36
District Four, Florida
COAST GUARD IMPOSTERS bound Bradley’s wrists in front of him with flex-cuffs, forced him onto his knees, and secured his ankles.
“Master Sergeant Webber,” Petty Officer Falsch said, brandishing an arrogant smirk. “Your friend’s fate is in your hands. A family reunion? Or a watery grave?”
CJ’s mental paralysis shattered. His fingertips protruded between the bars of the dog crate, pressed together as if in prayer. “Don’t let them drown me, Bradley. Give them what they want.”
The fear resonating in his voice was a knife carving through Bradley’s chest, and it incited a clash of resentment and empathy. Wingnut had allowed his optimism to exceed critical mass, splitting wishes into delusions and heating hopes into grandiose expectations.
Did The Consortium dangle a glimpse of freedom just to strip it away? he wondered. To inflict a debilitating emotional whiplash?
“Your attack on White Rabbit caused tremendous damage, but you failed to destroy the mind-control technology.” Falsch stroked the anchor-shaped, blond stubble on his chin and gave a derisive chuckle. “Did you really believe that the world’s most powerful weapon would not be backed up at a hardened location?”
Sweat streaming down his face, CJ screamed, “So this was all for nothing? We risked our lives for nothing?”
“Correction: you lost your lives for nothing.” Falsch paused to allow the sentiment to sink in. “Unless you cooperate.”
“What do you want?”
“CJ, don’t!”
“Shut up, Bradley. I’ve got a wife and kid.”
Savoring the discord, Falsch said, “We want intel on the LIT Society. Organizational structure, members, and sources of funding.”
Thoughts fluttered and snapped like red flags in Bradley’s mind.
The Liberty, Integrity, and Truth Society IS legitimate.
Gim Chong Lee IS an ally.
The Russian who knocked me out DID work with Dmitry Volkov.
Were General Quenten and Admiral Rone aware of this secret society?
Were they members?
And then it dawned on Bradley. “You just negated your own propaganda, genius. If you had mind-control technology, you wouldn’t need cooperation.”
Falsch’s brow contorted, and he panted, his cheeks alternately puffing and deflating. Humiliation deepened the hue of his florid complexion, and he gave a vengeful nod.
Four Coast Guard imposters hefted the dog cage onto the foam-filled flotation collar of the aluminum-hulled boat, and CJ yelled, “I’ll give you a name!”
Fearful that he was about to throw Jonathan Quenten or Tyler Rone to the wolves, Bradley shouted, “He doesn’t even know what LIT stands for.”
“Fuck you, Bradley! Trade places and see if you can stay on that moral high horse.”
Falsch tilted the dog crate precariously. “Furnish a name or drown.”
“Don’t, CJ!”
“J-J-Jo—”
“You mother-fucking coward!”
“—hanna Krupp.”
She was the speaker of the House, a midlevel Consortium puppet and confidante of Crooked Carter Sidney, and Bradley masked his relief behind a façade of anger. “You gutless fucking traitor!”
Falsch’s puzzled gaze ping-ponged between them. “Krupp has been a Consortium asset for decades.”
“She’s a double agent,” CJ insisted. “She facilitated the abduction of Gorka Schwartz ...”
Newfound respect sprouted inside Bradley. The Alaskan-born son of a pastor was an accomplished liar and clever tactician. Was his mental meltdown just a calculated special effect?
“... Krupp set it all in motion,” Wingnut continued. “Athenian Grove, Pulverulentus, and White Rabbit.”
Certain that his vehement protests would lend credibility to CJ’s deception, Bradley shouted, “He’s a liar! Throw the bastard overboard!”
The outboard engines abruptly throttled back.
Fear iced his gut.
His pulse doubled, making his wounds throb, and guilt took a jackhammer to his conscience.
Are they calling my bluff?
Tossing CJ overboard?
The helmsman navigated through a tangle of irregular-shaped keys before beaching the boat on a private island. A pair of imposters hoisted Bradley by his ankles and armpits and offloaded him like a crate of heroin. They carted him through a stand of mangrove trees, across a weed-infested field, toward a stretch of asphalt that spanned two-thirds of a mile.
Why would anybody build a runway here? he wondered.
Is this a drug-smuggling waypoint? Or a human-trafficking hub?
He squinted at a business-class jet with a swept-wing tail and air-intakes that reminded him of an A-10 Warthog, then his captors unexpectedly swung him to the side and let go.
Bradley’s boot heels slammed against the ground, a jarring vibration rankled his sore quads, and his tailbone landed atop a cushion of sand. The imposters backpedaled, studying him with fierce curiosity, and then Bradley realized why. They had intentionally dropped him on top of a fire-ant mound.
Unlike other insects, these tiny vampires mustered multiple bites, transforming square inches of skin into a fiery, itchy belt of misery.
He rolled off the mound, groaning and swearing, and pulled himself into a seated position. He swatted at the pests as best as he could with cuffed hands, drawing sadistic laughter; and his thoughts wandered back to Abby’s run-in with fire ants at Sugar Lake.
Her tolerance for pain will come in handy when she goes into labor, he thought.
God, I’d give anything to be there, holding her hand.
The miserable trek resumed, and the imposters deposited Bradley inside the cabin of the jet. Its passenger seating had been removed. A trio of porthole-style windows dotted its walls, and a recessed walkway bisected the tubular space, which was no wider than a midsized sedan. He reclined onto his back, wriggling and grinding against the rough, industrial-grade carpeting like a flea-ridden dog trying to quell incessant itching.
The canine jail cell was loaded into the cabin, and CJ’s backside was bulging between the vertical bars like excess batter oozing out of a waffle maker. The aircraft door thwacked shut. Jet engines whirred in an auditory spiral, increasing in pace, exploding in decibel, and the remotely piloted aircraft accelerated along the runway and climbed sharply.
“You told them to drown me, you son of a bitch!”
“They didn’t,” Bradley said, untying one of his bootlaces. “So don’t be a drama queen.”
Wingnut harrumphed. “And it took you long enough to figure out—”
“Shut up!” Bradley snapped, making a slashing gesture across his throat with his bound hands. “At least you’re not being eaten alive by bugs. My ass is hosting a fucking fire-ant convention.”
CJ acknowledged the warning regarding electronic eavesdropping with a nod and yanked on the padlock. “Do you have something to pick this? My freaking legs are cramping.”
“Suck it up, Buttercup.” Bradley systematically worked the bootlace through the eyelets until he’d liberated a two-foot length. He tied a knot at the end, fished it through one of the flex-cuffs, and secured it behind clenched teeth. Extending his feet until the bootlace pulled taut, he began pumping his arms, rubbing the plastic binding against it with a sawing motion.
“That’s never going to work,” CJ griped. “You should focus on freeing me, so I can fly us out of this fucked-up predicament.”
Bradley slanted him a look, another admonition to censor his speech, and the plastic binding gave way.
The whites of Wingnut’s eyes expanded, then his lids contracted into slivers of disbelief. He didn’t know that this wasn’t an ordinary bootlace; it was Kevlar cordage supplied by Ryan Andrews for just such an occasion.
His hands freed, Bradley wrenched his shirt up over his head and smashed the remaining fire ants. Then gripping the fabric like a towel, he dragged it across his itchy skin.
“Holy shit,” CJ blurted. “Your back looks like ground beef with a bad case of acne.”
“No shit.” Bradley threaded the Kevlar cordage through a cuff binding his ankle, sawed through the plastic, and climbed to his feet, exhaling explosively, willing his torn muscles to support his weight.
“Check the galley and the closet,” CJ barked, “for a paperclip or bobby pin. Anything we can use to pick the lock.”
Muttering under his breath, Bradley hobbled toward the nose of the aircraft and rooted through drawers and cupboards. Discarded food wrappers, empty water bottles, a looted first aid kit—and then he saw it, red and gleaming like an emergency beacon.
He snatched the Halon fire extinguisher from its cradle, limped back to the steel crate, and began hammering at the long shackle padlock. Metal clanged against metal and pealed through the cabin like a discordant bell. His biceps burned from the exertion. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in days, and he huffed, feeling light-headed.
Until finally, the lock gave way.
CJ wormed his body free of the crate and clambered into the cockpit on stiff, uncooperative limbs. He flopped onto the pilot’s seat, toggled levers, and pulled back on the stick, attempting to override the autopilot.
Then a hideous sound slithered along Bradley’s spine.
Chapter 7
Day 720
Wednesday, February 8th
37
3,000 feet below White-Jefferson
Air Force Base, Ohio
RYAN ANDREWS ENTERED a conference room deep within the underground base, surprised to find Rone already at work.
The Admiral’s brown eyes skirted a laptop, peeked above wire-rimmed readers, and flitted from Ryan to a digital clock and back again. “Morning, sir,” he said, rising to his feet. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”
He gestured for Rone to be seated and settled onto the leather chair at the head of the conference table. “I’ve been awake since 0400. Our little angel has her days and nights mixed up.”
A knowing chuckle squirted through the Admiral’s stern demeanor. “You think you’ve got sleepless nights now? Wait ‘til she’s a teenager—bikinis, boys, and booze.”
The prospect rattled through Ryan like a sonic boom. “You got any more good news?”
“GNN’s ratings have tanked. A third of their audience bolted after they declared Kyle dead.”
Ryan sighed. He’d been expecting a much larger defection. “Discrediting fake news isn’t enough. There have to be legal ramifications for their sedition.”
Rone’s chin puckered taking on the texture of an orange peel, and he folded his arms as if bracing for an argument. “If you start arresting reporters, you’ll come off as the dictator they’re painting you to be. Optics matter.”
“What about justice? Does that matter?” Ryan inhaled a slow, deep breath to subdue his impatience. “Just hear me out. I was poring over the intel harvested from the Marine raid on Langley, and I stumbled across something interesting. During the early 2000s, print media and TV networks began hemorrhaging money. The Washington Post sold Newsweek for $1; Macrovision sold TV Guide for $1; etcetera. In order to remain solvent, media companies needed a new source of revenue, and that cash injection came from foreign powers.”
“That’s not a crime,” Rone told him.
“It can be. For example, I found a GNN article titled We Should Let the Saudis Spy on Us. Then I found two payments from Dopey Prince Al-Waleed Amad referencing that article. A $50,000 check was cut to GNN and another ten grand to the guy who penned the piece. Neither network nor journalist disclosed that they were representing the interests of a foreign power or registered under FARA, which means it IS a crime.”
“You want to arrest reporters based on the foreign agents registration act?” Rone asked, his tone rippling with sarcastic incredulity. “An obscure law the American people have never even heard of?”
“Suppose I post a tantalizing breadcrumb on Chatter,” Ryan suggested, “regarding Viro Fortikajo a campaign associate who, many years ago, lobbied on behalf of ethnic Russians in Ukraine—without registering under FARA.”
Skepticism drained from Rone’s face and instantly reconstituted. “The Special Counsel and his thirteen angry satanists would indict Fortikajo and pressure him into testifying against you. The media would hype the charges to smear you, inadvertently educating the public on the finer points of FARA. But Consortium-owned prosecutors and judges will ultimately ensure that their colleagues evade justice.”
“I’m still working on that part,” Ryan said, drawing an apprehensive stare, then he changed the subject. “So what’re you up to at such an ungodly hour?”
“Reviewing a phone intercept between Prince Amad and Carter Sidney.” The Admiral used his thumb and middle finger to depress the Fn and F8 keys on the laptop, which projected the display onto an external monitor.
Amad: What’s taking so long? Andrews should’ve been ousted by now.
Sidney: Armed terrorists must be eliminated prior to the big event. Starting with District Six.
Amad: You are neither a policymaker nor a military strategist, Carter. Objectives must be attained in order: regain presidency, eliminate LIT, confiscate guns, then reeducate terrorists.
Sidney: You don’t understand. These deplorables pose a much greater danger to our democracy than the LIT Society because the real power resides with the people.
Amad: Control over the presidency IS control over the people. Follow orders, Carter, or you will be dealt with.
Resentment and anger intensified into a hard boil; and, fingers drumming against the conference table, Ryan said, “Do we know anything about this big event? And what’s this LIT Society they referenced? Some kind of think tank?”
“I’m guessing the big event is connected to those planeloads of military-aged males.” Rone paused, rubbing a palm across his mouth. “Liberty, Integrity, and Truth is a secret society, an anonymous network of billionaires, hackers, and ex-military types devoted to thwarting The Consortium.”
Ryan cringed. “Secrecy is a breeding ground for corruption. We need to identify their membership and conduct a threat analysis.”
Rone’s face turned away as if attempting to avoid the topic. “That would aid enemy efforts to eradicate them. People who oppose The Consortium tend to die in suspicious plane crashes, convenient car wrecks, or timely suicides. And frankly, sir, we could use some allies in this fight.”
As a military man, Ryan thought, he understands that meticulous coordination of allied forces is crucial to victory. Why is he protecting LIT’s autonomy?
Certain the Admiral was withholding information, he said, “Are you a member of this secret society?”
“Me?” Rone asked, chagrined. “No. Not a member.”
The conference-room door swung inward, and Ryan’s newly appointed chief of staff lingered at the threshold. Perfidulo was a fifty-year-old Lieutenant Colonel with the physique of a bowling pin and a ruddy complexion. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but General Quenten has been found, hanging from the statue of Nathan Hale at CIA headquarters. The coroner in District Three has ruled it suicide.”
“Of course he has!” Rone flung his hands upward, not bothering to temper the frustration in his voice or the grief welling in his eyes. “Yet another timely suicide!”
Perfidulo cleared his throat, adding, “And you have a call on line three, Mr. President. Peter Poplawski from NSA.”
Ryan dismissed his chief of staff and said, “Quenten was a member of the LIT Society, wasn’t he?”
The Admiral massaged his eyes with a thumb and index finger as if scouring away emotion, and gave a solemn nod.
Questions zinged through Ryan’s mind.
Was the General murdered because of his affiliation with the LIT Society? My administration? Or both?
Did he divulge sensitive information? Intel that could lead to the assassination of me and my family?
&nbs
p; He switched the call to speaker phone, exchanged greetings with Python, and said, “Have you validated or debunked Sergeant Webber’s theory?”
“I tracked six planeloads of foreign fighters to Gramsci College, twenty miles outside District Six,” Python began. “Terahertz radiation scans, which allow us to peer through buildings, have revealed troubling facts. The dormitories are housing 5,000 military-aged foreign fighters. The cafeteria is packed with enough rations to feed the invading army for months. The chapel is a de facto armory containing rifles, sidearms, rocket-propelled grenades, mortars, and shoulder-launched rockets. And the lecture halls have been converted into ammunition depots, housing millions of rounds.”
“Holy shit!” Ryan blurted. “They’re going to invade District Six.”
“And Washington, D.C.,” Python continued. “District Three has been fortified with equivalent manpower and provisions.”
“And the other districts?” Rone asked.
“Initially, they all received six incoming flights, but thousands of fighters have been diverted to Districts Three and Six for some big event code-named Bolshevik 2.0.”
That’s why they tried to kill Abby, Ryan thought. She discovered their army of foreign fighters.
And Colonel Gardner lied about those flights. Did he orchestrate her overdose?
38
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
ABANDONING ANY HOPE of sleep, Kyle Murphy propped his pillow against the headboard, reclined against it, and booted up his secure laptop.
He’d been escorted home from TEradS headquarters by Secret Service; and, despite his stubborn daughter agreeing to spend the night here, rather than at the barracks, Kyle’s senses remained on high alert. He felt wired and antsy, like electric current was zipping through his nerve endings, and he couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing.
The Power of We the People Page 15