Cyborg Strike (13 page)

McKenna sighed. “All right. It’ll have to do.
I’ll have my National Security Adviser get in touch with your
people and discuss the details. Talk to you later.”

“Goodbye, Mr. President.”

McKenna cut the link without responding.

***

In the Oval Office, President McKenna looked
over at Travis Tyler, who sat sipping Scotch. “You think he bought
it? That we’re not going to do anything covert?”

“Don’t ask me,” replied the retired general.
“Mister Muzik?”

Roger Muzik rattled the ice in his glass,
staring at it as if its emptiness had betrayed him. “I think so,
sir. You struck the right note of, of being rattled, casting about
for easy solutions. As disinformation, it should work very well.”
He still didn’t meet the other men’s eyes.

“But?” asked the President.

“But the man is my friend. I don’t like lying
to him.”

“You didn’t. I did. And lying is probably too
strong a word. I just…gave him the wrong impression. Just like that
file he gave me was designed to do. It was sheer bad luck that his
outrageous warning – that the Septagon people would try to take
over the Russian Government for themselves – turned out to be
true.” Now it was McKenna that looked down, avoiding Muzik’s
gaze.

“I hate all this,” Muzik replied. “This
feeding each other bullshit, hoping it will be believed, expecting
it not to be, and all the while destroying the trust between us.
I’d never have believed Edens could be this dishonest.”

That brought silence for a moment, then Tyler
spoke. “People think being an Eden means we can’t kill, either, but
we know that’s not true. I executed my own son, because it was the
right thing to do, and had to be done. We believe this to be the
right thing to do, and it has to be done. Right?”

“To keep the operation secret? Yes it has to
be done. That’s my call. Your consciences are clear.”

“Sorry, sir, ‘just following orders’ is still
the thinnest defense of all.” Muzik held up a forestalling hand.
“Don’t worry. I’m on board. After all, it’s my ass on the operation
too. And I’d rather if Repeth didn’t know anything about this part
of it. Shit, I wish I didn’t either.” He stood up and walked toward
the door.

Tyler stood as well. “Colonel…covert ops is
often a dirty business. We’ll try not to cross any hard lines here,
but if a bit of lying is all we have to do to keep Earth safe, I’d
say, be thankful.”

Muzik turned back as the Secret Service agent
opened the door for him. “I’ll bet it won’t stay secret anyway,
which will make all this an exercise in futility. You’d both have
done better to just talk to…to the key personnel. Green Door
Syndrome has often done more damage than a potential leak.”

The three men stared at each other for a
moment in strained silence before Muzik made his exit.

When the Select Central Cabinet of Russia met
in secret for the first time under its new masters, it was a quiet
affair. Seated around a table in the antechamber to the main
meeting room were the ministers of the various governmental
departments – Finance, Internal Affairs, Foreign Affairs, Defense,
Justice, and so on. Behind each man or woman stood a hulking figure
matching the gender of each principal.

These were the sticks.

The carrots rested in a glass bowl on the
table, and many of the body could not take their eyes off the
things: auto-injectors. One dose per canister, each would yield an
hour of pure ecstasy and a day of relief and complaisance. Without
another dose, after that came horrors of body and mind that would
drive anyone thinking of rebellion back into Winthrop Jenkins’
loving arms.

Jenkins sat at the head of the table, Prime
Minister Yermenov on his right. Behind him also stood a creature,
manlike but no longer human. His smooth and metallic skull matched
his teeth, and his face was set in a rigor of implacability, with
bright red glowing eyes. He was even bigger than the Professor, who
stood behind the Russian Prime Minister.

“Professor, translate for me please.”

The man stepped forward next to Jenkins, and
interpreted the English for the Russians who did not speak it
well.

“I hope my people have answered all your
pertinent questions about the new arrangement of this nation, but
let me sum up: you all now work for me. I will supply you what you
need and you will maintain your privileges and lifestyles for you
and your families, but I will make all decisions. All of you now
have various…devices implanted in your bodies. Some will monitor
your location and activities, some will listen and watch what you
say and do. Some will give you pain, or even kill you, if you step
out of line. And with you at all times will be one of my Shadows.”
He nodded at the guardians behind them. “Just in case you think to
seek outside intervention.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do in your off
time, as long is it does not interfere with running this country.
Sleep with your husbands or wives, boyfriends or girlfriends or
whores, play with your children, prune your roses, gamble; I do not
care about your personal lives. But when it comes to governmental
affairs, I or my associates will feed you your lines, make your
decisions, and ensure your cooperation.” Jenkins folded his hands
across his ample stomach. “Your only alternative, ladies and
gentlemen, is death. Not only for you, but your families, anyone
you hold dear.”

As if on cue –
there’s always one
,
Jenkins thought – the Minister of Health, a distinguished-looking
doctor with a Lenin beard, stood up. “I cannot agree to this. I
have no idea what you have done, but any addiction can be beaten,
and I am not afraid to die, but I will not be controlled.” He then
sat down, staring straight ahead as if expecting to be hauled to a
prison cell, as dissenters were dealt with in the past.

“Very well,” replied Jenkins reasonably.
Taking out his phone, he pressed a sequence on the touch screen as
they all watched. A moment later a wet pop issued from the Minister
of Health, and he fell forward, face down on the table. Blood
pooled under his head and ran down between his knees.

The ministers gasped, some touching their
faces or chests as if to find out where their own implants might
be.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, I do not make
idle threats. Nor is any of you truly necessary. Your deputies have
already been processed, and will view a recording of this
meeting…some selected scenes, anyway. So. Would anyone else like to
make a pointless protest?”

No one did.

Once more Jill found herself in the
President’s presence, this time accompanied by Roger Muzik. Besides
the two ubiquitous Secret Service agents, there was one more person
in attendance in the Oval Office.

“No plausible deniability this time, sir?”
Jill asked as she shook McKenna’s hand.

He replied, “This isn’t the cold war, Jill.
Neither the first nor second. As soon as the op is finished, we
will be announcing it to the world.” McKenna turned to clasp hands
with Muzik, then waved them to seats.

“Announcing success, I hope,” Muzik
remarked.

“Yes,” McKenna agreed. “But if you fail, we
have backup plans. Messy ones, involving direct military action,
but it can’t be helped. No matter what the news says, Russia has
been taken in a coup by inimical outside forces. It has to be
restored to some semblance of a nation of laws. The entire world
must be united against the Meme. There is just no room for separate
agendas.”

“Sounds a bit like authoritarianism, sir,”
Jill said sourly. “I had about enough of that in Camp 240, thank
you very much.”

“Water under the bridge,” McKenna snapped.
“We are back in a World War Two situation, fighting for survival.
We will have to compromise some principles to get the job done. If
you can’t do that, let me know right now.”

Jill kept her teeth shut and looked away
rather than challenge him any further. She had to admit to herself
that he was probably right, and she was glad she did not have to
make those hard decisions.
It’s always easier to gripe and
sharpshoot
, she thought, and pushed her feelings aside. “Sorry,
sir. I understand. I’m in.”

“Good, good.” He slapped his knee, then
gestured at the frozen-faced woman in the stylish pantsuit sitting
in the fourth chair. “This is Director Caffey out of Langley.
You’ll be working for her until you return for your
debriefing.”

Muzik moved first, standing to shake hands
with the head of the CIA. Her visage might have thawed just a
trifle as he gave her his most heart-melting smile. Jill had never
seen him fail at that. His face seemed to have the same effect on
straight women that a double handful of cleavage had on equivalent
men. Still, she was impressed at the director’s evident
self-control.

“Mister Muzik.” She reached over to Jill.
“Miz Repeth.”

“Misses,” Jill corrected her, holding up the
ring on her left hand.

Muzik subtly rubbed his empty ring finger,
flicking a glance at Caffey, who suddenly seemed distracted,
blushing faintly.

Well done, Roger.

“Ahem, yes.” The woman opened a case file and
began to spread it on the table. “You may consider this your
initial mission overview. You job will be to go in and retrieve or
destroy the main database for the Shadow program. This will set
them back several years, we hope, and buy the president time to
work on a political solution.”

“Just buy time?” Jill sat back in her chair,
crossing her arms uneasily. “We’re risking our lives for a
temporary solution?”

“Sometimes that’s all we can hope for,”
McKenna intervened. “This is a multifaceted problem. Shadow cyborgs
are in direct physical control of all the key ministers, and
Winthrop controls them. More importantly, all the officials have
all been addicted to nanocrack.”

“How do we deal with that?” Repeth asked.

“We’ll be releasing a complete package on how
to cure the addiction using drugs and dialysis machines most
hospitals will have available.”

“That sounds promising…”

Caffey held up a hand. “Even if the could
overcome those problems, the families are at risk. Short of a
full-scale invasion, which is not an option because of the Russian
nuclear arsenal,
we
are not going to reverse this coup.”

“Does that mean someone else is?” Repeth
asked sharply.

“That’s not a question I can answer,” the
director replied, glancing at the President.

“Uh-huh,” Repeth said archly, drumming her
fingers on the arm of her seat.
That’s a yes if I ever heard
one…unless that’s merely what they want us to think.

“But then, what good is destroying the data?”
Muzik asked, either not noticing the byplay or choosing to move
past it.

Caffey replied, “It will freeze the program’s
development. If we are lucky, it will also prevent the manufacture
of more cyborgs. Without the detailed 3D-printer files, for
example, they will be unable to manufacture the parts. In today’s
lab, the data is the key.”

Jill drummed her fingers on the armrest some
more, the forced herself to stop be fore she poked holes in the
leather. “No silver bullets.”

“Not this time.” McKenna covered her restless
hand in his. “I know this is a shitty assignment, but we’re in a
box here. We can’t just let them turn a great power nation into
their own private preserve, but we can’t go in heavy either. Not as
we’re Russia’s longtime opponent through two Cold Wars. The people
won’t accept us.”

Caffey continued, glancing at Muzik, “Your op
will not be the only one. Others will hit certain specified
targets, all with an air toward plausible deniability – ours and
theirs.”

“Theirs?” Muzik put on his best movie-star
smile.

“Yes,” she went on as if mesmerized. “The
Russians can’t publically admit to being attacked. It will cause
unrest and more scrutiny, as well as making them look weak. They
also can’t afford to accuse anyone, for fear of bringing the
conflict into the open. At some level even they understand that
they can’t rock the boat too hard, not with that damned alien ship
on its way.”

“All right,” Jill sighed. “Let’s see the
details.”

“So this is Finland.” Jill Repeth stepped off
the commercial flight to Helsinki with just a carry-on bag. Dressed
in jeans and a warm jacket, hair peroxided and bobbed, she looked
very much like one of the blonde-and-bronzed Laplanders of the
Saami people, common stock in this Scandinavian country.

Beside her, Roger Muzik grunted. Wearing his
hair long to try to look less military, he slouched to reduce the
impression his six-four frame made. “No, this is an airport.
Finland is out there.” He waved at the expanse of mountains visible
through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

After passing though customs without a hitch
– no metal detectors
departing
security, after all – they
spotted a man holding a sign that said “Rockerfeller,” the
recognition code. Without speaking they nodded and followed him to
a Japanese-built SUV parked in the lot. Only when they were on the
road did anyone say anything.

“Good trip?” asked the contact.

“My mother got sick,” Repeth replied.

“She should take a hot bath and eat some
fish,” the driver said.

“Only if she likes lentils,” Jill completed
the quatrain.

“Is that what they call tradecraft?” Muzik
asked.

“Sorry,” the driver replied sheepishly.
“Cheesy, but effective. Call me Olsen.”

“She’s Johnston. I’m Stein,” Muzik said. “Our
gear?”

“Shipped in by bonded container, and already
waiting for you at the safe house.”