Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger
Read Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger Online
Authors: Lee Stephen
Tags: #goldhawk, #dagger, #cold war, #lee, #science, #Fiction, #crimson, #xenonauts, #stephen, #Military, #novella, #soviet, #action, #interactive
XENONAUTS
Crimson Dagger
By Lee Stephen
Copyright © 2013 Lee Stephen.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
ISBN 978-0-9788508-8-3 (digital edition)
Cover Illustration by Francois Cannels
Book Design by Fiona Raven
This novella has been set in the Xenonauts universe with permission from the creators. Xenonauts is the intellectual property of Goldhawk Interactive, Ltd.
Published by
Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.
Contents
“The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche
FOOTSTEPS CLOMPING rhythmically, General Vladimir Kulik rounded one of the Kremlin’s many ornate halls. Behind him and struggling to keep up was Colonel Alexander Spanov. “Vasilyev,” Spanov said. “What about him?”
“Vasilyev would never get there soon enough,” said Kulik. “Time is critical.”
The hallways were bustling at a frenetic pace. Scribbling something on a piece of paper while he followed the general, Spanov bumped solidly into another passing officer, nearly stumbling. Still, he kept on. “If proximity is a concern, then perhaps Tyannikov
would
—”
“We cannot have a liaison to the Americans who doesn’t speak English, colonel. He is where he is for a reason.”
“Then perhaps someone from the GRU,” Spanov said. When the general didn’t answer, he sighed exhaustedly. “There are only so many candidates for an operation like this.”
Stopping in the hall, Kulik turned to face Spanov fully. “Who was in charge of the western surge in Hungary?” Spanov cocked his head unknowingly. “The one Zhukov always praised?”
Spanov snapped his finger. “I know who you mean. Gah, what is his name?”
“Kirov.”
“Kirov!”
Resuming his march, Kulik spoke back to the once-again following colonel. “Where is Kirov now?”
Huffing, Spanov answered, “Germany, general. Zossen Wünsdorf. But is that close enough?”
“They have a Tu-104.” Drawing to a stop outside of a conference room doorway, Kulik locked eyes with Spanov. “Contact Dorokhov. Tell him to move Kirov at once. I want him airborne.”
“Yes, general.”
“Tell him everything.”
Offering a salute, Spanov acknowledged then turned to step away. A moment later, he paused and looked back. “Umm. General, what is everything?”
Jaw setting, Kulik cracked open the conference room door, then looked back. “Everything.” Without another word, he disappeared into the chamber. Spanov was left in the hall.
“Everything,” Spanov whispered to himself, blowing out a breath of preparation. “Here we go.”
1
Wednesday, April 23rd, 1958
1246 hours
Zossen, Germany
HE KNEW SHE hated math. She’d hated it since the first day she’d been handed her first homework assignment. She’d struggled with basic arithmetic—two plus six, eight plus nine. Now that division had been reached, well, she might as well have been attempting linear algebra.
“Look,” he said in the most loving voice a frustrated father could offer, “you have eight apples. If you divide them equally into two, how many apples does each side have?”
Kseniya’s brown eyes squinted painfully. The brown-haired six-year-old focused on the worksheet lying on their living room end-table. Her temples almost seemed to throb. Opening her mouth as if on the cusp of an attempt to answer, she managed only a wince.
Running his hand through his hair, Mikhail Kirov rose from his crouched position next to her chair. Setting his hands on his hips, he blew out a breath.
“Can I go play in my room?” asked Kseniya.
“No. You are supposed to be sick today. An obviously exaggerated claim.”
The little girl frowned and looked at the worksheet. “I don’t like this, papa.”
“Try,” he said, kneeling down again. “Just try.”
“I don’t want to do it.”
Mikhail sighed. “There will always be things you must do that you don’t want to do.”
“I want to be a soldier. So I can fight the Americans!”
Closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face, Mikhail said, “Kseniya, there are no Americans here.”
And we are not fighting them anyway.
“Why do you always talk about these things? Why can’t you be a normal little girl?”
“I want to be like you!”
“When have you ever seen me fighting Americans? Look out of the window. Do you see any Americans here?” Truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded Americans outside of his window. He’d had his fill of Germans south of Berlin. Zossen was the last place on the planet Mikhail wanted to be. The irony was that the Soviet Army considered it a “reward” for his service in the Hungarian Revolution. To be sure, Hungary was worse than Zossen—by a long shot—but neither place was ideal to raise a Russian child.
Of course, there had been some
actual
perks with the transfer, not the least of which was being able to live in a Soviet Army-owned house. Even though most of his time consisted of living on Zossen Wünsdorf, the base where his unit was garrisoned, having a place to come home to that was truly one’s own was a luxury afforded to very few. There were benefits to impressing Soviet generals, and his command operations in Hungary had left then-General Zhukov impressed. Mikhail excelled at improvising both on the battlefield and in his mind. More than a few lives in both Hungary and Russia had been saved by that quality. His thoughtful yet effective command style had been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise lopsided operation. Or at least Zhukov had thought so. With a house the army was allowing him to live in, Mikhail wasn’t about to complain.
Looking away from the worksheet, Kseniya’s eyes lit up. “We beat the Americans to space!”
“Yes, and we are beating them in mathematics. Do you know how many six-year-olds in America are learning division?”
Frowning, the little girl stared at the paper again.
“And now you understand why this is so important. It is also important because I said it is important, because I am your father. So once again, how many is half of eight apples?”
For several seconds, Kseniya said nothing. She simply stared zombie-eyed at the worksheet. “…three.”
“Four, Kseniya.” She hadn’t even tried. “You have four apples.”
“…but I gave one to you.”
For the first time, something other than frustration struck Mikhail. “Ha!” Even he had to admit—that one was cute. “Way to fight capitalism.”
Mikhail was thirty-three years old, and Kseniya looked nothing like him. She was a hazel-eyed brunette, a total contrast to his blond-haired and blue-eyed appearance. He had flat facial features, hers were decidedly sharp. She could eat two bowls of pelmeni and somehow lose weight, while he had to watch everything that went into his stomach. She was just like her mother.
Leaning against the kitchen doorway, Lidiya Kirova folded her arms and smiled, watching as the math lesson continued. The smell of borsch and freshly-cooked cod wafted in from the kitchen behind her. Quietly, she cleared her throat.
“Yes, yes,” said Mikhail, waving her away. “We will be finished in a minute.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“That was not ten…” he glanced at the wall clock. Fifteen minutes had passed since Lidiya had last prompted him. He half frowned. “Just one more minute.”
Lidiya’s smile lingered beneath arched brows. “She asked for borsch, Misha. She is sick, she needs to eat.”
“She is sick like I am a donkey.”
“You said it, not me.” Turning around, Lidiya sashayed back into the kitchen.
His focus returning to Kseniya, Mikhail held up eight fingers—four on each hand. “Count how many fingers I have raised on each hand. You can do this.”
“Four,” she said immediately.
“No, I know you know the answer is four. I want you to see
how
it is four. Count the—”
Mikhail’s words were cut off as the screech of tires emerged from outside their living room window. Looking up, Mikhail watched as a pair of officials bolted out from an olive green BMW. It was one of their vehicles from Zossen Wünsdorf. The officials made a beeline for the Kirovs’ front porch.
“Dear!” Mikhail said, glancing to the kitchen before the pounding came to his door. Eyes wide, Kseniya looked up from her worksheet. Mikhail hurried to the door as Lidiya emerged behind him.
The moment the door was opened, the officer in front snarled. “Why the hell are you not answering your phone?”
Blinking, Mikhail swung to the phone on their kitchen counter. “It never rang! We have been here all day.”
Lidiya hurried to the phone, picking it up. As she placed it to her ear, her expression fell. “It’s dead again.” Mikhail’s eyes rolled.
“You need to come with us, right now,” the officer said.
“Wait—why? What is going on?”
“Get in the car.”
For Mikhail, an interruption like this was unprecedented. That could only mean one thing: something significant had happened. Mikhail stepped backward, his palm opened toward the officers. “I’ll tell my wife goodbye, then I’ll come.” The officers never moved. As Mikhail hurried to his wife, she met him with an expression of panic.
“What is going on?” she asked breathily.
“I don’t know. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Pack your things, just in case.” A kiss was exchanged, then Mikhail trotted to his daughter. He kissed her forehead. “Finish your homework. Papa loves you.”
“Kirov!” the officer shouted.
Glaring, Mikhail went for his shoes. “I am coming, damn it!” Giving his family a final glance, he followed the officers back to their vehicle.
At a decent pace in his own Soviet-assigned vehicle, it typically took Mikhail a full twenty minutes to reach Zossen Wünsdorf. But the rate at which the BMW was moving was anything but decent. Pedestrians leapt out of the street to avoid the vehicle being driven at barreling speeds. His eyes wide and his heart racing, Mikhail gripped his seat as the BMW’s momentum threatened to fling him from it at every turn.
“What is going on?” he asked. He flinched as something smashed into the front bumper. A plume of white feathers erupted. They’d just killed a chicken.
The officers said nothing.
“Hey!” Mikhail leaned forward just enough to be slammed back into his seat as they braked for a hairpin turn. “I asked what’s going on!”
Ignoring Mikhail’s words, the two men muttered emphatically to one another. Something about time zones. Another turn came, then the accelerator was floored. Zossen Wünsdorf lay ahead.
Mikhail leaned forward again. “You just ripped me from my family midway through my leave. Now tell me what the hell is going on, right now.”
The officer in the passenger seat replied without looking. “It will be explained to you en route.”
“En route? En route to where?”
“Kirkjubæjarklaustur.”
“Kirk-
what
?”
Looking back firmly, the officer answered, “Iceland.”
Mikhail’s eyes shot wide.
“Iceland?”
Driving through the open gate, the BMW headed straight for the runway. Ahead of them, the base’s sole Tupolev Tu-104 was preparing to take off. The BMW accelerated toward it. His jaw hanging open, Mikhail fervently tapped the back of the passenger seat. “I’m getting on
that
?”
“Your gear is on board,” the officer said. “They wait only for you. Get on, quickly.”
Momentum struck again as the BWM drew dangerously close to the plane, spinning at the last second to pull up beside a cluster of personnel by the Tu-104’s airstairs. Mikhail didn’t even have time to open the door himself. One of the men outside jerked it open the moment the BMW stopped.
“Captain Kirov!” the man said, yelling over the plane’s engines. “Do you still know good English?”
Mikhail climbed out of the vehicle and instinctively followed the man, who was walking purposefully toward the airstairs. Before Mikhail could answer, a small stack of papers was thrust his way.
“This is to refresh yourself,” the man said, “in case you are out of practice!” As they reached the stairs, the man motioned Kirov to climb. “They will explain everything to you en route! Your gear is already on board. Good luck, captain!”
“Good luck for
what
?” Mikhail’s question went unanswered. Hurrying up the stairs, he ducked to enter the plane. The moment he was inside, the airstairs began to ascend.