Did the CIA torture him? he wondered. And pump him full of drugs?
The heavy door of the SCIF clunked shut, affording them privacy, then CJ said, “Are you okay?”
The innocuous question awakened the anesthetized beast. Bradley lunged. His hand clamped around CJ’s throat, and the Sniper slammed him against the wall.
“What did you tell them?” he growled through gritted teeth.
“Nothing. I—”
“Liar! They knew about the mausoleum!”
Gasping, CJ said, “I only confirmed what they already knew. A satellite caught us leaving with the suitcase, but they don’t know what was in it. I swear.”
“What else did you volunteer?”
CJ took umbrage with his word choice. “I didn’t volunteer anything.”
“If they didn’t torture you or eavesdrop on your thoughts,” Bradley barked, “you freaking volunteered it!”
He swallowed hard against the Sniper’s powerful grip. “Look, I just verified what they already knew and made up some shit—”
“You told them about Kyle’s safe!”
CJ hesitated and Bradley jerked his head forward and smashed it against the wall. The gash inflicted by the chunk of marble began to bleed again. “They tracked us to Sugar Lake. I told them the safe contained an audio conversation between Murphy and Volkov—total bullshit—”
“Bullshit they’ll use to impeach Kyle. Do you have any fucking idea what’ll happen to the country if The Consortium regains the presidency?”
“They’re after my wife and two-year-old, Bradley. And you know damn well what they’re doing to women and children these days! I did what I had to do to protect them.”
The door to the SCIF hissed as it opened, and Rone strode into the secure room with the buckypaper suitcase dangling at his side. “Whatever caused this bad blood,” the Admiral said, eyeing them both, “it’s over. Understood?”
The Sniper’s fingers tightened, compressing CJ’s airway in a parting threat, then he abruptly let go.
“While you were indisposed, Python cracked the 52-character password.” Rone placed the suitcase onto the conference table and opened it. “Which means we now command a powerful weapon. Captain Love, can you fly this thing?”
The Admiral gestured toward the owl, and Bradley muttered, “Not if there are any trees nearby.”
CJ slanted the Sniper an apologetic glance before responding, “Yes, sir!”
“In addition to keeping the owl airborne,” Rone continued, “you’ll have to master the mind-control software. Fortunately, it’s driven by drop-down menus, so you won’t have to write any code.”
CJ nodded, grateful for that, then Rone turned his attention to Bradley.
“Python cross-referenced Gorka Schwartz’s voiceprint against satellite phone traffic and determined that the billionaire is somewhere in California, which means you’re going wheels up. ASAP. Got a UC-35A on standby.”
California! CJ felt like he’d just won the lottery. After we deal with Gorka, I’m going to find Missy and Matthew, he thought, suppressing a shit-eating grin.
Rone handed a satellite phone to Bradley. “This is encrypted. Most secure comms available, and you’ll get a signal anywhere; even underground.”
“Sweet! Are we extracting intel on site?” Bradley asked. “Or exfiltrating Schwartz?”
“Unclear. The mission will be tailored based on Gorka’s location. Hopefully, we’ll have a plan by the time you land at Edgar Air Force Base.”
“Edgar?” CJ repeated. “Isn’t that where Abby’s stationed?”
He’d expected a reunion to soothe Bradley’s foul mood, but it only seemed to stoke his anger.
“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t deliver news like this ahead of a critical mission,” Rone said, bowing his head. “But the TEradS found Missy unconscious on a highway outside Mariupol and ... I suggest you head over to the Med Center as soon as you land, and say whatever needs to be said ... I’m sorry, Son.”
The warmth and strength instantly evaporated from CJ’s body. His lips were moving, yet no sound emerged, and Bradley voiced the question CJ couldn’t muster.
“Matthew?”
“Whereabouts unknown,” Rone said, “but the TEradS are on the ground in Mariupol, circulating his picture, and we’ve got lots of drones in that sector.”
Because it’s a fricking war zone, CJ thought. Then lowering his face into his hands, he let the tears come.
61
District Nine, California
RYAN LUNGED TOWARD Governor Zeller in an act of desperation. Beneath his suit, Ryan was wearing a high-tech piece of body armor. Composed of carbon nanotubes that were lighter than air, the T-shirt was stronger than diamonds, yet flexible as rubber. He knew the two-pound accessory had been engineered to withstand point-blank blasts from the most powerful handguns on the market, but traditional ballistic vests were ineffective against knives. Kevlar’s woven fabric was designed to spread the bullet’s impact over a large area, which allowed the tip of a blade to slip between the threads and penetrate the vest.
Would the carbon nanotubes be able to stop a heart-attack dart?
The report of a gunshot resounded.
A bullet bored into Zeller’s head, and a cloud of blood exited.
Ryan’s security detail busted through the locked double doors, draped an armor-plated blanket over him, and whisked him into a hardened personnel carrier.
As the motorcade accelerated away from the governor’s mansion, Ryan tried to make sense of the shooting.
Was that bullet intended for me?
It seemed unlikely that a sniper would dispatch the wrong man, especially given that Ryan was still a yard from Zeller when he was shot.
Did the governor alienate his Consortium masters?
Is Zeller their scapegoat for the slaughter in Mariupol? A countermove to avoid martial law and loss of control?
Frustrated that the motive didn’t ring true, Ryan shook his head.
Why didn’t the gunman shoot me? Or at least wait until Zeller tagged me with the dart?
Do they need me alive for some reason?
His mind reverted to an unanswered question.
Why bother assassinating me when they can just run out the clock? Does the Consortium NEED the presidency in order to launch their February fourteenth weapon?
Noticing the thump of distant helicopter rotors, Ryan froze, an ear inclined toward the sound.
“SuperCobra gunship, sir,” a member of his Marine detail volunteered. “To defend against Night Sector artillery and aircraft.”
The motorcade made the return trip in under half the time, plowed through Edgar’s northern gate, and braked to a stop outside the Med Center.
Ryan marched into the building and waved off the medical team racing toward him. “I don’t require any treatment,” he told them, “but I would like to visit with Melissa Love.”
The ranking physician was a First Lieutenant named de’ Medici. He was in his thirties with cold blue eyes, a disproportionately large nose, and an air of arrogance that Ryan found off-putting.
“She hasn’t regained consciousness,” de’ Medici said without a trace of compassion. “And frankly, Mr. Vice President, I don’t expect her to make it through the night.”
“Understood.” He followed the doctor through a maze of hallways, noting the pyramid-shaped tattoos on the tips of his index fingers and pinkies.
Zeller’s words rushed back: warriors sympathetic to our cause have been promoted.
Is this doctor a Consortium puppet? Ryan wondered as he entered the intensive care unit.
The claustrophobic space was cluttered with machines and wires and tubes. The antiseptic odor triggered memories of his adopted daughter, Sybil. She, too, had been given a bleak prognosis, yet managed to beat the odds.
“Mrs. Love suffered severe head trauma,” de’ Medici explained, “and the swelling is exerting pressure on her brain.”
“Can’t you alleviate it surgically?” Ryan asked
.
“That would require a complex procedure, as likely to take her life as save it.”
“Did her husband decline the surgery?”
The doctor’s evasive gaze veered toward his comatose patient. “Given the resources that would consume, I don’t think that’s an appropriate course of action. I believe it’s best to keep her comfortable until she passes.”
A blistering surge of anger billowed through Ryan. He knew what it was like, having a loved one lying unresponsive in a hospital bed. What would’ve happened to Sybil if Major Pavlick hadn’t fought to save her?
“That’s not your call, First Lieutenant. You’re a doctor. Not God!” Ryan bellowed, not caring if his subordinates overheard. “Now, get Captain Love on the phone and let him decide what’s best for his wife!”
De’ Medici vented an audible sigh and left the room.
Rationing health care, Ryan thought, another sick tenet of The Consortium’s agenda. This ranks right up there with lethal vaccines and mosquito-drone-induced pandemics. What else are they up to? Planting cancer-causing chemicals in our food and water? Withholding cures for diseases?
He plodded toward the bed and rested his palm atop Missy’s hand. “CJ’s on his way. So you keep fighting.”
“Mr. Vice President?”
Ryan whirled around and, seeing the Brigadier General, he snapped to attention, an old habit that was proving difficult to break.
“Elton Smythe, First Marine Division,” the General said, offering his hand. “I am pleased to report that the sniper has been dispatched.”
“Consortium?” he asked.
“Unclear. We’re in the process of confirming the shooter’s identity.” The General fiddled with his satellite phone and produced a digital photograph of the corpse.
Gaping at the unlikely hero who had saved his life, Ryan thought, Are you fucking kidding me?
62
District Seven, Kansas
CJ LANDED THE UC-35A at McDowell Air Force Base in the midst of snow flurries, a harbinger of the blizzard to come. According to the latest weather forecast, he had a one-hour window to refuel the jet and take off.
A weakening polar vortex was driving frigid air southward into a river of moisture flowing in off the Pacific. The Rocky Mountains had already received three feet of snow, and McDowell was expecting eighteen inches.
I can’t afford to get snowed in, CJ thought, checking the wings for ice buildup. Frozen contaminants could create rough surfaces, disrupt the smooth flow of air, and degrade the wing’s ability to generate lift.
I have to see Missy before she ...
He couldn’t bring himself to use the word. His wife was thirty years old; she couldn’t be dying.
CJ sucked in a frosty breath, wishing it could numb the ache in his chest.
And Matthew, he hasn’t even learned to ride a bike or play baseball—
“Yo, CJ!” Bradley shouted from the forward cabin door. “Phone call from Edgar!”
He scurried around the tail, nearly wiping out on a patch of ice, and snatched the satellite phone from the Sniper’s hand. “Captain Love,” he said, charging up the steps into the warmth of the cabin.
“First Lieutenant de’ Medici calling in regards to your wife ...”
CJ held his breath, praying. Please God, don’t tell me she’s gone. Not yet. I have so much I need to say to her.
“... There is a surgical procedure that might alleviate the pressure on her brain—”
“Then do it!” he interrupted, annoyed that so much time had been wasted.
“The procedure is risky, Captain. She may not survive, and even if she does, I cannot guarantee that she hasn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage ...”
He winced at the doctor’s matter-of-fact tone, as if he wasn’t talking about a human being.
“... And I must warn you that the procedure involves removing a substantial chunk of her skull. We’ll have to temporarily implant it inside her leg to keep the bone alive until the brain swelling diminishes ...”
CJ slumped down onto a leather passenger seat. Every muscle in his body clenched. His tears felt like fire streaming over his icy cheeks.
“... I don’t recommend it,” de Medici continued. “It’s a long shot that will put the patient and surgical team through a stressful ordeal—”
“Do. The. Surgery!” CJ raged.
An awkward silence persisted, then de Medici cleared his throat. “I will forward the consent form to this phone number.”
“Thank you!” CJ ended the call, slapped the satellite phone into Bradley’s chest and hurried outside to resume his preflight inspection. Emotion was sequestered in a mental lockbox. All that mattered was getting to Edgar Air Force Base.
With redoubled vigilance, he scrutinized the aircraft and returned to the cockpit. As he taxied the UC-35A toward the runway, a C-130 landed, kicking up a blast wave of white, simultaneously scouring the tarmac and re-depositing a new layer of crystalline snow.
Cleared for takeoff, CJ advanced the throttle and, as the aircraft accelerated along the runway, fat lazy snowflakes became a steady stream of white lines. Then a vicious crosswind buffeted the jet. The upwind wing lifted, causing the aircraft to fishtail like a skidding car.
Bradley yelled, “What the fuck?”
CJ scrambled to compensate. The front landing gear left the tarmac; the rear, seconds later; then visibility decreased to zero. The jet bounced and shuddered, jostled by turbulent winds as it climbed through the dense whiteout.
At 38,000 feet, visibility improved, the irregular gusts ebbed, and CJ engaged the autopilot.
Bradley’s complexion was whiter than the ocean of clouds below.
“Relax,” CJ told him. “It’s not like there are any trees at this altitude.”
The joke fell flat, garnering a dismissive roll of the eyes. The Sniper had barely uttered a dozen words since they’d departed Washington. Rather than dissipating, the tension between them seemed to be building.
He’s still furious with me, CJ decided. I have to find a way to clear the air. And a generic apology isn’t going to cut it. I’m going to have to trust him with the truth.
“Listen, Bradley, the CIA didn’t torture me because they think I’m on Senator Conn’s payroll. Believe me, I hate The Consortium because ... back before the pulse, I ran security for Daman Dickinson.”
The Sniper’s face contorted into an impassioned scowl. “The Consortium’s chief money launderer?”
“Yeah, and Daman was Missy’s first husband.”
Bradley straightened in his seat. His hands fisted. “Are you saying that you’re really Kris Kakos? And that Missy is Madolyn Dickinson? The lovers who stole $2 billion from The Consortium and died in an Alaskan plane crash?”
A hiss of shame squirted from CJ. “We faked our deaths to escape retribution. And now The Consortium is forcing me to spy on you, in order to bring down President Murphy. But my real agenda is to destroy these satanic bastards because that’s the only way to protect my family.”
Bradley impaled him with a long, penetrating stare that was disrupted by a chime. The Sniper glanced at the satellite phone before handing it off.
CJ skimmed the consent form for Missy’s surgery and signed using his finger as if it were some meaningless credit card authorization. He offered a silent prayer, hoping that he’d made the right decision, then sent it back to de’ Medici.
“She’ll pull through.” Bradley’s razor-edged tone had softened; his fists unclenched; and a hint of a smile replaced his scowl. “Before you know it, she’ll be bitching about having a bad-hair day.”
A half laugh, half sigh squirted from CJ. “I need to find Matthew before she regains consciousness. If I have to tell her our son is ...” His voice trailed away. His eyes grew moist.
“We’ve got the owl. We’ll get the information out of Gorka.”
The UC-35A hit a pocket of turbulence and dipped. “Getting close to the Rockies,” CJ said, disengaging th
e autopilot. He advanced the throttle and applied back-elevator pressure to raise the nose in preparation for a climb, but the aircraft wasn’t responding.
He activated the manual override.
Nothing.
Bewildered, he checked the altitude reading on his watch. His gaze volleyed between the instrument panel and the clock face.
“This can’t be,” he muttered. The UC-35A’s altimeter indicated that they were flying level at 38,000 feet; his watch indicated that they were at 34,000 feet and descending at an almost imperceptible rate.
He tried the radio, asking air traffic control to verify his altitude and heading.
Receiving no response, a dose of adrenaline sluiced through his bloodstream. “Mayday! Mayday! Can anyone hear me?”
Head shaking, Bradley said, “Not funny, CJ.”
“I’m not kidding. The Consortium hacked in and is remotely flying the aircraft. I’ve got no control.”
Bradley’s mouth pinched; his hazel eyes widened. “Did they alter our flight path?”
Their ghost pilot hadn’t made any noticeable turns, but even a slight one-degree deviation could transport them hundreds of miles from Edgar Air Force Base.
“We’re gradually losing altitude. And my best guess ...” CJ hesitated, pondering the irony. “... We’re on a crash-course with the Rocky Mountains ...”
63
District Nine, California
CORPORAL GLEN ANTHONY stood at attention, unable to control the spasmodic trembling in his limbs. Fear was rioting through his nervous system and percolating through his skin in the form of sweat.
Colonel Plantagenet, his Night Sector battalion commander, lay dead on the ground in a pool of blood and severed body parts that belonged to his wife and children. He had been convicted of two counts of treason; one for the successful assassination of Governor Zeller, a second for the failed assassination of Ryan Andrews.
Lousy timing, Glen thought.
The penalty had increased by orders of magnitude simply because Night Sector’s most powerful general happened to be in District Nine for the wolf moon ritual, a satanic holiday observed five to six weeks after the winter solstice.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 24
