“Nothing?” I asked.
“Not a word,” he said.
Vladimir Putin was clearly behind all of it. We knew it, but could not prove it. Uncle Vlad never sent e-mails, but all references to the “Party Leader” in other New Soviet correspondence had to be referring to him. There was no one else who had the authority to make sure the whole project moved forward unhindered within the Russian bureaucracy. Our government seemed unwilling to touch him, and the DMS could not carry out an assassination. That was extreme even for us.
“So, what do we do?” I demanded. “We just leave him?”
“Not exactly,” said Church.
Church had Bug hack into each of Putin’s many private bank accounts, where he had tens of billions of dollars squirrelled away. Bug proved how truly devious and dangerous he could be by draining every last penny from those accounts. A full third of it was transferred to charities set up to deal with the families of earthquake victims, and the charitable organizations that worked tirelessly to help in the aftermath of the disaster. Another third was given to Lilith to fund Arklight’s expanding global activities.
“Sweet,” I said. “And the rest of the cash? What did you do with that?”
Church didn’t answer that question. Instead he told me about the other fallen members of our family. Violin was recovering in a private hospital in Switzerland. She was expected to make a complete recovery, though it would take some time.
“What about Harry Bolt?”
“He is steadfast,” said Church. “From what I’ve been told, he hasn’t left her side.”
“I’m surprised Lilith hasn’t had him skinned alive.”
“Lilith is a realist,” said Church, and left it there.
Sam Imura was also recovering and was in California with his parents.
“Will he be able to come back?” I asked.
“Able? Yes,” said Church, “but he doesn’t want to. He tendered his resignation via e-mail.”
“Damn,” I said. That one hurt. “What about Auntie?”
Some of the light went out of Church’s face. “She’s alive,” he said. And that was all he would say.
There were a couple of other things.
The body of Jennifer VanOwen was found in the trunk of a car in a house in Virginia. The owner of that house was determined to be a Russian spy, and had since vanished.
The body of Yuina Hoshino was found, along with two lab techs, in a testing lab, also in Virginia. The bodies were identified by dental records because the lab had burned down. All of the computers and equipment inside were utterly destroyed.
Coincidentally, UFO online clubs widely reported triangular-shaped craft of unknown origin in the area the night of the blaze. The authorities, when contacted by the local news services, declined to comment.
Two months after the events we’d all come to refer to as the Deep Silence case, Church called the senior staff, team leaders, and department heads to the Hangar.
We were asked to assemble at eleven thirty at night. We met in the TOC, the tactical operations center. Standing, sitting on chairs by computer workstations, leaning against walls. The huge multiscreen display wall had been channeled so that all of the screens became one, showing a single image — that of the round symbol of the Department of Military Sciences. A digital clock ticked away the minutes and seconds as we shuffled in and stood waiting for whatever announcement this was going to be. It wasn’t Christmas and it didn’t feel like anyone’s birthday party. Ghost stood beside me, too nervous to sit or lay down. I felt pretty anxious, too.
There were fewer of us than there had been a year ago. The absences were conspicuous. I’m pretty sure everyone felt, as I did, that the others were there, standing unseen beside us. The DMS was a smaller, tighter, closer organization than it had been since I’d first joined, and we were more than merely survivors. We were family.
I stood with Top and Bunny. We were battered and bandaged, but still on our feet. Bug sat cross-legged on the floor below the multiscreen. Doc Holliday stood slightly apart from everyone else, and there were odd lights in her eyes and a strange little smile on her face. Church stood alone in the front of the room, and the fact that Aunt Sallie was not there actually hurt. From what Church had told me privately, she would not return to work once she got out of the hospital. If she got out of the hospital. The stroke had done what guns, bullets, and legions of professional killers had failed to do. The level of grief I felt surprised me. It hurt. It hurt one hell of a lot.
Maybe it ran deeper than compassion for a fallen soldier in this war. Maybe it was a more atavistic dread, because if someone as powerful as Aunt Sallie could fall, then how were any of us safe? I cut a look at my guys and saw identical expressions on the faces of Top and Bunny, who were looking to where Auntie should be standing. Top caught my eye and he gave me a tiny nod, acknowledging that the telepathy people like us sometimes have was running on all cylinders. I returned the nod, but there was probably no reassurance in it.
And then there was Sam Imura. He was done with the DMS. Maybe he’d never pull a trigger for anyone again. Maybe he’d become a different kind of person doing a different kind of work. Impossible to say, but I could feel the universe pushing us in different directions. That hurt, too.
We waited through the ticks of the clock and it was getting close to midnight.
Rudy came in last of all, spotted me, and moved to stand with us. He looked tired and gray.
“How you doing, brother?” I asked.
“Uneasy,” Rudy confided. He glanced around. “No one looks happy.”
“Nope. You have any idea what’s coming down?”
“I—” he began, but then Mr. Church stepped forward and spoke.
“Thank you all for coming out here on such short notice.” Church spoke quietly but his presence, his energy dominated the TOC. He wore a dark black suit and quiet tie and I had to push away the thought that he looked like he was dressed for a funeral. “Over the last years we have stood together to fight an extraordinary number of threats, and I am proud to say that each and every one of you has risen to that challenge. Those challenges. Over and over again. As did those of our brothers and sisters who were consumed by the fires of this war.”
The room was silent as a tomb. Church looked down at his black-gloved hands and for a moment there was a small, sad smile on his lips.
“We’ve each been marked by the battles we’ve fought,” continued Church. “As our own Dr. Sanchez so often says, violence leaves a mark. Some of those marks are obvious; they are like sigils cut into our skin. Other scars, other wounds, run deeper, and are visible only to others like ourselves; the chosen few who have walked through the storm lands. That is how it is for such as we. The war is the war.”
I heard several people around the room repeat it like a litany. The war is the war.
The clock ticked away the seconds.
Church nodded. “Now we are at a crossroads. As of midnight tonight, our charter will no longer be in effect.”
I nearly staggered. It was like a punch to the throat.
“Again?” growled someone, and there was even a ripple of laughter. Aggressive laughter. We’d had our charter canceled twice before. However, Church shook his head.
“The DMS charter was not rescinded by the president,” he said. “I have canceled it.”
We gaped at him. I heard gasps and hisses and even a cry of alarm.