Night Strike

by Michael W. Sherer

  “Nyesostoyavshiysya?” Macready said. “You don’t look like a happy man.”

  Pasha looked up sharply then reddened. “Da. How did you know?” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I shouldn’t let it show.”

  Afraid he’d lose his chance, Macready tried again. “Maybe I can help.”

  Pasha faced him, his eyes filling with contempt. Macready knew how little love was lost between crew and scientists on any research vessel, and figured he’d made a big mistake.

  But Pasha’s inner gaze was directed elsewhere. “He treats me like a child! What does he know? All his knowledge comes from books, research.”

  “You are more practical,” Macready encouraged him.

  He drew himself up. “I have more real-world experience than all of them put together.”

  Macready raised an eyebrow. “You worked in the field?”

  Pasha focused on him as if seeing him for the first time. “I studied in America, got a work visa. A big company making optical fiber hired me. I learned everything they could teach me and went home to get my doctorate. I know how to make what they want. But they won’t listen.”

  “Swallow your pride,” Macready said, “and kill him with kindness.”

  Pasha’s surprise turned to anger.

  Macready raised a hand and forged ahead. “Hear me out. I found a samovar in the galley. Plushenko likes black tea, yes?”

  Thoughts racing, Macready glanced around the mess to make sure no one overheard. Ilya had boastfully shown him where he kept the captain’s private stash of favorite foods, and Macready had noted canisters of Keemun Mao Feng, a favorite among tea connoisseurs. “Borrowing” some of the exclusive tea posed a risk, but Macready figured the opportunity might be worth it.

  “And the others?” Macready said. “Maybe a little something special to eat?”

  Pasha’s frown slowly faded. “Yes, I see. Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Be patient. Soften them up. Pick your moment.”

  Pasha made up his mind with a single shake of his head.

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” Macready said. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  Pasha squared his shoulders and walked out. Macready went to work, pulling the old samovar out of storage, heating water, quickly cutting up some apples and finally preparing some sandwiches. He loaded a tray with the food, plates and cups and the samovar, now steeping with the captain’s tea, and carried the lot down the passageway to the lab amidships. The larger lab where the others worked was down a deck and in the stern.

  Six men arrayed themselves in positions around the large, rectangular room. Tanks of compressed gases, equipment, work benches, computers and measuring devices lay strewn like the highway wreckage of a jack-knifed, overturned scientific supply truck. One man fed a slender glass rod into a machine that propelled it into a small, roaring furnace. Another alternately watched a thin strand of glass emerging from the other end and monitoring equipment at his station. The strand of glass disappeared into another sequence of machinery set end to end, where a third scientist monitored its progress. Pasha stood at the end of the array as the strand emerged and with cotton-gloved hands carefully guided the optical fiber to another sequencing station.

  When he saw Macready enter with the tray, Pasha jerked his head toward a nearby worktable where Plushenko and the last member of the team huddled in conference around a computer screen. As Macready crossed the room, he noticed one of the large steel drums from the mining camp nearly hidden in the clutter. He quashed his excitement and carried the tea and food to the table, placing the tray in a clear space.

  “Chto ėto?” Plushenko said, eyes narrowing.

  “This,” Pasha called over the clamor of the furnace, “is sustenance to keep you going, Doctor. You hardly touched lunch.”

  Plushenko waved a hand then stopped and sniffed the air. He waved again, this time pulling air toward his face as he sniffed.

  “Where did you get that tea?” he asked Macready, his face pinched with suspicion.

  “It’s the captain’s,” Macready said easily. “With his compliments.”

  Plushenko couldn’t hide his surprise, but said nothing. Macready handed him a cup of the strong tea. The scientist drew the cup to his lips, the faintest of smiles visible above the rim. First inhaling the aroma, Plushenko sipped the hot liquid. His eyes closed and his smile broadened. When his eyes snapped open, the smile vanished.

  “You will bring tea daily at this time,” he told Macready. It was a command, not a question. Before Macready could respond, Plushenko turned his stare to Pasha. “You arranged this?”

  Pasha nodded. “Da.”

  Plushenko grunted and faced the computer screen, focused once more on the task at hand. Obviously dismissed, Macready bowed slightly and left, eyes missing nothing as he walked back the way he came.

  * * * * *

  Macready delivered as promised, taking snacks and tea to Plushenko’s lab every day at about the same time, waiting until Ilya took his break. Each time his keen eyes took in as much detail as possible without him appearing too interested. But the details were relatively meaningless without context. Macready knew they were drawing optical fibers from the glass rods, but to what purpose? And he still didn’t know what the steel drums contained. He did note after a couple of days that they’d switched out drums. A label on the first drum he’d seen sported a “Tm,” the Cyrillic equivalent of “Tm.” A day later, the label said “Tm2O3.” A few days after that, the label on the drum had a “И,” the Russian letter for “I” or “Y.”

  Each day, the white board on the wall would be covered with new mathematical and chemical equations, their meaning a mystery to him. And often, several of the scientists would be in a heated discussion in front of the board, wildly gesticulating from the gibberish there to the line of machinery on the floor. All Macready could do was try to remember what he’d seen and make notes to himself later, disguising them as recipe notes in case someone discovered them.

  Another six days passed before Macready had a chance to corner Pasha again, this time after breakfast. The young scientist had lingered over a thick book at the table after his colleagues had gone to work. Macready made his way over, wiping down tables as he went. Pasha looked up as Macready’s wet rag swept cross the surface of his table.

  “Dobraye ootro,” Macready said.

  “Da,” Pasha replied, “it is a good morning.”

  “So, they’re taking your advice now?”

  “Finally. Thanks to you.”

  Macready smiled and cupped a hand to his mouth. “No, thanks to the captain’s tea.”

  “That, too,” Pasha grinned. He rose and shut the book. “Anyway, we are making progress. I appreciate your help.”

  Macready shrugged. “It’s nothing. So, you’re making a faster Internet cable?”

  “They won’t say.” Pasha’s smile turned to a look of annoyance. “There they still consider me a child. But, no, I think the optical fiber we’re making has another purpose. We are doping the fibers in such a way as to optimally carry certain wavelengths of light.”

  Macready feigned confusion. “Ya nee paneemayoo.”

  “The wavelength of light determines its color, if it’s visible, or whether it’s lower—like infrared light or microwaves—or higher, like ultraviolet light or X-rays. You understand now?”

  “I think I’m beginning to,” Macready said truthfully.

  Pasha flicked the air in front of his face. “Neechevo srashnava. No worries. It’s all very technical, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Spasiba, I won’t.”

  “Good.” He nodded and turned for the door. “Ooveedeemsya.”

  “Yeah, see you.”

  Macready finished cleaning the tables lost in thought. This whole mission had been too easy. The mining camp showed virtually no sign of military presence or security, nor did the research vessel. Whatever they were mining didn’t seem to have value beyond what they were using it for in the lab
, which was optical fiber. But they didn’t intend to use the fiber for broadband communication. Perhaps their experiments had no military application. After all, the ship’s primary purpose was oceanographic and related research. He’d heard the other group of researchers talk about looking at weather patterns based on ice cores they’d drilled in various locations on their way to the mining camp. Biologists on the team were looking into growth of microorganisms in arctic climates as a possible energy source.

  The six that Macready visited daily had a more singular purpose. And it seemed to be less about research than refining a manufacturing process. Macready wished he’d paid more attention to chemistry classes in school. The barrels were marked with the chemical or elemental abbreviations of the substances inside. That might give him a better indication of the characteristics they wanted to impart to the optical fiber. He needed to report back. “Pete” and those he worked for would know what to do. They probably thought he was dead by now.

  He bided his time until lunch had ended. After he and Ilya cleaned up and got started on dinner, Ilya took his usual break. Macready finished prepping a side dish to go with dinner, and turned to the tea and snacks he prepared for the lab team. He put out some dried fruit while the water heated for the tea. Once the tea began steeping in the samovar, he stepped out and took the ship’s elevator down to a lower deck where the walk-in refrigerator and freezer were located.

  Macready entered the walk-in and closed the door behind him. At the other end of the refrigerated room another insulated door led to the freezer. In the back of the freezer, Macready stooped and thrust his hand behind the boxes of frozen food, fingers feeling for the satellite phone he’d taped on the wall behind a metal shelf post. When they got a purchase, he pried the phone loose. He took the battery from his pocket, installed it and powered up the phone. Not surprisingly in a metal box in the bowels of the ship, the phone received no signal. Resigned, he slipped the phone into his pocket and headed back the way he came. On an impulse, he grabbed some butter and heavy cream on his way out and closed the walk-in door.

  The galley was quiet when he returned. He glanced out the windows in the mess at the undulating slate sea under a heavy sky. For more than a week, the ship had plied relatively calm waters, making Macready’s adjustment to sea legs easy. But the low clouds threatened rain—or snow—and the rising wind now beat the waves into frothy peaks, and then sprayed the froth in a fine mist over the next wave.

  Macready took his supplies into the galley and set them on a counter. Some Russian teacakes would go well with the dried fruit. But the other ingredients could wait a minute or two. He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the signal again. Strong enough. Stabbing at the tiny keys with a finger, he punched in the memorized number. Before the call even had a chance to connect, the soft tread of rubber-soled shoes on polymer flooring made Macready glance over his shoulder.

  “Gryebaniy vor!” Ilya growled. His hands closed into fists the size of hams as he advanced. “You’re a fucking thief!”

  Macready shoved the phone back in his pocket, leaving his hands free. He slowly turned to face the cook and showed Ilya his empty palms.

  “I have taken nothing for myself,” he said calmly.

  “What’s this then?” Ilya gestured broadly at the food and the samovar on the counter. “I knew someone was dipping into the captain’s private supplies. You think I can’t smell? You think I’m a balvan, an idiot? Ty troop! You’re a dead man!”

  Chapter 5

  July 25—Seattle

  Fear leaked into his consciousness, threatening to flood his system with panic. He thrust a mental finger into the dike and shifted his focus, analyzing the cause of the fear. The amygdalae, two small nodes deep within his primal brain, received sensory input—sights, sounds, smells, touch. They sent electrical impulses to the hypothalamus, triggering heightened awareness and reflex, and to other areas of the brain, stimulating increases in blood flow, heart rate, and body temperature, while dulling pain sensation. All very logical. He could even use logic to explain how he’d ended up here, but he didn’t have time to dwell on old memories and past mistakes.

  He glanced down at the gun in his hand, barrel glinting dully in the dim light. Useless. Not because he didn’t know how to use it. A child could do it. Too many children had, in fact, harmed themselves or others because handguns were so ridiculously easy to fire. The papers were full of such stories. No, his weapons training had been more than adequate. The gun wasn’t even his and he knew he could strip it and reassemble it in seconds. But he hadn’t held a gun in nearly forty years. And if he used it now, if he killed the men who hunted him, their masters would simply send more to finish the job. He shoved the pistol into his waistband and kept moving.

  His chest heaved from the climb up the hill through the neighborhood, and his heart pounded from both the exertion and the epinephrine and adrenaline his limbic system had released into his bloodstream. Yes, all very logical. He pressed the small electronic bud tighter into his left ear canal and listened to a tense exchange between the two men seeking him. He struggled to keep up, the guttural sounds of the language they spoke almost unfamiliar now after all these years. They had split up, one man following him on foot up through the greenbelt, the other remaining in the vehicle that had cut off his route back to his own car.

  He knew every path, every shortcut through this hillside forest. He’d walked it hundreds of times over the years, its terrain and vegetation second nature to him. He redoubled his efforts, breaking off the paved walkway onto a dirt footpath. They’d forced him in the opposite direction of his car, but his apartment was close. He kept a scooter there that he used for commuting in nicer weather. If the hunter in the car followed the serpentine road and drove slowly enough to watch for him, he could easily slip past on a more direct route and beat him to the top.

  The climb took its toll. No longer young, he struggled now, legs aching and lungs burning. He pressed on, deeply sucking air in as quietly as he could, ignoring the pain, especially the sharp one between his shoulder blades. “Desperate affairs require desperate measures,” he muttered, recalling Nelson’s famous quote. He was nothing if not desperate. Not for himself. He didn’t fear death. It was inevitable. The choice he’d made long ago practically assured him a shorter lifespan than average. He’d resigned himself to the fact, expected it, embraced it, even, because of what he’d believed in so long ago.

  As hard as he tried to keep them at bay, the memories came unbidden. The fear that he suppressed was because he’d made the ultimate mistake. He, Tony D’Amato, had fallen in love. Late in life, and despite all the precautions he’d taken to gird his heart against such possibilities, he had met a woman unlike any other. Someone with whom he’d felt at ease, someone with whom he could share all that he was, all his hopes and fears. Someone he could love, finally. Anya. The thought of her, the mental picture of her face, brought tears to his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand and pressed on, quickening his steps.

  It had all been a lie, of course. Oh, he’d shared who he was—Tony D’Amato—but not who he’d been. He’d kept all that buried, hoping against hope that other younger man had been forgotten. But those who’d trained him, educated him and set him on his path had long memories. Why wouldn’t they? He’d done everything they expected, become everything they’d hoped. He’d worked his way up through a variety of academic and corporate posts until he not only had access to secrets, he helped create them. When they’d called a few years earlier to tell him it was time to begin repaying his debt, to embark on the mission he’d trained for, he’d had no choice but to break it off with Anya. It was one thing to accept his shortened life expectancy. Any choice that would have threatened Anya’s was unacceptable.

  The steady huff-puff of his breathing was interrupted by a voice in his ear.

  “Have you found him yet?” it demanded. After a moment of silence, the voice said, “Speak English. How many times I have to tell you
?”

  D’Amato pulled up short and listened, heart hammering in his chest, eyes searching the darkness behind him. He’d placed the bug in their car the first time these two had made contact with him months before. Of course he hadn’t heard a reply from the man on foot. Now he strained to hear, trying to determine how close the man was. All he heard was the sound of his own wheezing. For the first time that night he felt a glimmer of hope. He turned and started up the narrow path once more. Fatigue washed over him, threatening to pull him down to his knees, suck him under and drown him. He focused on the path, the break in the trees ahead and clear spot beyond, forcing himself on.

  The path flattened out and ended at the edge of the twisty road. On the other side, it continued up the slope on a diagonal until it reached a set of stairs that led to the neighborhood above. D’Amato looked both ways and hurried across the street. A glow to his right brightened, and the sound of an engine grew louder. He broke into a run, following the shoulder for several paces, then cut onto the path that angled upward. Too late. Headlight beams swept around the curve and brushed him with a swath of yellow before leaving him in darkness once more, the orange cones from the streetlights to far apart to illuminate the hillside where he climbed. The earbud crackled to life as he raced upwards, legs straining.

  “It’s him, it’s him!” the driver on the street below shouted. “Get your skinny ass up here and catch him!”

  D’Amato heard the other hunter’s shouts from somewhere in the greenbelt below. He could make it now. He knew he could. He risked a quick glance at the street below. The driver stood half out of the car, peering up into the darkness toward him. D’Amato knew he wouldn’t shoot. Too noisy, and not likely to be effective at this range. They wanted him alive, but then he hadn’t thought they’d shoot earlier, either. It would take several moments for the man on foot to find his way up to the street, and the driver would have to take the car the long way around to get into the neighborhood at the top of the bluff D’Amato climbed now. He was going to make it.