Foiled of her ability to chain-smoke, she yanked open the door to Bella Parker’s office, brushing past the receptionist and reaching for the door to the inner office with every intent to slam it open. But she was foiled in that, as well, as the door slid smoothly open at her approach. This did not improve her temper.
Nor did the fact that Parker finished whatever she was reading and signed it, before looking up. “Commissar, so pleased you could drop in,” she said dryly. “You know the door is always open to you.”
“And you, Blue Girl. Too busy being petty bureaucrat with desk and papers as of late? I see more of Motherland here every day.”
Her attempt to administer unto the head of ECHO an equal amount of the irritation she had received since entering the doors was met with yet more frustration. “Why, Commissar, I thought that Soviet bureaucracy was the height of modern efficiency,” Bella drawled. “And actually, what I just finished signing was that requisition form for the CCCP—more of those incendiary shells your people designed and we are manufacturing. I took the liberty of doubling what you asked for, because as soon as we find the location of the Thulian HQ, I’ve always thought that ‘too much ammunition is never enough.’”
Natalya sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she wished hard for a cigarette right then. “Da, da, fine. Is good. But you bring matter to table; finding the base of operations for fascista. What efforts are being made?”
Now Bella dropped the pretense of serenity and allowed Saviour to see the strain on her face. “Every effort. The problem is we have conflicting evidence for locations, and every damn one of them is even more inaccessible than the North American HQ was. The only place we haven’t got a loc indicator for is, ironically enough, Siberia. Either you sturdy Russkis have always been damned good at keeping them out, or they were never there in the first place.” She sighed. “We’re trying to find them with satellites and spy-planes, but so far, no joy.”
“Why are you not sending physical scouting parties?” Saviour demanded.
“One—” Bella retorted, holding up a finger, “We don’t have the personnel. If we send conventional troops, that means letting the country in question know we’re wanting to go snooping, and that means a high potential for leaks. We can’t send metas because we don’t have enough. Two—” she held up a second finger, “Even if we could send metas, what happens if they just…stumble into the HQ? Then we’ve got an unholy mess on our hands, and who knows what the Thulians would do? No, our only option is to do this slowly and carefully, and I know it seems unduly cautious, but that is what all my advisors are telling me.”
“Advisors,” Natalya scoffed. “Unduly is not the word I would being using. Suicidally? Would being more fitting.” She spread her arms wide, exasperated. “Every moment we waste with over-caution is another moment enemy is having to plan, to attack, to kill. It is what they do, these ‘Kriegers’; it is all they do. We must be killing them first, and only way to do that is to devote resources to be finding them.”
“ECHO is devoting resources to finding them,” Bella retorted. “Just not boots on the ground.” She visibly throttled down anger. “Look, we know this is an HQ. We know it has to be big. Something that big leaves signs. Even if they are disguising it somehow. Stuff has to enter and leave, the place needs to generate power, there are going to be tell-tales. We just haven’t found the right ones to look for yet.”
“Signs and tell-tales you cannot find, and have not been able to find, after all of this time.” The Commissar shook her head. “The fascista must have counted on all governments of world hunting for them. Their technology is advanced, more so than almost anything known to us. So, you are thinking that spy planes and satellites, which they laugh at, are being answer? You were never fighter before Invasion, sestra. Nor part of law enforcement. When you have quarry who shuns places where there are being computers to track him, you do not keep typing into Gaggle browser to find him; you send men to places where he might being, and have them extract information from whomever they find there until you have quarry.”
“Which means you increase your chances for a leak by a hundred-fold!” Bella snapped. “Not to mention that you’ll be sending thugs to beat up perfectly innocent people in the mere hope of finding something! That’ll go over well in the press,” she added sarcastically.
Natalya snorted. “You are too soft. Press? World is close to being cinder. Would rather be vilified and alive than dead and well liked by newsman, who hate us ‘Russkies’ anyway. Let them print what they want. Results count, not opinion of soft-bodies that quiver in fear, unable and unwilling to fight for themselves.”
“Enough bad press, and ECHO gets shut down. We’ve come damn close to that already,” Bella said darkly, and shook her head. “No, it’s got to be done this way. It’s not just spy satellite photos. They have to be getting supplies from somewhere. Those supplies have to be moved somehow. They can’t act in a vacuum. We—”
“Enough!” Natalya was fed up. This was becoming circular. Didn’t her friend see that one couldn’t count on anything from the Thulians? Not that there “must be” some sign, that there “must be” anything from them. They either came from out of nowhere on the day of the Invasion, which all evidence so far contradicted…or they had been here all along, behind the scenes, waiting and preparing. If over the course of sixty years they hadn’t been detected as the world had shrunk due to the advance of technology and commerce, what would half-measures accomplish? They had leads; many contradicted each other, some of the intelligence gathered was “fresher” than other pieces. But every day they wasted in not acting, the greater the chance that the information they had would become even more dated, even more useless. That is one thing the healer didn’t, maybe couldn’t understand. “When you have stomach for what is needing doing, you know where we are.”
Without another word, the Commissar turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, door swishing closed behind her.
* * *
Natalya chain smoked in silence for the entire drive back to CCCP HQ. The more she thought about her exchange with Bella, the more furious she became. Caution! Always Caution! Never action! When had the blue girl turned into such a coward?
When they made her ECHO head, Saviour decided sourly. That should have been the moment when she seized the reins and made it clear that she was the one in charge, and it was not some democratic nonsense with advisors.
Too much plotting, and scheming, and setting up pieces quietly. It was unbecoming; it reminded Natalya too much of the machinations of politicians and bureaucrats back home in Russia. In war, you were either advancing or you were not. Their enemy had declared the entirety of Earth as the battlefield; so they had no option but to advance, to push the invaders out. And to do that they had to find the heart of the beast, and kill it.
Few nations seemed to be doing much of anything, at least openly. With the devastation of the initial Invasion, and the destruction from the almost impossible to predict “pop ups,” most were comfortable with maintaining the status quo. “Let ECHO handle it,” was the general response to attacks. Reconstruction was the word of the day. The militaries and police forces would put down individual attacks, almost always in support of the metahumans of ECHO. But it was largely viewed as “someone else’s” problem. Everywhere she looked, it seemed that people were being ruled by their fear; if they took a moment to acknowledge it, it would destroy everything they had built up around themselves, all of their mental and emotional armor. She had heard stories from her father and Boryets, even Unter once, about the Great Patriotic War, and how some people became hysterical, shutting out all reality when they couldn’t cope. Natalya felt as if the entire world were in the grips of such hysteria, and she was in the minority of the sane.
All of it enraged her, and yet stiffened her resolve.
Mamona was her driver for this trip; she sat quietly, guiding the motor pool van back to HQ through the maze of blocked streets and detours. That was
just as well; Natalya’s temper was liable to be taken out on the first thing that presented itself. She had to throttle herself just to keep from snapping at Mamona. If it had been Untermensch who was driving, she would have lashed out anyway; he was used to being her verbal whipping boy and thought no more of her outbursts than he would the wind blowing a swirl of leaves into his face. But there was no telling how Mamona would react, and Natalya did not want to alienate a useful comrade. The American, unlike her Russians, could always hand in a resignation and go to ECHO.
So she kept her temper barely in check all the way back to CCCP HQ; bit off an “efficient driving, comrade,” to the American, and stalked back to her office. Word spread quickly when she was in a temper, even more quickly now that CCCP had its own version of Overwatch Mark One. Everyone kept out of her path, and she was free to storm through the halls to her office without interference. The satisfying slam of the metal door behind her released, briefly, a very little bit of her anger.
But then she sank down into the battered chair behind her desk, and ran both hands through her hair with a tense exhalation of breath. She sat there for what seemed even to her like a very long time, breathing and thinking.
“Enough waiting,” she said aloud into the silence of the room. “Overwatch: Open Gamayun.” Am beginning to think I like witch better than Blue Girl, she thought sourly. At least witch does not sit about twiddling fingers.
“Da, Commissar,” came the prompt reply.
“Status of Molotok and Untermensch. Report.”
“Untermensch is returned from patrol, Commissar,” said the CCCP comm officer. “Molotok is inspecting machine shop.” Molotok, whom was as much of a brother to her as a comrade, was only recently returned to the USA. As their official liaison to the main branch of the CCCP back in Russia, he often spent the majority of his time there helping the transition with the Supernaut Corps that were to be the primary defense for the Motherland. She missed him, though she would never say as much, and thought that he would be better put to use here in Atlanta. Such things were out of her control, for now at least.
“Alert both to come to my office,” she said shortly. She knew Moji would be there quickly. He always came quickly when she asked for him. The two of them had almost been like brother and sister. Both of them were second-generation metahumans and Soviet heroes. Both of them had been trained by Boryets, and looked on Worker’s Champion as a second father. They had been born within a year of each other, and as children had called each other brat and sestra. And as for Untermensch, well Georgi was always reliable. Her sturdy right hand as often as not.
She was not disappointed. The firm knock on the door was followed by the door opening before she could say the word “Enter.”
Unter was first, brusque as ever in entering the room and finding his place within it. His once dark hair and mustache had both gone salt and pepper at the edges this last year; seeing as how he had fought in the Great Patriotic War, he should have looked a great deal older than the fit, early-forty-year old that he appeared to be. Once positioned, he stood at a sort of loose attention, awaiting Natalya’s prompt.
Casually, Molotok strolled in, half-grinning like the cat who had just caught the mouse. He had strong Russian features; his face was severe, but not so much that he wasn’t extremely handsome. Stark black hair, like Natalya’s, and carefree eyes, not like Natalya’s. He leaned against the wall next to the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Here we are, sestra. What do you need?”
Natalya motioned with her chin towards the door. “Close it, brat.”
Molotok reached out a long arm and closed the door. Quietly. The latch made scarcely a sound as it engaged.
“Overwatch: call Victrix. Are you there, daughter of Rasputin?”
“At your service, Commissar.” The reply came over Natalya’s link and Natalya’s alone. Moji cocked his head to one side. Unter nodded but lifted an eyebrow.
“Horosho. Please to add Moji and Untermensch.” She waited while Vickie complied. “I have just come from meetink with head of ECHO concerning finding the next Krieger HQ. I would like if all of you took time to listen to it.”
“Roger. Playing back meeting recording now.”
Moji and Unter were silent as the recording played over Unter’s implant and Moji’s headset.
Vickie switched to Russian. “This’ll be easier on all of us if we use the mother tongue, Commissar. I…I don’t often disagree with Bells, but this time I do. You’re right. You need boots on the ground. I have tried every damn detection method for this base that I have in my extensive arsenal, and yes, I used magic too. I’ve got nothing. These guys are… well ‘good’ doesn’t begin to describe it. I’m in, and I’ll keep ECHO out of the loop.” Her tone turned dry “Fortunately, you of the CCCP do not have to answer to ECHO. Or the US government.”
“Good,” Natalya had switched over to speaking Russian as well. “It will be much easier than trying to deceive you and only have you go running to tell Belladonna.” She looked at her two comrades in turn. “I propose that we begin sending reconnaissance teams out with the express purpose of uncovering the Krieger HQ. Spy planes and satellite imagery are all well and good; I will use every tool at my disposal in this war. But it is hard to do detective work thirty thousand feet above the ground. We need our people out there; we should have them out there already.”
“Suggestion, Commissar.”
“Yes, speak.”
“You have possession of the Tesla quantator, and you are authorized to use it. Go excoriate Tesla, Marconi or both. They might just cough up information to you that they are withholding from ECHO. We sent them bucketloads of intel I pulled off the Thulian computers, and we’ve gotten dribbles back. I think they might be holding out on us. Or…well you know how they are about only sending us what they are certain of. Rather than holding out on us, perhaps all they have is ‘maybe the base is here or here, or here.’ Methinks ‘maybes’ are enough to start a hunt right now.”
This was turning out better than she had expected; if they hadn’t had Vickie working with them, the series of operations that Natalya was planning on undertaking would have been…much more difficult, almost impossible to conceal, potentially. With her, especially with her Overwatch system, things would run much more smoothly.
“Once I have spoken with Tesla and Marconi, we will begin to draw up the general framework for these missions. I will need both of you to leverage your personnel and,” she said, looking at Moji, “any influence you may have in the Motherland, still. We will be conducting covert operations, likely on foreign soil, and this is not apt to make us popular.” She grinned wolfishly.
“I’m giving this op a codename so you can get my attention in a heartbeat. I’m coding Overwatch for it now. Just say ‘Red Star,’ and nothing else, and you’ll have my ears and help in seconds, even if I’m asleep. It’ll give me a priority alert and a direct feed.”
“Good. Do any of you have any questions before I talk to the ghosts of two dead men?”
Molotok stepped forward, holding up a finger. “Just one; when we find these bastards and line them up against the wall, can I be the first to start shooting?”
* * *
The transport plane that John, Sera, Untermensch and Molotok were flying on was nothing short of a death trap. It was some variant of the Antonov AN-12. Originally produced in 1959, this thing looked like it had to have been one of the first ones off the assembly line, it was so ancient. The cramped storage hold barely had enough room for the team to wedge themselves into sitting positions; the rest of the space was filled with various crates and boxes, and incongruously, a brand new BMW. Besides the seating conditions, the plane itself was hardly what anyone could consider airworthy; various fluids leaked from seals and pipes, the interior lights had a tendency to flicker for seemingly inscrutable reasons, and John swore that he saw what looked like a Russian stop sign sloppily welded over a hole in the deck. Not to mention
the multiple empty bottles of alcohol that served as glass tumbleweeds, rolling around between the crates.
“Darlin’, remind me to book first-class next time; flyin’ coach is for suckers.”
Sera smiled at him. That smile warmed him deep inside and somehow calmed him at the same time. “Perhaps we could sit in the automobile?”
Molotok leaned over, grinning. “Would not advise to be doing that, dorogoy. Gypsy bastard flying this tub would likely shoot. Or crash plane.” He glanced around looking at the plane. “On second thoughts, he may be doing that anyway.”
Sera turned her intensely blue eyes on the Russian. “In that case, would you care to take the chance, after all?”
Molotok settled back in his seat, shrugging. John had only had a brief look at their pilot. Disheveled, furrowed face, slightly grayish complexion, clothing that looked as if he had slept in it for the past month, scraggly stubble and the stink of cheap vodka, body odor, and engine grease completed the picture. He had gotten part of the story about the pilot from Unter before takeoff. His name was Vadim Barsukov; a notorious drunk, he had been kicked out of Russia’s air force before he had graduated from the academy. He quickly fell in with gangsters, and eventually parlayed his meager flight skills into a semi-successful smuggling and gun running operation. That is, until the Commissar caught him. Apparently he had ratted out all of his close associates for a reduced sentence, and had somehow managed to survive prison in spite of being a rat. John suspected that the Commissar might have had something to do with that, but he and Unter could only speculate. In any case, the man was smuggling them into India to check on one of the leads that Natalya had…convinced Tesla and Marconi to cough up. This was their second such mission together for that purpose; several other CCCP teams had already been similarly dispatched.
Collision: Book Four in the Secret World Chronicle - eARC Page 36
