Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Not yet.” Bradley plucked it from CJ’s hand and scanned the text.

  What is In-X-Tel?

  What start-up tech companies did they acquire?

  Gaggle?

  Chatter?

  Linkbook?

  Which [3] letter agency funds In-X-Tel?

  Why is social media a priority?

  Control?

  What is dopamine?

  Is there a chemical change inside the brain when someone “likes” a post?

  What is addiction?

  What is withdrawal?

  Depression?

  Suicide?

  Expand your thinking.

  Patriot Anon

  “Pretty crazy, huh?” CJ asked.

  “Not really. The CIA’s been using media fronts to discredit and disband the TEradS. Why wouldn’t they set up a company like In-X-Tel and position themselves as the gatekeeper for all technology?”

  CJ flicked two toggle switches, nudged the yoke, and the Cessna began its descent. “So our tax dollars are funding our own Wi-Fi prison?”

  “In part, but I’m sure the lion’s share comes from extracurricular activities like drugs, gun-running, and human trafficking.”

  CJ vented a frustrated groan. “Are you saying that Linkbook genius Jacob Greenberg is in cahoots with The Consortium?”

  “Greenberg didn’t create anything. The scam goes like this: The Consortium-controlled patent office ‘acquires’ promising technology and hands it off to In-X-Tel, who tailors it to suit Consortium objectives. Then In-X-Tel hands it off to a young upstart who becomes a billionaire overnight, establishes a charitable foundation, and ‘donates’ the profits to other Consortium front groups.”

  “Do they control medical tech too?”

  “Yee-yup. And the big pharmaceutical companies.” Bradley pondered the scope of The Consortium’s power, then another “downloaded” piece of information streamed into his mind, a quote from Bill Gates, CEO of Microsoft.

  “The world today has 6.8 billion people. That’s heading up to about nine billion. Now, if we do a really great job on new vaccines, health care, reproductive services, we could lower that by perhaps 10 or 15 percent.”

  I thought vaccines and health care were supposed to save lives, he thought. Not reduce population.

  His mind reverted back to the Alameda fever vaccines.

  Did the Chinese really try to exterminate us? Or was it The Consortium’s stopgap solution until their space-based mind control went live?

  Is it possible to stop them in just twenty-two days? Or is Volkov sending me on a fool’s errand?

  Maybe this is all a ruse. Maybe the crazy general is really a Consortium operative implementing a grand diversion.

  There was military precedent for such a scheme, he knew. During World War II, the Allies had employed “ghost armies,” essentially a traveling road show with inflatable tanks and sound effects that impersonated Army units to deceive the enemy.

  But why would Volkov expose a weapon that wasn’t on our radar? And why provide a date? Do they want us to see our enslavement coming?

  They landed at McMillan Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, and borrowed a Humvee. The drive took over three hours, mile after mile of deserted neighborhoods and rusted-out vehicles, but that deterioration hadn’t prepared Bradley for the sight of Sugar Lake Road. All three houses were encased in overgrown brush, and saplings obscured the once beautiful lake views.

  CJ steered the Humvee into the Murphy’s weed-riddled driveway and killed the engine. “You really think Volkov planted something here?”

  “Home, safe, memories,” Bradley said, climbing from the passenger’s seat and readying his rifle. “This is my home, repository of all my happy memories and Kyle’s safe.”

  The front door hung open, undoubtedly kicked in by scavengers, and as he stepped inside, the smell of mildew hung thick enough to taste. The ceiling was drooping and ringed with a gamut of mold; the hardwood floors, buckled and swollen with moisture.

  He cleared the open-concept great room with a sweeping glance. Memories flickered: the intruder lying dead on the dining room floor, Kyle screaming at his daughter, Abby running away.

  Bradley descended the interior stairs and crept past the lanai. The pool was coated with a thick layer of greenish black scum, and additional memories resurfaced: Abby gripping his belt buckle and dragging him into the crystal clear water; making love to her on the double chaise lounge; Kyle catching them in the act.

  We’re not the same people now, he thought. We were all so ... innocent and naïve ... oblivious to the danger posed by The Consortium.

  The master bedroom was littered with empty cans and bottles, but it didn’t appear as though anyone had been squatting there recently. Kyle’s safe was inside the walk-in closet, and though his father-in-law insisted he’d left the door open—because it contained worthless Federal Reserve notes and stock certificates for companies that no longer existed—it was now locked.

  Bradley tried Kyle’s combination and tugged at the three-spoked handle. It didn’t open. He tried birthdays, holidays, and wedding anniversaries, every combination of numbers that came to mind—to no avail.

  “What now?” CJ asked.

  “Home, safe, memories,” he mumbled. “I’m going to pay my respects to my grandfather.”

  Bradley spent a half hour clearing out encroaching weeds; then he righted the makeshift granite headstone, and sat down beside the grave.

  “Gramps, you would not believe the crap going on now,” he whispered. “The EMP, the savages—those were the good old days. Simple enemies with simple agendas. Did you know about The Consortium?”

  As a former Army General, he must have known, Bradley decided. So, why didn’t he warn me? Was he afraid it would sound like a conspiracy theory? Afraid that I wouldn’t believe him?

  After a long overdue chat, Bradley ascended the splintered deck stairs and entered the kitchen. Palmetto bugs the size of mice scurried across the floor, and that same dank, fungal odor greeted him. Brushing away an amorous memory of Abby tearing off her T-shirt, he cleared the house and trudged back to Gramps’ office. The metal footlocker was encrusted with rust. Most of his grandfather’s awards were on the floor because the nails that secured them had sliced through the mushy, humidity-laden wallboard. Only two frames anchored in studs remained in place, their glass hazed by layers of dust.

  “What a waste,” he muttered.

  “The house? Or the trip?” CJ asked.

  Bradley nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Why didn’t I hear him approaching? I need to be more alert.

  “Hey, look, some pictures survived,” CJ told him. “In fact, they’re not even dusty.”

  Bradley wheeled around, his gaze skittering over seven frames. They were all moored on studs and configured vertically, two, then three, then two; and none of them had been hung by Gramps.

  Did Volkov put them there?

  As he examined each image, the nagging feeling in his gut grew into a thorny knot. Nine Soldiers posing on a Sherman tank; Gramps and five buddies during the Vietnam War; Jessie and Kyle with infant Abby; a Gulf War picture of Gramps with three Colonels and a General; Bradley and Gramps on a boar-hunting trip; four somber-faced infantrymen clustered around a machine gun; and a young Seaman Recruit on the bow of the U.S.S. Fink.

  Scowling, Bradley snatched the last picture from the wall and hurled it against the floor. The glass shattered; the wooden frame twisted out of square.

  Squatting, CJ grasped the corner of the photograph and shook away the glass crumbs. “Is this your father?”

  “I prefer the term sperm donor.” Bradley hadn’t spoken to the man in almost two decades, and he was surprised by the ferocity of the anger still lurking inside him. “My grandfather raised me, and he didn’t hang any of these pictures.”

  Eyes widening, cheeks flushing with excitement, CJ said, “Maybe this is the combination. Look, nine people, then six, followed by three, five, two,
four, and one.”

  “Holy shit!”

  Bradley sprinted back to Kyle’s master bedroom closet and tried the new combination, left to 96, right to 35, left to 24, and ... it didn’t unlock.

  Hugging the frames against his body, CJ entered the closet. “Any luck?”

  Bradley pointed to the sealed safe with a sarcastic ta-da gesture.

  “Maybe we’ve got the numbers in the wrong order,” CJ said. “We just have to try all the combinations.”

  “That’ll take forever. There are 5,040 of them.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Thinking of Volkov’s owl, Bradley grumbled, “Evidently, I’m good at math,” and cursed the Russian general for not implanting the combination directly into his memory.

  He didn’t have this staged back in May when he programmed me, Bradley concluded, a theory supported by the dust-free frames. But why didn’t he transfer it at the train station? Or that night in the Lincoln Bedroom?

  “Can’t we just break into the safe?” CJ asked.

  “Kyle says this model was engineered with a cobalt plate to prevent drill penetration and relockers, which are tamper-proof trip wires that trigger auxiliary locking devices.” Bradley exhaled a long sigh. “We’re overlooking something. There must be another clue ...”

  38

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  RYAN PACED THE Treaty Room, a presidential study within the White House executive residence where John F. Kennedy signed the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty and Richard Nixon signed the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. It was a masculine space with herringbone hardwood floors, intricate plaster crown molding, and a cozy arrangement of the most uncomfortable furniture known to man.

  Arms folded across his chest, Kyle’s backside was slouched against the Treaty Table, a hand-crafted Victorian desk used by Ulysses Grant. “This is like being victimized all over again,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with Emily or Cara’s death.”

  “What about the three women?” Ryan asked. “Did you sleep with them?”

  Kyle expelled a prolonged hiss. “I have no idea. I slept with tons of groupies in my younger days—ALL consensual.”

  Ryan halted in front of the fireplace. His eyes traced the gilded mirror frame to its apex, just below the crown molding then settled on his friend’s reflection. “How’s Jessie handling the accusations?”

  “She’s upset with the mudslinging, but she knows the truth. I’m not a murderer and I didn’t sexually assault anyone.”

  General Quenten plodded through the open doorway with a file folder tucked under one arm, and closed the door behind him. “The media are blasting your strong statement on the North Korean ICBM test and accusing you of inciting a nuclear war.”

  What do they want us to do? Ryan thought. Submit to a madman?

  “They’re also railing against the raid on the St. Nicholas Academy outside District Nine,” Quenten explained. “They’re characterizing it as a violation of religious liberty, glossing over the rescue of thirty-seven boys from a human-trafficking warehouse.”

  Quenten detailed the horrors of the ambrosia lab and the cruel practices used to acquire adrenalized blood, then Ryan said, “These bastards are harvesting American kids? Processing them like a poppy crop?”

  “I’m afraid so. Files found on a computer reference a secret pedophile code,” Quenten continued. “Hotdog for boy; pasta for little boy; pizza for girl; cheese pizza for little girl. There was also a multitude of video files, ranging from kiddie porn to snuff films—”

  “These people filmed themselves raping and murdering children?” Kyle asked, his voice rising with equal parts horror and revulsion.

  “And marketed the videos for profit,” Quenten added.

  Ryan inhaled a deep breath to quell the burning mass in the pit of his stomach. As commander of the TEradS, he thought he’d witnessed the worst of humanity, but that rabbit hole was far deeper, and darker than he could’ve imagined.

  Quenten’s hazel eyes grew glassy and he cleared his throat. “There were references to spirit cooking and images of human fetuses floating in a cauldron of soup.”

  “Tell me that’s a hoax.” Ryan didn’t want to believe it. The pictures had to be photo-shopped by a twisted mind. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be.

  “Fetus soup was debunked by two Internet-fact-checking sites,” Quenten replied. “But they’re both connected to Gorka Schwartz’s One Society Foundation. And there was an incident in 2012 where Thai police arrested a British man with a suitcase full of gold-plated babies intended for some kind of black magic ritual.”

  Ryan sank onto a slipper chair and pinched the bridge of his nose to control his emotions.

  Kyle dragged both hands over his face as if squeegeeing away disgust.

  “If you need a moment,” Quenten said softly.

  “No!” Kyle insisted, his voice wracked with grief. “Every minute we waste allows another child to be brutalized.”

  The General nodded at the floor, waging his own emotional battle, then cleared his throat. “Sinclair, the physician who was running the lab, was hawking capsules of powdered baby flesh with promises of improving health, stamina, and sexual performance. Unfortunately, this is nothing new. In 2014, The Washington Post published an article about South Korean customs agents seizing these types of pills, which are popular in China.”

  “Why?” Kyle demanded. “Why wasn’t this a lead story on every cable network?”

  “Because The Consortium owns the media.” The words left a vile taste in Ryan’s mouth. “Cannibalism for profit. A lethal injection is too good for these fuckers!”

  “Evidently, TEradS Team Nine concurred,” Quenten said. “There are unanswered questions surrounding Sinclair’s death, and since this was Abby’s team—”

  “Abby was there?” Kyle groaned. “Oh God, did she witness all this?”

  “Yes, she’s privy to Sinclair’s operation, but your daughter wasn’t present during the shooting. Only Cozart and Evans. No helmet cameras. Highly suspect given the TEradS’ spate of bad press.”

  “They. Are. Good. Men!” Ryan ground out through clenched teeth.

  “Undoubtedly, but the media will twist the narrative, lay blame, and demand dissolution of the TEradS.”

  “Oh, hell no!” Ryan shouted. “My guys are not going to be demonized while these cannibalistic pedophiles get away with murder! Here’s how we’re going to handle this ...”

  Chapter 11

  DAY 705

  Tuesday, January 24th

  39

  District Four, Florida

  CJ AWAKENED TO THE sound of his Chi-phone ringing. He sat upright, body stiff from sleeping in the Humvee’s passenger’s seat. Bradley was gone; and through heavy eyelids, he blinked at the incoming number. A spurt of hope gushed through him.

  Did the TEradS rescue my family?

  “Missy?” he asked, his voice crackling with hope.

  “No, this is Agent Peckum, Federal Bureau of Investigation ...”

  Hope congealed into disappointment glazed with dread. Peckum was on The Consortium’s payroll; CJ was sure of it.

  Did they take Missy and Matthew into custody?

  “... Senator Conn’s affidavit is ready for your signature.”

  CJ struggled to rally his voice. “Sorry, I’m not in District Three at the moment. How did you get this number?”

  “Our resources are extensive.” There was a cocksure arrogance in Peckum’s tone, an unspoken declaration of superiority. “Voice-recognition technology and triangulation negate the advantages of a ‘burner’ phone. Is your commanding officer aware that you have an unsecure Chi-phone in your possession?”

  A prickly shot of fear iced CJ’s backbone. “But there are no functional cell towers here—”

  “Wi-Fi equipped drones, Captain Love. I have one circling overhead.” Peckum guffawed, and the nefarious sound made CJ feel like a rat trapped in a mad-scientist’s experiment. “In fact,
I could launch a missile on your position in Sugar Lake, right now.”

  Irritated by the empty threat, he said, “Listen, Agent Pecker—”

  “Peck-um.”

  “Whatever,” CJ shouted. “Dead men can’t sign affidavits or testify.”

  There was a delay, a momentary truce in the verbal skirmish, then Peckum said, “Why is Webber in Florida?”

  CJ grimaced.

  If I refuse to cooperate, Missy and Matthew will pay the price.

  Sorry, Bradley; you sealed your fate by teaming up with Volkov.

  “Webber’s retrieving something from Murphy’s safe.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Unclear. We haven’t gotten it open yet. I’m shadowing him to uncover the truth. Wouldn’t you prefer REAL evidence of collusion?”

  “Real is a relativistic term, Captain Love. Sheeple believe the media; The Consortium dictates the content of media report; ergo, The Consortium dictates what is real. And let’s be frank, fabricated evidence is more efficient.”

  CJ recoiled. If they can manufacture evidence to frame the President, what’s to stop them from convicting me on phony charges?

  It was painfully evident that an FBI riddled with Consortium puppets posed a clear and present danger to every American, more perilous than a cell of terrorists or an attacking army.

  “I gotta go,” CJ barked. “Battery’s dying.” Using a tactical knife, he pried open the phone, uprooted the battery, and lobbed both onto the floor of the Humvee.