Analog SFF, October 2008
Page 18
Daddy smiled. “Unlike in the movies, lacking microsecond-level master/slave synchronization, the initial burst of radiation from the first warhead to detonate contaminates any other fissionables in the area, which converts all the other warheads to radioactive paperweights—only very briefly, of course, because the entire arsenal will be vaporized in the first fireball.
“On the other hand, if the Khraniteli have no master/slave warheads, setting multiple detonators will give us redundancy, which, after all this time, will offer a measure of insurance against the likelihood that some warheads will prove defective.”
Daddy looked thoughtful. “I hope we do find some master/slave units though. While these are really powerful warheads, and a single bomb will do considerable damage to the Khraniteli's shelter, I doubt if it'll take it out completely. They built it almost entirely from that new metallic polymer alloy of theirs, and its weight, strength, and insulation properties are little short of supernatural. The structure extends thousands of feet underground, with endless, really thick shock wave/firestop bulkheads, and bank-vault hatches.
“But"—Daddy eyed me with haunted expression—"regardless of how many I can get to go off at once, generally the maximum timer delay for these detonators is something on the order of four hours.” Paused. “I don't know how we'll all get clear in time.”
Didn't even try not to look smug. “Did I mention I have a plane?”
For possibly two-dozenth time since reunion, Daddy's eyes went round—but then looked almost ready to collapse with relief.
And experienced yet another surge of daughterly adoration: No doubt sweet, incredibly brave man had fully expected to take advantage of breakout to set off bombs, almost certainly die thereafter; regrets limited to fact that, unless managed to steal Khraniteli plane (and didn't even know if he could fly!), couldn't see any way to avoid expressing gratitude for rescue by sharing immolation with favorite baby daughter.
“A plane will be good,” he sighed. “These are probably the second-most powerful warheads ever assembled—ask me later about the Russians’ so-called wheat-burner experimental debacle. Total destruction from only one of these bombs extends five miles plus from ground zero. The maximum number of slaves that can be controlled by a single master is three. If I can manage that, we'll need to be at least fifty miles away to survive the radiation, heat, and shock waves.”
* * * *
Arrived at launch facility about three A.M. Left Daddy under cover near gate with filially deferential but strongly worded request to remain quiet and out of sight while scouted installation.
Happily, launch compound turned out to be not-quite-valley-configured dimple in terrain adjacent to mountain under which shelter buried, which, combined with monocular, made it unnecessary to circumnavigate whole site to determine sally port before us was only way in through towering, triple chain-link fences. Five-man security team at gate obviously comprised entire complement; unlike lab entrances, nowhere for others to hide: Single tiny guard shack, similar to that at prison camp, obviously incapable of sheltering additional personnel. (Unless napping under now-known-to-be-ubiquitous security installation picnic tables.)
Presently returned to Daddy. Briefed him on layout; then: “Ready? After I take out the guards, you get in there and do your detonator thing. If anyone comes, duck out of sight. I'll be just outside, under cover. I'll handle them.”
Daddy agreed. But then eyes reacquired haunted look as visibly braced self to watch once-innocent baby daughter kill five more unsuspecting men (three sleeping) from concealment, in just under four seconds.
However, no shrinking violet, my Daddy. Hugged me when done; kissed on forehead.
Then, with no hint of smile, ordered me not to let killings fester in soul: Voice deepening, speaking as healer, not just beloved parent, opined, under circumstances, killings equated to amputation. Certain self-selected (Daddy emphasized point) members of H. sapiens survivors had to be excised to save whole of Homo post hominem people. He underscored—they started conflict; chose venue, stakes.
Hugged me again. Long. Hard.
Thereafter, however, Daddy became all business: With lethal baby girl standing guard over him, calmly checked dead men for vital signs; rifled quickly through pockets.
We entered compound, Doctor Spook carrying several hand tools from my backpack. Camouflaged missiles reclined under netting in launch cradles mounted on massive flatbed trucks. Followed Daddy as strode purposefully out into compound, picked missile on far side, seemingly at random, climbed aboard.
Shinnying out to rocket's nose, released Dzus-like fasteners, popped open cover exposing warhead control panel, began pushing Cyrillic-labeled buttons very much as if knew what was doing.
Yours Truly didn't quite flinch as each button depressed.
Presently, though, almost as afterthought, paternal spook glanced down, noticed favorite adopted daughter standing below; noted, likewise, expression. Visibly suppressing smile, reminded me of previously agreed-upon division of labors: Plucky Special-Ops Girl supposed to find strategic exterior location, keep watch, discourage unscheduled company.
Then, with earnest expression, Daddy tapped finger on thermonuclear warhead currently supporting fatherly fundament, crooked brow, finished, “Though you might want to keep your ears covered....”
Okay, Posterity; just between us, for maybe half second, hands may have twitched. Possibly even in direction of ears.
But Daddy just kidding.
I knew that.
* * * *
Then began longest hour of entire short life. Daddy began tinkering with first missile shortly before 4:30 A.M. Prison camp security changed shifts at 6:00; had no reason to think launch complex would operate differently. We had barely hour and half, if that—if no one among security day shift, missile-refurbishers, or countdown-prep crews inclined toward annoyingly morning-person-type displays of go-getter initiative, commitment to cause.
Selected cozy, sheltered location among trees just outside sally port. Popped M-1's magazine; quickly replaced expended rounds, reinserted, recharged chamber. Settled down with Maggie at my side.
Line-of-sight visibility along serpentine dirt track from Serdtsevina Rasovyi limited to perhaps 200 feet into dense forest. Tried to keep attention focused on roadway; not watch Daddy.
Anticipated interruption, when (not if) arrived, would be something on order of already half-drunk, shambling, five-man group amble demonstrated by prison camp guards. Could handle that.
* * * *
Not, however, prepared for 30-odd, wide-awake, heavily armed men split between pair of troop trucks, each with roof-mounted Gatling cannon, trailing in choking dust cloud raised by huge Nizhnyi Tagil T-93-S tank, whole convoy exploding from woods, traveling probably in excess of 50 miles per hour.
(Tank recognition courtesy of training session silhouette flashcards; thank you, Danni.)
As eastern horizon began to lighten, Maggie's head had come up; BC peered intently up road. Oddly, from hidey-hole, own ears picked up only Nature's Night Songs. Plus, of course, at first nothing visible.
Still, took Maggie at her word: Had gotten about two steps toward sally port to warn Daddy—by then working on ninth missile—when Doctor Spook suddenly glanced up. Apparently, tank's quasisubsonic rumbling had reached him via different acoustical route.
Daddy not handicapped by indecision: Instantly snapped access hatch shut, locked down; leaped to ground, sprinted across compound, out through gates. Slapped interior, exterior close buttons en passant.
But then paused, stood waiting, apparently watching to be sure sally port secured properly.
As gates ground slowly toward closed-and-locked position—and I agonized, wondering why experienced spook would risk capture like this—Daddy suddenly glanced at watch, turned head my direction, called out: “I've set two master detonators with three slaves each, and one single. The first two are multiples; the earliest is set for two hours, 42 minutes, 35 seconds—mark."
Hastily began pushing buttons on own watch. Setting countdown timer took almost exactly 30 seconds; made mental note to remember to subtract figure from reading.
Heard outer gate click shut as finished. Glanced up to see Daddy spin, take single step toward cover
—just as Khraniteli convoy thundered out of woods. Trucks broke formation, fanned out from behind tank as all three vehicles almost skidded to stop.
Own blood froze, heart sank, as with chorus of sharply metallic clack-clacks audible even over engines, quite literally everyone unsafetied, charged AKs’ chambers, drew bead on Daddy. Even tank's almost 15-foot-long, approximately five-inch-internal-diameter turret gun's barrel depressed slightly to align on Daddy's sternum, muzzle barely ten feet away.
You don't get much busteder than that, Posterity.
Watching Daddy standing frozen before Khraniteli's massed firepower, found self turning slowly in karmic breeze, agonizing with indecision. For possibly half-second's total madness, Intrepid Assassin Girl actually reflected upon fact that, between two taped-together magazines, M-1 held 60 rounds, whereas couldn't have been more than half that many Bad Guys present.
Hmm...
Fortunately, sanity stepped out only briefly: Even if somehow had managed to mow down whole crowd of fully alerted, heavily armed men surrounding Daddy before found self focus of hail of return fire, could have done nothing about tank.
More accurately, last sentence should have concluded could do nothing.
Clearly Daddy's thoughts paralleling own; likewise visibly spun wheels for possibly two seconds, staring around wide-eyed at captors. But way smarter than homicidal baby daughter; arrived almost immediately at only workable solution:
Put on dejected expression. Slumped shoulders dramatically. Tossed weapons well out to side. Slowly raised hands.
Head popping up from tank's hatch like groundhog checking winter's status, Kazimirov's tone bordered on admiration as called out, “You have had a busy night, Foster.”
Khraniteli's Fearless Leader then waved arm, yelled, “Take him!” Troops swarmed down from trucks, swirled around Daddy like army ants on caterpillar. First dozen or so approached with evident caution; grabbed, using variety of restraint-type holds. One man collected weapons. Several others brought up, applied belt-shackled handcuffs, leg irons.
Given circumstances (among them, five obviously dead compatriots’ bodies sprawled mere yards away), were surprisingly gentle about it. Which probably is why at-that-point-borderline-suicidal Special-Ops Girl survived: Crosshairs neatly quadrisected Kazimirov's head throughout recapture. Regardless of overall futility, had troops behaved with less restraint, top Khranitel would have been first to die.
“To take out 14 armed men single-handedly, at least three all at once in personal combat,” Kazimirov continued, “I am impressed. I had no idea you possessed such training. My first thought was that a strike force of your people's commandos had arrived to rescue you, but here you are alone.
“Be assured, however, that while I still intend to have your knowledge of biological warfare, you will be given no further opportunities to put those combat skills to use.”
Daddy sighed loudly, dramatically; shook head mournfully; didn't quite whine: “If you'd been only five minutes later, I'd have made it inside—and we'd all be radioactive dust by now.”
Ah-ha! Now understood Daddy's impromptu fallback strategy. More importantly, knew what own role must be to ensure success: Despite nearly paralyzing grief, maddening frustration at recapture, would wait, watch; make sure no one had second thoughts regarding warheads’ integrity.
Fervently hoped opposition forces would be present in lesser numbers if became issue. Hoped even more tank no longer part of mix. And especially hoped question resolved soon; clock ticking—now only two hours, 38 minutes, 11 seconds (minus 30) to fireworks....
Concerns proved moot, however; Kazimirov bought Daddy's song-and-dance number hook, line, sinker, replete with optional deeds to Brooklyn Bridge, prime Florida swampland homesite. Never even glanced toward missiles.
Expression now verged upon sneer as responded, “Such a hero ... I knew you would be determined to give your life to save your precious hominems. So predictable—it was unnecessary even to search for you. This was the first place I looked. Lizzy Borden's Roy Rogers would be proud of you.”
Daddy's puzzled expression genuine at that point: During catching-up session on way to missile compound, had failed to get around to passing on that conversation. Somehow.
(Okay, okay; maybe even had been a little reluctant to admit had been playing circumstance-inappropriate games with Kazimirov's head.)
“Take him back to his laboratory and then to his quarters,” rasped Khraniteli leader. “Assist him in collection and copying of the records of his research, and retrieve his personal effects. He is to be on a plane to Meyrin within the hour.”
Breath which gushed suddenly into Apprentice Assassin Girl's lungs following monster's unexpected announcement felt like first had drawn since column rumbled from forest. Blinking back tears, probably came close to fainting as relief coursed through soul—Daddy would be in clear! Now had only kids, Maggie, self to worry about.
Russian turned back to Daddy. “Obviously, Foster, you cannot work in chains. Even more obviously, however, you are much too clever and dangerous; I do not want you loose anywhere near warheads ever again, not even under the closest supervision.
“But"—Kazimirov refocused attention on those holding Daddy, though continued in English, apparently to ensure all working from same page—"watch him. If he tries again to escape, you are authorized to do whatever is required to restrain him—short of killing him. If he dies, your deaths will follow immediately.
“However, if you let him escape, even if he doesn't kill you in the process, which, based on tonight's performance I have no doubt he will, I will harvest your organs for the transplantation bank—as you watch!"
With which tender sentiment, Kazimirov ordered Daddy tossed aboard truck like sack of wheat; then entire parade wheeled about, rumbled back toward Serdtsevina Rasovyi, taking bodies with them, leaving behind replacement security personnel glancing around uncomfortably at blood-soaked turf beneath feet.
Leaving also one-woman (plus BC) infiltration/extraction team, now grinding teeth, savoring near-mortal levels of frustration—never mind rage!—intrinsic to rescueus interruptus....
* * * *
Hung around long enough to ensure Daddy's misdirection had worked; that, in fact, zealots would not think to check warheads for tampering. But presently (two hours, 23 minutes to go), with no one showing slightest interest, concluded, with relief, Kazimirov & Company had swallowed paternal spook's implication: Had been apprehended before gaining entry, never mind committing thermonuclear mischief.
Okay. Barring additional unexpected catastrophes (hey, day still young), about which under circumstances could do nothing, Kazimirov should have Daddy safely on plane to Meyrin (where?) long before deuterium nuclei got too chummy; should be clear by time upcoming fireworks went off.
At this point, then, only parties in whom had interest, whose chestnuts remained within scorching distance, were kids, Maggie, self. And clearly, for those of us lacking sunblock rated in excess of 100 million degrees Kelvin, was time to stay not upon order of our going—time to boogie ... !
* * * *
Volume XII
And Your Little Dog, Too...
Persistent tear leakage, combined with almost continuous sniffling, both stubbornly resistant to best efforts to control them, made it difficult for Eldest Foster sister to concentrate entirely on keeping us invisible—being one with landscape—as made our way back toward base camp through early morning's first golden sunlight.
Was equally difficult to keep from glancing at watch while trying not to dwell upon possibility that, if things went even a little wronger in immediate future, might well become one with 40-60 square miles of fine, glowing-in-the-dark ash,
which was all that was likely to remain of local terrain postdetonation.
Accordingly, must confess, Special-Ops Girl significantly preoccupied as approached camp. Which explains, though certainly doesn't excuse, failure to notice...
One: Maggie's barely audible but steadily mounting grumbles under breath, uneasy glancing around as we approached, entered grove, then trotted past final randomly scattered trees/bushes comprising campsite's boundary.
Two: Escapee kids (despite late return, Tasha's heartfelt promises to contrary, just knew they'd still be there!) all sitting perfectly still on ground, faces frozen; no reaction at all to Plucky Girl Rescuer's reappearance. In fact, no greeting at all until—
"Being run!" screamed Katia abruptly, fetching ground next to her mighty, two-handed whack with heavy Maglite, and—
Ground swore. In Russian. Ground had deep, bass voice.
High points for Katia's good intentions, Posterity; extra credit for effort—no score at all for outcome: Air suddenly full of flying camouflage blankets (each as artfully festooned with weeds, grass, leaves, twigs, etc., as if had done them myself), revealing mob of hard-eyed, armed men rising smoothly from shallow depressions scraped into turf, AKs leveled at Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's center of mass with unwavering steadiness which fairly screamed training.
* * * *
“Are others where?" demanded captain (or, as Tasha told me later, sotnik) eyes blazing. “Rest of strike force—are ... they ... where?"
Encountering full sotnik in charge of escaped human lab rat recovery not good sign. Generally, according to Danni, in regular Russian army captains commanded bodies of troops numbering in excess of 100. Presence here suggested children's disappearance, perhaps in conjunction with Daddy's attempted bailout, being viewed seriously indeed.
Thankfully, took only single head-rattling slap to establish Yours Truly's linguistic skills limited to English, and even had Tasha to thank for that: Hadn't occurred to me, following first impact for failure to respond promptly to Russian-language inquiry, to attempt clarification. (Ooo, pretty stars...) But happily, girl shrilled something at him, from which could discern only po-Angleeeskeee; after which inquisitor switched to thickly accented, almost equally incomprehensible rendition of UncleSamspeak.