by Brandt Legg
“Garland is dead,” the Wizard said.
Hudson felt an involuntary shiver. “That means there's only four of us left,” he said, wondering if the Wizard’s expression was closer to fear than dread. “You, Gouge, his dad, and me.”
“That's right,” the Wizard said. “We’re the last men standing. There’s no such thing as an isolated system anywhere in the universe, you know what I’m saying? How do you explain that? It’s space. Space is what connects us all, touches each of us. One proton joins the next, and the next, and so on until there’s you.”
Hudson shook his head. “Who’s next?”
“Nobody knows where I am,” the Wizard said. “I'm impossible to find. You’re the most protected man on the planet. Gouge has been in hiding ever since Zackers was killed, but Gouge’s dad is a sitting duck. Seems likely they’ll hit him next.”
“We can't just let them die,” Hudson said, staring at the keys on his laptop. Gouge’s old man was also Hudson’s uncle. They’d never been close, even before that night Rochelle was raped and her brother killed, but after that, Hudson couldn’t stand the sight of him. Part of Hudson thought the mean bastard actually deserved to die. “Should we warn him?”
“What, and admit we were there when it all went down?” the Wizard asked. All those years, they’d never let the perpetrators know they’d been there and seen what happened.
“It's a little late to be worried about that now. What’s he going to do if he finds out we know?”
“It's probably not a good idea for anybody to know you were there that night.”
“Somebody obviously already knows,” Hudson said. “Bastendorff had Rochelle, so he must know. And who knows who else?”
“What are they going to do with that information?”
“I'm afraid to find out,” Hudson said, feeling himself breakout in a clammy sweat.
“I'll call him,” the Wizard said. “It’s too dangerous coming from you.”
Later that night, Melissa and Hudson resumed their conversation about Cherry Tree, the plan to bring down the REMies.
“It's too dangerous,” Melissa said.
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Hudson replied, slipping into bed. He explained the call with the Wizard.
“When were you going to tell me someone’s been executing everyone who was there?” Melissa asked.
He was about to say that he didn’t want to worry her, but caught himself before walking into that minefield. “We don’t know for sure they’re going after the Wizard, Gouge, and me.”
“You said yourself they went after Gouge.”
“That could just have easily been REMies. They’ve been looking for him ever since he took off with the drive Zackers gave him. And they can’t get to me.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But killing you isn’t the only way to harm you. They can put out the whole story about that night and Rochelle . . . ”
“I know, but it doesn't matter,” Hudson said. “There are three things I must do as president: correct the wrongs that were done to Rochelle by making sure she’s free, find and stop NorthBridge, and, most important of all, expose the REMies’ system of control and bring down their empire.”
“All of those things are too dangerous,” Melissa repeated.
“There’s that phrase again.”
“NorthBridge has tried to kill you repeatedly. In fact, you may recall that last time, for nine minutes, they succeeded.”
“We don't know that the last time was NorthBridge.”
“Who else would it have been?” Melissa asked, scowling. “Let the FBI, Covington's FaST squad, and Dranick take care of NorthBridge. You don’t need to go on some crusade against—” Her eyes went glassy. “I don't want to lose you again.”
He started to speak, but then saw the tears running down Melissa’s cheek. He leaned over and put his arms around her.
“How do you think I feel each time you take a bullet?” she asked.
“I do think of that, but when I was elected . . . I don't belong to just you anymore. I belong to the American people. I have to get this country right again. I have to stop the terror . . . if that’s even possible.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know,” he said, pulling her close. “But it’s true. We have to be brave. This isn’t just about the future of our country and our freedom, the REMies have made a system that is unsustainable. Can you imagine if the economy collapses? If law and order break down? It’s closer than we think . . . the end is just a few bad decisions away.”
“The REMies won’t let you win.”
Hudson nodded. “I wasn’t going to ask their permission.”
“That’s a far tougher fight than NorthBridge,” Melissa said, gently holding his head and looking intensely into his eyes.
“We can’t let the REMies continue to rule the world because the problem is too big to solve.”
“They are sooo big,” she said, kissing his forehead. “Talk to Vonner, he knows. The REMies are huge beyond anything. We can’t even fathom the trillions of dollars they control. We’ll need more than fifty million Americans with guns. How can we stop them?” She smiled through her tears. “I don’t think jingling keys will work.”
When Hudson saw her familiar pattern of bravery, it almost broke his heart. “We're working on it,” he said softly. “We’re accumulating proof of their existence, proof of everything they've done, and when we have enough, and the timing is right, we’ll release it. When we show the proof to the country, to the world, everyone will know that they’ve been manipulated, and that millions have died and suffered and toiled for the benefit of a few hundred wealthy elites who imagine themselves kings or emperors, who think they can rule better than we can, who think they’re above the masses and that they deserve more.”
“NorthBridge might not have succeeded yet in killing you, but the REMies, they won't miss. You know they have Secret Service agents who could murder you in your sleep anytime they want.”
“I'm sorry, honey. As you said, it’s not fair, but you've got to get used to this and realize that I believe some things are worth dying for.”
He knew instantly that he would always regret saying that to her, giving her an inestimable burden, but he couldn’t do otherwise. He had no choice.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thorne’s visibility and popularity had been increasing ever since he lost the primaries to Hudson, but it had grown even more radically since the inauguration. And with each NorthBridge attack, the shock-jock seemed to somehow gain more stature among the tens of millions of Americans dissatisfied with the current system. In recent months, he’d become the de facto opposition party leader. Some were actually calling him the public face of NorthBridge. Although he denied any knowledge or affiliation with the terror group, many in the media believed otherwise. The FBI had investigated and found no link, but that didn't stop the speculation. The Director of National Intelligence, David Covington, with his new authority, had assigned a FaST squad to Thorne, hoping, once and for all, to clear or condemn the shock-jock.
The Find and Stop Terrorist squads, with their catchy FaST acronym, were a popular subject among journalists as progress was finally beginning to happen in the battle against NorthBridge. Covington himself made an impressive and authoritative guest on news shows. FaST was proving to be far more successful than the Brickman Effort, Dranick, previous FBI initiatives, or even those of the military. In fact, over the course of the previous twelve days, FaST had rounded up hundreds of NorthBridge members. Covington claimed much more was coming, with an even larger crackdown in the works. The media began selling Covington as a hero, and it seemed that NorthBridge might finally be getting some resistance.
On his highly-rated radio show, Thorne declared that he didn’t believe FaST was arresting real NorthBridge members. “Instead,” he said, “Covington is using NorthBridge as an excuse to send his storm troopers after dissenters, which includes anyone who doesn’t agree with wh
at the elites want, and specifically those opposed to an illegal war with China. A FaST agent couldn’t find a real NorthBridger if one was standing next to him.”
The same day that Thorne was making headlines with his controversial claims, Dranick and the FBI Director made similar suggestions to the president in private.
“Covington is going after normal American citizens,” Dranick told Hudson in the Oval Office. “Albeit we’re talking about Americans on the fringe—conspiracy theorists, groups wanting to abolish the Federal Reserve, tax protesters, militia members, Tea Partiers, etcetera.”
“People who might have been sympathetic to NorthBridge,” the president said.
“Yes, but with no known connection, no history of violence, and, in most cases, no criminal record at all.”
“Covington has turned an abandoned military base into a large prison camp where there are already rumors of extreme interrogation methods being utilized,” the FBI Director added.
“How is that possible?” the president asked.
“He’s had them deemed enemy combatants. That gives him the authority, at least until the appeals and challenges work their way through the federal court system.”
“I’m not going to allow my administration to be part of suppressing the Constitutional rights of American citizens,” Hudson said. “Covington works for me!”
The president buzzed his secretary and asked her to get the DNI on the phone immediately.
“Did you see the Raton Report this morning?” Dranick asked. “She hits you pretty hard on this.”
“I don’t care what Fonda Raton does,” Hudson answered a little too gruffly.
“Maybe you should,” Dranick said. “Fonda Raton wrote the piece herself, citing sources that Covington was using the NorthBridge situation as a cover to round up Americans problematic to the administration.”
Dranick’s assistant, a twenty-something private in the army, sitting across the room, looked up from a laptop. “If I could interrupt?”
“Go ahead,” Dranick said.
“The mainstream media is calling Thorne and Fonda Raton ‘terrorist sympathizers’, and pounding the message that FaST is nailing NorthBridge.”
“No surprise,” Hudson said. “I bet it’s unanimous.” He knew the mainstream media was owned and controlled by the REMies. “With all the arrests, maybe people will allow themselves to feel safe again.”
“Yes, sir,” the assistant said. “Most of the stories are like this one. The long national nightmare is finally coming to an end.”
“The public has grown so frustrated, so scared, and so desperate for action, that it won’t take much to convince them that these sweeps are a good thing,” Dranick said. “There sure isn’t broad support for the types he’s picking up—rabble-rousers, misfits, and complainers.”
“Early crosschecks into our database shows that the majority of FaST arrests are gun owners,” the FBI Director added.
Hudson thought of the Second Amendment and his Cherry Tree plan. He buzzed his secretary. “Do you have Covington yet?”
“We’re having trouble reaching him, Mr. President.”
“Keep trying, and interrupt me the minute you get him.”
“The Raton Report also shows that Covington has utilized the Three-D system extensively. She alleges that Three-D has been spying on citizens. If they did anything that seems counter to the state, a FaST unit shows up and either harasses or arrests the parties.”
“Unbelievable!” Hudson said.
“Again, mainstream media is reporting that those allegations are baseless NorthBridge propaganda,” the assistant chimed in.
“I know Fonda Raton,” Hudson said. “She may be a lot of things, but she’s no terrorist. She’s a journalist, a real one, a damn good one.”
“Ironic that you find yourself on the same side as Thorne, Fonda Raton, and even NorthBridge,” Dranick said. “How do you deal with that? I imagine Fitz is going to have a heart attack.”
When the president finally reached Covington on the phone a few hours later, the DNI denied Fonda and Thorne’s accusations.
“Mr. President, even you must know that Thorne and Raton are radicals,” Covington said, making the word “you” sound as if Hudson had just spilled red wine in the DNI’s new car. In a flash of annoyance, Hudson was certain he could detect the sound of Necco wafers clicking in Covington’s mouth in a pool of bitter saliva. “Nothing they spout can be trusted. Both Thorne and Raton have extreme agendas, and while we still don’t have any proof they’re associated with NorthBridge, they have certainly never condemned them.”
“That may be, but I’m going to ask the Office of the Inspector General to look into the matter.”
“You do that,” Covington said curtly.
“In addition, I’m going to ask Colonel Dranick to chair an oversight committee to review FaST practices,” the president said. “Specifically, I want to be certain that you’re not using FaST in any of the manners charged in the Raton Report.”
Covington stifled a laugh. “Mr. President, I know you suffered . . . how do I say this? I’m not sure what damage may have resulted to your reasoning capabilities during those infamous nine minutes when you were dead, but it is extraordinary that you’re seeking to impede an investigation by the Director of National Intelligence into the very people who attempted to assassinate you based on the hearsay of a known communist.”
“If what you say is true, David, then you have nothing to worry about.”
After the call ended, Hudson contacted Dranick to ask him to convene an oversight committee.
“I’m sure Covington loves that idea,” Dranick said sarcastically.
“The man always seems angry to me,” Hudson said. “Not sure what it is.”
“NorthBridge just issued a statement, signed by AKA Franklin, insisting that several of the people Covington’s FaST have in custody have never been members of their organization.”
“I can hear Covington now. ‘Who are you going to believe, a bunch of terrorist scum, or the Director of National intelligence with a decade’s long history of patriotic duty?’”
“Tough choice, given the circumstances,” Dranick said.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Tarka didn’t see the VS agent next to her take a bullet in the face, or his night vision goggles exploding off his head. She heard it. Before his dead and bloody body hit the dusty road, Tarka was already diving for cover, pulling Rochelle down beneath her at the same time. The two women rolled into a ditch overgrown with broad green leaves and thorny brambles.
“Who’s shootin’ at us?” Rochelle screamed.
“The people who’ve been holding you and don’t want us to free you,” Tarka whispered, putting a hand gently but firmly over Rochelle’s mouth. “Now, if you don’t want to die in this ditch, I need you to stay calm and do what I say.”
Rochelle nodded.
“Light a fire,” Tarka said quietly into her radio. A couple seconds later, an explosion ignited a section of the forest a hundred feet ahead of them. The two VS agents still with her provided cover as Tarka and Rochelle crawled through the thick vegetation. They made it thirty feet before a dozen soldiers dressed in all black emerged from the jungle opposite them. “Bring on the sun! Bring on the sun!” Tarka shouted into her radio.
Flash bombs lit the area almost instantly as Tarka, Rochelle, and the two VS agents jumped to the road and sprinted desperately toward the pier. Just as the jungle went dark again, Tarka tackled Rochelle back into the ditch. Machinegun fire sprayed all around them. This time Tarka saw the VS agent go down, nearly cut in half. Then, unbelievingly, she saw something worse.
Another dozen soldiers were coming from the direction of the pier.
“Are any of the team left?” she yelled to the last VS agent with her, after the agents at the pier and the one headed to the other towers didn’t respond by radio.
He pointed to the soldiers, all coming from the direction the other three agents had g
one. “Assume no.”
“Obviously the intel was very wrong,” Tarka shouted, her mind struggling for answers. She’d been told there would only be thirteen soldiers on the island. The most recent satellite data confirmed that count. Now she had no idea how many they were facing—certainly dozens. Tarka started counting again. There were three of them left, and only two armed. She crawled back to the downed VS agent and grabbed his weapon and extra clips. “Can you shoot?” she asked Rochelle.
Rochelle nodded. “Not that though,” she said pointing to the Heckler & Koch MP5K machine gun.
“A gun’s a gun,” Tarka said, knowing Rochelle had killed a man. “Point, aim, fire, except this one is easier. You don’t need to aim too much, just spray bullets at anything that moves.” She looked at the scared woman. “Got it?”
“Yeah.”
Tarka tried the radio again. “Give me rainbows. Give me rainbows.”
Nothing.
She signaled her last agent. Move.
The man had seen covert combat in fourteen countries. He’d survived other ambushes, but this was the worst situation he’d ever been in. He kept low, and moved like a snake through the brush.
The soldiers aren’t shooting, Tarka thought. They must be trying to take Rochelle alive. It was probably the only advantage she had left. Tarka still believed they were going to die, but if the soldiers really had been ordered to take Rochelle alive, they just might live a little longer.
Tarka was counting—ten feet to the crossroad. She signaled the agent. Get into the jungle. It was their last option. They’d never make it in the open, and even if they made it through the crossroad, it was still eighty yards to the pier. If any VS agents were still alive, they’d be there waiting to help.
If we can get to the boat, we can blow the pier and maybe make the rendezvous.
The ditch had been tough going, especially for Rochelle, who was just in night clothes and a sweater, but the jungle was much worse. Like a tangled wall, it was nearly impenetrable. Tarka and the other VS agent both used their hunting knives—cutting, pulling, pushing, breaking, stomping. Too slow. Much too slow.