Cyborg Strike

by David VanDyke

  Tyler stood as well. “Colonel…covert ops is often a dirty business. We’ll try not to cross any hard lines here, but if a bit of lying is all we have to do to keep Earth safe, I’d say, be thankful.”

  Muzik turned back as the Secret Service agent opened the door for him. “I’ll bet it won’t stay secret anyway, which will make all this an exercise in futility. You’d both have done better to just talk to…to the key personnel. Green Door Syndrome has often done more damage than a potential leak.”

  The three men stared at each other for a moment in strained silence before Muzik made his exit.

  -11-

  When the Select Central Cabinet of Russia met in secret for the first time under its new masters, it was a quiet affair. Seated around a table in the antechamber to the main meeting room were the ministers of the various governmental departments – Finance, Internal Affairs, Foreign Affairs, Defense, Justice, and so on. Behind each man or woman stood a hulking figure matching the gender of each principal.

  These were the sticks.

  The carrots rested in a glass bowl on the table, and many of the body could not take their eyes off the things: auto-injectors. One dose per canister, each would yield an hour of pure ecstasy and a day of relief and complaisance. Without another dose, after that came horrors of body and mind that would drive anyone thinking of rebellion back into Winthrop Jenkins’ loving arms.

  Jenkins sat at the head of the table, Prime Minister Yermenov on his right. Behind him also stood a creature, manlike but no longer human. His smooth and metallic skull matched his teeth, and his face was set in a rigor of implacability, with bright red glowing eyes. He was even bigger than the Professor, who stood behind the Russian Prime Minister.

  “Professor, translate for me please.”

  The man stepped forward next to Jenkins, and interpreted the English for the Russians who did not speak it well.

  “I hope my people have answered all your pertinent questions about the new arrangement of this nation, but let me sum up: you all now work for me. I will supply you what you need and you will maintain your privileges and lifestyles for you and your families, but I will make all decisions. All of you now have various…devices implanted in your bodies. Some will monitor your location and activities, some will listen and watch what you say and do. Some will give you pain, or even kill you, if you step out of line. And with you at all times will be one of my Shadows.” He nodded at the guardians behind them. “Just in case you think to seek outside intervention.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you do in your off time, as long is it does not interfere with running this country. Sleep with your husbands or wives, boyfriends or girlfriends or whores, play with your children, prune your roses, gamble; I do not care about your personal lives. But when it comes to governmental affairs, I or my associates will feed you your lines, make your decisions, and ensure your cooperation.” Jenkins folded his hands across his ample stomach. “Your only alternative, ladies and gentlemen, is death. Not only for you, but your families, anyone you hold dear.”

  As if on cue – there’s always one, Jenkins thought – the Minister of Health, a distinguished-looking doctor with a Lenin beard, stood up. “I cannot agree to this. I have no idea what you have done, but any addiction can be beaten, and I am not afraid to die, but I will not be controlled.” He then sat down, staring straight ahead as if expecting to be hauled to a prison cell, as dissenters were dealt with in the past.

  “Very well,” replied Jenkins reasonably. Taking out his phone, he pressed a sequence on the touch screen as they all watched. A moment later a wet pop issued from the Minister of Health, and he fell forward, face down on the table. Blood pooled under his head and ran down between his knees.

  The ministers gasped, some touching their faces or chests as if to find out where their own implants might be.

  “You see, ladies and gentlemen, I do not make idle threats. Nor is any of you truly necessary. Your deputies have already been processed, and will view a recording of this meeting…some selected scenes, anyway. So. Would anyone else like to make a pointless protest?”

  No one did.

  -12-

  Once more Jill found herself in the President’s presence, this time accompanied by Roger Muzik. Besides the two ubiquitous Secret Service agents, there was one more person in attendance in the Oval Office.

  “No plausible deniability this time, sir?” Jill asked as she shook McKenna’s hand.

  He replied, “This isn’t the cold war, Jill. Neither the first nor second. As soon as the op is finished, we will be announcing it to the world.” McKenna turned to clasp hands with Muzik, then waved them to seats.

  “Announcing success, I hope,” Muzik remarked.

  “Yes,” McKenna agreed. “But if you fail, we have backup plans. Messy ones, involving direct military action, but it can’t be helped. No matter what the news says, Russia has been taken in a coup by inimical outside forces. It has to be restored to some semblance of a nation of laws. The entire world must be united against the Meme. There is just no room for separate agendas.”

  “Sounds a bit like authoritarianism, sir,” Jill said sourly. “I had about enough of that in Camp 240, thank you very much.”

  “Water under the bridge,” McKenna snapped. “We are back in a World War Two situation, fighting for survival. We will have to compromise some principles to get the job done. If you can’t do that, let me know right now.”

  Jill kept her teeth shut and looked away rather than challenge him any further. She had to admit to herself that he was probably right, and she was glad she did not have to make those hard decisions. It’s always easier to gripe and sharpshoot, she thought, and pushed her feelings aside. “Sorry, sir. I understand. I’m in.”

  “Good, good.” He slapped his knee, then gestured at the frozen-faced woman in the stylish pantsuit sitting in the fourth chair. “This is Director Caffey out of Langley. You’ll be working for her until you return for your debriefing.”

  Muzik moved first, standing to shake hands with the head of the CIA. Her visage might have thawed just a trifle as he gave her his most heart-melting smile. Jill had never seen him fail at that. His face seemed to have the same effect on straight women that a double handful of cleavage had on equivalent men. Still, she was impressed at the director’s evident self-control.

  “Mister Muzik.” She reached over to Jill. “Miz Repeth.”

  “Misses,” Jill corrected her, holding up the ring on her left hand.

  Muzik subtly rubbed his empty ring finger, flicking a glance at Caffey, who suddenly seemed distracted, blushing faintly.

  Well done, Roger.

  “Ahem, yes.” The woman opened a case file and began to spread it on the table. “You may consider this your initial mission overview. You job will be to go in and retrieve or destroy the main database for the Shadow program. This will set them back several years, we hope, and buy the president time to work on a political solution.”

  “Just buy time?” Jill sat back in her chair, crossing her arms uneasily. “We’re risking our lives for a temporary solution?”

  “Sometimes that’s all we can hope for,” McKenna intervened. “This is a multifaceted problem. Shadow cyborgs are in direct physical control of all the key ministers, and Winthrop controls them. More importantly, all the officials have all been addicted to nanocrack.”

  “How do we deal with that?” Repeth asked.

  “We’ll be releasing a complete package on how to cure the addiction using drugs and dialysis machines most hospitals will have available.”

  “That sounds promising…”

  Caffey held up a hand. “Even if the could overcome those problems, the families are at risk. Short of a full-scale invasion, which is not an option because of the Russian nuclear arsenal, we are not going to reverse this coup.”

  “Does that mean someone else is?” Repeth asked sharply.

  “That’s not a question I can answer,” the director replied, glancing a
t the President.

  “Uh-huh,” Repeth said archly, drumming her fingers on the arm of her seat. That’s a yes if I ever heard one…unless that’s merely what they want us to think.

  “But then, what good is destroying the data?” Muzik asked, either not noticing the byplay or choosing to move past it.

  Caffey replied, “It will freeze the program’s development. If we are lucky, it will also prevent the manufacture of more cyborgs. Without the detailed 3D-printer files, for example, they will be unable to manufacture the parts. In today’s lab, the data is the key.”

  Jill drummed her fingers on the armrest some more, the forced herself to stop be fore she poked holes in the leather. “No silver bullets.”

  “Not this time.” McKenna covered her restless hand in his. “I know this is a shitty assignment, but we’re in a box here. We can’t just let them turn a great power nation into their own private preserve, but we can’t go in heavy either. Not as we’re Russia’s longtime opponent through two Cold Wars. The people won’t accept us.”

  Caffey continued, glancing at Muzik, “Your op will not be the only one. Others will hit certain specified targets, all with an air toward plausible deniability – ours and theirs.”

  “Theirs?” Muzik put on his best movie-star smile.

  “Yes,” she went on as if mesmerized. “The Russians can’t publically admit to being attacked. It will cause unrest and more scrutiny, as well as making them look weak. They also can’t afford to accuse anyone, for fear of bringing the conflict into the open. At some level even they understand that they can’t rock the boat too hard, not with that damned alien ship on its way.”

  “All right,” Jill sighed. “Let’s see the details.”

  -13-

  “So this is Finland.” Jill Repeth stepped off the commercial flight to Helsinki with just a carry-on bag. Dressed in jeans and a warm jacket, hair peroxided and bobbed, she looked very much like one of the blonde-and-bronzed Laplanders of the Saami people, common stock in this Scandinavian country.

  Beside her, Roger Muzik grunted. Wearing his hair long to try to look less military, he slouched to reduce the impression his six-four frame made. “No, this is an airport. Finland is out there.” He waved at the expanse of mountains visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  After passing though customs without a hitch – no metal detectors departing security, after all – they spotted a man holding a sign that said “Rockerfeller,” the recognition code. Without speaking they nodded and followed him to a Japanese-built SUV parked in the lot. Only when they were on the road did anyone say anything.

  “Good trip?” asked the contact.

  “My mother got sick,” Repeth replied.

  “She should take a hot bath and eat some fish,” the driver said.

  “Only if she likes lentils,” Jill completed the quatrain.

  “Is that what they call tradecraft?” Muzik asked.

  “Sorry,” the driver replied sheepishly. “Cheesy, but effective. Call me Olsen.”

  “She’s Johnston. I’m Stein,” Muzik said. “Our gear?”

  “Shipped in by bonded container, and already waiting for you at the safe house.”

  Muzik glanced sharply at the other man. “Still sealed?”

  The man looked slightly insulted. “Of course. We’re not amateurs.”

  “Sorry. We’re not field agents –”

  “Obviously,” the man said drily.

  “– but we’re the best at our own jobs, so how about we lose the attitude?” Muzik stared at the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror until he looked away.

  “Right. Well, we have a couple of hours to drive. Everybody like Abba?” Olsen reached for the music player.

  Two hours and a couple dozen oldies later, after a lovely drive through pastureland and evergreen-covered hills, they arrived at a nondescript farmhouse on the outskirts of Kouvola. Inside its barn a standard intermodal shipping container stood. Repeth and Muzik exchanged glances, remembering the last time they had seen one up close – from the inside, when it had contained the mini-sub with which they had hijacked the USS Nebraska.

  “Funny lock,” Olsen remarked, and he examined it closely. What held the door closed looked different from the usual: two keyholes and a number pad, and it was no padlock. Rather, it was installed within the door.

  “Yes…” Muzik pulled a key out on a chain around his neck, while Repeth did the same.

  “At least we’re not…” She almost continued, “launching nuclear missiles again,” when she realized that those words were not something she wanted to bandy in front of a stranger.

  Muzik nodded to show that he understood, then stepped forward with his key. Together they inserted them and then punched in half of the number sequence. The door opened. He looked inside for along moment with a pocket flashlight, then shut and locked it again. “We’ll get some sleep, and then we’ll gear up at,” he checked his watch, “2000 hours. At that time, sir, you need to have that boat trailer in this barn.”

  Olsen nodded, questioning no further, and left.

  Repeth looked around the inside of the structure. Two draft horses moved restlessly in stalls, and a dozen bales of hay were stacked against the wall, with more in the loft four meters above. She took a deep breath of farm smell, and then went over to make friends with the equines. A measure of oats each from a nearby bin was all it took.

  That task done and the horses settled, she flicked her eyes upward, then jumped to the top of the ladder leading to the loft above.

  Landing crouched in the attic-like space, she examined every bit of it. “Look for a root cellar or anything on the ground, will you, Mister Stein?” I may not be a CIA field agent, but I know how to check security.

  Pressing a spot on her inner wrist, she ran her hand along the floor, walls and ceiling, checking for bugs or other electronics. All she found was one electrical wire that fed the bare bulb above, and a lot more hay. She looked out of the upper window, seeing little but farms for miles. All seemed quiet. Murphy is nowhere in sight...for now.

  “Nothing down here,” Muzik called.

  “Good. Let’s rest up for a bit.”

  “You don’t want to check out the vehicle?”

  “No,” said Repeth. “I’m sure it’s exactly how we packed it, and I’d rather sleep first and then kit up than the reverse. If by some bizarre chance something happens, I’d rather not have a few million bucks worth of illegal stuff scattered around for some Finnish sheriff to stumble over on a random visit.”

  “I don’t think Finland has sheriffs.”

  “Constables, then. Whatever. Besides, I think Olsen’s just a little too curious. I bet the quality of spook in the Agency has fallen off somewhat in the last few years…or something’s amiss.”

  Muzik looked thoughtful. “You think there is something wrong?”

  “No. If I did, I’d have everything broken out and we’d push up the timetable to throw any opponents off. I just get a funny vibe off the man.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” He jumped up into the loft with her holding a couple of horse blankets. “Might as well start our snooze. You first?”

  “Fine.” She grabbed the coverings and lay down in the hay while Muzik took first watch. She slept immediately.

  Three hours later they switched, and three hours after that Repeth found her vague fears unjustified. Precisely on time, Olsen backed the SUV with a heavy marine trailer into the barn and up to the container. Hopping out, he asked, “Okay, what now? You got a boat in there I presume?’

  Muzik just grunted, and waved Repeth over. They opened the container and then folded the hinged sides down, pulling large pieces of packing foam away.

  “Damn,” Olsen breathed.

  Within stood a submersible. Smaller than the one with which they had boarded the nuclear submarine so long ago, it was made of carbon fiber and was large enough to fit two uncomfortably. Everything they needed nested within, out of sight.

  “
Let’s get it loaded,” Repeth said, and Olsen reeled off the hook and cable from the trailer’s winch. Soon it inched slowly up onto the padded rails.

  “That’s going to be a bit conspicuous,” Olsen remarked.

  “Not when we get through with it.” Repeth climbed onto the craft and opened the hatch, pulling out a flexible frame. A gas cylinder inflated it and soon the skeleton of what looked like a boat surrounded the submersible. The next thing to come out of the hatch was a series of snap-on custom tarps. In ten minutes, what sat on the trailer resembled a large fishing boat covered up for the weather. It wouldn’t stand a close inspection, but they did not expect to be subject to one.

  “Let’s go,” Repeth said, swinging into the truck’s passenger seat. She took one last deep breath of hay and horse before shutting the door. “Nice country, this.”

  “Yes it is. Thinking of retiring here,” Olsen responded.

  So…that’s all I’m sensing. Olsen’s gone a bit native. Probably has a local girl tucked away somewhere, and is having second thoughts about his work. “Olsen,” she spoke up, “We’re not supposed to tell you anything about this op, but if it will help you sleep at night, it’s nothing to do with Finland, and shouldn’t backfire into here.”

  Olsen licked his lips, then nodded, relaxing slightly. They drove in silence from then on, except for the radio.

  Three hours later they approached the Russian border near Simpele. Soon they turned off onto a rutted track heading southeast, and slowed down. Olsen engaged the four-wheel drive. “Poacher’s road,” he remarked. “Hunting is strictly controlled in Finland, so a lot of them sneak into Russia for good unregistered game. If they get caught on that side, they just pay off the officials.”

  The sun was just going down in this far northern latitude, a half hour until midnight. Ten minutes later they turned onto an even tinier track that led to a cabin two hundred meters back. “All right, then this is as far as I go.” Olsen retrieved a stout walking stick, a backpack and a flashlight from the back of the SUV. “I’ll be staying here until you get back, up to a week. Just rejoin the main track and keep heading southeast.”