Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Oh shit, Abby thought. He’s escorting me to the Med Center, turning me over to the shrinks.

  She followed him out of the office and through the ops center to Major Andrews’ door.

  Fitzgerald entered first, handed off the mechanical bird to Ryan, then introduced Abby to Grace Murray, commander of Cyber Command. “Sergeant, please recount your experience for the Major and Rear Admiral.”

  Previously, Abby had strained to verbalize the dubious encounters, but now words were cascading from her mouth; and she felt an odd sense of relief, as though the confession had alleviated a burden. “... I know it sounds farfetched.”

  “Actually, it doesn’t,” Grace Murray said. “What you’re describing is termed subliminal warfare, and it employs extremely low frequency magnetic waves to affect the human brain, influencing moods and thought patterns.”

  “The same way music can affect people’s moods?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes, but you wouldn’t be consciously aware of it,” Grace told him. “Advertisers have used subliminal messaging to sell products for years. But these frequencies go a step further, inducing euphoria, agitation, or even depression.”

  “That would explain the exorbitant suicide rate at Edgar,” Abby said, thinking aloud. “Especially after a solid month of rain.”

  Grace Murray gave a solemn nod. “Combined with seasonal affective disorder, it would be an extremely potent weapon.”

  Major Andrews rocked forward in his chair. “And these frequencies could have incited all the fistfights and riots as well?”

  “More than likely.”

  Abby thought back to her high school days before the EMP. Some of her peers had been experimenting with an I-Doser, which used beats of sound for mood altering purposes, like an electronic drug. But none of that justified the voices or validated her sanity.

  “What about the promptings to cut myself and rest in pieces?” she asked. “They sounded like someone whispering in my ear, not a speaker playing from across the room. Was that just my imagination?”

  Head shaking, the Rear Admiral said, “Voices are merely sound waves. I don’t see why they couldn’t be artificially projected in some sort of electronic ventriloquism.”

  Abby felt another surge of relief. The voices, the emotional mood swings, the tears, the fits of anger—it wasn’t because she was a female, emotionally unstable, or crazy.

  “So let me get this straight,” Captain Fitzgerald was saying. “The Russians were subliminally attacking our troops? Agitating them into fighting each other? Making them question their sanity? And/or driving them into depression and suicide?”

  A pensive silence endured, then Major Andrews’ head snapped toward Abby. “Sergeant Webber, don’t bother unpacking your gear. I’ve got a special assignment for you.”

  79

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS stared at the monitor, his brain on overload. His guys were being attacked in ways he couldn’t even perceive, let alone defend against. Weather warfare, subliminal warfare, insect-borne biological warfare—how many more ways could human beings invent to kill one another?

  Around him, the ops center buzzed with activity. The drone’s camera was displaying the carnage wrought by the New Madrid earthquake: collapsed bridges, charred neighborhoods, and ruptured pipelines. Large cone-shaped mounds of sand dotted the landscape like massive anthills, and the rising columns of smoke evoked memories of the Kuwaiti oil fields following Saddam Hussein’s 1991 scorched-earth retreat.

  “How far out is the drone?”

  A Corporal replied, “On station in one minute, sir.”

  Ryan settled onto a chair between Captains Fitzgerald and Canter. He had briefed them both about General Volkov, omitting all details regarding the black operation.

  Dmitry’s death may have triggered the vendetta against Bradley, he thought, but the Russian presence is part of a broader attack. Volkov and his Spetsnaz were attempting to finish what the jihadists and Chinese had started—the destruction of the United States of America.

  “Presently, over the target, sir.”

  Ryan glared at the image of the deserted industrial complex. Four masonry structures had sustained significant damage. Windows had disintegrated, the outer façades had shed puddles of brick, and the roofs had partially collapsed. Yet two of the six buildings appeared unscathed.

  “No heat signatures, sir.”

  Fitzgerald interlaced his fingers then clamped his palms atop his head. “Looks like General Sun was lying. You think the bad blood between him and Volkov was bullshit?”

  Ryan shrugged. “The enemy of my enemy is still my fucking enemy.”

  Captain Canter was tapping an empty water bottle against his thigh, brow knitted in thought. “Previous peacekeeper ambushes were straightforward military-type attacks. Lately, those tactics have veered toward terrorism, relying on deception and the element of surprise. Why the shift?”

  “Desperation?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Or Spetsnaz involvement,” Ryan added. “The elite Russian forces originated during the Bolshevik Revolution, and they’ve been known for terrorist-style assaults ever since.”

  The door leading to Ryan’s office swung open, and Grace Murray peeked inside the ops center. “Major, do you have a moment?”

  He pushed himself from the chair, feeling as though the force of gravity had tripled. The false lead was demoralizing, compounding his mental and physical exhaustion.

  Grace had returned to the desk and was hovering over a laptop; and as soon as the door clicked shut, she said, “I’m afraid I have bad news, Major.”

  Is there any other kind? Ryan thought, inviting her to proceed with a roll of his hand.

  “There’s been a server breach associated with your login and password.”

  He felt the blood rush to his face, heating his cheeks. “Volkov?”

  “Unclear. The incursion originated from District Five, specifically within Scoville Air Force Base. I’ve reset your password, but you’ll need to fill out the appropriate forms,” she said, handing him a manila folder.

  “Thanks.” Ryan added it to his tower of incomplete paperwork. “Do you know what the hacker accessed?”

  “Yes, and it only deepens the mystery. The perpetrator’s sole interest was ARGUS.”

  “The spy camera?” he asked. “Why would Volkov want that? He has access to a fleet of satellites.”

  “I’ve cued up the footage that was viewed. And I’m sorry to rush out on you, Major, but I’ve got a flight to catch. I have to return to Ansley ahead of tonight’s videconference.”

  Inwardly, he groaned, dreading the meeting with the President, then said, “Thank you for everything, Admiral. Safe travels.”

  After she’d gone, Ryan pressed play and watched a pickup truck advance along a dirt road, its open bed carrying a crate identical to the pair Franny had recovered from District Six. A blond driver exited the vehicle, shook hands with a young boy, then promptly shot the kid in the head. He deployed two dozen blackbird drones and drove off.

  A small window popped open, following the truck as it negotiated a badly damaged road, and the video of the murder scene continued to play in the background. Ryan lunged forward, squinting as someone dressed in a TEradS uniform approached the dead body.

  Bradley ...? What the fuck is he doing there? There were no scheduled ops in District Five yesterday.

  He dialed Scoville Air Force Base and asked to speak with Master Sergeant Webber.

  Did Volkov hack into ARGUS to track Bradley? To frame him for that murder?

  Watching his best friend dig a shallow grave, Ryan’s unanswered questions multiplied.

  Who’s the kid?

  And why did Bradley feel obliged to bury him?

  Eleven minutes elapsed before the Sniper picked up the call. There was a guilty edge to Bradley’s voice, signaling that he already knew why Ryan was calling.

  “You mind telling me what the fuck you were doing yesterday
? Burying that kid?”

  Speaking in a tempo an auctioneer would envy, Bradley said, “Somebody paid the kid to tape that Chi-phone to my door, the one with the RPG video.”

  “And you tailed the kid to that location?”

  “Yes, sir … I couldn’t follow the truck on foot so I ...”

  The extended pause pushed Ryan’s temper closer to the breaking point. “So you ...?”

  “I ... uh ... kind of borrowed your password.”

  “How did you get my password?” Ryan bellowed.

  “I saw you enter it a dozen times when we were tracking Defina.”

  Ryan gripped his temples, certain that his head was about to explode. “I could have you court-martialed for this! What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “That Volkov would kill Abby and me long before your court-martial even got started. And besides, you used to borrow Rodriguez’s password all the time.”

  Ryan sighed, momentarily at a loss. “Don’t you ever pull this shit again, Bradley. Not without my knowledge.”

  “Understood, sir. And regarding the ARGUS footage, have you come up with an explanation for the anomaly?”

  “Anomaly?” Ryan repeated.

  “Yeah. After the ambush. At the end. When the truck literally disappears?”

  Ryan restarted the last minute of the clip, only then noting the familiar industrial complex. Using the mouse, he meandered through drop-down menus and superimposed a longitude and latitude grid over the site.

  “How can a vehicle just vanish like that?” Bradley asked.

  Ryan’s attention was fused to the coordinates. “I don’t know ... But General Sun insists that’s the site of a Russian forward operating base—home to one General Volkov.”

  Maybe the bastard was telling the truth after all.

  80

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT WILLIAM Patterson Quenten intertwined his fingers, glaring at Ryan Andrews’ image on the monitor. “You deployed a Hellfire missile against a civilian neighborhood. You are responsible for the deaths of innocents, the wives of your fellow Soldiers, the mothers of young children.”

  Proffering a smug grin, Carter Sidney said, “This is precisely why I recommended an empathetic course of action.”

  Andrews remained at attention, fists clenched at his sides. “Mr. President, no civilians were present at the time of the drone strike. Those women were murdered after the fact and deposited at the site to malign the TEradS—”

  “You are missing the point,” Sidney interrupted. “When Volkov kidnapped your wife, you should’ve recused yourself, Major. You allowed your judgment to be skewed by emotion.”

  Quenten’s gaze darted toward his brother, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Andrews never should have been promoted to commander of the TEradS. He lacks the temperament and the judgment.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” the General said, an ominous anger glinting in his bloodshot eyes. “The Major is in this position because he cleaned up your mess.”

  Quenten stiffened at the reference to his ill-advised appointments and the ensuing black operation that had resolved the matter. “Is that a threat, Jonathan?”

  “No, sir. I’m merely pointing out that every lapse in judgment is not worthy of excoriation. The incident in District Six was a setup, and frankly, Mr. President, you are playing into the propaganda.”

  “We have more pressing concerns,” Admiral Grace Murray interrupted; then the silver-haired computer genius, attending via videoconference, launched into her presentation. There was a lot to absorb—insect drones attacking cattle, crops, and people; weather warfare ruining farmland, polluting water systems, and taking yet more American lives; disasters of biblical proportions; trumpets, bowls, and vials spilling forth misery and death.

  The President exhaled in a morbid sigh. “I always assumed the devastation in the Book of Revelation would be an act of a vengeful God ... not man-made.”

  Grace nodded, a pensive frown tightening her features. “Worse still, an identical pattern of disaster has been generated in China, deliberately making it appear as if the United States is retaliating in kind. And Aldrich Ames’ hard drive provides a paper trail in support of the frame-up, proof of our own weather modification capabilities.”

  Suddenly, Quenten felt like his office was a plunging elevator. “But that’s not true. I respected the UW resolution. I refused to authorize weather warfare, even after the electromagnetic pulse and the stealth Chinese invasion.”

  A gloating smile tweaked the corners of his brother’s mouth. “Wasn’t it you who told Major Andrews that ultimately, the truth is irrelevant? And that the only thing that matters is what the public believes to be true?”

  Having his own words wielded against him, Quenten cringed.

  “I’m afraid, it is going to get worse, Mr. President,” Grace said, head bowing. “We’ve been picking up chatter indicating that the United World Assembly intends to formally charge the United States with unleashing Ultimate Protocol against the Chinese—a weapon banned by UW treaty.”

  Although Quenten had never been briefed regarding the top-secret program, the dots connected in his mind. “Shanghai?” he mumbled. “Beijing? The meteors?”

  Grace nodded solemnly.

  Those bastards! First they try to assassinate me with Alameda fever and now they’re setting me up for a war crimes tribunal!

  “We believe Gorka Schwartz is spearheading the effort,” she added, referring to the most dangerous billionaire in the world, notorious for destroying banking systems and destabilizing governments.

  The President’s eyes narrowed, fixing his brother with a withering flash of contempt. “Why wasn’t I briefed about this weapons system? And who the fuck is in control of the U.S. military?”

  The General’s head shook in a stunned denial. “I wasn’t briefed about it either. Maybe Aldrich Ames wasn’t the only traitor at the CIA.”

  Sidney’s lips twitched, a microsmirk swallowed up by a scowl. “Or perhaps you have a double agent within your Air Force.”

  The possibility of a rogue General shuddered through Quenten. “Jonathan, I want an expedited investigation. Admiral Murray, I want that data expunged. Immediately!”

  “I’m no longer at Langden Air Force Base, Mr. President. The task of neutralizing that hard drive will have to be delegated to Major Andrews.”

  “Isn’t it difficult to destroy information so that it’s not retrievable?” Jonathan asked.

  “I’m not talking about wiping the drive or shredding data files,” Grace told him. “I’m proposing an all-out physical mutilation of the disk.”

  “That’s too risky,” Jonathan argued. “Andrews has no training or expertise in this area, and if that information is somehow recovered ...” His voice trailed away.

  “We’re all keenly aware of the consequences,” Sidney said. “But there are grave risks involved with moving it. The security protocols and staff required would surely catch Volkov’s attention—”

  “Which is why Grace should fly back to Langden,” Jonathan insisted. “And properly dispose of the data.”

  “We should be more concerned about disposing of Volkov,” Sidney added. “Mr. President, you must declare the Russian General a threat to national security—”

  “I thought you wanted to empathize with our enemies?” Jonthan shot back.

  Their debate stoked the outrage simmering inside Quenten.

  I have no choice, he decided. I won’t be safe until those privy to my missteps are dealt with ... Ordering Webber to dispatch that crazy Russian general is a a good start. Regardless of who prevails, I’ll have one less enemy.

  “Enough!” the President snapped. “Major Andrews, dispose of the hard drive. And there will be NO TEradS drone strikes without my explicit permission. Understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Mr. Chairman, I want Master Sergeant Webber to render Volkov harmless. See that he has the ful
l cooperation of all government agencies and access to classified technologies.”

  Chapter 14

  ><>< DAY 470 ><><

  Monday, May 30th

  81

  District Six, Texas

  PETER FRANCISCO’S hands continued exploring the contours of Lydia’s naked body while euphoria pulsed through his veins. He had finally succeeded in losing his virginity, a milestone on the road to manhood that had—instantly and unexpectedly—altered his perspective. For months, he’d been looking forward to joining the military, eager to rout the enemy and rebuild his country; and now, he dreaded the thought of leaving Lydia.

  She had shown up at his house an hour ago, out of the blue, harboring no resentment over their previous interaction, which had culminated with a smack to the face and a cutting blow to his masculinity.

  “Peter,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Sure.” His mouth dipped toward her for a kiss, and she dodged the advance.

  “Will you give me a ride? My friends are having a party.”

  “It’s after midnight. The curfew’s in effect.”

  “But the party’s outside the district. And you’ve got a security force ID.”

  Uneasiness doused his contentment. “I already got caught bending curfew rules for you.”

  “Did Murphy yell at you?” she asked, her inflection trumpeting her lingering disdain for the governor.

  “No, he just said not to make a habit of it.”

  Lydia rolled closer. He felt her warm breath against his ear followed by the nibbling sensation of her lips. “I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Unable to utter the word no, Peter grudgingly snatched his clothes from the floor. He watched her wriggle back into her sundress, grinning at the thought of peeling it off again. Then, hand in hand, he led her to the garage.

  “Can I drive?” she asked.

  “Not after curfew,” he said, mounting the ATV.