Transformers Dark of the Moon (20 page)

Then, without bothering to see if Sam was following, Simmons headed toward a nearby social club. Dutch followed close behind. Sam hesitated and then ran after them, shoving the gun in his jacket pocket so that it thumped against his body and felt awkward. But it was better than shoving it into the top of his pants, which he was quite sure would result in vital body parts being shot off.

They approached the back door of what appeared to be a social club. The word “Transformations,” which was presumably the name of the place, was embossed on a piece of rusting metal over the door. Sam considered that bleakly appropriate. Simmons strode up to it as if he had every right to be there and knocked briskly on the door. An eye slot slid open, like something out of a Depression-era speakeasy, and a pair of bored but dangerous-looking eyes appeared. Simmons promptly shoved his gun into the slot, making it impossible to close and obviously providing a hazard to anyone within.

“
Dasvidania
, gentlemen,” Simmons said confidently.

From the other side they were able to hear a rough voice say contemptuously, “
Dasvidania
means ‘goodbye.’ ”

“Oh.” Managing to sound no less sure of himself, Simmons said, “Okay, well … what’s ‘hello?’ ”

“Zdrastvueetee.”

“You’re kidding. Is he kidding?” he said to Dutch. Sam saw that Dutch was hurriedly fumbling through a book called
Russian for Dummies
. “Is he trying to get me to say something dirty?”

There was a guttural “Oh, for God’s sake” from within, and the door was thrown open so abruptly that Simmons had to yank his gun away to prevent it from flying out of his hand. Sam was almost surprised that it didn’t result in Simmons blowing his own face off.

They entered the dim interior. The man holding the door open was in his mid-fifties and looked more annoyed than formidable. Within was an open dingy room populated by three old men playing backgammon at one table and several old Russian women wearing fur coats in the corner. The women cast curious, even appraising, glances in the direction of the three Americans. One cocked an eyebrow invitingly at Sam. It creeped him out; it was like being scoped out by someone’s grandmother. The men, engaged in their game, ignored the newcomers completely. The only other furnishing in the place was a dusty portrait of what Sam assumed to be some Russian leader hanging on the wall.

But Simmons was acting like they’d entered a spy stronghold that might be frequented by James Bond, with the same level of potential jeopardy. “Cover the standard-issue henchman, Agent Witwicky,” he ordered, pointing at the doorman. The doorman stared at Sam for a moment, then rolled his eyes and shook his head as he closed the door again. Sam didn’t even bother to pull the gun out of his pocket. It was like Simmons was operating in his own world.
Why did I even bother?
Sam wondered.
I needed Daniel Craig and I get Weird Al Yankovic
.

“Dutch,” Simmons said, pointing with authority, “gimme something tough I can say to them. Y’ know, show ’em who’s in charge.”

Dutch started thumbing through the phrase book.

The men playing backgammon had finally deigned to notice the three Americans. A bartender, heavyset and low-browed, was watching from behind the bar. One of the three backgammon players finally said, “My friend, we speak English.”

“
Da?
Do you?” Simmons said challengingly. “Or do you want us to
think
you do?” Snapping his fingers impatiently at his manservant, he said, “Line, Dutch. Line.”

Dutch started tossing out random names while he continued to consult the book. “Uh, Kalashnikov! Baryshnikov!
Mein Gott,
” and his frustration became evident as he paged helplessly through the guide. “This is not a language!”

Simmons stared at him in disgust. “Dutch, you suck.” Dutch, not taking the hint, kept trying to find something useful to say, at which point Simmons, fed up, knocked the book from his hand. Meanwhile, Sam was wondering why it had become his lot in life to stand around feeling embarrassed on behalf of various people—himself, Americans, the whole human race—because of the actions of others.

Turning back to the small group of Russians, who apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to be intimidated by him, Simmons announced, “Agent Seymour Simmons, Sector … Eight.”

Sam was starting to think he should have just waited in the car.

“We know who you are, cosmonautchiks,” Simmons continued. “You were supposed to travel to the dark side of the moon. Then it all got shut down. The question is: Why?”

As he spoke, Simmons strolled over to another table, where a half-empty bottle of vodka was sitting open. He took a seat and then, to establish his hardiness, picked up the bottle and threw back a shot. The moment it hit his throat, he started to gag, and then he began choking violently. He coughed several times, and some vodka blew out of his nostrils.

At that point, Sam was finally ready to pull out his gun. Not to show the others how threatening he was but instead to put it to his own forehead and pull the trigger. He would have shot Simmons, but that would have been a mercy killing, and Sam wasn’t feeling all that merciful just then.

One of the Russian women appeared to agree with Sam’s unspoken sentiments. “This man is an imbecile,” she said dismissively. With a leisurely wave, she gestured toward the bartender. “Take him.”

Suddenly the bartender had a shotgun in his hand, produced from under the counter.

Sam couldn’t believe it … and yet, somehow, he also could. These days it seemed like every time he blinked, someone was pointing a gun at him. “Great, this is nice! Save the world twice, get a medal, and die in some gangland shootout. Probably won’t even find my body! If I played guitar, I’d end up being the subject of one of those tragic hourlong documentaries on MTV!”

“That’s on VH1, idiot,” said the cranky Russian woman.

That was when Dutch moved.

He might well have been useless with a Russian phrase book, but there was no denying what he was capable of in hand-to-hand. He was across the room before the bartender had time to react, and he grabbed the barrel of the gun, shoving it upward so that it was aimed at the ceiling. One quick twist and it was out of the bartender’s hands and in Dutch’s. Dutch then swung the
shotgun, slapping the bartender hard across the side of the face, knocking him to the floor behind the bar. All business, Dutch chambered a round and aimed it meaningfully at the bartender.

“Move and I blow your damned head off,” Dutch warned him, and he looked so agitated that he might well have fired even if the bartender remained completely immobile.

“Dutch, easy!” said Simmons. “Back in the cage! Safe zone!”

“You said cosmonauts! Not some mafia!” Sam said in agitation.

Simmons scowled. “Russians. One and the same.”

The old man, the one who had initially told them that they spoke English, got to his feet. He looked proud, unafraid, in control. In short, the polar opposite of Sam. “We have seen men like you before. Come to try to buy our silence. We did not fear you then, we do not fear you now. So you tell son-of-bitch aliens you work for—”

“Aliens?” Sam was totally bewildered. “We don’t work for … aliens …”

The old man was pointing defiantly to the floor near Sam’s feet. He looked down and let out a startled yelp. Brains was standing there, watching the proceedings with interest.

Son of a … how the hell did he …? Oh, forget it
. “Okay, but we don’t work for them. It’s more like with them. And not the bad ones. We’re with the good ones!”

That seemed to perk Brains up. “Yeah, the good ones! Autobots! Our side!” At which point he rattled off a lengthy string of flawless Russian that seemed to catch the old people off guard.

Then he stopped talking, and Sam said worriedly, “Uh … what did he—?”

The old Russian replied, “He say, ‘Go ahead. Ask me anything about the universe. How it started, how it will
end. Where the … ’ ” He stopped and looked to the woman for help.

“Lame,” she said.

“Yes, yes. ‘Where the lame planets are, where the fun planets are. Trust me, I am …’ What is phrase? ‘Good for it.’ He say, ‘Trust me, I’m good for it.’ And he say that all you want to know is what is on dark side of moon.”

There was a lengthy silence as the Russians looked at one another. There was no discussion; apparently they had been together for so long that they could more or less read one another’s minds.

Finally they seemed to come to a mutual conclusion. The old man said, “My name is Dmitri, and I will tell you what you wish to know, as long as”—he pointed at Simmons—“we do not have to listen to that one’s annoying voice.”

“Done,” Sam said quickly before Simmons could open his mouth.

Nodding in satisfaction, Dmitri walked across the room to the portrait of the Russian leader. He swung it aside to reveal a wall safe. Entering the combination, he opened it. Sam could see there was a stack of large, flat envelopes inside it. Dmitri reached in, pulled them out, and walked back to the backgammon table. The other men stepped aside, and one of them gestured for the Americans to approach.

Dimitri spread the pictures on the table. “America first send man to the moon. But USSR first to send cameras. In 1959, our Luna 3 take pictures of far side and see nothing. But in 1963, Luna 4 sees strange rocks. Hundreds of them. Then Luna 4 lose contact … forever.”

Sam leaned in to study the pictures. “I’ve seen those! They’re …”

Then he stopped, suddenly hesitant, unsure of how
much he should say in front of the Russians. Stepping in quickly, Simmons pulled Sam to one side and looked at him expectantly.

In a low voice, Sam said, “They’re the pillars for a space bridge. Our side found five.”

“Decepticons must’ve raided the ship before Apollo 11 ever got there,” said Simmons, whispering in deference to Sam’s promise to the Russians. “Took the pillars, hid ’em, used humans to help keep ’em hidden. Which means they’re still up there.”

“But it doesn’t make sense! If they found the ship and have all those pillars, why’d they leave Sentinel? I mean, if only Sentinel can use them …” Then the realization slowly dawned on him. “He’s the one thing they still need.” Simmons nodded; it all seemed to make sense. With growing urgency, Sam said, “Let’s get Bee to find Sentinel. We’ve got to keep him safe!”

“Allentown?”

Of all places for Sentinel Prime to be, Sam didn’t expect it to be somewhere as mundane as Allentown. Then again, it was as good a place as any, he supposed.

It felt great to be behind the wheel of Bumblebee again. He’d ridden with Simmons at Seymour’s insistence when they had gone to Atlantic City, but now, with Bumblebee leading the way for the rendezvous with Sentinel Prime, he had made it clear to Simmons that he was going to be reteamed with his old friend, and that was the end of that discussion.

Getting Simmons to wait at the truck stop outside Allentown with the Autobots had been no easy task. He simply didn’t need Simmons and his gung ho attitude in the mix, especially since he had no idea what he was going to be dealing with when he encountered Sentinel. Finally he had said to Simmons, “Look, we don’t know what we’re going to be facing. Could be anything. What if Decepticons are already on the scene? We go in with all our resources in one shot and we fall into an ambush, that’s it, game over, end of story. We need to hold the big guns like you in reserve.”

He had been thrilled to see Simmons beginning to nod as he spoke and even happier when Simmons patted him on the shoulder and said, “That’s a plan. That’s a smart plan. You’re finally starting to think like an agent, kid. Obviously, I’m rubbing off on you.” That was a horrifying
notion to Sam, but he kept his smile plastered on his face and thanked Simmons for the vote of confidence.

They moved through the streets of Allentown. A police car cruised past going in the other direction, and Sam could see the cop at the wheel watching him with open curiosity and perhaps even a bit of admiration. Sam suspected they didn’t get a lot of Camaros rolling through there. He kept the car moving at the speed limit, and he wasn’t weaving, so they didn’t have any cause to pull him over, which was good. He didn’t feel like answering a lot of questions right then.

“So you still following his beacon, Bee?” said Sam.

The radio flared to life. Sonny and Cher sang,
“I got you, babe …”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Abruptly the wheel began to turn, and Sam removed his hands from it. The Camaro hung a right and headed toward an elementary school or, more specifically, the schoolyard. Since it was Saturday, naturally it was empty.

Then, to his surprise, Bee drove up over the curbside and into the yard itself. He was moving around the school toward where Sam assumed the play area was.

“Bee,” Sam said nervously. “We’re not supposed to be doing that. They generally like it if you keep off the grass in parks, so this is, y’ know, not cool and—”

Bee rolled to a stop. He did not, however, back up. Instead he turned off the engine, and the driver’s side door opened.

Taking the hint, Sam climbed out of the car and looked around, unsure of what he was supposed to be looking at. Yes, there was a playground nearby, with swings and a seesaw, a jungle gym, and a …

Fire engine?

Not just any fire engine. The words “Port of Portland” were emblazoned on the side, and below that,
“Airport Fire Rescue.” It could not have looked more out of place.

“You’re kidding,” said Sam.

Slowly Sam walked toward it, watching it carefully, and called out, “Sentinel? Sentinel Prime?”

An instant later he heard the now-familiar sounds that signaled the changing of an Autobot from one form into another. Hundreds of metal plates snapped around, and within seconds the fire engine was now standing in front of Sam, looking down at him.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“We don’t sleep,” said Sentinel Prime.

“Right, I should have remembered that. Hi. I’m, uh, Sam Witwicky. I was there when Optimus resurrected you. I’m a friend of his.”