The Tsunami

by Marshall Miller

  As she was the first human female in the area that had been identified as carrying children affected by the Tschaaa organisms and modified DNA strands, hers was the test case. Doctors Bardun and Rice had been fussing over her for months, watching the quickened development of the babies. They had provided Aleks with some high protein drinks to help provide the necessary nutrients for the rapidly growing twins. Aleks was always hungry, eating prodigious amounts of food to keep her babies happy and satiated. Between the drinks and the food, the trolls were developing into big babies. They had talked about a Caesarean, but Aleks had insisted that her pelvic region would be of sufficient size to handle the birth, “as long as they don’t both try to come out at once.”

  As she sat sipping her tea, allowing Torbin to sleep, she thought of the events over the last month since Thanksgiving. First, a blast from the past, in the form of a certain former instructor of hers, had appeared. Comrade Stalin, Senior Training Instructor extraordinaire. Torbin had recounted the story about the day the scarred, solid Stalin marched into General Reed’s office.

  “Senior Training Instructor Stalin reporting as ordered, Sir.” Ramrod straight, in almost accent-less English, he stood in front of the General. For one of the few times in his life, Stalin’s eyes had widened a hair in surprise when the General had answered in flawless Russian.

  “Comrade Stalin, I believe you wished to be called,” General Reed replied as he stood and extended his hand. He had been told that Stalin was some odd form of “civilian” in the Russian system, not military but also some special category all his own. Stalin had created the title Senior Training Instructor years ago, and no one had ever disagreed with him about it. Possibly, it was rumored, out of fear. He was a legend in the tight Spetsnaz and Intelligence communities.

  “You speak Russian like a native, General. But you are not Russian, da?”

  “I was married to a Russian. We had two sons.”

  “You used past tense,” Stalin commented.

  “Yes, Comrade. They were in Moscow, visiting relatives when the Tschaaa struck. I have not heard anything since. I assume they are no longer with us.”

  Stalin did not speak. He could have told the General that the Moscow area had been a disorganized mess after the rock strikes. That there was always the chance that she survived in one of the many little enclaves that had sprung up as the surviving Russian military fled east to Siberia. But he knew that the General had probably thought of this before.

  General Reed then produced a bottle of scotch. “I prefer scotch to vodka, Comrade. But would you have a drink with me?”

  Stalin had smiled. “We Russians may drink a lot of vodka, but that does not mean some of us have not developed a taste for other types of alcohol. I could certainly use a drink after the long drive from Alaska.”

  General Reed produced some ice cubes, and poured a couple of substantial drinks. He raised his glass toward the Russian. “A toast to future cooperation and operations against the Squids between our countries.”

  “I will drink twice to that, General.”

  They then sat down, and began to talk turkey. Stalin laid out his expertise in training, especially with regards to building an efficient fighting force using the people they had on hand in the shortest period possible.

  “I know, General Reed, that we do not have the luxury of time. The longer we wait to take action, the more entrenched the Enemy becomes. The majority of Tschaaa ships are beginning the preparatory actions for their trip home, leaving certain groups behind. If we make it appear too costly for the Tschaaa to keep a permanent presence on Earth before the starships leave our solar system, they may just pack up and all go home. If not, then it becomes a War of Genocide. I do not see us existing next to species that will try and eat us any chance it gets, not as co-equals.”

  General Reed saw in Stalin a warrior that had probably seen more action than a dozen soldiers combined. He also saw a man with a spine of steel connected to a very fast acting intellect. Why he was not a General of the armies in Russia would be a mystery if General Reed really looked into the matter. The fact he was sent here pointed to the idea that someone wanted him out of the way. Stalin probably was one of few survivors who knew where most of the skeletons from the USSR and pre-strike Russia were buried. That would make some people—political animals mostly—very nervous, Squids or no Squids. Well, their loss was the General’s gain.

  “When can you and your people start, Comrade?”

  “Tomorrow morning, General. When the first cock crows.”

  General Reed smiled. “0700 will be fine, though that is close to sunrise this time of year. You will be under the direction of Major Torbin Bender, as well as working with some personnel from other countries, including our Japanese allies.”

  Now it was Stalin’s turn to smile. “Ah, Comrade Bender. The Marine who killed a Squid with a knife. It will be a pleasure to compare notes with him.”

  “Good. Here is a map outlining where the main training areas are located. Meet the good Major at this temporary building next to the gymnasium and field area. That is what they use as their offices. They don’t spend much time there, which is why it is so spartan. We keep paperwork to a minimum. A form almost never helps someone learn how to fight and survive.”

  General Reed stuck his hand out. “Time to shake on it, Comrade, as us Yankees put it. But I must warn you. Shake my hand and I will work your ass off. I don’t have time for people looking for a vacation in a foreign country.”

  Stalin glanced at his muscular posterior. “Well, General, others have tried to work my ass off. It still appears to be attached.”

  General Reed laughed as the two shook hands. Stalin had obtained a file on General Reed before meeting him, as any good spy would do. Though his flawless Russian had surprised him a bit, he knew General Reed’s background. Stalin looked into the General’s eyes as he felt the metal of the man in his grip. Stalin was an excellent judge of character. It had helped him survive all these years in a system that often made the weak disappear. He liked what he saw. Stalin stepped back and gave a short bow.

  “Thank you, my General. Thank you for giving me another opportunity to serve in this all important fight.”

  “Hell, Comrade. I thank you for coming. I need some Russian steel here. My wife taught me the value of it years ago.”

  As Stalin left, General Reed did not realize the hidden meaning in the phrase ‘my General’ that the Russian had used. Stalin had decided that the General was his General. That meant he would follow him to hell if need be, and protect him from all enemies. Stalin would kill or be killed for General Reed, that was the extent of his loyalty. The fact that the General spoke Russian like a native and had married a Russian probably helped. But the bottom line was that Stalin had decided General Reed was his General. Woe to those who interfered.

  Aleks had also been told by Torbin about the first meeting he, Abigail, and Ichiro had with Stalin the morning after the Russian had checked in with General Reed. Torbin had received a short telephone call that the Senior Training Instructor and his people would be reporting to the training area the next morning. The General had been sparse with the information on Stalin, as he wanted Torbin to make an independent evaluation of the Russians.

  At 0650, Torbin and company were in their offices when Stalin knocked loudly on the outer door. Torbin met the Russian instructor at the entrance.

  “Comrade Bender. Senior Training Instructor Stalin reporting as ordered by my General Reed.” He stood ramrod straight, Torbin seeing a person he would later describe as hewn from a block of granite, scars and all. Torbin stuck his hand out. “Welcome aboard, Comrade Stalin.” He glanced past him and saw eleven men standing ramrod straight at Parade Rest in a two line formation. All were dressed in identical Spetsnaz urban camo fatigues with pistols and fighting knives. Torbin noticed that Stalin had no such accouterments, just a set of fatigues with no rank. A cloth name tag with STI printed on it was over his right pocket, that w
as it.

  “So, Comrade Bender, where do we start?” Stalin asked as he finished shaking his hand.

  “Well, since I was told you are ready and raring to go, we have one hundred alleged retreads who will be here at the training facility at 0730 hours. I say alleged as there are limited ways to check out their stories of previous training and service. They have been checked out this last week as best we can, but as they say here, the proof is in the pudding. They all seem to know basic military customs and courtesies. The questions that remain are twofold. Just how much service do they really have, and are they here to serve or to spy.”

  Stalin cocked an eyebrow. “So some may be here under false pretenses, and may even be Krakens?”

  “That’s right. After finding those Pits right under our noses, anything seems possible.”

  Stalin paused for a moment. “I will have complete control over their training?”

  “Yes, for thirty days, a couple days break at Christmas. Just no actual killing or maiming them. I know you will be tough, but I can’t have a bunch of corpses showing up. We need soldiers and some do have family members around.”

  Stalin smiled. “Comrade, the training will be excruciatingly tough. More so, I dare say, than your Marine Corps training. But I promise there will be no unnecessary injuries. Fatalities, well… if they kill themselves, I have difficulty stopping that. And, if I guessed correctly, this will be a chance for you and my General to decide if our methods will be compatible with the type of soldier you want. True?”

  Now Torbin smiled. “You hit that right on the head, STI Stalin. We have to get a codified training program in place that can be completed at all the Allied Armed Forces Bases in the U.S. By the end of January, with your assistance, each base or training location should be set up to turn out at least a thousand trained personal a year. Then, we will need to increase that exponentially over time.”

  “Now, let me introduce you to Captain Young and Major Yamamoto.”

  Ichiro, after his little “problem” with a certain deceased Russian officer, was always a bit reserved when meeting Russian personnel. He bowed respectfully, shook Stalin’s hand, welcoming him to Malmstrom. If Stalin noticed any coldness in his demeanor, he did not let on.

  When Abigail shook Stalin’s hand, he cocked his head a bit, studying her.

  “Excuse me, Comrade Captain, but your reputation precedes you. So my men may be a bit…curious to see if reality equals reputation.”

  Abigail was fast on the uptake before Torbin or Ichiro could say anything. She had heard this all before, the idea that the Avenging Angel from Deseret was all just hype. In flawless Russian, she answered, “So, Comrade, what would you have me do? Eat rocks, spit nails?”

  Stalin fell silent for a moment, surprised at her excellent Russian. He had information that she was good with languages, but not like a native Russian. A hint of a smile formed on his lips.

  “How about a little bayonet training with me? My men know how much I like cold steel, and how nasty I can be with a rifle. This will show them your mettle.”

  This conversation was all in Russian, so Torbin understood maybe two words of it. Ichiro understood a bit more, getting the gist that Stalin would like to demonstrate a bit of Russian military training, using Abigail as a subject.

  “Of course, Comrade,” Abigail answered. “You have sufficient equipment with you?”

  “Yes, Captain Young. We have a vehicle full of everything we will need. Shall we?” He bowed a bit, motioning Abigail to proceed first toward his men. Torbin figured Abigail understood what was going on and, trusted her judgment. He just followed her lead. As they walked down the small ramp to the cement former parking area that served as a military training formation area, the Russians snapped to attention in formation. Stalin ordered in rapid fire Russian for two men to bring several of the bayoneted training rifles from the truck. There was snow on the ground around the cement area, trainees having shoveled the snow from the formation area and walkways. This was still definitely winter weather in Montana, so the temperature was just beginning to climb to freezing level. The Russians, other than Stalin, were wearing winter camos with long sleeved undergarments and gloves for warmth and the stereotypical Russian fur hat. Stalin wore no gloves or extra undergarments, acted as if it were an early spring day in the park.

  As the two selected soldiers ran to get the rifles, Stalin put the rest of the formation at Parade Rest, then at ease. He then explained to them in Russian what was about to happen.

  “Captain Young has ‘requested’ a demonstration of some of the training skills we will be using to bring trainees with prior experience up to standards as combat soldiers. This will include the infusing of an aggressive, combat spirit into anyone who wishes to fight alongside us Russians. What better way than with a bit of bayonet training, da?”

  Suddenly, the Russians all smiled to themselves. They has seen this before. Someone was about to be taught a hard lesson by Comrade Stalin, as well as some humility.

  “Captain Young, would you care to address the trainers?”

  Abigail stepped up, and in flawless Russian spoke. “It is an honor to have you experienced soldiers here to help us prepare for war. I look forward to working with you.”

  The Russian personnel felt to shocked silence at the Yankee’s command of their language. It did not hurt that she was also very pleasant to look at. A few appreciative murmurs were heard until Stalin stopped them with an icy glare. Just then the two detailed soldiers appeared with several rifles each. A tarp was spread out on the cement and the rifles laid carefully on it.

  “Captain, an SKS or a Myosin Nagant 44 bolt action? Your choice. Both have folding bayonets attached. It helps bone-headed soldiers from losing them.”

  Abigail smiled at the comment. “SKS, if you please. I’ve handled one before.”

  “Lieutenant Ivanovich.”

  “Yes, Comrade Stalin.” The young officer snapped to attention.

  “Please select two SKS rifles for us to use. Ensure they are cleared and safe. It would be embarrassing if the good Captain was accidently shot.”

  “Yes, Comrade Stalin.”

  Torbin watched all this with a watchful eye. The Russians seemed to be both in awe as well as scared of Stalin. Torbin was getting the impression that Stalin was a bit of a legend amongst the Russian military establishment. It would be interesting to see if he lived up to that reputation.

  Upon seeing the rifles, Torbin quickly figured out the drill. A little bit of bayonet training. Stalin probably wanted to see if Abigail knew about cold steel. He smiled to himself. A Russian was about to get a big surprise.

  Lt. Ivanovich stepped in front of Abigail, and holding a cleared SKS in his left hand, saluted with his right. “Lt. Ivanovich, Ma’am. Here is your requested weapon.”

  Abigail saluted back, took the offered weapon, did a quick check of the chamber to insure there was nothing there, then held it at high port and pulled the trigger. Stalin noticed this with an appreciative eye. The young woman was comfortable around weapons, and also seemed to have the strength to easily manipulate them. Good. His estimation of American Forces went up a tick. Stalin took his SKS, checked to insure it was cleared as well. He then unfolded the foot length bayonet with a nine inch blade. Torbin noticed the bayonet blade had been sharpened to what looked like a razor sharpness. He cleared his throat, stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, Comrade. Do you have any training sheaths for the blades?”

  Stalin gave him a quizzical look, then spoke in English. “Why? What good is training if it is not realistic enough, if there is no danger of getting hurt? One can be injured in combat, yes?”

  “It’s okay, Major,” Abigail interjected. “I believe Comrade Stalin has sufficient experience that neither one of us will be allowed to be seriously injured.”

  Stalin grinned at her comment.

  “You are also a politician, I see Captain,” he commented in Russian. “Praising me will not make me feel me
rciful toward you if you are found wanting.”

  “Neither will it make me any less aggressive toward you, Comrade, despite your elder age,” Abigail responded with a smile.

  Several Russians gasped. Who would dare to risk insulting Stalin like this? She must be mad.

  The Senior Training Instructor only gave a hearty chuckle. “Ah, Spirit. I like that in a soldier, a warrior. Alright, my young Captain. On guard position.”

  Abigail brought up her weapon, bayonet pointed at Stalin, with the butt of her weapon near her right hip. She was perfectly balanced on both her forward left and rear right feet. With a practiced eye, Stalin could see Abigail was relaxed and confident. She had done this before. Good. Stalin always looked for a good workout.

  “And now, the dance begins,” the Senior Instructor said.

  Stalin made a feint with his point toward Abigail’s face, to see if she would overreact. Abigail simply moved her body just enough, positioned her weapon just right that had Stalin continued through with his thrust, the bayonet would have slid past its target, being sufficiently blocked to prevent any possible contact. Stalin recovered and smiled. Finally, someone not so awed, afraid of him, or so inexperienced as to prevent a decent response.

  “I do not like this, Torbin-san.” As Torbin glanced at his friend he saw, for the first time he could remember, a distinctive worried look on the Japanese soldier’s face. Torbin realized it was the look of a man who saw the love of his life in danger, and wanting to jump into action. Damn. He had not realized just how close the two had gotten. But this was duty. This is what they did. Torbin could not step in and still say he trusted Abigail’s abilities. She had made her bed, she must sleep in it.

  “What’s the matter, Major? Don’t think the good Captain can take care of herself?’

  With that, Ichiro’s face became stoic. “No, Major Bender. I know she can. But if she is injured, Stalin will have to face me.”

  Torbin did not reply. He knew that, career and mission be damned, Ichiro would fulfill the duty he thought honor dictated. He would try to kill Stalin if Abigail sustained a serious injury.