Code Name "Spearhead"(1)
953 Words
Consciousness surfaced from the deep.
Not a metaphor. It was a goddamn haul up from ten thousand meters—viscous, dark, resisting every inch. His eyelids were leaden weights; prying them apart felt like fighting the pressure of the entire Pacific. His lashes were gummed together, separating with a sticky, damp pull on the skin.
"Spearhead, copy?"
The voice came from far away, blurred, as if through water.
Sean Kane sucked in a breath—if you could call it that—his lungs burning like they’d been blown apart. White light stabbed his eyes, making him want to curse. As his vision adjusted, he found himself lying on a camp cot. Metal ceiling above. The hum of a ventilation duct.
"Spearhead, status confirmed."
"Alive." Kane rasped the word out. He pushed himself up, muscle memory waking faster than his mind—his right hand was already resting on his hip holster.
The touch was cool metal.
Three people stood in the room. Two young soldiers in grey combat fatigues, faces blank, holding data pads. Between them stood a woman in a white lab coat, early forties, African American, with sharp-cut short hair. Her eyes behind glasses were fixed on him.
Dr. Alicia Watson. Kane recognized her. The briefing officer before every mission.
"Welcome back, Spearhead." Alicia took a few steps closer, spinning the data pad in her hand. "Status report."
"Breathing. Everything else feels like a truck hit it. Twice." Kane worked his neck, vertebrae cracking. "How long was I under this time?"
"Standard seventy-two-hour recovery cycle." Alicia motioned for a soldier to hand over a canteen. "Mission briefing must commence within thirty minutes of wake-up. Drink. We begin."
Kane took the canteen and gulped. The water was lukewarm, tinged with the salty taste of electrolyte powder. As he drank, he scanned the room—standard op-prep, about ten square meters. Metal table and chairs, tactical maps on the wall, equipment crates stacked in a corner. The window was a fake, projecting a dynamic image of a blue sky with clouds.
Everything was familiar to the point of numbness.
"What's the target?" he asked.
Alicia brought up a holographic projection. A man’s face rotated into view—Eastern European features, hooked nose, a scar on his left cheek.
"Mikhail Kovalenko. Old guard, former Soviet. Currently resides in the New Kiev Free Zone. Intelligence indicates he possesses a classified World War II-era file. Details an unfinished research project Nazi scientists attempted to evacuate from Berlin before its fall in 1945." Alicia zoomed in on a simulated image of the file. "Our client requires the original. Your mission: infiltrate Kovalenko's private estate, secure the file, eliminate all witnesses. No traces."
"Who's the client?"
"You know the rules." Alicia shut off the projection. "Need-to-know basis."
Kane grinned. He had stubble, the special ops standard, his smile carving a sharp line. "Right. Kit?"
"Standard infiltration suit. Silenced sidearm, electronic bypass tools, escape smoke." Alicia gestured to a soldier to open an equipment crate. "Twelve guards on the estate, three shifts. Kovalenko works in his study nightly from 2200 to 0100. Here's the schematics—"
The hologram lit up again, unfolding a 3D model of the estate.
Kane stared for thirty seconds, closed his eyes, opened them. "Got it. Extraction?"
"Rendezvous point five hundred meters east of the perimeter wall. Mission clock: you must be exfiltrated by 0300." Alicia paused. "There's a complication."
"Go on."
"The file is likely stored in an old mechanical safe. If you cannot c***k it, use micro-explosives for directional breach. Condition: you must guarantee the sound does not carry to the main house."
Kane stood and walked to the equipment crate. The combat suit was black, form-fitting, the fibers woven with anti-IR coating. As he changed, he asked, "And Kovalenko? Do we need him alive?"
"The client didn't specify." Alicia's voice remained level. "But elimination is advised. He knows the file's value. Alive, he's a variable."
"Understood."
Five minutes later, Kane was geared up. Sidearm in the thigh holster, knife strapped to his calf, tools in his tactical vest pockets. He adjusted his collar in the wall mirror. The man reflected was twenty-five, eyes like frozen stone.
"Anything else?" he asked.
Alicia studied him for two seconds. "Spearhead," she said suddenly, "do you still remember why you signed up?"
The question was abrupt. Kane frowned. "To serve my country. Protect the free world. Why?"
"Nothing." Alicia looked away. "I just like to confirm an operative's psychological state before deployment. Go. The transport is on the roof."
Kane turned to the door. As his hand touched the handle, her voice came from behind again.
"Come back alive."
He didn't turn, just raised a hand in acknowledgment.
The door opened and closed.
Only Alicia and the two soldiers remained. One of the younger soldiers asked quietly, "Doctor, what's the 'purge threshold' for this run?"
Alicia stared at the closed door, her grip on the data pad tight.
"Initiate standard Level Three memory purge post-mission," she said. "But... increase neural monitor sensitivity by five percent. I want to see his neuron activity during near-death events."
"Understood."
"And," Alicia turned, her glasses reflecting cold light, "encrypt the full mission footage to my private server. Access level: maximum."
The soldier hesitated. "That's against protocol—"
"Do it," Alicia cut him off. "I am the lead scientist on this project. I'll take responsibility."
The soldier lowered his head to operate the data pad.
Alicia walked to the false window, watching the projected sky. Her fingers tapped the edge of her data pad—a stuttering, arrhythmic beat against the silence.
Outside, the sound of transport engines approached, faded, and was finally swallowed by the simulated wind.
- Writer
