Kyle grimaced, and the dull ache behind his temples graduated to a razor-sharp pain. “What the hell is Night Sector doing?”
“Expanding their territory,” Rone stated flatly. “The question is, whose orders are they following? Governor Zeller’s? Or The Consortium’s?”
Kyle’s gaze veered from the Admiral to the monitor and narrowed with loathing. A tank was charging the barrier, spewing a thick plume of exhaust, its black and red flag snapping in the breeze. The treads plowed over sandbags. Defunct vehicles spun out of the way, tires bounced and tumbled, and the crowd of civilians parted like the Red Sea.
The tank went airborne and bounded against the road, cracking and denting the asphalt before coming to a stop. Townspeople closed around it, this time forming a human barricade, and Kyle felt an icy, burning sensation deep in his gut.
“That’s a National Guard tank,” he muttered. “How did Night Sector get a hold of that equipment?”
“National Guard falls under the purview of Governor Zeller,” Ryan said.
Rone traded an uneasy glance with Quenten then said, “Zeller claims that terrorists commandeered equipment abandoned during the ARkStorm. We’re having trouble finding credible sources on the ground.”
The nose of the tank bounced and lurched forward, pushing through the crowd until it closed within a quarter mile of the Mariupol police station. The M1 Abram’s .50 caliber machine gun peppered the three-story building. Windows shattered; stucco erupted in buttery poufs; then the tank’s main gun belched smoke. A 105mm round carved through the building and exploded, ejecting a shower of brick and pulverized stucco.
Civilians scattered for cover as shells pounded militia headquarters.
“What are my options?” Kyle demanded, his stare gravitating toward Rone.
“You have the power to federalize the National Guard like Bush 43 did during Hurricane Katrina,” the Admiral told him. “But the Guard’s command structure is likely to have been compromised by The Consortium.”
Kyle’s attention shifted to Ryan. “Can the TEradS handle this?”
“Not without substantial logistical support from the Guard.”
“Or the Marines,” Quenten added. “The Corps is tasked to perform such duties as the President may direct sans congressional approval.”
The satellite feed cut out. The monitor displayed a hissing, snowy static before reconstituting, and Kyle’s heart plunged into free fall.
The Consortium, he thought. They’ve seized control over the Emergency Alert System.
A middle-aged man with colorless hair and pale-blue eyes stepped in front of the camera and began speaking in accented English.
“I am Vladislav Volkov, formerly known as William Julian Jackson, the American expatriate who fled to Russia and conspired with the 9/11 terrorists to bring down the Twin Towers.
“Under my direction, a team of international mercenaries executed Aldrich Ames, Ben Arnold, Roberta Hanssen, and Aaron Burr. I personally orchestrated this ‘wetwork’ to prevent America from surrendering to China ...”
Why is Volkov assuming responsibility for those black ops? Kyle wondered. Why is he letting Abby, Bradley, Ryan, and Quenten off the hook? What’s in it for him? Is he going to use this as leverage to extort a favor?
“... I wanted to weaken both nations through prolonged warfare,” Volkov continued, “and I refuse to allow the Terrorist Eradication Squad to steal the credit for my accomplishments. Incontrovertible proof will surface in the coming days, and then my most fearsome undercover asset will eliminate President Murphy.”
The color drained from Ryan’s face. His gaze jerked toward Kyle. “Volkov programmed Bradley to kill you. We need to take him into custody. ASAP.”
45
District Three, Washington, D.C.
CJ SURVEYED THE deserted neighborhood north of D.C., not far from the Glenmont Metro Station. Night-vision goggles were casting a greenish hue over the suburban landscape, turning barren trees and bushes into spooky entities.
“Tell me again, what we’re doing here?” CJ asked.
Bradley exhaled, and an emerald-tinted mist dissolved into the frigid night air. “The article mentioned a severed hand. I was inside one of these houses, got into a firefight with a Russian Spetsnaz, and ended up severing the guy’s hand. Volkov is sending me here.”
“Was that the black op President Quenten was talking about?”
The Sniper didn’t respond, and CJ sighed, knowing that no further information would be forthcoming.
The house was a two-story Colonial, pale in color with blown out windows and bullet-scarred vinyl siding. They cleared each room, wary of squatters, and Bradley began searching a child’s bedroom. Layers of torn clothing and broken toys were crunching under foot, frozen in time and temperature.
Better than those foul-smelling houses in Florida, CJ thought, struggling to stave off a pang of sadness. Coloring books and stuffed animals evoked thoughts of Matthew, and CJ’s pulse felt like a ticking clock, a reminder that his son was, at best, growing up without him; at worst, enslaved as a Consortium pawn. What would they do to his two-year-old? Would they sell Missy into sex slavery?
A glut of acid surged upward, and he swallowed hard to force it back down.
The TEradS will find them, he told himself.
“You see that?” Bradley asked, pointing to the windowsill. “That wasn’t there last time I was here.”
CJ slogged closer for a better look. Plastic, magnetic letters in primary colors spelled out baby, proof that the crazy Russian general had been here recently. “Does anything else look different?”
The Sniper’s gaze lingered over a hunk of metal resting on a blood-stained coloring book then resumed scanning the room. “Everything else looks the same.”
Disappointed, CJ yanked open a closet door. The pressed fiberboard had swollen with moisture during the humid summer months and was now frozen, causing the bottom to scrape against the carpet. He squinted at a rusted, timeworn hammer dangling from the clothing bar, then lifted it from its perch. An antique brass key had been taped to the handle of the tool.
CJ peeled it free. A trio of open circles comprised the bow, and a solitary notched rectangle graced the blade’s tip. He offered it for Bradley’s inspection. “Do you know what this is for?”
The Sniper shook his head. “It looks ancient. Definitely not a safe-deposit-box key.”
CJ stowed the hammer and key inside his backpack, then said, “I still don’t get why Volkov is playing this game.”
“Operational security,” Bradley told him, impatience simmering in his tone. “Volkov laid it out in his letter to Rone. All the clues have been things that only I would understand. The extra pictures in Gramps’ house, the article about the severed hand—none of that would make sense to anyone else. And if The Consortium managed to hack my mind, they wouldn’t comprehend its relevance. Volkov is going to great lengths to make sure critical information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
CJ vented a frustrated hiss. The FBI would be looking for him, expecting him to sign that affidavit.
What do I tell them about the contents of Kyle’s safe?
That Volkov transferred a cache of secret files to Admiral Rone?
That he was searching for their White Rabbit weapons site?
I’m screwed, CJ decided. If I tell the truth, I’m dooming the world to Consortium rule. And if I get caught lying, I’m dooming my family to Consortium retribution.
“I think Crooked Carter and company are closing in on Volkov,” Bradley continued. “The message on the thumb drive stated that he would be dead soon.”
That would explain why he claimed credit for the black operations, CJ thought. Maybe he’s protecting Bradley so the Sniper can accomplish the mission. But is Volkov a.k.a. Jackson a friend or a foe? And does that make Bradley a hero or a traitor?
He was positive that The Consortium was his enemy; less certain that the enemy of his enemy was his friend.
; What if I’m caught between two black-hat, evil empires battling for world domination?
What if there are no white hats?
Bradley squatted beside the bloody coloring book, paralyzed as if in a trance, then muttered, “Why did Volkov include that coloring-book picture of the bear?”
“So we’d have his prints,” CJ said with a shrug. “Python said he filched one of those inkless fingerprint pads banks used and blanketed the paper with a complete set of prints.”
“But why the bear?” Bradley repeated, flipping through the pages of the coloring book. “Why not this cat? Or this horse?”
“Maybe there’s another bear in this—”
“Oh shit! That’s it!” Bradley sprung toward the window. “I used this teddy bear as a decoy, and the Spetsnaz mistook the silhouette for my head.” The Sniper poked the belly of the stuffed animal with his tactical knife. “There’s something inside it!”
Bradley cut it open and cleared away mildewed stuffing that was riddled with silverfish. As a native Alaskan, CJ knew the tiny bugs were drawn to moisture and could alter their blood composition to form a sort of antifreeze that protected them from harsh winter weather.
Bradley retrieved a small flashlight from the belly of the bear, toggled the switch, and announced that it didn’t work.
“What kind of batteries does it take?” CJ asked. “I have three C batteries in my MagLite.”
The Sniper unscrewed the end and shook the batteries free. “There’s a piece of paper crammed inside. It was preventing the batteries from touching the contact.” Bradley fished the paper from the tube and reinserted the batteries. “Works now. And it’s a black-light flashlight.”
“Anything written on the paper?” CJ edged closer, stepping around the body parts of a doll, and peered at the message scrawled in black marker.
S_M_T_PU-5
“What the frick is that?” Convinced there had to be another clue, he eased the black light from his buddy’s grasp and shined it over the walls.
“Douse the damn light!”
A muted whoosh punctuated Bradley’s order.
CJ felt a push of air against his cheek then, suddenly, he was belly-flopping onto the debris-laden floor with Bradley beside him.
A bullet thudded, tunneling into the frozen wallboard, followed by a rapid barrage.
“That’s why Volkov sent us here,” CJ whispered. “It’s a fucking ambush!”
46
Mariupol, California
WE HAVE TO GET OUT of here, Missy thought, sprinting into the backyard, clutching Matthew tight against her body.
And go where? To the next town?
How long would it be before they were attacked and subjugated?
The captain of the Mariupol militia had rejected Night Sector’s order to submit, just as he’d dismissed Governor Zeller’s ultimatum days earlier, then the skirmish began. Residents had valiantly defended their town with barriers, both inanimate and human, but neither could withstand the M1 Abrams tank. A barrage of large shells had rattled the town and battered militia headquarters.
Missy dropped onto her knees and crawled on one arm into a dog house constructed from rusted-out corrugated steel panels.
“M-m-a-a-h-mee,” Matthew whimpered.
“I know, Doodlebug. But we have to hide from the bad men.”
Sensing the fear in her voice, the toddler pressed his face against her neck, and his little arms tightened, nearly choking her.
Missy peered through a corroded seam, heart galloping. Men were being conscripted at gunpoint. Children were being abducted from their homes, imprisoned inside a peacekeeper truck with a caged bed, and the wails of the terrified youngsters joined with the agonized screams of women being sexually assaulted. Pain and despair were hanging in the night air like an invisible fog, making it difficult to breathe.
Missy waited until the raiding party moved three blocks to the north then took off running to the south. She cut through neighboring yards and scampered into a grove of pecan trees harvested months ago. Would Night Sector confiscate Mariupol’s food reserves? Would they appropriate orchards and farmland?
The pecan grove butted against a field of kale, and the soft, freshly plowed earth was like running in sand. Missy scoured the darkness for the drones and UGVs that comprised Night Sector’s digital wall.
Are they tracking me?
Damn Daman to hell for embezzling billions from these psychopaths, she thought. And damn CJ and Python for not relinquishing those ill-gotten gains!
Out of breath, Matthew bounding against her hip, Missy darted into an orange grove and slowed to a walk. Head shaking at the irony, she thought, we provoked the wrath of The Consortium over a pile of useless paper.
The worthlessness of the fiat currency would not be a mitigating factor, she knew. This was personal, and these “animals” believed in multigenerational vendettas.
The roots of The Consortium stretched back to the Bauer family in Germany. In 1815, when Tsar Alexander I of Russia resisted a Bauer-owned central bank, Nathaniel Mayer Bauer had sworn that his family would someday destroy the Tsar and all his descendants. That promise was fulfilled 102 years later by a Bauer-funded Bolshevik Revolution that plunged Russia into a brutal Marxist dictatorship that endured for eight decades.
Will our bloodline be snuffed out in the coming days? Missy wondered.
Or will our great-grandchildren pay for our sins?
She continued trekking south through the grove, parallel to a two-lane highway, and her thoughts shifted to more immediate problems.
How am I going to feed Matthew?
Is the water used to irrigate the orchards potable?
Missy’s gaze snapped toward a distant pinpoint of light that divided into two distinct beams and grew larger with each passing second. Recognizing the faint outline of a vehicle, she hunkered down beneath an orange tree and fought back a yawn.
Despite the jostling, Matthew had drifted back to sleep.
Tomorrow’s going to be rough, she thought. I’ll be exhausted from running all night, and my little guy will be raring to go.
The vehicle braked to a stop, and a jolt of adrenaline rankled every nerve ending in Missy’s body.
Two Night Sector soldiers exited the cab of a peacekeeper truck; one surveyed the grove with a monocular and started toward her.
Convinced that she’d been spotted with infrared technology, Missy raced deeper into the grove.
Within minutes, heavy footsteps were closing on her position.
Deep voices ordered her to halt.
Branches slapped against her arms, retarding her speed, and the toe of her sneaker caught an exposed root. Missy tumbled forward, breaking her fall with one arm, and rolled to protect Matthew from the impact. Then the men pounced. One wrenched the toddler from her arms; the other latched onto her flailing ankles and dragged her back toward the highway. The gravelly soil abraded her skin, and tiny rocks were etching painful grooves into her back.
“Please, don’t,” she pleaded above Matthew’s heartrending cries.
“Shut up!” her captor growled. “Or I’ll give you a reason to scream.”
Missy writhed and twisted to get a glimpse of her son. He was squirming in the soldier’s arms, shrieking and trying to wriggle free.
All she’d ever wanted was a child of her own. She couldn’t let these bastards take Matthew away from her.
As soon as the ruffian released her legs, she landed a devastating kick to his groin.
Doubled over and gasping for air, he braced himself against the truck’s tailgate.
Missy leapt to her feet, spun toward the grove where the other man stood, holding Matthew, then a forearm locked around her throat constricting her airway.
She sank her teeth into muscle and shook her head, biting through flesh.
Enraged, the soldier hurled her onto the asphalt highway. Her backside struck first, and a white-hot dagger of pain sliced her spine. Missy’s forearms smacked against the blackt
op and, unable to slow her momentum, the back of her head crashed against the road surface.
She felt a jarring thud.
Her brain felt like it was sloshing within her skull, then everything went black.
Tidbit # 3: Victory Day in Mariupol
During a Victory Day parade in Mariupol, Ukraine, Right Sector attacked a local police station.
The U.S. State Department characterized these attacks as “antiterrorist operations” that were within the Ukrainian government’s right to maintain law and order; and a prominent Senator—whom I won’t name—helped to finance Right Sector’s operations.
I invite you to watch Roses Have Thorns (Part 7) Victory Day in Mariupol.
Were these people terrorists?
You decide.
Chapter 13
DAY 707
Thursday, January 26th
47
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY SCRAMBLED over broken toys and frozen carpeting, into the hallway of the two-story Colonial house. Fully-automatic rounds were pouring through the window and punching through the home’s plywood sheathing.
He made his way to the master bathroom, peeked out at the large side yard, and blinked in disbelief. Twinkling muzzle flashes marked the approach of two gunmen strutting side by side, down the center of the street, overconfident and undertrained.
Definitely not a Volkov ambush, Bradley decided. Just a couple of Night Sector idiots.
Gun confiscation—a la deadly Alameda fever vaccinations—had been highly successful in the D.C. area, which was why the goons weren’t expecting armed resistance.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 18