Chapter 4, “Answer That and Stay Fashionable”
The Honourable Sir, and woe on anyone who used the official “Dame”, Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, GCVO, woke just after sunup, expectant of a ready breakfast and the daily briefing from her department heads, brief and breakfast served neatly by Walter; his title “Butler” was almost a joke between them by now, the man who’d been her rock since childhood. Guardian, servant, and teacher since her father’s death of a wasting disease; she’d thought him old when she was little. Now in her twenty-fourth year she’d considered him almost regal in his golden years, that confident air, belied by his working shirt and midnight-blue vest, soft spoken if sometimes wry demeanor, and what might have been a permanent smile crowned by those soft, sea-grey eyes.
Her waking expectations were short lived, and the dull, thundering pain up and down the left side of her face recalled her to the cruel, clear present.
The man she’d loved almost like an uncle, that she’d trusted with her life for as long as she could remember, who’d mentored, guided, protected, and served her lo’ these many years had sabotaged her Organsation, invited genocide onto her nation and enabled the near destruction of the very house he’d called his own home for decades, whored out his body to be twisted by Freak vampiric mutation and told her as much to her face. She couldn’t even begin to count the ways he’d fucked her over, let alone where to start in trying to mend the damage done. The radiating pain where her eye had been enucleated was glowing coal behind the rage she felt rising. If the nurse hadn’t come in when she did and ministered painkiller through the IV bag, finger nails would have bit bloody rents in her palms, so tightly had she balled her trembling fists. Then that rage had exhausted her, impotent anger that found itself bereft of a target gave way to a flood of frustrated and bitter tears before the medication took effect and she drifted off into narcotic haze.
The quiet morning spent surgically stoned had been a Godsend, somewhere in the hospital ward she’d heard a Piano Man singing about Zanzibar, and when noon found her waking from whatever merciful dreamscape Billy Joel had given her, she’d found a washbasin on a nightstand beside her bed, washed the right side of her face without bothering to ask for a nurse’s help, and been greeted by Surgeon-General Davies, who’d come bearing gifts of a cup of his personal favorite Ceylonese black tea, and a slip of plain toast. A cigar would have been nice, but she knew better than to press her luck. Then the vacation was over. No use putting it off any longer, she’d asked a nurse to page her subordinates, there was a phone beside her bed but there was no telling where in the mansion either of people were or what duties they’d busied themselves with.
She might not have minded being kept waiting five minutes past the hour she’d instructed them to report, but bringing what looked like a varsity boxer with a messy mop of brown hair wrapped up in an old, and for him it was at least a size too large, mud and mustard brown paratroop jacket felt like a bit much. Then she recognized the boy, and remembered her shock-induced insistence on a bloody detour the day before. She saw his left hand marred by a fresh, bright pink burn before she pieced it together. Oh, Goddamnit.
Her two left-tenants gave a sharp salute, the boy fell in line a second later, his form was shoddy and he’d have to be taught to keep his palm out, but that was neither here nor there.
Fargason took the floor first.
“While the manor’s security is being supplemented by military police from the base, we’re reduced to ten men surviving from Alpha team, and five able bodies from the Wild Geese Company. I’ve been up speaking with the JIC, the Round table conference was destroyed in the attack, it’s believed yourself, Sir Irons and the Lieutenant-General Walsh are the only surviving members. The Royal Family are safe in a secured location” Scotland probably he thought, maybe even across the pond, spirited away by a small army of the Crown’s most savage and loyal commandos. He went on in his heavy brogue.
“Ministry of Defense headquarters has been dark since last night, Command has been moved to the Old Admiralty off Whitehall, Sir Walsh has taken command in the field. The city of London in under quarantine, Parliament was successfully evacuated via helicopter; there have not been any reports of ongoing fighting. I assume that Alucard’s… demonstration was successful in destroying the primary enemy, while squad sized groups from Iscariot’s assault force have been successfully pinned down and are in the process of surrendering themselves into the custody of armed police responders. The White house in America was also attacked by an unknown number of terrorists presumed to be vampires, that attack was stoppered, and President Ryan has been confirmed alive and well. The fighting’s over.” He was wrong about that, but the fighting to come would be personal. He stepped back, ceding the floor to Seras, who had less to report, and she was awkward about it.
“Sir, the boy belongs to an American special operations group, he was looking for us when the battle began. He’s got something you should see.” She put an arm around the lad’s shoulder, pulling him up. Integra half wondered if he’d bring out a still-smaller runt like a nesting doll.
Kade unscrewed the cap on the cylindrical case and a light spring in the butt popped out a roll of papers two inches, he stepped forward and handed the case over to Integra, he kept his gaze lowered and repeated the summary he’d given Seras earlier. Awfully timid for child soldier she thought, taking receipt of the package.
Integra pulled out the rolled report and was already two pages in when the timid lad had stepped back behind Seras. She spent fifteen minutes reading and double checking the twenty page report, only pausing to ask for a pen that Fargason furnished so she could annotate notes for specific dates, referencing them in her mind against the events of the last six months. That filled in some blanks and raised some questions. Cities in the States had seen instances of lone wolf artificial vampires that appeared to be probing Federal buildings, where federal police and intelligence personnel had been targeted, but the takeaway was that at every time over the past few weeks Americans had tried contacting known members of the Round Table conference there’d been something to stymie them, almost a dozen attempts had been the head of this American unit having messages sent personally to Walter C. Dolnez. In a last desperate push it had finally boiled down to sending runners to hand deliver it to their doorstep.
The commanding officer who’d signed the report was a man named Valens. She really should have known. She’d met the man on several occasions, various members of the Round Table attended occasional conferences with their international counterparts, and once or twice she’d fulfilled her duties by showing out in her finest forest green suit to gallivant and talk shop with rather unorthodox peoples, thankful to see she wasn’t a victim to the mundane day job attitude that infected the career police and intelligence types that dictate how her cousins in the police and military apparatus worked. She’d met the man at one such event. He certainly knew how to make a first impression and she thought she knew who he’d taken notes from.
The man looked like a beast restrained by common sense and good taste, built like a serious weight lifter, with hair like some daft rock star, a full but neatly trimmed blonde beard. He’d barged through a conversation she’d been having with Sir Penwood, pestering him to fork over some damned fool thing or another, God that man had been easy to bully, then Penwood had been called away by an aide for some other errand and she’d been face to face with the man, his smile was soft as a kitten, she might have mistaken him for a brick and mortar Teddy Bear. But she saw him then for what he was even if he hadn’t verified it when he spoke. “A pleasure to meet you Sir. Your father was a good man. I understand our friend in the red coat is up and about these days?”
The man carried an aura cold as ice, those piercing blue eyes really had taken her back, but the fear came from the way she’d seen him almost appear out of nothingness, he’d seemed to radiate with a cold intensity she’d only thought possible from Alucard. It had been an important lesson. Walter had overhead enough to give a flick of his wrist. Valens hadn’t even tied to evade it but looking back she was sure he could have. The razor wire had stuck and sparked fearsomely against his hand, and his jacket sleeve was sliced clean up to the elbow, but if the man had bled she didn’t see it. The only sign of victory was a curt “Hmpf” from her butler. Walter was wry when he spoke, but less than amused. “Really Sir Jean, you give your people a bad name. Honestly, I’d expect more of the great La Vallete than to go appearing before young ladies like some fairy-book beast.”
The man answered with a relieved guffaw. “Sorry Walter, I didn’t mean to frighten the lass-“ and just like that the frigid intensity was gone, in half a heartbeat he’d gone from terrifying back to a good natured charmer. He’d stood up and faced the butler; two pairs of armor piercing eyes beheld each other. “For what it’s worth she passed. You’re not too bad yourself these day, that hurts like Hell.” It had been fast, up front, and brutal reminder of the sort of Organization Integra had taken the reigns of, and what manner of thing she would send men to do battle with. Of course the damned Americans would have some pistol packing cowboy like that on hand! Then just as soon as he’d shown himself he’d melted facelessly back into the crowd. “Passed the test” had seemed like faint praise indeed, she barely made it outside before the tension let loose and she saw her supper again. It would be a year yet before she learned even hardened soldiers got the Shakes after battle.
She’d questioned her servant later and he’d given an amused chuckle, like he’d heard a good quip over morning coffee. “So, that boy’s still running around playing his games. Some people never do grow up.” Alucard would say no more and she didn’t press. Whoever this character was he had gone back across the Atlantic to play his games there, and she’d more pressing matters. She’d kept it in the back of her mind that her Royal Order of Protestant Knights wasn’t alone in the business of monster hunting, nor in the business of using monsters to do it. “Sons of bitches the lot of these madmen” she cursed.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
She looked up to question the nervous lad before her. “Tell me more about your mission, why you were sent. You, specifically?”
“I wasn’t, not really. The boss had me tag along with two other officers; we got into town just before the airships hit the city. They… didn’t make it. Please, I need a secure phone line to report back. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now” He’d completed the one task he had been given, and the veneer of a solider on this child-soldier was wearing thin, giving way to the child, uncertain and far from home. Fargason saw something else in him. He’s just switched gears.
Integra waved to the phone behind her hospital bed, and Kade recognized the STU-3, the same Motorolla model they’d brought over with them that lie abandoned back at the hotel. He looked at her, a child asking permission. Now his tepidity was grinding on her, almost insulting the steely resolve she faced down the world with. She nodded for him to go on, only telling him to put it on speaker. She’d know by the voice if the man who’d signed the report was the same she’d met before.
Kade picked up the receiver and dialed, clicking the green speaker button above the dial pad. Two rings before the call went through. “This is Doghouse, identify.” The lad flinched at hearing the voice. All three adults wondered what that was about.
Why did it have to be her? “Doghouse, this is Beagle-3, reporting for Variable”. Fargason thought call signs over the phone were dramatic; but respected the tradecraft.
The woman on the other end was curt. “What’s the status of Doghouse one and two?” What did you do this time you little shit?
“Gone.” it was hardly more than a defeated whisper. The reply was cutting. If she knew she was on speaker she didn’t care.
“Patching you through to Variable. And God damn you.” she’d wanted to cut him with and done as much. Maybe the Sun isn’t so bad after all. Seras wondered what the hell was wrong with these people. Then she remembered those burn marks. She didn’t know she had started been balling up her good hand until she saw Integra’s concerned look; she took a deep breath and commanded herself to relax.
Seven seconds of silence later a man’s voice came on, clear and strong.
“Valens. Glad to hear from you kid. Report.” Yep. That’s him alright. Integra mused. In fact he’d almost sounded chipper.
Kade was so tired he forgot he’d just ben called ‘Kid’ again. “Sir, I’m here with Sir Integra Hellsing and her senior officers, we’ve got you on speaker. I’ve delivered the package but we got here too late. Branwen and Cardel died… I did too.”
That raised more than one set of eyebrows on the other end of the line. “Say that again.”
Integra did it for him. “We found your man grievously hurt. He was saved by my subordinate in the most expedient manor. I’m afraid he won’t be seeing much sunlight these days, or enjoying garlic bread.” It was a terrible joke really, and she’d given it the same deadpan Walter would have. The man on the other end answered to her.
“Sir Integra,” still chipper but toning it down a bit, reverent of her station, was that uncertainty in his voice? “I’d like to thank you for looking after my man. I’m glad to know you’re well, I’m sorry we couldn’t reach out sooner. We’ve had our hands full the last two nights, you’ll understand. I’m flying over this week with the BSAA, alright if I stopped by the shop?”
BSAA?… oh, that’s right. The Americans had birthed that agency following the Bio-terror outbreak in the Arklay Mountains last year, a special response agency dedicated to the thread posed by a new breed of biological terrorism, a law enforcement arm of the World Health Organisation without the authority to enforce any laws. Since when did Doctors carry guns? Then the other remark. “Flying over with them”? How many affairs was this man involved in?
She returned to the phone. “That’s acceptable.”
“I really appreciate that. Kade! On your best behavior.” Then the line clicked off. Kade let out a tense breath he didn’t know he’d been holding since the first voice lashed out at him. Seras allowed herself a faint smile. He’ll be safe with us. At least for now.”
Kade replaced the receiver and nodded to Integra. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” It was a formal, practiced response, apologizing for something he hadn’t done. And he still didn’t look her in the eye before assuming he was dismissed and starting to shuffle out of the room. Fargason and Integra both thought it sounded like it had been beaten into him. Seras was horrified that they were right. She would have followed the boy, not once questioning how ready she was to glue herself to him, but her Master came first.
Before he escaped, Integra stopped him with a forceful “Boy!”. He bolted to attention and managed an about-face. “What’s your unit called?” She asked, and he told them.
Seras thought it was dumb. Fargason thought it was just dumb enough to have been thought up by a rifleman after reading too much Ian Fleming. Integra thought of the man behind the unit. Fits that man like a glove. She turned to the lad, Kade? Bit of an odd name she thought. “Now go get that arm looked at, you haven’t started drinking yet so you won’t heal as easily.” He nodded, and left to find a nurse, hoping he wouldn’t be a bother.
Three thousand, and six-hundred miles away, and seven hours earlier in the day John Valens powered down his brick of a cellular phone, really a modern clamshell jiggered to a STU’s digital scrambling hardware and repackaged into the older and more cumbersome frame. He was relieved at the news, but his present company was less than amused. He was the only one among the crowd not wearing a suit, though he’d shown deference and handed over his shooting irons to one of his colleagues on the President’s Detail. They were in a fortified concrete replica of the White House’s own Situation room, dug under the Presidential retreat at Camp David. His boss spoke next.
“So…” said President Ryan with an incredulous look in his eyes. Oh yeah. He’s pissed John thought. “Care to explain why there was a child on the other end of that line?”
Valens had shown enough theatrics the night before, shredding undead terrorists into so much Ragu in front of the President, his Cabinet, half the Detail, God and everybody else. He judged this the time for subtlety, and gave them a sanitized version. He started with a proud, fatherly smile and bright eyes that must have been terrifying to the good, sane folk in the room.
“My step-son turns 18 this year sir, I’ve been getting him in shape for the last couple of months, hiking, pistol shooting, noting too wild-“ Handed him a gun at fifteen and made him a killer of men, made the boy learn war as he himself and had learned it. “His mother, she isn’t well you see, I won custody, the boy’s energetic, he needed an outlet-“ Never mind his mother’s my secretary and very unwell indeed. “He wanted to see what the sharp end of the business looked like, I’m afraid I was too eager to indulge him. I had him tag along with a couple of my more seasoned men for that courier job.” Well, thrown him into it more like.
The sheer audacity really was something else. Director Murray of the FBI looked about ready to come out of his chair. Ryan held them both with a look that could punch through tank armor. It’d been ages since Valens had been ripped a new one at Presidential hands.
“Don’t fuck with me John, you mark me, that shit stops here and now! The United States government does not, and will not engage with the business of child soldiers.” The man had barely raised his voice but half the room would have quivered, so sacrosanct were these rare occasions where the President gave into his Irish temper. It’s good to know he’s still got a pair of big brass ones on him. Valens lifted the inactive cellular unit, he wasn’t smiling anymore. “That’s as easy said as done sir. I believe you heard the kid-“he’d miss getting him riled up with that one. “For all intents and purposes, he’s any one of a thousand American citizens that died in the attack.” The real number was a bit more, but that wasn’t his job. “If I may go on, sir?” Ryan wasn’t happy about it. But he’d learned to live with a lot of things he didn’t like. That was the weight of the office and immense power he beheld. The Commander in Chief gave a weary sigh and waved for him to continue. By now Valens had relaxed into the professional, giving a formal report like the President himself had given on more than one occasion.
“The coordinated attack on Washington and the United Kingdom is the consequence of an intelligence failure, but the kind neither of our countries have seen since the Second World War. There was a time the OSS had a working group in concert with the Royal Order of Protestant Knights, and we did good work in those days-“, the “we” wasn’t colloquial, he’d been on the same sharp end of the business then that he was now. “I’d like to propose a Liaison program going forward, operational intelligence, hardware, not dissimilar from how our armed forces already cooperate through NATO-“, also not too dissimilar from the office the US Embassy’s Legal Attaché had with MI-5, Dan Murray would like that, it had been his own job once.
This time was Mary Pat Foley, Director Central Intelligence who cut in. “And what do you hope to gain on the intelligence level that we don’t already give you? Rainbow is stationed there and they still get half their hard intel from us, for God’s sake.”
Before answering, Valens groped and dug out a one of the freak chips from a nylon pouch on his belt, holding it up before the assembled crowd, its wired veiny cable tentacles groping blindly like some other-worldly arachnid vermin thing ever since he’d plucked it from the eyeball of one of the mutts that had stormed the White House. Mary Pat looked like she’d be sick staring at the unclean thing and he didn’t blame her. Even most of the Service detail didn’t want to look at it. He’d hoped to make his point without that extremity, but if they wanted to fuck around, they’d have to find out
“When did the Brits start seeing these freak chips pop up? I mean exactly, where, when, and by whom were they retrieved in the field?” Answering a question with a question was poor taste he thought, but he didn’t hear the bell to call him off. The real answer he’d given was “The important stuff before your analysts curate it half to death”. Raw intelligence really was the name of the game for line animals out in the field, imposing the will of men such as were in this room. He took the chip between his thumb and forefinger and crushed it, igniting the tiny pyrotechnic charge that was really designed as a kill switch to fry the miserable bastards implanted with them. The chip blazed with a ghostly blue flame and disintegrated into a fine black powdery ash. It stank something awful.
“Sir-“ he deferred, turning back to the President. “This is twofold, first I want to open another channel of communication with the Brits so we can work together against the mutual threat of biological terrorism, now that the bell’s been rung twice now and isn’t going away. I can promise you international, and asymmetrical bio terror will be the defining struggle we’re likely to face in the coming century.” He paused for breath and struggled to keep his eyes open. The coffee at Camp David was excellent but he’d kill for a nice white line to shake off exhaustion for another couple hours. He supposed rightly he wouldn’t make back any friends just now if he asked who was holding. “Secondly that this joint operation be the spearhead in hunting down the collaborators who made these attacks possible.” And that was that.
The President made his decision.
“Robbie, get in touch with the Prince tonight and start setting it up, then hop aboard with the BSAA tomorrow and see where we stand in this mess. John.” Valens looked back up and the look in his President’s steely hazel eyes. There it is! That dauntless Fire! Jack Ryan was that rare caliber of men that made Valens understand why Alucard had subjected himself to familiar servitude. The men, women too now, of Hellsing too been such fine men as this. Ryan went on.
“Your proposal has my approval pending cooperation from the British government. On the condition that it’s run through the people at MacDill. Concerning your son-in-law, Dagger will be subject going forward to complete, and randomized personnel audits from the Bureau. No more kids. And so help me God, if you make me, I will break you.” It was a remarkable promise to the man who’d carried pistols akimbo through the White House as it burned and reduced two companies of savages from the Second world war to so many weeping, broken things. Nor did Valens doubt that promise for a second. But Gods, Alucard had been so lucky! Truly the President too was a man worthy of mastering Monsters. He nodded submission.
“If you’ll excuse me sir, I’ve got a boys room to pack-“ and a few tools to give him for the road ahead.. . “The flight does leave early tomorrow.”