Analog SFF, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Them you letting take in,” Tasha finished, eyes mirroring wonderment, “to be sticking by Foster doctor. Together then brains putting; talk, plan,” she guessed—"escape.”

  Eyed me with concern. “Obviously, over getting fence, choosing you whenever, or bolts cutter making hole. But if so tight laboratory security, how Foster doctor getting out after you finding?”

  “I said there was no low-key way to get in,” replied darkly. “I can get in. In fact, unless I come up with something really clever—or even marginally less stupid—after I talk to Daddy and we decide on timing, I'm going to slip over the fence, collect my gear, go back to the lab in the middle of the night, take out all the guards, go in and get Daddy, take a truck, and pick up you guys on the way out of town.”

  “'Take out'?” Tasha sputtered, round-eyed. “Meaning kill? Guards kill intending you all—all killing you can... ?” Expression with which girl regarded me combined astonishment, disbelief, hope.

  Horror, on other hand, conspicuously absent. Sole expressed reservation practical: “All killing guards how? Not gun. Whole base waking.”

  Suppressed smile; explained: “My guns are extremely quiet. Mossad silencers make a tiny noise, hardly louder than a gerbil's cough.”

  Tasha brightened; no shrinking fialka, she.

  I continued: “The lab building's over a hundred yards long—meters to you, I guess. There's an entrance at each end. They're out of sight of each other, and there's no way anybody at one end will hear silenced gunfire from the other. There are only four men on duty at each door; at least half are asleep most of the night. And I'm a really good shot.”

  “Good only coming from kill Khraniteli," Tasha stated thoughtfully. “Helping I can how?”

  Eyed her, deliberated momentarily; then reached decision: “Can you drive?”

  Girl crooked brow. “Badly.” Then smiled. “Also dislegally, since nine. But things not hitting. Mostly.”

  Didn't even try to repress grin at Tasha's patently spurious self-deprecation. “Good. Assuming they take me to Daddy sometime tomorrow, and unless he has other plans, let's schedule the great escape for tomorrow night, say just after midnight. We'll cut a hole in the fence for the little kids and take them to the motor pool, and I'll liberate a truck for you.

  “At about the two-hour point, drive past the laboratory and look for us. Don't try to be careful or sneaky; as lax as they are around here, if you act as though you're supposed to be there, no one will even notice.”

  Tasha nodded scornfully. “From my watching, rankings-low Khraniteli inflicted by not too many awareness of surroundings or ons-going.”

  “That was my impression, too.” Paused; turned serious. “Okay now, listen—this is important: If Daddy and I are out there waiting for you, great. If not, or if there seems to be a commotion going on, it's a pretty good bet that things haven't gone well. In that case, you'll need to get those kids out of here—put as many kilometers behind you as you can. Get them clear and keep them safe.”

  Tasha's expression darkened. “Without you leaving not."

  Stuck out own lower lip, mustered frown. “You damn well better. If Daddy and I haven't made it out by then, the Khraniteli undoubtedly will have caught me red-handed. Those who survive the experience will have learned that dealing with a kid isn't necessarily safe. If Kazimirov is as smart as I think he is, I'll be dead by then or shortly afterward, and he'll have a whole new attitude toward you guys. Getting yourselves caught again will not be a good idea, and won't help anyone.”

  Then realized had overlooked vital detail—and abruptly found self unsuccessfully fighting back tears: “And Tasha? Take care of my dog ... ?”

  * * * *

  Kim Mellon's Journal:

  Terry settled his feathers and looked around at us with a self-satisfied expression.

  “She's a little scared,” Lisa confirmed, her expression uncertain, “but she's really excited and ... and she's happy."

  Adam stood. At that moment he looked taller than usual. “I think we're all agreed,” he stated, “that it's going to take another day to get the A plane back into the air.” Uncharacteristically, he seemed calm.

  Even more uncharacteristically, Danya seemed less so. Long before the discussion had begun, even as we eavesdropped on Candy via Terry, she had begun to pace—or perhaps stalk would be a more appropriate descriptive; her movements were reminiscent of a caged panther. “I do not think we can wait,” she offered softly.

  Teacher's nod was thoughtfully. “The only question is whether we should risk getting you there quickly, in the operational C-17, or whether it would be preferable to unload and assemble the Black Hawks.”

  “I vote helicopters,” said Wallace regretfully. “I'm as worried about Candy as the next hopelessly besotted male, and I'm just as eager to rescue Marshall Foster. But if we have a failure on the B plane while the ships are separated, it would leave our forces stranded, divided in hostile territory. All personnel involved would be jeopardized, as well as the entire mission, which means increased risk to our people back home.”

  Astonishingly, the awkward silence that followed was broken by Adam. His expression somber, he took a deep breath and said, “I agree with Wallace: We should not risk separating the C-17s.” He paused, clearly forcing himself to continue. “Candy would never want us to endanger our people just to pull her and her dad out.

  “Sending in a strike force in the Black Hawks is risky, too—however,” he added, in tones which brooked no argument, “if we do, I am going with them.”

  “The problem with the helicopters,” Danya mused, apparently thinking aloud as much as speaking for our benefit, “is that, even after we unload everything stored between them and the cargo doors, and get them out, and assemble them, and preflight and fuel them, then, counting the three fuel stops conservative cross-country operation calls for, it's still going to take us fifteen hours’ flying time to get there.

  “And the fact is that, once we're there, we won't really even be there there: With only two ships, we can't just fly in openly, guns blazing. We'll have to land twenty, thirty miles out, find usable local vehicles or walk to make our way to within working distance. We face a minimum of thirty to forty hours before we can begin even a simple extraction, never mind actual support of Candy's operation.

  “Much as I hate to say it, I think it makes more sense to wait for repairs to be finished on the C-17, and then go in as a fully assembled strike force.”

  The silence that followed this summary was painful; but, slowly, beginning with Teacher, one after another, everyone nodded.

  Including Adam.

  * * * *

  Candy's Journal:

  Late that afternoon, just prior to “dinner,” guard/messenger/probably just nearest available warm body showed up (with no appointment—what kind of gulag is this?) with nonoptional invitation to accompany him “...now."

  Unscheduled constitutional wound up at massively armored entrance to Khraniteli's huge underground shelter. Followed escort along endless series of corridors to doorway, which opened to reveal...

  “Ah,” rasped Kazimirov, from behind broad desk, “Lizzy Borden, the American...” Tone turned country of origin into pejorative.

  Instantly Plucky Special-Ops Girl's internal “battle stations” alarms went off; combat computer engaged. This definitely not on schedule. Inconspicuously (I hoped) adjusted balance, stance.

  Then, full-bore chainsaw mode held in abeyance by thinnest of hair triggers, but ready to explode at slightest hint that jig might be up, made round, mystified eyes; said, in meekest, most submissive tones, “Hello, Mr. Kazimirov. Is everything all right? Why am I here ... ?”

  Russian's face contorted in odd fashion; in someone else, might have been mistaken for attempt at friendly smile, but on Fearless Leader, looked almost painful.

  Unexpectedly, waved me into chair; opened with, “Borden, you are young; you must have gone to many movies in America. I collect movies. What American
movies have you seen, and which have you found most enjoyable?”

  Inquiry registered so high on non sequitur meter, “sense” of question almost eluded me. Must have taken whole seconds to collect, refocus wits—then pull back from edge, throttle down homicidal response matrix to idle.

  Decision not to toy with monster's brain this time around arrived at separately, but no less emphatically.

  Conducted quick review; decided own personal favorites list offered sufficient variation for opening response: “I've always preferred older, funny movies. The funniest movie of all time is The Gods Must Be Crazy. Have you seen it? It was made by some people from South Africa. They were completely unknown in America at the time.

  “Of kids’ movies, my favorites would be any of The Pirates of the Caribbean series; they were almost as funny. Of more grownup movies, the non-Disney version of Peter Pan, with Rachel Hurd-Wood, and, not funny but I love it, the original Lassie Come Home, with Roddy McDowall.

  “However"—occurred to Intrepid Apprentice Spook at that point that by employing reverse variation on Scheherazade strategy, if didn't overdo it, possibly could learn something useful about opposition. So changed final answer, tossed in off-the-wall ringer for bait—"I think my all-time favorite action movie is the first Die Hard, with Bruce Willis.”

  There, own list should suffice to undermine head sociopath's mundane preconceptions about preteen American girls; but Die Hard so anomalous, so violent by comparison, perhaps would trigger revealing questions.

  And worked. I guess. Whatever.

  Monster looked pleased (to degree that face capable of expressing pleasure); rose to bait like hungry toad to big, fat fly. “Yes,” he almost enthused; “the Die Hard movies are particularly enjoyable; they are among my own favorites.”

  (Oh, goodie, Posterity; massest murderer of all time thinks airheaded ingenue refugee shares his cinematic tastes. Daddy will be so proud.)

  “For a male,” he continued, expression softening further, “the appeal is obvious. But what about that first film caused you, a young girl, to enjoy it so?”

  Double-goodie—Fearless Leader fancied self movie critic. Perhaps even intellectual. Hadn't anticipated cross-examination regarding motives; hadn't, in fact, ever particularly thought about which nuts, bolts, specific structural bits make one movie more enjoyable than another. Might as well ask, “What specifically do you like about the taste of chocolate?” Don't know; just do. Movies largely similar: Ring bell or not.

  Yes, have heard discussions among normal (i.e., nonsociopathic, nongenocidal) people generally centering on what bits each found exciting, funny, touching. However, only movie critics publicly pretended interest in motivations, subliminal messages.

  On other hand, had dropped Die Hard into discussion while fishing for reaction. Okay, had it. Be careful what you wish for—now what...?

  Debated briefly. Apart from Die Hard (which actually had enjoyed, on unabashedly primitive, viscerally combative level), list basically truthful. Safest approach, therefore, probably to limit observations to truth, or at least cautious variations based on truth.

  —So instead blurted, “I liked Bruce Willis’ character in Die Hard. John McClane was intelligent and brave. But...” paused as if thinking, then delivered jab: “...most important of all, he had absolute, unswerving moral integrity.”

  There—see how that goes down, you soulless, homicidal ghoul.

  But ethical belly-kick fell flat. Kazimirov simply disagreed—intellectual superior to noncomprehending, lower-order being—"McClane is a predictable hero; this makes him boring. I feel more kinship with Hans Gruber.”

  (Hah, big surprise there.) Made wide, round eyes. “The terrorist?”

  Kazimirov offered superior smile at my simple-minded (deliberate) missing of point. “The ‘exceptional thief.’ He was a villain only in the eyes of screenwriters genuflecting to conventional Hollywood morality. McClane emerged victorious only by virtue of repeated convenient accidents and several clever tricks.

  “Hans’ scheme to loot the money-grubbing Asians’ vault was well researched, thoroughly planned, and soundly grounded in human psychology. Except for the screenwriters’ morally bankrupt tilting of the playing field, he would have succeeded.”

  Really, Posterity, had meant self-promise not to play with monster's head this time. Really. But—

  “Oh, no, sir,” I burbled brightly, projecting ingenue so shallow, was incapable even of remembering surroundings, captive status. “What really happened is, Hans had the bad luck to run into the King of the Cowboys. John McClane identified with Roy Rogers because he's just as incorruptible—and Roy never loses.” Paused, eyed him solemnly, finished emphatically, "Ever."

  Kazimirov's expression darkened slightly. “Hah! Roy Rogers—a mere icon of American naivete.”

  “Of American optimism,” I demurred, projecting my best young Shirley Temple earnestness, “and personal integrity.”

  As continued to hammer blithely on integrity theme, good humor began to ebb from Russian's eyes. Perhaps had begun to occur to him, was having philosophical debate with patently air-headed enemy preteen ... and losing.

  Still, completely bereft of self-respect (soulless genocidal ghoul union has rules),Khraniteli unhesitatingly chose low road to regain points lead: “Neither the Americans’ optimism nor their so-called integrity saved them, did it.”

  Performed one of his apparently patented boiler-venting exhalations through nose. “With the exception of you, our American doctor, and a small, troublesome group, all Americans are dead now. And soon those few annoying survivors will join the rest.”

  Required major effort, but managed to keep expression from changing—at least Kazimirov failed to notice anything untoward—as, trying for natural, childlike curiosity, replied, “What do you mean, sir?”

  Pretty sure was beginning to get handle on Khraniteli's primary personality disorders and, if reading him correctly—if seriously bad mojo for AAs truly afoot—Fearless Leader would enjoy watching helpless young captive's distress upon hearing terrible news. Still, required all available concentration not to show was holding breath until...

  Kazimirov smiled again. Unambiguously bad smile. “There are something approaching 2,000 Americans gathered in a single location in the mountains of southern California. We had arranged to eliminate them previously, but something went wrong. Since then they have regularly caused us problems.”

  (Suppressing flash of private smugness cost major effort: Wondered how revelation that the “something” which had gone wrong stood before him would impact “Hans'” opinion of “Roy Rogers.")

  “However, I have wearied of them and their interference,” continued head sociopath. “Accordingly, we have searched across Eurasia, located, and brought back a number of very large, multiple-warhead, thermonuclear, intercontinental ballistic missiles. Today is Saturday. Tuesday, barring some unprecedentedly widespread problem discovered during the countdown, we will launch them en masse.

  “Even with the significant percentage of mechanical and/or electronic failures which we can expect due to age and lack of maintenance during storage, the very numbers of missiles make it certain that more than enough will get through to carpet-bomb a hundred-kilometer radius around their headquarters.”

  Monster leaned back then; eyed me smugly. Smile metamorphosed into nameless projection of almost satanic satisfaction. “Three days from now, you and Marshall Foster will be the last Americans....”

  * * * *

  Required little acting skill to reward sociopath with slow, horrified tears (but required lots of multitasking effort not to react to ghoul's confirmation Daddy was indeed “other American").

  Kazimirov chuckled. “I don't think Roy Rogers will save them this time, do you?”

  (In point of fact, “Roy” already juggling options—of which most triggered horrid hollow feelings in belly: Clearly only way to be certain of ending missile threat for good would be to wipe out warheads. Only way to be
certain of that would be thermonuclear detonation. Hoped against hope setting off fireworks would not require personal, on-site attention. Notwithstanding primary mission's patently suicidal odds, pushing thermonuke's built-in Red Button with own finger had never figured into plans....)

  Chewed over what had learned about Kazimirov's psyche thus far; concluded hint of spunk might be appropriate reaction at this point. Rose, glared down nose at fiend; declared, “None of the back-shooting, cowardly villains he faced ever thought so either.”

  Spun wordlessly, stalked haughtily out door. Experienced bad moment, wondering belatedly whether imputation of cowardice, never mind exit without permission, might have overstepped bounds, would bring down inconvenient, possibly even dangerous, wrath; but after only moment's hesitation, Kazimirov's scornful laugh followed.

  Then, amazingly—"In a few days, you will have come to a clearer understanding of reality in this new world. We will speak again of American movies.”

  Reality? From perspective of worst sociopathic butcher in all history—who cheerfully identifies with Hans Gruber? Pretty sure that word didn't mean what he thought it did....

  As followed guard back toward entrance, mind whirled with rush of sudden complications, conflicting thoughts, considerations—not to mention barely restrained homicidal impulses...

  * * * *

  Kim Mellon's Journal:

  Just what we needed—another Khraniteli threat to the precarious foothold our too-vulnerably incipient species is trying to gain. Wide eyes were in evidence all around at the conclusion of Candy's second Terry-relayed encounter with Kazimirov; and before its conclusion, Kelli Watts was already on the satellite phone, giving the people back at Palomar the unsettling news. If we can't stop the launch, they'll need to evacuate, and there's an awful lot of data and equipment that will need to be relocated as well.

  However, work on the A plane's engine is already proceeding with the utmost haste, and nothing can be done to shorten the time required for completion.