XGeneration 7: Dead Hand (XGeneration Series)

by Brad Magnarella

  Dementyev stared at his two highest-ranking men. “Who authorized you to meet?” he replied at last.

  “I’m sorry?” Aksakov asked.

  “The Central Committee. Who authorized you to meet?”

  “According to the rules—”

  “While the enemies of the Revolution grow,” Dementyev cut in, “while I bleed for the Party and Union, you and the others scheme behind my back like thieves? Is that what you’ve been doing?”

  The worms in his head flipped and writhed as though being stirred with a hot poker.

  “No, General,” Aksakov said, holding up a hand. “You had already issued the directive and deadline on the Project. This was merely another meeting in a series to ensure we are fulfilling your mandate. The concern was raised, however, of the absence of fail-safes.”

  He’s lying, the worms hissed. They both are. They’re filthy, treacherous liars.

  Dementyev pushed the worms aside. He still trusted Aksakov, even though the man was beginning to test that trust. The Chief of Staff was another matter. Despite his small stature, Iosif Kuzmich was built like a gymnast. His resolve, just as firm and efficient. Dementyev had always liked that about him. But now he saw cunning ambition in the man’s eyes.

  And that he did not like.

  “You concern yourselves with the wrong things,” Dementyev said. “You behave as though the United States and the West were not at our threshold. You behave as though they were not counting the spoils of our defeat: our treasure, our commodities—our women, for devil’s sake! They mean to have it all! And you would let them. So long as you have your pathetic fail-safe.”

  “About the West,” the Chief of Staff said.

  Dementyev caught the warning look Aksakov shot Kuzmich, but Kuzmich was undeterred.

  “I sent a missive to Washington, testing the idea of secret talks. Our missile launch, undetected by their satellite and ground-based radar systems, had the desired effect. They know we can hit them. They are anxious to talk. We can use the Warsaw Pact as a starting point. Then—”

  The explosion resounded with a hard ring off the stone in Dementyev’s office. As the General reholstered his Makarov pistol, two of his military policemen threw open the door. They had heard the shot. With sharp barks, Dementyev ordered them to remove Kuzmich’s body. The Chief of Staff’s torso had fallen so far forward he looked as though he were tying his shoes. As the policemen straightened Kuzmich, Dementyev shifted his gaze to Aksakov.

  “No more exchanges with the West,” he said. “No more talk of fail-safes.”

  The Minister of Defense swallowed. “Yes, General. I will take your message back to the Committee.”

  Dementyev peered past him, to the tall Soviet flags flanking the door to his office. The maddening wriggling in his head abated, and a pleasant warmth filled the void. For a moment, he saw a halo enveloping him and the flags in an exclusive light. Yes, fate had bound them in a perfect marriage: the world’s largest nuclear arsenal with the man destined to deploy it. What history had ordained—foreseen by the great Lenin and Stalin—he would fulfill.

  The Dead Hand would make it so.

  25

  In the middle of the dirt road, Scott completed his analysis of the headset used by one of the gunmen and looked up at Janis, Shockwave, and Minion. “Military-grade radio communication,” he said, “nothing fancy, but hard to trace to others on the same frequency unless they’re in close proximity. And I’m not picking up anything.”

  He dropped the headset he was holding into a pile with the others.

  “Even if the others were close,” Janis said, “I’m not sure how much luck you’d have. Remember how I started losing my connection to Jesse the moment he got in that van? I think they’re using magnetic interference.”

  “Great,” Scott said.

  As the cleanup team arrived, car lights flashing through the trees, Scott sighed. They’d been a superhero group for a full year. They were supposed to be improving. But from Reginald getting snagged at the headquarters of Viper Industries, to their own agents being slaughtered, to he and Janis being ambushed, to losing Jesse and, with him, their lead to the kingpin, the past week had seen one failure after another—and when they could least afford them.

  “They had inside help,” Janis reminded him.

  “Well, it’s like a certain insider once said, we can’t expect the enemy to play fair. They’re going to use any and all tricks to prevent us from achieving our goal and improve their chances of achieving theirs.” Scott snorted in dismay. “No wonder Agent Steel was such an expert.”

  “What can we do?” Shockwave asked.

  Scott glanced at his watch: 11:41 p.m. “In the next nineteen minutes?” he asked irritably. “I don’t know. Maybe you can find some more potential informants to blow up.” He compressed his lips and reminded himself that being a smart ass was no way to lead. “Look, I’m sorry. Why don’t we head back to the main road, see if Janis can’t pick up the trail of the lead van.”

  They walked down the dirt road, pausing to direct the arriving cleanup crew before reaching the cruiser Shockwave and Minion had arrived in. Scott opened a back door for Janis, but she hesitated, a hand floating to her brow.

  “There’s a message from Director Kilmer incoming,” she said a full second before their watches began to flash. “He wants us to report back to Champions HQ.”

  “Probably to discuss the handover of those disbursement codes,” Scott said, reading the message. He could feel defeat creeping back into him, weighing down his muscles like lead.

  Janis pulled him into the backseat after her. “Don’t be so sure.”

  By the time Scott and the other three arrived, it was two till midnight and the remaining Champions—Tyler, Erin, Margaret, and Reginald—were already seated. Though Jesse had not attended these meetings for the last several months, his absence felt like a giant vacuum.

  “What’s going on?” Scott asked, looking from his teammates to Kilmer, who stood at the head of the table.

  “There’s been a development,” Kilmer said. “I recently concluded a videoconference with Friedman and Schwartz at Viper Industries. Rather than rehash what was said, I’m going to go ahead and replay our meeting on the monitor. We’ll discuss the implications following.”

  Kilmer stood to one side and clicked the remote in his hand. The lights dimmed and an image appeared on the flat screen on the wall behind his chair. The two highest-ups at Viper were sitting side by side, Fred in a brown wool sweater and Ned in a dark blue suit, the brow below his sharp, slicked-back hair shiny with oil. In the CFO’s black eyes and razor thin lips, Scott saw a man you did not want to make a habit of screwing with.

  “Good evening,” Friedman’s recorded voice said.

  “Hello, gentleman,” Kilmer answered. Their director’s face could be seen in a small box in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

  “Thanks for agreeing to conference at this late hour,” Friedman said. “I dare say, we’ve had some interesting exchanges these last few days: a supposed SEC audit from you and your associate, which appears to have led to the hacking and altering of our disbursement codes, not to mention a bold break-in by another of your associates at our main office.”

  “All in the interest of national security,” Kilmer answered, “I assure you.”

  Schwartz scowled at the response. However, Friedman smiled in an agreeable way that, under the circumstances, seemed to Scott downright creepy. “I understand you were given a deadline to turn over the disbursement codes?” the CEO asked.

  “Yes,” Kilmer answered.

  “And you were told the consequences for non action?”

  “We were.”

  “What have you decided?”

  Scott caught himself leaning forward, but he wasn’t the only one. The future of the Champions Program, not to mention the entire Western Hemisphere, hinged on Kilmer’s answer.

  “We can’t do this alone,” Kilmer said at last. “We need your
help.”

  “Help?” Schwartz repeated. “After the crap you’ve pulled?”

  Scott couldn’t blame the man for his incredulity. He looked from the monitor to the live Kilmer, who was standing to one side, arms crossed so one fist propped his chin. What was he up to?

  Back on screen, Friedman pushed a hand toward his CFO in a staying gesture. He stared into the camera. “Explain yourself.”

  “Put simply, if you transfer those funds to the lobbying firms, you’ll be setting in motion a chain of events that could culminate in a large-scale nuclear attack on the United States, one we wouldn’t be able to detect or defend against.”

  Schwartz made another one of his bitter faces. “Your shape-shifting friend already tried that angle.”

  “Your reasoning?” Friedman said to Kilmer. Beyond his soft, avuncular exterior, the man was as efficient as an abacus. Scott imagined that was how he ran his board meetings. Maybe he’s the one you don’t want to make a habit of messing with, he thought.

  “First,” Kilmer said, “it is our belief that the dozen lobbying firms you contract are, in fact, one firm.” If Friedman or Schwartz already knew this, their puzzled expressions could have won them awards for Best and Supporting. “It is also our belief that the person controlling the shell firms has an interest in perpetuating the Cold War.”

  “What in the hell for?” Schwartz challenged.

  “To keep billing you and your competitors. Not only for lobbying fees, but for a percentage of your gross profits. As the Cold War winds down, so does their take. Am I correct?”

  Scott had to admire their director’s forthrightness. Not only was he articulating the kingpin’s motives, he was spelling out Viper’s as well. It was in Kilmer’s inflection, his choice of words. He could play hardball, too, he was saying. Even with the future of his program at stake.

  “Go on,” Friedman said.

  “Whoever is behind the shell firms believes that lending those billions to the Soviet Union is going to enable them to retake Eastern Europe,” Kilmer continued, “restore the standoff between our two superpowers. More business for you, more money for them.”

  Friedman’s eyes squinted slightly as he followed along. For his part, Schwartz fashioned an expression that suggested chronic constipation.

  “The truth is, General Dementyev has no such intentions. He has developed a cloaking technology for his nuclear missiles. You may have heard about the launch last week? If not, I’m telling you now. A test missile escaped our early warning detection system. The only thing keeping Dementyev from cloaking and deploying his entire arsenal is funding. Funding that will come from you and your competitors, funneled through your ‘lobbyists.’” Kilmer paused to allow the information to percolate. “Now that you’ve heard what I’ve had to say, hear this. If you choose to go ahead with the disbursement, you’ll be complicit in the nuclear annihilation of the United States and its 250 million citizens. I’m asking you to help us instead.”

  A moment passed in which neither party spoke. In the conference room, Scott was aware that the other Champions were sitting stock still, eyes riveted on the screen. Friedman turned to Schwartz, his eyebrows slightly raised. Schwartz hesitated, then gave a begrudging nod.

  “We’ve been looking into some things on this end as well,” Friedman said. “We started with the crypto-modem that prevented you from accessing the accounts. The modem technology was sold to Viper by the main lobbying firm we transact with as a condition of their services. They insisted it was for security purposes—both ours and theirs—but it does seem to fall in line with what you’re saying in regards to someone wanting to keep his enterprise a secret.”

  “How much communication do you have with these lobbying firms?” Kilmer asked.

  “We meet with mid-level members about once a quarter,” Friedman replied. “They also submit weekly reports of their activities. Which congressmen and committee members they’re talking to, how funding-related votes are projected to go and what that means for Viper in terms of contracts—that sort of thing.”

  “What you need to understand,” Schwartz said, “is that these relationships were established well before Mr. Friedman and I came into our positions. We are simply continuing what has worked for Viper thus far.”

  Scott studied both men’s eyes. What do you think? he asked Janis. Can we trust them?

  They’re nervous, she replied. Whether from Kilmer’s talk of nuclear annihilation or something else, it’s hard to say. They’re too distant for me to tap into. It strikes me, though, that if they wanted to hurt the Champions Program they could’ve done so already.

  Good point.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Friedman paused as though to be absolutely certain of what he was about to propose. “If we give you a one-time clearance into those accounts, will you be able to establish where the money goes? To whom it goes?”

  Whoa, Scott thought.

  Yeah, didn’t see that coming either.

  “That’s our hope,” Kilmer said. “But we’re going to need some time. How long can we hold onto those disbursement codes?”

  The CEO turned to Schwartz, who appeared uneasy.

  “I can probably keep the firms off our backs for three, four days,” he allowed, “explain that someone tried to hack into the accounts and we’re working to restore the software. After that, they’re going to get suspicious. Especially if they’re multiple heads of an almighty deity, as you claim.” His voice continued to cut with skepticism, though not as sharply as earlier.

  “I can’t thank you enough, gentlemen,” Kilmer said.

  “We have a mutual interest in protecting the United States and its allies,” Friedman replied. “If what you’re claiming turns out to be the case, then it’s us who will need to thank you.”

  Kilmer clicked the remote, ending the recorded feed and restoring the lights.

  “So that’s where we stand,” he said to the team. “A welcomed development, for sure. But one we have to act quickly on.” His gaze fell on Scott. “Schwartz isn’t very happy about it, but he’s going to authorize the crypto-modem to give you access.”

  “When?” Scott asked, still stunned by their change in fortune.

  “Tonight.”

  Scott punched in the administrative username and code he had set up to access Viper’s accounts and waited. This time, instead of being diverted, he found himself looking at a list of twelve-digit numbers. Schwartz had admitted him. He was in.

  “Those must be the account numbers of the shell firms,” Kilmer said from behind him.

  “Let’s see where they lead.” Beside each twelve-digit number, Scott entered the amount of one dollar. He then lowered his helmet over his head, focused into the system, and hit send on the transactions.

  His consciousness split into twelve separate rovers, following the digitally-transacted dollar bills to their various accounts. They were legitimate banks in the greater D.C. area. But as Scott suspected, each account had routing links to other accounts—and some of those links were the same. If he continued to follow them, he felt strongly he would find the major artery into which all of the accounts were dumping, the kingpin at its beating center.

  Looking good, he thought toward Janis.

  From those first dozen accounts, he was now down to three. And two of them had converged again into another account. The accounts were foreign now, both offshore, both linked to the same final account. From a distance, he could feel his heart skipping in his chest.

  I’ve got an account number for you, he told Janis.

  Fire when ready.

  He gave Janis the number, considered pulling out, but decided to delve further. If he could find a name or business entity linked to the account, it would save them some time. He left the offshore bank, shot through an underwater cable to Europe, and then cut across a system of lines and switches until he found himself at an international bank in Geneva, Switzerland.

  I’ve located the account, he told Jani
s, I’m going in.

  But in the next moment, he was back in front of the console at Champions command and control, a dizziness spiraling through his head. He removed his helmet and squinted Janis into focus.

  “What in the…?”

  “Booby trapped,” she said. “Good thing I had you on a tight leash. The instant I felt something off, I yanked you back in.”

  Scott thought back to the split second before he was pulled from the system. The distant explosion was all too familiar. “Feels like Techie’s work. Wayne must’ve set it up when he was in the pay of the Scale. I owe you.” He looked around. “Where did Kilmer go?”

  “To check on that account number you gave me.”

  A few minutes later, Kilmer returned, shaking his head. “I had Gabriella try to pull it up, but it’s protected. She says she’s never seen a firewall like it. She’s not sure it’s hackable. Have you tried…?”

  “Yes,” Janis answered for Scott, “and he was nearly blown to kingdom come.”

  “Wayne trapped it,” Scott put in, “probably when he was setting up that transfer from the Scale to the Soviets back in January. Which means we’re going to need another consult with the expert himself.”

  26

  Janis climbed through the window after Scott and stood on one of the few clear patches of rug. She peered around as Wayne slid the window closed. A swing lamp clamped to a computer desk illuminated the cluttered bedroom, which was paneled in dark particleboard and smelled strongly of Doritos. Handwritten lines of code were taped everywhere.

  Janis didn’t really know Wayne. Aside from a single conversation their freshman year, when Janis had overheard him talking about the Doomsday Clock and asked him what it meant, they had never really spoken. As Techie, he had nearly killed her boyfriend. Twice. That put him on shaky footing as far as Janis was concerned.

  But when Wayne turned from the window, the scrawny, sloped-shouldered teen appeared anything but menacing. Especially in his faded Battlestar Galactica shirt and sagging underwear.