The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Oh shit! she thought, tweaking the focus of her scope. It’s the rooster tail of a vehicle.

  A truck was gliding across the desert, propelled by oversized tires with paddlelike protrusions that dug into compacted sand rather than loose surface grains. Its cab had been painted rusty-red to blend into the environment, and it was towing a convoy of six flat-bed trailers, each chock-full of Consortium pawns.

  Women and children disembarked beside the artificial mound and led the advance, strategically shielding the military-aged males from news cameras. Abby watched the men peel back the tarp, toss bricks into backpacks, and lug them toward the border.

  This is going to get ugly, Abby thought, relaying the troubling intel up the chain of command.

  When the caravan closed within fifty feet of the border, the men at the rear of the column launched a hail of bricks. Some fell short, harmlessly burrowing into the desert floor; a few managed to pelt the razor-wire barrier; while a majority rained down on innocents.

  Children were shrieking.

  Bleeding mothers hunched protectively over their little ones, and great white clouds of tear gas erupted.

  Through the wafting mist, Abby spotted a tattooed man wearing a gas mask. He was dispersing something from a one-gallon multipurpose sprayer, presumably aerosolized milk or baking soda to neutralize the sting of tear gas.

  The horde of military-aged males parted, half moving east, half west, to avoid the southerly drift of the chemicals; then Abby blinked in disbelief.

  Women and children were collapsing onto the rust-stained sand, their arms and legs twisted in unnatural positions.

  A Marine Corps Medic darted around the concertina wire and began CPR on a young boy, and Abby grimaced, certain the heroic scene would never make the nightly news.

  Is this an act? she wondered. Scripted propaganda for GNN’s cameras? Or—

  An AK-47 trained on the Medic derailed her thought.

  Abby took aim, squeezed the trigger, and dispatched the gunman before he could fire a shot.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  15

  White Rabbit Weapons Lab

  North Korea

  FUCK!

  There was nowhere to hide, and the bipedal robot’s audio-visual sensors were immune to the owl’s trickery. Worse yet, DARPA’s futuristic Frankenstein was armed with artificial intelligence, infrared cameras, Wi-Fi-enabled communications, super-human strength, freakishly good agility, and a formidable weapons package.

  “Un ... authorized entry,” the nasally, robotic voice declared. “Sound ... ding alarm.”

  Hey, Warbird. Jam signals!

  In response to the failed security alert, the android drew its Taser, and disappointment knotted in Bradley’s gut, reigniting his nausea.

  My .22 can’t penetrate the robot’s Kevlar, he thought. It’s too strong for hand-to-hand combat, and detention is a death sentence.

  Will they find Pulverulentus? Can they disarm it? Gorka Schwartz defined it as tamperproof, but is it bulletproof?

  I have to keep security distracted for the next twenty-one minutes.

  Death is acceptable; failure is not.

  Resigned to fate, Bradley raised his hands and allowed the robot to perp-walk him through the dim glow of emergency lights.

  Memories flickered in a sentimental slide show: the way Abby had grabbed his belt buckle and dragged him into the pool; the way her lips curled into that adorable pissed-off little pout; the way she’d smiled at baby Isabella.

  She’ll be a great mother, he thought, rigidly holding his emotions in check. And our child will inherit a sane country where the words liberty and justice for all aren’t just a marketing slogan to fool the masses into thinking they’re free.

  He turned left and entered the main corridor, which was bustling with activity. Workers dressed in drab jumpsuits were replacing damaged surveillance cameras and Wi-Fi routers. A few gaped at the sight of the robot brandishing the Taser, then franticly resumed their work as if fearful of punishment.

  Bradley exited the cement structure through a set of double doors and panned the underground cavern. Amidst the prolonged twilight, men in lab coats were sorting through the newly delivered crates of computer parts, and a team of electricians was attempting to repair the backup generator.

  The robot directed him toward the stunted tower. A sole guard peered down, his hands perched on his hips. The man’s head tilted; his eyes narrowed; then, puffing his cheeks and exhaling, he descended a set of metal stairs. A badge dangling from a lanyard identified him as Jerold Guelph, chief of security. Middle-aged with hooded, gray eyes, he had disproportionately large front teeth and the protruding muzzle of a beaver.

  “In ... truder captured.”

  The chief stiffened. Shock rippled across his rodential features and solidified into fear. “Where?” he demanded.

  A thousand-lumen light shined on Bradley’s face, flash-blinding him, and a powerful sense of hope began to take root.

  Beaver Face can’t see me. Maybe I can still make it out of here!

  Hey, Warbird!

  He stopped himself shy of ordering the chief’s vocal cords to issue the command.

  Compelling him to deactivate the robot won’t work, Bradley decided, because he’ll be consciously aware of the manipulation. I have to dupe him into thinking it’s his idea.

  “There’s no one there,” Guelph barked impatiently.

  The android reiterated its assertion and extended the barrel of the Taser toward Bradley.

  Keenly aware that 1200 volts would incapacitate him, he sought cover behind the buck-toothed chief and used the owl to insert a subtle suggestion into his mind.

  “I think your sensors are malfunctioning,” Guelph said, obediently regurgitating the desired conclusion.

  “Sensors optim ... mized. In ... truder behind you.”

  The chief turned suddenly and flung his arms outward.

  Bradley lunged to his left, barely managing to dodge the sweep of his open palms, and mentally issued a sequence of orders to Warbird.

  The android’s head was ping-ponging between them as if its AI software was stuck in a loop; and although it wasn’t speaking, Guelph heard it say, “Chief in ... competent. Terminat ... ting chief!”

  The man’s stupefied expression evolved from confusion to shock to panic before finally arriving at outrage, and Bradley choked back a laugh.

  “Emergency shutdown!” the chief sputtered. “Authorization: Alpha-seven-Bravo-three-two-two.”

  As the billion-dollar supersoldier powered off, Bradley made a beeline for the tunnel and checked his watch.

  Shit!

  His fastest run during boot camp was an eight-minute mile, and that was on level ground. How was he going to cover two miles—up a steep winding grade—in seventeen minutes?

  Bradley sprinted past the inner blast doors and into the tunnel, energized by the prospect of making love to Abby and rocking his newborn baby to sleep.

  Every stride is bringing me closer, he told himself, huffing to compensate for the smoggy veil of diesel exhaust.

  He ascended through a snaking series of switchbacks and marked his progress by counting surveillance cameras, which had been mounted every two hundred yards.

  At the ten minute mark, White Rabbit’s power blinked on; and, in the darkest recesses of his mind, he envisioned Guelph spotting him on a security feed. He imagined reaching that final switchback just in time to witness the 25-ton blast door slamming shut, entombing him inside this mountain.

  Screw that!

  Sweating profusely, he rammed his left hand into his pocket and fished out his good-luck charm. The braided strands of blonde hair were secured by rubber bands on both ends, and he squeezed the lock as if wringing strength from it, as if it could replenish his rapidly depleting energy.

  His lungs were on fire, his knees ached, and each stride felt like a blade puncturing his quads. The pain ratcheted up, hampering his speed, dampening his confidence, and
Bradley wasn’t sure how much more physical agony he could bear.

  A distant rumble at the five-minute mark was barely audible above his wheezing.

  The diversionary bomb, he thought. And I’m still more than a half mile out. Shit! I’m not going to make it.

  Hey, Warbird! Target Webber. Block pain receptors.

  His thighs went strangely numb, the pressing weight on his chest lifted, and he commanded his body to run faster. Bradley knew this was a risky gamble. Pain was a built-in circuit breaker, a cerebral alarm system that guarded against catastrophic injuries; but a lifetime of limping due to torn muscles, tendons, and ligaments was still preferable to dying in this North Korean tunnel.

  At T-minus-two-minutes, he heard the wail of sirens. Fire trucks and ambulances from a station dedicated to White Rabbit were speeding toward the site. As Bradley rounded the final switchback, the bomb-blast door was slowly swinging open in anticipation of first responders—a secondary objective of that diversionary bomb.

  A rejuvenating breeze washed over him, and he gasped in huge drafts of fresh air. Bradley charged through the doorway, slalomed past a half dozen sentries, and dashed into the surrounding woodlands, intent on maximizing the distance between him and Pulverulentus.

  I made it! he thought, throttling a celebratory whoop. I can’t believe I made it!

  Stymied by tree roots, tangled underbrush, and erratic rocks, he slowed to a fast walk and began to cough uncontrollably. Could the sentries hear him hacking up a lung?

  As if in answer to the question, he felt a bizarre twinge in his right thigh.

  Did I just tear a quad?

  Or did a sniper tag me?

  Bradley looked down, expecting a blood-soaked gunshot wound, but he’d been bitten by something far worse than a bullet.

  Hey, Warbird! Escape!

  As the avian drone flapped its wings, he drew his .22 caliber pistol and slumped against a tree.

  I can’t let them take me alive.

  Then, casting a loving glance at the lock of Abby’s hair, he raised the barrel to his temple and descended into nothingness.

  16

  White Rabbit Weapons Lab

  North Korea

  JEROLD GUELPH RACED toward the explosion. Beads of sweat were sprouting on his furrowed brow. Spasms besieged his jaw, involuntarily clenching, relaxing, and clenching ever tighter.

  It was probably just a steam pipe, he assured himself, but a carping inner voice whispered, “What if that overrated, talking toaster was right? What if someone infiltrated White Rabbit?”

  The floor of the dormitory had suffered a partial collapse, and the resulting void was surrounded by a smoking mass of twisted metal, singed concrete, and butchered human remains.

  Definitely not a steam pipe, Guelph decided.

  The structure’s reinforced-concrete walls, floor, and ceiling had trapped the blast wave, concentrating the bomb’s deadly effects. A spike in atmospheric overpressure, followed by a sudden vacuumlike decrease, had inflicted traumatic brain injuries on the slumbering scientists, extinguishing any hope of finding survivors.

  The brain trust is a total loss, he thought, pulse rate surging. Is the first-floor lab intact?

  Guelph zipped down two flights of stairs, against an ascending tide of janitorial staff, and jogged to the laboratory entrance. Noting that the door appeared undamaged, he expelled a relieved chuckle.

  The satellites survived!

  But what if big-automated-brother had his body camera recording?

  Shit! I have to delete that footage.

  The Consortium wouldn’t merely fire Guelph. Failures of this magnitude would warrant an exceedingly painful death—and not just for him. His entire family would be punished for his lapse in judgment.

  Trembling with fear and self-hatred, it took him three tries to disengage the biometric lock; and as he entered the lab, he gaped in horror. Yet more scientists were lying in crumpled heaps.

  Dead.

  How can that be? The lab is well beyond the bomb’s blast radius.

  The intruder murdered them, he concluded. All those power failures ... all those electrical surges ... they were part of his plan. But why did he leave the satellites untouched?

  Slowly, the depth of the treachery came into focus.

  The dormitory was just a diversion.

  The primary bomb is here, in the lab!

  Resisting a compelling urge to evacuate, Guelph tiptoed through the maze of equipment, stepping over bodies, until he located the robot. The bipedal-bucket-of-bytes had been programmed to return to the lab following an emergency shutdown, and it stood motionless, alongside a supercomputer, awaiting a technician to troubleshoot its systems.

  Guelph reactivated his electronic nemesis and ordered it to replay the last three minutes of body-cam video. Ten seconds into the footage, a man wearing black fatigues appeared, and roosting on his shoulder was a bird of prey.

  Guelph’s knees buckled, his heart battered his ribcage, and a painful truth coagulated in his mind.

  Project Night Owl ... They weren’t all destroyed.

  Why didn’t I consider that?

  Why did I assume the robot was malfunctioning?

  The answer was a sucker punch to his pride. The assumption had been insidiously implanted into his mind.

  Should I lock the outer blast door to trap the bastard? Or capitalize on the chaos and disappear? How long could—

  Guelph halted midthought, distracted by an ominous vibration. Fine particles began raining down, and through the haze of swirling grit, solid objects appeared to be shedding mass, literally melting into dust.

  Oh fuck!

  The intruder hadn’t merely co-opted Project Night Owl; he’d seized the Consortium’s most powerful technology: Pulverulentus. The directed-energy weapon emitted vibrations at a frequency that fractured molecular bonds, like a sound wave shattering glass, and reduced matter to its elemental ingredients. Concrete, steel, and human bodies were being transformed into particles. Dust-ified!

  Guelph bolted from the lab, and he could feel the nefarious vibrations chasing after him.

  He exited the building at full speed, threw a glance over his shoulder, and winced. A blizzard of gray dust, laden with paper scraps, was swooping toward him like a tsunami; and above the roiling debris, the upper half of the building was gone. As if someone had wiped out fifteen thousand tons of cement and steel with a magic eraser.

  The noxious cloud enveloped him, blinding and smothering.

  Guelph staggered a few steps, gasping like a beached fish, and keeled over for lack of oxygen.

  The ground beneath him began to convulse; the ceiling crackled and popped, spitting shards of rock; then millions of tons of granite hurtled down, crushing the life from his body.

  17

  Russian-North Korean Border

  2357 Hours Local Time

  CAPTAIN CJ LOVE STARED through the windscreen of the aircraft at the rutted, frozen dirt road, but his mind was six thousand miles away, with his wife.

  Did Missy regain consciousness? he wondered.

  Prior to this mission, the surgeon at Edgar Air Force Base had cautioned him against unrealistic expectations. Her memory and motor skills were likely to be impaired, which meant she might have to relearn simple tasks like walking, dressing, and feeding herself. CJ wasn’t worried about a glacial-paced recovery; his greatest fear was that she wouldn’t remember him.

  Would she fall in love with him a second time? Would her personality change? Was she merely the sum of her life experiences as the doctor suggested? Or would her gentle, loving soul still shine through?

  She remembered Matthew, he thought, clinging to a sliver of hope generated during a cerebral eavesdropping session—courtesy of the owl.

  I wonder how my little guy is doing.

  The toddler had been through so much: torn from his mother and kidnapped, nearly burned alive in sacrifice to Moloch, abandoned by his father—albeit temporarily—and deposited into th
e care of virtual strangers. Were those traumatic experiences writing on his son’s soul? Shaping who he would become?

  A low rumbling noise snared CJ’s attention. It amplified into a thundering crescendo, accompanied by the plaintive howls of Eurasian wolves; then the ground began to shake. The Tumen River sloshed beyond its banks, and the aircraft rocked with the ground motion.

  Mission accomplished! he thought, celebrating with a fist pump. We’re not destined to become mind-controlled zombies!

  Sensing a fluctuation in the ambient moonlight, CJ squinted up at the western sky. A gravestone of dust was rising over White Rabbit, and he gasped in a lungful of icy air, watching in grief-stricken silence.

  Warbird swooped between barren tree branches, glided through the open pilot’s door, and alighted on the seat beside him—a confirmation that Bradley had been killed or captured.

  Head bowing, he thought, Brother, on behalf of a grateful nation, thank you for laying down your life to set us all free.

  Then he began his preflight routine, throwing intermittent glances toward the road-rail bridge, hoping against hope, to see Bradley sprinting for Russian soil.

  Did the North Koreans take him alive?

  Raised by a devout pastor, CJ had heard tales of Christian missionaries tortured for spreading the gospel—hung on crosses above roaring fires, thrown off bridges, and crushed by steam rollers. But as an American Soldier responsible for the destruction of White Rabbit, Bradley would endure the most inhumane torture the Hermit Kingdom could dream up.

  CJ returned to the cockpit and taxied onto the slapdash runway. The aircraft’s fat tires bumped and bobbed over ripples of frozen mud while its gangly wings bounced, shearing off the tops of leafless saplings. He increased the thrust, and the absence of whining engines fostered an uneasiness so intense, that he had to resist the urge to abort takeoff. The landing gear lifted from the jarring, snow-encrusted dirt road, and the aircraft climbed above the winding river valley and forested hillside.