by G T Almasi
It’s different for Cleo. I couldn’t figure out why until I sat her down to talk about it. At first all I could draw out of her were some terse comments about people returning from the dead. I persisted, and gradually a new picture of Cleo’s life formed in my mind.
For months now, Mom’s psyche has been walloped by powerful and conflicting emotions stemming from the return of her presumed-dead husband. Which man is he? The fun, charming guy who took her on dates every weekend? The brooding drunk with the nasty temper? Someone else entirely? Toss in a clone of the fun-loving dude she fell for and the man she’s now married to seems quite a bit less desirable. The worst thing for Cleo is she can’t help feeling attracted to Falcon, which is all kinda a brain scramble.
Mom is a smart woman. She knows lives can’t be relived. She said being with me helps reinforce her connection to my father. But whenever Falcon is around, Mom’s emotional circuits go haywire.
Something I didn’t know until this conversation is Mom and Dad’s matchmaker was none other than Dr. Herodotus. He was Mom’s college thesis adviser. Dr. H was so fond of Cleo, he made sure he attended my birth. This perhaps explains why ExOps’s Med-Tech Director—who isn’t paid to have private patients—still sees me and my parents personally. The one time I asked him about this he said, “I’ll be damned if anyone else takes care of Cleo’s family.”
Being a teacher’s pet has its advantages. This is how Falcon was posted to Warsaw, even though the kid hasn’t graduated from Camp A-Go-Go. The Rezdi will soon have its own coaches and trainers to indoctrinate potential field assets from Eastern Europe; they can help Falcon finish his training.
Speaking of patients, Cyrus has returned to Washington. He’s overcome his post-surgical infections, and is scheduled to receive a full, hips-down prosthetic to restore his ability to walk. I had a comm-call with him before he shipped out.
“Don’t worry about me, kid,” he said.
“How long will it take for you to get used to the new gear?”
“They say as long as a year, but…” I could almost see him wink. “I’m thinking three months ought to do it.”
I was too busy admiring Cyrus’s bravado to hear what he commed next. “Wait, say that again, Uncle Cy?”
“I said we may even pull a Job Number together.”
“You’re coming back to the field?”
“Hell, yes! I’m not going through all this shitty rehab to sit behind a desk.”
“Th—that…” I sputtered. “It would be an honor, sir.”
The Sheik rides again.
While we eat, I mention Cyrus’s upbeat mood to Brando. My partner reminds me the man is still floating on a river of painkillers.
“Not that he isn’t genuinely excited about doing fieldwork again,” Patrick says, “but a surgical procedure like that will mean a long recovery, especially at his age.”
I take a pull on my beer. “What Level will he be?”
“Hmm.” Brando thoughtfully gnaws on a chicken drumstick. “I guess whatever he was when he came out of the field. Unless he has to start a new Development Cycle because of his legs.” My partner sets the now meatless bone on his plate and licks his fingers. “Either way, he’ll be the most experienced Level in the section.”
We grab more potatoes and continue cramming food into our bottomless tummies. I wash the spuds down with a nice German ale. Something catches my eye as I finish my drink. Through the bottom of the glass, I see a figure rise from below the table to loom between Raj and Falcon.
I whip the glass away from my face. No one there.
Patrick glances at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m fine.” My voice quivers.
Brando comms on my private channel. “What is it?”
“Nothing! I said I’m—”
“Fuck that,” he interrupts me. “What do you think you see?”
Before I can answer, the mysterious person appears over my partner’s shoulder. It’s not a black-haired girl. It’s a guy. He leers at me then vanishes.
Ohh, you little asshole.
“Hey!” I bark. “Stop dicking around or I’ll stuff you in this chicken carcass!”
Raj and Falcon look up from their plates. “Wafoo tauffin’ a-out?” Falcon says through what sounds like a whole potato.
The mystery man magically appears in the chair next to Falcon, who spits his spuds all over the table before falling out of his seat.
“Ta-daaa!” Grey sings.
Raj, slightly less surprised than F-Bird, still gives a start. “Dammit, Grey!”
Falcon climbs back into his chair; the kid hasn’t experienced our colleague’s now-you-see-me routine. Grey is an Infiltrator—the sneakiest kind of Level—and his Development Cycle is focused on stealth, stealth, and more stealth. Infiltrator Mods feature a combination of camouflage and speed that allows the agent to melt into any background. Grey has elevated his fieldcraft to Zen Master status and can will himself virtually invisible.
“Grey,” I begin, “in case you’re wondering why we never give you a friendly reception, it’s because only a shithead shows off like that.”
Grey, totally unfazed, pours himself a glass of wine. “I’m just keeping you people on your toes. Speaking of which, I have a special guest.” The annoyingly superb Infiltrator beckons to someone in the hall. Another man walks into the room.
The walls swirl around me.
Oh God! I’ve really gone bananas this time.
“Brando,” I comm. “Do you see who I see?”
“I do,” my partner answers slowly, “if you see Winter.”
Oh thank God.
The man known as Winter is still very lean, but now he’s clean-shaven, with only a thin hint of hair on his dark-skinned face. His black eyes dart around the room: a vulture watching for predators and prey. Winter’s inexpensive, government-issue business suit hangs on him like a sack on a scarecrow, but his aura of intensity would make people take him seriously even if he were wearing a wooden barrel.
I jab my thumb toward the former Blades of Persia leader and yell at Grey, “What the fuck is he doing here?”
Grey says, “The Justice Department decided Winter—er…Mr. Badr—needs another way to earn his keep now that Fredericks is dead.”
Winter waits a moment, then says, “I’m here to help you people with von Macht.”
It takes a few seconds for the connection to form in my mind. Erik von Macht, as commander of the Deutsche Petroleum Security Force in the Middle East, would have crossed swords with Winter’s Blades of Persia pretty often.
Even so.
“What’s von Macht got to do with anything?”
Winter calmly answers, “Chancellor Eisenberg hired him to defend the border with Russia.”
Brando says, “I thought his people were just acting as scouts to—”
“Initially, yes,” Winter interrupts. “But the former chancellor’s office greatly expanded the scope of von Macht’s responsibilities.”
“Wait,” I say, trying to keep up. “Deutsche Petro is the security company?”
Winter’s sharp features shift in the overhead light as he inclines his head.
The table goes quiet. I struggle to grasp Deutsche Petroleum’s size. Yes, it’s the richest company in the world; they make more money than South America. But c’mon, their security force is a private army. They can hold back the Commie Tsunami?
Incredibly, they can. Once the Reich really started crumbling, Berlin called on von Macht to reinforce his thin screen along Germany’s eastern border, and granted him authorization to expand the DPSF. It doesn’t sound like Honecker & Company really considered what they were doing. Von Macht went on a galactic hiring spree that exponentially expanded the forces under his command. Ol’ Erik also bought every piece of military hardware he could lay hi
s mitts on. A lot of it is surplus equipment from the Reich and the U.S., but it’s still good gear. Plus, it’s all field-proven and has an established supply of replacement parts.
Von Macht’s responsibilities expanded even further when Honecker’s government collapsed. Acting Chancellor Eisenberg knew about von Macht’s dramatic buildup of the DPSF, and retained Europe’s only unmangled military force as her primary guardian.
Winter pulls up a chair. He sits, elegantly crosses his thin legs, takes a cigarette case from his jacket, and slides a smoke into his long fingers.
Raj speaks over the top of his beer mug. “Okay, Grey, so DP Security Force is guarding the border.” The big man tilts his head toward Winter. “Why do we need this guy’s help with von Macht?”
Grey arches his eyebrows at Winter. The middle-aged Arab takes his cue and says, “Because earlier today, Deutsche Petroleum Security Force invaded the Soviet Union.”
Patrick drops his fork on his plate, Falcon and I stop in mid-chew, and Raj inhales a mouthful of beer, which plunges him into a desperate coughing fit.
Grey sits still, watching our reactions. He already knew.
Winter lights his cigarette and takes a drag. He gently exhales pale smoke from his nostrils. Since no one else says anything, our unexpected guest tells us what’s happened in the east.
At five o’clock this morning, von Macht’s security force launched a surprise attack on the USSR. First the DPSF hosed down the tightly packed Russian troops with nerve gas, which wiped out a quarter million Soviet mud-suckers in two hours. To prevent Russian reinforcements from reaching the front, the DPSF blasted the Red Army’s rear sectors with tactical nukes. These missile strikes killed hundreds of thousands and decimated their logistical infrastructure.
Raj scowls. “Where the devil did an oil company get nuclear weapons?”
Winter calmly smokes his ciggy and pointedly looks at Grey.
The Infiltrator sighs. “Von Macht insisted he needed nukes as a deterrent, but Honecker wouldn’t sell any of the Reich’s arsenal to him.” Grey squints his eyes shut and quickly says, “So we sold him some of ours.”
I hold my head in my hands.
Holy. Fuckin. Crap.
From behind my fingers, I ask, “This is a preemptive, defensive thing right?”
“No,” Winter says. “It’s a genuine invasion. Von Macht stacked his front line with armored battalions and mechanized infantry. After the gas attack and missile strikes, these motorized forces swept past the smashed Russian front positions to form the anvil. The rest of von Macht’s army acted as the hammer. They’ve captured two million Soviet soldiers.” Winter smokes for a bit, then comments, “It’s the most ambitious military operation since the German invasion of England.”
We’re silent for two full minutes. It feels like an hour.
“Now what?” I whisper.
Winter takes a water glass from the table and drops his cigarette stub in it. “The fragmented European states will remain vulnerable until they remodel themselves in a unified form. None of the reconstituted countries can attempt to stop von Macht without exposing the entire continent to a Soviet attack. Even after today’s devastating losses, the Russians still harbor vast reserves of manpower.”
Grey says, “Our official policies will assist von Macht complete his, um, screening action. Meanwhile, covert assets like us will seek out weaknesses in von Macht’s capabilities to exploit when the time is right.”
My mouth has gone dry. I shakily reach over to squeeze Brando’s hand. He wraps my fingers into his then takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“What about China?” my partner asks.
Grey answers, “They’ll support their Russian allies by attacking us in the Pacific.”
“So,” Patrick mutters, “that’s it then?”
Winter nods gravely.
Jesus.
Von Macht has started World War Three.
To the casualties of Science
Acknowledgments
Talon of Scorpio contains more characters, locations, and events than any book in this series so far. Where Blades of Winter is a spy thriller, and Hammer of Angels is a heroic quest, Talon of Scorpio is an epic war story. As such, much of this book’s material is inspired by war memoirs, notably Philip Caputo’s A Rumor of War, Michael Herr’s Dispatches, Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, Guy Sajer’s The Forgotten Soldier, and George Wilson’s If You Survive (where I learned that shrapnel can split people’s heads).
All the locations in this book have real-life historical importance, and several mean something to me personally. My mother’s family came over from Ireland during the English-inflicted famine of the 1850s. My paternal grandfather earned his doctorate at the university in Karlsruhe. Two of my cousins were stationed in Stuttgart during their time in the Marines. Another of my cousins served in the 101st Airborne, so I sent Scarlet to Bastogne.
Even locations without these connections took on meaning through my research. Everything in Dachau is accurate except for Carbon. Munich really was Nazism’s spawning ground. I set the finale in Berlin as an homage to our reality’s Battle of Berlin, informed by Cornelius Ryan’s The Last Battle, and Tony Le Tissier’s The Battle of Berlin and With Our Backs to Berlin.
I mapped the Shadowstorm’s Berlin with help from Paul Wietzorek’s Historic Berlin and Nick Gay’s Berlin Then and Now. These and other references helped me place Albert Speer’s buildings, including the Great Dome and the Flak Towers. They also helped me remove our reality’s wartime devastation and the Berlin Wall.
The nonfictional characters like Anne Frank (Garbo), John F. Kennedy, and Robert F. Kennedy are based on their books and those of their biographers.
My list of contributors has grown so long it must be every person I know. Thanks so much to all of you, particularly my wife Natalie, my parents George and Carol, my editor Anne Groell, my agent Tris Coburn, my good friends—especially Andy and Arthur—and all my followers on Facebook.
My most special thanks goes to my readers, without whom I could never muster the motivation to tilt at these windmills. I invite you to www.facebook.com/GTAlmasi for late-night glimpses of my writing process.
—GTA
Plymouth, Massachusetts, 2018
BY G. T. ALMASI
Shadowstorm
Blades of Winter
Hammer of Angels
Talon of Scorpio (ebook)
About the Author
G. T. ALMASI graduated from RISD and moved to Boston to pursue a career as a graphic designer. While he built his design portfolio, he joined a band as the bass player, and wrote and designed the band’s newsletter. Once his career as an art director took off, he continued to supplement his design talents by writing copy for his clients. As a novelist, his literary influences include Robert Ludlum, Neal Stephenson, and Hunter S. Thompson. He also draws inspiration from John Woo’s movies and Todd Howard’s videogames. Almasi lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts, with his wife, Natalie, and their lovably stubborn dog, Ella.
Facebook.com/GTAlmasi
Twitter: @GTAlmasi
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