Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  A pair of Night Sector soldiers had carted four crates inside—four more children snatched from their families—and had yet to return to the truck.

  What’s happening to those kids?

  A loathsome slide show flickered through Bradley’s mind, images of satanic rituals and human sacrifices to Moloch, scenes he had never witnessed.

  Where did that depravity come from?

  A carping inner voice reminded him that 2,000 terabytes worth of propaganda had been downloaded into his brain, and that Volkov’s “mission” might be a cerebral landmine awaiting its trigger.

  But if that suitcase contains the owl, I might be free of Volkov’s mind control.

  A glimmer of hope reconstituted into a pang of regret. Would Abby understand that the Dear Jane e-mail was intended to insulate her—and Kyle—from the Russian general’s mission? Would she forgive him?

  With the owl, I could make her forgive me.

  A shudder tore along his spine, buttressed by the frigid night air.

  I don’t even have it in my possession and I’m already being seduced by its power.

  Was that Volkov’s intention?

  No, Bradley decided. Despite the general’s questionable past, he was working against The Consortium, against their plan for global governance.

  That’s why he assumed the blame for the black op; to protect me ... and Kyle ... and the country ... and the world.

  Volkov really is a white hat ... Or did he program me to conclude that?

  Fuck! I can’t even trust my own judgment anymore.

  TEradS Team Three arrived shortly before 0200 hours, and Bradley watched his colleagues raid the church with surgical precision. Within minutes they’d dispatched four traffickers, captured two alive, and liberated another seventeen children. The prisoner insisted that he’d been conscripted into Night Sector under duress and that disobedience would consign his family to “cattle-class citizenship.”

  As soon as Bradley heard the term, a vile definition materialized: A class of slaves bred to serve the “illuminated ones” economically, sexually, nutritionally, and sacrificially.

  His stomach lurched. His mind floundered, trying to grasp the fact that this degenerate behavior was happening here. In the present-day United States. Right under his nose.

  Agitated and shaken, he gestured for Wingnut to exit the mausoleum, and both men returned to the Humvee.

  “The TEradS made that look easy.”

  Bradley nodded, unable to find his voice, and as CJ drove back to NSA headquarters, he was lost in thought, pondering the metal suitcase.

  It’s got to be the owl, he thought. What else could warrant such extreme measures to ensure that only I could find it?

  He sighed, knowing that without the mind-control technology, he stood no chance of neutralizing White Rabbit before February fourteenth.

  The NSA gate guards scanned the locked suitcase with every wavelength available, yet were unable to glimpse the bag’s contents.

  It had taken an 0300-hours directive from Admiral Rone to gain entry, and by the time Bradley reached Python’s office, he was exhausted. How long had it been since he’d slept? He’d lost all track of time.

  “So what number is dear to your heart?” CJ asked. “A zip code?”

  He tried Sugar Lake’s postal code, street addresses for Gramps and the Murphys, birthdays, and the last five digits of his social security number. Nothing worked.

  “What about those letters on the windowsill,” CJ said. “Baby rearranged spells Abby, and she’s definitely close to your heart—”

  “But it’s only four letters.”

  “What if we spell it A-B-B-I-E and convert it into numbers?” Python asked, keying in 1-2-2-9-5.

  That too, failed to unlock the suitcase.

  “Aw, man, why didn’t I see it before?” Bradley mumbled, scratching at the growth of stubble coating his chin. “Y is the twenty-fifth letter, so the four letters A-B-B-Y yield a five digit number.”

  Python corrected the last two digits, using 1-2-2-2-5, and the latch popped open.

  The hinges creaked, and Bradley celebrated with a fist pump. “I knew it!

  Python pried Volkov’s laptop from a custom-cut layer of foam.

  CJ smacked the lid shut. “That owl is fricking creepy.”

  You have no idea, Bradley thought.

  The computer booted up and a message appeared on screen.

  Who is VV?

  Who is WJJ?

  Who is Patriot Anon?

  What is an inheritance?

  What are tools?

  /_ triumvirate.

  Bauer.

  Amad.

  Schwartz.

  Where is White Rabbit?

  GS knows.

  Use the inherited tools.

  Godspeed.

  “Holy shit!” CJ’s voice jumped an octave between words. “Volkov is Patriot Anon?”

  Bradley wasn’t sure what to make of that. Was the general trying to expose the truth about The Consortium? Or running some kind of deranged PsyOp?

  And who is GS? Bradley wondered. Gorka Schwartz, the billionaire?

  Python snapped his fingers and pointed to the laptop’s built-in fingerprint scanner. “This must be why Volkov left his prints all over the page from that coloring book.”

  Bradley held his breath as the computer guru cycled through the general’s prints. It was like waiting for a jury to finish deliberating. Would he escape this mind-fucking servitude and restore his free will? Or would he be imprisoned—both physically and mentally—for the rest of his life?

  “Son of a bitch!” Python blurted with an angry bob of his head. “The bastard used a two-stage password. Fifty-two characters. This is going to take a while to crack.”

  CJ squinted at the clock at the bottom of Python’s computer monitor, and a broad grin dispelled the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes. “Then I’m heading over to Ansley. Missy and Matthew are due to land within the hour.”

  “I assume you have a safe place to secure the owl?” Bradley asked.

  Midyawn, Python nodded. “Admiral Rone’s got a safe in his office. He’s on his way in.”

  “Good enough.” Craving a long nap inside the TEradS briefing room, Bradley turned toward CJ and said, “I’m heading over to Ansley too.”

  “I, uh ...” Python stammered.

  Indecipherable emotions played over his features. Was that nervousness? Or fear?

  “... I think Rone wants to debrief you. Personally.”

  “Sleep deprivation won’t help any of us. Tell the Admiral I’ll be back at 0900.” Bradley followed CJ through the hallway and into the elevator, and a smothering sense of dread settled over him, a feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  A lot of shit’s going down in District Nine, he thought. What if Abby was injured? Or abducted again?

  Snipers were trained to handle capture and interrogation. It was an occupational hazard, a calculated risk that had become less theoretical and more genuine thanks to those corrupt Secret Service agents.

  What if I never get to tell her that I still love her?

  The thought was wrenching, and he slammed the passenger’s door of the Humvee, converting his emotions into kinetic energy.

  I never should’ve sent that stupid e-mail. What was I thinking?

  CJ steered the vehicle through the NSA parking lot, and Bradley found it difficult to focus during the obligatory exit interview with the gate guard. It was 0349 hours by the time Ansley Air Force Base appeared on the horizon, and it took several seconds for Bradley’s bleary eyes to register the flashing blue lights.

  A trio of black SUVs closed around their vehicle. One sped past on the left, cut in front of them, and slammed to a stop. CJ locked up the brakes. The Humvee fishtailed and skidded sideways, then a dozen men in business suits emerged from the convoy, weapons drawn.

  A man in his late fifties displayed a badge and shouted, “Captain Christian James Love, Master Sergeant Bradle
y Michael Webber, you are under arrest for treason!”

  50

  Mariupol, California

  FIRST SERGEANT JOHN Cozart, leader of TEradS Team Nine, watched the fighter jet’s approach. The A-10 Thunderbolt, affectionately dubbed the Warthog, had been designed for close air support of ground troops. Its large wings provided superior maneuverability at low speed and altitude, and its 30mm Avenger autocannon was capable of delivering depleted uranium, armor-piercing shells at a rapid rate of fire.

  Cyber Command had already neutralized six unmanned ground vehicles that had turned Mariupol into a digital dungeon.

  The enemy had retaliated, lobbing an indiscriminate volley of rockets into the residential area, and vowed to annihilate the population if the TEradS refused to retreat.

  The cowards are hiding behind hostages, Cozart thought. They don’t have the balls for a head-on fight.

  The Warthog roared overhead. Seconds later, an explosion reverberated through the ground. A fountain of fire erupted, confirming the demise of Night Sector’s tank, then Cozart gave the order to breach the town limits.

  Mariupol fell strangely quiet with no sign of enemy soldiers. Frowning at the prospect of a dangerous and time-consuming house-to-house search, Cozart activated his mic and ordered his team to clear a defunct masonry gas station. The building occupied the high ground with a view of Main Street and the surrounding neighborhood, an ideal location for his Snipers to set up overwatch.

  The office was carpeted with an ankle-high layer of trash and broken equipment. A solitary service bay, a recent addition to the building, had been stripped of tools, and it featured a below-grade pit, a subterranean forest of steel beams and a maze of mesh catwalks. A steel, wall-mounted ladder provided roof access, and Cozart sighed, watching Abby ascend toward the hatch.

  Their working relationship was growing more complicated, a disaster of his own creation. That kiss had rattled him, on multiple levels. What had possessed him to bare his deepest feelings to a woman who was obviously in love with someone else? A fellow TEradS warrior whom he knew on a first-name basis? And if Fitz got word of their romantic interaction, he would transfer her to another team, an even greater torment than failing to win her heart.

  Right now, I get to spend more time with her than Bradley, he reminded himself.

  For the next hour, the TEradS scoured neighborhoods riddled with bombed-out houses and pressure-stripped trees. Terrified residents hailed them as heroes and shared tales of Night Sector atrocities: forced conscriptions, rapes, abductions, executions, and seemingly random artillery bombardment meant to terrorize the population.

  The enemy was using a “social credit score,” based on social media postings both before and after the pulse, in order to determine who lived, who died, who was trafficked, and who was sacrificed.

  Cozart shook his head. He’d heard about a Chinese social credit system that rewarded “good citizens” with perks like lower interest rates and “fast passes” for medical treatment. Rebels opposed to government policies were blacklisted with punishments ranging from being labeled “not qualified” to book flights or train tickets to public shaming on LED screens in urban areas.

  Prior to the meteors, did the people flaunting their social credit scores on Chinese dating websites have any idea that a satanic cabal was implementing that technology? Cozart wondered.

  His teeth ground together recalling the sickening rituals at St. Nicholas Academy, the butchering and marketing of human beings.

  These psychopaths capitalize on the fact that their actions are too heinous to be believed, he thought. They know that good-hearted, moral people won’t be able to comprehend the depravity; that they won’t believe it unless they see it for themselves ... And our corrupt, Consortium-funded media and justice system prevent that from happening.

  We need to—

  A shrill whistle rent the smoky air.

  “Incoming!”

  Cozart dove behind the trunk of a California black oak, and an explosion rocked the night.

  Chatter exploded over his tactical headset, coordinates for a pair of enemy mortar teams interspersed with situation reports. As Cozart called in an air strike, two mortars struck in quick succession. One, a quarter mile to his left; the second had decapitated the twenty-foot, freestanding sign for the gas station.

  Oh shit! Abby!

  Cozart bolted toward the lazy sloping hill at the edge of town, demanding a sitrep from his Snipers, and the ensuing silence induced despair. Debris littered the parking area of the filling station. Both pumps had been shredded by the shell, and the northeast corner of the shrapnel-scarred building was hemorrhaging puddles of brick.

  “Webber! Toomey!” His voice was drowned out by another mortar. It hit directly behind the service bay, punching a plate-sized hole through the rear wall. Splintered shards of cinder block showered him, and the entire structure quaked.

  Abby was descending the wall-mounted ladder, hands and boots clamped on the vertical rails, sliding as if it was a fireman’s pole. She hit the cement floor harder than intended, and the impact flung her backward like a rag doll.

  Cozart hoisted her onto her feet, and another blast razed the office area. A common wall bowed outward and crumbled, pelting them with hunks of brick and concrete. The roof above them began to creak and heave.

  Instinctively, he dragged Abby toward the stairwell that led to the pit. Yet another shell punched through the roof, and its blast wave sent them tumbling down the steps in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Night Sector is dialed into our position, Cozart thought. This isn’t going to end well.

  He’d barely finished the thought when another cascade of shells brought the building crashing down on top of them.

  51

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  CJ HAD BEEN HANDCUFFED and black-hooded; shoved into the cargo area of an SUV and driven around for a half hour.

  These goons are definitely not FBI, he thought. It’s got to be The Consortium.

  His mind regressed to his SERE training, a Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape course mandatory for all Pilots. During training, he’d been hooded, beaten, starved, stripped naked and hosed down in subfreezing temperatures, then locked inside a three-foot cube of a cage—a virtual tea party compared to the Consortium’s brand of corporal punishment.

  Would his captors de-glove him, essentially peel his face off and turn it into a gruesome mask?

  Submerge him in a fifty-five-gallon drum of oil and burn him alive?

  Plunge him into a vat of acid that would consume flesh, bone, and even teeth?

  A paralyzing anxiety spread through his nervous system.

  Will the sadistic bastards force me to witness the torture of my wife and child?

  The SUV braked to a stop, the rear hatch popped open, and gruff hands hauled him into a building with a serviceable elevator. It didn’t smell like a dank warehouse, and sounds weren’t echoing.

  Where the frick are they taking me? And where’s Bradley?

  A set of hinges groaned, then he was hurled through a doorway and thrust onto a chair. The front legs left the floor, and CJ lunged forward to keep from toppling backward.

  His captor ripped the hood from his head, nearly detaching his nose, and CJ squinted at a clean-shaven man in a dress shirt. He had a laurel wreath of short gray hair and cold, ruthless eyes, portals into an abyss.

  “Why have you been avoiding us?” Ruthless asked. “Making us go through the trouble of using your wife’s voiceprint to bait a trap ...”

  Missy’s voicemail—shit! It wasn’t real.

  “... That’s gonna cost you!” His captor emphasized the threat with a punch to the face.

  CJ’s head jerked to the right. Pain whipped through his jaw, and his emotions vaulted the spectrum, plummeting into disappointment because his family was not at Ansley, then rocketing into relief because The Consortium hadn’t captured them.

  “How did you replicate Missy’s voice?
”

  Ruthless gave a cocky shrug. “Voiceprint technology creates a unique mathematical formula, like an auditory fingerprint. Extremely valuable for zersetzung.”

  CJ shook his head, an admission of ignorance, and his captor continued, “Zersetzung means decomposition in German. It’s a Stasi harassment tactic, a cease-and-desist campaign that systematically destroys the lives of bothersome individuals. Synthesized confessions may not stand up in court, but they’re convincing enough to persuade commanding officers of insubordination; the media, of guilt; and wives, of infidelity.”

  CJ ignored the thread of warning in Ruthless’ voice. Zersetzung was the least of his worries.

  “I made a deal with Senator Conn,” he said, projecting false confidence. “I testify against Bradley Webber and receive immunity from Consortium retribution—for me and my entire family.”

  “Then you’d better tell a mighty compelling tale, one that convicts Murphy and Andrews of treason.”

  CJ slumped against the chair and exhaled a long sigh, symbolically expelling his conscience. He didn’t want to betray Bradley, and he sure as hell didn’t want to aid and abet The Consortium, but protecting his family was paramount.

  “Webber used an invisibility cloak to rendezvous with Vladislav Volkov last May, and they forged an agreement: Kyle Murphy becomes President; and, in exchange, Russia gets U.S. hypersonic missile technology.”

  Ruthless proffered a sinister smile. “What was inside Murphy’s safe?”

  “An audio tape of the agreement.” A strange sense of dissociation was descending over CJ, making him feel as if he was dreaming.

  “And what was Webber doing at Greenwood Cemetery?” Ruthless demanded.