The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  The sentiment was acid dripping into an open wound, a reminder that Bradley would never lay eyes on his baby.

  A Marine posted outside the makeshift nursery opened the door and snapped to attention.

  The proud papa acknowledged him with a nod, his face beaming with fatherly love.

  I’ve never seen him so happy, Bradley thought. He halted midstep as if he’d smacked into a wall.

  His breath caught in his throat, and a toxic brew of guilt and regret ignited.

  Abby was hovering over the enclosed plastic bassinet, her face aglow with maternal awe, her lips curled into an adoring smile. Blonde with high cheekbones and a button nose, she looked more like a fragile china doll than a Sniper; but she was tough; a five-foot, eight-inch personification of the word stubborn.

  As if sensing his presence, her head bobbed up. Her smile wilted, and her steel-blue eyes impaled Bradley with a brutal glare. Then, without uttering a word, Abby tramped toward the doorway. She planted both palms against his chest, shoved him aside, and scurried into the corridor.

  Ryan’s interrogating stare skewered Bradley.

  “Just a trivial spat,” he said with a shrug.

  The Commander in Chief’s head cocked to the side and dipped; his eyes shifted upward, calling bullshit on his attempt to minimize the icy exchange. “Look, I’m not trying to meddle in your personal business,” Ryan told him, “but you need to make things right—for the sake of the mission. Otherwise, I’ll have to replace you.”

  Alarm rippled through Bradley. No one else could be entrusted with the owl, not when the fate of his family hung in the balance. “I’ll talk to Abby after the briefing, sir.”

  “No. You’ll do it now.”

  Bradley did an about-face, grumbling over the intrusion into his love life, but he knew Ryan was right. Unresolved personal problems could become a distraction, thereby jeopardizing the mission; and if he failed, the entire world would be plunged into a dictatorship.

  He zigzagged through the nondescript corridors of the underground base and, catching sight of her, he called out, “Abby, wait up!”

  She hastened her stride, and Bradley broke into a full-out sprint.

  What if I say the wrong thing and make it worse? he thought. I can’t believe I’m dreading an argument with my wife more than sneaking into North Korea.

  Abby skidded to a stop outside a private room usually reserved for high-ranking visitors and fumbled with the lock.

  The distance between them shrunk.

  Thirty feet ... Twenty feet ... Ten ...

  The lock clicked, the door lurched open, and Abby scrambled inside.

  I can’t let her lock me out.

  Bradley lunged. His forearm slammed against the closing door, reversing its direction, and his momentum forced it inward—right into Abby. She staggered backward and, unable to regain her balance, plumped down onto the bed.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted, leaping onto her feet. “Are you trying to trigger a miscarriage?”

  The accusation was a spear to the heart. “I-I didn’t mean to bowl you over. I would never intentionally hurt you ... or our baby.”

  Her sneer drove the tip of the spear deeper. “Go! Just leave me alone!”

  Bradley ambled into the room, which reminded him of a budget hotel with modest furnishings, then he closed the door and leaned against it like a human barricade.

  “Get out! Or I’ll call the MPs!” Tears were welling against her eyelashes, and he bowed his head, distraught over the heartache he’d inflicted. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He and Abby were supposed to buy a house with a white picket fence, have lots of children, and grow old together—a fairy tale that couldn’t exist in a world dominated by The Consortium.

  Struggling to find his voice, he muttered, “I never meant to hurt you, physically or emotionally.”

  Abby stared up at him, her eyes glassy and agleam with anger. “You didn’t think it would hurt me when you said you were in love with someone else?”

  Bradley dragged a hand over his face, a failed attempt to squeegee away his guilt. “Volkov was controlling me with the owl. I didn’t want you to be tainted by my actions, so I distanced myself. I was trying to protect you.”

  “By humiliating me in a TEradS e-mail? That my commanding officer and teammates could read?” Abby’s cheeks reddened, radiating an almost palpable animosity. “That’s your idea of protection?”

  “I thought the guys would help you through the breakup, like older brothers.” An image of Abby kissing her team leader erupted in his mind, unleashing a stinging wave of jealousy, and words spewed from his mouth. “I never expected you to leap into Cozart’s arms.”

  For a split second, Abby appeared stunned by the unexpected shot then she returned fire. “At least it wasn’t some hooker in a train station.”

  “Not fair!” Bradley snapped. “I was being controlled by the owl. And I thought it was you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said about your fling with Mia Candelori.”

  He recoiled at the venom in Abby’s tone. “Why do women always have to dredge up the past in every argument?”

  “Why do men always have to lie? You let me believe you were dead!”

  Bradley expelled an exasperated groan. “The fact that CJ and I didn’t crash into the Rocky Mountains was classified. Ryan didn’t even know.”

  Abby’s frown relaxed as if conceding his point before hardening into a scowl. “You tried to pass me off to Cozart, like I was some possession in your last will and testament. You made him promise to hide the truth from me.”

  “Excuse me for trying to spare you from mourning my death all over again.”

  “Funny, how you’re insanely overprotective, always treating me like a child. And now that you actually have a child on the way, who needs your protection, you’re going AWOL ... Just like your father!”

  Those last four words lashed every nerve ending in his body and spiked his blood pressure. Bradley’s father had abandoned him, elevating his career over his young son.

  “That’s a low blow!” he growled through gritted teeth. “Don’t you get it, Abby? This mission is the only way I can protect our baby from The Consortium.”

  “It’s just ...” Abby’s voice splintered, her scowl softened, and she sucked in ragged breaths as if oxygen could ward off tears. “I can’t raise this baby alone.”

  “You ... are going to be a wonderful mother. And your folks will help out.” Then it dawned on Bradley: He was foisting the dual role of grandfather and dad onto Kyle, just like his father had done to Gramps.

  I’m a better man because Gramps raised me, he rationalized. And Kyle already knows how to be a good dad.

  Bradley edged closer and wrapped his arms around Abby.

  “Don’t touch me!” Her fists flailed, pounding his chest, and he absorbed blow after blow until she tired herself out, then he pulled her into a tight embrace. “I love you, Abby.”

  “If you love me,” she sobbed, “ask President Andrews to send someone else.”

  Bradley rested his cheek against the top of her head, and stroked her silky blonde hair. “Ryan’s not sure who he can trust. The Consortium has traitors inside all branches of government and the military ... I need to do this, Abby. And I need you to support my decision.”

  3

  AS PRESIDENT RYAN ANDREWS entered the briefing room, Admiral Tyler Rone and General Jonathan Quenten jumped to attention.

  “As you were,” he said, settling onto a leather chair at the head of the conference table.

  Rone was in his fifties, silver-haired with dark eyebrows, and his square jaw was pulsing with frustration. “Where’s Master Sergeant Webber?”

  “I don’t think his input will be helpful at this stage,” Ryan said, delivering a carefully constructed statement that was simultaneously truthful and misleading. He was covering for Bradley, giving him a chance to rectify his marital discord, but it wasn’t out of loyalty or friendship. S
imply put, it was a matter of trust, and there was no one he trusted more.

  “Well, following-the-money has proved fruitless.” Quenten’s voice trailed into a frail hiss. Since learning of his brother’s treachery, the General had aged a decade. Deep crevices marred his doughy skin, ghoulish crescents underscored his hazel eyes, and what remained of his thinning hair was now gray. “Federal Accounting Standards Advisory Board 56 instituted a major policy change, permitting federal agencies to modify their financial statements in order to hide the funding of classified projects—like White Rabbit.”

  Emotion spurted through Ryan, one part irritation, two parts disbelief. “So anything goes?” he demanded. “Cooked books? Perpetual bailouts? Government assets transferred to private ownership? Taxpayer funding of private armies like Night Sector and Anti-Ty?”

  “My brother legalized the mother of all slush funds ... right under my nose.”

  Anger blazed from Ryan’s cheeks in the form of heat. “How are we supposed to eradicate fraud if they’re legally allowed to conceal it?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” Rone began, “in thirteen days, The Consortium will launch thousands of mind-control satellites, capable of turning all of humanity into programmable robots. Until White Rabbit is taken offline, corruption and fraud are irrelevant.”

  “Point taken.” The Consortium is like an intricate bomb, Ryan thought. Each element must be neutralized with extreme vigilance and in a particular order to avoid a catastrophic outcome.

  “The North Korean weapons lab is segregated from the Internet and shielded from electromagnetic eavesdropping,” Rone explained, his bloodshot brown eyes squinting at a laptop screen. “Its electric is supplied by a dedicated power plant, which Cyber Command can take down, but given the extra transformers on site—as per Gorka Schwartz—the delay would be minimal. A day, at best.”

  “Speaking of Gorka,” Ryan said, “can we get him on video, confessing to all the crimes detailed in Python’s report?”

  “It won’t be admissible in court,” Quenten cautioned.

  “Understood, but we might be able to use it to flush out a few rats and get them talking.”

  “Worth a shot.” Rone extracted a pen from the breast pocket of his uniform and scribbled a notation onto a legal pad, then continued his presentation. “White Rabbit is burrowed beneath a mile of granite and engineered to withstand a suitcase-sized nuclear weapon; therefore, it will require dozens of bunker busters delivered by B-2 bombers. Probability of success, sixty-five percent. Potential loss of life, fifty crew members. If the aerial intervention triggers a broader conflict, tens of thousands; millions, if it goes nuclear.”

  Ryan’s disappointment congealed into anxiety. “I think sixty-five percent is wildly, if not recklessly, optimistic. What if The Consortium commandeers our B-2s with the ‘uninterruptible autopilot’ that nearly cost Bradley and CJ their lives? What if they render our stealth aircraft vulnerable to radar?”

  “All B-2s will be searched for rogue hardware and software,” Rone assured him.

  “And if the Pilot is on the Consortium’s payroll? Or being blackmailed?” Ryan pressed.

  “I will be vetting all prospective Pilots—personally,” Rone said with a raspy, grudging tone. “I know you favor a ground intervention, Mr. President, but even aided by the owl and a cyber-induced power outage, Webber and a team of Special Forces would be hard-pressed to breach White Rabbit’s 25-ton blast doors. And, as you rightly pointed out with respect to the B-2 Pilots, a Consortium traitor could be lurking amidst those Special Forces ...”

  Ryan’s mouth filled with a bitter taste. His mind flashed back to DJ Al-Zahrani, a treasonous Army Ranger who had murdered his teammates. How many more renegades are within our ranks?

  “... That could result in an ambush,” Rone continued. “Prisoners will be exploited for propaganda and relegated to labor camps. Probability of success is negligible. Potential loss of life, sixteen; and if the operation triggers a broader war, tens of thousands or even millions of casualties.”

  Quenten concurred, and Ryan gnawed at his lower lip, humbled and overwhelmed by the gravity of this decision.

  A year ago, I was just a Major. Should I defer to the Admiral and General?

  Who should I entrust with the fate of Isabella?

  The fate of our nation?

  The literal fate of the world?

  Tidbit #3

  In 2007, Boeing Honeywell admitted that it had created an “uninterruptible autopilot,” capable of taking control of commercial aircraft away from the pilots and flight crew.

  Chapter 3

  Day 716

  Saturday, February 4th

  4

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  1500 Hours Local Time

  ABBY WEBBER GAZED through the window of a UC-35A, the Air Force equivalent of a Cessna Citation, and tried to will away the sourness in her stomach. Was it morning sickness? Or that funky-tasting powdered milk she’d downed with lunch?

  The aircraft bounced, buffeted by turbulence, and the change in cabin pressure made her wounded arm ache.

  If Cozart hadn’t shot that German shepherd, it would’ve shredded tendons and nerves, costing me the use of my arm.

  The memory of her fallen team leader evoked tears, and she blotted her eyes.

  It’s my fault, she thought. But if I didn’t take action, those assholes would continue sacrificing children to Moloch.

  Abby’s head tilted toward two-year-old Matthew Love, asleep on the leather seat facing her. He was a platinum blond cherub with blue-green eyes and an impish, flirty smile capable of melting hearts. How could anyone want to burn the toddler alive?

  The sourness in her stomach ignited. Emotions surged, disgust pulsing with righteous anger.

  There’d better be a special place in hell for predators like Gorka Schwartz ... And that demon who dove into the lake.

  I never should’ve allowed him to escape ... How many more innocents will he rape and murder?

  The thought intensified her tears, and Abby turned back toward the window, chiding herself for succumbing—again—to the hormones of pregnancy.

  She’d spent the past week resenting the baby for sapping her energy, jeopardizing her career, and transforming her into a blubbering basket case; that all changed the moment she’d laid eyes on Isabella. That angelic little face, the indescribable, intoxicatingly sweet new baby smell—they’d triggered dormant maternal instincts.

  I can’t believe I was actually wishing for a miscarriage, she thought. I was projecting my anger at Bradley onto our baby.

  The thought of her “AWOL” husband stoked lingering regrets over their argument. Intellectually, Abby understood why he’d committed to the dangerous mission, but logic and reason had ceded control of her mouth to emotion. She’d said some awful things, brutally hurtful things that were sure to echo through his mind during his final moments.

  Damn it! Those shouldn’t have been my last words to him.

  A heartbreaking vision bloomed in her mind. Two white-gloved soldiers in dress uniform; somber-faced and disciplined; I regret to inform you that—

  Oh God, I’ve lost him forever!

  Everything washed out of Abby, warmth, energy, and hope, leaving a grief so profound that it took her breath away. Then hearing a voice, she flinched. Bradley’s deep, masculine timbre was clear and crisp, as if he was sitting beside her.

  Abby,

  I’m so sorry that I had to leave you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and my greatest regret is that I’ve hurt you so deeply. I hope that, with time, the sadness and ache of betrayal will fade, and that you’ll move on with your life. Find a man worthy of your love, build a life together, and raise our baby in a loving home with lots of siblings.

  Be happy. Don’t let my passing be a source of pain and sadness; because the truth is, a part of me will be living on—with you—every time our baby smiles or laughs. Please tell our child that I laid down m
y life so that he or she could grow up in a safer world where freedom and justice aren’t just illusions.

  I love you—Squirt!

  And love never dies.

  He implanted that into my memory, Abby thought as salty streams of grief and guilt trickled over her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

  Her hands dropped to her abdomen. This baby wasn’t an ill-timed inconvenience; it was a blessing, a part of Bradley that she could cling to and love for the rest of her life.

  The aircraft touched down hard, agitating her queasy stomach, and she smeared away her tears, only then noticing that an Airman across the aisle was intently watching her.

  Damn it! He saw me bawling. Two years of building a reputation and earning respect—instantly destroyed.

  Irritated with the voyeur, she looked straight into his greenish-gray eyes and said, “My husband died in the line of duty. So stop invading my privacy and fuck off!”

  A ghost of a smile tightened his lips, and he looked away without a hint of embarrassment.

  After the UC-35A taxied to a stop, Abby retrieved her rucksack from a storage cabinet and slung the strap over her shoulder. She hesitated, waiting for the pain in her wounded arm to dissipate, and hoisted the slumbering toddler onto her hip.

  “Can I help with your bag, Sergeant Webber?”

  Sh-sh-shit!

  The voyeur had caught a glimpse of her name tape.

  Abby mumbled, “No, thank you,” making her way to the forward cabin door, and hurried down the built-in stairs. The typical odor of jet fuel and exhaust was tinged with a putrid smell that was threatening to liberate her lunch.

  With a quick scan she located the source of the stench: two decomposing blackbirds at the base of a chain-link fence that cordoned off the runway.