by Allan Burd
“What makes you say that?” said David curiously.
“She exudes confidence—solid poise, perfect posture, very professional. Around so many, excuse the phrase, crude gentlemen, most women would appear less at ease.”
“She’s much more capable than most women,” countered David.
“Yes, but it’s more than that. Every once in a while she lets slip a slight smile. Not the usual friendly type smile, but just a slight rise on the left side of her lip. Enough to cause her dimples to show for a split second. It’s like she knows a secret that no one else can be let in on,” Le Buc said thoughtfully, while resting his index finger on his upper lip.
David admired the man. He didn’t miss much. That’s why David chose him for this mission. “Yeah, she knows. She’s our life line. She’ll communicate our status to Smythe. If anything goes wrong, we tell her and she’ll call for backup.”
“Wouldn’t satellite transmission be more efficient?” asked Le Buc.
“Yeah, it would.” Beyond that David wouldn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.
“Ahh … pest control needed again, Major. Who’s eavesdropping this time? The Americans … the French … our friends from above, perhaps,” Le Buc said with a rise of his left eyebrow. It was clear that Pierre enjoyed poking fun at the trivialities of the spy game.
The last suggestion intrigued David the most. He chuckled. “No. Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing that interesting—just the Russians.” David didn’t mind sharing that piece of confidential information. Pierre knew far more exciting stuff than that. “When we get back, I want to meet with your friend over at Aurora. Perhaps, he can help us with that problem.”
Rebecca approached. She was much prettier close up, when you could see the vibrancy in her bright blue eyes. She looked a little rough around the edges, Le Buc thought, but still distinctively feminine.
“Professor, I would like to introduce you to Rebecca,” said David.
“Pierre, to you my dear,” he said quite charmingly. He had quite the silver tongue for a man pushing fifty.
Rebecca smiled back appreciatively. “A pleasure to finally meet you. David talks about you all the time. He’s very fond of you.” Pierre taught David quite a lot through the years, even after David was his student at Miguel University.
“Oh, he does now, does he? Well, unfortunately for me, he’s been keeping you quite the secret,” replied Le Buc.
She smiled. “You are just as charming in person as you are on the phone.” Then pleasure gave way to business. “This just downloaded through the fax. It’s from the Admiral. The hunt is over. Lynx and Hound found the ship.”
20
THE KREMLIN
General Vaskev sipped slowly on his fourth cup of tea. He grabbed the thin strand attached to the silvery ball that released the tea leaves and gently pulled it twice, adding more flavor to the current cup. “So Nikolai, you never did tell me the full story of Kabul Four,” said Vaskev curiously, without looking up from his cup.
He was not referring to the city in Afghanistan, but rather a military outpost stationed a hundred miles north. During the Russian-Afghanistan war, it was rumored the rebels obtained Tabun, a deadly biochemical weapon, from the Japanese. Almost odorless, Tabun was notoriously difficult to detect, until of course, it made lethal contact with the skin. Word was if all else failed the rebels would release the gas across an undisclosed Russian city, taking as many lives as possible. The death toll would be in the thousands.
KGB Intelligence reported that drums filled with the deadly agent were being stored in a weapons depot north of Kabul. They also reported the rebels wouldn’t hesitate using it throughout Kabul if they had nothing left to lose. If the Russian army succeeded in occupying Afghanistan, the rebels would make certain it was uninhabitable. Of course, this made the Russian generals extremely tentative. What good would it be to conquer Afghanistan if it would be destroyed in the process? They knew they had to neutralize this situation. Nikolai was the man they chose to do the job. He was a young man then. It was his first mission.
Nikolai impatiently paced the room, his large footprints wearing on the General’s antique Persian rug, stopping only momentarily to sip his tea. He lowered the cup from his pursed lips to answer Vaskev. “Ah comrade, I thought you knew everything.”
“Da. The popularized version is well known. War hero destroys Afghanistan chemical weapons depot. Saves thousands of Russian lives. Shows the people why we must take Afghanistan to protect the mother country.” Vaskev leaned forward in his chair, furrowed his brow, his piercing eyes locking with Nikolai. He placed his tea cup on the table. “So, Nikolai, tell me what really happened at Kabul?”
Nikolai smiled, the look of frustration gone from his face. He gazed strongly back at Vaskev as if his battle weary eyes could see right through him, and they could. It was obviously Vaskev’s way of keeping him occupied while they patiently waited for an update. He decided to play along anyway, placing his tea cup down. “That was a very long time ago,” he said with a smile.
Yet just before he began, he became somber, remembering the grievous loss he suffered that day as if it only happens weeks before. Vaskev was smart. Truly this was a recounting that would take his thoughts elsewhere. “Kabul N4. Not the real name of the base, but that is what we called it. The rebels displayed it proudly in the middle of their desert. They knew we could not risk an air strike because of the risks of accidentally releasing the agent, and they were extremely secure against a ground attack. The only way to the base was across 500 yards of open desert. If you were lucky enough to manage that under heavy fire, you had to face fifty highly trained Afghan rebels who guarded an electrical fence. Behind the fence, six guard towers, two men per tower armed with mounted automatic machine guns—waiting to gun you down. Behind the towers a secondary force of men on the roof of the compound, armed with rocket launchers acting as an anti-air response, or as a final defense against ground troops. But that was not even our biggest worry. If we managed to get by all of these obstacles, they would release the gas before we had a chance to neutralize it. Even if we attacked downwind, a sudden change in the weather would have killed thousands.”
“But you did succeed,” responded Vaskev, reminding Nikolai of his success.
Nikolai paced anew, his hands moving calmly to emphasize as he spoke. “Da. The simulations showed we had three minutes from the time they first saw us coming until they would release the Tabun. We had to hit them hard and fast, without using the firepower needed for such a surgical strike. Our only choice was deception, execution, and luck.
“I decided a nighttime sortie would be best. My squad—Ground Team One—would charge across the desert from the mountains in the northeast. Air Team One would provide our diversion. They would target fifty yards south of the depot, firing their missiles at nothing but sand. I doubted the deception and the cover of night would get us close enough, so I arranged a second air team to eliminate all the guard towers without hitting the base. No easy feat. Air Team Two, using helicopters, would fly in beneath their radar from the east and carry out that task.”
Nikolai gazed over at Vaskev to see if the old man was paying attention. After all he was sure Vaskev knew all the details. “We struck at precisely 3:00 A.M., the last hour of their guard shift when they would be the most tired. I had twelve good men behind me. When Air Team One’s first missile exploded on the ground to the south, we used the distraction and charged in from the north. We counted on the blinding lights of the explosions to ruin their night vision. It worked long enough for us to make it about halfway. Then all of hell broke loose.
“Air Team Two was late. I found out later their lead pilot was afraid to admit he was not in the proper position when I radioed for readiness. Thousands of lives were at stake and this idiot was more afraid of losing his job than the consequences if we failed. So there we were, all of us weighed down in bulky containment suits with gas masks in a gun battle with at least fifty rebel soldiers who ha
d no such restrictions. They were eager and willing to die for their cause.
“Somehow we managed to take down a lot of the rebels at the fence. One of my men even managed to take down a tower with a grenade launcher before he was struck down. The rebels in the towers became so frightened they began shooting wildly at everyone in sight. Our soldiers, their soldiers—it did not matter. We were all like fish in a barrel. One bullet grazed my arm ripping open my containment suit. Seven of my men were not so lucky.
“Then Air Team Two finally showed up. One pilot sees our impossible situation caused by his team leader’s incompetence and makes like a Yankee cowboy firing everywhere. He landed two missiles at the east edge of the depot, destroying half of the building, and then continued spraying the area with machine gun fire. He must have taken down at least thirty rebels along with the perimeter fences and four of the towers before a man on the roof shot him down. The shock wave gave the remaining tower guard pause. When he stuck his head up to survey the damage, I got a clean shot and picked him off.
“I was sure our mission was a complete failure. I was sure the destructive force of the missiles had released the deadly chemicals, and even if they hadn’t, we only had one minute left to make sure the rebels didn’t. I removed my mask—at this point it did not matter—and charged the base. Two others followed me in while the remaining men provided us with cover fire to protect us from the snipers remaining on the roof. Mikhail blew the door open with plastique. He was the first one in and was met by a machete wielding maniac that nearly took his arm clean off. Boris and I shot the man down immediately, but we couldn’t spare the time to make Mikhail even so much as a tourniquet. We knew if we didn’t find the Tabun immediately, it would not matter. We worked our way down through their base to where intelligence told us they kept the chemicals. Fire and smoke were everywhere. Bullets were flying down every corridor. They were shooting at us like madmen.
“When the shooting stopped, I was the only man left. Boris lay beside me in a pool of his own blood. I checked my watch. Three minutes had already passed. I charged forward towards the room where the drums were kept, but the lack of time made me too impatient. I found myself staring down the rifle barrel of a wounded Afghan rebel. His head was covered in blood as he limped towards me. I’ll never forget the anger in his eyes. This man hated me, hated us. Now I would be the one to face his wrath. I had given up. There was no time left. The mission was a complete failure. Better to die quickly from a bullet in battle than to be eaten from within by poison gas.
“The soldier was about to pull the trigger when his head exploded. Mikhail, who we left for dead, followed us. He shot down the soldier, pulling the trigger with his left hand. Saved my life. The two of us made a dash for the Tabun arriving forty seconds too late. You know what we found there, don’t you, General?”
“Da.” General Vaskev nodded his head affirmatively in reply.
“Nothing. It was all a bluff. The rebels couldn’t obtain the real thing, so they faked it. For almost a year we fought tentatively, the fear of chemical destruction gnawing in the back of our minds, while they were aggressive, fighting with everything they had. When we left the base I discovered two more of our comrades were dead—all for nothing. Our parliament could not even let the people know of our humiliation—”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in, Vasha,” shouted the General.
The meek old woman entered the room. “This envelope just arrived for you. I believe it’s what you’ve been waiting for,” she said as she handed him a sealed manila envelope.
“Spaseeba,” replied Vaskev politely. After she left the room, he opened the envelope and read the message. Then he passed it over to Nikolai. “Our agent has done well.”
Nikolai read the note and smiled. The waiting was over. His mission was about to begin. “I always wanted to visit the Coast Mountains of Canada. I hear they are quite beautiful this time of year.”
“Da,” replied General Vaskev. They lifted their cups, clinked them together, and took their last sips of tea.
21
PRINCE RUPERT
Stacy Michaels stood tentatively at the door to the office of her psychiatrist. Perhaps she had overreacted. It was just one bad night. Her hand shook nervously as she raised it to knock, her mind spiraling between doubts and denial. The door flung open, startling her. A gasp of air burst from her lungs. She could deny it no further. Even the sudden unexpected movement of the door had caused a panic attack.
“Good morning, Stacy. Come on in,” said Dr. Brad Miller pleasantly. He was pushing fifty and looked every bit of it. His salt and pepper hair topped his aging face. Large bags drooped under his blue eyes. A sloppy beard hid his plump chin. His rawhide belt held up his tan Dockers along with his flabby paunch.
She rushed in and he closed the office door behind her. “I wish I could say it was good to see you again. They’re back,” she blurted out. “It’s happening to me all over again and I don’t know why.” Her eyes watered as she sat down on the comfortable old couch. Soon she tasted her salty tears on her lips.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” said Dr. Miller trying to calm her. “Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”
“Last night … last night I’m relaxing on my deck—I still have a little trouble sleeping so I relax with a glass of wine on my deck. I was staring at the sky thinking about the plot to my next book when ‘boom’—everything was shattered.”
“What do you mean … boom?” asked Dr. Miller as he sat in the chair across from her.
“That was it. I was staring into space and suddenly the sky exploded. But it wasn’t thunder. The sky just went boom. After that, everything started again. I was so scared I ran inside and locked all the doors—including the one to my bedroom. When I finally fell asleep, hours later, my nightmares began all over again—more intense than they’ve been in years.”
“Ah, yes. The sonic boom … I didn’t hear it myself, but it did make the news this morning. You weren’t alone. It spooked a lot of people. A military aircraft from a local base the reporter said was the cause—nothing to be concerned about.”
“Military jet …” Stacy felt foolish. It took a long moment for her mind to wrap itself around that simple explanation. She sighed, relieved yet still shaken she had fallen back so easily. “The monsters came back?”
“The same monsters or new ones?” asked Dr. Miller.
“The same. I was a child again, playing with my stuffed animals when they came for me.”
Dr. Miller knew the answers to his follow-up questions would be the same. He had been Stacy’s therapist for five years and so many sessions ended the same way. She would have no insight as to the reason for these nightmares and she would always describe the monsters the same way—shark men. He initially diagnosed her with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. At first, he thought she might have been a victim of rape. He spoke with her parents, her friends, her doctor, and even with the local police department, but learned nothing that supported that idea. He knew she was terrified as a child after seeing the movie “Jaws”, but he wasn’t sure if that was cause or effect. He wondered if she had a near death experience with a real shark, but she was only on a boat a few times in her life and those experiences were uneventful. He even thought the unthinkable. Perhaps she was molested as a child by her father, but there was no evidence of that.
What puzzled him was there was no evidence indicating that any traumatic event in her life had ever occurred. He was truly bewildered as to the cause of her nightmares. The only thing he could do was treat the symptoms with prescriptions of various pills. Then, for the long-term, he tried using a technique known as Neuro-Linguistic Programming to teach her how to cope. He taught her how to maintain control over her subconscious fears while she was sleeping. It wasn’t a cure-all, but slowly it helped Stacy feel more in control of her life. That is, until yesterday.
“Does knowing it was just a jet make
you feel better?” he asked.
Stacy thought for a moment. “Yes, but …”
“I’ll tell you what. I could just write you a prescription for more Xanex, but we’ve done that many times already and we still haven’t gotten anywhere. If we’re going to make these irrational fears go away, we are going to have to get to the root of what’s causing them, and that’s where your case has me stumped. The only thing left I can think of to do is regressive hypnosis therapy. This means we’ll hypnotize you into reliving your past. It’s not guaranteed, but I’m out of other ideas and I’m not a big fan of continually prescribing drugs. Are you up for this?”
Hesitantly she asked, “Will it make my nightmares go away?”
“It’s a possibility. Slim, but better than nothing.” He regretted that white lie almost immediately. Hypnosis rarely cured anything. However, there was a slight chance that he might gain some insight into the cause, and that at least, would be a step in the right direction.
“Sure, why not. What have I got to lose?” answered Stacy, her tears subsiding with the illusion of a possible cure.
“Good. My morning’s relatively free. If you’re up for it, I’m pretty sure I can set something up for 11:00. Let’s meet back here in two hours and maybe we can avoid another harrowing night.”
Stacy nodded.
22
RUSSIA
Nikolai strode up the steel steps and boarded the Cogskovsky, Russia’s version of a supersonic aircraft capable of reaching speeds up to Mach three. He felt invigorated, his muscles relaxed, his limbs spry. This was a good assignment. He would be able to serve his country and also get to glimpse extraterrestrial technology—things man only dreamt of that some other life form made a reality.
With luck, there would be no bloodshed. His plan to snatch it out of Canadian hands revolved around trickery and stealth. Spy work the old-fashioned way. That would be good, he thought. The wasteful killing became tiresome and aged a man well past his years.
