The Rise and Fall of Khan Noonien Singh, Volume One (52 page)

“Oh yeah?” Blushing embarrassment gave way to bravado as the honey-haired intruder held her ground, keeping her weapon aloft. Aquamarine eyes narrowed as the blonde squinted at Shannon like a gunslinger in an old Clint Eastwood movie. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

Not exactly,
Shannon thought, swallowing hard. The actual functions of both devices remained unknown. For all she knew, she was threatening a death ray with a pencil sharpener.
But if that’s the case,
she thought hopefully,
then why hasn’t Blondie already zapped me?

“Who are you?” she demanded nervously. How had the intruder gotten past all the guards and security cameras anyway? Had the blonde done something to Sergeant Muckerheide, or was the friendly soldier still standing guard outside the lab, blissfully unaware of the Mexican standoff unfolding inside? Shannon was tempted to call out
[337]
for assistance, but feared that the other woman would fire her weapon (?) if Shannon even tried to summon reinforcements. Besides, she recalled, Muck couldn’t even enter the lab if he heard her screaming for her life; he didn’t have the clearance to get past the locked door.
How’s that for irony?
she thought acerbically.

“Sssh!” the stranger cautioned Shannon, holding a finger before her lips. She wiggled her “radio” at Shannon for emphasis. “My name doesn’t matter. The important thing is”—she let go of the drawer and pointed at Shannon’s unproven firearm—“that doesn’t belong to you.”

“I don’t see your initials on it,” Shannon retorted, “whatever they might be.” Her gaze darted around the tidy, well-equipped laboratory as she frantically considered her options. She could always shout for Doc Carlson, of course, but the last thing she wanted to do was place her boss in jeopardy as well. Instead, her eyes zeroed in on a white plastic phone mounted on the wall several feet away, next to a blackboard covered with arcane calculations and diagrams.
If I can just get a chance to call for help,
she thought, beginning to edge in that direction. “Besides, finders keepers.”

But the radio-wielding blonde saw where Shannon was heading and moved to block her. “Look, you’re a scientist, right?” the stranger asked hopefully. “So presumably you’re a smart person. You must realize that civilization isn’t ready for this kind of technology yet. You’d be jumping centuries ahead of humanity’s current state of development; there’s no way our psychology or social institutions could possibly keep up.” The anonymous intruder certainly sounded earnest enough; imploring blue-green eyes reached out to Shannon without even a hint of guile or duplicity. “Just think what it would do to the balance of power if the Pentagon figured out how these sci-fi doohickeys work!”

“But this doesn’t have to be about bigger and better weapons,” Shannon insisted passionately. She and the doc had always been united in their commitment to do more than simply heighten the arms race. “That’s what treaties and diplomacy are for. What about the peaceful applications of scientific progress? Like medical research, alternative energy sources, the space program ... ?” The heartbreaking image of
Challenger
exploding in midair flashed once more before her mind’s
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eye, causing her voice to catch in her throat. “If we can build better, more advanced spaceships, using just this sort of futuristic technology, then maybe no more astronauts will have to die like Christa McAuliffe and the others!”

The blond woman smiled sadly. “I understand what you’re saying,” she sympathized, “and I like the way you think. But you’ll just have to trust me on this one, Red. Letting you people hold on to these gadgets is a worse idea than New Coke.”

Without warning, she pressed a button on the “radio,” which promptly emitted an electronic hum. Shannon flinched, in anticipation of being stunned or disintegrated, but the blond woman merely glanced down at device’s digital display and grinned triumphantly. “Sorry to break this to you, sister, but it looks to me like your ray gun is out of juice.”

She blithely placed her own “weapon” in the handbag dangling from her shoulder, then lunged toward Shannon. The younger woman desperately squeezed something that felt like a trigger, but, just as the blonde had predicted, nothing happened. Her attacker confidently grabbed on to Shannon’s arm, and, with some sort of practiced martial-arts move, put pressure on the startled lab worker’s wrist, forcing her to let go of the pistol. “There!” the blonde said cheerfully, stepping back with her prize, which she tucked efficiently into the pocket of her sweater. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Feeling the situation rapidly slipping out of her control, Shannon hesitated, uncertain whether to run for the phone or to try to physically wrestle the stolen artifacts away from the other woman.
I knew I should’ve have taken that self-defense course at the gym!

“Whoa there, Red,” the blonde warned her, as if reading her mind. She removed a silver fountain pen from one of the fuzzy chartreuse leg warmers around her shins and pointed its tip at Shannon. “Believe it or not, I’m not bluffing this time. This little pen-thingie really is a weapon, sort of, so don’t even think of going Rambo on me.”

Glancing over her shoulder at a supply closet at the opposite side of the lab, she began backing away from Shannon.
I
don’t understand,
Shannon thought, unable to keep up with this bewildering chain of
[339]
events.
Where does she think she can go? There’s no way out of here except past all the guards!
Somehow, though, she knew that the nameless blonde was completely capable of slipping out of Area 51 as mysteriously as she had arrived, taking the two captured artifacts with her.

“Wait!” Shannon called out, more anxious than ever to plumb the secrets of the alien devices. “What if we promised to share the knowledge with the entire world, including our enemies? That way we could all benefit!”

The blonde paused, regarding Shannon with an intrigued expression. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “but the world just can’t risk that right now. Things are too delicate, geopolitically speaking.” She looked Shannon over speculatively, as if appraising the young engineer according to some unspecified criteria, “But maybe we should talk again sometime. What’s your name anyway?”

“Shannon,” she answered uncertainly, hoping fervently that she wasn’t signing up for her very own alien abduction, just like that missing marine biologist. “Shannon O’Donnell.”

The blonde smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Shannon.” From across the lab, she pointed her pen directly at the younger woman. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”

Panic flared for an instant inside Shannon’s pounding heart. Then the silver pen hummed loudly and all her worries went away.

At least for an hour or so.

RED SQUARE

MOSCOW

UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS

OCTOBER 10, 1986

RISING HIGH ABOVE THE KREMLIN’S
red brick walls, the clock tower chimed a revolutionary anthem as the clock struck seven. Colonel Anastasia Komananov of the KGB, Third Chief Directorate, quickened her step as she crossed Red Square toward the forbidding walled fortress that now served as the headquarters of the Soviet Union. Her double-breasted, steel-gray greatcoat was buttoned securely against the bitter cold of the evening. Gold stars, signifying her rank, glittered upon the collar of the heavy wool coat, and a slim black attaché case was chained securely to her wrist.

The wintry chill, extreme for October, had already driven both townspeople and tourists indoors, so that the square was largely deserted tonight. Komananov strode briskly across the wide expanse of white cobblestones, making swift progress toward her ultimate destination. Just ahead, on the far side of the square, the domed rotunda of the Russian Senate could be glimpsed above and beyond the crenellated red battlements of the Kremlin walls. Urgent business, vital to the continued existence of the Soviet Union, awaited Komananov within the Presidium building, next to the Senate, but first she had another stop to make.

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A pyramid of stacked, cubiform blocks, Lenin’s Tomb squatted in the shadow of the Kremlin, its red granite facade matching the stern walls looming behind it. Rows of neatly trimmed pine trees flanked the entrance to the mausoleum, which was also protected by an honor guard of uniformed soldiers, bearing AK-74 assault rifles. Above the doorway, large Cyrillic letters spelled out the surname of the Father of the Revolution.

By day, a long line of visitors, composed of both sincere pilgrims and curious sight-seers, usually stretched outside the Tomb, waiting for their turn to pay their respects to the deceased Soviet premier. Now, after closing time, only the stern-faced guards remained, standing stiffly at attention as Komananov approached. The colonel nodded curtly as the soldiers saluted her smartly and, without a word, let her pass. She did not need to express her intentions out loud; it was her habit, well known to the guards posted here, to meditate within the Tomb after the tourists had all departed. Although she was running slightly behind schedule this evening, having left KGB Headquarters, in nearby Lubyanka Square, several minutes later than she had intended, she judged it important that, tonight of all nights, she not deviate in the slightest manner from her accustomed routine, lest her actions attract unwanted attention.

I must do nothing suspicious,
she cautioned herself silently, maintaining a solemn, inscrutable expression on her austerely attractive features. A pair of matching pearl earrings added a feminine touch to her otherwise intimidating aspect and apparel.
Not tonight, nor in the days to come.
Eyes the color of cloudless blue Siberian skies betrayed not a hint of the worries troubling her mind.
The operation
must
succeed,
she vowed.
The future of the Revolution depends on it.

If all went as planned tonight, she would go down in history as one of the saviors of the Soviet Union, which was, if nothing else, certainly preferable to her other, more dubious claim to fame; to Anastasia Komananov’s lasting embarrassment, she had already been immortalized in a trashy British spy novel written by a western agent of her acquaintance, who had retired from the field to pursue a more “literary” career. Fortune willing, her true accomplishments would soon eclipse those of her fictional counterpart—or so she fervently hoped.

[342]
Removing her fur-lined gray
ushanka
hat, she passed beneath the imposing granite portal into the dimly lit interior of the Tomb. Her footsteps echoed within the sepulchral atmosphere of the crypt as she walked down a couple of short, empty hallways until she came to the final resting place of the man who transformed Russia from a backward monarchy to a modern Communist state. Encased in glass, the mortal remains of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin lay in state upon an ornate bier of filigreed iron and crushed purple velvet, looking remarkably preserved for someone who had died over six decades ago. His balding pate rested upon a plush velvet pillow, while his skin, although a trifle waxy, retained the ruddy glow and hue of life. He looked as though he were merely sleeping, a serene expression upon his distinguished features, his arms resting comfortably at his side. Expert lighting cast a golden radiance over the scene, accenting the lifelike quality of the recumbent figure, who wore a conservative dark blue suit. Iron spears, their heads carefully crafted into the hammer and sickle emblems of the Soviet State, flanked the bier, symbolically standing watch over the great Bolshevik leader. Anastasia Komananov felt a surge of patriotism, and renewed resolve, as she contemplated the inspiring tableau before her.

Rumors persisted, of course, that all or part of the body on the bier was a clever forgery, that “Lenin” himself was nothing but a waxwork dummy, posing as an expertly embalmed corpse. Komananov had personally chosen never to probe too deeply into the subject. No doubt she could uncover the truth if she wished, given her extensive KGB connections, but the colonel preferred to believe that the body was genuine, especially at times like these, when her duty and devotion to the State were most severely tested.

Would Lenin have approved of tonight’s drastic actions?
Most definitely,
Komananov assured herself emphatically,
once he understood all that was at stake.
Mikhail Gorbachev, the man currently at the helm of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, was a weakling and a traitor, who would almost certainly bring about the total ruin of the Soviet Union if he was not stopped. Komananov’s hot Cossack blood boiled as she recalled the many ways in which their new general secretary had
[343]
already undermined the safety and security of the nation: dropping the post of Minister of Defense from the inner circle of the Politburo, announcing a unilateral moratorium on nuclear testing, proposing recklessly sharp cutbacks in strategic weapons, and, incredibly, insanely, suggesting publicly that he might allow outsiders to conduct inspections of currently off-limits Soviet military installations, so that foreign operatives could check on Russia’s compliance with the outrageous disarmament treaties that Gorbachev seemed all too eager to agree to!

The colonel glanced at her wristwatch. It was only ten after seven here in Moscow, which meant that the sun had not yet set in Iceland, where, even now, Gorbachev and his woolly-minded, liberal cronies were meeting with the American president to bargain away yet more of Mother Russia’s military might. According to her informants within the Politburo, the general secretary seriously intended to discuss the
total elimination
of all strategic nuclear weapons with Reagan, that senile old warmonger. Along with his dangerously liberal internal policies, and his growing reluctance to press on with the war in Afghanistan, it was very clear that Gorbachev, seduced by his rising celebrity abroad, posed an unmistakable threat to everything that generations of heroic Communists had worked and sacrificed to build.
If Lenin knew what his deluded successor was up to,
Komananov felt quite certain,
he would rise up physically, wax or no wax, to squash Mikhail Sergeyevich once and for all!