The Medusa Prophecy

by Cindy Dees

  Karen clicked her throat radio once to indicate she was ready to go. Five more individual clicks answered hers. A pause, and then three fast clicks to signal the go.

  Karen rose to her feet and charged the targets all in one movement. Her MP-5 submachine gun leveled at the targets, she raced forward.

  The two men started violently as six white, armed apparitions rose up all round them. They threw their hands up in the air, jabbering in what sounded like Finnish, but Karen wasn’t sure. It definitely wasn’t Norwegian. From the men’s tone of voice, they’d scared the snot out of these poor schmucks.

  Misty, a Russian speaker, tried that tongue on the men. They shook their heads in the negative. And then one of the men tried English. “Please to not kill us!”

  Vanessa raised the muzzle of her weapon up and away from the men, but the other Medusas kept theirs trained on the men. “Who are you?” Vanessa asked.

  “Hunters. Who are you?”

  “We are hunters as well. What are you way out here hunting?”

  “Rabbit,” the man blurted. “You?”

  Vanessa took a long look at the guy, then answered, “Men.”

  She pushed her hood back, revealing her face, and the two men stared. They pulled down the knit masks that covered their faces, bunched them around their necks, and stared some more.

  “You hunt for men?” the spokesman repeated incredulously. “You wish to find husbands out here?” He said something in the other language, and both men burst out laughing. Uproariously.

  Karen could see the humor of it from their point of view. Perhaps Vanessa should have been a bit more specific about which men they sought and why. However, her gaffe seemed to have broken the ice with these guys.

  Karen happened to glance over at Larson. He was grinning fit to beat the band. And for some reason, that irritated the living heck out of her. Her eyes narrowed. And an idea occurred to her. She turned to the two men and pushed back her own hood to reveal her gender as well. “Are you, by any chance, Sami warriors?”

  The English speaker nodded. He seemed pleased to have been called a warrior.

  “Perhaps you could help us, then. All six of us are women, and we’re all looking for men. You wouldn’t happen to know where to find more just like you, would you?”

  The other Medusas followed her cue and pushed back their hoods as well. The Sami men looked around in disbelief. “Six women?”

  Karen nodded.

  That provoked a spate of what must be an indigenous Sami dialect between the two men. Then one of them turned to Karen and asked, “Are you the warrior goddesses come to us from the hall of Sessrumnir to fulfill the prophecy?”

  Karen did not have the foggiest idea what they were talking about, but the guy asked the question with such earnest intensity, she decided to roll with it. “We are. Perhaps you can take us to your people?”

  The two men nodded in what for all the world looked like awe. “We have an encampment not far from here.”

  Bingo. “How many of you are there?” Karen asked.

  The second man answered in heavily accented English, “Ten hunters. Women and babies. About fifty.”

  “Come with us,” the first one said. “We take you to them. And then we send out message to Sami nation that time of prophecy has come.”

  The Medusas nodded and fell in beside the hunters, who set off inland toward the south.

  Larson stomped up beside Karen to mutter, “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

  “Increasing our reconnaissance force from five to fifty-five. We can’t cover all this terrain alone. But these guys will know it like the backs of their hands.”

  “But they think you’re goddesses. And you’re letting them,” he replied in outrage.

  Karen looked at him blandly. “Who’s to say we’re not goddesses to these people? I think we come across as pretty godlike. Don’t you?”

  “But…” he spluttered, “It’s a lie.”

  “No, Oberstløytnant. It’s a job.”

  Chapter 4

  Oslo, Norway, March 2, 1:30 p.m.

  “Detective Schumacher, there’s been a triple murder in the red light district. Report just came in to Homicide.”

  Irritated, Jens looked up from his desk, where he was reading through the initial affidavits in the Krag case. “If you’re going to work with me, Ivo, call me Jens. Hearing my last name all the time makes me feel old.”

  “Yes, sir, Jens.” A pause. “Sir.”

  Jeez. As if being called sir was any better! The kid sounded scared of him. He rolled his eyes and returned to looking at the witness statement. “And why is this triple homicide of particular interest to us?”

  “Because the perpetrator, after randomly going psycho, is still alive.”

  Jens looked up quickly. “Really? Can we talk to him?”

  “Her. She’s in the Rikshospitalet University Hospital.”

  “Let’s pay her a visit her, shall we?”

  Ivo nodded and held up a set of keys. “Thought you might say that. I’ll drive.”

  Jens closed the Krag file and picked up his ratty coat. He had a thing about wearing decent clothes to crime scenes and ruining them. A waste of perfectly good money.

  When they got to the hospital, Jens was disappointed to find out the woman was in a coma and not expected to live. Apparently her bodily systems were experiencing what the doctor called cascade failure. A nice way of putting it.

  He tried hard not to picture Astrid lying in the same bed so still and lifeless. He would not let this happen to his little girl! What the hell was going on out there in the streets of Oslo that was making people go crazy like this?

  “What was she on, doc?” Jens asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “We’re running blood toxicology now, but I couldn’t say for sure. She doesn’t show the usual symptom set for anything. Apparently got wired real tight, attacked several people, then briefly went extremely lethargic, and passed out.”

  “Let me know what you turn up.” Jens passed the physician his business card and did his damnedest to ignore the panic twisting in his gut. Not Astrid.

  The doctor nodded. “I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”

  Somewhere in the North Sea, March 2, 6:00 p.m.

  A satellite phone rang nearby, but there were other people to answer it. The man lying in the swinging hammock was too seasick to care who might be calling the ship right now anyway. At least the rope bed was damping out the worst of the boat’s rocking. But not enough. He hadn’t kept down a bite of solid food since the small cargo vessel left Glasgow yesterday.

  He’d argued strenuously against placing the lab in such a godforsaken corner of the world where rough seas and bitter cold would make transportation and supply operations a royal pain in the rear. But he’d been overruled by his superiors. They’d insisted on utmost security for this most secret and important of operations and had chosen the most unlikely, most remote place on the planet for him to run this show.

  He only hoped they were enjoying sitting on their fat asses on a Pacific Island, sunning themselves on a beach while he froze his ass off up here. He’d never express such a sacrilegious thought aloud, of course. He’d be struck down dead before the words barely left his mouth

  “Phone’s for you, Isa,” one of the crewmen said too goddamned cheerfully. They all seemed to be having a great laugh over his misery.

  “Tell them I’m dying. I can’t talk now.”

  “The call’s from Indonesia.”

  Isa swore under his breath. His boss. He stuck out his hand for the phone. Why couldn’t the sailor have said so in the first place? He planted the phone against his ear as the ship—and his stomach—gave a great, heaving roll.

  “Hello, sir. This is Uthman.”

  As always, the top brass in the network didn’t beat around the bush. Afraid of traces on their calls. This call would last under a minute. “How’s the Oslo experiment going?”

  Isa brightened a littl
e. It was always good to have positive news to relay. “Beyond our wildest expectations, sir. The city is falling into chaos, and we only released a single kilo of the chemical.”

  “How much is stockpiled at the production site?”

  “Roughly three hundred kilos so far. But, I’ve got my men working round the clock making more. In another several weeks, we should have close to five hundred kilos ready to go.”

  “Make it six hundred kilos and have it ready in two weeks.”

  Isa sucked in a quick breath between his teeth. “We’re green-lighted to go with the global release, then?”

  “That is affirmative. Our spiritual leader has received a vision from God. It is time to punish the decadence of the West. We will release your chemical into the drug supply across the western world—North and South America, Europe, and Australia. Our heroin producers in Afghanistan and Pakistan are prepared to cut your additive into their outbound supplies as soon as it can be delivered.”

  “Understood.”

  Another voice cut into the conversation. It announced emotionlessly, “Thirty seconds elapsed call time.”

  “Two weeks, Isa.”

  And then the line went dead.

  Northern Norway, March 2, 7:00 p.m.

  Karen studied the encampment in fascination. On the surface, it appeared crude, but upon closer inspection, it was incredibly efficient. The families lived in a tight cluster of sod huts. A large communal building stood on one side of the circle, and a lean-to shelter attached to it provided a windbreak for a huddled herd of reindeer.

  Hard to imagine that it was the twenty-first century and people anywhere on the planet were still living like this. Surely it must be a source of tension between the Sami people and other Norwegians. She’d bet Sami kids were deserting villages like this in droves. It was a shame, really. This culture had survived for thousands of years pretty much like this, and it was probably only a few decades from disappearing entirely.

  “The siida-isit, he comes soon,” one of their guides announced. “For now, we go to gathering place.”

  “What’s a siida-isit?” Karen murmured to Anders.

  “Siida is the Sami word for their tribal unit. It’s mostly clan based. This group of hunters and their families is one siida. Their chief is called the siida-isit. He is village leader, shaman, counsellor, and justice giver all in one.”

  Karen nodded. In other words, the big dog.

  The Medusas and their hosts ducked inside the main building. It was about the size and shape of a quonset hut and would probably seat thirty or forty people. Although, given how small these people were, maybe it would hold more like fifty. Among the women and children who’d crowded around to stare at them when they arrived, she’d felt like Ms. Jolly Green Giant.

  Several men lifted aside the reindeer-skin door and stepped into the hut. A woman followed, scuttling around them to throw more reindeer chunks on the fire. The small, smoky fire filled the space with a strong smell of manure. The woman offered them skins of what turned out to be water so cold it made Karen’s teeth ache. Which was probably just as well. The aftertaste of bear grease and reindeer skin was foul. She’d hate to experience it warm.

  Isabella, the team’s resident language sponge, started pointing at objects around the room and asking the Sami word for them. Before long, all the Medusas had joined in and were repeating the words aloud, to much laughter and many corrections by the locals. The Samis seemed pleased at their effort to learn the Sami tongue. Bowls of stew were passed around, and the Medusas dug into their own packs and contributed beef jerky and chocolate bars to the impromptu feast. Nothing like a little Hershey’s diplomacy to loosen things up.

  Through it all, Larson sat quietly in the corner. The men kept turning to him and trying to engage him in conversation as if he was the team’s leader, until finally he said something in what sounded like quick, fluent Sami. Show off.

  Whatever he said, it made the native men stare, open-mouthed.

  “What did you just say to them?” Karen asked.

  “I told them I was a servant of the goddess and you’d beat me if they didn’t quit treating me like you.”

  It was Karen’s turn for her jaw to sag. “You didn’t.”

  He looked her dead in the eye. “I did.”

  Her own gaze narrowed. So that’s how he wanted to play this game, eh? Fine. “Then get me something to drink, oh servant of mine.”

  His eyes glinted in the firelight, flashing silver irritation. But, he rose from his cross-legged stance to his feet in one fluid movement and ducked outside the tent.

  Karen glanced at her teammates, who were all staring at her. “Everything okay, Python?” Vanessa murmured.

  “Yup. Couldn’t be better,” Karen replied cheerfully. She was all over ordering Mr. Chauvinist around like her servant.

  The skin swung aside, and Karen looked up expectantly. But instead of Larson, a wizened little man stumped into the room, wrapped in a bulky fur blanket. He looked about a hundred and ten years old. He gazed around the group of women. His black, bird-bright gaze lighted on Karen, and he startled her by bowing deeply. He rasped something in the Sami tongue. Ten-to-one he’d just welcomed her to town. With some difficulty, he straightened once more, looking at her expectantly.

  O-kay. What was she supposed to do now? Vanessa flashed her a subtle hand signal to say something.

  Karen said, “Please, have a seat by the warm fire your kind tribeswoman has provided for us.” While somebody translated for her, she gestured toward the fire and then indicated with her hand that he should sit.

  It must’ve been the right thing to say, for the old man smiled and rather creakily folded himself down to the floor underneath his fur robe. The same woman who’d tended the fire tucked the blanket in around him and pressed a steaming mug of something into his hand. He sipped it slowly and seemed to relax.

  Larson slipped back into the tent, but Karen hardly noticed him, so fascinated was she by this character before her. Short, old and unassuming though he might be, his presence was commanding. Here was a leader among his people. Of that, she had no doubt. Larson sat down behind her and to her right.

  Finally, after the old man had drained his mug, he looked Karen in the eye and said in heavily accented English, “Is it time?”

  “For what?” Karen asked.

  The elder answered in Sami.

  Karen looked over at her impromptu servant. “Translate, will you?”

  “Isn’t that using me to help your mission?” he asked dryly. “I wouldn’t want to break the rules.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Enough people here speak English or Russian or something else one of us speaks that we’d eventually communicate with these people. I dunno ’bout you, but I’m tired and hungry. Let’s get this over with this week. Just translate.” Then, in the interest of diplomacy, she flashed him her most winning smile. “Please.”

  It was a blatantly girly tactic, but she wasn’t above using her gender as a weapon. All was fair in love and war—this being war, of course.

  Larson shrugged. “And I quote the village elder, ‘Ah. You test me. We have received the prophecy and faithfully repeated it for all the Sami to hear. Your yoik has spread like a great blizzard driven on the strongest north wind across the land.’”

  “What the heck is a yoik?” she muttered to Larson.

  “A chanted song. Used to record history, legends and religious prophecies.”

  Louder and to the old man, she said, “May I hear this yoik?”

  He nodded and began chanting in a warbling, rusty, old man’s voice. In the native language, darn it.

  Larson murmured as the guy sang, “The old ways are lost by all but a few. The old beliefs are gone. It is time to restore them. We come to make it so. Restore your people. Restore your lands. Restore the faith. We come presently, and we are the sign. I shall cleanse your lands of the scourge upon it now, and then you shall be free. So said the warrior goddess to Naliki who walked in
dreaming wakefulness.”

  The old man fell silent.

  “Who’s Naliki?” Karen asked the siida-isit.

  The old man answered, speaking rapidly at Larson. He must have realized the Norwegian soldier was translating for the women.

  “Naliki is the noaide to whom the goddess—that’s you—gave the vision. And the yoik he just sang was written by this Naliki person. Apparently, the Sami people have been waiting for a sign from the gods for a while that it’s time to rise up and take back their native lands and lifestyle.” Larson added lightly, “And here you are.”

  Karen turned to stare over her shoulder at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s this gentleman’s name?”

  Larson said something in rapid Sami.

  The old man replied in halting English, “I am Padmir, siida-isit of the Siida Cholma.”

  Larson interjected, “Siida-isits are highly respected among their people. It is a great honor that he speaks to you as outsiders.”

  Padmir retorted, his black eyes snapping. “It is a great honor for you that I speak to you, Norse man. It is a great honor for me that the goddesses sit at my fire and speak to me.”

  Karen laughed at the chagrined look on Larson’s face. She liked this old guy, Padmir. He’d certainly put the big, bad Norwegian commando in his place. “Translate for me, please, Oberstløytnant Larson.”

  He nodded with a certain amount of annoyance.

  Looking at the old man, she said, “Siida-isit Padmir, my companions and I come on a quest. We seek six strangers to these lands, much the same as us. They have come recently and set up a camp of sorts. Do you, by any chance, know where to find them?”

  Larson scowled, but seemed to translate the message verbatim.

  Padmir said something to the other men, who until now had been seated quietly behind him. The hunters’ faces lit up, and there was a spate of animated talk, accompanied by a great deal of hand waving.

  Larson muttered, “They’ve already been looking for the place where you will cleanse the land of outsiders, and they say they’ve found it. Apparently, it’s less than a day’s walk from here to the north and east.”