by G T Almasi
Obediently yours,
George H. W. Bush, XIC
51
TEN WEEKS LATER, MONDAY, JUNE 1, 7:03 A.M. EST
EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, HOTEL BETHESDA, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
The biggest advantage to sleeping in a chair is that it gives me a break from my nightmares. In truth, that’s the only advantage to spending the night in this damn thing. Some evenings I just lie on the floor. It’s not like I actually sleep, but most nights I let Mom have the couch.
We’ve maintained a vigil at my unconscious father’s bedside since we got home. Mom flew down to Cuba in time to meet the Longstreet as it docked in Havana. I spotted her turquoise scarf from halfway across McAuliffe Harbor.
When I appeared at the top of the gangplank, she waved at me with both hands. Her happy smile faded as she watched me limp down the ramp. By the time she saw my bandages, my bruises, and the shadow in my eyes, she was positively distraught. Mothers know when their babies have been in over their heads.
Cleo held her arms out to me. “You did it, angel! Daddy’s home.”
My vision blurred as I staggered to the bottom of the walkway. “Mom!” I held her as tightly as my ribs could stand and cried out nearly two months of anxiety. She kissed my forehead and gently rocked me in her arms. “It’s okay, honey. You’re home. We’re all okay.” The rest of the disembarking passengers flowed around us like a stream washing around a fallen tree.
On the rare evenings when I actually doze off, the chair twists me into an aching pretzel. My mother, on the other hand, seems capable of snoozing anywhere. She tells me it’s all the practice she’s had.
I’ve been home for almost three months. My small galaxy of injuries has healed, my Mods have been repaired, and my Enhances have been replenished. Raj and Grey are all fixed up, too, and they’ve both been assigned new missions.
Patrick and I see each other every day. We’re officially an item, but I’m too distracted by my father’s condition for anything super serious, which Patrick seems to understand. The two of us work together all week, and most Saturday nights we go to the movies. When I have my period, we go for ice cream afterward. When I don’t have it, we fool around in the car and then we go for ice cream.
Most of our classes and briefings are about the wild situation in Greater Germany. The country is tearing itself apart over Jewish emancipation. All of us ExOps Levels are being prepped for missions on the Continent, and once the dope addicts on Capitol Hill figure out which side we’re on, we’ll ship out and kick butt. Should be fun.
Falcon survived the Med-Techs’ procedure to extract the Sleeper mission Fredericks embedded in the kid’s onboard software. The Meddies said it’s an all-or-nothing operation and this time we got “all.” Now ExOps needs to figure out what to do with its bonus Level.
Fredericks set the kid up to be a Malefactor, which is a Level who specializes in sniping. They’re deployed on all types of jobs, but there’s one particular mission these agents own outright. Covert-action agencies develop Malefactors and their long-range lethality because they’re perfect for killing other Levels.
The ad-hoc program that raised Falcon left him deficient in some skills. He needs updated Mods, and his hand-to-hand skills are for shit. But his acrobatic ability is on a par with an Infiltrator’s, and his technical skills are top-notch. Falcon would make a good Protector, but his fantastic marksmanship wouldn’t see much action.
Cyrus sounded confident when he said he’d find something for the kid. “There are plenty of enemy Levels out there. I can think of a dozen Job Numbers right now that could use a good Malefactor.”
F-Bird stops by my dad’s room a couple of times a week, but he keeps the visits short. He can tell his resemblance to my father gives Cleo the heebie-jeebies. It’s like meeting a friend’s identical twin and feeling just a little nutso until one of them goes away. Falcon also doesn’t stick around because he’s received strict directions that he must leave the room if Dad comes out of his coma. The Med-Techs want to minimize their patient’s emotional shock as much as they can.
The Meddies have done a great job so far. As soon as the Navy airlifted him home, the ExOps medical staff rushed Dad here to Bethesda. His years in a Gestapo jail and the time he spent immobilized in the Original tank had wrecked his body. Dad’s muscles were atrophied, he’d lost way too much weight, and he’d become a smorgasbord of viruses and infections.
Keeping him alive was incredibly hairy, and nobody—including Cleo—would tell me the details. All she said was, “Alix, your father is here. That’s what matters. Now we wait and see.”
I cajoled Dr. Herodotus into telling me Dad had suffered a series of heart attacks and was in the ICU for over a week—a very long time to be at death’s door. My mother was by his side for all this while I butchered my way out of Cherbourg and floated home in the Longstreet.
The Med-Techs transferred Dad from intensive care to this private room after he stabilized a bit. This doesn’t mean his condition is any less critical, but it did mean Mom and I could set up camp. We’re with Dad so much that the ExOps mail room delivers our paychecks here instead of to our house out in Arlington.
Mom could tell this was going to be a long wait, so she’s done some things to make the room a little cozier. The sofa she’s sleeping on is from the Med-Techs’ lounge. “They all owe me favors anyway,” she said.
Cleo also brought in a few table lamps from home so we don’t have to sit under the fluorescent ceiling lights all the time. A throw rug helps soften the tiled floor. You’d hardly know it was a hospital room except for the side rails on Dad’s bed and the heavy rack of medical gear mounted to the wall over his head.
I creak out of the chair, stretch my arms, and swing them in a flat circle to loosen my joints. A long yawn reminds me what terrible breath I have in the morning. Cleo is still asleep, so I ninja walk into the bathroom and close the door so she won’t hear me brushing my teeth.
It’s too early for hallucinations, so I avoid looking in the mirror. It’s like being a vampire, except instead of not being able to see my reflection, I see myself and lots of other scary people, too. I told Dr. Herodotus about them in one of our daily therapy sessions. He didn’t like hearing that my phantom playmates have become a full-time phenomenon.
Dr. H. also didn’t like hearing about all my other symptoms. His face grew longer and longer as I told him how I suffer from dizziness, shaking, fainting, and majorly trippy vision malfunctions.
He filled page after page in his notebook and told me I’m suffering from practically every post-traumatic stress reaction on record. He said I have a lot of work ahead of me. “You’ll have to park your attitude at the door, Alix. Not long ago your symptoms would have had you committed to an asylum.”
My shoulders shiver as I try not to think about nuthouses and shock therapy and all that shit. I rinse out my mouth and pad into Dad’s bedroom. Cleo has shifted position on the sofa, but she isn’t awake yet. It’s almost time for Dad’s morning visit from the nurse, so I take advantage of the quiet. I go to his side and rest my head on his chest. His heartbeat gently thumps against my cheek.
When I’ve done this before, Dad’s pulse has sounded steady but weak. Today it sounds different, stronger, more like Patrick’s heart sounds when we snuggle together. I close my eyes and think about how I used to fit on the couch with my father while he slept in his shop. I can almost feel the way his hands would stroke my hair as he slowly woke up.
Wait a minute. I can feel hands stroking my hair. I turn my head to say hi to Cleo, who must be standing next to me.
She’s not standing next to me. She’s still on the sofa.
I whip my head around to look at my father.
His eyes are open. They stare at me with the same intensity I’ve remembered for all these years. They’re still a beautiful gray-blue with green flecks. The crow’s-feet in the corners of my father’s eyes crinkle a bit as he smiles at me.
The tube in his throat pre
vents him from speaking, so he comms, “My God, Alix. You look so much like your mother.” Dad’s eyes mist while he drinks me in. “You’ve grown so much, Hot-Shot, and you’re so beautiful. I’m sorry I didn’t…that I wasn’t…” He tries to keep his composure and not cry in front of his little girl, but his brave expression crumbles like a snowman in spring rain.
I throw my arms around his shoulders and cradle his head next to mine.
“MOM, WAKE UP!” I shout as tears pour down my face. “DADDY’S BACK!”
To Anne, Margot,
and all the children destroyed by war
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I write the factual material for my books, I bring an enthusiast’s foundation in history, but for everything else I start from square one. Filling in my yawning abysses of ignorance requires a lot of research and a great deal of help from many patient, intelligent people. As with Blades of Winter, I never would have finished Hammer of Angels without their priceless contributions.
My parents, George and Carol, set me up for all this by sending me to RISD and supporting me in my pursuit of a creative career. My sister Mary Rose generously introduced me to the basics of publishing and helped me avoid many newcomers’ mistakes. My wife, Natalie, has enthusiastically read draft after draft and offered fantastic suggestions.
The final version of this book owes much to my talented, intelligent, and patient editor, Anne Groell, who coaxed better material out of me with every comment and question. The fact that I’m working with Anne is entirely due to the tireless efforts of my never-say-die literary agent, Tris Coburn.
I interrogated many friends about everything from gunshot wounds to psychology and ballistics to bombers. Please forgive me if I leave anyone out:
George S. Almasi, Andy MacInnis, Steven Sharp, Arthur V. Milano, Kirsten Schwaller-Sigrist, Diane O’Brien, Beth Kelley, Scott D. Packard, Len Freiberg III, Maureen Robinson, Christa Snyder, Lori Freiberg-Rapp, Paul Muller, Jamin Naghmouchi, Claudia Wilcox-Powers, Gretchen Schwaller-Sharp, Peter Sigrist, Cathy Davis-Hayes, David Hayes, Carol DuBois, Emily Clark, and Lisa Cullity-Drennan.
A special thanks to the people who read Blades of Winter and/or the advance reader copies of Hammer of Angels. Your positive response has been fantastic.
I especially thank you, friendly reader, for joining me as I tell my stories. I invite you to http://www.facebook.com/GTAlmasi to follow my late-night writer’s ravings.
—GTA
BY G. T. ALMASI
Blades of Winter
Hammer of Angels