Personnel: Dossier Feldgrau

by Tyler Hanson

  One night, about a month ago, someone had taken B (the name Quentin had given her) from her home in the middle of the night and anesthetized her. Once she awoke, people she couldn’t see told her that her next missions would be exceedingly challenging, and MI6 required . . . reassurance. This reassurance came in the form of a surgically implanted device beneath her skull. The hidden people warned her the device would allow for control over her neural network, giving them access to her movements should she stray from her assigned tasks.

  Unsure how to process her treatment at the hands of her government, B pressed forward. She tried to hide what happened from her husband, but he found the scars. When the darker version of MI6 ordered her to assassinate a Colombian senator, her husband tried to reach out to his own government contacts to learn more about what happened to her. They spent an uneventful day together.

  That night, B seized up in bed, as if an electric shock traveled down her spine. Her body numbed, in a way very similar to the sensations reported by paraplegics and quadriplegics. It moved of its own accord, though she was still able to watch; in fact, her eyelids would not close, so she was forced to watch. B walked into the garage, where she retrieved a Philips-head screwdriver.

  She then returned to the bedroom, forced the tool into her husband’s ear, and held him down by his throat until he stopped struggling.

  “Twenty-three seconds,” B sobbed, still sitting on the floor of Quentin’s living room. “My husband suffered for twenty-three seconds before he died. I know that I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t free me from the guilt.”

  B tried to learn more about her captors—and how they operated—but her searches halted when she was forced to comply with the missions passed along to her. She’d considered simply giving up, just letting MI6 take control rather than cooperate, but she always remembered her husband.

  “If I was going to be a spy and an assassin,” she said, “I would do it on my terms, and reduce collateral damage. That is, until the day I find the assholes in charge.”

  Quentin stared at her, uncertain of her loyalties. “Okay, I get what you’re telling me. Help me understand; how are you operating? Is MI6 surveilling you? And how are you moving around so quickly?”

  B wiped her tears away, clutched the living room couch, and stood, her feet shaky. Quentin’s pistol followed her movements.

  “MI6 is keeping this off the radar,” she replied. “The device in my head is supposed to keep me in line, though I’m not certain that it can even see or hear what I’m doing. It’s more like . . . like the device receives a general command, and my brain is forced to carry it out.”

  “So, where are your operating from?” Quentin asked.

  “The base is some kind of secret, underground facility. I think it’s in India? My team is all Indian.”

  “And you get there . . . how?”

  “I Bogeyman.”

  Quentin narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Vivaan’s nickname for it,” B said. “I don’t understand the science very well, but he says it’s a joke. Something about Einstein and ‘spooky actions.’ Like I said, I don’t get it, but it’s very fitting nonetheless.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Why the fuck are you asking me?” B exclaimed, waving her hands in frustration. “I’m just field ops; I go where I’m told. Vivaan and Dhruv are sent coordinates of targets, I get dropped into a big tube, and then shit gets weird. The tube goes black, I feel like I’m falling, then I ‘land’ somewhere else. When I’m done with my mission, I return to wherever I was dropped, and the same thing takes me back to India.”

  “What do you know about your coworkers, Vivaan and Dhruv?” Quentin asked.

  B paused, thoughtful. “Well, they don’t seem like bad people. And I don’t think they have the same device that’s in my head. I know they made the Bogeyman, and honestly, it’s the only reason I believe they were chosen to work with me.”

  Quentin scratched his head, thinking. “Can we get them out?”

  “Dhruv has commented that they’re locked in some kind of facility, on the ‘fifth floor.’ There’s a blast door sealing them inside. They get sent food and water by retrieving it from the Bogeyman using coordinates sent to them. If the Bogeyman is used for anything besides my missions or their supplies, they’ve been told the room will depressurize and suffocate them to death.”

  “So . . .” Quentin lowered his gun. “It’s remote, right? The only thing stopping them is speed, resources, and a secure place to go.”

  He stood, offering his hand to B. “Let me show you something in the garage.”

  Karnataka, India

  September 8, 1997-A

  Quentin fell.

  And fell.

  And fell.

  And then, just like that, he wasn’t falling anymore.

  Chamber doors opened, revealing an almost-empty pearl-white laboratory. The starkness of its coloring was only broken by a few items: Three dingy cots lined a wall; a small row of computers and monitors; and two short, stout men in white coats.

  They faced the chamber as it rattled, announcing the recovery of their personnel. Quentin stepped forward, adjusting his Shadow Person mask. Appearing relieved, the scientists approached and addressed him in English.

  “Was everything okay, Bella?”

  Quentin sidled closer and pulled back a part of his outfit, revealing the handle of his pistol.

  “I’m just calling her ‘B’ for now,” he replied. “Vivaan and Dhruv, I presume?”

  Frightened faces formed on the two men, and they stepped backward, away from the Shadow Person whom they no longer knew. One of them looked behind him, at an almost-imperceptible camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. When he turned back to face Quentin, beads of sweat precipitated on his brow.

  “Relax, guys,” Quentin said. “I just want to talk. You have no reason to trust me any more than your captors, but guess what?”

  The two captives glanced at each other, then back at the intruder. Quentin smiled beneath his mask. “Now you’re on a deadline. You can trust that I want to help you escape, or you can refuse to assist, but it won’t take long before they realize something is wrong. What would you prefer?”

  One of the men, the one on the left, broke down first. “What are you trying to do?” he whispered.

  Quentin pointed back at the Bogeyman chamber. “I need to know: Why small spaces? Why does the ‘Bogeyman’ always send people into small spaces?”

  “This is . . . what do you call it . . . the ‘Cliff Notes’ version, yes?” stammered the man on the right. “The Bogeyman chamber casts a wide, but harmless, radiation field, wide enough to envelop the entire planet. When we want to choose locations, we have access to maps and video satellites to specify coordinates—”

  “What you need to understand,” interrupted the second man, “is that we’re taking the atoms within the chamber and irradiating them with . . .”

  He paused, as if to determine how much detail he should use with this stranger. “Let’s just say ‘quantum particle’ radiation. We then coordinate for a cluster of quantum particles to form at the sister location. In a single moment, we click those two quantum clouds together like Lego bricks, sending along the connected plane whatever we chose to irradiate.”

  Quentin snapped his fingers to rush them along. “You seem very excited by your science project, but this is way too much detail.”

  The other scientist cleared his throat. “The particles to which my colleague refers don’t fare well in open conditions. Think of them like a gas; they’ll dissipate eventually, but if you contain them in a small space with solid barriers, they’ll stay together longer. We only need a short window for the procedure, but those barriers ensure safe travel for whatever, or whoever, we irradiate.”

  Quentin shuffled toward the computers, keeping his mask-modified voice low. “Is there any way at all to overcome that limitation?” He sat a
t the computer and began to type. Footsteps approached him from behind, and one of the scientists entered his field of vision.

  “Like we said, it’s a safety issue,” continued the scientist. “We can bombard a designated location with a massive number of particles to complete the transfer, but the effects are less consistent. We aren’t sure how it will affect the travelers, and we don’t know what lasting impacts the radiation spike will have on the sister location.”

  Quentin looked up from his typing. “Will you take that risk?”

  Both scientists just stared back, eyes wide.

  “But what about—“

  “They have the data—“

  “Bella’s chip—“

  “Where would we even—“

  Quentin raised a black-gloved hand. “I’ll take care of the details. I need your focus. I don’t know enough about it to help.” He returned to the computer and began feeding it floppy disks. “By the way, is this the only place your technology and its data exists?”

  “As far as we know, yes.”

  “Good.” Quentin exchanged floppy disks and fed new ones into the machine, watching its progress. “Then here’s what I need from you two. We will be leaving in the Bogeyman. But! The Bogeyman will be coming with us. Can you do this?”

  Vivaan and Dhruv put their heads together, whispering. As they consulted, Quentin continued to insert square storage drives into the computer. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder at them. One of them bobbed their head up and down.

  “You understand what we’re saying, right?” the Indian scientist said. “This will be extremely dangerous. It has never been tested or attempted in any way.”

  “I accept the risk. Do you?”

  The two men nodded and began adjusting the Bogeyman, checking the controls beneath hidden panels and investigating the battery block connected to the device. Little time passed before they returned to Quentin’s side.

  “We’re ready on this front,” one of them announced. “It’s time to enter the coordinates.”

  Quentin stood and allowed them to access the computer. “How specific can it be?”

  “Very. Just provide them.”

  Quentin whispered the data into the scientist’s ear, and the seated man typed on his keyboard. As they worked, the Bogeyman hummed behind them, quietly at first, but the noise increased in volume with each passing second. Quentin consolidated their new floppy disk collection and returned it to a small satchel tied to his hip.

  The scientist at the computer stood to leave, but Quentin stopped him. “Wait. How long would it take to rebuild the data from these disks in a new PC?”

  “No more than an hour or two,” the other scientist said from behind him.

  “Perfect. Then I just have one more thing.”

  Quentin navigated the PC and opened a newly installed file named “STALKER.EXE.” He activated it and, within the menu of the program, set a timer for sixty seconds. “Now it’s time to leave.”

  The three piled into the Bogeyman, and the chamber door sealed itself shut.

  They were plunged into darkness as the humming increased. It raised in pitch, and unlike Quentin’s prior travel, there was no sudden silence followed by an open expanse. Instead, they remained within the chamber as it rocked, sending them bouncing along the metal walls. If he didn’t know better, he would have guessed someone had just pushed the Bogeyman from an airplane.

  The rocking continued for several minutes, and one of the scientists yelled at the other two passengers. They crawled closer to hear him.

  “This is taking too long!” he shouted. “Something’s wrong!”

  As the words left his mouth, the rocking stopped, and they slammed into the metal floor as if they were on a halting train. The chamber shifted, this time pulling upward like an elevator. Quentin could hear noises similar to a revving engine, despite the apparent slowness of the Bogeyman. Sparks flew around them, and acrid smoke hung in the air. The device was on the brink of falling apart.

  But then, much to his relief, the doors opened.

  The trio wandered in a daze from the Bogeyman chamber, stepping onto smooth flooring. Quentin watched as the scientists looked around at a long, bare, concrete room, designed like a small parking garage. A wide computer desk dominating a wall behind them broke the room’s emptiness, and stacks of preserved food, medical supplies, and electronic equipment covered the wall to their left. Wooden steps led up to a door on the far side of the immense room.

  “Where are we?” asked one of the scientists.

  Quentin pulled back the Shadow Person mask. His hair was damp and matted from the humidity of the outfit, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the reprieve.

  Before he could reply to the man, the door opened, and B poked around the corner, wearing some of Quentin’s spare clothes. Her face lit up as she surveyed the room. “Dhruv! Vivaan!” Quentin cleared his throat, and she corrected herself. “Uh . . . D! V! You made it!”

  She ran to the scientists and hugged them, identifying who was who in the process.

  V looked to Quentin and repeated his question. “Where are we?”

  Quentin sighed. “Quick tour, okay?”

  Everyone nodded.

  Quentin led everyone upstairs into his garage, though all he had parked was a Vespa scooter. They moved from there into the hallway that connected to his theatre room and one of the guest bedrooms. Maddie greeted them, and as the group scratched and cooed, she lavished in the attention.

  Quentin continued the tour of the kitchen, study, bathrooms, and other areas. Maddie followed them around, her nails clacking on the hardwood flooring. After the showing, Quentin turned to V.

  “As you know by the coordinates, we’re in France,” Quentin said. “But all I want you to see is this home, and the bunker beneath it. My parents passed away many years ago, and I inherited a large sum of money from them. Instead of investing in a gratuitous home, I chose something more modest, opting to invest in security features.”

  B cocked her head. “Security features?”

  Quentin nodded. “The concrete structure beneath the house is a survival bunker. Both the bunker and the home are wired to maximize electronic surveillance, while also equipped with defensive measures.”

  He scratched behind Maddie’s ears. “I fear these features will no longer be sufficient, considering our enemy’s resources. That is why, D and V, I would like to establish stable transport for the entire home into a private warehouse, where the supplies can be repurposed into a safe place for us.”

  V shook his head. “That’s insane! Why would you uproot yourself like this?”

  Quentin removed more of the Shadow Person outfit, revealing a white undershirt. “I can no longer trust the heads of the DPSD, nor can I trust the leadership of MI6, the CIA, or India’s IB. This subterfuge likely spreads further and wider than any of us can predict, and I only have faith in my ability to uncover the depth of this conspiracy from a secure place.”

  He looked at B. “Did you gather the supplies I asked for?”

  She pointed to her feet. “They’re already in the bunker.”

  “Good.” Quentin turned to the scientists. “What can we do about radio communications? The warehouse is quite remote. Can we use the Bogeyman?”

  “Actually, yes,” D responded. “We’ve done it before with Bell—I mean, B. We can open a pinhole connection to any small space in the world and broadcast from there. The computer runs automatically, following the target. I like to think of it as a ‘smart’ phone.”

  “Set that up, too,” Quentin said. “We’ve no time to waste.”

  Maddie whimpered.

  __________

  The scientists repaired the Bogeyman while Quentin and B unpacked supplies. Maddie contributed in her own way, sniffing from person to person, overseeing their work. After nearly six hours of labor, D and V confirmed the Bogeyman was up and running again.

  V approached Que
ntin. “Q, I want to show you something.” He drew Quentin toward the computer array. “Just to start,” the scientist said, “what did you do at our lab back in India?”

  “I ran a worm on your server, and on all linked servers,” Quentin replied. “I saw you using satellite coordinates, which meant you probably had an established connection to at least one intelligence agency. The worm connects to those servers and embeds itself, creating a false administrative access portal. From any internet-connected location, I can use that portal to remotely view any files or programs tied to those servers.”

  B looked up from her work. “Gesundheit.”

  Quentin smiled, and V turned to her, clarifying, “he used our lab to link us to almost every intelligence agency in the world.”

  Her eyes widened. “MI6?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s rain fire on these bellends once we get out of here.”

  V turned back to Quentin. “So, as I was setting up the Bogeyman system, I noticed the transfer process pulled some files that were not ours. You may have downloaded some of their files in the rush.”

  He pointed to the screen—at a digital folder.

  DOSSIER CLASS FELDGRAU.

  Quentin leaned over and double-clicked the folder, revealing others. There were several in the list, but their data was corrupted by the transfer. Only three folders were intact.

  BOGEYMAN TARGETS.

  FACTION HOSTILES.

  REFINEMENT CANDIDATES.

  His breath quickened, and he peered through the first folder. It was a collection of documents, each one labeled as a person’s name. Most were appended with the labels [COMPLETE] or [PENDING]. He opened the first name in the list. The documents included the person’s pictures, their identifying information, personal data, and even a brief psychological profile of the person. He closed the document and scrolled past the other names.