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The Youngblood Project

by Bruce Kost

268 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0024; ISBN 1-55369-211-X; US$19.59, C$22.53, EUR15.27, £10.13

In this eerie thriller an insane old ex-Nazi doctor develops a serum for the CIA which alters the gender of a male to a female. Attempting to perfect the serum on the latest victim, the experiment turns terribly wrong.

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About the book      About the author      Sample excerpts      Catalogue info

About the Book Cleverly kidnapped by the CIA to be the latest victum for an insane experiment, Russel Travers is forced, at gunpoint, to drink a secret serum. The serum alters his gender and he becomes Lisa Youngblood. Escaping and on the run, Lisa breaks into an armory to arm herself against the relentless CIA. Desperate to capture Lisa to secure the serum from public view, the CIA Director focusses the agencies' resources on her. Unintentionally meeting Lisa, Green Beret Squad Leader Mike Tanner must choose to side with her to save his own life. Lisa struggles to establish the line between what is inherently male and what is female while fighting the CIA and trying to keep her secret from her new partner. Hiding in Mike's former stomping grounds, an old holler, the nationally-known fugitives enjoy a brief respite. Flushed from their hideout, the fugitives flee to Louisville to televise the CIA plot to establish a CIA Nation in a third world country. And there they encounter the CIA en masse.

About the Author Bruce Kost was born in Louisville, Kntucky, served in Viet Nam in '69 and was discharged from the Navy in 1971. During the 1970's he worked exclusively as a telephone lineman for Pacific Telecom in California. In the 1980's he worked on a reforestation crew that traveled extensively throughout the continental United States. Since 1990 Bruce has worked offshore on boats and ships as a mariner in the U.S. Merchant Marine where he continues his primary employment at this time. During his travels as a merchant sailor he has visited over a dozen countries including Egypt, Spain, Bahrain, Ecuador and Panama to name a few. Reclusive Authority, Kost's first novel, was written on three different ships while under way. He currently resides in New Orleans, Louisiana where he works on novels during time off when he's not at sea. Having released The Youngblood Project Bruce is working on Fountain of Longevity to be published next year. Along with writing, Bruce enjoys flying, snow skiing, scuba diving, tennis, hanggliding, cliff climbing and martial arts. During quieter times he enjoys sailing, reading and 3-D chess.

Sample Excerpt

Chapter One

Sunny warmth and soft breezes caressed the southern city of New Orleans. Tourists ambled along Saint Charles St. window shipping as they also drank in the elegance of ancient mansions that lined the vegetation lush Garden District. Streetcars noisily rolled along the main artery loaded with more tourists heading for downtown and the French Quarter, leisurely sightseeing The Big Easy in romantic style. Delectable aromas wafted from colorful restaurants promoting instant hunger and tantalizing tastebuds, and the exquisite charm of New Orleans was in full bloom.

But the city*s charm was lost on two serious CIA agents who were seeking the accident witness and were exasperated at not locating him. Visits to the Chef*s Table proved fruitless, phone calls to his residence were unanswered, no one in the Avenue Pub knew of his whereabouts and his employer, Tidewater Marine, assured the agents that the Merchant Mariner was on land and not at sea. Spending the better part of a frustrating day attempting to locate the witness, the agents finally met him in the early evening at The Avenue Pub, a neighborhood bar where many one-time visitors soon became regulars because of the festive atmosphere. From his description given by the officer at the accident scene, the agents spotted Russel Travers immediately upon their third visit to ŒThe Pub*. Sidestepping through the crowd, fatigue was showing on the agents* faces.

"Mr. Travers, may we speak with you privately?" Tim Handles asked while showing his credentials. Russel, at six-two, towered over the five foot ten inch neatly dressed man with trimmed short brown hair, comforting brown eyes, slender face with high cheek bones who was showing CIA identification. Before Russel could respond, Tim added, "this is my partner, Al Timmer," motioning to a squat portly gentleman who had just arrived next to the slender speaker. Al experienced great difficulty moving through the crowd, in undertones excusing himself for bumping into everyone while trying to follow his quick moving partner. Russel estimated both men to be in their early thirties but the boyish appearance of Al hinted at a younger age. With a rounded scarred face and light complexion topped with red hair, Al*s youthful smile promoted complacency in others. But Travers instinctively knew from prior experiences that Al*s movements suggested his bulk was more hardened muscle than mere flab and his mannerisms spoke of calculated alertness.

"Yes sir," Russel responded properly even though he had just finished drinking his third Flaming Dr. Pepper. "I'll be back," he said to an old regular, Walter, mimicking Arnold Schwartzenegger. "Yeah right! Last time you said that, you promptly disappeared for three months to Ecuador! I'll believe it when I see it," Walter bellowed, and then, the tall former Viet Nam Vet preceded the agents through the main doors which faced the sidestreet, Polymnia. "Is this about the accident yesterday in the French Quarter?" the blond Russel asked as they moved away from the small crowd just outside the doors.

"Yes, it is, and do you know how difficult it was in locating "Yeah, I can imagine. This is my busy day to get everything done once I'm off the boats. I don't procrastinate. First day on-shore, all I do is move around, stopping at the drug store, post office, shopping, haircut, I'm sure you know the routine. The company knows I'm single and can leave on a moment's notice. They might need me to replace a seaman in another country because of illness or injury. I jump at the opportunity to fill in because the company, in turn, compensates at other times by offering me first chance on boats sailing to foreign countries. It's an unusual life-style but I enjoy it," Russel outlined.

"Well, it's no problem really. Yes, this is about the accident yesterday. You saw the driver of the red 4Runner. We think the driver was hired from another country and flown in for this one job. Depending on who the driver was, that'll tell us what group we're dealing with. We have three books of photographs we'd like you to look at and see if you can pick out the driver," Tim was saying.

"You don't mean 'group of terrorists' do you?" Russel asked.

"Possibly. We won't know who we're up against until we begin identifying who's in the group," Tim explained.
"Why would a group of terrorists be interested in causing an accident?" the well-built Vietnam Vet asked.
"The driver of the other vehicle is a CIA agent who was en route to an assignment when he was hit and severely injured which means someone was tipped to the agent's route and that means we have a mole or a sleeper in our agency. If you can identify the driver, that'll help us pinpoint the group and just maybe, we'll be able to uncover the leak. We're aware that you might not be able to tell us anything at all, but that's a base we need to cover. We're covering all the bases, eliminating the impractical and assessing what remains before we draft a report for the home office. We've established a command post at the Rose Motel over on Airline Highway. That's about fifteen minutes from here. If it's ok with you, we'll take you there, show you our pictures and then, bring you back here," Tim outlined.
"Ooookaaay, but don't be surprised if I can't help you," Russel advised, and they had stopped at the intersection of St. Charles and Polymnia St. to talk.
"Here's our car," Tim said, indicating to a black four door sedan with government plates parked along St. Charles and in a 'no parking' zone. As they were getting into the vehicle, Tim said, "We've interviewed several witnesses and after we have your version, maybe we'll be lucky enough to single out the group and report that to HQ."

To Russel, Tim appeared to be the spokesman as Al had said nothing. Al drove the main roads to Airline Highway and the drive lasted fifteen minutes. Russel knew of the Rose Motel because upon his arrival from California, he stayed at the same motel. Conveniently nearby was the Airline Lounge, an Army/Navy surplus store, a Payless gas station and a Schwegmann Food Mart. Traffic flowed at a normal pace, the day was beautiful and everything seemed normal. As Al pulled into the motel parking lot, Russel knew it was normal for agents to locate and operate from command posts in motels or hotels. Parking the car in front of one of the doors, Tim exited the car first followed by Russel and Al trailed. Knocking once on a door, Tim then entered. Beyond Tim, Russell saw an elderly gentleman seated at a table that had folding legs and on the table top were vials containing colored unknown chemicals. Looking around, Travers saw more vials and more chemicals in breakers that were being heated with monitoring equipment periodically flashing numbers as the monitors continuously tested the chemicals for potency strength. Turning from the miniature laboratory to face the agents, Russel saw them screwing silencers onto their service revolvers while they kept their eyes on him.

"Uh-oh, all of a sudden I get the feeling this isn't about the French Quarter accident, is it?" he asked but it was more of a statement than a question and instantly realizing the serious implications of his situation, Russel shifted his weight to his right foot and with the left, attempted to kick Tim's gun from him. The sudden fluid motion caught Tim completely unprepared. The violent kick shoved the gun into Tim's mouth - knocking out his front teeth as he fell backwards from the blow. Russel's only hope was to shock both agents with sudden kicks and then, vanish out the door. As Tim was falling, out of his peripheral vision, Russel saw that Al had just completed mounting his silencer and was intently watching Russel. Following through his kick and shifting weight to his front foot, Russell spun in a half circle to deliver a roundhouse to the portly gentleman's temple. Al Timmer had anticipated Travers next move and simply raised his free forearm to ward off the blow. The kick stopped at his forearm and Al instantly circled his arm around Russel's leg lifting him off the floor and with his gun in the victim's solarplexes, Al slammed Russel onto the bed beyond the elderly gentleman and the tables of equipment.

"No, Mr. Travers, this isn't about the accident in the French Quarter. Yes, one of our people did have an accident, but because of his own stupidity. On the police report, you indicated no family in the area to contact should the police need to contact you. We needed a guinea pig and with those two words, 'no family', you volunteered. You do have a choice here, you can decline from being the guinea pig and we'll have to kill you because already, you know too much. Or, you can go along with the program and take your chances," Al calmly said with the voice of command and Russel knew that even without the gun, he probably would not be able to overcome the portly agent.

"Sudda-bitch knocked my teef out", Tim shouted coming up next to Al after recovering his gun, spitting blood as he talked and blood had stained his white suit shirt.

Ignoring Tim, Russel said, "kinda like the army, huh?"
"You're going to drink what the good doctor gives you and if you spill it, we'll kill you," Al evenly said.
"I get to kill him," Tim demanded cocking his weapon and aiming at Russel's right eye. Earlier in his life, as a combat green beret and later as a soldier of fortune, Russel had been in extremely tight life-or-death situations but he had always managed to create a way out. This time, the odds were against him and he knew it. There was no way out, except death and that wasn't an option he wished to explore. Stalling for time to discover or promote an escape avenue would be nixed by the angered agents and they weren't ones who could be easily stalled. Still being pressed onto the bed by the portly agent, Russel saw the doctor approaching with a vial containing an orange-colored liquid and the trapped victim realized that his only choice was the final choosing of the lesser of two evils. As the doctor handed him the vial, Russel's perspective was shaken into a surrealistic slow-motion state. Slowly, and with a patronizing smile, the 'good doctor' placed the vial into his hands and he stared momentarily at the orange liquid. Had he known that the CIA doctor had been trained by the most infamous doctor of all time, Dr. Mengele, the agents would have had to kill him because he'd have been too scared to drink the thick substance. Drink or die they said and the words echoed from another time into his brain as he slowly raised the vial to his lips. With guns still trained on him, Russel up ended the vial and let the sweet tasting chemicals slide down his throat, and instantly, the serum began to affect him. "What's this going to do to me?" he asked as reality began marching from him.
"You'll see. You'll probably want to lie down now. Hee hee hee," the doctor chuckled while removing the vial from Russel's hand. Russel stared at him as he was being assisted. As Travers was losing consciousness, he knew something was desperately wrong with the man in the white smock.
"If I survive, you mean," he barely said as he felt his consciousness slide sideways. Slipping into a light coma, he heard them talking. He heard better in the coma than in normal alertness. He heard the fabric of the doctor's smock rubbing against itself. He heard the low roar of an aircraft at high altitudes. And then, the doctor was saying something.
"The process will take fifteen hours to complete. Until then, he'll be unconscious. The reason prior attempts failed earlier than expected was due to chemical imbalance, thus, killing the guinea pigs. If I've learned accurately from my mistakes, chemical balance will enhance potency strength. Because the serum immediately rendered the subject to a comatose state demonstrates the balanced properties of the reactive chemicals. The serum's full strength will metabolically alter the genetic makeup of the recipient, shifting from one gender to the next. I'm convinced we'll have a successful conclusion on this subject, and now, only time will tell," the doctor said rubbing his hands together and smiling broadly. To date, twenty-three subjects had died under the experimenting hands of Dr. Hans Schuler.

In his younger life, Schuler was Dr. Mengele's protégé, a young genius intern at Auschwitz. The young Hans participated in procedural medicine and was fascinated with bacterial infections. Learning, that after bodily parts were destroyed by deterioration from infections, proportioned reactive chemicals could rejuvenate affected parts faster than the body could repair itself. The same reactive medicine, when applied to a healthy body part, altered the part slightly but the function remained the same. He was allowed to experiment on prisoners, giving them dosages of reactive chemicals in direct proportion to the person's size. When Hans administered a full vial of the chemicals to a prisoner, the metamorphosis ended hideously with an androgynous corpse; equal parts male, equal parts female, and with blue skin tone.

After studying Hans' notes, Dr. Mengele understood how the process was supposed to work and he instructed the young intern that balancing reactive chemicals into a working serum would prove difficult even for an accomplished chemist. Learning the chemical process to reverse a subject's gender would take years to perfect. Dr. Mengele secretly confided to Hans that he wouldn't have the time because Germany was losing the war. Soon, he was going to take Hans home where he should hide his notes, change clothes and, once again, become the young farm boy. Later in life he could continue his experiments - if he found the right people. When the fall of Auschwitz loomed, Dr. Mengele took Hans to his home, and then, the doctor disappeared. After the war, the Schuler family migrated to the United States and settled in Wisconsin near a German community. In time, Hans entered the University of Wisconsin Med. School where he excelled and topped his class in achievements. Many offers from prestigious hospitals and labs found their way to his mailbox, but because of obscure German, war reports referring to him as Mengeles' protege, the CIA recruited him. Although minor references vaguely linked him to his mentor's experiments, his name never appeared on official documents. In time, Hans realized his new bosses to be as ruthless as the Nazis, only on a smaller scale.

He was allowed general liberties in his experimentations, but on this project, he had the green light with unlimited funding, and his failures were appreciated by the alligators in the Louisiana swamps. At the outset, his lab was located near the swamps for easy disposal of the failures, and after keenly observing the failed metabolic metamorphosis of the subject, he knew he was close to perfecting the serum. As his impatience grew beyond tolerances in waiting for the subjects to be transported to the swamp lab, he demanded the lab to be moved into New Orleans, to be closer to his 'subjects.' Failures would be shipped by boat to the nearest swamp.
"And the process still includes the steaming part?" Al asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes, the chemical burning process will be present," the old doctor confirmed.
"Completion at 0900 hours tomorrow, we need to check in with Langley and see a dentist," Al said, looking at his watch, and then at his partner.

LANGLEY,CIA HEADQUARTERS
(EARLY EVENING)

CIA Director Will Summers' secretary announced the incoming call, "Al Timmer for you, sir." "Thank you Marg," Will politely said while looking at his assistant, the lanky Assistant Director of the CIA, Johnathan Walker. "Al, what have you got?" he asked, and Will rather enjoyed talking to this no-nonsense, succinct type of person. The director, an ex-army intelligence general, always received maximum amounts of information in minimum spans of time from Timmer. Standing six feet, the slightly overweight director ran fingers through his short brown hair while anticipating a positive report from New Orleans.

"The doctor is confident of success. We'll know more in fifteen hours. Checking back with us tomorrow at 0900 hours our time. No problems at the present," Al said.
"Good! Talk to you tomorrow," Will said and both hung up. Leaning back in his overstuffed armchair, Will stroked his square jaw with thumb and forefinger, savoring the moment. Pondering the report, Will's gray eyes sparkled with delight, a possible future brightening.
"You heard. Think of it, John, an entirely new dimension for the CIA! Once the doctor prefects the serum, our future begins to evolve to its inevitable destiny; the establishment of a CIA nation outside the continental U.S.," Will envisioned.
"That's the doctor you found at that insane asylum?" Johnathan asked as he sat opposite the director.
"Yes, but he's not completely insane. Granted, he's a full bubble off-center, but his chemical engineering theories are on target. I had them assessed before okaying the project. Once the chemicals are balanced, he can chemically alter a person's gender to the opposite. And I can almost guess what you're thinking. What's the big deal of that? That's already happening now, surgically. John, think of it in conjunction with our establishing our nation. If we forced that serum down five senators' throats and changed them into girls, wouldn't that grab national attention? That would be so sensational, the media feeding frenzy would dominate every headline, every talk show, every radio news segment for months! National attention would be so focussed on what happened to the senators, they wouldn't notice us quietly setting up our nation in South America. We'd move in behind our puppets and take over. A little construction here and more someplace else, and before anyone's the wiser, our CIA military is silently growing. Our own budget allocated by ourselves! And all operating outside the United States under our constitution with no limits," Will triumphantly explained.
"You think the United States won't respond to such a move?" John questioned.
"They won't know anything until this office disappears. With media coverage riveting national attention on the senators' gender change, a nuclear bomb detonating would be the only event that might distract them. Our military will be operational before we leave. The President'll automatically know we have nuclear weapons. He'll also know we have secret weapons that the U.S. military doesn't. They'll respond, but not with military force," Will explained.
"I would think it's only a matter of course that the accusing finger points at us," the white-haired southern gentleman observed. "Yes, I've anticipated that. In fact, congress will immediately conduct an audit of all projects in-progress, on the drawing boards or in past history. There's not one scrap of information, concerning that project, in headquarters. Everything surrounding the doctor and his experiments are in the field. All monies allocated for the project is buried in the overseas budget. Nothing available can link us to the doctor, serum, nor the senators. There's only five people who know of the project; you, me, Al Timmer, Tim Handles and the doctor. Of course, the past victims aren't talking, so, we've nothing to worry about," Will said.
"Can we really trust the doctor?" Johnathan asked.
"Once we have a working serum and can reproduce it, the doctor will quietly vanish. It wouldn't be wise keeping an insane Nazi doctor around after he's outlived his usefulness. I needed something that would distract the nation. The distraction needed to be something unique and unusual, something never seen nor heard of before," as Will began to explain, he interlaced his fingers on the back of his head and reminisced of an earlier time. "Three years ago, I stumbled across old war reports which made vague references to a young internist named Hans Schuler. He worked with Dr. Mengele in Auschwitz and after the war, both had disappeared. He resurfaced in a med. school in Wisconsin. After graduating, one of our field offices quietly recruited him because he was a genius chemical engineer. For some reason, he went off the deep end. I found him in an insane asylum in California babbling how man was going to destroy the world through aggression. He reasoned that a female dominated world would survive. His engineering mind detailed the process to alter a person's gender. Because his work kept him quiet, the nurses always gave him paper."
"Of course, the nurses couldn't imagine his genius, and they just threw his papers away. They saw it as gibberish. Another patient used one of his papers and wrote us that aliens were inbound to conquer the earth. The back of a letter was filled with equations. After we analyzed them, I ordered him smuggled out of the hospital and relocated while we examined him. His engineering mind is intact, and that's all we care about. We located him on the outskirts of New Orleans and are still in the process of erasing his past." "Once we placed him in a lab, he became the methodical genius. When Hans has balanced the chemicals and provides us with a working serum, our CIA nation will become a reality," Will explained. Slowly nodding his head in agreement, Johnathan said, "once we have a working serum." The corners of his hazel eyes were lined with worry, worry concerning every aspect of their secret project.

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