dochermes

"I Fought the FBI For the Communist Party"

11/17-11/23/1951

I.

Ushered into the warm stuffy little office on the top floor, Mark Drum loomed up three inches taller than the two agents who had closely escorted him in. He removed his fedora politely, took the seat offered in front of the cluttered desk and promptly leaned over to adjust the gooseneck lamp so it wasn't glaring directly into his face.

"Let's not be so obvious, boys," he said. The faint Scots burr had never completely left his voice. Drum's long, craggy face was all sharp edges. The thick black hair still had no traces of white in it and the cold grey eyes were as alert as ever. He was obviously not intimidated in the slightest.

Moving around to sit behind the desk was the older FBI agent, a stocky bulldog of a man named Hotchkiss. Remaining on his feet a slight distance to one side was a matinee idol type who had been introduced as Tierney. Both men lit up unfiltered cigarettes at once, neither asked Drum if he wanted to smoke.

"Mr Drum, your record speaks for itself," Hotchkiss began immediately. "The War Office has a file on you thick as a Manhattan directory. You were very busy indeed in those years. And your image was great for morale. The intrepid Blue Guide, crushing Axis saboteurs and vicious black marketeers and assorted madmen. Yet most of what you did didn't make the papers."

"I never wanted medals or parades," Drum answered.

"When the war ended, you cut back on your heroism. Mr Drum, it's been six years and you've stayed out of the public eye. One might wonder if you didn't feel your country needed you any more."

The Blue Guide lowered his rather shaggy eyebrows ominously. "Go on."

"Your semi-retirement began at the same time you took a wife," Tierney said. Drum did not immediately glance over at him. It was an old old tactic to make a suspect glance back and forth to rattle or unnerve him.

"A Russian wife," Hotchkiss went on, emphasizing the adjective.

Keeping anger from his voice with an effort, Drum said, "I'm sure you two have seen the paperwork. Sonia is a naturalized American citizen." He added, "She deserves your respect."

"She's still a Russian..."

Drum snorted. "A few years ago, we were told to hate the Japs and like the Chinese and Russian freedom fighters. Everything got switched around. Now we're being told to hate the Russians and Chinese and like the Japanese instead. And no matter what doublethink orders you two swallow, no matter how international politics work out, I will still love my Sonia like life itself. No power on Earth can change that."

There was tense silence for a moment. Behind the desk, Hotchkiss took a last deep drag and stubbed his cigarette out. "These are perilous times for this country of ours. We need to know where your loyalties lie, Mr Drum. After a questionable outburst like that...."

"There is no reason to doubt my loyalty," Drum snapped. "Neither of you put your life in danger as deeply or as often as I did. I know you have a list there of the enemy spies and saboteurs I killed or captured!"

"Yes," said Hotchkiss, leaning forward on the desk. "It's interesting that one escaped you. Several times. Stalin's personal executioner, the man that SMERSH feared, the warlock with that cursed sword."

Drum held himself in control. He would not be baited into raising his voice or making dramatic gestures. "None of you could even slow the Red Blade down," he said evenly. "I aborted his plans a half dozen times and sent him back to Moscow in disgrace. You FBI men can't say the same."

"Igor Petrov, the Red Blade, is the father of Sonia..."

Drum cut the man off. "Don't go there. Don't. You. Dare. Watch what you say about a man's wife."

"Oh, I know about your supposed supernatural abilities, Mr Drum. Too many witnesses have attested to them for doubt. Walking through walls. Draining the life out of a man. Firing lightning bolts from your fingertips. All ridiculous, of course, and yet so many agents swear under oath to seeing you do these things. I'm sure you could strike me down right now or hypnotize us and walk out if you wished."

"What's the point of all this, Mr Hotchkiss?"

The agent stood up, leaning forward on stiffened arms. "Do you love your country? Would you do anything to protect her?"

"You see, there's what is bothering you," Mark Drum replied. "YOU are not my country. The FBI, the administration in power right now, Army Intelligence... none of you are America. You work for America but you don't always do the right thing."

"I don't like that kind of talk, mister!"

Very quietly, Drum said, "It's important that I can say things you don't like."

That stopped Hotchkiss as he was taking in a breath to yell. "All right. Let's try another angle. You know there are a large number of Commmie cells working in this country, digging under the skin like parasites, stirring up unrest, sending secrets back to the Kremlin."

"Sure. It's been called the Cold War by the papers. Like the Underground in France or the Fifth Columnists here."

The younger man Tierney spoke up, "We see you've tangled with this subversive gang called Those Who Remember four times."

"Oh, yes." Drum still did not move his head toward the man. "They're a bigger threat than all the Red cells in my opinion."

"They're not Commies, though?"

"Not to my knowledge," Drum answered. "They're Black Magic. Those Who Remember don't care about politics. They're up to worse evils than mere Human corruption."

"Bunch of filthy degenerates!" shouted Hotchkiss with unexpected fervor. "They make me sick! The things they do at their orgies, the Satanic ceremonies, the sacrifices... I don't know why a just God allows them to live."

Drum had been sitting back in his straight back chair, seemingly relaxed. He leaned forward, toying with his hat. "Maybe it's meant for us to step up. What's going on with Those Who Remember?"

Both agents glanced at each other. Hotchkiss reached into his inner pocket for a crumpled pack of Marlboros and lit one up. After drawing in a deep hissing drag, he said, "Bad news, Mr Drum. We've intercepted some phone calls between two men. One is an American who joined the Communist Party nine years ago. He's a true believer, he buys all the garbage the Party sells. And he's been seen meeting with a man named Rostov. Ah, I see you know him."

"Only by reputation," Drum said. "But I'd like to be within arm's reach of Alton Rostov very much. Just the two of us."

"Glad to hear that," Hotchkiss put out a half-smoked cigarette and brushed his hands together. "They're meeting for drinks Friday night, here in Washington at a little place called Salvatore's. We thought you'd be interested."

For the first time, the familiar wry tone returned to Drum's voice. "As it happens, I'm free Friday night."

( the rest of the story )

"Attack of the Bat Creatures"

6/21-6/22/1957

I.

Colonel Savage! Drum repressed a smile at the melodramatic name. He had done some research through his sources and had learned that the man's real name was Edward Lewis Collins. But the facts were impressive enough regardless of the alias. Collins had started as a sergeant in the Army Rangers, been a Lieutenant in OSS during the second half of the War and had then moved over to the new CIA. Now there were rumors he was working for some shadowy group within the Department of Justice called 'the Mandate.' Drum wanted strongly to learn more about that obscure unit.

Seated in a comfortable chair in Drum's parlor, Colonel Savage looked around with his single eye. The left one was covered by a white leather patch and scar tissue surrounding that patch suggested that it was best that the eye be concealed. Savage seemed fascinated by the curios in that room. In fact, since Drum's marriage two years earlier, many of the more unsavory artifacts had been put away.

There was no longer a shrunken head with blond hair kept under a glass dome on a pedestal, nor was an assegai with suspicious rusty stains on the blade mounted on the wall next to three wooden masks with agonized features. The oil portrait of a stern-faced Puritan in black still hung over the fireplace, though, glaring down at visitors. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed items ranging from small bronze idols to what looked like a wolf skull.

As Savage looked around at the room, Drum took in his impressions of the man. Physically, the colonel was of medium height but sturdy, with wide shoulders and a thick torso. He was about Drum's age of fifty, with plenty of grey in the bristling black crewcut. The crisp black business suit with narrow lapels and a knitted silk tie was immaculate, and the man's grooming down to the clean fingernails was professional.

But Drum saw deeper than mere eyesight could reveal. As a Blue Guide with decades of Tel Shai training, his mystic perception followed the patterns of this man's very lifeforce. Savage burned with intense vitality that was channeled along rigid discipline. This was no poser, no office drone putting on an act. This was a shrewd, dangerous man.

In turn, Drum was aware that the colonel had turned his gaze upon him. Well known for the past twenty years in the overlapping worlds of both international espionage and the Midnight War, Mark Drum lived up to his legend. Four inches over six feet in height, wearing black slacks and a light blue dress shirt with the collar open, Drum was slim but muscular. The narrow face showed its Scots ancestry in the pointed nose, thin severe lips and shaggy brows over a pair of remarkably pale grey eyes. Those eyes made most people ill at ease immediately.

Here in Drum's home in Greenwich Village in New York City, at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning, the two seated themselves and regarded each other like tigers meeting over a waterhole.

"I'm going to be blunt, Mr Drum," said Savage. "I know your record. You have done outstanding work for your country since 1933. Your campaign against Axis spies and saboteurs during the war was impressive, very impressive indeed. Yet, I have to say that many influential people in high positions have lost most of their trust in you."

For the first time, an edge came into the Scots burr. Drum suddenly seemed menacing without trying to be. "Because of my marriage?"

"Yeah. Not only did you marry a Russian gal, she happens to be the daughter of one of America's greatest enemies... Igor Petrov, the Red Blade himself." Savage made a scoffing growl. "If you hadn't been the one to kill Petrov and end his threat, I doubt if your wife would ever be allowed to enter the States, let alone become a naturalized citizen."

Drum's pale eyes stabbed at the colonel with inexplicable lambent glints as if lit from within. Although Savage had no way of knowing, the Blue Guide was gathering gralic force into himself like liquid lightning through his veins. "That gal, as you call her, is the love of my life," Drum said. "We went through hell to be together and I'll tell you this, colonel.. If the government stood in our way, I'd live with her on a desert island if I had to!"

"Hey, hey, I was married myself," Savage said, raising his open hands. "I hear you. Until you really fall in love, you got no idea what it means. But my point is, you have not been taking any commissions from Uncle Sam this past year."

"I'm sure you know we're expecting a baby," Drum told the man in an easier tone. "Naturally, that's where my priorities lie."

"Right you are. But listen, Drum, I wouldn't have been sent here if there wasn't something bad brewing. You know that. In the past, you were cleared for Top Secret in light of the urgency of the Big One. Even now, when some in congress see you as compromised, they recognize they have to be realistic and ask you to help."

The long craggy face was still cold. Mark Drum said, "I shouldn't be surprised by the ingratitude! But I did what I did because it was right, not to earn medals or rewards. You might as well go ahead, colonel."

Despite his claims of being blunt and direct, Edward Savage hesitated to get to the point. "For the last two years.. fourteen months, actually.. there have been some mighty weird events in the Southwestern states. I'll come out and say it, Monsters with a capital M. Giant insects ten times bigger than normal. Bizarre people. Sightings of creatures that belong in, I dunno, Greek myths. And they have been killing people."

That softened Drum's attitude. "Really."

"Yeah. I thought some wiseguys in the agency were pulling my leg. Then I talked to witnesses and you never heard such fear in voices as in theirs. I became a believer. Here. I brought something to convince you."

From an inner pocket of his military jacket, Savage drew out a manila envelope held shut with yellow tape across its flap. He slit that open with a thumbnail, scanned the room cautiously and took out a stack of glossy 8X10 black and white photographs. Typed on the back of each was location, date and time taken. Slowly, he passed them to Drum one at a time to be studied.

"Outside Reno, Nevada," the colonel said. "Last February 20th." The first photo showed two grizzled hunters in plaid shirts and hats with ear flaps. They were standing next to a scorpion as big as either of them was. The giant creature was clearly visible in full daylight, with a gaping shotgun wound in its thorax showing how it had died.

"Next, Winslow, Arizona," Savage narrated. "May 30th." This photo was the first of five which showed a bizarre animal, obviously alive and caged. It resembled a dark-hided African lion with the head and forelimbs of a baboon. The beast was glaring at the camera with murderous intensity.

More pictures followed. There were ants eight feet long. A Gila Monster the size of a man, walking upright and holding a stick in its front paw. Finally, there was a nearly naked man with exaggerated muscular development. His conical skull, brow ledge and tusks in the lower jaw marked him as other than Human.

Eighteen photos, each numbered in the upper right corner. Edward Savage kept a protective eye on those pictures. He was careful to arrange them all in the proper sequence and seal them back in the envelope, which he placed in his inner jacket pocket before speaking. "These photographs were taken either by our Mandate agents or by law enforcement officers on the scene. As far as our whiz kids in the lab can certify, they're genuine."

I agree," Drum said. "I didn't see any sign of tampering or trick photography. Of course, I'd need to examine the negatives to be certain."

The single blue eye fixed on Drum. "You seem to accept the, shall we say, unusual nature of these creatures easily."

"Oh, I've seen some strange things in my time, colonel. There is one aspect that worries me."

"Yeah?" snapped Savage, "And what might that be?"

"All of this activity took place in a limited area. New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, Arizona. Something has been going on that corner of the country for the past few years that might be connected."

"Come out and say what we're both thinking, Mr Drum," the colonel said. "The tests. A-bombs have been going off like a Fourth of July fireworks display getting bigger and more impressive each time. Bigger, louder."

"And with more radiation and more fall-out over a wider area, too," the Blue Guide said. "I understand now the atomic bombs have become outdated and they're only used to set off nuclear explosions? What next?"

"It's playing with toys we don't understand, that's for sure."

Drum cocked his head. "You don't seem very gung ho, Colonel Savage."

"Don't get me wrong. I love America. Hell, I lost an eye and a marriage and twenty-six years of my life defending this country. I want us to be the strongest nation on the planet but these bombs.. there's something deeply WRONG about them."

Going over to the windows, Drum pulled the heavy curtains open to let in brilliant sunlight. It was a gorgeous May morning, everything in Nature sprouting and growing and turning the land green. But here they stood discussing the most terrible weapons ever made. "So. These weird creatures. Do you think there's a direct connection with the testing?"

"How would I know? I'm a simple dogface used to digging in and shooting at human enemies. This stuff is beyond me. Even our so-called geniuses can pretend they really know what radiation does. Make bugs as big as horses? Turn a man into a rampaging brute that bullets don't stop? Sure looks like it."

Drum swung around to face his visitor again. "Out with it, colonel. What is it you haven't told me?"

"All right. All these things in the pictures were dead or dying. The bodies are being dissected and studied. So they're closed files. But there is something in the Southwest right now that we know is alive."

"Wait. You've captured one!"

"Damn right. The few who know called it the Bat Creature. Everyone who has seen it face to face is terrified."

As the Mandate officer said that, a change came visibly over Mark Drum. Without moving, he seemed taller, more massive, more imposing. Suddenly his presence filled the room with intense energy. Even the mundane mind of Edward Savage reacted to this change.

"There have been four sightings in the last month, and the latest one was yesterday," the colonel grumbled. "Two civilians are dead and one critically injured. A State Trooper suffered some broken bones but he's expected to be released shortly. He shows worrying signs of emotional trauma, though."

Drum had a gloomy face at the best of times but now he was actively scowling. "These Bat Creatures, what do they look like?"

"I was hoping you might want to go see for yourself. Yeah, they caught one. It's being held at a research facility outside of Lane Fox, New Mexico."

"All right, I'm sold. I'll go," said the Blue Guide. He rubbed his bony hands together with an eagerness he was not consciously aware of. "I can assume you have planned on me accepting."

"Oh yes. There's a jet waiting for us at Idlewild. My driver is waiting outside."

"Hold on," Drum said with an upraised hand. "Not until I speak with my wife. I will not have her come home to find only a note on the door. Especially in her condition. Sonia should be home in a few minutes. How about some coffee?"

"Not a minute too soon," said Savage. "I missed my morning cup in the rush."

The ritual of brewing and consuming coffee took up the next few minutes with nothing of consequence being said. The colonel also accepted an English muffin with honey and was finishing his second cup when Sonia entered her home.

Rupert, the servant and acolyte of the Blue Guide, escorted her into the living room. When he saw Colonel Savage seated, Rupert drew himself up to his full height and only relaxed when he caught a reassuring nod from Drum. The former Royal Commando was a British veteran of the Burma campaign and his huge bulk was not as intimidating as his assurance. "Orders, sir?"

"At ease, Rupert," said Mark Drum. "I will be leaving on a short trip but there is no danger to us. Please escort our guest to his car."

Five months pregnant, wearing a loose cardigan over a white blouse and dark pleated skirt, Sonia Petrovna Drum was handsome rather than gorgeous. She was tall, almost five feet ten, with a strong jawline and an aquiline nose. Although her glossy black hair was done up in a bun at the moment, it normally reached past her shoulders when loose.

As soon as she had seen the gleaming black car outside and walked in to find a man in uniform talking to her husband, Sonia had not feared that she was in trouble herself. She had known with cold certainty what was going on.

"You are being called away again, no?" she asked. Well educated and widely traveled, she had not lost her Georgian accent but had refined it. "Still another crisis which only you can resolve?"

Drum watched the door close behind Rupert and Colonel Savage before he answered simply, "Yes."

As she stepped closer and placed her palms high up on his chest, Sonia studied the depths of those iron-grey eyes. "I should not be selfish. I knew I fell in love with a man of honor and duty. A Blue Guide, a Tel Shai knight. And yet, we have both of us sacrified so much already."

"We have indeed," he told as he led her to the couch to be seated. "We have suffered to find this happiness."

"How much more can be expected to us?" she asked in a whisper. "Don't we deserve peace? Quiet years to raise our son, to grow old together and be content? I do not think that is asking too much of life."

He dropped down beside her, his head bent as if by a great weight. "It's not too much, Sonia. I have turned down many requests by the government or by old friends to investigate strange events. But these... phenomena in the Midwest trouble me. I am worried they are harbingers of much worse to come. I have to at least have a look."

"Telling you to be careful is like telling the leaves not to turn color," she said, leaning her head against him. "But now more than ever, I must tell you exactly that."

Drum took her hands in his. "I don't think I will be in any personal danger. I swear I will return safely and we can make our plans. You know somehow it will be a boy?"

"Yes. One can tell." She lifted their intertwined hands and kissed them gently. "Do what you must, my love. We will be waiting."

( the rest of the story )