Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Do they know about the wolf moon ritual? Are they targeting its elite participants? And how did they evade our ground sensors, hidden cameras, and infrared satellites?

  Del Banco yanked the leash to halt Tito’s forward progress and swore aloud. He had no cellphone signal.

  Are the TEradS jamming our comms?

  The masculine voices were weakening as if his quarry was moving away from his position.

  I can’t just turn Tito loose, del Banco thought. Unlike escaped slaves, the TEradS were armed, and the range of a bullet exceeded the dog’s kill zone. I need to pick those bastards off one by one.

  Tugging at the leash, he directed the stubborn animal toward the male voices, and the German shepherd stared up at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “Don’t give me that look. My night vision’s better than yours. Now, move!” Del Banco skulked between redwoods and boulders, dragging his four-legged anchor. The heat signatures were growing larger, the voices louder, yet Tito wasn’t picking up their scent.

  Did the U.S. military find a way to jam a dog’s sense of smell?

  Del Banco tracked the voices to the western edge of the property. Peripherally, he glimpsed a heat signature peeking around a redwood tree. Switching from infrared to night vision, he watched a TEradS soldier present a pyramidal hand sign formed by joining both thumbs and both index fingers. The moron was trying to dupe del Banco into believing that he was a Night Sector guard, a deadly miscalculation.

  Crosshairs aligned to the head of the enemy, he squeezed the trigger.

  A mist of blood glistened under the moonlight, and the trespasser folded, bounding against the springy carpet of decaying pine needles.

  One dead; one to go.

  77

  South of District Nine, California

  FROM THE SAFETY OF the goose pen, Abby studied CJ’s laptop, amazed by what she was witnessing. The Pilot had maneuvered the owl onto a tree branch, giving them a literal bird’s-eye view of the enemy.

  The Night Sector sentry was in his fifties, armed with an AK-47 and a German shepherd that was undoubtedly trained to be a lethal weapon.

  Damn dog, Abby thought. Makes it impossible to sneak up behind the guy and quietly slit his throat.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t bother to disguise your scent,” Bradley scolded her. “You left a trail that’ll lead them right to us.”

  Fearful of being put under the owl’s spell again—or bursting into tears—Abby looked away. This wasn’t the time or place to lambaste him, she knew, but Bradley was goading her ever closer to her breaking point. All that pent-up heartache and betrayal was accumulating like floodwaters behind a dam. Emotion was eroding logic, undermining self-control, and that potential energy was sure to be catastrophic.

  “I didn’t think of it either,” Cozart said, jumping to her defense. “Haven’t encountered a terrorist canine unit since the pulse.”

  Bradley’s furious glare shifted back to Abby. “You waltzed into an enemy fortress with zero intel. Damn it, Abby, if CJ’s buddy hadn’t dismantled the ground sensors and cameras, you’d be in Consortium custody. Getting sold into sex slavery and raped! And you know what these animals are capable of! You recklessly endangered yourself ...! And our baby ...! And my mission!”

  Cozart stepped in front of her, protectively. “Enough. Browbeating her won’t change the situation.”

  Bradley glowered at him, jaw pulsing, then stomped toward the goose pen’s entrance.

  Abby hadn’t seen him this angry since that night at Sugar Lake, when she’d almost pelted him with a grenade.

  Does all that fury stem from his disrupted mission? Or is he genuinely worried about me and the baby?

  Was CJ right when he said that Bradley still loves me?

  She inhaled a trio of minigasps and diverted her attention to the laptop, in hopes of fending off another spate of tears.

  The Night Sector gunman fired a single round into the skull of his comrade.

  “Why did he just shoot his own guy?”

  A macho snicker squirted from CJ. “I used the owl to transmit voices, which lured him toward his co-worker. Then I manipulated the sensory inputs feeding into his visual cortex, instigating a hallucination. He thought he was shooting a TEradS Soldier. And watch this.”

  The surviving gunman drew his sidearm, pressed the barrel of the weapon to his temple, and pulled the trigger, creating a fountain of blood and brain matter.

  Abby winced. Her stomach somersaulted and fired off a shock wave of queasiness. “So you’re playing God?”

  “I think it’s more akin to the devil, actually,” CJ said. “God gives us free will; this technology expunges it.”

  Bradley grumbled, “You should’ve shot the dog first,” then marched back toward Cozart. “You need to get Abby back to base.”

  “Oh, hell no!” she bellowed.

  “It’s not up for discussion.” Bradley gripped her elbow and strong-armed her toward the goose pen’s entrance. “I’d prefer to have the owl for my mission, but if I have to, I’ll use it to immobilize you for the trip back to Edgar.”

  Abby planted her feet, halting her forward progress, and jerked her arm free. “You’re not my commanding officer or my husband, so piss off!”

  Bradley’s hazel eyes bored into her. His nostrils were flaring with impatience. “You have NO business being here—”

  “Obviously, I do because Volkov gave me the coordinates. He probably wanted me on overwatch to cover your vow-breaking, two-timing ass!”

  Pivoting toward Cozart, Bradley said, “You’re her team leader. Get her under control.”

  “I think Abby’s right,” the First Sergeant said. “Having a Sniper on watch is a force multiplier. It’ll increase your chances of success. And given the threat posed by this technology ... in Consortium hands ... refusing assistance is tantamount to dereliction of duty.”

  “I agree,” CJ chimed in. “This mission is too critical to fail. Abby and I will stay here, and Cozart can help you extract Gorka—”

  “Gorka Schwartz?” Cozart blurted, his voice rising unnaturally.

  Bradley’s face furrowed with rippling convolutions, and in the dim, red-filtered light of the laptop he looked like an irate prune. He uncorked a deep, guttural growl that generated vibrations in the dirt floor, then said, “Let’s go, Cozart ...! And you’re taking orders from me!”

  Abby set up overwatch at the entrance of the goose pen, and both men slinked toward the rustic stage in the valley below.

  CJ retrieved a pair of headphones from his pocket, plugged the jack into the laptop, and offered one of the earbuds to Abby so she could hear what was happening. He piloted the owl beneath the canopy of redwood trees and landed it on a boulder twenty-five yards from the triangular lake.

  Seventy-seven excruciatingly boring minutes later, someone wearing a silver hooded robe led a procession onto the stage. The other four men, an assumption given the Grove’s prohibition on females, were bearing torches; two of them draped in black druidic robes reminiscent of the Grim Reaper; the other two, in red.

  “Can you make out the symbols at the base of each torch?” she asked.

  CJ zoomed in and captured screenshots. “What the hell are they?”

  “Directional symbols that represent the four crown princes of hell,” Abby told him. “North and earth symbolize Belial; east and air, Lucifer; west and water, Leviathan; south and fire, Satan.”

  “How the frick do you know that?”

  A sinister chill snaked through her nervous system. “Volkov must’ve inserted it into my memory.”

  What else did he implant?

  Unnerved, Abby steered her thoughts in a safer direction. “Can you use facial recognition to identify them?”

  “Already did and I relayed it to Bradley. Gorka is in silver. Senator Conn and the CEO of Gaggle in red. Bishop of District Nine and a General from Centcom in black.”

  “U.S. Central Command has been infiltrated by Consortium satanists
?” The queasiness lurking in Abby’s gut blossomed into full-blown nausea.

  No, she informed her disobedient body. I will not throw up. Not now. Not here.

  “Thanks for not puking. I appreciate that,” CJ said.

  Irritated, Abby rammed her elbow into his shoulder. “Quit eavesdropping on my thoughts!”

  “Relax. I’m repositioning the owl for a better vantage point, so you’ll be out of range.”

  She watched the feathered drone alight atop its thirty-foot stone likeness then zeroed her scope on the psychopathic billionaire.

  “The owl is in his leafy temple,” Gorka began, his voice amplified by CJ’s feathered drone. “Let all be reverent before him. Here is Athenia’s shrine. And holy are the pillars of this house. I beseech you, this night of the wolf moon, o great and noble Moloch, to bestow your powers upon me, so that I may establish your dominion over all the earth ...”

  The dainty cries of a child drew Abby’s scope toward the triangular lake. “We’ve got a sixth tango paddling a canoe. And directly behind him, there’s a little girl wrapped up like a mummy.” Abby’s voice faltered, overcome by the horrors the child had likely endured, and she wrestled to regain control of her emotions.

  CJ typed furiously, relaying the intel to Bradley and Cozart, then said, “I can’t ID the boatman. He’s wearing a metallic mask that looks like a skull.”

  The ghoul lifted the child, climbed onto the stage, and placed the youngster onto an altar constructed from woven tree branches.

  Gorka hoisted the torch from the base of the owl statue and resumed his black mass.

  “... With this, the eternal flame of Moloch, under the witness of the wolf moon, I shall ignite the sacrifice and read its ashes on the wind to divine the future ...”

  “Oh shit,” Abby whispered. “That’s not an altar. It’s a pyre! Immobilize them, CJ, before they burn that kid alive!”

  The Pilot’s hands were shaking. His fingers fumbled over the keyboard, and his eyes darted between the ghastly ritual and the maze of drop-down menus.

  “Damn it, CJ! If you don’t stop him, I’m going to start shooting!”

  78

  3,000 feet below White-Jefferson Air Force Base, Ohio

  RYAN’S BLEARY BROWN eyes flitted from Franny to the obstetrician and back again. His wife’s fingers were carving into his palm, a sampling of the pain she was experiencing with every contraction. Surreptitiously, he swapped out his right hand for his left, a defensive move aimed at preserving his ability to sign executive orders, then he used his right hand to blot her forehead with a cool rag.

  Ryan felt powerless, watching her beautiful face contort, hearing the agony in each wretched moan, and his guilt snowballed with each change in pitch, volume, and octave.

  She wasn’t supposed to go into labor for another month, he thought. I’m not ready for this.

  “Come on, Franny,” the doctor urged. “One more big push!”

  She obliged and her face transformed from red to crimson to nearly purple. Her fingernails sliced into Ryan’s flesh, drawing blood, and then his exhausted wife went limp.

  “It’s a girl!” the doctor announced.

  “I don’t hear crying,” Franny said, her weary voice inflating with panic. “Why isn’t she crying?”

  Ryan’s gaze was glued to his daughter. Why is she blue? Oh God—

  “APGAR three.”

  A trio of nurses converged on the newborn, shielding her from view.

  Ryan knew that an APGAR score was a quick assessment of a newborn’s health based on appearance, pulse, grimace, activity, and respiration.

  “Three. That’s terrible,” Franny sobbed. “Our baby isn’t breathing.”

  “She’s going to be fine,” Ryan assured her, sounding more confident than he felt. “She’s tough and strong like her mommy.” He caressed Franny’s cheek with the backs of his aching fingers and leaned in close. “That was totally badass.”

  A feeble smile tugged at her lips then they began to quiver.

  Ryan brushed the tip of his nose against hers lovingly and assuaged her anxiety with a series of slow, gentle kisses. Then he heard the most amazing sound, like the coo of a dove ... being stepped on.

  The obstetrician returned and placed the baby into Franny’s arms.

  Simultaneously dumbstruck and love struck, Ryan gaped at her tiny fingers, at her wispy auburn hair, at the way her perfect little nose crinkled. He’d never seen anything so beautiful, and before he realized what was happening, tears were dripping from his chin.

  “Have you decided on a name for the first daughter?” the doctor asked.

  “Isabella Sierra,” Franny told him, her voice a choked sob.

  Ryan scoured his face with both hands, whisking away the moisture. “We’re going to call her Izzy.”

  It was a fitting tribute to the children his wife had buried, an eight-year-old daughter and a ten-year-old adopted son, both casualties of The Consortium’s war. A war he intended to win.

  “Well, Izzy’s lungs are a little underdeveloped,” the doctor explained, “so she’ll need to be in a neonatal incubator for a while, but she’s going to be fine.”

  Franny kissed the crown of Izzy’s head and reluctantly handed the baby off to Ryan.

  He was afraid to touch her. She was so tiny and fragile, a five-pound miracle wriggling in his arms, and he stared at her with wonder and awe.

  “I can see that Izzy already has daddy wrapped around her finger,” the doctor said, gently lifting her from Ryan’s arms.

  He stayed with his wife until she dozed off, then checked in on Izzy on his way back to the command center.

  Rone didn’t just transport Franny’s obstetrician to the underground base, Ryan thought. He mobilized a fully staffed neonatal unit. Izzy’s in good hands.

  Mentally, he exchanged his husband/father hat for his commander-in-chief helmet and found Rone hard at work inside the mezzanine office.

  “Congratulations, Dad!” the Admiral said, shaking his hand and patting him on the back. “I hear Isabella is beautiful like her Momma.”

  “Yes, she is, and thank you for the neonatal unit.”

  “Game theory covers all bases.” Rone’s cocky grin faded into guarded concern. “We located and sank the submarine, but two bodies have washed ashore on the Florida panhandle. Local media will likely characterize them as drowning victims, but we won’t know for certain until the 4:00 a.m. talking points go out.”

  “Four a.m. talking points?” Ryan repeated.

  “Consortium operatives acquired an Internet site similar to SecureDrop, which had been intended for whistleblowers to tip off reporters. Orders are posted online, anonymously, every morning. That’s how the upper echelons disseminate the narrative to their media minions.”

  “Jeez,” Ryan scoffed. “Does everybody sell out to this cabal?”

  “Sell out is not the right term.” Rone rolled a hand, inviting Ryan to pull up a chair. “First they attempt a lawful purchase. If that fails, they induce a financial crisis and take control through loans. If that fails, they blackmail the owner. And if that fails, the owner is likely to die in a plane crash, hang themselves from a doorknob, or shoot themselves in the head. Twice.”

  “And let me guess,” Ryan said, sinking down onto an office chair. “The investigations are handed off to their cronies within the FBI, DOJ, and FAA.”

  “Correct. So they take whatever they want and their crimes go unpunished.”

  “I want to know everything about these bastards.”

  Rone’s eyebrows knitted together as if he was debating where to begin. “Ashkenaz in Hebrew refers to Germany, and all Ashkenazis alive today can trace their DNA back to 300 people who lived about seven centuries ago. Some say all the way back to Ashkenaz, the Biblical great-grandson of Noah. The Ashkenazi were pioneers in the banking industry and infiltrated Judaism, Christianity, and Islam much the same way they took over the whistleblower site and most major charities. They co-opted the United Stat
es through the creation of the Federal Reserve and seized control of other countries through loans offered by the World Bank and International Monetary Fund.”

  Scratching at the underside of his chin, Ryan said, “I just don’t get it. How do they justify pedophilia, murder, and cannibalism?”

  Rone proffered a half-hearted shrug. “They lack empathy and remorse, Mr. President, which is why they can instigate wars that kill millions—and profit from them—without losing a wink of sleep.”

  “So they’re psychopaths.”

  “Precisely, but unlike sociopaths, they often feign empathy to avoid detection. And that makes them difficult to identify.”

  “Just like traitors.” Ryan’s teeth ground together. These assholes had tried to nuke his family. They were trying to destroy the country he loved, the country he’d killed and bled for. They had to be defeated and hung for their crimes. “Speaking of traitors, have we identified the renegade who leaked my location?”

  The Admiral stiffened and drew in a deliberate breath. “We’ve traced the breach to General Quenten—”

  “What!” The word exploded from Ryan. An unpresidential desire for vengeance began boiling in his veins. “Jonathan Quenten? The guy you recommended for VP? The guy who’s privy to our entire plan ... is a fucking Consortium operative?”

  Rone raised both palms, urging calm. “Jonathan is NOT guilty of treason. His brother, our former traitor in chief, tagged him with an ingestible GPS tracking device similar to those used by doctors. Hence, as soon as he stepped off Marine One, a satellite relayed his position to The Consortium.”

  “William Patterson Quenten needs to hang for what he’s done to this country.”

  “I agree-wholeheartedly, but we have to tread carefully. The Ashkenazis are not merely an American problem; they are a worldwide contagion that must be contained—”

  “And we’re down to fifteen days. With zero leads and—”