Kevin Anderson nodded. He briefly wondered about what Henry Daley had told him – that some people believed that they deserved to have their rights stripped away from them. Then again, by now, this generation doesn't even know that there were rights beyond what the current state gives them. “And the missiles are supposed to be in the city?”
“Yes. They intend to use their population to shield the weapons.”
Kevin winced. “And, seriously, that works? 'Oh, look, you, a foreign enemy power, are using fellow citizens, who are also our enemy, to shield your major weapons from our wrath.' Where do they get these ideas?”
The technical services man looked at him with sympathy. “Well, my boy, you'd be surprised what some politicians consider an unacceptable risk.” He turned back to the table of electronics. “As for the missiles, you’ll have Geiger counters to find them. From what we’ve seen via satellite scanning, they’re somewhere in the center city—the heavy stonework and the ambient radiation is making it difficult to be more specific.”
Kevin nodded. “Okay, once we find the target, what do we do with it?”
“The preferred option is the M22 chlorine charges.”
Blink. “Isn’t that a little excessive? Unless the missiles are deep underground, that will take out a good 200-square-yard chunk of the city.”
“True. Moira, I assume, will procure the rest of your gear, weapons, comm. units, etc.?”
Kevin smiled. “Yup.”
*
Kevin Anderson inspected the interior of the private jet, thankful that his crew could be brought along easily. The jet had been a loan from the multimillionaire Brit who was in the back of the plane, sleeping off a long night of partying.
Eric J. Beren was the perfect spy. No one could tell what his ethnicity was—his skin was dark enough to be African, but not so dark that he couldn’t be Sicilian or Indian, or Malaysian, or white with a really deep tan; his eyes were almond-shaped enough to be Chinese, but not enough that he couldn’t look Russian; his eyes were a dark obsidian. His hair was a shade no one could pin down—depending on who looked, or the light that touched it, it was either a golden brown, blonde, a dark reddish-gold, and at night, it only looked black in the darkness. Even his build was nondescript—short, slight, almost no muscle on him at all. No one realized that Eric was past fifty years old, and had been undermining foreign governments since 2060. He had been fortunate enough to be back in from the field only a week before the bombs started falling in 2090. He had spied on China only days before it had become a parking lot.
Jenna James, a tiny brunette in the back of the cabin, kept her glasses on as she peered straight down into a book. Her sharp features were almost crafted by a razor, which balanced out her almost boyish figure. She had been dressed up enough times as a boy that she could easily change from one to the other, and it made her perfect for avoiding tails.
The large, bald black fellow next to her with one gigantic, muscular arm around her slender frame was Anthony Pierce—computer programmer and head of on-site tech support.
Bruce Jones, a tall, dark and brooding type sat next to Eric. Some would say he came off the cover of a bad romance novel. He, unfortunately, looked like a combat specialist.
William Middleton was the seventh and last member of the team. He was the official demolitions expert, and carried enough explosives on him at all times that he could probably devastate a city. Middleton was also an overweight Muslim who had joined up after the last time the IRF had made noises at the United States.
“Are you going to let any of us play this time, Kevin?” he asked.
Kevin smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Of course I am, Bill. Why not? I can’t blow up the entire site by myself. You expect me to take on the entire froggy army with a sniper rifle?”
Jones shifted. “There are days I wonder, Anderson.”
“There are days we all wonder,” Jenna added in her high, girlish voice. “Kevin, when are you and Moira going to get married, leave the outfit, and leave the rest of us to do our jobs?”
Moira smiled, her full lips making the simple act seem overly sexual. “Why, Jenna, you don’t want him?”
James shook her head. “I prefer my men a little saner. If I’m already in the business, why would I want a guy who is, too? Bad enough that one of us is trying to get killed.”
“True enough,” Pierce said from next to her. The massive bodybuilder watched after her like a big brother… a really large big brother.
“So, what’s the plan?” Eric asked.
Kevin nodded. “After we establish a base, we split up. Each of us is equipped with a Geiger counter in our watches, and they'll vibrate to indicate how close we’re getting. We find the missiles and develop a plan of attack from there. Evac will depend on how cleanly we can do this and get away. We’re going in via the Chunnel. We should get out easily enough.”
Pierce frowned. “Have you guys looked at France lately? I swear the place looks more and more like a sinkhole every time I see it.”
Jones gave a sad little smile. “I know, and the place had such a romantic history.”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “I know you've been compared to Byron, but don't start.”
Jenna gave a light, girlish giggle. “He can't help it, you know that, Kevin.”
Eric Beren sighed. “He could at least try. It's depressing to reflect that France could be America right now. ”
Pierce frowned. “You have to be kidding me.”
Middleton shook his head. “Oh no, my friend, he is not.” The middle-aged Muslim leaned forward, around his gut, and looked the computer expert right in the eye. “You see, back before the April Fool's War burned away half the planet's surface, you had a large movement in America to embrace differences in other people's cultures. That is a nice idea, but this movement would embrace any differences, not just the ones that would make the country stronger. Instead, it would embrace any fringe idea in anyone's culture, no matter how contradictory it was to the idea of America, or their own ideas.”
Jenna blinked, looked at Pierce, and shrugged. “I have no idea what he means either.”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Kids, they're never taught anything these days.” He cleared his throat. “You see, you still have these groups, though they keep a much lower profile. Have you ever seen a group that might, for example, talk about how they want research to fight diseases that affect a small minority of people, but they're against testing animals to do that research?”
Middleton gave Eric a glance. “I don't think that's a good way to describe it.” He looked to the others. “Basically, the movement we're talking about wanted to embrace small fringe lifestyles – any cult that called itself a religion, homosexual marriage, a version of 'women's liberation' that was mostly anti-male – but also wanted to embrace a fringe version of Islam that was violently anti-freedom of religion, anti-homosexual, and preferred women to be subservient to men.”
“In short,” Eric added, “the Islamists currently in charge of France.”
Bruce Jones blinked. “What happened? The movement got nuked on April Fool's day?”
“In part,” Kevin answered. “After the war, what was left of the country decided to … oh, what was the phrase? Oh, yes. They decided to cling, bitterly, to their guns and their religion. Nothing like global thermonuclear devastation to bring out the religion in people.”
Chapter: 2: The Spy Who Loved Me
January 14th, 2093
Kevin had always been a fan of old movies. Even in films of 2093, Paris was a city of lights, wondrous landscapes and immaculate architecture. The reality was different. Moira had to walk down the street in a full Muslim headscarf and veil. There was also a long black robe over the rest of her body, showing a docile personality and stride … however, that part was generated by a holographic projection. Moira was a good actress, but for true authenticity, a holo-recording of the real thing could beat any acting skill.
Kevin glanced at his watch and sighe
d. “We’ve been walking around the city for the entire day, and nothing. Any ideas?”
“Yeah,” Moira said under the veil. “Let’s sit down somewhere. My feet are killing me.”
He smiled, and then looked up at the gargoyles of Notre Dame. “Well, at least it’s a tourist trap. It shouldn’t look too strange that we’re going inside.”
“I’m surprised, though. They didn’t put the missiles under here,” she said, moving for the doors. “The government isn’t exactly Catholic friendly.”
“Hey, at least they put a priest in charge who is Catholic. Then again, I think it’s for tourist value.” He chuckled. “And there’s still no abbot in Westminster Abbey. Come on, let’s get you seated.”
The power and majesty of Notre Dame had not been diminished by the fact that it had been turned mostly into a tourist attraction. The stained glass windows stretched nearly to the ceiling; the light shining through the rose window cast magnificent colors streaming throughout.
“Now this is theater,” Kevin said.
Once they sat themselves in a corner of the room, Kevin wrapped an arm around Moira. “Moira,” he said, “can we get married?”
“That was sort of the idea when I said yes to your proposal. Why, you want a reassurance every few months?”
“No, I mean now.” Kevin gestured to the priest near the altar. “We’ve got a priest, and we’ve got a forged marriage license for the trip here, so he could marry us now, under God, and we could be legitimate…if not perfectly legal.”
She poked him with her elbow. “You are such a romantic.”
“I know, ain’t it grand?”
Moira looked up at him with her deep blue eyes, and then glanced towards the priest. “You know what? It works for me.”
“I’ll bet you it’s been the first time he’s ever had someone walk up to him in a burka and asked to be married.”
“I doubt it.” She snuggled closer against his side. “Well, after we’re ‘legit’, how about we go back to our apartment?”
*
The two of them made it back to the apartment at nearly a run. They were eager to try out their new marital privileges. They burst through the door—
And nearly ran into Anthony Pierce.
They skidded to a halt as Pierce smiled down at them. “In a hurry?”
Kevin cleared his throat, and with a straight face, said, “Not really. Why, something up?”
Pierce nodded, almost giving a partial bow. “You could say that. The Senate Intelligence Committee wants updates. Lots of updates. I think they want everything except my underwear size, and that may be just because they haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
Kevin frowned thoughtfully, momentarily distracted from the reason he had been in such a rush. “That’s odd. They usually don’t want to know.”
“Yeah, well, they want to know everyone we talked to, everywhere we went, and what we might have come up with thus far.”
Kevin blinked, shook his head, and then sighed. He leaned over the nearest table, taking out his map. He grabbed a pencil, and lightly traced his route. “This is the route we traveled, and we talked only with the priest at Notre Dame … make contact with the locals, and all.”
Pierce looked from one to the other, and only raised one brow. “Sure. I’ll be certain to mark him down as just that. Local contact and all. You guys going to do anything else?”
“Long day,” Kevin said.
“Jet lag,” Moira said simultaneously.
Pierce smiled, and then turned to the computer. “I guess I better file that report. You have a good…rest.” He didn’t even watch as they sprinted away. It wouldn’t matter whose room they went into. The bedrooms were adjoining anyway.
*
Kevin slipped out of the bedroom the next morning for his early morning run, right after breakfast. He objected when Moira suggested it—he wanted more time with her. She smiled lazily at him, and said, “But you always do it, no matter what, and changing your routine would definitely get attention from the rest of them.”
He quietly shut the door after breakfast and turned, stopped by Eric Beren. The small man simply smiled and said, “You must be lost, sir…you’re coming out of the wrong room.”
Kevin blinked. “You’re absolutely right.”
Eric nodded, then moved away. Kevin swore he heard him mutter, “About time.”
Kevin shook his head, then took the stairs, calmly taking them down at a nice, even pace. This couldn’t be a bad day. They would find the nukes, take names, kick some ass, break things and kill people. What could be better?
Kevin moved out the hotel room door and breathed in the fresh spring air. Now this was great. He turned towards Notre Dame and started to run. The Cathedral was literally miles away but he could hardly help himself. He felt like he had enough energy to run all the way to Germany and back to Paris.
Which is odd, considering I should be physically exhausted after last night.
*
Moira Dalton—or maybe it should be Anderson now—had gotten up, out of bed, and armed herself in the usual manner. Two automatic Glocks at the small of her back, two wrist-launched Derringer-lasers, knives in shoulder holsters, and two more guns at her ankles. She would hold off on the hip and thigh holsters until she was wearing the full burkha and veil.
She opened her door, and found Jenna James with her hand raised, ready to knock. Moira blinked, and Jenna merely beamed. “So, how was he?”
Moira’s mouth opened, closed, and then she finally got out, “How was what?”
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Come on! You talked with a priest as a local contact? Please! You had sex with him, and Mr. Altar Boy is pretty damn serious about this no sex crap unless there’s a wedding ring involved. You gotta give me the good stuff. How was he? And how long have you two been together?”
“Why do you ask? You mean you don’t know?”
James grinned girlishly. “We’ve been taking bets. Tell me it’s since you first met. I’m a sucker for love at first sight …and I bet Eric forty bucks that it happened around then.”
*
Kevin surprised himself. He had actually managed to race all the way to Notre Dame from the suburbs. He couldn’t do much better if he tried. Kevin grinned and shook his head, slowing down for a bit. He paced himself moving up to the Cathedral doors and then stopped.
Wait, something’s wrong…don’t the bells chime out at this part of the day? Odd.
Kevin’s sense of alarm started to buzz as he cautiously moved forward. Something was seriously out of place…
Kevin stepped around a buttress, and saw the problem. The priest who had married him and Moira was dead on the sidewalk, in the shadow of the Cathedral, his throat sliced open.
Kevin turned on his communication unit and urgently spoke into his watch. “Winterborn to Hacker, come in…Winterborn to Smiley…Winterborn to Jessie, Ted, Batman, Blue Eyes, anyone, over!”
All Kevin got was static. He cursed and turned, instantly going into a sprint—
—A move that barely saved his life as a razor blade flashed at him, drawing a line of pain down the left side of his jaw.
Kevin pivoted to face his attacker squarely as the man came at him, slashing backhanded with the razor. The spy burst forward, both of his forearms up and out in front of him, at right angles to his body, and met the attacker’s arm. Kevin’s right arm came down on the man’s wrist locking it in place, the other arm wrapped around the man’s neck in a reverse-guillotine headlock, and then Kevin jerked upward sharply, breaking his attacker's neck.
He let the body fall, and he had hardly even felt the pain in his bloody jaw as the adrenaline hit his system. Someone found the priest. If they asked who he married yesterday, it could be traced straight back to the hotel…and Moira!
The spy’s sprint started again, and his legs were fueled by adrenaline and fear. He cursed again and ran for the nearest car, hotwiring it with almost no thought on his part.
And
then he moved.
Kevin pushed the car to the limit. The engine strained as he redlined it, two wheels coming off the street twice as he made sharp turns. However, every time he even considering slowing, one thought shut out everything else—Moira.
He finally turned onto the same street as their hotel, and he let the car slow a little, and tried once more on the communication channel—
—And the explosion from the missile strike ripped the air.
Kevin slammed on the brakes and skidded to a harsh stop—so harsh the tires exploded.
And there was Moira, flat on her back, in the middle of the street.
Chapter 3: Hell Hath No Fury
January 15th, 2093
Kevin held Moira in his arms as she lay on the sidewalk, bleeding from internal injuries despite her body armor. When he arrived, she was aspirating blood into her lungs. Moira had been drowning in her own fluids. Kevin’s eyes were frantic as they traveled over her body, wondering where to start, what to fix, how to save her. “Don’t worry, Mo, I’ll…” Kevin blinked rapidly, his thoughts shooting through him like bullets on automatic.
Moira suddenly reached up and deliberately grabbed his wandering hand. She gripped it so tightly it hurt. His eyes met hers. They were already glassy, but still aware.
The sound of over two-dozen laser assault rifle charging behind him barely registered. “Monsieur Anderson, you are under arrest for espionage.”
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 2
