Nearest Night

by David VanDyke

  “We will honor her, remember her, and miss her. But if she were here she’d tell us the work of serving the American people must go on. She’d want us in this time of crisis not to mourn her, but to honor her memory best by continuing the work she started. That we shall endeavor to do.”

  He stopped as if observing a moment of silence, and then lifted his eyes to gaze steadily into the camera, the very model of a compassionate leader.

  “Moving on to other, more positive matters, I would like to be the first to announce that at seventeen hundred hours Pacific Standard Time today, the Secretary of Defense will accept the unconditional surrender of the Alaskan regular forces currently in a state of unlawful rebellion.”

  All the reporters jumped to their feet and tried to ask questions.

  Brenner held up his hands. “You’ll all get details soon. This victory is a testimony to our dedicated men and women in uniform, including those who paid the ultimate cost of freedom. I am proud to say that their sacrifices will not be in vain.”

  He paused again, to let the information sink in, and for the murmuring and the questions to die down.

  “I also want to thank the New Soviet Union for its assistance. Several weeks ago, Premier Grekov offered to help with the Alaskan rebels, a mutual enemy and a threat to his nation as well as our own. Together, we were able to bring this conflict to a speedy resolution, with minimal loss of life.”

  Sturgeon nodded. Good. Everyone is thinking about the nuclear bombing of Austin right now, and how Alaska could have been so much worse.

  “The world is safer when our nations stand together, united against Eden-based terrorism. I have always sought to work together with partners and I trust this coalition will continue to fight our common enemies in the months and years to come.

  “During this trying time it has become evident that we face many dangers, dangers that threaten not only the sovereignty of our nation, but of the very fabric of western civilization. I know it will come as a shock to you to know that our neighbors to the north, our Canadian cousins with whom we share so much history and culture, are enduring an insurgency of their own, plagued by so-called Northern Separatists.

  “These dangerous radicals, a coalition of Eden extremists, racist supremacists, and imported Muslim terrorists, have infiltrated the Canadian government at every level, rendering them powerless to resist the creeping takeover. We saw the deleterious effect when Canadian forces and citizenry stabbed us in the back and helped the Alaskans to treacherously surround and massacre our forces in the Yukon.

  Oh, lovely, Sturgeon thought. The Big Lie, salted with just enough truth to make it palatable. Over the past week, the White House had leaked a dozen seemingly unrelated stories to support this narrative, preparing the populace to swallow the bullshit.

  Brilliant.

  Brenner continued his solemn speech, those present hanging on his every word. “We cannot in good conscience allow a rogue nation to endure on our borders. Our responsibility lies not only at home, but with the common people of Canada, with all of North America. We must seek to make our world safe for democracy, secure from terrorism.”

  Brenner paused and sighed as if this was very difficult for him and not actually rehearsed dozens of times in front of a mirror.

  “It is therefore with great sadness and reluctance that I have decided to accept the plea of the people of Canada, and of those parts of the legitimate Canadian government that have not yet been corrupted, to temporarily administer its provinces, extending to them the full protection of the United States and its just laws.”

  Pandemonium reigned for a long time, and President Brenner let it spend itself rather than fight it. At the perfect moment, he held up a calming hand to go on.

  “Our forces are moving into position now to confront terrorists who have seized Canadian military equipment, even donned their uniforms. Special agents from multiple law enforcement agencies of the United States, under the umbrella of our Security Services, have already begun to detain and question traitorous officials of the false administration in Ottawa, Calgary, Montreal and Toronto.

  “Once these enemies of freedom have been defeated and the Canadian people are capable of responsible self-rule again, we intend to restore their full sovereignty, but not before peace and security is assured.

  “Our days ahead are filled with trial, but also with promise. Our defeat of the rebellion in Alaska proves that. I urge you all to remain vigilant and strong. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.”

  The president turned and walked off stage as reporters fired questions at his back. The video feed cut from the room to several news-channel talking heads. Sturgeon reached over and hit the mute button.

  “Exciting days ahead,” he said and smiled. He even allowed himself to imagine becoming President one day. Why not? He’d be, as the saying went, “One heart attack away from the White House.”

  The doorbell rang. That should be his ride. After donning his jacket and combing his hair again, he’d be ready to go fulfill his destiny.

  When he answered the door, the President’s Chief of Staff walked in, followed by two Secret Service men.

  “Andy! I didn’t expect you to come personally,” Sturgeon said with a smile and a handshake.

  The man shrugged and looked around the large room. “It’s a big day for all of us. Anyone else here for the ride?”

  “Nope, just me. I gave the housekeeper the rest of the day off. Wife’s at her mother’s in Pennsylvania.”

  The Chief of Staff checked his phone. “We might as well sit and chat for a few minutes before we go. The President is going to be delayed a bit. Better to wait here than there.”

  “Sure,” said Sturgeon. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks. Feel free, though.”

  Sturgeon poured himself a splash of whisky, more to have something in his hands than out of any real desire for it, and then sat in his favorite chair.

  The Chief of Staff settled himself across from Sturgeon and waved his bodyguards out of the room. “Close the door, please.” He turned to Sturgeon, placing his phone on the table between them. “That was quite a shock. About the Vice President, I mean.”

  “Indeed it was.” Sturgeon suppressed the urge to wink. He was feeling positively giddy. “Most unexpected.”

  “Hmm. Not totally unexpected. And very smooth. Out of curiosity, how was it done?”

  Sturgeon hesitated. The subject seemed crass for gentlemen to entertain out loud. “An untraceable substance that induces cardiac arrest. Something from the Agency’s dirty tricks department.”

  “You administered it yourself?”

  “Of course not. One of her household staff was suborned.”

  “And where’s that…person, now?”

  Sturgeon checked his watch theatrically. “Infected, detained, and on her way to a camp.”

  “Excellent work.”

  Sturgeon nodded. “Thank you. It’s what the President wanted.”

  The Chief of Staff picked up his phone again and raised his voice. “Gentlemen?”

  The two burly men in suits returned to the room, pistols in their hands. Suppressors projected from the barrels.

  The reflexes of long, arduous field service did not entirely fail Sturgeon. He rolled out of his chair and had his hand on the drawer of the desk where he kept a snubnose .38 when the bullets caught him in the back.

  “Contacting the Russians behind our backs was one thing,” the Chief of Staff murmured, addressing the dying Director, “but murdering a high elected official of the United States? Tsk tsk. Can’t have that on my watch.”

  He waved at the fanatically loyal Party men who were not, in any way associated with the Secret Service. “Bring in the cleaning crew.” They’d make the body disappear, sanitize the house, and then plant evidence of Sturgeon’s defection to the New Soviet Union. Records of his backchannel communications would be used to support that narrative.

  The Chief
of Staff thought about Sturgeon’s wife, his second, the trophy version. A younger woman, apparently amazing in bed, her file indicated she’d be happy to transfer her affections and ambitions to him…after a suitable mourning period, of course.

  Andy, my boy, things are looking up, he told himself.

  The trick was to know one’s place, not rise too high too fast…and never, ever make the boss nervous.

  Chapter 40

  Droning engines lulled the exhausted passengers and troops to sleep on the flight from eastern Tennessee to Colombia. In the cockpit, though, Flyboy and his copilot remained busy, unbeknownst to his passengers.

  First, one of the engines failed. He couldn’t tell why, but the storm certainly didn’t help. The stalwart C-130J, the last in a long line of increasingly capable military turboprops, otherwise handled beautifully under the pressure, shrugging off the weather like a buffalo in a Great Plains blizzard.

  When they finally rose above the white blanket into the starlit night sky, Flyboy breathed a sigh of relief and set his cruising altitude at 28,000 feet, avoiding the worst of it.

  Over Mobile, Alabama they were intercepted by Air Force F-35s. In accordance with Spooky’s cover story and the aircraft’s markings, Flyboy passed a set of code words that convinced the fighter pilots and their controllers the C-130 was a clandestine CIA aircraft. Once they proceeded out to sea, he turned the controls over to the original pilot and relaxed in his seat.

  ***

  In the rear of the aircraft, Larry watched Shadow become gradually more animated. He seemed fascinated by the flight. Unsurprisingly, it was the first time he’d seen the boy relaxed and unguarded.

  “What’s your name, honey?” asked Spirit, putting a gentle hand on Shadow’s back. “Mine’s Vivian.”

  “I call him Shadow. He doesn’t talk,” Larry told her.

  “Sure he can,” she said. “He’s just a little rusty. Don’t you listen to this big dumb paleface.”

  Larry choked. “First time I’ve ever been called paleface. I must have lightened up some in the camp.”

  Spirit winked. “Okay, how about White Eyes?”

  “A little better.”

  Shadow stared solemnly at Spirit, saying nothing.

  “Come on,” she urged. “If you like ‘Shadow,’ that can be your handle, but I know you got a real name in there somewhere. Names are important.”

  He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His face scrunched up in concentration. “Toe...bee,” he said slowly, and then more confidently. “Toby.”

  “Yeah!” said Spirit, giving him a hug.

  “You don’t look like a Toby,” said Larry with a mock-suspicious look. “You sure you didn’t just make that up?”

  “Leave Toby alone, White Eyes,” Spirit said. “Kid ought to know his own name.”

  “I think you’re overplaying the whole Indian thing.”

  “Okay, shut up, Thug Life.”

  “Oh, I see how it is.”

  Spirit turned back to Toby. “Got a last name, kid?”

  Toby suddenly became shy from the nearby watchers. Most of the Nguyens, along with Stitch and Flyboy, were observing him with interest.

  “It’s okay,” said Spirit. “No one is going to hurt you here. We’re all like you. A big family.”

  “Layfield,” he said.

  “Well, Toby Layfield, it’s nice to meet you,” said Spirit.

  “Interesting,” said Spooky. Turning to his kin, he spoke rapid words in his native tongue, receiving a hesitant response. He said something more emphatically, and the family bowed their heads in acquiescence. “My family will take care of the boy for now.”

  “I thought he might come home with us,” said Larry, surprised.

  “That would be unwise.”

  “Why?”

  “What did he say his last name was?”

  “Layfield…oh, shit!”

  “Indeed. What if the CIA takes an interest in finding him?”

  “I –” Larry snapped his jaw shut.

  “I think it best he become a Nguyen, hmm?”

  Larry ran his hand over his head and sighed. “Yeah. All right.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes out from landing in Colombia, Flyboy walked to the rear. Reaper sat with her back against the skin of the plane. A body bag containing Python lay beside her. Her hands and clothing were still stained with his blood.

  “You need to get into a seat and buckle up,” Flyboy told her gently.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Flyboy squatted down beside her. “Listen to me. None of this is your fault. You didn’t ask Shortfuse and the rest to stay behind. They did it on their own because that’s what team members do for each other. You didn’t ask Python to come to your rescue. He did that on his own because he loved you.”

  “You can save the pep talk,” said Reaper. “Not in the mood.”

  “No one else is in the mood either, boss, but we’re doing our jobs. Now your job is to get in a seat.”

  Reaper didn’t respond, only stared at the body bag, rubbing at the bloodstains on her hands.

  “You think you’re the only one grieving?” Flyboy asked. “You think the rest of us loved Shortfuse or Hawkeye or Bunny or Hulk any less than you?”

  “It’s not the same. I was in charge. Just give me some space.”

  “We’re about to land. You’re still in charge, and we need you. We completed the mission. We freed several hundred Edens. We retrieved the Nguyens, and Skull’s buddy Larry. You thought it was impossible, but we did it. And our team members…they stayed behind for us. We’d have done the same. And some of them might have made it to Derrick’s people.”

  “I told Spooky I’d keep an eye on Buzz, and I blew it.”

  “From what I could see, Buzz laid low until the last. You couldn’t have seen it coming.”

  “I should have.”

  “Nobody’s perfect. Except Spooky, of course.” He flicked his eyes. “And if you don’t man up and start acting like the boss again, he’s gonna find some way to screw us.”

  Reaper sighed heavily and didn’t speak. Finally she reached out and grasped Flyboy’s hand, lifting herself to her feet.

  “Now we need to get into our seats and buckle up.” Flyboy said.

  “You know how many times I’ve flown in one of these without a seatbelt?” she asked.

  “Not with this goober at the controls you haven’t. Frankly I give us even odds he doesn’t crash and kill us all. Now get in your damn seat. I need to go back to the cockpit and supervise.”

  Despite Flyboy’s words, the pilot stuck the landing without trouble. Soon, the plane taxied onto the airfield’s apron. Skull opened the ramp before the aircraft even came to a halt.

  The Colombian sunlight and heat following the snowstorm and darkness seemed surreal. The passengers squinted against the brightness as they disembarked. They saw several buses and a squad of medics, who immediately began checking those in the worst shape, threading nutrient IVs into their veins.

  Spooky stepped up beside Daniel Markis as the Chairman looked over the Nguyen family.

  “Rough mission, I hear,” Markis said, reaching out to shake Spooky’s free hand, the other bandaged into a sling.

  “Reaper lost five people, probably. Four of my own family did not survive the experience.”

  “I’m sorry. The adults could all be your brothers and sisters.”

  “None of them actually are. I was the only one of my immediate family to escape and survive the wars. What you’re looking at is four generations of Nguyen – my great-uncles and aunts, uncles and aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. All that is left of a once-numerous Degar clan influential in the highlands of Vietnam.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me how your people were persecuted.”

  “Persecuted is a weak word. Our women were stolen and forced into prostitution, our men put into labor camps or killed if they did not submit, our children sent to be raised by lowlanders. When the Commu
nists normalized relations with the West, many immigrated to America, only to become Edens and again be oppressed.”

  “You should write a book.”

  “Perhaps some day I will.”

  “Welcome back,” said Cassandra Johnstone as she approached. She did not reach for Spooky’s hand, and he didn’t bother to extend his.

  “Thank you for holding down the fort.”

  “You may find a few changes in your absence.”

  “The price one pays for family. I’ll soon set things right.”

  Spooky watched Cassandra roll her eyes at Markis, who smiled. He’d spoken truth, though. He’d been prepared to pay the price of disorder to retrieve those of his clan, for now they were chained to him absolutely by the bonds of gratitude and family, of which he’d become the new de facto patriarch.

  Spooky waved at a couple of his black ops people, there to meet the returning heroes. He pointed at the bag on the ramp. “Take this body to the morgue. Prepare it for a burial with honors.”

  They nodded and retrieved a stretcher and used it to carry Python away.

  Spooky caught Reaper’s eye as she moved to intervene. “It’s all right,” he said to her. “They’ll take care of him.”

  “Don’t think this means I don’t hate you.”

  “Hate will take you places love can’t.”

  Reaper turned away as if baffled, and wandered into the crowd.

  Spooky watched as Larry disembarked and clapped Markis’ shoulder, looming over the smaller man. Putting on his best Uncle Tom routine, he said, “You don’t call, Massah Daniel, an’ you don’t write. Look at the shit I got to go through to spend a li’l quality time wid you, now you Mistah Big.”