Chapter 07
A Cruel, Cruel Summer

"Strange voices are saying
(What did they say?)
Things I can't understand
It's too close for comfort
This heat has got
Right out of hand"

"Cruel Summer" - Bananarama

24 August 1999
London, England
The Galleria

Angela Carson was bored stiff. Here she was, a teenage girl - well, physically she was nineteen, but she had lived a year as an Immortal - in the middle of a great shopping district and she was bored. Born in the United States, her family had moved to England three years ago when her father's job transferred him. At first, it seemed like the move would be the coolest thing in the world. Now, with Angela's parents lost in a home fire - and, technically, herself, too - she was alone and had no way to truly entertain herself.

Sure, she could ask for more time at her meager job at the coffee shop, but that was only so-so as far as a diversion. The extra money was nice, but negligible. It was expensive to live in the London area, even in the 'burb of Chigwell. She'd had to take in two roommates just to be able to cover the rent and utilities on the small apartment she had. What a bummer.

And, to top all that off, a passing Irish woman whose name Angela could barely pronounce had informed her of her immortality. And its drawbacks, like having to learn how to cut off heads. Angela didn't know the first thing about how to use a sword. Or any weapon, for that matter. The woman had said she'd train Angela in these things, but needed some time to get ready. They would meet at the woman's home in Scotland in three months.

That left Angela with a lot of time to waste and no idea how to do it. She had already given in to the advances of her male tenant. While he had turned out to be alright for a decent lay, she knew he could not keep her entertained for three months. He wasn't that interesting.

Angela rolled her eyes over the shops the Galleria had to offer. She used to love shopping. Still did, actually, this was just an off day. Back in the states as a younger teenager, she and her friends had spent entire afternoons - or even a full day - at the mall.

"It's a lot different when you're spending your own money, though," she grumbled to herself. "The trips are a lot shorter when you know you're all out of cash."

Finally letting out a weary sigh, Angela reached for her backpack. She'd put on her rollerblades and skate around for a while. Maybe she could also commit some minor altercation while she did it. Just enough to annoy a nearby constable. Nothing too bad. Just make him scoff a bit…or at least admire her ass as she sped by him.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 August 1999
Westminster, England

Devon Sather groaned as he leaned back in his chair. He was coming more and more to the belief that office work was simply not for him. Just now, he had finished reading through the hundreds of pages of information that Michael Walker had emailed to him a week before. Never in his life did Sather wish more for those days when he simply had to receive a mission and execute it, like during his brief stint with the SEALs or when he was with hostage rescue with the FBI. Not much paperwork there, at least not for him, that was for the senior team members and the officers. He just had to do what he was told.

Now, with weary eyes, the young Watcher pondered whether the others in the organization were right. Maybe he had been promoted too quickly. He just didn't have the patience for this sort of thing. Simply glancing over Walker's material made him want to go out, kick open a door, and start shooting bad guys. But, no. That was not his job. His job was to command others who did that sort of thing. Well, not really. His job was to command others who wrote reports for him to read. Just bloody fantastic.

Sather smiled grimly. The Watchers didn't even have an armed branch of their organization, not even for security purposes. Sather couldn't command a group of heavy-hitters to take down a group of the opposition even if he knew where that opposition was. Those hitters didn't exist. There had not been a need, it was thought, throughout the history of the Watcher Organization, for such a group. Even the previous flare-ups of Hunter activity on record - and, God knew, Sather had read them all now - had been brought down simply by vigilant Watchers who apprehended the rogues and brought them before the Watcher Tribunal.

The Tribunal was the only real sort of avenue for justice the organization had. Composed of three senior Watchers, usually three Regional Directors but sometimes including the EDOW himself, depending on the accused, the Tribunal worked like a panel of judges. They even had a jury, of sorts, made up of various Area and District Directors chosen at random. Once judgement was passed, it was considered final. In the case of the last group of Hunters, it had been a death sentence for them all. Sather had even watched a recording of the sentencing and execution for the leaders of the uprising. It had all been very clinical, a pistol shot to the back of the head, probably with the personal firearm of whomever carried out the sentence.

Putting his fingers to his keyboard, Sather began to type. An idea had formed while he was reading Walker's reports. He just needed to get all the thoughts written down before they ran off into the void of forgetfulness. He even opened up his previously unused PowerPoint application and put together a five-slide presentation to aid in describing his plan.

Shit, I'm becoming more like an officer, after all, he thought.

Sather picked up his phone and dialled Walker. After speaking to the secretary, he put it on speaker and laid the handset back in its cradle. He'd be waiting a while. But he didn't. Walker came on the line less than a minute later.

"What have you got, Dev?"

"A shitload of dead Immortals across Europe, forty-six by this morning's count, and a headache from reading all the documents you sent me. I'm even getting news of there being Hunter attacks in North America. What the fuck kind of investigation was this, Mike, and why didn't you make Max Correll's information known sooner? This is now an intercontinental problem and all we're doing is sitting here with our thumbs up our asses reading emails and talking on the phone."

"What can we do, Dev?"

"Get out there and stop these bastards. That's what we can do. Hell, I learned that Helena Kraus was killed two days ago. She was the first Immortal assigned to me when I was a Field Watcher, Mike. She was a good lady. If she was going to die, it should have been another Immortal who killed her, not some prick with a hardon against people like her."

"Alright, Devon, calm down." Walker sighed. "You do realize you are the only Regional Director I would allow - briefly - to talk to me like this, right?" Walker could not hide his exasperation. "I'm just as fed up with this little problem as you are. We just need to develop the right measures to counter it."

"Little problem? Immortals are dying every day and you're calling that a little problem?" Sather's voice was rising. "And don't forget that we're losing Watchers, too, Mike. Howard Shanks was killed yesterday and we lost Erin Deveraux last week. Erin was only twenty-three, Mike. Younger than me, even. She shouldn't be dying because of this. It's no little problem. This is a fucking crisis."

Walker sighed again. "You're right, Dev. I used the wrong word. Forgive me. Okay, so we need to do something about this. More than we already are. What do you suggest?"

"Not on the phone," said Sather brusquely. "First of all, it's not as secure as I like. Secondly, you're going to want to put this before the other Regional Directors for consultation, I'm sure. That means setting up a video conference."

"Video?" repeated Walker.

"Yes, Mike. It's almost the twenty-first century. We have the technology infrastructure already in place for video conferencing. There is no need - or time - for the expense of having the RDs fly to Europe for this. VOIP (Voice Over Internet Protocol) is much more secure. We can talk that way and quibble about the details."

"Well," replied Walker, "I guess this is as good a time as any to try out our new tech, isn't it? Do you want to switch over to video conference now and show me your plan?"

"Ready when you are, Mike."

"Okay, give me a moment and I'll see you on the monitor."

Twenty minutes later, Sather was finished with his briefing to Walker. He answered the EDOW's questions and then waited for the man's thoughts on the proposal. Walker was silent for a full minute. Sather started to get antsy.

"It's ambitious, Dev. I'll give you that. It will definitely need to be seen by the other RDs before I make a decision on this. Are you willing to brief it again for them?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

"Alright. I'll have Nancy set up the meeting. She'll let you know when it will be. Thanks, Dev." Walker signed out of the conference.

"And the son of a bitch never even told me what he thought of it," commented Sather.

He slumped back in his seat again, looking over his rudimentary scheme once more. It could work, he thought, if the EDOW had the balls to do it.

Sather sat up straighter. Ambitious, the man had said. Well, I just had another ambitious idea, good ol' Mister EDOW, sir, and you probably wouldn't like it very much if I told you about it.

Sather got up and left his office. His secretary, bored because he kept forgetting she was there and did everything for himself, looked up expectantly.

"I'm going to lunch, Sandy."

"At three o'clock in the afternoon?" she asked.

"I lost track of time while talking with the EDOW," he replied. Well, it was mostly true. Sandy Knoxwell nodded and went back to her game of computer solitaire.

Sather walked six blocks down the street before deciding he'd gone far enough. Fishing some coins out of his pocket, he fed them into a nearby phone booth and dialled a number. He waited for the person on the other end to answer.

"Hallo?"

"General Maximillian Honnecker?" Sather asked the voice. He had never heard the man speak before. He had only seen him from a distance. He had many photos and field reports on the general, but no voice recordings. Max Honnecker was the last Immortal Sather had watched prior to being promoted to Area Director.

"Ja. Wer ist das?" (Yes. Who is this?) the voice queried.

Here goes, thought Sather as he began to speak. "General, Sie kennen mich nicht, aber bitte hören Sie zu, was ich zu sagen habe. Ich denke, Sie werden es ziemlich interessant finden. Ich kann Ihnen auch alles beweisen, was ich Ihnen sagen werde." (General, you don't know me, but please listen to what I have to say. I think you will find it quite interesting. I can provide proof of everything I am about to tell you, as well.)

xxxxxxxxxx

26 August 1999
Tilburg, Netherlands

Pierre Garneau awoke from his near doze when he heard the side door of the van open. Without looking back, he could already see the serious expression on Juan Santos' face, despite the fact it was concealed behind a black balaclava. The man was all business at times like this. Garnea checked the van to make sure he had not inadvertently switched off the engine. It was running. He placed his foot on the brake pedal and released the parking brake.

At the door, two others appeared, shadows in the darkness. Brad Rushton and Marta Ljevaja stepped up to the aperture and each handed Santos a small body. Santos cradled each in his arms and laid it carefully on the floor in the back of the van. Once the second body was handed over, Ljevaja climbed inside and Rushton shut the side door. He then jumped into the passenger seat. Without a word spoken, Garneau released the brake and pressed the gas pedal. They were away.

"Any problem from the parents?" he asked Rushton, his eyes on the rearview mirror.

"Nothing a 9mm bullet each didn't solve," replied the man with a gruff voice. He cleared his throat and turned to face the back. "How is it, Juan?"

"They're secure," reported Santos, his words only slightly distorted by the balaclava. He punctuated his statement with a final piece of duct tape over the mouth of Adrianus Van Dijk. He and his twin brother, Espes, would likely not wake for several hours. When they did, the tape around their hands and over their mouths would reduce their struggles and calls for help. The fact that the two blond boys were the same age as Santos' own eleven-year old son did not seem to affect him in the slightest, at least not his voice. When Santos pulled the balaclava from his face, the dim overhead light displayed the same story. The man was ice.

Garneau drove on. They had a three hour drive to complete before their slumbering packages were delivered. He had to make good time and stay ahead of the authorities. He knew it well. They had made the trip earlier that day when they had taken Elise Mertens from her home in Antwerp, Belgium. She had been even smaller and a year younger than the Van Dijk boys. But the story was the same. Protesting parents both silenced by 9mm rounds and chloroform for the kiddos. Since chloroform only lasted a short time, an injection of a stronger sedative followed that. Garneau almost wished he could see the faces of the crime scene inspectors and read their reports when they found two bodies, bullet casings, syringes, and no children. He was sure it would be quite an entertaining read, better than an Agatha Christie novel, perhaps.

"That's the last snatch for us," said Rushton. "After tonight we go back to our real jobs."

"We should do our real jobs on these two rodents in the back," stated Ljevaja flatly.

"That's not in the plan, Marta," replied Rushton. "They stay alive until we deliver them. That's the mission."

Ljevaja did not respond. She only stared silently out the window, her face blank.

xxxxxxxxxx

28 August 1999
Stuttgart, Germany

Major General Maximillian Honnecker tossed the massive printout of the anonymous Watcher's emailed documents onto the table and picked up his glass of eighteen-year old Glenfiddich Scotch. He took a large mouthful and let it sit on his tongue as he pondered the meaning of what he had read. If this were true then he and all Immortals were facing a crisis like none other in their long history. It would take an unprecedented level of cooperation between Immortals - and a leader of renown and skill to command them - to combat this kind of threat.

Honnecker swallowed the Scotch. Just pondering the logistics and intelligence requirements of such an operation was enough to make one's head swim. That was where his particular skill set resided. Commanding the Immortals in the field, in direct contact with these…Hunters…would require something else entirely. Honnecker was not lacking in the skill of leadership. He excelled at it, in fact. He simply knew his own limits to it, as well. What was it the fictional American detective, Dirty Harry Calahan, had said? Ah, yes. "A man's got to know his limitations." Honnecker knew his. Someone else, someone better suited than he, would have to take the responsibility of field leadership, perhaps even command of the group as a whole, with Honnecker acting in support.

Honnecker knew of such an Immortal with those capabilities. The name came to him readily enough. David Ashton, potentially one of the best generals in mankind's history, was just such a man. But how to contact him? Honnecker did not know where he was even living at this time, or if he still was. Ashton had his small circle of acolytes who could communicate with him easily enough. Honnecker mentally ran through a list of them. Darren Dublin, Jonathan Fairbanks, Vivia Wales, Eric Doyle, Jennifer Ellis, and Alyssa Cordeiro, to name a few. There were others, he knew, even a few mortals who could do it, but he would have to check his records to verify the identities of any of those people

With a mental shrug, Honnecker picked up his wireless phone. While he searched for the answer to contacting Ashton, he could at least start the necessary actions on his side. He dialled a number and waited for it to pick up. The voice on the other line answered in English. Honnecker replied in the same language. He did not identify himself. The man at the other end already knew who he was.

"Lawrence, I am going to need some assistance from you. I can't say for how long. It could be quite a while. With some risk, obviously, or I wouldn't be calling you. Please contact the others and have them meet me at my home in Stuttgart tomorrow."

"Roger that, General." The man hung up without asking questions. It was done.

Honnecker set the phone down and took another sip of Scotch. With that one call, four Immortals of impeccable skill and trustworthiness had been set in motion. Lawrence Channing, Viktor Petrov, Jasper Marion, and Charles Ulrich would meet with him the next day and he would brief them on their missions. It would be a busy time for them all. Perhaps one of them would even know how to contact Ashton, as well.

xxxxxxxxxx

30 August 1999
Edinburgh, Scotland

Ottenbreit smiled as the figures on the monitor scrolled before him. The first two weeks of the operation had progressed stupendously. To date, sixty-two Immortals had been killed. It was a good start. His Hunters had seen it necessary to take out five Watchers and eighteen other mortals, as well, but that was not a concern. Such collateral damage was to be expected. When the history books were written of this event, he and his two hundred thirty-seven subordinates would be hailed as heroes of the human race. The dead would soon be forgotten.

Lighting a cigar, the Hunter examined the numbers and reports further. He was looking for a pattern of disruption, if any existed. Adam Matzel's advice from a month before came back to him. They had to be prepared for hiccups, for retaliation from the other side. Such things always occurred. He just had to identify what form it would take and be sure his people were properly equipped to deal with it when it came.

Thus far, there was nothing. That did not mean it would not come in the future, only that it had not come yet. Ottenbreit continued to grin. With the speed at which the op was going, by the time the Immortals, or even the Watchers, were able to mount any sort of action against him, there would be too few of them left to make any difference at all. The German chuckled to himself, smoke from his cigar twirling upward into the air.

Excellent work, people. Keep to the plan. Grind the Immortals - and any Watchers who stand in your path - into the dust. This will all be over by the end of December at this rate.