I do not own Irina Spalko. Irina Spalko and related Indiana Jones characters and media are property of Lucasfilm and Paramount Pictures.
(Note: All text appearing in bold is dialogue spoken in Russian translated to English.)
Chapter 4: Irina Spalko, Officer No More
Maslov crossed his legs to brace the clipboard up so he could read it in the dimly lit cell Spalko inhabited. He could taste her anticipation. Despite all the pain that had been inflicted upon her, all the pain she surely must know was coming, Irina was intensely curious about the past month. This aroused Maslov's own curiosity. Until that moment, he was sure that she had been totally aware and conscious of her actions. He'd not seen her with his own eyes, the barrel of the Automatic Kalashnikov rifle (AK-47) lit afire, tearing apart six agents in the middle of her debriefing, but he trusted those who had. She looked mad, completely and unequivocally. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth twisted and contorted into a fowl snarl. She had done everything short of foaming at the mouth.
He'd seen maniacs try dodges before. Say they had lost time or had no recollection of their actions. Combat fatigue was the most popular attempt to absolve one's crimes these days. It made the colonel sick to his stomach. But, when he looked at Spalko, weak and on the brink of death, he saw no mad woman. Maybe it was just her current predicament. Torture and malnutrition tended to modify a personality. You can't rampage if you can't stand up. Whether she had truly lost time or not mattered little. He would treat her no different.
"Why am I being held here, Col. Maslov?" Her tone was even and cold. To hear her, you wouldn't think Spalko was tied down in a prison cell. She sounded as if she were still in command.
Maslov smiled. She'd spoken first, obviously trying to gain the upper hand. In what he had no idea. He chose to ignore the question and flipped through the clipboard's contents silently. The reason of course was to gouge her, to keep needling her just for the sport of it. His mild amusement in the act didn't last. She didn't ask again or appear angered in any way.
"Still playing innocent, woman?" As an extreme misogynist, he chose not to address her by name or rank. "Do you think it matters? Whether you were aware of your actions or not is at this point irrelevant. You sent shock waves through the chain of command, all the way to Comrade Khrushchev. You've frightened people. There is no future for you no matter what your defense is."
"If that's so, humor me with the details," Irina snapped back.
Maslov considered belting her in the face for her insolence. No woman dared speak to him in such an unflattering way. He resisted his urge and complied. Spalko had a point, woman or not. He raised the clipboard up and began reading the dossier.
"On June 22, 1957 KGB Agent Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko gave final Operation Crystal Skull update via communicaid. In this, Agent Spalko revealed that she had ascertained the whereabouts of Akator in the Amazon with help from prisoner Henry Walton Jones, Jr. Update included her then current coordinates. Agent Spalko went on to say that she was close to finding the Temple of Akator and completing her mission. When no further reports coming in, the KGB initiated a mission contingency. An arrangement of nine agents ventured into the Amazon Rainforest to discover the fate of the an obviously ill-fated mission. What they found was a wasteland and a babbling Agent Spalko, having suffered a mental break down. She was quoted as repeatedly chanting, 'space between spaces, space between spaces, space between spaces…'" Maslov trailed off. He cast a quick glance at the possessor of the bob haircut in the cell with him and scoffed.
None of what he was saying rang true. Spalko didn't remember any of it. She tried desperately to convince herself that it was some kind of mass conspiracy against her. That it had all been a fabrication to disgrace her, being perpetrated by some rogue element in the KGB. But, as she recalled staring into the soul piercing eyes of the crystal skull alien in the temple, she knew Maslov spoke the truth. Not unlike Professor Harold Oxley, the kingdom of the crystal skull had tampered with her mental state.
"It was assumed that Agent Spalko's mind had been warped and rendered incoherent in the same manner she reported to have happened to one of her prisoners in a previous communicaid, one Harold Oxley. Believing she was as harmless as the good professor, agents attempted bringing Spalko into custody. Set off by unseen forces, she snapped and took hold of an AK-47. She slaughtered six agents before collapsing into a coma. The Commanding Officer of the mission, prominent KGB scientist Col. Ivan Petrov, against advisement of immediate execution, opted to take the incapacitated Spalko back to the Soviet Union for testing and further study under his personal supervision.
Testing revealed scarring of the cerebral cortex, nothing more. After her unexpected reawakening, Agent Spalko's sight and hearing was permanently damaged. Col. Petrov achieved some limited telepathic communication using Spalko's own abilities…"What did you do to me?! What is this place?! Why is it so dark?!IT ISN'T
Yes it is, Damn you! I see nothing! I hear nothing! Let me go!
IT ISN'T DARK. REST NOW. YOU WILL NEED IT.
Irina, at least within her own memory of the resent events in the aftermath of Akator, was never aboard a spaceship. While she was blind and deaf, she'd stumbled around within the confines of some room built for special experimentation, a guinea pig for Petrov's study…
Her heart sank as her cool was finally shattered.
Maslov was still talking.
"…After results revealed nothing compelling, further study was terminated." He finished the dossier and cleared his throat, his voice beginning to itch from disuse.
"And that brings us here. You've been de-ranked and have been scheduled for execution by firing squad at this hour in two weeks time."
"I was loyal…I never disgraced the motherland. This is my life!"
Maslov, uncaring, stood satisfied to have finally pushed her to the edge.
"This is the only life I've ever known! The Union is where I belong! I'm the best damn solider you'll ever meet! I wanted the skulls to extend the motherland's reach over all minds! I still do! You son of a bi-"
He slammed the iron door closed before she could finish.
Two guards, altered by the commotion, appeared.
"You two, take her to D block with the rest of the refuse. No restraints. She can barely stand. If we're lucky, she'll muster enough energy to kill herself." He started back to his office, but turned to deliver one last order. "Oh, and give her a good roughing up...with my regards."
……………………
The left side of her face swelled up like a balloon ready to burst. After dumping her in her cell, one of the guards had kneeled atop her chest and punched her in the jaw at least half a dozen times. She didn't resist. She was broken.
Her new living arrangement was pitch black. No window, no light, nothing. Solitary confinement. Unable to stand, barely able to crawl, Irina managed to push herself up against a wall into a seated position.
The Soviet Union had been her salvation. Since she was child and her abilities damned her in the eyes of her village, Irina Spalko desperately searched for who she was and why she existed if her very presence only inspired fear and hatred. In the warm embrace of the Iron Curtain, her talents were not only useful, but also wholeheartedly welcomed. People ostracized her, her parents drove her away, but communism and its heroes sheltered her when she needed an answer. It was in that act of virtue that she found her destiny. Because of that act of chivalry in defense of an alienated little girl, she had vowed to not only defend, but also to perpetuate its ideals across the land no matter what. She'd carried its flag valiantly and she had been spit on in return.
Maybe she deserved it. She had committed murder against it. Maybe Maslov was right. Just because she couldn't stop herself or even remember didn't absolve her. She was prepared to die for the Soviet Union. But that had always been with her knowing it loved her. It didn't anymore. She was unloved…unwanted…again.
Let them kill me,she thought
Why say that, comrade?
Something…someone had reached her telepathically. She strained to see in the dark. Wasn't she alone? Was there someone else in her cell? The compound was reserved for others like her after all. Perhaps another prisoner was attempting telepathic communication? Or was the direness of her situation causing her abilities to spill into someone else's mind nearby, in another cell. It peaked her interest only for a brief moment. Then her disgrace sunk in again. She hung her head.
Comrade? You there?
…
I'm next door to you. Lowly freak like yourself. Your thoughts are kind of hard to miss. Want to talk about it? I haven't spoken to another person for a great long while. It would be a tremendous favor.
Shut up.
A voice in the darkness calls to you and your not the least bit interested as to the source?
Shut…up…and stay out of my head.
Will you not speak to me?
I want to die…
……………………………………………..
Maslov had been in his office for about fifteen minutes when he got the call. His presence was required in the prison's dockyard. No specifics were given, but he had a fairly good idea of what it meant. He immediately made his way to the other side of the compound, through D block, where as he passed by Spalko's cell, he heard the faint sound of weeping. Maslov had broken her. He seriously doubted she'd make to execution in her current mental state. It would be a matter of time before he found her dead at cell check.
The dock had been cleared out except for a few select personnel. Col. Petrov, the short, pudgy, gray-headed scientist was already there, inside a singular panel tuck parked in the growing snow, helping agents pull a crate off of the vehicle. The temperature was dropping rapidly. Winter would be brutally uninhabitable before long. Despite his attitude toward the colonel, he was content to take part in the trek with their new prize. It was the perfect time for a mission elsewhere, in a climate more accommodating, even if it meant dealing with Petrov's annoying obsession with weaponizing the occult in his KGB pet projects. They were a waste of time.
Once the crate was delicately set onto the concrete floor, Petrov gleefully examined the exterior. "Hah! This is it! To think Comrade Khrushchev was content funneling our resources toward the space race. To hell with the Sputnik 1project!" He stepped to one side of the crate and saw that a plank of wood had been nailed to it to cover a big scorch hole. "What is this," he demanded of the lower ranking officers.
One reluctant uniformed fellow stepped forward. "Sir, the crate was damaged in an explosion inside Hanger 51. The contents inside are unharmed, but we were forced to cover it up because several of the men were falling victim to second-degree burns when they were exposed to it for a prolonged period while in transit."
Petrov scoffed. "That will do. Get it back on the truck, we're going to fly it out tonight to Moscow where we will wait for further instruction." He noticed Maslov. "Colonel, let's get a move on!" He was eager to start their journey to the airfield, some sixty miles away, buried in snow. He jumped into the passenger seat, naturally assuming that Maslov would drive, satisfied not to give him a choice.
Spalko had only been told that a team had been assembled to find her. While it was true, it had not been the whole truth. Interests lead a second, separate team to the aftermath of the Henry Jones escape from Soviet custody at Hanger 51. There they found a worthy consolation prize perhaps greater than any crystal skull.
After the crate was reloaded, the two officers began their long journey. For Petrov it was a great chance for the Soviet Union to become the greatest and perhaps only nation left with any military force in the world. For Maslov, it was another wild goose chase that would lead nowhere just like the crystal skulls. Even worse, this time their fool's gold had a prior reputation for disaster. The Third Reich had tried harnessing its powers and things had ended badly to say the least.
The crate, despite the damage it had sustained, still had its American storage identification brandings. It read 'Top Secret Army Intel. 9906753 Do Not Open!'
Chapter 5: The Gift of the Kingdom