by David Nickle
“I understand it’s all the rage,” said Mr. Beland. “I don’t like the smell of this, Commander.”
Another technician spoke up. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “the Echo hadn’t moved for more than an hour before it shut off.”
“So we know where it is,” said Mr. Beland. “Murmansk. On the Barents Sea.”
“Twelve kilometres south of there actually,” said the Commander. “In a range of hills. My people in London have compiled an extensive imaging library of the terrain.”
Mr. Beland nodded briskly. “Download it into the flight computers. I think it’s time Operation Best of the Season got underway.”
“Wow,” said Neil.
It was not the right way to the Media Room as Neil had promised. After turning down three dead-end corridors and stepping into one public washroom, Neil and Emily found themselves trapped in a huge stairwell that extended both up and down as far as the eye could see. And all the doors appeared to lock automatically from the other side.
Their voices echoed terrifically even as they tried to whisper to one another.
“This happens at Auntie’s hospital all the time,” whispered Emily. “You decide you’re going to take the stairs just one floor and the moment you step inside, bango! You’re trapped. You’ve pretty much got to pull the fire alarm if you want to get out.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that here. Let’s try going down and see if there’s anything at the bottom.”
“It never works at the hospital,” said Emily doubtfully, “but you’re the navigator.”
Emily stopped counting the locked doors after the seventeenth. This was exhausting work, and the cold metal stairs were excruciating against her one bare foot. Her big toe was particularly raw—she had no idea what she’d done to it—and she kept fighting the urge to sit down and rest.
She was experimenting walking with her eyes closed when Neil put his hand on her shoulder.
“Shhh!” he hissed. “Someone’s coming!”
Emily opened her eyes and looked down. Sure enough, climbing up the stairs from below were two men—men! not elfs!—wearing grey business suits and carrying attache cases. They were talking to one another in Russian, and Neil was listening intently.
“What are they saying?” Emily whispered.
“They’re talking about getting paid. That one there is talking about retiring for good.”
Emily and Neil pressed themselves against the wall as the men topped the landing. They were both big men, with short-cropped black hair and thick hands. The door swung open in front of them and without once looking up at Neil and Emily, they stepped through.
“Come on,” hissed Neil, “this is our chance.”
Neil and Emily hopped down the stairs and managed to catch the door just as it was about to latch shut again.
A fighter escort. Mr. Beland couldn’t imagine anything so ridiculous, but the Pentagon had insisted. A dogfight is no place for a Stealth bomber, they had said. Anyway, the Brits have promised to donate a couple of Harriers to the effort. No skin off our nose, eh Beland?
Mr. Beland tongued the tactical heads-up as he approached rendezvous over Helsinki. Sure enough, there were the Harriers, little blue triangles on a three-dimensional red grid hanging in space two feet in front of him. They were all flying under radio silence, so the positioning of those triangles was the only real way for the pilots to communicate.
As the Harriers converged on him to fly formation, Mr. Beland kicked in the afterburners that he’d had specially installed in the B-2 at Fairbanks. The blue dots fell behind by three kilometres.
Given the limitations of the form, Mr. Beland thought he’d conveyed his message loud and clear:
Back off. This one’s all mine.
Emily and Neil stepped out onto a wide catwalk overlooking a giant, circular cavern. Its ceiling, several storeys up, was a brightly-illuminated circular concrete slab with a cluster of hydraulics hanging from one side. Illuminated catwalks wound around the inside of the huge cavern like lights on a Christmas tree, and along these marched teams of elfs in Prussian unison.
Five storeys below, the Claus stood in a velvet smoking jacket, watching from his newly-repaired sleigh as a convoy of huge Soviet army trucks rolled in through a great bay door directly opposite Neil and Emily. The trucks were hauling long trailers covered in green tarpaulins.
Neil let out a long, low whistle.
“You know what those are, don’t you Emily?” he said softly.
“What? They’re trucks, right? What’s the big deal?”
Neil shook his head. “Wrong, Emily. Those are mobile launch platforms for ICBMs. ICBM. That stands for Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile.”
“Nukes,” whispered Emily.
“That’s right,” said Neil. “And it looks as though Claus has got at least three of them.”
“We’ve got to get off this catwalk,” said Emily. “We’re sitting ducks up here.”
The two headed off in a clockwise direction, following the footsteps of the two Russians. Once again, Emily found herself wishing for the .44 Magnum again; the plunger didn’t give her much of a sense of security at all.
But no one seemed to notice them so long as they kept close to the cavern’s rough stone wall. The place was so huge that they didn’t run into anyone as they traversed the catwalk. At the far end they came to a set of rungs, set directly into the stone.
“Down,” whispered Neil. “I want to get closer to those missiles.”
Emily swung onto a rung and led the way down.
Five more trucks had entered the hangar before the huge metal doors clattered shut and the elfs set to work on the cargo. First they stripped off the tarpaulins, revealing the long shining casings of the missiles themselves, and then a handful of elfs—wearing tight-fitting white lab smocks—clambered up onto the trucks and set to work.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!” sang the Claus, and he danced a little jig. “Yes indeed! I love the smell of Christmas in the morning! I do I do I do!”
Emily and Neil had managed to hide behind a stack of oil drums that looked not to have been moved since the Khrushchev era. Emily watched as the two Russians in suits crossed the poured-concrete floor and approached the Claus.
“I wish I could hear what they’re saying,” whispered Neil. “My Russian’s pretty good, and it might answer a lot of questions.”
“I wish I had a gun,” said Emily.
“Won’t work,” said Neil. “I already tried that.”
“Then what will work?”
“I don’t know.” Neil frowned. “It’d have to be something big, though.”
Emily frowned too, and was about to say something helpful, when the lighting flashed red and an alarm sounded.
“Emergency Code White!” blared a loudspeaker. “Emergency Code White! Incoming air attack! Code White!”
It was all so loud and upsetting that the team of elfs with the Uzis had to repeat themselves twice before Neil and Emily turned around and put up their hands.
Neil and Emily weren’t taken back to the cell block as they expected, but across the hangar and into a shiny stainless steel elevator.
“Gowim’ oop,” said the chief elf. “Alla way.”
There was a grinding sound and a lurch, and the elevator began its long ascent.
“Where are we going?” asked Emily.
“Oop,” replied the chief elf.
Before she could repeat herself, the elevator door slid open. The elfs prodded the backs of Neil and Emily’s knees with the barrels of their Uzis, and they stepped out into the dark.
The new room was freezing cold, and the only sound was a steady howl of wind from somewhere above them. The floor seemed to be made of cobbled-stone; and the air held a whiff of something ancient.
“The fortress,” whispered Neil.
“What are you talking about?” Emily stumbled as the elfs pushed them forward into the dark.
“Didn’t
you see it when you arrived?” The floor turned into a narrow spiral stairway, with steps so small that Emily nearly fell going up them.
“I was unconscious.”
“Right. Well it wasn’t when I arrived. There’s an old castle on top of this complex. That’s where we are now. I’d bet anything.”
Emily didn’t have time to tell Neil to stop talking like John Wayne. Ahead of them the stairwell was suddenly illuminated with a sickly blue light—and just as suddenly, three steps later, they were on top of the world, with the darkened steppes of the former Soviet Union below them, face to face with Santa Claus.
“Wellll,” said the Claus. He stood beside an antique mahogany desk perched on the slate-black circle of the fortress’ highest parapet. “If it isn’t wee, pernicious, terrifying tiny Emily, all grown up!”
“I said you were an awful man before, and I say it again, Mr. Claus,” said Emily. “I wish you were never born!”
The Claus laughed, spittle freezing in gouts in the air over his enormous head. “You wish, do you oh little wormy young Emily? That I were never born? Ha ha! Do you?
“Well Emily,” he leaned forward, one hand on the huge desk, the other tucked up under his beard, “tough shit. I work under a different set of rules these days.”
“Wh-what rules are those, Claus?” shouted Neil over the rising gale. “The same ones as Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North?”
Claus stopped smiling. The slushy drool tumbled down his beard like melting ice cream. “Don’t you ever compare me to that one, you ignorant little pus-ball. Oliver North is a dung-beetle beside me.”
“What rules?” asked Emily, craning her neck to look at the desk. There was some sort of a computer console on it, with a games joystick attached.
“The rules,” said the Claus, “of the modern age. I suppose I should thank you again, little Emily. You did open my eyes. Of course,” he added, turning back to his desk and looking at the blue-glowing screen for a moment, “you did it by robbing me of everything I had worked for two millennia to build.” When he turned back, he was holding the plastic joystick. “A mixed blessing, you might say.
“But now, children, old Claus is back. And you know,” he said, air wheezing through the still-healing bullet hole as he spoke, “I feel better than ever.”
“All right, so you’re feeling good about yourself. What are you doing with those ICBMs?” demanded Neil.
“Hah! What Claus always did. The remains of the Soviet Empire such as they are have no use for the nuclear stockpile—but my American dollars are lining a lot of pockets this Christmas. And that stockpile will make a dandy set of stocking stuffers for the poxy little wheezers the world ’round Christmas morning.”
Emily wasn’t really surprised. “It’s the same old game, isn’t it Claus?” she said in a weary tone.
Claus frowned at her. He raised a finger. “You have no idea how much you sounded like my dear departed wife just now.” The finger retracted into his fist.
“Don’t let it happen again!”
The elevator door opened again, and a particularly scrawny, completely hairless elf stepped out.
“They’re a comin’” sputtered the elf.
“Mmmm, are they little Stiltskin? Well then we had better do something about it. What is the datastring?”
Stiltskin handed Claus a piece of paper. “Excellent. Now we’ll see what that Black Globe system can really do.”
Claus typed in seven digits on the computer’s keypad, and a holographic image of a red three dimensional grid coalesced over the tabletop. Tiny blue triangles moved between the lines like tropical fish in a tank.
“It’s a satellite,” said Neil. “That’s what was going on at Checkpoint Black Ice.”
“Wait a minute,” whispered Emily. “Claus has a satellite?”
Neil nodded. “A Black Globe. I read an article about it in Popular Mechanics; it’s supposed to be able to resolve details to within 12 feet.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “I told them that’s what it was. What was that seven digit code they were talking about?”
“I don’t know. But it brought that up.” Neil pointed to the hologram. A tiny yellow crosshair was floating near the top now.
“Quiet!” bellowed Claus. Joystick in hand, he moved the crosshairs to the largest of the blue triangles. The triangle went aquamarine—the same instant as lightning flashed on the western horizon—then it vanished.
Once more, Mr. Beland disabled the flight computer and put the Stealth on manual. Damn Claus. He’d figured out how to target the Black Globe particle beam gun. That had cost the Brits one of their Harriers; and if that second Harrier kept flying so close when Claus targeted it, the beam stood a very good chance of frying the Stealth as well, high-priced counter-surveillance equipment or no.
Mr. Beland banked low, hoping to deke out of formation, but the Harrier was used to his manoeuvres now and stuck with him. Mr. Beland cleared his throat and glared through the glowing numerals on the heads-up display.
It was still too close; he had to get away before the second beam hit…
“Ha ha!” cried Claus, working the tiny black plastic joystick furiously, “One down, one to go!”
The little yellow crosshair lighted on the single remaining blue triangle like a fly on butter. Claus pressed the button.
There was a blinding flash off the Stealth’s starboard wing. The heads-up display glowed white, along with every other screen in the plane, and at once the cockpit went dark.
Twelve kilometres south of the northern port city of Murmansk, one billion dollars’ worth of American Stealth bomber began a slow, silent spiral down.
At least, thought Mr. Beland as the tremendous G-forces of the roll pressed him into his seat, the Stealth wouldn’t crash on civilians. With all his strength, he pulled the red eject lever at his side.
“Ha ha!” Claus’ laughter rose to the very heavens. “Do you see, my wee children? None can oppose me now, for I hold what kings in days of yore would kill to possess; the High Ground! With my particle beam whatsis, and this joystick, any who challenge my authority will be instantly obliterated! Once more, the Claus can do whatever the hell he likes! Ha ha! Worms!”
Emily thought again about the .44 Magnum at the cottage. That wouldn’t work on the Claus, particularly given the mood he was in; but a particle beam that could obliterate modern jet fighters from orbit and blow her aunt’s house to smithereens…
“Neil, we’ve got to get Claus away from that machine.”
Neil looked around. “The guards seem to have left.” He looked at Emily’s plunger. “I have an idea.”
He took the plunger and stepped towards Claus.
The great Claus looked down at Neil.
“What the hell you got there, boy,” he rumbled.
Without a word, Neil thrust the plunger up against Claus’ left eyesocket. The eye came out with a sucking sound and bounced over the edge of the castle’s wall. Claus’ scream of rage was hellfire incarnate.
Emily wasted no time. Even as Claus was clutching at his eyesocket—which now not only lacked an eye but was surrounded by a plunger-sized welt—Emily dashed to the mahogany desk. The joystick hung at the desk’s side, and the hologram had vanished with the last target. Claus took a swipe at Neil, but the old demon lacked depth perception now and Neil dodged the blow easily.
Emily picked up the joystick and squinted at the empty cube of hologram. She moved the joystick to the left and the right, but the hologram field remained unchanged, a red mist that flickered annoyingly in the sub-arctic air. On the computer screen, a string of seven numbers shifted up and down as Emily tried in vain to find the Claus. She needed a datastring, Emily realized, in order to target the Black Globe here.
Neil clambered up on one of the tower’s crenels, holding the plunger in front of him like a torch before the Frankenstein monster as the Claus shambled forward.
“Hold still, boy. Old Santa Claus wouldn’t want to hurt you, oh no, just as l
ong as you hold still there’s no danger of that.” The Claus raised both hands to shoulder-level, bent his fingers into claws to emphasize his point.
“Only one eye left, Claus,” warned Neil. “I’d be careful where you put it.”
The Claus put one foot onto the battlement and appeared to be about to say something else when the sky lit up from the north. By the time the sound from the first of the explosions hit them, Emily had fallen to the stone roof. She covered her head against the deluge.
The Stealth landed on its side and tumbled, sending gouts of red flames into the air as it fell across the sub-arctic tundra. A total of three explosions rocked the countryside, each one more fearsome than the last. Finally, the remaining debris settled at the edge of the small crater it had dug and all was silent.
Mr. Beland watched from above as his parachute carried him over the conflagration. As he drifted nearer the ground, he allowed himself to feel a measure of relief. The explosions were over; and the twin nuclear warheads he had been carrying in the Stealth hadn’t gone off.
With that question out of the way, Mr. Beland bent his knees in preparation for impact and began to formulate his alternate plan.
When he hit the ground, Mr. Beland had distilled it to the two words that over his career with the Pentagon had given him the most pleasure to hear:
Extreme measures.
Mayhem at Murmansk
The two of them finally stopped running when they reached the castle’s great hall. Tall, narrow windows near the ceiling admitted scant enough illumination that Neil could make out shapes in the huge room, but he still gripped Emily’s hand like a vise. After his encounter with the Claus on the parapet, the thought of being alone in this place was too terrifying to even consider. The plunger had worked once…
“We can’t stay here,” whispered Emily.
Neil nodded. “They’ll have this place cordoned off as soon as the Claus gets his balance. But the only way down is the elevator.”
Both knew better than to pursue that line of thinking very far. After the explosion, the battlements had been fairly cleared. But even as Neil shook the cobwebs out of his skull and helped Emily to her feet, he was acutely aware of the mass of elfs, former KGB agents and whole truckloads of inter-continental ballistic missiles that were crouching below. There may have been no sign of the Claus then, yet if Neil were truthful with himself there had been no sign of the Claus for most of his short life. And here they were…
