Welcome to Helltown

Any resemblance between US Army soldier, Chief Corporal Mason Wyatt, depicted in this story and US Army Signalman Everett McMahon of the same mission is entirely coincidental. The reader is also warned of offensive racist remarks in this story, which were not uncommon at the time and also part of the plot.

The story that follows has never been disproven nor even denied.

Army Chief Corporal Mason Wyatt noticed the faint fragrance of jet kerosene fuel in the air, carried in from outside of Wright-Patterson's 8,000-acre Air Force base. The familiar smell transported him back two years ago to the echoes of a distant land. Memories rushed in, unwelcome but vivid.

That same acrid odor hung in the air that day when US fighters accidentally bombed their own airbase in Da Nang, Vietnam—a day forever etched into the recesses of his mind.

“This is a top-secret operation,” Major Thomas Stevens was saying, handing out aerial photographs for their examination to them. Mason Wyatt and the others of his team were in the pilots’ briefing room for the National Air and Space Intelligence T-2′s Headquarters. “Nothing said here leaves this room. Once dismissed, you will have no contact with any persons off this base. That includes by telephone or letter. Is that clear?”

Under the light of the room, Wyatt held the edge of the photograph in his hands, the glossy surface cool against his skin. None of his men were pilots. His gaze drifted past the aerial images of a wooded community, the details blurring as the past once again merged with the present. The major’s voice became a distant hum, overshadowed by the memories that played out in his mind.

The sound of jets grew louder, not those outside the briefing room, but the thunderous roar of warplanes making an attack run in 1973. Wyatt’s hands, once steady, momentarily tightened as he studied the photograph of houses, a river, a covered bridge, and a few roads. The scene before him overlapped with the chaotic images of the memory of the airbase in Da Nang—the chaos, the confusion, the deafening roar of destruction when the bombs hit.

A blast concussion, more felt than heard, had sent him reeling backward over his desk. The first thing he saw wasn’t the flames, but his guitar—split in two on the floor. Then the screaming started. The next thing he remembered he was running for the air raid shelter.

Ten men wounded, a fuel tank ablaze for days—the details resurfaced with an intensity that made him wish to forget. The scent of burning fuel, the taste of fear, and the sight of his shattered guitar—all fragments of a day etched in the annals of his past.

Mason Wyatt’s focus came back to the mission and photograph at hand. Top secret, huh? What was this photo of anyway? A Russian submarine base?

“Your assignment is to conduct a two-day surveillance filming operation of this federal property and determine if it is inhabited,” the major said of the photos.

The major’s words had the same cadence as his briefings in Vietnam—the ones that always began simple and ended in smoke.

He and the other four men listening had just arrived in Ohio. This special operation was their first working together. They had met only two times previously to perform annual joint training exercises in California. As their squad leader, Wyatt would be expected to keep and study his own photos. The others? They could be expected to turn theirs into paper airplanes, possibly before even leaving this briefing room.

“This first photo is the town of Boston Mills,” the major gestured toward the photo he was holding up for them to see. “A year ago, the Parks Service purchased it, along with three other towns, for a national park,” he explained, his tone conveying the weight of hidden secrets. “Two, Boston Mills and Northfield, were ordered evacuated. Park Service wants to know if everyone left those two communities.”

Wyatt felt confused. What did the Parks Service have to do with the Army, and what did the Army have to do with the Air Force? This had been ordered by somebody high up in federal government to bring them all together.

Major Stevens’ eyes swept over them for their attention. “You will report to the aviation field in full gear for transportation pickup by 0730 hours tomorrow morning. From there, you’ll be helicopter-inserted here.” He pinned his finger to the west bank road intersection of the Cuyahoga River south of Boston Mills.

Wyatt saw nothing unusual in the photo. Small town of three roads in the middle of nowhere, a river, some trees. The major was saying they were to check the town's houses for signs of “illegal occupancy.” He pointed again to the photo he held up, his eyes locking onto each soldier in turn.

The major retrieved a set of keys from his pocket, clinking them together as he spoke. “You’ll be given a master key to all house padlocks. You’ll be filming the inside of the homes of both towns for signs of human habitation.”

Okay. Simple mission. They could do that in their sleep. Half the major’s listeners were already fading. Yet simple missions were the ones that went sideways the fastest. He’d learned that in ’73.

Only Private Bernard was paying close attention.

Stevens guided them on their search north using his photo to a covered bridge for them all to see.

“Once you cross this bridge,” he said, “take this left. It will take you to the town cemetery which is legitimately occupied.”

Wyatt certainly hoped so. They were dead. This was boring.

Men already had their arms crossed. One shot Wyatt a dissatisfied glance.

“Boston Mills Road,” the major continued, “takes you to Stanford. It's closed, but you can walk around the barriers. Search the houses there.”

Barriers.

“Is everyone following?” the major asked.

They all nodded. Sure. Right up our alley, Major. Elite Army photographers—catching squatters since never. The paper airplane production was but moments away.

“Once you’ve returned to Boston Mills Road, the road forks ahead here at Hines Hills Road.” He pointed at the map, his finger hovering over the intersection. “There’s radio static in this area, so you may not be able to call out.” His gaze swept over the faces of the assembled soldiers, each one absorbing his words or at least pretending to.

Static?

“Take the left fork and continue the search until you reach a junkyard on your left.” The major's fingers tapped against the photo as if tracing an invisible path. “Don’t bother to go in there. It’s not parkland.

Once you've reached it, you've completed your mission. Return to the bridge where you'll be picked up by helicopter the next day at 1130 hours or some 28 hours after insertion.” He paused, letting the information settle. “Everyone still with me?” He waited for nods of affirmation.

They were. Yet not for long. Mason could hear the sound of one of the handouts already being folded.

“We will then fly you to Northfield to complete your filming there. Your chopper will wait for you, after which you will return here for debriefing and to file all film. Any questions?”

Wyatt expected the major to be bombarded by paper airplanes, but Bernard actually had a question. “Why were the towns ordered evacuated?”

“We don’t have that information. Anyone else?”

No one spoke. The paper airplanes remained unlaunched at that unexpected reply. They evacuated them for what?

No reason?

“To repeat,” the major’s stern voice demanded attention, “you are to go in and film both towns. Film everything the people left behind.” The major’s eyes scanned the room, ensuring he had the full focus of Wyatt's team. "Touch nothing."

“Look for evidence anyone’s still there,” he went on, “And then come back. If anyone's there, Parks Service wants to know about it, including which house they’re in.” The major’s gaze bore into each soldier, communicating a sense of duty.

“Failure to find them will have consequences for the Parks Service.” The words were a stark suggestion of the mission’s importance, placing the weight of responsibility on their shoulders.

“All film will be accounted for.” His tone was final, leaving no room for uncertainty.

“Again, you will have no contact with friends, relatives, or anyone else off base for the duration of your assignment.” The major’s voice was firm, a directive that left no room for deviation.

The gravity of the mission was now becoming clear. Slowly, each soldier realizing that this was actually serious and they were stepping into the unknown for a mysterious purpose greater than they were being told.

The briefing’s edges were too combat mission familiar, too rehearsed—the same quiet words before the wrong kind of storm.

Wyatt raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Why is this top secret?” he asked for them all.

“Parks Service requested it.”

Silence. That seemed pretty damned unusual. Why would filming a supposedly empty American town be classified top secret? More like a top convenient excuse. What were they expected to find in there?

In Wyatt’s experience, when the wrong agency asked for secrecy, it meant the right agency was afraid to put its name on the paperwork.

Wyatt and the other four men present were all Mass Communication Specialists or government-speak for media reporters. Normally, they operated independently, but when brought together as a unit, they formed what was known as a Dedicated Combat Camera team or DCC team. DCC teams only served on extremely important film missions.

Apparently, filming an empty town was one of them.

Wyatt collected his photos.

Anyone with a hundred rolls of film could shoot that entire town by himself. No DCC team was needed for this.

Yet he didn’t ask about that. Questioning a superior officer’s judgment will not produce answers. They will tell you only what you need to know to accomplish the mission. Anything else is superfluous. He had to limit his questions on how to perform the mission and not why.

“What information does the Park Service have on whether everyone’s moved out?” he asked the major.

“So far, they only have evidence that thirty percent of the population has moved. They want to know about the other seventy percent.”

“So why don’t the Parks Department people just go in and see for themselves?” Burroughs asked.

“They tried that,” the major replied, then reluctantly added. “They sent in three park rangers to do so. One died and the others refused to go back in.” He then added calmly, flatly, “Parks declined to elaborate on their refusal.”

Died? Refused to go back in?

“Why?” Burroughs pushed.

“Parks has classified that information.”

"Parks can do that?" Wyatt asked, amazed.

"They can."

It was a damned government secret for why those rangers came back out? And it's also classified top secret why his team was going in?!

Five mouths were hanging open, their future paper airplanes forgotten. Something was clearly wrong. They all felt it. What was going on here? What were they not being told?

“Then why not send in sheriff deputies?” Bernard asked for them all.

“They have no authority. It’s federal land now. Since the park rangers refused, the only law enforcement that can legally go in there now are US marshals in suits and ties or you boys. Guess who got the job?”

No comment.

“You’ll be in there overnight,” Major Stevens continued. “Spend the night in any abandoned house of your choice. You'll be inserted in full battle gear by 0800 tomorrow. It will be dark by 1700 hours. Dawn will be at 0730 hours. That’s plenty of time to get back to the bridge for pickup. So be there.

Upon your return from Northfield and completion of debriefing, you will be returned to your previous base assignments. Again, any questions?”

“Did you say full battle gear?” Wyatt repeated in disbelief, expecting a mistake.

“I did. Since Parks failed to successfully perform their mission, we’re taking no chances with yours.”

Carrying military weapons in Ohio to photograph houses? There was a miscommunication here somewhere.

Looks of surprise, concern, and confusion passed between the men like a cold.

The major offered no further explanation, but Wyatt guessed it wasn’t necessary. Full battle gear meant they’d be accompanying a combat infantry company, and that meant the expectation of meeting armed resistance.

They weren’t expecting to hear that answer and they didn’t like it. It sounded threatening. An uneasy feeling swept through the room like a plague of unwelcome flies. Good thing they were going in with a full combat company.

“What fire team will we be going in with?” Mason inquired.

“No team,” the major replied. “You’ll be going in alone.”

Another dead silence followed, a shroud that masked the true intentions behind the mission, like a veil concealing a bride’s secrets on her wedding day.

Once again, surprised eyebrows went up in the room everywhere. DCC units document other units’ missions and not their own. And the Army trained them to film combat missions and not ghost towns.

What the hell?

Is this Da Nang all over again? Was he about to get bombed again by his own side?

This was not right. No. Not right at all. Mason’s mind raced with questions, questions the major would not answer. Curiosity consumed him. Obviously, there was more to this mission than meets the eye. No one went into an American town fully armed, with weapons locked and loaded unless something was wrong. And he was determined to find out what before they left.

"What do we do if we encounter illegal occupants?" he asked.

"Don't start a war."

"Then why are you sending us in armed?"

"The park rangers went in armed. Apparently, they thought it necessary."

And only two came back out, refusing to go back in, and Wyatt's team wasn't being told why. This felt like the kind of mission where the truth is worse than the orders.

Wyatt stared at the picture, as if he studied it hard enough, he'd solve the community's mystery. Something about this was all wrong. Something had happened in there. Something no one wanted to talk about. And they were about to find out—on their own—without being told.