Using pen and paper, he translated the symbols into English characters, editing and rewriting several times until a coherent message emerged.
Bradley,
If you are able to read this, I will be dead soon. Know that my life will end on my terms, without revealing information to our common enemy.
I have included a gift for President Murphy, intended to protect him from the Deep State and to persuade the doubters that the owl is real. To access this gift, type the English translation of this entire message without spaces or punctuation marks, add .exe, and hit enter.
The ache for HOME lives in us all, a SAFE place where we can revisit our most cherished MEMORIES.
Godspeed.
Vladislav Volkov
Rone snatched the written translation, placed it beneath a camera enabling Kyle to view it, then said, “How in the hell did you come up with that?”
“It’s a combination of cryptography techniques,” Bradley explained. “Poly-alphabetic substitution, shifting matrices, and transposition, sir.”
“Since when are you trained in cryptography?” Ryan asked.
Proffering a ball-busting grin, Bradley said, “Since I had that drug-induced dream and learned to speak Spanish, sir.”
His best friend nodded, acknowledging the not-so-subtle I-told-you-so, then Bradley began typing the sequence into Rone’s laptop.
A video clip appeared, showing Kyle’s foreign policy advisor meeting with Carter Sidney inside Senator Conn’s Capitol Hill office.
“Did he just hand off something to Crooked Carter?” Bradley asked.
The video zoomed in on the document, a classified copy of Kyle’s private schedule for tomorrow.
“How did that Consortium shill get past our vetting process?” Ryan demanded.
“I’m on it.” Admiral Rone did an about-face and hustled from the library.
Is Crooked Carter plotting to kill Kyle? Bradley wondered. The Sidney body count was legendary: 22 bodyguards, 8 investigative journalists, 5 fundraisers, 13 lawyers, 11 staffers, 3 political opponents, and 23 witnesses who had agreed to testify against her.
“Hey, Bradley, why did you capitalize the words home, safe, and memories?” Kyle asked.
“I didn’t,” he said with a shrug. “Volkov did.”
“Home. Safe. Memories,” Ryan repeated. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“I know exactly what it means,” Bradley told him. “The question is, are you willing to follow through?”
32
District Nine, California
ABBY JOGGED ACROSS Edgar Air Force Base en route to the TEradS briefing room. Her flight from D.C. had just landed, and she was eager to rejoin her team. A midnight raid would be an ideal antidote to dwelling on her disastrous weekend.
First I get abducted and miss my dad’s inauguration, she thought. Then Bradley gets coerced into an “interview” and abrupt departure. It’s as if fate is conspiring to keep us apart.
Suppressing her emotions, she strode into the room, attention fused to the wall-mounted monitors. An Global News Network broadcast was playing, an indication that Fitz hadn’t convened the briefing yet, and her teammates seized the opportunity.
“Our damsel in distress returneth!”
“Nice shiner. Really brings out the blue in your eyes.”
“Where’re your baby-sitters? I mean your Secret Service detail?”
Offering a one-finger salute, Abby settled at the conference table. “Don’t believe what you hear on the news. My abduction was an inside job.”
Toomey’s head shook; his brow furrowed into ripples of disbelief. “So the media are straight-up lying?”
“Why does that surprise you?” Abby asked. “The press lied about the POW massacre, the flash bangs, the firebombing, and the zombie op. And they’re trying to hang us all for war crimes we didn’t commit.”
“She’s got a point.” Cozart was surveying her with those shrewd brown eyes. His thin mouth curved into a smile that strayed beyond platonic.
“So why’d they kidnap you?” Toomey asked. “To torture a bogus confession out of you and condemn us all to a UW tribunal?”
Every gaze was riveted on Abby, each silently asking the same questions. Did she betray us? Sell us out in exchange for immunity?
“No,” she snapped indignantly. “They were demanding that Andrews confess to war crimes, and that my dad nominate Johanna Krupp as VP.”
“And they didn’t try to get anything out of you?” Toomey scoffed. “Bullshit!”
“It wasn’t about TEradS. It was about a satanic sex ritual.”
Laughter erupted.
“Devil worshippers and black magic? Good one, Webber!”
“Did Lucifer show you his magic wand?”
“Just how serious was that blow to your head?”
“I’m not joking. And I’m not crazy!” Abby insisted. “These bastards were trafficking teens, forcing them into sex slavery. And the intel gleaned from my kidnapping spawned those orphanage raids.”
“Our mission was a bust,” Toomey said. “Nothing but happy, well-fed kids in the District Nine orphanages. No voodoo dolls. No upside-down crosses.”
Abby was about to inform them that children had been rescued in other districts when Captain Fitzgerald’s face appeared on the monitor.
“Tonight’s target is a boarding school, three miles outside District Nine. A civilian tip suggests that children were moved to this facility ahead of last night’s raid.”
“Were the black hats tipped off?” Cozart asked.
“Governor Zeller was notified in advance,” Fitz said, mouth twisting with contempt. “That courtesy will not be extended this evening.”
The TEradS commander discussed strategy and rules of engagement, then presented archived floor plans for the building. The single-story, masonry structure was laid out like a cross and sat atop a bluff, surrounded on three sides by a snaking river.
“... T minus four hours. Godspeed.”
Fitz’s image collapsed into a pinpoint of light, the screen remained black for several seconds, then the newscast resumed.
“... More devastating news for the Murphy administration,” the anchor extolled gleefully. “Global News Network has obtained exclusive footage proving that Bradley Webber, the President’s son-in-law, colluded with Russia ...”
Abby froze, eyes glued to the surveillance footage of Union Station in Washington, D.C. Horrified, she watched Bradley kiss a dark-haired hooker with the same longing and passion that she’d assumed was reserved only for her. Abby’s emotions vaulted the spectrum from disappointment to jealousy to outrage to embarrassment. Then the sense of betrayal became an acute physical ache.
The hooker jammed her thumb into Bradley’s eye, and he recoiled, seemingly bewildered. He scanned the train station, confusion yielding to shame, and hurried away, accidentally bumping into an old man.
“... At first blush, the homeless man appears to be picking Webber’s pocket. But if you look closely, you will see the man insert something into the pocket. And according to an unnamed source, that homeless man is none other than Vladislav Volkov, the Kremlin agent who allegedly took Webber captive. What was handed off? Secret orders? Is the Russian general now the de facto leader of the United States?
“American voters deserve transparency, and that is why GNN is demanding a special prosecutor to unearth the truth ...”
“You wanna know what’s true?” Abby railed. “Literally the opposite of whatever the mockingbird media say. Black is white. Anti-Ty is peaceful. We’re living in a fucking house of mirrors created by drug dealers and satanic psychopaths!”
Her teammates traded nervous glances. No one knew what to say.
Cozart killed the newscast and bobbed his head toward the doorway, nonverbally ordering the team to leave, and they obediently filed out of the briefing room.
What the hell is wrong with me, losing it in front of the guys? Abby thought, blotting excess moisture from her eye
s. Why am I so damn emotional? Post traumatic stress? Or are the blackbirds screwing with me again?
“Maybe you should sit this one out,” Cozart said, his voice gentle as a caress.
“No. I’m fine. It’s just that ... Bradley is not a Russian agent.”
“I know.” Her team leader rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “But he is a fool for cheating on you.”
Memories of Mia Candelori spun through Abby’s mind, weaving a tangle of doubt and distrust.
No, she told herself. Bradley wasn’t soliciting that hooker. He looked shocked, freaked out, even disgusted. But why didn’t he tell me about it?
Lightly stroking her arm, Cozart whispered, “He doesn’t deserve you, Abby.”
The tenderness in his tone roused an awkward memory; the hospital, the hug good-bye, the attempt at intimacy; and Abby pushed back her chair, withdrawing from his touch. “Bradley wasn’t cheating. It was the blackbirds, the electromagnetic mind control. Same thing that happened to you, once upon a time.”
“The day I almost kissed you?” Cozart asked, running a hand through his reddish blond hair. “That had nothing to do with the blackbird. Damn it, Abby. It’s obvious to everybody but you.”
“This conversation is over.” She stood and marched toward the door, cheeks burning, feeling queasy.
“I’m attracted to you. I can’t help that.”
His words were like a bullet through the back, a betrayal; and the fact that the entire team knew added a layer of humiliation.
Why can’t Cozart be content with being friends like Schmuckatelli?
Corporal Shane Locatelli had made quite a first impression, slapping a water bottle out of her hand and nicknaming her Abi-frail on day one of Scout Sniper training. For weeks, he’d razzed Abby and encouraged her, and always treated her like one of the guys. No dreamy-eyed looks, no flirty smiles, no nonsense.
Doesn’t Cozart realize that I could have him court-martialed for sexual harassment?
Abby dismissed the possibility. Her team leader hadn’t abused his authority. He didn’t deserve to have his career and reputation destroyed for merely expressing his feelings.
Should I ask Fitz for a transfer to Team Three?
My parents would love having me close to Washington, D.C.; and now that my dad’s President, there’s no way Fitz will deny my request.
Abby expelled a beleaguered sigh.
So why am I reluctant to leave Team Nine?
Chapter 10
DAY 704
Monday, January 23rd
33
South of District Nine, California
AT THE STROKE OF midnight, Abby was in position, lying prone beside Toomey and peering through her spotting scope. The boarding school was rundown and isolated, reminiscent of Father Ibis’ orphanage, except that no light was escaping from its plywood-sheathed windows.
A weatherworn brick marquis read, St. Nicholas Academy.
Patron saint of children, she thought, grimacing at the irony. Abby zoomed in on the disproportionately large dot above the “i” in Nicholas. The triangular-shaped spiral appeared newer than the rest of the sign, as if someone had painted the symbol recently.
On the eastern side of the school, a stretch of paved asphalt extended through a parking lot, across a soccer field, and into a basketball court whose hoops had been removed.
Abby activated her tactical headset. “No signs of activity,” she advised her team. “But that mile-long pavement has dark skid marks on both ends, the kind landing gear deposits onto runways. So uninvited company could drop in from above.”
Cheek resting on his rifle, Toomey concurred with her assessment then deactivated his mic. He made a slashing motion across his neck, indicating for her to do the same.
After she complied, he said, “You know Cozart’s a good guy, right?”
Abby cringed.
Why did he make that stupid admission? she thought. Now, working together is awkward.
“Right?” Toomey reiterated.
“He knows I’m married, RIGHT?” she shot back.
“He’s a good team leader.”
Abby agreed, but wanted desperately to change the subject. “That triangular logo above the ‘i,’ you ever see that before?”
Toomey expelled a raspy sigh, venting his frustration. “Cozart shouldn’t get reprimanded and demoted just because he cares about you.”
Incensed by Toomey’s persistence, Abby said, “If you don’t want me to file a complaint, drop it. And I suggest you pass that along.”
“Understood.”
Chewing on her lower lip, Abby surveilled the perimeter, one eye dedicated to the night-vision scope, the other monitoring the night sky for enemy aircraft. The Consortium’s Little Birds were capable of supporting chain guns, rockets, and missiles—armaments that would make for a very bad night.
Cozart gave the go order, a small explosive charge splintered a side door, and her teammates charged into the school. Wailing children swamped their comms, nearly drowning out shouts of “clear” and orders to drop weapons.
Gunfire resounded and quickly petered out.
Evans growled, “You. Sick. Mother ... fucker!”
Cozart screamed, “Stand down! NOW!” then Fitz demanded a sitrep.
“Six tangos neutralized. One in custody...”
As the children’s despondent cries intensified, Abby’s teeth gnashed. The pain, despair, and abject terror in their little voices resonated through her body. They sounded too young to be teenagers, and that realization clawed at her heart.
“... Request National Guard to secure perimeter and ...” Cozart’s voice broke, and he drew an audible breath. “... And multiple medical units.”
“Injured operators?” Fitz asked impatiently.
“Negative. Minors in need of ...” Again, her team leader’s voice failed, this time dissolving into a trio of sniffles.
Did the human traffickers deploy tear gas? Or pepper spray?
Two of her teammates staggered from the building, their wet cheeks glinting in the ambient moonlight. Evans tore off his helmet, sank onto his knees, and began to vomit. Zavada was pacing, staring up at the sky, muttering the same two phrases over and over: These fuckers need to die. Every fucking one of them.
They aren’t trying to neutralize a chemical agent, Abby decided, and a sensation of dread snaked up her spine.
Evans, Zavada, and Cozart—these men had witnessed horrific atrocities since the electromagnetic pulse. What the hell had driven battle-hardened, grown men to tears?
34
District Three, Washington, D.C.
SINCE BEING SWORN IN as President, Kyle’s life had become a blur of official functions and meetings. Just this morning, he’d fired his Consortium-allied foreign policy advisor and signed three executive orders covering a host of issues: lifting cumbersome regulations to resurrect the economy; authorizing the TEradS to round up gang members; and slashing federal funding for a bevy of Consortium front groups. And it wasn’t even seven a.m. yet.
Rone and his team of patriots had a plan laid out, moves and countermoves, contingencies for contingencies. Only ten people had the full picture, seven of them military, and Kyle and Ryan were being briefed at a measured pace. The public would have to be informed even more slowly to avoid Semmelweiss reflex, a knee-jerk tendency to reject new information when it contradicted long-held beliefs and norms.
How do you convince an entire nation that everything they’ve been taught, that every truth they hold dear is a lie, without the country devolving into a societal collapse?
That’ll be more difficult than rooting out the corruption, Kyle thought, and an old Mark Twain quote came to mind: “It is easier to fool the people, than to convince them that they have been fooled.”
Rone’s team estimated that four-to-six percent of the population had been hopelessly brainwashed; Kyle feared it was much higher.
How will those so-called “lost souls” adapt to this new paradigm? Wi
ll they become violent? Commit suicide? How do we protect them from themselves without encroaching on civil liberties?
He sighed, overwhelmed by the task ahead. Everything would have to be revamped: science, history, education, health care, banking, currency, manufacturing, agriculture, religion, and the justice system. The things-to-fix list seemed endless; and, in the interim, The Consortium would continue fomenting civil unrest through Anti-Ty, Night Sector, and CIA-sponsored terrorist attacks.
“Focus on one slice of the pie,” Kyle mumbled, echoing Rone’s advice. “One objective at a time.”
Six CEOs, representing the “technology giants,” were gathered in the conference room for a breakfast meeting, and the scent of coffee, cinnamon, and contempt permeated the 5,525-square foot space.
Grudgingly, Kyle’s guests stood, and he invited them to be seated as he settled onto a black leather chair at the head of the table.
“As you know,” he began, “electric and communications have been restored for approximately two-thirds of our population, and it has come to my attention that you all intend to impose monthly subscription fees for social media and search engine access.”
Gaggle’s founder glanced at an analog clock then feigned a smile that was riddled with condescension and indignation. “We’ve lost our ad revenue, Mister Murphy, so we can no longer provide these services free of charge. We have a fiduciary duty to our stockholders.”
“Perhaps, you could consider it an investment in your country, priming the pump, so to speak. Free, unfettered access will allow the economy to grow, thus restoring your advertising revenue.”
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 13
