That thought had launched him out of bed and onto the porch. He simply could not sleep, and lying awake had nearly been worse than the assignment. He’d been stuck there reassessing far too much and wishing he knew more. He’d been with The Preserve a few weeks. It was now March. He was getting his cure as promised, and he couldn’t fault Selfer or even Lansdale if it didn’t end up working. But this was also some kind of secret base. It held about fifty personnel at any given time as far as he could tell. Some came and went quick, some looking shakier than others. He thought about those tunnels underneath the complex. He wondered if any personnel were down there now. He even wondered if the camp brought in people—prisoners, let’s call them what they were—who never left the tunnels, never even knew about a camp above them. The tunnels had to be operating, he figured. He had never again seen the men who had guarded him down below, but why should he? They would be needed down there. That troop might have separate quarters somewhere because of their work and could even get in from some entrance outside of camp. Meanwhile, up above, more were being trained for covert operations as far as Lett could tell. He imagined them helping rebels overthrow the new Communist governments cropping up or looming throughout Southeast Asia. Some of these men were housed in another corner of camp and had already received heaps of instruction, training, drilling. Lett still heard their weapons pop sometimes, and he thanked his dose for not letting that get to him. Here on the other side of the tracks were the hard luck jobs, the fatigue cases, the near mental defectives. Each needed their own particular cure. Each got it different. Certain troubles were avoided, certain tendencies cultivated. But they all had their inclinations. And those could be nurtured, like a noxious weed meant to destroy all.

Like a certain guy who took out a commando and two native scouts with his bare hands.