Voice of Freedom

by H. L. Wegley

He studied her face for a moment, then seemed to be scanning her long red hair.

  Please don’t go there. Julia cringed.

  “That explains it, Ms. Banning. You're Irish, aren't you?”

  This doctor had no idea who he was dealing with in KC Banning. She erupted like a volcano, spewing hot lava and a few choice words Julia hadn’t realized were in KC’s vocabulary.

  Julia moved beside her.

  With fists clenched at her sides, KC stepped toward the doctor.

  He took a quick step backward.

  Julia moved to block KC’s path.

  Steve hooked KC’s arm and pulled her back.

  “You need to understand something.” Jeff's voice. He pointed a thumb at KC. “She has two notches on her M4. There are two less special ops soldiers on the planet. Wanna go for three notches?”

  Shemer’s eyebrows raised. “I see.”

  “No, you don't see!” Steve shoved a finger in the man’s face. “You tell her Brock's prognosis, now! And no more clumsy clichés, or I'll turn her loose.”

  The man had tried his best to make them feel at home. But using clichés from another culture, when one was not completely familiar with it, wasn’t wise.

  “I… I see what you mean.” The doctor turned toward KC. “Mr. Daniels’s concussion doesn't seem to be severe, but it is a concern. We will keep him for a while longer. If all goes well, he will be discharged later today, or perhaps tomorrow morning.”

  “Finally,” KC huffed. She paused and her face relaxed. “When can I see him?”

  A woman in scrubs strode through a doorway behind Dr. Shemer and approached them. “You need to bring KC Banning now, doctor. If you don’t hurry, we may have to shut down part of emergency. It’s not safe in there.”

  The doctor motioned toward the door. “Then you should follow me, Ms. Banning.”

  “Will you all stop calling me Ms. Banning? I’m Mrs. Daniels.”

  Julia heaved a sigh of relief and, for the first time in an hour and a half, the tension drained from her. Though her arm ached, the dark cloud that had settled over her an hour ago was gone.

  Thank God they had survived another attack from Abe Hannan. KC should be grateful, too. But that probably wouldn’t happen until KC looked into Brock's eyes and read the message written there, the message saying that he really was okay.

  Regardless, they had been found in Netanya and nearly killed. What would Major Katz do with them, now?

  * * *

  Steve Bancroft sighed long and loud, trying to drain the tension of the past hour from his heart, mind, and body. Brock was going to be okay.

  Steve’s gaze involuntarily locked on KC and tracked her as she followed the doctor. With her anger painting her cheeks nearly as red as the long curls swinging behind a body that could easily compete with world-class models, how could he not watch?

  In a few seconds, she disappeared through the double doors leading into the bowels of the hospital. Even her temper seemed to add to her stunning beauty. Brock was a lucky man.

  Something bumped Steve’s shoulder. He looked down into dark sparkling eyes and the delicate beauty of Julia's face, a face holding a quirky smile. She had nudged him.

  “They’re together again, Steve. The way it was meant to be.”

  “Well, I'm glad it's Brock with KC and not me. Courting a volcano doesn't seem like a safe thing to do. Marrying one could kill a guy.”

  Julia laughed softly. “She's certainly a woman of passion.”

  “Yeah. Passionate about everything she does, says, and probably thinks.”

  Julia's quirky smile morphed to an impish grin. “You mean you've never wondered what it would be like to have such a fiery, passionate woman in love with you?”

  His face overheated like a Humvee engine with a blown water hose. “Julia … I can't believe you would—”

  “So, you have.” She laughed again. “I'd have been worried if you hadn't.”

  What was going on with Julia, the woman who was always so calm, controlled, and almost prudish? He sensed something beneath the surface, smoldering inside her, waiting to catch fire. It piqued his curiosity. Whatever it was, Steve doubted Julia would ever erupt like KC.

  He scanned the light brown waves of her hair, then focused on those dark brown eyes.

  She looked up at him, her eyes hardly two feet away and so deep that another universe might be hidden in them. They sucked him in like a black hole.

  Steve looked away across the room while he could still escape their pull.

  On the far side of the emergency room, Major Katz turned from the nurse at the desk and walked their way. “For security reasons, the hospital is moving Brock to a private room. We all need to have a meeting in his room, after we give KC and Brock a few moments alone. We've got some critical decisions to make and very little time to make them.”

  Julia slipped her arm inside Steve's and they followed the major down a hallway toward an elevator sign. Her arm, curled around Steve’s, felt custom-made for his. But, beyond that arm, there were issues. They had begun discussing a big, mysterious one before the wedding. Now, that issue, whatever it was, would have to wait until Julia raised it again.

  When they reached Brock's room a few minutes later, the door was only half closed.

  The major knocked and pushed the door open.

  Brock released KC from his arms and she sat up on his bedside, wiping away tears but smiling through them.

  Behind Major Katz, Steve escorted Julia into the room, followed by Allie and Jeff. They circled Brock's bed.

  Benjamin stood by the door, guarding them. The pained expression on his face said he hadn’t come through the day unscathed either. After the attack, he probably thought he’d failed them.

  Steve shared some of Benjamin’s feelings. After all, Captain Craig had sent Steve to help watch out for the other five Americans. But, when the attack came, Steve was participating in a wedding ceremony.

  Some protector of the group he was. Maybe he had become too personally involved in their lives. Regardless, this would not end like it had with his sister. No one Steve Bancroft protected would die on his watch. Never again.

  Major Katz’s voice drew Steve back to the hospital room. “Sorry for the intrusion,” Katz said, looking down at Brock. “But we need a new plan to keep you safe and, after the events of the day, I'm afraid Israel won't do. Our country is too small and it’s surrounded by enemies who know you’re here.”

  KC sat on the edge of Brock's bed, holding his hand like she would never let go. “But we can't move Brock, not yet. So what do we do in the meantime?”

  “We have a safe house … actually a bit bigger than a house. It will accommodate the five of you and keep you safe until Brock is discharged. But it won't be anything like the suite overlooking Netanya Beach.”

  “Safe sounds good,” Julia said. “That ocean view was nice, but it brought us an RPG.”

  This was a new and more vocal Julia than Steve had ever seen. Even after four weeks of as many one-on-one conversations as Steve could get, he still had a lot to learn about this young woman who was stealing his heart in huge chunks.

  KC looked up at the major. “Will Brock be safe at the hospital overnight?”

  “Let’s hope it’s not overnight. I would like to move you all today, but, yes. We'll have two men outside his room, others inside the facility, and observers hidden outside. And our intelligence organizations are on high alert. Brock is safe here.”

  “Then I'm staying with him.” She met the major's gaze with an icy stare.

  Steve had seen that look before. KC wasn’t leaving Brock no matter who gave the orders.

  “Kace.” Brock raised his head, grimaced, and laid his head down on the pillow.

  “I can sleep in the recliner by the door.”

  Katz shook his head. “I doubt that he will be staying overnight.”

  Brock grinned. “Haven't you learned, yet? Nobody changes KC Banning's mind, except her.”

&nb
sp; She pointed a finger at Brock’s face, then softly traced his lips. “KC Daniels, sweetheart.”

  Brock kissed her finger then looked up at the major, “Sir, she could—”

  “Overruled.” Katz’s commander’s voice returned. “KC goes to the bunker until we leave.”

  “Bunker?” KC walked to the recliner and sat. “You’re not splitting us up on our wedding night.”

  “It’s not my intent to split you two up tonight.”

  KC sat up straight in the recliner.

  Katz gave her the palm-out stop sign. “Just listen for a moment. Since Hannan pulled all the Americans out of Israel, both civilian workers and military, after he declared martial law, we’ve taken over Site 911. You’ll be safe there from everything but a direct nuclear hit.”

  “Site 911?” Steve had heard of this secret project, but had never been given any important details about it. “Is that the underground complex about ten miles south of here?”

  Major Katz nodded. “Bancroft … changing the subject …” Katz looked at Steve then Brock. “What is Craig's detachment up to?”

  So the Israelis weren’t giving out info about Site 911.

  Brock's eyes narrowed. “I haven't heard anything from Craig in four days. It's not unusual to hear nothing for a day or two, when he's on the move. He has the secure satellite phone you gave him, but we've heard nothing. Right, Steve?”

  “Yeah. Nothing since they started moving eastward four days ago. As he approaches DC, calling us gets riskier, even with the secure sat phones you gave us.”

  Major Katz stroked his short beard. “Regardless, we need to move you all within the next twelve hours, preferably the next six. I’ve just got to decide where.”

  Steve ran a dozen countries through his mind, searching for a safe haven. Only one country seemed plausible, Canada. It was still friendly toward Israel, and both the Prime Minister and the Minister of National Defense hated Hannan. Would the major reveal his plan at this juncture? Steve turned toward Katz. “Where are you taking us, sir?”

  “We’re conducting negotiations with a country that I can't yet disclose. For now, Steve, you try to get a message to Craig to tell him we’re moving you. It’s a place we would like to hide you for two or three months.”

  So Katz wasn’t going to tell them, yet. Canada was too close to the US to risk disclosure of their Canadian destination to the wrong person. “Will do, sir. He might have some valuable input.”

  Steve stepped closer to Brock.

  A scowl formed on Brock's face. “Two or three months. I hope Hannan's history by then.”

  Steve nodded. “Yeah, history. And maybe painted a bright shade of hades.” He shouldn’t wish that on anyone, but mercy was in short supply in Steve Bancroft’s heart today. Hannan had almost killed them. He’d injured Brock and Julia and, at this juncture, Hannan’s demise in two or three months was far from certain.

  If something had happened to Captain Craig and his Rangers, there might be no demise … ever.

  Chapter 4

  Why was his private study so bright at eight o’clock in the morning? Hannan swiveled away from his desk until he faced the windows normally behind him while he worked. He squinted as sunlight stabbed his eyes, then he shielded them with a hand.

  He should fire the horticulturist for cutting the shrubbery so low. A sniper with one of those precision-guided rifles could shoot Hannan in the back from the roof of the National Telecommunications and Information Administration building five or six hundred yards away. But this horticulturist had served six presidents. Firing him might cause a bigger rebellion than the one Hannan had been mired in for the past six weeks.

  The state of the six-week-old rebellion was the reason for Hannan’s sour mood and for holding this solo pity party in his private study. He needed some good news. Maybe something encouraging would come out of the meeting with his inner circle scheduled for eight thirty.

  Since Hannan had declared martial law across United States, the nation had settled into a tense stalemate, a precarious balance of pro- and anti-Hannan factions. The population centers, heavily patrolled by military, were under Hannan's control. But in the rural areas, and in several states west of the Mississippi, dubbed the Red States, various militias, allied with state governments, were in control.

  The National Guard was no longer national. Guards in the Red States had pledged allegiance to their state’s governor. And despite the fact that Hannan had nationalized them, the true allegiance of other National Guard units remained questionable.

  The last time the Union had fractured to this degree the division almost wiped out an entire generation of young men and, 150 years later, remnants of the bitterness from that war still plagued the nation.

  Hannan knew the formula for seizing power. He knew it well. First create the demon, then the people will let the government subjugate them, using martial law and the Commander-in-Chief’s power to control the demon. The CIC then assumes total control. It worked well enough for Hitler.

  The problem was that, though Hannan had deflected the blame for the American catastrophes, some states and their intra-state militias viewed Hannan as the demon … thanks to Brock Daniels. Consequently, many state’s willingness to resist had far exceeded Hannan’s worst-case predictions.

  And if he couldn’t stem the steady trickle of military defections, the defectors, especially from the Special Forces, would train more militia and the scales might be tipped against Hannan.

  In the four weeks since he had been abandoned by the wealthy ideologues who brought him to power, the insurgents had become bolder, inspired by public enemy number one, blogger Brock Daniels. At times it seemed that Daniels was coordinating the chess moves made by the insurgency. But that wasn’t possible. Was it?

  The only victory Hannan could claim actually belonged to his Secretary of Health and Human Services, Dr. Patricia Weller, who had stopped the spread of a mutant, airborne version of Ebola, the strain his feckless former Secretary of Defense, Gerald Carter, had allowed to break out of control, threatening the entire nation.

  Two firm knocks on Hannan’s closed office door ended his pity party.

  That would be Secretary of State, Eli Vance. Intelligent and perceptive, Eli seemed to have the pulse of every department and agency in the administration.

  Since Hannan had launched his power play, nearly every other nation had closed their embassies in the US, pulled their ambassadors and staff, and were playing a waiting game.

  Following the resultant isolation of the US by the rest of the world, the State Department had temporarily morphed into a department of internal affairs, with the various departments and agencies replacing foreign nations as Eli Vance’s domain.

  The knock sounded again.

  Hannan had asked Vance to give him weekly state of the union reports, and Hannan needed to hear Eli’s report before the meeting with his inner circle in less than a half hour. “Come in, Eli.”

  A long, narrow face wearing thick glasses that magnified already large eyes peered at Hannan from the doorway. That face and the gaunt body, bent at the waist from eighty years of living an unhealthy lifestyle, and with both hands reaching out to his cane, Eli resembled a praying mantis.

  Hannan motioned toward the semi-circle of office chairs he’d arranged at the end of his desk.

  “Has anyone taken any potshots at you this week?” Eli's quirky smile lifted one side of a gray mustache that spanned two-thirds of his face.

  Hannan didn't reply. Someone's going to shoot you. That was Eli's continual, taunting remark.

  Eli lowered his bent frame into the chair. “It’s inevitable. Someone's going to shoot you someday, Abe.” He chuckled until it turned into a coughing spasm.

  Hannan shook his head. “You won't be around to see it. Your cigarettes will kill you first.”

  The old ambassador folded his gnarled fingers, placing his hands in his lap. “Changing the subject.”

  “If the subject’s your smokin
g, you always do.”

  He met Hannan's gaze, the man's large eyes intense, radiating intelligence. “The new stats say twenty-five percent of our population is for you and twenty-five percent against you, Abe.”

  “What happened to the other half of the people?”

  “They're not taking sides.” Eli shook his head. “They just want it to be over. But, do you want my opinion?”

  “I'm going to get it anyway.” Hannan waved a hand at Eli. “Go ahead.”

  “If you don't end the martial law soon, they will turn on you. When that happens … let's just say you don't have enough troops to quell all of the violence. And they will be climbing the White House fences before you kill them all. Yes, somebody will shoot you.”

  Eli was right and Hannan still had received no report on his attempt to stop the one man who could incite a large-scale rebellion and keep the rebels stirred up, Brock Daniels. “What's Daniels’s blog readership these days?”

  Eli coughed, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his lips. “As near as we can tell from the network traffic bound for that Israeli server, about 100 million … give or take twenty million.”

  “Blast it! Why in the blazes haven't we heard anything from Hamas?”

  “You mean from Iran, don't you?” Eli raised his bushy eyebrows. “You need to watch your words, Abe. People will use them against you. We don't cut deals with terrorists. Not officially. Terrorist-supporting nations on the other hand …”

  “You didn't answer my question. Has Hamas made the attempt?”

  “No word yet. You're forgetting that news doesn't travel as fast to the US these days. American reporters are viewed with suspicion, even among our former allies.” Eli chuckled.

  Control had been slipping away from Hannan for the past four weeks, both internationally and at home. He didn't have enough troops to control the entire nation. If he lost control of what remained of the Union, he could find himself swinging from a rope … if someone didn’t shoot him first.

  Eli’s grin suggested the old goat was reading Hannan’s mind.

  But, hopefully, Hamas would kill Daniels and the Banning girl that he ran off to Israel to marry. With a little luck, it would happen before the two obtained their marriage authorization. Daniels didn’t deserve any kind of happiness after all the grief he’d brought Hannan.