'Stand-To' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  The remaining energy expenditure would be in heavy Gamma ray, Alpha and Beta ray radiation to a lesser degree but the bulk would be heat-generated blast.

  A frighteningly realistic simulation of the first had played out in about one second of virtual real-time onscreen. However, the hammer blow dealt the city by the 670 mile an hour blast wave charged with debris made even the soldiers amongst the audience blanche. As far away as City Hall, state of the art earthquake proof buildings were shown torn asunder by an element not catered for in their design. Lesser structures were simply erased from the face of the planet, the materials of their make-up joining the hail of near-supersonic shrapnel. The images of the Bell Jet Ranger helicopters of San Francisco Police Department and CNN had at first become tiny twins of the nuclear fireball. Every single item in their construction, from fuel to the very aluminium of their airframes reached flash point in 0.0018 of a second. Just 0.087 of a second later they were swatted from existence by the blast wave.

  After Ms O’Connor had completed her contract, more orthodox programmers using United States census details and fifty years of data from atomic testing completed the project. It would not have been secure to request O’Connor to add the damage assessment features to her program.

  Now, as the Politburo studied the computer-generated projection of a runaway firestorm completing the destruction of a very sizeable portion of San Francisco, a dropdown window spelt out the estimated butchers bill. The view increased in elevation to a height that encompassed the scene of the city from the south ramp of the Golden Gate to San Francisco International.

  Premier Chiu swung away from the screen. The other members caught the movement and all eyes were back on Serge. Sat the other side of the table from him, Peridenko was studying his hands with deliberation, knowing that the most audacious part of their proposed plan was to be revealed. Would the Chinese go for it?

  “Comrade Colonel General” began the premier “You preceded this display by stating the devices were moving into position, one hundred devices?”

  Serge nodded in answer.

  “From where have these toys come from?” Premier Chiu asked, pausing before pointing a finger at the Russian soldier.

  “Surely the Americans are not so easily hoodwinked. Yeltsin handed over the complete inventory for inspection like a scolded child surrendering his catapult to a grown-up?” Chiu finished with a note of censure in his tone.

  A door opened at the end of the room and an aide quietly approached Peridenko and whispered in his ear. Whatever had been said caused the man’s face to harden.

  Kensington, London, England. 0930am 21st March

  Svetlana awoke at 9.30am after just three hours’ sleep and lay looking at the ceiling. Alyssa, her neighbour from above, had a new boyfriend and from the noise both Alyssa and the bed were making the honeymoon stage had not yet palled. With an exasperated huff she swung from the bed, electing to go to the paper shop before they began experimenting with the chandelier and power tools. Pulling on jeans and tee shirt, she ran a brush through her long hair, slipped on a pair of old trainers and headed out the door.

  Half an hour later with a still warm loaf of bread under one arm, Sunday tabloids under the other, and a warm croissant gripped between her teeth, she let herself back in. Walking along the hallway past the living room, she kicked off her loose trainers and headed for the kitchen. The bass thumping from above indicated Alyssa and stud probably now doing it to heavy rock. Oh well, she thought, at least someone is getting some. It was a bright sunny day and she wondered if there would be an early spring.

  It was at that point she saw the shadow.

  In the kitchen, out of sight of the hallway, probably backed right up to the draining board, a man stood very still, obviously unaware that the sunlight streaming through the window had cast a long shadow on the terracotta tile floor.

  Svetlana’s first thought was that it was a burglar and he would definitely have heard her enter through the front door. But the noise from upstairs and thick carpet would have masked her approach. Slowly she crouched and put her shopping on the hallway carpet. She would get out of the flat and call the police. From where she was crouched she could see her mobile on the kitchen table. Damn! Her other neighbours could all be having a lazy Sunday lie in, she would have to go for the phone box at the end of the street. She rose up and turning headed with quick strides for the front door. She was passing the open living room door when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye; there was a second man. Fear injected adrenaline into her system and like a startled deer she was mid-way through the motions of leaping the last few feet to the door, when she was body checked from the side and sent crashing into the wall. Her head cracked painfully against the plaster causing bile to rise up in her throat as she fell heavily with rough hands grabbing at her arms. A hand gathered a fistful of her long hair and yanked her head painfully back, she could feel a man’s whiskers scratch the soft skin at the back of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. She could feel the shadow man approach at a run by the vibrations from the floor. I‘m going to be raped, she thought. She would have no chance at all when the second man got to them. Desperation powered her right elbow and she drove it back into the ribs of the man half laying on her. A rib cracked, causing the man on her back to gasp, his right leg spasmed and lifted from the floor catching and tripping his companion. Grabbing at coats and jackets hung from hooks in an attempt to prevent a fall; the second man hit the floor heavily, pulling the coat rack and its screws from the wall with a splintering sound and a curse. The pain from the cracked rib caused the first man to rise slightly, instinctively moving away from the limb that had caused the damage. It was a small opening but she went for it, fingers nails digging into the carpet, pulling her body from under him, bare feet slipping and scrabbling against the carpet, trying to gain purchase. She was up! A sob escaped her throat as she grabbed for the door handle, pulled it open a foot, two feet, and a spark of hope lit in her heart. A hand closed around her mouth from behind, yanking her back. A foot crashed into the door, tearing the handle from her grasp and slamming it shut. An arm encircled her slim waist and then she was being lifted and spun. Svetlana’s feet left the floor; she managed to put both arms out, trying to break her fall as the floor rushed up at her. The air rushed from her lungs with an audible “Ooof”, her arms were roughly twisted back up between her shoulder blades. She could see the two men just climbing to their feet, faces ugly, both sets of eyes on her. There had been a third man, three men in her home waiting for her. She opened her mouth to speak when she was silenced by a female voice; the third intruder was a woman? A single command directed at her from the woman pinning her arms

  “Zat cnees!”

  The fact she had been addressed in her native tongue stunned her, these people knew she was Russian; her cover was blown, unless these burglars or rapists were in the habit of telling Londoners to shut their mouths in a foreign tongue, which was hardly likely. Her tee shirt was ripped off; she heard a crackling sound, a whiff of ozone and her arms were released, a split second later something was jabbed into her back. Her body spasmed as pain exploded in her brain and darkness swallowed her consciousness.

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia: 1300hrs same day.

  The sandwich was of the mass produced variety, made and packed by minimum wage hands. Scott Tafler took a bite and considered the fare critically. It seemed to him that the enthusiasm of the catering worker who produced this titbit had transferred itself by paranormal means to the handiwork, bland and uninteresting.

  The reason he was spending his Sunday here instead of with his wife and three children was quite simply September 11th 2001. His organisation had been found wanting, he reckoned this was entirely due to the lack of ‘Humint’, spies if you will and an over reliance on technology. Just as a B1-B bomber could not fix bayonets and dig out infantry from foxholes and caves, nor too could a surveillance satellite stand at a bar with a drink in hand
ear-wigging the conversation between two munitions workers in China.

  It would take years to replace the networks laid off after the cold war and introduce new ones in different theatres, not previously thought a threat.

  Scott had nothing to do with that aspect; his job was to plough through paper reports and emails to try to catch any third party human intelligence that may come their way. It was a form of ‘catch up’ and trying to cover all the bases at one time until new networks were set up.

  Munching automatically, he was scanning a report from the Los Angeles FBI office. A software geek, a ‘Gamer’ geek, which was even worse, had returned from Moscow after six months work. The interviewed geek stated that the Russians hoped to enter the computer game market with Chinese funding. Scott paused; the Chinese had been ripping off American copyrights for years. All software was fair game to them. The PRC was attempting to boost its own challenge in the all world markets. Why should they assist a competitor? In the PRC, the will of the regime controlled every aspect of trade with the rest of the world. Picking up his telephone he dialled home and asked his wife for her younger brothers’ number. He too was a geek but he worked for a very major software company. Half an hour after speaking with him he replaced the telephone and made a note to telephone Washington next day, to get Commerce’s spin on this. Turning back to the report he next dialled a number shown, left a message on Miss O’Connor's answer phone and moved on to the next report.

  Hounslow, Middlesex, England: same time

  The cold awoke her; with a start she realised she was lying on her stomach on a cold, white ceramic surface, spread eagle and naked. Her face was flushed and then it came to her that she was laying on an incline, her head lower than her feet. There was pain and soreness between her shoulder blades where the stun gun had been jabbed.

  “Vashi ruki zavyazhenniye” a soft, almost sensual female voice informed her that she was bound. Svetlana was struggling to find some reason for her predicament, were these British Intelligence or some other countries agents? Were they her own and this was some test? In a shaky voice, in English and with fear quite unfeigned, she asked

  “Who are you, what do you want?” The woman hushed her as if soothing a child,

  “Shsss, babushka, shsss”; but the hand that traced its way softly up the inside of her calf was most un-parental.

  If this was calculated to make her feel vulnerable, it had succeeded. Her body tensed as the hand reached her inner thigh and continued unerringly toward her womanhood. A door banged open, the sound echoed and the hand ceased its journey. Wherever it was that she had been taken seemed to be some large building, she thought that it lacked furniture or fittings because of the hollow sound. She tried to turn her head more in order to see but there was only the same white material that formed the side of wherever she was imprisoned. By raising her head she could make out the straps that held her appeared to be made of rubber. The echoing footsteps of several people approached and the woman’s hand traced circles around her buttocks, slipping between the cheeks and tracing a line along her spine to her neck. Svetlana’s stomach knotted but the fingers caused an involuntary tremor to pass through her. A male voice sniggered from somewhere behind her and a voice, rich Irish brogue asked the question of a third party

  “Do we get to watch Irina convert her to dykehood and then have a go ourselves?” They were trying to scare her, Svetlana reasoned, would the English do that, surely they would just bust her door in and show a warrant later? There were unwritten rules in the spy game, ‘You don’t hurt ours and we won’t hurt yours’. A very cultured English voice answered the Irishman,

  “Alas time is too short Eamon, and besides which the lovely lady already enjoys both genders with equal relish, do you not, Miss Carlisle”. The voice then spoke to the woman who was still out of Svetlana’s view.

  “Leave her alone Irina, we have work to do. If she survives you can have her then, if of course you still want her of course, which is not likely”. Svetlana felt the woman rise and move away as the sound of heavy containers being moved closer filled the building. Her nerve was going and she spoke loudly, as much to steady herself as to ask the question.

  “What is it you want, I don’t know you, just tell me?” A green garden hose was lowered into her porcelain prison, coming to rest at the bottom about two feet beyond and perhaps six inches lower than the level of her head. The English voice addressed her,

  “You are Svetlana Vorsoff, born in Bryausk, August 21, 1986. Your Mother, Katyana, died in an auto accident a year later. Your Father was a shift supervisor in Bryausk steel works until badly burned in an accident. You entered Moscow State University for Economics. Your tutor, Doctor Ebinov, states you studied hard under him in both the classroom and in his bed. Your Father drank himself to death in your second year at University. You have no other kin. Elena Torneski recruited you initially as a Sparrow but you did not take to the work, or so she reported. Was this because of sexual jealousy on her part Svetlana?” She felt herself begin to colour. The British could not know this, but if it were her own people then why was this being done to her, was it a test she again thought?

  The voice continued.

  “Who do you think we are Svetlana, Irina and I. Hmm?” he paused “Who do you think these other gentlemen are, although I doubt even their own Mothers would call them ‘Gentlemen’?”

  Svetlana decided that if they were British she was blown already. If she were under test she would let nothing bring doubt about her ability. She did not need to put on an act for the fear that was evident in her voice when she shouted back at him

  “I don’t know who or what you are talking about, are you crazy, are you all mad?” She jumped as a something struck the surface with a metallic ring and clanged to a halt at the bottom beside the open end of the hose. It was she saw, a rusted metal bolt, about 1” thick and 6” long. A clear liquid began to dribble from the hose. Like a living thing it sought out tiny depressions in the surface as it snaked forward. Did they intend on drowning her? As it touched the rusted surface of the bolt she caught the smell of acrid fumes. Realisation hit her even as the cultured voice began to explain

  “Once upon a time they reconditioned engines here, dipped them in acid in this very vat in fact” His calm, matter of fact voice added to the rising terror that was threatening to take total control of her. Her limbs started to shake uncontrollably as the flow of acid increased. She screamed aloud as her arms were seized and she felt a sharp pain in first one hand and then the other. The hands released her and withdrew. Her hands, then wrists grew numb until she could no longer feel them, the numbness slowly climbed her outstretched arms.

  “We shouldn’t want you to pass out with shock, we have too many questions to be answered yet. Of course it does mean you will have to witness yourself dissolve away. I imagine it will be quite, quite bizarre to witness your own fingers blacken and burn, then the flesh fall away, to watch it happen as you are slowly burnt away, inch by inch?”

  Svetlana screamed aloud and her bladder released. She was sobbing.

  “What do you want…please?” She heard him step down beside her and her body jerked as his hand stroked her hair

  “We are inquisitors, Irina and I. We had a phone call that these other Gentlemen had expected to collect a car. A car and a suitcase that you were supposed to deliver, where are they Svetlana, and who is the black boy who helped you take them, is he your lover Svetlana, your bit of rough sport, hmm?”.

  Tears flowed down her cheeks as she shook her head.

  “You are wrong, I delivered the car, exactly as instructed, I don’t know any black boy”. The hand stopped its caress “You are not so stupid as to believe there was no surveillance on the car, no CCTV, or are you that stupid?” he paused for a moment. ”Can it be you graduated the University and the school merely on your ability to fuck your tutors”. The crude term sounded out of place in the public school diction of this man, he leant closer, whispering in her ear.
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br />   “There is no one to help you, no little black knight riding to the rescue “. He paused to survey her.

  “Ah, the delicious possibilities my dear, we could seal all your entrances and dip you twice, once in this acid and then into water. When we find the little black knight we can reunite you…I don’t think he will want you though, after all, you will be as black as he is by then” he leant closer again. “Yesli vi he kotitye oseet masky, uzhasov meste litsa ne dveegaytyes i otuedhayte pravilno, maya malenkaya lastochka”. Unless you wish to wear a horror mask for a face, be still and answer truthfully little sparrow.

  Since the urgent contact from the Irish militant group, who were somewhat miffed at finding an empty bay in the car park, Major Constantine Bedonavich, deputy military attaché at the embassy of the Russian Federation to the Court of St James, had been busy. He was not party to the greater scheme of things, he followed instructions without questioning their origins. This matter was one of delivering to the Irish contact a car and suitcase, just one of varied tasks he was expected to oversee.

  Routine security reviews of Svetlana’s integrity were gone over twice. Taped conversations re-examined and CCTV footage from the private car park scrutinised. He was concerned that one of his assets was under question; he was very concerned that Peridenko’s people were interrogating that asset.