Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Read online

  Codename:

  Winterborn

  by

  Declan Finn

  &

  Allan Yoskowitz

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 John Konecsni & Allan Yoskowitz

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1482052329

  ISBN-10: 1482052326

  “Of all the warriors of the world

  Those of Troy were the most fell

  They were those born of Winter. “

  ~John Ringo's

  Live Free Or Die

  Introduction

  To begin with, some items of note. Starting with the fact that we know that there is no such thing as a Senate Oversight Committee on Intelligence, or anything remotely like it. There are a few reasons for that. One, this is a book about justice and consequences, not about political procedure. Two, we'd rather not inspire anyone to go and mimic the events of this book. And besides, at current rate of speed, we'll be happy if the US Constitution even vaguely resembles the one in this book when we get to 2093.

  We would like to thank Annie Dautermann, as well as Margaret and Gail Konecsni of Just Write! Ink for their editing services.

  Also, Mr. Finn would like to thank Dariel Williams of Protection Fitness Self Defense to the Krav Maga we used in the book. All mistakes are Declan Finn's, period.

  Finn would also like to thank Yana Mikhailov for her help with chapter 12 – she gave him some good advice once about writing that sort of thing. It stuck.

  Songs references in this book are from the Cruxshadows' Winterborn and from Heather Alexander's March of Cambreadth. If you don't know them, we recommend them.

  For a note of how this book came to be: At one point Allan suggested the name “Mr. Anderson,” like The Matrix. Then Declan, being a smartass, wrote a story for a man named “Kevin.”

  Enter Lt. Kevin Anderson.

  Welcome to the rabbit hole.

  Prologue: What Came Before

  Years have passed since the comedy of errors they called the April Fool's War. It was a vicious time for our species, and its cause a sick joke. An American Army lieutenant, a reservist, called in to do his two weeks of active duty. He was part of a test; a simple simulation assembled by a group of government psychologists. They wanted to observe the reactions of Army officers and enlisted soldiers to a nuclear assault on Washington D.C.

  Not knowing there was a test, the Lieutenant managed to override the security protocols, sending the computers to DefCon-1. A nuclear missile began its flight toward Pyongyang. Moments later, the North Koreans responded. The Chinese launched an assault of their own on Pyongyang, and the War was on. Fires blossomed like a deep red rose across the Earth, rendering nearly a third of the planet uninhabitable. None of the nations involved were willing to take responsibility for any of the destruction. They all pointed fingers at each other and claimed they had been left no choice after the first launch.

  Frankly, it doesn’t make any difference who started it. Survival is more important than any wasteful corporate paper jam, or at least it is to me. The foolish little dilberts bury themselves in paperwork and bureaucracy, not wanting to face what the world around them has become. In my line of work, though, that just isn’t possible. An assassin can’t afford to have illusions.

  Kyle Elsen

  January 2093

  Chapter 1: Your Mission

  McLean, Virginia, Central Intelligence Division

  January, 2093

  Lt. Kevin Anderson, former U.S. Navy SEAL, smiled as his executive officer came into his windowless, concrete box of an office. Granted, the people at his spy school would probably not appreciate it to know that he still thought of himself as a SEAL, but that was their problem, not his. No, his problem this week would be getting out alive, especially when he was surrounded by a multitude of French Paras who were armed with large and ugly FAMAS laser assault rifles leveled at his head.

  However, that came later.

  At the moment, there was his XO, Moira Dalton. Who was rather cute, even in fatigues. She stood about 5’7”, with porcelain skin, deep sea-blue eyes, short curly black hair, and a wide mouth with lips perfect enough to kiss… which is what Anderson was in the middle of doing when his commanding officer knocked on his door.

  The annoying thing was that the kiss was one that encapsulated passion. It had been going on for a good five minutes. They had been wrapped so tightly around each other, to look at them, most people would have imagined they would have needed a crowbar to separate them … But all that did it was a knock.

  Moira Dalton and Kevin Anderson, her covert fiancé, practically leapt to different sides of the room. She perched on a side table, while Kevin leapt over his desktop, landed lightly on his feet, and sat in his chair before the door even opened.

  Their immediate superior entered. Henry Daley, a tall, heavy black man with a sharp crew cut and thick features all around, even his gut. However, under the weight was muscle left over from when he was in field operations. “Anderson, Dalton,” he said with a voice as rocky as an avalanche, “you’re both going to France.”

  Kevin grinned and looked at Moira. “Don’t you just love his small talk?” Looking at Daley, he said, “We’re fine, thanks for asking, boss.”

  Moira practiced the standard operating procedure with respect to Kevin’s sense of humor in the workplace—she ignored him. She braced both hands on the side of the desk and leaned forward. “What has the Islamic Republic of France done this time?”

  Kevin nodded. “Indeed, what have the Irritating, Revolting Frogs done now?”

  In 2050, the lopsided birth rate of the tenth French Republic had finally caught up to them. Fundamentalist Muslims who had been too crazy for their native Middle Eastern countries had been exiled to Europe in the late twentieth century. After decades of European residence, they had finally managed to shift the balance of power. The Catholics had been driven out, and the Left Secularists had been out-bred—the average French birthrate nationwide had been .88, less than half of what was needed to repopulate a society, and most of that had come from the Islamic immigrants. The year 2050 had been the point when sharia law, usually favored by terrorists and Wahabists, had been declared the law in France. Their nuclear arsenal had been blown up by the United States in 2051, but the French had built their own nuclear arsenal, and could rebuild it. The “hide and blow-up” cycle had become a monotonous process ever since.

  Henry sighed as he moved his bulk behind a chair. “Agent Dalton, you can sit down now,” he murmured, sliding her a chair. She took the hint, and the chair. Henry continued. “They decided to rattle their nuclear arsenal at us again. All six missiles.”

  Kevin leaned back in the chair and sighed. “Every ten years, they’ve threatened us with nukes, and every time we blow them up and set their technology back a decade. Haven’t they gotten the pattern by now? We’ve only done it about four times.”

  Daley raised an eyebrow. “They knew we were coming the last two times, and they were lying in wait. It didn’t help them then, either. And it hasn't been every ten years. They're three years off schedule.”

  Moira raised a brow. “Could it be that, for some reason, having the United States being part of a worldwide exchange of nuclear weapons in 2090 threw them off their game?”

  Daley nodded somberly. He had witnessed parts of the April Fool’s War—all three hours of it. “But th
ey obviously have as long an attention span as, well, the average American.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes. “So, this is supposed to be a cakewalk? Excuse me, fearless leader, but I don’t recall you giving us simple assignments. Not to mention that you’re talking about something that I used to do as a SEAL—mark the targets for cruise missiles to take them down. What’s so different this time?”

  “This time, we don’t know where the missiles are.”

  Kevin rolled his eyebrows. “I thought this is what Mercenaries are for.”

  Daley shrugged. Most people assumed that the Mercenary's Guild were just high-priced security guards. The government knew better, after it watched private security companies like Blackwater, et al, merge into the giant umbrella organization of the Mercenaries. Governments even used them for the occasional black bag operation—proving once again that private enterprise can do almost anything better than government. There had been a twin organization, the Assassin's Guild, but they had been wiped out before the April Fool's War of 2090 for reasons unknown—when a third of the planet is nuked, little things get lost in the cracks.

  Daley simply shook his head. “We have to prove our worth to the taxpayers somehow.”

  Kevin exchanged a glance with Moira. “Don't you just wish we could invade them, take them over, and put the Islamist sociopaths out of business for good?”

  Moira shook her head. “That would require a political will that no one has.”

  Daley sighed. “Neither one of you seems to grasp the immensity of that project. Go ahead; invade France. Invade the rest of Europe if you like. It'd take more than eight years to get the Islamists out of their entrenched positions, and by then, the next administration will come along and burn whatever bridges and inroads we've made into the region. And that's assuming the local, non-Muslims don't fight us, too.”

  Kevin frowned. He didn't get into the profession of fighting for his country because he wanted to argue politics, but to seek out new enemies of freedom, and destroy them. “You make it sound like Europe enjoys being on its knees.”

  Daley shrugged, and grunted. “Some people do. It saves them from thinking. Not to mention that the political philosophy Europe worked under –Leftism – dictated that the rich didn't deserve anything good to happen to them. After a while, they defined 'the rich' on a global scale, and discovered they were 'the rich,' when compared to the most desolate, tyrannical backwaters. So, when the Islamists took over – and, at the time, they were 'the poor, oppressed minority' – the white, Leftist Europeans figured that they had it coming.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “So, right now, we're stuck with short-term solutions. Have fun.”

  Kevin flashed his eyes dramatically. “Don’t we always?”

  Daley nodded phlegmatically. “Too much, some days, I think.”

  Kevin cocked his head. “Care to explain that?”

  Kevin’s boss shot a subtle glance at Moira, hinting it would be inappropriate to say anything in front of his subordinate.

  The spy’s eyes narrowed. “Anything you say in front of me, you can say in front of Agent Dalton. Now that you’ve already raised questions about my authority in front of her, we might as well have the rest of it right now.”

  Henry Daley’s right eye twitched, the only crack in his stone façade. Kevin Anderson was the only person in the entire Central Intelligence Division that could make Henry show any signs of emotion. “Your reconnaissance work. You do it yourself. You shouldn’t. It’s too dangerous to be your own point man.”

  “Really?” Kevin asked, rising slowly. “Is that so? I suppose that means you disapprove of my work thus far? I mean, I do wet work, sniping, recon. Somehow, I haven’t lost one person on my team in the twenty missions I’ve led. I won’t count my SEAL days; I’d hate to brag.” He wandered around the table. “My people have completed every objective on every mission, usually with a minimum of fuss and bother. My apologies if I do the most dangerous work myself.”

  Daley leaned forward on one of the chairs. “You used to be able to delegate, which is why you got command.”

  Kevin stepped around the desk, coming straight at his commander at a steady, even pace. He stopped four feet from his superior. His voice was low, gentle, and respectful. “Because I value the lives of my people more than I value my own.”

  “Not because you enjoy killing people yourself?”

  Kevin grinned broadly, spreading his hands open. “Of course I do, what good would I be if I didn’t enjoy my work? But you must keep in mind, sir, I would hate to hog all the fun for my team. I make sure they get enough kills. When you think I’ve gone crazy, you let me know, okay? I’ll be happy to drive another shrink out of the profession. Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start working out how to make the tadpoles croak.”

  Henry Daley sighed, turned, and moved towards the door. He stopped. “By the way, what were you discussing before I came in?”

  Moira stood. She spoke before Kevin did something foolish—like tell the truth. “We were wondering if we would try sending more spies into the Mercenary’s Guild to see if they have any technology we might want to co-opt. For all we know, they made off with a good deal of the Assassin’s Guild technology when they bombed it.”

  He smirked. “It’s a good idea. I know. We tried it. Their CEO, Major Rohaz, was nice enough to return all of our agents in one piece.”

  The door didn’t slam him on the head on his way out, no matter how hard Kevin wished it to. His eyes were still pinned to the door. “Thank you for not trying to intercept the blow for me.”

  Moira let out a breath of air, and then turned to face Kevin. “You would’ve only gotten annoyed. Wouldn’t it be easier for us to tell them the truth?”

  His gaze moved back to Moira. Lord, she was beautiful. She wasn’t all hard muscle, or all soft curves, but she had just the right proportions of each. She was well rounded in more ways than one, and Kevin was really tempted to forgo the waiting for marriage part.

  However, he could look and think at the same time. “How do you figure? They’ll just say that I’m taking a lot of stupid risks to protect you, and use it as an excuse to promote me, and God only knows how much time we’ll be allowed to have together.”

  Moira reached out and took his hand. “Hey, what’s so bad about advancement? You’d stop getting shot at.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Because I prefer being up close and personal,” he answered, drawing her in, his other hand sliding around her. His hazel eyes looked deep into hers. “Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I lead from the front, not the rear.”

  She smiled. “And you have such a nice rear.”

  “I just want to wait until you get promoted,” he said, low and soothing. “Besides, even if I told Henry right now, we’d still all be sent out…or at least you and the others would. You’ve been recommended by everyone so often that I’m surprised you’re not my superior by now.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You mean you acknowledge I’m your superior?”

  He chuckled. “Never doubted it. Do you know how glad I am you never wear lipstick? Otherwise we would’ve been screwed just then.”

  Moira kissed him lightly. “Should we start packing for the assignment?” she whispered, her lips still close to his.

  “Why bother?” he asked at the same volume. “Tadpoles…frogs…a few KE rounds should do, plus an M22 for when we nuke the place. That’s all.” He moved forward to kiss her again.

  “I’ll pack the usual,” she answered.

  “The usual” for her meant at least one of each weapon—both the standard “kinetic energy” bullets utilized since the gun was invented, as well as laser weapons. Moira had preferred weapons she could bring with her, while Kevin always preferred to find them when he landed in-country. This usually resulted in Moira carrying enough weapons for three people, while Kevin grabbed whatever was handy.

  And at the moment, what was handy was Moira.

  *

  Kevin Ande
rson had always thought that the people who designed his tools of tradecraft had watched far too many James Bond films. There had even been some rumors that the head of the CID technological services preferred to watch a CGI Sean Connery in the 2060 version of Casino Royale.

  The man in charge of the technological division was elderly, with a face like rumpled paper, white hair, and it was clear that he neither believed in laser corrective surgery or contact lenses. He also liked to be called Q. “It’s British, you see,” he muttered as he crossed the room. “It stands for Quartermaster. Like M for Monarch.”

  “Don’t tell that to Daley,” Kevin replied. “It might go to his head.” He looked over the table of equipment and said, “So, what do we have today?”

  “To start with, some of your usual equipment. Liquid body armor, impervious to most non-AP rounds, and it even offers slight protection from fragmentation grenades.” The fabric was soaked with a shear-thickening fluid—hard microparticles of silica suspended in a polyethylene glycol solution. Normally, it acted like clothing, but once struck, the material solidified into a rigid shield. The quartermaster continued. “We have allies in London who will let you in with this equipment, and the rest of it you’ll pick up there. From London, you’ll take the Chunnel to the continent, and from there, Paris.”

  Kevin nodded slowly. “And how are we supposed to find the missiles?”

  “We know they’re in Paris. You’ll be situated at the edge of one of their suburbs.”

  Kevin blinked. “Wait, isn’t that their slum?”

  “And their tourist area.” The supply master smiled at him, a twinkle in his eye. “What, do you truly think that Parisians have overcome any xenophobia since 1792? Please, their tourist policy for the past century has been ‘give us your money, then leave.’ Besides, the suburbs are possibly the safest place for you. The Parisians have sneered down their noses at anything outside of the city limits since before 1792. First the Catholic peasants of the countryside, then the Muslims in the slums in the 20th century, and now it’s come full circle back to the peasants—still in the slums. The sharia religious police find it easier to enforce the Dhimmitude laws on them when they're in one area. The people there are not friendly to the government, and they’re really cranky most days.”