Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “What’s your status?” Charles asks.

  “I can confirm Clark. If he’s not dead, he’s a vegetable.”

  “If? If isn’t a confirmation.”

  “Sorry. I’ll finish it.”

  “And Hensley?”

  “We’ve moved into Plan B, sir. He’s alive and with me now.”

  The camera shakes for a moment and stops, revealing Richard Hensley, red-­faced and looking ill. If Hensley were here, Charles would strangle him himself. He suppresses the urge to hurl the phone. Will Anderson was his very best, and his team was up to the task. Charles breathes in through his nose until he is calm and focused once again. Hensley is inconsequential. This is not defeat, merely a detour. The camera pans back to Carter.

  “Where is Taylor Hensley and her daughter?”

  “In the West Wing. Should be here any minute.”

  “Are you near the subway?”

  “Close.”

  “Continue on to Union Station. Don’t get on the train. You’ll need to exit the tunnel on foot. Use the network when you’re back aboveground. Help is near.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It’s clear the Lord had other plans when his soldiers failed to kill Hensley at the convention. Their faith is being tested. “Put Hensley on.”

  The camera steadies on Hensley’s face.

  “Congratulations, Mr. President-­elect,” Charles says. “Quite a big day for you.”

  “What have you done, Mitchell?” Hensley’s voice is ragged, desperate.

  “God’s work. I serve at the pleasure of Our Savior, Jesus Christ. And so will this country. It’s long overdue, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Mad or not, I hold your future in my hands. And it seems we have two options, rather black and white. You and your family can live or die. Which do you choose, sir?”

  “I won’t be your pawn.”

  “Let’s be honest. You’ve always been a pawn, Mr. Hensley. The government’s pawn, my pawn, what’s the difference, really? You can still lead the country. Enjoy your granddaughter. Make a difference in ­people’s lives. Change happens slowly, as you know. But now there will be swift, unilateral decisions, whether voiced by you or someone else. Or, if you’d rather meet our Heavenly Father, we are happy to oblige.”

  Chapter 82

  THE ELEVATOR DOOR to the bunker opens. In the vestibule, Sebastian places Taylor gently on the floor. It’s good she’s unconscious, a relief she doesn’t have to see the mayhem.

  The guard’s body is much heavier. Sebastian struggles with his bulk, finally propping him against the wall where another retinal key and fingerprint scanner blocks their access. He presses the dead man’s thumb to the fingerprint screen, then forces the man’s right eye open in front of the retina identification monitor. As he drops the body to the floor, a buzz sounds and a green light appears on the screen. The heavy vaultlike door opens with a sigh.

  Bodies are strewn on the floor at varying angles. The stench of vomit is strong and none of the guards is moving. What the hell is this? A chemical weapon? Biological? Quickly, he heaves Taylor over his shoulder and hurries past them to the end of the corridor. The door to the Executive Briefing Room is ajar, no voices come from within. He sets Taylor down.

  A swift kick from his foot slams the door open completely. He takes aim and steps inside. Jesus Christ. Bile burns the back of his throat. More bodies, motionless. Moving swiftly, he checks faces in search of Richard Hensley. Sebastian knows these ­people, has seen their faces, heard their names on the news. The vice president lies staring at the ceiling, clearly gone. Many hold their heads and cover their ears. Then it comes to him. Carter Benson used a sonic weapon. Mitchell thought of everything. It’s a chess game with a madman.

  On the far side of the room he finds President Clark huddled with his wife in a corner, unmoving. Looks like Benson wanted to be doubly sure—­Clark’s been shot in the head. Sebastian checks their pulses, closes his eyes for a moment. Mitchell has successfully assassinated the President of the United States and disabled the government in one night.

  But something’s amiss. Richard Hensley isn’t here. Assuming Benson has him, why would Mitchell take the President-­elect hostage? To make a public display of him? Sebastian leaves the tomb and scoops up Taylor, racing down the hallway in the direction of the underground rail system. At least the TSA Federal Air Marshals that guard the train will be on high alert. It’s his last chance to find allies down here.

  RICHARD PRIES OFF the gas mask and perspiration-­slick ballistics hood. Cool air hits his face and he takes deep, choking breaths. Next to him, Carter does the same. Surely by now the U.S. military is en route. This will all end very soon, and badly, for Reverend Mitchell and his militia.

  “Time to go,” Carter says.

  Exhausted—­and unwilling to aid the enemy—­he shuffles his feet, despite the gun Carter shoves into his spine. Down the dimly lit corridor that leads to the rail system, they pass unmarked doors, access routes for the tunnel system. Richard has never been this far in the PEOC, never seen the train, but he knows members of FEMA await him and any other administration survivors at Mount Weather. Before that, they’ll encounter armed troops that man the train cars in case of emergency. There’s still a chance to defeat these goddamned terrorists.

  A rhythmic clicking echoes in the distance. It’s hard to tell if it’s in front of or behind them. Their pace quickens as Carter holds his gun with one hand and pulls Richard’s arm with the other.

  “Run, Richard!” Carter shouts.

  “President-­elect, if you please.”

  Footsteps, yes, footsteps. Close on their heels. Up ahead there’s a brightly lit opening—­the platform. He squints to try and discern if there are soldiers waiting but he can’t tell at this distance. The corridor reverberates as a train passes through the parallel civilian rail line on its way to Union Station. Abruptly, Carter stops at one of the unmarked doors. He rummages through a sack attached to his belt. From it he pulls a tiny device that he attaches to the door.

  “Carter!” a male voice calls.

  Carter pivots, twisting Richard into his arms, aiming a gun at his head. There, maybe thirty feet away, is one of Reverend Mitchell’s men. A body is draped over his shoulder, arms akimbo. Female arms. A pang lodges in Richard’s chest. Taylor! And where’s Sienna?

  “Identify yourself,” Carter says.

  Wearing the same uniform and masks they just removed, the stranger slows to a walk.

  “Murphy was hit,” the man says. He nods his head, indicating the direction from which they came. “Nice work back there. The Lord must be pleased.”

  “Whittaker?”

  “At your ser­vice.”

  “Not another step.” Carter presses the gun into Richard’s temple. “There’s no Whittaker on this mission.”

  “Whoa, hold on a minute.” The man doesn’t stop, nor does he slow.

  Richard’s eyes widen, silently pleading with the stranger. If he isn’t with Mitchell, he must be Secret Ser­vice or U.S. military. Oh please, let it be. He asks, “Is she alive?”

  “Sleeping soundly.”

  “Shut up!” Carter’s grip on him tightens and he forces him to walk backward. “Who are you?”

  “Why haven’t you killed Hensley?” the man asks. “That was the plan. Mitchell must be very disappointed in you.”

  “You don’t know the plan.” Carter continues moving toward the station.

  “They’re waiting for you at Mount Weather.” The man juts his chin in the direction of the light. Carefully, he lays Taylor on the floor, but he’s quick to aim his weapon. Carter adjusts Richard, positioning him as a shield. “So which is it? Does Reverend Mitchell want the President-­elect alive or dead?”

  “It’s win-­win,” Carter says. “We’ll make it work.”

>   The metal against Richard’s head sucks his concentration. He’s not ready to die, not ready to give up everything he’s worked for his whole life. He stares at Taylor’s limp body. If Carter doesn’t kill him, is it possible to still lead the country? Even with Reverend Mitchell at the true helm, perhaps he can still make a difference. Maybe serving citizens will ease the transition to whatever lies ahead. At least they know him, elected him. Want him. That’s better than dying, isn’t it?

  SEBASTIAN ESTIMATES HE has about thirty seconds to take action. There’s no way to know if Mitchell’s men await them at the station. By now they could have killed the U.S. military guards and assumed their positions. Carter genuinely doesn’t appear to care if Hensley lives or dies. But there must be a plan, Mitchell doesn’t operate without one. Decision time.

  “This has been fun,” Carter says, subtly shifting his weapon. “But ­people are waiting for us.”

  Sebastian aims, shoots. Carter fires back. Blazing pain shoots up Sebastian’s arm. His hand is shot through, fingers shattered. Then, an explosion. Hot wind presses against him. Situated between them, a blown-­out door opens into the tunnel.

  Prostrate on the concrete, Carter lies with a bullet through his eye. No need to check his vitals. Richard’s also on the ground, but unhurt. Figures emerge from the lighted station ahead.

  Summoning the last of his strength, Sebastian leans down and with his good hand pulls Taylor up and over his shoulder. Adrenaline pumps through him, numbs the pain. He stumbles over to Hensley. “Get up!”

  Slowly—­too slowly—­Richard unfurls, sits up and stares at his dead captor. Half a dozen men in combat gear are coming. Sebastian can’t take the chance that they’re not BASIA. So far Reverend Mitchell’s men are everywhere.

  “Get up, Hensley! Or you’re on your own.”

  “Do you have Sienna?” Richard asks, his voice quiet and weak.

  “What? Yes, she’s safe. Goddammit, are you coming?”

  “We can’t outrun them.” Richard shakes his head. “It’s me they want. Save Taylor and Sienna.”

  Sebastian nods. The pounding of boots is loud now. He moves to the blasted door. “Good luck, Mr. President.”

  With Taylor over his shoulder, he races into the darkness, through the blown-­out door. He thinks of the East Wing, the library. They’ve got to find a way back to Sienna.

  Chapter 83

  ON HIS KNEES in the private chapel within the BASIA compound, Charles’s heart swells as he thanks God and his Savior, Jesus Christ, for their victory. The pure joy of accomplishing this mission on behalf of the Almighty for the ­people of this great country brings tears to his eyes. He gazes at the cross in his palm, clenches his fist tight. Their work has just begun.

  Returning to the Command Center, he regards Jonathan, who has barely moved from his chair in over twelve hours. The map on the enormous screen now displays red lights in every state, power having been restored to eliminate the need for looting or other antisocial behaviors. No doubt citizens are holed up in their homes, glued to news sources, waiting for any information to explain the political tsunami that just swept their nation.

  “I’m free to go now, right?” Jonathan says. “And Steven, too?”

  “You weren’t on your game tonight.” He’s convinced the boy attempted to foil the mission. “There are still a few elected officials running loose out there.”

  Jonathan doesn’t reply.

  “No matter. We’ll find them and finish it. So yes, you’ve officially completed your task. But perhaps you’d like to reconsider and remain with us.”

  “No thanks.” Jonathan stands. The three guards stiffen at his movement.

  This kid is either a genius or an idiot. “At least wait for my address.”

  “I’d rather—­”

  “Wait.” Charles nods to the guards, who move to block the door. “Bring up the screens.”

  Sighing, Jonathan sits once again. He pings the keyboards until the map disappears, replaced by dozens of small screens. With a few more strokes, live videos with thousands of faces appear, Patriot’s Church members and BASIA militia from around the country.

  The energy is magnificent. Beaming, Charles looks into the camera lens. “The light of a new day shines upon us. Last night, our brave, faithful soldiers executed a triumphant and swift victory in the name of Our Lord.”

  Jubilant applause. Some weep openly, others embrace. It has been a long journey indeed.

  “Yes! Our cup overflows. With His help we have taken the reins and we will steer our country on the path of righ­teous­ness once again. Where we all have a voice. And we will be heard. Indeed, the world is already listening. Goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives, and together we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Affecting a less jovial tone, he continues. “Still, you must remain patient, vigilant. I ask your continued silence in the name of our mission. The plan has changed and will continue to change as we navigate these new waters. Right now, our country is blind, and probably numb. We must shepherd our friends and neighbors through this time. For those who have not yet embraced God, who have followed their government into a hellish landscape with decrepit morals, they will come around. But it will be a slow and evolving process. Fortunately, we’ve acquired an important asset that will prove instrumental to our cause. The Lord has ensured our success by presenting us with a spokesperson with whom we’re all familiar. Someone the country already trusts, and who will usher in the changes we are so desperate for. He will speak on our behalf. He will be our voice.”

  He nods to Jonathan, who brings up video feed with the face of Richard Hensley. Mouths drop, murmuring begins, ­people turn to one another in question. Hensley stares blankly into the camera, his skin ashen, his handsome features drooping. The camera doesn’t show the shackles around his hands and ankles as he rests in the vehicle that will deposit him at the BASIA compound in just a few hours.

  “As we know, the Lord works in mysterious ways.” Charles gestures to the sky. “May I present your new President—­our new President—­Richard Hensley.”

  The ­people are slow to react, sparse clapping throughout.

  “Say hello, Mr. President,” Charles instructs.

  Hensley coughs, straightens. With little energy and less enthusiasm, he says, “Hello.”

  “Imagine how relieved the ­people of the United States will be to see their chosen representative alive and well in the wake of terror.” He checks his watch. “It’s almost time for our national address. Mr. President, we may need to get you some hair and makeup.”

  Laughter from his flock. No reaction from Hensley. That’s all right, though. Once the cameras are on and Hensley’s addressing the ­people, he’ll cling to the hope that he can be their lifeline. And he will rise to the challenge. It’s who he is.

  “We are truly, once again, One Nation Under God,” Charles declares, savoring those four words. “Thanks to all of you for your belief, your support, and most of all, your love. Our movement is a success because of you. We will continue God’s work and be strengthened by Him in our quest to bring our beloved country to a more holy place. Freedom will be restored as we redesign the current systems until they represent all that we hold true, with the New Testament as our guide. Glory be to God. Amen.” He places his hand on his chest, then holds his palm out to his ­people. Thousands of hands respond in kind. “Go in peace and serve the Lord.”

  Upon his gesture, Jonathan turns off the camera. The monitors go black.

  “Am I done here?” Jonathan stands again.

  “I’m a man of my word.” Charles nods to the guards, one of whom opens the door. “These men will take you to Steven, and the two of you will be released. But before you go, tell me. How did you convince Hannah?”

  Passing by him, Jonathan’s brows furrow. “About what?”

  Is it possible t
he boy doesn’t know Hannah helped Steven Hudson escape? There’s an earnestness, an openness, in his features. How very puzzling.

  “Never mind.” Charles waves him off. And with a subtle nod, the guards do as they’ve been told.

  ONE GUARD LEADS, one follows behind Jonathan toward the compound exit. This duo has been with him for days. One of the men has white-­blond hair, the other is big, solid as a brick. In his mind, he’s nicknamed them Whitey and Horse. His heart pounds so loudly he fears they can hear it. Please let this work. He visualizes Hannah’s map, the way through the forest, an uncut path that leads to the main road a ­couple miles away. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, he glances behind him at Whitey. He’s not an idiot. He knows they’ve been instructed to kill him.

  Fortunately, Reverend Mitchell and his guards don’t know code. Even Huan Chao will need time to solve the cyber puzzle he’s left behind. Over the past week, when Jonathan was working on disabling power grids, he also hacked into the alarm system for BASIA HQ. It was hard to know when he’d be able to activate his escape plan, but moments ago, before he pushed away from the control panel, he’d slid his fingers over a few keys, engaging the code.

  The exit door ahead is only a ­couple hundred feet away. His body is rigid, awaiting the click of a trigger. He counts silently. Without turning around, he knows Whitey has his hand on his weapon. Maybe it’s even aimed at his head. Three, two . . .

  Blaring sirens erupt from speakers all around. Red lights on the ceiling flash. An automated male voice instructs: “Take your stations. The Command Center has been compromised.”

  “What the hell?” Horse says, stopping abruptly.

  “We gotta head back,” Whitey says. “Now.”

  “We gotta take care of this.” Horse nods to Jonathan.

  “Doors lock automatically when the alarm is triggered. Kid’s not going anywhere.”

  “I thought I was free to go,” Jonathan says.

  Horse shakes his head, reaches into a band strapped to his waist and pulls out plastic handcuffs. He forces Jonathan’s hands behind his back, pulls the plastic noose tight around his wrists and pushes him roughly to his knees.