Sleeping Bear

by Connor Sullivan

  Captain Yermakova had been in the room. She’d looked giddy as she gazed down at her tablet. After they were dressed, black bracelets were secured around their left wrists.

  “This is how we monitor you,” Yermakova said. “GPS, heartbeat. We track everything for our experiments. Don’t try to run. There is nowhere to go. Don’t try to take off the bracelet, it’s tamper proof.”

  Artur, the neurologist, had then entered the room and rechecked the bracelets; when he was finished, he gave Yermakova the go-ahead.

  They were cuffed again. Blackout bags were placed over their heads and they were escorted out of the room. Cassie had tried to remember how many steps they had taken, how many direction changes, but it proved impossible. After what had felt like forever, they were marched outside.

  She could feel the sun warming up her blackout hood as the whine and rotor thump of a helicopter blocked out all other sound.

  They rode in the helicopter for a long time before they landed, then were stress marched for two hundred steps and made to sit down, back to back.

  Yermakova spoke: “Your restraints will electronically unlock themselves. Then the trial will begin. Your only goal is to survive.”

  After the helicopter had taken back off, Cassie felt her handcuffs click open.

  She wriggled out of them and took the blackout hood off her head. Brady and Billy did the same. Brady was already on his feet, walking toward the base of a large tree.

  Cassie took in her surroundings. They were on a heavily wooded mountainside—a jagged cliff to their right and a steep embankment of downed trees to their left.

  “We’re in luck.” Brady returned from the base of the tree and held three old wood-stocked rifles. “Mosin-Nagant M1944s, two bullets in each.” Brady handed one of the rifles to Cassie. She checked the safety, ran the action, and examined the magazine. Brady was right, two bullets.

  “I’ve never been given a gun before. They usually only arm me with a knife,” Brady said.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “That whatever we’re up against isn’t going to be easy. Six bullets total means there are probably at least six of those psychos out there hunting us. Maybe more. I don’t know, I’ve only experienced my trials alone.” He walked over to Billy, who was still sitting, and handed him his rifle. Billy took it without looking up at Brady.

  “How many trials have you been in?” Cassie asked.

  “This will be my sixth including indoc,” Brady said, offering a hand to Billy. “C’mon, kid, we need to get moving.”

  Billy didn’t react to the hand, just muttered something under his breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Bad-Luck-Billy,” Billy said, then looked up. “That’s what my friends called me back home. I find myself in the worst situations. I’m not military trained, how am I supposed to survive this?”

  “You are going to survive by listening to me and Brady. We’re lucky we got a SEAL with us,” Cassie said. She smiled and looked over at Brady, who shifted uncomfortably. “You know how to shoot a rifle, Billy, you know how to hunt, just do what we say when we say it and you’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Billy didn’t look assured as he gazed down at the antique rifle in his hands.

  “C’mon, we’ll get through this, then we’ll figure out a way out of here.”

  Cassie helped Billy to his feet.

  Brady squinted at the sky. “They have eyes everywhere. Drones. Cameras in the trees. You’ll see some, no doubt. Don’t pay them any mind, just focus on getting through the trial alive.”

  They devised a plan.

  They would head uphill, try to find an opening where they could survey the land, then either take the offensive or the defensive based on their findings. Brady suggested they walk with Billy in between them as they headed uphill so Billy could cool his nerves.

  It took them nearly thirty minutes to summit the mountain. The peak was covered in jagged rocks. Brady had them move slowly out of the forest and onto the rocks near a large boulder.

  “Keep low and don’t skyline yourself.”

  Cassie looked out at the vast expanse of wilderness below. Mountain ranges interspersed by deep green valleys. In the distance, she could make out white-capped volcanoes and a wide river stretching into the horizon.

  “This is all new,” Brady said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen any of this before.”

  Cassie looked up and could see three drones—mere specks in the sky zipping about. “What’s the plan?”

  Billy was lying down behind the big boulder. Brady, still looking out at the wilderness, didn’t seem to hear.

  Cassie wished they had been given something to eat or drink. She wished she had never gone to Alaska, wished Derrick were still alive. Her thoughts floated to that day in January when she’d woken early and walked to the barn. She remembered how loud she screamed, how she had fallen into the snow. How her father had sprinted out of the house and grabbed hold of her.

  Cassie was thrust out of her memory when she caught movement in the forest below.

  She grabbed Brady by the arm and was about to alert him to the movement when the loud whip-crack of a bullet whizzed over their heads.

  Chapter 24

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  LUBYANKA BUILDING

  CAPTAIN KRYUCHKOV OF FSB’s Department Fifteen led General Sokolov out of the Cave and back into the elevator. Taking a key from his pocket, Kryuchkov inserted the key into the elevator’s control pad and punched in the button for Lubyanka’s fifth floor, all the while clocking the general’s demeanor in his peripheral vision.

  The old man was shaking. The leather dossier in his gnarled hand tapped violently against his leg.

  When the elevator dinged and stopped at the fifth floor, Kryuchkov nearly leapt into the hallway. “I can’t guarantee we will be able to contact Captain Yermakova in time. The trial has already started, the multilevel encryption from Moscow to the sharashka could take minutes—the satellite that receives and transfers the encrypted FAPSI line—”

  Sokolov exited the lift and rounded on Kryuchkov. Kryuchkov stiffened, seeing the intense fury building in the old man. Like everyone in the federal and foreign intelligence communities, Kryuchkov had heard the rumors about the chief of SVR’s Line S. The time he had spent in the KGB, the elite assassination squads he trained and ran to this day. Men with no names, a highly secretive unit of dedicated SVR operators who specialized in deep penetration, sabotage, and black work. All under the command of the old man standing before him.

  If the rumors were true, which Kryuchkov believed they were, General Viktor Aleksandrovich Sokolov and his team of elite killers were responsible for the Federation’s most high-level assassinations to date: Litvinenko, Politkovskaya, Golubev, and Puncher.

  The old general had written the book on modern Russian espionage and counterespionage, holding the USSR’s and now the Federation’s deepest, darkest secrets. He was, after all, the one who controlled the illegals who penetrated the West.

  Illegals were Russian spies with civilian covers, living normal lives, who were trained to handle assets behind enemy lines. The identities of these illegals were strictly limited to the men and women of SVR’s Line S and, of course, the president.

  That being said, it wasn’t necessarily Sokolov’s history and stature in the Foreign Intelligence Service that frightened Kryuchkov the most. Nor was it Sokolov’s legendary rage, or his knack for violence and brutality. It was Sokolov’s close relationship to the most powerful man in all of Russia that truly made Kryuchkov quiver.

  Sokolov’s relationship with the president.

  Like everyone in the intelligence communities, Kryuchkov had heard the rumors of Sokolov’s past, how, after he had lost his own son, he had shaped a then young president—a nobody KGB agent in an East German posting—to climb the ranks to become the feared and cunning leader he was today.

  It was common knowledge that the president called Sokolov Dyadya Vikto
r. Uncle Viktor. And that Sokolov called him plemyannik. Nephew.

  Kryuchkov shuddered to think what Sokolov was capable of and then stammered, “I-I-I will take you to the phone.”

  He led the old general down another hall of broad maroon carpeting. Hurrying, Kryuchkov opened a door labeled V561 and kept the door open for the general.

  An FSB guard snapped to attention next to a small table with a glossy black telephone.

  “This line leads directly to the sharashka,” Kryuchkov said.

  “It’s clean?”

  “Completely. No prying ears—our most encrypted, it might take a few minutes, like I said.”

  “Both of you out,” Sokolov snapped.

  The guard moved out instantly, but Kryuchkov stood implacable. “My duty, General—is to bear witness to every conversation held over this line. I wouldn’t be doing my job unless I adhere to the rules. I am supposed to be the link between Department Fifteen and the GRU sharashkas.”

  Sokolov held the receiver to his ear. A ringing sounded on the other line. He lowered the receiver to his shoulder, glaring at Kryuchkov. “Tread wisely out of the room, Captain. The FSB has no business listening in on SVR Line S dealings—especially this one.”

  Captain Kryuchkov remained still so Sokolov continued.

  “Or shall I call the Senate Building—maybe I should discuss this impropriety with my plemyannik?”

  Kryuchkov’s eyes widened in horror while Sokolov kept his face neutral.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Kryuchkov considered his options for another beat and then bowed out of the room and shut the door.

  After a tense minute, the deep, irritated voice of Captain Akulina Yermakova sounded over the line. Sokolov kept his voice calm and his hands steady as he peered down at the photocopied picture of the man in the blue shirt holding the dog by the leash.

  “This is General Viktor Sokolov; do you know who I am?”

  Captain Yermakova’s voice turned from annoyed, to frightened, “Yes, of course, General. I know who you are.”

  “The girl in your trial, Cassandra Gale. She must be pulled from it immediately and housed somewhere safe until I get there.”

  “Get here, General? The trial has already started, the subject is currently engaged in—”

  “STOP THE TRIAL!” Sokolov roared. “Stop it now! If anything happens to the subject, I will see to it personally that those responsible will spend the rest of their miserable lives in the basements of Butyrka!”

  “General, I—”

  “This is above your stupid game, Yermakova. This isn’t entertainment. Not anymore!”

  “I can’t just stop the trial—there are current experiments being run on the subjects. Plus, the siloviki have already placed their bets, the money is already in a GRU-handled escrow.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your fraudulent experiments. I don’t give a damn about siloviki money!”

  Yermakova started to argue again but Sokolov cut her off.

  “This matter concerning Cassandra Gale is reserved for me and goes to the highest level of government—” Sokolov made an almost imperceptible sucking noise; the rising tide of vexation was building in his chest and making him go almost apoplectic.

  “Captain,” Sokolov said. “You know who I am. You know I am not a man to cross. Now, you either stop the trial or shall I get the president to contact you personally?”

  “Nyet. That will not be necessary. I… I will do what I can to stop it.”

  “Do more,” Sokolov snapped. “I will stay on the line until it is done.”

  “Da, General. Of course.”

  Sokolov gazed back down at the photocopied picture of Cassandra Gale and the man holding the dog and felt a rage he hadn’t experienced in decades.

  Chapter 25

  KAMCHATKA PENINSULA

  POST 866

  CAPTAIN AKULINA PETROVNA Yermakova stood in the sharashka’s control room overlooking the ten-foot LED monitors broadcasting in real time, the live feed from the trial, and put down the black receiver on the table.

  The dozens of drone operators, technicians, and scientists in the sharashka’s control room all stared at her. Flashes of fighting on the screens behind them were left unnoticed. Captain Yermakova looked over the crowd for a moment, trying to rationalize the conversation that had just occurred over the line.

  General Viktor Sokolov, the feared chief of SVR’s Line S, had just demanded a trial be stopped. Never in the history of the modern sharashka had this ever occurred. The general must have gone through FSB’s Department Fifteen, through Captain Kryuchkov—that incompetent fool—to get to the FAPSI line.

  Yermakova weighed her options. On the screens she could see the Americans had just been engaged by the prisoners. If she were to stop the trial, all the siloviki’s money would have to be returned, their entertainment for the day ruined.

  What would that do to her reputation?

  Would it hurt her chances of being the first woman ever let into the inner circle? This whole sharashka—this source of entertainment, this grand experiment—was meant to propel her upward. To show the Moscow elite that she was capable, that she was worthy.

  Then there were the medical experiments she would have to consider. She glanced at another workstation where Artur was hovering over a screen. The screen provided all the statistics from the prisoners and the Americans. Heart rate, blood pressure, hormonal stress level readouts. If the trial would have to come to an end, Artur’s data would be skewed, ruined—

  Yermakova looked at the head drone operator, a GRU lieutenant. “Shut it down, Gregory.”

  The GRU lieutenant’s eyes grew wide. “How, ma’am?”

  “I don’t care,” Yermakova said. “Use the gas. Get a team down there now. Two teams. Their sole objective is to secure Subject 8831. That Cassandra Gale girl.”

  Artur looked up from his screen, protesting, “You will be ruining the whole experiment!”

  And be a complete embarrassment, Yermakova thought.

  The results would be void. Tens of millions of rubles returned, all because General Viktor Sokolov had ordered it. She pointed a finger at the GRU lieutenant piloting the primary drone system.

  “Cut the live feed to the Cave. Do it now, then gas them. Gas them all.”

  * * *

  A barrage of bullets cut through the air, snapping off the rocks as Brady threw his whole body weight onto Cassie and Billy, sending them face first in a small depression behind the large boulder.

  “Stay low!” Brady screamed.

  Cassie got to her hands and knees, making sure to keep her profile low. Never before had she been actually fired upon. She’d been through countless live-fire drills but had never been victim to someone actually trying to kill her. Strangely enough, she felt incredibly calm.

  Her training told her that they needed to return fire immediately. The first minute of a firefight was the most important and fire superiority needed to be established ASAP.

  Brady rose to her level behind the boulder.

  “We’re screwed if we stay here!” Cassie said.

  “We’ve got the uphill advantage and don’t have enough ammo to establish a base fire to keep them suppressed!” Brady yelled, as more automatic gunfire pummeled over them. Whoever was shooting had modern guns and lots of ammo. They were severely outnumbered. “How many did you see?”

  Cassie flashed on the movement in the woods before all hell had broken loose. “Five, maybe six.”

  The bullets suddenly ceased and they could hear yelling below.

  “They’re coming close,” Brady said. “We’ve got to pick them off, create a lane, and then make a break for it. You ready to run, kid?”

  Billy was curled up in the fetal position at their feet. Cassie gave Brady an uncertain look, then movement broke over Brady’s shoulder. A large tattooed figure rounded the boulder, a machine gun in hand. He was pointing the weapon at the trio.

  Cassie didn’t have time to th
ink. She raised her weapon over Brady’s shoulder and fired.

  She ran the action and fired again.

  Both shots found their mark in the man’s chest. He dropped his weapon, and looked down at the gaping wounds in his chest before he folded to the ground. Brady whipped around, wide-eyed and scampered for the dead man’s machine gun. It was an AKM, an old Soviet assault rifle; he checked the magazine—half full. He nodded in appreciation to Cassie.

  Cassie held the rifle she had just killed the man with, looking down at it in wonder.

  She had just killed someone.

  She didn’t have much time to think because Billy was pulling at her pant leg, shouting something. Brady stood, aiming over Cassie’s head. She turned around and saw three more men. They had scaled the rock field to their left and had popped up nearly fifty yards away.

  Weapons began to bark from three directions.

  Fire erupted from Brady’s muzzle. He ducked and bullets ricocheted everywhere. Cassie scrambled for Brady’s neglected Mosin-Nagant M1944 at his feet. She grabbed it, and then caught movement from above.

  Another two men.

  They had circumvented the mountaintop and come over the other side.

  They were sitting ducks. They were surrounded.

  Cassie raised Brady’s weapon and fired.

  Missed.

  She ran the action, aimed, and fired again. One of the men stumbled. She dropped the weapon, grabbed Billy’s rifle. Two shots left. Meanwhile Brady was firing back at the men to their left.

  Cassie raised Billy’s weapon, took aim when something hot seared through her left arm. The force of the blow spun her, and she landed on Billy.

  The sound of gunfire consumed all. Brady was yelling. Billy was screaming—she heard Brady’s gun click—empty.

  Cassie sat stunned, looking down at her arm. A small red hole showed in her left bicep, blood was oozing out of it. Then Brady’s alarmed face was in front of her own. He was yelling, tugging at her shirt, trying to get her to stand.

  Then all at once, she heard the sounds of a high-pitched whistle. Then another, and another.