His head lurched to the right, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, and he lost grip of the rope. His body plunged and jerked to a halt like the short drop from a gallows. His hands felt as if they’d exploded.
“Master Sergeant Webber ... Says here that you died in a plane crash. Looks loy-ke President dipshit just got caught sheep dippin’.”
“Sheep dipping?” Bradley asked, feigning ignorance. He understood that the term referred to a soldier who went through the motions of resigning; then his military records were transferred to a special intelligence file, enabling him to participate in covert missions.
The Aussie’s camo-painted features contorted into a cold-blooded grin. He attached a bayonet to his rifle, jabbed the tip of the blade into the fleshy pocket just below the Adam’s apple, and said, “Surrend-duh the owl.”
“Fuck you!” Bradley growled through gnashed teeth. He cocked his head back and lunged at the blade, trying to slash his carotid artery, but his captor withdrew the bayonet.
“You think this is a g-aye-m? Well, check-fucking-m-aye-t!” The Aussie shoved the phone into his face. An aerial video clip of Abby was playing. She appeared to be on overwatch, protecting a group of Marines who were assembling a concertina wire barrier on the southern border.
“A Consortium drone’s circlin’,” his captor hissed. “Give up the owl, or we’ll drop a Hellfire missile on her pretty lit’le head.”
Panic shot through Bradley, spawning a sickening surge of helplessness. He’d come to North Korea to protect his family; the prospect of becoming the impetus for their deaths was more than he could bear.
In the throes of battle frenzy, he hefted his bound feet upward and lashed out, kicking the bastard square in the face. The Aussie hurtled backward, and his head crashed against the trunk of an oak, momentarily stunning him.
“Fire the missile!” he grunted into his phone; and with a menacing snort, he charged with his bayonet.
Bradley closed his eyes, welcoming death, but instead of feeling the cold bite of the blade, he heard a barrage of gunshots.
Who the fuck is shooting?
Tidbit #5
“Ionic wind” has successfully powered a plane with a 16-foot wingspan, and researchers are attempting to scale up the technology to create carbon-neutral flight.
Chapter 5
Day 718
Monday, February 6th
21
District Nine, California
GLEN ANTHONY YAWNED and checked his Chi-phone. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept. Following his near-death encounter with Hellhound, he’d been wandering the streets of District Nine, contemplating his predicament. There was no way Glen could locate Matthew Love, and the Machiavellian general was smart enough to know that.
Is this a grand setup? he asked himself. Maybe the Night Sector warlord wasn’t bamboozled by my testimony against Hanover. Maybe he played along, delaying my execution because my family wasn’t present.
Trepidation spurted through him and mutated into a stark, black fear.
Did Hellhound expect me to lead him to Ellen and Gabby?
Does he have goons tracking me right now?
He glanced over his left shoulder then his right, and cringed.
What the hell is that?
A thirty-foot, stainless steel pylon had been erected at the district’s western gateway, literally overnight. Three horizontal bands encircled the top of the elliptical structure, and a slender tower protruded like a chimney, accommodating sixteen canister cameras that surveilled a 360-degree radius.
Technology to protect us from so-called terrorists? Glen wondered. Or to enslave us?
A piece of bright pink fabric attached to the tower’s base was flapping in the breeze, and he traipsed closer.
It was a post from Patriot Anon, transcribed onto an old pillowcase.
Caravan or invasion?
What really happened on our southern border?
The choice, to know, will be yours.
https://www.thetruththewholetruthandnothingbutthetruth.com/02/06/border-fraud-revealed
Glen retrieved his Chi-phone, navigated to the website, and pressed the play button to start the video. The circular field of view suggested it had been shot via a rifle scope, and he watched the events unfold—unedited.
How did those migrants find bricks in the middle of a desert?
What did that guy with the tattoos spray into the air?
Why did the media suppress the footage of those so-called migrants opening fire on women and children?
Perturbed, he continued reading the Patriot Anon post.
Migrants?
Fake News.
Foreign fighters?
Another wave of terrorists coming to a neighborhood near you?
Coup by proxy?
Who benefits?
An uneasy chill raced along Glen’s spine.
If President Andrews was driven from office, the speaker of the House would succeed him, and Johanna Krupp was a Consortium shill. It would be over. The country would sink into totalitarianism.
He snapped a photograph of the pink pillowcase, ensuring that the writing was legible, only to discover that the post was already trending on Chatter. Average Americans were mad as hell over media lies, lashing out and inundating social media with witty memes.
During Glen’s tenure as a Night Sector conscript, his commanding officers had railed against memetic warfare, psychological operations designed to spread information across social media like a virus and sway public opinion.
Silicon Valley had tried to stem the flow, shadow banning chats, de-throttling videos, blocking links, demonetizing ad revenue, and suspending accounts in order to silence dissenting viewpoints; yet Americans continued to fight back.
This is the frontline of the war, Glen thought, “re-chatting” memes as fast as his fingers could manage, then his patriotic courage abruptly fizzled.
What if Hellhound is monitoring my Chatter account?
What if he retaliates against Ellen and Gabby?
“Damn it!” he muttered. “I can’t allow fear to control me.”
It’s time to take a stand, Glen decided. Time for we-the-people to rise up, reclaim our rightful power, and take back our country! And I know exactly where to start ...
22
Vodvizhenka Air Base, Russia
THE MOTORLESS AIRCRAFT had been intercepted by two Russian fighter jets and commandeered via an unknown form of electromagnetic warfare, effectively ensnaring CJ in an airborne prison. By his estimation, they had flown about 125 miles to the north-east, passing over Land of the Leopard National Park.
Unable to contact Python or engage the owl, CJ was drowning in his own thoughts.
Will Ryan Andrews negotiate for my freedom? Or steer clear to avoid new Russia-collusion allegations?
What if President Punansk cashes in on the bounty The Consortium had on my head before the fake plane crash?
What’ll happen to Matthew?
He sniffed in a long, slow breath, assuring himself that Kyle Murphy would never relegate the toddler to a Consortium orphanage.
The aircraft began losing altitude. To the east, blue, orange, and yellow beams of light streaked upward in a dazzling display of grandeur. CJ had observed “light pillars” in his native Alaska, but still marveled at their delicate beauty. The rare phenomenon occurred whenever tiny ice crystals formed in the atmosphere close to the ground. The flat, hexagonal surface of each crystal functioned like a mirror, reflecting and projecting city lights toward the heavens; but the columnar shape was an optical illusion, created because the human eye was only capable of perceiving light rays aimed directly at it.
On final approach, the aircraft glided toward a runway lined by brilliant shafts of evenly spaced white light that evoked thoughts of prison bars.
I can’t let the Russians confiscate our classified technologies.
CJ reached into a rugged transit container the size of a briefcase and
removed a bomb composed of a mongrelized mixture of CL-20 and HMX. Rone had insisted that this cocrystal was more explosive and less volatile than other options.
Will this scrawny wad be enough to destroy the classified cloaking system? he wondered. And the top-secret ion drive ...? And the owl?
The aircraft’s large wheels touched down with a high-pitched squeal. The phantom pilot braked precipitously, causing CJ’s body to lurch forward against his five-point harness, then taxied toward a steel hangar whose vertical lift doors were yawning open like a giant mouth.
Oh shit! If the self-destruct protocol results in the loss of military assets, will the Russians deem it an act of war?
He dismissed the concern, rationalizing that the reverse engineering of mind-control technology posed a greater risk to the United States.
Once the aircraft rolled to a stop, CJ inserted a specialized detonator into the explosives, which would afford him two minutes to clear the blast zone; then he deplaned, raising his hands over his head.
The hangar contained a lone Soviet-era Sokol helicopter that was up on jacks. The walls were blanketed with electrical panels, mazes of conduit, and steel ladders that provided access to three tiers of catwalks. Soldiers armed with AK-12s were mustering outside the hangar door, aligning like a lethal picket fence.
As CJ approached his captors, a petrifying thought occurred. What if these guys weren’t garden-variety soldiers? Governments throughout the world had been infiltrated by The Consortium. What if they’re the Russian equivalent of Night Sector?
“Stoy!” one of them shouted in a voice as deep and penetrating as a foghorn.
CJ knew the man was ordering him to halt, but couldn’t comply. He needed to put more distance between himself and the impending explosion. Instead, he slowed his advance, feigned confusion and offered a shrug of surrender.
Another soldier reissued the directive in English, and CJ continued creeping forward, debating which avenue would yield the quickest and least painful death: The blast wave and flying shrapnel? Or the Russian firing squad?
A solitary soldier edged forward and extended an odd-looking four-barrel pistol.
Recognizing it as a nonlethal weapon, CJ resumed his snaillike shuffle and attempted eye contact to calm the fidgety riflemen, then a rubber bullet smashed into his chest. He stumbled backward as if punched by a professional boxer and gasped, desperately trying to re-inflate his lungs. Pain expanded outward, hot and jagged, but he considered it a wasp sting compared to the lead rounds he’d taken in the Middle-East.
To demonstrate submission, CJ dropped onto his knees, clasped his interlocked fingers behind his head, and continued inching toward the hangar door.
Two soldiers pounced on him, slamming him face-first onto the concrete. They bound his hands with flex-cuffs and dragged him from the hangar. The tarmac was chewing the fabric of his pants, friction was heating his knees, and CJ glanced over his shoulder.
Shit! Why didn’t the bomb explode?
23
3,000 feet below White-Jefferson
Air Force Base, Ohio
RYAN ANDREWS COUNTED seven rings before hanging up. He’d tried several times to reach Quenten since their spirited disagreement; and thus far, his calls remained unreturned; his texts, unanswered.
Is the General avoiding me?
No, he decided. Quenten would never ignore the Commander in Chief. There’s got to be a problem with his phone.
Mentally shifting gears, Ryan entered a secure conference room via a hidden doorway, and the men in attendance rose to their feet.
“Mr. President,” Rone said, “This is General Jagoby, Judge Advocate General of the Navy.”
Ryan offered his hand and exchanged pleasantries. The grandfatherly lawyer had snowy white hair, intrepid brown eyes aided by scholarly bifocals, and a caramel-toned complexion that was etched with life experience.
“Before we proceed, Mr. President,” Jagoby began, his voice smooth as milk chocolate and tough as steel. “You do understand that the evidence collected from Schwartz’s confession and The Hammer—despite its compelling nature and ramifications to national security—would never be admissible in a court of law?”
“Of course,” Ryan replied, accepting the legal disclaimer. “But we’re under no obligation to disclose that. In Frazier v. Cupp, 1969, and again in Oregon v. Mathiason, 1977, the Supreme Court upheld the use of deception, including nonexistent evidence and false confessions of accomplices. So the goal is to leverage the inadmissible intel to induce testimony and extract confessions.”
The JAG’s full lips pursed, and he gave a curt nod. “I just need you to be cognizant of the fact that we’re dancing on a trip wire.”
“Understood.”
Rone strode toward the northern end of the room, opened a vaultlike metal door, and invited their prey inside.
Johanna Krupp sashayed into the conference room, clutching a golden, featherweight Pomeranian that looked like a miniature fox. Having spent nearly half her life in Congress, she possessed enough dirt on colleagues to transform the Grand Canyon into a mountain range, and her ego was larger than her home state of California.
“Admiral. General.” She acknowledged them with a silicone-enhanced smile, then her hazel eyes met Ryan’s, burning with something beyond disdain, a visceral hatred that was spiteful and seething. Her mouth contorted as if sucking on her dentures, then she managed to utter, “Mis-ter Andrews.”
“Madam Speaker.” Ryan smiled, amused by her refusal to acknowledge his title, and gestured for her to sit down.
Krupp shook her head defiantly, indicating a preference to stand. She was in her late seventies, frail-looking with skeletal fingers and knobby arthritic knuckles. Her nut-brown hair was styled in a shoulder-length bob, streaked with gold highlights that matched her canine companion, and Ryan squinted quizzically at her eyebrows. They were comically uneven, one arching high in surprise, the other drooping unnaturally.
“Johanna, your eyebrow wig is about to go AWOL,” Ryan deadpanned.
A choked laugh squirted from Rone, which he adeptly converted into a cough; Jagoby looked away; and Krupp’s right hand shot upward, patting the stick-on caterpillar. Horror registered in the set of her mouth, and her face reddened, puffing like a balloon.
“I’ve been hearing rumors up on the Hill,” she said, changing the subject as she repositioned the renegade eyebrow, “that you don’t intend to sign the budget bill.”
“That’s correct,” Ryan told her. “The humanitarian crisis on our southern border necessitates additional funding, including construction of a wall.”
Krupp’s lips thinned. Her brow rippled with scorn. “The House will NEVER appropriate money for a wall! Not as long as I am speaker. Not one single dollar!”
“Johanna, you should never say never,” Ryan quipped, “but that’s not why you were summoned.” He allowed the word to hang, intentionally provoking her Andrews-derangement-syndrome. The more emotional she became, the more likely that she would stumble into his trap.
Krupp sniffled, stroking the Pomeranian’s coat. “I don’t appreciate being blindsided, Mis-ter Andrews.”
Rone perused a text message on his encrypted phone, and tilted the screen toward Ryan.
Yuri Punansk ...? Shit!
Fearful that the Russians had intercepted Bradley and CJ, Ryan pushed back his chair. “I’m sorry General, Madam Speaker, but I have to take this call.”
Krupp flashed a cocky grin.
That’s odd, he thought, leading Rone through the hidden door into his office. Why isn’t Benedict-eyebrow pissed off over the interruption?
Ryan switched the call to speaker for Rone’s benefit then, balled hands propped against the desk, he hunched over the phone. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. President.”
The Russian tendered a cordial greeting in stilted English before broaching the purpose of his call. “There has been an aviation tragedy ...”
Fuck! Is that why we haven’t been able to
raise Bradley and CJ? Or locate the aircraft?
“... A commercial airliner was shot down over Ukraine, taking the lives of 298 people. And despite a deluge of Consortium claims to the contrary, the anti-aircraft missile was a Soviet-era Buk, stationed in Ukraine since 1986. Russia bears no responsibility for this tragedy and condemns the loss of life.”
Ryan offered condolences and U.S. assistance to aid the recovery process and ended the call, slanting a wary glance at Rone. The Consortium had maneuvered him into a lose-lose proposition. If he declined to issue an official condemnation of Russia, he would inadvertently bolster the collusion narrative; and if he censured Russia, Congress would be emboldened and press for onerous sanctions, deliberately heightening tensions.
“We need to go on offense,” Ryan said, marching toward the conference room.
Krupp, now seated beside Jagoby, bared her false teeth with a predatory grin. “Foreign policy conundrum?”
She had advanced knowledge regarding that airliner, he thought, and she wants me to know it. Ryan settled onto his chair at the head of the conference table and signaled for Jagoby to begin.
“Madam Speaker, the President is presenting you with an extraordinary opportunity to avoid capital punishment under 18 U.S. Code § 2381. Treason.”
Krupp laughed aloud, but a patina of sweat was shimmering on her forehead, percolating through layers of makeup and further undermining that nomadic eyebrow. “General, have you gone mad? I could have you relieved of command for merely vocalizing such an outrageous accusation.”
The Power of We the People Page 9