The Eldridge Roster

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “Perhaps the opposite also applies?” suggested the Russian. Schmidla’s expression gave him no hints. “If so, at least I can strip your fascist brethren of the ability to create a race of monsters.”

  “You’d approve if they were Russian monsters.”

  “After what I’ve seen here? No.” He shook his head. He’d thought hard about it, making his way down into the fort. Lokransky had one pure, undiluted passion left in his weary, twisted soul—to see Russia risen from the ashes of her defeat, striding across the globe, proud and strong. And he, Anton Lokransky, could grant her that resurrection. And yet he knew now it would’ve been a bad gift, a demon set loose, devouring all in its path, starting with Russia.

  “You’d create beings of such power that no one could long control them—not you, not us,” he said. “They’d kill us all. It ends here,” he said, putting a burst into the attaché case and shattering the CD’s.

  “This is long overdue,” he said, centering still-smoking muzzle to Schmidla.

  “Stop!” cried a voice.

  Lokransky turned.

  Musashi stood there, machine pistol leveled. “Safety your weapon and slowly lay it down, Colonel.”

  Lokransky obeyed, his eyes never leaving Musashi’s.

  “Go, Schmidla,” said the Japanese.

  Schmidla and Lokransky were equally astonished. “Are you mad?!” cried Lokransky. “He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “Oh? And what are you?” asked Musashi.

  “Nothing like him. He’s the most dangerous man on this planet!”

  “Who are you?” asked Schmidla. “Certainly not Mr. Kim of the high construction quotes and the comedic English.”

  “You need to go now,” said Musashi, watching Lokransky.

  “Whoever you are,” said Schmidla, “I hold you responsible for Maria’s sudden enlightenment. But where did you get those photos? All of her family memorabilia was destroyed years ago, when I acquired her.”

  “The answer will occur to you. Given what you already know, it’s very simple. Go, now!” repeated Musashi, “Or join Whitsun in hell.”

  Schmidla turned and ran, slowing only at the turn in the corridor to pitch the hand grenade he’d taken from a dead Spesnatz.

  “Idiot!” snapped Lokransky as he and Musashi lunged toward the safety of the vault. Clattering toward them, the grenade exploded, bringing down part of the old ceiling, half burying their bodies beneath a mound of ancient brick and mortar.

  Uncovering his ears, The Good Doctor smiled and resumed his jog to the cove. The loss of the CDs was inconvenient but not disastrous. He’d long ago backed up the information on a European Internet site—something only he knew. But it would be disastrous if he didn’t escape to retrieve that information and place it in the right hands.

  Chapter 30

  Angie sat in a chair, hands folded in her lap, eyes distant, trying to understand who she was, what she was and what she was becoming. Or had she already become that, she wondered? Whatever it was? God, I’m so confused, she thought, missing for a moment the sure and certain Naval officer she’d been, the one who always knew where she was going, who’d deluded herself into believing she’d left behind the strange and fearsome things that happened around her. In denying my Potential, have I denied myself? she wondered.

  So far, she’d been afraid to probe her new gestalt, the hugely expanded Potential gifted her through the transference with Kaeko and Tim. But she felt it out there at the periphery of her consciousness, deep, quivering with power, waiting for her. She knew she’d eventually reach out and... what?

  “We’re needed,” said Kaeko, setting down the fruit juice she’d been sipping. The three Potentials were alone in the operations room. Two Rangers patrolled the corridor outside.

  “Needed?” said Tim, leaning against the wall near the door. “So we are.”

  “Angie,” said Kaeko.

  Angie looked up, surprised.

  “Hi,” smiled Kaeko.

  “Hi,” said Angie. “Just woolgathering.”

  “There’s a problem,” said Kaeko. “Look.”

  They looked, following where her mind led.

  Musashi felt lighter, an oppressive weight gone. Something soft was pressing on his forehead. Opening his eyes, the blurs about him resolved into Jim, Dee and Billy, hovering concernedly over him. Dee had tucked her jacket under his head and was holding a bandage to his forehead. “Hey,” she said with a relieved smile.

  “Hey,” he said, sitting up. He gasped as pain split his head. “Lokransky?” he asked.

  “You were the only one here,” said Jim. He held up a finger. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Musashi blinked. “One or more.” There was a ringing in his ears but the headache had eased.

  “Tennu!”

  “One.” He tried to rise and his head exploded. Dee caught him as he slumped back. “Lokransky was here and about to kill Schmidla. I helped Schmidla get away. He thanked me by tossing back a concussion grenade.”

  “The Good Doctor isn’t much on gratitude,” said Billy.

  Schmidla’s wars were long past – he didn’t know that a modern fragmentation grenade had a spheroid shape or that a concussion grenade was cylindrical. The latter was also deadly in confined spaces, having eight ounces of TNT and capable of leveling walls and men within its several meter blast radius. As the one nearest the explosion, Tennu was lucky to be alive.

  “We must get Lokransky before he gets Schmidla,” said Musashi, trying to rise again.

  “You’re going to be checked out by the Army medics,” said Jim as Dee restrained Musashi. “You may have a concussion. Billy and Dee will get you there,” he said. “I’m going after Schmidla.”

  “The Black Brigade has medics?” said Musashi as Billy and Dee helped him to his feet. “I thought they just killed everyone.”

  “Not their own people,” said Billy. “Usually.”

  “Such a small circle of compassion,” said Musashi, taking a tentative step, then grabbing on to Jim, too dizzy to walk. “I’m no use to you right now.” Leaning on Billy with one hand, he untied his sword with the other and passed it to a surprised Jim. “Take care of this for me, please.”

  “You trust me with your katana?” said Jim, surprised and touched.

  “Of course,” said Musashi, resting his other hand on Dee’s shoulder.

  Jim turned the elegant weapon over in his hands. A pair of delicately-wrought honeybees hung from the sheath. The handle was wrapped in a coarse yellow material – the traditional shark skin. He drew the blade with an ease that surprised him—and Tennu.

  “You know this weapon!”

  “Emma taught me. She was a kendo and iaido fanatic.” Jim examined the finely-wrought blade and then slid it back home. “Her father’s family had a beautiful old katana like this—not that I was ever allowed to touch it.”

  “Its name is Kabuto Wari—Helmet Crasher,” said Musashi. “It was made for my many-times great-grandfather in the 11th century. It’s never lost a fight, never been sheathed in disgrace. Keep it well for me and if you use it, use it with honor. Now go get Lokransky.”

  Anton Lokransky limped to a stop at a fork in the passageway. The blast and the falling debris had injured his right knee and left a still-bleeding gash in his scalp. He’d lost his pistol in the explosion. No matter—his knife would do to gut one old fascist pig.

  Ignoring the pain, he focused on Schmidla’s probable escape route. The air space over the island would be impossible—the sea was Schmidla’s only chance, the mainland but a few miles away. Reaching it, he’d disappear. As will I, thought Lokransky, thinking of that GRU safehouse in Boston.

  The fort’s two old corridors looked identical: granite-floored with red-bricked walls and ceilings. The incandescent bulbs strung along the ceiling by Kim Construction were the only recent addition. One corridor branched right, the other left.

  Lokransky sniffed the air of each corridor in turn. Left, he decided, fol
lowing the sea air.

  “When will we be executing the rest of our orders, Mr. Kessler?” Colonel Caddock called above the sound of the helicopters. Two of the big Hueys were lifting off, ferrying the last of the dead Spesnatz to a crematorium somewhere further south, their ashes destined for a night drop over the Atlantic. All across the island, the Rangers were collecting weapons and equipment, placing them in the center of the field in front of a still-intact Hull House.

  “When I say so, Colonel,” said Kessler, watching the choppers move off low and fast over the dark water.

  The two men stood on the steps of the hospital, the cleanup winding down around them.

  “Soon?”

  “If you think I’m not doing my job, Colonel, get on your phone to Rourke.” Caddock’s deep brown eyes with their dark reminded Kessler of a basset hound.

  “No need for that,” said Caddock. Yet, he added to himself as Kessler turned and went back inside.

  “It would be easier if you went and got the medics,” said Musashi. The doors to the main hospital were in sight.

  Billy and Dee exchanged glances. They’d half carried, half dragged Tennu this far—progress had slowed.

  “Ok,” said Billy. They eased him down against the wall, Dee joining him. “Keep this,” said the CIA officer, giving him his pistol. “I’ll be right back.” He walked quickly toward the hospital.

  “How are you doing?” asked Dee after a moment.

  “I’ve felt better,” said Musashi. His head was still pounding, but the dizziness was passing. “Dee...” he began, then stopped. What could he say? Nothing. The only way to change things—maybe—was to leave with her right now. Disappear with her into some melting pot like Hawaii. Run from destiny, forsake the fight and surrender the future. No, of course not. Duty. Gimu—the highest obligation. The greater good. But she was so nice and so alive and she really liked him. Above all, despite her powers and insight, there was an innocence to her, a purity like that of some Bronze Age priestess-seer.

  “Yes?” she said after a moment, puzzled.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  A few minutes behind Lokransky, Jim stood where the corridor divided. The way to the smugglers grotto and Schmidla’s path lay to the right. A trail of blood led to the left.

  The passageway ended at a flight of granite stairs that curved up. Does one go up to go down to the beach? thought the Russian. Maybe. Hobbling up the stairs, he stepped through a doorway and saw where he was: one of his observation posts atop the fort’s eastern wall. The bodies of two of his men lay just outside the parapet, along the cliff top that formed a natural extension to the fortifications. Ripped apart by aerial cannon fire, the two Spesnatz lay amid their equipment, a tangle of limbs and weapons.

  The sun was just coming up, light enough for him to see the patrolling warships and the helicopters over and around the island. The hospital compound was a scene of purposeful activity, the Black Brigade cleaning up after itself with practiced efficiency.

  Down to the right Lokransky saw a cove, partially hidden by the cliff, a sleek motorboat holding station against the tide. Cursing, he was turning back to the stairs when his eye was caught by the scoped rifle protruding from beneath a body. Rolling the dead Spesnatz over, he took the weapon. It was a silencer-fitted U.S. Army M24 SWS, one of the world’s best sniper rifles. Working the bolt, he ejected then reloaded the five .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. Setting the bipod atop the wall, he centered the crosshair on the blue uniformed figure at the boat’s controls, but the distance and the movement of the craft made it impossible to hold an accurate bead. Slipping over the parapet, he moved along the cliff top to find a better position.

  Billy was soon back, accompanied by two medics with a stretcher. “I’m going to find Jimbo,” he said as soon as Tennu was rolling toward the hospital. Reclaiming his pistol, he retraced his steps into the fort.

  Dee followed toward the hospital doors, only to freeze at the sudden dry serpent’s tongue flicking through her mind. It was gone as quickly as it came. An alien sensation, it left her feeling violated, afraid and strangely excited. She reached for the door and the tenuous safety of the warm corridor beyond, then let her hand drop. She had to know.

  Gingerly reaching out, she located the source of the probe and began retracing her steps.

  Chapter 31

  Jim stepped out onto the parapet and stopped at the sight of the two dead Spesnatz. Looking up, he saw Lokransky moving quickly along the boulder-strewn cliff top, rifle in hand. Dropping over the parapet, Jim followed.

  Dee went down into the old smugglers grotto and out onto the beach. A sullen red sun rose above a line of low, gray clouds. The tide, full when they’d arrived, had turned and retreated, exposing a broad reach of stone and sand. The Zodiac was still there, half-hidden behind the boulders. The Merri-Lee was gone.

  A boat with State Police markings lay just offshore, engines running low.

  She saw the smoke first, curling from behind a tumble of boulders, then he stepped out, cigarette in hand. He wore a blue woolen turtleneck sweater, faded jeans and black sneakers. An automatic pistol was belted to his waist, riding high in a trim black leather holster. His Federal ID hung on a cord around his neck, its top clipped to the collar of his sweater.

  Waiting, yes, she felt as he walked toward her. Definitely waiting. For her? No. For someone else.

  “Hello, Dee,” he said, dropping the cigarette and crushing it. “I’ve never met one of you before. You’re so very different. So vulnerable. You just emote everywhere,” he laughed, shaking his head.

  Even this close, she couldn’t read his thoughts. He remained a cold point of light in her mind’s eye, still the odd compact anomaly that had drawn her attention back in the corridor. Only when he’d scanned her, there in the tunnel, had she caught just the briefest glimpse of What he was. She knew that were she a sensible woman, possessed of an ounce of self-preservation, she’d have bolted the island at the first touch of that effortlessly invasive probe, a mouse fleeing a viper. But Dee had never been sensible—sensible people don’t become potters. And now, close up, perceiving him with all her senses, she found herself drawn to his cold, remorseless perfection. She stood there, unmoving, not so much looking at a man as mesmerized by a beautiful, deadly serpent.

  “What are you?” she asked.

  “Just a messenger,” he said, looking beyond her to the cave entrance, then back. “Seeing that something gets to where it must go.” He glanced at his watch. “Right on time.”

  The sound of running footsteps and then Schmidla emerged from the cave, pistol in hand, breathing hard, his face flushed. He stopped at the sight of the two figures on the beach. “You!” he exclaimed to the man. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, suspiciously raising his pistol.

  “Seeing to your escape,” said the man, turning to wave to the waiting police boat. “And you know your pistol’s broken.”

  The helmsman throttled up, moving quickly toward the shore. “The boat will take you to the airport, Doctor. Leave the pistol here—metal detectors can be embarrassing.”

  “It’s not the boat I was expecting,” said Schmidla, dropping the pistol.

  “Your boat was waved off by the Coast Guard. I arranged for this one. You’ll get to Europe today.”

  “Why is the CIA doing this?” asked Schmidla, confused.

  “Not the Agency. Me,” said Harry Rourke. “Be glad I’m here. You’d never realize your life’s dream if I weren’t.”

  “You’re not from here, are you?” asked Schmidla with sudden insight as the boat came into the shallows, slowing. “Neither you nor the Japanese are.”

  “That’s the only thing Musashi and I have in common. You’ve only a few minutes before Beauchamp gets here,” said Rourke. “Get in the boat.”

  “Not until I know what happens to my project,” said Schmidla adamantly, a determined set to his mouth. “You have some insight. Share it with me, or I don’t move.”

  There w
as nothing to be gained by denying him and everything to lose. “You’re project succeeds, Dr. von Kemnitz,” he said. “The children that are created will be everything that you hoped. Where I’m from, your vision is being fulfilled by what you named Homo Supernus. But it won’t be if you don’t get into that boat.” He glanced at his watch. “Now!”

  Yes, much better, thought Lokransky, dropping to the ground on the cliff’s edge. Now he could see all of the cove and the three figures on the beach. Looking through the sniper scope, he recognized Schmidla. And though there was a nagging familiarity to the other man, he couldn’t place him. The woman he didn’t know.

  The boat was moving quickly toward shore. Time to get to work. Setting the rifle atop a rock, he chambered a round and zeroed in on Schmidla, now talking animatedly with the other man at water’s edge, centering the crosshairs on that neatly coiffured head, source of so much misery.

  Jim stepped from the cover of the rocks. Lokransky was a few meters away, hunched over his rifle. Bringing the Vektor’s muzzle to bear, Jim pulled the trigger. Nothing. Jammed.

  Sensing a presence, Lokransky whipped about, bringing the rifle up as Jim rushed him, knocking the rifle aside as it fired with a faint pop.

  The Russian brought the butt around, knocking the Vektor from Jim’s hand. He chambered another round as Jim brought the katana out, up and down, neatly severing Lokransky’s left arm at the shoulder.

  The Russian stood stunned, staring in shock at his severed limb, blood spurting from his shoulder. Raising the katana two-handed above his head, Jim brought it down in a graceful flowing movement. The ancient blade moved smoothly through Lokransky’s neck. The Russian’s body collapsed as his head rolled over the cliff.

  Jim cleaned the katana as Tennu had done, whipping away the blood by spinning the blade around and down in a classic chiburi movement, then sheathed it gently back into its saya. Only then did he feel the burning pain in his shoulder and the fresh blood sopping his torn shirt.