Dare To Be Stupid
None of us were lying down. Some of us, however, were not content to wait. And some…let’s just say that a restless Red Saviour is a lot like a quarter ton of feral kittens.
Then add Pavel to the mix.
On the other hand, John Murdock and I had managed to penetrate that Thulian Command and Control silo, and we had gotten some intel on another Thulian stronghold right there in Kansas City. Wait too long, and intel goes stale, really quickly. Their C and C had been destroyed; they might decide not to take the chance that their KC hub had been compromised too.
We had to move. And by “we,” I mean CCCP…and yours very truly.
Strange bedfellows. But at least someone was moving.
It was hard not to gloat, just a little. There was so little to gloat over, after all, that finally having something go right felt like a victory. But here was little old Victoria Victrix, absolutely, utterly disregarded by Dominic Verdigris…gleefully piloting the tech that Dominic Verdigris, Super Geeeeeneeeus, had been unable to make work.
’Course, I have magic.…She floated the “magic eyeball” in through the door of the CCCP break-room. None of the occupants noticed. Which was a good thing, since it was supposed to be invisible.
There were only three bodies there at the moment, but as they were three very different sorts of metas, that gave her the opportunity to see if some of the scanning equipment worked. She had to give Verd this much credit; he’d packed a lot into a very small space, and if he’d only been able to work out the anti-grav problem…
Well, good thing he hadn’t.
Subject one: the new gal, Mamona. Well, call-sign Mamona. Which was a nasty little dig on Nat’s part, giving her that call-sign. Cici DuPre was a home-girl from JM’s adopted Atlanta neighborhood who had manifested confusion-psi powers; she interrupted central nervous system signals in her targets. Mamona was Russian for “Mammon” the god of wealth. If there was anything less wealthy than Cici…just one of Nat’s little moments of contempt for the US lifestyle.
Or maybe, just maybe, Nat was showing a rare moment of humor, however cutting it could sometimes be.
Mamona showed up as pretty normal in the scans, except for the eleventy-billion throwing knives she had hidden all over her person. The two big fighting knives, she didn’t bother to hide.
Subject two: call-sign Untermensch. Georgi did not show up “normal” on scan. Vic had to call up extra stuff to get through his near-impervious skin on his hands and forearms. And as she scanned, he suddenly looked fractionally more alert. She wondered if he didn’t have marginal sensitivity to scans that even he wasn’t aware of, maybe an aspect of his healing factor.
Subject three: Sovietski Medved. The Soviet Bear. Oh lordy, lordy, Pavel. There was nothing about Pavel that was normal. In fact, even for a metahuman…he just flat should be dead. Nothing about him should be working. Not the kludged-together, WWII-era prosthetics; “height of Soviet engineering,” as he said. Not the gods-only-knew-what-it-was power source he had instead of a heart. Nothing. Pavel should flat out be dead—either from extreme age or his ramshackle mechanical body—and all her computer-assisted semi-AI was insisting that none of what it saw should be real, working, functional, or in this space-time continuum at all. And somehow, he wasn’t dead.
Might as well drop some eaves while I’m here.
As usual, Pavel was eating and drinking—Chef Oh Boy canned ravioli, and rotgut vodka, which were the only two things he ever seemed to eat and drink. Although she’d heard rumors about a small scandal involving Pavel and the International Waffle House. He had monopolized the TV remote, allegedly watching Mayberry RFD reruns. American television was utterly entrancing for him; particularly older cop dramas and soap operas.
“Ah dunno how y’all can watch that crap,” Mamona said in disgust. She was busy sharpening all of her various blades in turn, inspecting each one carefully before moving on to the next. Whenever asked about it by one of the other comrades, she always replied, “They’re never sharp enough,” followed by a smile that seemed to reflect a joke only she knew the punch-line to.
“I am not knowink how he can eat that crap,” Unter replied.
“Easy, tovarischi,” said Pavel, holding up a spoon. “You are to use a utensil and eyes!” He shifted on the lumpy couch. “And to be sitting. Usually helps.”
The intercom crackled to life. “Comrades Mamona, Untermensch and…Pavel to office, spasibo. Davay, am not wastink time with dally dilly.”
“Commissar calls, comrades.” Pavel hefted himself from the couch, metal joints squeaking and straining with the effort. “Georgi, you go first. You are sturdy enough to take statue to head, da?”
“And you are to be puttink toys away and reportink in person, Comrade,” came the unexpected addition on the CCCP Commissar channel in Vickie’s ear. “I am insistink on seeing eyes of my Comrades in briefink.”
Crap. How did she know I had an eye out? Nat knew about the eyes, of course; some were going with this team out to JM. But how had she detected one active? “Coming, Commissar,” she replied, and gave the AI the command to bring the eye back to a homing cradle. Good thing I have an apport landing pad in their HQ. Not that she actually wanted to be there…Djinni and Bella she was barely comfortable with. Bulwark, maybe. Anyone else ranged from nervous-making to terrifying, with the Commissar pegging the scale at I am about to have a meltdown, right here, right now. Oh well.
She paused long enough to gulp down her anti-anxiety meds, then shuffled with resignation to her magic room.
* * *
On a scale of one to meltdown, I think Untermensch is up there with Nat for who burns me out the most. Vickie did her level best to shrink into the corner of the room. The three comrades all stood in a very loose approximation of “at ease,” especially Pavel. The CCCP had discipline in plenty when it came to important matters and fighting, but in private they often tended to be at a sort of “relaxed tension” when dealing with each other. It was very strange, and far different from what was the norm in ECHO.
“Comrades, I am now briefing three of you on operation in—” she glanced at Vickie, ever so marginally.
“Kansas City,” Vickie queued the Commissar’s channel and whispered into her own mic, taking the hint.
“—Kansas City,” Natalya continued smoothly. “Intel provided us by decoded information placed Command and Control center for Thulians in decommissioned missile silo on outskirts.”
“Is being…reliable, Commissar?” Untermensch subtly glanced at Victoria before locking his eyes on Natalya.
“Not only reliable, successful,” the Commissar said with a smirk of satisfaction. “Comrade John Murdock infiltrated on solo recon.” Unter cocked an eyebrow, the only hint of emotion he showed. “Center was being deactivated, but we reached it in time to retrieve more excellent intelligence. This intelligence places a probable Thulian dispersion unit within Kansas City. I am sending you as backup to comrade Murdock.”
Pavel piped up, raising a hand. “Who shall to be the team leader, Commissar?” He puffed his chest out as much as he could. “I accept this honor—”
“Shto?” Red Saviour said, looking incredulous. “Comrade Murdock is team leader. Comrade Untermensch is second. You…are to be distraction. No one will suspect covert team of beink covert that has you on it.”
Mamona smothered a giggle with both hands. Georgi and Pavel shared a look.
“To continue.” Red Saviour gave Mamona a glare. “You will to beink use Overwatch. Georgi, Pavel, I know you are familiar. Comrade Mamona is not. Comrade Victrix will beink see to this. Plan must remain fluid. Ideally, you will discover if intel is correct, infil, collect intelligence, and exfil.” She sighed gustily. “However, with Comrade Medved on team, plans seldom go according to…plan.”
Georgi was the first to pipe up. “Transportation to site, Commissar?”
“Comrade Victrix?”
Vickie took a shaken breath as the eyes of all four focused on her like searchlights. “Already arranged, Commissar. ECHO cargo plane, regularly scheduled. You are not listed as CCCP. You are ECHO Support-Ops in the commissary unit. When you arrive, your cover will be as a fencing team from Vladivostok University.”
“Fencing, comrade?” Pavel leaned forward. “I am having many accomplishments in this field, from my time—”
“Your time sticking fork into blinis, Old Bear?” Unter elbowed Pavel in his metal ribs.
Mamona giggled again. “Ah dunno, he’s pretty quick at gettin’ the last ravioli outta the can. Gotta watch them suckers, they’s slippery.”
“Da, da, enough.” The Commissar cut them short. “Comrade tells me fencing is strange enough no Amerikanski will be able to ask you questions or ask for demonstration, but Amerikanski Olympic team did well enough they know is sport. And they know Russians are best in world, naturally. Is good cover.”
Unter straightened up. “When do we leave, Commissar?”
“As soon as you and I are finished speaking.” She eyeballed Mamona and Pavel. “You and you, go, make preparations.” She glared at Vickie. “You stay.” Georgi stood his ground, unmentioned but understanding the Commissar’s meaning. Pavel, completely oblivious to the snub, slapped Mamona’s arm and merrily escorted her out. Perhaps he was under the impression that he was supposed to keep an eye on her for the Commissar. Vickie made her spine as one with the corner.
Georgi stepped forward. “Commissar, might I be speaking without reservation on this?” His eyes shifted to Victoria for a split second.
“Daughter of Rasputin has our confidence,” the Commissar said firmly. “We will speak on this later. There is much you need to know.”
He nodded. “Da. But is Murdock ready for this? He is still fresh comrade, and—”
Now it was Red Saviour’s turn to glance at Vickie, not with a glare, but a lifted eyebrow and a little nod at the stack of papers Vickie had given her earlier. Vickie didn’t take long to think about it. If there were three people in all of CCCP that Natalya trusted above all others, they were Mojiotok, Soviette, and Untermensch. She nodded fractionally. Red Saviour handed over the stack to Georgi.
Oh…my god. She just asked me for permission to hand over intel…
Unter took several long minutes to read through the papers, flipping the pages and occasionally grunting or nodding. When he was finished, he set the stack upon the Commissar’s desk. “Da. Will suffice.” His face betrayed nothing, at that moment.
“Now, davay. Comrade Victrix, brief Mamona on Overwatch. Georgi…” She sighed, then made a shooing motion. “Be to herding cats.”
* * *
The glory of the floating eye was that Vickie wasn’t restricted to any one—potentially obscured—viewpoint. And she could double-check the stowage while Georgi wrestled his “cats” into their seats. She didn’t miss any of the dialogue though.
“Just cause we’re supposed to be commissary crew, that don’t mean ya get t’ inspect all the food crates, Pavel,” Mamona scolded Soviet Bear. “I promise you, they ain’t got any ravioli in there.” And she added under her breath “Cause they actually got taste buds.”
“Your logic does not follow, tovarisch. Comrade Chef Oh-Boy is bolshoi cook, nyet?”
“Nyet, is being correct, Pavel,” Untermensch growled. “But if will make you feel better…” He paused. Vickie blinked, as she realized he was waiting for her to give him a cue or a reason to get the Bear settled into his seat.
“All food on ECHO campuses is sourced locally,” she supplied smoothly on his channel. “It’s too expensive to ship food.”
“ECHO is not to being waste money shipping food they can get at same price locally,” Georgi growled. “You are too used to thinkink America is like Siberia. Food is everywhere, here.”
The Bear stroked his chin, considering their words. “There is wisdom in this, I suppose.” He gave one last sorrowful look at the commissary crates, and then clunked over to sit in his jump seat. “How long are we to fly?” He looked up in the air, perhaps expecting Vickie to materialize in front of him.
“Your flight time is two hours, seventeen minutes,” she replied on the open channel. “You’ll be landing at general aviation, cargo, not the passenger terminal. Transport will be ready and waiting offloaded from this plane, CCCP van with a GPS set run by me to guide you to where you will set up a temporary HQ.” She paused. “I’ve already arranged for a grocery delivery, Bear. You won’t starve.”
“Good. This bear hates fighting on an empty stomach; had enough of tastings for it in Great Patriotic War.” The Bear nodded solemnly.
“You’ve made up for it since, Old Bear. With how much we spend on food for you, we could feed a battalion. I’ve heard mention of the Commissar drawing up orders for you to go…on a diet.” Untermensch grinned cruelly, and Mamona smothered giggles.
Pavel blanched. “Schto?” He shook his head, throwing his hands up in resignation. “I be doing as ordered, as always. Commissar knows a sturdy bear when she sees one.” The wizened Russian leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees with an audible clank. “Speaking of Commissars and the judgments they are to be having…what do you make of the American as a team leader?”
“He was a Sergeant in the US Army,” Vickie supplied. “Got buckets of experience at it.”
“Da, da, but Amercanski way of war is different from ours, from Soviet perfection.” Vickie figured at this point he was actually looking to Untermensch for his answers, so she kept her lip zipped. After all, Unter had been on the same teams as JM on more than a few incidents, including the one where they extracted Bella and her ECHO squad from Rebs with rocket launchers. It had ended up being a trap, however; meant for ECHO rather than CCCP, but the Thulian metahuman Ubermensch had taken full advantage of CCCP’s appearance. Both CCCP and ECHO had taken casualties and fatalities. One of them had almost been Red Saviour herself. Vickie still wasn’t certain how Bella had managed to save the Commissar. You just didn’t normally survive having a building dropped on you unless you were someone like Bulwark or Chug.
“He has fought well enough, to date. So we are to be seeing how he does in command.” Untermensch leaned back in his seat, stretching as he did so. “Worst thing that can be happening is that we die.”
“Oh. Well, when is put that way, is not so risky, nyet?” Amazingly, the Bear actually seemed to mean what he said. He was possessed of an odd sort of fatalism; so long as he did his job the way he was supposed to—which was a very subjective thing for him, admittedly—he was perfectly happy to accept anything that came his way. “One can’t trust fire throwers too much, though. They are to being apt to burn themselves as they are to be being burning others.”
“You’re prejudiced. Besides, Supernaut was a fool and a blowhard. Murdock has not shown to be either. So far.” Unter actually hadn’t put any criticism in that statement…which for him, was praise. Huh. Guess all that shite in my analysis and intel report didn’t rattle his cage. She’d kept it all cut-and-dried, just reporting what she’d decoded from The Project; his training, capabilities…actually pretty much verbatim what was in the Project reports.
“Hmph. Comrade Mamona, you are also being Amerikanski. What is your take on our soon-to-be team leader?” Bear was stroking his chin again. Unter strapped himself in as the jet engines ramped up, and raised an eyebrow at the American.
“I like ’im. ’f it hadn’t been fer him an’ that angel, my hood’d be in a world’a hurt right now.” Mamona nodded decisively. “’E managed t’get everyone workin’ t’gether, and kicked most of the assholes out. The assholes that stayed, well, they ain’t operatin’ on our turf no more.”
“You’re all big boys and girls,” came the pilot over the intercom. “And I don’t have a flight attendant to make sure you’re strapped in. We’re going to take off hot because this is a big, heavy bird and I don’t have a lot of runway, so if you haven’t already battened down the hatches, too bad, you can tend your own boo-boos. Captain out.”
“He means it,” Vickie warned them. And the plane began accelerating.
Pavel cleared his throat as everyone made their final preparations. “I am having one final question as to Comrade Murdock’s sturdiness. Then I shall be satisfied.”
Untermensch sighed. “What is it, old Bear?”
“He can fight, and can be seeming to lead, both qualities I expect from any Russian…but can he be drinking like one of us?”
Georgi guffawed. “No one can drink like you, old Bear. Not even alcoholic Cossack.”
* * *
The ride to the motel had been…interesting. After much objection from the Bear, Unter had overridden his insistence that he drive, and installed Mamona in the driver’s seat of the van. Vickie had seen to it that there were actual gym bags with actual fencing equipment in them, and athletic clothing in red and white that would pass for uniforms; Bear’s was oversized to accommodate his frame. After exploring the contents of his bag and being forcibly restrained from waving the fencing saber around while Mamona was trying to drive, the Bear was mollified to discover—yes—a couple cans of ravioli and a fork tucked into a corner. After that, he was content to make comments about Mamona’s driving with his mouth full.
Mamona wasn’t the world’s best driver, but she did respond fairly well to Vickie’s directions, and they managed to arrive at the motel without incident, and without anyone’s eye being poked out.
“You must be aggressive, comrade! Don’t letting every car push you around!” Bear was gesticulating with his fork, speaking around another mouthful of ravioli. “If you let one dog push you around, others will be coming sniffing.”
“That makes no sense, Old Bear. Quit stuffing your face and grab the bags.”
“Suite 122, Comrades,” Vickie said. “Townhouse, one down, three up, Murdock is waiting at the door.” I am going to be glad to get these cats herded up and let JM take over. Bear is worse than ten two year olds on a sugar rush.
Just as Vickie had said, John was waiting in the doorway; he had his arms crossed, and was leaning lazily against the frame. “Right on time. Y’all got everything outta the van?”
“Da. All of our gear, including a case of ravioli and enough vodka to drown a moose. Hopefully, it’ll be just enough to shut up a grousing bear.” Unter shouldered his gym bags into the townhouse as Murdock stood aside.
“Ah. That’ll explain the six cases of ravioli Overwatch had delivered. Privyet, Pavel. Ya ain’t gonna starve.” Vickie floated the eye in through the corner of the doorframe and made it visible.
“Hiya Johnny,” she said, using the tiny speaker in the eye.
“Creepy. Welcome to the party.” John stood aside and motioned for the others. “Get everything stacked in there and get settled in. Rest up; we go in tomorrow on our first pass at the target.”
“Before you ask, I can’t get these things too far from you guys before I lose signal,” she told him. “So no insertion to your target. Working on improvements.”
“S’alright, Vic. I like having actual eyes on an asset before committing, anyways.” He frowned. “Erm, I mean real eyes. Not black magic thingies. No offense.”
OK don’t undermine the man. “Not black magic, just magic, and mostly tech,” she said in his ear. “I don’t do black magic, it’s very much against the code.”
“Got it. And thanks.” John closed the door after all of the team and their gear had passed him. “Get fed and bedded down. Who’s on first watch?”
“I will take the honor, tovarisch.” Bear immediately plopped down into the single lounge chair, a can of ravioli and a jug of vodka in hand.
“Alright. Unter, keep him sober for the watch; we’ll drain the vodka after we get outta this alive, but not before. Got it?” John gave Unter an assessing look.
“Bear needs a fair amount to function, Comrade,” Unter cautioned, and shrugged. “A sober Bear is an ugly creature.”
“Understood; but you’re gonna keep him in hand. We’ve all worked together before, so let’s make this easy on everyone. Da?”
Untermensch sketched a salute, but as near as Vickie could tell, he seemed pleased. “I am hearing you, comrades,” Bear grumbled from his seat. “Ears are not being defective, you know.”
“Excellent. That means y’can keep the volume down on the tube. Sack time for me, y’all. I just spent the better part’a the day securing this joint.” He nodded at Vickie’s eye. “Overwatch ain’t exactly got hands.” Murdock was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, leaving the others to finish getting food and settling in.
“I will to be sharing room with Comrade Mamona,” Bear piped up during a commercial break in whatever soap opera he had tuned in to.
Mamona opened her mouth, glanced at Unter, and shut it.
“You will be taking room on the left upstairs,” Unter said firmly. “Mamona will be in the right. I will be in the middle. Doors will be left open.”
Bear actually turned around to look at Georgi. “Are you implying something, comrade?” he said in Russian.
Georgi replied in Russian. “Yes. I’m implying that I don’t want you to imply Comrade Mamona, you rotten lecher.” Unter glared at him. Mamona looked from one to the other, lost.
“Imply her, comrade?” Bear guffawed. “I hardly even know her!”
Georgi groaned. “Borze moi, it’s going to be a long mission.”