Who owns / controls the media?
Who owns / controls the MIC?
The Great Awakening.
The truth is—
Glen’s Chi-phone spontaneously switched to a newscast, and the touch screen stopped responding. He couldn’t open a new tab, adjust the volume, or turn off the phone. He was locked out.
“Devastating news, just in to GNN.” The masculine, female anchor sniffled, and her dark eyes were glistening with genuine sadness. “After being taken into custody, during yet another unlawful TEradS raid, Gorka Schwartz has died. We are still awaiting official comment from the Andrews administration but, at this hour, patriots are calling for Americans to take to the streets to protest the wrongful death of the billionaire philanthropist.
“An official statement from Anti-Ty reads, ‘If this fascist President can abduct and detain a man like Gorka Schwartz, violate his civil liberties, withhold his Miranda rights, deny him legal counsel, subject him to enhanced interrogation, and take his life—without due process—none of us is safe.’ ”
“Corporal Anthony!”
The voice, it sent his heart into wild palpitations.
Goosebumps materialized, and he began to hyperventilate.
The coffee shop disintegrated into brightly colored, geometric fragments like a scene viewed through a kaleidoscope.
With a thumb and index finger, Glen rubbed his eyes to reset his vision and pivoted in his chair, craning in search of Hellhound.
“Your con game is over.”
The psychotic general’s voice boomed like the voice of God, omnidirectional, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Rattled and trembling, Glen bolted from the coffee shop and was nearly hit by a pickup truck outfitted with a peculiar-looking satellite dish. A pair of Night Sector conscripts jumped from the cab, and Glen’s vision completely failed. He stood dumbfounded, amidst an absolute blackness, darker than anything he’d ever experienced. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and rendered him blind.
A vicious kick to the side of his head propelled him onto the asphalt.
Hellhound tracked my phone, Glen thought, curling into a fetal position and shielding his head from a parade of combat boots. He knew there would be no Miranda rights, no lawyers, no trial; and he chuckled bitterly at the irony of GNN griping about Gorka Schwartz’s civil liberties.
Ribs cracked, air rushed from Glen’s lungs, and he pondered whether blindness would aggravate or mitigate the psychological component of torture.
It’s definitely going to complicate my plan, he decided.
Should I still try to take out Hellhound?
Ditch the ricin?
Or consume it?
34
Aeropuerto Militar de Ciudad Libertad
Havana, Cuba
BOUND AND LYING PRONE beside CJ, trapped in the sweltering trunk of a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado, everything ached—legs, wrists, head, and jaw. Diesel exhaust was wafting through a rust-eaten hole in the floorboard, inflaming Bradley’s sinuses and stinging his lungs. Like most classic cars in the island nation, this vehicle had been patched together with a hodgepodge of Bondo, duct tape, and string; and its motor had been replaced decades ago.
Why did it have to be diesel? Bradley thought ruefully.
Diesel engines produced lower concentrations of carbon monoxide, an odorless gas whose molecules attached to hemoglobin and hindered the blood’s capacity to deliver oxygen throughout the body. Drifting into unconsciousness, never to awaken, would’ve been a blessing compared to a lifetime in a Cuban prison.
CJ leaned closer and whispered, “When Warbird came back without you, I thought you were dead.”
“So did I.” The words were a cheese grater, scraping Bradley’s raw throat, and he began to cough and wheeze. His eyes burned, tearing behind clenched lids.
This is even worse than the smoke from the wood gasifier, he thought.
He’d spent hours, chained like a dog, inside that truck bed as the rickety vehicle climbed and tottered, belching pollutants along a pristine mountainous pass. By the time the journey concluded at Vodvizhenka Air Base, the driver had swapped out his Night Sector fatigues for Russian BDUs. Then he’d compelled Bradley, with the barrel of his rifle, to board the Tupolev bomber. “This is for Dmitry,” he’d snarled as the butt stock of his AK-12 bashed Bradley’s face. The knockout blow had landed perilously close to his temple, ripping flesh and nearly breaking his jaw.
Was he referring to Dmitry Volkov? Bradley wondered. Or did he lose a family member inside White Rabbit?
“So what happened?” CJ pressed. “How’d you end up in Russia?”
Noting that the Eldorado was braking to a stop, he grunted, “Later.”
The driver’s door shrieked open, but the engine continued to pump smothering puffs of exhaust into the confined space. The lock clicked, the hinged trunk lid moaned open, and, squinting against the blinding sunlight, Bradley huffed in drafts of humid, salty air. Ocean surf was crashing, a distant boat engine was gurgling and sputtering, and seagulls were bickering in shrill musical squawks. It was a tropical soundtrack of torture, taunting him with memories of carefree days frittered away on Florida beaches.
The crinkle-faced Cuban general sawed at the flex-cuffs with a pocket knife and said, “Corre hacia ese arrastrero. El pescador no habla englés, pero te transportará a Key West.”
Prying his aching body from the trunk of the mobile prison, Bradley gazed at the fishing trawler moored at the end of a concrete dock. The vessel had been royal-blue before its hull was overtaken by the ruddy-orange hues of rust, and the roof of its phone-booth-sized superstructure was sagging under the weight of grimy water tanks.
Is he really offering a ride to Key West? Bradley thought. Or manufacturing an excuse to put a bullet in our backs?
“You think that thing’s seaworthy?” CJ muttered.
Bradley gave an indifferent shrug and started toward the boat as fast as his injured leg muscles could manage.
A cone-shaped straw hat with a wide brim shaded the captain’s deeply tanned face, and his long-sleeved T-shirt boasted a mosaic of stains ranging from sweat and blood to grease and fish guts.
“Bienvenido a bordo,” the Cuban said, smiling beneath a thick mustache.
“Gracias.” Bradley stepped down onto the deck, half expecting his foot to punch through the warped wooden boards.
The captain began unmooring the vessel, coiling frayed ropes with surprisingly nimble hands, and when he throttled up the engine, it sounded like a drowning steam locomotive, spluttering and chugging and hissing.
As the Cuban shoreline began to shrink, CJ sucked in the fresh salt air and exhaled a triumphant sigh. “We made it, brother. Missy, Matthew, and me, we’re going to be together again,” he said, his face beaming with unadulterated joy. “And you’re going to be there, by Abby’s side, welcoming your baby into the world.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Bradley cautioned, tempering his optimism. “We won a crucial battle, but the war isn’t over.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t savor a victory.” CJ’s blue eyes widened and he pointed northward, his exuberance spiraling to dangerous heights. “That’s the U.S. Coast Guard!”
An involuntary gush of relief dumped into Bradley’s veins, seductive and intoxicating.
The twenty-five-foot Defender-class boat cruised past the trawler, circled, and came alongside, announcing their intention to board. Unlike land-based law enforcement, the Coast Guard possessed the authority to search vessels without a warrant or even probable cause; and as soon as the boarding officer made it onto the aft deck, it became obvious that Petty Officer Falsch wasn’t interested in the captain.
“We’re U.S. citizens,” Bradley said, hastily fabricating a cover story. He couldn’t divulge details about his mission, not even to friendly forces. “Our boat capsized and this Cuban fisherman rescued us.”
“I-D?”
CJ proffered a flustered smile. “Lost it. Lo
st everything when the boat sank.”
Falsch’s skeptical stare wandered from head to toe and back again. “You always go boating wearing combat boots?”
“We don’t know jack about boating,” Bradley confessed, augmenting the lie with a downcast gaze and self-deprecating headshake. “We just headed out into the surf and next thing you know, we were sinking.”
Falsch harrumphed. “Well, Captain Cuba cannot sail into U.S. waters. So if you’re looking to go home, we’re your best bet.”
CJ shouted, “Woo-hoo!” and leapt into the Coast Guard vessel.
Bradley planted his buttocks onto the trawler’s gunwale and hefted his aching thighs over the side. An impatient nudge sent him sliding down onto the foam-filled flotation collar of the aluminum-hulled boat; then the boarding officer stepped over him and wheeled around, training the barrel of his M16 on Bradley. Crew members began beating CJ with nightsticks, and the helmsman gunned the engines and sped northward.
“What the hell?” Bradley mumbled, raising his bruised wrists above his head.
“Shut the fuck up! I know exactly who you are ... And what you did in North Korea.”
It took several seconds for it to register.
This isn’t the Coast Guard.
I’m not being rescued.
I’m not going home to Abby and our baby.
Feeling like his heart was being extracted through his nose, he looked askance at CJ. Overinflated expectations were crashing down on Wingnut like a pyroclastic flow, unrelenting and cataclysmic. Stupefied, he wasn’t reacting to the punishing blows of the nightstick. His body remained immobilized while his mind whirled in an incessant loop, unable to process the devastating twist of fate.
Another crew member rummaged through a storage hold and retrieved a steel dog cage; and Bradley gaped in horror as they crammed his friend into the twenty-cubic-foot space and padlocked the door.
Oh shit, he thought. They’re going to toss him overboard ...
35
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
ABBY ARRIVED AT THE TEradS briefing room, accompanied by her father and his security detail. Seeing Fitz, she snapped to attention, and her motionless stare fixed on a video feed bearing the presidential seal.
Why was Ryan Andrews attending this debrief?
“This could’ve waited,” Fitz said, his gruff voice thick with an emotion Abby couldn’t pinpoint. “You shouldn’t defy medical advice.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
Since her harrowing rescue, she’d been under the care of her father’s personal physician, a ventriloquist’s dummy who simply parroted the overprotective opinions of Doctor Dad.
Fitz tendered a doleful nod, releasing her from attention.
Abby settled onto a chair and tucked her hands beneath the conference table. Although the hallucinatory drug had worn off, side effects lingered. Her fingertips felt numb, tremors were plaguing her hands, and her memory was a patchwork of clarity interspersed against a backdrop of hazy, fleeting impressions.
The Secret Service had asserted jurisdiction over the investigation and detained several psychiatric personnel, but her father was still irate. He was snorting like a riled bull, pacing and changing course as if he couldn’t commit to a direction ... until Wachter entered the room.
Then he charged.
“You son of a bitch!” He grabbed the unsuspecting agent by the neck and slammed him against a wall. “They almost killed my daughter!”
“Dad, stop!” Abby jumped to her feet, soldiering through a bout of light-headedness, and wedged herself between them like a human pry bar.
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her father. “You are supposed to be protecting Abby,” he fumed. “And here you are, letting her protect you! Are you one of them? Another Consortium traitor?”
“Enough!” President Andrews’ voice boomed via the videoconference feed. “Kyle, the blame game isn’t constructive.”
Her father scowled at his voice-to-text-equipped phone, speared Wachter with a parting glare, and flung himself onto a chair, nearly causing it to flip over.
The Commander in Chief instructed everyone to be seated and said, “Agent Wachter, how did antidepressants get into that water?”
“Sir, after the incident, I reexamined the bottle and discovered a pinprick behind the label, which had been plugged with glue to prevent leakage.”
Grasping his phone with a white-knuckled grip, her father harrumphed. “You’re supposed to notice that before she drinks the fucking water.”
“Dad!” Abby planted a restraining hand on his shoulder. She hadn’t seen him this agitated since the early days after the electromagnetic pulse. “Wachter dispatched Malvado. He saved our lives.”
He shrugged off her touch. “If he’d done his job in the first place, we never would’ve been in jeopardy!”
“Kyle!” President Andrews shouted. “If you can’t control yourself, you’ll need to leave.”
Red faced, he grimaced at the reprimand and pitched his phone onto the conference table.
“Mr. President,” Wachter continued. “Secret Service protocols have been designed to detect such tampering. This leads me to conclude that the perpetrator accessed a secure area and swapped out the bottle I’d previously inspected with the tainted bottle.”
Fitz stiffened. Guilt was smoldering in his eyes. “Are you suggesting that a member of the TEradS did this? On my watch?”
Nonplussed, Wachter said, “I addressed the question of how. Not who.”
“Consortium actors penetrated Langden on my watch,” President Andrews interjected, in an attempt to defuse the tension. “Yours is no different, Fitz ... Sergeant Webber, your recollections?”
Abby regurgitated her ordeal, culminating with the visit from the acting FBI director. “... McCann dangled immunity in exchange for testimony connecting you to Vladislav Volkov, sir. And he vowed that Malvado would keep me drugged and strapped to that bed until I cooperated.”
“That makes no sense,” the Commander in Chief grumbled. “They’d already tried to suicide you with an overdose. The Consortium didn’t want you to testify; they wanted you silenced. The question is, why? Could you have acquired some damning intel without realizing it?”
Abby revisited the fuzzy patches of her memory, unable to bring them into focus.
“It was probably payback,” Fitz stated, his emphatic tone at odds with his dubious expression, “for the scope-camera video that debunked the caravan narrative.”
President Andrews dismissed the suggestion with a barely perceptible headshake. “Sergeant, as a Sniper, you are uniquely trained to observe and absorb subtle details that others might overlook. What do you know ... without realizing that you know it?”
The question cartwheeled and somersaulted through her mind, and even intuition was failing her. Abby’s only persistent gut feeling was that Bradley was in danger, and the prospect uncorked a glut of pent-up emotion.
Did he die in the line of duty?
Is he enduring inhumane torture?
Abby’s lips parted and words nearly tumbled from her mouth, a demand to know the fate of her husband, but she managed to stifle the urge. Like the rest of the world, Fitz believed that Bradley had died in a Rocky Mountain plane crash, and revealing the truth would be an unlawful disclosure of classified information.
Wachter was fixing Abby with an inquisitive stare.
Unsure how to interpret his nonverbal communication, she replied with a combination head tilt and squint; and none of it escaped the Commander in Chief.
“Agent Wachter,” President Andrews said, “why don’t you share your thoughts?”
“I ... I was wondering if it had anything to do with the strange flights Sergeant Webber observed.”
Fitz was fidgeting in his chair as if trying to crawl out of his skin.
He divulged information that I had no need to know, Abby thought, and he’s terrified that I’m going to get him court-martialed.
�
��Sergeant Webber?”
Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Mr. President, on two occasions, I observed an ethnically homogenous group of military-aged males deplaning without gear and piling onto an unmarked white bus. I deemed the incidents suspicious and reported them.”
“Major?” the Commander in Chief asked, visibly irked.
Fitz’s mouth dropped open. He licked his lips, yet words were slow to emerge. “I investigated Sergeant Webber’s concerns and concluded they were unfounded.”
“Who are these soldiers?” Andrews demanded impatiently.
“That is ... uh ... uh ... it’s classified, sir.”
The President’s mouth twisted into a sour smile. “Not anymore,” he replied, asserting his authority to declassify anything, at any time, without any process.
Fitz expelled a resigned sigh and said, “Mexican soldiers are receiving specialized training at select U.S. bases to bolster their capabilities. The rationale being that if Mexico is able to control its southern border, we’ll have less chaos on ours.”
President Andrews’ expression remained neutral but something formidable was simmering in his honey-brown eyes. “And where did you acquire said information?”
Fitz looked like a sheep cornered by a wolf. “Uh ... Colonel Gardner, sir.”
Gardner was at the top of Langden’s food chain, and Abby sensed that Fitz had just been squeezed between a Colonel and a presidential hard place, forced to disclose intelligence that had been shared in confidence.
“There is NO such training program!” Andrews bellowed.
Abby’s red blood cells turned to ice. “Sir, what if the caravans are just a diversion to distract from the planeloads of military-aged males? What if they’re using our Air Force to facilitate an invasion of foreign fighters to overthrow your presidency?”
The Power of We the People Page 14