“Launch the Predator!” she shouted.
The armed drone was remotely piloted by an operative within the basement bunker, and an array of infrared cameras provided a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield. Two members of her security team lay dead. The remainder of her Night Sector squad was kneeling, hands interlocked behind their necks.
Conscripts are such pussies!
“Light ‘em up with a Hellfire missile!” Brenna snapped.
“Uh ... um,” the drone pilot stuttered. “I’ve lost control of the Predator. They’re jamming our comms.”
A vicious explosion rattled the bunker; a blinding flash saturated the monitors; then hypnotic waves of red and orange illuminated a dense ball of smoke.
Glowing tongues of fire began raining down.
“Oh sh-sh-shit!” the drone pilot bellowed. “They just took out our weapons cache!”
A second, smaller explosion reverberated through the cinder-block basement, and Brenna flinched.
The TEradS had blown the hinges on basement’s steel door.
Unable to hear her own voice, she shrieked, “Destruct three, two, two, sierra, bravo, six,” and drew the handgun holstered on her hip. The barrel swung upward; the sights closed on her target; and she fired a single shot into the skull of the drone pilot.
No evidence—whether electronic or human—could be left behind.
The barrel jerked toward her deputy.
“Brenna, no,” he pleaded.
Concurrent gunshots resounded.
A white-hot pain tore through Brenna’s chest, and she collapsed onto the floor.
Darkness was closing around her, and it reeked of an odd electrical burning smell.
The voice-activated microwave weapon ... it worked!
The fail-safe device had been installed inside every piece of equipment, an insurance policy to prevent intelligence from falling into enemy hands.
Someone kicked the gun from her grasp and began administering first aid.
Please, don’t save me, she thought, unable to voice the words. If I live, I’ll have to face Hellhound.
3
District Five, Illinois
THE SOLES OF BRADLEY’s feet were worn raw. He’d spent all day trekking barefoot through woodlands laden with thorny branches and neighborhoods paved with abrasive asphalt. Shortly after sunset, a storm front caused temperatures to plunge into the fifties, and Bradley’s T-shirt and boxers offered minimal protection from the gusting northerly winds.
How fitting, he thought, shivering uncontrollably. Begin the mission sweating my balls off; end the mission freezing them off.
Only the mission wasn’t finished at all. Volkov was still alive. And now the enemy had possession of top-secret U.S. military technology. Would he use the invisibility cloak to attack the TEradS?
At least I managed to neutralize the owl. He shifted the laptop to his left hand and flexed his right, dispelling the stiffness that resulted from gripping an object too long.
What traitorous acts had Volkov been plotting? Bradley wondered.
Was he going to coerce me into ambushing my teammates? Into assassinating Ryan?
The unanswered questions were barbs churning inside his empty stomach, amplifying his hunger and riling up the acid.
As long as I have the laptop, Volkov can’t control me, he thought. His decision not to destroy it was based on equal parts hope and fear; the hope that the files would expose Volkov’s agenda; and the fear that improper disposal would allow data to be recovered by bad actors.
Bradley was acutely aware that this mind-control technology could potentially enslave humanity.
Imagine being punished, not just for speech or social media posts, he thought, but for your most private thoughts.
A kick to the groin for ogling a beautiful woman?
Virtual lashes for harboring undesirable political views?
A heart attack for opposing the powers that be?
To the south, the lights of District Five were casting a halo against the night sky. Bradley estimated the distance at thirty miles, which meant Volkov’s bombed-out base was twenty miles away; Scoville Air Force Base, double that.
His stride slowed as the forest gave way to a freshly planted field. The cushy soil felt soothing against his battered feet, but it was surreptitiously siphoning off his body heat.
Asphalt traps the sun’s warmth. I need to find a road, he thought.
Teeth chattering, Bradley tried to envision the map from his mission briefing. The image in his mind’s eye was larger and more detailed than expected, replete with landmarks, street names, latitude and longitude, and even topographical lines.
That’s not the map Ryan showed me ... Then how am I remembering it?
Bradley massaged his temples as if that might assuage the turmoil raging within his skull.
Is hypothermia affecting my judgment?
After walking due west for another mile, he entered a small town that had been razed by the great earthquake. Homes and businesses constructed from unreinforced masonry had crumbled like sandcastles. Trees were down; spans of fence, swallowed up by gaping sinkholes. The only structure standing taller than Bradley was a single wall of a funeral home, its collapsed carport forming a lean-to.
The sensitive skin at the nape of his neck tingled, and he turned in a circle, certain that someone or something was stalking him. A bear? A peacekeeper? A crazy Russian general?
Bradley grimaced, aware that he was ill-equipped to deal with any of those threats. Then he saw it, two hundred yards ahead, an airborne blob silhouetted against the District Five night-light.
A blackbird drone! Son of a bitch!
Instinctively, he sprinted toward the precarious lean-to. The cracked asphalt was scouring flesh from his toes, and pebbles felt like scalpels carving into his heels. In a hunched run, Bradley charged into the void beneath the fallen carport then sucked in a sharp breath.
His eyes zeroed on a splotch of red light, illuminating a bottle of water, an MRE, and a small knife. A neatly folded set of TEradS fatigues was stacked atop the inside-out invisibility cloak and high-tech pajamas, the entire pile of fabric book-ended by a pair of combat boots.
Adrenaline laced with dread dumped into his bloodstream.
Volkov is here ...? Shit! Shit! SHIT!
He grabbed the knife and flashlight, thinking, I’m going to complete this mission and slash his damn throat!
Then a blitz of disappointment extinguished his adrenaline rush.
If Volkov was here, he never would’ve armed me with a knife. What kind of game is he playing?
After giving the safety seal on the water bottle a thorough inspection, he twisted off the cap and downed it. The cool liquid sloshed into his empty stomach, rekindling his hunger pangs.
The MRE’s laminated pouches showed no signs of tampering; and as he sliced open the chemical compound marketed as meatloaf, a thought occurred. If Volkov was nearby, maybe Bradley could use the owl against him.
Grinning at the prospect of transforming the crazy general into a fountain of intelligence, he powered up the laptop. It went through a typical boot cycle, then bold, one-inch letters appeared as if someone was typing.
Everything you believe is a lie. You believe that you escaped. The truth is, I let you go. The blackbird, the map you recalled with such incredible clarity—I programmed all of it into your mind.
Bradley’s head shook. No, it was just a lucky guess. Volkov knew I would head back to Scoville ...
But the map? There’s no logical explanation ...
He swiped the computer’s built-in mouse with a numb finger. The screen scrolled downward, revealing the remainder of the message.
While you slept, I downloaded 2,000 terabytes of information into your brain. Meticulously portioned batches of data will be unlocked on a need-to-know basis and are essential to the success of our joint mission. This laptop does not contain the owl’s mind-control software; therefore, any thoughts of resistance are futil
e. At the appointed time, you will be activated.
Chapter 2
DAY 473
Thursday, June 2nd
4
District Five, Illinois
MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS’ flight landed and, as soon as he set foot on the tarmac, his satellite phone chirped, announcing a barrage of incoming messages. Two were from Kyle; four, from Rone. Why wouldn’t they take no for an answer?
Ryan didn’t want to be Vice President. Campaigning and soliciting donations; contending with intellectually dishonest politicians and angry constituents; endless meetings and press briefings; tuxedos and hoity-toity state dinners—he couldn’t imagine a more torturous hell.
Ignoring the messages, he crossed the tarmac, climbed into a Humvee, and began the twenty-mile drive north to Volkov’s former base. He felt compelled to visit the site and pay his respects to Bradley.
Ryan still hadn’t told Abby or Kyle. Was it denial? Cowardice? Or the realization that he couldn’t deliver the news without falling apart?
A familiar tightness was forming in his throat, an upwelling of emotion. Not now, he chided himself. Focus on your—
The chime of his satphone derailed his thought. The incoming number was blocked. Were Rone and Kyle stepping up their offensive?
Grudgingly, he accepted the call and grunted, “Andrews.”
“Good-morning, Major.”
Crooked Carter Sidney, Ryan thought, swearing under his breath. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“You can start by addressing me as Madam Vice President. I worked hard for that title.”
“Yes, Madam Vice President.” God help us if this bitch becomes President.
“Why the fuck did your TEradS slaughter a CIA team? Those men and women were heroes, Major! They dedicated their lives to hunting Vladislav Volkov!”
Ryan clenched the steering wheel, his hand contracting into a rock-hard fist. “I sent my teams to investigate the origin of a drone strike that killed one of my men. And when they came under fire, they defended themselves. I have helmet-camera footage proving that Station Chief Brenna John shot and killed her subordinates. Most likely to cover up the CIA’s unconstitutional activities.”
“Consider yourself forewarned, Major. Intelligence agencies have six ways from Sunday at getting back at you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just a statement of fact, but I promise you this: As soon as I’m sworn in as President, I will disband the TEradS and ensure that you and your Gestapo face a United World war crimes tribunal!”
Carter Sidney abruptly ended the call, and the implications thundered through Ryan.
If that lying, influence-peddling, opportunistic traitor gets elected, patriots will be wrongfully jailed and the corruption will never be exposed.
Seething with outrage, Ryan stomped on the Humvee’s brakes and swerved onto the shoulder. There actually was something he despised even more than politics: the prospect of a Carter Sidney presidency.
I owe it to Bradley to protect Abby from a war crimes tribunal. I owe it to all my guys, Ryan thought, sending an urgent text message to Admiral Rone.
Changed my mind. I’m running!
Need 3 days to tie up TEradS business. Will meet you in District Three for announcement.
Resuming his journey, he surveyed the earthquake-blighted landscape—hundreds of buckled homes, miles of warped asphalt, and dozens of crumpled bridges over the Mississippi River. The physical damage would be easy to fix; rooting out Consortium shills from the government, that would be the onerous challenge.
God help us if Rone’s plan fails.
Ryan turned onto an access road and navigated around fallen tree trunks and cones of sand. As the Humvee coasted to a stop, his heart sank. The bubble of denial he’d been nurturing was about to burst.
“Major Andrews?”
He exited the vehicle and acknowledged Master Sergeant Norwyn’s salute. Although the official recovery effort had ended yesterday, Bradley’s teammates were still here, exhausting their leave time to search for their brother-in-arms and protect his remains from buzzards and bobcats.
“Welcome to District Five. Permission to speak candidly, sir?”
Ryan braced himself for bad news and nodded for him to proceed.
“No progress locating Master Sergeant Webber, but we stumbled across some troubling information.” Norwyn’s eyes darted toward a wall of steel cargo containers that girded the former base like a giant fire ring. “President Quenten ordered the NSA and CIA to cease sharing intel with the TEradS, specifically because of the outpost raid.”
Six ways to Sunday, he thought. This has Crooked Carter Sidney’s fingerprints all over it.
“Master Sergeant, how, exactly, did you stumble across that information?”
“CJ Love, the drone pilot, sir. He’s got a buddy at the NSA.”
Was that the reason Rone had sent so many messages?
Regret mushrooming, Ryan thanked Norwyn and marched toward a portal in the wall of cargo containers. The opening was the width of the two-lane access road, and passing through it, his breath caught in his throat.
A thick layer of white ash blanketed the footprints of both buildings, and only a few twisted steel beams were peeking through the powdery dunes. Where are the charred water heaters and air conditioning units? What happened to all the bricks? And why the hell didn’t that tree get torched?
The pitch pine—chock-full of flammable resin—stood barely twenty feet from the inferno, untouched except for the ash coating its boughs like dirty snow.
Ryan trudged toward the northern portal, stepping over a steel beam that resembled taffy, and an eerie sensation raked his spine. This level of destruction wasn’t caused by a Hellfire missile. Did President Quenten unleash another secret weapon? Did he set up Bradley? Sending him after Volkov so they could be taken out simultaneously?
Ryan swallowed hard to suppress the grief throbbing at the base of his throat. His teeth were grinding, and a fierce tension was propagating along his jaw, through his nasal passages, making his head ache. Acute sorrow was manifesting into physical pain, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, covertly blotting the moisture from his eyes.
“Don’t cry, Major. I’m in a better place.”
Ryan flinched.
He pivoted toward the sound of Bradley’s voice. Seeing no one, he scanned the skies for a blackbird. Were the Russians using a drone to screw with him in his moment of grief?
Teetering between sorrow and anger, he started back toward Norwyn.
“You can’t run away from your feelings, Major.”
The suffocated laughter in Bradley’s tone prompted a revelation. “Master Sergeant, if you are standing there in that invisibility cloak, I swear, I’m going to bust your ass back down to Private!”
A deep, full-hearted cackle confirmed his suspicions.
“You son of a bitch!” Ryan’s arm cocked back; his balled fist shot forward, swinging and missing.
“Uh, sir ... who are you talking to?” Norwyn asked.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder. His team stood five yards behind him, aligned in a horseshoe formation. A cocktail of confusion, concern, and pity was playing over their bewildered expressions.
“Relax, I’m not sparring with a ghost or talking to myself,” he assured them. “Bradley, take off the cloak.”
A swish of wind rustled tree leaves; the silence stretched on.
“Sir, can I get you anything?” Norwyn asked. “Maybe a drink of water?”
Temper flaring, Ryan bellowed, “Master Sergeant Webber, I am giving you a direct order. Take off the cloak!”
After a minute elapsed, Norwyn approached Ryan with cautious, deliberate movements as if he was a bomb in need of defusing. “Can I drive you back to Scoville, sir?”
Enough is enough, Ryan decided. “Sure, but let me say a few words first ... in memory of Master Sergeant Webber ...”
In unison, his team bowed their heads.
“Brad
ley, I’m so sorry ... I had to bomb this site to keep you from learning the truth ... I’ve been banging Abby—”
“You, motherf-f—” The Sniper checked himself, too late.
Norwyn’s brow crinkled. His eyes darted over the ashen landscape. “Bradley?”
“Gentlemen, Webber is playing you for fools,” Ryan told his team. “He’s wearing a top-secret invisibility cloak. Try not to damage it when you beat his ass.”
5
Scoville Air Force Base, Illinois
BRADLEY SHOWERED, wincing as the spray of water rinsed soap from his swollen face. Nine brand-new bruises, one per teammate, adorned his body in shades of blue and purple. Strategic placement on his arms, legs, cheeks, and buttocks ensured that he couldn’t sit, stand, walk, hoist a rifle, or even smile without discomfort.
He downed three Motrin, gingerly donned a clean set of fatigues, and began the arduous trek to the TEradS briefing room. Inflammation was pressing against nerves, making every step feel like another punch.
Was it worth it? he asked himself. Hell yeah!
Long after the bruises vanished the memories would still be there: Ryan’s grief-stricken tears, the desperation in his voice when Bradley refused to de-cloak, his dumbstruck expression when the guys thought he’d lost touch with reality.
Bradley sidled up to the briefing room door, arms hanging limp at his sides, and rapped his knuckles against it.
“Enter.”
Merely twisting the doorknob provoked a sharp pain in his biceps, and he thought, Thank God standing at attention doesn’t require me to raise my arms.
“Master Sergeant Webber reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, battling a smug grin.
Ryan was seated at the conference table, and his brown eyes tracked across Bradley’s face, inventorying his bruises. “Awfully proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 3