Copyright © 2014 by Troy Wilcoxson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0692401369
ISBN 13: 978-0692401361
CHAPTER ONE
The White House, December 14, 2051
“If one more person breathes on me, I’m punching them in the face,” a young journalist grumbles to herself through gritted teeth. She is in the press corps, newly hired, with a name tag that reads Vanessa Williams and pushes her way through the crowded briefing room. The room has a clean smell to it, she thought. Despite the fact these people never heard of mouthwash. They all gather inside. Photographers stand by making last-second adjustments to their cameras while the assembled members of the press begin to take their seats.
Vanessa pushes between journalists to find a seat and holds her notebook close to her. Brushing her hair behind her ear, she looks for an open seat.
An older woman leans over to a younger man sitting on her left and yells, “Save my seat!”
“I’ll guard it with my life!” he responds over the loud public.
Vanessa locks eyes with him while he sits next to the open seat. Awkwardly looking away, she acts oblivious to his charm and pushes her black-rimmed glasses up to her brow.
“Seat’s open!” the man says to Vanessa. His shiny, well-groomed, parted hair matches the black necktie he is wearing. He loosens up his tie, gasping for air.
“Oh yeah?” she responds as her face lights up with a smile.
“She’s too old for me,” he adds quickly, forcing a serious look on his face and then following up with a large grin, revealing his dimples. Vanessa laughs.
Her pale face turns as red as her hair. She attempts to take a seat and trips on her own foot. After bumping the woman sitting in front of her, she regains her balance. The woman turns halfway around, glaring back at Vanessa.
“Sorry,” Vanessa sighs, scratching her forehead and attempting to conceal her embarrassment.
Vanessa immediately plops down in her seat with crooked glasses and hair in her face. She then blows the hair out of her disgruntled face, sighs, and straightens her glasses.
“Sullivan,” he says, holding his hand out. He bites his lip in an attempt to fight laughter.
“Vanessa,” she replies with a sigh, shaking his hand. At that moment, she looks into his dark eyes as they slowly fade from dark blue to bright green.
Her mouth drops as she turns to get a closer look into his eyes.
“Prosthetic vivid lenses,” he says. “I was legally blind through childhood. Then I was given eyes by an overly generous man who has never expected anything in return.” Sullivan’s chin is raised proudly while speaking of his friend.
“He sounds like a great person.”
“The best,” he responds as the president of the United States walks into the room.
Cameras light up the briefing room. President Frederick S. Nelson steps up to the podium, sorting his stack of papers and spreading them out in front of him.
“Palomino Corporation is an American-owned multinational corporation that develops, manufactures, licenses, and supports a wide range of products and services related to computing. This great company has been a source for jobs and employs over 120,000 people. Due to the recent crisis involving the bombings of a train station and an airport, all Palomino Corporation activities are being suspended, pending investigation. The J-8000 production has been halted, and a recall has been issued for every J-8000 model to be refurbished. I will now take questions.”
Sullivan shifts in his seat, raising his hand. The president looks to him and nods.
“Mr. President, what exactly do you mean by refurbished?” asks Sullivan.
“Their minds will be reset, and a binding chip will be implemented into their neural systems. The binding chip will force them to abide by the law and abide by their guardians’ commands, given that the commands are of legal nature.”
“Mr. President, you are talking about having tens of millions of these models sent back. Who’s going to pay for that? The customers?” asks another journalist.
“The people will have their J-8000 models recalled, refurbished, and sent back at no cost to them,” the president replies.
As he speaks, a large semitruck roars while turning a street corner just a few blocks away. The massive truck’s bones creak as the heavy carriage tilts. The truck then straightens out, roaring its engine and sending it forward. Inside, the driver changes the channels on the radio, stopping on the president’s press briefing.
“The J-8000 models are dangerous and have no place to be free-minded in this world. There has to be a level of control with these things.” The president’s aggressive tone could be heard even over the radio.
“Fuckin’ hypocrite,” the truck driver mumbles under his breath.
Three black SUVs pull up to the White House gate.
Army security guards begin to inspect the vehicles. The driver of the first SUV rolls down the window.
“Good evening, sir,” the first security guard says as he approaches the SUV door.
The driver flips open his secret service badge, revealing it to the army security guard. A second guard makes his way from behind the SUVs.
“Vehicles are clear,” says one of the guards.
The guard then waves the SUVs on as they trigger the gate to open.
In the back of the third SUV, a man sits with his face concealed in shadow as he listens to the president’s briefing on the radio.
The president pauses for a moment, listening on his earpiece. “Mr. President, Apollyon is here,” the voice reports quickly.
Vanessa’s brow focuses at the sudden pause. Noticing movement, a man walking to the back of the room catches her eye. The man puts his left hand in his jacket pocket.
Vanessa feels confused and adjusts in her seat. Her eyes begin to pan back and forth.
“You’re being paranoid,” she thinks to herself.
She looks back up at the president as she slowly stands up to leave. At that moment, she is yanked back to her seat.
“Where are you going?” Sullivan growls quietly, grabbing the back of her neck, moving his mouth closer to her ear. “You make one peep and I’ll snap your neck,” he adds with a rasp.
The secret service members exiting the SUVs begin to escort Apollyon toward the White House entrance hall. Apollyon’s heavy boot contacts the ground, lifting his large body out of the SUV door. The man’s long coat appears burnt, with little holes throughout. His dirty boots leave tracks as they make their way through the hall.
“Sir, you’re tracking dirt in,” says one of the security guards.
A cracked, battered, and burnt face looks up, revealing mechanical work inside the broken skin. His dim orange eyes looks up past his brows and into the security guard’s face like a wolf to its prey.
Smash! The dark mechanical figure hits the man in the head, cleanly breaking his neck and sending him to the ground. The escorts then immediately open fire on the crowd. Blood sprays the air.
Gunfire echoes through the walls. Vanessa’s heart begins to pound harder and harder as she tries to manage her breathing.
“Mr. President, come with us,” one of the secret service agents says hastily as he snatches the president.
Outside the White House, semitrucks plow through the gates from all sides. Both the army and secret service open fire on them.
In the distance, a loud alarm begins to sound throughout the city.
At the White House security gate, an older man in a veteran hat approaches, in horror at what he is seeing. More citizens begin to show up around the gate, looking on in disbelief.
“I need everyone to back away from the gate!” one of the guards shouts.
Boom! The street out in front of the White House lifts up
in a big explosive bubble and then descends, collapsing the ground into a crater and filling the street with a black cloud and embers.
The semi carriages scattered all around the White House lawn open up from behind. Car alarms go off up and down the street.
Mercenaries with automatic rifles pour out the back of the semitrucks and surround the White House. A crackle of gunfire submerges the White House as the black smoke spirals throughout the city.
News helicopters begin to circle the White House from a distance like a flock of carrion birds waiting for death.
Panic surrounds Vanessa in the briefing room, where she’s held by Sullivan. Vanessa tries to pull away but he jerks her back. Sullivan pulls her closer to him as she reacts, kneeing the air out of his stomach. She then desperately head butts him in the nose, releasing a waterfall of blood down his face. She breaks free and makes a run for the door.
“You bitch!” screams Sullivan as he spits out his blood.
Vanessa runs out into the chaotic hall, dodging the screaming people as they run by her. Sullivan continues to pursue her.
Gunfire blasts through the drywall, shattering glass frames and splintering wood while people dive for cover.
Sullivan growls as he slams a man into the wall. Briefly he spots Vanessa exiting the crowded hallway and turning into an adjoining room.
The president is escorted by two secret service guards to an elaborate painting of a woman in an elegant dress holding a candle. The president leans toward the candle and blows lightly on the flame. The painted flame begins to fade slowly. The painting slides toward the left, revealing a large steel door with a handprint scanner and a small vocal reading screen. The president places his hand on the pad.
“Binko Vilantez,” the president says, stimulating the vocal screen reading.
The large metal door unlatches and moans open, revealing a narrow staircase leading downward. Making their way to the bottom of the staircase, they find that the tunnel has collapsed.
The president stares at the rubble that blocks their way, lost in thought.
“Follow me, Mr. President,” one of the service guards says.
“There’s multiple escape routes,” the guard adds while the three make haste back up the staircase.
Humvees begin to line up on all sides of the White House just outside the fence line.
“Bravo one five is set,” the passenger radio operator says as he holds a radio on each ear.
“Bravo one three set.”
“Bravo one four set.”
“Bravo one one set.”
“Bravo one seven set.” As the trucks fire off their “good to goes” on the radio, the driver squeezes the steering wheel with beads of sweat running down his temple.
“Watch your sector of fire!” the TC radio operator shouts to the gunner.
“Roger!”
“Lock and load!” the TC shouts.
The gunner slaps the M240 ammo cover onto the belt and pulls back on the charging handle to load the first round.
Snipers mount surrounding rooftops in the area.
Two MH fast attack helicopters each loaded with four special force soldiers zip by buildings at high speed, closing in on the White House.
“Ten seconds!” the pilot yells over the roar of the rotors.
The old veteran steps up to the White House gate with his eyes focused in disbelief. His eyebrows release, leaving nothing more than a cold, accepting stare in the face of the chaos engulfing the White House.
“Five seconds!” the pilot shouts as they close in on the White House.
The special forces lean out as the helicopters zip over traffic. People crowded in the streets watch in fear while others run. Gunfire crackles. Screams fill the air.
The special forces jumpmaster looks ahead as the black cloud clears, revealing the White House. Through the White House windows, he sees flashes of gunfire.
“Get ready!” the pilot shouts.
The jumpmaster exhales and shoulders his M4 carbine rifle. The first chopper almost lands on top of the White House as they quickly hop out.
Boom! The chopper behind them gets hit in a flash of thunder and emerges without a tail, sending it into a spiral.
“Go! Go! Go!” the first pilot yells at them as they leap to the roof hatch without hesitating.
The old vet slowly pulls his hat off his gray, messy hair while watching the spiraling chopper descend onto the White House front lawn. The chopper slams into the ground while the rotor blade kicks up grass and dirt in all directions. Earth flies through the front windshield, and soldiers are shaken inside the chopper’s interior like bugs in a jar. The battered chopper bounces and slides to a stop as the crowd gasps.
“I feared I may live to see this day,” the old man mutters to himself.
“Back off!” the gate guard shouts to the crowd growing around the gate.
The soldiers inside the crashed chopper start receiving gunfire from the White House windows. The soldiers fight to stay covered. The chopper interior flickers as heavy rounds light up the inside, smashing through windows and metal. Blood splatters the inside while the pilots get pelted with bullets.
One of the special forces attempts to line up a target on a window, instantly getting shot in the neck and launching a spray of blood all over his point man.
“Bravo one five to Iron Horse Main. Requesting permission to fire. Over.” One of the Humvee radio operators speaks into the radio while watching in horror as the survivors of the downed chopper get pelted with round after round.
“Bravo one five, this is Iron Horse Main. That’s a negative. We cannot risk civilian casualties. Out.”
“God damn it!” yells the radio operator, sweat running down his cheek.
The old veteran “Michael” stands at the gate while embers illuminate his old, worn face. The chaos takes him back, to when he held his dead friend “Stephens” in his arms. Word made it back to Stephens wife, and yet something happened on the return home Michael didn’t understand. When he stepped off the plane he saw Stephens wife, scraping the last bit of hope from the bottom of the bowl. Her false hope horrified Michael as his buddies casket emerges from the plane entrance, toward the crowd. His eye contact with her is broken as the casket of her husband catches her eye. Hope diminishes from her face while the harsh reality sets in. Michael’s old wrinkled eyes returns to the chaos at the white house.
“Everyone back away from the gate!” the guard shouts while shouldering his M4 carbine.
“Don’t make us sit on the sidelines to watch our country fall!” a man hisses.
“This is a military matter. The situation is contained. We have this under control, sir. We know what we’re doing,” the guard replies.
“I don’t doubt you know what you’re doing, but I’m afraid you do not have this under control,” the old man says as the guard steps away toward the booth shaking his head.
The crowd begins roaring and starts climbing the fence. The army security begins firing shots into the sky.
“Back the fuck off!” yells one of the guards.
The crowd begins rocking the fence back and forth.
One of the security guards steps into the guard booth and picks up the radio.
“Iron Horse Main, this is Main Gate. Over.”
“Iron Horse Main to Main Gate. Go ahead,” the radio responds.
“Iron Horse Main, the situation at the main gate is escalating violently. The crowd is trying to break through the fence. Over.”
“Main Gate, this is Iron Horse Main. Fire off warning shots. Out.”
The guard slams the microphone down.
“We have been,” the guard growls.
The vice president holds out in the main office with four secret service guards at his side and a barricade at the door.
Hiding behind the desk, he grabs the phone and immediately gets cut off. The phone dies, and the lights go out. The vice president looks back at one of the guards, who pulls out his cell phone.
<
br /> “It’s dead,” the guard mutters in confusion.
Boom! The guard drops his cell phone and falls back into his own pool of blood. The vice president hits the floor to take cover. The other three guards unload their pistol magazines into the door. After littering the door with holes, their empty weapons click. Light seeps in the holes in the door, illuminating the dust in the room with a moment of silence.
The vice president hides in the dark behind the desk.
Smash! The sound of wood exploding and pieces trickling on the floor send the vice president’s eyes back and forth in an attempt to read the sounds all around him: the loud moan of the chair moving across the wooden floor, the vibrating thud as somebody hits the ground, the breaking of glass.
“No! Ple—” Crack! It goes quiet.
The vice president hides in horror while he listens for a sound.
In the darkness, two dim orange eyes slowly brighten as they move closer and closer behind him in perfect silence. The vice president slowly turns around, sweat running down his forehead. He manages his breathing, trying not to be heard.
He pauses momentarily, seeing two orange lights closing in upon him so calmly. Trying to remain quiet, he lets out a slow, controlled exhale.
Bam! His head smashes to the floor. A large, heavy boot lands in front of his face. His eyes open in fear. He is then immediately grabbed by the neck and lifted to his feet. Blood trickles down his forehead. The dark figure plows him into the wall. The orange-eyed man pulls the vice president out of the drywall, leaving him caked in white dust. The vice president begins to stumble while fighting to keep his footing.
Smash! The vice president gets struck in the head, sending him to the floor unconscious.
The crowd outside the White House continues to grow more aggressive, rocking the fence back and forth. The security guards step back, looking at each other unnervingly.
One of the news channel helicopters circling the White House moves a little closer to get better footage.
“We are live right now at the White House where a large, coordinated terrorist attack has engulfed the entire area,” a male voice speaks into the live news feed.
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