The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  McCann shoved Bradley toward the door, and he stepped over the writhing deputy, onto the covered sidewalk of the former strip mall, blinking at the surreal scene.

  Sheriff Turner was marching toward him, a female Air Force Colonel at his side. She was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall, with a pug nose and intelligent gray eyes. A wall of stone-faced security forces trailed ten yards behind, rifles and shotguns up like an advancing firing squad.

  “McCann!” the sheriff bellowed. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned. Let Sergeant Jackson go!”

  The agent’s gaze toggled from left to right, sizing up the opposition. He swore under his breath, then yelled, “Jackson assaulted a federal agent. He’s going to jail. And you, Sheriff, are going to be charged with obstruction of justice and false arrest.”

  “No, he won’t,” the Colonel shouted. “President Andrews fired you three hours ago, along with your dimwitted sidekicks. Combs and Shaw already knew that, which means they can be charged with impersonating federal officers, aiding in an escape, and kidnapping ... to name a few.”

  The junior FBI agents exchanged agitated glances. They were cornered animals, frightened and desperate, but not suicidal.

  Combs jettisoned his pistol, Shaw dropped the Taser, and both men raised their hands.

  “You cowardly bastards!” McCann fired two rapid shots.

  Shaw cried out, pitched back against a stucco column, and slowly slid down onto the sidewalk.

  Combs dropped in place without a peep.

  Seizing the moment, Bradley horse-kicked McCann’s knee, hyperextending it, and broke free of his grasp.

  The disgraced FBI director wobbled on one leg. His weapon swung pendulum-like, unable to commit to a target for several seconds before zeroing in on Bradley.

  A gunshot thwacked.

  A slug bored through McCann’s back, producing a massive exit wound, and slammed into the stucco column. Bradley locked eyes with the female deputy, who was still lying across the threshold, and proffered an appreciative nod, a nonverbal thank-you for saving his life.

  While first responders rushed to aid the wounded, the Colonel introduced herself as Joeleen Jensen, commander of Langden’s Security Forces. “I’ve been ordered to take you into custody.”

  Is she legit? he wondered. Or another Consortium imposter like the Coast Guard?

  “Did your orders come from Colonel Shaffer?” Bradley asked.

  A shadow of guilt swept her delicate features, and a coy smile blossomed. “You know damn well there’s no Colonel Shaffer at Langden. My orders come directly from the President.”

  Bradley harrumphed. “If you report to Ryan Andrews, get him on the phone. I’ve got urgent intel.”

  She pinned him with a stare as if assessing his sincerity, then retrieved a cellphone from the skirt pocket of her service dress uniform and placed a call. She appeared serene and confident. Because she had nothing to hide? Or because she was an accomplished actress?

  “Colonel Jensen calling. Master Sergeant Webber claims to have urgent intel for the President ... Yes, sir, I’ll hold.” Then she pressed the phone to Bradley’s ear.

  “You know, this would be a whole lot easier if you uncuffed me.”

  “Not happening.”

  The District Six security forces parted, clearing a path for Sheriff Turner, who was driving a black Jeep missing its roof and doors.

  Where are they taking me? Bradley thought, and McCann’s allegations began buzzing inside his skull like a trapped hornet.

  Warring factions ... winner advances to the Committee of 300 ...

  Is Jensen part of a rival clan?

  “Admiral Rone speaking. Welcome back, Master Sergeant, and kudos for a job well-done.”

  Glossing over the compliment, Bradley said, “Sir, Hellhound may have an assassin inside the White-Jefferson bunker.”

  “You’re a little late,” Rone told him. “A military-grade nerve agent was found on the handset of a phone. An unintended target absorbed the lethal dose, sparing the President, and the would-be assassin is in custody.”

  Rattled by the close call, Bradley’s mind spun off thoughts like a sparkler.

  McCann was right about Hellhound. Is he right about Carter Sidney?

  “Admiral, there may be another threat. A plot to inundate the underground base with weaponized fentanyl.”

  “Sh-sh-shit! I’ve got to go!”

  The line went dead, then a pair of nagging questions surfaced.

  What if that wasn’t really Admiral Rone?

  What if it was voiceprint technology?

  Chapter 9

  Day 722

  Friday, February 10th

  51

  40,000 Feet above District Seven

  MASSAGING HIS TEMPLES, President Ryan Andrews sank onto a plush leather chair inside his airborne Oval Office. Based on intel provided by Bradley, Rone had ordered the evacuation of the deep underground military base.

  Could Carter Sidney have smuggled weaponized fentanyl past security?

  Forty-eight hours ago, he would’ve said absolutely not, but after a one-two-punch of betrayal, perpetrated by people close to him, people he’d trusted, Ryan’s confidence had been shattered.

  Admiral Rone strode into the office and settled onto the chair opposite Ryan’s desk. “How’s the little angel?”

  “More amazing by the day. She’s gained nine ounces!” He’d been leery about flying so soon after Izzy’s birth, but the incubator would protect her from germ-riddled recirculated air, and Air Force One was equipped with medical personnel and a miniature hospital.

  “Mr. President,” Rone said tentatively, “are you sure you want to issue this press release?”

  Ryan’s hands dropped to the armrest. “I don’t see any benefit to disclosing Fitzgerald’s crimes. It’ll demoralize and destroy his family AND the TEradS, which is precisely why Fitz was targeted. And he did redeem himself, albeit inadvertently. He saved my life; and, in so doing, he saved the country.”

  Rone conceded the point with a nod.

  “I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Ryan continued. “For two decades, Fitz was a patriot. He served his nation, faithfully and selflessly. How could he betray his core beliefs?”

  Rone gave a half-hearted shrug and said, “Ask CJ Love.”

  What would I have done? Ryan asked himself. How far would I have gone to prevent Hellhound from sodomizing Izzy?

  Declining to answer the question, he activated a large monitor above a custom-built, angled leather couch, and a live-stream began to play.

  “... For the hundredth time,” CJ said, his tone desperate, yet edged with anger. “No-o-o, I don’t know anything about weaponized fentanyl. Yes, Hellhound supplied the multifunction pen. Yes, the nerve toxin was inside the red ink cartridge. No-o-o! I did NOT deposit it onto the President’s phone.”

  The Lieutenant conducting the interrogation said, “Then why did you smuggle it into a secure facility?”

  The creases in CJ’s forehead deepened, and his cuffed hands dropped into his lap. “I-I didn’t know how to dispose of it. I didn’t want some innocent person to stumble across it and die.”

  “Why didn’t you surrender the pen to Admiral Rone when you gave him the thumb drive?”

  “Hellhound said that he had an asset in Andrews’ inner circle; that he had access to the base’s surveillance network; and that if I double-crossed him, my son ...” CJ halted as if choking on the words. His jaw quivered. “... My son would become his favorite sex toy.”

  “So you did intend to use the toxin!”

  “No-o-o! I was stalling for time.”

  The Lieutenant’s mouth pulled upward. His eyes narrowed. “You were inside a SCIF with President Andrews and Admiral Rone. Why didn’t you come clean then?”

  CJ’s chin dipped. His thumbs stroked his forearms as if trying to soothe away anxiety. “By then, I realized that I’d already committed a crime by bringing it through security, and I was scared. How many more t
imes do we have to go over this?”

  “Until your story makes sense.”

  CJ’s blue eyes rolled toward the ceiling and flared testily. “The Admiral and the President were there. Did either of them see me put the nerve agent on the phone?”

  “You’re smart enough, and devious enough, to wait for the right moment—”

  “Damn it! I’m telling you, someone else did it!” CJ shouted. “That means the real assassin is still out there, hiding in plain sight. Don’t you get it? Hellhound set me up as the fall guy, to protect his asset on the inside!”

  Ryan terminated the feed and propped his elbows on the desk. Fingers steepled, he leaned forward, his chin undulating ever so slightly. First Fitz, and now CJ, he thought, bemoaning his ever shrinking list of trustworthy allies.

  The jet engines throttled back, initiating their descent into McDowell Air Force Base, and Ryan gazed through a window with rounded corners. Despite everything, he still felt a bizarre sense of fatherly empathy for CJ.

  He acted out of parental love, he thought, to save his son; whereas Fitz acted to save himself.

  Ryan bowed his head, grieving for the children who had lost their fathers to treason. “Hey, Rone, can you shoot Kyle a text? See if he and Jessie are open to adoption if Missy Love is unable to raise Matthew.”

  “Roger that.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Perfidulo, Ryan’s chief of staff, waddled into the office, clutching a notepad to his chest. “Sir, hazmat crews have combed through every square inch of the underground base, inspected every duct, vent, and footlocker—and have turned up no trace of fentanyl.”

  “The evacuation,” Ryan said, thinking aloud. “Is that what The Consortium wanted? To flush us out?”

  Rone’s mouth puckered. The Admiral was a master of four-dimensional chess—provoking enemies into desired actions and duping them into checkmate—and he didn’t take kindly to the suggestion that he’d been played.

  “Given the close encounter with the nerve agent,” Perfidulo said, “it was the only sensible decision.”

  The touchdown was virtually imperceptible, and Air Force One sped past fire crews and first responders. Fighter jets were patrolling the skies above, and teams of soldiers were prowling McDowell with orders to shoot unauthorized trespassers on sight.

  “I also have an update from Capitol Hill, sir.” Perfidulo paged through his notes and squinted as if struggling to decipher his own handwriting. “The House and Senate have agreed on a budget bill. If you’re unwilling to bend over funding the border wall, the government shutdown will enter its third week.”

  Ryan was battling a mischievous smirk. After the thirty-day mark, he would have the power to prune the bureaucratic clusterfuck known as the executive branch, in accordance with recommendations submitted by the Office of Management and Budget.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Perfidulo said disapprovingly, “the downside of a shutdown far exceeds any theoretical benefit to ‘draining the swamp’.”

  Likening his chief of staff to an overprotective mother hen, Ryan said, “In case you haven’t noticed, this is war. The Consortium tried to shoot me with a heart attack gun, vaporize me with a nuclear missile, and poison me with nerve toxin. Risk is inherent to war.”

  “I think the Lieutenant Colonel was just trying to issue a friendly reminder,” Rone said, mollifying both sides, “that your approval rating is paramount. If it slips into the low thirties, the corrupticrats in Congress will have a clear path to impeachment. That’s why the media are flat-out lying about your response to Bolshevik 2.0 and pretending as if the Glen Anthony interview never happened.”

  “They’re delusional,” Ryan griped. “Fake news is the enemy of the American people.”

  Perfidulo’s expression soured. “Agreed, Mr. President, but as of this morning, their talking points have shifted. GNN is railing against the firing of acting FBI Director McCann, branding it an obstruction of justice designed to curtail the Special Counsel’s investigation into Russia collusion.”

  “The guy’s a liar and a leaker,” Ryan argued, knowing all hell would break loose when the media got wind of McCann’s death. “He kidnapped and tortured Bradley for fuck’s sake!”

  His chief of staff bristled, then said, “That may be true, sir, but you cannot prosecute McCann for trampling the civil rights of a dead man. Now I know you regard Bradley Webber as a friend, but he’s a liability. If the media discover that he’s alive, the ensuing scandal will plunge your approval ratings into the impeachment zone.”

  Steadfast, Ryan slumped back against his chair. “The media falsely reported Kyle and Abby dead a few days ago. People will just write it off as fake news.”

  “Gentlemen,” Rone said, frowning at his cellphone, “we’ve got another problem ...”

  52

  McDowell Air Force Base, Kansas

  I GUESS MY SUSPICIONS regarding Colonel Jensen were unfounded, Bradley thought, gaping at the sight of Air Force One, which towered above him like a six-story building. The flying fortress was an EMP-proof mobile command center, equipped with armored windows, decoy flares, and mirror balls to deflect infrared missile systems. Electronic counter measures allowed the aircraft to jam radar so that its flight path could not be traced, and it was capable of speeds up to 630 miles per hour with a flight ceiling of 45,100 feet.

  Ascending a retractable staircase dedicated to the crew, Bradley thought, I can’t believe I’m boarding Air Force One wearing a T-shirt and hand-me-down jeans.

  He endured another security check before being ushered to the airborne Oval Office, and his Secret Service escort halted in the doorway, wary of interrupting an ongoing discussion.

  “... Thousands of unarmed illegal immigrants are camped out on two newly reopened bridges spanning the Mississippi River,” Admiral Rone was saying, reading from his cellphone. “They’ve reduced nationwide commerce to a crawl and they’re disrupting ports in LA, Long Beach, Houston, and the Port of New York and New Jersey.”

  “The armed insurrection failed,” Ryan said, “so they’re attacking our economy. Mobilize the National Guard. A few LRAD equipped Humvees will resolve the situation. And hold them as enemy combatants. I don’t want this turning into a game of Whac-A-Mole.”

  Rone replied, “Roger that,” and began relaying the orders via his phone.

  “But, sir, they’re unarmed,” Perfidulo protested. “A heavy-handed approach could create a public relations nightmare.”

  “I’m not going to coddle economic terrorists. The American people are smart; you don’t give them enough credit.”

  Seizing on a lull in the conversation, the Secret Service agent knocked on the open door.

  “Bradley!” Ryan sprung from his chair and enveloped him in a combination handshake-hug before he could snap to attention. “You know Admiral Rone. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Perfidulo, my chief of staff.”

  After shaking hands with both men, Ryan brought Bradley up to speed regarding the nerve toxin and fentanyl threat.

  I can’t believe CJ’s a traitor, he thought. Is that why The Consortium intercepted the Cuban fishing trawler? Why those goons didn’t throw him overboard? Thank God I didn’t tell him about my meeting with Gim Chong Lee.

  Pointing at Perfidulo’s notepad, Bradley said, “Can I borrow that? The Dear Leader of North Korea asked me to deliver a coded message to Ryan.”

  The chief of staff’s ruddy complexion deepened, indicating his displeasure, and he tore away several pages of notes before reluctantly complying.

  Bradley replicated the peculiar characters from memory; and, as he completed the eleventh symbol, Rone said, “That’s Elder Futhark, a runic alphabet used by Norse and Germanic peoples.”

  “How do you know this shit?” Ryan asked, his tone a jumble of respect and irritation. “And what makes Gim think I could read it?”

  Rone stared at the Commander in Chief for a long beat, as if debating how to proceed, and said, “The LIT Society hides runes in artwork and meme
s to communicate in plain sight.”

  Ryan’s brow furrowed, and his honey-brown eyes grew as large as silver dollars. “You said you weren’t a member of the secret society.”

  The Admiral gnawed his upper lip and gave a resigned nod. “Years ago, I was tasked with infiltrating the group to determine whether they posed a threat to national security. I learned their rudimentary comms, but failed to penetrate beyond the first tier.”

  “Can you identify other members?” Perfidulo asked.

  “Negative. The only person I knew was my recruiter—now deceased. How the hell did Gim ferret out my involvement?”

  “I’d bet on Volkov,” Bradley said. “The Dear Leader seemed to know all about my cerebral upgrade.”

  “Mr. President, this is a fruitless, time-consuming tangent,” Perfidulo argued. “We should be focused on the migrant protests. And you should return to D.C. to address their demands head-on.”

  “Fuck their demands!” Ryan said, peering over Rone’s shoulder as the Admiral transcribed each rune into an English letter.

  Bradley inched closer, following his lead.

  CSloophole

  USmilsatnet

  CHleasevspurch

  Concomms

  HFOSQBFUSGVQYUVQRCUHPOYQQRCGQRTVQYUO

  “Admiral, how do you know that’s not disinformation?” Perfidulo asked.