The Admiral’s encrypted phone chimed, and he accepted the call, grunting, “Rone.”
Ryan’s fingers raked through his hair then grasped the back of his neck, attempting to massage away the tension.
Special counsel, mass resignations, tribunals—all of it is moot if we can’t neutralize their mind-control weaponry. We should be focused on White Rabbit, he thought.
A nagging inner voice added, “Figure out why The Consortium is not content to run out the clock. That’s the key to stopping them.”
“... All right, put her through.” Rone looked perplexed, as if this call was unexpected and the news, unpleasant. “What can I do for you ...? In regards to ...? Okay, one moment.” The Admiral engaged the speaker option and extended the phone to Ryan. “Sergeant Abigail Webber, Mr. President. She has an emergency of a personal nature.”
A smothering sense of obligation surged through Ryan, the specter of a personal debt owed to Kyle and Bradley.
“Abby, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Ry, I mean, Mr. President, it’s me, Bradley.”
The voice was a jolt from beyond the grave.
Worried that The Consortium could be replicating Bradley’s voiceprint, Ryan said, “You’re going to have to prove your identity.”
Without hesitation, the caller said, “Back in Sugar Lake, I almost choked you out for making an off-color remark about Abby.”
Shock yielded to anger, and Ryan glared at Rone.
The Admiral was gripping his temples, shame and guilt evident in his expression. “Mr. President, the UC-35A crash was disinformation—”
“And I’m just finding out about this now?” Ryan barked, infuriated over being misled.
Rone’s cheeks puffed; his lips pursed. “Prior to the pulse, civilian and military aircraft were compromised by counterfeit parts manufactured overseas in Consortium-owned corporations—including Air Force One. Backdoors programmed into the electronics enabled the cabal to hijack any flight and down it at will. We estimated that seven out of every ten crashes were deliberate and have since developed sophisticated countermeasures which need to remain secret. This is why the NSA was able to restore control of the UC-35A to Captain Love. And why I was reluctant to divulge Webber’s status—”
“To the fucking President?” Ryan sputtered.
“Can we focus on the problem at hand?” Bradley interrupted. “With all due respect, sir, White Rabbit needs to be our priority.”
Knowing that the Sniper was right, Ryan set aside his irritation and listened as Bradley briefed him about Athenian Grove—Gorka Schwartz’s abduction, Matthew Love’s rescue, Abby’s injuries, and Cozart’s death. As the former commander of the TEradS, Ryan knew the First Sergeant personally and was stunned by his undisciplined shooting spree, but he also understood how the trauma of witnessing the rape and fire sacrifice of toddlers could drive a man to snap.
Maybe he did execute Sinclair inside that ambrosia lab.
“It’s a shame,” Ryan said. “Cozart was a patriot, who put his life on the line for his country, and his legacy will land him in the company of mass shooters and terrorists.”
“The public will never know about the incident,” Rone insisted. “The Consortium won’t risk drawing attention to Athenian Grove. They’ll send a gangbanger to settle the score with his family and lash out against us with terrorist attacks ...”
A tortured moan wafted from the phone, and the angst in Bradley’s voice prompted a crazy thought.
Was Cozart really the undisciplined shooter?
Ryan knew his best friend wouldn’t lie to save his own ass, but would he lie to save Abby’s?
“... but as long as we have Gorka Schwartz, we have leverage,” Rone said. “Change of plans. Here’s what we need to do ...”
84
40,000 feet above District Eight, Utah
BRADLEY EMERGED FROM the restroom of the UC-35A and peeked out at the horizon. A blanket of puffy clouds was obscuring the desert, and the eastern sky was glowing with the first hints of sunrise.
They’d made a short flight to Edgar Air Force Base, refueled without deplaning under the orders of General Quenten, and were now airborne, bound for White-Jefferson Air Force Base.
Python had hacked into the official records, changed the aircraft’s tail code, and submitted bogus paperwork to erase their presence. For the sake of the mission and Bradley’s unborn child, the Wizard had surreptitiously altered Edgar’s armory records and the serial number for Abby’s rifle.
I owe Python, Bradley thought, regretting that he probably wouldn’t live long enough to repay that debt.
Gorka was strapped to a leather chair; Matthew and Abby were sprawled across the couchlike bench seat; all three in a state of induced sleep, courtesy of the owl.
Bradley knelt beside his pregnant wife to inspect her wounds and frowned. Although the bleeding had stopped, her arm was red and swollen, possible indicators of infection.
Ryan’s personal physician at White-Jefferson Air Force Base would tend to Abby’s wounds, supply a course of antibiotics, and administer the first of four rabies shots. Would the drugs hurt the baby? He’d seen enough pharmaceutical commercials to know that all drugs had undesirable side effects; but given that rabies caused brain inflammation and certain death, Abby’s life had to come first.
He hovered over her, memorizing every contour of her beautiful face. That was the image he would carry with him and conjure up when he drew his last breath.
I should write her a good-bye letter, he thought. An explanation for that foolish e-mail. And a justification for why I can’t walk away from White Rabbit.
His weary eyes scoured the aircraft for paper then zeroed on the owl.
I can do better than a letter, he decided. I can download it into her mind and set a trigger to reveal it.
Bradley deposited a gentle kiss onto her lips then rested his forehead against hers. Glimpsing a loop of parachute cord hanging like a necklace, he recalled that nostalgic night in Fruitland Park. He’d given her a homemade “Hog’s Tooth” pendant, a .308 caliber commendation for having dispatched a sniper team, and an unexpected marriage proposal.
Slipping two fingers beneath the paracord, he fished out the pendants, three copper jacketed slugs—the one Bradley had given her, the one she’d earned during Marine Corps Sniper training, and a .50 caliber she’d taken from a Chinese sniper during the Aaron Burr operation.
The fingers of his right hand intertwined with Abby’s, and he gaped at the thin gold band flecked with black paint.
She’s still wearing the wedding band, he thought, feeling an odd sense of relief and sadness. Maybe she didn’t fall in love with Cozart.
Bradley felt guilty as hell—ashamed for doubting her fidelity, perturbed over lying to his best friend, and disconcerted over disparaging Cozart’s memory.
I had to insulate Ryan, he rationalized. As President, he has to be able to swear under oath that he had no idea what really happened in Athenian Grove ... And Cozart truly loved Abby; he would’ve been happy that, even in death, he was continuing to protect her.
How sad for Abby, Bradley thought, to have two men who loved her more than life itself ... and still wind up alone, a single mother, raising—
“Yo, Webber!” CJ’s voice, amplified by the aircraft’s sound system, startled him. “When are you starting on Gorka?”
“Right now,” he said, rising to his feet.
Despite the owl’s capabilities, thus far, the interrogation had proven difficult because Gorka knew that the mind-control device was being wielded against him. The bombastic billionaire was employing the same strategy Bradley had used during his CIA interrogation: babble on incessantly about safe topics, thereby self-censoring any thoughts that might aid the enemy ... with the added bonus of delaying torture.
Bradley settled onto a grey leather seat across from Gorka. The laptop was perched on a foldaway table, and he roused his prisoner with a click of the mouse. CJ had schooled him on
the basics, eavesdropping on thoughts and navigating the pain-compliance menu.
Gorka’s liver-spotted eyelids flittered open, and the geriatric jackass took in his surroundings. “You remind me of Hellhound, my most capable general,” he said with a thick Dracula-like accent. “Resourceful and intelligent ...”
Bradley rolled his eyes at the platitude.
“... Join us in making a better society. Imagine a world without borders. Without war. One government. One set of laws. Rapid advancements in science and technology. Medical breakthroughs that will double the human life span ... Immortality is literally within my grasp—”
“Not if I put a bullet in your head,” Bradley said flatly. The last thing the world needed was for evil bastards like Gorka to live for centuries.
“Align yourself with the divine triumvirate: Bauer, Amad, and Schwartz. We are the pyramid and all-seeing eye on your dollar bill. We orchestrate financial crashes and wars, and overthrow intransigent governments. We can give you power and wealth beyond comprehension. Join us and you will become like God.”
Bradley chuckled derisively, thinking that temptation hadn’t changed much since the days of Jesus. “Sorry, Gorka, I crave freedom. Not Power.”
Head shaking as if sweeping away the sentiment, the old man’s jowls jiggled. “This is antiquated thinking. Freedom is disagreement, dissent, disharmony, and disunion. Thus, freedom is war.”
That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! And—shit!
Don’t let him control the conversation, Bradley chided himself. Don’t let him go off on tangents.
“Where’s White Rabbit?”
A malevolent smile deepened the folds and wrinkles in Gorka’s complexion, making him look like a dehydrated Chinese pug. “You will never locate the facility in time. Project Man-Droid launches in fifteen days, and our enemies will be purged!”
Bradley allowed the silence to lengthen and perused the old man’s active thoughts. His mind was vomiting forth a nonstop litany of arrogant, self-aggrandizing propaganda.
Annoyed, he engaged a pain-compliance measure, and Gorka began to writhe in his chair. The billionaire shrieked and belted out a Hungarian curse that translated to “May satan’s horse put its dick up your ass.”
Bradley stifled a laugh. “Sorry, satan’s horse isn’t an option on my drop-down menu,” he said sarcastically. “Hope you enjoyed the sensation of being burned alive!”
Panting, face drenched in sweat, Gorka’s soulless eyes drilled into him as if expecting some black-magic spell to hijack his will.
“Tell me about Project Man-Droid.” Bradley’s index finger lingered above the enter key, an unspoken threat to zap the billionaire with another dose of virtual flames.
“This technology will be the pinnacle of eugenics,” Gorka huffed. “Imagine a world where only those genetically fit can reproduce; where only those enlightened can make decisions.”
“How many satellites?” Bradley demanded. “One per continent like Project Phaedra?”
Another condescending smile warped Gorka’s lips. “No. This lesson we have learned from Volkov: there is safety in numbers. Man-Droid is a swarm of six thousand miniature satellites.”
“Six thousand,” Bradley repeated. “It would take SpaceTrex years to launch that many.”
“Behold the laptop monitor.”
Gorka was recalling a visual memory, a scientist holding a satellite whose width was less than a human arm span. The orbital craft featured light-weight solar panels and retracted into a compact block scarcely larger than a shoebox.
“Artificial intelligence will enable the network to monitor 500,000,000 people simultaneously,” the psychopath boasted. “Crime, as we know it, will cease to exist. Anyone contemplating a violation will be atomized. No need for police, trials, prisons, or cemeteries.”
“Atomized? As in a nuclear?”
Gorka’s eyes narrowed, expressing disdain for Bradley’s ignorance. “Directed-energy weapons can generate frequencies capable of breaking the molecular bonds between atoms, in the same way that sound can shatter glass.”
“Is that what The Consortium used on Beijing and Shanghai?” Bradley asked, recalling that both cities had been pulverized.
“No, for this we commandeered the meteors of Ultimate Protocol. We framed President Quenten for refusing to sign the vaccination mandate, putting his re-election bid ahead of our needs. We wiped out China’s leadership for bungling the American surrender and attempted to instigate a final social cataclysm capable of resetting society—a worldwide nuclear conflagration. But Volkov commandeered our special weapons packages and neutralized China’s entire arsenal of nuclear-tipped missiles.”
Bradley winced at the statement. “Who in their right mind wants a nuclear war?”
“Given your background, I expected you to be educated,” Gorka said with a disappointed shake of his head. “1871 ...? Albert Pike’s masterful plan to reshape the world?”
The name triggered a tidal bore of information within Bradley’s mind.
“The First World War must be brought about to overthrow the tsar of Russia and to make that country a fortress of atheistic communism.
“The Second World War must be brought about to institute a sovereign state of Israel in Palestine. Communism must become strong enough to balance and restrain Christendom until the final social cataclysm.
“The Third World War must be conducted in such a way that Islam and Israel mutually destroy each other. Meanwhile other nations will fight to the point of complete physical, moral, spiritual, and economic exhaustion ... Then everywhere, citizens will receive the pure doctrine of Lucifer, brought finally out in the public view.”
Bradley felt nauseous. Every time he thought he grasped the extent of the evil, it worsened—by orders of magnitude. How could anyone gleefully plot to kill billions of innocents?
His gaze shifted to Abby, asleep on the bench seat. Did she do the right thing, shooting them?
These people had no redeeming qualities, no compassion, no empathy, no conscience. And they controlled everything: the banks and media companies; the music and movie industries; conglomerates and social media; education, religion, and charitable institutions; the judiciary, legislature, and even the alphabet agencies within the executive branch. Could they be uprooted by following the letter of the law?
The satellite phone chimed, and Bradley clicked through computer menus, electronically sedating his prisoner before accepting Python’s call.
“I’ve got three pieces of good news,” the NSA Wizard said. “First, President Andrews has a daughter. Isabella Sierra, five pounds, two ounces ...”
Bradley felt another pang of regret. During his phone call with Ryan, he’d been so obsessed with Abby’s blunder and White Rabbit that he hadn’t even asked about Franny.
“... Second, Missy’s condition has improved from critical to stable, and doctors are detecting brain activity.”
“That’s fantastic!” Bradley said, feeling a sting of jealousy.
“Have you gotten anywhere with Gorka?”
He exhaled a frustrated hiss. “Project Man-Droid is a swarm of six thousand AI-enabled miniature satellites. Gorka hasn’t given up White Rabbit. He knows we have the owl, so he’s sanitizing his thoughts.”
“I figured that would happen,” Python continued, his tempo accelerating. “And that brings me to our third piece of good news. I wrote some code that might solve your problem. You have the charger for the satellite phone?”
“Yee-yup,” Bradley said, fishing it from his backpack. He connected the phone to the laptop so that Python could install software. He followed the Wizard’s detailed instructions, keying in passwords and nonsensical strings of numbers and letters; and within a half hour, a progress bar appeared.
“Perfect,” Python told him. “You can unplug the phone now.”
Bradley complied and said, “So what will this program do?”
“Do you remember Volkov stating in his letter to Rone t
hat stored memories and knowledge couldn’t be accessed?”
“Yeah ... Why?”
“Well, I was baffled by that,” Python said. “I kept wondering why they couldn’t use electrical pulses to mimic thought. Then I realized they could have, but elected not to. 500,000,000 brains times 2800 terabytes each; that’s over a yottabyte; 1.4 trillion terabytes of data! The reward simply wasn’t worth the investment in computing power; one, because it would be obsolete once the older generations died off; and two, because they can access it on an as-needed basis using a software upgrade—a fairly simple program like the one I just sent you. It will systematically stimulate Gorka’s cerebral neurons and only return results that are connected to key topics.”
Bradley sank back against the gray leather chair. His mouth hung open, and his head shook slightly. “Are you telling me that you’re going to run a Gaggle search on Gorka’s brain?”
Chapter 17
DAY 711
Monday, January 30th
85
3,000 feet below White-Jefferson Air Force Base, Ohio
CLUTCHING THE LAPTOP and the owl, Bradley entered the command post, an enormous space packed with computers, monitors, and military personnel. Abby and Matthew had been escorted to the deep underground base’s medical clinic, and CJ was a yard behind Bradley, pushing Gorka Schwartz in a wheelchair. A black hood covered the billionaire’s face, hiding his identity and his involuntary nap from the room full of witnesses.
“You can wait here,” Rone told CJ, who was less than thrilled with his geriatric baby-sitting duty.
He’d rather be with his son and I don’t blame him, Bradley thought, ascending a flight of stairs that led to a mezzanine-style office.
“Mr. President,” he said, snapping to attention.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 33