The Ghost Pattern

…42

The annoying voice of Dr. Bogdanov filled the room as Myatlev took his call hands-free. He was going on and on about what they were doing over there, giving too few specifics, and wasting his time.

“So, you don’t have it yet, that’s what I’m hearing, right?” Myatlev interrupted him. “After two weeks, you have nothing?”

“Sir, if you allow me, progress is being made,” Bogdanov replied with a little more insecurity seeping into his voice. “They are adjusting the levels of active compound to get the desired results. There is a precise dosage that will work, requiring many rounds of testing and fine-tuning.”

Myatlev restrained himself with difficulty. This moron wasn’t going to get him what he wanted. But it was too late to turn back now.

“I want them controllable, you hear me?” Myatlev told Bogdanov for the fifth time. “What we need to do will not work without precise control, and calculated levels of aggression. Do you understand?”

“Y — yes, sir.”

Myatlev hung up, letting out a long sigh of frustration. Bogdanov was probably going to fail; he had heard the uncertainty in his voice. Maybe what he wanted couldn’t be achieved after all. He wanted a level of precision and control over the aggression of his test subjects that could enable him to play them like puppets on a string. After all, it would be a disaster if a business opponent started killing people instead of signing the wrong paperwork, bidding too high, or taking too much risk. However, having the test subjects turn homicidal lined up well with his other motivation, the official one. He wanted to seed violence in the heart of the enemy’s law enforcement, making them turn against the people they were sworn to protect. Such senseless, apparently random violence would be ripping through America from within its own structures, like a cancer destroying the body it had invaded.

But it might have been the time to consider plan B. Abramovich was not going to settle for another failure, if this plan wasn’t going to work. He walked slowly to the office next to his, and entered after a quick tap on the door.

“Mishka,” he greeted Dimitrov as he came into his office. The air was stale and the curtains were half-shut, defending the room from the scorching heat outside. Dimitrov hated air conditioning, and preferred it turned off. He said cold air gave him migraines. I bet it’s this stuffiness that gives him the migraines, Myatlev thought, eager to finish the business he was there for, and get back to the breathable habitat of his own office.

“Vitya,” Dimitrov replied. “What news are you bringing?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid. Not yet.” He paused for a little while, almost afraid to speak his mind. It was a big step he was about to take, a big step on a road with no return. “They can’t fully control the effects, not yet, anyway,” he added, shrugging apologetically. “I think we need to be prepared for attack in a different way, and give Petya what he wants, what he always wanted.”

Dimitrov took off his thick-rimmed glasses and set them down on the desk slowly, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index.

“What are you saying, Vitya?”

Maybe there could be a way to prosper in a post-nuclear world. Or maybe he could do something to manage Abramovich’s belligerence and ensure the prosperity of his business empire at the same time. Maybe he could just be prepared, but not act, just to have a plausible excuse in case the shit would hit the fan with their beloved president. Maybe he could invest in food futures; in the post-nuclear world, clean, radiation-free food supplies would become very expensive. His investments could yield three-digit, even four-digit returns.

“Can you make me some small nukes?” Myatlev finally asked, just a hint of hesitation tinting his voice. “They’d have to fit in a small backpack, nothing big.”

Dimitrov’s jaw dropped, then he replied quietly, “How many?”

“Fifteen or so. Not sure yet… I’m still thinking,” Myatlev replied, lost in thought.

Or maybe I should have let that fucking bear finish its business before killing it.