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The Process, post four – Plotting and Scheming

Time to plot! Plot plot plot plot….and now that word has lost meaning to me. Okay. On to the topic.

The skeleton in your (story’s) closet

I said in my last post that the plot is the skeleton and the story is the flesh of your writing. Neither can function well without the other – though the analogy can be carried further: a plot can stand alone (ever heard of pure narration?) to some extent, though it isn’t pretty to look at. A story, on the other hand, cannot exist without a plot.

The squiggly lines

Heh, who knew geometry would be applicable to the writing process? I’m sure you’ve done a plot line or two as an exercise back in high school. Do you remember the point? Good, ‘cause I don’t. Anyway, a plot line is essentially a super-simplified form of the plot of a story. It’s the plot minus the story….just a line on a piece of graph paper somewhere, with scribbled notes relating to the different plot points (and here it’s good to remember that a geometric line contains an infinite number of points). The line starts flat, then rises, peaks, and falls. There’s a lot of technical terms involved, and a ton of busywork if you’re doing it for a school assignment – but that’s the basic plot line.

It starts at the beginning of your narrative. You may set the stage (like in The Hobbit) or jump right into the action (like in The Icarus Hunt). If you’re setting the stage, your plot line will stay flat for a little while: this is the exposition. Eventually, though, your plot line should begin rising, indicating growing tension within the story (rising action). Along the way, there may be small dips and rises and subplots are introduced and resolved, but the overall effect is one of increasing tension. The peak is the climax of the plot – the point where everything comes together just so: the mystery is solved, the secret agent reveals his identity, the eagles arrive and slay the goblins, whatever. What follows should usually be short lived (fifty pages or so) and is called the falling action. It’s where you wrap up the story, tie up any loose strings, burn any villages you haven’t gotten around to burning yet, and settle your heroes down for a nice quiet retirement. Until the sequels come along, that is.

Plot and originality

I hate addressing this topic because people (especially mediocre writers) get really touchy about it. I’ll try to skim through quickly. First, I should point out that there’s nothing new under the sun. Solomon was the wisest man who ever lived, and I’ve never seen anything to contradict his statement. Any idea you come up with will have been used before; but to quote my favorite sci-fi author, Timothy Zahn: “What you actually do with the idea is the truly important thing.” You see, the fact that someone’s used the same idea before really means nothing. It’s your take on the idea that is the important thing.

But! Having acknowledged the above, there are still far too many instances of lazy writers simply reading something (such as The Lord of the Rings) and saying ‘Oh, hey, that’s a great plot! I’ll give everyone new names and change how they look and talk, and that’ll be my story. I’m so smart!’ Don’t do that. Please, I beg of you, no more Tolkien copies.

While outright copying is the antithesis of creativity, the fact remains that most good writers are influenced by what they read. It’s almost inevitable that some of your ideas, some of your characters, something of your world will be inspired by what you’ve read or watched in the past. A good example would be L. B. Graham’s Binding of the Blade series, which has the epic feel of Tolkien plus a more overtly Christian theme without feeling derivative.

Plot and world

A very important aspect of your plot is its relation to your world. Your plot must be entirely believable (within the confines of your world) if it’s to keep the reader interested. For instance, I wouldn’t construct a plot about a secret agent platypus set in my world of Ekelek, because there is no supporting framework to make it believable. I could, however, write a story about an Elf (or a half-breed, at least) flying a starship; as both Elves and science fiction are part of my world.

Keep your plot true to the vision of your world and story, and you’ll go far.

Go out into the world and plot. And scheme.

Thus, after all these considerations, I leave you with a random quote: “Perry the Platypus? You are early! I am still in the plotting and scheming stages!”

And whoever can name the source WITHOUT GOOGLING IT gets a virtual cookie.

The Process, post three – The Story

I’ve been slacking off on these posts, but to make up for it, I’ll post two in the space of a day! Lucky you!

Now, it’s time to consider the most enjoyable part of a story: the story itself. First, allow me to state that the story is an entirely different thing from the plot. The story is the narrative, the tale you are trying to relate. The plot is the way in which you tell the story; it’s the framework the story is built around. The plot is the skeleton, the story is the flesh.

How do you like your flesh?

Sorry, that’s a dumb joke. There are many considerations here, some of which overlap between story and plot. First of all, what kind of story do you want to tell? Is it an adventure, or a mystery, or a romance? Admittedly most stories have elements of all the above, but you have to create a central idea for your story; what it’s going to be about.

Rain or sun?

Next, you have to figure out what the atmosphere of the story is. This may not be something which is immediately clear to you, but something which evolves as you write the story. Or, on the other hand, you may decide you want to write a story with a certain atmosphere (let’s say….an atmosphere like Wuthering Heights) and build from there.

Most of my stories, for instance, have a serious or cynical atmosphere punctuated by moments of levity. The few stories I’ve done which aren’t serious are all too often ridiculous (or equal parts serious and ridiculous): Jake Magnum, The Baker Series, and some of my CLOUD spinoffs. There’s a reason you haven’t read these .

Lots of details! All over the place!

I’m sure somebody, somewhere, has said this before; but I’m going to say it anyway. There are two kinds of writers in this world: those who outline, and those who do it by the seat of their pants. I’m a seat-of-the-pants writer myself, and I loathe the traditional forms of outlining. That said, my stories are often very involved, with lots of random bits of information which can sometimes get lost in the disordered filing cabinet better known as my brain. So, what to do to keep your story coherent and keep yourself from getting lost?

If you’re the outlining type, make an outline. Knock yourself out. I know it helps you organized people to have everything in one place, at one time, easily accessible and easily edited. But if you’re not the outlining type, there’s a couple of little tricks that can help you.

First, write the back cover of your book. This may sound silly, but I’m serious. Doing this can solidify in your mind the major plot points and maybe a few minor ones as well. Second, if you’re going to have chapter titles, write them out as soon as you have a vague idea of the plot. I do this all the time, and I often find my plot being shaped by the chapter titles I invent. And third, take notes. Jot down the names of the major characters and what we learn about them as you write. Figure out the background of your technological stuff. List some ideas for scenes and plot points, then codify all of the above into one file. Make maps.

Having done all you can to write, write well.

That’s the heart and soul of your story – your writing. Remember, it’s your story. Since you’re the only one who’s going to get to tell it, tell it well.

The Process, post two – Dialogue, not Dialog

(Guest writer: Paul Nelson)

First off I’d like to thank Joel for asking me to be a guest writer on his blog. I haven’t done much writing on the topic of writing, but I figure I’ll give it a shot. Feel free to leave a comment once you finish reading my post; I’d love to hear what all you internets people have to say. Just try to be nice when you’re beating me down. There’s a reason they call it “Constructive criticism.”

In case you don’t know me, my name is Paul Nelson, and I have been writing for pretty much my entire life. I have written three Christian science-fiction novels, and am currently writing my fourth. My many interests include, but are not limited to: photography, watching movies, drawing, directing, acting, and pondering life, the universe, and everything.

I could just spout a bunch of wise sounding one-liners about writing, such as, “There’s nothing new under the sun, so just write whatever the heck you want,” but I won’t waste your time with that. Instead, I’m going to focus on a specific topic which will help you in one particular aspect of writing. I’ll try as best I can to avoid clichés such as “If you’re a writer, why aren’t you writing?” and “Write what you know!” You can find those in many other books, websites, and blogs.

Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.

In this post I am going to talk about dialogue. By the way, I just learned that in the United States, dialog is text whereas dialogue is conversation. I’ll be talking about conversation. On a slightly unrelated note, you capitalize earth if you are listing it with other planets such as Earth, Mars, Jupiter, etc. But you do not capitalize it if you are just talking about earth. Weird, huh? There, you just learned two things about grammar. Let’s move on.

Know your characters

The first step to having good dialogue is simple: know your characters. At first glance, at least, it seems simple. Your characters must be three-dimensional, which means they have a physical dimension, a sociological dimension, and a psychological dimension. A knowledge of each dimension is important to creating believable characters, but I’m not talking about character development. I’m talking about dialogue. So, once again, let’s move on.

Each character must always be changing so you never have static dialogue in your story. Static dialogue is where the characters are talking, but nothing is happening. Nothing is changing. Without change, the story becomes stagnant, and the dialogue becomes unimportant.

Don’t try to reveal your character through dialogue. If you know your character, he or she will naturally reveal themselves through dialogue. Let the characters talk. Don’t force them to say anything they wouldn’t naturally say. This is one of the biggest blunders writers can make; and it is unforgivable. If you want your characters to say a certain thing, but that character would never say that thing, then either change the character or change what you want them to say. Never, ever, force your characters to say something they wouldn’t choose to say.

Wording

Let’s move on from characters, keeping in mind that the character should do the talking, not you. How a character words his dialogue will greatly influence how the reader perceives the character. If a character uses big words, he will be seen as smart. If he uses short, simple words, he will be seen as having a below-average intellect.

The intelligence of the character is not the only aspect you can reveal through dialogue, however. Where a character comes from can also be revealed, especially if that character has an accent.

Notable Dialogue

Having your characters say a phrase several times throughout a story can be fun, but be careful not to overuse it. Rather, let your characters have little quirks that can be seen in their dialogue, such as sarcasm and humor.

Making a memorable character is more than just dialogue, and I’m afraid it is not the topic of this post, so I will attempt to not go off on a rabbit trail. However, if you make each character unique in how they talk, the reader will be able to remember them better and differentiate them from the other characters. Your reader will thank you for this, because otherwise it is easy to forget who the characters are (and why the reader should care).

Actions

Remember to sprinkle in some action along with your character’s dialogue. Nobody just sits and talks to each other, they are constantly doing something. Describe what the character’s facial expression is. Point out the movement of their hands. Punctuate important dialogue with pauses or reactions that are nonverbal.

However, don’t overuse actions. Dialogue is mostly about the words the characters are saying, so it’s okay to have several lines of dialogue, even without stating explicitly who said what. If it’s two characters, let them go back and forth quickly, but not for too long. Add something in to change up the pace.

Wrapping Up

There is not much more to dialogue, other than practice. Listen to your own conversations. Think about what the other person is saying; why they said that, why they chose those words, why they acted that way. You can learn a lot from watching other people, and listening to conversations. Just… don’t become a stalker for your art. There’s a difference between stalking and observing – and even I don’t know what it is yet.

Don’t be afraid to read other books about writing. Take whatever opportunity you can to learn from someone who is an authority on writing. In fact, I would like to take this opportunity to recommend a fantastic book I have been reading, called The Art of Dramatic Writing, by Lajos Egri. It mainly focuses on play writing, but the book is valuable to any writer, whether they write plays, novels, or movies.

So there you have it. Now go out and write what you know. Actually, write what you don’t know, so that you can learn more about it. Improve yourself. Get messy! Make mistakes! Write memorable dialogue!

And remember; let your characters do the talking.

Siege of the Mountain

They stood lining the hills, a black mass of men

Waiting to strike, to sweep forth

And then….

The signal!

A flare, red in the redder dawn

And the mass rushed on.

–

The town below was swallowed in an instant

The ground obscured

The dust like smoke

The cry of lament!

The mass swept on,

Immortal now in song.

–

It stood alone, rearing its stern height

Shading the land

In grey like dusk

Fortified to fight.

The mass swept on.

Who knew they were wrong?

–

Now every man stands to his station

Strains at his bow

Stares for a target

“Welcome the invasion”

The mass tears, lost is its flow

Shredded by death sung from the bow.

–

But then they reform and regroup

Their siege engines rattle

The mountain aquiver

It seems to stoop

Lower, and gaze at the frightful men

As the fires are kindled to gut it within.

–

The defense shall not succeed -

This they knew

Before the dawn

But still they bleed

And fall; like men, like warriors.

This mount is holy by their sacrifice.

–

As the evening dusk consumes the mountain dusk

The fires die. The sparks cease to fly.

The mountain has fallen, and with it, our peace.

-

This poem was written concerning the battle of Farlen Duonó (Mount of Clouds, an artificially constructed mountainous fortress) early in the era of the Sundering.  The battle of Farlen Duonó was the first victory of Ty’yrir and his army of shadow-sworn Elves.  The capture of the mountain opened a gaping hole in the defenses of the armies allied against Ty’yrir; leading to his conquest of the Easterlands.

Reminding God

Long and longer had the darkness gathered at the edges of their world

And they did nothing

What could they do?

Or so they said, rationalizing their cowardice.

–

When the disease struck it was swift and final; cold

In its execution of man

And woman alike. Who knew

The darkness had such great import?

But excuses fail in the face of such–

–

This event was unanticipated, though long foretold.

They abandoned faith

And very few

Had the courage to stand in such a time.

–

The exodus was great; of all, young and old,

Almost none remained

Against this even You

Did not raise a hand in aid divine. Some sought

Shelter, and in those places they had not much–

–

But it followed

They fell

And we are all that remains.

But we were faithful.

This poem was written near the end of the period known as ‘The Days of Terror,’ when the land of the northern continent was broken and an incurable disease raged among the refugees who fled to the south. The writer, though unknown, is thought to be one of the few hundred Humans who remained behind on the northern continent – Humans repentant of their ancestors’ sins but unwilling to abandon their homeland. El in his mercy preserved them.

Poetry…

I suppose it’s time I posted a few of my poems (most of which are set in Ekelek).  They’ve been sitting in a folder on my desktop looking forlorn for too long now.  So without further ado, here’s two.

UPDATE: spacing error fixed.

The Process, post one – Character Building

I’ve just opened this new segment of my blog; called ‘The Process’ because that is what it is: a discussion of the writing process. I’ll try to put something new up every two or three weeks.

If you’re a writer on my friends list and you have thoughts on some aspect of the process, message me! I’d love to feature you as a guest writer. Yes, this means you too, Auntie Ami

But enough blather. On to the inaugural post…..

Earlier today I was reading Monica’s old two-part post on world building, character creation, and whatnot (http://monicalikestorant.blogspot.com/2011/09/about-writing-part-1.html). After I finished my standing ovation for her anti-Twilight rant, I took a minute to think about my character creation process. Like almost everything else I do for my writing, it starts with a name….

What’s in a name, Jeeves?

No, I don’t use a baby name book (unless I’m really, really up a creek). Ordinarily, I can think up a dozen names in thirty seconds flat (Peter, John, Vlad, Emil, Andrew, Gus, Allister, Thomas, Richard, Lewis, Peter, Frank; 51 seconds!) – but half of them will be repeats or ones I’ve used before. Once I weed out those and the ones which simply won’t fit my character, I have one to three left, and I just pick one of those at random. If I get stuck, I grab a magazine (typically World) and flip through the articles till I hit on a name I like.

On occasion, I’ll ‘borrow’ names from other books I’ve read. Sometimes this is unconscious, other times it’s very conscious. For instance, the hero of my novel-in-progress Silence is named Jarel, after the idealistic young Imperial officer of Sylvia Engdahl’s Enchantress from the Stars. (If you’re an SF fan and you haven’t read it yet, it’s a fascinating study in anthropology and racism. Well worth the read.)

A name determines a lot about a character, at least in my mind. It’s a rare instance where I’ll pick a name that’s a blank slate. Some notable exceptions would be Ty from No Neutrality and Dawnfire (Tynan Cobalt just had a ring to it), and Gregory Kasparov from Kasparov.

What’s HE/SHE doing in here?!?

I’ve gotten questions in the past (usually in an incredulous tone) about my writing people I know, including myself, into my stories. My excuse is simply this – I’m lazy, and if I can get a full-fledged character at no mental cost to myself, then I’ll do it. Not to mention, my Earth stories are supposed to take place in the reality we all know… so why not have my friends be in my black ops group?

If you have an issue with putting real people in novels… well, you don’t have to. But don’t blame me, ‘cause it wasn’t my idea! Blame Daniel L, Daniel M, and Paul. They’ve had a co-op series in the works for quite a while now. Known as CLOUD (yes, that’s an acronym), it captured my interest from the first story, despite nonexistent grammar, terrible spelling and a dysfunctional plot. Part of the allure was the fact they wrote themselves and people we knew into the story.

Of course, they had character battles and poked fun at each other with regularity, but that was half the enjoyment. I loved the idea, so I approached a couple of my friends about appearing in the Agency series. You know who you are – Cory, Ben, Tasha, Hannah. And I’ll be sure to add more as the years drag on.

Till death does us in.

Yes. I kill characters with depressing regularity. But I keep my heroes largely intact (the exception being Kasey and Noah in… well, you don’t need to know about that). Monica, you should be proud – I don’t keep my heroes’ families and friends alive for very long at a time. Occasionally I’ll even have an anti-hero who ends up dying as part of his redemption process.

And as for reality….

As Paul said, “I can have all of the above; but if I have not love, I am nothing.” (my paraphrase). I am notoriously bad at making my characters (even if they are real-world adaptations) human and…well….loveable. I find even I don’t care what happens to them sometimes. That’s a skill which I hope will come with time and more experience. Thing is, I can make my characters real and human, but I just don’t know how I’ve done it the few times I’ve succeeded.

I’ve found out the hard way – blind luck is a pain in the neck when it comes to the science of writing, as it doesn’t offer reproducible results.

And I think this is the end of my discussion of character creation. Remember to message me if you want to be featured as a guest writer sometime!

The Substance of the Shadow

Thanks to Paul Nelson for the inspiration for this story. Check out his blog: http://thestoryelement.wordpress.com.

I’ve never liked space travel. I like space travel to interdicted worlds even less, but hey – whatever the job takes, right? In my humble opinion, the North American Federation Fleet Command (NAFFC) could make life a lot better for everyone if they just wiped the interdicted worlds off the galactic map. There’s only two of ‘em, after all. It can’t be that difficult. But I digress.

I was in my quarters aboard one of the many NAF-CSSs (that’s North American Federation Colony Supply Ship, for those of you who’ve been hiding under rocks for the past fifty years) that ply the route between Sol and Borham; with stops at Dorian on the way there and Van Dempter on the way back. Thing is, I don’t care about either of those backwater colonies – it’s the stop we won’t be making that interests me.

The Kantrax system is directly on the way to Dorian from Sol; but Kantrax IV (the only habitable planet in a system of gas giants) has been interdicted for the past five years. And it just so happens that I need to go there. And of course, since my employer essentially slapped a credit tag in my hand and told me to get moving, I have to improvise.

Nothing like a little improvisation to make a routine mission enjoyable…or go down the tubes.

So, like I was saying, I’m in my quarters when one of the Marines aboard ship comes in. Or maybe ‘strides in, looking like a thunderstorm’ is more accurate.

“You’re getting off at Dorian?”

“Good morning to you too, Lieutenant,” I say, reading his bars. “Yes, my day’s going well so far. And you’re doing well? Glad to hear it.”

He glares at me. “Are you getting off at Dorian?”

“Why yes, yes I am. What a coincidence. Are you getting off there as well? Or are you just here to harass me?”

“According to the manifest, we’re only unloading cargo and picking up five passengers at Dorian. Why isn’t your debarkation on the manifest?”

“Because I decided at the last minute that I’d stop over on Dorian, and pick up a later CSS to Borham. Is there a problem with that?”

“No,” the lieutenant says irritably. “It’s just that we’re on the lookout for Black Market suppliers heading to Kantrax.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Seriously? You’ve really got the wrong guy. My opinion on the NAFFC’s policies with respect to interdicted worlds is no secret. I’ve written on it quite a bit on my blog.”

“And that would be the perfect cover for a supplier.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever.”

“We’re going to be watching you closely, Harold.”

That makes me do a double take, but the lieutenant is already out of my quarters. The last thing I want is more surveillance – I’m already under more than I can handle. Well, more than I can handle easily. This will require some delicate rearranging of my plans.

We dock at the Dorian orbital station at 1400 the next day, and I waste no time disembarking and finding a shuttle down to the planet. I have quite a few contacts who are active in Grasno, the capital, but if both my employer and the NAF Intelligence Services are tracking me, a meeting with one of them could be costly.

So I’m on my own. To tell you the truth, I tend to function better when I don’t have to depend on a network of people to keep me alive. Doesn’t make the job any easier, I suppose, but it forces me to work at my full ability.

I check into a hotel on the ground, and make sure I take out my reservation for a full week. I drop my stuff there and decide to go scouting. If I’m careful, I can get some information, and maybe locate a shuttle with a hyperdrive for rent.

Of course, I can’t help but consider the fact that if I was a turncoat, this would be a perfect chance for me to smuggle supplies into the Kantrax system; somewhat justifies the surveillance I have to suffer through. But only somewhat. My employer is by no means a slacker; he, or they, have employed me before and I’m sure they checked my background and psych profiles thoroughly. So why they’re -

My thoughts are cut off by a drunk who, in the process of exiting from a cantina, manages to slam into me and knock me back a few steps. I grab his arm, and he slurs loudly in my face:

“Where’d’ya goin, frehn?“ then, more quietly, “Vo-in’s regards. Dock 18, warehouse district, in two hours.“

“Get off, wino,“ I say, and give him a shove. It’s probably a harder shove than necessary, but I need to make it convincing.

“Ah, shoo…I didn mean nuddin by’t.“ He wanders off behind me, muttering incoherently, and I continue on my way. So my mysterious employer has something to tell me; something fairly urgent. Maybe I’ll actually see this strange fellow who calls himself Vo-in. Or maybe they’re going to ask me why I suddenly have NAFIS on my case. Either way, it’s sure to be a memorable meeting.

I continue my walk, but don’t bother going to any of the places my contacts might be. Some of them can be a little too eager to get a job, if you ask me. Over the next two hours I make my way toward the warehouse district of the city and my rendezvous at Dock 18.

When I arrive there, there’s no one around. There is, however, a hyperdrive-equipped shuttle sitting in the bay, which makes me hopeful. I open the door to the loading section of the dock, and there are two people in there waiting for me. One of them is my fake drunk, and the other…the other is swathed in a black cloak, and equipped with a face mask and voice filter. So I’m not to know who Vo-in is after all.

“Greetings, Harold,“ says the fake drunk, then nods slightly to the cloaked fellow.

“We realize your mission has been made more difficult by the NAFIS and their close monitoring of personal traffic to Kantrax,“ the figure says through his voice filter. “We have orchestrated a way for you to get past their dragnet, but you must follow my instructions closely. The charts and coordinates you need are already loaded on the shuttle you’ve seen outside. This is what you’ll do….“

Three hours later I’m on my way out of Dorian’s gravity well. My exit had gone smoothly, seeing how most of the NAFIS operatives in the area were occupied with a riot in the midtown spaceport area and rumors of three different shuttles heading to Kantrax from the northern spaceport.

It’s amazing what large amounts of money from the hands of a skilled corporation can do in a pinch.

As soon as I’m clear of the gravity well, the hyperdrive kicks in, and I sit back to relax as much as I can and review my objectives.

Objective 1: get on and off Dorian with a minimum of hassle and without drawing attention to myself. All things considered, I met that objective pretty well.

Objective 2: make my way to Kantrax IV and slip in through the blockade around the planet. Supposedly, Vo-in has that part covered too; my shuttle has a full-phase cloaking device.

Objective 3: find and assassinate a man known only as ’Target Beta’, the governor of the Kantrax system. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.

The only thing not listed on my objectives is to ’get out in one piece’; but that just shows you how little Vo-in thinks of his hirelings. It’s better for me to worry about the state of my hide anyway. I’ve never trusted anyone with it before and I’m not about to start now.

I check the chrono and see I still have well over two hours before I get to Kantrax, so I decide to take a nap.

The proximity alarm is what wakes me up, and I realize with a start that the shuttle is already out of hyperspace and is drifting along near a burnt-out hulk of a ship, barely five thousand kilometers out from Kantrax IV. Cursing silently at myself, I turn on the maneuvering thrusters and check the cloak – which, to my surprise, is already on.

At least something went right, I think to myself. Then I got the ship aligned and give it a quick burn, just enough to get to about 2,000 kph. The only problem with cloaks – even expensive, full-phase cloaks – is no one has gotten around to creating one that can mask a drive trail. So I’ll essentially have to glide until I’m far enough into the atmosphere to escape detection.

I shut off all the systems except the visual scanners, and power down the drive coil; and then it’s just a waiting game.

From where I am, I can see the NAF and EuroCon cruisers sitting in high orbit around the planet. The exact nature of the planet’s problems aren’t widely known – even I don’t know what caused the interdiction. I know it had something to do with the large amounts of pirates who used the undeveloped side of Kantrax as a shelter…and the support they had from the governor…and maybe something about trade embargoes. What it really boiled down to was that the European Confederation (since it’s their colony) and the North American Federation (since they have the most firepower) established a blockade, and that was that. No questions, no options, go talk to the gun ports on our cruisers if you have a problem.

It seems to me, that was a very inefficient way of handling whatever problems there were. I mean, obviously the governor of the system was causing some problems (hey, why else would a huge organization like the one Vo-in controls want him dead?) So if he’s causing problems, rub him out. Like what I’ve been hired to do.

Of course, the NAF has never shrunk from using force. And if they felt some qualms, maybe they could’ve hired an assassin like me and….

Oh.

That’s not a happy thought.

But it should’ve occurred to me sooner….

Man, this job just gets better every minute.

About three hours later, I’ve landed in the field Vo-in’s coordinates indicated and I’m well on my way to the capital of Kantrax IV. The locals probably spotted the atmospheric trail of my ship as it came in, but that doesn’t worry me. By the time they scramble anyone to investigate, I’ll be well and truly lost.

Now my only concern is to get into the city, find the governor, kill him, and find a way out. Easy enough. First off, I have to find some reliable transportation. The last time I was here, Capitalia (creative name, isn’t it?) was famous for its taxi service. That may or may not have changed since the interdiction, but I’m not one to depend on publicly available transportation anyway. And besides, no mission is quite as fun without a car or a speeder to wreck as one sees fit.

Thankfully, there’s a rental booth outside Capitalia. A couple of beat-up one man scooters and a single dingy gray speeder. Perfect. NAF credits are still accepted here (though Vo-in told me Kantraxians prefer gold or platinum as a medium of exchange), so I’m set. I throw my satchel in the passenger seat, get in, and take off.

The governor’s domicile (and most of the other governmental buildings) are near the center of Capitalia, according to the pre-loaded GPS charts in my speeder. How old the things are, I don’t know, but I figure it’s as good a place to start as any.

As I come into the city in the middle traffic lanes, I find it doesn’t look too bad, for having had no regular supply drops for the past five years. Nothing is visibly decaying or run down, business seems to be running at a steady pace, and the traffic lanes are full to about sixty percent capacity.

But I’m also seeing some disturbing indications of military activity. There was that thing that looked like the tip of a missile silo outside the city, and now that I’m in, I can see armored troops moving about in twos and threes. They aren’t there to keep order, and they’re not part of a power-consolidation bid – seeing how the civilians don’t avoid them – but they’re there. And that’s a cause for worry.

I’ve also seen no fewer than five armored ten-man speeders, and two antifighter missile assemblies set on caterpillar tanks. To me, this looks like a city preparing for war; and I have a feeling I haven’t even seen the big weapons yet.

Oh no, I definitely hadn’t seen the big weapons – but those spires rising around the government square aren’t just decorative. Either those are the focus points; foci, whatever; for an incredibly powerful beam laser, or I’m a bank clerk.

I slow my speeder and drop to the first lane of traffic, then pull aside into a public parking space, where I blank the windows and set about unpacking my satchel. I prefer to work at night (don’t all assassins?) but I’ve come up with a few gadgets and gizmos to make daytime kills easier, and myself less noticeable. For instance, my folding grapnel paired with a modified inside-the-pants holster. A ten shot palm neutralizer at the small of my back (nothing gets unwanted attention like a side-holstered, full-size neutralizer). The two eight-inch specop darts up my sleeves – actually, that’s an old trick, and so is the release system: a small metal contact on the tip of each of my ring fingers. When pressed to the baseplate on my palm, the darts release, and a quick flick of the wrist later, my target’ll be dead.

Two more little pieces of equipment, and I’m ready to go. I grab my mini briefcase with its embedded Naariz-gas bomb and hop out of the speeder. Easy part first.

I take the rooftop parking lot’s lift down to ground level, cross the street, and head straight into enemy territory. The local time is 1712, so I’m guessing the governor is still in a council meeting. If they have those things. If there’s one today. If, if, if…I hate ifs; but it’s all I have to work with.

The council building has some security. Three guys in uniforms, two of them with weapons, around a…full-body scanner, and a remote-operated laser turret. Whoops, make that a lot of security. Time for my first little gadget.

I nod to the guards and set my suitcase down on the conveyor belt next to the scanner, then trigger my subsonic disruptor. The men freeze, their faces growing stiff, and I calmly pick my briefcase up off the conveyor belt, then jump onto the belt and go around the scanner. The effects will wear off in about ten minutes, and unless they’re stronger than normal, they’ll be asleep a moment later. I decide to leave the protective earpieces in, as I don’t know if I’ll need the device again.

There’s another guard right before the door to the council room. I’m just now realizing my hopelessly foolish mistake – I didn’t have an ID made. So this one has to go, too. My palm neutralizer is still tingling as I put it back in the holster, and use the guard’s key to open the door.

And I’m in luck. Council is still in session. I put the card in my pocket and walk into the council room, taking a seat in the back with the other non-governmental persons. I really don’t want to have to kill all these people – not to mention, the Naariz doesn’t have a very big radius. It’s big enough, I suppose, since it is a hybrid of the ‘speed’ gases (large area of effect, fast dissipation) and the ‘strong’ gases (small area of effect, lingering dissipation); but not big enough to cover this whole huge room.

Looks like I’m gonna have to make it personal.

One of the council members turns in his seat, looks directly at me, then turns back around. I’m pretty sure all the blood just left my face – that was the lieutenant from the supply ship. What in Andromeda is he doing here?

Then I see the governor. He mounts the podium at the front of the room, makes a short speech, then bows and leaves. No matter what that NAF lieutenant is doing here, I have a mission to finish.

And I better do it fast.

I’m out the side door barely a minute after the governor. I saunter along down the hall, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Yeah, I just happen to be following the governor; yes, I have Naariz in my briefcase and a few other weapons scattered about my person; and no, I’m not carrying an ID.

The governor turns and goes inside a room. I pause outside the door, and see, to my surprise, that it’s his office. I push the door open and walk in, and there he is. He’s standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window at the Capitalia skyline. What a clichéd pose.

“Come in, come in,” he says cheerfully. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say, equally cheerfully. “My business is going to be short.”

“I was afraid of that,” he says in a lower tone, and I reach to trigger the Naariz.

Nothing happens.

My palms are now starting to sweat, and I try again. Nothing. Oh, crap. I try the blades, and they slide down my arms and into my hands. I throw the first, and the governor turns for a split second…and then it’s as if he wasn’t even there. The dart clinks as it hits the window, and a second later I’m on my rear in the seat, chest smarting from a stun shot.

The governor crosses behind the desk, blaster pointed at me. “You have piqued my curiosity, assassin. Not to mention, made me use some equipment I never thought I’d need. Who sent you?”

I shrug. “You can guess.”

“Yes, I can. And I can use you, as well.”

And my face blanches for the second time that day. It’s a classic move, and I wonder why I hadn’t seen it before. An assassin sent into a place already prepped for war is all too often like a spark in a tinderbox. And this time around, I get to be the spark. Wonderful. But that still doesn’t explain…oh. Maybe it does. I think the last few pieces just fell into place.

The governor regains my attention by reaching up to his face and, to my surprise, peeling off a layer of skin-tone plastoid. He continues the process around his face, and when the plastoid is all gone, I’m shocked to see…my face. The resemblance is undeniable.

“Who are you?” I ask in shock.

“I am, apparently, your clone. Allow me to explain. I was grown about ten years ago….”

Five minutes later, it’s all become clear to me, and it turns out my pieces fit. “So what you’re saying is, you were a failed experiment, thought to have been killed; but in reality you escaped here to Kantrax, and helped them with their campaign for independence.”

“That’s the essence of it.”

“That’s about as insane a story as I’ve ever heard. But it kind of makes sense. Your war, though, doesn’t. It’s going to cost hundreds of thousands of lives. And for what? The EuroCon is a good government. They rarely bother you, and being a EuroCon colony gives you good trading rights.”

He shrugs. “The people want their freedom, Harold.”

“Yeah, and who are you to deny them their right to suffer and die in a futile war against the EuroCon and the NAF? ’Cause you know they’ll fight together.”

“We know, and we have planned accordingly.”

“‘We’? Or is it just you?”

Just then the door opens behind me, and in steps a man in an expensive suit, holding a neutralizer in his hand. He’s followed by three others, and the lieutenant from the supply ship.

“So, governor,” says the man in the lead. “I see you survived the assassination attempt.”

The governor looks surprised as he surreptitiously reaches under the lip of his desk. It’s a pity – he would’ve been a good actor. “What are you doing here?”

The lieutenant steps forward, and I take advantage of the momentary distraction. My second dart goes flying, and the governor cries out, the hilt of the dart protruding from his chest, then slumps to the ground. The gas mask falls from his nerveless fingers, and I sit back.

“So I take it the coup succeeded?” I ask the lieutenant.

“It was over in a matter of minutes,” he responds. “I guess you’ve put all the pieces together now?”

“More or less,” I say. “But how about enlightening our friends here?”

“Certainly.” He takes the governor’s seat and waves the other men to seats in front of him. “Let’s begin at the beginning. The consent for the war was never unanimous, of course, but those of the council who were against it kept their opinions quiet while they worked to contact us.”

“‘Us’ being the North American Federation Intelligence Service, aka NAFIS, correct?”

“Yes. Once we had established contact and realized the support for Kantrax’s declaration of independence was, in fact, much smaller than the opposition, we put our plans into action. I was put into place as an undercover liaison between the local council and the NAFIS, and I and the rest of the anti-war council members began sending out feelers in the armed forces and gathering a core of officers who were still loyal to the NAF, or just loyal to the welfare of Kantrax IV and its citizens.”

“But you needed to get rid of the governor. Or at least keep him occupied while the coup took place….”

“Exactly. When we discovered Voyager Interplanetary’s intention to hire an assassin, we stepped in and offered to help with the orchestration.”

And now that makes sense. Vo-in: Voyager Interplanetary. “I’ve never heard Voyager Interplanetary before,” I say. “They’ve only ever approached me as a man called Vo-in. What do they do?”

“They have the controlling interest in most of the private colonial shipping businesses. So you see, it’s to their benefit to have Kantrax IV be recombined into the EuroCon network of worlds.”

“So all the stuff they organized back on Dorian….”

“Didn’t really happen. We provided the shuttle, and I and my ‘warning’ provided the excuse for them to give it to you. As soon as you arrived, we set the machinery in motion to begin the coup. I had expected you would succeed.”

“I would have succeeded,” I say, “but he had safeguards in place I hadn’t expected. My nerve gas bomb wouldn’t activate, and he has way faster reflexes than any human should.”

“And he obviously had his own gas injector ready to go,” the lieutenant says, tapping the dead man’s gas mask with his toe. “We would have warned you about the fact that he was an experiment in cyborg supplementation, except we genuinely believed him to be dead.“

“Yeah, and the little, tiny fact he was my clone?”

The lieutenant winces. “That as well. It was a branch of Voyager that was experimenting with cloning and cyborg enhancements; a branch we’ve now shut down. You worked for Vo-in before, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, and sustained some major injuries in the course of that job.”

“See, what we found from their medical records was that they took DNA from you while you were in their medical care, and used it to create the man you just killed.”

I shake my head in amazement. “That’s more or less what I’d guessed. Did they know this was my clone?”

“From my conversation with the director after you left Dorian, yes. They wanted to rectify the problems they’d caused. It was a rather clumsy attempt, overall, but at least they tried.” He gets back up to his feet and gestures to the body. “Let’s get someone in here to vaporize the remains. After all,” he turns to the other men, “we have a planet to fix.”

The leader of the group nods and gets to his feet and leaves, the others following.

“Thank you again for your service, Harold,” the lieutenant says.

“It’s all in the line of work,” I say dryly. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around, lieutenant.”

Thank God it’s over, I think to myself as I leave. That was enough craziness for a whole year. But then again, I’ve just proven an assassin really can help change history.

I think I’m gonna retire.

Story copyright © 2011 Joel Parisi

Kasparov

Part One:

KASPAROV

Wednesday, May 5^th, 2021, 0813 hours, Grunswöld Research and Development Center administrative offices

“Late again, Mr. Kasparov?”

Greg just grunted as he strode past the manager. He didn’t like women in general, and this one was a particularly ugly specimen. Actually, he didn’t like people at all. Which was why he worked in a cubicle. And why The Job precluded most human contact.

But even in a cubicle he couldn’t escape from the clutches of his manager, Ms. Dennyson. She was evil incarnate, in his opinion, and looked like a Viking to boot. She would fire you as soon as look at you, and that sickeningly sweet smile that she had plastered on right now only came when she plotting something particularly demented.

Although Greg didn’t like people as a rule, he did like his real manager, a shadowy figure who called himself Nighthawk. The fellow was cunning. Very cunning, and he had mental strength far beyond the ordinary. Although he was no slouch in a physical fight either.

The Job was Alpha classified. No one except Nighthawk and maybe the head of the FBI knew what it was really about. Greg didn’t care, he just took his orders as they came. Right now, his orders were to stay employed and stay alert.

His place of employment was the Grunswöld Research and Development Center in Grand Island, Nebraska; named for its founder and president, Jakob Grunswöld; another shadowy figure. Formerly a German scientist, he had moved to the US and started this highly successful R&D center. Greg worked at the lower levels of employment, doing paperwork and editing press releases, all the while waiting for word on what he was to do next.

Two months, he thought grumpily. Two stinkin’ months and not a word of direction. What do they want me to do, sit around and wait for doomsday?

But today was destined to be different. When he started up his e-mail, he saw the usual ratio of 50% spam or company notices he could ignore, 30% of notices he couldn’t ignore, 15% of stuff he had to do, and 5% miscellaneous. And one email that didn’t fall into any of those categories.

From: Undisclosed-Sender

To: Undisclosed-Recipient

Subject: No Subject

Promotion interview coming up in two days. We need this. Don’t disappoint me.

Nighthawk

Greg looked surprised. A promotion would be nice, but why did Nighthawk need him to gain it? Not my place to question, he reminded himself. If Nighthawk needs it, I’ll get it.

He certainly didn’t have much to do today. One press release needed editing, and he had paperwork from three different projects to sort through. He was finished by lunch break.

After lunch in the GRDC cafeteria, Greg came back to his cubicle and, after ascertaining that there was nothing new in his inbox for him to do, sat back and commenced reading a Peter Marlowe book. That was how he spent the rest of the day. That was actually how he spent a lot of his days, just reading. He never really had that much work to do around here. At three, he got up and left. Thankfully, Ms. Dennyson wasn’t at her usual place behind the front desk, breathing down the receptionist’s neck; so he got out and to his car without incident.

Home again, home again. Reruns of his favorite TV series, Fringe, were on tonight, and he didn’t want to miss a second of them. So he was going perhaps five miles over the speed limit, when a police officer pulled him over. Oh shoot. I knew I should have slowed down.

He came up to the window, and Greg rolled it down. “Hello, officer.”

“Operative Kappa?”

Greg was surprised. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Here.” The officer handed him a slip of paper. “Call this number when you get home. Nighthawk would like to talk with you.” And with that, he left.

1530 hours, operative Kappa’s house

When Greg got home, he called the number listed on the paper. He had to get through eight different filters before being connected to Nighthawk.

“Hello, Kappa,” came Nighthawk’s mechanically altered voice.

“Hello, sir. You said you wanted me to call?”

“Indeed. One of our other moles in GRDC has pulled a few strings to get you this promotion interview. You will be Grunswöld’s chief secretary if you accept.”

“I certainly will accept. But why do we need this?”

“It’s a matter of efficiency. We need you as close to Grunswöld as possible – you’ll understand later. But for now, just get the job and stay alert as always.”

“Certainly. Anything else?”

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then: “No, nothing that I can think of. If you run into any trouble, give me a call at this number again.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

1533 hours, Agency headquarters

Nighthawk replaced the phone in its cradle, and stood up. His door opened, and a petite redhead with green eyes came in.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He groaned and sat back down. “You only call me that when you want something, Sarah. What is it?”

“That’s not true,” she said indignantly.

“I know, but I can tell you want something.”

“Well…when do I get to go on a dangerous mission again?”

Nighthawk laughed. “You just got back from a mission.”

Sarah made a face. “It was just surveillance, nothing exciting. Why can’t I do anything dangerous since we got married?”

“I’ve never said that, and there just haven’t been any exciting missions to send you on lately. Not to mention, look at Wolfe. He begged me to send him out to do something dangerous, and now he’s been MIA for two weeks.”

“Yes, and he’ll probably show up in a few days, battered, bloodied, and full of bullet-holes as usual. Not to mention, I’m not nearly as crazy as he is.”

“Eh, who can blame him? You ever had your skull fractured in three places?”

“No, and I don’t change my name every two weeks like he does either. I swear, he doesn’t even remember who he really is anymore. I sure don’t.”

“I do. And I’m sure he does as well. But that’s beside the point.”

“So can I go?”

“If you do, you have to promise to wear this,” he tapped her wedding ring, “while you’re on the mission. It’ll save you from having to field any more proposals.”

She giggled. “That was funny, that time.”

Nighthawk rolled his eyes. “Sure, it was funny. But still, it’s a bit of an inconvenience to have your opponent proposing to you, doncha think?”

“Maybe. Maybe I like it.”

“I oughtta slap you,” he said with a grin.

“Does this mean I get to go?”

“There’s nowhere to go right now,” Nighthawk returned evasively.

“But if there is?”

He laughed. “Ok, ok. You win, honey. Next mission, you get to go.”

“YAY!!!”

Nighthawk just shook his head at Sarah’s exuberant reaction. “You’re as bad as Josh Burton.”

They both cracked up.

Friday, May 7^th, 0900 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Nothing interesting happened to Greg until the interview. When he arrived, he saw, to his shock, that he was interviewed by – of all people – Ms. Dennyson. At the moment he walked into the room, he had to wonder if perhaps she was one of the other moles. If she was, she gave no hint of it.

“Sit down, Mr. Kasparov.”

Greg sat.

“You are here today because you are being considered for promotion from lead copywriter and editor to chief secretary to Mr. Grunswöld. This is an important – very important – position. I have one question before we officially begin the interview. Are you going to come late to work in this higher-paying, more important job; as seems to be your usual habit?”

Greg flared up at that. “I’ve only been late twice in the past month. It’s not “usual,” and how dare you suggest that I am deliberately late!”

Ms. Dennyson regarded him calmly. “I am not insinuating anything. The fact is, you have been late to work.”

“TWICE! Twice in one month, and maybe once before that!”

“Mr. Kasparov, you had best consider yourself lucky that we have not officially begun the interview. This outburst would immediately disqualify you from selection.”

“You are trying to intimidate me, and it won’t work.”

Ms. Dennyson allowed herself a slight smile. “Starting the interview now. Mr. Kasparov, will you hold the welfare of our company in your highest regard?”

The interview dragged on for nearly an hour, and by the end, Greg was thoroughly tired out and seething with frustration at some of the questions. He managed to control himself admirably, though.

“End of interview,” said Ms. Dennyson. “Apart from your outburst at the very beginning, you did very well. I should say that you have the job.”

“Thanks,” said Greg dryly. “Think I’ll go pass out on my desk now.”

1520 hours, Manhattan

Mafia don cum criminal mastermind Mikhail Bakunin Kerechenko was seated in his plush-lined computer chair in a facility under Manhattan, reviewing the day’s activities among all his subsidiaries, when he happened upon a curious report. At GRDC, a new chief secretary, by the name of Gregory Kasparov, had been promoted. The old secretary had been caught stealing from Grunswöld, and thus had been liquidated. But this new fellow…his name rang a bell. Kerechenko immediately did full database search to try and find who or what this “Gregory” had to do with. He found it, and turned pale as he read the documentation.

They had to make their move now, or it was all for naught.

He dialed his regional commander in Nebraska.

“Hello?”

“Hello. It’s Kerechenko.”

The fellow on the other end of the line inhaled sharply. “Sir!”

“I need you to do something for me, Gibbs….” Kerechenko briefly related his plan to the commander, who was taking notes.

“Got it all,” Gibbs said finally. “But are you sure about this, sir?”

“Absolutely. Kasparov is now the most dangerous threat to our establishment. He must be eliminated.”

“I’ll have the men in position within ten. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes. And Gibbs….”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t foul up this time, or it will be your last operation.”

1531 hours, state route 36

Greg was happy that he had gotten the promotion. He had received official word just before he left for the day. He would begin at his new job on Monday, as today was Friday.

As he neared home on the freeway, he caught a glimpse of flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. With a groan, he checked his speedometer, then pulled over, puzzled. He hadn’t been going over the speed limit…Maybe one of my taillights is out, he thought. The officer was at the side of his car now, and a police van pulled onto the shoulder just ahead of him.

“Hello, officer,” said Greg warily. “What’s going on?”

“Get out of the car.” Another officer had come up behind the first and had his gun drawn.

Greg complied, being careful to make no sudden movements.

“Hands behind your back, bum. And don’t try anything funny.” He clamped the handcuffs around Greg’s wrists. “OK, now, into the van with you.”

“Hey, I have my rights!”

The officer laughed mirthlessly. “Not with us you don’t.”

Greg was about to protest, but the prodding of a gun into his back emphasized the officer’s point. He got in the back of the van, where his ankle was cuffed to the support bar of one of the seats, and he was flanked by two bulky armed guards. They weren’t police, that much he knew now.

The van sped off down the highway at top speed. In about twenty minutes, it swung a hard left and came to a stop. The two guards released Greg and hauled him out the back.

There was a man waiting for him just outside the van with a hypodermic needle. Greg tried to twist away, but the man plunged it into his arm, and everything went black.

1700 hours, Agency headquarters

Nighthawk walked down a hallway in the Agency headquarters building, heading for the conference room. Carson, James, and Kaitlyn were all waiting for him there. Carson was the director of all the male field operatives, James was the head of security, and Kaitlyn was the director of all the female field operatives. There were three operatives, however, that reported directly to Nighthawk – Operative Misty Wolfe (or just Wolfe), Operative Kappa, Operative Tango or TC, and a very secretive figure known as John Esjay Stonserah, or Esjay.

Nighthawk sat down in his chair at the head of the council table now, and spoke without further ado. “Operative Kappa has gone missing.”

Carson sat bolt upright. James muttered a curse under his breath. Kaitlyn clapped a hand over his mouth and glared at him as Joel raised an eyebrow.

“Really, James….”

“Sorry,” he said, muffled.

“As a result,” Nighthawk continued, “I’m sending in Esjay to extract him.”

Carson raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that just a bit of overkill? I mean, Esjay is the guy we send in if we have a Chernobyl-class situation on our hands.”

“No, Esjay is the girl we send if we have a Chernobyl-class situation,” said Kaitlyn.

“Guy!”

“Girl!”

“Guy!”

“Gir-”

“PEOPLE! Neither of you know who Esjay is, so just be quiet, please!” said Nighthawk.

“They’ve got a point though,” commented James. “What about Wolfe?”

“You know very well that Wolfe has been MIA for two weeks now,” said Nighthawk sternly.

“And I also happen to know that he flew in yesterday, and probably debriefed directly to you. Am I not correct?”

Nighthawk sighed. “Can’t hide from the head of security. Yes, Wolfe got in yesterday, but he’s in no condition to go back out into the field. He’s lost at least two pints of blood, and has multiple wounds; ranging in severity from a bullet in the shoulder to a knife cut just below his ribs. He’s in the infirmary now, and won’t be in any shape to do anything physical for quite a while. And as to Esjay going in to Chernobyl-class situations -” he paused. “Well, I’ve officially classified this as a Chernobyl-class. Not to mention, Esjay’s been champing at the bit to get back into action. So that’s who I’m sending in.”

“Why is this Chernobyl-class, though?” inquired Kaitlyn.

“You know we already tried to take down Grunswöld once. He didn’t know it was us, admittedly, but if we fail again, he will; and-”

“He’s up to the same thing as last time, though, right?” Carson interrupted.

Nighthawk nodded. “Right. As I was about to say, we’re dealing with one of three scenarios here. Kappa is extremely tough, both mentally and physically; you all know that. So, the only way they could get to him is: one, send about twenty guys after him; two, plan the best trap in the history of the world; or three, brainwash him.

“Any one of these three scenarios is bad – and if they get Kappa to talk, this whole operation goes down the drain. That is why this is Chernobyl-class. And that’s why I’m sending in Esjay. Any further questions?”

There were none.

“Good, then. I’m sending Esjay in via transporter. From the station it’s twenty minutes to the GRDC building. We should know soon, then, where they took Kappa.”

Carson had just remembered something. “What about Kappa’s tracker implant?”

“They’ve disabled it, as far as I can tell. We’re flying blind now.”

Part Two:

ESJAY

Friday, May 7^th, 1723 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Esjay got out of her car outside the Grunswöld Research and Development Center, sizing up the building. She had two options. She could go in and force the person at the front desk to tell her where Kappa was at gunpoint, assuming the person behind the desk even knew; or she could pretend to be a concerned relative of his who was supposed to have met him at home. Esjay opted for the latter choice.

The receptionist was obviously surprised to see a stranger so late in the day. “Hello, how may I help you?”

“I’m looking for my cousin, Greg Kasparov. He said he would meet me at his house at four, but he wasn’t there. He had mentioned that he worked here, so I wanted to drop by and see if he was still here.”

“Mr. Kasparov’s employment was terminated two weeks ago,” lied the receptionist with a sugary smile. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

A very tall, very ugly woman had come out of the room behind the receptionist’s desk.

“I can help you,” she said. “Come in back here.”

Esjay followed her into the back room, and sat down where the woman indicated. The woman then shut the door and walked around the room, checking the walls and the draperies and the corners of the walls near the floor, then sat back down.

“They bug my office from time to time,” said, by way of explanation. “Alpha has come.”

Esjay was only slightly surprised, and gave the countersign: “And Omega is coming. Your codename?”

“I’m Delta. It’s good to see that someone noticed. Kappa was just promoted to chief secretary to Grunswöld, but we just got the memo about an hour ago that he was fired, and instructed us to tell anyone who asked that he had been terminated two weeks ago. I don’t know where they took him, though.”

“Thank you very much,” said Esjay. “That’s a good start for me anyway. Keep up the good work, Delta.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you later.”

“Goodbye.” Esjay left the building, and waited until she was in the car and a good distance away before calling Nighthawk.

“I found out that they took Kappa somewhere and promptly began a cover-up, and Delta doesn’t know where they took Kappa.” she told him. “I’m heading back to the station now to do some hacking.”

“Good. Stay in touch.”

Once back at the routing station and in front of a computer, Esjay found the GRDC site, and hacked in to the private side. But even on the private side, there wasn’t much information that she could use. There was, however, another password input area, so she commenced to hacking that. In about twenty more minutes, she was in.

“Aaah, here’s what I need.” She read the documentation that detailed Kasparov’s kidnapping. It said: “Mole known as Gregory Kasparov captured at 1532 our time and transported to Black Five facility. Interrogation has not yet commenced.”

She called Nighthawk again. “Kappa’s at a location called Black Five. I’m looking for it now. As soon as I’ve found it, I’ll head there.”

“No need to look, I’m sending the map to your phone now.”

“You know where Black Five is?”

“We know where all their ’Code Black’ facilities are. Talk to you later.”

He hung up.

1723 hours, Black Five

Greg awoke strapped to a chair in a dark cell. A little bit of light seeped in from under the door, but there were no windows. By the dim light, he could see that a cot lay along the far right wall with a toilet at its end, and a small shelf with a lamp was to Greg’s left. He couldn’t move, so nothing in the room would be of much use to him.

The door locks clanked and the door swung inward. Greg couldn’t see the man who entered, as he was backlit by harsh light from the corridor outside. The door slammed shut behind him, and the man switched on the lamp.

A pair of flinty blue eyes gazed at Greg expressionlessly from an angular, scarred face with thin lips. His head was covered with crew cut black hair, and a red and black striped bandanna was tied around his forehead with the leftover fabric hanging down the back of his neck. “Welcome to Black Facility Five,” he said, his voice surprisingly smooth to be coming from such a pugnacious visage. “Are you liking our accommodations?”

“Not in the least,” said Greg. “But I’m sure you don’t care,” he added dryly.

“You’re right. I don’t care. But I need information.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

WHAP! Greg’s face jerked from the force of the man’s backhand slap. “Don’t get coy with me, Kasparov. I could kill you as easily as look at you.”

Greg tasted blood on his lip. “I don’t doubt it. I could, too, in your position.”

“Too true. But let’s stick to the present. You’re tied to a chair, I have the gun and just about every other advantage available to me. So tell me what I want to know.”

“You tell me: what is it you want to know so badly?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Nighthawk.”

“Good answer. It answers my question, but doesn’t tell me what I want to know. What’s his real name?”

Greg was genuinely surprised. “How would I know that?”

His interrogator, probably sensing that Greg was serious, didn’t slap him again. “All right then, let’s have you answer something else. What were you doing at GRDC?”

“Working.”

“Obviously,” the man sneered. “But you were working for Nighthawk. So what were you really doing?”

“I’m not all too sure.”

“Oh, come now, you don’t know that you were a mole?”

“Yes, I knew that. But I didn’t know what the end result was to be. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Hmm. Obviously your Nighthawk takes all the security measures necessary to prevent the beans from being spilled. Perhaps you can give us some other useful information, though? Such as, where some of the Agency’s control centers? How many operatives do they have around here? How can we find the access points for their Internet server to hack into it? Those sort of questions. Know any of the answers off the top of your head?”

“No, I seem to have forgotten everything pertaining to the Agency.”

WHAP! Greg’s head jerked again.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Never.”

WHAP! WHAP!

“Tell me what you know.” the man ground out.

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

WHAP! CRACK! Greg slumped back from the uppercut, then slowly sat up again, blood dripping from his nose and a bruise forming on his left cheek.

“I don’t take you for an idiot, so I know you’ll tell us what we want to know before we’re through with you. Think about that. While you’re at it, you might consider the fact that you’ll be kept strapped in this chair for another hour, until it’s lights out; and then for another four hours tomorrow after you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep. We’ll increase the time every day, and perhaps add some pins to the chair. Think about all of this, and let me know what you decide tomorrow.

“My name is Gibbs, and I will soon become your worst nightmare if you don’t talk. Unpleasant dreams.”

The man turned and left the cell.

1800 hours, Black Five

Esjay stood across the street from the building that was known as location Black Five, or Black Facility Five. It was ostensibly the administrative offices of a copy paper production firm. The cells were up on the third level, which meant she had to climb the outside of the building. That might turn out to be a problem, considering the fact that these fellows didn’t seem to be slouches in terms of security. They probably had motion sensors and heat sensors built into the sides of the building. But they probably hadn’t thought to put some on the corners….

Nightfall found Esjay halfway up the northeast corner of the building, and climbing steadily. The next bridge to cross was to find out how to get across the face of the building to the third story window. Then, she had to figure out how to get in without setting off any alarms.

Well, I did ask for a challenge.

She was on level with the third level windows now, and starting thinking fast. The motion sensors were probably rather limited in terms of their range, to avoid having birds trip them by accident. So if she could get out far enough…. Esjay fired her cable launcher and locked it onto the edge of the roof, the swung out from the corner and forward towards the nearest window at the same time. She made it, barely, and held on with the grips on the soles of her shoes while regaining her balance. Now for the window.

She couldn’t very well just kick it and drop in guns blazing. That was a good way to die quickly. So instead, she first used her compact electrical scanner to check for any electric currents running in the area around the window, as they would indicate alarm wires. There was an alarm wire running around the perimeter of the widow; but in most systems like this, opening the window from the inside wouldn’t trip the alarm unless the place went into lockdown. Thus, if she could reach inside, she could open the window without tripping the alarms.

Esjay carefully cut out a portion of the outside wall with her small electrodagger, then a portion of the inside wall. Next, she reached her arm in, released the catch, and pushed the window open. She rolled in through the window and shut it quietly behind her.

Now that she was in, she could see that she was in an unoccupied private office, and a map of the facility was conveniently located on the wall. The cells were just across from this office, and the inhabitant was labeled on each cell on the map in dry-erase marker. She found the cell marked “Kasparov,” number 14, and slipped out into the hallway. She only had a few minutes.

1831 hours, Black Five

A sullen guard had come in at “lights-out,” which Greg guessed meant nighttime, and let him out of the chair. Greg promptly relieved himself, then ate the bread and water that the guard had left. After his “meal,” he leaned against the wall behind the bed and shut his eyes. This was not what he had bargained for.

1834 hours, Black Five

Esjay found cell 14, but there was no guard outside. Which meant that she couldn’t steal his keys, and therefore couldn’t open the lock quietly without work and time. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have minded, but in this operation, speed was required above all else.

So, with that in mind, she checked to make sure the silencer was on her gun, the shot the lock twice. It still made too much noise for her taste, but she shoved the door open, setting off an alarm with flashing red lights. Kasparov was already on his feet and at the door. His face looked like it had been put through a weed-eater. Esjay passed him her spare handgun, then spoke, forgoing the formality of countersigns.

“Time to blow this joint, Kappa. Think you’ve been enjoying their hospitality for too long now.”

“Got that right.”

The two ran for the office from which Esjay had made her entrance. They could already hear booted footsteps pounding up the stairs at the other end of the hall.

“Hurry, hurry,” she said, shoving the window open and handing Greg her cable launcher. He attached the hook to the sill, then jumped out and started rappelling down the side of the building, and Esjay followed suit. They hit the ground just as the guards reached the window.

“Leave the launcher,” she shouted as she shot one of them through the head. Then, more quietly: “My car is about a half block away. Let’s go!”

They ran as fast as they could down the sidewalk. They could hear gunshots and shouts from behind, but kept going. None of the bullets had even come close yet, as far as they could tell. The darkness was throwing off their pursuers. They came abreast of a blue roadster, and Esjay popped the doors open. They both jumped in and she revved the engine, then they shot down the street at far over the speed limit.

Mission accomplished.

1838 hours, one block north of Black Five

A lone man stepped out of the shadows across the sidewalk from where Esjay’s car had been parked. In his hand he held a small tracker signal reception device with an LED screen showing the location of Esjay’s car. He laughed quietly as his men came running up.

“Did you get them, Captain?”

“No, I did better than that – I put a tracker on their car. Your part was well done, gentlemen,” he said. “Very well done. We have them now.”

Part 3:

Grunswöld

Friday, 1900 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Jakob Grunswöld was pleased. Not happy, but pleased at least. In his opinion, they would have done better to just liquidate Kasparov as soon as they caught him. But Kerechenko was power-hungry, and knowledge gave power: thus the plan to torture Kasparov to get whatever information they could before he died. But it had backfired dramatically; and, although he had to admit that Gibbs had neatly reversed that victory, it wasn’t nearly as neat as Grunswöld would have wanted it.

At this moment, thirty men were closing on the Agency nerve center that they had located by Gibbs’ tracker. All exits were already under surveillance, and anyone who attempted to escape would be captured.

At last, thought Grunswöld, if they do this well, we will know enough about the Agency to defeat them. At last we will have our revenge.

1925 hours, Agency routing station #94

Agency routing station director Richard Andreeson was relaxing in his office. This station was a sort of semi-retirement for him. He had been with the Agency since its founding in 2001, twenty years ago, and he hadn’t wanted to leave the Agency entirely yet; but he was getting a little too old for the real action. “Station Manager” was the compromise position that Nighthawk had given him: not too much action, but he could still be of help.

Esjay and Kappa had gone through the transporters to the island about two hours ago, and Kappa would probably have already made his report to Nighthawk. Of course, Rich was still in the dark as to how they were to take down the GRDC now that Kappa was no longer working there, but he was sure Nighthawk would think of something. Nighthawk always had a backup plan.

Just at that moment, he heard an explosion from outside, then multiple gunshots and the sound of glass breaking. Someone screamed from out in the entry. Rich immediately slapped the red alert switch, and set off sirens throughout the whole building. Two men burst in to his office and snatched XM-9s down from the wall rack. Richard already had his XD(M) 9mm handgun out.

“We need to get to the transporters!” he shouted. “How many of them are there?”

“Twenty-five, maybe thirty,” returned one of the operatives. “We’re gonna have to fight our way out.”

“Then so be it. Weapons ready, men.” He switched on the intercom. “All Agency operatives, this is Andreeson. Code Blue – evacuate immediately. I repeat, this is Code Blue. Evacuate immediately!” He turned back to the two operatives. “Let’s move.”

They went out of the office in triangle formation. There was no one in the hall, so they started toward the transporters. After a minute or so, they could hear gunfire up ahead, and picked up the pace.

Rich checked around the corner with his periscope, then dodged out and opened fire. The two other operatives followed him, shooting all together into the backs of the enemy operatives. All six of them were dead in moments, and four more Agency operatives came out from around the corner and joined Rich. They reached the transporters without any further interference and joined a half-dozen other Agency operatives in the room. Those transported away, and Rich set the system on auto, then triggered the silent self-destruct sequence. He then leapt on to the transporter pad, and they vanished with a loud hum and a flash of light.

Twenty seconds later, the entire station went up in a fireball with a roar that shattered windows for a mile in all directions. All of Kerechenko’s operatives in the vicinity were killed, and all the information in the building was vaporized.

The Agency was safe again, for now.

1930 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Kerechenko was understandably furious. Gibbs had died in the explosion, so he vented his ire on Grunswöld.

“You fool, why couldn’t you have helped Gibbs? If they had killed everybody in the building by pumping in gas like I said, there wouldn’t have been any deaths!! If they had had more men, there wouldn’t have been any deaths!! If you had helped them, we could be in the building and have all their information by now, you- you- you-” he degenerated in unprintable invectives.

When he had finished, there was silence on the other end of the line for several moments. Then Grunswöld spoke. “I warned you, Kerechenko. I warned you that Kasparov should have been liquidated the moment you captured him. I warned you that it might spell defeat and disaster for our organization. But you did not listen.”

No response, so he continued. “Perhaps from now on you should listen to your trusted drug manager when he warns you, hmm?”

When Kerechenko finally spoke again, it was in a defeated tone. For probably the first time in his career he admitted he was wrong. “Perhaps you are right, Grunswöld. You have been doing this for longer than I have. It’s just frustrating, you understand, being in charge of an international criminal group, and yet being unable to stop the most annoying and most threatening para-governmental Agency,” he spat the last word with disgust.

“We will succeed eventually, Kerechenko. I promise you that. But we cannot win by skulking and hiding forever. We must go on the offensive. We must conquer them finally.”

“And you know how to do this?”

“Yes, I believe I do. Give me command of all the men you can spare, and I promise you, the Agency will fall within five days.”

“Very well. After all, we have nothing to lose after this defeat. Do what you can. But you know I want success.”

“I know. And you will get it. I will talk to you soon. Good day,” and Grunswöld hung up.

1931 hours, Agency headquarters

“That didn’t go so well,” commented Nighthawk.

“You’re not kidding,” responded Rich as he hauled himself to his feet. He had hit the transporter pad running, and had ended up sprawled out on the receiving end. “It’s a pity we had to blow the joint. So much tech just gone-” he snapped his fingers to illustrate “-kaput. At least we took a few out with us, though.”

“At least. Still, this wasn’t the outcome we were looking for.”

“Have you changed plans to compensate?” asked Rich as they walked down the corridor away from the transporter room.

“Yes, that’s already done. We definitely need Grunswöld taken down now. We still have two moles in the GRDC, incidentally; so they’ll be taking the operation from here. We’ll rebuild the station when we have time, after we take down the GRDC. Like you say, I hadn’t planned for this, but it works out nicely.”

“How so?”

“Well, with the routing station gone, he’ll think that he’s eliminated all our resistance in the area. Thus, he’s likely to be less cautious, and we should have enough information soon to implicate, and justify arresting, him.”

“Well, glad to know that. What do want me to do now?”

“Just sit back and take a little vacation for now. Relax, catch up on your Peretti, do whatever. I’ll let you know when there’s something official for you to do.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, also, here’s the key card to your old quarters.” Nighthawk handed him the flat piece of plastic. “Same room, of course. Talk to you later.”

They split at an intersection; Rich heading for his old quarters, Nighthawk heading for the conference room.

Even though he had made it sound like they had everything under control, in reality he wasn’t all that sure. As he had pointed out, the destruction of the routing station was to their advantage in a way, as it would give Grunswöld a false sense of security. But still, that had been about $340,000 worth of technology down the drain, including the transporters. And even with two moles – Delta and Mac7 – still in GRDC, it would be difficult to end this.

All the plans had hinged on Kasparov. Thus they would have to rethink the plans, and do it fast before Grunswöld could finish this round of work and go into hiding again.

It was all up to Delta now.

1945 hours, operative Delta’s house

She knew that. Dennyson knew that with Kasparov’s termination and resultant extraction, she was the next in line to complete The Job. And she knew that she would have to finish it, and finish it soon.

When she got home from work, she called the mole who she knew only as Mac7, or Seven for short. They would have to make a concerted effort for this.

“Seven, it’s Delta.”

“Hello, Delta. How’s life?”

“Not good right now. Did you hear about Kappa?”

“He got terminated and they had to extract him, right?”

“Correct. That means we have to carry this through. We need that video evidence.”

“I’ll have it ready in four days.”

“Good. Once you do, let me know, and I’ll let the Bureau know, and we can arrest him.”

“Sure thing. Like I said, gimme four days and it’ll be to you.”

“Alright. Delta out.”

Monday, May 10^th, 1100 hours, Manhattan

Kerechenko leaned back contentedly in his lounge chair. Grunswöld had just updated him on the most recent developments in his plan to end the Agency. From all appearances, it was going well. How Jakob had gotten his information, Kerechenko would never know, but the fact that he had gotten it was enough. The Agency had their own private island, that much was common knowledge. Where that island was a good deal more difficult to find out.

But Grunswöld had done it. He had found the island, or at least the general vicinity of it. Those operatives that Kerechenko had given him command over were busily preparing a cloaked nuclear missile with which to hit the island. It would be ready to launch tomorrow, a full day ahead of schedule.

Thus ends the Agency. A truly formidable foe, but no match for a sneak attack.

For some reason, the thought awoke a vague unease in the pit of his stomach, as if he had missed something along the way.

Probably just indigestion, he thought, and popped a Tums. Then, aloud: “Of course we haven’t missed anything. That’s foolishness. The Agency is down, and will soon be out.”

But that unease would not leave.

Tuesday, May 11^th, 1300 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Dennyson received the email with the video evidence attached, and promptly forwarded it to, and called, her contact in the FBI. Four agents were immediately dispatched to the GRDC to join her. Mac7 had said he was already on his way.

Time to crash Grunswöld’s party.

1312 hours

Grunswöld was on the phone with the chief of the launch squad. “How long to launch, lieutenant?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir. We’re patching you in to our video display now. We have a camera on the nose of the missile too, so you’ll be able to see the island as we come in to hit.”

“Excellent,” Grunswöld breathed. “Excellent. I am watching now.”

1320 hours

Seven and the FBI agents arrived at the same time. The receptionist squeaked in surprise, and reached for the silent alarm button, but the cold pressure of a steel barrel to her neck froze her.

“Out of the seat,” Dennyson ordered.

The receptionist complied, trembling. Dennyson slammed the gun down on her head and knocked her out cold.

“Let’s move.”

Dennyson and three agents them started up the stairs, while Seven and three others took the elevator. Dennyson got to the fifth level shortly after Seven and his operatives. They met in front of Grunswöld’s office door, got their guns ready, and shoved the door open.

1324 hours

Grunswöld watched as the men cleared the launchpad in preparation for takeoff. As the three-minute countdown began, his door suddenly slammed open and six people with drawn handguns burst in.

Amelia Dennyson, his lower level manager, stepped forward. “Mr. Jakob Grunswöld?” she growled.

“That is me.”

“You are hereby under arrest for manufacturing and distribution of controlled substances. Please put your hands on top of your head and stand slowly.”

Grunswöld did as ordered. “You are too late,” he said with a smug smile, then reached down slowly and turned the computer screen around. “The Agency will be no more in two minutes.”

1327 hours

Dennyson and Seven stiffened. Seven reached for his phone and was already dialing the emergency number as, with a burst of flame, the missile launched.

“It’s too late for you,” repeated Grunswöld calmly. “Say bye-bye to your precious Agency.”

“James, it’s Mac7, exo-atmospheric projectile incoming!!!”

1328 hours

Space.

The missile flew in a lazy arc above the green and blue planet below full of people living out their day-to-day lives, most of whom were blissfully unaware of the projectile or its mission of death.

The nose dipped downward now, and the missile began to pick up speed, dropping towards a spot in the eastern Pacific Ocean. Faster and faster it dropped.

90,000 feet.

85,000 feet.

75,000 feet.

65,000 feet…. and a beam of yellow energy shot up, seemingly out of nowhere, to strike the nose of the missile, detonating the nuclear payload. It exploded in an incredible fireball, entirely consumed.

And 63,000 feet down, Nighthawk slapped Captain James Nerpen on the back as the latter slumped over the defensive particle beam controls.

“Guess we didn’t install this nuclear defense system for nothing, eh James?”

The defense room rang with relieved laughter.

It was over.

EPILOGUE

The case of Grunswöld was taken before the Supreme court. As the FBI found out, he had been involved in a lot more than just production of illicit drugs. The basement of the GRDC administrative office building housed a major production line for forgeries of all types – money, birth certificates, citizenship papers, IDs, you name it, they produced it. A wing of the actual research and development center was used to refine chlorine gas for use in chemical weapons of all sizes, and the GRDC’s Omaha offices served as a distribution center for everything Grunswöld produced, and more.

Needless to say, the Supreme Court had never had a case quite like this before. Grunswöld’s possession of a nuclear missile alone was enough to warrant life in prison. The FBI had taken the precaution of freezing all his assets – thus, he couldn’t hire a lawyer, and thus, the Court assigned him one.

Grunswöld was officially indicted on one count of treason, one count of tax evasion, eight counts of controlled substances violations, two counts of forgery, and one count of murder (for the secretary whom he “liquidated”).

The two prosecuting attorneys received a boatload of evidence from the Agency that indicated Grunswöld’s involvement in a much larger criminal and terrorist organization; and the fact that that organization would most likely attempt to free him if he were imprisoned. After reviewing this evidence; the Supreme Court voted, in a somewhat unprecedented move, to sentence Grunswöld to death by lethal injection. It passed, seven to two.

Jakob Grunswöld was executed one month later.

Here ends the tale of Jakob Grunswöld’s demise. The Agency could not collect enough information to indict Kerechenko at this point; but his end will come.

EVIL NEVER WINS

Story copyright © 2010 Joel Parisi

Part One:

KASPAROV

Wednesday, May 5^th, 2021, 0813 hours, Grunswöld Research and Development Center administrative offices

“Late again, Mr. Kasparov?”

Greg just grunted as he strode past the manager. He didn’t like women in general, and this one was a particularly ugly specimen. Actually, he didn’t like people at all. Which was why he worked in a cubicle. And why The Job precluded most human contact.

But even in a cubicle he couldn’t escape from the clutches of his manager, Ms. Dennyson. She was evil incarnate, in his opinion, and looked like a Viking to boot. She would fire you as soon as look at you, and that sickeningly sweet smile that she had plastered on right now only came when she plotting something particularly demented.

Although Greg didn’t like people as a rule, he did like his real manager, a shadowy figure who called himself Nighthawk. The fellow was cunning. Very cunning, and he had mental strength far beyond the ordinary. Although he was no slouch in a physical fight either.

The Job was Alpha classified. No one except Nighthawk and maybe the head of the FBI knew what it was really about. Greg didn’t care, he just took his orders as they came. Right now, his orders were to stay employed and stay alert.

His place of employment was the Grunswöld Research and Development Center in Grand Island, Nebraska; named for its founder and president, Jakob Grunswöld; another shadowy figure. Formerly a German scientist, he had moved to the US and started this highly successful R&D center. Greg worked at the lower levels of employment, doing paperwork and editing press releases, all the while waiting for word on what he was to do next.

Two months, he thought grumpily. Two stinkin’ months and not a word of direction. What do they want me to do, sit around and wait for doomsday?

But today was destined to be different. When he started up his e-mail, he saw the usual ratio of 50% spam or company notices he could ignore, 30% of notices he couldn’t ignore, 15% of stuff he had to do, and 5% miscellaneous. And one email that didn’t fall into any of those categories.

From: Undisclosed-Sender

To: Undisclosed-Recipient

Subject: No Subject

Promotion interview coming up in two days. We need this. Don’t disappoint me.

Nighthawk

Greg looked surprised. A promotion would be nice, but why did Nighthawk need him to gain it? Not my place to question, he reminded himself. If Nighthawk needs it, I’ll get it.

He certainly didn’t have much to do today. One press release needed editing, and he had paperwork from three different projects to sort through. He was finished by lunch break.

After lunch in the GRDC cafeteria, Greg came back to his cubicle and, after ascertaining that there was nothing new in his inbox for him to do, sat back and commenced reading a Peter Marlowe book. That was how he spent the rest of the day. That was actually how he spent a lot of his days, just reading. He never really had that much work to do around here. At three, he got up and left. Thankfully, Ms. Dennyson wasn’t at her usual place behind the front desk, breathing down the receptionist’s neck; so he got out and to his car without incident.

Home again, home again. Reruns of his favorite TV series, Fringe, were on tonight, and he didn’t want to miss a second of them. So he was going perhaps five miles over the speed limit, when a police officer pulled him over. Oh shoot. I knew I should have slowed down.

He came up to the window, and Greg rolled it down. “Hello, officer.”

“Operative Kappa?”

Greg was surprised. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Here.” The officer handed him a slip of paper. “Call this number when you get home. Nighthawk would like to talk with you.” And with that, he left.

1530 hours, operative Kappa’s house

When Greg got home, he called the number listed on the paper. He had to get through eight different filters before being connected to Nighthawk.

“Hello, Kappa,” came Nighthawk’s mechanically altered voice.

“Hello, sir. You said you wanted me to call?”

“Indeed. One of our other moles in GRDC has pulled a few strings to get you this promotion interview. You will be Grunswöld’s chief secretary if you accept.”

“I certainly will accept. But why do we need this?”

“It’s a matter of efficiency. We need you as close to Grunswöld as possible – you’ll understand later. But for now, just get the job and stay alert as always.”

“Certainly. Anything else?”

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then: “No, nothing that I can think of. If you run into any trouble, give me a call at this number again.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

1533 hours, Agency headquarters

Nighthawk replaced the phone in its cradle, and stood up. His door opened, and a petite redhead with green eyes came in.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He groaned and sat back down. “You only call me that when you want something, Sarah. What is it?”

“That’s not true,” she said indignantly.

“I know, but I can tell you want something.”

“Well…when do I get to go on a dangerous mission again?”

Nighthawk laughed. “You just got back from a mission.”

Sarah made a face. “It was just surveillance, nothing exciting. Why can’t I do anything dangerous since we got married?”

“I’ve never said that, and there just haven’t been any exciting missions to send you on lately. Not to mention, look at Wolfe. He begged me to send him out to do something dangerous, and now he’s been MIA for two weeks.”

“Yes, and he’ll probably show up in a few days, battered, bloodied, and full of bullet-holes as usual. Not to mention, I’m not nearly as crazy as he is.”

“Eh, who can blame him? You ever had your skull fractured in three places?”

“No, and I don’t change my name every two weeks like he does either. I swear, he doesn’t even remember who he really is anymore. I sure don’t.”

“I do. And I’m sure he does as well. But that’s beside the point.”

“So can I go?”

“If you do, you have to promise to wear this,” he tapped her wedding ring, “while you’re on the mission. It’ll save you from having to field any more proposals.”

She giggled. “That was funny, that time.”

Nighthawk rolled his eyes. “Sure, it was funny. But still, it’s a bit of an inconvenience to have your opponent proposing to you, doncha think?”

“Maybe. Maybe I like it.”

“I oughtta slap you,” he said with a grin.

“Does this mean I get to go?”

“There’s nowhere to go right now,” Nighthawk returned evasively.

“But if there is?”

He laughed. “Ok, ok. You win, honey. Next mission, you get to go.”

“YAY!!!”

Nighthawk just shook his head at Sarah’s exuberant reaction. “You’re as bad as Josh Burton.”

They both cracked up.

Friday, May 7^th, 0900 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Nothing interesting happened to Greg until the interview. When he arrived, he saw, to his shock, that he was interviewed by – of all people – Ms. Dennyson. At the moment he walked into the room, he had to wonder if perhaps she was one of the other moles. If she was, she gave no hint of it.

“Sit down, Mr. Kasparov.”

Greg sat.

“You are here today because you are being considered for promotion from lead copywriter and editor to chief secretary to Mr. Grunswöld. This is an important – very important – position. I have one question before we officially begin the interview. Are you going to come late to work in this higher-paying, more important job; as seems to be your usual habit?”

Greg flared up at that. “I’ve only been late twice in the past month. It’s not “usual,” and how dare you suggest that I am deliberately late!”

Ms. Dennyson regarded him calmly. “I am not insinuating anything. The fact is, you have been late to work.”

“TWICE! Twice in one month, and maybe once before that!”

“Mr. Kasparov, you had best consider yourself lucky that we have not officially begun the interview. This outburst would immediately disqualify you from selection.”

“You are trying to intimidate me, and it won’t work.”

Ms. Dennyson allowed herself a slight smile. “Starting the interview now. Mr. Kasparov, will you hold the welfare of our company in your highest regard?”

The interview dragged on for nearly an hour, and by the end, Greg was thoroughly tired out and seething with frustration at some of the questions. He managed to control himself admirably, though.

“End of interview,” said Ms. Dennyson. “Apart from your outburst at the very beginning, you did very well. I should say that you have the job.”

“Thanks,” said Greg dryly. “Think I’ll go pass out on my desk now.”

1520 hours, Manhattan

Mafia don cum criminal mastermind Mikhail Bakunin Kerechenko was seated in his plush-lined computer chair in a facility under Manhattan, reviewing the day’s activities among all his subsidiaries, when he happened upon a curious report. At GRDC, a new chief secretary, by the name of Gregory Kasparov, had been promoted. The old secretary had been caught stealing from Grunswöld, and thus had been liquidated. But this new fellow…his name rang a bell. Kerechenko immediately did full database search to try and find who or what this “Gregory” had to do with. He found it, and turned pale as he read the documentation.

They had to make their move now, or it was all for naught.

He dialed his regional commander in Nebraska.

“Hello?”

“Hello. It’s Kerechenko.”

The fellow on the other end of the line inhaled sharply. “Sir!”

“I need you to do something for me, Gibbs….” Kerechenko briefly related his plan to the commander, who was taking notes.

“Got it all,” Gibbs said finally. “But are you sure about this, sir?”

“Absolutely. Kasparov is now the most dangerous threat to our establishment. He must be eliminated.”

“I’ll have the men in position within ten. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes. And Gibbs….”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t foul up this time, or it will be your last operation.”

1531 hours, state route 36

Greg was happy that he had gotten the promotion. He had received official word just before he left for the day. He would begin at his new job on Monday, as today was Friday.

As he neared home on the freeway, he caught a glimpse of flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. With a groan, he checked his speedometer, then pulled over, puzzled. He hadn’t been going over the speed limit…Maybe one of my taillights is out, he thought. The officer was at the side of his car now, and a police van pulled onto the shoulder just ahead of him.

“Hello, officer,” said Greg warily. “What’s going on?”

“Get out of the car.” Another officer had come up behind the first and had his gun drawn.

Greg complied, being careful to make no sudden movements.

“Hands behind your back, bum. And don’t try anything funny.” He clamped the handcuffs around Greg’s wrists. “OK, now, into the van with you.”

“Hey, I have my rights!”

The officer laughed mirthlessly. “Not with us you don’t.”

Greg was about to protest, but the prodding of a gun into his back emphasized the officer’s point. He got in the back of the van, where his ankle was cuffed to the support bar of one of the seats, and he was flanked by two bulky armed guards. They weren’t police, that much he knew now.

The van sped off down the highway at top speed. In about twenty minutes, it swung a hard left and came to a stop. The two guards released Greg and hauled him out the back.

There was a man waiting for him just outside the van with a hypodermic needle. Greg tried to twist away, but the man plunged it into his arm, and everything went black.

1700 hours, Agency headquarters

Nighthawk walked down a hallway in the Agency headquarters building, heading for the conference room. Carson, James, and Kaitlyn were all waiting for him there. Carson was the director of all the male field operatives, James was the head of security, and Kaitlyn was the director of all the female field operatives. There were three operatives, however, that reported directly to Nighthawk – Operative Misty Wolfe (or just Wolfe), Operative Kappa, Operative Tango or TC, and a very secretive figure known as John Esjay Stonserah, or Esjay.

Nighthawk sat down in his chair at the head of the council table now, and spoke without further ado. “Operative Kappa has gone missing.”

Carson sat bolt upright. James muttered a curse under his breath. Kaitlyn clapped a hand over his mouth and glared at him as Joel raised an eyebrow.

“Really, James….”

“Sorry,” he said, muffled.

“As a result,” Nighthawk continued, “I’m sending in Esjay to extract him.”

Carson raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that just a bit of overkill? I mean, Esjay is the guy we send in if we have a Chernobyl-class situation on our hands.”

“No, Esjay is the girl we send if we have a Chernobyl-class situation,” said Kaitlyn.

“Guy!”

“Girl!”

“Guy!”

“Gir-”

“PEOPLE! Neither of you know who Esjay is, so just be quiet, please!” said Nighthawk.

“They’ve got a point though,” commented James. “What about Wolfe?”

“You know very well that Wolfe has been MIA for two weeks now,” said Nighthawk sternly.

“And I also happen to know that he flew in yesterday, and probably debriefed directly to you. Am I not correct?”

Nighthawk sighed. “Can’t hide from the head of security. Yes, Wolfe got in yesterday, but he’s in no condition to go back out into the field. He’s lost at least two pints of blood, and has multiple wounds; ranging in severity from a bullet in the shoulder to a knife cut just below his ribs. He’s in the infirmary now, and won’t be in any shape to do anything physical for quite a while. And as to Esjay going in to Chernobyl-class situations -” he paused. “Well, I’ve officially classified this as a Chernobyl-class. Not to mention, Esjay’s been champing at the bit to get back into action. So that’s who I’m sending in.”

“Why is this Chernobyl-class, though?” inquired Kaitlyn.

“You know we already tried to take down Grunswöld once. He didn’t know it was us, admittedly, but if we fail again, he will; and-”

“He’s up to the same thing as last time, though, right?” Carson interrupted.

Nighthawk nodded. “Right. As I was about to say, we’re dealing with one of three scenarios here. Kappa is extremely tough, both mentally and physically; you all know that. So, the only way they could get to him is: one, send about twenty guys after him; two, plan the best trap in the history of the world; or three, brainwash him.

“Any one of these three scenarios is bad – and if they get Kappa to talk, this whole operation goes down the drain. That is why this is Chernobyl-class. And that’s why I’m sending in Esjay. Any further questions?”

There were none.

“Good, then. I’m sending Esjay in via transporter. From the station it’s twenty minutes to the GRDC building. We should know soon, then, where they took Kappa.”

Carson had just remembered something. “What about Kappa’s tracker implant?”

“They’ve disabled it, as far as I can tell. We’re flying blind now.”

Part Two:

ESJAY

Friday, May 7^th, 1723 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Esjay got out of her car outside the Grunswöld Research and Development Center, sizing up the building. She had two options. She could go in and force the person at the front desk to tell her where Kappa was at gunpoint, assuming the person behind the desk even knew; or she could pretend to be a concerned relative of his who was supposed to have met him at home. Esjay opted for the latter choice.

The receptionist was obviously surprised to see a stranger so late in the day. “Hello, how may I help you?”

“I’m looking for my cousin, Greg Kasparov. He said he would meet me at his house at four, but he wasn’t there. He had mentioned that he worked here, so I wanted to drop by and see if he was still here.”

“Mr. Kasparov’s employment was terminated two weeks ago,” lied the receptionist with a sugary smile. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

A very tall, very ugly woman had come out of the room behind the receptionist’s desk.

“I can help you,” she said. “Come in back here.”

Esjay followed her into the back room, and sat down where the woman indicated. The woman then shut the door and walked around the room, checking the walls and the draperies and the corners of the walls near the floor, then sat back down.

“They bug my office from time to time,” said, by way of explanation. “Alpha has come.”

Esjay was only slightly surprised, and gave the countersign: “And Omega is coming. Your codename?”

“I’m Delta. It’s good to see that someone noticed. Kappa was just promoted to chief secretary to Grunswöld, but we just got the memo about an hour ago that he was fired, and instructed us to tell anyone who asked that he had been terminated two weeks ago. I don’t know where they took him, though.”

“Thank you very much,” said Esjay. “That’s a good start for me anyway. Keep up the good work, Delta.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you later.”

“Goodbye.” Esjay left the building, and waited until she was in the car and a good distance away before calling Nighthawk.

“I found out that they took Kappa somewhere and promptly began a cover-up, and Delta doesn’t know where they took Kappa.” she told him. “I’m heading back to the station now to do some hacking.”

“Good. Stay in touch.”

Once back at the routing station and in front of a computer, Esjay found the GRDC site, and hacked in to the private side. But even on the private side, there wasn’t much information that she could use. There was, however, another password input area, so she commenced to hacking that. In about twenty more minutes, she was in.

“Aaah, here’s what I need.” She read the documentation that detailed Kasparov’s kidnapping. It said: “Mole known as Gregory Kasparov captured at 1532 our time and transported to Black Five facility. Interrogation has not yet commenced.”

She called Nighthawk again. “Kappa’s at a location called Black Five. I’m looking for it now. As soon as I’ve found it, I’ll head there.”

“No need to look, I’m sending the map to your phone now.”

“You know where Black Five is?”

“We know where all their ’Code Black’ facilities are. Talk to you later.”

He hung up.

1723 hours, Black Five

Greg awoke strapped to a chair in a dark cell. A little bit of light seeped in from under the door, but there were no windows. By the dim light, he could see that a cot lay along the far right wall with a toilet at its end, and a small shelf with a lamp was to Greg’s left. He couldn’t move, so nothing in the room would be of much use to him.

The door locks clanked and the door swung inward. Greg couldn’t see the man who entered, as he was backlit by harsh light from the corridor outside. The door slammed shut behind him, and the man switched on the lamp.

A pair of flinty blue eyes gazed at Greg expressionlessly from an angular, scarred face with thin lips. His head was covered with crew cut black hair, and a red and black striped bandanna was tied around his forehead with the leftover fabric hanging down the back of his neck. “Welcome to Black Facility Five,” he said, his voice surprisingly smooth to be coming from such a pugnacious visage. “Are you liking our accommodations?”

“Not in the least,” said Greg. “But I’m sure you don’t care,” he added dryly.

“You’re right. I don’t care. But I need information.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

WHAP! Greg’s face jerked from the force of the man’s backhand slap. “Don’t get coy with me, Kasparov. I could kill you as easily as look at you.”

Greg tasted blood on his lip. “I don’t doubt it. I could, too, in your position.”

“Too true. But let’s stick to the present. You’re tied to a chair, I have the gun and just about every other advantage available to me. So tell me what I want to know.”

“You tell me: what is it you want to know so badly?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Nighthawk.”

“Good answer. It answers my question, but doesn’t tell me what I want to know. What’s his real name?”

Greg was genuinely surprised. “How would I know that?”

His interrogator, probably sensing that Greg was serious, didn’t slap him again. “All right then, let’s have you answer something else. What were you doing at GRDC?”

“Working.”

“Obviously,” the man sneered. “But you were working for Nighthawk. So what were you really doing?”

“I’m not all too sure.”

“Oh, come now, you don’t know that you were a mole?”

“Yes, I knew that. But I didn’t know what the end result was to be. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Hmm. Obviously your Nighthawk takes all the security measures necessary to prevent the beans from being spilled. Perhaps you can give us some other useful information, though? Such as, where some of the Agency’s control centers? How many operatives do they have around here? How can we find the access points for their Internet server to hack into it? Those sort of questions. Know any of the answers off the top of your head?”

“No, I seem to have forgotten everything pertaining to the Agency.”

WHAP! Greg’s head jerked again.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Never.”

WHAP! WHAP!

“Tell me what you know.” the man ground out.

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

WHAP! CRACK! Greg slumped back from the uppercut, then slowly sat up again, blood dripping from his nose and a bruise forming on his left cheek.

“I don’t take you for an idiot, so I know you’ll tell us what we want to know before we’re through with you. Think about that. While you’re at it, you might consider the fact that you’ll be kept strapped in this chair for another hour, until it’s lights out; and then for another four hours tomorrow after you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep. We’ll increase the time every day, and perhaps add some pins to the chair. Think about all of this, and let me know what you decide tomorrow.

“My name is Gibbs, and I will soon become your worst nightmare if you don’t talk. Unpleasant dreams.”

The man turned and left the cell.

1800 hours, Black Five

Esjay stood across the street from the building that was known as location Black Five, or Black Facility Five. It was ostensibly the administrative offices of a copy paper production firm. The cells were up on the third level, which meant she had to climb the outside of the building. That might turn out to be a problem, considering the fact that these fellows didn’t seem to be slouches in terms of security. They probably had motion sensors and heat sensors built into the sides of the building. But they probably hadn’t thought to put some on the corners….

Nightfall found Esjay halfway up the northeast corner of the building, and climbing steadily. The next bridge to cross was to find out how to get across the face of the building to the third story window. Then, she had to figure out how to get in without setting off any alarms.

Well, I did ask for a challenge.

She was on level with the third level windows now, and starting thinking fast. The motion sensors were probably rather limited in terms of their range, to avoid having birds trip them by accident. So if she could get out far enough…. Esjay fired her cable launcher and locked it onto the edge of the roof, the swung out from the corner and forward towards the nearest window at the same time. She made it, barely, and held on with the grips on the soles of her shoes while regaining her balance. Now for the window.

She couldn’t very well just kick it and drop in guns blazing. That was a good way to die quickly. So instead, she first used her compact electrical scanner to check for any electric currents running in the area around the window, as they would indicate alarm wires. There was an alarm wire running around the perimeter of the widow; but in most systems like this, opening the window from the inside wouldn’t trip the alarm unless the place went into lockdown. Thus, if she could reach inside, she could open the window without tripping the alarms.

Esjay carefully cut out a portion of the outside wall with her small electrodagger, then a portion of the inside wall. Next, she reached her arm in, released the catch, and pushed the window open. She rolled in through the window and shut it quietly behind her.

Now that she was in, she could see that she was in an unoccupied private office, and a map of the facility was conveniently located on the wall. The cells were just across from this office, and the inhabitant was labeled on each cell on the map in dry-erase marker. She found the cell marked “Kasparov,” number 14, and slipped out into the hallway. She only had a few minutes.

1831 hours, Black Five

A sullen guard had come in at “lights-out,” which Greg guessed meant nighttime, and let him out of the chair. Greg promptly relieved himself, then ate the bread and water that the guard had left. After his “meal,” he leaned against the wall behind the bed and shut his eyes. This was not what he had bargained for.

1834 hours, Black Five

Esjay found cell 14, but there was no guard outside. Which meant that she couldn’t steal his keys, and therefore couldn’t open the lock quietly without work and time. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have minded, but in this operation, speed was required above all else.

So, with that in mind, she checked to make sure the silencer was on her gun, the shot the lock twice. It still made too much noise for her taste, but she shoved the door open, setting off an alarm with flashing red lights. Kasparov was already on his feet and at the door. His face looked like it had been put through a weed-eater. Esjay passed him her spare handgun, then spoke, forgoing the formality of countersigns.

“Time to blow this joint, Kappa. Think you’ve been enjoying their hospitality for too long now.”

“Got that right.”

The two ran for the office from which Esjay had made her entrance. They could already hear booted footsteps pounding up the stairs at the other end of the hall.

“Hurry, hurry,” she said, shoving the window open and handing Greg her cable launcher. He attached the hook to the sill, then jumped out and started rappelling down the side of the building, and Esjay followed suit. They hit the ground just as the guards reached the window.

“Leave the launcher,” she shouted as she shot one of them through the head. Then, more quietly: “My car is about a half block away. Let’s go!”

They ran as fast as they could down the sidewalk. They could hear gunshots and shouts from behind, but kept going. None of the bullets had even come close yet, as far as they could tell. The darkness was throwing off their pursuers. They came abreast of a blue roadster, and Esjay popped the doors open. They both jumped in and she revved the engine, then they shot down the street at far over the speed limit.

Mission accomplished.

1838 hours, one block north of Black Five

A lone man stepped out of the shadows across the sidewalk from where Esjay’s car had been parked. In his hand he held a small tracker signal reception device with an LED screen showing the location of Esjay’s car. He laughed quietly as his men came running up.

“Did you get them, Captain?”

“No, I did better than that – I put a tracker on their car. Your part was well done, gentlemen,” he said. “Very well done. We have them now.”

Part 3:

Grunswöld

Friday, 1900 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Jakob Grunswöld was pleased. Not happy, but pleased at least. In his opinion, they would have done better to just liquidate Kasparov as soon as they caught him. But Kerechenko was power-hungry, and knowledge gave power: thus the plan to torture Kasparov to get whatever information they could before he died. But it had backfired dramatically; and, although he had to admit that Gibbs had neatly reversed that victory, it wasn’t nearly as neat as Grunswöld would have wanted it.

At this moment, thirty men were closing on the Agency nerve center that they had located by Gibbs’ tracker. All exits were already under surveillance, and anyone who attempted to escape would be captured.

At last, thought Grunswöld, if they do this well, we will know enough about the Agency to defeat them. At last we will have our revenge.

1925 hours, Agency routing station #94

Agency routing station director Richard Andreeson was relaxing in his office. This station was a sort of semi-retirement for him. He had been with the Agency since its founding in 2001, twenty years ago, and he hadn’t wanted to leave the Agency entirely yet; but he was getting a little too old for the real action. “Station Manager” was the compromise position that Nighthawk had given him: not too much action, but he could still be of help.

Esjay and Kappa had gone through the transporters to the island about two hours ago, and Kappa would probably have already made his report to Nighthawk. Of course, Rich was still in the dark as to how they were to take down the GRDC now that Kappa was no longer working there, but he was sure Nighthawk would think of something. Nighthawk always had a backup plan.

Just at that moment, he heard an explosion from outside, then multiple gunshots and the sound of glass breaking. Someone screamed from out in the entry. Rich immediately slapped the red alert switch, and set off sirens throughout the whole building. Two men burst in to his office and snatched XM-9s down from the wall rack. Richard already had his XD(M) 9mm handgun out.

“We need to get to the transporters!” he shouted. “How many of them are there?”

“Twenty-five, maybe thirty,” returned one of the operatives. “We’re gonna have to fight our way out.”

“Then so be it. Weapons ready, men.” He switched on the intercom. “All Agency operatives, this is Andreeson. Code Blue – evacuate immediately. I repeat, this is Code Blue. Evacuate immediately!” He turned back to the two operatives. “Let’s move.”

They went out of the office in triangle formation. There was no one in the hall, so they started toward the transporters. After a minute or so, they could hear gunfire up ahead, and picked up the pace.

Rich checked around the corner with his periscope, then dodged out and opened fire. The two other operatives followed him, shooting all together into the backs of the enemy operatives. All six of them were dead in moments, and four more Agency operatives came out from around the corner and joined Rich. They reached the transporters without any further interference and joined a half-dozen other Agency operatives in the room. Those transported away, and Rich set the system on auto, then triggered the silent self-destruct sequence. He then leapt on to the transporter pad, and they vanished with a loud hum and a flash of light.

Twenty seconds later, the entire station went up in a fireball with a roar that shattered windows for a mile in all directions. All of Kerechenko’s operatives in the vicinity were killed, and all the information in the building was vaporized.

The Agency was safe again, for now.

1930 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Kerechenko was understandably furious. Gibbs had died in the explosion, so he vented his ire on Grunswöld.

“You fool, why couldn’t you have helped Gibbs? If they had killed everybody in the building by pumping in gas like I said, there wouldn’t have been any deaths!! If they had had more men, there wouldn’t have been any deaths!! If you had helped them, we could be in the building and have all their information by now, you- you- you-” he degenerated in unprintable invectives.

When he had finished, there was silence on the other end of the line for several moments. Then Grunswöld spoke. “I warned you, Kerechenko. I warned you that Kasparov should have been liquidated the moment you captured him. I warned you that it might spell defeat and disaster for our organization. But you did not listen.”

No response, so he continued. “Perhaps from now on you should listen to your trusted drug manager when he warns you, hmm?”

When Kerechenko finally spoke again, it was in a defeated tone. For probably the first time in his career he admitted he was wrong. “Perhaps you are right, Grunswöld. You have been doing this for longer than I have. It’s just frustrating, you understand, being in charge of an international criminal group, and yet being unable to stop the most annoying and most threatening para-governmental Agency,” he spat the last word with disgust.

“We will succeed eventually, Kerechenko. I promise you that. But we cannot win by skulking and hiding forever. We must go on the offensive. We must conquer them finally.”

“And you know how to do this?”

“Yes, I believe I do. Give me command of all the men you can spare, and I promise you, the Agency will fall within five days.”

“Very well. After all, we have nothing to lose after this defeat. Do what you can. But you know I want success.”

“I know. And you will get it. I will talk to you soon. Good day,” and Grunswöld hung up.

1931 hours, Agency headquarters

“That didn’t go so well,” commented Nighthawk.

“You’re not kidding,” responded Rich as he hauled himself to his feet. He had hit the transporter pad running, and had ended up sprawled out on the receiving end. “It’s a pity we had to blow the joint. So much tech just gone-” he snapped his fingers to illustrate “-kaput. At least we took a few out with us, though.”

“At least. Still, this wasn’t the outcome we were looking for.”

“Have you changed plans to compensate?” asked Rich as they walked down the corridor away from the transporter room.

“Yes, that’s already done. We definitely need Grunswöld taken down now. We still have two moles in the GRDC, incidentally; so they’ll be taking the operation from here. We’ll rebuild the station when we have time, after we take down the GRDC. Like you say, I hadn’t planned for this, but it works out nicely.”

“How so?”

“Well, with the routing station gone, he’ll think that he’s eliminated all our resistance in the area. Thus, he’s likely to be less cautious, and we should have enough information soon to implicate, and justify arresting, him.”

“Well, glad to know that. What do want me to do now?”

“Just sit back and take a little vacation for now. Relax, catch up on your Peretti, do whatever. I’ll let you know when there’s something official for you to do.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, also, here’s the key card to your old quarters.” Nighthawk handed him the flat piece of plastic. “Same room, of course. Talk to you later.”

They split at an intersection; Rich heading for his old quarters, Nighthawk heading for the conference room.

Even though he had made it sound like they had everything under control, in reality he wasn’t all that sure. As he had pointed out, the destruction of the routing station was to their advantage in a way, as it would give Grunswöld a false sense of security. But still, that had been about $340,000 worth of technology down the drain, including the transporters. And even with two moles – Delta and Mac7 – still in GRDC, it would be difficult to end this.

All the plans had hinged on Kasparov. Thus they would have to rethink the plans, and do it fast before Grunswöld could finish this round of work and go into hiding again.

It was all up to Delta now.

1945 hours, operative Delta’s house

She knew that. Dennyson knew that with Kasparov’s termination and resultant extraction, she was the next in line to complete The Job. And she knew that she would have to finish it, and finish it soon.

When she got home from work, she called the mole who she knew only as Mac7, or Seven for short. They would have to make a concerted effort for this.

“Seven, it’s Delta.”

“Hello, Delta. How’s life?”

“Not good right now. Did you hear about Kappa?”

“He got terminated and they had to extract him, right?”

“Correct. That means we have to carry this through. We need that video evidence.”

“I’ll have it ready in four days.”

“Good. Once you do, let me know, and I’ll let the Bureau know, and we can arrest him.”

“Sure thing. Like I said, gimme four days and it’ll be to you.”

“Alright. Delta out.”

Monday, May 10^th, 1100 hours, Manhattan

Kerechenko leaned back contentedly in his lounge chair. Grunswöld had just updated him on the most recent developments in his plan to end the Agency. From all appearances, it was going well. How Jakob had gotten his information, Kerechenko would never know, but the fact that he had gotten it was enough. The Agency had their own private island, that much was common knowledge. Where that island was a good deal more difficult to find out.

But Grunswöld had done it. He had found the island, or at least the general vicinity of it. Those operatives that Kerechenko had given him command over were busily preparing a cloaked nuclear missile with which to hit the island. It would be ready to launch tomorrow, a full day ahead of schedule.

Thus ends the Agency. A truly formidable foe, but no match for a sneak attack.

For some reason, the thought awoke a vague unease in the pit of his stomach, as if he had missed something along the way.

Probably just indigestion, he thought, and popped a Tums. Then, aloud: “Of course we haven’t missed anything. That’s foolishness. The Agency is down, and will soon be out.”

But that unease would not leave.

Tuesday, May 11^th, 1300 hours, GRDC administrative offices

Dennyson received the email with the video evidence attached, and promptly forwarded it to, and called, her contact in the FBI. Four agents were immediately dispatched to the GRDC to join her. Mac7 had said he was already on his way.

Time to crash Grunswöld’s party.

1312 hours

Grunswöld was on the phone with the chief of the launch squad. “How long to launch, lieutenant?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir. We’re patching you in to our video display now. We have a camera on the nose of the missile too, so you’ll be able to see the island as we come in to hit.”

“Excellent,” Grunswöld breathed. “Excellent. I am watching now.”

1320 hours

Seven and the FBI agents arrived at the same time. The receptionist squeaked in surprise, and reached for the silent alarm button, but the cold pressure of a steel barrel to her neck froze her.

“Out of the seat,” Dennyson ordered.

The receptionist complied, trembling. Dennyson slammed the gun down on her head and knocked her out cold.

“Let’s move.”

Dennyson and three agents them started up the stairs, while Seven and three others took the elevator. Dennyson got to the fifth level shortly after Seven and his operatives. They met in front of Grunswöld’s office door, got their guns ready, and shoved the door open.

1324 hours

Grunswöld watched as the men cleared the launchpad in preparation for takeoff. As the three-minute countdown began, his door suddenly slammed open and six people with drawn handguns burst in.

Amelia Dennyson, his lower level manager, stepped forward. “Mr. Jakob Grunswöld?” she growled.

“That is me.”

“You are hereby under arrest for manufacturing and distribution of controlled substances. Please put your hands on top of your head and stand slowly.”

Grunswöld did as ordered. “You are too late,” he said with a smug smile, then reached down slowly and turned the computer screen around. “The Agency will be no more in two minutes.”

1327 hours

Dennyson and Seven stiffened. Seven reached for his phone and was already dialing the emergency number as, with a burst of flame, the missile launched.

“It’s too late for you,” repeated Grunswöld calmly. “Say bye-bye to your precious Agency.”

“James, it’s Mac7, exo-atmospheric projectile incoming!!!”

1328 hours

Space.

The missile flew in a lazy arc above the green and blue planet below full of people living out their day-to-day lives, most of whom were blissfully unaware of the projectile or its mission of death.

The nose dipped downward now, and the missile began to pick up speed, dropping towards a spot in the eastern Pacific Ocean. Faster and faster it dropped.

90,000 feet.

85,000 feet.

75,000 feet.

65,000 feet…. and a beam of yellow energy shot up, seemingly out of nowhere, to strike the nose of the missile, detonating the nuclear payload. It exploded in an incredible fireball, entirely consumed.

And 63,000 feet down, Nighthawk slapped Captain James Nerpen on the back as the latter slumped over the defensive particle beam controls.

“Guess we didn’t install this nuclear defense system for nothing, eh James?”

The defense room rang with relieved laughter.

It was over.

EPILOGUE

The case of Grunswöld was taken before the Supreme court. As the FBI found out, he had been involved in a lot more than just production of illicit drugs. The basement of the GRDC administrative office building housed a major production line for forgeries of all types – money, birth certificates, citizenship papers, IDs, you name it, they produced it. A wing of the actual research and development center was used to refine chlorine gas for use in chemical weapons of all sizes, and the GRDC’s Omaha offices served as a distribution center for everything Grunswöld produced, and more.

Needless to say, the Supreme Court had never had a case quite like this before. Grunswöld’s possession of a nuclear missile alone was enough to warrant life in prison. The FBI had taken the precaution of freezing all his assets – thus, he couldn’t hire a lawyer, and thus, the Court assigned him one.

Grunswöld was officially indicted on one count of treason, one count of tax evasion, eight counts of controlled substances violations, two counts of forgery, and one count of murder (for the secretary whom he “liquidated”).

The two prosecuting attorneys received a boatload of evidence from the Agency that indicated Grunswöld’s involvement in a much larger criminal and terrorist organization; and the fact that that organization would most likely attempt to free him if he were imprisoned. After reviewing this evidence; the Supreme Court voted, in a somewhat unprecedented move, to sentence Grunswöld to death by lethal injection. It passed, seven to two.

Jakob Grunswöld was executed one month later.

Here ends the tale of Jakob Grunswöld’s demise. The Agency could not collect enough information to indict Kerechenko at this point; but his end will come.

EVIL NEVER WINS

Story copyright © 2009 Joel Parisi