Hostile Takeover

by David Bruns

  In the old days, Anthony and the rest of the council needed Adriana for her money, but those times were long past. In this post-wealth world, what were her real assets? What did she possess that no other family could bring to the council?

  Information, she decided. Connections. That would be her new currency. She would adapt her vast business network to her new position as information broker. She would be the spider at the center of the web, sharply tuned to any tremors in the individual strands of silken data.

  Adriana smiled at the analogy. She liked the image of herself at the center of the universe. She would need all of her considerable skills if she wished to displace Anthony Taulke one day. In her opinion, he was a leader gradually losing touch with his mission in life. Tony saw it too, of that she was sure. Part of her reason for voting against Ming Qinlao at the last council meeting had been to test Tony—and he had more than met her expectations. There was an alliance to be cultivated there.

  She put aside any thoughts of a coup for now. It was far too early to consider such actions. First, she needed to build her base of spies.

  All during the voyage home, Adriana had connected with her people on Earth—and the result was less than encouraging. The catastrophic weather conditions that had occurred immediately after the Lazarus launch had faded, but the damage was done. Beijing was still a sand dune, the highlands of Scotland still blighted by the deep freeze, and coastal cities all over the globe swept away by the ravages of rising sea levels.

  The governments of the United Nations were anything but united. On most days, the general assembly more resembled a barroom brawl than a gathering of diplomats. No wonder the demands of the council were not being met promptly.

  In the civilian population, the New Earth Order was seeing a resurgence despite the lack of a new leader. The mark of Cassandra had gone from the brand of a traitor to a badge of honor in just a few months. In South America, a mysterious woman known as the Corazon had gathered hundreds of thousands of followers and marched on the US border. Behind that backdrop, rumors spread of a third way, a military option that transcended both politics and religion.

  It was chaos, pure and simple. Anarchy on a global scale.

  And the answer to chaos was order, discipline. What the planet needed was a unifying cause to rally behind, something all sides could agree on as a viable path forward. Even more important, it had to appear to be a plan developed by Earth governments for the benefit of Earth’s citizens.

  For days in her cabin on the Isis, Adriana pondered the question, probing her network for ideas. One idea came up again and again.

  “Ms. Rabh,” the captain’s voice on the intercom interrupted her thoughts. “We’ve got a shuttle hailing us, requesting permission to dock.”

  “Permission granted, Captain. I’ll receive the president in my personal dining room.”

  United States President Howard Teller III strode into her dining room moments later, hand extended, disarmingly warm smile at the ready. She kept her expression stern as she shook his hand and invited him to sit.

  Teller had decided to age gracefully. He had allowed his close-cropped curls to go full gray and deep lines carved his mahogany facial features. His smile was still full and bright, though, and his handshake firm and reassuring.

  “Ms. Rabh,” he said with a slight bow, “may I be the first to address you as ambassador?”

  “You may, Mr. President,” she replied, liking the sound of the new title in her own ears.

  They sat across from each other at a table that would seat eight, an expanse of snowy white linen between them. Her manservant populated their place settings with bowls of creamy red soup.

  Teller took a spoonful and his eyebrows arched with surprise.

  “Fresh tomatoes,” Adriana said, enjoying his reaction. “Anthony grows them on Mars now by the truckload.” An exaggeration, but first impressions were important.

  They worked through a pasta course as the orbit of the Isis crossed into darkness. The room lights adjusted automatically. Teller nodded at the window. “You can see it clearly from this vantage point. The bands, I mean.”

  It was true. Whole bands of latitude, each one probably hundreds of miles across, were dimmer than narrow strips between them.

  “The weather patterns do it,” Teller said, the lines on his face deepening even more. “Storms drive people out of what were once populated regions into these narrow habitable bands. Whole cities are being abandoned in places, displacing thousands of people at a time. The refugee problem is enormous.”

  “The UN? Can they help?” Adriana asked.

  “The weather is not a political problem, Ambassador. The wind knows no borders.”

  Adriana rested her fork on her plate and indicated for the servant to take it away.

  “Have you seen Elise Kisaan?” Teller asked her.

  She thought about the pregnant woman with the sunken eyes and the bemused expression that passed for a smile. “I have.”

  “Is it true? The Neos claim she carries the second coming of Cassandra.” Teller looked her at her directly. “That could be a problem. For all of us.”

  “So the Neos are organizing again?”

  Teller’s face twisted. “A third of the world’s population belongs to the New Earth Order. They don’t have to organize to be a force we need to reckon with.” He caught her eye again. “A force that you need to reckon with, Ambassador.”

  Adriana felt a slight chill. Her network had been more sanguine about the effect of the Neos on her position than Teller’s dire warnings. More digging was required.

  “But you have brought me a proposal, Mr. President?” she said.

  Teller nodded. “I have, Madam Ambassador. I believe this current political crisis is also a political opportunity. The world governments are not being responsive to their people and are not unified in solving the problem. In many ways, the United Nations has outlived its usefulness as a governing body.”

  Adriana signaled for the wine to be poured. Before responding, she took a sip, savoring the crisp taste of chilled fruit. “So you’re attempting to eliminate my position before I even start, Howard? How ballsy of you.”

  “Not exactly. I’m proposing we look at our history. After the devastation of World War Two, the United States launched a massive rebuilding program to reinvigorate Europe called the Marshall Plan. That move cemented America’s place as the leader of the free world for nearly a century. With the devastation caused by climate change, I see a parallel situation.”

  “You mean the Lazarus Protocol that you personally unleashed on the world, Mr. President?”

  Teller flushed but kept his cool. “I mean the weather changes wrought by Cassandra and her band of fanatics.”

  Adriana listened as he described his vision of the Teller Plan, a massive worldwide rebuilding effort targeted at the most devastated regions of the globe. Adriana found herself agreeing with his conclusions. No wonder this man had managed to convince his own countrymen to reelect him after the Lazarus debacle.

  “So what do you need from me?” she asked after he had finished.

  “From the council,” he said. “Funding, of course, and political support. This will not be a slam dunk in the general assembly or even in the security council.”

  Adriana eyed him over the rim of her wineglass. There was a missing piece still. “What’s in it for you?” she asked. “Why now? Why not have the former ambassador present this to the council and seek funding?”

  Teller shrugged. “This is only the first step.” He got to his feet and strode to the window. They had been talking long enough to make a complete orbit and the Isis was passing into darkness again. Teller pointed at the globe.

  “Boundaries set by governments and ethnicity are dissolving. I’m positioning myself for the next step in the political evolution of Earth—a world government.” He turned to her, his eyes shining. “I know about the expansion plans of the council, the outposts on Titan, the exploratory mission
s to the Kuiper Belt and Callisto. Earth may be our birthplace, but this planet will soon be only one star in the constellation of the council. A world government will need a world governor.”

  “You’re volunteering for the job?” Adriana chuckled.

  Teller gave a self-deprecating shrug. “If and when it becomes available.”

  Adriana drained her wine. Maybe she’d underestimated Teller. This was an ambition that needed some controls put on it.

  “And who did you envision would run this organization you are proposing?” she asked.

  Teller looked surprised. “Why me, of course. With my staff.”

  Adriana pursed her lips. “I’m not sure you have the background to pull that off. It will look like a political stunt, not a serious effort. After all, your historical precedent was called the Marshall Plan, not the Truman Plan after the president that signed it into existence. No, I think the council will insist on someone with an operational background to lead the effort. It is our money, after all.”

  Teller nodded gamely. “I’m sure I can come up with a list of acceptable candidates—”

  “What about the general who did that heroic raid on the Neo space station? What’s his name?”

  “Graves,” Teller muttered in a voice reminiscent of crushed glass.

  His reaction told Adriana all she needed to know.

  “That’s the one,” she said. “I want him.”

  Chapter 6

  William Graves • Southern California

  Graves let his eyes roam over the gray hills surrounding the shallow valley. It was strange how the ash softened the edges of the destruction, almost like a frosting of snow. Twenty-four hours ago, this area had been a neighborhood of close-packed single-family dwellings and row houses centered around an area school.

  Now it was a featureless landscape of soft gray.

  The place smelled like the inside of an incinerator, a complex mix of burnt plastic, wood, and something softer, organic in nature.

  Graves pointed to the flat fields next to where the school had stood. A few spikes of metal poked out of the ground. What was left of a backstop for a baseball diamond, he realized.

  “There,” he said. “Land the aid package there.”

  Behind him, Estes called in the air transports. There would be three ships landing in the next fifteen minutes with food, shelter, and a medical team. They would take away any bodies that remained. Not usually an issue in this kind of natural disaster.

  A few solitary figures trudged along the ridge, kicking up billows of dusty gray. The sun peeked through a smoky cloud, ready to irradiate the planet for another day.

  “This town wasn’t hit so badly, sir,” Estes said. “Most of the people either had fire shelters in their homes or managed to get to the community shelter in the city hall. Looks like eighteen dead, twenty-seven missing.”

  Fire shelters … when he was growing up, his grandfather used to talk about bomb shelters to protect against nuclear attack. Now citizens used shelters to protect them from fire attacks. Graves sometimes felt like people today spent more time sheltering than living.

  “What’s the name?” he asked.

  “Sir?”

  “The name of the town, Estes. Or what used to be this town.”

  The sergeant consulted his tablet. “San Garafala.”

  “Never heard of it,” Graves said. And he probably never would again. Once these people got a night or two in the government shelters and ate a few meals of field rations, they’d decide to take what little they had left and move inland. Denver, maybe, or Bend, Oregon, or Chicago. Anything but wildfire country.

  But those inland cities harbored a different kind of fire danger. Political fire. Masses of people pushed to the edge and more joining them every day…

  Graves drove that line of thought from his head. He was here to help people. Politics was not his problem.

  “Let’s get a move on, Estes,” he said, turning back to the command ship. Once inside, he passed through the compact ops deck comprised of a central holographic map display and ringed by half a dozen workstations.

  “At ease, people,” he called. They had standing orders to stay working when he transited the ops deck, but there were always a few rookies who leaped to their feet every time a general appeared.

  Graves entered the cramped restroom and splashed water on his face. The smoke had pinkened the whites of his eyes and his eyelids were raw and red. He wiped the water away and studied his reflection in the mirror. “What are you doing?” he muttered.

  On days like this, depression lurked around the corner. His job felt hopeless, like he was trying to heal an amputated limb with a Band-Aid. There was so much need out there and growing by the hour.

  After a final stern look at his reflection, Graves snapped open the washroom door to find Estes waiting for him.

  “You have a visitor, sir. She’s waiting in your office.”

  “Well, who is it, Estes? And why am I receiving visitors in the middle of a relief op?”

  Estes shifted his feet. “She said her name is Olga.”

  Graves’s head snapped up. “Olga, you said? Make preps to reposition the command ship to the next site and don’t disturb me.”

  Estes ghosted a smile. “Yes, sir.”

  Graves whipped open the door to his office. Major Olga Rodchenkov stood when she saw him. Her blonde hair, with streaks of silver now, was drawn back into a thick braid and she was dressed in jeans and a fitted khaki shirt. He kicked the door shut behind him and enveloped her in a tight hug.

  She barely reached his shoulder, but her former gymnast’s body was all muscle. He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. It was her smell he remembered the most. A warm scent, like vanilla sugar and jasmine. Delicate and intoxicating.

  “You smell great,” he said.

  She pushed him away. “And you smell like someone pissed on a campfire.” She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. If he listened very carefully, he could still hear a trace of her native Vladivostok in her voice.

  Graves tried to check the rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. There was a time when he’d almost abandoned the United States Army for this woman and seeing her brought back a flood of memories of stolen nights together in Germany.

  They’d been younger then—and stupid. There was no way on earth for a Russian FSB officer and a US Army officer to have a life together. They’d ended it before it ended their respective careers, but Grave sometimes wondered what his life might have been like if he’d just married this woman when he’d had the chance. He certainly wouldn’t be delivering aid to victims of wildfires, that’s for sure.

  “You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?” she teased him.

  Graves grinned sheepishly. “Can you blame me? You look amazing.”

  Olga’s cheeks colored slightly. She reached out and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders … I heard about the Neo space station. That was a brave thing you did, Will.”

  Graves shook his head. “It was a suicide mission and I’m lucky to be alive. We lost a lot of people that day.”

  Olga pulled her chair close to his and took his hand. “It needed to be done. You were the right man for the job.”

  Graves twisted his fingers into hers. Recalling the attack on the Neo station sobered him, which was probably Olga’s intention. She knew how to push his buttons.

  “You’re about to get another job, Will. A much bigger one.”

  “Really? You’re spying on me, Olga?”

  She withdrew her hand. “I’m not with the FSB anymore, Will. I’m freelancing, you could say.”

  Graves studied her. The woman would not meet his gaze, unusual for her, and she seemed to have drawn back into herself.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Instead of responding, Olga reached into her hip pocket and drew out a slim disc. She placed it on the edge of the desk next to her elbow an
d pushed the center button. It glowed a soft blue. Graves looked at her incredulously.

  “You brought a personal jamming device into a US Army command ship?”

  Olga gripped his hand again, the pressure of her fingers insistent. “Please, Will, listen to me. I represent a group of like-minded people—military people, professionals. We think there’s a war coming. Not with the Neos, but with Anthony Taulke’s council. We’d like you to keep an open mind, and when the time comes, make a decision.”

  Graves’s first reaction was anger. He reached for the jamming disc, but Olga held him back. “You know me, Will Graves. I’m not some cockeyed reactionary. The Sentinels are serious. All of the major world militaries are represented, even a few brave politicians. There’s a war coming, and no one sees it yet. We will be ready.”

  “The Sentinels? That’s the name of your organization?” Graves tried to make a joke out of it, but Olga was having none of it.

  Olga moved so close he could feel her breath on his cheek and lowered her voice. “I volunteered to come because I know you trust me. I’m asking you to trust me.” The crystal blue of her eyes would not let him go.

  “Fine. For you.”

  Olga whispered, “Do you still wear that Saint Christopher medal?”

  Graves grinned in spite of the tension between them. “Always. Why?”

  She pressed a silver chain and medal into his hand. “Wear this one instead. It’s got an emergency implant inside. If—when—you need me, I’ll find you.”

  Olga turned off the jamming device and slipped it back into her pocket. He stood with her and was surprised when she kissed him again. On the lips this time, and she let it linger. “I never found anyone after you, Will Graves. Part of me still wonders what might have been.”