by Lee Stephen
It was the second time he had been told that, first from Clarke, now from Svetlana. It struck him as curious to hear. His mind returned to the present as she leaned in and pressed a kiss between his cheek and lips, then pulled away. She bent down to pick up the strap of her duffle bag.
She backed away from them, then turned toward the airbus. As she walked away, Galina fell back to Scott’s side. Svetlana was in the doorway of the airbus, when she turned to offer a final wave.
Scott allowed his gaze to linger on her. She was such a beautiful girl, despite the wear and tear her emotions had taken on her. Her hair shined golden again. The sparkle in her eyes was subdued, but it was still there. Blue like the ocean. Just like he remembered them. He didn’t want her to go.
He lifted his hand to bid her farewell, and for a faint moment, he thought he saw her smile.
The door to the airbus slid shut. She was gone.
The airbus sat for several more minutes, before its engines roared to life and it taxied down the runway. They watched as it rolled forward, picked up speed, and then rose from the ground. It rocketed skyward with an ionic burst.
Scott sighed, and he dropped his hands to his sides. “There she goes.”
Galina wiped her eyes and nodded. “Yes…there she goes.”
For almost a full minute, they stood by the entranceway to the airstrip and watched the airbus grow smaller and smaller in the distance, until it finally disappeared from view. Scott turned back to the hangar. The technicians still hustled back and forth, and the other aircraft still awaited their turns for flight. Everything continued on. It was as if nothing changed at all.
He sighed and glanced to Galina. “What time is it?”
She looked at her watch, then she shifted her gaze to the airstrip. “8:57.”
8:57. A day of routine awaited them. Nothing had changed at all. Scott slid his hands into his pockets, and he faced the main building of Novosibirsk.
Galina’s gaze lingered on the horizon, then she turned to join Scott.
They walked away from the hangar and began their journey back across the grounds to the barracks.
The technicians never noticed they were gone.
18
Sunday, April 24th, 0011 NE
1753 hours
Eleven days after Siberia
Scott entered the lounge, where he found Clarke leaning against the countertop, a cup of steaming tea resting on the marble surface next to him. Scott had been summoned to the room only moments earlier by the captain, a request that tugged Scott away from the company of his comrades in the bunk room. He didn’t mind. Any business that Clarke had for him took immediate priority—that was in the job description.
The past week had consisted of a stark routine, one that became almost alarmingly normal to Scott. Every morning the unit worked out, and the remainder of each day was spent in personal training. The only new development was the final report on Joe Janson. According to the base coroner, the soldier died of the Silent Fever, an illness that had reportedly reared its head in Novosibirsk several times in the past. No further elaborations were offered.
The only other thing on Scott’s mind was Svetlana. Though she was gone, inside his head she had yet to leave.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Scott asked.
Clarke scrutinized him. “Yes, private, I did. Come in, and please close the door.”
“Yes sir,” Scott said as he turned to seal the room. It was an odd request, he thought, but not completely unwarranted. The crew in the bunk room was prone to ruckus.
“Ask the captain if he wants some cereal!” Jayden said as he lifted a bowl of dry oat puffs. The others around him laughed as they reveled in their juvenile banter.
The door was sealed shut, and Scott again faced Clarke. The captain’s face was deadpanned. “How is your shoulder?” he asked.
Scott rotated his now castless shoulder several times, then he offered an uncertain smile. “It’s all right, sir. Feels a little more like normal every day. Not completely there yet, but…it’s coming.”
Clarke nodded. “Good, that’s very good.” The lounge was silent. Clarke’s eyes were fixed on Scott, who continued to stand in a semi-attentive pose. Scott knew it wasn’t going to be a normal conversation the moment the captain resumed.
“Remington…you know that I expect a lot out you. I hope I’ve made that clear since your arrival.”
There was a moment of hesitation before Scott answered. “Yes sir…”
Clarke continued in a calculated tone. “I’m going to be expecting more now.” As Scott stood, puzzled, Clarke indicated the countertop, where he retrieved an opened envelope and letter. He appeared all too familiar with its contents. “Effective today…your new rank is epsilon.”
Scott’s eyes flew open. His jaw hung down. “I’m sorry sir…what?”
“Your new rank is epsilon.”
Epsilon? How in the world had he become an epsilon? That was a rank designated for officer training, the neutral ground between delta and lieutenant. A quick promotion, that was fine. But a leap in rank like this threw red flags everywhere. “Sir, there has to be some kind of a mistake…”
Clarke almost cut him off. “It’s no mistake. Believe me, I checked. I wish it were a mistake. In three missions, you’ve managed to move up four ranks. Some soldiers wait years to reach the delta core, and you’ve flown right up the chain of command like your daddy owns the Earth.”
A chorus of laughter, unrelated to the lounge, could be heard from next door in the bunk room. “Why’d you do that!” Jayden’s voice whined.
“I didn’t do a thing! I didn’t even touch yeh!”
But Scott heard none of it. His stare remained locked with Captain Clarke’s. Something wasn’t right. Clarke obviously wasn’t thrilled with the thought of Scott being an epsilon, but it was Clarke’s unit. If he didn’t want Scott there, why had he promoted him? “Sir, I don’t think I understand what’s going on…” It was an understatement.
Clarke folded his arms across his chest. “This wasn’t my decision.”
“Whose decision was it?”
Clarke removed the letter from its envelope and jostled it open in his hand. His glare lingered on Scott for a moment, before it moved down to the letter. “‘Advance Remington to the rank of epsilon. Signed, General Ignatius van Thoor.’”
Scott blinked. Thoor? General Thoor, demanding his promotion to officer training? That didn’t make sense at all. What did he have to do with Thoor? Aside from the same welcome that all new arrivals got, he hadn’t spoken to the general. Not at all.
Placing the letter blindly on the countertop, Clarke slid his eyes back to Scott. “I discovered it in my mailbox this morning.”
Scott offered no explanation. He didn’t have one.
“I’m sorry,” Clarke said. “You’ve done nothing to show me that you deserve this in the least. I see no reason to even consider moving you to epsilon right now. But the general does. My opinion has been overruled. I don’t understand this, nor do I approve it, but I was never asked to do either.” Tension saturated the lounge. “Apparently you’ve found favor with the general. Not many men can do that.” Clarke leaned forward. “Please show me that you deserve this.”
Scott was speechless. Only the standard military response could escape from his mouth. “Yes sir…”
The captain nodded. “That’s all I wanted. Thank you.”
“Yes sir.”
There was a cordial exchange of salutes, and Scott turned to leave the lounge. As he stepped back into the bunk room and eased the door shut behind him, his comrades halted their levity to stare in his direction. All of them wore etched-in grins. Dry oat puffs were scattered across the floor, as a shirtless Jayden knelt on the ground to pick them up.
“Welcome back!” Becan said. He glanced to Jayden. “Show him tha’ thing where yeh throw your cereal all over the room again.”
Jayden laughed. “Shut up! It was your fault!”
�
�I didn’t touch yeh!”
The group laughed, and Becan returned his attention to Scott. Scott’s expression remained solemn. Becan sobered up. “Wha’s the matter, Remmy?”
Scott stood in silence in the doorway for several moments, then sighed over the inevitable. This one was going to be fun.
* * *
“So then he comes up to us an’ says, ‘I just got promoted,’” Becan said as William listened from the weight machine.
William huffed. “Man.” He pushed the massive set of weights up from his chest. “Some people are born lucky.”
“Righ’,” Becan said. He watched in awe as the demolitionist lifted. “God, how much is tha’?”
“Six thirty,” William grunted. He held the bar up for a moment then steadily lowered it down.
“But annyway, isn’t tha’ bloody grand? Someone up there must really like the lad.”
William sat up and reached for his bottle of water. “Yeah well, he saved some chick’s life, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I don’t really have a problem with it. I mean…I’m a beta, and I’ve only been on one real mission…well, only one that I’ve been any big part of anyway. I got no problem with Scott, he’s always been cool to me.”
Becan lifted his hands in defense. “No, no, don’t get me wrong now, I don’t have anny problems with it at all. Hell…I’d rather be under him than annyone else in the unit.”
“Well there ya go. Good deal all the way around.”
“Yeah.”
William ran a towel over his face. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. Where the hell’d you learn to fight like that?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Like you did in that practice fight, way back when you first got here. Where’d you learn that junk?”
Becan fell silent as William stood up and moved to another machine. “Oh…I guess I’ve just been in a few scuffles here an’ there. Yeh pick up new stuff every time.”
“You musta been in a hell of a lot of scuffles.” William sat in front of some pull-down bars. “No…wait, hell no…you were kickin’ and flippin’ and junk. I never met nobody in no street fight who kicks and flips. I know you studied martial arts, had to.”
“I didn’t. I mean, how hard is it to kick, yeh know? Yeh lift your leg an’ push.”
William laughed. “Harder than you make it look.”
“Jus’ got lucky, I did. I didn’t think I’d win when I went up there.”
The demolitionist eyed Becan. “Okay…I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it go for now.” He gripped the bars above his head, grunted, and heaved down the ridiculously massive set of weights.
“God! You’re a bloody flickin’ ox.”
William only laughed.
* * *
The following days passed as normal. Max and Konstantin remained in the infirmary, visited on a daily basis by their comrades from the Fourteenth. Max stoically accepted the news of his promotion to lieutenant, as well as the promotions of Scott and Fox. On one occasion, Scott ventured to the infirmary to pay Max a visit, but spans of awkward silence discouraged him from a second attempt.
Scott remained emotionally detached from the unit for several days. His unexpected promotion sent a slew of questions his way, none of which he could answer. Though Nicole was noticeably detached, she still offered him her support. “God is putting you in the places you need to be,” she said, though it didn’t sound as if she believed it. All Scott could do was hope she was right.
None of the promotions were accepted as graciously as David’s. It seemed a silent indicator of the respect his comrades held for him, and several times, much to his delight, he was granted the opportunity to lead the morning workouts. This went over well with the crew, who relished their chances to be led by the fourteen-year NYPD veteran. Scott did get a chance to ask David about the status of his family, and he was pleasantly surprised to find out that Sharon and the kids were handling David’s transfer well. They had cancelled their move to Richmond to remain in New York, but anxiously awaited an opportunity to reunite with their father and husband. Scott admired their perseverance.
Becan’s skills in hand-to-hand combat sparked a reputation surge among those who observed the Fourteenth’s free-sparring sessions. He rarely lost, and when he won, he won convincingly. Only Dostoevsky and Baranov challenged his level. Becan’s ability to consume alcohol bought favor among the Russians, as he became one of the regular late-night vodka drinkers.
Jayden was quickly learning the social skills of an extrovert, to the point where he ventured into a flirtatious relationship with Varvara. One evening, by way of a Becan-proposed dare, he pinched Varvara’s side as she walked past, an action that garnered a shocked, though tantalized response from her, one that hinted of mutual enjoyment. The distance between joking and seriousness was unknown, though it did begin a fresh set of rumors around the coffee machine. When asked about the relationship, Jayden laughed and refused to comment.
The most noticeable transformation took place in Galina. After the departure of Svetlana, she scheduled a series of personal examinations with each of the operatives, for the purpose of getting acclimated with their individual levels of health. It was executed so professionally that it garnered praise from all three officers, and the debate on whether to recruit a new chief medic was promptly forgotten. She socialized more with the men than Svetlana had, as she often joined them in late-night rounds of vodka and poker, though she never drank herself.
On one occasion, she snapped at Baranov for his excessive alcoholism, and he laughingly mocked her by downing a bottle of vodka in front of everyone. She did not take offense to the gesture; rather, she calmly informed him that he was denied his alcoholic privileges for the remainder of the week. Baranov treated it as a joke until Clarke informed him that she indeed had the authority to impose such restrictions. Needless to say, Baranov was in a bad mood for the next three days.
Clarke, Baranov, and Dostoevsky grew more anxious with every passing night. When questioned about it by the operatives, they insisted that things in Novosibirsk were moving along as scheduled, and there was no cause for concern. The three officers still talked and joked with the unit, though when it came down to business, they spoke among themselves under a veil of secrecy that the older members of the unit had never seen before. There was concern on Scott’s part that he was a cause of their apprehensiveness, though a brief discussion with Baranov absolved him of any involvement.
Such were the conditions of the Fourteenth when Saturday, May 7 arrived. Life phased into as much a routine as possible in a unit decimated by circumstance. The weather in Novosibirsk remained frigid, as the rain evolved into snow. Everything was cold. Everything was miserable.
Everything was normal.
19
Saturday, May 7th, 0011 NE
1903 hours
Three weeks after Siberia
The room was quiet. The operatives of the Fourteenth had been given permission to enjoy free time so long as they adhered to the nine o’clock curfew, and thus many were away. Only Scott, Kevin, Boris, and Varvara remained in the bed chamber, with Clarke and Baranov behind the closed doors of the lounge. Each of the operatives was sprawled across his or her bunk; Kevin and Boris exchanged hushed conversation, while Varvara flipped through the pages of a magazine.
Scott, like Varvara, kept his mind occupied through the pages of a book, though his was his Scripture. Lately he had felt distanced from it. More than just from it. From God. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing added up. If everything that happened was part of a plan, he had no idea what it was. It seemed as if every time he relieved his doubts, something new was thrust his way.
The rest of the room showed signs of casual abandon. Boots were strewn in front of closets, and a concluded game of chess sat in strategic disarray in the corner. For those who chose to spend their time in the room, the organized mess was a welcomed sanctuary.
Stretching, Scott felt his
neck pop. He reached beneath the bunk with his fingers until he found his cardboard bookmark, which he picked up and slid into the Scripture. He placed the book beneath his bunk.
A drink. That was what he needed. Nothing alcoholic—he never did that. Coffee. He could already smell its aroma in his mind. It was a walk to the lounge and a flick of the coffee machine away.
As he sat up, he made eye contact with Varvara. She offered him a smile, which he promptly returned along with the word, “kofey.”
Her smile broadened, and she proceeded to speak in a flow of steady Russian.
Scott laughed. He didn’t understand any of it. Not one single word. “I’m not that good yet.”
She grinned. “I said, you muster to go get some.”
Scott laughed at her failed English. “I must go get some?”
“Yes, sorry! You must go get some.” She laughed and winked. “I am not that good yet, too.”
Scott smiled as he stepped away into the lounge.
As soon as he entered, whatever conversation that was taking place between Captain Clarke and Commander Baranov slammed to a halt. Both officers stared at him as he stood in the doorway. Scott raised up a hand defensively. “Am I interrupting something?”
Clarke shook his head. “No…you may enter.” Baranov remained quiet as Scott slid into the room and shut the door behind him. Clarke motioned to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”
Scott offered a polite smile. “Thanks, sir. Just going to get a cup of coffee first.”
Clarke pointed to the counter. “There’s a pot brewed. We put it on, what…a half hour ago?”
“Close to that time,” said Baranov.
Scott retrieved a coffee mug from the cabinets, which he promptly began to fill. As the black liquid steamed into the mug, he cast a look back to the captain. “You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything, sir?”