shroud at 90 percent, Colonel, Downe said from a tall apparatus at the back of the passenger gondola. He adjusted a dial and rheostat on the control panel, which sent an electrical charge humming through the special fabric of the Liberty’s skin. Water vapor vented from an onboard water tank that clung to the skin and interacted with the charge, forming a cloud around the airship. It proved to be an effective aerial camouflage.

Thank you, Justice said. He sat at the head of a long conference table, a map of the Netherlands laid out before him. Winchester sat in the pilot compartment, separated from the passenger area by a curtain. The others sat around the table.

Beckham pointed to a spot on the map. This is where I found the woman. And this... he indicated a point near the shore, is where Helen said the edelhert were being mutilated.

And you say there were no tracks leading to her body? Rita asked.

Beckham shook his head and frowned. None. It was almost as if she was dropped from the sky.

Maybe, Preston offered, she turned into one a’ them vampires. You know, like in the movin’ pictures when people get bit and they turn into vampires themselves and change into bats. So, maybe she just flew there herself.

Except, this is real life, Guns, Justice said. Not a film.

Rita blew out a breath of disgust. And if we follow your illogical theory, she would have had to have been bitten three days before that and came back to life as a vampire. She sure didn’t look like she had risen as a vampire. She just looked... dead.

Jasper shook his head. That whole three-days thing is a myth.

And she never woke up as a vampire in the mortuary, Beckham said.

All right, Justice said. Let’s separate fact from fiction. Digs, what can you tell us about vampires.

Jasper leaned back in his seat. This is a fascinating topic and I could lecture on this for hours.

Downe came around and took a seat at the table. Hours?

Short version, please, Justice said.

Jasper looked disappointed. "Short version. Okay. The movies do nothing but romanticize the vampire lore. The Universal Pictures film Dracula from ‘31 is only loosely based on the Bram Stoker book written in 1897. Another film based on Dracula is Nosferatu, from the early 20s produced by the German filmmaker Friedrich Murnau, which went to great lengths to distance itself from Stoker’s work by renaming all the characters while keeping the core elements intact. But Stoker’s own book was inspired by an earlier short story entitled Carmilla, which was published twenty-five years before Dracula by an Irish author."

Blimy, Beckham said. I remember reading that story as a young bloke. Scared the bejesus out of me.

I thought it was amusing, Jasper said. But then, I read those types of tales from an academic point of view. At any rate, the first mentions of vampirism in historical settings can be traced as far back as eleventh century Russia and twelfth century England. But it wasn’t until the fifteenth century, that the vampire myth began to flourish.

With Vlad Dracul, Justice said.

Jasper’s face lit up. Yes! I’m impressed you remember.

Justice shrugged it off and Beckham look confused.

They go way back, Rita whispered to Beckham. Digs used to teach high school history and you’ll never guess who his star pupil was.

Beckham raised his eyebrows and cocked his head toward Justice. Rita nodded.

Wait, Downe said. So, this Vlad Dracul guy is the real Dracula?

Jasper said, "Well, that’s where the lines between fact and fiction begin to get fuzzy. The real idea for Dracula as a vampire stemmed from one of his sons. Not Vlad Dracul at all. It was Vlad Tepes. Better known as..." he leaned toward Justice with a prompting look.

Vlad the Impaler, Justice finished the sentence.

"Correct. Gold Star for Mr. Justice, Jasper said. In fact, the name Dracula translates to ‘Son of Dracul.’ Still, there is no historical evidence that Vlad the Impaler, or Dracula, was a vampire. Just a cruel dictator who used to torture his enemies by...

Preston’s hand darted in the air. Oooh, I got this. He impalered ‘em!

Correct in substance, Jasper said, if not in syntax.

Preston leaned close to Downe. "What’s impalered?

Impaled, Rita corrected.

It means he skewered people on sharp poles, Downe said. ‘Sometimes right up their—"

Rita put her palm out. Stop!

Holy smoke, Preston said and twitched.

Jasper went on. "There is evidence that Dracula, the historical Dracula that is, traveled to Transylvania and even had a castle near the Carpathian Mountains. But the era and region were rife with drama between the Turks, Serbians, Romanians, and Hungarians. It was constant fighting and betrayals. Dracula obtained the throne of Wallachia. Lost it. Obtained it again. Lost it again. And so on. It was during these periods he earned his reputation as the Impaler. Some estimates indicate the number of his victims at over 40,000."

Bloody hell, Beckham said.

Bloody hell on earth, you mean, Rita added.

Jasper said, Dracula was assassinated around 1476 or ‘77. His burial site has never been found.

Wait, Digs, Justice said, "didn’t I read somewhere that his tomb had been found? In a Romanian monastery?"

"That you read it is true, Jasper said. The Snagov Monastery to be exact. I would have loved to have been part of that excavation, but a colleague of mine, Dr. Dinu Rosetti, was. He opened the alleged tomb in 1933, but the bones found inside belonged to a horse."

So, not a man, Rita said.

Or a monster, Beckham added.

Jasper shrugged. No on both counts.

We’re here, Winchester called from the pilot compartment.

Justice stood. "All right, let’s not draw attention to ourselves. Hammer, take over for Hawk and bring the Liberty down to the ground."

Wilco, Downe said and pushed off toward the pilot compartment.

Justice turned to Preston. Guns, you’ll operate the stern ramp.

Roger, Colonel, Preston said and made for the spiral staircase that led to the airship’s interior.

Sorry, Digs, Justice said, But this trip you stay on board.

But this is an opportunity of a—

No buts. You’re a civilian and the Netherlands government hasn’t cleared you for entry.

Damn.

Winchester stepped past the curtain and into the passenger compartment.

Hawk, Cat, Justice said. I don’t want our uniforms on display, so grab some civilian jackets and cover up.

Sure thing, Rick, Winchester. Weapons?

Side arms only.

Too bad, Beckham said. I was hoping to sling one of your tommy guns.

You may get your chance, Justice told him. I’ll meet you in the hangar.

Rick, Winchester said, can we get this limey a real gun? He still carries a revolver.

"I’ll have you know, old boy, that the Enfield Mark I is a fine