Scorpion

Scorpion [+ favourites]

A little thing that I've been kicking around when I don't want to study. Started it a few years ago, and hopefully by posting it here, I'll finish it.

___SCORPION____

Currently 200 meters beneath the Atlantic Ocean, 30 miles South of Greenland
Black Lila

"Report, Ensign. And it'd better be fucking good."
"Ballast tanks 2 & 3 breached, reactor chamber taking on water, crew evacuation procedures in place."
"Seal off all hatches, emergency blow to the surface, maximum angle. Taylor!"
"Sir!"
"Send a message to Moscow, inform them that we may require assistance ASAP Keep them in contact, we may slip under at any time!"
"Yes, sir."
"Quit 'sir'ing me, Taylor, it's getting on my nerves."
"Right."
"All hands, brace for surfacing- one minute and counting-"
* * *
Navy Ship s.s Falcon

When you're on a Navy patrol boat, you don't expect to see much. Whales, dolphins, and occasionally responding to some civilian asshole who flipped his boat. So Robert Grissom was literally shocked out of his shorts when a full-sized Russian nuclear submarine blasted out of the water not a quarter-mile off the bow. She shot out like a wine cork, at an almost vertical angle. Grissom, who was manning the helm, immediately pressed th GQ alarm, then watched as the huge steel titan fell and slammed into the waves, with a sickening crack. Like bone-breaking, but with a metallic tinge to it.
The Captain, Maria Deharts, strode onto the bridge moments later, tying her bathrobe. She stared at the sub as it settled on the water, then quickly began ordering.
"Full ahead, 10 degrees starboard"
Grissom nodded, and spun the wheel obediantly. "Aye, starboard it is."
"Bring up blankets, fire extinguishers, clothing." She had just noticed the black smoke wisping out of the subs port ballast tanks. The smoke was not jet-black, like an oil-burning smoke, but it was black nonetheless, and where there's smoke, there's bound to be fire.
Maria crossed the bridge and watched as her crew set the ship for rescue conditions. Army blankets, red foam canisters, and medical personell were arrayed on the deck. Her hand brushed the mic for the radio, and she keyed it to the emergency band. "Unidentified Submarine, Unidentified Submarine, this is Captain Maria Deharts of US Navy Ship Falcon. Do you copy?"
Nothing but static fizzed out of the tiny speaker on the wall, but suddenly a unmistakebly Russian voice came over the airwaves.
"This is Russian Submarine Black Lila. We are taking on water and are requesting assistance."
"Come on out, we've got the coffee hot." Maria clicked off the mic and looked at the sub. Hatches on the bow, conning tower, and stearn were being thrown open, and russian sailors were clamboring out. Some were attired in weathered cloaks, others came out in cotton skivies. All of the were injured, some limping, others being pulled through the hatch and falling to the deck screaming. She winced. She had been on the Cole, when Al-Quida had bombed it, and now the scenes of screaming men had come back to her.
A small yellow inflatable life raft was pushed off the deck, and it slowly motored over to the Falcon's starboard side. Out stepped a man who would look at home in a wrestling ring, despite the uniform he was wearing.
"Captain," he stated in perfect english, with a hint of an accent. "I am Captain Domovoi Gorbechev. I must call your headquarters. There is a rogue Russian sub on the loose."
As if on cue, the sailors on the sub began shouting and jumping. Some were pointing, and following thier trembling fingers, Maria saw two lines of churned bubbles, the wakes of cylinders about two feet underwater.
The torpedos struck amidships, the first blowing a gaping hole in the side. Men on deck went flying, others were torn apart by the explosion. The second torpedo flew into the wound and detonated inside. The resulting shockwave broke the back of the mighty Russian ship, and it snapped like a toothpick. The shriek of tearing steel was loud and shrill enough to deafen the ears of those on the patrol boat's decks, and even the Russian Captain averted his gaze.
Something heavy struck the front of the boat, and the accompaning jolt knocked all but Mr. Gorbechev off thier feet. The glass in the front window shattered with a tinkling sound. Gorbechev steadied
himself, then reached down to help up Maria.
He pulled up an ensign at the wheel, and pushed him to his station. "Drive." he ordered, pointing east. "We need to get to port. Hurry!"
"Pardon me, sir, but are you the captain of this boat?" Grissom said, raising his voice over the groans of the rest of the crew.
The Russian Captain of the late Black Lila reached down and grasped between Maria's eyes. Grunting slightly, he pulled out a pencil-thin piece of metal, about a half an inch thick and four inches long, out from her skull. It had pierced to lobes of her brain, and she'd died instantly.
"Am I the Captain? No! Get us to port, or one of those torpedos may find its way up your tailpipe! Drive, my American friend, drive!"
The Falcon wheeled about and made a beeline for home.
A hundred feet below it, a steel monster stalked its prey.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Pentagon
Room 24C: USERS

"Well, who the gagglefuck woke me up at noon?! Can't a guy sleep in this free country?"
FBI leader Kenneth Ramsey looked up at the young specialist over a stack of papers on the debriefing table. His gaze was enough to put the clamps on anyone's mouth, and Wesley Harris knew now was the time to shut up.
"As I was saying before the late sleeper came in," he paused to let the assembly snicker at Harris, "The navy ship S.S. Falcon arrived about an hour ago, carrying a Russian commander of a Russian submarine. His record is clean, he is a trusted officer, and judging the casualties and large chunk outta the bow, I, for one, believe his story."
Harris, although horribly hung over, had to speak out. "This Russian Bas- sorry- Captain, is saying that a Russian submarine, one of the most lethal methods of transport and destruction, has been commandeered and is currently prowling the Atlantic Ocean? I, for one, think this is a good-sized load of cock-and-bullshit." He looked around. "In all seriousness, a Russian Golf or Mike class sub requires a minimum complement of 80 to run, an operational skeleton crew would be about 120 or so people."
Wesley looked at the big man at the head of the table. "Pardon my opinion, but I simply see no way a lunatic could amass a trained crew to properly attack a target, no matter where the hell it is."
The FBI leader looked puzzled for a second, then nodded. "Although the evidence suggesting this 'rogue sub' is rather substancial, that possibility is definite. We need more proof before alerting the media."
"Why tell them?" piped up Dr. Kevin Bowser, expert in undercover operations and agent emeritus. "If we run a truely undercover search, without the notice of the public at large, we could bag this nut without any retalitory strikes." he heaved a sigh. "We'd have only one shot, though. CNN wouldn't shut up for weeks if we fucked this up."
"Agreed." Ken leaned foreward. "Mr. Harris, you are the representative of the USER Squadron, correct."
"Yes, sir." Crisp response this time. Wesley knew now was not the time for drunken stupor to be in control.
"Talk to me."
"The way to snag a sub is to use a sub. I suggest we send out three USERS submersibles and two 'motherships'- probably the SSBN's Monroe and Da Vinci. We track the sub, release the three minis underwater, then make a lot of static while they affix Detonation Packages to the vessel. We move off, press the button, and boom- problem solved."
The phone rang, and the FBI director picked it up. He listened, then put it down. He steepled his hands and looked around the table. "That was the CIC. He has authorized you to use any means, any purposes, to apprehend this criminal. Personally, I like the USERS idea. Any others?"
A man on the far corner stood up. "I propose a full blockade of the American coastline on the Atlantic. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out."
"Mr. Martinez, we are attempting to capture this guy without the direct knowlege of the world at large. I highly doubt that a full blockade will go unnoticed." Ramsey leaned back. "Any others?"
Dr. Bowser stood up. "I propose we also use the Russian navy to help. The Black Lila's captain, Domovoi Gorbechev, has valuable experience against this renegade, and may know some more information about the whereabouts of the sub. Gorbechev has asked to ride along one one of the lead ships of the task force, and will do everything he can to capture the sub and the purpetraitor of the incident."
Ken turned to Mr. Harris. "I like the idea, what do you think?"
"It's OK with me. If he comes, I want him on the Da Vinci. He can help triangulate the placing of the DetPacks with the minis. If he wants to, that is."
"Oh, he does. He came to me offering to get this lunatic off the face of this planet for us. I told him if we needed help, we'd call him."
"Good," The Director stood up. "This meeting has been classified under security level 5, no mentioning of the content outside of this room, the operation is officially labeled 'Operation Los Angeles.' Let's get to work."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

USERS Sea Base Alpha-Bravo
SSBN Da Vinci
2:30 A.M.

The lights were blazing orange when Harris entered the command centers of the Da Vinci. After a quick nap, his hangover had diminished to a slight throb in his head, and he dismissed it as the result of repeatedly hitting the headboard during the session he and his wife had the night before. He straightened his jacket and strode to the chair in the center of the room. The room was spacious for a command center on a sub; it was modeled after the bridge of the Enterprise on that old Star Trek show. He wasn't a huge fan of the series, he just loved the simplicity of the design.
"Report." he barked as he settled down in the "Captain's chair" in the center of the room. "Sonar!"
"All sonar systems go. GPS link established. We're good."
"Engines!"
"We are go, Cap'n."
"Life Suppprt!"
"Operating, go."
"Weapons!"
"We are go."
"Helm, submerge, ahead one-third at two hundred feet." Harris sat back and watched the main viewer. He'd demanded a high-definition camera installed on the hull, so he could "See where I'm going." Numbers never made much sense to the young specialist. As he watched, the underground harbor slowly rose, then water flooded the camera. The tunnel to the doors was lit with floodlights, so shadows played off the steel skin of the submarine. Also, the red directional lights pulsed down the tunnel, giving it the impression of a metal torpedo moving down a launch tube.
Up ahead, two massive titanium doors barred the base from the outside world. It opened 40 meters below the surface, ample depth below the waves to avoid detection. These doors, if found, would be a bigger scandal than Watergate. The USERS, or United States Emergency Response Sqadron, was a group created not to rescue ships, but to seek and neutralize them. The discovery of the undersea hunting group would bring enough lawsuits to drown the boy in the mail room.
"Open doors." The Specialist leaned forward and pressed the intercom button on the arm of his chair. "Crew of the Da Vinci, this is Admiral Harris. As of this moment, we will be running under code yellow silent."
He paused for breath. "Our mission is as follows: We will rendezvous with the Monroe and form a battle group. We will then procede to the zone where the Russian submarine Black Lila was attacked and begin sweeping for clues. Then we will begin a search and neutralize mission for a possible Russian renegade vessel which attacked Black Lila. When we return, there will be two weeks- two full weeks- of off-duty leave in Florida. But to get to Florida, this mission must be as flawless as possible. There is a possibility that this sub may target American cities, and it is up to us to prevent that.
"So- we are now under condition Yellow silent. All stations will be secured and inspected by oh-three hundred."
He flipped the switch. "Helm, Ahead full, set course for point Charlie. Rudder full to port, screen, go to stern view. Keep care not to hang up the props in that granite shelf again."
"Aye, sir."
The door to the bridge opened, and in strode Captain Gorbechev. He looked at the screen up front, now showing the bow, and almost did a double-take. "I had no idea," he stuttered, "that the American subs had such luxurious conditions."
"The Da Vinci," returned Harris, "is not just any American sub."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

SSBN Marylyn Monroe
"Contact, sir. Russian sub, Mike class refit, identifying itself as Ice Fox."
Captain Arthur Peary crossed to the sonar station. "I don't recognise her. Ask her the code." All units were given a code word to transmit at contact. If they knew the code, they were obviously assigned to the task force.
"Transmission complete. Code checks out good. He's requesting communications onscreen."
"Put him up." Peary sat back and hit the microphone key. A slight whistle warned that microphones were active, and the red light on the camera flipped on. Simultaneously, the screen changed to show a picture of a cramped Russian bridge. The captain smiled from behind a huge moustache.
"Greetings from Moscow, my American friends," he said in a strangely clear accent. "I am Mikhail Klaus, captain of the Ice Fox. We were deployed three days ago. You are the Da Vinci?"
"Negative, this is the USERS sub Marylyn Monroe. My name is Arthur Peary."
"Ah, Mr. Peary," laughed the Russian commander. "I should have known. I have a request to make. I, on the way over here had a problem with a bowplane, it simply would not angle down. I came here on the surface, since I could not pass periscope depth. My technicians are baffled, coud you maneuver close enough to pass an engineer over here to look at it?"
"Of course. You will need to drop a gangplank across, and I'll send Chief Willing over."
"You stay there, I will come to you. Out." The screen flipped to a view off the conning tower toward the bow of the submarine. Off the port side, the White Fox slowly began to turn towards Monroe.
My, thought Arthur, that is a steep angle for a rendezvous. The bow of the Fox was at a good sixty degree angle to the-
"We're being targeted! We're being targeted!
Load tubes 1 & 2! Full ahead!" The sonarman punched orders into his board as quickly as he humanly could. On the screen, just under the water, doors rolled open, revealing four tubes in the bow of the suddenly sinister - looking Russian Sub. There was no way to pull out of this one; he'd been had. Peary sat down and pressed the intercom. "This is Arthur Peary. Abandon-"
On the screen, a blast issued from the bow tube, followed by another. With the range between the Fox and Monroe, it took less than a second for the business end of the torpedos to reach thier target.
Well, thought the captain as a piece of steel crashed onto him, pinning him to the floor, you have to give the guy credit. Not too bad-
A steel beam, jolted by the impact, cracked and swung downward with the speed of an executioner's axe. Captain Arthur Peary nover got to finish that thought.
* * *
"Monroe, Monroe, this is Da Vinci, Los Angeles task force, please respond, over."
The communications officer set down the mike and turned to a worried Harris and a stone-faced russian. "We've been in contact range for over an hour, sir, still no response from the Marylyn."
"I don't like the look of it." muttered the captain to no one in particular.
"Two scenarios await us;" said Gorbechev. "One, the Monroe is suffering an equipment malfunction."
"Bullshit. I know the engineer on that sub, Chief Willing. If a vent malfunctions, he runs a sweep of every pipe on the ship. Best record in the business."
"Two, the sub lingered and surprised the American Navy."
Harris looked down for a second, weighing his chances. What a help it would be if his wife was with him now. Any tough decision and she'd tell him to sleep on it. Then she'd treat him to an all-nighter session, and the next morning, after a coffee, he'd be all set.
"Alright," he said, looking up. "Go to Alert condition Red silent. We will procede to point Charlie and possibly rendezvous with the Monroe. You-" He pointed to the communications officer. "Put up the antenna and warn Washington of the events going on. Tell them if we do not update in six hours time, send out the Navy in force."
Gorbechev crossed to the station where the GPS wall map stood. He checked thier position, looked at thier course to point Charlie, then stopped. In about three hours, the Da Vinci would pass over the Rift. It was a shallow area, only 1800 meters deep, with a shelf extending downward for about 200 feet. It provided cover, maneuverability, surprise, and a sheild against sonar, due to its high metal content. It was like a duck blind for a submarine, the perfect place, given the situation, for an ambush. But despite all these factors, he said nothing.
He assumed they already knew.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

-3-
Russian Submarine Leningrad

Inside the renegade, things could not have been better. They had won two conflicts now, the Black Lila and Marylyn Monroe. Morale in the crew was immeasurable, and the officers had a hard time maintaining a red-alert status.
The Leningrad was a sub of the Mike class, refitted to carry modern cruise missiles. It was registered to the Sea of Oshosk Naval base, under Captain Mikhail Klaus. It was an honorable sub to serve on.
However, two days ago, the Leningrad had disappeared off the screens, vanished in the course of an hour. A scrambled message, with the words "fight" and "Overthrow" , was found in the banks of Russian communication station 33 three hours later, and when Leningrad threatened to fire cruise missiles at the Russian capital, the normally secretve government went to the US for help.
On the bridge of the now-rogue sub, the first officer was still laughing at the "Mikhail Klaus" trick. The forty-year old was animatedly acting out the video message in which he had starred, looking as serious as possible, yet still bring tears to the crew.
"This is the White Fox.." he said in a deadpan voice. "I am- the honorable, perfect, piss-ant captain Mikhail Klaus of the Russian Navy. Who are you?!!" The officers slapped thier knees and keeled over from laughter.
"Silence!" came a voice from the high-backed captain's chair. The back was to the group, but it slowly turned toward them. In the battle lighting, the red floods played off his features perfectly, giving him an aura of power. But as the chair faced them, the obvious difference from this captain was clear. The man in the chair was no older than sixteen.
"Quiet," he said softly. He motioned for the sonar to go up to the main screen. It flickered up, showing thier position. A dot, labeled Leonardo Da Vinci, was moving in from the south. A grey dot lay ahead of it, labeled Marylyn Monroe (last pos.). "The Da Vinci is closing in. They will undoubtedly check the Rift for us, and while they focus thier sensors there, we fire a sensor dampening torpedo. By the time they realize what is happening, we will already be battle ready and be delivering the first and final blow."
"But Captain, that means we will need to dodge the battle group trailing the Da Vinci. Even with your intellect, that is a near impossible feat."
"In impossibility, there is possibility, my friend," The captain leaned forward, his teenage brows furrowed. "And if there isn't, my name isn't Colin Valkerie."
* * *
"Up ahead, Captain, the Rift."
"Yes," Harris stood and straightened his jacket. "I overlooked that. Damn, the guy could be sitting in there with a happy finger on the trigger. Scan with sonar, full dome."
"Wait!" cried Gorbechev, dashing in. "It's a trap-"
Everyone on the bridge looked suddenly at the Russian commander, with expressions ranging from confusion to anger.
"Get out of here," panted Domovoi. "He's using the Rift not as a blind but as a distraction. While you're scanning, he'll swoop in for the kill."
"Full stop." ordered the captain, and the sub shuddered to a halt. "Mr. Gorbechev," said Harris, in a deadly silent tone. "Why do you know this? Who told you?"
"His name is Valkerie. He's a fifteen- year old with a stroke of military genius. He paid me-" The commander choked up for a second, than continued. "-he paid me to sabotage the response to his stealing of a submarine. He paid me to die."
"Full ahead, hard to port, head around the rift. Communications, call the fleet, tell them to follow us around. Weapons, load tubes 2 & 4, fire on sight. Pilots, report to the minisubs, prepare for launch." He paused, then crossed to his chair and pressed the intercom. "Security to the bridge." Gorbechev looked for all the world like a kid who just got found out- not sad, but dejected. He waited, then left with the detail. "Gorbechev," called Wesley over his shoulder. The commander paused then turned. "We'll have to talk." The Russian nodded sadly, then left.
"Now-" Harris sat down and spun the chair around. "Mr. Valkerie,is it? Hail him, all frequencies."
He's actually beat us to the draw, sir," The communications officer brought the picture up on screen. A corner was outlined in blue. A thermal sweep went across the screen, and an object was revealed. "Meet the Leningrad, Captain."
"Incoming message. Leningrad, sir."
"Put em' up."
The screen flickered, and up came a picture, showing a bridge bathed in red light. A man with a huge handlebar moustache smiled. "Ah, Mr.-"
"I don't know who you are, but I want to talk to your master! Mr. Valkerie, come and chat!"
"Honestly, my ignorant friend," came a voice off the screen. "you must learn to control your temper. It will get you in trouble one of these days."
"Well, my friend, come and stand in front of the camera, and talk face to face. I have some questions-"
"Oh, you are in no position to ask questions." came the voice of Valkerie, still offscreen. "I currently have three nuclear special cruise missiles targeted for three unspecified cities. If anyone here is asking questions, it will be me. But maybe I will not ask for information. I will demand it"
At the word demand, the camera panned to the seat beside the man with the moustache. It revealed a boy reclining in a chair, fingers barely touching below his chin. His head was bare, his scalp reflected the battle light perfectly, and his eyes were dark pits. However, his grin- that subtle smirk- was the most powerful feature about him. Pure, undeniable, 100 percent evil flooded his lips. Despite the fact that this kid probably never graduated high school, the adolescent sent chills down the spine of Wesley Harris.
"Now, for my- requests." The smile grew even more pronounced. "I currently have the ability to terrorize the world, be it by men on the ground or missiles in the air. Here is my demand, one only."
"And that would be?" Harris waited with bated breath.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

"Years ago, the USSR launched an operation code-named Scorpion, the goal of which was to neutralize a small village of 3000 people. One man in the town had caught a virus of some sort, and the Union believed it could quickly spread into an epidemic. This village was located about two kilometers outside of Stalingrad, and people constantly went there to buy food.
"But this 'virus' was deemed a threat, and when I was six, gaurds with shoot-to-kill orders were stationed outside of my town. The seige lasted six months. In that time, I witnessed horrors beyond imagination. People tore meat off the weak, stuffing it into thier mouths while ripping off more from the screaming child. Rats were eagerly snatched up and thrown in pots of water,and, when cooked, were drank as a sort of coffee. People died on the street, one in front of my six-year old eyes." Valkerie was panting now, slightly, but nonetheless panting. His hand, Harris noted, was shaking on the arm of his chair, his white-knuckled hand gripped the arm of it for dear life.
"My mother," he rasped,"grew weaker over the days, it was traumatic for me, my mother was always a strong peoson. By the time she died, she was like those pictures you see of Jews in Auchowitz and Bergen-Belsen. She was a skeleton covered in skin. Before she died, she told me that I would have to be a big boy, and eat her. And I said yes. So when she passed on, I ATE THE WOMAN! Everything!"
"Then what?" Wesley leaned over to his first officer. "Coat the minisubs in anti-radar paint. Once that's done, launch them and affix detpaks to the bowplanes, conning tower, rudder, and the main deck. Communications!" He whispered. "Call the fleet, tell them to cross over the rift, then wait for further instructions. I'll keep him focused. You have ten minutes. Go!"
The man nodded, and strode out the door. Harris returned his attention to the screen.
"-tried everything, but simply couldn't fight them off. The red army, the symbol of pride in the Soviet Union, lay my town to waste. I was hiding in a pile of rubble, along with a good friend. But after the tanks left, we got out- and he was captured and shot in the back of the head by a soldier."
"That's horrific, Mr.-"
"Colin. Call me Colin."
"I do sympa-" At that moment Sonar, who had been watching the screen, looked at his readout "Incoming!"
"Cut the screen!" yelled Harris, keying the intercom. "Battle Stations! Go to full alert! Faster, Men!"
The officer at the helm sent the sub into a full roll, and hit the thrusters to full. The sub shuddered as power surged through it; like a raptor stretching its wings, Da Vinci charged forward. Water rushed over its decks, and the camera in the front sent up a little wake behind it.
The captain keyed the channel for the engine room. "Report!"
"Engines running normally, the minis are ready to launch."
"Open the doors. Weapons, launch a chaff torpedo and sent a shot across thier bow." Wesley was desperate to hide the minisub's launch. If they we found, they wouldn't be shot, but Valkerie might launch a cruiser to the D.C.
Outside of the sub, a protrusion behind the conning tower flashed a red running light. It went twice, stopped, then lit green. Two massive doors the size of garages slowly opened, silent as the grave.
"Fire!"
A tube in front of the doors opened, and out shot a cloud of scrap metal. Chaff serves two purposes: it diverts lock-on missiles, and it messes up a radar reading.
Three jet-black minisubs, looking for all the world like something out of Battlestar Galactica, shot out, thier departure covered by the chaff. They were boxy, with a, F-16 style noze, two jet thrusters, a pair of minipulative robotic arms, and three Detpaks secured on each "wing."
Inside, three USERS Special Forces Commandos pulled levers and flipped switches. They were directly linked to Wesley Harris' personal frequency.
"We're out, captain." radioed Lt. Kevin Grumnmore. "Taking a bearing of oh-three-two degrees. Range 400 meters"
"Take him out, Lieutenant."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

"Captain Valkerie!"
The teenager swiveled in his chair to face sonar. The technical and tactical advantages provided by GPS location made his mission so much easier. "What is it?"
"This seems wierd, but I just got a huge blank fizz on Radar. Could be nothing, but I think they blew off a chaff torp."
"They dodged our last shot well enough, chaff hampers thier radar...and ours... There's something there they don't want us to see."
"But what could they be hiding?"
Colin thought for a second. "Minisubs. They're the only logical conclusion. Most likely to affix a tracking device...or maybe explosives. I don't like it. Weapons, fire off a tsunami torpedo, that ought to shake them up while we make our exit."
The arm of his seat buzzed, and he pressed the button. "This is Valkerie."
"Captain," came the response. "This is Cruise Central. Do you want us to prepare a package for Uncle Sam?"
"Not now," answered the adolescent. "But the D.C. Is on my mailing list."
* * *
Washington D.C.
USERS HQ
"How the hell can a kid-a little, stuck-up, fuck-me-Freddy Kid- land himself at the command chair of a nuclear submarine and beat the FBI of the FBI?!" Ken Ramsey slammed his fist on the table, causing every man to jump. "Mr. Harris, because of your lack of foresight, the Monroe was destroyed-"
"You and I both know that's bullshit, Kenny," Wesley stood up. "I got a chance to talk with this child, and me being a captain, I realized this teen-this Valkerie- is a brilliant tactician, and an able commander-"
"What I want to know, Captain, is not this rebel's strengths, I want his weaknesses, and I also want to know how the hell he got on a submarine." The wizened man leaned forward and gave Wesley the royal treatment of the "hairy eyeball." He had done this before, and once had reduced a cadet to tears while interrogating him on a drug ring. It worked well enough, and everyone saw the swallow that Harris had to pull.
"Well," began Harris, "He's younger than recruiting age, so I'm betting that his 'friends' signed on the Leningrad and did the dirty work for him. Then-" Wesley smiled as the pictures came to him. "He smuggled himself aboard, and once the crew was beaten into submission, he took command."
"Slavedriver." muttered Bowser.
"When he escaped from the minisubs, he transmitted a message to everyone within fifty miles. There was a tanker from Iran forty miles out from ground zero. We need to intercept and impress upon the crew how important this message is."
"Just what was in this message, Harris?" Ramsey shuffled a stack of papers in front of him, and looked up.
"I have it on tape." Bowser stood up and slipped a disc into the slot at his place. A couple beeps sounded from the center speakers, then the cold voice of the teenage youth filled the room.
"Hear this, all of you. In the event any vessel approaches me with the intent to attack, be it by sea, sub, or air- I will swiftly deal out everything in the Leningrad's arsenal in retaliation. I also heve cruise missiles targeted on key cities around the western hemisphere, which I can fire at any time I please. My demand is singular: I want Agent Bowser turned over to me. I am always on the radio- call for me and I will answer. More details to follow.
Again, I reiterate- any more attempts on my life, and there will be a million dead on your doorstep. Have a good day."
Bowser clicked, and the slight whirr of the disc ejecting was the only sound in the room. As the Agent- for- life slipped it into a sleeve, Harris broke the silence. "That was transmitted over Coast Guard frequencies, and you know how many civilians listen to it on yachts and stuff. There's bound to be questions about this."
"Bowser, Why the hell does he want you? What connection do you have with this maniac?" Ramsey had his glasses off, and was fixing the agent with one of his stares.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

"Did he mention Scorpion, by any chance?"
"Oh, yes, he threw it out there, then went into a long yarn about his childhood. Never mentioned the true intent, except a virus in a village. The village was contained, neutralized, and rebuilt, as I read it."
Bowser leaned over and pulled out a vial of a clear light powder. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, shaking the bottle gently. "This is a chemical compound designed to decimate a country's population, slowly, but painfully. No antidote exists, and it cannot be treated. It brings death after two years or so, slowly, yet painfully. It eats you, reduces your digestive tract to muck, turns your brain to a grayish paste. We created it to kill everything that stood in the way of the USSR."
"Don't tell me-" Wesley put his head down in alarm. Bowser nodded.
"We had an outbreak. About 300 people were exposed to the virus. Apparently, this "Valkerie" or whatever was in this village, and survived. And, by the story he tells, his mother succumbed early. So-"
"He wants revenge." Finished the head of the FBI, frowning. "Now that we have motive, lets talk tactics. His demand for Bowser will not, I repeat, not be acted upon."
"Thank you." Bowser muttered.
Harris pulled up a map on the wall. "Valkerie retreated to the north, towards Greenland and the Arctic. We believe he's at the sea of Oshkosh."
"That'd make sense, there’s an abandoned Naval base there, complete with bunkers, silos, underground dry dock, and a satellite uplink." Agent Bowser leaned back. "It'd be one hell of a fixer-upper, but it's doable."
"'Doable' is what I'm looking for." Ramsey turned to his assistant. "Call the Russian government, tell them to prepare an assault on this 'base'."
It's not as simple as sending in a bunch of troops to chop the place up. This base used to be a KJB central control station, sort of like our USERS HQ. No easy entry, even if there's no one inside. It has one of the most automated defense systems in the modern world, all ventilation systems are monitored, and each bulkhead requires a card with a personal access code and fingerprint ID."
"Nonetheless, Mr. Bowser," Harris reached for a coffee pot. "USERS is only able to do so much with the intelligence provided, the intel on this place is more out-of-date than John Wayne."
"Don't you have a certain Russian commander in a brig somewhere? You know, him?"
"Yeah," Harris' eyes opened in revelation. "I know him."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Frederick DeChamps Maximum Security Prison, Florida.
Cell 22-C
1:53 A.M.
Gorbechev had been transferred to a maximum security prison following his confession on the bridge of the Da Vinci. It was by no means a Caribbean resort, but him, being a man of the military, found the structured lifestyle easily tolerated. But when Roy, the former forward for the Denver Broncos turned security guard, knocked and came into his cell at two in the morning, Domovoi had a feeling something was up. After a short jolt and a hurried dressing in the orange uniform that all prisoners wear, he was ushered into a room with a chair, a window, and a telephone in the corner. On the other side, he glimpsed a suit jacket and a official looking badge.
Roy pushed him down into the chair, and Gorbechev looked up into the 'smiling' faces of Captain Wesley Harris, FBI Director Kenneth Ramsey, and Agent Bowser.
Harris picked up the phone, and the Ex-Commander picked up the receiver.
"You OK?"
"Why am I awake at two in the morning facing three serious-looking men in suits and carrying badges?"
"You earlier said you'd help us catch Valkerie," Wesley said, as clearly as possible. "And military men should always keep thier promises."
"One thing that I keep near and dear to my heart, my promises." Gorbechev shifted around. "Valkerie hasn't done anything big, right?"
"Define 'big' for me." Bowser muttered from over Harris' shoulder. Harris pulled out a pad and paper from his bag. "Mr. Gorbechev, what is his next move?"
"Has he done anything major yet?"
"No."
"He will. Soon."
"How soon?" Harris scribbled keenly on the yellow pad on the table.
"Today is what, Tuesday?"
"Tuesday, May 13. What is he going to do?"
"First, he will threaten personnel in D.C., likely in the senator's and representatives sections. He's hoping to start an investigation that will bring out Bowser's history."
"Okay, easy enough. When?"
"Three days, at noon. If Bowser is turned over before then, he returns to a quiet life in Russia's underground."
"Quiet, my ass." Murmured Ramsey. "And If we don't?"
"He will start what he calls 'operation Gladiator's War'," he said, ecunating clearly. "He has two tons of the chemical agents Mustard and Sarin at his disposal. He also has the means to spread it over major metropolitan areas quickly and discreetly." He paused for breath. "Around his neck, since he was eight, he wore a necklace with hollow beads. Inside those beads were samples of a white powder that he carefully collected when his village was, well, neutralized."
Bowser let out a rattling gasp.
"He replicated and processed these samples until he had four metric tons of the powder. These are also prepared for distribution to the world at large."
"Holy shit," Bowser muttered. "World war one, we shot from holes in the ground. World war two, we shot from tanks and planes. World war three, we'll shoot from beakers and test tubes!"
"When will he do this?" Harris asked, struggling to keep calm. Gorbechev looked down.
"If Bowser is not handed over by the deadline, which is three days from now, you will have forty-eight hours from then," He looked up. "From then on, you will see Hell."
Harris, writing down his every word, scratched off the sentence about three days until an attack, then simply wrote, in a steady hand, "Checkmate."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Sea Base 'Falcon's Nest'
Sea of Oshkosh
1:50 A.M.
"We need to adjust the plan."
At the head of the boardroom table, the teenager sat as stiff as a board. His lifetime of military discipline had its ways, and although his hormones were in control of his interior, Valkerie maintained a firm grip on his mind and appearance.
"Gorbechev hasn't checked in for two weeks now. We need to assume that he has been captured or is unable to respond. If the Americans break him, we will be meeting the entire US armed forces at our every footfall. We need to make him obsolete."
"Well," His second-in-command remarked. "The Americans believe we are working for the Russian Empire. I, for one, believe we should remedy that misconception quickly and easily."
"And how do you propose we do that? Write a letter saying we aren't for the Russians? Make your point!" Valkerie stopped, regaining his control over his temper. Smoothing his head, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Go on."
"Well", the XO smiled, them pulled out a map of Russia. "I say we make it damn clear we are not affiliated with Moscow. Damn clear."
"Yes?" Valkerie understood.
"You said something about sending a letter. I think a certain package would be better..."
* * *
The paper was still warm when it was thrust into Bowser's hands by a pale aide. "What's this?" He inquired, scanning it over.
"Ten minutes ago, sir." The aide replied in as strong a voice as the kid could manage. He turned and left Bowser staring at the memo.
"What's up?" Harris asked as he came up. He was carrying two black coffees, and had a manila folder crammed with papers shoved under his arm.
"Report from the Kremlin." Bowser said, brandishing the paper. "Valkerie's at it again. Only he really went out on a limb this time. He detonated a small nuke in the Northern wilderness of Russia."
"He's got biological agents and nuclear bombs?! Shit!" Harris dropped the folder onto the pavement below. Kneeling down to pick them up, he shook his head. "Any casualties?"
"Not a one. The blast happened on live TV, when the news station KML60 did one of those "Live Camera" weather reports. Scared the living shit out of everyone in the viewing area. Once a web page is drafted, there will be no more covering our butts. The knives are coming out, and the media will be asking questions we, as of now, can't answer."
"Damn."
"The CIC has called a meeting at Pennsylvania Avenue, at 1500." Bowser said in a dead serious tone. "You are going to be on the hot seat. Believe me, it's very hot."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Pentagon News Conference
8:00 p.m.
The lights indeed are boiling, thought the Agent Emeritus as he sat on the seat next to the podium. The room was filled beyond imagining, with reporters from every place imaginable. The detonation of a nuclear device by a hostile party (No one yet knew who) was the juiciest story since Watergate. When the 8:00 chime rang on the clock in the back of the room, Bowser stood up and the room instantly grew quiet.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming on such notice. As you know, a small nuclear device was detonated in the wilderness in Northern Russia earlier today. The US forces are expending all energy, sparing no expense, to capture the perpetrator, a man-or should I say a boy- who styles himself Colin Valkerie. We do not know much about him, except he has a long criminal record for petty thefts and the like. We have a picture, which I will now show. If the public has any information- and we mean any information- we encourage them to come forward. If you are a felon, a criminal, anything, we are willing to strike deals for information. I have," Bowser paused for emphasis, "very little time for questions, but I will take a few. Yes?"
A man in a three piece suit stood up. Two techs rushed up and clipped a mike to him. "Colin Smith for NBC. Has the US had any contact with Valkerie before the detonation? You give the impression that the world at large was sucker punched from the shadows."
"The US knew that Colin Valkerie was engaging in illegal activities prior to the bomb, however, he was classified as a 'low-risk' criminal. We had no idea he was winding up for something like this. Yes?"
So far so good ran through Kevin's mind as an attractive Asian belle was wired up. Not for the first time, he wished he was a tekkie instead of melting in the glare of the spotlight.
"San Yu of Tokyo Today. This child is so young! How did he become a threat to the world?"
"Honestly, we don't know. However, he is a genius, perfectly capable of getting in and out of the situation. He grabbed power, and he is going to use it." Damn! That was a first class fuck-up he thought as San Yu sat down. Now all the doomsday prophets on the streetcorners will be out in full force. Kevin, you just set yourself up for a HUGE pay cut. Bowser freed himself from his thoughts and returned his attention to the podium. A squat, middle-aged man was being wired, and judging by the (at least) thousand-dollar suit he was wearing, he was high on the ladder.
"Buddy Lawrence of Las Vegas Daily. Tell me, does this incident have any connection with the Russian Commander Domovoi Gorbechev?"
"Yes. Definitely yes. He was incarcerated for being connected with Colin Valkerie. However, he has cooperated with us, and I believe that is why he launched that nuke."
"Colin Howard, KGEQ 81.3 news, He does have the means to target American cities, correct?"
Bowser heaved a sigh. "Not only America, but the rest of the civilized world is in his crosshairs."
* * *
"Perfect, perfect!" Colin grinned while watching BBC's coverage of the conference. "They're like a tiger that's been backed into a corner, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." He enjoyed watching his most loathed enemy sweat it out at the podium, and when Kevin heaved his sigh, and said, "Not only America, but the rest of the civilized world is in his crosshairs," the young criminal burst out a guttural bark of laughter.
"No, my little friend, the world is not in my scope- yet! But you are there now, boy, front and center!"
"However, my child," sifted a voice from the shadows, "Behind that shaking lip is a formidable mind, one that can dream up a scheme that will not require a little effort to thwart." Out of the shadows stepped a tall, lanky man, wearing a black robe with red trim. His head was shaved and polished smooth, but his eyes were black- totally black, with no whites. He walked with a fluidness that comes from martial arts training, and his hands were hanging limply at his sides. His left hand hung at an angle that was unnaturally twisted, and three shrunken fingers protruded from the side. Despite his handicap, the man walked with an air of importance and confidence that could not be rivaled by the greatest businessman in the world. "Also, a tiger backed into a corner will not stay still for long, but it will come out slashing. Beware the attack."
"Of course, Father Ivan. I will be wary and cautious of the attack. But be assured, Kevin Bowser will not escape unscathed when his past comes up to the present."
"Good," Ivan inclined his head, and the bones in his neck crackled sickeningly. "The future rests in your trusting hands, Colin. Do not let it slip away into the darkness, for then not even a god could retrieve it."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Wesley Harris' office
12:07 A.M.

"Okay, I got an idea. Do we have any blueprints of the Soviet compound?"
"Gorbechev told us that there are copies at the former KGB lab. However, when we sent for it, the Russian government told us, very kindly, to fuck off." Harris smoothed his hair and smiled blandly. "Personally, I think that the only way to get this guy is a covert operation into his base. I want the Da Vinci."
"No way on God's green earth can I let you have Leonardo. She's under repairs, that weird missile Colin shot at it did a number on the exterior hull. Another four weeks at best in dry dock, and she is a media frenzy, damn copters snapping pictures every ten minutes. No, no Da Vinci." Ken Ramsey was reclining in a leather chair in the corner, a copy of the book Survival of the Lame resting on his lap.
"Are there any other subs who would be open for a covert mission?" Wesley was sketching out a submarine on a spare sheet of paper. The FBI director looked up.
"To my knowledge, there are three; the Yosemite Falls, a Niagara-class ballistic sub, the minelayer Wasp; and a Ohio-refit called Excelsior. I can cover you for three weeks, at the most. Can you do it in that time?"
"Definitely. If it goes perfectly, I could do it in two. "
"Two is better. So, your thought?"
Harris swiped a final line and looked up. "I want USER to shake this kid. A sub with a full stealth team drops them at the entrance. Then it pulls back while the stealth team neutralizes the base and gets an idea about what this kid can do."
"And Bowser?"
"Give him a chance to talk with Colin, to divert his attention while we get a tactical analysis. If it's good, we move in for the kill. If it isn't...we think of something."
The admiral took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. His eyes were closed as he thought, and the twitch in his nose showed his dilemma. Finally, he looked up.
"Two conditions if I let you go through with this." he said, pulling a stainless steel pen from his pocket. "One, if this blows up in our collective faces, you take full blame for everything.”
"Failure is not an option then," Wesley smiled.
"Two, regardless of whether we get this kid or not, I want your letter of resignation on the President's desk once this is over." Ramsey's eyes had narrowed slightly, and the pen slapped the palm of the admiral's weathered hand.
"And if I don't?"
"I will make sure that enough rumors fly into the media to ruin your reputation once and for all."
Wesley looked down, weighing his options . Better to get the kid than let him go and live a life knowing he failed to protect his country.
"Fine. You got it. You ruin me either way. I fail, I'm either dead or disgraced, I get him, I'm out of your hair and you take the credit for bagging the teenage menace."
"It works for me," growled Kenneth as he holstered the pen in his breast pocket. "Have a good day." He turned and walked out of the door, closing it so hard, the little sign on it fell to the floor and broke.
"Well, Mr. Ramsey, I guess I'm a feather in your pressed cap. Not everyone can stab someone in the back like that, nor single- handedly rip a person's career to pieces. " Wesley sat down and began to draft a letter of resignation. After the first few words ('this was not my decision' he stopped and smiled. Crumpling up his letter, he pulled up a manila folder and began reading its contents. Gradually, over time, his smile gave way to concentration.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Leningrad Task Force
30 miles off the coast of Maine
100 meters below the surface
8:13 Eastern Standard Time

The telltale hum of computers were comforting to Valkerie, who had been raised between two cabinet servers in his father's office until he was six. But now, as he walked through the Leningrad's supercomputer matrix, he paid no attention to their whirring. Ivan would be as peeved as a whore not being paid if he was late for his martial arts lesson.
"Sorry" he muttered as he barged through the door, slightly startling the old caregiver. Ivan inclined his head, and fixed Colin with one of his Hawkeye stares.
"You are three minutes late. Explain."
"Reviewing tactical patterns in the event Harris and Bowser begin piecing the jigsaw together."
"No, you overslept. I checked on you at eight o'clock EST and found you snoring on your cot."
"I apologize, Ivan."
"No need. These lessons are secondary to your readiness for battle. I would take you well-rested than skilled and tired. Now, to begin, take a deep breath..."
After a half-hour of meditation, yoga, and stretching, the two moved to karate, judo, Tae Kwan-do, and kung-fu. Colin's surprising speed for such a lanky frame was emphasized, while his weakness in his left kick was circumvented by defensive maneuvers. At eight-fifty, A quick battle with staffs, swords, and daggers ended the course for the day.
"You are improving well," murmured the old monk-like man as they put the swords into the rack. "Soon you will be able to drop any man in your path with your skills."
"I still cannot incapitate everyone?" The teenage menace looked to his master for an answer.
"You have yet to force me to my knees."
"I have gotten close a few times. Three weeks ago..."
"...I was in a cast and still aching from the bullet my arm saved you from. You were close then."
Yeah, yeah, thought Valkerie as he pulled a tight black shirt on and slipped a jacket over his lanky shoulders. I was close.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Undisclosed location
'Point Charlie'
S.S.B.N. Excelsior

Harris's eyes ached from reviewing chart after chart of tactical data on Valkerie's little tycoon. From what he could see, the errant teenager could theoretically blast the entire US ten feet in the air, and then could blow it to itty-bitty pieces on the way down. Life looked good right now.
There was a muffled clunk, followed by a long stream of swears in which Wesley was able to distinguish "..little red fuckers running backwards...jack off..." and the next second Tom Yeller walked up behind him holding his head. At 6 foot four, Tom's head had taken a beating from the many bulkheads on the Excalibur. "God damn, did that hurt. Where are we?"
"Point Charlie, fifty kilometers from what we believe is the outer defense web and detection grids. We are supposed to be inserted tomorrow. 0845 hours."
"I'm looking forward to getting off this sunken can. As long as I don't have to duck to go through doors; I'll take it."
"Tom, you're six- four. You are going to have to stoop a bit, like it or not."
Tom glared a bit, then smiled. "If the door's too short, I'll blast it to my size."
"That's going to take a lot of C4."
"Captain?"
"Yes, ensign?" Harris turned to face the front. The screen in front, which had been showing a diagram of the sub's systems, had switched to the front camera. A sliver of dull grey winked from the bottom of the screen.
"Do you see it."
"Go to thermal."
The screen blacked out, to be replaced with a red image. Pockets of blue were dotted here and there, representing cold pockets trapped between warmer layers. More importantly, the dash of grey became a vibrant red. Heat like that didn't occur naturally- only a powerplant would produce heat like that.
"Go silent." Harris rounded on his paperwork. "If that's Leningrad, I'll eat my foot."
"Chow down." remarked Sonar, turning to face Wesley. "She's here."

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Harris's head was spinning with the wealth of information at his fingertips. Keying a few buttons, he brought up a detailed 3D map of the floor and the shelf, and most importantly, the tactical capabilities of the Leningrad. They'd picked up the sub on long-distance sweeps not a second too soon, if they'd proceeded on course for three more minutes, Valkerie would probably be able to either follow them or blow them out of the water. Lady Luck was on his arm.
"Pilot, plot a course around the present sonar range of the bogey, call up the USER boys to get in a couple minisubs and get ready to launch for the complex."
Tom leaned foreward. "My boys can go in silent, but at this speed, we'll be in in an hour. I'd suggest that we go in without the minisub, just do a four-mile swim and come back, it'd take four hours both ways, but our chance of detection is exponentially less. And what's a submerged sub to do if they do spot us- A mark II torpedo for three swimmers? This Colin may be young, but he's not stupid, those torpedos are expensive." He smiled coyly at Harris.
"Do it."