Marchers of the Fifth Column

                   Chapter 1: Fall

         It was only seventy-four degrees; quite cool for a summer afternoon in Arecibo, and pretty much like hanging around Malibu or San Diego in Southern California. The Puerto Rico assignment hadn't been bad so far, but I was hoping my contact would show up soon. The narrow top of the concrete parapet was wearing a groove in my forearms, and he was making me late for my date with Mariana Padilla at the Club Caza y Pesca.

         Why Mitrovich had insisted that I wait right at the parapet was beyond me. So he could identify me? Not likely, since we had met weeks before. Maybe it would keep me out of someone else's line of sight. “Just act like you are enjoying the view,” he had said. So I did. From where I was I could see the inviting, clear water, the curving palms with their wind-swept emerald tops, couples strolling down the Paseo Victor Rojas, and native girls lying on the beach. The latter made the acting a little easier for me.

         “¡Esa mujer es mía!”

         “¡No! ¡Ella me quiere a mí!”

         “¡No seas pendejo, Carlos! ¡Ella está loca por mí!”

         “¡Cabrón, mejor que te calles la boca!”

         Oh, brother. Just what I needed. Out of the stairwell emerged two real macho men doing a gutter version of Jackson and McCartney's 'The Girl Is Mine' ; a real class act. It looked like both men were loaded with booze or "recreationals". Torn in places, their suit jackets exposed shirts that were equally torn, and dirty. I watched, my binoculars hanging loosely from their neck-strap, and wondered why these guys hadn't finished their fight in a public restroom, where it seemed to have started.

         They appeared ready for some serious blood-letting when they realized they were not alone. They turned on their heels and left the way they had come. Their scuffling faded away, along with the running commentary.

         I turned my attention back to the panorama along the Paseo, where nothing new was going on. Couples sat on the marble benches and took in the sun, laughed, talked, and in general did those things that couples usually do. My eyes came to rest on the pair of limestone lions at either side of the steps that led to the Paseo proper.

         The beautiful plaza and beachfront park had once been a small parade grounds for a Spanish garrison. When the municipal government drafted the plans for the renovation, the local Historical Society resisted. The mayor maneuvered skillfully, and they reached a compromise; the parade grounds would go but the lions would remain, untouched. There they rested now, as they had for centuries, their once powerful fangs worn down to useless nubs by time, wind, and acid rain.

         As toothless, I thought, as comrade Grigor Palanov would be at the upcoming arms reduction talks. The American delegation would invite him and his delegation to a pre-talks dinner. Not one to pass up a decadent, capitalist bash with good food and drink, he would no doubt accept. Sometime after dinner, he would be taken aside by a junior diplomat and engaged in a seemingly casual conversation. I would give anything to see the look on his face when presented with evidence of his Stalinist ramblings, covert anti-Union activities and disobedience of direct orders from the Kremlin.

         Like the limestone lions, Palanov was what was left of an entrenched resistance to change. The 1991 fiasco-and the disintegration of the Soviet Union that followed it-had not made a dent in his Soviet Imperialist views. Unlike the mayor of Arecibo, however, the architects of the new Commonwealth of Independent States would not compromise; Palanov would end up in the scrap pile of Communism with Lenin and Stalin for company. We were sure he would be willing to recommend compromises to the CIS Parliament in Moscow.

         My assignment was to receive evidence of Palanov's activities from a fifth column within the SVRR (Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki Rossii), the Russian Federation's intelligence agency. At great risk, I had managed to recruit an agent out of their directorate in Washington. But, where the hell was he? Maybe he'd done something stupid, like getting pickled on vodka and letting our secret slip in front of his SVRR colleagues. I made up my mind to clear out if he didn't show within the next two minutes. "If he was intercepted," I thought, "he's back at his residentura by now, having our rendezvous point beaten out of him."

         Down the street, to my left, a large black sedan pulled up to the curb and a man carrying a briefcase got out. He bent down, said something to the driver, then moved away from the curb as the car sped away. I leaned farther out on the parapet to get a better look, and recognized him as Nikolai Mitrovich, my contact. Just then I felt two pairs of hands close painfully around my ankles.

         A strong wind began blowing at my back. I spared a glance at the roof of the building above me, and caught a glimpse of torn suits and dirty shirts. I began to windmill my arms and kick my legs spasmodically. My face contorted wildly and I screamed at the top of my lungs. A strange reaction, to be sure, but anyone would react that way if they'd just been tossed off the top of a fifteen-story building.

         Falling through the air is not a particularly distressing sensation to me; sky diving is my hobby. That my chute was tucked away in my closet in San Diego, on the other hand, was not a comforting thought. It occurred to me then that I was about to break every record for Delayed Parachute Deployment, along with every bone in my body.

         The image of Mariana Padilla's incredibly exotic emerald eyes flashed through my mind. Her Basque and Andalusian ancestry was clear in her features and in the rich olive tones of her skin. A busy astronomer, she had come to Cornell's Arecibo Observatory after the collapse of the giant Green Bank antenna. Ours was her first date in two years, and only my second in as many. Now I was about to stand her up. Damn! The nasty wind was blowing the pavement in my direction. . .

         A sharp crack announced my arrival at street level. All the air rushed out of my lungs and my eardrums popped like corks. So much for Alex Rojas, field agent of the C.I.A. Before my life could flash before my eyes, a solid wall of darkness fell on me.

         *************

         “Welcome!”

         The voice, somewhat muffled, took me by surprise. My eyelids fluttered convulsively for a moment and I opened my eyes, squinting against the sudden rush of light. I scanned my surroundings for the source of the voice, but all I saw was empty sky above me, a thick, low-lying mist in all directions, and a nasty-looking storm front covering the horizon before me. Below me I saw more empty sky, but the falling sensation was gone.

         My eyes strayed toward my feet; peering back at me was my upside-down image, clothes whipping furiously in the wind. I realized that I was standing on a reflective surface, on top of some sort of platform. The summer clothes I was wearing gave me no protection and the cold was making my joints ache. I clamped down my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering and became aware of a dull pain in my ears.

         “Welcome!” came the voice again, this time from behind me. I turned around just in time to see a group of twelve or thirteen men in heavy brown robes emerge from the fog.

         “Am I dead?”, I said, but the words had no sooner left my lips than they were torn away by the wind, and were lost in the mounting chaos. The towering clouds seemed to be racing toward us, and blinding fingers of lightning reached down to touch targets hidden by the misty blanket.

         One of the men vaulted onto the top of the platform and came toward me, a dark bundle under one arm. As he approached, he reached up and removed the scarf that covered his mouth and nose, revealing a reddish beard.

         "A little windy up here!” he shouted, “I couldn't hear you!”

         “Am I dead?,” I shouted back, and felt stupid immediately.

         “No, you're not dead,” he said chuckling amicably, a wide grin beneath the thick beard. “Here!”

         He threw the bundle at me, and I caught it easily; It was a robe like the one he wore. I put it on hurriedly, fighting the wind all the while, and gripped his extended hand as he reached me. His handshake told me there was a powerful body beneath that robe.

         “Welcome, Mr. Rojas! I'm Richard of Lodemoor,” he said, helping me get the thick hood over my head. “Please, follow me!,” he added, heading for the edge of the platform. I stood there, stammering.

         “Wait a minute! What's going on here?” I said finally. He turned around and motioned urgently for me to follow.

         “No time for questions right now, Mr. Rojas. We must get off this mountain before that storm hits. I promise we'll answer all your questions as soon as we reach a safe place.”

         I wondered how he knew my name but swallowed my questions and followed him, examining the surface beneath my feet as we walked. It seemed to be some kind of metal but it didn't look like anything I had ever seen.

         We reached the edge and jumped down from the platform, coming down in the midst of the waiting men. There were no introductions. Lodemoor just started down the slope and I followed, with the men forming into a defensive circle around us.

         At a hand signal from one of the men, they all reached into the folds of their robes. When they withdrew their hands I saw that each carried a folding crossbow. In unison, like a well-trained drill team, they unfolded their weapons and set their bolts. Their silent efficiency gave me pause. Although none of the deadly quarrels was aimed at me, I had no doubt that I could not escape. Not that I wanted to; the approaching storm was worsening rapidly. My captors-that's what I thought they were, in spite of Lodemoor's friendliness-knew the terrain better than I, and they were headed for shelter.

         As if guided by radar, Lodemoor plowed through the fog. I couldn't see the faces of most of the men, but those I could see showed a watchfulness that seemed born of fear. I was tempted to ask what the threat was, but the looks on those faces countenanced no distractions. I kept my mouth shut and hoped that whomever or whatever they were guarding against would not take us by surprise. The unrelenting wind and Lodemoor's murderous pace drove us down the slope as we picked our way among the large boulders scattered all over the mountainside.

         *************

         A wall of granite loomed suddenly out of the fog; we had come to a dead end. Lodemoor broke out of the protective circle and approached the rocky face confidently, as if he expected the massive boulder to move aside. It did. It split in two, each half moving silently to either side of what looked like an elevator door. He thumbed a hidden button in the rock; I wasn't surprised when the door slid open. What happened next definitely surprised me.

         There was the sound of an impact, followed by a strangled scream. I pivoted on one foot to face the sound. Over the torn remains of one of the men stood a large, horned lion, six feet tall at the shoulder. It didn't roar, but the bellows-like sound of its breathing was threatening enough. In spite of its size, the beast was swift. It rose on its hind legs and sprang, landing like a lightning bolt in the middle of our party; we scattered. I backpedaled toward the elevator, keeping my eyes on the rampaging beast.

         “Get in!” I yelled at Lodemoor as I staggered past him. He ignored me and ran to join his men, who were now repositioning themselves to encircle the beast.

         I got in the elevator and watched the scene dazedly, imagining that I could hear my pounding heart over the furor of the wailing wind. I had been trained to deal with all sorts of men armed with all sorts of weapons, to gauge their intentions, to act decisively. I had not been trained to wrestle large heasts barehanded . I simply stood, staring, wishing for a weapon.

         Outside, things didn't look good. While one of the men went to collect the body of his fallen comrade, another man fell. The beast, swinging its paws like an enraged bear, had sent him flying into a rock outcropping. The man slid to the ground, broken and lifeless.

         Lodemoor shouted an order and the men loosed their bolts into the beast. I noticed that each bolt trailed what looked like a thin wire. The animal let out a howl of pain and its open mouth showed a set of fangs I wouldn't want to see up close. The men scurried around, trying to keep it from snapping their lines while staying away from the deadly claws.

         With his right hand raised above his head, Lodemoore waited until all the men were in position. “Discharge... Now!” he ordered, the hand coming down in a chopping motion. Instantly the intervening space between men and beast was awash with the blinding coruscations of plasma discharge. The wires gave off a gaseous cloud as the high voltage vaporized them. I smelled burning flesh. The beast stiffened and toppled over on its side, wisps of steam drifting from its gaping mouth.

         With the beast out of action, the men began moving toward the elevator. Two of them stopped beneath the rock outcropping where the second victim lay. One kept a watchful eye out while the other collected the body, then they joined the rest of the group. I moved out of the way on shaky legs when the two men carrying the bodies brought them into the elevator.

         The gruesome sight made some of my previous experiences pale by comparison. At least men killed with guns were, more often than not, dead in one piece. These brave men had been turned into rags by something less purposeful than a man. There had been no mission, no higher purpose, in the actions of that beast. Nonetheless, there were now two deep gouges in the collective humanity of a world. Whether it was my world, or another, I didn't know. It didn't matter.

         Lodemoor entered the elevator and stood just inside the door. As it slid shut behind him, he stood very still for a moment, looking down at what had once been two of his men. Then, with eyes closed and jaw clenched, he took in a slow, shuddering breath. He let out a sigh and, without turning to look, reached for the control panel and pressed a button. I found myself falling again, this time toward a strange and uncertain future.

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