Meanwhile, Teacher and his team were finally back in the air. But there was more than a little question in everyone's minds as to whether they'd be there in time to save Candy, her dad, and the children—never mind in time to prevent Kazimirov from launching his missiles. And failing that, the alternative would be to drop one of their own nukes from altitude....
Unaware of this development, Candy proceeded with her own plans: Once darkness had fallen, she cut a hole in the fence, got all the children out, and took them to her camp.
Gearing up in full special-ops mode, with camos, weapons, and face paint, she took Tasha with her to the motor pool, where the Russian girl discovered that cold-blooded assassination of relative innocents wasn't nearly as much fun as killing unmitigated evil-doers: Using her silenced Glock, Candy executed the solitary young motor pool night mechanic without warning. Stealing a six-by-six truck, they returned to camp, driving without lights, groping their way mostly via the infrared spectrum.
Browbeating Tasha into swearing to leave on time whether she and Daddy made it back or not, Candy again stole through the night, returning to the laboratory where, following careful study of the four men stationed at each end of the building (most of them asleep), she killed them all with her silenced M-1.
But then, entering one end of the building, she practically ran into three more armed men coming out of the first office adjacent to the door. Hands up, she backed out the door and gently laid her rifle down as the Russians suddenly realized their four colleagues were dead.
As Candy prepared to trigger hysterical strength and attack, hoping their momentary confusion might even the odds, she found herself wishing desperately that at least one of them, preferably two, would be distracted by something: a stumble, a stroke—anything!
But the very last thing she was hoping for, never mind expecting, was Maggie, soaring out of the darkness at full speed, at shoulder level, achieving a four-point landing between the shoulder blades of one Russian, then ricocheting to the solar plexus of another. Both tumbled into the chairs containing their dead comrades and went down in a tangle of live and dead limbs and bodies.
At which point one of the double doors behind the Russian still standing, covering Candy with his AK, began to swing open and someone in a white lab coat started to emerge.
Instantly Candy snatched the rifle from the soldier with one hand and did her best to drive his nose up into his brain with the heel of the other hand. Leaping across the intervening space, she beheaded the second man with her katana before he could rise; then, spinning, she saw both remaining opponents beginning to fumble for their sidearms.
Drawing the Glock with one hand while snatching a shuriken from a belt pouch with the other, she shot the third Russian as the shuriken thudded between the eyes of the first, driving him back into the door, only inches from the white-coated spectator as he extracted himself from between the doors.
“Whoa...” said the onlooker, who had not yet recognized her under the paint and camos.
“Hi, Daddy,” puffed Candy. “We have to go now.”
“Candy ... ? How on Earth—”
“Now ... !”
* * * *
Volume XI
Quality Time
Okay, Posterity; no, events did not proceed quite as smoothly from that point as above soullessly brief greeting/exchange might seem to imply. F'rinstance, remember all that careful emotional preparation to deal suavely with meeting Daddy?
Hah ... !
Two heartbeats after "Now!", discovered had flung self into paternal arms, almost paralyzed with teary combination of relief/joy.
After which, celebration segued without discernable hesitation into complete meltdown—really, only fair description: Majority of brain tried simply to shut down, retreat into peacefully oblivious fugue state; drop entire horrible business into Daddy's lap to Make All Better...
See, Posterity, even all-out, epinephrine-laced, hand-to-hand combat killings not without emotional toll. However, deliberate, cold-blooded assassinations much more costly; each trigger pull weighed heavier on soul.
But beheading ... Ghastly way to die—and even though committed in heat of battle, infinitely worse way to kill! Yesyesyes, have long understood relationships between anatomical components, hydraulic laws, at least on intellectual level.
But in training, Danya had glossed over real-world side effects: Neurology, f'rinstance—like kitchen-bound, guillotined chicken, suddenly headless human body goes into wild spasms, convulsions.
Not to mention, carotid contents spew yards above stump!
In any event, for disgracefully protracted interval—whole minutes at least—Plucky Girl Savior of Our People simply folded under pressure: Responsibility for getting Daddy, children, Maggie out safely; psychic reverberations of all those killings, awful certainty that future could not fail to bring more—never mind figuring out how to save loved ones in hominem community back at Palomar from missiles. Altogether, Intrepid Special-Ops Girl suddenly found things simply had become Too Much.
Daddy's wordless, comforting murmurs helped, but warm, safe, “loved” feelings engendered by being held in protective circle of strong arms probably helped most of all.
However.
Life not influenced by how much you want specific outcome. Apart from possibly helping focus efforts, wanting does not itself improve likelihood matters will turn out as desired.
At this point, discovery, capture, death impended on all sides; and hovering above all, missiles awaited. If situation were to have any chance of ending well, someone had to get back up on that damned red Second Horse.
Regrettably, no one in attendance more qualified than aforementioned (but currently clingy, tearful) Intrepid Special-Ops Girl.
So eventually, notwithstanding momentary overwhelming bail-out impulse, unrelenting pressure of selfsame responsibilities forced awareness to expand again to include strategic/tactical considerations, implications—necessities.
Sighed. Gathered up icky mental baggage, dumped on top of big steaming pile of deferred guilt already accumulating in that ever darker corner of brain. Sniffled. Mopped eyes with sleeve. Then, reluctantly, mind again began gnawing at problems.
Curiously, however, before could refocus full attention on End of Days stuff, queued up at very head of unresolveds lineup was brand new, seemingly peripheral observation that qualified as distinctly anomalous. Even in midst of emotional implosion, couldn't help noticing Maggie's behavior...
At that moment, like one-dog Apache war party circling wagon train, BC ringing us nonstop; silently but at top speed, in absolute frenzy of self-satisfaction. Delight so utter, recalled yet another Weldonism: Executing complicated commands perfectly, especially those which involve running, jumping, overcoming opposition (which under normal circumstances would involve no more then bullying recalcitrant sheep, cows) makes Border Collies happier than almost anything; happier than hugs, happier sometimes even than food. Have seen occasional BC, caught up in frenzied rejoicing after successful, fault-free agility contest run, bounce into air, actually nip owner in heat of excitement.
At first blush, though Maggie had inarguably Saved the Day, had no right to be so pleased with self; had not, f'rinstance, obeyed parting instruction to stay with Tasha—
But wait. Recalled: Had remained dutifully at base camp every other outing. And had company this time, so would have felt much more comfortable with big sister's absence. Almost certainly, then, girl had sent her after me.
Hmm ... Okay. Well, performance obviously had involved speed, altitude, opposition, fair degree of complexity. But command ... ?
How could Wonderpup possibly have known how desperately big sister needed foes distracted—never mind in which specific order distractions would prove most helpf—
Maggie skidded to stop, eyes locked with mine. As light dawned, BC offered nearly soundless rfff! of agreement, approval, possibly even congratulation—with only faint overtones of Well, finally...
&
nbsp; With reluctance, let go of Daddy. Well, mostly.
Turned to BC. Thought, Maggie, heel! Dog blurred into sitting position at right ankle. Maggie, stand! BC bounced to feet, eyes sparkling, poised for more action. Maggie, go out! Streaked into darkness along mentally indicated line. Maggie, here! Black flash terminated in soft, warm thump against leg, from vicinity of which spooky blue eyes grinned up at me.
Sudden, sputtered, barely muffled laughter probably originated at least as much from heart as diaphragm. Barely had time to hold out arms, after realizing just how much needed to hug her right then, before Maggie landed in them, promptly administering big slurpy kiss.
Wow. Eat your heart out, Terry.
Daddy eyed us with mounting fascination....
* * * *
With Maggie ranging ahead to warn of insomniacs (once again carrying Frisbee; had parked it under nearby bush just prior to “launching” distraction), favorite surviving parent looked rakish in liberated Khraniteli uniform as we stole through darkness. Had abandoned visible-as-lighthouse white coat back at lab. Likewise, Daddy now armed with rifle, sidearm, combat knife, all confiscated from three final interior sentries, who now had no further need of them.
Patriarch had earned booty. Had done, in fact, yeoman job of strolling casually to far end of central corridor, engaging remaining sentries in small-talk, persuading them to accompany him outside “...to catch a breath of air that isn't reeking of all those bleep-bleep-bleeping chemicals"; all rendered in Russian, of course.
Once outside, however, dedicated healer, doting pére, forced to stand, watch favorite baby girl lean unhurriedly from around building's corner, M-1 leveled. Two seconds, three gerbil coughs later, having deliberately limited damage to heads in two cases to avoid fabric stains, drilled third's center of mass to avoid headgear spoilage, uniforms became available.
By this point, as made our way soundlessly, invisibly (even without benefit of acorns, Daddy learned quickly) out of downtown Serdtsevina Rasovyi toward missile launch facility, Pater clearly working through conflicting emotions:
First, foremost, awash with long-accumulated parental love; plus simply bursting with amazement, glowing with pride over darling daughter's accomplishments, as brought him up-to-date (high points only): finding AAs across length, breadth of America—and now, based on Danya's, Wallace's intel, finding, springing him from heart of secure location within far greater span of Eurasia.
(And, okay, may even have let slip something about that whole Saving The World business....)
Resultant warmly glowing parental fuzzies surely warred with mortally jarring discovery that aforementioned Sugar ‘n’ Spice-raised, darling baby girl now full-fledged, card-carrying, multiply blooded, journeyperson assassin; capable, when necessary, of explosions of unspeakably violent butchery, not to mention calculatingly cold-blooded slaughter—even of those enemies whose bad luck it was merely to be in the way.
Experienced another sudden stomach-turning chill as realized, in past day and a half had killed 16 people. Yes, five in two separate two- and three-to-one, odds-against combat, but rest in coldest of blood.
Instantly flinched away from arithmetic, but too late: Except that no food had passed lips since previous night, might have had difficulty keeping down.
And considering how much review distressed me, no doubt such thoughts counterindicated for gently doting father/dedicated healer, whose first warning of preteen offspring's expanded extracurricular activities was watching her single-handedly wipe out armed, three-man security team—not to mention immediately thereafter, before those bodies had had chance even to cool, using him as Judas goat to commit next three utterly cold-blooded terminations.
(And Tasha thought merely watching new girlbuddy suit up for sortie gave her collywobbles....)
Nonetheless, regardless of ick factor, Daddy doing level best to absorb new data, be supportive. “Okay—but ‘shazam’ ... ?” he demanded teasingly, once got past immediate catchings-up. Which led to discussion of Danya's current role in training; plus Teacher's, other AAs’ participation in education generally.
Presently, however, ran out of family-oriented conversational topics. Pauses occurred, mounting in numbers, durations. Finally, semitraditional father/daughter chitchat morphed back to deadly business at hand: “shop talk"—no-nonsense exchange of strategic/tactical facts/suggestions/opinions, policy guy to field agent/assassin, vice versa.
Except in this case, policy guy turned out to have accumulated significant field time himself. (Who'd'a thunk?—"Foster, Marshall Foster; shaken, not stirred....")
Daddy said, “Kazimirov has been bragging for months now about his plans for these missiles. They're old Russian Cold War assets—for some models of which,” grinned suddenly, “due to an only peripherally medically related assignment in my checkered past, I actually remember the master arming and disarming codes, with which I can override whatever on-site programming the Khraniteli may have plugged in.”
Made bogus round eyes at him. “What did you do ... ?”
Daddy grinned. “Remember the Chernobyl-style disaster at that so-called civilian nuclear power plant in Iran a few years back?”
“That was you?”
“I had a role in it. And you won't be surprised to learn that it wasn't just a civilian power plant?”
“Never crossed my mind that it might be.”
“You were only nine at that time!”
“Eight.”
“I never realized you were that aware of world events back then.”
“Oh, I started worrying about the implications of what I heard on the news when I was just a kid.” Only after uttered words did Intrepid Special-Ops Girl realize sheer magnitude of non sequitur that had just blundered past lips.
But if Daddy noticed, never blinked. “You never said anything.”
Snickered at irony as replied, “I didn't want to worry you.”
This set Daddy off as well. “And I was worried about the potential effects on impressionable little you.”
Effects ... Took act of purest will to conceal flinch from Daddy as yet another batch of out-of-control brain cells fired, delivering latest gruesome flashback variation: Behind eyes bloomed this week's “player statistics"—thus far, beginning midnight Sunday, Intrepid Apprentice Assassin averaging almost a dozen killings per day.
And, of course, Monday mere hours old.
Took deep breath, held, released slowly. Forced distracting mental detritus into background. Again. For now.
“So that's why you agreed to let me study karate under Teacher: the state of the world, and the direction events were moving.”
Daddy smiled fondly. “It was my idea, actually. By the time you came along, I'd picked up some rudimentary hand-to-hand skills during basic training at The Farm, and Soo Kim had given me occasional lessons.
“But a couple of times in the field, I'd have sold my soul to be even a tenth as dangerous as you are now.” Grinned sheepishly. “As it was, I've had to schmooze my way out of a number of situations as the helpful, friendly-but-naive visiting physician, when a dose of judicially applied violence would have saved so much time and stomach acidity. I figured Teacher would be able to make some of that unnecessary for you.”
Paused. Smile faded. Eyed me with expression underlying which effort not to show dismay was plainly visible. “I had no idea...”
Occurred to me then, following another few moments’ awkward silence, had not yet told Daddy about Tasha, kids. Could tell from startled, slightly guilty reaction, had been so focused on eliminating nukes, hadn't even thought about their fate if succeeded in arming detonators.
But then looked almost inexpressibly relieved. “You've gotten them out ... ?”
“Yes. They're waiting for us at my camp about two miles east of the prison.” Paused then; regarded him with respectful but uncompromising eye. “I promised to come back for them once I got you out and we finish here. I can't leave without them.”
May have been
stray moonbeam, or perhaps just reflection from streetlights among whose shadows we flitted, but pretty sure detected momentary extra sparkle in corner of Daddy's eye; heard him breathe heavily for moment. Then, a bit huskily, said, “Have I told you yet how proud I am of you?”
Getting all teary-eyed does not enhance terrain-zenning performance, Posterity, so for a bit, concentrated really hard on making sure both two-legged Fosters blended silently with landscape.
“Most Russian multiple-payload packages,” said Doctor Spook presently, voice approximately normal again, “consisted of, in effect, multipurpose warheads, assembled from off-the-shelf components. They could be delivered, one or severally, via missile, from an aircraft, by car, or, if you had a really big briefcase and a husky agent, you could even place one on foot.
“Russian detonators of that vintage were generic components as well, and they came in at least three flavors. The most common model was self-contained, with several alternative, input-based settings. Before arming them, you have to decide whether you want them to go off at a specific altitude, from a proximity detector, from a remote controller, such as a phone, cordless or hardwired, use the built-in timers, or on impact.
“In addition, most models can be configured either as masters or slaves. What that means is, you can arm the master to broadcast a triggering impulse to the slaves, using some of the same circuitry as the remote controllers, so all detonate simultaneously, producing a vastly more powerful explosion.
“If these do turn out to be warheads I'm familiar with—and they should be, based on Kazimirov's boasting—I'll be able to arm them for delayed detonation. Likewise, if we have any masters and/or slaves, we can set up simultaneous multiple explosions, which will do a much more thorough job of closing down this operation.”
Analog SFF, October 2008 Page 17