Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  “All food on ECHO campuses is sourced locally,” she supplied smoothly on his channel. “It’s too expensive to ship food.”

  “ECHO is not to being waste money shipping food they can get at same price locally,” Georgi growled. “You are too used to thinkink America is like Siberia. Food is everywhere, here.”

  The Bear stroked his chin, considering their words. “There is wisdom in this, I suppose.” He gave one last sorrowful look at the commissary crates, and then clunked over to sit in his jump seat. “How long are we to fly?” He looked up in the air, perhaps expecting Vickie to materialize in front of him.

  “Your flight time is two hours, seventeen minutes,” she replied on the open channel. “You’ll be landing at general aviation, cargo, not the passenger terminal. Transport will be ready and waiting offloaded from this plane, CCCP van with a GPS set run by me to guide you to where you will set up a temporary HQ.” She paused. “I’ve already arranged for a grocery delivery, Bear. You won’t starve.”

  “Good. This bear hates fighting on an empty stomach; had enough of tastings for it in Great Patriotic War.” The Bear nodded solemnly.

  “You’ve made up for it since, Old Bear. With how much we spend on food for you, we could feed a battalion. I’ve heard mention of the Commissar drawing up orders for you to go…on a diet.” Untermensch grinned cruelly, and Mamona smothered giggles.

  Pavel blanched. “Schto?” He shook his head, throwing his hands up in resignation. “I be doing as ordered, as always. Commissar knows a sturdy bear when she sees one.” The wizened Russian leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees with an audible clank. “Speaking of Commissars and the judgments they are to be having…what do you make of the American as a team leader?”

  “He was a Sergeant in the US Army,” Vickie supplied. “Got buckets of experience at it.”

  “Da, da, but Amercanski way of war is different from ours, from Soviet perfection.” Vickie figured at this point he was actually looking to Untermensch for his answers, so she kept her lip zipped. After all, Unter had been on the same teams as JM on more than a few incidents, including the one where they extracted Bella and her ECHO squad from Rebs with rocket launchers. It had ended up being a trap, however; meant for ECHO rather than CCCP, but the Thulian metahuman Ubermensch had taken full advantage of CCCP’s appearance. Both CCCP and ECHO had taken casualties and fatalities. One of them had almost been Red Saviour herself. Vickie still wasn’t certain how Bella had managed to save the Commissar. You just didn’t normally survive having a building dropped on you unless you were someone like Bulwark or Chug.

  “He has fought well enough, to date. So we are to be seeing how he does in command.” Untermensch leaned back in his seat, stretching as he did so. “Worst thing that can be happening is that we die.”

  “Oh. Well, when is put that way, is not so risky, nyet?” Amazingly, the Bear actually seemed to mean what he said. He was possessed of an odd sort of fatalism; so long as he did his job the way he was supposed to—which was a very subjective thing for him, admittedly—he was perfectly happy to accept anything that came his way. “One can’t trust fire throwers too much, though. They are to being apt to burn themselves as they are to be being burning others.”

  “You’re prejudiced. Besides, Supernaut was a fool and a blowhard. Murdock has not shown to be either. So far.” Unter actually hadn’t put any criticism in that statement…which for him, was praise. Huh. Guess all that shite in my analysis and intel report didn’t rattle his cage. She’d kept it all cut-and-dried, just reporting what she’d decoded from The Project; his training, capabilities…actually pretty much verbatim what was in the Project reports.

  “Hmph. Comrade Mamona, you are also being Amerikanski. What is your take on our soon-to-be team leader?” Bear was stroking his chin again. Unter strapped himself in as the jet engines ramped up, and raised an eyebrow at the American.

  “I like ’im. ’f it hadn’t been fer him an’ that angel, my hood’d be in a world’a hurt right now.” Mamona nodded decisively. “’E managed t’get everyone workin’ t’gether, and kicked most of the assholes out. The assholes that stayed, well, they ain’t operatin’ on our turf no more.”

  “You’re all big boys and girls,” came the pilot over the intercom. “And I don’t have a flight attendant to make sure you’re strapped in. We’re going to take off hot because this is a big, heavy bird and I don’t have a lot of runway, so if you haven’t already battened down the hatches, too bad, you can tend your own boo-boos. Captain out.”

  “He means it,” Vickie warned them. And the plane began accelerating.

  Pavel cleared his throat as everyone made their final preparations. “I am having one final question as to Comrade Murdock’s sturdiness. Then I shall be satisfied.”

  Untermensch sighed. “What is it, old Bear?”

  “He can fight, and can be seeming to lead, both qualities I expect from any Russian…but can he be drinking like one of us?”

  Georgi guffawed. “No one can drink like you, old Bear. Not even alcoholic Cossack.”

  * * *

  The ride to the motel had been…interesting. After much objection from the Bear, Unter had overridden his insistence that he drive, and installed Mamona in the driver’s seat of the van. Vickie had seen to it that there were actual gym bags with actual fencing equipment in them, and athletic clothing in red and white that would pass for uniforms; Bear’s was oversized to accommodate his frame. After exploring the contents of his bag and being forcibly restrained from waving the fencing saber around while Mamona was trying to drive, the Bear was mollified to discover—yes—a couple cans of ravioli and a fork tucked into a corner. After that, he was content to make comments about Mamona’s driving with his mouth full.

  Mamona wasn’t the world’s best driver, but she did respond fairly well to Vickie’s directions, and they managed to arrive at the motel without incident, and without anyone’s eye being poked out.

  “You must be aggressive, comrade! Don’t letting every car push you around!” Bear was gesticulating with his fork, speaking around another mouthful of ravioli. “If you let one dog push you around, others will be coming sniffing.”

  “That makes no sense, Old Bear. Quit stuffing your face and grab the bags.”

  “Suite 122, Comrades,” Vickie said. “Townhouse, one down, three up, Murdock is waiting at the door.” I am going to be glad to get these cats herded up and let JM take over. Bear is worse than ten two year olds on a sugar rush.

  Just as Vickie had said, John was waiting in the doorway; he had his arms crossed, and was leaning lazily against the frame. “Right on time. Y’all got everything outta the van?”

  “Da. All of our gear, including a case of ravioli and enough vodka to drown a moose. Hopefully, it’ll be just enough to shut up a grousing bear.” Unter shouldered his gym bags into the townhouse as Murdock stood aside.

  “Ah. That’ll explain the six cases of ravioli Overwatch had delivered. Privyet, Pavel. Ya ain’t gonna starve.” Vickie floated the eye in through the corner of the doorframe and made it visible.

  “Hiya Johnny,” she said, using the tiny speaker in the eye.

  “Creepy. Welcome to the party.” John stood aside and motioned for the others. “Get everything stacked in there and get settled in. Rest up; we go in tomorrow on our first pass at the target.”

  “Before you ask, I can’t get these things too far from you guys before I lose signal,” she told him. “So no insertion to your target. Working on improvements.”

  “S’alright, Vic. I like having actual eyes on an asset before committing, anyways.” He frowned. “Erm, I mean real eyes. Not black magic thingies. No offense.”

  OK don’t undermine the man. “Not black magic, just magic, and mostly tech,” she said in his ear. “I don’t do black magic, it’s very much against the code.”

  “Got it. And thanks.” John closed the door after all of the team and their gear had passed him. “Get fed and bedded down.
Who’s on first watch?”

  “I will take the honor, tovarisch.” Bear immediately plopped down into the single lounge chair, a can of ravioli and a jug of vodka in hand.

  “Alright. Unter, keep him sober for the watch; we’ll drain the vodka after we get outta this alive, but not before. Got it?” John gave Unter an assessing look.

  “Bear needs a fair amount to function, Comrade,” Unter cautioned, and shrugged. “A sober Bear is an ugly creature.”

  “Understood; but you’re gonna keep him in hand. We’ve all worked together before, so let’s make this easy on everyone. Da?”

  Untermensch sketched a salute, but as near as Vickie could tell, he seemed pleased. “I am hearing you, comrades,” Bear grumbled from his seat. “Ears are not being defective, you know.”

  “Excellent. That means y’can keep the volume down on the tube. Sack time for me, y’all. I just spent the better part’a the day securing this joint.” He nodded at Vickie’s eye. “Overwatch ain’t exactly got hands.” Murdock was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, leaving the others to finish getting food and settling in.

  “I will to be sharing room with Comrade Mamona,” Bear piped up during a commercial break in whatever soap opera he had tuned in to.

  Mamona opened her mouth, glanced at Unter, and shut it.

  “You will be taking room on the left upstairs,” Unter said firmly. “Mamona will be in the right. I will be in the middle. Doors will be left open.”

  Bear actually turned around to look at Georgi. “Are you implying something, comrade?” he said in Russian.

  Georgi replied in Russian. “Yes. I’m implying that I don’t want you to imply Comrade Mamona, you rotten lecher.” Unter glared at him. Mamona looked from one to the other, lost.

  “Imply her, comrade?” Bear guffawed. “I hardly even know her!”

  Georgi groaned. “Borze moi, it’s going to be a long mission.”

  Firefight

  Mercedes Lackey and Cody Martin

  John had changed hotels after the last operation’s debriefing; Vickie had pointed out that it wouldn’t do to stick around long enough for folks to start to get to know his face. Besides, he needed a bigger room; he had some guests from Atlanta coming in to help him with the next job. One of those “extended stay” places seemed about right for the size of the group, and it came with a kitchen, which meant no obvious Russians in restaurants. He wanted everyone in the same place too; no running around between motel rooms to attract attention. After the Commissar and Bella had finished analyzing the intelligence that Vickie had downloaded from the Thulian base, they had quickly found that there was another site of tactical significance not very far from John’s current location. So, it had now become his job to organize the team, prepare them, and then get on with another operation.

  It had taken three days for everyone back at HQ to get their ducks in a row. Soviet Bear, Untermensch, and the American girl Mamona had come to Kansas the same way John had, unregistered passengers aboard an ECHO transport plane. All three had come wired with Vickie’s rig. And all three had brought more supplies, including, this time, another beat-up van that looked like it had barely survived an encounter with Chug, and had a V8 engine that purred like a contented cat. It was the old van he’d nursed back from that swamp in Georgia, with a much beefed up motor and suspension. Once they had found his hotel, John wasted no time in getting everyone bedded down; after the trip they had made, getting a night’s rest would serve them better than jumping straight to work. The only one that didn’t sleep was Old Man Bear, but he never slept; he volunteered to stand watch for the night, which was just as well.

  John had become accustomed to waking up early without an alarm, and busied himself with making a light breakfast for everyone in the built-in kitchen for the room.

  “Damn, it cooks too. You’re gonna make someone a fine wife.” Evidently Vickie got up early too. The voice in his ear sounded entirely too chipper.

  “You’re gettin’ unplugged, next one of those.”

  “In fifteen minutes there’s going to be a knock at the door. It’ll be the grocery delivery that comes with the room. I took care of it and it’s paid for. Now do you love me? He brings more coffee.”

  “It’s a start.” John finished cooking breakfast, woke everyone up, and received the grocery delivery while the rest of his comrades went about their morning routines. Once everyone was showered—except for Bear, who just needed a 10,000 mile check-up and a light dusting now and again—and fed, John started going over the particulars for their mission.

  “Glad to see everyone survived the night.”

  “Could have done better with good bottle of cheap vodka,” grumbled Bear, over a bowl of the canned ravioli that was all he ever seemed to eat.

  “We make do, tovarisch.” Unter was sitting next to Pavel on the bed, his arms folded in front of his chest.

  “Beats the roach-coaches I’ve been in,” Mamona said, then shrugged.

  John retrieved a small dry-erase board from one of his duffel bags. “Alright, listen up, folks. Based upon intel we received recently, we’ve got another Thulian target to go after.” He coughed into his hand, clearing some of the cobwebs from his chest. “It’s suspected that there’s a shippin’ depot in Kansas City that might be a Thulian interest. I say suspected because the information we have is partial, due to some…er, complications durin’ the retrieval of this info.”

  Bear was the first to pipe up. “What are we supposed to do with this information then, comrade?”

  “Simple. We scope out the depot, report back any Thulian presence, and then pendin’ a go-order from the Commissar, raid it.”

  “Any support?” Unter had leaned forward, listening intently.

  “Just Vickie on the comm an’ each other, I’m afraid. She’ll work on getting building plans for the area, as well as anything else pertinent to the operation. Anyways, we’ll watch the warehouse for a few days, try an’ feel out anything that’s going on. We’ve got all sorts of techno-wizardry to help us, which you were briefed on ’fore y’left Atlanta. Once surveillance is complete, we figure out where to go from there. Questions?” There were none; the Commissar had seen to it that everyone knew as much as possible before they arrived, which wasn’t very characteristic of her.

  “Now for the boring part.”

  * * *

  “And I am not gettink to show anyone my lunge,” Old Bear complained, miming what he probably supposed was a sword attack. “Not even at United Hut of Pancakes.”

  “Is International House of Waffles, dotard.” Unter and Bear were both on stake-out duty, and after seven hours in the cramped conditions of the van, Bear’s manner was beginning to wear on his comrade.

  “Same difference. My English is perfect; jealousy does not become you, friend.”

  “Bah. Tikho, Staryj Medved. Shut up, Old Bear.” Unter slumped down in the seat with his arms crossed. But his attitude of apparent inattention was just that—apparent. “Nasrat.” He didn’t so much as twitch, but Bear’s attention was immediately transferred to the place Unter’s eyes were glued.

  “Poihol. What is Delex truck doing here? Is not Europe.”

  “Damn good question,” Vickie said into their ears as the foreign courier truck backed into the warehouse. “According to everything I just pulled up, that truck should be making a delivery in the Czech Republic right now.”

  “Record and report it. This may be break we are lookink for.”

  * * *

  Fifteen hours later, the team was briefed, prepped, and given the go-code by Natalya. Vickie had downloaded them the proper files regarding the building layout, as well as police patrol paths, radio frequencies, and a score of other bits of information.

  There had been a slight hiccup in the planning, however; the warehouse was guarded by night security; plain old rent-a-cops. This complicated things, because it meant discretion needed to be used at the outset. The CCCP wasn’t out to hurt regular folk, and
John certainly wasn’t bloodthirsty enough to take out a couple of regular Joes pulling in a paycheck. After consulting with the team, John had had a flash of inspiration.

  The two guards were situated in a small gatehouse booth. They spent most of their time listening to sportscasts on the radio, playing cards, or sneaking the odd drink when the traffic to the warehouse was low. The company that had contracted their security firm kept odd hours, but mostly kept to themselves. Workers and trucks, loading and unloading whatever they stored at the building. It didn’t really concern the guards, so they never really cared to ask.

  They were both debating the merits of redheads versus blonds when they heard a terrible keening noise in the distance. A drunk came stumbling around the corner of the building to their right, belting out a truly horrible song that neither of them could recognize. As he came closer, the older guard stepped out of the booth to confront the man and send him on his way; he continued staggering forward, and the guard could smell cheap whiskey on the man’s dirty poncho from a good distance away. “Alright, buddy, take it home, or wherever you come from.”

  “But, mistah, y’sure y’don’t got some change fer a vet’ran?” The man tripped over his own feet, lurching forward into the guard. The guard caught him, gasped, and then sank to the ground, unconscious. Just as the second security guard saw the glint of a needle in the drunk’s hand, his entire body locked up. Suddenly, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and was barely able to breathe. Every muscle had gone rigid, and he felt himself topple helplessly over sideways, stiff as a log, into the side of the little guard shack. There he lodged, like a mannequin. He watched with wide eyes as the stranger, obviously not drunk at all, strolled up with a needle in his hand.

  “Sorry, fella,” the man murmured as he bent down. There was a sting, and then there was sleep.

  “They’re down. Unter, bring the team up.” The battered van across the road from the warehouse opened up, three figures dressed in nondescript coveralls exiting. John nodded to Mamona as she came to a stop in front of him; her powers did something weird to a person’s nervous system. It’s what they’d used to shut down the second guard long enough for John to stick him with the knockout drug they’d been supplied with. “Get ’em both set in the guard booth, and shut the door. We breach the service door in 2.”