Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Because the mockingbird media are the most prolific liars on the planet,” Rone told him. “We need to shift the narrative; get you out there claiming that Andrews was the assassin’s intended target.”

  “I’m not going to lie to the American people,” Kyle protested. “They’ve heard enough lies.”

  “It’s a truthful statement,” Rone argued. “Zeller WAS an assassin. Andrews WAS his intended target. And if the public mistakenly assumes that Volkov targeted Andrews, that’ll undermine the Russia collusion narrative.”

  Kyle rocked back against his chair, feeling light-headed and sick to his stomach.

  “Mr. President, we’re up against a ruthless enemy that doesn’t observe rules of war or human decency. Disinformation and misdirection are essential and justified, given the enormous stakes.”

  “So the end justifies the means?” Kyle demanded. Each syllable felt like a blow directly behind his eyes. “And if we stoop to their level, how do we avoid becoming them?”

  “There’s a huge difference between managing a news cycle and birthing a totalitarian state. If The Consortium regains the presidency, their plan will resume: depopulation through war and vaccines; global governance through Orwellian mind control; and the legalization of pedophilia, cannibalism, and the satanic ritual sacrifice of children ...”

  Kyle blinked trying to bring Rone’s face into focus.

  “... And these degenerates will do anything to establish dominion. Hell, they killed Bradley and tried to kill Ryan within twenty-four hours—”

  “Retaliation for the raid on CIA headquarters?” Kyle asked.

  A perplexing shadow swept over the Admiral’s expression. Grief? Worry? Guilt? Or was Kyle’s migraine distorting his vision?

  “Part of our strategy is to provoke the enemy into making disastrous countermoves—”

  “Yeah? Well, your countermoves got Bradley killed!”

  “Mr. President, you have to focus on the bigger picture. We now have proof of a CIA-orchestrated coup, and the intelligence gained will allow us to cut the purse strings AND the puppet strings of Consortium bureaucrats.”

  A meaningful victory, Kyle thought, wincing in pain, but not worth Bradley’s life. Especially given that the media will twist the facts into a Pulitzer Prize-winning fairy tale.

  General Quenten barged into the Oval Office. His face was flushed; his fists, clenched. “The North Koreans just conducted another nuclear test—a hydrogen bomb capable of being mounted on an ICBM.”

  “How is it, that once I take office, they suddenly have ICBMs and H-bombs? Is this some kind of ...”

  Kyle gasped in a breath, feeling as though ice picks were being driven through his ears; then, eyes rolling back into his head, he slumped forward. His face smashed against the Resolute desk.

  What’s happening? What’s wrong with me?

  He was vaguely aware of Rone’s panicked voice summoning the White House physician, then Kyle slipped into unconsciousness.

  66

  District Nine, California

  JOHN COZART PILED into the armored personnel carrier and signaled for the driver to move out. During the mission briefing, he’d welcomed this raid as a distraction, a way to take his mind off Abby; but he now knew that wasn’t possible.

  After learning of Bradley’s death, she’d fainted; and, at first, Cozart wasn’t sure if it was the concussion she’d sustained in Mariupol or overwhelming grief. Turned out, neither prognosis had been accurate.

  He’d never forget the way Abby had looked at him, those full, soft lips drawn into an adorable pout, those beautiful blue eyes silently pleading, beseeching him not to call for a medical transport.

  How does she do it? he asked himself for the thousandth time. How does she wrap me around her little finger?

  Cozart hadn’t understood the scope of the problem until he’d trekked into the bathroom to fetch a cool, wet rag for her forehead. That’s when he’d noticed the pregnancy test in the trash can.

  The realization had left him momentarily light-headed, and since then, troublesome questions had been accumulating like flood waters behind a levee.

  Do I really want to get entangled with a woman who’s carrying another man’s baby?

  Am I ready to be a proxy father?

  Could I love Bradley’s child the same way I would love my own?

  Cozart knew that adoptive parents were every bit as committed and loving as biological parents. He just wasn’t sure whether he was personally up to the challenge.

  If it’s a girl who looks like Abby, no problem, he thought. But what if it’s a boy who looks like Bradley? A perpetual reminder of her first love.

  Can I deal with that?

  He knew it would be easier to walk away; but there were unwritten commitments between TEradS warriors, promises that the children of the fallen would get to know their deceased father through firsthand accounts of his character and bravery.

  Do I owe it to Bradley to look after his child?

  Would he resent me having a relationship with Abby?

  What would I want if our roles were reversed ...? I guess, I would want Abby and the baby to be happy. And safe. And loved.

  Cozart let his head rest against the wall of the APC, no longer sure which course of action was selfless and which was selfish. His mind drifted back, reveling in the intimacy of holding Abby as she sobbed, in the passion of that kiss outside the commissary. Sweetly tentative and, at the same time, sensual and arousing.

  He cringed, acknowledging a truth he’d been avoiding for months: he was in love with Abby Webber.

  Thank God she’s sitting out this mission, he thought.

  Cozart respected her skills as a Sniper, yet hated putting her in harm’s way, a conflict that threatened his effectiveness as team leader.

  Should I alert Fitz to Abby’s condition?

  Will he pull her off the battlefield to protect President Murphy’s grandchild?

  Before he could decide, a voice crackled over his tactical headset. “Pickup truck incoming, ten klicks ahead. Jam-packed with captives, likely en route to target.”

  Fitz acknowledged the transmission and ordered Team Nine to intercept the vehicle.

  The APC accelerated through the darkness and turned onto a three-mile, winding driveway that led to St. Stanislaus Academy.

  As the rear door descended, Cozart frowned at the school’s marquis. The lowercase “i” in Stanislaus had been dotted with a heart that spiraled inward, forming a smaller concentric heart—the pedophile symbol for little girl lovers.

  Recalling what these sick bastards were doing to children, what they’d almost done to Abby, what they would do to her unborn child, the acid in his stomach ignited.

  These fuckers need to be put down like rabid animals, he thought, and a bullet to the head is more merciful than they deserve.

  The APC’s driver backed in between a pair of evergreens and angled the vehicle toward the single-lane driveway. Evans scurried to man the new 200-pound weapon stationed on the roof. The device generated a stream of 50-nanosecond energy pulses, amplified them to 640 kilovolts, then converted that energy into microwaves capable of disabling the microprocessors that governed an engine’s fuel injection.

  Beats firing into a truck full of hostages, Cozart thought.

  He and the remainder of the TEradS took up positions along the private driveway, and within minutes, the Night Sector truck bounded into their trap.

  Evans engaged the silent weapon, and the enemy vehicle coasted to a stop. A trio of black-clad men with long guns shimmied from the cab. One popped the hood to inspect the engine while the others scanned for threats.

  Cozart ordered the men to drop their weapons and, surprisingly, all three complied.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  “We’re civilians, conscripted against our will!”

  “They threatened our families!”

  Cozart ordered his team to take the men into custody and set up a defensive perimeter, in case
the pedophiles at the school detected their presence, then he hustled toward the caged bed of the truck. More than a dozen tear-streaked, terrified faces peered down at him.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe now.” He rammed the butt stock of his rifle into the padlock until it gave way, and began evacuating Night Sector’s newest crop of victims: a grandmother named Juanita with two teenagers, nine girls between the ages of three and eight, and a mother named Ellen with a four-year-old daughter.

  “Matthew’s not here!” Juanita wailed, grasping onto Cozart’s jacket. “Night Sector took him.”

  “Matthew Love?” he demanded, aware that the child’s safe return was a priority.

  “I don’t know his last name,” she sobbed, “but you rescued his momma.”

  A flash of grief ripped through Cozart, and he looked away, sickened by what these animals were probably doing to that towheaded toddler.

  “Juanita,” he said sternly. “I need you to focus. Where did Night Sector take Matthew?”

  67

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  RYAN ANDREWS LANDED at Ansley Air Force Base just after 1500 hours local time. His Marine Corps detail whisked him into a presidential limousine known as “the beast,” and Ryan settled onto the dark leather seat.

  The vehicle was a mobile fortress, impervious to roadside bombs and equipped with tear gas canons and shotguns. Its bulletproof windows were engineered to withstand chemical and biological attacks, and the doors were plated with military-grade armor, making them too heavy to open from inside the vehicle.

  Are there more Consortium traitors within our ranks? Ryan wondered.

  Bradley’s ill-fated flight had departed from Ansley, without a flight plan or transponder, and someone at the NSA had electronically erased its radar signature. So how did The Consortium locate the aircraft?

  Was someone at Ansley on The Consortium’s payroll?

  Who enabled the enemy to take Bradley’s life? A mechanic, an air traffic controller, or—

  Sh-shit ...! That doctor at Edgar called CJ Love regarding his wife’s surgery; is that how The Consortium located the aircraft?

  Ryan sank back against the seat and closed his eyes, mourning the death of his best friend for the second time in eight months. The loss was like a toothache, a persistent, throbbing pain that dredged up memories of Dannel, Marcos, and Mike, other friends murdered by traitors within the U.S. military.

  Ryan had nearly lost it while delivering the tragic news to Abby, and her grief-stricken collapse had seared into his soul.

  Shock had siphoned the color from her complexion, her steel-blue eyes welled with an ache that eluded words, and then she’d fainted, her body overcome by a pain that was too profound to bear.

  First Sergeant John Cozart, her team leader and a trained medic, had vetoed a trip to the Med Center—at Abby’s insistence. Ryan had been taken aback by the intimacy of their nonverbal communication. Cozart had been a little too eager to provide a shoulder to cry on, and Ryan didn’t like the way he’d stroked the back of Abby’s head. The tenderly affectionate gesture exceeded the bounds of brotherly and betrayed the First Sergeant’s intentions. Bradley’s remains hadn’t even been recovered yet, and that asshole was making a move on Abby.

  I need to call Fitz, he thought, and get her transferred off Team Nine.

  It was clear that Cozart’s judgment had been compromised by emotion, a fact that put the lives of the entire team in jeopardy.

  Would The Consortium target Abby again?

  Would they follow the same playbook they used with Bradley? A kidnapping attempt followed by assassination?

  Did they target Bradley because of his relationship to Kyle?

  Or because he’d taken possession of the owl?

  Seventeen days until these evil bastards seize control, Ryan thought grimly. Finding White Rabbit will be next to impossible without the owl ... Could it have survived the crash?

  The limousine rolled up to the base press office, and Ryan grimaced at the gaggle of reporters.

  I can’t believe I have to glorify the traitor who tried to kill me, he thought. And vilify the man who actually saved my life.

  What would happen if I stepped up to that lectern and told the truth? About Zeller and Volkov? About The Consortium and pedophilia? About cannibalism, satanic sacrifice, and mind control? Would the American people believe me?

  Ryan climbed from the beast, knowing that the mockingbird media would kill the broadcast signal before he finished the first sentence. He passed through a tunnel of Marines, offering the obligatory smile and wave before taking his place behind a tangle of microphones.

  “Mr. Vice President, was Governor Zeller silenced because he was resisting the Murphy regime?”

  “I was the assassin’s target,” Ryan stated flatly. “And that attempt failed because an American hero sacrificed his life to save mine.”

  “It’s been a rough twenty-four hours for material witnesses to the Russia collusion scandal,” the reporter followed up. “Webber dies in a plane crash and Volkov is shot dead. It seems like an awful lot of good news for President Murphy.”

  “Good news?” Ryan said, glaring at the Consortium shill. “You see, this is why GNN is fake news. Only a coldhearted psychopath would characterize the death of the President’s son-in-law as good news.”

  “Rumors are swirling regarding Murphy’s health,” a New York Star reporter shouted. “Can you confirm whether he’s suffering from dementia or at risk of a stroke?”

  Zeller’s heart-attack gun came to mind. Was The Consortium pushing that narrative to create a public expectation that Kyle would die in office? In order to suppress investigations when the unthinkable occurred?

  “Sorry, I left my stethoscope and crystal ball inside the beast,” Ryan said, openly mocking the Star reporter.

  “With all due respect, the President’s health is no joking matter—”

  “Then maybe you should consult the White House physician. This is why I refer to your employer as the failing New York Star—because you all fail to exercise common sense!”

  “Should the President become incapacitated, whom would you nominate for Vice President?”

  Ryan met the unwavering stare of the Washington Press correspondent and said, “Are you aware of some plot against Kyle Murphy’s life?”

  “No, I, uh ... It’s just a hypothetical question.”

  Fed up, Ryan said, “This is a waste of my time,” and stalked from the lectern.

  Maybe they’ll learn to ask relevant questions, he thought, ducking into the backseat of the beast.

  His chief of staff, a former Army Colonel, claimed the seat beside him; and, with a satellite phone pressed to his ear, he grunted, “Change of plans, Mr. Vice President.”

  The door slammed shut and the limousine accelerated faster than usual, causing Ryan to crack his head against the frame of the rear window.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Did Franny go into labor?”

  “No, sir. Your wife is fine. It’s President Murphy. He’s unresponsive, and we need to get you sworn in as soon as possible.”

  “Unresponsive? When? How?” Ryan sputtered.

  “Here.” His chief of staff relinquished the phone.

  “Kyle lost consciousness a half hour ago,” Admiral Rone told him, his voice thick with anger and regret. “I ordered the Oval Office stripped down to the studs, and the Marines found a device hidden in the walls.”

  The Consortium, Ryan thought. Those fucking reporters DID have advanced warning!

  “And your game theory brainiacs didn’t anticipate this?” Ryan ranted, irate over the prospect of losing a second friend in as many days.”

  “They did. I had your residence and the entire White House swept by an elite security team—”

  “So someone on that team is a traitor!” His emotions regressed to his Army Ranger days. To the frustration and helplessness he’d endured, watching a treasonous Corporal kill off his entire team. />
  Back to fucking square one ... who can I trust?

  “We’re working to identify the guilty party,” Rone said. “We believe it was a sonic weapon capable of producing inaudible frequencies that cause traumatic brain damage.”

  “And Kyle’s prognosis ...?”

  68

  South of District Nine, California

  BRADLEY AWOKE INSIDE the UC-35A unsure where he was; then as drowsiness slowly faded, memories reconstituted. Python had responded to their distress call, hacking the hackers using NSA spy tools, and restored CJ’s control over the aircraft minutes prior to a collision with the Rocky Mountains. Then he’d relayed a stream of faulty data to The Consortium’s server and satellite feeds. Thanks to a Wizard and a blizzard, the enemy had been duped by a virtual plane crash.

  Landing in California had been unnerving, touching down in the dark, without the benefit of lights, on a sand-covered runway at a tiny airport that hadn’t been maintained since the EMP.

  After secreting the UC-35A inside a weatherworn hangar northwest of Edgar Air Force Base, Bradley had gotten some much needed sleep.

  Last night, he had agreed to Rone’s directive: Given the exorbitant number of traitors in positions of power, no one other than Python and I can know that you survived.

  But now, Bradley was having second thoughts. Withholding the truth from Kyle and Ryan felt like treachery, and he hated the thought of Abby learning that he’d been killed in action. He remembered—vividly—the desolation and rage he’d experienced when he believed Abby had been stoned to death by savages.

  A niggling inner voice asked, “What makes you think she’ll give a damn? She’s already moved on!”

  The memory of Abby kissing John Cozart replayed on a maddening loop. Why didn’t she push him away?

  A fierce and furious jealousy spurted through Bradley’s veins, raising his body temperature and contracting every muscle in his body.

  “You sent her a Dear Jane e-mail,” the voice of reason whispered. “Cozart and every guy on her team read it; you gave them written permission to make a move on her.”