Suddenly the stranger reappeared. This time they could see the figure clearly. It was a woman. She wore a shiny, rounded, black glider's helmet that came to a point in the back; the face shield was bright blue. She began to walk toward the two with a confidence that unnerved them both.
“Hey! Stop right there! Put your hands out where we can see 'em,” the ranking Guard said.
What happened next took them completely by surprise.
The girl stopped. A thunderous blue energy erupted from below her. She launched off her feet. Rocketed straight at them. The blast knocked them backwards. Seismologists at San Francisco State, some twelve miles away, would register her launch as a minor seismic event on the Richter scale. The two men fought to regain their footing. They did so and looked up. She came into the light from the streetlamps as bright-blue bracelets she wore on her arms lit up. A brilliant beam of sapphire energy exploded out of each set of rings. Both men took a blast to the chest that slammed them to the ground.
That was the last thing they saw.
Sophia Linh eased up on her boot “propulsors” by simply thinking about it—neural transmitters really were cool—and landed ten yards beyond the two sprawled Guardsmen. Thirty-two years old, a former head engineer and astronaut at NASA. She was slim, Asian-American, and dressed in a black leather reinforced flight suit. The helmet's bullet and crash-proof blue face shield not only smartly matched the color of her energy ring bracelets, it also concealed her identity like a one-way mirror. Only her mouth and chin were visible. She thought it was a pretty cool disguise. She was a local legend that had risen to fame in the wake of the Revolution. Part of the hero movement.
She trotted over to them and checked their pulses. Alive but out. She opened up vials of smelling salt under their noses, and they coughed back to life.
“If you assholes ever mess with these folks again, I'll come back. But I won't hold back.” The men just looked on, terrified. The big man stumbled to his feet.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I'm the one taking out your street-thugs-for-hire.”
“Yeah, you're Helius. I know that." He did know. Helius had been taking out the street gangs the local Council used for muscle and transport for years now. She'd never interfered with the Council Guard directly, though. So the Council had steered clear of her. But she had just upped the ante. "What's your real name, bitch?”
“Here, let me give you my card,” she said. The bracelets pulsed again, and she landed a swift left punch to the big man's stomach that caught him completely by surprise. The power behind the punch was unnatural, augmented. The bracelets formed a field of energy over her fists just before she swung. Her hand never actually touched him.
It was like being slugged by a blowtorch and a sledgehammer at the same time. He'd have second-degree burns where she’d touched him.
He doubled over in agony, wheezing and choking for air. She followed with a right uppercut to the chin from her now fully charged rings. The blow lifted him off his feet, and he crashed back on his rear end. “Now get the hell out of here!”
They ran without another word. The smaller Guard helping the bigger rise and run. She smiled as she watched them flee. The adrenaline pumped in her veins. She was ready for more. Wanted more. This was better than food, better than sex, better than a whiskey straight. Even better than solving the mathematical mysteries of quantum entanglement—okay, not that good. Sophia raised her head. A blast of the blue energy launched her high into the grey sky and she was gone. Code name: Helius was on her way to Boston.
SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN
250 MILES OFF THE VIRGINIA COAST
3:15 A.M.
The massive black hulk blasted through the ocean depths, leaving a wash of current in its wake powerful enough to topple a battleship. The Freedom-class submarine, modeled on the old Soviet-era Typhoons, was larger than any other.
It was a mobile military base. While most marine fighting technology had been miniaturizing, the Freedom-class project had created a moving city under the sea. The subs were designed to bring the Pentagon itself to the theater of war. Capable of launching fighter jets and X-1 Apaches when surfaced; mini-subs and ballistic or nuclear missiles when submerged. This particular one housed an army of warriors, all of whom could be deployed on the land, or into the depths if necessary.
So to see the tiny human figure zooming through the black beside it might have seemed bizarre. But that is what Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey Hollis was doing. He was forty-eight years old and better known by his adopted call sign, Hunley.
He had joined the Resistance the day he saw the Freedom Council’s ultimate act of treason, and his own unwitting role in it. A secret shame he had carried with him for ten long years. He never talked about it. Tried not to even think of it. Few knew the true extent of the Purge.
But Hollis knew.
He had been there. Seen it all up close.
Now he was rocketing through the dense, deep water at an unheard-of 170 knots. Just keeping pace with the metal monster beside him. Not all technology had improved during the Depression. But watercraft, they were a different story.
And no other human alive could do what Hollis was doing right now. He was unmatched under the waves. His specially designed grey-and-silver diving suit was dotted with faint blue lights that allowed him to see what he was doing in the darkest depths of the sea. The blue lights covered his eyes as well, and they aided in his sonar-like visual system that allowed him to see for miles under the water. A sliver mask covering his face housed the world’s most sophisticated hyperbaric breathing and pressurization system. The suit not only allowed him to travel at these speeds without being ripped apart by the force of the ocean, it also allowed him to automatically adjust to rapid descent or climb, convert seawater into unlimited breathable oxygen, and decompress his bloodstream in a matter of seconds. Lightweight armor was built into the suit and covered him in strategically important areas to protect against sharp objects or projectiles. He looked like a cross between a scuba diver and an alien.
And more importantly right now, he had an onboard underwater surveillance system second to none. He didn't need to hear inside the sub, though he could do that if he wanted. Instead, he was downloading every bit of communication and logistics data the floating city was producing.
But even Hunley's advanced e-capture system could only hold so much, and the USS Tiger Shark had no limit as to how much data it could belch forth. Hollis knew he would only be able to listen for so long. No matter, he had what he needed. The long, lanky southerner smiled to himself. The General's gonna thank me for this, he thought. The Tiger Shark was headed for Boston.
And so was he.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The folder floated through the air. It landed softly on the desk, and the pages ruffled open as if by magic. One by one they turned. Methodically, carefully. Finally, the flipping of pages ended. A log sheet lay open.
A small mechanical hum, barely audible. The exact sound a Remote Dimensional Scanning Device, or RDSD, makes. The RDSD was the ingenious invention of the “late” CIA surveillance expert Diego Alvarez. Alvarez himself had used one to show Paul Ward his own living room only hours earlier in Boston.
An RDSD could make a three-dimensional scan of any object, living or not, and either store it in its own memory or send it digitally to a remote location. In this case, the RDSD was routing the information to a remote server and only scanning in 2-D. Only this one, like its user, was invisible.
Rachel Dodge had the unique ability to make herself undetectable to the human eye or most other visual surveillance equipment. This also went for nearly any item she held or used, for instance an RDSD. She was not, however, invulnerable to motion detectors. Like the highly sophisticated one she had just tripped. The alarm screamed in her ear, and she quickly jammed the file back in its drawer and rushed for the door.
Code name: Stealth, Rachel Dodge was thirty-five years old, and never married, like most
women in the movement. She had spent more than a decade in the CIA. First as a weapons developer and later as an agent herself.
She was brilliant. A fact she did her best to hide. She was not comfortable with people thinking of her as a brain. She had other assets she preferred they focus on.
In an hour she would be on a flight to Boston. She hoped to meet her good friend John Bailey there. Or, as he was going by these days, Saratoga.
In the terminal, she turned on her usual charm. That is, unapologetic, unrestrained, prefeminist sexuality. Her plunging neckline and stilettos actually made her feel more comfortable. So did her boob job. She was a persistent flirt. Her shrink had told her it was her way of relating to men and that it was a self-destructive behavior and if she didn't quit it, she would never develop any meaningful relationships with the opposite sex. Rachel had decided that the bitch was just jealous and canceled her next session.
As she settled into her seat with a sweating gin and tonic, she couldn't help but notice the wolf-in-salesman's-clothing sitting one row up. He'd been checking her out as she put her bags in the overhead compartment. This was the guy your mother warned you about. “Hi,” she said to him, tapping the wet plastic cup, “I'm about to get high. Care to join me?” She used her best little girl voice, which was part genetics and part years of practice. It worked every time. Mr. Wolf broke into a long grin.
“Hi. I'm Steele,” he said.
“I bet you are,” she said. She took her moistened hand off her cool drink and extended it to him with a grin that was all red lipstick and white teeth. “Oh, look at that. I'm all wet.”
CHAPTER 36
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
THE HALL OF CHAMBERS
The room was large, surprisingly dark, and slightly medieval. The Hall was tucked beneath a dive of a tavern called the Green Dragon, which was itself located inside an old abandoned power station on the banks of the Delaware River. A destination that completely flummoxed Ward until he was led underground. Members slipped in from a dozen smaller side “chambers” scattered along the periphery. They each sat at tall leather chairs that circled the large Hall. Ward was surprised to see that the members wore robes. Even they looked a bit medieval, and more like Supreme Court justices rather than legislators.
These were the members of the Congress of the Revolution, or COR. COR was the highest authority the insurgency had. When the Revolution said they ran things democratically, this is what he was really talking about. One representative from every state.
The Suns of Liberty strode in from a side chamber and sat at a long table set up in the middle facing the center seat where Dr. Leslie Gibbons presided over this meeting. Ward noted the empty chair just to her right. That, he had been told, was where the Revolution normally sat. As the leader of what passed for the insurgency’s military, he was the only nonelected voting member of this body. The electors were the folks who worked directly for the Resistance itself, like all the people at the HQ in Boston. They had elected Leslie as their representative and then COR had elected her as their leader. They only met physically for the most important of occasions.
On this day, Revolution led the team of seven across the hall and sat in the first seat at the desk. The Suns were all dressed in their uniforms, but all their helmets were missing, except for the Revolution’s. Next to Revolution sat John Bailey, who would be his second in command in the field. Then it went: Diego Alvarez, Rachel Dodge, Ramsey Hollis, Sophia Lihn, and Paul Ward sat at the end. He tried to remind himself that, after the two leaders, they were seated alphabetically, not according to rank, importance, or expendability. Leslie had explained that the official formation of the team would need COR's approval, since this was the most coordinated military effort they had ever undertaken.
They were an impressive group. Leslie had filled Ward in on each of them. While she was to be the civilian leader of the Suns, Revolution would be the tactical leader. So for most of what Ward would be involved in, the Revolution would be his boss. Nothing new there.
Second in command was John “Saratoga” Bailey. Bailey was, until very recently, a CIA field commander—director of the Agency’s controversial new Special Division, called SHADOW. Highly decorated and an insider to the Council. A spy not just working on the inside among a bunch of other spies, from whom he had to keep his true intentions secret—he led them. His skills as a weapons expert and leader were renowned. He had helped the Resistance plant the rumor of the ultimate weapon in the first place. And he was as brave as the Revolution. He commanded a great deal of respect from COR. He could be intense, and his muscular frame and shaven head only added to his aura. Ward figured him for his late fifties, but he was in the shape of a guy thirty years younger. Bailey was tall and chiseled. A permanent scowl seemed tattooed across his face—even when he told a joke or boomed a hearty laugh. The shaven head concealed a dark receding hairline that was still visible despite his best efforts. And although Bailey could be jovial in that bravo-military-jock sort of way, or soft “like a teddy bear,” Rachel had said, there seemed to be a raging beast just below the surface. And the beast demanded respect. The only person Ward had seen him defer to was Revolution himself.
The Council now knew of his disappearance, but the information had not been made public. News of his defection would strike like a body blow to the Council, Ward had been told more than once. But it also meant a loss of important inside information for COR.
Unlike the others, Bailey did not sport a specific uniform. Ward wondered if that would change given that one of the things they wanted to do with this group was project the image of a team of superheroes to further counteract Media Corp’s influence. Today, Bailey wore something that looked very much like the getup of a commando. All he needed to complete the image were grenades strapped across his chest.
Alvarez, it turned out, was a living legend. Or dead legend, as the case may be. Ward had gotten to know Lantern pretty well. As well as you could know him. The man just didn't speak that much. But he was damn good at his job. He was a legend not just because everyone outside these walls thought him dead, but because there had never been anyone in the field of surveillance that could match him. His presence alone would scare the hell out of the Council. Another reason to keep his survival a secret. There were moments when Ward thought the Revolution considered him their best weapon. He came dressed in his normal attire, even the leather jacket.
Sophia Lihn was an interesting person. She was barely five foot two, which disguised her lethality. Her father had pounded martial arts training into her brother and her from an early age, so not only did she carry a fusion reactor with her, she could also engage in “nuclear karate.” What could be a more deadly combination? Ward wondered.
Dr. Linh was an astronautical engineer as well as an astronaut, though she’d never gotten the chance to go up. Maybe that was why she liked to fly so much? She had been a top NASA engineer and, in more sane times, would have been one of history’s most famous inventors. But the Council had murdered her father to try and steal the Helium-3 engine she had invented with him. So she’d become Helius instead. The elder Lihn had been the CEO of Lihn Industries and a bit of an activist in San Francisco during the early gang wars there. He had paid for that with his life. Surprisingly, she had declined to carry on the company after his death.
Now Ward knew why. Instead, she had suited up as Helius and secretly exacted her revenge on any and all organized crime syndicates she could find. That was something he could relate to. It gave him an instant feeling of camaraderie with her that he might otherwise not feel.
In her early thirties, she was the youngest of the Suns. She was also short-tempered and tough as nails—with a Ph.D. in engineering. That’s not at all intimidating! She could be maddeningly egotistical, but he had to respect her. The research she and her father had done on Helium-3 propulsion had brought the world to within baby steps of the development of clean fusion energy. She seemed to be fond of Ward, so the fact that she
could probably kick his ass at a moment's notice seemed less troublesome than it might. Her black flight suit was not as sturdy as the one Ward was wearing. He wondered if Leslie would have something to say about that. She had already had the science division overhaul Ward's bug suit. “It's now three times sturdier,” Willard had told him.
Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey Hollis was a tall “southern boy from South Carolina,” as he had introduced himself. Hollis was a scruffy blond with the body of an Olympic diver. Well, that made sense. Ward had always prided himself on staying in shape, and all of the Suns were in top physical condition. Hollis, however, spent his days moving at speeds that the most sophisticated watercraft could barely match. No matter how advanced his bizarre astronaut-wet suit was, the physical strain on his body, and the training he maintained to combat it, clearly showed in the rippling muscles spread all over his otherwise lean body.
The Navy's former top Master Diver. Another good sense of humor and prone to folksy sayings. If he'd heard “That dog don't hunt” once, he'd heard it twenty times in the short period he'd been around Hollis. So Ward liked him immediately. And he had made his own supersuit. That was another thing Ward could relate to. But there was a strange sadness to Hollis. He was like a man who had seen too much. True, he was older than most of the other Suns, but it was more than that. He and Bailey shared some kind of past that had bonded both men in a way that the other team members lacked.
He was dressed in the silver-and-grey diving suit. It looked uncomfortable as hell on dry land. Up close, you could tell that it was as much armor as wet suit. Hollis had explained to him that it was like a super-tough shark-repellant type of material. That’s what Hollis had been going for when he designed it, anyway. At least he wasn’t wearing the part that went over his head, which was made of the same material as the bodysuit. Instead, it was draped and folded around his neck, the blue eye lights glowing into his sandy-blond hairline.
The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution Page 17