by Sable Jordan
Cherry trees were too fragile…
Oleanders were resilient...
The Tidal Basin.
Every major US building—the Pentagon, the Capitol Building, the White House—not to mention most of the city’s monuments were within a three-mile radius of that man-made reservoir.
Every major symbol of America…
Cold dread inched down Kizzie’s spine.
“Get off,” Xander urged before Kizzie had the chance. His eyes were on hers, but he spoke to Phil. “Now.”
* * * *
East of the Jefferson Memorial’s amber glow, Julie held an umbrella outstretched over her Mistress’s head. Vanda crouched near the water’s edge, working with a handful of tools and a small flashlight. Puffs of breath clouded in the damp air, her locket sliding along a familiar path beneath her collarbones as she situated a sphere in the box.
Not a memory, but a feeling just as wispy went through her. Surreal, to be on the cusp of the culmination of her life’s work. And it was her life’s work:
August 4th, 1985—She met Nikolay Sokoviev for the first time. A kiss on the mouth and expensive gold locket for her matushka. For 4-year-old Vanda, a doll. “A late birthday present, or an early one,” he’d said. She’d have preferred a chemistry set, or an electronics kit to be more like her mother, but matushka always said being grateful is to know peace. Vanda smiled and hugged her father.
August 5th,1985—Her first plane ride, going to see where Matushka came from: Hiroshima, Japan. Matushka was named after her birth city, how come Vanda hadn’t been named Mosc? Hiro let her have the window seat, and she’d spent the time fascinated by the mechanized movements of aileron and spoiler and flaps on the wing.
August 6th, 1985—Hiro promised wagashi if she behaved. The ceremony. The speeches. They added the names to the box. The bells rang out. People cried. The building was across the river. Matushka cried so Vanda cried. The promise: “You will not hate…it is a most powerful enemy…you must not bend to it, not even a little. Promise me.”
Each day after had been dedicated to keeping that promise.
Hate didn’t break her, or bend her, but molded her for a greater purpose.
Revenge?
No, too simple. Too base.
This was more noble.
A plan steeped so long the brew was almost too strong, too sweet.
For Hiro.
For the grandparents Vanda had never known, whose absence forced her matushka to a Russia that barely took the scarred child in.
For the communities ripped apart by a careless mother and her obedient son.
For those hunched at cenotaphs; bottles and flowers on railings; heads bowed before the Enola Gay; fingers, gnarled and burned, pointing at the venerated, gleaming hull that mocked their survival. For those who never saw the shiny bitch creeping overhead.
For phantoms.
The trove of names who couldn’t remember.
The living who would rather forget.
Vanda had not forgotten.
Not a nation. One person, willing to act for all.
One warrior of peace.
Vanda was that warrior—had always been that warrior.
A smile touched her lips as she started the timer on the cell phone. In a little over six hours, DC would be razed to the ground, an echo of Hiroshima, and balance would be restored.
No stopping it now.
Vanda caressed the hard metal like she would a child’s cheek, then screwed the last bolt into the casing and flipped the power switch on. A submersible robot beneath the thin float would drag the bomb atop it to the center of the Tidal Basin, forcing the huge metal box down as it went. The holes drilled into the casing would help keep it under in case the short-lived batteries on the robot went out.
She pushed the device into the water with a small splash. In spite of the weight, the raft kept it afloat. Perfect. Vanda lifted her hand; Julie helped her from the ground. One last look at her creation and she let out a long breath.
In an interview after the first atomic bomb was detonated in New Mexico, Oppenheimer, the bomb’s creator, said he was reminded of words from the Hindu holy book, the Bhagavad-Gita.
“Now, I am become death,” she quoted reverently, “the destroyer of worlds.”
Fingering the device in her pocket, she understood how he felt. Power crackled through her veins like an electric current, potent and alive.
“You do it, pet.” Vanda nodded, holding out a small remote control to her submissive. Julie’s eyes rounded as she took the control; Vanda took hold of the umbrella’s shaft. Julie eagerly worked the joysticks, and Vanda looked on with pride.
This moment should have been hers and Fay’s.
It would be.
Her true submissive was nearby, she could feel her. After so long, Fay would be happy to be the only one again. And she owed the woman a nice hard caning for her insolence at the Peace Memorial. Yes, she’d be the one to show Fay who was the owner, and who the pet. Smiling, Shinari eased the gun from Julie’s pocket and the girl turned around.
“Doing fine, pet. This is just to protect you…us.”
Julie continued with her task.
Yes, she and Fay would be together again soon. Mistress above, submissive below.
Dynamic balance.
Gun in her hold, Vanda looked on, a proud parent watching as her little boy was guided toward his final resting place, preparing to change the world.
An immense peace settled on her shoulders.
Her promises would be kept, both to her mother and her father.
Nikolay had stepped in long after Hiro’s death, more for Vanda’s mental acuity than her well-being, but as her Papa she owed him respect. It paid off. He’d stumbled onto the old salted bomb and with his usual engineer—her mother—long dead, lucky him, he’d found a backup in his daughter. But Niko was short-sighted, planning to sell the nuke for a healthy profit to the American.
The privideniye… A phantom.
Vanda worked hard to reverse-engineer the bomb, all while slowly constructing her own plan. Fay managed to recruit four more submissives who, over the course of several years, had dedicated themselves to Mistress Shinari’s rule and her way of thinking. Too bad the others had died. Even the quest for peace had its casualties, she supposed…
Just as she’d completed the rebuild of the bomb, Papa Nikolay had been taken by her idiot half-brother Sacha, but he passed along one last message for his daughter through Sumi: Get Harvey to the American. He’ll do right by you, Vanda.
The bomb was nearing the center of the basin, and the submersible had begun its dive into the murky water.
In less than 24 hours, she’d do as her Papa had said. She’d give Harvey to the American.
Each and every one of them.
The rain fell in fat drops, smacking Kizzie in the face. The hood of her jacket gathered air, bouncing around her head as she darted toward the water’s edge. A few more strides and they all stopped at the bottom of the circular marble steps, the Jefferson Memorial at their backs. The glare from the monument’s lights was enough to see a good portion of the water, but the flashlight in Xander’s grip covered a greater distance.
Kizzie’s eyes went wide. “Holy…”
“Fudgeballs,” Xander deadpanned. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for.”
The dark water rippled softly, and the view to the Washington obelisk was simply awe-inspiring. It wasn’t what held their attention.
Seventy feet away from the edge and just west of center, an unmanned float powered across the water. A large black box rested atop it.
“You said a picnic basket. That is not a picnic basket.”
“Yes, well, apparently I was wrong.” Xander said. “Is now a good time to point that out?”
“Which one of us is going swimming?” Phil asked calmly, adjusting a backpack on his shoulder.
From where they stood, the 107-acre Tidal Basin had the Potomac River to the left and the W
ashington Channel to the right. The tide was starting to come in, which meant the outlet gates to the channel were closed. But the inlet gates from the river were open, rushing water in at a rate of a quarter million gallons per minute.
“You,” Xander answered. “I’m the brains of the operation. And the good looks.”
“Now that I think about it,” Phil countered, “I did take that nasty dip in Ecuador a couple years back.”
“I knew you hadn’t let Ecuador go…”
“This is a cakewalk compared to Ecuador.”
“Rock, paper, scissors?”
Kizzie didn’t have time for their banter. Or to consider her last diphtheria vaccine. Tetanus…whooping cough…typhoid fever…colitis...
Dear God, anything but colitis again.
Forcing away thoughts of a future jam-packed with needles, she shrugged out of her jacket.
Xander stopped her, frowning. “No one invited you to the party. And stop getting naked in front of Phil.” Smacking the flashlight into her open palm, he plunged the depths of his pants pockets and passed Phil the haul: the flash drive she’d seen on the plane, a phone and wallet.
“I wasn’t as trusting of Niko as I led you to believe, Kizzie. Don’t know the specific make up of the sphere, but I do know how the bomb works—”
“In theory?”
“Bit more than theory.” Grimacing, he passed Phil his gun, shucked off his jacket and yanked his shirt over his head. “After this, we’re square on Ecuador. Crystal?”
“There’s still Bolivia.”
“Bolivia! You son of—”
“So you know how to stop it?” Kizzie had no idea how they could be so cavalier with the fate of DC—and their own asses—hanging in the balance.
Xander wiped his hand over his rain-slicked face, nodding. “Just never thought I’d need to.”
“You always lie to me.”
“An omission, Princess. A subtle difference of motive.” He swept his gaze over the water as though running down his own medical history. Grabbing her hand, he angled the beam out toward the box. “This just keeps getting better…”
Kizzie followed the line of her outstretched arm. The bomb rode lower in the water than when they’d arrived. Sinking. Quickly. Harder to find in the dark, and all the more difficult to haul back to shore. Xander double-timed it out of his shoes and socks.
“Where’s Sumi?” Phil asked.
Kizzie spun around to find her favorite bucket of Looney Tunes had rabbited into the night. If she wanted any chance of catching Vanda, she needed that submissive. Someone was going down for this.
But if she went after Sumi, she’d have to trust Xander wouldn’t leave with the bomb.
She pulled out her phone, bringing up the sat-link for the subcutaneous tracer in Sumi’s shoulder.
Moving east. Fast.
A thicket of trees lined the basin in that direction. Farther away from the path the terrain opened up to manicured lawns. Sumi would stick to cover.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“If not, at least we won’t remember.” Phil laughed at his morbid joke.
Xander shucked his jeans, standing in his boxers, skin slick from the moderate rainfall. He glanced in the direction she’d be going, then looked at her like he wanted to say something sappy. “Don’t get dead.”
Kizzie nodded once, kept the ‘Yes, Sir’ confined to her two ears, and pulled the Beretta from her thigh holster. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
Xander winked and blew her a kiss; turned and jumped into the basin.
A last look at a smirking Phil, Kizzie ran to chase down Sumi.
Then a boom loud as thunder split the night.
* * * *
A loud clap of thunder, and then the skies seemed to open sending down a deluge. Sumi could hardly see where she was going, stumbling on grass and jumbled roots. A concrete walking path was just to her left, hugging the curve of the basin, and if she was going to stop her Mistress—
Not your Mistress. Vanda.
If she was going to stop Vanda in time she had to risk running on the path.
Her lungs burned, and her clothes were soaked, but her focus was clear. She had to atone for her sins. Had to find herself again.
She’d be good.
Up ahead, a soft, muffled crack floated to her ears.
She pushed herself harder, breathing louder.
Sumi came upon Julie’s body stretched out near the water’s edge. Vanda had positioned her expertly—gun in Julie’s right hand, exit wound at her crown. Rain filled the basins of her eye sockets, gates flung open, the overflow trickling down her temples to make it appear as though the wide-eyed corpse was crying.
A new wave of anger surged through Sumi. Grabbing the gun, she swerved through the rain determined to end the life of the woman who’d ended hers, theirs.
Vanda was only a dozen meters up ahead, a dark shape moving through the trees, back turned on yet another dead warrior. Another failure. Another extension of Her who served honorably and then was found unworthy.
Julie would not be made sacred. None of them would.
Sumi stalked her, moving silently from tree to tree until she reached the outskirts of the clearing Vanda stood in with a phone pressed to her ear.
Seconds passed and then Fay’s phone bleated in Sumi’s pocket.
Vanda spun around quickly, a huge smile on her face—
—that faded when she saw the weapon and the warrior behind it.
Gun and eyes both trained on her former Mistress, Sumi answered the call. “When a warrior strikes…”
Xander reached Phil, exhausted and freezing. In spite of the rising tide, the swim out took less than 20 seconds. Coming back was closer to eight minutes. Between the flashlight, the weight of the bomb and the ice cold water that had it mostly submerged, he might as well have been raising the Titanic.
It didn’t deter him.
Six million dollars and a couple years later, Harvey was finally his.
Provided it didn’t explode first.
Shivering, he let the heavy rain sluice off the putrid water, then tugged on his clothes and huddled in his leather jacket. Phil was already kneeling, carefully forcing open the roof of the metal housing with a wicked-looking knife. Beneath this, another plate of metal lay inside, ostensibly protecting the bomb from making contact with water. This plate was removed with just as much care, revealing the delicate innards.
Xander muttered a curse and Phil echoed it.
Gold spheres. Plural.
Xander knew Nikolay had completed one; knew the potential damage for one. But six?
Each had a small charge ringing it—Hiro Ohayashi’s “more impactful” version of RDX, if Xander had to guess—the initial chemical reaction that would create a supercritical environment for the nuclear material to detonate. As a fail-safe, they’d been daisy-chained together. In the event one charge didn’t go, the others would get the party started until everything went kablooey.
The fallout from an explosion this size would be unthinkable.
A cell phone was rigged to the device, counting down the minutes. Roughly six hours left. Plenty of time.
Unless Vanda was suicidal and decided to phone a friend early.
Xander crouched beside Phil, holding the light as steady as his shaking hands could, and encountered yet another problem. Unlike the movies, where the crazy person who’d constructed a nuclear bomb conveniently color-coded the shit ton of wiring nuclear bombs inherently came with, there was no black or green wire to decide between. No blue or white.
Every thread was red.
Phil gave a low whistle. “Never easy, is it?”
“Where’d the fun be in that?”
“You really fond of DC?” Wholly calm, Phil consulted the weather-proof laptop situated between them, the flash drive Xander had given him secured in the port. Schematics for every possible detonation scenario had been provided.
For a single gold sphere.
/>
Using multi-colored wires.
A pair of cutters in his grip, Phil separated the wires with careful fingers. “I’m thinking, we go now we’ll be halfway back to Paris by the time this blows.”
“Or back to Bruges,” Xander goaded. “Well, ‘back’ for you...”
Phil didn’t respond.
Grinning, Xander studied the screen, glanced at where Phil had selected one thin cable. Repeated the process. “Not that one. Go over two to your left.”
“You sure ‘bout this?”
“I could lie to you if it makes you feel better.”
Phil cut the wire.
The timer paused at 05:48:33—
Xander grinned. “See, I told you. Easy work.”
—started up again at 00:09:48
Two heads snapped up.
“Well, hell…” Phil said, sighing loudly. “So much for you being the brains.”
* * * *
“When a warrior…strikes…” Sumi repeated into the receiver.
The confusion in Vanda’s face was but a brief flicker, and then the smile was back. “It is with stealth, accuracy, and purpose, so that his enemies have not the ability to counter or strike back,” she said, finishing the code Sumi had started. The code she’d given Sumi long ago.
Lowering the disposable phone to her side, she glided toward her submissive and cocked her head. “Are you my enemy, kotenok?”
At the sound of her nickname, Sumi hesitated. Her hands shook, and she tossed the useless phone aside. Vanda inched closer; Sumi leveled the gun. “Stay there.”
“No. I do not take orders from you, pet.” Vanda kept coming, strides even, voice cool and seductive. “I knew you would kill them. Had every faith in you.”
Sumi blinked, frowned. “You…you did?”
Nodding, Vanda let the umbrella swing down so the bell was now upright, collecting rainwater. Then she dropped it to the ground. “It was your final test of devotion to me. I am your Domme, Sumi,” she said softly. “Always. It is my job to test your limits and you far exceeded them.