by David Berko
For Archie it had been all snores and sweet dreams…until his phone went off.
It was a little early to be his wake up call. Then what? Who dared disturb his peaceful mood?
"Arch!" a voice rasped in his ear.
"You got the wrong number buddy," the lethargic trucker answered.
Henry grew angrier at this. He stated his claims point blank. "Look, you owe me you little prick! I need a favor. And I ain't askin'."
Startled, the guy in his cab sat upright and adjusted his hat. He knew what the voice on the phone was referring to: an unpaid IOU he had wished to forget about. But life wasn't always that convenient or kind.
"What can I do ya for?"
"Get your rickety trailer down here on the double! In fact, if you're really quick about it, I might throw in a little something for you. But don't test me."
Archie listened for the address and hung up with not so much as another word.
....On the road again.
--
In the year 2041 the sky was the limit on what man could do. It was Babel all over again.
Hypersonic transportation made visits to most anywhere in the world feasible in under half an hour. Language no longer created a barrier thanks to universal translators that mastered the estimated 6,900 languages spoken by humanity. Fiat currencies like the dollar, euro, and peso were worthless: Hail the new monetary standard...an implanted RFID chip. The unique barcode with the radio frequency it emitted made easy payment a reality. But there were many people who resisted, who refused to accept the implants for fear they were taking the mark of the beast as prophesied in Scriptures. As it turned out, those that avoided it weren't too far off the mark with their skepticism. Quite literally.
Coming changes to world order and the new leadership it would usher in meant increased persecution for minority groups and Christians who wouldn't succumb to the unseen powers that were pulling all the strings behind the scenes.
Back in the year 2014 in America when healthcare had been nationalized, a precedent went out to get the RFID implant which would store the EHR (electronic health records) into every citizen. This passed through both houses of Congress with ease since the president and his party held a super majority after the midterm elections in the House of Representatives. As it turned out, this was a portentous omen of things to come.
With everyone walking around with their own unique watermark signature under the skin, it was more than a potentiality those human barcodes would bear the infamous mark of the beast eventually.
Already, there was in the works an evil plan to digitize the way people bought and sold things. Utilizing the RFID chips as the purveyors for a new kind of tender to buy and sell things, Scorpion would have anyone who didn't submit trapped in the ultimate catch 22: Take the mark and continue to live in society; refuse to and choose death by the guillotine.
All of this would be only a few years away. Maybe less.
Revelation 13:9-10
Anyone with ears to hear should listen and understand.
Anyone who is destined for prison will be taken to prison.
Anyone destined to die by the sword will die by the sword.
--
Scorpion black site, in the Ozarks somewhere...
Very centrally located and obscure adjectivised this nerve center of Scorpion. One little ripple here would concentrically affect the rest of the continent--all by design.
Since North America was such a vast territory with extremely diverse climates and variegated topography, Scorpion needed to position itself strategically so it could proliferate its will on the masses.
The Ozarks would prove to be a safe place to run the show from.
Scorpion learned to operate below ground for years in the twentieth century. That didn't change, even on into the new millennium. However, they were becoming more emboldened after an orchestrated collapse of America had finally been achieved. More and more deals were being reached out in the open for everyone to see. Heads of the underworld organization talked openly with confidence about the coming of age, yet maintained discretion not to divulge anything missionaly compromising.
…
There existed a secret subway system deep below North American soil. It was built back in the 1950s with U.S. engineering prowess, can-do attitude, and big bucks. Its width was expansive enough for a train to travel in either direction at the same time in addition to a third set of tracks in between the other two, reserved specifically for special freight. There was one slight difference though between this subway and others. This one lacked air.
Who said pipe dreams couldn't come true? This one did.
Trains with linear electric motors zoomed through sealed, frictionless tubes at astronomical speeds...the closest thing to space travel here on earth.
In one of the black tubes traveled an unconscious passenger. It was Heather from Scorpion. The drugs that had knocked her out weren't about to wear off anytime soon. Not until she made it into isolation at the black site which she was headed to. Why the agency simply didn't just dispose of her like she was refuse remained a mystery.
They had a history of doing that with people who messed up to such a degree that it became damaging to agency morale. No, showing up late for a shift didn't doom a soul to live in seclusion for the rest of their natural lives at one of the many black sites Scorpion ran around the globe. But breaking the rules or failing to see a detail through on a big assignment may have been enough to tip the scales the wrong way.
Everyone who worked for Scorpion learned real fast that no one person was indispensable. Not even the man at the top. The events that took place at Dreamland were absolutely bizarre though. Why would an agency take out one of its own in cold blood through a third-party solution? To solve the enigma one would have to travel back to the past in order to arrive at the answer in the future.
The Kennedy assassination had been written off by many as an unknowable conspiracy. But those close to the inner reaches of the association of evil knew the absolute and unsettling truth that Kennedy was killed for political reasons. He was a marked man the minute he refused to come into the inner sanctum and become part of the occult that worshiped fallen angels (demons).
Tommy Exelbarr wasn't a Kennedy type, yet his motives for sitting behind the big desk at the top of the Scorpion food chain weren't pure. Greed, backscratching patronage...quid pro quo: all were employed to secure his place at the top. Once he got there he no longer was interested in listening to the demands of the real powers that were actually running the show. So a simple fix came in order and Howard's name came up lucky number seven.
--
Honolulu, Hawaii
"Is there anything I can do for you Mr. President?" SS agent Dirk Simmons asked.
The middle-aged Ukrainian with the vanilla cream- colored hair and taupe skin stood at the end of the red carpet with the stairs and his plane still behind him. It was a delightful evening. Late...but surprisingly peaceful with no sense of rush or urgency.
“I am hungry, actually,” the president admitted. “Name it and it shall be yours.”
“I like the sound of that,” Alexander responded, his spirits lifting; his previous melancholy mood seeming more like a distant past than a recent phenomenon. His late wife, Margaret, disintegrated from his most-occupying thoughts for a cheaper substitute...a food craving. "I could go for an artery-clogging snack like a salty side of fries with a thick angus burger. Can you do that?"
"Honolulu never sleeps Mr. President. You can order from an actually decent burger joint even at this time of night," agent Simmons replied, grinning.
"Excellent!"
Alexander's stomach growled. The man eventually stepped off the carpet and onto the normally scorching hot tarmac.
After the mighty turbofans ground to a halt the airport’s ground crew went to work with their operations. A fuel transfer truck was one of the first vehicles on the scene, but not before the aircraft tow tractor moved the big plane over
to a hangar with its giant doors yawning open, ready to accept AF1. Additionally a water truck filled the craft's large tanks.
Nothing appeared to be missing from the scene. Emergency vehicles were on standby, security patrolled, and political aides along with important members of Toporvsky's administration waited to receive the president.
Helicopters zoomed over the base with their searchlights probing the inky darkness of the spring night. They were on a typical night patrol. It was very standard to have aircraft in the sky at all times. Especially first-response kind of planes.
Many of the planes that flew out of the base were fusion- reactor powered...so fuel certainly wasn't a cost-factor in maintaining the vigilant security needed at all times for the republic's capital. Pilot's fatigue seemed to be the only limit on the dragnet security. However, even that wasn't as much of an issue anymore. In the year 2041 drones were as commonplace as hydrogen stations for the miniature fusion reactor driven vehicles of the day.
…
The former U.S. Air Force base crawled with Secret Service agents watching over the president. Some observed in pairs with binoculars and high-powered rifles from up high in guard towers. Others stood idly by Air Force One-- their presence simply providing a security blanket effect in and of itself.
Suddenly a light-armored military vehicle crossed over a grassy median and onto the runway. It headed straight for the president who was exiting with his cabinet and making his way towards a parked and waiting presidential SUV. There must have been some level of communication because the SS agents didn't button up or try to interdict the approaching vehicle's course.
Alexander turned as he heard the angry acceleration of a light tactical vehicle growing close. He tensed a little, however he now noticed the head of his security detail, Dirk, motion him to come close for a word. The SS agent gently put his strong hand on the president's elbow which served in a tactile feedback kind of way in earning Alexander's trust and reassurance.
"Mr. President, we have Sentinel agents on an errand for the director. He has requested for a meeting with you, your security advisor and the minister of defense."
Alexander arched his eyebrows in concern. "Why the urgency? Did he say?"
Dirk shook his head. "No time. My people didn't get to ask why or any other interrogative questions. We just got the overused 'it's an issue of national security.'"
Agent Simmons fought the urge to roll his eyes. He ultimately knew the implication behind those words, though. Their impact changed the mood of any situation into an agitated one.
Shortly the president had at his other elbow a man none other than Ahmed Negler.
"I guess we'll be seeing a little more of each other tonight, sir," his security advisor addressed Alexander.
The president wanly smiled. "I wish it weren't under such extenuating circumstances, Ahmed."
The president's point man on issues of national security ducked his head into the back seat of the idling military vehicle. He used the foothold on the side to mount the lifted crew compartment. After he made it inside Ahmed didn't wait an additional second before he moved to assist Alexander in entering the vehicle. Once both men had safely embarked, the massive thick door thudded shut by a secret service agent outside.
--
Reno, Nevada
Just like its sister city, Las Vegas, Reno in all its glitz and glamour was active 'round the clock, 24/7.
Archie just happened to be in the city because of his truck schedule that night. He certainly wasn't there for the casinos or the other vice that the millions of perennial visitors would partake in under the cover of darkness. But now he had another thing coming....Pick up Henry, or else.
The trucker was about ready to head out, but first he decided to leave the comfort of his padded driver's seat to get some coffee from the back of his cab. Archie held firmly to his big gulp, sixty-four ounce travel mug. This daily exchange between the automatic coffee maker and the recipient was an ongoing relationship. Archie needed the coffee more than he realized....All the signs pointed to a slight addiction. It was a tenable dependency to have though according to the trucker. Not a moot point in the least.
The steaming hot beverage wafted up his nostrils and fogged his glasses up. The man felt good now and ready to rumba. This was what he did.
"Take me to Beverly Hills, Betsy," he spoke to his truck with a certain degree of affection. "Easy does it now," he continued to talk to her like she was his stallion.
The multiple ton truck kick-started to life and rose off the pavement ten feet before maneuvering into the right direction it would blaze a trail in. Its slightly rickety frame shuddered a little bit, but at last the powerful turbines in the back coaxed the decade old big rig to take to the skies at a more frenetic pace than it was normally accustomed to.
Archie sat tall in his seat and clucked at his truck to go even faster. "Yeehaw, pardner! Le's go!"
Betsy responded in her own time as she worked up the courage to break the sound barrier.
--
Heather hurtled through the vacuum tube transit system deep below North American soil at hundreds of thousands of miles per hour. It was a short ride from Dreamland to the Ozarks. Less than ten minutes, in fact.
Her welcoming party wouldn’t be any familiar faces she knew, though. Nobody back from central command had gone on before her to receive the woman guilty of inadvertently aiding and abetting the man responsible for taking out Scorpion's director-general.
When her capsule arrived at the bosom of the decades-old underground stronghold, the station's doors opened to facilitate their newest arrival to the black site's earthen holding cells. The absence of air was preserved in the vacuum tube with the use of the exotic docking mechanism. Meanwhile on the other side, in Ozark territory, the warden waited with a single guard at the station for the black capsule to stop its forward progress once it reached the clampings.
The side of the tube transport vehicle hissed as its mechanism to release the hatch went to work. Like a roll- top desk it opened sesame. The warden stepped onto the little bridge that extended into the side of the vehicle upon arrival. He peered in with his blotchy red face and thick gray sideburns.
She lay there very still, but breathing, nevertheless. Even in her drugged state she perfectly resembled the same woman he had seen in the pictures sent to the operations center of the Ozarks.
"Wake up Heather," he said with an unusual amount of tenderness for a man that kept a prison. He said this all while depressing a syringe into a convenient vein protruding on the nape of her neck.
Her eyes fluttered then closed. She coughed a couple of times before finally reopening her glassy brown eyes. There wasn't any fear or conviction in them. She had already accepted her sealed fate. Heather almost felt grateful to just be alive. She knew they could have easily exterminated her rather than let her live to see another day: even if that day would be lived out in isolation in the Ozarks facility.
She looked around in a dazed state brought on by low blood sugar and disorientation. She didn't have to wonder at where her ride in the subway had taken her.
"Welcome, Heather Hayes, I hope you will find your new home here to your liking," the warden said, still refraining to give his name.
In a matter of time Heather picked up the scent of chewing tobacco on the Scorpion scuzzball. She scrunched her nose and looked away from the man who was talking to her.
"You don't have to be shy here, dear. You'll find this place to be like family," he lied.
Heather refused to give him what he wanted. So she returned his advances with sweet nothing.
After a while the shameless jailer gave up on his brash behavior, defaulting to his usual surliness instead. He indicated for the guard who hadn't said a word up to this point to escort the arrival to a changing room and then on to be fingerprinted.
"Take her away from my sight," he said without remorse. "I will be seeing plenty of you later, missy. Try to contain your excitement," he sai
d while awkwardly staring at the poor woman for longer than was necessary.
She didn't say a word though. Heather steeled herself for the worst. And this guy wasn't it.
--
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
If the president of the former United States of America were to be briefed by the director of the CIA, it would only be customary to do so at a secure location such as the Situation Room it the White House.
Things were no different for the Free Republic of North America. However, their situation room lied deep underneath the city of Honolulu to protect the president and his staff from chemical warfare, nuclear...the worst Scorpion could do to the capital city. No place could be foolproof against the wiles of an incredibly resourceful enemy, but the basement came the closest thing to impenetrable sovereign security.
Since the Central Cyber Corps and other government contractors operated incognito underground too, a catacomb system of tunnels came into being by using the latest in TBM (tunnel boring machines) to pave the way for a subterranean government culture.
Everything was connected.
The only problem with this setup though lied in the fact that because there were so many ways in and out, protecting the vast network of tunnels which all had entrances presented a security nightmare.
…
The president's motorcade raced ahead in the dead of night for an underground parking garage several city blocks east of the old state capital district on Punchbowl St. Alexander's military humvee went in after a whole procession of secret service SUV's, emergency vehicles, and troop carriers took the plunge first.