The Kasparov Agenda (Omega Ops Legion Book 1)

by C. S. De Mel

  Varick grinned. “You got that right. But since I have the busted ribs, I won’t be much use anyway and won’t have the pleasure of changing your diapers, kid.”

  “Well, Dad’s started training me, so pretty soon I might be the one changing your diapers, old man,” Alex countered.

  Varick raised an eyebrow. “Really? You started training?”

  “Impressive, right?”

  Varick looked to Bruce, who confirmed the news with a nod. Varick stuck out a hand. “Well then, I guess congratulations are in order, Alex. One step closer to working alongside us.”

  Alex shook Varick’s hand. “Thanks.”

  “But you have a long way to go before you can stand toe-to-toe with me,” Varick said, smirking.

  “Yeah?” Alex was still holding Varick’s hand and tried to pull him in, putting one arm around Varick’s neck and aimed a kick at Varick’s shins for the takedown. Alex was leaning back with all of his weight off balance, but Varick barely budged. In response, Varick stuck his foot behind Alex’s leading leg and simply pushed him over.

  Varick laughed. “Even with my injuries, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

  Alex got back on his feet, grumbling. “Touché.” It suddenly dawned on Alex what he just did. “Crap—sorry, Varick. I completely forgot about the ribs; I didn’t mean to attack you like that. You just don’t give off the vibe of someone recovering from injuries.”

  “Well, since you didn’t actually do anything, no harm done.”

  Alex was impressed. “Isn’t it painful? Walking around and stuff?”

  “Extremely,” Varick said, grinning. “But I don’t plan on lying in bed twenty-four-seven until this heals.”

  Hmm. Varick always did strike Alex as a glutton for punishment. The doorbell rang upstairs.

  “Wonder who that is?” Bruce muttered.

  “Who knows. I’ll get it.” Varick made his way back upstairs. He waved a hand before leaving. “Train hard, Alex.”

  “Will do.”

  “Maybe I’ll head back up too—let you guys get to it,” Santos said.

  “Actually, I might need your help for this first part of training,” Bruce responded. “Stick around.”

  Santos shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Hey, thanks for talking to my dad, Mr. Santos. I heard you were the one that convinced him to start training me.”

  “Don’t mention it, Alex; I did the easy part.” Santos smiled. “You’re the one that’s going to have to endure it.”

  Varick caught the door on the second ring and was greeted by familiar faces. “The guy that’s supposed to be on his death bed is getting the door...” Roy grinned. “And yet, I’m not surprised.” Varick didn’t expect to see his friends from the NYPD on the front steps in civvies.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  “We came to see you of course!” Laura said, beaming. In her hand was a large brown paper bag.

  “Well, I don’t know where you heard death bed, but I’m fine. Couple of broken ribs—nothing time won’t fix.” Varick eyed Laura and then turned to Roy and Henry. “Why did you bring her along? You do realize that the location of this manor isn’t something we just hand out, right? We can’t be bringing just anyone here.”

  Laura sneered. “Varick...I will punch you in the ribs.”

  “That’s quite a temper.”

  “Left side or right? Maybe I’ll punch you twice to make sure I hit the broken ones.”

  Varick raised up his hands in surrender. “Hey, well, if Roy and Henry vouch for you, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Don’t worry, John, she can be trusted,” Henry reassured. “Her loyalty to the police and to the just cause is unquestionable.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear...” Varick gave a sarcastic thumbs-up to Laura, who responded with an equally sarcastic smile and the finger.

  “Alright, well, come on in, then,” Varick said, stepping aside.

  “Oh wow, what a beautiful dog!” Laura exclaimed. She put down her paper bag and bent down to pet Leo; he was waiting behind Varick to see who was at the door. “Is he yours, Varick?”

  “Yeah, I suppose he is.”

  The long ridge of hair running in the opposite direction of the rest of the dog’s coat caught Laura’s attention, as it did most first timers. “Well, look at that, that’s really gorgeous. What kind of dog is he?”

  “Rhodesian Ridgeback. One of the few breeds that have the ridge along the back.”

  Roy made a quick click of the tongue. “How goes it, Leo?” Leo wagged his tail and let out a bark to greet Roy.

  “Well, it’s good to see you up and about, John,” Henry said.

  Laura looked up from petting Leo. “I thought he preferred being called Varick?”

  Henry shrugged. “He prefers Varick, but I prefer John.”

  “I told him the first few times but gave up,” Varick explained. “Schucker’s stubborn like that.”

  “Anyone else around?” Roy asked.

  “Yeah, Bruce is downstairs training his kid to fight. Santos is with them too; we probably shouldn’t disturb them.”

  “Oh really? Bruce is planning to get his son into your club, huh?”

  “Looks like it. I mean, it was always going to happen—was just a matter of when.” Varick walked into the living room and plopped down onto the sofa. “Grab a seat, gents and lady.”

  “Sure, but we only came for a quick visit to see how you were doing after the fight with that Gregory Pike,” Laura informed. She picked up her bag off the ground and followed Henry and Roy into the living room.

  “Oh, sorry, you want a place to put your things?” Varick stood up. “I can take that off your hands.”

  “Sure, thanks.” Laura handed Varick the bag. “It’s for you actually.”

  Varick was taken aback. “Yeah? What is it?”

  “Shrimp fried jasmine rice,” Roy responded on her behalf. “The way Laura makes this rice is absolutely amazing. It’s got a South Asian flavor to it—really spicy.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. The spicier the better.” Varick looked into the bag and a delicious aroma greeted him. He scrunched it closed again. “So, Ms. Bennett can cook?”

  Laura shrugged. “Well, if you consider stealing recipes out of books cooking, then yes, I can cook.”

  Varick cracked a rare smile. “Thanks, Laura, you didn’t need to go through the trouble.”

  “No problem. I figured it’s always nice to get food packages when you’re sick…or in your case, broken bones after a fight.”

  ***

  “Alright, Sensei, I’m ready when you are.” Alex raised his hands in a fighting stance.

  “Ready for what? You don’t even know what we’re doing.”

  “No sparring? See where I stand? What I need to work on?”

  Bruce waved a hand, dismissing all notions Alex had about training. “No. Sit down.” Alex sat down on the carpet obediently. Bruce sat down as well and invited Santos to do the same.

  “So...what are we doing, then?” Alex asked.

  “Orientation. I want you to really understand what the Omega Ops Legion entails. What you will learn and what is expected from you.”

  Alex stared down at the carpet between his feet. “You know, Dad, it struck me as odd. I’ve grown up surrounded by people in the Legion, yet I barely know anything about the organization. I mean, my own father...” Alex suddenly felt an unexpected surge of anger. “I don’t even know how you became involved in this thing. Hell, your whole past is shrouded in mystery... Don’t I have the right to know these things?”

  Bruce stared at his son intently. “Okay, Alex. No more secrets. We’ll start off orientation day with a history lesson...”

  ***

  8:00 p.m.

  Scorcher and his overseas guests were at his premier place of business, the Chital Co. Tower in Manhattan. Attending the summit was the heads of the crime syndicate within Scorcher’s circle: Samuel Turly, Tony Cal
zone, Ulysses Frost, Gregory Pike, and of course the guests of honor: Hachiuma and his Thai mercenaries. Hachiuma sat down behind the luxury English cherry wood desk, center stage. His Thai mercenaries stood behind him.

  Scorcher cleared his throat to address Hachiuma. “I usually sit behind there.”

  Hachiuma glared at him. “The person in charge sits in the place of prominence. You are not in charge. I came here because you could not take charge.”

  Scorcher raised his hands in defence. “Hey-hey, no need to get all snippy. You’re the guest, you can take the big-boy desk.”

  Scorcher sat down on a chair beside the rest of the party. We’ll see how well you can handle Bruce.

  “So, what is the strategy, here?” Turly asked.

  “Patience. We are going to bide our time.” Hachiuma looked from Turly to Scorcher. “Tell me exactly how the pecking order works here in New York.”

  Scorcher’s eye gleamed. “The head honchos are all in front of you. Information and orders trickle down from the bodies in this room: Tony has his mafia goon squad, Frosty has a lot of random psychos at his disposal and some drug cartel connections—real snow-blowers. And Turly—I’m sure you know all about him already; he’s the glue that keeps it all together.”

  Hachiuma looked at Pike. “And what do you do?”

  Pike shrugged. “I blow stuff up.”

  Scorcher’s devilish smile flashed. “Yes you do. He’s quite good at it. You know, I kinda wish I was there to see that tanker truck explode. I’ll admit, at first, I was peeved about losing all our weapons...but in hindsight, it looked like good fun. Good fun indeed.” Scorcher looked up at the ceiling dreamily. “Yes-yes, that is the price of fun...” Pike laughed uncertainly.

  Hachiuma was not amused. He opted to ignore Scorcher’s ramblings and carry on. “Each of you will inform your respective parties that until further notice, Bruce Kasparov is not to be engaged.”

  “What if he attacks us first?” Pike asked.

  “Then blow him up, or whatever it is you do. I’m not expecting you to roll over and die if he brings the fight to us.” The intercom on Scorcher’s desk began to beep. Hachiuma leapt out of the chair and his body engulfed in a fiery spectacle. “WHAT IS THAT NOISE?!” Hachiuma bellowed in an unbridled fury.

  “Wow...relax,” Scorcher muttered. “It’s my phone.” Scorcher walked up to the desk and switched on the intercom.

  “Scorcher! When I went to sleep last night in an intoxicated haze, it just came to me, one word, just like that...”

  Scorcher laughed into the intercom. “Lomez, is that you?”

  “Halloween, my friend. Hallo-freakin’-ween.”

  “You’re throwing a party?”

  “I’m throwing a party! Saturday, October 30th. Now I know that you’re terribly self-conscious about your garish appearance, so what better time to come than when everyone’s costumed up. With that grotesque face, you’ll be the belle of the ball!”

  “Hey-hey! I never said I was self-conscious! You were the one self-conscious about having a psychotic alien-looking criminal at your parties.”

  “Rubbish! Absolute rubbish! Okay. Okay-okay, but come down to Pennsylvania a couple days before the thirtieth. We’ll hop in my plane, fly to L.A., and we’ll completely bomb it. Tell me you can make it?”

  Scorcher looked around the room as everyone stared at him. Hachiuma was sitting back down, watching him, stone-faced. “Damn right I can make it!”

  “See, now that’s what I like about you, Scorcher. Whatever evil maniacal scheme you’re in the middle of—and don’t even tell me you aren’t—don’t you even deny it!”

  “Now why would I try to lie to you, Lomez?”

  Lomez laughed. “You can put aside the work for the play. You got your priorities right, good sir. Prepare thyself!” Scorcher turned off the intercom. He looked around to find everyone still staring at him.

  Hachiuma growled. “Finished?”

  Scorcher smacked himself on the forehead. “Where are my manners, should I have asked Lomez to toss an invite your way?” Hachiuma stood up, bearing down on the lot of them and continued as if there was no interruption:

  “We will wait for the right opportunity to trap Kasparov. Until then, absolutely no moves against him. I want to find out everything there is to know about this soon to be dead Legion guardian...”

  ***

  Chapter 8 – Summer ‘68

  “C’mon, you’re not trying hard enough!” Bruce’s legs pumped across the soccer field. Peter was red in the face from trying to keep up, but it was no good.

  “I can’t...too...fast...” He stopped running and collapsed onto the grass.

  The twelve-year-old Bruce Kasparov looked back at Peter Santos, disappointed. “Don’t give up!” Bruce walked back and hoisted Peter to his feet. “If we’re going to enlist, we need to be all that we can be—so don’t be a goddamn wuss!”

  The year is 1968. The Vietnam War is in full effect, with America having over half a million soldiers committed to the war efforts to prevent the spread of communism to South Vietnam. A ceasefire was agreed upon so that the Tet Lunar New Year festivities could take place unimpeded. But there is no honor in war. It was during this arranged ceasefire that North Vietnam launched the Tet Offensive: a series of surprise attacks against civilian and military positions. American soldiers were able to regroup and drive back the North Vietnam advances, but the damage was done and the death toll was high.

  Following the battles waged during the Tet offensive, the media brought to light, in graphic detail, the situation in Vietnam. It had become apparent to the American people that the U.S. government was not giving them all the facts. Public support for the war began to waiver. Many Americans began to question the possibility of an American victory and the integrity of the war itself. Was the United States right in sending troops to Vietnam to enforce their own containment policy?

  This was the year the Omega Ops Legion recruited two of its finest members.

  It was a late afternoon in July. The sun was still up and beating down hard. Bruce and Santos were out in the park with three other boys: Matthew Kerr, age 15; Dillon Byrons, age 14; and Charlie Walker, age 10. What these five had in common was that they were all in the care of Charlie Walker’s parents. While Bruce and Santos ran in the field, the other three were on the sidelines at the picnic benches. Matthew bounced a soccer ball from one foot to the other. Dillon was lying down on the grass, watching Matthew’s soccer skills in quiet reverie. Matthew bounced a particularly high kick with his thigh and glanced over at Charlie, who was not partaking in the activities. “Hey, Charlie, why don’t you join Bruce and Pete in their sprints?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How about kicking the soccer ball around?”

  “No, thanks,” he repeated. Charlie was seated on the picnic bench, absorbed in a Go board.

  Dillon sat up and looked drearily at the board. “Don’t you need two people to play that?”

  “I’m just practicing,” Charlie replied absentmindedly. He placed another white stone on the board and studied the effect. “Learning the subtle nuances of life and death...”

  “What happened to your chess fixation? At least with that there was fighting, like a war.”

  “Chess is more like an individual battle, actually. Go is a war and might just be the better game, from my experience so far.”

  Dillon looked at the board again. “Yeah, I don’t see it. Looks like a mess of black and white dots to me.” He grinned. “My guess is someone beat you bad at chess and you, being the sour-grape-eating baby you are, switched to this ‘Go’ of yours to save face.”

  Charlie scoffed. “Oh please, we both know I can beat anyone in the house at chess. And don’t get me wrong, I haven’t given up chess. I’ve simply decided to become a disciple of Go as well. And why Go you ask?”

  “I didn’t ask. It’s okay, I don’t need know, really…”

  “To put it in terms you can understand, Go is older t
han chess, simpler than chess, and far more strategic. How can it be simpler and more strategic, you ask?”

  “No, I believe you, really. You don’t need to explain.”

  “Actually, this was one of my contentions with chess. The setup and the way the pieces move seemed to just be arbitrarily determined. Why does the knight move in an L-shape, for example? Why not hop every other square instead, or move any two squares orthogonally? In this sense, the game is rigid. Go, on the other hand, feels organic. No frills, no fancy movements. It’s simply boiled down to black and white stones of equal value. Their value is created in how well they work together. Abstract strategy bliss.”

  “Okay-okay, the little genius can study his board games and massage his ego. As for me, I’m going to play keep-ups with Matt—a real game. Hey, Matt, kick me the ball!” Dillon shouted.

  Matt bounced the ball high up and popped a header in Dillon’s direction. Dillon waited for the ball to fall to chest height and then, with his hand, smacked the ball at the Go board. The black and white stones scattered onto the bench, with several dropping into the grass. Charlie balled his hands into fists. “You idiot!” he yelled. Dillon ran away laughing as Charlie chased after him.

  Well, look at that... Charlie’s fast when he wants to be, Matt thought to himself. He then looked down the field to where Bruce and Peter were running and corrected the thought: Charlie’s fast in comparison with Dillon. Charlie had miraculously managed to catch Dillon—but now that he had, he didn’t know what to do with him. Dillon pushed him down with one hand and laughed. Matthew shook his head. “Knock it off, Dillon. Let’s head back.”

  Dillon shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” He extended a hand and helped Charlie back to his feet.

  Matt picked up his soccer ball and jogged onto the field. He called out to Bruce and Peter: “Hey! Come back guys, we’re heading home!”

  ***

  The boys walked back to their house, joking and laughing. Charlie was still upset about his board game, however. They were now just a few blocks from their house. “Hey, Matt, I’ll race you the rest of the way home,” Bruce challenged.