Reunion

by J. S. Frankel

  Sharpova, though, seemed unconcerned, so perhaps he’d already taken precautions. Precautions aside, Sharpova’s words sounded good, but all of his promises were contingent on finding Allenby and stopping him.

  The general continued, stabbing his forefinger in Harry’s direction. “So, now you know what we are up against. The question is what shall we do about it?”

  Looking at the map, Harry flashed back to something Sharpova had said a few seconds ago, something about the country being sparsely populated. “General, we both want Allenby. He’s producing clones, and this time they’re good enough to fool anyone.”

  “Fool anyone?”

  “The old ones, they smelled bad. The new batch, they don’t carry the stink.”

  Harry paused to think things through. “They do die fast, though, at least Allenby’s creations do. The others, the ones created by Grushenko and Nurmelev, don’t, but the danger is Allenby’s gang could live long enough to fool someone into pushing a button no one wants pushed.”

  The meaning of his words wasn’t lost on Sharpova, as he paled and immediately picked up the phone. He said something in rapid-fire Russian and hung up. He then dialed a different number and spoke to another person.

  Once he slammed down the receiver, he said, his mood grim, “That was to two of our military advisors who are guarding our cache of missiles as well as our nuclear weapons. I told them to be on the alert for anyone not allowed in, no surprise visits.”

  Getting up and walking over to the map, still thinking about how few people there were in certain areas, Harry put a question on the table. “Can your intelligence guys monitor power spikes?”

  “We have the ability to re-task our satellites. Where are you thinking of?”

  Searching for and then finding the spot on the map, Harry rapped it with his knuckles. “Here, this is the place where the FBI found the biggest power spikes. It can’t be anywhere else, unless you have some hidden place you’re not telling me about.”

  Sharpova leaned over to stare at the spot Harry had indicated. “If you are telling me the truth, then the place you have indicated lies in a truly desolated area. It is one of the coldest and most inhospitable areas in this country. No one goes there—”

  “Unless they don’t want to be seen,” Harry cut in and tapped the map again. “I’d check it out if I were you. I’m betting you’ve activity there.”

  Immediately, Sharpova got on the phone again. Once the connection had been made, he didn’t waste time in pleasantries. He merely bellowed out instructions. The nervous voice of someone on the other end of the line gave the response, and the general hung up, swearing a blue streak. It wasn’t necessary to understand Russian to see he was incensed. “You were right. We must go now. If we leave soon, maybe we can reach there in time.”

  Harry was already at the door. “Well, are you coming or not?”

  The trip, made in a rickety cargo plane that threatened to come apart at the seams, took a little less than three hours. Sitting in the back with fifteen other soldiers, he stared glumly at the floor, assessing his chances. He wondered why only fifteen men had been chosen, but the general had assured him he’d chosen only the best.

  Before leaving, they’d held a meeting in an airplane hangar. The base was large but sparsely staffed. “We do not have enough properly trained individuals to handle the top positions,” Sharpova quietly confided. “We also do not wish to create more problems with your, er, appearance here.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Harry didn’t bother to stem the sarcasm.

  Sharpova got a chastened look on his face, somewhat unusual, considering his normal aura of command. “I apologize, but many of our men have been taught to hate your kind. They do not understand what is at stake here. I do.”

  As they walked to the hangar, he continued to extol the virtues of his team. “These men are Spetznatz and they are the cream that rises to the top in our military,” he observed, not without pride showing in his voice. “They have been trained to take on and defeat any opponent. They have never lost any mission they have been sent on. They also understand English well enough. That is part of their training.”

  When they arrived, the men immediately stood at attention. Looking at them, Harry didn’t think them any more special than any other soldier or policeman he’d seen. “Can they fight?”

  One of the men spoke up. “Can you?”

  Said questioner stepped forward. Tall and powerfully built, he had a head shaped like a block of cement and narrow, close-set eyes, topped off with a short haircut of dark stubble. A smirk accompanied his question. “I think I can hold my own,” Harry replied.

  His answer provoked a round of laughter from the men. Each soldier wore a brown, nondescript uniform and stood at attention. The only one to break formation was this man.

  Sharpova didn’t seem to find his man’s question funny and answered sharply in English. “Marchenko, this man is no weakling. You would be wise to answer his question.”

  Odd that a Russian was taking his side, but Harry kept quiet. The other man, Marchenko, sneered and took another step forward, flexing his muscles. “He is like most Americans, small and weak. He come from weak religion and weak race. I will finish him off in less than a minute.”

  His comrades chuckled, but then wilted under the general’s stare, shuffled their feet, and fell silent. Message delivered, Sharpova turned around. “We have a few minutes before our flight is ready. I will go check on the mechanic’s progress.”

  He walked inside the hangar, tossing a few words at the soldiers as he went. Once he was gone, Marchenko turned around, his smirk transitioning into a sneer. “He say that he will be gone five minutes. That give me enough time to break your back.”

  “That’s four minutes and thirty seconds too many,” replied Harry, anger mounting. He set his stance, getting ready to do what had to be done. He didn’t like to fight unless there was a reason, but this jerk had gone too far. Religion had nothing to do with it. Russians were known to be very xenophobic, and this moron had just proved it.

  Pointing to one soldier, Harry ordered, “Start counting.” To Marchenko, he motioned with his hand. “Come at me.”

  Invitation accepted. Marchenko feinted and then launched a roundhouse kick, aimed squarely at Harry’s head. It was a fast, clean move, one that would have connected with an ordinary opponent.

  However, Harry was anything but ordinary. Ducking under the leg in a lightning fast move, he threw a punch at the man’s groin. Immediately, Marchenko let out a scream and sank to his knees, holding onto his nutsack.

  In a swift move, Harry bared his claws and placed them at the base of the man’s throat, pricking the skin lightly. “Feel like giving up?”

  While a murmur of disbelief ran through the other men, Marchenko gasped, “Yes, yes I give up.”

  “Good answer.” Harry shot a laser-beam glare at the soldier he’d spoken to earlier. “What was the time count?”

  The soldier, a young, blond and baby-faced type, checked his watch and looked up, incredulity written across his face. “It is nine seconds.”

  “Very impressive,” Sharpova said with a tiny smile as he emerged from the hangar. “We are ready.”

  He walked over to where Marchenko was still on his knees, tears of pain in his eyes, his hands still at his semi-ruptured testicles. The smile disappeared and a cold air replaced it. “Get up, you worthless piece of dirt.”

  Harry retracted his claws and stepped aside. Marchenko arose, slowly, still moaning with discomfort. The general nodded at all of them. “Now you have seen how this man,” he indicated Harry with a wave, “can fight. He is on our side. We are on his. Go inside and get onboard. If any of you do not wish to fight with us, defend our country and defeat the invader, then you may leave.”

  No one did, and the flight had taken off as scheduled. Now, they were sitting in the cargo hold. A cold wind blew in and the noise was incredible, but the soldiers took no notice of it or of Harry. They were
too busy checking their weapons, making sure they worked smoothly.

  Sharpova sat with them, holding onto a pistol in one hand. In the other, he tapped buttons on a laptop, muttering to himself, and glancing up at the screen every few seconds. Finally, he straightened up and motioned Harry over. “This is where we are going. This is where Allenby is. This is also where he shall die.”

  He pointed to a map of Siberia. As he tapped a button, a closer view of the area appeared. “Our destination is approximately twenty-five hundred kilometers from Moscow. Do you know about this place?”

  Having visited it once before, Harry knew enough. It was cold, remote, and barren. “Not well, just that it’s in south-western Siberia.”

  Sharpova nodded and proceeded to fill him in on the details. “Our older history is not important, but our recent history is. During the Second World War, many Russian military contractors moved out to various cities, such as Omsk, in order to escape the bombing by the Nazis during the Battle of Stalingrad. Omsk, for example, was quickly built up, and developed a reputation for producing quality machinery and weapons.”

  It had also produced something else—Kulakov. The general seemed to read his mind as he said, “Yes, the transgenics program was founded during that period as well. It is not something we are proud of, believe it or not. However, it is our history, and if I have my way, that portion of our history will be made known to all so that it shall never be repeated.”

  Recalling that the main complex was located in Yakutsk, Harry mentioned it, wondering if the government had gone there. Sharpova said, “We are aware you have been there. We have been there as well. Nothing is left, I assure you.”

  Right now, Harry wasn’t sure of anything, but he had no choice. “So we’re going to Oymyakon, the place I showed you on the map?”

  A nod of approval came from Sharpova. “That is correct. It is a very small town, so small and so cold in the winter that only the hardiest of us can survive. It is on the Indigirka River. The population is around five hundred people. During the winter, it is almost impossible to live there, but now, it is comfortable enough, approximately twenty-two degrees during the day. The nights are still chilly.”

  If this place was as small as he said it was, where would they land? “Is there an airport?”

  “There is. During the Second World War, an airport was built to service the Alaska-Siberian air route. It is still used by private aircraft. We will land in Omsk first, refuel, and then continue to our destination.”

  It seemed like a plan, and he got up to move forward to the cockpit area. Harry settled back, wondering what they’d find. He had a vision of hordes of transgenic mutants waiting for them, jaws dripping with saliva and blood.

  More importantly, he wondered what Allenby would be like. He’d mentioned his physique breaking down... that was why he’d taken Istvan, but either he’d used his blood incorrectly or else...

  “American, you talk to me.”

  The voice came from Marchenko. He stood well out of striking range, his body hunched over, as if still in pain from his beating. Instantly, Harry was on the defensive, but managed to keep his voice level. “How are your orbs?” he asked and didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm. “Is your voice any higher?”

  His comment provoked a round of snickers from the other men. Marchenko didn’t find it amusing in the least. “American, when we get to location, better be careful. We may not help you much. Things like you often get squashed.”

  A not so subtle message had just been delivered. There would be little in the way of backup, if any. It wasn’t anti-Americanism so much. It was simply hatred for that which was different. In that respect, Marchenko wasn’t any different from the mob members back home.

  Sighing, Harry arose, ready to deal out an ass-whipping and more—should the situation call for it. “Okay, let’s make this very simple. We’re here on this plane, going out to fight someone who wants to kill my kind. Guess what? If he manages to do that, guess who he’s coming for next—you and your kind. So if you want, we can settle it now. This time, I’ll rip your throat out. Make your move.”

  Marchenko balled his fists, but stopped when the barrel of a gun went to the back of his head. Sharpova had returned and he wore an immensely displeased expression. Marchenko grew as stiff as a statue, and the other soldiers held their breaths.

  “Understand, Marchenko,” the general said with vehemence coating every word, “if you so much as touch much less threaten this man again, I will kill you myself and save the American invader the trouble.”

  Ultimatum given, he then rammed the butt of the gun behind Marchenko’s ear, which caused him to collapse in a heap. “Now, we will have peace for the rest of the flight.”

  His men went back to cleaning their weapons and did not say a word.

  After a brief stopover in Omsk in order to refuel, they took off again. Two hours later, they arrived in Oymyakon. The landing strip was small, pitted with holes and rubble, but it served well enough. “We are here,” Sharpova announced once they’d taxied to a stop and they disembarked. “Welcome to the one of the coldest places on this planet.”

  It seemed to be the truth. Harry started to shiver. If this was their summer, they could have it. Snow still coated the ground, and the cold penetrated through his fur. His teeth started chattering, and it was only with a massive effort that he stopped from running back inside the airplane.

  In contrast, Sharpova’s men had thought ahead and had donned parkas before leaving the plane. While they stood stiffly at attention, the general walked back and forth, addressing them in his own language. Harry didn’t get a word, but he had the impression the general was telling them of the importance of the mission and not to fail.

  As he spoke, a glance at the area revealed much and very little. They were surrounded by mountains, and a cold wind had started to rise. One of the men took a device from a backpack and switched it on. It started to beep faintly, and as he swung around slowly, the sound increased in intensity. “This is a GPS as well as a tracker,” Sharpova said and pointed due east. “That is where we must go. Our pilot will wait here for us.”

  He called one of his men over. The man hustled up, carrying a bag, which he opened. A number of cylindrical objects sat inside, packed together tightly. Sharpova nodded with satisfaction as he took out what appeared to be a bomb. Roughly the size and shape of a thermos, it had a small keypad on it and one red and one green button.

  “Is this what I think it is?” asked Harry.

  Sharpova nodded. “It is. This is a very powerful explosive. As you can see, it has a timer. If you need to blow up your target, type in the time, and press the red button. The green button is the off-switch. You try.”

  Hesitantly, Harry pressed the buttons with cold-numbed fingers and the screen showed thirty seconds. He pressed the red button, and the bomb began its countdown, ticking softly. He then pressed the green button and it automatically switched off. “Good,” Sharpova proclaimed. “You are now a demolition expert.”

  Misgivings about handling bombs aside, Harry thought it was a most useful tool. He intended to see Allenby off with a bang, and this would provide it. “How many of those bombs do you have?”

  “We have more than enough to do the job.”

  Statement given, they set off with the men flanking out, guns at the ready. Four others went ahead and swiveled their heads left and right, checking everything. It wasn’t easy, the snow being so white, and the cold was getting worse. In addition to the cold, a wind had sprung up, sharp and biting.

  It was at times like these Harry honestly wished he’d have planned ahead and brought along a pair of boots at the very least. While his fur was usually enough to repel most low temperatures, this kind of frigidity seemed to penetrate to his very core. He’d never gotten so much as a case of the sniffles after his transformation, but now, pneumonia seemed a very real threat.

  Twenty-twenty hindsight reared its head. He should have asked for a parka back at the
airplane, but now it was too late. He had no other choice except to man up and take it, so he strode on, willing himself to stay warm. His will, though, was sorely tested by the wind.

  It was also tested by the attitudes of the men. Marchenko looked around at Harry and said something to his comrades. They gave out barking laughs. No translation needed. They had warm coats and boots. As they marched, the offending soldier continued to mutter. Probably epithets, Harry thought, and after listening to the guy for ten minutes and feeling his anger mount, he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake in not ripping out this man’s throat earlier.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  Marchenko stopped and turned around. “What you want?” From the tone in his voice, challenging and mean, it was a given he wasn’t into any sort of mutual understanding.

  “If you have a problem, say it to me in a language I understand.”

  In a swift move, Marchenko brought up his machine gun. A second later, a shot rang out and a hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. Blood ran down the center of his face as he whispered something no one else could hear. A moment later he fell soundlessly to the snow. Blood stained the white covering in a spectacular array.

  The other men stared at him and then at Sharpova, who was in the process of holstering his pistol. Moving over to view the body, he stared at it with distaste. “He was garbage, but now we are one soldier short.” Uttering a curse, he motioned to his men. “Move out.”

  It didn’t have to come to that, thought Harry as they tramped along. Some things, though, could never be worked out. And really, he’d already been through a lot of it back in the USA. First came the indifference and then came disgust. After that came the mobs, the concept of us versus them, and then there was the hatred.

  Along with hatred came attacks and sometimes death. Harry regretted Pavel’s death, as he regretted the death of his friends, but there was nothing he could do about it. If there was only a way for him and his family to start over, he’d do it, but right now reality intruded. It said there was no room for those who were different, no room at the inn...