Malachi whispered Agent Trenten’s name into his microphone a third time. When the man didn’t answer Malachi knew he was dead. It had nothing to do with the “Three Strikes Protocol,” which was really more of a guideline than a rule. It was just that Trenten wouldn’t ever shut the hell up. He always had something to say. Even when in a fire fight or sneaking through a hallway, he just couldn’t help letting a one liner slip out. Trenten’s last words had been “It’s about as tight as Francesca in here.” “Here” being the air duct he was crawling through. He was widely despised, but one couldn’t deny that Agent Trenten’s mission record was impressive.
Well, until now.
Malachi shut the laptop, and looked out through the branches towards the structure settled within the floor of the evergreen forest. A cold sweat ran down his spine. Beneath the whispering of the pines, he heard the sound of groaning steel and felt a rumbling underneath him. The missile bay door was opening. They were at the ten minute mark. Malachi was at least four minutes from the silo, three if he hustled. He tore open the duffel bag that Trenten had made him carry around, removing various knives, throwing stars, and gadgets before grabbing a pistol that looked like one he had fired in basic training. He fumbled with the latch before the magazine sprang out below the grip. Remembering to make sure it was loaded this time, he shoved it back in. He picked up the pack next to him, the one with the extra set of explosives and equipment for “in the unlikely chance Trenten should fail.”
Then he was off, head throbbing with a hangover, scrambling through trees and over roots towards the Russian missile silo.
The countdown ticked onward.
In truth, Malachi wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’d always wanted to be a secret agent, but for the stuff you saw in movies, never the actual work. The fast cars. The beautiful women. The all-expenses paid trips to exotic locations.
Hollywood had not been truthful with him.
The past year had been a string of fire-able offenses: waking up hung over in Milan when he was supposed to be stopping a bank heist; getting caught mid-cowgirl with the Ambassador of France’s daughter when he was supposed to be meeting with her father; and finally, losing a briefcase in a train station that contained a very important hard drive with incriminating evidence of a certain President of the United States. Each debriefing had ended with his superior red in the face. And every morning that followed had started with a phone call that began, “After a brief discussion with your uncle…”
Which had lead him to this mission, this moment that had been prefaced by his FBI Director uncle stating, “This is your last fuck-up Malachi. I mean it.” All he had to do was carry the weapons and study Agent Trenten from afar. As far away as a shortwave radio link would allow.
Only, now Agent Trenten was dead.
He reached the foliage at the edge of the facility and crouched behind a tree trunk. The initial report had estimated that there were three guards on the roof and two that patrolled the perimeter. He couldn’t see the roof; he’d have to hope that Trenten had taken care of those. He could see, however, the bodies of two guards on the ground. Not surprising. Agent Trenten was known for being “thorough”, which some might synonymously call “blood-thirsty.” Unless it specified in the mission briefing that there should be minimal casualties, there would be many. This briefing had not specified.
So there would be many.
He checked his watch. Seven minutes remained.
Malachi leapt from the brush and sprinted towards the base. It was morbid, but Malachi knew that one way or another Agent Trenten was covering his ass. If the man was dead they would be checking him for clues as to whom he worked for or following the trail of bodies he left behind. If the man was still alive, well… then everyone inside was most likely already dead.
He reached the first body and, grabbing it by one boot, lugged it over towards the windowless entrance. On the man’s belt was a keycard (at least ONE thing the movies got right), his sidearm, and a line of grenades. Malachi grabbed the card and, after a momentary hesitation, slipped a grenade into his belt. Breathing a silent prayer, he touched the card to the pad.
Nothing happened. His hand shook. A branch broke in the woods, and Malachi whipped around. Almost inaudible under the sound of his breathing, there was a click. Malachi pushed against it, and the heavy metal door opened behind him. He studied the forest for a moment longer before slinking into the base.
Six minutes left.
Outside the world had been the inhale and exhale of the wind in the pines, the sound of the twigs and branches snapping underfoot as Malachi raced towards the silo. Inside, the silence was oppressive. Coupled with the ache of his hangover, it was like having two palms squeezing the sides of his head. He hurried his way down the dark cement hallway. Every few steps there was single bulb screwed into a ceiling outlet. The lights passed overhead like seconds ticking away. His gun was in front of him, at the ready. He remembered that much, at least.
There was the sudden clatter of boots against the ground and Malachi had just enough time to flatten himself against the wall before he saw a group of soldiers pass at the end of the hallway. The noise of their motion stopped, but he could still hear their voices, whispered curses in Russian. Words jumped out here and there, Trenten’s name as well as the word “Mudak,” but Malachi hadn’t committed any of the language to memory.
He checked his watch. Five minutes.
Creeping to the end of the hallway, he peeked around the edge. There, about thirty yards down, was a cluster of five men. Three of them had their guns trained on a shape that hung from the ceiling while two others attempted to cut the figure down.
Agent Trenten had died attempting to rappel down from the air duct in the ceiling. It was a maneuver he had done many times, except this time, for some reason, his rope had gotten stuck in the belay device.
Malachi groaned. It had been his job to double check the rope for knots that morning. Now, because of him, the best secret agent the United States had at their disposal, was probably dead, hanging from the ceiling like some macabre chandelier.
There was no time for a rescue mission. The seconds seemed to move faster in the dim bunker. Malachi had never felt urgency, never in his life, but for the first time he felt that invisible hand between his shoulder blades. He removed the grenade from his belt. Thumbing the pin out, he prayed that Trenten really was dead, and rolled the grenade down the hallway towards the group. It clattered across the cement. The sound of the men talking ceased. There was absolute silence, and then a concussive bang. Malachi flipped around to the other side of the hallway and watched as soldiers ran past. The halls were alive with screams and yelled orders. He waited until he thought they were preoccupied, and then slipped around the corner.
Malachi sprinted down the hallway, hoping that the sound of men dying would mask his movements and then took a right towards the missile bay.
He congratulated himself for at least having memorized the blueprints before almost knocking a young soldier down. They were only about five paces apart when he came to a skidding halt and the boy looked up. A stunned silence sat between them, and then the boy began to yell.
“Polozhi ruki v vozdukh.”
“Shut your mouth, and put your hands-” Malachi hissed, finger on the trigger.
“Polozhi ruki v vozdukh!” The boy started to flip his rifle across his back. Malachi had never killed a man, never really wanted to either, but numbers on his watch flashed against the wall. The boy repeated himself. Malachi raised the gun, and put two bullets in his chest. He was still moving when Malachi leapt over him. The sounds of the gunshots rang in his ears. Voices erupted from behind him in the hallway. Footfalls filled the air. Malachi tapped his keycard against reader, and the door opened with a loud clang.
Three minutes left.
Inside the silo was a steady din of noise, the sounds of pumps and ventilators accompanied by the clatter of machinery. In front of him the missile waited, plumes of steam rising from the depths. It was on one of the fins that Malachi would need to plant the charge, so that when the rocket took flight he could blow it out of the sky. There was a potential that it would fall and land on some unsuspecting town, but that was a problem for the Russian government.
Malachi descended the set of steel stairs that spiraled through the silo. Behind him, the door opened.
Making his way downward, he couldn’t help but smile. Thwarting a bank heist was really just setting a trap. Escorting a foreign dignitary, especially when the route was secure, was just sitting and making small talk. Holding onto a briefcase… was exactly what it sounded like.
But clamoring down those stairs, his stomach in his throat, sweat darkening his collar… that was the movies. He understood now why people like Trenten did it.
Maybe I should have given a shit sooner he’d thought to himself. Maybe this is a sign.
At the bottom, he removed the plastic explosive from his pack, slapped putty to it, and then attached it to the fin. There wasn’t time for him to think about whether he’d done it right. Above him, boots clattered against metal.
One minute.
If he didn’t move, he would be incinerated as the rocket ascended. Once it launched, he could detonate it remotely. Far away preferably.
Ten paces away there was a door next to the base of the stairs. The first set of soldiers clamored down them. Malachi ran. Bullets rang off the metal posts surrounding the center. A pain erupted in his left leg and Malachi lurched forward, crawling until he was behind a cement pillar. Bullets thundered into the column behind him. The air filled with dust. Malachi coughed and looked down at his leg. Blood soaked through his torn black pants. Where there should have been flesh and muscle there was none. He brought his watch to his face.
Thirty seconds.
Men marched forward, Ak-47s pointed in his direction. He looked to his left. There was a door. He rolled forward, and began to drag himself towards it. With a click, it opened. Four soldiers appeared, guns drawn, the leader pointing in his direction. Malachi pushed back, and then slumped against the pillar. He looked at his watch.
Zero.
The missile wasn’t rising in the air. He was not incinerated. They had paused the launch, only to deal with him. Once he was dead, they would remove the bomb and complete the launch. Mission failed. Chest heaving, Malachi rested his head against the cool cement behind him.
He thought about the last thing his uncle had said to him before he had left his office. Stern faced, with eyes that betrayed disappointment more than anger, he’d said:
“Just complete the mission.”
Malachi fished a device the size of a walkie-talkie from his pack. The shadows of the approaching men played across the walls. Sunlight shone through the open blast door above.
Malachi smiled, whispered “Hot and steamy, just the way I like it,” in his best Agent Trenten impression and, for the first and last time, completed the mission.
Genre: Action
Character: Under-achiever
Event: A Launch
The Word and The Song 