by Ted Bell
After Alexei had had his bath, while Nell was getting him dressed in navy blue shorts and a freshly laundered white-and-red cowboy shirt, she noticed that his lower lip was trembling as he regarded himself in the mirror.
“Alexei, what’s wrong? Don’t you like your birthday shirt? I thought it’s the one you picked out of your drawer last night.”
“Nell, I have a question,” he said, tremulously.
“And I bet I have the answer,” she said, wiping away a tear rolling down his pink cheek.
“Did my daddy come home last night?”
“No, darling. He’s still in France.”
“Is he coming home today?”
“He’ll be back very soon. And, besides, he’s going to call you today, remember? At twelve noon, just before your party starts. And he’s got a big surprise for your birthday. He’s bringing you a present all the way from France when he comes back.”
“A pony or a fire engine, that’s what I asked for.”
“Maybe not that big a surprise, darling.”
“Is Agent Buzzcut invited to my party? The Secret Man?”
“Of course he is! Agent John Sullivan. He can’t wait. He’s going to be handing out the presents for you to open.”
“Is my friend Robby Taylor coming to my party?”
“Of course he is!”
“What about Johnny Eding and Larry Robins? Are they both coming?”
“Absolutely! I talked to their mommies just this morning. And you know what else? The chef told me the ‘all mixed-up cake’ came out perfectly! He says it’s the best cake anyone in the kitchen has ever tasted. And the frosting is ‘everything frosting,’ too! Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, caramel . . . everything all swirled up!”
Alexei wrapped his arms around Nell and squeezed.
“I love you, Nell.”
“And I love you. Now, come on. The guests will start to arrive any minute now. First we’re having ice cream and cake, then you’ll open your presents, then we let the games begin! Which one is your favorite game?”
“The donkey one. Oh, and Blind Man’s Bluff and Mother May I, too. I like those best.”
“It’s going to be a wonderful birthday. Oh! The phone is ringing. Go answer it, quick. I’m sure it’s your daddy.”
It was.
IT WAS A WONDERFUL BIRTHDAY. The weatherman had cooperated and the rain clouds never appeared. The hit of the day with the children had to be the “all mixed-up cake,” which looked like a giant rainbow building in the shape of the Jefferson Memorial with frosted green trees all around it. All the moms wanted the recipe, and Nell just laughed and said, “Ask Alexei, it’s his very own secret recipe.”
Nell, Alexei, and Agent Sullivan had moved to the long table covered with presents now, and she clapped her hands to get the children’s attention.
“All right, everyone, it’s time for the birthday boy to open his presents!”
Moms and children gathered close around the table in the shade of the spreading trees.
Agent Buzzcut was all smiles as he surveyed the long table. “All right, Alexei, look at all these presents. I don’t see a pony in there, but it sure looks like fun. And don’t forget the old birthday rule: the best things come in small packages . . .”
He handed Alexei a small package, about the size of a deck of cards. The boy dutifully opened it and it was . . . a deck of old-fashioned Bicycle playing cards. Alexei smiled at his pal Larry Robins, who was teaching him to play Go Fish.
“And next?” the Secret Man said, reaching for another gift.
“I want the biggest one, please!” Alexei cried, in true six-year-old fashion.
“All right, Alexei, since it’s your birthday you get to choose. Is this the biggest one? Or is this the biggest one?”
“That one is biggest! With the blue balloon tied to it!”
“Good choice,” Sullivan said, handing the big box to the birthday boy. All the presents had been prescreened by the Secret Service, of course, and he knew what was in each box. This one he was sure the boy would love. It was a radio-controlled helicopter, one with four big blades, jet black and very high-tech looking.
“Can you help me open it, Nell?” Alexei said, tearing at the wrapping paper.
“Sure,” she said, undoing the ribbon on top.
“What is it, Nell?” Alexei said, looking over her shoulder as she pulled the box top away. “Let me see it!”
“I don’t really know, darling. Some kind of flying machine, I think. A stealth helicopter maybe. With a remote controller. Agent Sullivan will show you how to work it.”
Sullivan got the toy out of the box and set it on the table, checking to see if the controller and the toy chopper both had batteries. They did. He picked up the RC controller first.
“Okay, Alexei, here’s the deal. There are two joysticks. The one on the left controls elevation, making it go up or down. The one on the right controls which way it goes. Push the up switch and then the go switch in the direction you want to fly, okay? Got it?”
“Got it, sir.”
“So it’s switched on. The first thing you want to do is make it go straight up. Left side switch. Then, right side, very gently, to steer it anywhere you want to go. Out over the open grass would be good. Keep away from trees, that’s rule one.”
Alexei picked up the controller, and all the children gathered around to watch his maiden flight.
“READY FOR TAKEOFF!” NELL SAID.
“Easy does it, skipper,” Sullivan added.
“I’m ready!” the boy said, gripping the controller with his left hand, his face flushed with excitement as he lifted off and nudged the joystick forward.
The flying machine rose slowly into the air. Whoops and cheers burst forth from Alexei’s little friends as he slowly maneuvered the helicopter in a clockwise and then counterclockwise direction. He seemed to have an instant feel for flying it, surprising himself as well as Nell and Agent Sullivan.
“To go straight ahead?” he said, looking at Sullivan.
“Push the right stick straight forward.”
“Here we go!” he cried.
The black chopper shot forward out over the wide patch of perfect green lawn. Alexei, instead of slowing the helicopter down or reversing it, chased after it, laughing with glee as the children cried out and ran after him across the grass.
And that was when Nell saw the strange face in the crowd.
She froze, unable to speak. It was the bloated white face of Jules Szell, the Snow King, leering at her from behind a group of happily chatting mothers just arriving from the British Embassy.
Nell grabbed Sullivan’s arm and he turned toward her.
“Him!” she cried, pointing him out as Szell tried to disappear behind all mothers talking under the trees. “He tried to kill Alexei in London! Russian assassin!”
Sullivan sprinted toward the would-be killer, speaking into his mike, locking the White House down as he ran, other agents appearing out of nowhere and all converging on Szell simultaneously. She heard a shrill scream as agents knocked him to the ground and covered him, his hands immediately flex-knotted behind his broad, sweat-soaked back.
Nell instinctively ran toward Alexei. She had no idea how many potential assassins had managed to bypass the vaunted White House security. The birthday boy was about fifty yards away, nearing a copse of trees, and she cried out to him as he ran, but he was lost inside the group of shouting children.
She saw the black toy rising high above him. And then, it seemed to pause. Suddenly it was diving straight toward him. “NO!” Nell screamed as Alexei looked up smiling, ducking only at the last instant to avoid being hit in the face. He was terrified because his toy machine suddenly seemed to have a mind of its own! Now it was flying at full speed around and around him, the razor-sharp blades striking his arms, the top of his head . . . blood spouted from his forehead and filled his eyes. He cried out for her . . . it was trying to hurt him!
Nell’s mind was ra
cing, knowing everything now depended on her staying in the moment, steeling herself and saving the child she loved. It was the Snow King himself, Szell, who had wreaked this fresh havoc. Alexei’s toy helicopter wasn’t a toy at all. It was a weapon. Meant to kill him.
She dove forward, leaping up and snatching the speeding helicopter out of midair, landing on her feet.
“Run! All of you! Get away from me! Run as far away from this thing as you can! Now!” The children ran, in a blind panic, toward their mothers.
Nell herself ran, trying in vain to stop the spinning blades that were cutting her fingers to ribbons. She took off in the opposite direction of the children, racing toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Away from Alexei, away from the terrified boys and girls, away from the bewildered ladies gathered beneath the trees. She saw Agent Sullivan sprinting toward her on an angle to intercept her, but she waved him off. She had to get this thing away from everyone before—she looked back over her shoulder.
She was nearly fifty feet away from the children now, and she breathed an instinctive sigh of relief as she looked all around her. Alexei was safe. All the children and their mothers were safe.
No one was even close to Nell Spooner. She suddenly felt so all alone. But she knew that on this day she had done her duty. And duty, after all, was what she had dedicated her life to doing. She took care of the weak, protected them from the strong, those who would do them harm. Perhaps she was just an ordinary woman. But, by God, she felt the strong heart of a warrior beating in her chest. And that is when the helicopter exploded in her hands, killing her instantly.
CHAPTER 39
Siberia
Colonel Beauregard’s armed convoy chugged through the main gate of the brand-new Vulcan complex at dawn. The sky was full black with a small band of orange and pink on the eastern horizon. In the months since his first meeting with the Dark Rider he had made huge strides in construction of training facilities and dormitories for his warriors, and amassing a weapons capability that would be the envy of any world power. Vulcan was rapidly approaching the allotted number of men under arms, the training processing, and the further development of radical weaponry that they’d had before Vulcan’s downfall.
His men, all prior Vulcan personnel, had been repositioned to hot spots all over the world. Working undercover in Iraq, Iran, and Syria. Working with their new Russian comrades to counter the West in places like Cuba and Mexico . . . all in the interest of furthering Russian interests under the express direction and beneficence of Uncle Joe.
At the center of the colonel’s procession was an enclosed flatbed trailer truck. It was painted with camo paint and looked harmless enough to any nosy observers. But beneath the retractable roof was a newly developed weapon system that would strike fear into the hearts of Russia’s enemies. It had been developed by Vulcan scientists and engineers from plans long on the drawing board but never brought to fruition. Now the mercenaries had the nearly unlimited funding necessary to create their next generation weapons of war.
The Vulcan support forces men involved had steeled themselves for the Trans-Siberian journey. It would take them into the most desolate regions of the Siberian wastelands. It would take them all the way, but not quite, to the northern border of China, their theater of operations.
Since the colonel’s official arrival in Russia, General Krakov and the KGB senior staff had proved to be most hospitable to him and his entire support staff; they had accommodated Beauregard’s every demand. Thirty-thousand Vulcan troops were well-fed, well-rested, and well-equipped at the Winter Palace. As the Kremlin moved ever closer to a war footing with their sworn enemies in the West, he’d been invited to more and more Kremlin briefings with the highest-ranking military brass under Putin’s command.
Russia had rolled into the Ukraine like a tidal wave crushing all the Kiev-led opposition with Russian tanks, troops, and combat air support. The resulting world outcry was deafening, but a week later no one in the global media even talked about it anymore. They were focused like lasers on newly arrived Russian troops massing on the borders with Estonia, Poland, and Hungary. One hundred thousand men under arms, and the number was growing every day. Russian tank battalions and armored divisions were coming up from the rear.
For the first time, the phrase “boots on the ground” was being talked about on the Sunday-morning talk shows. American boots.
As the threat of world war loomed, the American in the White House was strangely silent. The political party in opposition was screaming for his head, but he was obdurate and immutable, noncommittal in his single press conference since the Ukraine disaster. There were increasing calls for impeachment in the media and on Capitol Hill.
Looking for leadership from Washington with increasing hopelessness, the British prime minister, David Cameron, was beginning to believe he’d have to go up against Putin with only Australia, New Zealand, the Germans, and a few lesser EU members backing him up. America had suddenly and mysteriously retreated from its position of world leadership. Long gone were the days when President Reagan had told the Kremlin to “Tear down this wall!”
Without American strength, the world had veered into a very dark place.
TWO WEEKS EARLIER, IN AN offsite meeting outside of Moscow, Beauregard had met with General Krakov and the highest-ranking members of the Russian politburo. All such high-level meetings were held at Rus, a secret KGB dacha deep in an ancient forest.
Drive one hour due north of Moscow, sticking to the primary roads, and you will find yourself tunneling through one of Russia’s great primeval forests. The Belovezhskaya Pushcha forest, the venerated Dark Forest.
If, like Colonel Beauregard’s uniformed KGB driver and the armed security man seated beside him in the front, you actually know where you’re headed, you will be looking for a secondary road, unpaved and overgrown with weeds and ferns, that veers off in an easterly direction.
That road is not marked, nor will you find it on any map.
Proceed through the dense wood in an eastward direction at thirty miles per hour for exactly twenty minutes. Stop and get out of your car. There you’ll see a sign. It’s very easy to miss but on the right side of the road stands a larch tree. High on the trunk is a small, hand-carved red wooden arrow. It points the way to one of old Mother Russia’s most closely held secrets. So secret that the name is never uttered aloud or committed to paper with ink.
On that sign is painted a single letter. R.
Rus. A massive, rambling structure, deep in the Dark Forest, was built centuries ago of Siberian larch and without the use of a single nail. Prior to the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, the ancient hunting lodge was used by the tsars. The Russian potentates would journey there from St. Petersburg or Moscow with their courtiers and assorted hangers-on, frequently with their mistresses, to carouse, drink, and shoot. But mainly, they would drink. They shot wild boar and duck primarily, but, not infrequently, blind drunk guests would angrily shoot each other.
The rough-hewn wooden lodge, with its massive porches, stone chimneys, and great dark green shutters, is situated atop a modest hill. Rolling green lawns sweep down to a large blue lake dappled with sunlight. In late fall, the docks still boast expensive sailing yachts and speedboats. There are also a number of fishing boats, fully staffed, for those who fancy an afternoon of stalking the finny denizens of the deep; or, simply sunbathing au naturel on deck with the odd lady friend or two.
In modern times the Rus Lodge has been the exclusive haunt of high-level Communist Party leaders. More recently, Russian presidents and prime ministers had been known to visit. Boris Yeltsin loved Rus and he went there to die. Cardiovascular disease and assorted other problems brought on by his beloved “little water,” Russian parlance for vodka, had finally taken their toll.
In modern times, Rus and the surrounding forests had taken on a far darker cast. No longer do drunken kings chase golden-haired nymphs across the green lawns. Today, the woods were full of heavily armed security guards, and the single
incoming dirt road from the outside world had been quickly landmined after the arrival of the last attendee, the American warrior for whom the Russians all had such high hopes. He could well be the man who made all the difference in the coming global conflict.
ON AN UPPER FLOOR OF the lodge was a room known as the Eagle’s Star Chamber. The rough wooden walls were hidden behind acres of bloodred velvet hangings. In the center of the room, beneath a candlelit chandelier that easily weighed over a ton, was a massive round table. The table bore the scars of use and had been hand-carved in the late Middle Ages. Many had supped at this table and many had died, having suffered unbearable torments and cruelties while bound to the “Rus Stol,” now known to the thirty men who now sat around it as the “Circle of Life.”
Carved deeply and long ago into the center of this great circle of oak was the ancient Russian motto: “The Wolves Must Eat Too.”
It was an exceedingly warm day in early fall. Light breezes shivered on the lake and in the surrounding trees. And though the large leaded glass windows were flung open, it was oppressively hot in the room. Colonel Beauregard swiped at his brow with his sopping linen handkerchief. Wanting to keep his wits about him for this important meeting, he had been fastidiously abstaining from sampling the contents of the cut crystal vodka decanters that were ringed around the table, one for every two attendees.
Krakov got to his feet, perspiring heavily inside his old Soviet uniform, the ceremonial attire he always donned while at the dacha regardless of the season.
“I would like to respectfully propose we warmly welcome to our table a great soldier of fortune. His name is Colonel Brett Beauregard. He has an army of exquisitely trained warriors, political assassins, and professional killers. Male, female, young, old. An army of them, do you hear me? With weaponry of his own design and, in many cases, far more advanced than most of the military superpowers, including our own. He is here today because of our impending offensive in the Caribbean and elsewhere in the weeks and months to come.”
