by James Hunt
The lack of communications had made things difficult, but with the help from the Americans and her new team of hackers, they managed to set up a few channels through which the allied European forces could relay information. It was slow going, but it was a start.
Andrea’s chief of staff rode in the car with her, and just like her, Alexander was transfixed at what they passed in the streets. Smoke from fires in alleyways and from burning structures in the distance, looted storefronts with trampled merchandise strewn about the sidewalks, shattered windows, smashed cars, and anything and everything that could be carried away with a pair of hands seemed to have disappeared. And this was the area that was supposed to have been “contained.”
“My god,” Andrea said. “No wonder we’re always at war. Look at us. Look at what we do to each other.”
“Not everyone’s like this,” Alexander answered. “You’re not like this.”
“Not everyone has the privilege of being the leader of a country,” Andrea retorted. “I imagine most of these people did it to save someone—at least that’s what I hope they did. But there will always be the few who prey on the weak in times like these. It’s unavoidable.”
“It’s reproachable.”
“That too.”
The car finally came to a stop just outside the hospital. Ever since her career in politics had started, every event, no matter what the circumstances, had always had press. They would snap pictures, shout questions, and shove their lenses and microphones into her face, asking for a comment.
But the moment Andrea stepped out onto the asphalt of the hospital parking lot, there were no reporters. No cameras, no pleading questions about what her political adversaries were doing across the aisle. The only things that greeted her were the faces of the sick, tired, and dying. None of them even seemed particularly pleased that she was there or even recognized her.
“Chancellor, this way,” Alexander said, guiding her past a few of the tents set up outside to help accommodate the overflowing amount of patients that the hospital had received.
“What’s this hospital’s capacity?” Andrea asked.
“I’m not sure, but that would be a good question for the chief of medicine.”
The trucks of food, water, and medicine had arrived and along with them hordes of people. The moment the truck came to a stop, it was surrounded by starved bodies, grabbing at anything they could get their hands on. Rice, flour, corn, water—all of it being doled out as fast as possible until there wasn’t anything left except the disappointed faces of those who didn’t receive the food they’d hoped for.
The conditions inside the hospital weren’t much better. The hallways had just as many patients as the rooms themselves. The overwhelming stench of bleach trying to cover up the smell of human rot filled her nostrils, and it took her a moment to gain her composure before continuing down the hall.
Sullen faces, many past the point of willing themselves to go on, stared at her as she made her way through the building. Finally, Alexander introduced her to the hospital’s chief of medicine. “Chancellor, this is Dr. Robert Klein.”
The doctor extended his hand. The blue surgical glove was covered in a wet, sticky coat of blood. The doctor hastily removed it, apologizing profusely, which the chancellor waved off while trying to fight the feeling of nausea rising in her stomach.
“How are things here, Dr. Klein?” Andrea asked.
“We’re holding on, Chancellor.” Dr. Klein gestured down the hall, and the group continued their tour. “The fuel we’ve been receiving to keep the generators running has been helpful, but I’m worried that, with the confrontation with Russia, those fuel resources will be used to aid in the front lines.”
“I can assure you that all our hospitals and relief centers are a top priority, Dr. Klein.”
The doctor stopped, and Andrea and the team walking with her halted abruptly. “Chancellor, may I speak with you in private?”
Andrea looked back to her staff and nodded, having them give her and the doctor some space. Dr. Klein led Andrea down the hall, past the surgical rooms. They stopped at a window where six beds lined the walls of the room, each of them with a child, their ages ranging from toddler to middle schooler.
“Chancellor, I’m no fool. I understand what the country is up against, what the world is up against. I know the Russians will lose—they lack the passion and vigor for a sustained assault. While their leaders may have something to gain, the men under their command don’t, and it will cost them.” Dr. Klein placed his hand on the windowsill, his head bowed, almost touching the glass. When he lifted his face again for the chancellor to see, it was covered in the distorted lines of pain and grief. “I just want to make sure that when this is over, we still have a future that’s worth living in.”
Dr. Klein buried his face in his hands and turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. While the doctor composed himself, she looked inside, taking in all the sleeping faces in front of her, wondering when and where they had come from, how old they were, whether or not they had family. The machines next to them beeped and hummed through the glass. She didn’t know what their ailments were, she didn’t know their names, and she wasn’t sure whether any of them would live the long life that they deserved. All she knew was that she wasn’t going to let any of them die because of a lack of resources on her end.
Andrea placed her hand on the doctor’s shoulder. She could still feel him trembling under her palm, but she also felt the sudden urge in him to control them. He slowly turned around, his eyes red and puffy.
“I promise you this, Dr. Klein. As long as this conflict goes on, and as long as I am still in office, your hospital will have what it needs to continue.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.”
“Chancellor!”
The urgent voice echoed down the hall, and Andrea watched Alexander sprint toward her, weaving around the nurses and patients. He skidded to a halt, out of breath and bent over on his knees, holding up a piece of paper in his hand. Andrea snatched it and looked it over while he tried to control his breathing. She read the paper twice to make sure she wasn’t misreading it. “How?”
“The images were confirmed from a transport that landed in Moscow in congruence with intelligence coming out of Alaska. It’s the same woman.”
“Were they able to identify her from the pictures?”
Alexander shook his head, still huffing and puffing. “No, they were too pixelated and only caught a portion of the profile. It wasn’t enough to get a match in any of our databases.”
Andrea turned to the doctor and apologized for the sudden departure. “Thank you for your time, Doctor, and what I said will hold true. You have my word.” Dr. Klein thanked her profusely, even after she had turned the corner of the hallway and disappeared out of sight.
If this woman was the same one from her visit at the capitol, then everything that was happening couldn’t be coincidental. This mystery woman’s identity was related to everything that was happening. If she could track down the woman, then perhaps she could end this war.
The Polish safe house hadn’t held any agents for a very long time. Everything was coated in a layer of dust, and it took Sarah half an hour to make sure everything was up and running properly.
Vince didn’t do much but sleep, and she made sure to keep one eye on him at all times. Even if he wasn’t the mole, accusations of being one could cause an agent to do some stupid things. Their kind, her included, didn’t respond well to threats. In the world of espionage, the agency is home base, and when you take that away, most people don’t have much else to stand on.
Sarah made her way down to the basement and flicked the light on, which swung on a string in a bright cadence, casting its glow back and forth across the floors, exposing the different crates. She pried open the ammo first, making sure to load as many magazines as possible. The rifle closet was next, and she broke down each of the weapons, cleaning them to make sure they would fire.
The
guns probably didn’t need a cleaning, but Sarah did them anyway. It kept her mind busy, focused. All the shit was starting to pile up, and that stench was beginning to rub off on her. She rubbed her nose and placed both 1911s on the table. Her hands went through the motions of maintenance without her even having to think of it.
Over the years, Sarah had determined that her hands had a mind of their own, almost as if they were a separate entity. There were times when her hands did things that left her in awe, and there were times when her hands angered her enough that she was willing to chop them off. They had saved her life more times than she should count.
Before Sarah realized it, the two pistols in front of her had been disassembled, oiled, cleaned, and put back together. The metallic silver gleamed under the light above. She smiled. The pistols were as much a part of her hands as her hands were a part of her. She consciously picked up the .45 and held it. In her hands, those pieces of metal were more deadly than anything else in the world.
When Sarah had gone through training, she had received the highest marks of anyone in the history of the GSF in marksmanship. She had shattered records that had stood since the agency’s birth. She was a gifted killer.
That was a word that took her a long time to acclimate to. She’d long forsaken sugarcoating her profession. It was who she was. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use her gifts to make the world a better place. That was something her father had instilled in her.
It was Ben who had first taught her how to shoot. It was just a fad for him, but it turned into something more for her. The first time she squeezed the trigger on the 9mm Beretta her brother let her shoot, it flew out of her hand, but once she had the grip down, everything else was history. She had to wait until she was in high school before she was allowed to get her own gun. It was a .40 Smith and Wesson. She had eyed the revolver for a little while, but she still hadn’t gotten down the quick speed in reloading as she did with the magazines. And the magazines allowed her more shots. She was all about volume back then and, to an extent, still was.
Despite the fact that neither of her parents owned guns, used guns, or had the slightest inclination to ever learn, they were supportive. They went and took the gun-safety courses with her to ensure they understood how to handle the weapon since it was being stored at their house, drove her to all of the shooting competitions and cheered her on, and, when they could afford it, helped her stock up on ammo.
Water collected in Sarah’s left eye until the first drop breached the precipice and rolled down the crevice between her cheek and nose, landing in a splash between the two pistols.
“I never got to give you my condolences.”
“Holy shit!” Sarah almost jumped out of her chair.
“Sorry!” Bryce said. “Sorry.”
“Jesus, Bryce. I forgot I still had you in. Wait, can you see me?” She looked around, searching the room, checking for any cameras he could have hacked his way into with the satellite.
“No, the chip in your ear measures a portion of your body chemistry. The algorithm takes into account your heart rate, pulse, brain activity, and core temperature to help determine what kind of mood you’re in. Happy, angry, that kind of thing.”
Sarah raised her eyebrow. “It can tell any emotion?”
“Uh, well... I, uh... I don’t... um, what?”
Sarah wiped her eyes, laughing to herself. “You’re such a prude.” Another silence fell between them, but Sarah knew Bryce was a nice shade of red at the moment.
“Still,” Bryce said, “I’m sorry about your parents. I know none of this has been easy for you.”
“Is that your deduction or the computer’s?”
“Mine.”
“Thanks, Bryce.”
“Get some rest. I’ll let you know when we have something.”
“Will do.”
Sarah stacked as much of the gear in go bags as she could. When she got the call telling her where Demps was hiding and where her family was, she didn’t want to have to sit around and determine what kind of equipment she’d need. All she wanted to worry about was how she was going to kill him once she was there.
Mr. Demps’s secretary kept the same even-toned glance on her computer as Heath waited for his meeting. It was the first time he’d been asked to wait. His knee bounced up and down nervously, unsure what it meant. Finally, the secretary looked up from her work and nodded. “He’ll see you now.”
Heath adjusted his jacket, along with his cufflinks, and pushed open the heavy steel doors to Mr. Demps’s office. The sight of his boss sitting at his desk working eased his worry until Mr. Demps set down the pen he was using and looked up at Heath, focusing his full attention on him. “What’s the report on the agent, Heath?” Mr. Demps asked.
“He escaped, sir. Agent Hill was responsible for the work.”
“I know that. What I’m asking you is, where are we at with finding them?”
“We’ve scoured any and all flight logs for last-minute passengers or unusual aliases, but so far nothing has come up. The chopper escort that took them from our site in Moscow had a range of only a few hundred miles. Based off some of the intelligence we gathered from the satellite hack, it’s our belief that they fled to Poland.”
“It’s a large country. I hope you have something more than that to go on.”
“I do, sir, but I’m afraid it doesn’t have anything to do with Agent Hill. The GSF has regained the use of their satellite link. Global Power picked up the radio frequency signal during Hill’s rescue of the Moscow agent we picked up.”
The business formality dropped and was replaced by the informal emotions Heath rarely witnessed in their interactions, but Mr. Demps signed the checks, and as far as Heath was concerned, the man could express whatever emotions he pleased. Especially when the news was of this calamity.
“Have Global Power track down where their servers are operating, and send in however many men you need to destroy it to ensure that they’re never functioning again,” Mr. Demps replied.
“We’re working on that now, sir.”
“God damn it!” Mr. Demps pounded his fist into the table, rustling the stack of papers and monitors on his desk. His face flushed red, and the vein on his neck pulsated from the tight pressure around his neck.
“Mr. Demps, I think we’re sending the wrong message.”
Mr. Demps dug his finger between his neck and his collar, almost as if he were letting out steam. “What are you talking about?”
“Up until this point, we’ve played our hand very close to the chest, with the knowledge that we had the upper hand. When you are strong, give the illusion to the enemy that you are weak; when you are weak, give the illusion to your enemy that you are strong.”
Mr. Demps sat down, the redness in his face slowly subsiding. “What are you proposing, Heath?”
“Let them know where we are,” Heath said. “We control the flow of information to them before they’re able to seek it out themselves. They’ll send what resources they can, and when they do, they’ll be overwhelmed by ours. We take them out in one swift stroke.”
Heath watched the smile spread across Mr. Demps’s face. He rubbed his chin, and Heath could see his boss weighing the pros and cons, but Heath knew it all came down to belief. A belief that you were better than your opponent. The confidence that no matter what was thrown your way, you were prepared. And Heath was very confident.
“Set it up,” Mr. Demps said. “I want a report on the details in less than an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
12
The sheets were drenched in sweat when Sarah woke. It was the heat that disrupted her sleep, and she could feel her shirt clinging to her skin. She reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand next to her and drank. She slid out of bed, pulling the pistol that she held under her pillow with her, and put her free hand against the vent. Nothing.
Sarah slung on her shoulder holster, which contained her second pistol, and headed downstairs to check
the power cells. When she made it to the bottom of the steps in the living room, Vince walked through the front door, holding a tool box and looking slightly sweatier and dirtier than she was.
“A lot of the wiring was corroded on the generator,” Vince said, setting the heavy box down with a thud. “I think it must have been due to the winters.”
“I see you haven’t lost your touch in getting out of handcuffs,” Sarah said, tossing the empty bottle of water into the trash.
“Hey, you’re the one who tried to tie me up.”
“And who says I was trying?” Sarah shoulder-checked him on her way out the door to take a look at Vince’s handiwork. Once outside, she looked behind to make sure the coast was clear. “Bryce, you still with me?”
“Yup, still here.”
“Did the bait work?”
“Not the way we wanted it to. He really was just working on the cells. He didn’t even go down into the basement to check the armory.”
“He knew you’d be watching him. Did he try any contact with Johnny?”
“Radio silence.”
“I think he’s telling the truth. Even with you watching him, he could have gotten away with something. It was too easy. If I were the mole, this is when I would have taken my chance. I think he’s clean.”
“Whoa,” Bryce said. “The satellite is picking up a lot of frequency in China.”
“Demps?”
“I don’t know. The power signature is really weird. I think the Chinese are trying to send something to the Russians, but they’re running into some interference.”
“You know, for the past like two days, I’ve been craving Chinese food. I think I’d do anything to eat a bowl of pork fried rice.”
“I think I can trace where the interference is coming from.”
