by Ward Salud
Her plane sitting on the tarmac ahead of her, Hillary thought of the Siachen mission and was eager to find out what happened, but looking at the faces of her aides, one person was conspicuously missing.
“Where’s Huma?” she asked.
Their stricken faces told her all she needed to know
•••
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 22, 2012
President Obama stood at the head of the conference table, his hands at his hips. Leather executive chairs surrounded the conference table as his National Security Council buzzed about the Situation Room reading reports that came straight to their tablets or simply viewed the screen at the front of the room. Vice President Joe Biden stood by Obama as they both stared at the same screen.
It depicted a map of the world with several red dots pulsating on various points on the globe including the Siachen Glacier in Kashmir.
“Find me that plane,” Obama called out to the front of the room.
“Yes, Mr. President,” a voice in the intercom said. Obama knew in another room in the White House Situation Room complex, several of his men manned a row of computer terminals carrying out his orders. Other facilities in the Pentagon and Langley did the same.
Could be anywhere in the world, he thought, and glancing at Joe, he knew he was thinking the same. Last he heard, the HAARP plane, as it was called by the DSS agents who survived the mission, had taken off from the Siachen Glacier Base. And not by #2 either but by Dee, who had taken Huma with him.
Probably as a human shield, he thought, and Obama tried not to think what he would have to order if they had indeed found that fugitive plane.
“Mr. President,” NSC Advisor Susan Rice said. The hard charging African American presidential advisor was all business in her tight, dark skirtsuit. “The Madame Secretary’s on the phone.”
Obama picked up the satellite phone as Joe went to converse with one of the generals.
“Good to hear you’re safe, Hillary,” he said. Earlier, he’d been told of her rescue. He had worried about her when reports of her crashed Black Hawk reached him, but somehow, he knew she would pull through. She was a fighter.
Hillary went right to the matter. “Barack,” she said with panic in her voice. “Where’s Huma?”
Obama didn’t say anything for a moment knowing what had happened to her during the mission. “We have reason to believe she’s in—”
“Woah!” a voice cried out from the intercom.
“What was that?” another voice said, but the rest soon devolved into a babel of voices.
Obama glanced about not knowing what had happened, and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the anomaly. A formation grew off the coast of Nicaragua, pulsating redder and redder . . .
“Ionosphere heating up!” shouted a voice in the intercom. “Bearing 13.5 North, 78 West!”
The NSC staff and the Vice President along with Obama gawked at the growing formation.
“What does that mean, General?” Obama asked.
General Dempsey turned around, his face stricken. “The HAARP Device,” he said. “It’s been activated.”
Joe glanced back with the same level of concern.
Looks like they found Dee, Obama thought.
•••
The thunder crackled amongst the dark clouds as the HAARP plane flew on its trajectory. A trail of white bulbous plume of chemicals spewed from the back of the aircraft. Called chemtrails, Dee had activated it earlier in order to feed the growing hurricane.
Inside the plane, Dee kneeled by Huma with rations of MRE crackers and beef stew in his hand. “You have to eat,” he said. He had placed the plane on autopilot giving him free rein to head back to Huma. “It’s a long trip.”
Huma didn’t reply. With her wrist cuffed, she only sat back against the wall and looked away from him, refusing to make eye contact. She had nothing to say to him.
Dee glanced down at the rations he wanted to give her and sighed. “I’m not a bad guy, Huma,” he said, putting the rations in its sand-colored MRE packaging in front of her. He rose up, his whole frame towering over. “You’ll see.”
He headed back to the pilot’s seat, leaving Huma alone once more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CNN STUDIOS
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 29, 2012
“Welcome to our viewers in the United States and around the world. I’m Wolf Blitzer, and you’re in the Situation Room!
On a screen behind Wolf Blitzer, the host of CNN’s Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer, the opening sequence began where a point of light snaked its way first through the city of Sydney, Australia. Amidst the pomp of music, reminiscent of the sound of war, the point of light wound past the Sydney Opera House. A target reticule appeared and began to pinpoint the city of Dubai with the point of light flashing by. Then, through London, the reticule, this time, targeting the London skyline, the London Eye foremost among them. The music of “The Situation Room” grew more and more ecstatic as the flash of light passed by London and onto New York. The menacing reticule now targeted the Empire State Building, and finally, with the music finishing with a flourish, the flash of light headed to Washington, DC and against the backdrop of the Washington Monument and the National Mall, the flash of light dipped into the reflecting pond. The caption behind Blitzer read:
THE
SITUATION
ROOM
with WOLF BLITZER
Wolf Blitzer, in a comfortable business suit, stood proudly in his very own Situation Room, the only other person in the world who can proudly say he has one. The silver-haired and bearded Wolf gazed at the camera with seriousness and purpose.
“We begin this hour with breaking news,” Blitzer said. Unlike Obama’s Situation Room, his own Situation Room exuded a modern flair with a glass shard-like table to his side and a huge video wall filled with several screens in a row all featuring the news of the day, an ominous swirl of clouds heading towards the United States.
“A Frankenstorm,” Blitzer said rapturously. “That’s what officials are calling it as Hurricane Sandy may, I repeat, may bear down on New York City. Our very own Maria Bartoli has more.
The news anchor turned around, and there on the screen, a woman in a rain jacket squinted before the cameras. Wind blew down upon her, and palm trees swayed. Behind her, waves crashed upon the sandy shores.
“That’s right, Wolf,” she said, concern etched on her face. “Officials are worrying Hurricane Sandy will strike the Eastern Seaboard today, though they’re cautiously optimistic the Frankenstorm will veer towards the Atlantic.”
Wolf Blitzer frowned seriously as he held a news report in his hand. “When will we know if Sandy will strike New York, Maria?”
“Officials say they’re still calculating Sandy’s path,” she replied. “We should know later today where she's headed.”
“Keep us updated, Maria,” Wolf said. He turned to another bank of cameras. “Just to be safe, hide your women, hide your children. Sandy may be coming to town!”
•••
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 29, 2012
Through the audio feed in the Situation Room, screams of dying men sounded in agony, their last shouts drowned out by a furious swell of wind.
President Obama, the leather-bound executive chair he sat on facing sideways from the conference table, had his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
The audio feed, emanating from a giant video screen at the front of the room, suddenly cut out.
“Strike group failed,” General Dempsey said somberly. Wearing his military uniform bedecked with a multitude of medals and rank star insignias, the general didn’t say anything further. He only gazed down, despair in his eyes.
What was he going to do? Obama thought
. With his hands buried in his face, he couldn’t see anything, and frankly, he didn’t want to see anything. Another strike group had failed to halt Dee’s advance. Dee’s HAARP plane had neutralized everything they’ve sent his way or more accurately, the hurricane the HAARP array created had done so. They couldn’t get close. Tomahawk cruise missiles couldn’t navigate through the treacherous winds. Their fighter planes couldn’t get through either. If the hurricane’s gale force winds didn’t stop the planes, the lightning Dee activated from the array did.
He was running out of options. Dee was hell-bent on striking New York, and when the hurricane didn’t cease its advance, he’d have to tell the American people the truth of what was really going on: that a top secret weapon fell into enemy hands.
At that point, he didn’t care so much about the election. He’d most likely lose now, and surprisingly, that seemed the least of his concerns. If this was the end, though, he didn’t want the end of his presidency to be like this. Not like this with so many lives lost. History will not be kind, and the families of the American people he was sworn to protect, they would not forgive him.
Obama gazed back up to those around him, Joe Biden, General Dempsey, Susan Rice, and the rest of his National Security Council stunned around him.
There was still one option left, he knew. Still, he thought. Could it actually be an option?
•••
HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 29, 2012
In the darkened room of Hillaryland Ops, up on the seventh floor of the State Department building, Hillary stood grim faced. Around her, Hillaryland staff members, sitting at their posts on the two rows of computer worktables or standing with tablets in hand, also stared at the central viewscreen at the front of the room. The viewscreen revealed a map of the Eastern Seaboard where an ominous hurricane cloud formation, taking what seemed to be half the entire Atlantic Ocean, barreled its way to New York.
Cheryl, Jake, Dan, and Philippe each manned a seat at the worktables. Their computer monitors were in front of them, but they said nothing. They all looked to Hillary for answers, but she didn’t have any for them.
On the screen, “Hurricane Sandy,” the cover story cooked up by the CIA, continued to swirl up the Eastern coast of the United States.
She had been notified the strike group failed. While she hoped they would succeed, she knew the chances of success were low. So many lives had been taken already . . .
They’ve tried everything, she thought. They even contacted Mitt Romney to try to convince him to talk to his son. Instead, he and Barack’s conversation devolved into bitter wrangling about who was leading who in the polls.
Hillary looked down and thought hard. There had to be a way! They tried attacking him, they tried contacting Dee’s father, what else can they—
An idea came to her.
“Patch me through to Ann Romney,” she said to Philippe.
“What?” He soured at the unexpected request. “Why?” he asked, seated close to her.
“Do it.”
Philippe shrugged and typed on the keyboard. When Mitt Romney won the Republican nomination, he was given Secret Service protection as well as access to top secret technology given to presidential candidates.
The screen at the front room switched from the hurricane to the face of Ann Romney. The blonde-haired Ann looked pretty, but the stress of both the campaign and Dee’s defection, took a toll on her. She gazed back at Hillary, concern on her face and dark circles under her eyes hidden carefully by makeup.
“Ann,” Hillary said, taking one step forward towards the central viewscreen of Hillaryland Ops. “Please,” she pleaded. “From a mother to a mother, we need your help.”
•••
SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
OCTOBER 29, 2012
The waves of the Atlantic Ocean crashed mercilessly against one another, while up above, the HAARP plane, its spires sticking up in its middle like jagged edges, continued on its trajectory. As they were in the eye of the hurricane, the winds itself were quite placid, but it was a mirage. In the distance, ominous dark clouds surrounded the plane as winds howled, the hurricane created by the full force of the HAARP array.
At the front of the plane, Dee, seated on one of the pilot’s seats, held tight on the flight stick. He gritted his teeth as he flew the plane ever on the lookout for yet another attack by the Air Force.
Meanwhile, inside the cargo hold, Huma tried to use her foot to grab hold of a metallic canister. She was still cuffed to the railing and had no choice but to use her feet.
She had seen her chance, and she concentrated on trying to get her feet to catch hold of the object too far to grab with her free hand but still so tantalizingly close.
She had found a way to escape. The metallic canister close by contained sulfur dioxide. She had earlier thrown water that Dee had given her on her handcuffs, and if she could only get it over to her, she could use the chemical reaction to weaken the metal of her restraints.
With one foot, she had pinned the canister to the floor. There we go, she thought as sweat tinged her brows. The HAARP array inside the plane heated up the confines of the converted C-17.
Having succeeded with one foot, she then used her other foot to guide the canister over to her. Easy does it, she thought. Come to mama.
The canister inched closer. Now all she had to do was—
She shoved the canister with her foot over to her, and with her hand, she tried to reach out. The canister rolled closer and closer, and her hand could almost touch it . . .
At that moment, Dee clambered down the access stairs, and upon seeing her, his face dawned on what she was up to.
Uh oh, she thought wincing, knowing that she’d been caught, but she had finally grabbed hold of the canister.
“No!” Dee cried out, scrambling to her.
Canister in hand, she smashed the lid onto both the railing and the handcuff chain. Sulfur dioxide spilled out, and Huma had to turn her face to avoid the back splatter.
The chemical did its work. With a hiss, it quickly began to dissolve the metal as Dee came towards her
The chains of her handcuffs weakened enough, Huma yanked the handcuffs, breaking from its restraints and then swung at Dee, using the handcuffs as an extra weapon.
It made its mark. Dee staggered back from the blow as Huma ran up against him, causing him to fall back against the loadmaster station chair. Ahead, the cockpit enclosure was now open to her. If she could take control of the plane, maybe even deliberately crash it, she could save so many lives.
Without heed to Dee, Huma quickly scrambled up the plane’s access stairs and to the cockpit. She ran up to the pilot’s seat and reached over to the flight stick, hoping to send the cargo plane into a tailspin, only to have a hand shove her to the side.
Huma landed onto the second pilot’s seat as the barrel of a Grach pistol pointed at her. “That’s enough,” Dee said, holding the weapon steady. His finger was on the trigger.
She caught her breath as she sat there, his gun pointed at her. She failed, she thought. Her best chance at stopping him, and she failed. Dee glared at her, no emotion on his handsome face, but yet, in his eyes, she saw disappointment there, even betrayal.
Silence followed between them, but something broke it. A smartphone had rested on the top of the cockpit navigation system. Its screen lit up, and the voice of none other than actor George Clooney sounded.
The song “I am a Man of Constant Sorrow” from the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack played in the air, made all the more beguiling because of Clooney’s sexy Southern twang. It was the phone’s ringtone, and only a single name was displayed on the screen.
A knowing realization crossed Dee’s face, and seeming to have recognized the song, he lowered his gun and turned to the screen with eyes wide. “Father?” he said, knowing that O Brother Where Art Thou was his dad’s favorit
e movie. She raised herself up in her seat and could only look at both Dee and the ringtone playing smartphone.
He quickly grabbed the phone and looked at it as though he couldn’t believe the call came. Then, he pressed on the touchscreen, and the stern face of the square jawed Mitt Romney appeared on the screen.
“Father,” Dee Romney repeated.
“Hi, son,” Mitt said.
Dee didn’t reply. He only looked at the screen with something like awe.
“I know I haven’t been the best father,” Mitt said with pain marking his eyes. “But please, son, whatever you’re doing, please stop. There are more important things than winning an election.”
Dee brushed his hand against his hair. “I did it for you,” he said to his father.
“I know,” Mitt said back. “And . . . I love you, son,” he said at last. Mitt Romney’s visage vanished, and the screen turned dark.
“I did it for you,” Dee repeated, still staring at the smartphone screen. Huma didn’t know what to say.
“Dee . . .”
He wiped his eyes. “I have to stop this,” he said without looking at her. Guilt, though, was clear on his face.
He sat down in the pilot’s seat and took control of the flight stick, turning it to the right. “There might still be time,” he said as the plane veered away from its path.
Huma understood. She leaned against the passenger seat and finally exhaled. It was over.
Suddenly, the flight stick veered sharply to the left, lurching the plane as it did so, throwing both Huma and Dee off to the side of their seats.
Huma looked at Dee with confusion, but he too seemed to be as confused as her. The flight stick, it continued to turn until it righted itself as though it was under remote . . .
Dee grabbed the flight stick again and tried to turn it back to the right, but whatever he did, it remained locked in place.
“What’s happening?” she asked him.
Dee was speechless, he glanced at the cockpit controls. “It’s on auto-pilot,” he said in alarm, fiddling with the controls on the navigation system and the throttle levers to no effect. “It doesn’t respond to anything I—”