Zero Hour Shifting Power

by David Berko

  Christophe briefly took his mind off of worrying about their near future to instead focus in on the sound of Damion's words. The Christian smiled sideways as he elbowed the still-delirious man next to him in the ribs. "Pray to Jesus, Mary can't help you," he chided.

  But before Damion could react to the fresh pang he felt in his side much less tell Christophe now wasn't the time or place to proselytize and make new converts for Jesus...that's when he faced his sealed fate.

  "We could just finish the job here," Hassan hissed.

  Henry cocked his gun and stroked the trigger. "That would be too much like right," he sneered. Then he got serious. "We--I mean Scorpion," he corrected, "have purposes and plans for these damaged goods."

  The tall African-American furrowed his brow and stuck his big upper lip out. Disappointment registered. He had known his orders going in, but that didn't mean he had to like them. "Orders is orders," he slurred. Hassan started whistling as he reached into his cargo pant pockets. He pulled out something both captives immediately recognized.

  Christophe and Damion almost wished they were faced with muzzles instead of what came next.

  Henry snapped his fingers impatiently. "Don't worry, I'll shoot a ransom picture for ya, Damion. Gerard? Eh, no one gives a fig about you." The thug laughed out loud until he couldn't laugh anymore. Then his features changed back into their normal austere appearance. "I wanna get back before dawn. Let's get crackin' slim."

  The Sudanese man grunted and lowered his trained weapon. He decisively stepped over to the captors, proceeding to throw hoods over them. Hassan then used the cask he had pulled out a little bit earlier to put Damion and Gerard to sleep.

  Damion instinctively knelt with his chief scientist who did the same. He had no words for what was happening to him. His eyes were scrunched shut; his head started to itch with the sack over it that rubbed him the wrong way.

  The sloshing noise of a liquid scared the hostages plenty. Their fears soon ended though once Hassan doused both of the hooded figures with the solution.

  "Let's get outta here," Henry said after they had wrapped the packages up and tied the bows.

  "Merry X-mas Scorpion," he joked.

  Hassan got into the holiday spirit, too. "Ho, ho, ho!"

  Henry moved within striking range and conked the much taller man on the noggin. "C'mon you ding-dong. You did good today. Le's pack it up and bring it home."

  "You too, boss."

  --

  Air Force One

  The President's STOL (short takeoff and landing) plane headed inbound for Honolulu at supercruise with its afterburners engaged. Mach 2.2 was now achievable with the revolutionary tear-drop shaped airfoil with airframe- integrated turbofans in the aft section that were low-bypass with thrust-vectoring for superior climbing rate and maneuverability.

  Inside the rounded leading edge of the plane the pilots conducted flight operations from the space-age cockpit. The interior was illuminated red. Glowing LCD touch panels and HUDs (heads up displays) were everywhere.

  Both pilots were trained ex-U.S. Air Force airmen. Both with decorated service records. Even so, they were still required to complete hours of sim (simulator) time and fly in test craft for a number of hours before flying the president of the Free Republic of North America.

  Traditionally in civilian aircraft a first officer and captain would fly side by side with the first officer or co-pilot sitting on the right. Air Force One operated no differently in its pilot command structure.

  Both men were extremely fit for service at the ages of 44 and 46. They would need to be, too, with the extreme G's they had to be prepared to contend with in the rare event of an aerial threat. Each pilot wore an olive green flight suit that could withstand anything the trip could potentially throw at them.

  Almost as important as the flight suit was the headgear each man wore. Both pilots fielded a monocular night vision device while their other eye went unaided in order to be able to monitor the cockpit displays.

  …

  The pilot-not-flying (PNF) radioed ahead to Hickam Field's control tower. This less-traveled site that the United Sates Air Force used to fly out of years back sat next to Honolulu's rather large civilian airport.

  What ultimately made this airfield most valuable though? Its ability to accommodate high-profile, high-risk presidential flights. Every single time Air Force One came into Hickam’s airspace (within fifty miles of the base) standard protocol necessitated fighter jets to be scrambled in order to escort the big blue and white executive plane to safety.

  Within seconds of dialogue with the air traffic controller the copilot Nelson looked out his window, his eyes never got used to what they saw. A seventh-generation fighter assumed position of right wingman in the three plane v- shaped flotilla.

  Nelson immediately switched to the correct frequency to hail the squadron leader. "Raven One, this is Air Force One, over."

  The fighter pilot edged a little closer to the nose of the president's plane in order to make eye contact with the co- pilot to acknowledge transmission received. The gap narrowed and the wingman eventually pulled even with the leading edge of AF1.

  Nelson aimed his monocular night vision goggle at the fighter jet and noticed the seventh-gen fighter pilot giving him the thumbs up sign along with an exaggerated head nod.

  Nelson flirted with a wide smile then turned to the captain. "What's our ETA?"

  "Our instruments indicate thirty seconds until wheels down," the experienced captain promptly replied back.

  "Shall I make the crew-wide announcement?"

  "...better do it quick."

  …

  Alexander Toporvsky knew the plane had to be close to landing with all the flips his stomach did for the past fifteen minutes of the steady descent from their cruising altitude of sixty thousand feet. But just like the rest of the plane's passengers were doing, he too stayed seated until the captain or first officer came over the intercom saying it was okay to move about the cabin.

  When he had nearly finished peeling off a jagged nail on one of his fingers the president straightened up at the timely sound of Nelson's voice broadcasting the news that they were about to land. Strangely, the commander and chief still thought about his closing statement in the conference call with Demsky.

  Water under the bridge he told himself. He really meant what he had said though; there was no retracting what came out. It wasn't a gaffe or a slip of the tongue. Then a thought struck him...I don't even own a Bible.

  --

  Beverly Hills, California

  Henry and Hassan went to work at hog-tying the drugged captives by the wrists. When that was accomplished Hassan turned over his own wrist to look at the flexible OLED display that wrapped around like a cuff link: It was his eyes and ears on the schematics of the place, all supplied by the integrated battlefield network the henchmen had with their asset in the air.

  "Where's the service elevator at?" Henry waved his gun.

  "This way, boss," Hassan said, taking off in the general direction his GPS indicated.

  The ring leader followed, holding Damion under the armpits which caused the billionaire’s feet to drag.

  Hassan struggled a little bit more with Christophe. "One too many French pastries for the douche..." he loudly complained.

  The elevator ran on an emergency power supply. It promptly brought the trio to the level it was called to. Its doors opened and that's when the two thugs realized everything hadn't been going as well topside as it had in the basement.

  Damion's house didn't have a single pane of intact glass. His molding and doors had been utterly shredded by all the laser fire and fragmentation grenades which were used to breach the gate and create a little shock and awe.

  "This place feels like home," Henry said, managing to pass a little sarcasm around meanwhile looking dazed as he struggled to readjust his vision to the different light.

  Hassan was already on the radio. "This is Grizzly Bear. We have the package, o
ver."

  But an explosion and the screams of dying men were the only reply the Sudanese man ever got. Hassan looked to Henry who stood there sporting a frown while he swiftly clawed for his own communicator.

  "Big Dog to Falcon one-one, what's the fix on our forces? Over."

  But there came no reply. Something had to be dead wrong.

  The burly leader instantly dropped Damion and hastily propped his slack body up against the nearest wall, or what was left of one. He looked at Hassan and glowered, shaking his head with growing frustration. Henry began to swear as he groped for the nob on his backpack to reboot the computer system. When his finger-less gloved hands had finally found it he gave it a stronger twist than needed. White noise filled his earpiece even after he tried several times in vain to turn the thing back on.

  ....Broken. More cursing.

  Hassan decided against trying to calm the German down. He knew from years of waging drug wars how to pick his battles. This wasn't it. They needed to regain situational awareness and get to a safe LZ (landing zone) for evac. "My radio still works," he shyly let his boss know without making eye contact with the enraged bear of a man.

  "Do what needs doin'," the leader said, trying to refrain from putting his fist through some untouched plaster his eyes dwelt on.

  …

  Upon the dying request from Damion's head of security, the drones were called to task. They had never been even tested before, but here they were, working even better than they had been designed for.

  Cheetah-inspired robots went on a rampage, seeking blood that night. Their lethal on-board minigun weapons systems wreaked havoc on Allen and Asef who were caught out in the open. Only Rodney had escaped with his life...barely. Even worse for the bad guys, Damion's unmanned aerial vehicles performed a swarm attack and completely overwhelmed Monty. They committed their own suicides, but they didn't go down without successfully taking out the Stinger aircraft to go with.

  …

  The mission wasn't necessarily a complete fail, though. It could still be salvaged. A good leader recognized this.

  Henry tapped Hassan on the shoulder and said, "We need another ride. I've got a friend as it turns out who can give us one."

  "But what about Rodney and the others?" Hassan wanted to know. He felt conflicted over his own fellow African- American fighter who would go unaccounted for.

  "Four KIA's (killed in action) look bad on my command," Henry said, remarkably with a little regret and remorse in his voice. "But it is what it is. I've learned to live with death and accept it as a way of life in my years on this earth."

  The other man's already dark face became even further obscured by the near blackout conditions that were house- wide. In that moment Hassan experienced intense hatred for the man he called boss. He understood why the leader would abandon any ideas of conducting a search for lives with the potentiality that drones were still on the prowl, but nevertheless, he hated the decision that was being made.

  Henry didn't have to wonder what his partner was thinking. He could tell by the African's deep breathing. It didn't phase him at all, however. He remained in charge of the hit squad, or what was still left of it. His orders had to go without challenge otherwise the chain of command would be compromised and the mission would fail for certain. Henry's next communication followed this logic very closely. "You don't have to like it. But you ," he inserted an expletive, "better well accept it. Do you wanna share the bounty or don't you?"

  Hassan thought for a moment, actually mulling over what had been communicated. He took quick inventory of his life goals and how the killer's fee would greatly benefit him in that respect. As he had anticipated, his conscience played an image of his own kin, Rodney, to go up against the piles of cash he'd receive for the job if he listened to Henry's command to stand down until help arrived. The tug-of-war struggle continued for what seemed an eternity. But eventually Hassan felt content to stay right where he was at and actually go along with his boss's plan B.

  --

  Chapter 20

  Sentinel: Honolulu, Hawaii

  Sentinel...behold, the Free Republic of North America's premier syndicate intelligence agency. Its headquarters stood out from the rest of the streetwall which consisted of squat low to mid-rise government buildings that were built to blend in. The triangular-shaped skyscraper reached thirty stories with a spire that added to its overall impressiveness. The all-glass right angle triangle in fact occupied its very own block in the historic old capital district with the former state capitol building directly east of it on Punchbowl St.

  Like the rest of the republic itself, it still smelled of newness with all the tags and stickers yet to come off. They barely had the time to move the furniture in even or set up the networks. Scorpion knocked early and often and if Sentinel wasn't prepared, the republic would be in jeopardy.

  Now the hour had arrived: zero hour.

  All the doors going in and out of the David Bracey building (named after the estimable director of the Central Intelligence Agency back in 2016) were locked. Everyone had to strap themselves in and give Sentinel all they had.

  …

  Ever since the conference call with the president, Alfred Demsky continued to bug out. The steady influx of Scorpion activity was worrisome enough, let alone the president's remarks on going to the Bible for answers. Had the leader of one of the last free contingencies in the world gone nuts? The longer he sat idly by, almost waiting for even worse news to land on his desk, the more he became convinced his antacid meds weren't working. I'm getting an ulcer before this all over, his troubled mind fretted.

  One stray look led to framed pictures he kept on his desk of his loved ones. There she was...the woman who had built his career. Whenever any of his important friends in the intelligence community came asking for the secrets to his success, the director always pointed to his wife unhesitatingly. It thrilled him to no end to promote his favorite person in the whole world. Bethany gave him a purpose in life, companionship, and perhaps the best gift of all: a little boy.

  Alfred's eyes meandered down to an oval snapshot of Joshua, his five-year-old. He was a precocious little fella whom earned his father's praises regularly. Often Alfred would tenderly pat his boy's black curly head and tell him he'd grow up to be even greater than daddy.

  Hunger pangs threatened to turn the fleeting moment away and replace it with a desire to satisfy his physical needs. He chided himself. To his surprise, however, he noticed he had missed a text from Bethany. She was worried.

  You need to eat, hon. Love you.

  The man sat there feeling a different kind of pain just then. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since he had seen his sweetheart. This simple, but thoughtful text of hers made him wish he could delegate all of his responsibilities to the next in command so he could go be with her. Now was not the time for complacency, though. The people all around him needed his leadership.

  A rapid knock on his door rudely snatched his longing thoughts for his wife away.

  "Come in," he responded rather gruffly.

  His secretary entered. She didn't say a word, only laying a digital pad down on the director's desk. It instantly bloated up to a holographic view for the man to see.

  As it turned out it was a cipher he was looking at.

  Instant recognition flooded over the creased face of Demsky's. His hard stare never left the image until he had time enough to process and re-process the message's impact.

  Alfred stood up abruptly, greatly startling the woman who lingered no less than five feet away as she breathlessly waited for instruction.

  "Your orders, sir?"

  Demsky didn't need time to think. "Has the president landed?"

  "Unknown, sir. I haven't been notified."

  "I need to speak with him tonight and the national security advisor. Oh! And the defense minister." He had almost forgotten about the last man.

  "Is that all?" his aide asked.

  "Yes--please, make it happen immedi
ately."

  Martha Vines didn't need to be told twice when something needed doing. Especially this. "Yes, sir!"

  --

  A blue moon hung in the firmament with a spangled sky as its backdrop. The night breeze was cool--perfect sleeping weather.

  Henry's ride was asleep.

  He was a middle-aged man living single with few cares in the world. Most of his family had passed away and his list of friends was equally small. Archibald was his name...but most simply shortened it to Archie. As a lad he used to get himself into all kinds of trouble with the wrong kind of crowd, yet that seemed like an entirely different life to him now. It was as if he had been reincarnated, coming back as an honest, hard-working trucker.

  For years he pulled his weight in freight with big rigs that floated on air. From time to time he would delight in shocking the other truckers with stories of his past at various truck stops across the land where he'd pull over for a snooze.

  It wasn't something he needed to do, making stops along the way, because his vehicle happened to be equipped with an autonomous cruise control feature. Theoretically he could take naps on his flying magic carpet while it took turns sharing the driving responsibilities. But, the man was a cynic and didn't trust machines with precious cargo. The trucker wanted to at least live to see his retirement.

  That night he slept soundly. A trucker's hat he had picked up from a travel plaza now covered his eyes and part of his nostrils, too. A thick fog had blanketed the surrounding area for a few miles.