by G T Almasi
Here we go again!
“—I’LL BLOODY WELL ASK YOU!” Cyrus stands back and pounds his big paw on his desk. “We are not cowboys!” He’s so steamed that he paces back and forth a few times. “Alix, I don’t know who would kick my ass harder if …” He stops, frowns at his reflection in the window, and says, “Never mind. You stay away from Fredericks. Justice has warned me he’s untouchable, at least until this thing with Germany gets sorted out.”
This “thing” with Germany is America’s worst international crisis in thirty years. It turns out the German public has little tolerance for crashed cars, shot-up college campuses, trashed public facilities, and bullet-riddled city streets. My sheboomigans in German territory last year featured all this and more, but our ambassador in Berlin kept it quiet by distracting the local politicos and mediarazzi with buffets of all-you-can-hump professional virgins. However, nothing could suppress the story of fifty kids in a German Youth troop getting blown up by a U.S. Navy cruise missile.
The cruise missile eliminated the global threat posed by the Darius Covenant and the Blades of Persia. It also supposedly killed the Blades leader, Imad Badr, aka Winter. This didn’t happen because I snuck in with the ill-fated German Youth troop and snatched Winter only moments before blam time. We timed all this to give the German Youth troop plenty of time to make it out of there before the missile arrived.
But they didn’t.
Oops.
The German press lit up like wildfire. When the forensics came back “Made in U.S.A.,” everyone from Herr Chancellor to Herr Six-Pack called for American heads to roll. This royally screwed things up.
To protect our corruption case against Jakob Fredericks, Winter’s non-deadness has to be kept strictly between ExOps and our CIA controllers. He’s the one person who can prove Fredericks purposely sent my father into a trap. But Winter is as good as dead if ol’ Jakob finds out about him.
So Cyrus didn’t file any paperwork about my mission to snatch Winter, nor did he tell the White House about it. This means only a couple of people at the Department of Justice know we’re sitting on a star witness who can stick Director Fredericks in front of a firing squad.
It also means President Jackson got blindsided when German Chancellor Honecker blusteringly declared that he wants Greater Germany to dump the U.S. and join the Pan-Asian Pact. Now America is staring down the barrel of everyone’s recurring Shadowstorm nightmare, where three major powers team up and gang-rape the fourth one.
The U.S. must have an ally, and it won’t be Russia or China. Those creeps are still pissed about our presence in Japan and Korea. Our relationship with Greater Germany is crucial, and the mission to rescue it is being directed by Washington’s top strategist: SSC Director Jakob Fredericks. The fucker is considered so indispensable right now we can’t even bust the bastard for treason. So “until this thing with Germany gets sorted out,” we’ve stashed Imad Badr in a D.C. safe house. Hopefully, given some time, nobody will ask how in hell we got our hands on such a hot potato.
Meanwhile, I’m still in the doghouse. Cyrus’s burning glower persists in melting the glass in his window.
Brando hesitantly says, “Sir, Scarlet and I may have uncovered something else.”
Cyrus sighs. “Let’s hear it.”
My partner takes a big breath. “Director Fredericks’s career has a unique pattern. He’s made great contributions but has not been commensurately rewarded.”
Cyrus, still scowling, says, “Go on.”
“He’s intelligent and experienced enough to direct a substantially larger office than the Strategic Services Council. Something like CIA, NSA, perhaps even the State Department,” Brando clears his throat. “However, he’s been kept from higher posts by his … uhh … lack of social skills.”
Cyrus snorts but says nothing.
“Also,” my partner adds, “his resentment toward his superiors is well documented.”
“Him and half of Washington.”
“Yes, sir, but consider the way Director Fredericks handled the ExOps security breach eight years ago. He knew there were three competitive agents inside ExOps—Virgo, Libra, and Scorpio—who—”
“Yes, Darwin. I remember,” Cyrus says testily. “I lost a lot of good friends from the Russian Section, and Langley nearly shut us down. Make your point.”
“Sorry, sir.” Patrick clears his throat again. “Virgo and Libra were captured very quickly, which halted the leaks from the Russian Section, and then Fredericks broke off the investigation.”
Cyrus broils us with his oven-black googlies. “And?”
“Sir,” Brando says quickly, “we think Jakob Fredericks is Scorpio.”
There’s a pregnant pause while our boss holds his glower. “Scorpio,” he mutters. “You believe the third mole was our most senior Front Desk at the time.”
Brando and I both nod our heads.
“I suppose this is why you’ve spent so much time in the library lately.”
We nod our heads again. According to what we found in CORE, Virgo and Libra exposed every one of our agents and assets in the USSR, many of whom were executed or remain in prison. The third mole—Scorpio—seemingly had a separate agenda that continued after the two Russian agents were packed off to Leavenworth.
The Office of Security interviewed everyone at ExOps and discovered dozens of staffers who had briefly misplaced their IDs sometime in the previous year. The investigators determined that all of those IDs had been used to access classified data about the Asexual Reproduction Initiative before magically reappearing.
Cyrus rubs his jaw. “I assume the Scorpio reports you read were sanitized.”
“Yes, sir. No names.”
“Well, let me tell you, then, since I was here when all that happened. After Security started monitoring the traffic into CORE, they only tracked one query for ARI-related materials. By the time they traced it, the trespasser was already gone. That was the last we ever heard of Scorpio.”
Brando asks, “Whose ID had he used?”
Our boss fixes a stare at us to say, Guess who.
I grumble, “Fredericks.” My partner and I look at each to see if we’ve got big cartoon donkey heads.
Cyrus returns to his desk chair. “And before you ask, Fredericks was at Camp David getting his picture taken with President Nixon at the time. The Secret Service knows Fredericks by sight, so he didn’t realize his ID was missing until he tried to get back into his office later that night.”
My boss stretches his arms over his head. “So, I’m afraid Fredericks is not a likely Scorpio suspect.” A couple of his joints crack as he extends his hands over his head. His armpits are dark with perspiration. “I’ve always thought it was Russia or China trying to jump-start their cloning program by stealing it from us.”
“The same way we stole ours from Germany?” I butt in.
Cyrus scrutinizes me for a moment. “You have been doing your homework. Yes, exactly.” He drops his arms and slides one of his desk drawers open. “Fredericks has more than enough clearance to access all the ARI files he wants, but the son of a bitch wouldn’t waste his time. He knows as well as I do we’re a long way from getting mixed up in cloning again.” He nods toward Brando. “Despite the positive results achieved.”
Brando lowers his eyes to his lap. “Thank you, sir.”
“Your efforts are commendable—” Cyrus pulls a pair of file folders out of his desk drawer. “—but Scorpio is a mystery for another day.” The drawer slides shut. “There are more pressing matters to attend to.” He slides the files to us. “Scarlet, this should keep you out of trouble for a while.”
My partner and I each grab a folder.
Cyrus stands up again and paces across his office. “This is a big one. In fact, it’s the largest covert action I’ve ever seen. It’s called Operation ANGEL. Every section’s Front Desk will contribute all available resources. That’s Russian, Chinese, American, and, of course, my German Section.”
Brando
peeks inside his mission brief.
“Scarlet, you and Darwin will travel to York in northeast England. There you will establish contact with an underground resistance group called the Circle of Zion. This is a great opportunity for you two, but make no mistake. Our country’s fate hangs in the balance. Our cousins in Berlin must be diverted from joining the Pan-Asian Pact while simultaneously lowering such an alliance’s appeal to Moscow and Beijing. We can’t fabricate the proper situation from outside Germany’s borders, but we can induce it within them.”
Meanwhile, Brando’s eyes have almost bugged out of his head.
Cyrus stops pacing. Then he knocks our socks off. “ExOps has been ordered to incite a slave revolt inside the Reich. And you’re going to start it.”
Oh, my God! It’s the job of a lifetime!
I turn to face my partner. Brando’s mouth has dropped open, and I think he’s stopped breathing.
CORE MIS-ANGEL-006
Date: 20 January 1981
To: All Directors and Operations Coordinators
From: Office of the Executive Intelligence Chairman
Subject: Operation ANGEL
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
Mission Parameters
The goal of Operation ANGEL (Affected Naturalization of Germany’s Enslaved Labor) is to preserve America’s alliance with Greater Germany. It will temporarily destabilize the Reich by instigating a revolt among the slave population in Europe, beginning in England. This rebellion will be supported by America’s clandestine community until our embassy in Berlin persuades Germany to rejoin the North Atlantic Alliance. At that point, our pro-rebellion support will cease.
Long-term success of the insurgency is undesirable, but to achieve this diplomatic goal, our deployed field agents must develop a convincingly chaotic situation. You will withhold our true purpose from your operatives and direct them as though this uprising is to actually succeed.
Background
This situation has been brewing for months. On 3 October of last year, agents of Extreme Operations Division severely damaged a Carbon installation in Zurich. News of this event was not happily received by our opposite numbers in the Reich, but they suppressed the story to maintain Carbon’s minimized media presence.
Three weeks later, a thermobaric cruise missile launched from a U.S. warship annihilated a terrorist base masquerading as a research facility outside of Riyadh. All the lab personnel were killed, along with fifty members of a visiting German Youth troop. This story was picked up by every news outlet in Greater Germany.
Four days later, Chancellor Erich Honecker declared he would sever Greater Germany’s alliance with the United States.
That same day China loudly renewed her demand for the United States to transfer control of Korea and Japan to the Nationalist Republic of China.
These events occurred during an election year and severely damaged President Reagan’s approval ratings. Democratic challenger Henry M. “Scoop” Jackson made significant gains. Two weeks later Mr. Jackson was elected president.
Upon taking office last week, President Jackson immediately initiated his combination of liberal domestic programs and aggressive foreign policy. In his first presidential press conference he condemned Greater Germany’s plan to “betray” the North Atlantic Alliance and threatened dire consequences should they follow it through.
ANGEL is a harbinger of those dire consequences.
05
Next afternoon, Wednesday, January 21, 1981, 3:46 P.M. EST
ExOps Training Facility, Maryland, USA
“Scarlet, ten left,” Brando’s comm voice says, “and stay down.”
I dog it ten yards up Main Street, crouched so low I’m almost doubled over. Then I hit the deck. My heavy breathing blows little puffs of dust off the floor. Dirt sticks to my sweat-soaked face. I blink hard to get the salty dust out of my eyes.
A turret pops out of a stand of plastic bushes on my left and noisily sprays the air above me with rubber ordnance. I slide on my stomach and aim Li’l Bertha at the bullet-bot. My pistol locks on and flashes “Target Acquired” in my Eyes-Up display. I pull the trigger and return fire. My lightweight practice slugs ping off the turret’s metal shell, which signals the Training Control Center, Ya got me, pardner.
Brando comms, “Next station, 60 right, fly-by.”
I spring to my feet and pump my legs for sixty feet. I look to my right. “Fly-by” is IO slang for “don’t stop moving,” so this next part will be something extra hairy. A bright light flashes from a little house on the right side of Main Street. As I turn to riddle this target, the floor plunges out from under me. I’ve got just enough momentum to grab the far lip of this insta-pit with my free hand. Then my body smacks into the pit’s wall and knocks the wind out of me.
I hang there for a moment, gasping. My partner comms, “Scarlet, hurry! We’ve got another station to get through and only thirty seconds to do it.”
That’s easy for you to say, Darwin. I pull myself out of the pit and wheeze on down the road.
“Okay, last one. Three hundred straight ahead, top speed.”
I mentally activate my sidearm’s safeties so she won’t accidentally fire as I swing my arms as fast as I can. My sneakers slap the floor and my hair blows behind me as I race up to twenty-something miles per hour. I can hit the high thirties with Madrenaline in my blood, but Brando and I are supposed to be able to complete this training sequence without using my Enhances. Each run-through is different, and I’ve screwed it up three times today. This is the closest we’ve gotten to completing it.
Brando comms, “Twenty seconds remaining!”
Ahead of me is a clear path to the finish line. All I need to do is jog to it and—
Wrong.
Three bullet-bots fall from the roof in front of me. They bounce up and down on long rubber cables. Each bot emits a thin red laser beam. All three beams point at my chest, and the bots fire a volley of rubber bullets.
I hold Li’l Bertha in front of me while I leap away from the bouncy-bots’ bullets and laser beams. Her target indicator is blank.
“Darwin, what’s happened? Why can’t my pistol get a lock?”
“They’ve got jammers. You’ll have to—”
I charge the leftmost bot.
“—find a way around them.”
The left bot locks on to me as it swings to the bottom of its arc. I throw myself at it and grab the bungee cord above its body. The bot hauls me off the ground, and I sail up toward the roof.
I swing like Tarzan and wrap my bot’s cord around the other two cables before I drop off at the bottom of the next bounce. The bots are still live, but now they can only point in a fixed direction. I avoid the static laser beams and cross the finish line with less than a second to go.
“Yes!” Brando shouts. “Made it!”
I flop onto my back to catch my breath. The view from Camp Gaspy shows a very high, curved roof supported by metal trusses. It’s like a gargantuan airplane hangar.
“Terrific,” my partner comms. “Now for the driving test.”
Sure. Whatever. “Gimme a minute,” I comm. It takes a minute, anyway, since he has to bring the car around.
A vehicle coasts up next to me. I peel myself off the ground. Oh, God, I wish I could use Madrenaline. Brando switches to the passenger seat, and I hop in behind the wheel. Something must have happened to our previous training vehicle, which was a fucked-up black-and-white Dodge sedan, like a former police cruiser. This new car, a white BMW two-seater convertible, is quite a hot little number. The relatively few dents and scrapes tell me this sexy momma hasn’t seen much track time here yet. While I coast to the start line, I take in the gorgeous tan interior.
My partner sees how impressed I am with our new wheels and says, “Drug bust.”
Ah, of course. Sometimes when ExOps helps local cops, we get to keep the perpetrator’s ride. If the D.C. SWAT team can’t take care of a situation or if the FBI is in over their head, Director Chanez will
send one of his Levels out with them. It never takes long after that. Regular crooks can’t compete with a million-dollar murder machine designed to help topple whole governments.
I rev the engine and yell, “Think there’s any cocaine left in this baby?”
Brando turns up the heater, puts on his seat belt, and smiles. “I doubt it. The mechanics probably got it all.”
I ease the Cokemobile up to the start line. In front of us, a pair of titanic hangar doors slide open. My copilot riffles through his instructions and nods to me when he’s ready.
“TCC, Scarlet and Darwin ready for launch.”
The Training Control Center comms back, “Roger that, Scarlet. Arming the tree. Go on green.”
The “tree” is a tall pole supporting two vertical series of lights. Right now the top lights are lit up bright red. I press the clutch down and shift into first. My right foot floors the gas and holds it there.
The light tree flashes down: reds, yellows, green!
I slip my left foot off the clutch pedal. A white cloud of tire smoke billows behind us as we screech off the line. The tachometer redlines, I shift into second, and we burst out of the hangar. The sun smacks my face, and my vision Mods adjust their gamma to compensate.
I holler, “Yeee-hahhhh!!!”
As we roar up the first straightaway, Brando feeds me his pace notes for the first turn. “Turn One. Left, 105 in, long sweep, 95 out.” This means we should enter this long sweeping left turn at a hundred and five miles per hour and exit it at ninety-five.
I zoom the Cokemobile up to a buck ten before I tap the brakes to set up a spectacular power slide around Turn One’s broad expanse. I countersteer and wallop the gas before I’ve even passed the corner’s apex. Cokey leans into this scandalous driving like a drunken businessman doing the motorboat between a hooker’s tits.
Oh, I am totally getting one of these honeys.
