“Close your eyes!”
Bradley’s eyelids clamped shut and, despite his best efforts, would not reopen. Standing there, unable to see, move, or speak, he felt powerless, and his imagination cycled through terrifying scenarios.
Is he going to shoot me?
No, if he wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead.
He wants to torture me for information.
“The owl is quite an improvement over the blackbird prototype,” the general began, his tone unnervingly friendly. “It uses electrical frequencies to jam the signals between brain and muscle. And it can control bodily functions as well.”
Keys clacked, and Bradley’s pulse accelerated until his heart felt like a bucking stallion. A sheen of sweat blossomed into itchy tendrils that trickled down his face, his neck, his back.
“I could make you soil yourself,” Volkov said, his throaty laugh returning. “I could induce a panic attack, a myocardial infarction, or a seizure. I could make you feel the pain of a beating, the agony of fire devouring skin, the terror of drowning, with no evidence of torture—all at the stroke of my keyboard.”
Bradley gasped. This kind of technology in the hands of a madman? It’s even worse than I imagined.
“Madman?” Volkov scoffed. “I am no such thing.”
How did he know I called him a madman? Bradley wondered.
Was that a wild-ass guess?
Faint swishing and crunching sounds suggested the general was moving closer.
“Behold, Master Sergeant.”
Bradley’s eyelids snapped open, and he stared in disbelief at the laptop screen. His private thoughts were on display, neatly typed in real time.
Can the owl inject thoughts into my mind? Or only eavesdrop?
“Bradley, do ten jumping jacks and count them out.”
Go fuck yourself!
Volkov’s lips curled into a benign smile. “You really do remind me of Dmitry. I’m looking forward to our newly forged alliance.” Then with dramatic flair, he depressed the enter key.
Bradley’s body responded involuntarily, arms and legs pumping, syllables croaking from his throat.
Shit! This psycho’s going to weaponize me ... going to turn me into an assassin who betrays his country ...
iii
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
GOVERNOR KYLE MURPHY trudged alongside Ryan Andrews toward a C-130 at the southern end of the tarmac. Self-preservation and a pesky sense of duty were brawling inside Kyle, engaged in a fight to the death while anxiety refereed. Was it wrong for him to put his family first? To protect Jessie from the intense scrutiny of a presidential campaign? To provide Nikki and Billy with a normal childhood, without Secret Service agents overshadowing their world?
“I bet Admiral Rone is going to be your VP,” Ryan said excitedly. “Did you notice the way he smirked when he said, ‘We’ll discuss that during the briefing’?”
The TEradS commander had short tawny hair and inquisitive honey-brown eyes that were constantly in motion. The contours of his cheeks and chin were smooth and rounded, yet there was an inherent strength in his face. Street-smart and battle hardened, the thirty-eight-year-old was an artisan with expletives, a contortionist with rules and regulations, and an expert at pushing boundaries.
Kyle slanted him a damning look, still irritated at Ryan for shoving him into a political lion’s den. “I AM NOT running for President!”
“Come on, Murphy. Everybody between sixteen and forty is putting their lives on the line for the country. Why shouldn’t you serve?”
The words were a dagger of conscience-piercing guilt. “But I’m not qualified. This is tantamount to drafting me on Monday and asking me to fly a fighter jet on Tuesday.”
“Rone’s not going to set you up for failure. Believe me, the Admiral has a plan ... Then again,” Ryan said with a snap of his fingers, “General Quenten could be your VP. That would explain why he flew in to Langden.”
The C-130’s rear cargo door was down, angled like a ramp, and Kyle’s gaze fixed on the fuselage. “What the hell is that?”
A gray shipping container was wedged inside the aircraft and barely cleared the ceiling. Its dual cargo doors were open, revealing a solid wall and a steel door with the largest hinges Kyle had ever seen. A metal box, mounted beside the handle, housed a keypad; and above it, a dome-shaped surveillance camera recorded their approach.
“That’s a portable SCIF,” Ryan said.
“This just proves my point,” Kyle grumbled. “I don’t even know what a SCIF is.”
“It’s a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility,” Ryan told him. “A vaultlike room impervious to high-tech eavesdropping.”
The thick steel door swung open, and Kyle followed Ryan into the claustrophobic space. Its interior walls were pale-blue steel, studded with fabric wrapped rectangles.
For acoustical security? he wondered. Or to absorb voices and deaden echoes?
The heavy door clunked shut, amplifying Kyle’s feelings of entrapment, then Admiral Rone initiated a round of introductions.
“... And last but not least, our vice-presidential candidate ... Major Ryan Andrews.”
Ryan let out a rambunctious laugh that waxed and ebbed, undulating into a manly giggle. “Admiral, you missed your calling,” he said as they hunkered around a small conference table. “You’re quite the comedian, sir.”
“On the contrary, Major, I’m quite serious.”
Ryan’s smile faded. His jaw went slack. His eyes bulged then contracted into slivers as shock yielded to anger. “Uh ... No, sir! My deficit of diplomacy and surplus of political incorrectness would make me the worst candidate. Ever!”
Unable to squelch his taunting grin, Kyle said, “Isn’t that for the voters to decide?”
The question provoked a look that could have pulverized granite.
“Candor can be an asset,” Rone said. “And as commander of the TEradS, your favorability rating with the American people is close to eighty percent. Apparently, their firsthand experiences with TEradS trump the media’s dishonest hearsay.”
Face flushed, Ryan extended both hands like stop signs. “General Quenten, you know how I feel about D.C. I accepted the TEradS position contingent on HQ moving from Washington to Texas.”
Kyle grinned, watching Ryan’s expression mutate from alarm to full-blown panic; then, head tipping forward to establish eye contact, he said, “Your country needs you! Do it for your unborn baby! And every other child in America!”
Ryan’s jaw pulsed with unspoken expletives; his glare promised retribution.
Undeterred, Kyle continued, “At the very least, you should suspend judgment until you have all the facts ... Like me.”
“Excellent suggestion,” Rone said. “Gentlemen, our government is rife with corruption. Have you ever wondered how a politician like Senator Conn can afford to live in a $4.3-million-dollar mansion on his $174,000 congressional salary?”
“Then there’s the Sidney Foundation,” Quenten added, “the biggest influence-peddling and money-laundering scheme in U.S. history. Remember that uranium scandal prior to the pulse? Carter Sidney personally facilitated that deal. She sold off one-fifth of our uranium reserves in exchange for $140,000,000; and that uranium made its way through Canada over to Europe and, ultimately, into hostile nations.”
“Let’s be clear,” Kyle interrupted. “Are you telling me that Carter Sidney knowingly gave uranium to our enemies?”
“Affirmative.”
“And your brother appointed her to replace Aaron Burr as Vice President?” Ryan asked, disgust resonating in his voice.
“Committibank funded my brother’s campaign,” General Quenten said with a somber nod. “Post-election they submitted ‘recommendations’ for cabinet positions; then, lo and behold, my brother appointed each and every one of them.”
Ryan muttered, “Explains why he had so many traitors in his cabinet.”
“If the American people knew the truth about what is
really happening,” Rone said, “ninety-nine percent of them would need to be hospitalized. You see, a corrupt Commander in Chief appoints a corrupt attorney general, corrupt department heads, and corrupt federal judges. That means all the alphabet agencies—FBI, CIA, DOJ, EPA, IRS, and the State Department—are infected and in dire need of a deep cleaning. All Consortium-connected politicians and bureaucrats must go.”
Kyle fidgeted in his chair, intimidated by the scope of the undertaking. “You’re talking about taking on the most powerful people in the world. They’re not going to relinquish power willingly. And I’ve seen the ever-growing list of suspicious deaths associated with Carter Sidney; this would put a huge bull’s-eye on our families.”
Concern skittered over the Admiral’s features. “We have been war-gaming this ‘cleansing’ for years. And we can minimize risk using something called game theory; mathematical models of conflict and cooperation between decision makers that predict behavior. You can depend on our council of Wizards and Warlocks to protect you.”
“Gentlemen, it all boils down to a simple question.” The General’s chin jutted forward and a sly smile tweaked his lips. “Can you—in good conscience—allow Carter Sidney to become Commander in Chief? The woman who furnished the uranium used to EMP our country?”
Chapter 1
DAY 472
Wednesday, June 1st
1
District Five, Illinois
BRADLEY WEBBER jolted awake, gasping and heart racing. A vivid memory had resurfaced in his dream. He was three years old, playing with a submarine in a sudsy bathtub when an attempt to torpedo a floating rubber ducky sent a tsunami crashing onto the bathroom floor. Bradley’s father had grabbed him by the back of his neck and plunged his face into the soapy water. It had felt like an eternity, unable to breathe, unable to cry out, utterly helpless ... until his father released him.
Why now? he asked himself. Because that was the last time I felt so vulnerable? So controlled?
Last night, Volkov had tapped a few keys on a laptop and drowsiness had descended. The crazy general had shut down his mind and body as if he was an electronic gadget, a damn robotic toy.
A robotic toy with Sniper training ... I need to get out of here.
Bradley sat upright on the mildew-infested couch, relieved that there was no intravenous needle in his arm.
Volkov was sitting at the desk, stationed behind the laptop. “Breakfast is served,” he said, gesturing toward a steaming cup of coffee and an MRE.
Bradley hoisted the paper cup, inhaled the rich aroma, and took a tentative sip. It had the strong smoky taste of gourmet coffee prior to the pulse, and he enthusiastically downed half of it. The foil MRE pouch contained waxen scrambled eggs and two gray sausage links that looked like plastic. Skeptically, he stabbed the meat with a fork and nibbled on the end.
Holy hell!
It was tender and juicy and spicy, exactly the way Gramps used to make it.
“One of the owl’s most miraculous feats,” his captor said with a smirk. “It can make an MRE delicious.”
Bradley scanned the cluttered room and located his feathered nemesis roosting overhead, atop a wooden ceiling joist.
How can I deactivate that thing? he wondered, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“The only means of deactivation is via this laptop,” Volkov replied as though Bradley had asked the question aloud. “Let us begin your re-education. Everything you believe to be true is false. Right is wrong. And good is evil. For example, you consider me an enemy when, in reality, I am your friend.”
Expelling a snide laugh, Bradley said, “You’re holding me captive, controlling my body, and eavesdropping on my thoughts—that makes you enemy number one.”
Volkov’s pale-blue eyes shone with indignation. “If I had told you about the owl’s capabilities would you’ve believed me?”
“I don’t believe anything you say. You killed Defina and Gallagher!”
The general fixed Bradley with a glare that traveled through him like a shock wave. “Master Sergeant, did you massacre those POWs in District Six?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why does the world believe that you did?”
“Because the media are biased and have their own agenda.”
“So you were framed?”
“Exactly!”
The glow of imminent victory was beaming from Volkov’s face. “Did you ever bother to consider whether those same people could be framing me?”
“Nice try.” Bradley pitched the empty MRE pouch onto the desk. “We both know it was retaliation for intercepting your hard drive and killing your son.”
The general’s head rocked in an amiable denial. “I didn’t need that drive. Ames was merely a patsy to cover the fact that my group had penetrated Night Sector’s secure servers.”
“Night Sector?” Bradley repeated.
“The Consortium’s military wing, their private army. They’re the ones who deployed the blackbirds and mosquito drones. Not Russia.”
“A private army could never afford the research and development required for a weapons system like that—”
“Think again. With the help of the CIA, they produced thousands of blackbirds. The second generation, Project Night Owl, expanded transmission range, improved targeting with facial recognition, and added the ability to harvest thoughts and dictate body movements. The third generation, Project Phaedra, incorporated artificial intelligence and could transmit and receive from low-earth orbit. The network of seven satellites was launched the day after the EMP.”
Bradley harrumphed. “If that was true, the whole country would be under Night Sector control.”
“It IS true and you’re welcome.” Volkov’s head cocked to the side as if dealing with a headstrong toddler. “My team used this owl to program the mind of a cosmonaut, and shortly after the pulse, we destroyed Project Phaedra’s satellites with a fleet of stealth space drones.”
“And shredded U.S. military satellites!” Bradley snapped.
“Another lie you accept as truth.” Volkov’s voice was syrupy and oozing with contrived patience. “Naturally, The Consortium was irate over the devastating loss and retaliated with a space-based microwave weapon. They destroyed your satellites and blamed Russia because World War III suits their agenda. I have to give them credit; they never waste a crisis.”
Bradley gnawed at his lower lip in contemplation.
The Consortium won’t benefit from war, he decided. It would disrupt all their illicit revenue streams.
The general sighed as if venting disappointment then reestablished eye contact. “Bradley, economic crashes are merely transfers of wealth that enrich the elites. And war serves three of their primary goals: enrichment of the military industrial complex, depopulation, and global governance. A New Global Order.”
“You sound like a conspiracy theorist.”
“As I said before, what you believe to be false is true. This is why you must be re-educated.”
Fear rioted through Bradley’s nervous system and left a swell of hatred in its wake. “You think you’re so clever, creating those ‘sanctuary zones’ in order to frame the TEradS for war crimes.”
Volkov winced as if slighted. “I attempted to take General Sun and his PLA soldiers out of play. Regrettably, Night Sector foiled that effort. They undermined the TEradS and pitted you against me.”
“You’re full of shit!” Bradley shouted. “You murdered a ten-year-old boy! And fucking tried to kill Abby!”
“I did no such thing,” Volkov insisted. “The bomb and RPG were Chinese retribution for the assassination of Aaron Burr. Izzy Bissel, on the other hand, was accidentally dispatched by a sniper targeting Ryan Andrews and your beloved. And that order came from within your chain of command.”
What a prolific liar! Bradley thought. I have to get out from under his control ... Better to get shot than become his personal assassin.
He lunged toward Volkov and clamped onto the
laptop, wrenching it from the old man’s grasp. Bradley darted through the doorway and into the earthquake-ravaged library.
“Halt, Master Sergeant, or I’ll shoot!”
Clumsily, he scurried between toppled shelves and over mounds of moldy books, slipping and swimming through the odor of damp paper.
A bullet plinked against a metal shelf to his right.
Another hissed past his left ear and thudded into an encyclopedia a few yards ahead of him.
Where’s the damn exit?
2
District Five, Illinois
BRENNA JOHN WAS A stunning thirty-year-old with long ashy-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a voluptuous figure. She’d joined the CIA right after college, starting out as a “honeypot,” a female spy who seduced targets in order to extract intelligence, steal secrets, or initiate blackmail. Within a few years, she’d turned those skills against her supervisors, resulting in a rapid advancement through the ranks.
I’ve got the wits and the tits, she’d bragged to her friends; and when they’d questioned the morality of her strategy, she’d silenced them with a simple statement. Just because you’re not profiting from it doesn’t make you any less of a whore.
Wanton promiscuity and ruthless ambition had served her well until she’d been promoted to Night Sector station chief—until she began reporting to Hellhound. The old bastard had blackmailed her and forced her to do things on camera, vile things that would be publicly released if she ever disobeyed.
Hellhound stole my freedom, she thought. Along with my humanity ... And my soul.
Brenna heard a thud followed by a barrage of gunfire, and she glared at the surveillance feed. A TEradS team had breached perimeter security.
How the hell did they find this outpost?
Brenna’s heart thumped wildly.
Her hands began to shake.
How am I going to explain this to Hellhound?
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 2