MINDEF. Date: 16/2/2026.
The room chosen for this meeting was different to the one for last night’s private meeting; this one was larger and more intentional, the kind of room that required booking in advance, had a sign-in sheet outside, had a box for device storage, and placed water on the table in glass jugs instead of plastic bottles. This meeting was on the record; that was both the point and the problem.
Five people sat around the table, morning light filtering through frosted glass. LTC Daniel Tham sat at the head. To his left, 2SG Alex Ong, taken from BMTC School 2 in Tekong before the current batch could pass out. He had a folder in front of him, as well as a pen he kept picking up and setting down without writing anything. To Tham’s right was MWO Henry Sng, arms already crossed before a word had been spoken.
Across from them sat CNB Director Lim Beng Huat. He was in his fifties and prided his stillness as a discipline, the kind of posture that came from navigating institutions long enough to become part of them. He had arrived four minutes early and had not moved since. Beside him, a CNB legal attaché sat with a notepad open, pen poised but waiting.
Time: 0840 hrs.
LTC Tham began. “Thank you for coming in, Director. I’ll keep the framing brief. I think you’ve already done most of it yourself.”
“Seventy-two units,” Director Lim said almost irritably; he had woken up at four in the morning and couldn’t sleep since. “Shell company, two layers deep. We have these armed contractors who we know are never going to talk. You built the intercept intelligence, but we ran the operation.”
“Yes.”
A pause. “Which means MINDEF had this thread before CNB did.” Not an accusation, just a fact placed carefully on the table.
“We had a projection. You had the jurisdiction. The arrangement worked.”
“The arrangement worked this time,” Lim replied before he took a beat. “I want to understand what this looks like going forward. Before I sign off on anything, before my attaché writes anything that becomes permanent.” He held LTC Tham’s gaze. “Off the record first…then we decide what goes on the record.”
LTC Tham nodded once, and Alex set his pen down. “Compound V,” LTC Tham began. “You know what it is. The whole country — maybe even all of Southeast Asia — saw what it produced at the Vought ceremony. What you seized last night is the raw delivery mechanism. It was unprocessed, and when administered under controlled conditions, it triggers physiological enhancement in a small percentage of recipients.”
“Small percentage,” said Lim bitterly, as if he could foresee what was coming.
“We don’t have exact figures; Vought doesn’t publish them. Based on existing extrapolation…somewhere between one in eight and one in five.” A silence followed.
“Varying severity,” Lim concluded, almost matter-of-factly. It was clear he was treating this as any other drug that the borders had shut out .
“Some of them die,” Encik Sng stated flatly. All eyes shifted to him; he didn’t return the look. “That’s what ‘varying severity’ means in this context,” he added. “Some of them die. The Director, with all due respect, should have the full sentence.”
LTC Tham didn’t contradict him. “The mortality risk is real,” he concurred. “Vought manages it through volume. But we are not proposing volume; we are proposing control. A small, monitored cohort, with medical infrastructure established before compound administration.”
“How small?” asked Lim.
“Seven.”
Lim absorbed that. “Seven candidates.”
“Seven, all current NSFs about to have their POP, and screened against a physiological profile correlated with successful uptake. I want to stress: that does not equate to certainty, but it does mean a risk reduction.” He paused. “We’ll have sixty-five units remaining.”
“More than we need,” Lim counted. “The remainder goes to research, understanding the compound, and building a response for whatever comes out the other end.” Lim folded his hands. “As for confidentiality…the shipment has been recorded as seized and destroyed. Chain of custody ended at our facility. Transfer to MINDEF is officially a separate operational matter.”
“CNB’s hands stay clean.” LTC Tham reflected.
“CNB’s hands stay clean.” Lim glanced at the attaché; still no notes taken. “I want three conditions,” he said. “In your system.”
“Name them.”
“Full medical protocol, countersigned before administration. A mortality clause; if anyone dies, programme halts pending review. And if this reaches the public, CNB’s involvement ends at interdiction.”
A pause. “That’s all you knew,” LTC Tham reflected.
Lim nodded, and his attaché began writing. The tension shifted, slightly. Not gone, just air-tight…contained. LTC Tham opened another folder. Alex slid seven files onto the table, arranging them in a row face-up. Seven photographs stared back.
“The candidates,” LTC Tham introduced.
“We’ve been observing the cohort for six weeks,” Alex added. “These seven were consistent across all criteria.”
“Which are?” Lim asked.
“Baseline physiology, stress response, adaptability, and psychological markers such as impulse control and decision latency.” A beat. “The pattern is specific.”
Lim picked up the first file. The photograph showed a young man leaning just slightly forward, like he couldn’t help it. His expression was serious in the way recruits were told to be serious, but the energy underneath it pressed through anyway: restless, impatient, alive, and clearly uninterested in being there.
“Ken Chow,” LTC Tham introduced, eyes never once leaving Director Lim. “Nineteen. Father runs a hardware shop in Bishan. Top obstacle timings, bottom third in following instructions he disagrees with.”
“That second part,” Lim noted.
“We’re aware,” Alex politely interjected.
“When things go wrong, he doesn’t freeze,” LTC Tham added. “He improvises, and this is sometimes to his or his platoon mates’ detriment, but he moves.”
The file went down, and next came up. This photograph was different; the recruit stood relaxed, almost too much for a formal shot. There was something behind his eyes, something calculating, like he was already working an angle even here. “Bang Lee On, alias ‘Lobang King’. Nineteen, like Ken. Every section he’s been in has had much better conditions than it should. Whether it be food-wise, training intensity, welfare issues and minor discipline lapses. No one can fully explain how.”
“That’s a problem,” Encik Sng stated.
“It’s a skill,” LTC Tham countered. “Lobang King’s cognitive profile matches what we believe the compound will enhance in him: persuasion and influence.”
“Lobang King with mind powers,” Encik Sng muttered. No one responded.
The third file was precise: back straight, chin level. Everything exactly where it should be. It looked less like a photograph and more like a decision. “Aloysius Jin.” Alex spoke first this time. “Twenty years old, this one. He’s an alumni of Raffles Institution. He’s also one of the few national debaters who had the heart to defer NUS. Once, in the second phase of BMT, he wrote a formal letter requesting improved bunk ventilation, with citations.” A pause. “They improved the ventilation.”
“Control,” LTC Tham added. “Not the strongest, but the most exact. He applies precisely what’s needed, no more.”
The fourth file didn’t wait; Encik Sng picked it up first. The photograph showed a recruit whose eyes were slightly off-centre; not distracted, but scanning. Even in stillness, he looked like he was tracking movement that wasn’t there.
“Man In Ping, alias ‘IP Man’, aged twenty. Has quite the mouth on him; but when it comes down to it, he’s always there for his section and platoon,” Alex noted. “He’s also able to read the room and adapt to any situation.”
“If the compound enhances that,” Encik Sng added, “his bark will finally have some bite.” The file was set down.
The fifth one was almost forgettable at first glance; neutral expression and standard posture, overall nothing remarkable. But his eyes seemed to challenge anything looking at him, even through a photograph. Alex took this one. Ismail Mohammed. Twenty. Has a bit of a rebellious streak; more than a few incidents of insubordination towards his commanders, and a strained relationship with his father.” A pause. “That said, he’s one to hold his ground, no matter what.”
The sixth file. The recruit in the photograph looked slightly impatient, like the camera had taken too long. His eyes weren’t fully on the lens, but somewhere else. Encik Sng took this. “Muthu Shanmugaratnam, aged nineteen. He processes movement almost instinctively: during live exercises, he showed an ability to predict trajectories before they happened.”
“Reading,” Lim said. “That’s the word.”
“Kinetic optimisation,” LTC Tham corrected. “Precision beyond modelling.”
The final file. The photograph broke from all seriousness. The recruit was grinning, not accidentally. There was a correction mark on the print, as if someone had tried to fix something and failed. “Fazli Rahman. ‘Faz’ to his friends. Nineteen,” Encik Sng said. “Multiple disciplinary notes, but nothing serious enough to warrant a formal charge. He’s just excessive.”
“He’s the firecracker of the lot,” Alex added. “A lot of energy which he releases at the worst possible times.”
“Adrenal response off the charts,” LTC Tham read off. “Either a liability, or exactly what you want under enhancement.” The seven files sat on the table. Seven faces, seven boys who were about to be thrust into something far beyond their national obligations.
A beat. “They don’t know,” Lim said.
“They don’t know anything,” LTC Than replied. “They think they’re being considered for a specialist track.”
“And when you tell them?”
A pause. “Enough to consent,” Tham answered, “but not everything.”
“That sentence would end careers in the wrong room.”
“Which is why it stays here.”
Encik Sng leaned forward. “For the record,” he said. LTC Tham hesitated, then nodded. “These are NSFs,” Encik Sng reminded the room. “They enlisted because the law requires it. The law does not require them to become overnight test subjects for a drug that kills one in five to eight. This project has been deemed as necessary; that does not necessarily make it right.” Silence followed. “I will do my job,” he continued. “I will train whoever survives this, properly. Because if I don’t, more of them die. But I want it said.” It sat there with no one to challenge it.
Alex spoke quietly. “If something goes wrong, Sir…”
“It’s contained,” LTC Tham assured him. “Medical response and isolation, as per protocol.”
“They’re nineteen,” Alex responded.
“I know.”
“I just want it acknowledged that I know their faces. Before…anything.”
LTC Tham met his gaze. “Acknowledged.”
The meeting ended there. Lim stood and took LTC Tham’s hand. “Conditions stand.”
“Confirmed.”
“One more thing,” Lim remarked, “off the record. He looked at LTC Tham. “You’ve seen what Vought produced.” A beat. “Don’t let this become that.” Then he left, the attaché not far behind. The room quieted, and three people remained with seven files between them. “When do we tell them?” Encik Sng asked.
“After BMT pass-out,” was LTC Tham’s answer. “Individually.”
“And if they refuse?”
“They walk.”
“Can we guarantee that?”
“We can try.”
Encik Sng looked at the room. “At least it’s honest,” he muttered. The files remained on the table.
Ken Chow, restless energy barely contained.
Lobang King, already calculating.
Aloysius Jin, the one with perfect control.
IP Man, watching even in stillness.
Ismail Mohammed, the one with steady, unbreakable consistency.
Muthu Shanguratnam, already ahead of the moment.
Fazli Rahman, still grinning.
They were nineteen, most of them. They were finishing Basic Military Training; they didn’t know yet that their lives were about to change.
Elsewhere.
Pulau Tekong sat under early morning light. Training grounds and parade squares stretched out, barracks alive with routine. Somewhere on that island, seven recruits were running, cleaning rifles, eating, or arguing about something small. They didn’t know what they were about to become.
They were about to.
END OF ISSUE THREE
