Codename: Omega (feat. The Apiary Society) Page 2

  ***

  Subject 129 woke in his bunk hours later. There was a thin manila envelope with a single sheet of paper inside sitting on the floor next to his bed. He sat up and removed the paper, seeing the name James Scott typed across the top. Place of Birth: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

  Place of Death: St. Quentin Canal.

  He turned the paper over in the dim light but there was nothing else. He crumpled the page into a ball and tossed it across the room in disgust. He collapsed on his bunk and screamed until he was out of breath.

  The bullet holes in his chest were now jagged scars the size of quarters and Scott ran his fingers over them, playing with the ridges of raised skin. He found another scar on his left hand that seemed older than the others. It was a leftover reminder of a past he could not recover. He wondered how it got there and what he’d been doing at the time. He played with the scar, turning his hand over and over, when he saw the small ring of pale skin around his left ring finger. The flesh was rubbed smooth there, like a man who’d worn a wedding ring and never took it off.

  There was a woman.

  He saw her face. Saw her smiling at him. Crying to him. Lying beside him sleeping. He could see her eyes widen as they made love. Feel her arms wrap tightly around the back of his neck, begging him not to enlist in the war.

  Scott jumped up from the bed and slammed his fists against the steel door, shouting, “Let me out! I remember! I remember!”

  Footsteps raced down the hall toward his cell. Scott dove to the meal slot and said, “I have a wife! I need to see her. I need to tell her I’m alive.”

  The guard rapped the door with his nightstick. “Shut up in there. You know the rules. No getting out until morning.”

  “I have a wife! She needs to know!”

  “You don’t have shit. James Scott had a wife, but he’s dead and buried. Subject 129 just has the generator, and if you thought today was bad, just wait till you see what they’ve got in store for you tomorrow. They’re gonna sizzle your bacon for sure.”

  Scott screamed in outrage and ran straight at the door. The guard threw his hands over his face to protect himself from the impact, but nothing happened and he fell backwards on the floor. “I thought you was gonna run straight into the dang door,” he said. He chuckled as he got back to his feet, looking around for his nightstick. “You’re gonna look real pretty with no teeth, you dumb son of a bitch. You and me are gonna have ourselves a party now.”

  Something grabbed the guard by the neck and lifted him into the air. He clawed at whatever was cinched around his throat and found fingers there, a human hand that held him aloft even as he kicked and pushed against the prison door with his feet.

  He was thrown to the ground so hard he nearly lost consciousness, coming to as the thing grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him down the hall. He looked up to see the lights overhead and realized they were heading for the office with the security chair and generator. Subject 129 bent down over him and snatched him by the shoulders, picking him up with no effort and slamming him down into chair.

  “No! No!” the guard screamed. “Help!”

  Scott ripped the guard’s uniform shirt to pieces like it was made of paper and said, “How do you like it?” He held the guard in place as he locked the straps down. He jammed suction cups onto the straps into place. He put several suction cups on the guard’s chest and wheeled the generator toward the door. Scott found extra wires and he ran those out to the closest research stations and stuck the suction cup receivers to the surfaces of the machines. He found a fuse box near the office and stuck two more cups onto the main junction.

  The guard continued to plead for mercy until Scott shoved the wooden bit into his mouth. He grabbed the generator’s handle and gave it one great heave, spinning it as fast as a carnival wheel.

  Every light inside the facility exploded.

  The wires attached to the guard sparked and burst into flames, setting fire to the leather straps and chair. The researchers came running at the sound of the guard’s horrific screams, only to trip over themselves and crash into one another in the smoke and darkness.

  ***

  Major William J. Donovan headed into the cold, dark cemetery. Rain spilled off his umbrella as he made his way past rows of graves and mausoleums, heading for a hill peak where a man stood looking down at a tombstone. Water cascaded off of every part of him.

  The hill was slick with mud, making it hard to traverse, but Donovan found a way up until he was finally able to stand at the man’s side. Donovan held his umbrella over their both of their heads and looked at the tombstones. Technical Sergeant James Scott, beloved husband, killed in service to the United States. Maureen Scott, beloved wife.

  Donovan grunted and said, “Why in the hell they didn’t tell you, I don’t know, son. It’s a goddamn crime.” Donovan tried to warm up his hands by blowing into them. “You’ve been on the run for quite a bit. Are you hungry?”

  The man shook his head.

  “How about a cup of coffee and a smoke?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well. I came to ask for your help, James,” Donovan said.

  “Try to put me in another laboratory and you’re a dead man.”

  “No more labs,” Donovan said. “All I have for you is an offer of hard work and danger. But it’s good work. The kind that makes a difference.”

  They looked at one another for a little while until the man said, “I guess I could go for a cigarette.”

  Donovan pointed to his car down the hill. “I’ve got smokes in there. What do you say, James?”

  “I say don’t call me that anymore. James Scott is in the ground next to his wife. Let them both rest in peace.”

  Donovan shook out his wet jacket on the ground and sighed. “Those sons of bitches did a real number on you. Whatever you got out of this whole coming-back-to-life deal, I bet it wasn’t worth the price.”

  “Can you get me a new name?”

  “Son, I can get you five of them.”

  Episode 2

  CODENAME: OMEGA

  1943

  The handle on the building’s front door turned and Elma Sink immediately pushed the hidden red button beneath her desk. Two armed guards snapped to at attention at either side of the door as a man walked in and went directly to Elma’s desk. “I’d like to see ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, please.”

  Elma pushed her glasses up on her nose, “I’m certain I have no idea what you mean, sir.”

  He waved his hand in annoyance, “You don’t need to use that old cloak-and-dagger stuff on me, sweetie. I’m looking for William J. Donovan, Director of the Office of Strategic Services. Tell him a personal friend of Senator Doxey would like a moment of his time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but there is no one named Donovan in this building.”

  The man opened his mouth to protest, but one of the guards already had a beefy arm around him, pulling him away from Elma’s desk, dragging him back toward the door. The phone rang. Elma picked it up and said, “Yes, Director. He’s gone.”

  Across the courtyard, William Donovan peered through his office’s dirty windows at the grand-looking building where Elma Sink was sitting. It had detailed landscaping and ornate fixtures, justifiable embellishments for the official address of America’s first spy agency. Shame the whole building is empty, Donovan thought. “Thank you, Miss Sink.”

  He watched a man enter through the front door, fumbling with his suit and tie before he raised his fist and shook it at the guards. They waved to him and shut the door. The man spun around, looking at all of the surrounding buildings, but somehow fixed on the one Donovan was in, as if he could see the Director sitting on the fifth floor, hidden behind smoked out windows.

  “Don’t do it, buddy,” Donovan whispered. “Just turn around and get back in your car.”

  The man took a step forward and Donovan cursed under his breath, knowing the snipers on his roof had already zeroed in on the man. He imagined he cou
ld hear them adjusting the sights of their Mosin-Nagant rifles, preparing to blow a hole the size of a phone book through the man’s chest. “Turn around, goddammit,” Donovan whispered.

  The man stopped and scratched his head, continuing to look around. Finally, he gave up and turned toward the parking lot. Donovan relaxed in his chair and smiled at his guest. “I apologize for the distraction, Miss—”

  “Amelie Brevot,” she said.

  She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again, showing long lengths of sheer-stockinged perfection. Amelie swept a length of chestnut hair behind her ear and smiled, her lower lip permanently fixed in the pout of a bad girl. The kind who got caught doing something wrong. The kind willing to work her way out of it.

  “I wonder what type of assignments my good friend Charles has you on normally. I am sure you are simply devastating in the honey trap.”

  Amelie blushed and held her hand to her cheek, “Non, monsieur. le General would never insult a woman in such a way.”

  “Then you do not know de Gaulle like I do.” Donovan glanced down at his watch and said, “It’s time to go.”

  “Is Omega here?” Amelie asked.

  Donovan held the office door open for her. “Right downstairs.”

  She shivered slightly and took a deep breath. “I cannot wait.”

  “Listen. He just came back from a bad break overseas and he might be agitated. Stay behind a little until I get him settled.”

  “Oui, Director. Thank you again for having me. I admire what you have done in such a short time, considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “Well, the spy business has always been so beneath you Americans. ‘We do not read other people’s mail,’ no? And now, you are the same as the rest of us.”

  Donovan smirked and said, “Maybe not exactly the same.”

  “Ah, this is true,” Amelie said. “Even MI-6 does not have anyone like Omega.”

  “That’s because there is no else like him,” Donovan said. “Trust me, I’ve looked.”

  ***

  The elevator doors slid open, showing a long corridor with a man leaning against the wall at the farthest end. Smoke billowed up from his cigarette toward the lights overhead. He did not turn around when he said, “Who’s the girl? New assistant?”

  “Amelie Brevot. She’s one of de Gaulle’s people. She’s loyal to the cause, same as you.”

  Price turned around slowly, squinting through the haze of cigarette smoke. His eyes were watery and rimmed with dark circles on the skin beneath. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he pinched the cigarette between his teeth and said, “Is that it? I thought I was just a lap dog. Here to do anything his master says.”

  “You look tired,” Donovan said.

  The agent’s eyes narrowed, “Maybe that’s because Ivangorod was a complete nightmare, Colonel.”

  “I know it was,” Donovan said. “We had bad intel going in.”

  “The Nazis were executing civilians. I watched one of the bastards shoot a woman in the back at point blank range while she was trying to protect her baby.”

  “I read that in your report. I also read the statement of a terrified SS soldier who said a naked man appeared out of nowhere and ripped the shooter’s innards out. The sole surviving witness escaped while his comrades arms and heads were being ripped off like dandelions.”

  Price grunted and said, “Give me his name. You won’t have to worry about him for long.”

  “We have other things to do right now.”

  Amelie came around Donovan’s side and walked toward Price, her hand extended. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Agent Omega.”

  Price rolled his eyes and said, “I’m done. The only reason I’m here today is to tell you that. Find somebody else.”

  Donovan sighed and said, “I understand. Listen, this young woman came all the way from Algiers specifically to meet you. Can you at least sit in for the briefing? She has people to report to, just like we do.”

  Amelie studied Price’s face, boyish except for the nasty scar along his right cheek. Price lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’m free for a few hours, sure.”

  Amelie pulled Donovan aside and whispered in his ear, “I was told he was the finest Special Agent in OSS. This boy is not even old enough to shave!”

  Donovan smiled at her and patted her hand with his. “I gave him the name Omega for a reason, Miss Brevot. I picked it personally, and every kraut-eating son of a bitch in Hitler’s army understands why.”

  “And what could the Germans possibly understand about this child?”

  “He may look young, but trust me, when Omega shows up, it’s the end.”

  ***

  The image of dead British soldiers was frozen on the projection screen. A dozen of them, their uniforms shot to shreds and blood-spattered, were splayed across the ground. Donovan clicked the projector button to change the slide, now showing a poorly-dressed Russian family collapsed on top of one another along the side of a dark road. The photography was stark and spared no detail, revealing the brain matter tangled in the woman’s babushka. Her children’s dead, wide-open eyes.

  “I have a dozen more of these,” Donovan said. “All the same. Random groups of people used as target practice. All of them gunned down in the darkness from unknown locations.”

  Donovan clicked the slide projector again to show the drawing of a fantastical-looking rifle. A telescope and searchlight assembly mounted to the gun barrel, connected to several brick-sized batteries. “You are looking at the prototype of an active infrared device called the ‘Vampir.’ MI-6 has confirmed the Nazis can now see us in the dark and pick us off at will from a distance.”

  Price grunted. “How long before they begin mass-production?”

  “Hard to say. Hitler is developing a whole host of experimental super weapons at his Hillersleben research facility. Wunderwaffe, as he calls them.”

  The projector clicked, this time showing a short cartoon. “This is the Oberth Sun Gun,” Donovan said, tapping the screen with his pointer at the orbiting space station as it rotated. “Its reflective shields capture the sun’s rays and store the energy until it can be used to emit a laser beam.”

  Fans extended from the space station as it collected rays from the sun, building in power until it fired an enormous burst at the earth and set it on fire. “This thing is supposed to have enough power to make the ocean boil like a tea kettle and reduce whole cities to ashes.”

  “Just a space laser, Colonel?” Price said drolly. “Isn’t that aiming a little low when they could build a giant robot? I say we thank God they’re wasting time trying to invent stuff they see in cartoons.”

  Donovan looked at Amelie Brevot. “What do you think, Miss Brevot?”

  Amelie’s eyes turned downward. “My brother is a good man, Colonel Donovan.”

  Donovan nodded politely. “Of course he is. Unfortunately, Aleister Crowley is not.”

  The next photo showed a balding, intense looking man dressed in wizard’s robes peering at them from the screen. “What can one say about The Great Beast? He’s been called a fraud, a sadist, an occultist, and the Antichrist. Frankly, I don’t care what he is. Two years ago Crowley befriended a French physicist named Louis Brevot whose ideas were routinely considered far-fetched. Crowley was planning a new secret society that combined the occult with experimental science. Who, you might ask, would take such a thing seriously?”

  The projector showed a grainy photograph of three men: A thin-looking scientist in horn-rimmed glasses, Aleister Crowley, and a tall arrogant looking SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer.

  The Nazi’s black hat bore a silver death’s head and he smiled thinly beneath its brim. Donovan slapped the screen with his pointer. “Victor Kramer. One of the rising stars in Hitler’s personal death squad. The SS are the worst of the worst and Kramer means to outdo all competition by killing his way to the top. He is detailed to Hillersleben, and it is his sonderkommandos that test all of the weapons invente
d there. It was his people you ran into at Ivangorod. It was Kramer who gave them the order to kill those civilians.”

  Donovan let that sink in for a moment before he said, “The sonderkommandos were training German night hunters there on the Vampir, when they were redirected to the Ukraine to start the exterminations.”

  Amelie put her hands together, “We have to rescue Louis, Agent Omega. He is a good man who has been turned by these monsters. Please.”

  “What do you say?” Donovan said. “Would you like to go pay Herr Kramer a visit?”

  Price looked at the photograph on the screen. “Mad scientists, evil wizards, and Nazi death squads. How can I resist?”