The ShyKon Directive

"This isn't what I had in mind," said Jonas Ferringby as he stood at the point of a scimitar. "I really should think about learning a new language."

This was it for the international spy. He'd come from across the globe, trotted through the marshes of France and visited the cathedrals of Italy. He'd tracked his quarry through months and weeks of grueling guesswork. Where were the nukes? Had the government of Qatar made the shipment? Only time would tell. But for now, Jonas had a rather prickly situation standing before him. 

The blade of the scimitar had been forged in diagonate steel with ripples and stud shapes. The overall form was like the wind. The inscription on the side read "for he who dares" in Sanskrit. But of course, Jonas knew none of this. As the blade pressed at his jugular, a tear of blood slowed its way down to his collared shirt.

Then it happened.

A hungry guard dog, which had been let out of its stable accidentally by Jonas during his egress, had noticed the man pointing the blade at Jonas and had made its move. But it was their dog! Why would it attack them and not him? Firstly, the Rossmanassars were notorious for abusing animals. They'd gained a reputation on VideoIce for uploading the most terrible videos of animal torture. Fluffy ears severed. Cute little eyes burned with red-hot pokers. Little feetsies stamped on. No doubt, the Rottweiler in question had faced some of the worst of it. But there he was, taking out his frustrations on a familiar face. The second reason was that Jonas, thinking that he'd have a real shot, had smuggled in a snig of bacon to the dog as he was passing. Just in case he'd needed a friend. What if the dog didn't like pork? That didn't matter. Right now was Jonas's only shot. He grabbed the scimitar and thrust it into the man's side as he was being gorgulated by the animal. Then he was on the run. He ran out of the command post, where the general was...indisposed of. He ran down the aisles of the military installation, knowing that being caught now would mean sudden death. 

Of course, someone saw him. And, firing a shot, suddenly grazed him on the thigh. Luckily, it was a shallow graze. Jonas kept running when he heard the sound of sirens in, not to far away, giant tank engines. Or were they mounted Jeeps? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Jonas was going to make it. Suddenly, the gates slid together, slowly, but faster than Jonas could run. He kept up the pace, dragging his leg where the graze had hurt him. He kept going until suddenly, the gate closed. After that, all of the lights in the installation went black. Jonas hid, assuming that they would be hunting him down with night-vision goggles and buzzard drones. That would be the case. They had him captured seven minutes later. 

Knowing his tricks now, they had strapped him down to an examining table in the infirmary, removing all of his clothes and identifying markers. They had also removed the small detonator that he'd had hidden in his leather glove. Why, oh why, didn't he use it when he had the chance, just blow the whole place up while still inside? That would've been the way to go. But no. As Jonas lay there, he thought about his training.

They had said over and over during those grueling night runs that "You're not coming back. You might as well wipe retirement out of your mind. Your life ended the second you signed up for Psy-Ops. You'll be lucky to have an open casket."

They drilled those information-saving suicide techniques like the would would end if they didn't. Jonas struggled under his bonds, trying to get a purchase. If he could just get a little slack...

And then, a shot was fired. Then another. Then another. Jonas's left lung felt funny, started wheezing. He couldn't think of a way to stop the bleeding, so he breathed harder, trying to will the holes in his soon-to-be carcass shut.

Who was shooting at him? 

Jonas looked up to see a man in a dark hood and a balaclava, carrying a semiautomatic pistol. Was the pistol German? Russian? It sounded Eastern European for sure. As Jonas lay there, the liquids from his body working his outer skin and the quickly cooling against the rusted iron table, it became clear that he would not be finding his way out of this, except in a body bag. 

"Do you remember me, Mr. Ferringby?" 

The voice sounded familiar. Was it? No, it couldn't be! Jonas thought about anyone else it could be. 

"Oh, not Barkshaster. Bloody Shakespearean author turned cyber-criminal."

"Au contraire," said Barkshaster. "Just as surely as you bleed out, I'm more of a Shakespearean author today than you'll ever be."

"Not everyone sings to King Lear in the shower," said Jonas. 

"That may be," said Barkshaster. "It may be that I am too fond of the old bard. What do you think of my robes? Shakespearean enough?"

"I know not the levels of Shakespeare in thee," said Jonas. "But thy gait is more than schizophrenic."

To this, Barkshaster let out a hearty laugh. "Oh, Mr. Ferringby, you really think that this is...What's that noise?"

Just then, the sounds of the 15-11th Bomber Squadron could be heard overhead. 

"I'm too important for this," said Jonas ."They don't want me to talk. They don't want me to say anything. So they're going to take this whole installation down, me with it."

"The cloaked bombers could not be detected by radar?" said Barkshaster. 

"They run silent en route."

"Why, it matters not," said Barkshaster, noticing that his gun was out of bullets. "Oh, dear."

Suddenly, the whole base began to shake violently. Then came the flames. After that the smoke. Soon, everywhere was burning. Barkshaster, Jonas, everyone was consumed by the flame. The bombing was relentless. There were multiple daisy cutters deployed. Everywhere,. building toppled, while others were consumed in the flames. The ground shook with and awful shake and the air was unbreathable in its fierceness. 

The lead plane of the 15-11th was commanded by Captain Joseph Bainsby. After seven years of fighting this war, this had been his most important mission. He didn't know what they were fighting for, but he knew that it was for the country that had given him so much. 

"Are we done?" said Bainsby. The other pilots radioed in their assent.