The Red Arrow

OTTAWA, ON, February 20, 1959 - BREAKING - Prime Minister John Diefenbaker has ordered the Avro Arrow project cancelled. In a stunning reversal, the award-winning next generation fighter jet project has not only been scrapped, but all plans, blueprints, documentation, and prototypes have been ordered destroyed immediately. The Empire has reached out to the leading scientists involved with the project, but they are unavailable for comment at this time.

The Canadian Empire daily newspaper

Yajirushi Chernyshevsky reads the old newspaper article and smiles to himself. Rumours swirl around the project's cancellation, as rumours always do. Why was the project mothballed? Why have all the scientists disappeared? Did anything survive? Conspiracy theorists, treasure hunters, rival aeronautics firms, spies - they have spent many hours and even more money trying to solve this puzzle. The body count and the bankrolls have been staggering, but nobody has succeeded until now.

Pride swells Yajirushi's chest a little, but he doesn't show it. It was a huge gamble to put him on this project, but letting Mother Russia down on this mission was never an option for him. The Kremlin took a chance on him, both because he had shown his cunning, bravery, and value during the Korean conflict, but also because he is expendable. He knows all this, especially that he is indeed expendable, and that makes him more valuable - and dangerous than any potato-fed son of the soil that the Kremlin ever could produce. The son of a Red Army komvzvoda, born out of the ravages of World War II, to a Japanese comfort woman, he was driven to succeed, even as he knows that failure means death.

Moscow is cold this time of the year, but the city is frigid even when the temperature is warm. There is no joy here like in Amsterdam, Bangkok, or any other cities that he had visited. But this is where his home was…

Sitting silently in the back of the limousine - black and bland, of course - that was sent for him, he seems relaxed but is always ready for action. Dressing for the deep cold Siberian winter, layer upon layer of clothing, covered by his officer's fur overcoat, keeps him warm. While his army issue revolver stayed at home, as per SOP, he does have the Walther PPK that he picked from the body of a British spy in Monte Carlo, tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

With him, handcuffed to his left wrist, is an old, worn briefcase that has seen better days. It is battered and worn but still serviceable.

The limo stops outside one of a thousand nondescript concrete bunker buildings in this part of the city. The ride had been smooth and silent, allowing for Yajirushi to rehearse his debriefing interview silently. Smiling, Yajirushi opens the door and steps out into the cold.

He had braced himself for it, but the chill still hits him hard, especially his wounds, both old and new - too many to count, but all hurting. Not allowing himself to react to the pain, he thinks that he's felt far worse than this and survived.

Shaking off the pain, he quickly marches into the foyer and straight to the reception desk. A shapely young Russian woman sits at the desk. To an untrained eye, she looks simply to be eye candy. Yajirushi knows she has intensive combat training and will kill without hesitation or remorse - his kind of woman. Hopefully, he'd have some time to spare after his victory to get to know her better.

A small detail of five guards, armed with AK-47's, is distributed throughout the foyer so that any troublemaker would be caught in their crossfire if there was trouble.

Yajirushi shows his ID to the receptionist, whose pouting lips smile but whose eyes are dead inside. She looks up.

"Yajirushi Chernyshevsky to see Dimitri Koslov." Yaj stops briefly to reflect on Dimitri - he is Yaj's superior, but also the man who took him in when none else would and trained and nurtured him to become the top agent.

The receptionist checks ID, nods to the guards, who slightly relax, and replies, "You are expected - Suite 2011. Take the third elevator. It goes straight to the Director's floor."

Yajirushi turns, walks straight to the elevator and pushes the button. When the doors finally creak open, he walks into the elevator and presses the only button in the panel. After a painfully slow ride to the top of the building, the elevator stops, and Yajirushi disembarks.

Looking down the long hallway, a dozen doorways appear, but only one open, with a security detail.

Yajirushi knows that this is the office, so he walks quickly to the security detail. Looking the senior member of the security detail squarely in the eye, he displays his ID and restates "Yajirushi Chernyshevsky to see Dimitri Kosolov" and confidently strides by the detail.

A quick once over the room reveals that the office is just another dull, grey office in a dull grey concrete bunker. It is no different from any of the other thousands of dull, grey offices in the hundreds of other dull grey concrete bunkers in this city of dull grey concrete bunkers.

Dimitri, a short, balding, rotund man in his late 50's is sitting at the desk, flanked by his bodyguard. He is military by his bearing and presence, but there are no signs of rank or affiliation. He is sitting behind a large, oak desk, and there is a single folding chair on Yajirushi's side of the desk. The walls are barren, except for a framed picture of Dimitri with Leonid Brezhnev, taken some time during World War II, astride a pile of SS bodies.

Yajirushi gives a stiff, formal salute before walking up to the desk. The greeting is ignored. He walks to the desk and stands at attention before his superior. Dimitri motions him, with a short wave, to be seated.

Pulling out a new portable tape recorder and a microphone, Dimitri opened a new cassette tape and placed it in the tape recorder. Turning the tape recorder on, he says, "As usual, this debriefing interview will be on tape. Please state your full name and what the project is, and then give me the details." He then turns on the tape recorder.

"Yajirushi Chernyshevsky, debriefing on Project Red Arrow," he states.

"Continue," Dimitri orders.

"The high-level goal of Project Arrow is to determine what happened to the Avro Arrow project, to locate any technology or personnel of interest, and to either eliminate them from our enemies' hands or to return them to Russia," Yajirushi continues.

"And the details?" Dimitri urges.

"Getting into Canada was a breeze. I just flew to Toronto from London Heathrow, business class, of course. Their customs officers are naive, and they just waved me and my Japanese passport through. A quick train trip from Toronto to Ottawa got me to their National archives. A few days pouring over microfiche and microfilm led me to one dead end after another until I found a reference to our old friend, Dr. Metzger. This Nazi rocket scientist defected to Canada during the war. He had changed his name, but I recognized him in a picture of a senior's slowpitch team," Yajirushi carries on.

"Slo-pitch? And what is that?" Dimitri wonders.

"Baseball for children and old people," Yajirushi replies.

Dimitri sighs, motioning for Yajirushi to continue.

"It was a simple task to track down Dr. Metzger once I located the team. He lived in bourgeois decadence in a suburb of Ottawa - eating steaks and playing golf every day. He had grown soft," Yajirushi sneers.

"And how did your interview with Dr. Metzger go?" Dimitri demands.

"Unfortunately, Dr. Metzger refused to return with me, and the Canadians had destroyed all the project notes. After a thorough interview with the Dr, I extracted all of the pertinent information and then retired him," Yajirushi replies.

"Why did they destroy everything?" Dimitri demands.

"It was American interference, as usual. The Americans were jealous and wanted it for themselves. After negotiations and some bumbled espionage, the Canadians refused and destroyed everything instead," Yajirushi responds.

"Fucking Yankees! Always interfering! You've either got to fight them or destroy your research. They want everything for themselves," Dimitri sneers.

Yajirushi continues, "Being forced to eliminate the good doctor was unfortunate, but he did reveal, after some prodding and poking, where the wreckage of that last known prototype was - in an abandoned warehouse in some barren cityscape of suburbia called Etobicoke."

"And?" Dimitri responds.

"A quick train ride to downtown Toronto, and then a car service out to the warehouse. It was exactly where the Dr said it would be before he choked on his own blood. It was an easy job to break-in, and examine the Arrow. Unfortunate, the plane had been stripped clean, and the Canadians had removed almost everything of value," states Yajirushi.

"Almost everything? And what did you find? Was it worth the trip?" Dimitri demands

"It was definitely worth the trip," Yajirushi responds, relishing this moment in the sun after spending so many years at the back for not being pure Russian. "I found a small canister of orangish-red powder in the ignition system, where the fuel rods should be. Just as the Dr had told me it would be."'

"Orangish-red powder? It can't be! That's just a rumour! The Germans were supposed to have created it as the war ended, but it was never found," Dimitri gasps.

"The Nazis never found it. Metzger smuggled all of his research - and the compound - out of Germany to Canada. He had family there, so it seemed like a good place for the doctor to hide out while things cooled off. But he was discovered by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and chose the Avro project over Nuremberg. You know, the RCMP doesn't ride horses anymore, except in parades. It confused me, but a small matter," Yajirushi continues.

"Red mercury - the are rumours true?" Dimitri asks.

Yajirushi replies, "Well, it doesn't cure cancer, and it can't help you in bed with your girlfriend, but it will help us win the Cold War and the space race. With a small amount of pressure applied, the resulting reaction provides exponentially larger amounts of energy. A small cylinder, the size of a fountain pen, could propel the Avro to speeds greater than Mach 10."

"Mach 10! Impossible", Dimitri gasps.

"Not just possible; it's a fact," Yajirushi smugly replies, basking in the glow of success.

"And you have it here, with you?" Dimitri asks, looking at the briefcase, trying to hide his shock.

"Once I had it, it was trivial to bring it home. There were no wild shootouts, no bodies, no hiding in seedy motels. A little dull - you know that I like the action. The car service returned me to my hotel, and I took the next flight out of Toronto to Amsterdam; from there, it was a leisurely two-day train ride here. To be sure that when I smuggled it through customs, I disguised it to look like a roll of Lifesavers," Yajirushi states.

Dimitri quizzically, "What are these lifesavers? Not from a ship?"

Suppressing laughter, Yajirushi replies, "No, they are little round candies with a hole in the middle, shaped like a lifesaver from a ship. I didn't even have to hide it. It's so commonplace that I just put it in my briefcase. Nobody asked about it."

Dimitri speaks, with praise, "You could always smuggle anything anywhere. I remember that gold watch that you brought back. Where did you hide it again?" Dimitri smirks with some pleasure at seeing Yajirushi squirm a little.

"You know where I had to hide it. Customs even stripped searched me but didn't find it," Yajirushi asks with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

Removing the handcuff, Yajirushi places the briefcase on the desk, facing Dimitri, and opens it. A faint orange glow washes over the room from inside the case. Dimitri audibly gasps but then regains his composure, and a broad smile fills his piglike face, and the light reflected in his eyes dance like a thousand exploding stars.

"So, this is it… Our future. Our victory," Dimitri stammers excitedly, almost drooling while he speaks. A large smile breaks over his usual down expression - its stark contrast to the otherwise dreariness of the surroundings almost obscene.

Shaking Yajirushi's hand and patting him on the back, he pours them both a large glass of vodka. They down the vodka with a shouted "To success!" with one long gulp. Yajirushi smiles and relaxes, knowing that his hard work won't go unrewarded.

Dimitri places the tape recorder in the briefcase and closes the lid with a firm snap.

"Good job, Yaj. Mother Russia owes you a debt of gratitude." Dimitri says before pausing for a moment. Shaking his head slowly, he whispers, "I will miss you."

Turning to his bodyguard, he says, "No witnesses. Take care of him, but with respect. And then meet me at the car with the briefcase. No one can see me with it" and strides out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Yajirushi appears confused for a second. The bodyguard, a massive man of pure muscle, turns towards Yajirushi and pulls out his Makarov.

Dimitri walks down the hallway, towards the elevator, with his security detail two paces behind him. A muffled shot rings out, and the sound of a body falling can be heard. Dimitri slows and stops. Visibly shaken, he slowly pulls himself together and continues to the elevator.

The office door opens. Yajirushi slips out with the briefcase. He starts to head the opposite way down the hallway.

Dimitri, oblivious to this, continues to walk to the elevator.

Yajirushi pauses and looks back at Dimitri, the man who was once his sponsor, his guardian, his father. Shaking his head, he quickly yet silently closes the distance between himself and the security detail. With two quick shots from the bodyguard's Makarov, Yaj disposes of the security guard.

"Yaj?" Dimitri gasps as the much younger and stronger man grasp his neck and slowly squeezes the life out of him.

"I'm sorry, my son, but Moscow ordered it," were the last words that he ever spoke again.

Feeling a mixture of betrayal and excitement, Yajirushi quickly searches the now lifeless body. He retrieves a set of car keys and the garage's executive pass that would bypass security checkpoints. As long as the security cameras were still off - Dimitri demanded privacy for his many affairs and many kills - escape was simply an elevator ride away.

The prize is still his, and he knows who will want it, and better yet, who will pay handsomely for it. Revenge on Mother Russia, the betrayer, will come later. Profit first, then R&R, and then revenge - sweet revenge…