Blades of Winter

by G T Almasi

  That day is today. The meeting is at noon. Our thermobaric missile will arrive ten minutes later. It’s being launched from 800 miles away, and it travels at 550 miles per hour. That’s a flight time of 87 minutes, so Mr. Sub will launch his rocket hoagie at 10:43 A.M. It’s 9 A.M. now.

  When I asked Cyrus why Winter would allow a bunch of kids to visit the day he unleashed the Darius Covenant, I got a one-word answer.

  “Cover.”

  Winter wants his involvement in the coming calamity to remain a secret. What better way to prove his innocence than having fifty ironclad alibis? Fifty know-it-all brats will see that White Stone Research was innocently building a better oil sponge. Not plotting the end of the world. No-ho, not us.

  Der Jugend is providing a great way to get me into the lab, but they also pose a problem. The collateral damage at the lab will be bad enough without blowing away a platoon of German kids. That would definitely bring significant repercussions from our ally across the Atlantic.

  The Gruppe’s itinerary has them leaving the lab at 11:45 A.M. to get back to Riyadh in time for an afternoon of insensitivity training. The attack is timed to miss the kids and hit Winter and his damned petron bombs. As this unfolds, everybody who’s anybody in Washington will be glued to a live feed from the White House Situation Room. What most of them won’t know is that I’ll be grabbing the main target out from under their long-distance blam-o-gram.

  We ride to the lab in a big air-conditioned Mercedes tour bus. My skull pounds like a blacksmith at his anvil. I may have had too much to drink on the flight from Washington. The wheels of the bus jolt through a small crater in the road. I goose some Overkaine into my bloodstream and take a swig of water from my canteen as the bus continues to bounce across the desert. I look out the window and think about riding out here with Trick. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Trick, I …

  I blink a few times to hide that my eyes are wet and try to think about anything else. I discreetly recheck my gear. Li’l Bertha snoozes in her holster, hidden under the right side of my jacket. Next to my gun’s holster is a short-range signal jammer the size of a deck of cards. Under the left side of my jacket is my combat knife in its holster, plus a dangling grid of what look like half-inch-thick drink coasters. These are my grenades.

  We couldn’t figure out how to hide regular pineapples in my outfit, so the Tech people made these flat, disk-shaped grenades for me. The way they line the inside of my jacket makes me feel like one of those shylocks who sell phony jewelry. Hey, buddy, wanna buy a bomb?

  Normally it would have taken over a week to get this Job Number set up and then a few days to get myself and another Level into Riyadh. The time taken to prep for this mission has been compressed from days into hours. Everything has been thrown together while all the pieces were in motion. Money is absolutely no object, so I got to fly first class. Ohh, that was nice. I even got a free back rub in between the six or seven glasses of wine I drank.

  The Vindicator took a different flight. When Cyrus told me who it was, I grinned and said, “Tell him to bring his Bitchgun.”

  Now Raj follows my bus in a beat-up-looking produce truck. His forged papers say that he’s transporting food to the cafeteria at White Stone Research Institute. Once I’m inside, his truck will overheat and stall just outside the compound so he can be nearby in case I need help.

  I comm to Raj, “Still there Rah-rah?”

  “Still here, Shortcake.”

  We’re on comm-silence, but that’s for the long-range network and the satellites. We can comm peer-to-peer as long as we’re not too far away from each other.

  The plan is that I’ll sneak into the lab, spirit Winter out the back door, a helicopter will pick us up, and away we go. Then the lab gets blown into the next century. That’s the plan, but none of us maniacs who volunteered for this mission expect things to go exactly as planned. If Winter were that easy to snatch, my father would have captured him a long time ago.

  My stomach is in knots, and my hands are shaking. I ball my hands into fists to hold them still and juice some Kalmers. I stop trembling, but the butterflies in my stomach still swoop around like Snoopy chasing the Red Baron. I close my eyes and try to think about something happy, and my mind lands on how much I liked going to the shooting range with Dad.

  He looked so great in his firing stance: feet apart, shoulders relaxed, the weapon in his hands like an extension of his body. His confidence rubbed off on me and helped my concentration when it was my turn. We didn’t talk too much at the range. I knew it was serious grown-up time. Afterward he’d take me to Dairy Queen for grilled cheese sandwiches and ice cream, and we’d talk while we ate.

  Jesus, I’m starting to cry again. Are we there yet?

  I turn my head toward the window so nobody can see my face. The desert slides past and stretches forward. I think about the meeting I had with Cyrus early yesterday morning. I was six minutes ahead of schedule, so I sat on the couch in his little waiting area and pulled an apple out of my backpack. I’d taken only two bites when Cyrus poked his head out of his office and waved me inside. I sat in his guest chair while he shut the door behind me. He sat down at his desk and didn’t waste any time. “Our colleagues in Central agree that Fredericks has been involved in crimes against the state.”

  That’s a big one, I thought. They could put Fredericks in front of a firing squad.

  Cyrus leaned back and slowly passed his fingers through his hair. The relaxed movement of his hands contrasted with the intense expression on his face. He said, “We’re monitoring Fredericks’s commphone twenty-four hours a day. He’s boosted his encryption into the stratosphere, so we can’t tell what’s being said. But we can track when a call happens, especially when there are a lot of them.”

  “Is Fredericks still in Washington?”

  “Yes.” Cyrus nods. “As head of the SSC, he’s planning our response to the Darius Covenant. I heard that the cruise missile was his idea.”

  “He has no idea that I’m going after Winter, right?”

  “Right. We’ve initiated a new encryption code for your commphone, which should lock Fredericks out while Justice builds a case against him. He’s been passing your movements to the Blades or sending his Protectors after you.” They’ve decided that if Fredericks has a tap, it isn’t into ExOps. It’s into me.

  Info feels that the only way he could have traced my location so often is to have monitored my No-Jack module through my commphone. This is certainly not how these components are supposed to work, so Fredericks has found some kind of hack.

  The rest of our meeting was about my mission to snatch Winter and how important it is for me to fit in with my Gruppe. Something that definitely won’t help me maintain my cover is crying on the bus. Part of being a German Youth is making all the other people cry.

  I touch my cheek, but it’s already dry. That’s one advantage of working in this giant toaster oven of a country. The climate is so arid that teardrops evaporate before they even get to your chin. I turn back to face the front of the bus, smile to my seat mate, and remind myself—again—to not kill Winter.

  CHAPTER 37

  SAME MORNING, 9:17 A.M. ST WHITE STONE RESEARCH INSTITUTE, RIYADH, PROVINCE OF ARABIA, GG

  We finally arrive at the lab. Since we’re The German Youth, we blow right by the security gate and guardhouse. The driver parks in the shade of an outbuilding. Gruppe 775 files off the bus and lines up in formation. If my day as a German Youth has taught me anything, it’s that lining up in formation is a big deal to these people. Of course, not all German kids join Der Jugend. Based on the few kids I’ve met, this organization doesn’t attract too many young German artists, musicians, writers, liberals, or intellectuals.

  Our tour guide turns out to be Winter himself, Imad Badr. He wears a light tan suit and a dark brown tie. He welcomes us with open arms and effusive German. I stand near the back of the group and pull my hat low over my brow. This is a problem. I can’t exactly abduct someone while he
gives a tour to a troop of rules-crazed German kids.

  Winter leads us inside and jabbers away about what they supposedly do there. The overhead lighting throws his sharp features into high relief. This gives him a sinister appearance, but his manner with us is very warm and inviting.

  Ol’ Imad has charm, I’ll give him that. He’s also got an intense way of looking at people as he talks to them. When one of the German kids in my group asks him a question, Badr looks him or her straight in the eye and delivers an intelligent, patient, and complete answer without any hint of condescension.

  Our tour slithers past rows of small laboratories and offices filled with earnest-looking scientists. Badr tells us the White Stone Research Institute’s founding goals are to explore ideas to minimize the environmental impact of oil spills, streamline the methods used in oil refineries, and find new uses for the by-products of the refining processes.

  Ka-snore.

  We pass a large hallway, and Badr waves us past it. “This corridor leads to the main garage, our warehouse, and the barracks for my security personnel. Trucks, crates, and cots—nothing of interest to intelligent Volk like yourselves. Please follow me.”

  I cast my peepers down the hall as we pass. At the far end, a set of double doors opens into the garage Trick and I discovered. The edge of the big glassed-in laboratory we scoped out peeks around the edge of the doorway.

  I guess the secret doomsday lab isn’t on the tour.

  It’s 10:04 when our tour guide leads us into a lecture hall. We fill up the first three rows of seats. Winter sits in the front row, next to our Gruppe Leader.

  A strapping twentysomething lab coat bounds onto the stage. The man exudes enthusiasm and raises my hopes for something interesting to listen to while I wait for my chance to snatch Winter. That hope is crushed like a Jack Fisher fastball as our speaker jauntily launches into an interminably detailed account of the sex life of bacteria. Short version: they don’t have one.

  At 10:43 an alert blinks in the corner of my Eyes-Up display. The missile is on its way. Somewhere over the Province of Arabia a jet-powered bomb the size of a Chevy Impala is hurtling toward this building. By the time it gets here eighty-seven minutes from now, it may find a room full of kids who have already died of boredom.

  My attention drifts, and I think about how crazy my last two days have been. I have a new Info Operator partner. His field name is Darwin-5015. Normally he’d have dropped with me, but the EVI for this mission is so high that Cyrus couldn’t risk sending anyone who didn’t absolutely have to go. Darwin has been closely monitoring my mission from his jackframe in Washington.

  We’ve got a quick airlift planned, but my timing needs to be perfect because the lab has fairly robust air defense capabilities. This will work if I can snatch Winter without setting off any alarms. If I trigger an alert, I may not make it to the landing zone before the local airspace is choked with armor-piercing bullets, rocket-propelled grenades, and antiaircraft missiles.

  To spice up the challenge, we’re sure Winter is equipped with a No-Jack module. If he gets knocked unconscious, the module will send a distress signal and bring his goon squad. My first option is to convince Winter into coming along quietly. Since I don’t have a partner here to be all diplomatic and shit, this gentle request will basically consist of me pistol-whipping him into submission. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to knock him out and haul him away as fast as I can.

  11:30. Boom minus 40 minutes. We’re finally released from science hell. Another few minutes and I was going to have to risk simply grabbing Winter by the hair and dragging him outside. The bunch of us youngsters troop off to use the bathroom before we get back on the bus. I hang back for a moment. Winter beckons one of his security guards over and confers with him in hushed tones.

  It seems like forever before everyone is finished in the bathroom. Winter is nowhere to be seen. The security guard Winter spoke with leads us out the way we came. I drift to the rear of the noisy, chatty pack. As we pass the hallway to the garage, I slip off to the side.

  I hear Winter before I see him, giving orders to someone. He’s in that big garage where I pushed Trick into the puddle of glop. Winter stands in the doorway of the glassed-in labs while he directs a group of the research assistants inside. They busily arrange bottles of champagne and several dozen glasses on one of the long metal tables.

  I press myself against the wall and check the hall behind me. Empty.

  Boom minus 25. The German Youth kids should have left by now. As for the missing new member, Der Jugend’s habit is to leave lollygaggers behind as an example of how to act like a jag-off when you’re older.

  Boom minus 23. Winter’s minions continue to fuss around in the lab. It’s pretty crowded in there, but nobody is looking out here. I slip into the garage and crouch behind a tarp-covered stack of stuff. I lift the back corner of the covering to see if I can hide under there and keep watch at the same time.

  Lurking under the tarp are four neat stacks of black rectangular boxes. Each box is the size of a briefcase. They all have a small panel on one side. The panels have a readout screen and a row of three buttons labeled in Arabic. The readouts each display a single red dot that ominously crawls across their dark screens. The dot oozes off the screen’s left edge and slinks back on from the right.

  A cold bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I recognize these things from the schematics we found here. They’re the petron bombs. I’m tempted to stick a grenade between these stacks of the Apocalypse, but I refrain because an explosion might attract a bit more attention than I can afford right now.

  I drop the tarp back in place and survey the garage. A group of wooden shipping pallets catches my eye, especially one that’s propped on an angle against the wall. I check that nobody’s looking, scuttle across the garage, and quickly insert myself into the triangular space under the inclined pallet.

  I carefully peek out from my hiding place and nearly jump out of my skin when my commphone suddenly receives a call.

  “Scarlet, your pizza is getting cold.” It’s my ride, Lovebird. He’s lurking out there in the desert, close enough for short-range comming. Him and his pet helicopter.

  “That’s all right,” I comm back. “It’s better that way.” Meaning, stay put.

  “Roger that.”

  Boom minus 12. The missile is 110 miles away. Every minute brings it 9.2 miles closer.

  The lab assistants have poured out glasses of champagne. Winter mingles through the room with a big Mr. Roarke smile on his face. I can’t hear through the glass windows, but I see him shaking hands, patting backs, and sharing some little in-jokes with people. It’s quite a party.

  Boom minus 10. Ninety-two miles away. I start to wonder if I’m gonna have to barge in there and snatch him right the fuck out of his own party. Winter assembles everyone in front of him and makes a short speech. The lab coats all smile and nod to one another in self-congratulation.

  Good job, everyone! By this time tomorrow, the world will be absolutely fucked!

  Winter takes one of the champagne glasses and invites the others to do the same. While I try to figure out how Winter found such a dedicated group of supersmart sociopaths, he raises his glass to the room and says, “Prost!” Cheers! He brings his glass toward his mouth. Everyone chimes in, “Prost!” and takes a swig of champagne. They all nod appreciatively about how good it tastes.

  Winter holds his glass in front of his lips. He lowers his untouched champagne and places it on the table in front of him. He walks out of the lab and locks the door behind him. He stalks across the garage wearing an expression as dark as ebony lightning and passes through the double doors toward the barracks and shipping entrance.

  Boom minus 8. I’m about to follow Winter when the scientists notice their boss’s unexpected exit. Many of the faces look out into the garage, freezing me in my angled hideout. An animated discussion begins. One of the researchers, a younger blond-haired man, tries the door handl
e. Nothing happens. He tries it more forcefully, but the door remains shut. I can almost see the question marks appear above everyone’s head.

  Suddenly all the people in the glassed-in laboratory drop their wine and clutch at their throats. Each mouth splits open and expels an ear-shattering scream. Everyone’s eyes seem to bulge from their sockets, and their faces flush from light pink to a florid red. Gasping and choking, some of them rush the door. The door frame lurches from their combined weight but still holds them trapped inside their antiseptic charnel house.

  They drop like epileptic rag dolls, shrieking and twitching onto the broken wineglass-covered floor. Middle Easterners, Europeans, men, women. All of them. The smallest victims stop moving first, then the largest wretches lie still.

  One of my eyelids starts fluttering so badly that I have to hold my fingers on it to keep it still. My other eye watches a group of six guards march in from the main facility, where we had our tour. They wear white hazmat suits with black rubber boots and gloves. The leader unlocks the door, and the rest file inside the lab of death.

  “Scarlet.” It’s Raj. “You all right in there?”

  I wipe tears off my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I was crying, but at least my eyelid has stopped pulsing. “Yeah, Rah-Rah. I’m good. Standby, I’ve almost got him.” I suck in a breath of cold air. The guards are all bending over the dead scientists, so I sneak out from beneath my pallet, bolt across the garage, and follow Winter’s steps through the double doors.

  Boom minus 5. This is cutting it close even for me. I pull out my pistol and run down the wide hallway with Li’l Bertha leading the way. Our heat scanners show dark, empty rooms until we get to the last door on the left. It’s directly across from the office where Trick and I hacked into the lab’s data server.

  I gingerly try the doorknob to the occupied room. It’s locked, naturally. Crap. My lock-picking skill kind of sucks, so by the time I pick this fucker, we’ll all be blown to hell. So much for sneakiness.