It was a bleak, overcast morning with low hanging clouds and a bitter breeze, which carried the stench of rotting blackbirds.
Abby averted her eyes as she passed the commissary—the scene of her most recent humiliation—and caught a glimpse of her father hustling into TEradS headquarters.
At least the miscarriage happened before I told my parents about the baby, she thought. They’d been through so much since the election; they didn’t need to be mourning the loss of a grandchild.
Wachter accompanied her to Lieutenant Malvado’s office, which was located inside the brand-new inpatient psychiatric wing adjacent to Med Center South. The empty waiting room consisted of a trio of interconnected chairs, a coffee table littered with outdated magazines, a free-standing pamphlet holder, and a wall-mounted TV vomiting forth propaganda.
“... Once again, the bigotry and mental instability of our idiot-in-chief is on full display,” the female Global News Network anchor railed. “Instead of allocating resources to the earthquake-ravaged New Madrid zone or the lahar-inundated regions around Mount Raniere, Ryan Andrews has ordered TEradS Soldiers and stateside Marines to the southern border in a xenophobic move intended to intimidate migrant families.
“What happened to, ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free?’ Is our deranged President even capable of grasping the truths that the rest of us hold to be self-evident? That as a nation of immigrants, we consider militarized borders and racist restrictions on immigration to be decidedly un-American ...?”
Asshole! Abby thought. What about the drugs that pour across our border, killing tens of thousands of Americans every year? And the gangbangers? And gunrunners? And human traffickers? You don’t give a damn because they’re income streams for your master—The Consortium.
The door to Lieutenant Malvado’s office swung inward, and Abby took an instant dislike to the dark-haired, thirtysomething psychiatrist. Dressed in a light-blue officer blouse with a tie tab and a princess-cut navy skirt, Malvado sported crooked, coffee-stained teeth and bulging brown eyes that looked like they were trying to escape her skull. She proffered a spurious smile and crooned, “Wel-l-l-come, Sergeant Webber.”
Rising to her feet, Abby thought, I hope this shitshow doesn’t take long.
She was eager to deploy to the border, where duty would keep the ache of loss at bay.
A cluttered, hutch-style desk dominated the office and showcased a glut of college degrees, awards, and commendations. Noting the lack of a comfy couch, Abby settled onto a chair with chipped metal armrests.
“This-s-s,” Malvado continued in that irritating sing-song voice, “is a safe space. So you can ditch the sunglasses.”
Abby shifted them onto the top of her head, and an awkward silence stretched on. The shrink was gawking at her with those crazy bug eyes, as if she had some sort of X-ray vision, and Abby returned her stare, unwilling to yield in this game of chicken.
“Well, I can see-e-e that you’re depressed—”
“No I’m not!” Abby snapped, annoyed by the slipshod diagnosis. “I’m sad because my husband died. Isn’t it normal to grieve when a loved one passes?”
“Of course, but as a Soldier, you can’t allow mental issues to degrade your ability to fight. So I’m prescribing an antidepressant.”
Fiercely opposed to numbing her feelings with pills, Abby blurted, “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m not depressed. Sadness only creeps in during downtime. That’s when I start thinking about him.”
Sentimental memories flitted through her mind: their first kiss high atop that hillside in Sugar Lake; her father walking in on them while they were making love in the lanai; the blissful hours after the inauguration when their baby had been conceived. Abby sucked in a breath, struggling to subdue her tears.
“Sergeant Webber ...?”
Shit! What was Crazy Bug Eyes rambling about?
“... I hear what you’re saying as well as what you’re not saying. I’ll give you something to help your concentration.”
Abby squeezed the chair’s metal armrests to contain her outrage. There was nothing to be gained by antagonizing a shrink who could derail her career. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you’re not a mind reader, my concentration is fine, and sadness is only an issue during downtime. Like when I’m trying to fall asleep.”
Malvado scribbled notations onto a chart and said, “Then sleeping pills are in order.”
Flabbergasted, it took Abby several seconds to compose a withering rebuke. “For the last time, I am NOT depressed! I DO NOT have difficulty concentrating! And I DO NOT need sleeping pills!”
“Sergeant, you need to defer to my judgment as a psychiatrist.” Malvado yanked open a cabinet and sifted through a miniature pharmacy. “This is Seroquel, your new best friend.” She waggled the bottle, making it purr like a rattlesnake’s tail, and placed it onto the desk in front of Abby. “Take one, three times a day, after meals. It’ll relieve your depression and improve your concentration.” Malvado repeated the process with two more bottles. “This is Ambien. Take it before you go to bed to alleviate your insomnia. And this, is Abilify. Take it once a day with food to enhance concentration and mood.”
Thoughts jetting, emotions simmering, Abby stared at the pill bottles, but made no effort to accept them. Mixing lethal weapons and mind-altering drugs seemed profoundly stupid.
This doesn’t feel right, she thought. No prescription? No paper trail? Just hand them out like freaking jelly beans?
“Sergeant Webber, do you understand my instructions?”
Malvado’s patronizing tone ignited a short fuse and rage zipped through Abby, broiling within her veins as if blood vessels were undergoing nuclear fission. Her jaw clenched, her hands fisted, and she shouted, “What kind of shit IS this? You make a diagnosis and prescribe drugs within minutes? With no blood tests? No X-rays? And zero scientific evidence?”
Malvado flinched, seemingly taken aback; then head shaking with condescension, she said, “You have a dis-s-sease, Sergeant, which makes it impossible for you to act in your own best interests.”
On the verge of throttling the bug-eyed bitch, Abby inhaled a calming breath. Losing my temper with a shrink would be a really stupid move.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, that’s just your subjective opinion.”
“No, it’s my expert opinion.” She hefted a voluminous book from her desk, paged through it, and presented the tome to Abby. “This is DSM-five, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—scientific evidence. I’d like you to read the symptoms for depression. Aloud.”
And I’d like you to shove your pharmacological smorgasbord up your ass! Abby’s teeth ground together to imprison the thought before it could achieve escape velocity. Then she complied with the request, mimicking the rapid cadence of a commercial disclaimer. “Presence of sadness, emptiness, or irritable mood, accompanied by somatic and cognitive changes that impact function.” She skimmed the surrounding text and turned the page. “There must be an exemption for bereavement. It’s not like I’m sad for no reason.”
“There used to be an exclusion,” Malvado told her. “But it was omitted in DSM-five because bereavement is a severe psychological stressor that often precipitates major depression; therefore, it’s best to medicate at the onset.”
“And if I refuse treatment?” Abby asked defiantly.
Crazy Bug Eyes’ lips twisted into a pompous smirk, and then she dropped the psychiatric equivalent of the mother of all bombs.
11
Russian-North Korean Border
2300 Hours Local Time
BRADLEY HAD BEEN stuck inside a claustrophobic cockpit for nearly twelve hours, flying directly from Italy to a strip of Russian land that bordered North Korea.
The NSA had gleaned actionable intelligence while he was tenderizing the pontiff’s face, a stunt that would’ve gotten him bounced from the mission if not for the information’s fleeting shelf life. A week
earlier, the U.S. Navy had seized a shipment of highly specialized computer chips en route to North Korea, necessitating an emergency delivery to White Rabbit that would require the underground base to open its blast doors.
Bradley checked his watch again. “How much longer ‘til we land?” He had less than an hour to exploit that fortuitous fast pass into the weapons lab.
“On approach now.” CJ was piloting a next-generation aircraft, equipped with a cloaking system that defeated radar, thermal imaging, and even the human eye—provided the plane didn’t drop below stall speed. Comprised of lightweight composites, it looked like a child’s toy with oversized wings, fat tires, and a fuselage barely large enough for CJ, Bradley, Pulverulentus, and an improvised self-destruct mechanism. The aircraft had no propellers or jet engines, required no fuel, and emitted no loud droning noise. It was powered by a top-secret ion drive, which passed current between electrodes of varying thicknesses to generate wind or thrust, thereby achieving flight without motors or fuel.
Unable to doze off in the cramped cockpit, Bradley had spent most of the flight thinking about Abby. Her cutting words haunted him, and he hated the thought that his child would grow up resenting him the way he resented his father.
It’s different, he assured himself, killed in action versus intentional abandonment.
Still, he couldn’t shake the notion that his success or failure would determine whether he was condemned as a selfish bastard or hailed as a selfless hero.
The aircraft dipped sharply, and Bradley gripped the polymer seat. The beef-ravioli MRE he’d consumed spurted back up his throat, and he swallowed hard to force it down.
“Relax,” CJ told him. “I was flying bush planes in Alaska before you were born, and I’ve set down in much less forgiving places.”
The “runway” was a dirt road caked with rutted patches of snow that had melted and refrozen, and the wheels touched down hard. Saplings sped past, bending beneath gangly wings that rippled under the strain; and leafless bushes bowed and gyrated in the blast wave of air as if celebrating their arrival.
“Welcome to Russia!” CJ declared.
Bradley pried his stiff body from the cockpit, traded good-byes with Wingnut, and set off under the cover of darkness with minimal gear: the owl, a backpack, the suitcase he’d confiscated from the Vatican, and a .22 caliber handgun—an insurance policy against cruel and unusual punishment. Despite North Korea’s vehement denials, labor camp horror stories continued to flourish; tales of compulsory fifteen-hour work shifts, rations consisting of a handful of rotten corn, forced amputations, and brutal executions. The ruthless system had been bolstered by Dear Leader Kim Il-Sung back in 1972 when he declared that “Enemies of class, whoever they are, their seed must be eliminated through three generations,” which doomed children and grandchildren to enslavement and starvation for the sins of a criminal parent.
What’s worse? Bradley wondered. Slavery through force? Or through mind control?
Using the owl as a satphone link, he issued a situation report, indicating that he was on the ground, a half mile from the bridge, and requested an updated ETA for the emergency shipment.
Python’s response was injected into his mind. “Roger that. Target is a canvas-topped truck. Russian military plates, white on black, 0-3-2-2-C-B-2-5. Stand by for ETA.”
There was a brief pause then a feminine voice began to speak.
“Bradley, I’m so sorry for the way I acted ...”
Abby? Is that you?
“... I said a lot of stupid things that I didn’t mean ...”
Her non sequitur response suggested it was a prerecorded message.
“... I really do understand. And no matter what happens, know that I love you, always. Semper Fi!”
Bradley’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. A crippling weight lifted, making him feel strangely buoyant, and the burden of guilt and regret fused into determination.
“Target is two miles out,” Python informed him as if oblivious of the intrusion. “Expected to cross the road-rail bridge in three minutes.”
Fuck!
Bradley burst into a sprint. The icy air stung his lungs, he exhaled billowing vapor like a straining locomotive, and his senses jumped to high alert. Although Python was jamming cameras, censors, and satellites, he remained vulnerable to sentries beyond the owl’s hundred-yard range, and his gaze darted between potential sniper hides, searching for a telltale glint of moonlight reflecting off a scope.
He charged onto the rusted and pitted, single-lane truss bridge, boots thudding against asphalt, wary of twisting an ankle on the embedded rails. Hearing a pop, his head pivoted, certain it was the supersonic crack of a high-powered rifle.
My speed combined with the bridge’s latticework will make it a bitch of a shot, he thought, anticipating the plink of a rifle round striking metal. The culprit, however, was a Russian cargo truck, driving without headlights and belching smoke as it bucked and bounded onto the bridge.
The road deck began to vibrate, the steel trusses groaned under the load, and Bradley was shoved to his left. A rust-eaten girder slipped through his gloved hand. Then he was airborne, plummeting toward the Tumen River, which was sloshing and gurgling as if amused by his plight.
The owl and Pulverulentus, he thought, water will destroy them.
Hey, Warbird. Hover!
Bradley hurled the suitcase onto the shore, hoping the weapon would survive the jarring impact, and plunged knee-deep into the bitterly cold river with a ka-splash. Thousands of pinpricks assailed his legs, siphoning the warmth from his body, and he scrambled forward, clawing and clambering up the bank.
Spent, he collapsed onto the frozen earth, shivering and trying to catch his breath.
Did the driver push me off the bridge? Does he have ESP like that Italian girl? Or did the truck’s side-view mirror clip me? If I’d been in the middle of the bridge ...
He couldn’t finish the thought.
Two North Korean border guards began searching the vehicle, removing wooden crates the size of footlockers, which didn’t appear to be heavy.
Hey, Warbird. Home!
The owl descended and alighted on a metal roost sewn into the shoulder of Bradley’s jacket, then he extricated the suitcase from the tangled branches of an evergreen shrub that had cushioned its landing. He skulked closer to the truck, depositing a trail of wet footprints. Glacial water sloshed between his toes, simultaneously biting and numbing, and from the knee down, his pants were crusting over with ice.
Bradley watched the North Koreans inspect six crates and reload them into the canvas-topped truck.
I need to get inside that cargo bed, he thought.
Hey, Warbird. Diversion three!
Frenzied shouts of gom and nesti resounded through the frigid night air, and the border guards fired wildly at a charging Ussuri brown bear that didn’t exist.
Smirking, Bradley slinked into the truck and hunkered down for the ride to White Rabbit.
The mountainous drive dragged on; twisting and bouncing and climbing; wriggling through an endless series of hairpin turns; and bitter breezes squirted through seams in the truck’s canvas top.
His teeth chattered. He began to shiver uncontrollably, and motion sickness churned the acid in his stomach.
I can’t puke, he told himself. Nothing will blow my cover faster than a fragrant puddle of vomit.
Python’s voice whispered into his mind. “You’re about to pass through the first set of blast doors, so we’re gonna lose comms. Pump has been primed, and clock is ticking. Godspeed.”
Roger that, Bradley thought, checking his watch.
The vehicle chugged into a tunnel, descending into the mountain through a series of steep switchbacks, yet more turns. Trapped diesel exhaust burned his eyes and aggravated his nausea; until finally, the shriek of aging brakes heralded the end of his miserable journey.
The truck engine knocked and sputtered as it cut out.
The canvas flap rolled upwa
rd, the tailgate lowered, and a welcome rush of warm air washed over Bradley.
The underground cavern harbored a concrete structure that was isolated from the mountain via earthquake springs; and, just inside the secondary blast doors, there was a peculiar structure that looked like a stunted air-traffic-control tower. Based on its dozens of surveillance camera feeds, Bradley presumed it was a security station.
Why’s there only one guy manning it? He can’t possibly keep track of all those monitors. Are they relying on artificial intelligence to analyze data in real time? he wondered.
And then everything went black.
12
District Nine, California
THIS IS WHAT I GET for being a Good Samaritan, Glen Anthony thought. I should’ve driven straight through to Mariupol.
A week earlier, Colonel Hanover had covertly tracked him to a remote cabin when he’d foolishly attempted to rescue Juanita, her two grandchildren, and Matthew Love. Did his wife and daughter manage to sneak away? Or were they taken prisoner? Being beaten and raped?
He sniffled in a breath, certain that those possibilities were not the worst of evils, and a raw fear sluiced through him. Glen had been held in this jail cell since his capture, awaiting the arrival of Night Sector’s supreme commander. Hellhound had a reputation that was as barbaric as it was legendary. At the age of twenty, after being discharged from the Navy under other than honorable conditions, he’d insinuated himself into a drug cartel and quickly advanced through the ranks. Regarded as a conscienceless killing machine, he’d evolved into a corrupt leader, who made sure his men feared him even more than they hated him.
Colonel Hanover strode toward his cell, inserted a key into the lock, and said, “Judgment day, Asshole! And unfortunately for you, Hellhound is in a particularly vile mood.”
As Glen slogged from the cell, a prior encounter with the sadistic general resurfaced, vivid and terrifying: Colonel Plantagenet lying dead in a pool of blood amongst body parts belonging to his wife and children.
The Power of We the People Page 5