* * * * *
The doctors in the intensive care unit had been forced to put two beds together in order to accomodate Alika Herrera's seven foot-tall frame!
Other than that, however, his condition was miraculously fine. His breathing, within the oxygen tent, was steady and even. And, he had not popped any of the stitches in his chest since the initial eight hours of surgery aboard the "Tomcod."
Looking at him through the glass partition, Ash Phillips wore a facial expression that could only be described as...severely disappointed.
"You deliberately went behind my back," he now muttered.
"You left us no other choice," replied his son: "If it's any consolation, though, Eisenhower has lived to win the election. And, the Hsia Jie-ji is still in the Eastern Hemisphere! It's simply that, soon, the same will no longer hold true for Stalin."
"Then, I hope you never live long enough to regret the high price you paid for this victory, Bob! Because if there's one thing I've learned, in my nearly fifty-six years on this Earth, is that there is no such thing as making diabolical deals without getting your fingers burnt."
With that, the elder Phillips put his fedora back on...and walked away.
Four months later--March 5, 1953, to be precise--came the world-wide announcement of Josef Stalin's death from "natural causes." Twenty-four hours after that, Dr. Ash Phillips resigned his post as President of the Philadelphia Lodge of the Knights of Melion. Instead, he resumed going abroad on archeological digs. In fact, he became so consumed by his work that he did not even attend the funeral of his Uncle John!
The aging oil tycoon passed away, in 1955, at the age of ninety-two. And, never having had any children of his own, his will bequeathed his stock shares in the Independent Petroleum Company to his nephew. Ash, however, wanted nothing to do with the oil business. So, he sold the shares to an overseas corporation: Chemique Internationale.
The latter promptly Americanized their name to "Interchem." And, it was under this new name that the Defense Department awarded them the right to analyze--and the responsibility to ultimately duplicate--a certain biochemical (stolen from a certain Soviet laboratory in Cuba) in October of 1962.
The effects this biochemical had on the human body were astounding, to say the least. And no one could vouch for this better than Pepe Garcia of the CIA.
"If I wasn't seeing this for myself," muttered Colonel Robert Phillips: "...I wouldn't dare believe it!"
"With all due respect, sir?" retorted Myron Meriwether (Garcia's partner): "After all the trouble we had getting here, you'd better believe it...sir!* "
"Muzzle it, Meriwether!" snapped Deputy Director Paxton: "Go wait outside."
"Sir!" replied the younger man (with a semi-curt salute): "Yes, sir."
"Don't take it personally, colonel," a new (and rather shrill) voice chimed in: "The kid was recruited fresh out of the Marine Corps. They take loyalty pretty seriously."
Phillips looked at the source of that voice...through the magnifying lens of the reading lamp currently being employed by the scientific team from DARPA.
"I understand, Mr. Garcia. I just hope you understand that I've only seen photos of men your current size, once before. And, according to the files attached to those photos, the latter had been injected with some kind of neuro-toxin via a bee-like sting...more than fifty years ago!"
Paxton nodded: "I've seen those same files. Apparently, the closest chemical match that could be found to that toxin was the stuff that makes Siberian salamanders unpalatable to fish."
Colonel Phillips looked up with interest.
"Any particular part of Siberia?"
"As a matter of fact, yes! The Tunguska River region."
tbc
Giantess World
Author's Chapter Notes:
U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
(NOVEMBER 8, 1952)
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
(NOVEMBER 8, 1952)
Chapter End Notes:
*See "LITTLE" KNOWN SECRETS.