“No, sir. Just very moved by the depth of your loss.”
Ryan’s brow was gnarled, his mouth pursed, but the mirth twinkling in his eyes betrayed his feigned anger. “Ten push-ups, Master Sergeant.”
Bradley’s smile wilted. “Sir?”
“You heard me. Twenty push-ups! Now!”
He sank down onto the tiled floor and began cranking them out before Ryan could double the punishment again. His biceps were on fire, sweat was blooming everywhere, and the Chili he’d consumed was threatening to mutiny.
It took a Herculean effort to maneuver into a kneeling position, and as he returned to his feet, the pain in his quads eclipsed his arms.
Smirking, Ryan said, “I sincerely regret that I won’t be here long enough to make you sufficiently miserable. Captain Fitzgerald will be taking over as commander, effective Monday.”
“What?” Bradley huffed, “Why, sir?”
“Kyle’s running for President and I’m going to be his running mate.”
Laughter erupted from Bradley like a pressurized stream of champagne. Deep staccato guffaws climbed in pitch, shrunk in duration, and faded into a barely audible wheeze. Then he began to cough uncontrollably.
“You find my candidacy laughable, PRIVATE Webber?”
Fearing another punitive round of push-ups, he croaked out, “Not at all, sir.”
“Good. This information is off the record until the formal announcement on Monday. Understood?”
His commanding officer’s expression was resolute; his stare, deathly serious.
He’s really playing this off, Bradley thought. He can’t be serious ... Can he?
Ryan lifted a pen from a yellow-ruled notepad. “Now, let’s get back to business. Tell me about your adventures in Volkov-land.”
Bradley recounted all the mission details through his captivity in the library, purposely omitting the owl.
“So, a five billion-dollar invisibility cloak was defeated by a five-dollar bag of flour. Got it,” Ryan said, head shaking as he scribbled notes. “What was Volkov’s primary focus during the interrogation?”
“Actually, he was disseminating information, not extracting it.”
Ryan’s eyebrows arched then contracted, vaulting the spectrum from surprise to worry. “As in propaganda and brainwashing?”
Bradley stiffened, and a multi-pronged jolt of pain zipped through his body.
How can I explain this without coming across as crazy?
“Permission to speak off the record, sir?”
His CO dropped the pen and leaned back against his chair, inviting him to proceed with a roll of his hand.
In one, unending run-on sentence, Bradley laid it out: the owl; the loss of motor skills; the manipulation of all five senses; the control over bodily functions; the interception of thoughts in real time. Noting the shadow of skepticism creeping over Ryan’s face, he hastened his tempo. “... Volkov kept insisting that everything I believed to be true was a lie. That he was my friend, not my enemy. That The Consortium shredded our satellites, not the Russians. He kept using words like re-education and activation. And collaboration and joint mission.”
“Bradley, I’ve got to be honest,” Ryan said dubiously. “This sounds like a wild dream; not an interrogation by the cruelest general to ever don a Russian uniform.”
Panic accelerated Bradley’s heart rate. His pulse became a deafening thrum. “Boot up the stolen laptop, sir. Read the message for yourself.”
Ryan expelled a long sigh. “I already inspected the laptop. It’s a dumb terminal. Nothing on it—”
“No, sir! There was a declaration. Volkov downloaded 2,000 terabytes directly into my brain. He said that at the appointed time, I would be activated—”
“You awoke with an IV in your arm. It’s obvious that was a drug-induced nightmare.”
Bradley recoiled, thinking that statement hurt more than his teammates’ beatdown and the push-ups combined. “With all due respect, sir, the owl was real. It’s the next-generation blackbird.” He paused, summoning his courage. “And I’m terrified that Volkov is going to turn me into a remote-controlled assassin.”
Ryan rubbed a hand over his chin. Doubt had escalated into full-blown disbelief. “All right, let’s move on. Tell me about your escape.”
Bradley’s hands fisted in frustration. I’m not explaining this well, he thought. I have to get him to believe me. I have to make him understand how truly dangerous this technology is.
“Your escape, Master Sergeant?”
“Oh ... Sorry, sir,” Bradley apologized. “I didn’t escape. Volkov let me go.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying he captured you, didn’t interrogate you, and then let you go?”
“I know it sounds incredible—”
“Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense,” Ryan said, his voice thick with alarm and irritation. “Volkov interrogated you while you were drugged. Listen, Bradley, I need you to focus. I need to know what you divulged.”
His stomach lurched, a bitter gush of acid seared the back of his throat, and a haunting question shrieked through his head.
Is that the real reason Volkov let me go?
Because I’ve already betrayed my country?
Chapter 3
DAY 628
Tuesday, November 8th
6
District Nine, California
MELISSA LOVE GATHERED her long strawberry-blonde hair into a ponytail and hoisted her fidgety two-year-old son onto her hip. He was a platinum blond, like his daddy, but had her blue-green eyes, heart-shaped face, and placid temperament.
The queue outside the polling station inched ahead and Missy nudged Tilli and Tom forward. She had become a caretaker for the elderly couple, shopping, cooking, and cleaning in exchange for room and board so that her husband’s salary could accrue toward her eventual move to Washington, D.C.
“That Crooked Carter Sidney,” Tom griped, attention fused to his Chi-phone. “She just equated Ryan Andrews to Hitler for God’s sake!”
“Because he’s sexist, crude, and disrespectful,” Tilli shot back.
Tom’s breathing became audible. His sunken cheeks flushed. “Calling Sidney out does NOT make him a sexist!”
Other voters barged in on the debate, taking sides.
“He’s right. Andrews is a war hero.”
“Maybe to Nazis.”
“Better than Crooked Carter. They ought to lock her up!”
Missy tuned out the argument.
This election cycle had been the nastiest and most divisive she could remember. Carter Sidney had blasted Major Andrews’ leadership of the TEradS, leveling accusations of racism, Islamophobia, and genocide; and he returned fire with allegations of money laundering, fraud, and treason. Worse still, every voter with a Chi-phone had a ringside seat for the verbal skirmishes via Chatter; and many began adding their own belligerent comments to the ugliness, creating divisions between communities and families.
I can’t wait until this election is over, Missy thought.
A man wearing a red and black armband was seated at a desk outside the polling station. “Insert your Homeland Security ID and place your thumb on the scanner,” he said.
Tilli complied. A green light flashed, and two Night Sector soldiers with assault rifles allowed her to enter the polling station.
“I thought asking for ID was racist?” Tom said, motioning for Missy to go ahead of him.
The man with the armband scowled at Tom then reiterated his instructions.
Missy inserted her Homeland Security card, and a rush of fear pealed through her.
Will they notice the alteration?
A red light flashed, and Missy’s hand began to tremble.
“You’re not eligible to vote here,” Armband told her, scorn resonating in his tone. “Report to the courthouse on Odessa Street.”
She stepped aside, thoughts racing. Courthouse? Are they going to arrest me? Draft me? What’ll happen to Matthew?
She co
uldn’t bear the thought of her son growing up in an orphanage—or disappearing from one. Were all those heartbreaking accounts of missing children on social media “fake news” as Governor Zeller claimed?
“... But I’m old. And the courthouse is a mile from here,” Tom was arguing.
“Then don’t vote,” Armband snapped.
“But you just let my wife vote here. And we live in the same dang house!”
A Night Sector soldier shoved Tom out of line, and Missy latched onto his elbow to keep the senior citizen from falling. “What is wrong with you?” she shouted. “Assaulting an elderly man?”
The soldier raised an arm as if to backhand her, and when Missy flinched, he meted out a contemptuous laugh. “Get out of here, yellow snake, before I tread on your face!”
Yellow snake? Missy thought.
“Come on, Tom. It’s not worth it. Let’s just go home.”
“Like hell!” His cataract-dulled blue eyes shone with outrage, and he lumbered toward the entrance. “Voting is my duty and I will cast my ballot in this election!”
The Night Sector soldiers sprouted sinister smiles, then their rifle barrels lurched upward. One sighted on Tom; the other, on Missy.
7
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
BRADLEY EXITED THE C-130, rucksack bounding against his shoulder, and crossed the tarmac en route to TEradS headquarters.
His emotions were teetering between excitement over seeing Abby and trepidation over the future. At 1600 hours, he would be traveling to District Six, along with Fitz and the local TEradS teams, to watch the election results with Ryan and Kyle. Would it be a victory party? Or a wake? This wasn’t merely an election; the next President would decide the fate of every Soldier on Team Five, Six, and Nine.
Bradley entered the briefing room, dropped his rucksack in the corner, and exchanged greetings with Team Six. Their collective mood was stoic and tinged with anger over an impending war crimes tribunal come January.
“Fitz called an emergency meeting,” Sergeant Ishman said. “Can’t be good.”
Bradley exhaled a heavy sigh and settled at a rectangular table with his peers, ten forlorn faces contemplating life in prison for something they didn’t do. No one wanted to talk openly about it, but the threat was always there, looming like a gun to their heads.
“You believe this shit?” Ishman asked, gesturing toward a newscast on a wall-mounted monitor.
“... The Terrorist Eradication Squad has come under increasing scrutiny thanks to Ryan Andrews’ candidacy. The vice-presidential hopeful was commander of the TEradS during a spate of botched operations that resulted in the deaths of Americans, which prompted Carter Sidney to speculate that a Murphy-Andrews administration would elevate the rogue mercenaries to the status of secret police.
“Fortunately, that possibility is looking extremely remote. According to the most recent Linkbook polls, Sidney leads with 51%, Conn trails with 39%, and Murphy has yet to break double digits at just 9% ...”
Groans and expletives swelled like a festering wound; then, mercifully, someone muted the live-stream.
Nine percent, Bradley thought, that can’t be right.
Kyle had tons of support at Scoville and Langden, and throughout the military. He was running on a pro-American BREAD platform.
Balancing the budget
Restructuring the FED
Embracing the Constitution
Abolishing corruption, and
Defending U.S. sovereignty
Captain Fitzgerald loped into the briefing room and, as the TEradS rose to attention, he placed a laptop onto the conference table.
“As you were,” Fitz said, fingers hunting and pecking over the keyboard.
An Internet messaging site replaced the newscast, a bunch of geniuses conversing in terminology Bradley didn’t understand.
Fitz cleared his throat. “This is an intel drop by someone claiming to have TS/SCI clearance,” he said, referring to an elite designation, Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information.
Was KM asked to run for President?
Can elections be rigged?
What company owns smart voting machines?
Who is connected to Votematic?
Can white hats prevent election rigging?
How much support does KM have?
How much support does KM REALLY have?
9%?
Fake news.
43-45%?
Brace for a political earthquake.
Anonymous Patriot
“Okay, Webber,” Fitz said. “Confirm or deny. And that’s an order!”
Bradley felt heat stealing into his cheeks. Fewer than a dozen people knew that Admiral Rone and General Quenten had asked Kyle to run, and that knowledge put Bradley in a precarious situation. Betray Ryan’s confidence? Or disobey Fitz’s order?
“I have no idea how much support Kyle Murphy has,” he answered, battling a grin as he danced the line between truth and lie.
“His lips are twitching,” Ishman said. “He’s holding back a smile.”
“Come on, spill it.”
“We can keep our mouths shut.”
Feeling cornered, Bradley said, “Oh yeah? So can I.”
Fitz uncorked a shrill whistle to recapture everyone’s attention then said, “Was ... your father-in-law ... asked ... to run?”
Bradley understood why the guys were pressuring him. They were desperate for any inkling of hope, any reassurance that they wouldn’t spend the next sixty years rotting away in a supermax prison.
“Yes? Or no, Master Sergeant?”
Leery about disclosing privileged information, he crafted an evasive response. “Are we departing for District Six at 1600 hours, sir?”
A pensive hush fell over the room as his teammates mulled over his cryptic reply, then Fitz pumped both fists and said, “That’s a big fat affirmative!”
Cheers and high-fives erupted; hands were gripping Bradley’s shoulders and patting him on the back.
“Listen, guys,” he said, trying to deflate expectations. “Patriot Anon being correct on one point DOES NOT guarantee that his poll numbers are accurate.”
“What about this Votematic?” Fitz asked. “I did a Gaggle search. It appears to be a UK-based outfit.”
“Prior to the EMP, Votematic had 57,000 smart voting machines in 16 states. And its owner happens to sit on the board of Gorka Schwartz’s One Society Foundation—”
Bradley halted, realizing that Ryan hadn’t mentioned Votematic or Gorka Schwartz, the leftist billionaire known for breaking currencies and countries.
How the hell do I know that?
Fitz switched out the feed, replacing the message board with the live election coverage.
“... We are getting reports that terrorists have attacked polling stations in District Five ...”
To his right, Bradley heard Gutierrez muttering in Spanish, a prayer for his sister.
But I don’t speak Spanish!
A weird tingle was spreading through him, a nagging feeling that his thoughts were not strictly his own.
No, he told himself. That’s not what Gutierrez was saying. He probably doesn’t even have a sister.
Intent on debunking his silly hunch, Bradley responded to his fellow Sniper and strange syllables tumbled from his mouth. “Vive su aislador en el distrito cinco?”
“Sí. Desde cuándo hablas Español?”
“Solo unas palabras.” A shudder coursed through Bradley, and he bolted from the briefing room, his mind a redlining engine.
I downloaded information into your brain ... essential to our joint mission ... you will be activated.
Following his capture, Bradley had been obsessed with Vladislav Volkov’s threat, but as weeks stretched into months without incident, the memories had eroded, and he’d come to accept that Ryan was right. The owl, the mind control, it was all just a drug-induced dream.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Bradley thrust his body against the emer
gency door and staggered into the nippy November air, sucking in deep drafts; and just as his frenetic pulse began to moderate, he heard a distinctive hoot.
Was that a flesh-and-blood owl ...? Or Volkov’s mental manipulator?
8
District Nine, California
MISSY LOVE’S PARALYZING fear had mutated into righteous fury.
How dare those Night Sector thugs aim rifles at civilians!
She’d railed about her frightening experience on Chatter to instigate public outrage and, hopefully, get those goons a well-deserved reprimand. And it was a good way to occupy her mind during Tom’s frequent rest stops, which had turned a one-mile walk into an hour-long ordeal.
After finally arriving at the courthouse, they joined a zigzagging queue of voters that spilled over the terraced concrete steps and onto Odessa Street. An alleged power outage had caused the backlog, and after forty-five minutes, the line hadn’t moved.
Sighing, Missy shifted her napping son to her other arm, marveling at how much heavier he seemed when asleep, then she checked her Chatter account.
No likes. No re-chats. Not even any snarky comments.
Doesn’t anyone care about voter intimidation?
She fired off another “chat,” informing Governor Zeller that he had just lost her vote, attached a photo of the swelling crowd, and pocketed her phone.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 4
