Fear the Survivors

by Stephen Moss

  Ayala knew it, and Neal knew it.

  Neal: ‘you are both right. we will, no doubt, be forced to share this information at some point in the future, but for now we will keep it to ourselves. that said, we will also prepare for worst case scenario here, and make sure we get more informed in the meantime.’

  They all agreed, and the conversation turned strategic, Barrett starting to share his thoughts on the topic as imagery and analyses reeled across his memory. Ayala was also busy, communing with Minnie on centers of population and ground topography to update the recon teams’ search patterns.

  As they all set to getting their limited but capable force into place for whatever was coming next, the three Recon Teams were setting off once more, beginning the night’s sortie after a day of stationary signal hacking, observation, and rest.

  Ten miles ahead of Recon Team One, Captain Miller was unaware of another three-person team, split up and moving quietly, clad in the same night-black, power augmented armor as the Spezialists. They carried with them small subspace tweeters, capable of very limited transmission range. But these tweeters were not speaking, they were listening. Listening for the encrypted pulse of the Recon Teams more powerful subspace signal. Listening, even though they could not understand the hyper-encrypted signal. They were moving in, triangulating the source of the Recon Team’s subspace transmission.

  They were watching Ayala’s small team. They were one of many teams looking for any possible incursion. Via innocuous-seeming radio, the Russians sent a message back to Moscow.

  Ben’s team had been discovered.

  Chapter 34: Axis Two

  Premier Svidrigaïlov would not have appeared ambitious to most. A middling sized man, he was mildly overweight, slightly balding, mostly grey, and a host of other qualified adjectives. He seemed average almost by design, and he had had survived by this apparent mediocrity, and suffered under it, for most of his adult life.

  For even as he appeared so very middle of the road, he had a fearsome loathing for the average. He used the bylines of the communist manifesto as the source of his public demagoguery, but in fact, he sought nothing so innocuous. He sought dominion, his dominion over his country, and then his country’s dominion over the world. The proletariat were the foundation of his empire, and he needed them strong like any good communist, but more importantly, he needed them well underfoot.

  His office was munificent and ancient, an irony of the ever-changing power dynamic of Russia; from kingdom, to republic, to union, back to country, and now to empire, in little over a century. Moscow’s reach had ebbed and flowed like a tide, rushing between the shores of the Baltic, Arctic, Black, and Caspian Seas with more violence and variance than any other nation in recent history. But through all that, Red Square had remained at its center, unchanging, inviolate. It was a waterfall of influence, whose source, power, and size shifted constantly, but whose singular scale and majesty remained, a thundering tribute to the farthest-reaching capitol on earth.

  Seated behind a vast, dark mahogany desk, topped with thick, burnished green leather carefully spread and hammered across its antique surface, the premier reclined, reading a briefing prepared by his deputy. Into his solitude the man in question entered, a brief knock heralding him.

  The deputy waited quietly just inside the door while the premier finished reading whatever paragraph had interested him. When the leader glanced up, he saw the deputy’s expectant expression, telling him that the man had something pressing to report, and gave a curt nod.

  “Premier Svidrigaïlov,” said Peter Uncovsky, deferentially, “if I may, I have an issue that may require your attention.”

  The premier frowned inquisitively, but without anger, taking his cue from his assistant’s tone that this was not something that threatened the security of the federation, though it did merit some concern. A wave of the premier’s hand brought the diminutive Mr. Uncovsky to stand in front of the expansive desk. Though Peter usually carried himself tall and straight, he tended to stoop unconsciously in the premier’s presence. And so he stood now, his head suspended in front of his shoulders, and delivered his message in the quick and efficient manner that the premier preferred.

  “I have received word from Field Commandant Beria, Premier. He wishes to share that he has intelligence to suggest the allied force known as TASC has sent operatives into Russia to supervise our movements at Rostov, and potentially Bryansk and Belgorod as well.”

  “Uhh!” exclaimed the office’s surly resident, leaning forward to face his most senior advisor. “Again with this news of these ‘allied forces.’ Why is he obsessed with this piss-ant group of scientists and their petty, hodge-podge force?”

  The deputy waited while Yuri exhausted his brief rant.

  “I do not know, Premier. But he remains insistent that they are a threat.”

  “A threat!” said Yuri Svidrigaïlov, his assistant’s comment only refueling his indignation. “What could possibly be a threat at this stage? He counsels action, he counsels dominion, and then, as soon as we have momentum with us, he calls for caution.”

  Peter nodded appreciatively, as though listening to the wisdom of the ancients, then responded, “He sends notice of this potential incursion, and asks permission to review our invasion plans for Ukraine and Belarus with you. What message would you like me to send to him, Premier?”

  “Of course he asks to review our plans once more,” said the premier, in a tone laden with thick, sarcastic obsequiousness. “Let us see if we can be of assistance to him, shall we? Get Commander Beria on the line.”

  Peter hesitated just a moment, then nodded and turned. Stepping out of the large room, he barked some quick orders at the dedicated bank of secretaries filling an office across the hall from the premier’s, and then waited. He did not like it when the premier was in this mood, and he liked it even less when the man spoke to his protégé Beria this way. Premier Svidrigaïlov had seen a hairpin turn in his fortunes since one Nikolai Beria had joined his cadre of confidants some four months ago, and those close to the premier were under no illusions as to just how instrumental the mysterious Commandant Beria had been to the ongoing rise of a certain Premier Svidrigaïlov.

  Not that Peter would dare say such things to anyone else. This may not be the days of the Great Purges of Stalin, but no one who knew Premier Svidrigaïlov’s leadership style doubted his thirst for power, or his capacity for ruthlessness should someone stand in his way. Many a foolhardy party member or minister of one of their newly inducted ‘allied states’ had suffered under the illusion that they could express an adverse opinion openly. With the noose-like grip they had squeezed around the Empire’s communications, no one had ever learned what had happened to those men, but suffice to say their opinions were not shared enough times to find any wider purchase.

  The irony was that Peter was close to certain that Nikolai Beria was not only the military mind behind Russia’s recent and very swift conquests, but that Nikolai was also the fist at the end of Svidrigaïlov’s far reaching arm, the blade that silenced any voice naïve enough to stand against the diminutive man’s rule.

  “Minister Uncovsky?” the plaintive voice roused Peter from his musing, and he turned to the lady standing to his left, nodding, as she went on. “I have Field Commandant Beria on line four.”

  “Good, good. Put it through to the premier’s office.”

  He did not wait for confirmation. It was not a request. Instead, he turned briskly and returned to the great office across the hall, knocking once more, before poking his head in.

  “I have the commandant on line four, Premier.”

  Yuri Svidrigaïlov waved Peter in as the premier pressed speaker and the flashing red button for line four on his desk phone.

  The line sprang to life as Peter closed the door behind him and walked over to a small, inconspicuous chair in a corner, near the premier’s shoulder.

  “Commandant?” came the premier’s barking voice.

  “Yes, Premier
, this is Field Commandant Beria,” came the crisp, deep Russian voice through the speaker. “How may I be of service?”

  “Yes, yes, Nikolai,” there were not many people that did not sit up when the field commandant spoke, such was the combination of his ever growing reputation and his natural gravitas, it was even enough to knock some of the superiority from the premier’s haughty disposition, “we have received this news of your concerns about ‘incursions,’ and ‘allied forces.’ I agree that this is most inconvenient, and that they have sent forces onto sovereign Russian soil is something they will be made to pay dearly for.”

  Peter waited for the field commandant to interrupt the premier’s somewhat directionless rant. Indeed, Beria was the only man who could interrupt the premier. But no interruption came, and so the premier went on, “What I still fail to see is why we are even discussing this? Deal with these spies like you did the NATO ones that had infested Moscow. Deal with them at let us proceed as planned.”

  Now the commandant replied, his tone measured, his patience tested, but not exhausted, “Premier Svidrigaïlov, as you say, I intend to deal with the spies here just as swiftly as we did the various agents that had been present in Moscow, as well as in Islamabad, Astana, and even Dushanbe. But, as I have mentioned before, these forces are not quite the sa …”

  He was cut off by an ever more impatient premier, Peter flinching at the man’s brashness, “Nikolai, enough! I have already ordered you to rotate out the Special Forces from our new Stannic territories, much to the consternation of my governors in place there. Are you not also getting the full weight of all new Ubitsya Drone production coming from the Plant?”

  The premier was referring to the new Ubitsya, or “Assassin” Drones, which the new and mysterious production facility at Novosibirsk was producing in slow but steady numbers. The plant had been a costly investment, one his budget had been ill equipped to afford, but it had paid incredible dividends. Nikolai had been insistent, to the point of vocally berating the premier, that they should make the investment.

  He had been wise to limit the confrontation to a private meeting, the premier’s patience would not have stood for open defiance, but Nikolai had been right.

  Yuri’s memory of the event was far from accurate now, though. Now he remembered himself as the visionary who had pushed for the new plant. Now he remembered only the façade of absolute confidence he showed to his other direct reports.

  It was this bravado that now shone through once more.

  Nikolai was silent for a moment, the line buzzing only with static, until he quietly replied, “Of course, Premier, and I appreciate your support, as always. May I suggest that you also show such wisdom in your support of my desire to factor in the allied forces involvement at this stage?”

  “But why, Nikolai, why? I have seen with my own eyes what the Ubitsyas can do. Together with the full weight of the second, tenth, and twelfth armored divisions, battalion support, and the full air force fleet at your command, what difference could these allied reconnaissance teams make?”

  “Premier, if you will permit me, it is not the forces already here that I am worried about. It is the broader involvement their presence implies.”

  The premier was confused. “How can the allied taskforce’s involvement be any more serious than the already mobilized forces from the very countries that make up this … taskforce? You are making no sense, Nikolai.”

  The tone that came from the line now was as close to curt as Peter had heard anyone be with the premier since his ascension to power, “Yuri Svidrigaïlov, my friend,” the name was said with the weight of a parent, a parent whose patience is close to fraying, “if I have preached nothing since joining you in your rightful step into power, it is that there are forces at play here that are not as they seem.”

  The premier went to interrupt, if only to warn Nikolai not to overstep his bounds with another present, but the man on the end of the line did not desist, saying now, “You have seen what benefits may come from the new materials we have had access to from our Novosibirsk facility. Well, did it occur to you, my leader, that we would not be the only ones that would be able to develop them?”

  The premier was stunned into silence. Not just by the force of Nikolai’s tone, but by the force of his words. He allowed himself a surreptitious glance at the attentive, if quiet, Peter, and then composed himself, “You are saying that that the Americans and Europeans have developed the same armor plating technology?”

  Far away, in the mobile command center that Field Commandant Beria was using as his center of operations for the next phase of Premier Svidrigaïlov’s planned expansion, a sigh was barely contained.

  “No, Premier, not the Americans and Europeans, though I fear they may have some measure of access to the technology as well, yes. Premier, when I have expressed concerns about TASC in the past, it was not simply because they represented a growing military capability. The taskforce was not formed without purpose, Yuri,” and here, the man on the line became a tad liberal with his understanding of the current global political situation. “I have reason to believe the allied taskforce was formed specifically to try to counter Russia’s resurgence.”

  The premier was wide-eyed, but Nikolai was not finished. “I had not wanted to mention it before, but the reconnaissance forces I have encountered here, small as they are, have confirmed my suspicions. The allied taskforce has developed a version of the armor plating as well. They are coming for Mother Russia, Premier, and I need your help to stop them.”

  The premier’s expression was childlike, pleading almost, and his voice as he replied was plaintive, “Of course, Nikolai. For Mother Russia.”

  - - -

  Far away, standing at a data bank, the man known as Field Commander Nikolai Beria stared at a wall of screens. His mind was alive with a hot flow of data coming to and from a black canister embedded in the bottom of the data bank, wired into it at an almost primal level.

  As he finished his discussion with the premier, his lips did not move. The secure line to the mobile command center was linked, via the data bank, directly into the large subspace tweeter in its base. And from there the signal was being transmitted directly into his machine mind.

  As he continued his tiresome debate with his puppet premier, he simultaneously opened a second connection. He did not use one of the many telephone lines patched into the command hub he was at the center of. Instead he used his subspace tweeter to tap into a small but pervasive network of tweeters he’d had one of his many Russian engineering groups distributing over the past months. It reached out across the more populace locales of the ever-growing dominion of the Russian People’s Federation. It reached all the way across Kazakhstan, onward to the Plant, their secret resonance chamber facility in Novosibirsk.

  From there it veered south.

  Eventually it touched onto a less developed, but equally efficient, network across the border into China, and then the signal sped onward, at speeds limited only by the relaying capacity of the nodes involved, to Beijing, and to the headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party. Once there, it was relayed right into the residence of the chairman of the Politburo Standing Committee, the innocuously titled leadership nexus of the vast Chinese Republic.

  The call was not picked up. It did not end with any conversation, as we would understand it. It ended with a connection of two substrate-based minds. Relayed across the breadth of Asia, the call connected the power hubs of the two largest countries on Earth. And it connected the Agent formerly known as Mikhail Kovalenko with his erstwhile counterpart Pei Leong-Lam.

  Mikhail, now known as Nikolai Beria, had a request for his colleague. Mirroring the influence Nikolai had just demonstrated over the new Russian premier, he needed Pei to exert some measure of the same over his adopted leadership.

  Pei was not going to be as subtle as Mikhail, though. Along with China’s vast size and ancient history came a political complexity that made such blunt tactics as coup d’état all but i
mpossible. Pei had been forced to take a more direct control of proceedings.

  Even as he continued to commune with Mikhail, Pei walked into the bedroom of the Chairman of the Politburo Standing Committee, the ruling elite of China’s ruling elite. The man turned to face him and cringed at the sight of Pei’s smiling visage, the face of his nightmare.

  Chapter 35: Codename: Grozny

  The morning was cool and crisp. There was very little dew, and none of the usual mist that shrouded the hills around Rostov this time of year.

  Captain Miller’s team was settled in for the day. They had taken distributed lookout posts across a three-mile radius, covering the main access routes to the northeast of the town’s outskirts. Following their mission protocols, they would limit movement now until darkness returned.

  During the day they would rest, listen and watch.

  Ben Miller sat in a high branch of a tree and willed his helmet open. It latched apart in three sections, the opening between them like forming a Y shape, harkening back for a moment to the plated helmets of medieval knights, noble and otherwise. But Ben’s helmet was far more forgiving. The main fascia of the helmet, below the eye-line, kept sliding apart, across his cheeks, sliding back under his ears. The top of the faceplate slid upward and over the top of his head, opening his natural eyesight, and forming a small visor; the most advanced baseball cap in the world. His whole face was now open to the elements.

  He inhaled deeply. The air was no different than before, though somehow it tasted better. The suit merely parsed it through micro-filters that lined the gaps between his helmet’s sectional faceplate. But the microfibers also conducted away excess heat, equalizing the air’s temperature almost instantaneously with the suit’s ambient norm. A norm maintained by the tiny but potent fusion reactor built into its spinally mounted control nexus. It was a blessing on the bitter nights of the Don Valley, no doubt about that, but it also cut him off from his environment, and it was a pleasure to take in the crisp morning, unabridged, unedited.