Zero Hour Shifting Power

by David Berko

  Bill stepped away from the spotlight to walk a few paces, then back. "I'm not here to give you a history lesson gentlemen. I expect you to know it. There once was a great nation that was founded on certain unalienable rights that were drafted in a great document called the Constitution." He had to look at the floor as emotion struck him and a tear fell from the corner of his eye.

  This was uncharacteristic of a man in Bill's position to do, to cry in front of service members. Yet it was happening. The man heaved a sigh and sucked in some air. His countenance had fallen. But it was amazing how a man of his stature was able to do an about-face without even time to transition. When he raised his head to look at the men before him, there was a look of absolute steel and resolve in his eyes.

  "Tonight, you men," he did a quick scan and noticed some females there too, "and women, will join with the forces of good to go into Scorpion-controlled airspace over Cali. Your mission...get in, get out. Come back with Damion Westover's stuff. It is important to our regional stability and security you don't fail." His thick voice punctuated every syllable in those last three words.

  On cue, another distinguished man, part of the military brass in the building, rose from his seat in the front and strode towards Bill who had stopped talking long enough at a strategic intersection in the meeting's talk. Bill stepped aside but not before he said into the mic, "Lieutenant General Joseph Overton would like to come now and say a few words about the mission. Lieutenant."

  "Thank you Commander Rescheck," the new voice courteously reciprocated before he began.

  Although not as big or imposing as his elder and senior officer that went on before him, Joseph Overton had a commanding presence in his dress blues uniform with three stars on either shoulder, a silver breast insignia on the left pocket along with many colorful flag pendants under it, and a name tag on the other breast pocket.

  "Airmen, we have a job to do, and the tools to do it...but a plan of action that may need a little retrofitting and additional polish as we go. Here's what we know."

  --

  Archie's freighter cruised at a lofty altitude of 60,000 feet where turbojets muscled the craft up to a staunch speed of Mach 2.0.

  "Can't this bucket of bolts go any faster?" Henry complained.

  The question was like a slap in the face to Betsy's lover and friend. Archie's eyes darted around before they returned to the flight controls where he promptly said without a care who listened, "Don't you mind what that mean man may say about you. You are the best rig in North America. Bar none."

  He continued to swoon over his baby.

  Henry cursed. To compound his insult, he decided to loogie on the floor.

  Hassan had been silent for the majority of the trip, opting for a power nap while Betsy took them towards the Ozarks at a mind blowing rate of speed.

  …

  Before long the Operations Center at the Ozarks loomed large below, nestled in the forested lands of Missouri and Arkansas. The building had an earthen tone color to it with a digitally camouflage coating on its walls, rendering it near invisible unless you knew how to look for it.

  Henry now stood behind the trucker who owed him a ride to the black site located deep in the heartlands of the American continent. “I'm gonna need to radio the control tower and patch them my credentials before we land,” he said a bit testily (continuing to dwell on the ridiculous behavior Archie exhibited earlier).

  …

  “Ozarks Central Ops, Delta-Foxtrot-Three-Zero-Niner- Charlie, over.” Henry adjusted his headset while he waited for first contact.

  After Scorpion's black site grabbed the transponder signal emitted from the nose cone on the freighter, a response was issued back. Radio static...then a vocoded voice. "Wilco, Delta-Foxtrot-Three-Zero-Niner-Charlie."

  Henry wasn't very versed in pilot-speak, but he plodded along clumsily anyhow, eager to put down on terra firma again. In a short while that's what Betsy did. All plans of handing over Damion and Christophe were still unhampered and in order.

  --

  The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii

  Director Alfred Demsky continued going through his weighty memorandum. He didn't pause to breathe...there was just so much to say. "Damion and Christophe Gerard-- his chief scientist and partner in the joint venture relationship that oversees the defense and energy sector conglomerate Westover Vetures--are on that freighter no doubt headed for a black sight Scorpion has in the Ozarks. We know that because of..." He didn't actually know, but just then his answer came in. Looking down at the mobile device he held in his hands which had an EAM (emergency action message) on it, Alfred's voice grew taught: "...we've intercepted an ATC (air traffic control) communication between the freighter and the base in the Ozarks."

  President Alexander continued to search through the Scriptures, leafing through the pages like he hadn't a care in the world what he was sitting through. He read about the restoration of the nation Israel and God's plan for His chosen people. All in all it was a fascinating read for the man, and it struck him as positively haunting that this historical book that had been passed on down through the centuries was actually right on current world events. What most interested him though, was what the Bible had to say on the role the West played in end time events.

  …

  "Now," Demsky said with a slightly higher pitch, indicating a new topic was at hand, "We have an unusual dilemma to consider, but while we do, we must move forward with a mindset of action rather than stopping at politics and risk losing the one edge we have over Scorpion."

  The whole room listened to the briefing with undivided attention. Secretary of State Edith Wharton bobbed her leg at such a frenetic pace that her chair began to protest with squeaking noises. Besides that distraction, the minimum noise level in the Basement was swallowed up by the "whisper walls" as the clandestine agencies of yore like to call the sound-deadening paneling.

  "Do any of you drive a petrol car these days?" Demsky asked.

  The question left almost everyone dumbfounded. Merely the odd use of a British word for gasoline puzzled those that had heard him. Slowly, one by one heads began to shake ever so slightly after they realized the inquiry wasn't rhetorical.

  Alfred ignored the less-than-yielding response to his attention-getting start to what he would say next. Previously the director of intelligence had his back turned to the commander in chief sitting at the head of the table. However, as Demsky turned to face the president, it was too late for Alexander to conceal what he had been doing.

  There that little brown book sat, opened towards the back...the president sitting there, completely enraptured in its words.

  No one was prepared for what happened next. Not even Alfred knew what kind of explosive anger he was capable of. It was like a flash of lightening lit up the man's eyes, followed by a clap of thunder (the angry outburst that would certainly ensue).

  The vice president twisted uncomfortably in his seat-- shooting the president worried glances at the same time. All for naught. He had tried to warn Alexander of the foolishness in bringing a story book to a National Security Council briefing.

  The intelligence director's tablet clattered to the floor: it was no accident. "Mr. President, if I am interrupting anything…."

  Alexander didn't take his eyes off the text which only raised Demsky's temperature by a few degrees past boiling.

  "This is a National Security briefing, not a Bible study," Alfred said, not mincing words. To his credit, his body language still erred on the professional side minus his initial demonstration by jettisoning the gadget.

  …

  The president couldn't let a challenge go unmet however, no matter how divorced his mind was from the present situation. It was like he had entered into a parallel universe with knowledge that was far above his own. The Bible was on his brain--even worse, Alexander knew it wouldn't go away.

  He had read the story of a king in the ancient city of Babylon who was troubled by a spiritual manifestation that shook hi
m to his core. That king did the best thing he could think of: call the scholars and the learned to interpret the meaning of what he couldn't possibly explain on his own. President Alexander felt like the king of Babylon as he studied the pages of the holy book on its revelations on the end of days. He was mystified and troubled, because deep down he knew what the Bible was saying was true. It had that effect on its readers.

  Alexander looked upon the signs of the times...feeling helpless like a ship in the night without a lighthouse for guidance. The jagged rocks were getting close and the FRN needed somebody at the wheel to steer it away from the perils Scorpion planned to shipwreck the young republic with.

  From the beginning of his term, the president hadn't put much stock in the spiritual element to his calling to lead and direct the people of the FRN. It wasn't a theocracy that he was ordained by God to establish, but it wasn't yet another flawed interpretation of democracy that separated church and state to its demise (ala America).

  …

  "Yes this is a briefing," Alexander conceded with the palms of his hands facing up like he was in open meditation, "but we're also looking for answers, and it is my firm belief they're in here," he tapped the cover of his Bible with his index finger several times.

  Before Alfred could spew forth his anger like the president most perfectly provoked him to do, the teleconference gear hummed. Up until then, several aides had quietly congregated together and chatted for some time before Ahmed Negler, the president's national security advisor, spoke on their behalf to the president.

  Ahmed introduced the guest speaker who called from an undisclosed location as the minister of defense speaking on behalf of a matter of national security. "Mr. President, do you authorize Minister of Defense Gene Barker to join the briefing via the holograph system?"

  "Granted," Alexander said without hesitancy, thankful for an interruption from Demsky's antagonism.

  For a brief fluctuation of time the screens in the room had the national emblem lazily rotating as it moved up, down, and sideways like the ball in the classic game of pong. That was followed up by a dialing noise. The president proceeded to answer the call by depressing his index finger on a set of controls on the screen in front of him.

  Normally criticized for being reticent, the new face in the room was anything but. Minister of Defense Gene Barker had a message and an urgent request that dovetailed with the overall mood of the state of emergency.

  Gene Barker looked all military with his regal-looking green suit and his medals clanging from his breast pockets. He approached the head of the table via the Basement's enhanced, true-to-life holographic video conferencing technologies. "Mr. President," he addressed Alexander with dutiful respect.

  Alexander put his hands in his pockets and eyed Gene with trust and wonder in his gaze.

  "I have spoken with the base commander of Lackland Air Force Base operating out of San Antonio, Texas. The FRN will be given the full support of their fighter wing, which includes heavy-lift capabilities and AWAC (airborne early warning and control) support craft for the mission, not to mention tactical jets able to punch through any aerial threats Scorpion may pose to us."

  There was a quiet celebration in the room as the news evidently proved very exciting and much needed to the figureheads over FRN's security forces.

  "Sir," Gene was speaking again with increased urgency and sensitivity for time, "we must plan logistics for a coalition force to execute the mission, stat. Before we do that, however, I am requesting permission to issue a DEFCON 3 across the Free Republic of North America."

  Alexander understood the state of readiness his nation would need militarily to respond to any situation while the operation was underway. It made perfect sense to go to level three. Even though FRN didn't possess any nuclear weapons, the old DEFCON system was still used by the republic anyhow.

  The president nodded in agreement and gave his verbal consent. "We go blue...." which was the color representing the level of national security being requested.

  Gene Barker's holographic person destabilized for a moment before it buffered--not a moment too soon. "We'll need lots of electronic warfare support Mr. President," he added.

  "Why?"

  "To hedge our bets against Scorpion's air defense in the region. We're going up against hypersonic surface-to-air missiles and ground-based THEL (tactical high energy laser) stations."

  "How do we defeat these?" the president was speaking of the threats the minister of defense just spoke of.

  "Our own seventh-gen jets are equipped with sophisticated electronic warfare capabilities....Combine that with air support from Texas and we might've found our loophole."

  This was promising, but it was just talk. No one had actually war gamed for this much less even drawn up a strategy. That was all in short order, however. The latter part.

  "How soon can our department of defense come up with an effective game plan?"

  "We don't have time, Mr. President," the minister of defense boldly insisted.

  Alexander looked flush with anger over Gene's answer. His instincts made him second guess even himself this time though. If the FRN waited any longer before the mission got the green light, it might be too late to retrieve Damion's stuff. Was this whole mission a forgone conclusion from the start though? Scorpion had to have planned for all contingencies...even a risky incursion by FRN's security forces.

  The clock was ticking.

  01:30:01...01:30:02...01:30:03....

  --

  The Ozarks

  The thugs that dropped off Scorpion's gifts didn't even have their own ride back to society. Archie wasn't running a taxi cab service; soon as he dropped off his cargo, he was gone like any good trucker--never to look back. Perhaps even with a sigh and a good riddance to boot.

  Henry and Hassan stood on the platform of the evacuated tube transport's docking station. The next pod that would arrive wouldn't be around for another thirty minutes. Despite the wait, Henry was in good spirits. He even cracked jokes to the surprised Sudanese man who slouched against a tiled wall.

  "Did you sign up for direct deposit before this mission?"

  "What?"

  Henry smirked. "Piles of cash would suit me better, I think." He appeared to be in thought before he said, "that stupid digital currency takes all the fun out of collecting bounty, eh?"

  Hassan couldn't even remember the day when money was paper and coin. "Money is money," he said with his accent. "No matter."

  "Hey, it's 50-50, you and me pal.” Henry tried to interpret why Assan appeared to be shutting down. It clicked.

  “You still sad about what happened back at the house?" He was referring to Hassan's fallen compatriot.

  The other man didn't speak. He hadn't forgotten his earlier pain. And here Henry was ripping the band-aid off a still- bleeding wound. Then he did something unexpected. He swore.

  The German thug didn't see that coming. It didn't bother him, nevertheless. Henry snorted. "You're too soft."

  Hassan wanted to pound his leader's face in. But he knew Henry was a good fifty pounds out of his league. Maybe another day, another time.

  …

  An officer approached sector 24 of the prison...grid 2, cell 3: Heather's current residence. He had strapped to himself a security shotgun. Two inmates in leg-irons clanked along in their orange jumpsuits next to him. Every now and then he'd take the butt end of his firearm and jam it in between the shoulder blades of either man who didn’t move per his desired pace.

  The officer briefly peered in between the bars at Heather, but she wasn't even awake. His response to what he saw caused him to smile. Right now it was his job to take the newest arrivals to cell 4, next to the former Scorpion employee Heather.

  When they stood before the iron bars he clucked his tongue for the men to stand in attention. Then he cocked his head towards the shoulder that had a mic clipped to it. "Open the door to S24, G2, C3."

  The electronic door whooshed open with a bang.

>   He didn't even wait for compliance...instead forcefully shoving the feeble-bodied Christophe through first. Damion tumbled in after his friend.

  "Have a nice night in the hole, scum," the officer growled.

  Damion sat up from the concrete floor and groaned. Rubbing his bruised arms, he looked over at his partner in the darkness. “You holding up old man?"

  Christophe let out a defeated sigh. "Barely. God...is good. Blessed be His name."

  The billionaire couldn't believe it. Gerard's faith was either incredibly solid or incredibly foolish. He hadn't decided which just yet. He almost went along with pursuing a spiritual conversation, too, but even in this low, Damion still felt above that topic.

  "He'll spring us from this hell hole," he finally said.

  Christophe cast an incredulous look at the man who just spoke. "Didn't you ever learn in school to address your pronouns before you introduced them?"

  "Huh?"

  "Who's gonna get us outta here?" the older man finally spelled out.

  "Who do you think?!" Damion said with passion. "Alexander." In the same breath he had more to say. "I suspect he's got a team of Viper (think Navy Seal) agents descending on this location within the hour."