Lady in White: Legacy

Chapter Twenty

Infiltration

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

6:15 p.m.

"Elsa? Elsa, can you hear me?"

Her eyes fluttered open, eyelids immediately closing once more as the light overwhelmed them. Nothing felt right to her at all. Her mind was a clouded fog, unable to distinguish between dream and reality. Her throat ached, while her lips practically begged for water, so parched and dry were they. Swallowing, she tried to form words, her tongue fighting against her commands. "Wa– . . . Water . . ."

Eyes still shut, she felt cool liquid press against her lips. Instinctively, she swallowed, eagerly guzzling water as if she had never had the privilege of drinking before. As the coolness coated her tongue, she heard a steady beep sound repeat itself again and again at regular intervals. What . . . What in the—

"For God's sake, dim the lights, will you?"

She heard the same voice that had aroused her from her descent into nothingness barking orders to a subordinate. Through her still-closed eyes, Elsa could sense the brightness in the room diminish considerably. Her eyes opened once more, squinting as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing as, at last, her vision came into focus.

She was lying in some sort of bed, she realized, arms and legs securely fastened with heavy, leather straps. Glancing down, she noted her left hand was coated in a sticky adhesive of some sort, long wires and tubes running from her hand to some sort of machines next to the bed. Her clothes were nowhere to be found, she realized, her modesty covered solely by a thin cotton gown barely long enough to serve its purpose. Blinking, she tried to sit up, only to immediately fall back into the bad as pain tore through every muscle in her body, a hoarse groan emanating from her throat.

"Shh, shh."

The voice that had awoken her returned in her ears, a soft caress coming to rest upon her brow. Elsa looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing over her. It was a woman, middle-aged, dressed in a conservative gray suit. Her auburn hair was long enough to lend the woman an air of femininity, yet short enough to help convey an air of authority that would have been absent in a younger woman's visage. The woman adjusted her glasses, a comforting smile forming on her lips. "Please. Don't strain yourself. There will be plenty of time for that later, I assure you."

Elsa licked her lips, a long strand of platinum blonde hair falling across her face. "Who . . . What . . . Where am I?"

The woman inhaled slowly, folding her arms. "You are my guest of honor, Elsa. And I do mean that with all sincerity, in spite of the circumstances." The woman leaned forward, eyes wide behind her glasses, a sense of wonderment upon her face. "You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment. To stand in the presence of a goddess, of the Lady in White herself . . . The pleasure is all mine, believe me."

Elsa felt her cheeks turn red with embarrassment. She frowned as she realized her fingers were not responding to her commands as she tried to summon the reassuring cold. "What . . . What's happened to me?" she choked out, a wave of dizziness overwhelming her.

The woman frowned. "I do apologize, my Lady," she said. "For obvious reasons, I'm afraid you must be kept on a steady drip of sedatives for the time being." She glanced at the nurse in the corner of the room. "I have instructed those attending to you to lower your dose for a few minutes, just enough for us to have this conversation. Then, I am afraid it will be back to the realm of sleep for you until we have relocated you to a more . . ." She paused, thinking. "A more permanent arrangement."

At the woman's words, Elsa began to struggle against her bonds. She cried out in pain and frustration as her arms and legs did little more than flex ever-so-slightly. Exhausted from the struggle and the medication coursing through her system, she stopped, sobbing in despair.

"There, there," the woman said, stroking Elsa's head once more. "There's no need for tears, Elsa. You are about to become the most important woman in the history of the world. That is nothing to cry over, believe me."

Elsa looked at the woman, a pleading expression upon her face. "Please. Just let . . . let me go. I have done nothing to you. Whatever you . . . want me for, just . . . just . . ."

The woman cocked her head, thinking. "I am afraid your pleas are wasted upon me, my dear Lady. I have dedicated my life to the service of my country, and I did not get to my present position by allowing myself to be swayed by emotional arguments. No matter how compelling they may be."

She adjusted her glasses. "Oh, I do apologize. I haven't even properly introduced myself. I am Roberta Remington, director of research at this facility." She took hold of Elsa's right hand, squeezing it tightly. "Again, it is an honor, Your Majesty."

Remington's lips turned upward slightly at Elsa's astonished expression. "Oh, don't act so surprised, my Lady," she said. "We have known of your existence for decades now, believe me. It is our business, after all."

Elsa shook her head, the sedatives still keeping her mind enshrouded in mist. "How . . . I don't . . ."

Remington reached into her jacket, withdrawing a yellowed piece of paper. "Recognize this?"

Elsa simply stared at Remington. The woman sat in the chair next to the bed. "You wrote this, remember? A letter addressed to General Eisenhower himself at the height of the second World War, in which you offered him your assistance with your . . . unique talents."

Elsa's eyes widened. "How . . . How did you find—"

"It is my job to know such things, Elsa," Remington said, placing the letter back in her jacket pocket. "The security of a nation, of its people, depends entirely upon proactive action being taken by those charged with its security, no matter how . . . unpleasant such actions may prove to be." She clasped her hands. "My specific responsibilities include research and development into the latest technology for national defense. And I have been authorized by my superiors to investigate any and all possibilities, no matter how fantastic or impossible they may seem." She leaned back in her chair. "Considering my previous success in this regard, I have been, how do you Europeans put it, carte blanche to pursue this agenda no matter where it may lead me. Even if it leads me to someone that, by any reasonable measure, should not exist at all. Even if it leads me to you."

Elsa closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I'm so . . . confused . . ."

Remington smiled. "I don't expect you to understand everything now, Elsa. I still can't believe I'm having this conversation with you! I do apologize for the violent manner in which you were brought to this facility. Had I been informed, I never would have authorized such a reckless and callous approach toward securing your services." She sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, these military types I must work with so often only see things in terms of completing the objective no matter the cost, diplomacy and subtly be damned.

"I do," Remington continued, "want you to understand just how valuable you are before you go back to sleep for our journey to the States. Your letter, unfortunately, never made it to General Eisenhower's desk, I'm afraid. Someone read it before it could be delivered to him and, quite naturally, I must acknowledge, found it so . . . implausible that he simply stuffed it in a file somewhere and forgot about it. By the time the file was reopened, the war was over. Germany was occupied. Japan lay in ruins. And as you—wisely on your part, I must say—failed to include specific information on how you could be located, your letter was simply documented as an aborted military project, given a retroactive codename, and placed in the top secret archives—but not before an agreement was reached between the government of Arendelle, where the letter's postage had originated, and the U.S. whereby any member of Arendelle's public institutions was obligated to inform us should evidence of your existence resurface."

She laughed to herself, running a hand through her hair. "But this project is abandoned no longer. Project Snowflake is alive and well, thanks to you. And you, my dear Elsa, are going to reshape how America defends itself going forward."

Remington took hold of Elsa's hand once more. "This facility is remarkably efficient when put on priority alert, my Lady. My scientists have already analyzed your blood, and the results are absolutely astonishing." She tapped Elsa's forehead gently. "Every single cell in your body is surrounded by . . . by something that, we can only assume, is responsible for your unique abilities. We are already hard at work trying to isolate what that 'something' is and replicate it. And once we have, well . . ."

Elsa blinked, realization dawning upon her, a sickening feeling overtaking her stomach. "No. You . . . You can't . . ."

"Elsa," Remington said, stroking her hair. "Why are you so reluctant about this? Don't you see what you are? You are the next step in human evolution: A perfect being impervious to aging, to disease, capable of summoning the winter from your very essence. Now, just imagine what it would look like if we could reproduce it! Imagine what we could have: An elite squadron of genetically-modified soldiers, able to singlehandedly devastate an opposing army without the need to send in battalion upon battalion of troops." Remington's eyes were wide now behind her glasses. "How many American soldiers could be spared from death as a result? How many fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters could come home to their families that otherwise would die in the line of duty? How can you deny them this?"

The Lady shook her head, the beeping sound from the machine by her bedside increasing in pace along with her heart rate. "This isn't . . . This isn't a weapon . . ." she whispered. "Never! It's for . . . creating beauty, not . . . not destruction—"

Remington frowned. Rising, she stood over Elsa's bed. "Why are you being so stubborn, Elsa? Why are you resisting? You were willing to set aside your ideals during the war, after all! Why continue to . . ."

The director threw up her hands in frustration. Inhaling slowly, she calmed herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "When I get passionate about something, I tend to let my emotions get the better of me. It's a family trait, apparently."

Remington looked at her watch. "It makes no difference. Soon, we will be safely in America. There, I hope you will be reasonable enough to rethink your position. Until then . . ."

She gestured toward the nurse. Silently, the woman walked toward the bedside, pressing buttons on the machine connected to the IV in Elsa's hand. The Lady attempted to protest, but a wave of exhaustion swept over her. Helplessly, she watched as the liquid flowing into the line increased in pace, the medication making its way inexorably toward her flesh.

"You know," Remington said with a smile. "I have a great respect for your country, Elsa. It's why I wanted to work here. All this time, I had hoped the stories in my family about you were true, but I never had the courage to find out until . . ."

Elsa tried to form words, but her tongue felt as if it were coated in cotton.

"When he was orphaned," Remington continued, "my grandfather's grandfather came to America with nothing but the clothes on his back. His brother stayed here, but he . . ." She shook her head. "He wanted to start a new life—and so he did. But he never forgot where he came from. Nor did he allow the history of his family to be forgotten. Even when his grandchildren dismissed his stories as nothing more than the embellishments of an old man, they continued to pass them on to my generation when we were young."

Remington watched as Elsa's eyes grew heavy, the sedatives overpowering the Lady once more. "Great-great-grandfather Leif," she whispered. "If only you could see this now . . ."

Thursday, March 28, 2019

1:10 a.m.

Corporal Jenkins hated the 'Delle.

No, "hate" was not too strong a word to describe how he felt, and Jenkins would be the first to tell anyone who cared to listen precisely that—provided, of course, they did not outrank him and possess the authority to demote him down to mess duty, or worse. Jenkins had joined the Army fresh out of high school, eager to escape the humdrum town he had grown up in in favor of the opportunity to see action across the globe. So it had come as quite a disappointment for him, to say the least, when upon completing basic, he had been assigned not to a hotbed of activity like the Middle East, but instead to some obscure, barely-on-the-map country in the Nordic region of Europe called Arendelle.

Life on the base was nearly as uneventful and routine as it had been back home. Night after miserable night, Jenkins found himself standing guard at the checkpoint at the exterior gate leading into the compound, dutifully inspecting paperwork, making certain visitors to the base had the proper credentials, and so on and so forth, perpetually stuck on the graveyard shift due to his lack of seniority. The nearest thing to "action" Jenkins had experienced thus far in his career was the day he had been obliged to change a tire on a Jeep entering the base, all while the officer in the vehicle called him every insult in the drill sergeant manual for not moving quickly enough for him.

Jenkins yawned as he glanced at the clipboard before him, rubbing his eyes to keep himself from falling asleep from sheer boredom. It was shaping up to be yet another boring night, Jenkins realized; nothing was scheduled to arrive that night. Whistling to himself, Jenkins held up his rifle, inspecting the weapon not out of concern for the weapon's operational status, but because he was so goddamn—

The corporal started as the sound of approaching tires jarred him from his thoughts. He quickly set the rifle down, his eyes widening in surprise as a Jeep approached, stopping just before the checkpoint. Jenkins glanced down, frowning as he doublechecked the night's manifest. He hadn't been imagining things, he realized; there was nothing—absolutely nothing—scheduled to arrive until 0600. Sighing, Jenkins exited the small building that was the checkpoint station, walking toward the Jeep. Probably another goddamn paperwork screw-up again. How many times do I have to tell those bastards that—

"Hey!" Jenkins called out as he approached the Jeep. "What do you think you're doing? You're not on the manifest. What the hell makes you think you can just . . ."

His voice trailed off as he realized just who was seated in the Jeep. Oh, shit! It wasn't just some fellow enlisted man behind the wheel, he realized. Rather, it was an officer—a trio of officers, in point of fact, and none of them looked particularly pleased with his blatant disregard for rank.

"Sir."

Jenkins saluted instinctively as the man behind the wheel stepped out of the Jeep. The officer approached him slowly, dressing him down with his eyes. His blonde hair was cropped short on the sides beneath his hat, the captain's bars on his shoulders glistening as the vehicle's headlights cast their glow upon them.

"Corporal," the officer finally spoke, standing directly before Jenkins. "Tell me: Is this how you always address a superior officer when he arrives?"

"No, sir!" Jenkins responded, still saluting. "I'm sorry, sir. I just . . . I wasn't expecting—"

"At ease, Corporal," the captain said. Jenkins immediately lowered his arm, exhaling loudly. "Of course, you would not be expecting us. This is a top-secret visit on our part. Need to know only. You understand, I assume?"

Jenkins felt his shoulders tense. "Of course, sir. I just . . . I need to see your orders. It's protocol, after all."

"Certainly."

The captain withdrew a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to Jenkins. The corporal brought his flashlight to the paper, studying it carefully. Satisfied, he handed it back to the officer. "Welcome to Arendelle Base, Captain McIlroy."

A pained expression formed on Jenkins's. "I . . . I'm really sorry to have to ask you this, sir, but I need you to let me pat you down. Not that I don't trust you, sir. But it's—"

"Protocol," McIlroy interrupted, an impatient look on his face. "I know, Corporal."

"Captain?"

A woman's voice called out from the Jeep. "Everything all right over there?" After a moment, she followed up with a quick "Sir?"

Jenkins noticed McIlroy close his eyes, almost as if he were irritated as hell. "Everything's just fine, Lieutenant," he said as Jenkins quickly ran his hands over his torso and the pockets of his trousers. "The corporal here just needs to make certain we aren't bringing anything onto the base we shouldn't be."

"For God's sake, Captain." A man's voice sounded from the Jeep, startling Jenkins. "What the hell is taking so long?"

"My apologies, General," McIlroy said. "I'm a little . . . busy here."

General? Now Jenkins was sweating bullets. He stepped toward the Jeep, saluting as he spotted the older man seated in the back next to the female lieutenant. "General, sir! My . . . My apologies—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, knock it off, Corporal." The general gestured angrily. "Do you have any idea how late we are? Do you intend to keep us out here all night, or are you just this incompetent?"

"I . . . I, um . . ." Jenkins dropped his hand, uncertain of what to do. "I'm sorry, sir, but I—"

"That's it!" the general snapped. "What's your name? As soon as we get in there, I'm going to demand an immediate demotion for you unless you get out of our way and let us in—now!"

McIlroy looked at Jenkins, an empathetic look on his face. "Between you and me, Corporal," he said. "If I were you, I'd just open the gate and look the other way. The last time General Wilmington was this upset . . ." He paused. "Well, let's just say I've never seen dishonorable discharge paperwork printed up so quickly before."

Jenkins blanched. "Understood, sir." He glanced around, making sure no one else from the base was present. Satisfied, he moved back to his station and depressed the button controlling the gate. "Thank you, sir. And welcome again, sir!"

McIlroy climbed back behind the wheel of the Jeep. With a loud roar, the vehicle made its way forward, disappearing down the road leading to the base.

"Nice job, 'Captain McIlroy,'" the young woman behind him said. "You do clean up nicely, after all. Especially with that haircut . . ."

"McIlroy" grimaced, hating the feeling of lack of hair around his ears. "Oh, don't enjoy it for too long, 'Lieutenant Daniels,'" he said. "It'll grow back sooner or later."

The young woman folded her arms. "I hate the name 'Daniels,'" she grumbled. "And why do you get to be a captain, anyway, when I'm just a lieutenant?"

"Because," McIlroy/Kristoff said. "You barely look old enough to have a officer's commission. There's no way anyone would buy that you'd be anything more than a second lieutenant, believe me."

"Whatever," Daniels/Anna muttered under her breath.

"If the two of you are finished bickering," Wilmington/Isaacson offered. "Might I suggest we focus on the task at hand?"

"Yeah," Kristoff muttered, bringing his fingers to his ear. "Ry, can you hear me?"

The earpiece in Kristoff's ear crackled to life. "Loud and clear, Bjorgman. I'm holding my position here where we jumped the Jeep. I'll lay low until you need me to pick you up."

Kristoff nodded. "Hopefully, quietly. What about you, Stephenson?"

"Yeah, bro." Stephenson's voice sounded in Kristoff and Anna's earpieces. "I'm, like, good to go here."

"Are you sure?" Anna asked. "You'd better not be smoking while we're doing this!"

"Hey, Anna Reinhart," Stephenson protested. "Just relax. I'm all patched in already. Easy as pie. Just tell me what you need, and I'll guide you through the base. This is gonna be fun, right?"

Anna swallowed, hoping against hope the knot in her stomach would untighten. "Yeah. 'Fun.' Let's go with that . . ."

AN: More to come!