Nightstalkers

by Bob Mayer

  But she was real and she had a very specific reason for everything she did.

  Right now Pitr had laid out the objects in the correct order in which she had to consider their connections:

  The hard drive from the Fun Outside Tucson and the “fun” happening in North Carolina, delivered to Pitr by Support just minutes ago. It had initially been programmed by:

  Henry Craegan’s file, including the taunting e-mail from him to:

  Doctor Winslow’s file. How had:

  Burns found out about the e-mail and the connection? His file lay there, too, along with:

  The situation report via Moms from Senators Club, which was getting thicker with each secure e-mail and Satphone conversation transcription.

  Ms. Jones immediately made one connection. “Burns learned of Winslow by accessing Craegan’s e-mail records on the hard drive.”

  Pitr nodded.

  “Still no word where Burns is?”

  Pitr shook his head. “No. Support is on it.”

  “What about the report from the University of Colorado Acme Asset?” Ms. Jones asked.

  Pitr’s American accent was much better than hers, with barely a trace of his Russian roots. This was because he actually went out into the world and interacted with people away from the Ranch and Area 51. He was slightly younger than Ms. Jones, handsome in a rugged way with gray hair just starting to tinge his temples. His most distinguishing feature was his smile, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth and making him appear to be a person without a trouble in the world. Ms. Jones often believed it was that smile that had caused her to make the decision that changed everything back on April 26, 1986.

  “The report was inconclusive,” Pitr said. “Worse, the Acme has disappeared. It might be a rather unsettling coincidence, except, of course, we don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “But we had no record of a Rift there.”

  “Perhaps Mister Burns had something to do with that disappearance to accelerate the movement of the hard drive back to Area 51,” Ms. Jones said. “It had been scheduled for pickup a week later, so there was a shuffle in assignments. That’s why we got the initial Package report wrong and a rookie Courier ended up getting assigned a priority-one Package.”

  “That’s likely.”

  “Have Support follow up there,” Ms. Jones said. “Find out what happened to the Acme. Start with the student who signed the drive over to the Courier.”

  Pitr leaned over her and adjusted the drip in one of the three IVs that fed into a shunt in her chest.

  “The good news,” Pitr said, because Pitr always focused on good news—someone had to, “is that the Nightstalkers have finished off a third of the Fireflies and the Rift didn’t act abnormal as it did in Tucson.”

  “That in itself is cause for concern,” Ms. Jones said. “First that it was different in Tucson and then it wasn’t different in North Carolina. Is it not the same program?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Pitr said. “Doctor Winslow had time to work on it. He’s older, so we might assume he went the old way.”

  Ms. Jones looked at her desk. “There’s five things there.”

  “Ah,” Pitr shook his head. “You aren’t a believer in Doc’s Rule of Seven, are you?”

  “He has a valid point,” Ms. Jones said. “I have often deconstructed the events which brought you and I together and changed our lives and they more than fit his theory.” Ms. Jones closed her eyes. “I must constantly remind myself of things, Pitr. Both good and bad. The Nightstalkers think I make speeches to remind them, but it’s as much to remind myself.” She lifted a hand, staring at the red scars and then pointing at Pitr. “You were so gallant when you flew your helicopter in to Chernobyl that early morning after the reactor blew.”

  Pitr grimaced, not liking it when her mind went back to that time, because it would lead only one way. “You did all you could.”

  “I did not and that is why we are here.” She sighed. “I worry about Nada and his Protocols. They followed Protocol that night.”

  “They followed Protocol after already having made many mistakes,” Pitr corrected her. “It was the mistakes that caused the Protocol to go wrong. You were the only engineer there who kept telling them to stop. Who pointed out the mistakes they didn’t want to acknowledge.”

  “They were worried about their bonuses,” Ms. Jones allowed. “And no one wanted to call Moscow.”

  “You made that call.”

  “Too late.”

  “You saved my life,” Pitr said.

  “And many others died.”

  “You did all you could,” Pitr repeated. “You are the way you are now because you went in that bunker and pulled out the man who made mistake number seven, as Doc would label it.”

  “He died in my arms,” Ms. Jones said.

  Pitr shrugged. “I never understood that.”

  That surprised Ms. Jones. “That he died?”

  “That you went in and got him,” Pitr said. “All these years, it is not consistent with your speeches, even the speech you gave me that day. I was young and only thinking of medals and duty and honor. Of flying above and dropping my concrete on the tower. And you stopped me. You told me there was no honor dying for a mistake.”

  “Ah, Pitr,” Ms. Jones said, “you misremember. I told you that mistakes happen, that is part of life and death, but once you know it’s a mistake and you let people die for it in ignorance, that is murder. Your commanders knew everyone they sent over that tower would die, and yet they said nothing. That is indeed murder. I knew many in Pripyat would die if not evacuated immediately, yet did not force that issue. I live with that every day.”

  “You were a junior engineer, not a general.”

  “I should have contacted Kiev and given them a warning. This was a case where concealment, the second of our Cs that Moms lectures the team about, was criminal. It is why I talk to her constantly to make sure we are not having another Pripyat or Kiev. We will always have more Chernobyls.” She pointed weakly at the material on the desk. “I fear things are accelerating with this incident. There are times when things are not as they appear.”

  “But going back to my point,” Pitr said, “you ran into that room and pulled out the man who started the disaster. But you saved my life and stopped me. The two are not consistent.”

  Ms. Jones smiled weakly. “But that is the point, my dear Pitr. Today, I would not run into that room to save a man already dying. Today I would let you fly over that tower, but first I would make sure you knew exactly what flying over that tower meant. That it was a death sentence. Then you would have a choice. Today I would scream to Pripyat and Kiev in every way I could about what was coming. They had time, but the people in charge at Chernobyl and then in the Kremlin did not want to admit a mistake.”

  “There was collateral damage,” Pitr said. “There almost always is.”

  “There’s no such thing as collateral damage,” Ms. Jones said. “The definition of collateral is being an accessory. Being part of. That’s where the co comes from. People who are ignorant cannot be collateral. They are victims. People have to know and make choices. That’s why that door is the way it is.” She nodded at the exit to the Den. “Why everyone on the team hears everything and knows everything. When a Nightstalker dies, it is a terrible thing but it is not a tragedy, because they know the dangers and they know why they are dying. Everyone on the team is expendable, which sounds harsh, but it is realistic. Someone has to be.”

  “You take too much responsibility,” Pitr said.

  Ms. Jones laughed her cough. “Still, you don’t understand. Telling people the truth relieves one of responsibility. It is then their decision what they do, not yours. It is only when you lie or deceive them that you continue to hold responsibility.”

  Pitr rubbed a hand across his chin, a bit unnerved. “What is wrong?”

  “We have done well so far,” Ms. Jones said. “We have stopped a half-dozen i
ncidents that would have been the equivalent of a Chernobyl or worse over the years. But we have never had something like Burns in the history of the Nightstalkers. Someone from the inside going outside. Going rogue. Bringing one incident,” she pointed at the hard drive, “to another incident. That worries me.”

  “And there are times you’re not worried?” Pitr asked.

  Ms. Jones reached a hand up. Pitr took it in hers.

  “You are a comfort to a crazy old lady, my dear Pitr.”

  The team came trooping into their new base of operations, dropping their gear. Roland was gathering MP-5s, as Roland always cleaned the team’s weapons after every mission, whether they were fired or not. It was not only Protocol, it was Roland’s passion. Otherwise he’d be doing chin-ups or push-ups.

  Nada, Moms, and Scout came in the front door. Nada rolled the baby grand back against the doors and locked the wheels. Mac did a quick recon of the house to make sure no one had come in the back while they were across the street.

  “You should put on some pants,” Scout suggested to Moms, who had Kirk switching freqs to call Ms. Jones. The commo man had a large white bandage on his left hand. “You keep tugging on it and everyone’s going to know you aren’t from here. Plus, the hair.”

  “Support will be bringing us clothes soon.” Moms frowned. “There was a room in your house that looked like its only purpose is to wrap gifts.”

  “It is,” Scout said.

  “Your parents give a lot of gifts?”

  “No. But the room makes my mom feel better with all the ribbon and boxes and cards.”

  “Why would anyone want to be from around here?” Moms wondered.

  Scout giggled and Nada gave her a playful thump on the head, which actually hurt because he’d forgotten about the burn from the Firefly curling iron. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, but don’t giggle,” Nada said. “It’s only cute in babies.”

  Scout rubbed her head gingerly. “Don’t hit girls. It’s never cute.”

  Nada started to reply, but Moms cut in. “For Pete’s sake, Nada. Could you remember you’re on a mission here?”

  “What mission is that, exactly?” Scout asked. “What are Fireflies and how do they make a curling iron attack me and a dog go cray-cray?”

  “You don’t have a need to know,” Moms said.

  “So you don’t know what they are either,” Scout said triumphantly.

  “We know how to kill them,” Roland said, looking up from the bolt of an MP-5 that he was running a darkened toothbrush over, removing specks of dirt that actually weren’t there but he suspected were.

  “Excuuuuse me,” Scout said. “But this is my turf and you guys are pretty clueless around here, tennis skirt and all. I don’t care how many guns you have.”

  Roland frowned in irritation. “How does she know how many guns we have?”

  “See?” Scout said, looking at Nada and Moms.

  “I’ve got to call it in,” Moms said and she headed upstairs. Every team member watched her as she ascended, tennis skirt swaying. “On task, gentlemen,” Moms called out. “On task. Nada, let me know when my civvie pants arrive.”

  Moms looked around the master bedroom. There was a king-sized bed with a massive headboard carved from what she assumed was some expensive wood. There was also a little alcove off to one side. She went to it and stopped, stunned by the simple beauty of a window seat covered with a pretty blue cushion.

  “Oh!” Moms exclaimed, but she had enough sense of control to keep it off the team net. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her Federal ID, ranking her in the “do not fuck with me unless you’re the president and even then...” echelon of government. Behind the computerized ID card was a page cut out from an old magazine. Moms carefully unfolded the aging paper. The picture was almost the spitting image of this little corner. Moms’s mother had ripped the picture out of an old magazine when Moms was five and used a magnet advertising the local feed store to hold it to the front of the fridge. It had epitomized everything their shotgun shack on the Kansas high plains wasn’t and represented some sort of vague hope her mother had held on to that one day there would be better days.

  Sometimes hope is not a good thing.

  Moms ran her hands along the cushion. She gasped as she lifted the seat and there were pillows and comforters stored in it. Moms stared down at those objects for a long moment.

  Moms took a deep breath, shook her head, then pulled some pillows out and arranged them on the seat so she could lean back against one side. She also fluffed a comforter and tossed it over her bare legs. Then she settled in to talk to Ms. Jones about the mission.

  “So far you seem to be having a little difficulty in rolling this up,” Ms. Jones said.

  “We’ve only got two Fireflies so far,” Moms said.

  “I have an Asset en route who lived in that community for several years,” Ms. Jones said. “He was on the Acme list and is now a professor at Georgetown. He should be there later today.”

  Moms hesitated. “We have an Asset.”

  “A local recruit,” Ms. Jones said approvingly.

  “You could say that.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “Nada recruited her,” Moms said. “She’s just a kid. Sixteen.”

  “Ah! Children are often the most observant. A good choice on Mister Nada’s part.”

  Downstairs the team was doing the things it usually did on an op when it wasn’t killing or sleeping. Maintenance. Roland was cleaning weapons. Mac was separating out and molding charges, adapting them to their current environment, which meant shaped charges that made less bang but were just as effective since they were more directional. Kirk was on over-watch after having ensured Moms had a secure Satcom link through the TV dish on the roof of the house, and also linking the wireless in the house to a National Security Agency scrambler so no one could intercept or break the scrambling. Kirk could look out the front window, but he also had a half-dozen 27-inch Mac monitors surrounding him that not only had the entire perimeter of the house covered, but were also flashing ten-second feeds from the security cameras—there were a lot—spread around Senators Club. It would be confusing, but Nada had shown Kirk the Protocol for this setup, which had been designed by one of the Acme scientists who was an expert in physiological psychology and how quickly and often the brain could input visual data from a variety of displays and still cognitively process it.

  So far, Kirk had a headache but spotted nothing out of the ordinary that indicated a Firefly possessing a creature or object. His hand throbbed, but he’d refused any sort of painkiller offered by Doc, because they were on a mission and he needed to stay sharp.

  Doc was also upstairs doing something. Eagle was in the minigarage continuing the work Mac had started on the hybrid ATV/golf cart. The usual stuff in unusual ways. Adapting.

  Nada was seated at the kitchen bar, on the laptop, doing recon by Google. Scout was sitting on a bar stool next to him, her legs dangling, telling him he was doing it all wrong by just putting in keywords.

  “Ask questions,” Scout said. “Google works a lot better that way because then you’re looking for answers.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nada muttered. He had just accessed the home page for Senators Club. He figured the more he knew about the place, the better he could figure out how to attack whatever the four remaining Fireflies had gotten into. They’d been lucky so far with just a dog and a curling iron. He had a feeling the rest weren’t going to be so easy.

  He spoke into his throat mike. “Kirk, is Moms still on with Ms. Jones?”

  “She just clicked off,” Kirk responded.

  “I’m here,” Moms said over the net. “What’s up?”

  “I’m doing an Area Study of Senators Club,” Nada said. An Area Study was part of the Bible of Special Operations. Anywhere in the world they went, they spent as much time as possible studying the locale. For the Nightstalkers, often an Area Study wasn’t feasible as they dropped in guns blazing,
like with the Fun Outside Tucson. The first Special Forces teams into Afghanistan had had three weeks to do their Area Studies, mission planning, and briefbacks. Nada had a few minutes at the kitchen counter in Senators Club, which was a luxury for the Nightstalkers.

  Nada glanced at Scout. “Correct me if any of this is wrong.”

  “Okay.”

  Nada read over the net: “Senators Club is the Research Triangle’s only gated community. It is regarded internationally as one of, if not the most desirable place to live in the southeastern United States.”

  “Subtle,” Eagle commented.

  “I like Texas better,” Mac said.

  Scout chimed in. “It’s twenty-four hundred acres of the most finely tended golf courses, hiking trails, lakes, and tennis courts designed for exceptional living, all at a price for the discerning buyer.”

  “You sound like a brochure,” Eagle said.

  “Twenty-four hundred acres?” Kirk wondered over the radio. “Why are some of the houses on top of each other?”

  “It is in the brochure and right there on that website,” Scout said. “Plus how can you compare yourself to the Joneses if you can’t see them? And how can you tell when undesirables like you show up if you can’t see your neighbor?”

  “Hey!” Roland paused in cleaning his pistol. “We’re the last line of defense protecting these people from the things that go bump in the night!”

  “You just killed a curling iron,” Scout said. “Do you get a medal for that?”

  Mac laughed. “Old Kirk could probably put in for a Purple Heart: got burned grabbing for a curling iron. That would look real good.”

  Roland started running the toothbrush across the pistol’s lower receiver so hard, it was surprising sparks weren’t flying. “I don’t like this kid. She’s a smart-ass. Why do we need her?”