by Wendy Alec
“Too conspicuous,” he said. “We use Hortense’s Golf. I see your eye-hand coordination hasn’t improved.”
Julia bent down and picked the keys up from the floor, glowered at Jason, then grabbed the housekeeper’s car keys from the rack and threw them hard at him. He caught them deftly in one hand, smiled triumphantly, then walked through to the small garage.
He pressed the key remote, unlocking the doors of the white Volkswagen Golf. Julia leaned over and put the backpack in the backseat, then got in the front. Jason pressed the ignition, and they roared out of the driveway.
* * *
Lexington Avenue, New York City
“Roadblock,” Jason muttered.
They stopped, joining hundreds of cars in the queue, and Jason’s window slid down. A Homeland Security soldier wearing a respirator and a bulky suit put his hand out.
“Pass,” he said tersely.
Jason handed the soldier two identical yellow cards.
“What on earth is he wearing?” Julia whispered.
“CBRN suit—military version of a hazmat suit. Chemical, biological, radiation, nuclear.”
Julia paled. “And a respirator. I thought you said there’s no pandemic here,” she hissed.
Jaon glared at her to be quiet.
The soldier nodded, then swiped the yellow cards.
Jason waited with bated breath.
“Lucky, then,” the soldier said. “First in line for the vaccine—you must have friends in high places.”
Jason nodded. Inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. Dylan Weaver had delivered the goods. He had hacked into the FEMA and UN databases and changed Jason’s and Jullia’s Black- and Red List status.
The soldier passed the yellow cards back through the window. “Follow the precinct markings to the quarantine center. It’s the only route out.”
* * *
Jason and Julia had been traveling for what felt like hours, and they had covered only two and a half miles. The route was swarming with masked United Nations soldiers, submachine guns at the ready. Black FEMA and Homeland Security vans were positioned at even intervals along the route.
“We’re near,” Jason said. “I’m getting off.”
“You want us to go into Chinatown?” Julia stared at him in disbelief.
“Well, you didn’t think we were going to the precinct, did you?”
Julia looked to their left. “That’s a barricade, Jason,” she said sarcastically.
“Yes, but luckily for us, it’s unguarded. Here . . . ” He swung the steering wheel. “It’s our only chance.”
The car veered through the barricade and down a narrow verge. Julia put her hands over her eyes.
Jason looked through the rear view mirror. “We’re clear. Now we head to the warehouse.”
“The Warehouse?” Julia said, her head still down at her knees.
Jason veered sharp left again and accelerated down an even narrower alley, toward a high chain-link fence surrounding an empty parking lot and a dilapidated warehouse plastered in graffiti.
He hit the clutch just as Julia raised her head. She pointed in alarm at the two massive broken-down warehouse doors.
“Jason!!” she yelled as he drove straight through the closed chain-link gate, knocking it open. She put her head down again.
Jason sighed, put the car into gear, and screeched to a halt just outside the warehouse doors.
A solitary homeless man, holding a whisky bottle in a paper bag, limped up to Julia’s window and gestured for her to roll it down.
Jason nodded.
“You can’t be serious,” Julia mouthed.
“Roll down the window,” Jason said through gritted teeth.
Reluctantly Julia pressed a button, and the window slid down a few inches.
The homeless man surveyed their surroundings, then stuck his hand into his left pocket and pulled out a badge. He passed it through the window.
“We haven’t got much time,” he said.
Julia stared at the badge. It read “1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta (1st SFOD-D)”
Jason observed the SPR sniper rifle beneath the grubby trench coat, then passed the man his and Julia’s passports.
“Have you lost your mind?” Julia hissed.
The soldier nodded in approval, handing back the passports. “The professor sent you. Welcome to the Unit.”
He motioned for Jason to move the car forward.
Instantly, the car plunged down a steep ramp into a vast underground compound lit with massive searchlights and swarming with armed militia. They were stopped at a barricade, where a uniformed soldier with a shaved head approached them.
“We need you to step out of the vehicle, please,” he stated in soft, precise British tones while keeping his submachine gun trained on them. Julia looked at him, terrified.
“It’s okay, Julia,” Jason said soothingly.
She glared at him. “Jason Ambrose De Vere, if we ever get out of here alive, I’ll . . . ”
Jason stepped out of the car and handed the soldier the yellow cards, papers, and passports.
The soldier gestured at Julia, and slowly she got out of the car. He frisked them both, then tore up the yellow cards and papers and handed back the passports. He saluted.
“The general is expecting you,” he said. “Get in the jeep.”
Julia grabbed the backpack from the Golf and followed Jason into the backseat, seething.
They passed armed militiamen every three or four yards. The jeep stopped at last, and Jason and Julia followed their escort into what looked like a railroad passenger car.
“You know where we’re going, don’t you?” Julia hissed at Jason, bewildered as thick harnesses automatically strapped them into their seats.
Jason nodded.
“Who’s the general?”
“I don’t know,” Jason muttered, “except that Lawrence trusts him implicitly. We’ll be safe here until they get us out to Petra.”
“Hold on,” the soldier warned.
The railcar shot forward, rapidly accelerating to over two hundred miles per hour. Five minutes later, it came to a halt.
Jason got out, and four soldiers approached him with automatic weapons raised. Jason raised his hands, and they frisked him.
“He’s clean,” said one of the soldiers.
The squad commander nodded in Julia’s direction. He gave instructions in what sounded like Hebrew. They frisked Julia down.
The commander pointed to the bag, and a soldier dumped Julia’s makeup and personal effects unceremoniously onto a tray and pushed it toward a scanner. Then he pointed them up the steel stairs.
“We’ve got to get a move on,” Jason told the Israeli squad commander. “When they find Julia hasn’t turned up at the quarantine precinct all hell will break loose.”
The thickset Israeli grinned, chewing his gum nonchalantly, and gestured up the stairs. “First things first,” he said in English with a strong guttural inflection.
He led the way into a large, sparsely furnished room. A man with white hair stood with his back to them.
Slowly he turned around. “Why, Jason, you young whippersnapper!” he said.
The old man was in the full battle dress of a four-star general, with medals. An unlit cigar hung from his mouth.
Jason stared in disbelief at his wrinkled, leathery face. “General Magruder!”
Jason grinned from ear to ear. Magruder had been one of James De Vere’s oldest and most trusted friends.
“Sorry to hear about your mother, son. That was one classy dame.” He looked at Julia inquiringly.
“Julia St. Cartier,” Jason said.
“Ah, the professor’s niece.” He hesitated. “Your ex.”
Jason and Julia both nodded vigorously.
The general raised his hand. “Come with me.”
They followed the old soldier into a military jeep. He nodded to the marine in the driver’s seat. The tyres screeched as they turned o
ff onto a highway.
“You realize that we’re two thousand feet down.” Magruder grinned. “Say hello to our Mother City.”
Jason and Julia stared in amazement at the vast underground facilities.
“We’re totally self-sufficient,” the general continued. “Generate our own electric, created our own air filtration systems, water purification systems.”
They passed an enormous munitions factory.
“Vast supplies of guns and ammunition. That’s the agrarian section.”
Ten minutes later, they were still staring at miles of farmland.
“It’s incredible!” Julia gasped.
Magruder grinned. “Our artificial underground farms. We even redirected underground rivers. We can feed all ten thousand of our military here for five years. But wait for it . . . ”
They transferred to another railcar, and fifteen minutes later they came to a halt.
Jason stood up, gaping.
“Impossible,” he breathed.
Magruder chewed on his cigar and grinned. “It’s a U.S. Navy guided missile cruiser.”
Jason shook his head. “But how?”
“We have nuclear submarines, destroyers, secret ocean entry points all over the world. They slide onto massive rails. We transport them under dry land, through gigantic tunnels to our underground docks.
“What you see here—we have setups like these all across the USA and the world. Call it the Illuminus military arm.” He pointed to the Israeli. “Avi here’s from Shavetet Thirteen. Our militia consists of the finest special forces in the world—SAS, Delta Force, Navy Seals, Spetznaz—all with one goal: to stop the new world order.”
He raised his hand. “To my quarters.”
Twenty minutes later, they were seated on a battered leather couch in a large oak library.
“Cigar?” Magruder asked.
Jason shook his head.
A marine carried in a steaming pot of coffee and a tray of sandwiches and salad.
“A salad for the little lady?” Magruder grinned.
“Not bad for martial law and rationing.” Julia smiled. “Better than FEMA’s menu.”
Magruder settled into his chair, suddenly serious.
“You realize FEMA and the UN blue hats have become your brother’s puppet militia. Their urban unit, MOUT - ‘military operations in urban terrain’, have been preparing since 2010 to take control of major population centers, disarming American citizens and crushing any rebellious or antigovernment groups who attempt to resist the military takeover. That’s the underlying reason why, during Obama’s presidency, U.S. soldiers were recalled from both Iraq and Afghanistan. They wanted them home, to create a homeland army. All presidents are on a need-to-know basis only. The shadow elite pulls the nation’s strings.”
Julia’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. Jason nodded.
Magruder stared at the picture of a sweet-faced elderly woman on his desk, and for a split second, his eyes misted over. He nodded to the two soldiers with pistols at his door.
“Stand down,” he said. The door closed, and they were alone in the room.
“Kids, listen. We’re onto something.” He hesitated. “Something huge.” He sighed and picked up the photograph of his wife. “My Clemmie . . . ” his expression softened. “She died forty-eight hours ago.”
“I’m so sorry, General. The plague?” Julia asked gently.
The big old soldier roughly wiped a tear from his eye and shook his head.
“Jason and Uncle Lawrence say there’s no plague in New York City.”
“And they’d be right, young lady.”
The general pressed a remote control, and images instantly appeared on a projector screen opposite them. A virtual map of North America appeared, with blood red arrows covering the entire nation, from Texas to Virginia and from Kansas to Ohio. Every state was covered in red arrows except for California in the West and New York State in the East.
“Weaponized black death, affecting every state except California and New York. All civilian flights gounded, state borders closed.”
He felt in his top pocket and removed a well-worn pocket Bible.
“My wife’s,” he whispered, opening it to a bookmarked page. “Luke seventeen: thirty-four. ‘I tell you, in that night there shall be two men in one bed; the one shall be taken, and the other shall be left.’
“I’m not a religious man—never have been—but let an old man be an old man. All our married life, Clemmie talked about it. Told me one day . . . well, it happened exactly as she said.
“At precisely eleven on Sunday night, we were lying in bed. I was still awake, reading, as is my habit. Clemmie had read her pocketbook Bible, then fallen asleep next to me, facing me. She looked so sweet that night.” His gray eyes softened. “It all happened so quickly.”
“And she died in her sleep?” Julia asked innocently.
Jason stared at Magruder intently. Slowly he opened his mouth. “You’re not saying she dis . . . dis . . . ”
“Say it, Jason,” the old man said. “Yes. She disappeared. Vanished . . . ” He took a deep breath. “In front of my eyes.”
“You said you were reading,” Jason said.
MacGruder shook his head. “As fate would have it, I’d just finished reading. Laid the book on my bedside table. I leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“She . . . one minute, she was there; the next minute, she was gone. Vanished straight in front of my eyes with me watching her.” He studied Jason’s face.
“She left me a note. It was in her Bible.”
He handed Julia a well-worn note in beautiful cursive writing.
“‘My darling Mac,’” Julia read aloud, “‘when you read this I will be gone. He is coming for me. I sense it with all my being. No tears—just a promise. That my disappearance will be the sign you have waited for all your life, Mac, my darling stubborn old pragmatist. Now, accept the fact.
“‘Receive Christ, Mac. It will not be easy being left down here. But you’ve always had more courage for your country than anyone I’ve ever met. Now have courage to follow Him, live for Him. Die for Him—you may have to, my darling Mac. I now see Him face-to-face. So will you, my darling, and one day in the not too distant future we will be together forever.
“‘With all my love, as always, your Clementine.’”
Jason watched, deeply moved, as the big soldier’s shoulders shook and he started to sob.
Julia took the big, craggy hand in hers.
“Go on, General,” Jason urged.
“Our base consists of ten thousand military personnel and their families. Last night, at precisely eleven-o-seven p.m., we had over two thousand verified cases of men and women disappearing from the base here. All disappearances witnessed by a second party. And another thousand four hundred and fifty unwitnessed disappearances.”
“It was precisely at eleven p.m. that the weaponized plague was released worldwide,” Jason said thoughtfully. Magruder nodded. “Our intelligence services aboveground have sourced over a hundred thousand cases of witnessed disappearances in the U.S. already. FEMA, the UN, WHO—someone very high up had inside information because, at four that morning, everyone on the Blacklist was rounded up.”
“The Blacklist?” Julia frowned.
Magruder smiled wryly and tapped his keyboard. They stared at the screen.
“There are three lists held by One World Intelligence, underground at Mont St. Michel, Normandy. Lists of Christians, patriots, constitutionalists, from Texas to Beijing, now labeled terrorists. At four a.m. yesterday, over eight million American men and women were seized from their homes, picked up in military vans, and transported to huge quarantine centers—concentration camps—across America. Their families were informed that they were suspected plague cases. At eight a.m. Central time, martial law was implemented.”
“Our troops wouldn’t do that.” Julia shook her head. “Not to their own.”
“Exactly.” Magruder nodded. “They weren’t U.S.
troops. There are now hundreds of foreign military bases, under the United Nations flag, already set up in the USA. They have no qualms about firing on U.S. citizens. Our U.S. troops do most of the aboveboard stuff: patrolling the streets, doling out rations, keeping order.”
He thrust a sheaf of documents onto the table next to Jason.
“Every one of these are men and women we know. All witnesses vouch that they were not sick. Most were in good health. They were beaten and forced into vans by foreign troops—practically a second holocaust. They had no defense.
“Remember the global UN ‘Small Arms Treaty’ over a decade ago? To fight ‘terrorism,’ ‘insurgency,’ and ‘international crime syndicates.’ You can be quite certain that an even more insidious threat is being targeted. It was passed by the UN and ratified by our Senate in 2018.”
Jason nodded. “That’s what caused the uprising and secession of Kansas, Missouri, Texas, and eighteen states following them,” he said. “And the families?”
“If they resisted, they were taken, too.”
Maguder pressed the remote again, and a vast room appeared onscreen, with hundreds of military men and women working at rows of computers.
“Our U.S.-based intelligence units. They’re here underground, collating evidence. And this is where it gets strange. For ninety percent of people on the list, the government has been issuing two sets of documents. The first, issued by the quarantine authority to the next of kin.
“Take this one: ‘John Andrew Miller. Cause of death: plague. Place of death: Brooklyn Quarantine Center, New York.’
“But in ninety percent of cases, they’re issuing a second document, purely for EU headquarters, marked ‘EYES ONLY.’”
Jason frowned as the general continued to read.
“Issued to the EU Headquarters: ‘John Andrew Miller. Dissident. militant. Blacklist.
“‘Reason for detention: Terrorist acts against the state.
“‘Death by guillotine. Executed eleven-o-seven p.m.’”
Magruder pressed a second remote, and instantly four TV screens appeared, broadcasting the emergency channel, now commandeered by the military. The screen showed thousands of body bags lining the streets of Florida, the District of Columbia, Virginia, and Iowa.