The Spirit in St. Louis Read online

  Admiral Ellison built his career on dignity, honor, honesty, and courage, and frankly wouldn’t make it as a politician—all good reasons to like and respect the man—so if he said the situation was spinning out of control, I believed him. His ability to cut through manure exceeded even that of Whitehall. Not a man to fall victim to hyperbole. I needed to do something quick to put the public and Capitol Hill at ease. Unfortunately, there was only one way I could think of to do that.

  And I really didn’t want to resort to such methods.

  But when your back is against the wall, your back is against the wall, and you have to go with what works, even if such methods seem distasteful. I leaned back so my chair was almost horizontal, but the DRAFT kept the Committee members vertical in my sight. “Admiral, Ms. Brisby, Senator Stein, and Judge Whitehall, I have a solution that will not only put the entire Fourth Estate into a virtual tizzy, it will calm Congress quite nicely. It’s not the best solution in my opinion—in fact, it sucks, to put it bluntly—but it’s the only solution that will satisfy all concerned.”

  Now I certainly had their attention. “Well?” blurted out Senator Stein, a vein at this temple throbbing. “What is it?” He was a capable politico, a man with more than thirty years in the Senate; that made him one of the biggest bricks in the establishment wall and possibly the most morally bankrupt person in Washington. Still, you work with what you’ve got.

  I gave the gray-haired man from Indiana a nod. “Ladies, gentlemen, I think it’s time to pull out the big guns. It’s time to take Kalevi Hakala off the leash.”

  Chapter Two

  Kal

  A Star is Born

  “Red Leader, this is Eagle’s Nest One. Take the shot.”

  “NO!”

  Oops, getting ahead of myself. Can’t just jump all over these debriefs. BB would have a conniption.

  Begin at the beginning, as he would say. Got it.

  For the first time in decades we had a dragon problem. Last one occurred in the early ’60s and brought the United States and the Soviet Union to the brink of nuclear war. All over a dragon heart said to endow those who consumed it with miraculous powers. Good thing the heart was lost during the whole Cuban fiasco or else history might have undergone a thermonuclear rewrite. Now the second dragon in fifty years had decided to make an appearance, and woe to all if we killed it without destroying its heart. I like my planet without clouds of radioactive dust, please.

  It emerged from the Colombia River Gorge in a geyser of steam so intense it flash-boiled a water-skier and the two people manning the boat near the exit point. The first casualties of many, I’m sorry to say. Shining, almost glowing, gold scales flashing from its seventy-foot coiling, snake-like body, it radiated enough heat to cook a rhino well done from ten feet away without having to resort to its flaming breath. It flew high into the sky, a glittering second sun, before heading south, and the video clips made by dozens of people with their cell phones went viral in seconds. YouTube never had so many hits.

  By the time it reached Salem, six towns had almost burned to the ground: Forest Grove, Sherwood, Newberg, McMinnville, Sheraton, and Dallas—all laid waste by dragon’s breath so hot it melted steel and concrete in seconds. Its crooked flight path seemed to be designed to cause maximum damage and loss of life. By the time the dragon reached the Oregon/California border, Eugene and Corvallis were burning bright enough to see from outer space.

  Team Tau had been tagged to respond, and thanks to everyone on the planet knowing about the Bureau and the World Under, we were able to request and receive a little help from the 123rdrd Fighter Squadron of the Oregon Air National Guard stationed at the Portland Air National Guard Base. Two F-15C/D Eagles ripped their way south toward the overgrown lizard just as Tau landed at Redding, California, to establish a base of operations.

  Tau’s leader, Jared Marshal, stood in front of the newly sprayed DisplayWall—the most recent innovation from Special Branch. Those technogeeknerds had really outdone themselves this time. The device was an aerosol that sprayed onto any flat surface and by some arcane/science fiction method turned it into a flatscreen TV less than a millimeter thick. I could’a used that in college, let me tell you. Anyhow, Jared was watching the dragon’s progress via multiple dronecams. Marshal fit the picture of a perfect BSI Agent: tall, dark, burly, and ramrod straight, with a profile that would have made Michelangelo swoon. At twenty-three, he was old enough to kill with care but young enough to be a damned hothead.

  Was I ever that young?

  The room we found ourselves in wasn’t that big, only about fifteen by fifteen, but when it came to tech, size didn’t matter, only results. And those technogeeknerds could sure deliver. We had all we needed to track the dragon and coordinate its destruction.

  “Where is it?” Jared barked at Adrian Newmeyer, one of the team Green Peas, those new recruits it was my responsibility to train.

  Newmeyer—a short, stout kid with curly hair cut short to the skull—kept his eyes glued to his own display that showed a little orange blip moving south across a satellite image of Northern California. “Close to Mt. Shasta, boss.”

  Marshal frowned, creasing his fair skin. I watched intently as the young man pondered the situation and sipped some diet Mountain Dew. God bless caffeine. “Where are our birds?” he asked tersely.

  “Eight klicks from target.”

  It was my turn to speak up. As far as they knew, I was just an observer, the guy tasked with the mission evaluation to see how the Bureau coordinated efforts with other agencies and to perceive how the newly formed Team Tau operated, but I never could keep my big mouth shut. “Whatever you’re thinking, Agent Marshal, I’d wipe it from consideration. Too risky.”

  His head whipped around to where I was sitting in my comfy leather office chair, and I fancied I could hear vertebrae pop. “You are here to observe, Hakala, not to advise.”

  Didn’t even offer the courtesy of ‘Mister’ or ‘Agent’ in front of my name, showing me disrespect in front of the rest of the team, and that put rusty nails in my Cheerios. I ground my teeth. Punk. “You should wait until it’s out of the forested area.”

  “And demolish Redding? Not a chance.” To Rico, another Green Pea, “Tell our birds to lock on.”

  “Got it.” Rico relayed the orders to the pilots.

  Not on my watch. Before anyone could stop me, I cut in with my throat mic, “Red Leader, this is FinnOne, stand back three klicks and fire when the bogey is over Lake Shasta. Over.”

  “Roger, FinnOne,” came the reply.

  Marshal’s short brown hair practically stood on end as he thumbed his own throat mic. “Red Leader, this is Eagle’s Nest One, disregard FinnOne, confirm.” To me, “You are observing only, Hakala. One more word and I’ll throw you out.”

  “Say again, Eagle’s Nest One,” said Red Leader tonelessly.

  I crossed my arms. “Don’t do it. Have them lay back and wait until the dragon is clear of any communities.”

  “Shut up!” Jared Marshal closed his eyes. “That is confirmed, Red Leader. FinnOne is not in command. You are to disregard FinnOne. Copy?”

  “Roger that.” Red Leader didn’t sound like he wanted to copy that at all, but he was a good pilot and well trained.

  I tried again. “Red Leader, this is FinnOne, do you copy?”

  Nothing. Dammit!

  With a smile so smug it practically dripped contempt, Marshal said, “Red Leader, this is Eagle’s Nest One. Take the shot.”

  “NO!” My voice bounced off the DisplayWall, practically deafening the members of Team Tau. Marshal motioned another team member, Twilight, to kick me out, but a cold glare from my baby blues halted her in her tracks. Still, there was nothing else I could do. Red Leader took the shot and I watched the aftermath in brilliant Technicolor.

  Red Leader’s businesslike voice echoed in our ears. “Missile away.”

  With only a simple payload of high explosives, a missile launched from a modern warplane travels
faster than human beings can imagine, and for even the greatest of Supernaturals, it was death at Mach 2.5. The dragon, resembling a golden, burning snake with four long legs ending in wicked, scimitar-like talons and wings clothed in white fire, exploded in mid-air like a water balloon filled with gasoline. It was like watching a baby duck get hit with a load of buckshot after napalming the little quacker first. Pieces and parts flew everywhere, burning, leaving trails of smoke darting toward the ground. I could actually see the air distort as the pressure wave traveled outward at ungodly speed, dissipating clouds and flattening trees like the hand of God swatting the planet.

  I had to admit, it looked awesome.

  “There,” Marshal remarked proudly, admiring his handiwork. “Took care of a Supernatural and destroyed the heart of the beast. A win/win situation, if I do say so myself.” He looked filled to the brim with white-hot smug.

  Destroying the heart was good, but at what cost? “If you do say so yourself,” I muttered angrily. “If you do [DELETED] say so yourself.”

  He turned on me, muscles tense. “What?”

  “Do you know my official designation, Marshal?” My eyes were a thousand yards away. I didn’t want to look at the satellite imagery because I knew damn well what I would see.

  “Observer.”

  “No. My official Bureau designation is Recruit Trainer and Evaluator.”

  A derisive snort. “Hell, everybody knows you’re the Trainer. You were my Trainer.”

  “And Evaluator.” I still didn’t bother looking at him—or at anyone for that matter—but I could sure feel six pairs of eyes on me. “You forgot Evaluator.”

  Another snort. If nothing else he could snort with the best of them. “But here you’re an Observer.”

  “You know why the Bureau constantly tests its Agents?” I asked, barely controlling the urge to drive an elbow into Marshal’s too-perfect nose.

  “To keep us sharp.”

  My head was shaking before the words even hit the air. “That’s what the Bureau wants you to think, so it can hide its real intention. No, the real reason is because we wield power.” Now I looked at the satellite map and saw what I’d expected to see. I wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out, but I wasn’t that guy anymore. I still had plenty of human anger, but that tank of superhuman rage was empty. “Think about it, all of you.” I met each team member’s eyes one by one, and one by one, they lowered their heads. All except Marshal, whose killing arrogance kept him defiant. “With a simple phone call a fighter squadron of the Oregon Air National Guard was at our disposal. F-15s were under our control, our authority. That kind of power can go to a person’s head, can really mess with the mind, and the Bureau doesn’t want someone who takes such things for granted, might possibly misuse such incredible responsibility.” Now I matched Marshal stare for stare, his sharp hazel gaze against my icy blues, and I could feel him struggle not to blink. “Like you have misused your power. It is up to me, as the official Evaluator, to file a recommendation to the Director on the fitness of any given Bureau Agent that determines whether or not they are a viable asset.”

  Scarlet flushed across Marshal’s cheeks, but he kept his cool. “The hell I did. I completed the objective.”

  I nodded. “Sure you did. All but one.”

  That earned me a puzzled glare. “Which one is that? The dragon is dead.”

  My finger stabbed at the screen, showing the satellite image of a small town now highlighted in bright orange. “The objective stating that our number-one priority is to safeguard human lives.” I sighed, watching fire devour the small town. “Say goodbye to Weed, California, you dipstick.”

  It was time to leave. “And you can kiss your Bureau career goodbye,” I called over my shoulder just before the door slammed shut.

  Okay, Agent Hakala, that will be fine.

  I’ve a few more things to say. A whole bunch, in fact.

  I’m sure you do, but that is not necessary for this debrief. Here, let me take that off your head.

  Awww, I was really starting to enjoy myself.

  Blur ….

  The image of the base in Redding shredded and melted, torn and bled away to reveal the inside of a luxury jet and a woman, Receptionist Darla Grey, who held what looked like a large titanium band in her hands, electrodes dripping from it like spider legs. The band itself was made of fine silvery wire looped in such a way as to turn the eyeballs inside out if stared at too long, a tiara constructed by drunken silkworms.

  Darla smiled, revealing large, even teeth. “How was that, Agent?” she asked. Like most Receptionists, Darla was a whole lot of woman packed into a taut bundle. So much so that I had to rein in my libido—a good thing because not only could she easily break my arm in six places, but my significant other is a Magician of not inconsiderable power who has the ability to turn the average male into something that leaves a slime trail as it moves. As for me, she wouldn’t be that kind.

  “I’ve never been debriefed like that before.” My muscles felt tight and sore and the vertebrae in my neck popped as I swiveled my head back and forth. For the past year I’d been training the Green Peas down to the ground and back up again, turning raw meat (by Bureau standards) into men and women made of wood. All that training had made me even stronger, tougher than before. I’d lost twenty pounds of flab I didn’t know I had and gained five of hardened muscle. Instead of 220 lbs, I topped the scales at 205 and was reduced to about two percent body fat. You’d figure I’d left stress-soreness and aches long behind, but they seemed to happen more and more often.

  “A lot has happened in the last year, Agent.” Her smile might have held a trace of pity for an old man. Or not. Maybe it was indigestion.

  A year. I’d been training Green Peas for a full year, an experience only slightly less painful than a sulfuric acid enema. How time flies when you’re hip deep in the latrine without nose plugs. A lot of things had happened since that trip to Omaha. Since Maydock the vampire. Well, half human, half vampire—the worst of both worlds.

  Omaha, where I landed myself in the bad graces of the BSI and thanks to my contract, I couldn’t quit or do a damn thing about the situation. I had to take it on the chin like a good boy and smile through blood-stained teeth.

  It wasn’t the almost nuclear explosion I’d caused that earned me a black mark in my file. Nor was it the havoc I’d wreaked, the property damage and bodies left behind like so many lifeless flesh dolls. No, it was two minutes. Two lousy minutes.

  While dancing to the aforementioned psychopathic human/vampire hybrid’s tune, I’d happened upon (well, been led by the nose to) an organization that was involved with the kidnapping and selling of children to people with obscene amounts of cash, an auction house for tots. The kids, identified by the organization’s bought-and-paid-for pediatricians, all had the magic gene, the one that marked them as future Magicians. That was disturbing in two ways (other than the fact that an organized entity was kidnapping children). One, there was an international organization that knew about Magic and the World Under, an organization that had somehow kept its existence a secret from the BSI. Two … there is no two, because one is disturbing enough. Not to mention they employed their own Magicians who were almost as talented as their Bureau counterparts.

  When I realized what the organization was up to, I went a bit mental. At the time I thought it was a kiddie sex-slave trade, and I tortured a man, shot his kneecaps to splinters. I didn’t have to do it. He was fully within my power—I could have just forced him by other means to reveal what he knew—but instead I shot him twice and regretted the action immediately. Torture is wrong, no matter how you slice it (no pun intended). From waterboarding to shooting an asshole’s knees to bits, it’s wrong on every level. Who was I to judge a person’s sins when I have committed so many myself? My soul carried its own weight in blackness. I’d inflicted enough evil in the name of righteousness to make Torquemada blanch, and it was only right that I’d earned BB’s ire, putting me square at the top of his p
oo-poo list.

  One good thing, though, is that the BSI shut down the kiddie trade and thanks to Ghost—a disembodied former wunderkind from MIT who magically uploaded his soul into the Internet—most of the other illegal activities the organization had been dealing in throughout the U.S. With the other governments clued in and aiming for their tender bits, the organization had all but disappeared off the face of the earth. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t reappear, but the Bureau is keeping a weather eye out for its activities.

  Since Omaha I’d been training, observing, and evaluating every new crop of Green Peas during the day and heading off home to my family at night.

  Yeah, my family. I said it. Still had a hard time believing it.

  Jeanie. My wife.

  And let’s not forget my kid. Four months ago I found myself in the hospital with Jeanie while a kindly female doc in blue scrubs delivered our child. Thanks to an epidural, Jeanie had a relatively easy time of it, although I wouldn’t give it a try for all the Finnish chocolate in the world, that’s for sure.

  Twelve hours of labor, twelve hours of holding my hand while she sweated and strained. Then, when the doc handed me a pair of surgical scissors to cut the umbilical cord (no thanks, Doc, I’m sure I’m not medically qualified) it became real. I had a baby. We had a baby. A boy.

  My son.

  Awesome. I leaned over my wife (my wife!), looked into his purple-y face that would soon become the color of chamomile tea, and said, “Does the pointy head thing ever go away?” Seemed like a pity, to be called Conehead Hakala all your life. Or Beldar.