by M. C. Norris
The men of Team Beta emerged from their wingsuits already dressed in the counterfeit uniforms of Chinese soldiers. Each unpinned a dress cap from his waist, and situated it atop his head. Rifles were assembled from discorporate parts. Wing suits and parachutes were gathered for into a pile for incineration.
While they worked, lightning shattered the skies. Thunder trundled over Nantong with mighty resonance. The Plum Rains were a seasonal phenomenon, owed to a persistent stationary front that drenched China for the first two months of every summer. However, another more ancient explanation accredited the annual monsoons to the water dragon, Yinglong. Legend had it that Yinglong had created the channel of the Yangtze River with a good thrashing from his serpentine tail.
Mr. Krupin snapped the incendiary vials hewn into the collars of a few wing suits, and stepped back as chemical reactions spat and sizzled in the rain. In an instant, despite Yinglong’s torrential downpour, the heap of chutes and clothing combusted in a ball of greenish flame. In a matter of seconds, all that remained of their infiltration gear was a black scar on the turf, and a few dozen plastic clips and buckles that would probably puzzle some superintendent for the rest of his life.
Krupin shouldered his rifle. He barked at his men through the wire mask. With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he began marching toward the stadium gates. There was no time to lose. Team Beta had exactly one hour to secure the College of Neurological Sciences building before a midnight rendezvous with Team Alpha, rumored to be under the command of Maxim Volkov, himself.
Mr. Krupin was forged of stronger stuff than the men around him, for having carried the burden of his Russian heritage for nine years in a gang predominantly and proudly Mongolian. He needed to be crazier, tougher, and more vicious than any Mongol in the Brotherhood, as Volkov cut another tie to the Russian Mob with every white corpse he sank to the bottom of Lake Khovsgol. While their nomadic faction seized control of the opium trade to the West, and the trafficking of distilled spirits into the Middle East, Mr. Krupin strove to remain close to his half-breed benefactor, knowing he’d have to elevate himself above the Russian heritage that Volkov obviously resented, if he hoped to survive. Volkov’s mother was a weak and corrupted example of a Russian, whose addictions allowed her to be used like a toilet while her half-breed son was raised as a mobster by her Mongol pimp. She was the fountainhead of Volkov’s hatred for Russians, and while Mr. Krupin understood, he was still driven to prove to Volkov that there was no reason to be ashamed of the Russian blood in his veins.
Hitting the stadium gates running, Krupin ensured he was first amongst his team to seize the rail, and launch himself over to the opposite side. It was a small victory, but in fact his champion status amongst the Brotherhood was determined by collective little wins, where he proved in small ways, minute by minute, that he was just a little bit faster, meaner, and more driven than any Mongol in the ranks. In a contest of physical strength, he might be outdone by a beast like Jochi, and that’s why it was critical to keep stronger men like him off-balance through regular intimidation. He’d altered his face with the wires and piercings to ensure he’d stand apart from the Mongols in a way that wasn’t a deadly liability. They couldn’t be allowed to see him as being a white Russian in their midst, or the dogs of war might decide to turn on him. No, they had to regard him as a monster, a savage, who was imbued with a disposition that was even more frightening than his face.
As they charged across the darkened campus through flapping sheets of rain, the little confrontation with Jochi began to niggle in his mind. The brute had challenged him, called him out in front of the others, and their brief engagement had ended without a violent repercussion. He’d let Jochi get away with overstepping his bounds, and amongst a gang of cutthroats, that failure to react was an unforgivable moment of weakness. Already, his underlings were probably recalculating their appraisal of him, and feeling their own urges to test the stretch of their own leashes against the power of his grip.
Mr. Krupin dropped to all fours, and he ran like an animal. Just a little treat for anyone who happened to be watching. Just a little reminder of what exactly he was, or was not. Every flash of lightning revealed Krupin at the head of the pack, a galloping creature of the night, the alpha male who alone knew where they were going. After studying the map, he’d lied to his men by telling them that Volkov’s explicit orders were to ask no questions about the mission, and to blindly follow his lead, because perception was everything.
The Hall of Neurological Sciences loomed over dark gardens, backlit by the elemental spectacle in the sky. Strange things happened here, Mr. Krupin suspected. Beyond that screen of plum trees, those walls and tinted windows, all manner of perversions were being exacted on squealing test subjects with logged assurance of repeatability, all in the name of science. His pupils constricted in a flash of lightning that was followed by a thunderclap that he felt against the walls of his chest. Yes, this was the womb where a thousand nightmares had been conceived, and where a new child of the Brotherhood would soon be born.
In the plum grove, Mr. Krupin attacked. Confused in a snarl of dripping branches, the killing went unseen. Only the smallest sound escaped Baichu’s throat before Krupin’s bared teeth had ripped it from beneath his chin. A blood fountain flowered pink in the plum rain. Krupin’s hand followed the eager blade beneath the ribs to stir things slowly, almost sensually, inside the cavern of Baichu’s chest. It was a rather intimate killing.
The other men stood stricken beneath the boughs when Krupin pulled out of the quivering boy, dripping, and smeared the warmth from his forearm across Baichu’s hollowed chest. Pinching the plastic clips on Baichu’s shoulders, he rose with the dolphin head dangling from one arm, licking salty remnants from his teeth, and he pointed the tip of his dagger first at Baichu, and then toward an open storm drain.
Jochi’s sledgehammer fists relaxed. Having found the ends of their leashes, his dogs obeyed. No need for words, after that sort of action. The Mongols fell upon their slain Brother. Rising together, they lifted Baichu from the mulch, and carried his corpse to the gaping hole.
Mr. Krupin was aware that Jochi could beat him to death with his bare hands, but he never would. Not after this. It was all about perception, about flipping his racial distinction into an asset, rather than a liability, and manifesting their perception of the white monster into a stark reality. His life depended on their conveying a regular message to Volkov of their subservience to the white monster, be it through body language and sly nuances of the eyes, that he was in some way their superior.
Baichu’s boots followed him waggling down into the bowels of China’s underworld. With any luck, he’d be halfway to Shanghai by sunrise. Krupin doubted whether the discovery of a uniformed body in the Yangtze would even raise an eyebrow. Just another casualty in the war on smugglers. Just another gruesome message to the Chinese central government to withdraw their military from the Jaw-long’s domain.
Krupin barked, and the Red Brothers followed. Around the backside of the building, they ascended a steel staircase to a landing adjacent the loading dock. There were almost certainly cameras watching. Krupin withdrew a cordless multi-tool from a belt holster, snapped out the serrated blade of the reciprocating saw with the flip of a thumb switch, and slid the blade over the deadbolt. The saw was noisy, but their detection hardly mattered at this point. Team Beta’s part in tonight’s performance was nearly complete. Their job was simply to deliver the severed dolphin head to laboratory 110, and Team Alpha would take it from there. Sparks jettisoned from the saw’s vibrating teeth, until the bolt transected with a loud pop. Krupin grabbed the handle, and opened the door.
Dim beams projecting from their phones were the only lights they were authorized to utilize. The Brothers trained their lights on the backside of the broken door, while Krupin switched the multi-tool’s function to cordless drill, by swapping the serrated blade for a screwdriver bit. He removed a set of steel brackets from his pocket, and picked at the black
electrical tape that bound the steel-tapping screws to their backs. He wasn’t sure how Team Alpha was supposed to get into the building once he screwed the brackets to the steel doorframe. This was the only aspect of their mission that he’d found to be confusing, but he knew better than to question Volkov’s orders. His employer always knew what he was doing. Perhaps Volkov and his team were already here, waiting for them in the laboratory. By the wavering spotlights of a half-dozen beams, Krupin tapped screws through steel, and sealed the door behind them. No one else was coming in.
Grunting at his men, he strode across the loading bay. They followed him through a swinging set of double-doors, past a warehouse reception office, and out into the main hall of the first floor. There were no wet footprints on the tile, no evidence that anyone from Team Alpha had arrived ahead of them. Anxiety whistled up through Krupin’s core. Something seemed off. He began to worry that perhaps he was in the wrong building, or if he’d misunderstood some critical aspect of the mission. He was sure that he hadn’t. He’d always prided himself on his keen attention to detail, loyalty, and unstoppable momentum, but when he stepped into the appointed place of rendezvous and found it empty, Mr. Krupin quavered with an uncertainty that he’d never experienced before. Rows of strange and incomprehensible instruments were revealed in a flash of lightning, but there was no one waiting in the laboratory to greet them. The place was deserted.
Krupin’s tongue quested anxiously over his teeth. The next and final step in the instructions were to seal the laboratory door closed behind them with a second set of brackets and hardware, just as they’d sealed the loading dock door. His Red Brothers were watching him, quietly awaiting the next phase of a plan he’d deprived them. Slotted Mongol eyes borrowed wildness from the lightning, but their stoic faces were devoid of effect. Perhaps a bit soured by his rough treatment of Baichu, but he supposed that in time, they’d get over it.
Krupin heard a shrill shriek reverberate through the laboratory. When the Brothers dragged him to the floor by his mask of wires, and pinned his arms behind his back, he realized that the scream was his own. The laboratory door slammed shut. They were enveloped in utter blackness. Boots smashed his teeth. Fists pummeled his head. When Volkov found out about this treachery, he’d have them all gutted, and toss their innards to the baboons. Krupin tried to warn them, but in the flurry of blows, the only sound his pinioned lips could produce was a phlegm-bubbling wail.
When the beating ended, Krupin had no fight left in him. He felt plastic ties being zipped around his wrists and ankles. He heard the whine of a cordless drill securing brackets to the back of the laboratory door. The amiable chatter of his backstabbing brethren was the most terrible sound of all, as they chortled amongst themselves over the success of what appeared to have been a setup, all along. The lights flickered on. Through the rivulets of blood that stung his eyes, Krupin found himself staring up into the gloating faces of his Red Brothers.
“Surprise, Mr. Krupin.” Jochi bent down, and spat right in his face.
Arching his neck, he opened his throat to emit a roar that he hoped they would hear all the way in Shanghai. He didn’t care who heard him. The mission had been compromised. The Brothers had betrayed him. They probably intended to slice his throat, to send him downriver after Baichu, long before Team Alpha ever arrived, and agree on some fictitious tale of his demise. If these traitors thought they were going to kill him without a fight, they were sorely mistaken. Inching his way back into a corner, Krupin struggled into an upright position. Chest heaving, ropes of blood swung from his chin. The Brothers found his fortitude amusing, but he didn’t care. He drew his knees up to his chest, and glowered back at them. The first traitor to approach him was going to join him for a ride down into the storm drain.
Jochi lifted a remote from the laboratory bench, and aimed it at a large video monitor mounted high on the wall. The screen blazed to life. Krupin winced in the pale brilliance, as the face of Volkov appeared. Krupin could discern by the crimson lights in the background that their employer was transmitting his live video broadcast from the submarine. His green eyes fell onto Krupin, as did the smile from his face. “Congratulations, Mr. Krupin,” he said. “Welcome to Nantong.”
Krupin blinked his eyes. They felt hot, and on the verge of overflowing. He glanced from one Brother’s grinning face to the next, and he realized that he was alone in his astonishment. Volkov was in on it, whatever it was, and Krupin’s years of experience assured him that when someone found themselves singled out by the Red Brotherhood, death was never far behind. A strangled hoot escaped his throat, and the tears began to flow. He didn’t deserve to die like this. He’d done nothing wrong.
“Don’t feel betrayed, Mr. Krupin,” Volkov said. “I simply couldn’t afford your refusal to participate in the next phase of this mission, because you’re the perfect man to fill the role.” Volkov offered him a smile. “I see you’ve brought the dolphin’s head.”
Krupin glanced down at the oddly shaped satchel on the floor. Pinkish water pooled around the sacking. Swallowing a mouthful of blood, he nodded, after some hesitation. There was an almost fatherly benevolence in Volkov’s eyes, as though his mistreatment had in some way hurt Volkov even more than it had hurt him.
“You’re the only man I could entrust with the task of getting it here, to this laboratory, in the heart of the most dangerous province of China.” Volkov leaned inward, leveling his gaze with a sort of sternness that conveyed respect. “You’re the most fearsome bastard I’ve ever known, Krupin, and best of all, you’re loyal. If every one of the Brothers possessed your mind, there’s no doubt that I’d be the most powerful man on earth. However, there is only one Mr. Krupin, isn’t there, and I’m afraid that there will never be another.” Volkov placed his intertwined fingertips to his lips. “Pity, that such a wonderfully dangerous mind as yours should be trapped inside the body of a Russian. That’s your only flaw, if I had to name one, but it’s not your fault. It’s just the way that God made you.”
Krupin cocked his head, frowning at the screen. He had no idea where he stood anymore. Was this to be his end, or some new beginning? He glanced down at the dolphin sack, and then back up at Volkov. His employer’s smile appeared genuine, but that did little to change the fact that he remained handcuffed and beaten, bleeding all over the floor of a Chinese laboratory.
“Dr. Wu? I think that you can come out, now,” Volkov said, his roving gaze searching the lab. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
A restroom door at the back of the laboratory creaked open. In an instant, every Red Brother’s rifle was shouldered, cocked, and trained in the direction of the individual who’d been in hiding. By the shocked expressions of the Brothers, Krupin reckoned that they’d not expected this twist in their plan, and he found their confusion to be somewhat satisfying.
“It’s alright, Dr. Wu. Don’t be afraid. They won’t harm you. Brothers, lower your weapons. Show Mr. Wu a little bit of comradery. He is your Team Alpha.”
Krupin rolled his head against the wall, and observed a timid man in a laboratory coat step slowly through the aperture, hands quivering in the air. Jochi lowered his rifle, and shot a glare at the overhead screen. Krupin snorted. This was getting more interesting by the minute.
“Mr. Wu, say hello to your lovely wife.” Volkov reached to one side, and yanked a tearful, shuddering woman into view. He forced her in front of the camera, gripping her by her upper arm. “She decided to accompany me on a romantic cruise at the bottom of the Yangtze River. If you’re not expedient and cooperative, then this is where I’ll dump her body, right after you get to watch her die.”
The scientist crumpled at the sight of his wife. He folded his hands, fell to his knees, and began to plead. The Red Brothers stood baffled and speechless, glancing at one another, and down at Mr. Krupin. Blood bubbled through his teeth when a chuff of unexpected laughter escaped his throat. He had no more idea about what was happening than did they, but he was pleased to help him
self to a share in their intimidation.
“Tonight, Mr. Krupin, you’re the star of the show. The procedure you’ll undergo may be painful, and it is not without risks, but in the end, I believe that any suffering you endure will be worthwhile to our cause.” Volkov nodded at the Red Brothers. “Pick him up. Put him over there on the laboratory bench.”
They lifted him from behind, by his shackled arms and legs, and they conveyed him through the laboratory to the central table. Crimson slobber whipped from Krupin’s chin. They laid his battered body facedown atop the table. Krupin rested his bruised and throbbing cheek against the cold slab of stainless steel. It felt good. No matter what happened from this point forward, it felt good.
Chapter Six
The Devil Ray detached from the C-550’s underbelly. Snatched by the howling winds, it spiraled toward the Yellow Sea. It was a stomach-churning freefall that stiffened Collin against the backrest of his seat, crushing his lungs against the walls of his chest. If these descents had always felt so sickening, so far out of his own control, he couldn’t recall, but he remembered J.J. doing a better job at the helm than the SWCC pilot that had been assigned to them for their first mission. Lightning slashed at the spinning windows. Hailstones clattered against steel. The voice of the storm was a titanic groan that swallowed the aircraft in a furious vortex. Collin squeezed his eyes shut, spinning and spinning. Every panel of the supersonic hovercraft chattered against its rivets. It felt as though the Devil Ray would be ripped to pieces at any instant, and it was too easy to imagine the sound of rending steel that would precede their bodies being flung out into the Chinese skies.
From what Collin thought he’d understood, the Plum Rains were mild seasonal storms that gave the region an annual soaking. A little turbulence was to be expected. However, the magnitude of the tempest outside didn’t even begin to be described by the Navy’s forecast, which fell short enough to inspire distrust. When Collin heard a shriek as the aircraft was slammed in the gut by a rising thermal, he hardly recognized the voice as being his own. It took a few seconds to collect his senses. Interior lights flickered. The smell of burning plastic hung in the air. Collin blinked, and glanced back over his shoulder to check on his team members. J.J. was doubled over his armrest, getting sick in the center aisle. Jill and Takashi, looking more than a little shell-shocked, groped for technology that was dangling by cords, and lay scattered all over the floor. Christ, even if they managed to survive the landing, it was going to be a miracle if their equipment functioned at all. Sometimes, it seemed as though the Navy was always behind it all, just setting them up for certain failure as part of an ongoing practical joke.
