Choose Freedom: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series (The Boston Brahmin Book 6)

by Bobby Akart

  The Predator took flight, carrying its payload of two AGM-114 air-to-surface Hellfire II missiles. LaPaz and Howard settled into their routine, even exchanging playful banter as they navigated the deadly aircraft toward the east.

  Another monitor came to life, showing a more familiar world of dramatic mountainsides and windswept terrain, which was common in the high desert of Nevada. Soon the Colorado River would be crossed and the snow-capped mountains of Utah would come into view.

  For today’s mission, the Predator’s path was straight in, straight back—twenty-seven hundred miles, thirty hours’ flight-time to Prescott Peninsula. The estimated time of arrival was approximately six p.m. on Friday evening.

  Guess who’s coming to dinner?

  Chapter 39

  Saturday, March 18, 2017

  5:40 p.m. EDT

  1PP, Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  “Drew, are you absolutely sure?” Julia frantically asked into the receiver of the satphone. After Drew replied yes, Julia asked for a time frame. Twenty minutes! My God! “Stay on the line. Sarge!”

  “Honey? Julia?” replied Sarge as he dashed up the stairs. He and Morgan had been having a drink in the war room. “Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

  “No. It’s Drew,” she replied, out of breath from running through 1PP’s main floor. Mr. and Mrs. Lowell emerged from the kitchen, looking concerned.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Lowell.

  Julia handed Sarge the phone as she turned her attention to the Lowells. “Let Drew explain.”

  While Sarge spoke to Drew, Julia instructed the Lowells to bring everybody inside. “Please hurry. Try not to panic everyone. Tell them it’s important. No exceptions.”

  “That son of a bitch,” said Sarge. “Will he stop at nothing?” Drew began to explain as Donald and Brad joined him.

  “What?” mouthed Donald. Sarge held his finger up to indicate he should wait. He glanced at his watch—5:43 p.m. “These things aren’t precise. Could he be wrong about the timing?”

  Sarge hung up the phone without saying good-bye. He turned to Donald and Brad. “There’s a drone headed directly for us. The ETA is the next fifteen minutes.”

  “We need to evacuate,” said Donald. Susan joined his side, firing the same questions as the others.

  “Not enough time or vehicles,” said Brad.

  “Should we run from the building?” asked Donald.

  “It depends on the ordnance,” replied Brad. “It’s probably carrying a Hellfire variant as its payload. The casualty radius can be several hundred feet or more.”

  The building was filling up now as all of the Boston Brahmin and their wives were huddled together in the center of the room.

  John Morgan casually walked up to Sarge and whispered in his ear, “Henry, calm them. Take control.”

  Sarge nodded as he began to speak. “Everyone, please listen. This is very important. We have to move quickly and orderly into the bunker. We only have a few minutes, so please get started.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “I’m scared, Mommy,” added Penny Quinn.

  “I know, we all are,” said Susan. She was speaking to everyone now. “Please follow me downstairs. I will explain when we’re settled.”

  “What about the food?” asked Mrs. Lowell.

  Sarge shook his head and motioned for Julia to join him. “Honey, I need you to get settled downstairs while I make some sense of this,” said Sarge.

  Julia turned to walk away when Morgan stopped her. He turned her around and led her by the arm to Sarge and Brad. Morgan sternly gave instructions.

  “Colonel, you need to immediately escort Henry and Julia as far away as possible. This may be part of a larger military operation. Their target is not the people entering that bunker. It’s Henry.”

  Julia gasped and held her hand over her mouth. She grabbed Sarge by the arms. “The President’s trying to kill you.”

  “Indeed,” said Morgan. “Now go. All three of you drive as far away from here as possible and hide until it’s over.”

  “What about you?” asked Sarge.

  “I have confidence in Mr. Quinn’s preparations,” replied Morgan. “We’ll be fine. Go!”

  Brad bolted toward the front door first as Winnie the Frenchie wandered in from outside. He scooped up the small French Bulldog and took her with him to fetch the Humvee. Sarge and Julia both hugged Morgan as he patted them on the back and sent them on their way.

  They made their way to the porch as Brad arrived, skidding the Humvee to a stop in the gravel. Julia stopped and turned to run back inside. “I need the phone,” she muttered.

  Sarge stood alone on the porch and waited. Julia took a moment to look around 1PP as she gently cradled her baby within her protruding belly. This had been their home for most of her pregnancy.

  Sarge yelled her name, snapping Julia out of her trance. She ran to the sofa table and grabbed the phone. The baby gave her a kick, causing her to smile.

  Then Julia heard the high-pitched hum of the Predator.

  Chapter 40

  Saturday, March 18, 2017

  5:40 p.m. EDT

  The New Hack House

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Drew walked off to speak on the phone. Fakhri had initially picked up the telephone chatter between a major at a Nevada Air Force Base and an aide within the Department of Homeland Security yesterday afternoon. After she and Malvalaha had an argument over a comment Fakhri made about Drew, which touched off some jealousy in her boyfriend, she walked out of their bedroom. Asking to be left alone, Fakhri came into the computer center and began to randomly monitor communications between the aide and this Major Rawlings.

  What caught her attention was a single exchange between the two involving the use of a drone on American soil. As a liberal, she abhorred the use of drone warfare and was very disappointed in the President she revered for his expansion of the program.

  Her mind began to race as to what the conversation meant, so she went and apologized to Malvalaha for the comment and the disagreement. Then she enlisted his assistance to explore the meaning behind the communications.

  During the day, Malvalaha and Fakhri learned that the aide was a direct subordinate to the Secretary of Homeland Security. It wasn’t until twenty minutes ago that they’d placed Major Rawlings at the Creech AFB in Nevada.

  The red flags were immediately raised by Fakhri. Creech AFB was the location of a major protest sponsored by CODEPINK in late March last year. Hundreds of activists had swarmed the front gate at Creech AFB, holding daily vigils and attempting to block traffic into the facility.

  Once the originating location was determined, Malvalaha easily accessed the LSUASC/NASA drone flight monitoring program designed by Texas A&M University. Because Texas never lost power, the computer networks were still accessible. By agreement with the military, flight paths were not tracked after the drone left U.S. airspace. In the case of the drone that left Creech AFB yesterday, it was easily identified. There were no other drones flying across America at this time.

  The Zero Day Gamers watched the flight of the Predator drone, which was identified by the software. Its flight path and speed were quickly calculated. Interpolating the data onto a map left no doubt. The Predator was headed straight for the Boston area.

  Lau informed Drew of the threat and he immediately contacted his friends—Lau’s captors. The Gamers huddled together to discuss the options. They exchanged knowing looks. This could be their opportunity to escape.

  “What do you want to do, Professor?” asked Fakhri.

  “Leo, you know what I’m thinking, right?” asked Lau.

  Malvalaha nodded. “Professor, they are responsible for your burns, pain, and suffering. They deserve it.”

  “No, Leo, my greed is responsible for my pain,” whispered Lau. “We were paid too handsomely for the hacktivist act they requested. I could’v
e declined the work, but I got greedy. And I got burned.”

  “But, Professor,” started Malvalaha, “they may kill us when this is over. We know too much. There are no guarantees, only empty promises.”

  Lau pointed to Drew. “Do you see that man over there? I trust him. He’s promised me safety, and I believe him.”

  “Me too,” interjected Fakhri.

  “Leo, let’s do our jobs,” implored Lau. “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Regardless of how I may feel about our captors, there are innocent women and children out there who will be murdered by our President.”

  “We could fail and simply say oops, sorry,” said Malvalaha.

  “They’re Americans, Leo,” added Fakhri. “Please?”

  The three of them sat in silence together as Malvalaha thought through the discussion. Drew approached them and kneeled down with his arm around Lau’s chair.

  “Can you help us, Professor?”

  Lau looked to Malvalaha, who smiled and nodded.

  “Do you think a bonus might be in order?” asked Lau jokingly.

  “No doubt!” replied Drew.

  Lau turned his cap around backward and patted Malvalaha on the back. The Zero Day Gamers got to work.

  In 2011, a malware virus attacked the computer networks controlling the Predator and Reaper drones. While the Air Force dismissed the intrusion as a nuisance, media reports began to surface stating several high-ranking officers at Nellis AFB and Creech AFB were very concerned about the program.

  The malware was initially detected as a keylogger program, one that covertly captured the keystrokes of the person using the keyboard on the infected system. However, further reports indicated the intrusion was more severe, including a credential stealer designed to steal log-in and password information of the users.

  This was far more serious than just a nuisance. The Air Force admitted that it was never able to completely scrub their servers of the malware. One anonymous, senior Air Force officer was quoted as saying we keep wiping it off and it keeps coming back. He added we think it’s benign, but we just don’t know.

  It wasn’t benign. The network vulnerability was never identified. Unknown to the government, hackers had been roaming around in the classified networks of Nellis and Creech for years.

  “It’s been a while, but I’m sure nothing has changed,” said Malvalaha. It was 5:46 p.m. He spoke out loud as he rapidly tapped on the keyboard. “Ten years ago, the SillyFDC worm was inserted into the DOD networks. It was replicated in various forms since. Most recently, a virus called Agent.btz made its way onto the network.”

  Malvalaha continued to frantically seek access. Drew appeared impatient, so Lau tried to help calm him down.

  “Drew, this will be our doorkeeper to allow us access,” started Lau. “Agent.btz gives Leo the ability to scan computers for data, open backdoors, and send instructions through those backdoors into the command and control servers at Creech.”

  “Uhm, how long will it take?” asked Drew.

  Malvalaha continued his narration. “The Predator and Reaper crews use removable hard drives to load map updates and transport mission videos from one computer to another. I’m hoping one of the pilots is carrying the virus on his hard drive.”

  It was 5:55 p.m.

  “Leo,” said Lau nervously.

  “Hold on.”

  A cursor blinked on his screen. It was black. Nothing. Just a blinking cursor.

  Lau removed his cap and rubbed the few peach-fuzz hairs on his head. Fakhri sank back in her chair.

  “C’mon. C’mon, dammit!” yelled Malvalaha at the monitor.

  Then it happened. The screen filled with the green hilltops and tiny blue lakes that dotted the landscape of western Massachusetts.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Malvalaha.

  “Good work,” said Drew.

  “It’s mine now,” said Malvalaha. “What do you want me to do with it? I can turn it around and send it home.”

  “Crash it,” demanded Fakhri. “Sail it into the Atlantic. It’ll be one less fighting machine available to kill the innocents among my people.”

  Malvalaha took it into a deep nosedive and turned the Predator hard to the right. It flew low enough to the ground that residents from Springfield to Martha’s Vineyard could count the yellow stripes on the Hellfire II missiles strapped to the bottom of the drone.

  The first assassination attempt of Henry Winthrop Sargent IV had failed.

  PART FIVE

  April–May 2017

  Chapter 41

  Saturday, April 1, 2017

  2:00 p.m.

  1PP, Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  The caravan of Humvees, M35 troop carriers, and a variety of civilian vehicles prepared to leave. After eight months of bugging out to Prescott Peninsula on the Quabbin Reservoir, the Boston Brahmin, the Loyal Nine, and their families were returning home to Boston. Donald and Sarge stood atop 1PP on the widow’s walk as Gunny Falcone and CWO Shore coordinated the convoy.

  After order was restored in the city, Sarge requested a combination of Marines and the Mechanics to secure and restore, if necessary, the homes of his friends. Back in early September, Morgan had put into place private contractors to live in the palatial homes of the Boston Brahmin.

  J.J.’s home in Jamaica Plain had been destroyed. Brad had no intention of returning to Fort Devens until things were resolved politically. The two bachelors chose to move into 100 Beacon. J.J. was taking a formal position at Mass General to work alongside Dr. Judd Daugherty. Brad would continue to advise Sarge as the potential military conflicts in the western states brewed.

  Abbie and Drew went on another ambassador mission to the Midwest. Sarge was trying to hold a fragile coalition of states together until the planned Constitutional Convention later this month. The only holdouts were California, Oregon, Washington, and Hawaii. Parts of Arizona, Nevada, and New Mexico were resisting their state governments, but Sarge had confidence the conservative governors in those states would gain control of any malcontents.

  “I don’t know, boss,” started Donald. “It kinda makes me sad to leave. Me and the girls have grown accustomed to the twelve-by-sixteen bungalow.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Sarge laughed. “And don’t call me that.”

  “What? Boss?”

  “Right.”

  “Would you rather me call you Mr. President?” asked Donald.

  Sarge playfully grabbed Donald and muscled him toward the rail of the widow’s walk. “That’s it! You’re goin’ overboard. If there was a plank, I’d make you walk it!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Donald as he looked to the ground thirty feet below. If Susan caught a glimpse of their horseplay, he and Sarge would get a whoopin’. “You have to admit, you’ve thought about it.”

  “Donald, this whole thing has sorta evolved,” started Sarge, grabbing the rail with both hands as he surveyed the progress of the vehicles getting loaded up with suitcases and boxes. “I’ve never been shy about my opinions when it came to the direction our country was taking. I’ve been a critic of the President long before he proved to be the tyrant I always knew he was. For God’s sake, he tried to have us all killed because of my criticism.”

  Donald patted his friend on the back. Sarge had expressed remorse and feelings of guilt following the attempted drone attack. He wanted to move everyone out of Prescott Peninsula, but Boston just wasn’t safe enough at the time. He offered to move to 100 Beacon to take the target off 1PP. But the group agreed, Sarge was their leader and they’d all stick together.

  “Your criticism of this President and concern for our country was warranted,” said Donald. “It took a lot of courage to step up last fall and try to provide this nation hope. Your weekly addresses and unselfish actions for others created a nationwide Choose Freedom movement. Hollywood couldn’t have scripted it any better, my friend.”

  Gunny Falcone walked from the last Humvee toward the front of the seventeen-
vehicle train. With one final discerning look at each truck, he’d slap the hood and provide the driver a thumbs-up. Within minutes, the large diesel engines of the military trucks roared to life in a deep rumble as they prepared to pull out. Sarge and Donald stayed behind with a security detail to discuss the future of 1PP. Julia and Morgan were downstairs, wrapping up a few details.

  “I, uhm, we all felt the nation needed a boost,” continued Sarge. “The President used this as an opportunity to extend his term and destroy his political enemies. In the process, he forgot about providing Americans what they needed the most—hope.”

  Donald waved to Susan and the girls, who were hanging out of the windows of their Escalade. He was anxious to get home to his jalopy, the affectionate name he called the old Jeep Renegade that acted as his company car.

  “So are you gonna run or not?” asked Donald.

  Sarge laughed. “You don’t think I have enough on my plate? A wedding and a baby on the way. Not to mention that I’m now in charge of what is the oldest and most powerful political cartel in the history of mankind. Sure, let me put on my khakis and plaid shirt so I can run around Iowa kissing babies.”

  “Okay, but hear me out,” started Donald. “Setting all of those things aside—”

  Sarge rushed him again and walked toward the rail. “I warned you, Quinn. There are no witnesses now, except for Julia, who’ll see your body flying past the window!”

  “No, no. Okay,” said Donald as Sarge let him go. “I swear, if you’ll just consider this one thing, I promise I’ll drop it.”

  “Fine,” said Sarge.

  “I’ve been reading about this psychological theory—” began Donald before Sarge interrupted him.

  “Psychobabble.”

  “Really, it makes sense. It’s called Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Humans have certain mental and physical requirements for survival. But to achieve their level of full potential, all of these needs must be met.”