Chernov walked on stage to a mighty applause and took to the podium. Graham inched forward and lay prone, making some final adjustments, as Chernov began to lay out his vision for a new order.
Graham steadied, then held, then fired. Chernov was hit, and he stopped speaking, no one but him yet realizing. Chernov held fast onto the podium—he knew. Next came the burst of laser guided bullets, Graham using all but one, then calmly switched to the rocket rifle, aiming carefully and setting loose the charge.
Not waiting to gauge the reaction, Graham confirmed the kill and took off, wondering if the military men’s weapons were loaded. Nothing happened until he got to the woods; it was an eerie interlude.
Then it happened all at once; every soldier was firing in Graham’s general direction and some tanks could be heard coming to life. The trees were a shield of sorts and so Graham headed through the denser sections, but still in sight of the path that would guide him. This was now cross country at its finest; he had to hurdle over fallen timbers that slowed him down somewhat. Hot metal rained down all around; this was much worse than expected, and it was on the increase.
Tree bark flew off right and left and overhead, from a hailstorm of bullets. A fragment stung into his shoulder. Slowing to a jogging pace, Graham jammed a cauterizer into his wound to stop the bleeding, then sprinted ever faster, fueled by the adrenaline. The sounds of falling trees far behind meant that the tanks were coming; then their thunderous rounds ripped through the forest like large bowling balls.
Graham slowed eventually, waiting for a second wind; where was it? He figured the path of the tanks; not good; he would have to circle wide and then back; precious time would be lost; his new house would most likely be in the Paradise of Heaven and not in the mountains of British Columbia. He was off and took more shrapnel in his arm, stopping briefly to wrap it.
Graham would have been setting a speed record if the course was as straight as it was supposed to be, but it wasn’t, and so the agony finally came, that time always feared by long distance runners—the wall.
Back at the Charm School site, Rascal had gotten the news of Chernov, and had his assault team land, putting his Command chopper down well outside the site at the same time. Guards sauntered out of the guard house after a long minute or two, a fatal mistake.
Analog’s team then raced into the compound, setting explosives. Resistance was light for the size of the place, but more than enough to contend with. The primary aim of the mission was to put the place out of operation, but leave enough of it for the world to come in and see the scope of the treachery.
Rascal watched the video and ran some of the high level strategy, but could hardly believe what he saw on screen: there was an entire mocked up village of typical Americana—banks, hair salons, drug stores, a movie theater, even houses with picket fences—it was an entire town with a Main Street, U.S.A.
This large operation evidently was to train American looking foreigners to infiltrate and operate in the United States. Some of the residents looked like the white Russians found in the north.
Graham finally made it through the forest to the clearing near the cliffs, sinking to one knee to catch his breath and look for the tug boat. Damn, he had missed the tug—it was already passing by and heading off, or so it seemed.
He couldn’t be taken alive—that was the deal; he had one bullet left.
Graham could hear the troops and the tanks in the distance—perhaps but three minutes away.
Graham sighted his laser rifle on the departing tug, steadied his bleeding arm, then pulled the trigger and rang the ship’s bell with his last bullet.
The tug began to turn around. There would be no time to take the side path down to the water, so Graham ran toward the cliff, faster and ever faster, for he had to be sure ro clear some protrusions down below, then jumped, far out, sailing through the air, then dropping like a stone, just straightening out at the last moment and knifing into the water near the oncoming tug.
Graybeard quickly fished the exhausted Graham out of the water and dragged him aboard, then powered the engines to full speed and headed the ship out to sea at an amazing pace for a mere tug.
“Why were you leaving me?” Graham wondered aloud.
“I wasn’t leaving you, man; I had to keep moving so as to not draw attention. I heard the ruckus above—my God, their weapons were loaded!”
“Indeed. What’s under the hood of this thing?”
“Gleaming new double engines.”
Graham looked back. “Uh-oh, there’s a tank setting up on the cliff and we’re the only ship in sight.”
“No problem, I’m evading now”.
The tug began a zigzag.
“You’re making me seasick!”
“Better than dead. By the way, good job up there.”
“Thanks, but hey’re firing.”
It landed way out ahead.
“They didn’t gauge the down positioning.”
“They soon will!”
“No sweat.”
“Why are you so calm?”
“This is one of our easier missions.”
At about that moment some kind of missile whizzed by from the other direction and smashed into the cliffs, shattering them. It seemed as if the tank was suspended in the air for a few long seconds before it crashed into the sea below.
“I still sweating it, Graybeard; this tug doesn’t have enough fuel to cross the ocean, plus there are three helicopters taking off now.”
“Don’t worry. I’m hoisting a pirate flag.”
“I like to worry about these things; hey, I know that flag from ToeQuest.”
“Whatever fired that missile is here to pick us up; they don’t tell me everything.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Hold on; there it is.”
“It looks like a bathtub.”
“It’s the coning tower of a submarine.”
Coming closer, they saw some really aware person popping out of a hatch; it was Poppa.”
“Get over here, you guys; move it; swim.”
They climbed in.
“This is your rig, Poppa?” they both said at once.
“Yes, it’s one of them—have to make the mula.”
“Where to?”
“To the deep,” Poppa commanded into his phone. “Then fire torpedo and engage all sonar.”
“That’s my personal boat, Poppa!” cried Graybeard.
Analog’s team was now deep into the compound and nearly done, then everything went bad.
Armed people were pouring out from what must have been a vast underground complex with many exits, almost surrounding the ninja team. These were the very spies being trained in American ways.
Analog called for the evacuation, setting off all the explosives to buy some time, but there were so many adversaries that they were able to regroup and begin a large pursuit of Analog’s team.
Rascal ordered his command ship pilot to lift off.
Rascal’s craft landed in front of the enemies to cover the retreat of his troops, firing and eventually exhausting the door guns of the copter.
The chopper began to take some fire and so Rascal ordered it off. “Meet me in the clearing near the fence in 10 minutes; don’t be early or you’ll be a sitting duck; don’t be late or I will be.
The enemy was recovering, regrouping again; there must have been thousands of them. Rascal’s troops would need time to run and board their helicopter. Rascal didn’t figure on making it back himself now.
Rascal gauged the wind from the smoke that was blowing about, then threw some canisters out and away into a rough semicircle about him, then retreated in a hurry as the relwntless masses began approaching.
The deadly nerve gas slowed the approaching waves, felling them after a moment or two, but many in the rear then began circling wide around; what madmen; they were like robots!
Rascal ran like never before, glad to see and hear his assault team’s copter taking off and rising in the distance, but as he neared the guard house, some new guards must have just arrived and stepped out. Rascal couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t go back.
Suddenly someone mowed down the guards with a machine gun blast; it was Analog.
“Analog, you fox; I’m going to press your ToeQuest ‘Thanks’ button a thousand times if we get out of this mess, but, there are many enemies due to come about and around right here very soon.”
They ran to the center of the clearing; They had gotten to it about a minute or two early.
“Our punctuality may have cost us our lives, Analog.”
Sure enough, they could see movement behind the tree line.
“Here they come,” said Rascal.
The enemies, still too far away to fire, fired anyway, moving inexorably closer.
Rascal and Analog moved back a bit, but a futile gesture; they were ready for death.
“It’s been a blast, Rascal.”
"It's not over yet."
Suddenly the enemy troops began to slow, then stumbled and fell to the ground.
“I placed my last canister of nerve gas back there, Analog, knowing that the wind was blowing slowly this way, even though it will soon be upon us.”
Rascal then felt a slight tingle, as did Analog.
“Don’t worry, Analog, it’s just some stray molecules of the nerve gas wafting on ahead.”
“I’m not worried, for I hear the chopper, but I do see more enemies arriving from another direction. We may not make it.”
The down wash of Rascal’s Command chopper landing spread the incoming nerve gas outward, in fact propelled it towards the oncoming conspirators and soon felled them.
“That’s why the early bird always gets the worm, Analog.”
Log file found this date on time transfer for holding pattern and security on NETSCAPE as expected up line no one ever uses it and a perfect time encapsulated safe log local?
May be pertinent?
Journal date August 30th 2085
Duty recall day 17 0517 Northern Europe. Over view of log.
Un happy with considerations of personal removal from the theatre today I have taken the more prudent steps that have kept me active status over the years. The 50 COIL GUN was set up at 2.6 K east of target across the valley and approximately six miles from my location three days ago and four from landing.
Fully loaded there is 8000 r x 10 boxes to auto load spin and flip as needed.
I had pods 1-4 on ribbon duty and there are wind indicators tied on every 500 yard grid line.
The remote telescopic video feed is working fine.
The target has been observed for two days now.
I am not assured to the reason why he is the target so have decided to rely on Bumble Bee tec.
My own remote hook to the 50 will be turned over to BB sniff ability and exceptional full recovery should be possible.
Although the tug will wonder what happened I have arranged for HAPS recovery of self in the circle on pattern hold for two hours now.
If all goes according to plan BB will sniff the evil persona detected to emerge on K-Possitve logic probability factor .10990087 for a successful find and termination calc.
If it is the wrong target there will be a few for the carpet cleaning crew this time back home.
I have released all six spider pods to parameter security and will sleep for a few hours now.
0901 day 17
Pod two an four have injected each a wart hog and number three a deer and five six rodents, they will wake in 9 to 12 hours.
Pod six did a lethal injection at two hundred feet of a black bear.
Non report human patrols.
They are set to self destruct by slag meltdown in 0-6.36 minutes.
As predicted the small river in front of me is full of wild trout and the rod carried is wished to have been real.
Target has been viewed again an is stationary at grid 34.45 reading and sipping a drink of what seems to be lemonade. I have unscrewed my walking staff and BB one through 17 are on there way.
Video an 50 turnover in 6 . . . . . turnover complete.
Target is still sitting. Sensor one trigger on 50 is activated and yes there is a swat at the BB 15 by the target.
Sensor 2,3,5,6,8, are all green to wind and 50 is now targeted on the primary.
Viewer indicates a head shot is available.
Primary is still sitting and reading again now.
It has been six minutes.
BB one has relayed a total of 24 targets located in an estimated 3.5 second termination window for the 50
assured is reported 200% success prediction to a count of 8,-7-6-5-4-3… and …. all targets are now eliminated but not the primary as expected?
Will sort it out later.
I have called for HAPS and have casted the balloon.
The carbon composite wire is attached to harness and still unwinding
here comes my ride and as scheduled balloon auto locator beacon turned on and is working to HAPS find coming straight up the valley to me on auto target
just a little heat shimmer in the cooler air as predicted visual you indeed have to know it is coming.
BB 15 is down and 4,5,6 will dispose with join and melt for slag.
My balloon is at the High Altitude of 4600 feet and … its ///
snatch an grab, I am lifted airborne.
And… out of the valley in 3….. now.
BB and swarm are in the pocket with a late report of secondary termination all uniformed combatants in grid a total of 4098 terminations with extra rounds available still for rear guard on lift.
Pods are slag in the river and the 50 just made a flash in the pit.
Primary was innocent and still reading unaware.
Arial recon reports tug is sunk as expected the betrayal and I am in the auto F194 Bay recovery.
Mission completed
Full Android replacement will be made on route over the Med with brain encasement transfer with standard disposal of husk
… sandy prom id code 5653333445FFG, new, female, 134 years old retired teacher living is Johannesburg
ID transfer to gear control completed.
Pre payment transfer was successful,
carpet cleaners are working,
auto pilot an stealth all working fine,/ touchdown in 2 hours 25 minutes
could be better time but going around the Gold Coast still glowing green to the Nile.
Contract completed time 1004.
End of LOG
signature SANDY PROM
I think hes talking about spider pods nano bots or something and airborne capable flying sensors? /// how he sent it back in time to hide his log had to be done with anti partical wave carrier ... jeez they must be advanced up there .. whats a coil gun?
Thanks, Graham. There is a lot going on in the future; even hard to understand their new terms. Progress has exploded in the last hundred years and will increase like the devil. Kind of a turning point for humanity to keep up with it and not turn evil.
Thanks for taking out the fake Mr. Chernov on such short notice, but now you can retire to your new sky top house to be given to you as thanks for making the world a safer place.
The new American President thanks you, in private, and is glad that he was kept out of the loop.
Peter died a few days later, at age 92, on a soft autumn night, while sitting on the porch of the sandstone farmhouse. Angelina was at his side, as always. A few minutes before, a singing bird had landed on the railing, the Bird of Time, and Peter had turned to Angelina and had said, “I have to go now. I love you.”
And she’d whispered to him, “Come back to me, Peter.”
Peter smiled, finding serenity even in death, and breathed his last breath—happy to the last, as the Angel of Light came and blessed him. The soft winds murmured a dirge as darkness fell, and the flowered canterbury-bells rang their funereal tunes.
Peter was buried two days later in the rural cemetery, and, after all the eulogies had been said, and after the grave had been covered with dirt, and after everyone had gone home, only one person remained behind, Angelina, and she lay down on Peter’s grave to die, ready to melt into the dust and intermingle with his throughout all eternity.
After a day or so, she got up, or so it seemed, irresistibly drawn by the enchanting tune of a nightingale, and as such she became encased in the magic of its song, as a sheen was formed around her into a transparent dome—she protected therein from the elements. From this invisible and charmed haven, she could again see into the life of things as she watched Old Autumn making his last rounds, and she soon saw the pine trees throwing down their cones as winter came. The elves themselves, now visible to her, lay down to sleep, cuddled into the fluffy beds of wild clematis. The snow fell for several weeks, although the winter blossoms still sprouted on the blackthorns, and then the nightingale, having transferred its power to Angelina’s encasement, impaled itself on the thorn, turning the blossoms red with the life that fled. And all the while Angelina could see the spot where Peter lay buried—like some kind of flower bulb—awaiting a new birth in some far and distant spring.
Then, for a while, her spirit soared, like that of her angel namesake, as she met Peter’s soul at the Gate of Heaven, where he told her as he entered, “I’ll be back—your love will bring me back. Find me as I found you.”
Back down to earth, having been returned to her enchanted shell, Angelina felt the love he’d left behind, and it brought her warmth and comfort in her apparently endless vigil, the time moving slowly at first. However, soon the months seemed to pass by in an instant, as all the while the bird’s song yet reverberated within her. Seasons came and went, the landscape changing around her as in time-lapse photography. Trees sprouted in the fields like grass; the sun raced through the sky in a perpetual afterglow of a golden arch; even the thousand year old yew trees grew. Weeds covered the flower gardens and grew up through the porch of the old farmhouse.
Yesterday turned into yesteryear. Two decades passed.
Each day Angelina grew younger in her nether world, the aches and pains of the years falling away like so much chaff. At age 24 she was released from her crystal dome and stepped out into a cold white winter. Surely all the world was dead—but, suddenly, a snowdrop flower appeared in the heat of a tombstone as a fairy stood over her grave—“‘tis not dead” the fairy said, and with a wave of a wand an early spring began, Angelina sprouting back into life like some kind of winter jasmine. The elves then blew their pipes to awaken all of nature. Double-daisies of double love sprouted all over the rural cemetery in the memory of Peter and Angelina’s love. Kisses grew on the bushes as bits of blossoms from someone dear—from the one who had died and given his fragrance to the night.
Angelina had to find Peter—she could feel his living presence out there somewhere in the world. Not knowing where to go at first, she let her instincts guide her, just as his had led him to Rhinecliff to find her. The crow landed at her feet and she followed it to the old train station, the trains now running magnetically one hundred feet off the ground in order to allow people better access to the pure clean river. She boarded a southbound transport and got off at Fishkill for reasons unknown.
In Fishkill, which was now a borough of New York City, she walked through the crowds, arriving at an Electronic Art Center where a meeting was going on. She stepped inside and immediately felt an electricity and a chemistry emanating from a man who was painting at an electronic easel—one who suddenly stopped and looked at her intently. Peter looked a bit different than before, younger, of course, but then she herself looked in a mirror and saw that she, too, was younger, and a bit different looking. She hesitated, sure but nervous, and then walked toward him as all the room seemed to watch her.
“Where is that scene that you’re painting, that farmhouse?” she asked him.
“I’m not sure,” he answered, “I’ve never been there—the scene just sort of keeps coming to me as an artistic vision—it seems as if somehow I’ve always known of it.”
“That retreat is the sandstone farmhouse where we used to live, Peter. I’ll show it to you this afternoon… ”
“… Angelina! You’ve returned and you’ve found me—I knew you’d come back someday! It’s been a long time.”
“I came as soon as I could—I was preserved and given youth in a crystal dome in some sort of fairyland during all the while that you were growing up through your new boyhood into the man you are today.”
“Your vision was with me always, Angelina—I remember more and more of us with each incarnation. It’s getting easier. I remember now being old, and dying in your arms on the front porch on that autumnal night. Our love—was so strong—”
“—that it brought us back for yet another encore.”
“We are the triumph—”
“—of life, love, and being.”
“I feel so alive, so invigorated, so satisfied, so loving.”
“We’re young again,” she answered, “younger than ever.”
Linear Mode
