Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  No! Fuck Cozart! Bradley thought. Abby was emotionally vulnerable. He took advantage of the situation; and I swear, if it went further than that kiss, I’ll draw and quarter him!

  Mentally, he calculated how long it would take to walk to Edgar, sneak onto base unnoticed, ambush his prey, and return to the deserted airstrip.

  Would CJ notice that I was gone? Would he believe that I just took a walk? he thought, tiptoeing toward the forward cabin door.

  The encrypted satellite phone chirped, and Bradley scrambled to silence it before CJ awoke. It was a text message from Python.

  GS < 200 km D9

  Coords < 24hr

  ML ICU 0 cereb act

  “Was that Python?” CJ asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  Shit! He’s awake. There goes my rendezvous with Cozart.

  “Yeah, he’s tracked Gorka Schwartz to within 200 kilometers of District Nine and expects to locate him within 24 hours.”

  “Any update on Missy?”

  “She’s out of surgery, in intensive care ...”

  “And?” CJ demanded. “I can tell by the look on your face there’s more. And it’s not good.”

  “They’re uh ... not, uh ... able to detect much cerebral activity.”

  “I need to be with Missy.” CJ started toward the forward door, and Bradley clamped onto his arm.

  “Come on, man, if you get spotted at Edgar, you’ll tip off Gorka and The Consortium.”

  “I don’t care!” The Pilot wrenched his arm free. “I need to spend a few minutes with my wife. Can’t you understand that?”

  The sentiment rattled through Bradley. He’d spoken those same words prior to breaking into a morgue. He understood CJ’s desperation and knew that he had to find a safe outlet for all that excess emotion.

  “I get it. I want to see Abby, too.” Mentally, he added, right after I strangle Cozart. “But we can’t risk being spotted, so here’s the deal. We hike over to Edgar and take the owl for a test flight, but under no circumstances do we enter the base.”

  CJ wriggled free of his grasp and retrieved the buckypaper suitcase from the aft baggage compartment. “Let’s do it!”

  Bradley gave him a long stare, a warning not to violate the terms of their agreement, then he slung his rifle strap over his shoulder and gestured for CJ to open the cabin door.

  They hiked for hours, the setting sun at their backs, and steered clear of the military flights departing and landing. The last thing they needed was to be detained by MPs. Not only would that expose the phony narrative regarding their deaths, it would ruin their impending playdate with Gorka Schwartz.

  They skulked around to the south side of the base, and from the cover of an abandoned gas station, CJ deployed the owl. The avian drone soared above the two-story, stone medical center then made a slow, deliberate pass, surveilling each window.

  “I feel like a freaking voyeur,” Bradley said, squinting at the video feed on the laptop. It took three circuits around the building before CJ finally located Missy.

  She looked so frail lying in that bed, like a fragile butterfly caught within a spider web of tubes and wires. Bradley sighed.

  If that was Abby, would I have the self-control not to sneak in?

  CJ typed, “I’m here, Missy. I love you.” He used the laptop to apply his personal voiceprint to the statement, and engaged the owl to project the message directly into Missy’s mind. From her perspective, it would sound no different than if CJ was speaking at her bedside.

  Bradley held his breath, waiting for her thoughts to appear on the screen, then bowed his head.

  There was no response.

  “You’re going to pull through this,” CJ typed, “and we’ll all be together.” As he transmitted the statement, his eyes were glistening in the bluish light of the monitor, and Bradley placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  Missy didn’t respond.

  Undaunted, CJ breezed through drop-down menus and activated a script that would stimulate his wife’s parietal lobe, inducing the sensation that he was hugging Missy.

  Still no response.

  CJ huffed in a breath, garnering his courage, and accessed a sample of Matthew’s voice from his own memory. The computer software transformed it into a digital voiceprint, applied it to the typed message—Get better, Mommy. I love you—and relayed it to the owl, which projected the toddler’s voice into Missy’s mind.

  Suddenly, her thoughts appeared on the screen. “Matthew, baby ... Where are you ...? I can’t find you.”

  CJ exhaled with a sobbing laugh. His shoulders relaxed. “She’s not brain dead. She remembers him.”

  Bradley stood in awe, flabbergasted by this bizarre telepathic text messaging. The technology had immense medical potential. A cure for Alzheimer’s? For blindness and deafness? For paralysis? But in his mind, the benefits failed to outweigh the enormous pitfalls.

  If bad actors could create synthetic memories, simulating experiences and conversations that never happened, how could the truth ever be established?

  Shit! he thought. Volkov could’ve inserted bogus memories into my mind, as easily as rewriting a history book, and I’d have no way of distinguishing fact from fiction. It would be like a freaking computer virus attacking the human brain.

  CJ typed, “I’m with daddy. Who hurt you, Mommy? Do you know his name? Or what he looks like?” then he sent the message.

  A hazy image began to form on the monitor. A stranger was holding Matthew, a middle-aged man of average height, dressed in a Night Sector uniform.

  “Fuck!” CJ snarled. “I’ve got to find my son ...”

  Chapter 16

  DAY 710

  Sunday, January 29th

  69

  Edgar Air Force Base, California

  SHORTLY AFTER NOON, Abby signed her rifle out of the armory, along with a hundred rounds of ammunition, under the pretense of practicing for her annual requalification, then she trekked to Edgar’s shooting range.

  The new requalification course would begin with a foot patrol and a long-range ambush that tested a Soldier’s ability to maneuver into shooting position, take cover from incoming rounds, and acquire targets—while distinguishing between friendly civilians and enemy forces.

  I’ve come a long way from shooting plates and saucers in the hills of Sugar Lake.

  The thought was an emotional sinkhole, and Abby swore under her breath. Everything was a reminder of Bradley: Sugar Lake, rifles, handguns, chickens, snakes, alligators, Oreos, weeds with orange flowers, even the name Webber on her damn BDUs.

  Can I ever get past this with his child growing inside me?

  Hormonal tears cascaded over her cheeks—again; streams of anger and grief and self-pity; and Abby smeared them with the sleeve of her jacket.

  Toughen up, damn it! she told herself. Act like a Marine, not a blubbering child.

  She’d fallen apart when Ryan Andrews delivered the news about the plane crash, then sobbed on Cozart’s shoulder for hours—an infinitely stupid move, given her team leader’s affectionate overtures.

  Shame surged through her, followed by a fierce self-loathing over losing control of her emotions. Abby had been black-hooded, strung upside down from a swing set, and foot whipped without shedding a tear; she’d taken two rounds to her body armor at point-blank range without a whimper; she’d nearly been raped by a satanic psychopath without crying—and now she was bawling at the sight of her damn rifle.

  Head shaking, she cursed the hCG contaminating her blood. The toxic hormone was short-circuiting logic and common sense, siphoning the energy from her body, and transforming her into an emotional yo-yo.

  Am I physically and emotionally fit for this unauthorized mission? she asked herself.

  I have to be. The wolf moon is tonight, and if I don’t save those children, satanists will ...

  Unwilling to finish the sentence for fear of triggering another hysterical outburst, Abby sank into a prone position and grimaced at the peculiar discomfo
rt emanating from her breasts.

  Damn it!

  Her traitorous body was putting out constant reminders, denying any reprieve from the traumatic reality that she was pregnant.

  Abby expended twenty rounds, striking targets that ranged from 500 to 1,000 yards.

  At least Bradley’s “parting gift” didn’t sabotage my ability to shoot.

  Hurriedly, she disassembled her rifle and crammed it into a duffle bag already loaded with MREs, water, night-vision gear, and eighty rounds of ammunition. It felt like a cement truck dangling from her shoulder, hampering her forward progress.

  Why Bradley? Why did you do this to me?

  In response, her hormonally handicapped mind tumbled down a rabbit hole of possibilities.

  Did Bradley know The Consortium was going to kill him?

  Did he end our relationship to protect me?

  Immediately, she rejected the idea. The elite cabal despised her father; and as long as he remained President, Abby would continue to be a target.

  If Bradley hadn’t sent that brutal e-mail, I’d probably be thrilled to have a part of him living on, inside me.

  She slogged toward TEradS headquarters, already spent; and she hadn’t even made it to Edgar’s northern gate.

  There’s no way I can hoof it twenty-five miles, lugging this gear.

  And then it struck; 50,000 volts of reality charged through her nervous system and converged into a scorching ache deep in her gut. Abby wasn’t up to the rigors of the TEradS and could potentially endanger her teammates.

  Bradley rendered me unfit for duty! That bastard!

  On some level, she knew that anger was a form of denial; that it was less painful to be furious with him than to mourn his passing; but at least anger was an emotion that afforded her some control.

  She slinked toward a TEradS Humvee, rationalizing that since her team was off today, she could borrow the vehicle—without permission. It was unlikely Fitz would court-martial her, given that her father was his boss; and losing a level of rank was a fair trade-off for expediting her journey to Athenian Grove.

  She scurried around the front of the vehicle and, wary of getting caught, she eyed the entrance to the TEradS’ offices.

  “Yo, Abby ...!”

  Startled, she wheeled around toward the familiar voice. Her mind raced for a credible excuse, but the best she could muster was a flirty smile to distract Cozart and camouflage her guilt.

  “... Major An—I mean, Vice President Andrews wants you to call him. ASAP!” Her team leader lobbed an encrypted satellite phone. “Number’s preprogrammed.”

  She bobbled it, drawing a curious stare, and silently railed against her clumsiness.

  Andrews answered on the first ring. “I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news.” His voice was granite hard, yet tinged with compassion. “The Consortium planted a sonic weapon inside the White House. And as a result, your father has suffered total hearing loss ...”

  Abby slumped against the Humvee. Oh God, he’s deaf?

  “... It’s not life-threatening. Thankfully, the device was discovered before he incurred any brain damage, but your dad believes his hearing loss will prevent him from executing his duties as Commander in Chief.”

  “So you’re taking over as President?” Abby asked.

  Following an awkward pause, Andrews said, “The official televised swearing in will occur immediately following the announcement. I wanted to make sure you heard the truth from me. God only knows how the media will twist this into fake news. Anyway, Fitz has put you on family leave, effective immediately, and you’ve got a seat on a C-130 departing for Ansley at 1700 hours. A memorial for Bradley is set for Tuesday.”

  Unable to cope with the avalanche of change—Bradley’s death, her father’s deafness, her unexpected pregnancy—she mumbled, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” and ended the call. Avoiding eye contact with Cozart, Abby placed the satellite phone on the hood of the Humvee and made a beeline back to her apartment.

  Damn it, I am NOT going to cry! Not again, she thought, fighting back a briny flood.

  My dad will never hear music again. He’ll never know the sound of his grandchild’s voice.

  Will he be embarrassed because I’m having a baby out of wedlock?

  Will he want me to perpetuate the lie that Bradley and I were married?

  Abby unlocked the door to her apartment, trudged up the steps, and dropped her heavy duffle bag onto the living room floor. Then, succumbing to her condition, she collapsed onto the couch and fell into a deep sleep.

  After a desperately needed nap, she awoke to a new dilemma: Board the C-130 and face the new normal? Or try to save the children?

  Hell, I’m already facing a war crimes tribunal, she thought. It’s not like it can get any worse ... and maybe I can keep a few kids from being sacrificed to Moloch or processed in some ambrosia lab.

  Driven in part by denial, Abby plodded across the base and returned to the Humvee. She tossed her duffle bag onto the passenger’s seat and settled in behind the wheel, then her hormonally challenged bladder balked.

  The bathroom detour further delayed her departure; and, by the time she hot-wired the Humvee and exited the northern gate, the sun was hanging low on the horizon. Abby made the twenty-five-mile drive into the Sierra Nevada mountain range, ears popping with the elevation change, and parked the Humvee within sight of a giant redwood known as The General Sherman Tree. According to a bronze placard, it was the largest tree on earth by volume, more than 2,100 years old, 275 feet tall, 36 feet wide at its base, and weighed in at over 2,000,000 pounds.

  Abby gazed upward, awed by its grandeur.

  It’s been here since before the birth of Jesus. She tagged a prayer onto the thought, petitioning the Almighty for the strength to disrupt the wolf moon ritual and free the captive children. Then Abby reassembled her rifle, hoisted her duffle bag, and began hiking northeast through a battalion of giant redwoods. The terrain was steep; the forest floor, spongy with needles and splintered branches. Fallen, partially decaying tree trunks littered the ground, and erratic, moss-covered boulders appeared to float atop the soil like stony, gray icebergs.

  Abby inhaled the scent of pine and moist earth. Her eyes surveyed the landscape for enemy sentries.

  Night Sector could hide an entire squad behind one trunk, she thought, second-guessing her decision to come here alone.

  Two miles into her hike, her wounded thigh was aching, her lungs were burning, and she couldn’t catch her breath. The air at this altitude packed a one-two punch that was kicking her heart rate and blood pressure into overdrive. First, the thin air contained less oxygen, which meant Abby had to breathe more frequently to take in the same amount; and second, the decreased pressure made it harder to pull air into her lungs and distribute oxygen throughout her body. Couple that with being newly pregnant and it seemed as though all of nature was aligning against her.

  Panting, she leaned against a redwood.

  Breathing is a huge part of shooting, she thought. I have to get my respiration under control or—

  Hearing the snap of a branch, Abby felt a flurry of panic; then a gruff, masculine voice ordered her to drop her weapon.

  70

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  “I, RYAN FRANKLIN Andrews, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”

  He shook hands with the Supreme Court Justice who had sworn him in and then kissed Franny on the cheek. Ryan nodded toward the cameras, trying to project the right mix of solemn determination and confidence.

  If somebody had told me a year ago that I would become President of the United States, I would’ve laughed my ass off.

  Admiral Rone ushered the new first family away from the cameras and onto Marine One. The cabin of the helicopter featured two beige leather chairs, an armless couch, and cozy blue curt
ains; and within minutes, they were airborne, en route to an undisclosed location that even Ryan wasn’t privy to.

  Through the window, he observed the dance of the decoys, the shifting of identical helicopters known as the presidential shell game. “Hey, Franny—” He halted, realizing that his very pregnant wife was already in the midst of an airborne nap.

  “Mr. President ...?”

  Unaccustomed to his new title, it took several seconds for Ryan to acknowledge Rone.

  “... Forcing Kyle from office has emboldened The Consortium. They know that ‘their gal,’ Johanna Krupp is just a heartbeat from the presidency. Your heartbeat. Therefore, until you have a Vice President confirmed by the Senate, you will be living in a deep underground military base.”

  Ryan knew that the U.S. military had been constructing DUMBs since the end of World War II and that some were rumored to be a mile deep and contain weapons more powerful than the hydrogen bomb.

  Can mind-control signals penetrate through thousands of feet of rock?

  The thought prompted him to inquire about the owl. “Was anything recovered from the Rocky Mountain crash site?”

  “Negative.” Rone’s eyes flitted toward the Marine security detail, an unspoken admonition that the issue shouldn’t be discussed in their presence, then he said, “Have you reviewed the VP candidates I submitted?”

  The Admiral had provided dossiers on three Generals, including Jonathan Quenten. “I have,” Ryan said, smirking, “but I have another candidate in mind. Someone I have supreme confidence in.”

  Rone’s face furrowed into a self-castigating frown. “Give me a name and I’ll have my people compile the data.”

  “Not necessary,” Ryan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m nominating Admiral Tyler E. Rone.”

  “I’m flattered, Mr. President, but no. I don’t want to be Vice President.”