Frohm bit down on the last of the green tea mint he’d put in his mouth before sliding in next to Thomas. Nodding his head thoughtfully as he chewed, “Of course, Congressional support doesn’t hurt either.” Frohm saw that Thomas’s family was waiting at the other end of the aisle. “Well, anyway, it’s just like what the Dalai Lama said about women.” Thomas declined the outstretched hand. “Again, congratulations. Your wife and daughters get to go home now. You?”
Fifteen minutes later, Thomas stood utterly alone in the dark outside the Hall watching it empty out of people. Scanning faces, he hoped his family would be tied up inside for several minutes. Moments earlier, he’d frantically sent a coded message out over his cellphone. This can’t be happening he thought. It’s too soon. What worried him most was that Frohm had handed it to him on a silver platter.
In Stockholm, Obaba stood behind the counter taking orders. Her swollen feet and ankles hurt in a big way as she moved between the mounted register tablet and the kaffe machines. She should have retired five years ago, but when she’d tried, she lasted thirty-six hours. She missed the action. She also thought she made a difference in the world. If you were not busy being part of the solution, then you were most certainly part of the problem.
There was a loud custom ping from her computer tablet. A text message arrived via a free Google Voice account: Rainbow Level Priority Order.
Obaba hurriedly clicked the order. On her screen in all-caps: U.S. GOVT. RUBBER-STAMPED RARE EARTH MINING TO UNDERCUT CHINA. PRISCILLA VANHURST FROHM A MAJOR PLAYER.
Obaba typed in a reply asking for sources. Despite the long line, she watched the flashing cursor intently.
“Having a stroke?” asked a snotty gender-neutral Tween.
Ignoring ze, Obaba did a double take.
SOURCE: GENERAL GODDARD FROHM
And? Obaba replied.
ME
There was only one reason Thomas would cite himself as a source.
“Holy—”
Obaba physically shoved patrons out the door, aching feet forgotten, “Sorry, folks! Salmonella!”
Elsewhere in northern Stockholm, in the Tomteboda building, Young supervised two U.S. military personnel working jointly with Global Security Council security forces. “He took the bait, General. He actually named you.”
“Of course, he did,” gloated Frohm. “He can’t help himself. A true journalist will risk everything.”
“Believe it or not he’s communicating to his people through his personal cellphone,” said Young.
“He knows it’s over. Classify Hatchett, and all Hatchett Report associates international terrorists. Reach out to Interpol.”
GSC General Lindor Stenberg had been listening nearby. He was not happy. Things like this were always messy. The GSC had gone to considerable effort putting out fires since the beginning of this project just to get WREN this far. He was not about to allow the arrogant United States, much less one man, blow up the entire operation in one evening.
“General Frohm, we have the proof we need to authorize the mission. We’ll take it from here.”
“Come on, come on!” Thomas was about to reach a hand through his Rare Earth mineral infused cellphone to throttle Obaba if she didn’t respond in the next five seconds.
Claire, Hemmy, and Devlin had discovered his location and were fast approaching.
Finally, a text: Are you sure about this?
Thomas replied: Expose it now!
Transmit final authorization, please.
Obaba stared at her screen waiting. How do you spend the remaining moments of your life before “after” arrives?
She’d only had time to ask the question: AUTHORIZED BY THOMAS RUBY HATCHETT
“God help you,” Obaba whispered.
“Daddy, I lost you for a minute!” Hemmy ran to Thomas, still glowing from her special evening. She spoke in the way she did when she was younger—so sweet, so trusting.
Thomas’s heart ached. He pulled his family into his arms, holding them tightly.
Claire pulled away, searching her husband’s soul.
CHAPTER 50
Americas Sector M9-47G :: New Las Vegas Desert
Six laser assault weapons pointed directly at her. Truby’s weapon of choice, a video camera she aimed back at the soldiers holding her at gunpoint at the roadblock to New Las Vegas. She’d crossed the line again—literally. “You can stop me if you want, but you can’t stop the truth.”
No National Guard soldier flinched much less uttered words that might make her or him responsible for a negative outcome, not even Sergeant Dog Handler.
Truby had put herself and everyone else into a tight spot. She was gambling. She knew too well this moment would be forged by flame, the moment life would forever be before New Las Vegas and the moment after, or not at all. It wasn’t the first time she’d put herself in this position; it could be her last.
But, then, she’d thought the same thing last time. She was glad fate was far more complex than black and white, even if most people weren’t. She only regretted people she cared about became tangled in her quests, even when she tried to avoid it or tried not to care. In the end, she had her why and that’s all that mattered.
“You shoot, this goes viral. It’s being transmitted wirelessly to a secure location.” This part was a lie and why she liked using a vintage video camera, it couldn’t be hacked. But the soldiers couldn’t know that—another gamble. Truby took a slow step toward the swamped city.
“No, Truby!” Cadence whispered.
Pete had tried to make Rose stay back, but she was just like her mother.
Zedd held onto Cadence to keep her from doing anything foolish, too.
Word had spread like dry tinder alight. Nearly the entire temporary community was present acting as witness. Strangely, their presence felt almost ephemeral, as if they were the body to Truby’s beating heart and soul.
The transformation had begun when the man in the silver spacesuit had reached out to hold the hand next to him. Sway had then reached out to hold the hand of the woman next to him, and so it went as nearly everyone in the camp linked hand in hand or arm in arm to form a human bio-system. Information was whispered to those in the back who couldn’t see.
Still shooting video Truby took a second slow step backward knowing she may be knocked off her feet by a laser any second.
“By order of N.S.A. 12.2. Trespassers will be subjected to bodily harm possibly resulting in death. Another step and you leave us no choice!” Sergeant Dog Handler took the safety off before pointing to his robotic contact lenses. “We are recording, too—in case you forgot.”
Suddenly, the too-large soccer ball under Rose’s delicate arm slipped to the ground. She stepped forward, bending down to recover it, accidentally kicking it. “Sorry! I’ll get it!”
“Rose!” Pete rapped his walking stick twice severely on the ground.
“Stop!” yelled Private Coby Holt.
The ball shot forward and bounced onto the highway, velocity pulling the orb followed by Rose the remaining way. She snatched up the ball, yelled another “sorry” before realizing she was standing next to Truby. Rose stood fully upright staring down I-15 south to New Las Vegas.
“Do not move!” ordered the female Guard.
Rose slowly cocked her head sideways to look at all six Guardsmen, guns still aloft. She rotated her body the rest of the way toward the sea of people holding hands. “I think I’ll stay.”
At first, no one noticed. What began as a soft vibratory hum, grew louder. A wave of movement began to ripple from the back of the crowd toward the front. Suddenly microbot insects hovered overhead. The next sounds were ones of repulsion as the crowd saw hideous little black faces looking back at them. Dozens of buzzing insects seemed a hybrid of everything repugnant in nature.
The six National Guardsmen and women had received the requested reinforcement in the nick of time. By adding a third “party” to the equation, they could reassign blame if things didn’t
go well. It had become standard military operating procedure to create a scapegoat if one wasn’t already present.
“Disperse or get lit up!” said Sergeant Dog Handler.
“No kills, no kills,” Private Holt murmured to calm himself as he neared a panic attack.
Pete leaned slightly, whispering something to Sway. Sway tapped someone next to him who leaned to whisper to her neighbor. As the message spread, protestors, off-gridders, misfits, and the curious alike began to stand a little taller. But, no one moved.
Truby knew three things: something was up; Pete was the one to watch; she was going to get it all on video.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered to Rose.
“We’re trying to get arrested, aren’t we?”
“Time’s up!” yelled the Sergeant.
“No, no, no!” Freaking out, Coby threw his weapon to the ground, his face darkening.
Pete looked skyward and nodded his head affirmatively. Chaos erupted. Anyone with a water drop threw it at the hovering microbots. Several were successfully knocked out of the air. Other microbots fired small purple laser bursts meant to scatter the crowd. A few yelps and people fell to the ground, writhing from painful “bites.”
Truby’s video camera recorded it all. A few campers lacking ammunition didn’t think about the negative return as they threw rocks instead. Sway pinched up two drones spinning wildly on the ground. As the drones continued to fire laser shots, Sway aimed them at the Guardsmen. The Guards fell twitching, one by one.
Where were Zedd and Cadence?
“Pete!” Truby called, frantically searching within the anarchy.
Abruptly, the pandemonium stopped. Any remaining viable insect soldiers that hadn’t been stomped and crushed emitted a loud ripping noise as they zipped away toward big sky country.
“Well, lookie there! It’s Satan,” said Pete.
At the far end of Pete’s pointed walking stick, Truby couldn’t believe her eyes. Two laser rifles were pointing back—one at Truby, the other at her friends, old and new. At least now she knew whose team they were on.
CHAPTER 51
She closed her eyes against the unyielding sun. The wind on her face buffeted the heat of the direct rays as they headed toward New Las Vegas in the back of an open military transport vehicle. Truby could have almost been lulled to sleep by the whine of big tires kissing the new, even solar-paneled road. Drowsy, she felt like Dorothy, picked out of the poppy field next to the yellow brick road almost to Oz. Except perhaps Dorothy hadn’t had time to let remorse sink in. Maybe Truby dwelled there too much. She didn’t know anything for sure anymore.
Truby pulled out the long chain she wore under her clothing like dog tags. She wrapped her palm around the Ganesha elephant on end, letting the sharp edges of the pewter object bite deeply into her flesh to keep alert. She squeezed harder. She wanted to feel pain.
As innocent as she was mysterious, young Rose slept peacefully, easily resting in the crook of her much older father’s arm. Surrounding them were other campers playing hand games and telling stories. Outwardly, they appeared completely at ease with the uncertainty of their futures. It was the unknown, the darkness in the world that terrified Truby the most. She never used to be this way. Always pragmatic and cocksure of herself, ego informed her that life was binary in nature. There was either right or wrong, truth or lies. Now, if you asked, she’d tell you it’s everything in between.
“I suppose Hector’s in on this.”
Zedd, Cadence and their weapons each occupied a rear corner in the back end of the truck. Behind them, two more trucks followed. Cadence guiltily avoided Truby’s accusation. As Zedd boldly leered at Truby, she wondered if chemistry played that much of a difference between the sexes or if it was something more.
“That idiot and Cadence are N.S.A. I’m C.I.A., Cyber Intelligence.” Zedd reapplied lip balm with sunscreen. “Post 9/11, various agencies finally began to play together, working more efficiently with the military.
“When you relocated to the Inn, we were sent in advance to keep an eye on you. I could have handled you with one hand tied behind my back, but N.S.A. had to be involved.” Zedd clucked his tongue like a mother hen. “Bad buki.”
Did Truby detect a slight accent for the first time or maybe he was letting it slip now that it didn’t matter. Indulging in a pity party after she was relocated to Old Faithful, she’d missed so many signs.
It was her fault for falling for Young’s con that the California’s Mountain Pass Rare Earth Elements Mine was producing again. And now this was her fault, too. But, if the mineral was in play, where was it being mined?
“I always wondered why the government suddenly decided I needed a yoga instructor and pro shopping concierge,” Pete interjected.
He recalled the first time he’d met Cadence in her slick yoga outfit, and Zedd, the high-tech clothing dude. He’d shaken hands with them before promptly walking them through the Inn to an oversized lobby sign that stated the Inn was closed indefinitely. They’d laughed and said they were receiving a paycheck to be there so he might as well get used to it sooner rather than later. Hector, the IT engineer guy, had come later.
“And cyber crashing PNN?” asked Truby.
Zedd winked at her, “Nobody saw it but us.”
Concerned for his friend, Pete nudged Truby’s foot with his boot, winking. She smiled wanly in return. Unable to reach out to her without disturbing Rose, Pete stretched out his fingers to hold his neighbor’s hand. The younger man took it firmly and warmly before sending out his right to a neighbor. The chain continued until Truby was securely bound within the firm grip of a loving human family.
Everyone smiled warmly at her, nodding slightly as she looked each one in the eye. She was blown away by the unconditional love she felt radiating from these people, some she’d never met. Is this the way Dorothy felt around Glinda, the Good Witch of the South?
Moments later, the vehicle rocked to a halt accompanied by the sound of multiple rear tailgates lowering. The last to exit the truck, Truby heard gasps and shrieks before she saw why.
Zedd jumped in the vehicle to offer Truby a hand, “Here’s your Vegas.”
She refused it, jumping over the side instead. Just as she landed on her feet, she saw a mother fall to her knees sobbing.
“My son! My son!”
Truby only had time to look up briefly. She could hardly believe her eyes.
Then her world went black.
CHAPTER 52
2023 :: Stockholm, Sweden — With the authorization required to run a story this big, Obaba immediately logged into the darknet to alert her crew. “Wakey, wakey!”
Hatchett Report associates from around the globe appeared online in video squares. Some yawned at being awoken in the middle of the night.
A young woman hacker in Tanzania pulled a t-shirt over bare breasts, her naked lover sauntering out of the room. “Who was the second source?”
“Hatchett himself.”
“A real cowboy, that one!” An ex-SIS, formerly MI6, from Southampton took a last draw off his hookah, shooing out his mates.
“You listen up now,” Obaba said solemnly. “Dat cowboy just put himself on Interpol’s most wanted list. Get ready to launch. Set up redundant encrypted mirror servers.”
Obaba and her team ran through procedural checklists to ensure there would be no trackbacks or unwanted server infiltration to protect their identities. Every talented individual carefully recruited and background checked, each brought a unique skill set to the operation. The investigative report about to hit the darknet had been in development for three years. New information kept emerging revealing a much larger agenda.
Calling up a final password screen, Obaba took several deep breaths, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily upon her. Maybe she’d retire after all. The cursor blinked ominously.
“Six, confirm we are ready to publish.”
“Affirmative.”
“Team, please confirm you
are ready to publish by responding, ‘I agree.’”
As expected, agreement was unanimous.
“And I agree. After I enter the password, you will be prompted to enter your pin.”
Before Obaba even knew what was happening, a wave of ant microbots crawled across her floor and up one leg causing Obaba to lift her feet and shriek. Their antenna cameras confirming no one else was in the Whistling Winds Trading Co., the front door slammed against the inside wall, the glass insert exploding into tiny shards.
Int’l Terrorism Special Forces, the Global Security Council’s private security firm, stormed the small shoppe in protective gear.
“Move, and you're dead.”
Obaba sulked at a corner table as three soldiers worked to hack into her computer.
Young impatiently folded his arms over his uniform. Sitting on the small bistro table with his backside practically in Obaba’s livid face, he tapped an ancy foot on a nearby metal chair. “It’s past my bedtime, soldier.”
“Thomas Ruby Hatchett is not the password, sir,” a frustrated soldier grumbled. “She’s lying.”
“It’s case sensitive,” Obaba mocked.
“Cute. Okay,” Young clapped once. He stood rubbing his hands together. “Soldier, get me a hot cuppa Columbian Joe.”
At the counter, Young sifted through his wallet, “You know what, make it American roast instead.” He inspected the pastries displayed on dessert pedestals, turning toward Obaba. “I’m here, aren’t I? Let’s find out if you’re any good. Get me a slice of the rum bread pudding cake, too, will ‘ya?”
The soldier served Young his coffee along with a splash of contempt. For his effort, Young handed him a business card.
“A tip. If you want something done right, call this guy.” Young carried his goods back to Obaba’s table. “Nothing like a 3 a.m. snack.
“As for you, this is your last chance. You, Hatchett, and all your little friends are criminals now. Do you know what that means? The Guantanamo of our choice, indefinitely. Now give us the password and maybe, just maybe, we’ll let you choose which Guantanamo you’d like to call home.”
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