Drel attempted to summon the courage yet again but fell short of her mark for a second time. She wasn’t nervous, not necessarily, but the invisible barrier of rejection lingered. Her heart was fleeting with every pacing round she made through the cabin. The door to the back of the Winnebago sat closed before her, her object of affection beyond the threshold. She had no intention of embarrassing herself a second time, she only wanted to apologize for what happened in the Sinai in a more intimate and personal manner. To have a more serious dialogue like she once could with her superior. In hindsight her stubbornness ironically pushed her further away from the Major.

American disco played on the speakers towards the front of the camper, the radio turned up to eleven. It was the African American variant, a band called Chic, playing their hit song ‘Le Freak’. Byk and Krovo had debated whether the band was indeed African American or French because of their band title for a while, but now they were both dancing - Krovo more so than Byk because the brutish Yordle was behind the wheel. For as loyal as they both were to the Soviet Union no one could resist the temptation to at least nod along when a song like Le Freak hit the speakers.

Drel nearly cringed every time they shouted along to the lyrics, or rather, a lyric. Whether too lazy or just plain ignorant they deciphered two words from the main chorus and nothing else. “Awwh, freak out!” they’d scream, hoisting their beers in the air before sipping. Thankfully Byk was a seasoned drinker, downing Vodka five times the strength of a Coors Banquet - so no one was worried about her getting buzzed at the wheel. Instead they were just an annoyance - an annoyance Drel desperately wanted to get away from. Wait a second…

An idea sprung in the back of her mind and she made for the door. Without a hint of her previous trepidation she pulled it open and stepped inside then shut it quickly again. She found Meduza sitting on the carpeted floor, back against the foot of the bed - her false baby Alyuusha rattling an empty can of beer with the opener lodged inside. The clink-clinking sound it made kept the child well distracted from the muffled noise beyond the door.

“I hope you don’t mind, I had to get away from those two, they’re being a pair of psychos right now.” Drel lied.

Meduza sat the gun in her hand down to one side after giving it one last inspection. “It’s fine. You know how they get after a few drinks.”

“Yeah,” Drel sighed, “But it’s never been this bad.” She made her way to sit beside Alyuusha - prodding at his stomach with her index finger. The toddler smiled and kicked his little legs in amusement, producing a smile on the Captain’s face in turn.

“They’ve never had this kind of freedom.” Meduza admitted.

Drel thought on that statement for longer than she would’ve liked before pressing it out of her mind with a nod. “Yeah… So, how are you?”

Meduza was half-awake in all honesty, having been up all night driving the Winnebago. With a full tank of gas they had another day or two before petrol would become an issue again. “Tired.”

“Should I go tell them to shut up?” Drel chuckled.

Meduza shook her head nonchalantly. “No, let them have their fun. They need it.”

Drel disagreed, issuing a correction. “Krovo needs it.”

Meduza smirked and nodded. “Krovo needs it.”

Now that Drel was in the belly of the beast with the monster before her she hadn’t a clue of how to proceed. But if Russia had taught her anything, being direct with your opposition was always a reliable default. After pinching at Alyuusha’s cheek she slipped down off the bed and beside Meduza, causing the Major to scoot an inch or two to the side.

“Y’know… I think a lot about what happened in the Sinai…”

“Drel-...” Meduza was ready to snuff the conversation at its root before she was suddenly interrupted.

“I want to say I’m sorry!” Drel turned fully to her. “Not for Baran, I already said sorry for that. But sorry to you. It wasn’t fair of me to do that to you during an operation- And… Even though I think you overreacted, it still doesn’t justify my disobedience.”

Meduza glanced toward her and away again. She contemplated going for a cigarette but Alyuusha was here and the Winnebago was too nice a space to taint it with the smell of smoke. “It’s not entirely your fault. Duuga is still fresh on my mind.” Her statement was quite plain and genuine, giving Drel pause.

Drel was at a loss for words concerning her ex-flame - she didn’t know how to approach such a touchy subject without pissing the Major off.

“Y’know… Before Baran passed he told me “I have to move on eventually”... I thought about it for a while - and he’s right. I have to let Duuga go if I’m going to grow into something with someone else.”

Meduza’s explanation sparked a glimmer of hope in Drel’s eyes that she hadn’t felt since she wrote the note expressing her feelings.

“But,” Meduza looked down into her lap, digging under one fingernail with another, “I don’t know if I’m ready to replace him with someone yet. Whether I do or I don’t…” Meduza provided her full attention to Drel, speaking not only with her mouth, but with her eyes, too. “It’ll take some time.”

Her message was clear. She knew Drel’s intentions were still intact. She wanted her to stop trying, at least for now. She wasn’t ready for commitment, not yet. It was a heartbreaking and optimistic revelation all at once. There was a chance in the future, a real chance for them to be together. Drel wanted to hug the Major, but that would more than likely get her shot. So she just smiled instead.

“Okay. I understand.”

The road through Philadelphia and into Baltimore was busy - more so than they were expecting. And just beyond Baltimore was their destination, the Capital. But first the seedy urban sprawl stood between them and it, the urban gates of Baltimore itself. Baltimore was, like all American cities of the time, separated by class. A central urban core surrounded by suburbs of varying quality. The city was still reeling from riots and sprees of arson over some popular African American rights Activist’s death. Bheka knew little but bore witness to the destruction nonetheless. The buildings of import were either rebuilt or in the process of reconstruction, but swathes of ghetto were left charred from the firestorm.

Byk almost conjured a chuckle imagining how such upheaval would go in a Soviet state. Most of Bheka gathered towards the windows as they had upon entering every major population center. While Baltimore had its skyscrapers and towers it was less awe inspiring than New York, but then again that was a bar set very high. The busy streets swarmed with buses. Public transportation below ground was not yet finished, as evident by the blocked subway entrances.

The city seemed extraordinarily bland. Red brick buildings dominated its architecture, simple and uninspired - though the occasional house varied in color or make. It wasn’t until they pierced through to the more populated African American ghettos that they began to see signs of culture. Byk had to slow on the gas as hordes of playing children crossed the street without care for passing by vehicles. Families sat on porches and steps leading up to doors, gossiping, laughing and watching. The community was closely knit - a foreign concept to the majority of Behka. Family in Russia was important, but a sense of community or belonging wasn’t as grand or as pronounced as the Soviet Union would have their citizens believe. At least not like this. Only a military family could net this level of comradery.

The feeling of being an outsider crept up their spines as wary eyes turned their way. Byk eased onto the gas a little more now, navigating from block to block into the inner city. At about the halfway point Myslitel’s finger extended past her head, highlighting the gas meter. Nearly empty. And that wasn’t the only problem. Everything edible had been scavenged from the Winnebago, leaving them with no food. It was easy for Drel to negotiate a pitstop with Meduza, the extra cash they pulled off the couple was more than enough for a half tank and a decent meal.

They pulled into a gas station with a generous line of cars stretching around the lot. Drel took the wheel while the rest of the squad unloaded in search of a bathroom. Upon rounding the corner they were greeted by a teen in a sleeveless shirt. He was built well and the cultural sign he gave off hinted he wasn’t natively American.

“Hey…” He whispered, notching his chin in greeting. “Interested in some white?”

Myslitel and Byk paused, baby Anton in her arms while Krovo and Meduza continued to the bathroom. “Some what?”

“Some white, like some powder.” The man was casual but wary, hinting to the Russians that whatever he was offering, it wasn’t good.

“You mean drug?” Myslitel inquired, prodding more so out of curiosity than anything.

“What are you two? A couple foreigners? Yes, I’m talking about cocaine! Keep your fuckin’ voice down.” The man glanced towards the line of cars.

Myslitel looked over her shoulder towards Byk in obvious confusion. Byk ran a finger under her nose and suddenly Myslitel understood. She had no money to spare and no desire to get high - but her urge to explore the unknown was starting to get the better of her. Her love of technology extended into the sciences, not just tech-science, but chemical-science, too. She had never been exposed to recreational drugs, only ever hearing about them through word of mouth.

Before she could go any further with it, though, Byk directed her away from the dealer,“No, thank you.” Byk smiled, curtly - starting them away. The moment they got out of earshot she grabbed Myslitel’s shoulder harshly - turning her into an about face. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

Myslitel shrugged her hand away, angrily. “I was interested in the chemical makeup of it, nothing more.”

“I know.” Byk turned, giving her a long side eye.

The bathroom was everything one would expect of a gas station. The entrance was on the side of the building and the interior was something straight out of a horror film. At the very least they gained some relief in knowing it was empty. Three stalls and two sinks awaited them and all three toilets were covered in a film of toilet paper before use. By the time Byk and Myslitel arrived Krovo had already finished and was staring at herself in the mirror. She didn’t even spare a glance as they came in and walked past her.

She was lost in the graffiti on the mirror, counting each line of every letter quietly to herself. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three… Fifty-three. Fifty-three lines from all the words etched into the mirror. By the time she was done counting reality dawned upon her again. She looked about herself, extending her hand out to the faucet. She pushed it upward but it produced no water. A sigh left her and she turned to leave the bathroom.

Just down the road from the gas station was a little diner, the kind that looked like a train car - almost fitting the stereotypical idea foreigners imagined in their heads. The type with red raised stools, a jukebox and a payphone under a faulty light in the back, movie style. A bright neon sign that was just now coming to life as day fell to night read; “Tip’s Fish House” in bold crimson text. Drel pulled in and they piled out, taking care to lock all the windows and doors before leaving. She even parked it in clear view of the diner so they could keep an eye on it. They wouldn’t have their stolen prize stolen a second time.

With children in tow they entered the sleepy little diner. It was only halfway busy, a couple customers occupying the bar while several more nestled themselves into booths. A soldier never sat with their back to the door, no matter the circumstance; The party unanimously opted for a corner booth. The waitress wandered over, complete with a work dress that came down to the knee and an apron over that - notepad in hand. She was quite gorgeous, far too good looking to be working at the halfway point between the suburbs and the city.

“Hiya, ladies. Can I get you started with drinks?” She asked, chewing a strip of bubblegum as she sprawled out several menus across the table.

“Coffee and water, please.” Meduza replied without looking up.

“And for everyone else?”

Bheka turned collectively as if controlled by a hivemind. Even with the months of training their soldierly cohesion remained. “Coffee and water for all.” Meduza clarified.

“Oh, I see! I apologize! I’ll have that right out for you guys - one second…” The waitress hurried off without pause, looping behind the counter. Within minutes she was returning with a hot thermos of coffee and a helping of sugar packets and creamer. “Just call over when you’re ready to order!”

Byk was quick to transition back into their native tongue. “So, what exactly will happen at the meeting in Washington?”

“The Premier will be negotiating with the President after they return the American spy to him safely. During that time the President’s network will set us up with secondary and tertiary identities, accommodations and our next target on the List.” Meduza answered, peeling open sugar packets and dumping their contents one at a time.

Krovo followed Byk’s question with another. “Will we be armed?”

“Most likely.”

The questions stopped there, instead all eyes turned to the menus. It was mostly cheap fish, shrimp, fried or baked, catfish - crab, chips and so on. The selections were passable, no one could go wrong with a good plate of fish. It was a universal food enjoyed by almost every culture. There were even fish sandwiches and shrimp tacos. Drel made sure everyone kept their meals light. After gas they had a fraction of what they started with. Bheka obliged and called the waitress over to push their orders through.

The plane touched down with little fanfare. Usually the press was swarming but her arrival was unscheduled publicly so no one knew when Mak would actually be showing - not that it mattered anyways. Any lingering photographers or journalists staking out for the latest scoop on the development of American-Russian relations were whisked away on the pretense of privacy law. No one was the wiser, and that’s the way Mak liked it. Not to mention she had an American in tow, that would look bad in the publications. Her Secretary escorted her off the plane shortly after it touched down, her entourage of guardians and assistants dismounting with her. She was immediately greeted by members of the Secret Service, shrouded in their foreboding black suits and sunglasses.

A trio secured the perimeter around the plane while a fourth waited to escort her into a fully tinted late sixties Lincoln, all black and with a pristine, glossy finish. Two more Secret Service agents occupied the front seats. At least half or more of her entourage would be driven separately to their lodgings in the Blair House. With Gordon following just behind she slipped into the Lincoln, finding the black leather seats to be nearly as glossy as the car’s exterior. Gordon joined her and the door was closed behind them. One could mistake this treatment for hospitality - but Mak was well aware of why their security was so tight. She reached into her bag as the driver pulled off, producing a hand mirror. She feigned a moment of self-admiration to veil her true intentions, which was a button on the side of the little hand mirror that would broadcast a signal so she could be tracked by her people. Precautions and all that.

Washington was a place to be admired, surely. Especially the monuments, but she didn’t care overly much for the scenery - all this would be reduced to rubble in future. She had lofty ideas for what would sit in its place. New York and Washington would still be seats of power, but for a new regime. She wanted them to be as awe inspiring as the Kremlin or the Saint Basil Cathedral. In its current state it drew little inspiration. Everything was made out of white rock and marble. The Washington Memorial, a white stone spire. The Lincoln memorial, a white marble stone building. The Jefferson memorial, another white marble stone building. The White House, more boring white stone in a neoclassical fashion. All of it was unreasonably monotonous. Where was the color? The golds, the reds, the blues? It reeked of a lack of passion to Mak - a lack of passion she was intent on fixing.

In the blink of an eye she had gone from staring out the window at a dream to staring at some sort of growing industrial complex. She had been lost in thought for longer than she cared to admit. Gordon paid her little mind, looking straight ahead and only ahead. She checked her watch to confirm the time. It was about mid-day. The Lincoln pulled into an empty parking lot enclosed by giant vats of water. This was indeed the meeting place. And there were her operatives. Kept in line by three armed Secret Service members were five Gypsies - or what appeared to be Gypsies. The door was pulled open for her and she stepped out, leaving Gordon behind.

Bheka stood suddenly at attention. Mak strode up, heels clacking against the harsh concrete with every confident step. Her attire wasn’t that of a dictator, but a business woman. Her Jackboots and uniform would be too obvious. She produced a cigarette and brought the lighter to one end. Only after two or three pulls did she put them at ease.

“You’re late.”

“My apologies, Madam, we ran into unexpected complications along the way.” Meduza declared, her posture still attentive despite being put to ease.

“Nothing that would compromise your mission here, I hope?” She exhaled hot smoke toward the Major.

“Not at all, Madam.”

Mak gave a slight nod and turned away from the group. “Nickelson has already arranged a flat for you near the Blair House. This flat is registered under no name and the owner is firmly within American State hands. You may only leave and enter at low traffic hours. There you will find all you need provided to you by Nickelson and his underground network. Clean yourselves up and meet me for a private dinner at twenty-hundred hours.”

“Yes, Madam!” They all said in unison.

It wasn’t long before Gordon was back in the graces of the White House - delivered from the clutches of his secret Russian handler. Nickelson called him into the Oval Office at once. It was a room he missed sorely. Consultations over the blue carpet with the Screaming Eagle, the golden curtains, the American flag, the gorgeous view beyond the windows. Nickelson sat at his table, commanding the room alone with his presence. Gordon almost felt ashamed to be in the man’s presence knowing he was now working against his best interests. What a coward I am, Gordon lamented internally. Whatever Russian hex or spell had been placed on him was near impossible to remove. And the worst part was, he was completely conscious of his own actions.

“Gordon. I’m so glad to see you safe.” Nickelson stood from his chair and circled the desk, extending a hand out.

Gordon took it firmly and pulled the man in for a hug and a pat on the back. “Good to see you, too, Mister President.” He smiled.

“How are you? Did they hurt you too bad?” The President stepped back and clasped a palm on his shoulder.

“Beat me damn good, sir, but no information was extracted. Not that they really tried.”

The two shared a short laugh and Nickelson stepped back, gesturing towards a tray of glasses and drinks. Gordon declined and they took a seat.

“Well… As much as I’d like to punch those commie bastards right in the mouth, that’s the kind of treatment that’s to be expected upon capture. But I’m glad you resisted. Did you learn anything?”

“No, sir. Not anything you don’t already know.” Gord replied, reclining in his chair as he stroked his mustache.

“As you certainly know, the Premier and I are working towards a peaceful resolution to the Proxy War in Vietnam. I hope we can come to some sort of agreement.” Nickelson sighed, slicking his hair back against his head.

“Sir… If I may ask, why this deal with the Soviets? Why are these killers helping us? Surely our operations are capable of being done in-house?” Gordon’s conscience desperately wanted to know why Nickelson had caved to the demands of the Communists, even though he had done the same.

“It can’t be done in-house, Gordon. And that’s why I’m glad you’re back. There are spies within our ranks. Reports suggest the Democrats are growing more and more curious about our plans. There’s two Senators that really worry me right now and if we’re going to bring real change to this nation we need four more years - any leak of information at this point in the campaign would spell the end of us. I can’t let that happen.”

“But why the Russians, sir? A private corporation could’ve done just as well!” Gordon was firmly in denial of reality and probably projecting his own mistakes onto Richard.

“Damnit, Gordon, you know why! We got press snooping around, the Democrats are up my ass, I had nowhere else to turn!” Nickelson let his frustration get the best of him, exhaling it all at once to refocus the conversation. “The Russians have little to gain from exposing our secrets. At most I’ll get impeached and the country will be run by some other old bastard without an ounce of ambition, and you know I can’t let that happen... I know what that damn Premier wants from us, she wants to control us, Gordon! I see it, I know it and I know why you’re frustrated. But you gotta’ give a little to take a lot. Both hands are nearly tied behind my back so these third party operatives from Russia are the best chance we’ve got to secure a win!”

Gordon turned away for a moment, contemplating the situation from a wider perspective. Then he leaned in slowly. “Then what’s your plan?”

“The List. There’s a lot of folk on there preventing me from getting another four years. I need them silenced or removed entirely. If I send any of my agents after them someone’s going to find out. But these Russians are non-affiliated, they’re good at their job and they’re untraceable. If they get caught it's not our problem, the Premier has assured me of that much. Now we just need to figure out who amongst our ranks is working for the enemy, root them out and expose them. That’s your job, Gordon.” Nickelson explained, squaring his index finger towards Liddy’s heart.

“Me?” Gordon was taken aback, not so much because he wasn’t qualified, but because he knew things his dear President didn’t.

“You’re one of the only people I can one hundred percent trust, Gordon. You were away in Russia, there’s no way you could be a mole. Only you and a quarter committee are clean enough for me to put to work.”

Gordon nodded, almost reluctantly. “I… I guess you’re right, sir.”

“I can provide whatever you need within reason, men, money, manpower, you name it. And before the year is out I can promise you a raise and a nice summer home in the Swiss Alps. How does that sound?” Nickelson kicked back with a smile, readying a big fat cigar.

“Damn good, Sir.” Gordon chuckled, trying to hide the nervousness behind his laugh.

“Alright then. I’ve got dinner at eight with those beautiful whores from Russia, so how’s about you show up, eat something and then we’ll start allocating assets, eh?”