Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  The Little Bird’s pilot started to lift off then thought better of it.

  Fuck! Kyle thought. A hostage situation gives the CIA the leverage to stave off the raid.

  Intense regret swept through him, a realization that his son-in-law’s life might have to be sacrificed for the good of the nation. He knew that Bradley had knowingly accepted that risk the day he’d enlisted in the Marine Corps, but Kyle didn’t want to issue that fateful order.

  Would Abby ever forgive him?

  A Viper was hovering just above the treetops. The barrel of a rifle was protruding from the helicopter’s open door and, within seconds, the Scout Sniper fired a solitary round into the building.

  “Tango neutralized,” squawked over the secure communications link.

  “Neutralized?” Kyle repeated, afraid that he’d misheard. “How?”

  “Mr. President, that Sniper’s rifle was outfitted with a classified radar scope, capable of seeing through multiple walls. And he utilized a cutting-edge type of ammunition, similar to a Raufoss round, which uses multiple high-explosive charges to drive a tungsten carbide penetrator through solid objects.”

  Emotionally, Kyle felt like a rope in a brutal game of tug-of-war. He was thrilled that the threat to Bradley had been eliminated, yet simultaneously terrified. “Does The Consortium have this technology?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Quenten told him, “but the White House has been appropriately hardened.”

  Explains why I’m still alive, Kyle thought.

  The Super Stallions descended. Marines charged from the choppers and snaked into the buildings, then a guttural growl drew Kyle’s gaze toward Rone.

  The Admiral’s lips rolled inward, his chin jutted outward, and he sucked in a slow breath. “Mr. President, we have a calamitous problem ...”

  Tidbit # 4: The Siege of Slavyansk

  In 2014, Right Sector launched “Grad” rockets indiscriminately into residential areas of Slavyansk, destroying homes, schools, and hospitals—slaughtering civilians instead of the armed “separatist soldiers” who were manning checkpoints.

  The assault and its aftermath were captured in Roses Have Thorns (Parts 12 through 15) The Siege of Slavyansk I, II, III and The Fall of Slavyansk.

  Chapter 14

  DAY 708

  Friday, January 27th

  58

  Edgar Air Force Base, California

  ABBY SHOVELED A forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth, nose crinkling at the sickening aroma of stale coffee that pervaded the chow hall. She glared at a circular, laminated paper scrap—retrieved from that chalk bullet—as if it might divulge its secrets. The circlet was the size of a standard hole-punch and contained a solitary dot.

  It doesn’t make sense, she thought. Anyone with a motive to shoot her would’ve used a lethal round and aimed for her heart, not her derriere.

  The base commander had deployed two recon squads. Both came up empty, no spent shell casings, no footprints, not even a broken branch or a flattened blade of grass.

  Maybe the chalk round was fired from some kind of drone, she thought. But if The Consortium has an armed version of the blackbirds, why didn’t it dispatch me? Were they trying to send a message?

  The word message sparked an idea; then, pocketing her circular souvenir, Abby scowled at the newscast on a ceiling-mounted monitor—yet another calamitous problem for her father.

  Last night’s protests looked like a scene from a third-world country. A horde of Anti-Ty militants trampled the White House fence and charged onto the grounds. They planted their red and black flags into the South Lawn, symbolically staking out territory. They set barren trees and bushes ablaze, and hurled chunks of concrete at the building’s bulletproof windows.

  Marines stationed on the White House roof repelled the attack with an array of nonlethal crowd-control technologies. PHaSR rifles, an acronym for Personal Halting and Stimulation Response, emitted a dazzling light; one wavelength to temporarily blind protestors, another to discourage further aggression. Then inhalable, calmative agents like Valium and Prozac were administered through a hail of rubber bullets.

  Abby smirked at the irony. Riot-control technologies developed to infringe upon civil liberties were actually repelling Night Sector tyranny.

  That victory, however, was short-lived. A few protestors swooned and collapsed with the overly dramatic flair of B-rate actors in a low-budget film. Their comrades in black congregated around them. The inner circle knelt, presumably administering first aid; the middle ring formed a human cocoon that blocked the camera’s view; and the outer circle pantomimed their outrage with flailing arms, gaping mouths, and mournful tears.

  Then suddenly, the tight cluster of Anti-Ty dispersed like a retracting curtain. The “victim” lay unmoving with a blood-spattered white handkerchief draped over his face.

  Noting that the “corpse’s” blood-soaked chest was still rising and falling, Abby swore under her breath.

  Freaking actors with an agenda, she thought glowering at the news banner: Murphy orders Marines to fire on peaceful protestors.

  A tidal wave of camouflage gushed onto the South Lawn then the footage looped back to the PHaSR rifles and the alleged gunfire.

  Appetite expunged, Abby jettisoned the remainder of her breakfast and left the chow hall. Barely twelve hours into her three-day “convalescence” and she was already feeling fidgety. Downtime would lead to thoughts of Bradley and an onslaught of emotion.

  Don’t go there, she chided herself.

  Strolling through the crisp, early morning sunshine, Abby paused to survey an unusual scene at the southern end of the tarmac. A small Cessna-like aircraft rolled to a stop, and a dozen military vehicles raced toward it, half of them armored personnel carriers.

  She squinted at the jet’s tail code and reread the alphanumeric sequence.

  That’s General Quenten’s aircraft.

  Abby was positive. She’d had the privilege of flying with the General following the Aaron Burr operation.

  What’s he doing here, at Ed—

  She halted midthought, watching Vice President Andrews deplane.

  Must be an unscheduled visit, she decided. Maybe he’s going to address the troops to boost morale after the Mariupol fiasco. Or pay his respects to Toomey.

  A neurological earthquake of emotion reverberated through Abby, grief over losing a teammate, guilt over surviving, and it triggered a wave of nausea. She felt light-headed and weak; her mouth began filling with saliva; then dropping onto her knees, she regurgitated her breakfast onto an evergreen shrublet with silvery leaves and brilliant orange flowers.

  It reminded her of the wild brush back at Sugar Lake, which in turn reminded her of Bradley.

  Tears welling, a deluge of unresolved questions broke through her defenses.

  Is Cozart right? Will he come to his senses?

  Is Bradley trying to protect me from someone or something?

  Does it have anything to do with the chalk bullet?

  The thoughts were ludicrous, she knew, but that didn’t quell her obsessive hunger for the truth. Abby was tired of the lies—from the media, from the Consortium puppets, and from the only man she’d ever loved.

  She spat onto the ground, wiped her chin, and stood on wobbling legs.

  Am I allergic to the antibiotic the Med Center prescribed? she wondered. Or did The Consortium poison our food?

  It had happened before. Tainted MREs had taken the lives of Soldiers and civilians, and thoughts of her deceased uncle led right back to Sugar Lake—and Bradley.

  Teeth gnashing with self-condemnation, Abby muttered, “Stop thinking about him, damn it!” and hurried into the Med Center. She marched through the emergency area, head erect, with purpose, as if reporting for a shift, and made her way back to a laboratory she’d noticed during her CT scan. The room appeared vacant, and Abby skulked inside.

  The lab was lined with workstations, each cluttered with medical devices, and after a quick appraisal, she made
a beeline for a counter spanning the rear wall.

  She plucked the laminated paper scrap from her pocket and placed it onto a microscope’s stage. Looking through the eyepiece lens, the mysterious dot looked like a deadly fungus, and she fumbled with the coarse focus.

  Holy shit! There’s really something here ... A micromessage.

  The idea to shrink military communiqués had been conceived during the Franco-Prussian War to increase the volume of information transported via carrier pigeon. That technology gave rise to the first full-fledged microdot camera, which reduced documents to a punctuation mark less than a millimeter in diameter.

  How do I know that? she wondered. Did Bradley mention it? Or did Volkov’s owl plant it in my mind?

  Brushing off the questions, Abby skimmed the message.

  What is a product?

  What determines the price?

  What happens to the price if a product is illegal?

  What if the product is a human being?

  Blood and plasma = $

  Sex-slave trafficking = $$

  Black market organs = $$$

  Pedophilia = $$$$

  Something even darker = $$$$$

  N 37° 38’ 26” W 76° 45’ 51”

  N 36° 14’ 36” W 118° 11’ 17”

  N 36° 34’ 54” W 118° 45’ 6”

  Wolf moon.

  Save the children.

  How can I possibly do that with no intel?

  Are the answers lurking in my mind? Will I sense it, the same way I knew this wasn’t just a meaningless black period?

  The word period echoed inside her brain. Another potential culprit for her nausea sent a bolt of fear straight to her heart.

  No, that can’t be it.

  I can’t be ...

  59

  District Nine, California

  RYAN’S MOTORCADE halted in front of an imposing Victorian mansion. Built in 1877 and renovated in 2015, its numerous architectural elements reminded him of an overly decorated wedding cake. Cornices and pediments were vying for attention, competing against cupolas, towers, and balconies fringed with Renaissance balustrading.

  Surrounded by a detail of Marines, Ryan passed through a wrought iron gate and ascended a grand stairway that led to the ornate front porch. Two men dressed in black suits escorted him through a long hallway with creaking hardwood floors to a cavernous study. The north-facing wall housed a ceiling-to-floor bookcase with a rolling library ladder; the south wall featured a bay window overlooking a perfectly manicured backyard. Two Chesterfield chairs and a sofa were arranged around a traditional open-hearth fireplace, and Ryan grimaced, noting a bronze bust of Woodrow Wilson.

  America’s twenty-eighth President had sold out the country, signing the Federal Reserve Act in exchange for a $40,000 campaign donation. According to The New Freedom, published in 1913, Wilson wrote that “A great industrial nation is controlled by its system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated. The growth of the nation, therefore, and all our activities are in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated governments in the civilized world; no longer a government by free opinion, no longer a government by conviction and the vote of the majority, but a government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men.”

  Ryan shook his head. The guy was the biggest traitor in American history and we named streets and schools after him.

  “Mr. Vice President.” Governor Zeller strolled into the room and offered his hand. “Welcome to District Nine. Although I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  Ryan obliged the diplomatic pleasantries and assessed his adversary. Zeller looked like a geriatric caveman with a protruding brow, downturned mouth, sunken cheeks, and ears the size of satellite dishes.

  The black-suit twins retreated from the study, taking up positions alongside Ryan’s protective detail, and closed the eight-foot double doors. An advance team had already swept the mansion for weapons and secured the property.

  Zeller eased his stocky frame onto a Chesterfield beside the bust of Wilson and invited Ryan to sit with a roll of his hand. “Have you surveyed the carnage the TEradS inflicted on Mariupol?”

  “We both know that Night Sector has been shelling the town for days,” Ryan said, his voice scalpel-edged with certainty. “And that the victims were not killed by the air strike.”

  “Without conclusive surveillance footage, you’ll be hard-pressed to sway public opinion,” Zeller said. “Shame about that satellite glitch.” Smugness was glinting in his eyes and radiating from his sneer. He was cocky and obnoxious, the kind of man Ryan was eager to dethrone.

  “Autopsies will establish time of death as days before the air strike.”

  Zeller bared his blindingly white teeth. “Body temperature can be unreliable, especially when fires are prevalent. And even if you could make a compelling scientific case, who would broadcast it to the masses? The media will ignore it, and our friends at Linkbook, Gaggle, and Chatter will censor conspiracy theories. You cannot defeat The Consortium. We own every central bank in the world. Our members are the CEOs of corporations and medical institutions. We control every drug cartel on the planet, and currently command a fearsome army.”

  Ryan flashed a cocky smirk. “Night Sector gangbangers are no match for the U.S. military.”

  “We possess superior intelligence capabilities and weaponry; and for decades, warriors sympathetic to our cause have been promoted, thus co-opting the military chain of command. Undesirable Admirals and Generals have been rooted out.” Zeller paused to deliver a nefarious chuckle. “In fact, many became subjected to FBI investigations and IRS audits.”

  Ryan reclined against the sofa, and his relaxed pose prompted a curious stare. “We’re aware that government agencies were weaponized, but I assure you, all your puppets will be court-martialed.”

  Zeller’s nose crinkled with condescending pity. “You have a reputation for bending rules, Andrews. You could be an asset to The Consortium—”

  “Save your recruitment spiel,” Ryan told him. “I’ve heard it before. So let’s cut to the chase. If Night Sector does not cease its assault on civilians—rapes, kidnappings, food confiscation, human trafficking, drug running, and indiscriminate shelling—President Murphy will declare martial law in District Nine and send in the Marines.”

  The governor sniggered. “Good luck getting congressional approval. Did I mention that we own seventy percent of the legislative body?”

  “Their approval isn’t necessary. Our founding fathers anticipated that government agencies would grow in power and that Congress would become corrupt. That’s why they gave the President special authority to command the Marines as he sees fit. And by the way, that coup the CIA was planning ...? Not happening.”

  Zeller’s complexion turned a pale shade of gray, then he rose to his feet. He ambled toward the Wilson bust and tipped it over. The heavy brass thonked against the sideboard, and Ryan did a double take.

  The District Nine governor retrieved an odd-looking handgun from the hollowed-out statue.

  “Ever heard of a heart-attack gun?” Zeller displayed the weapon as if hawking a product. “I created this one using a 3-D printer. It discharges a small dart that penetrates clothing and releases a poison that induces a heart attack. The weapon leaves a barely perceptible pinprick on the skin, and the toxin denatures quickly, making it virtually impossible to distinguish from a natural heart attack.”

  The governor racked the slide to chamber a dart. “If you would like to witness the birth of your child, I suggest you reconsider Consortium membership.”

  The thought of Franny raising the baby alone spawned a terrible sense of pressure, as if an invisible hand was choking off his airway, then Ryan nonchalantly activated the panic alarm built into his watch. “Killing me won’t stop Murphy from exposing the corruption.”

  “Congress will block his vice-presidential nominees until he suffers a fatal
cerebral hemorrhage, much like Franklin Delano Roosevelt. You see, The Consortium crafts history. We create the plan, execute it, and write the historical accounts. We enshrine our version of events in monuments and movies and music.”

  Why aren’t the Marines responding to my distress call? Ryan wondered.

  As if reading his thoughts, Zeller said, “The Woodrow Wilson statue activated a high-tech signal blocking device.”

  Fuck!

  Ryan leapt to his feet, intending to charge his would-be assassin.

  “You should’ve accepted our offer!” Zeller snarled, and his statement was punctuated by a gunshot.

  60

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  CJ AND BRADLEY HAD been rescued by their military brethren and transported back to Ansley Air Force Base aboard one of the Super Stallions.

  I can’t believe President Murphy ordered a raid on CIA headquarters, CJ thought.

  The political fallout was bound to be astronomical, if not presidency ending. Could Murphy withstand the onslaught of allegations? Collusion? Sexual assault? Murder? Obstruction of justice? Overstepping his constitutional authority?

  Both men were ushered into a SCIF deep within the bowels of the base, and CJ stole another glance at Bradley. The Sniper remained in a near catatonic state. Dark purple crescents arced beneath his bloodshot hazel eyes. His skin was sallow, and his jaw pulsed with emotion.