In a way she was. He wondered how many times they’d had this same conversation.
“Hell no,” he grinned.
Yes, the financial system had collapsed. Yes, the value of the dollar had plummeted in world markets, making a bailout of the banks impractical. But to do what they were proposing was madness.
The economy had boomed before the Depression. The financial system had sucked up debt like a blood-starved vampire. The Chairman had prospered. Most wealthy folks had.
Then came the crash.
The whole problem had been the growing trend of burning through money too freely, like a casino in Las Vegas. A casino that not even “the house” controlled. Banks had borrowed heavily. Then invested stupidly in the riskiest of markets. And when everything went south, it went way south.
No one could pay their bills. Everyone was in debt. In response, the president and his Unity party had proposed simply doing away with debt. Instead of encouraging people to learn to live within their means, they proposed doing away with the limits.
The government would print up currency and pay it into circulation. It was just like Monopoly money. Only it was worse.
“No interest rates. Politicians in control of the money supply. Madness,” she said.
“And nobody was going to make any damn profit off of it, that was for sure. This country’s about making money. Always has been, always will be. Take that away and you take the freedom away. They’re one and the same.” With that, Sage took a hearty gulp of his drink and enjoyed the slow burn down his throat. Now that’s a martini!
The last thing Sage was going to let happen was to see the people who made this country great, who made this country work, become the scapegoats for everyone's screwups. And the group that went down in the plane crash, they had been the ones holding everything up.
“The Council fixed the problem, that’s all,” he said as if he were answering Roosevelt, whose fiery red hair filled the room’s screens as Media Corp cameras panned back to a close-up of the speaker in Boston.
The Council had helped organize the International Banking Consortium. Now, credit policy was set outside of the political system. The Federal Reserve was abolished, but for the right reasons. Now, the Council borrowed money from the world's biggest banks on behalf of the nation.
Sage strolled back to his chair and plopped down with his martini in hand.
“As it should be,” she said. “They’re just tilting at windmills, you know.” She pointed to Roosevelt. “Why don’t you throw them some kind of bone, darling? Give the stupid Revolution a medal and shut them up for a while.” She leaned over him, giving him a good look down her dress, and kissed him softly on the lips again. He licked his lips but then quickly glanced back to the screens. Marguerite frowned.
“It wouldn’t work. Besides, I can’t make him too much of a hero. He is dangerous, you know.”
“He can ruin a good evening, that’s for sure.”
Roosevelt was on-screen going on about businesses corrupting the country or some other bullshit.
“The business of America is business, you imbecile.” Sage shrugged his shoulders like he’d just announced the most obvious fact of all time.
“Oh boy,” Marguerite sighed, “I’m going to take my gin and tonic and see if some pool boy around her can’t give me some attention. No one in this room is going to.” She winked at him and grinned as she turned.
“I wondered why we hired those guys.” He smirked at her playfully, but his thoughts and eyes instantly spun back to the news in front of him. He noticed her frown at the screens as she exited. He’d have to make this up to her later.
The Chairman sighed.
This world was a world based on merit. That’s how the species progressed. And the best of the best maintained control through the Council and the Consortium. Sage and others like him ruled the country because they were the best. They deserved it.
People get what they deserve.
It was a motto to live by. Idiots like the Revolution understood none of this. He railed about freedom and democracy when what he was really espousing, what he would really bring about, was anarchy.
But Sage could always use the Revolution for his own purposes. It made Media Corp look good to give him airtime. Made coverage looked balanced.
Just like after the plane crash.
It took real talent to honor the memories of his enemies at the same time that he put into place everything they opposed, but his control of the media once again served the cause well. Media Corp had long since done away with quaint notions like net neutrality or local media.
Sure there were rebel outposts that broadcasted any way they could, but for the vast majority of Americans, everything they heard, everything they saw, everything they read came through the Media Corp lens. The key was to let the dissenters have a voice in every medium.
He just made sure that they were drowned out by more rational voices, like his own.
People didn't even know the difference. They logged onto the Internet the same way they always had. The charges took place up-line from the everyday consumer. The Council regulated content through money and access. For the consumer everything seemed the same. Browsers still existed and still performed Web searches and e-mail and the like. In fact, there was more “free” content on the Web than ever before. He had cornered the market, his empire had taken control, and no one had made a whimper. No one knew a thing.
Almost no one.
CHAPTER 8
Boston. The sound of the Apaches invaded the square. Many peered up to the distant lights behind Roosevelt.
“The media, owned and operated through Media Corp, by the Chairman of the so-called Freedom Council itself, still has millions of our brothers and sisters convinced that this is how it has to be.”
The buzz of the choppers was loud now; they were closing in fast. Some in the crowd backed away. A slow rumble of discontent began to ripple across the throng.
Roosevelt leaned into his microphone
“Don't let them intimidate you!” he reassured.
But the birds zoomed in on the crowd at high speed. A loudspeaker on Apache One squeaked to life. Night Hawk spoke in a controlled but firm voice that boomed and echoed across the square.
“This is an unauthorized gathering. Disperse from this area and return to your homes. This is your only warning.”
The choppers buzzed low over the angry crowd and angled back up for another pass. The mass of protestors was completely unmoved. Their fear vanished quickly, replaced by boiling anger and determination to stay in the square, to stand their ground.
“Follow the rules of engagement, gentlemen.” Night Hawk looked back down at the crowd. He felt a familiar knot grow in his stomach. The X-1s fanned out and skimmed the crowd like giant, menacing wasps. “Cold ammo only. Fire on my command.”
Roosevelt saw them returning for another run. He jumped back to the microphone, leaned out with his hands outstretched; he tried to touch his listeners, as if he could radiate his calm, his resolution to them, through his fingertips. He raised his voice and lifted his arms above his head in the most dramatic gesture he could muster.
“To those still cowed by the Council and their media, let us send a shot across their bow!”
Just then, the Apaches laid down a round of rubber bullets. Thwack, thwack, thwack! It seemed to catch everyone off guard. In spite of himself, Roosevelt leapt off the podium; his back and shoulders stung from the impact of the rubber. Though the bullets hurt like hell, they did no real damage. The citizens scattered but then regrouped, angrier than ever. In the past they might have fled, but this was a moment many had waited for, hoped for, some had even planned for.
On the rooftop, the Revolution gripped the building's ledge. His scanners read the ammo as nonlethal, but he didn't like how this was unfolding. It looked like the Guards had just fired into a hornets' nest.
The crowd awaited the next flyby with a noisy, defiant resolve. The choppers fi
red again. Many raised their placards as shields. The Apaches doubled back. This time, Molotov cocktails spun up to greet them. They flared across the steel and glass of the X-1s and flamed out. No real damage, but Night Hawk was pissed. Broken glass, open flames in a crowd this thick was just irresponsible and more than a little dangerous, he thought. And it had proved another thing to him: this crowd didn't come here just to chant. They’d come here looking for trouble. Nobody walks around with a Molotov cocktail in their back pocket just for fun.
Somewhere in the midst of the throng, a lone rifle lanced above the crowd. A serious weapon, military issue. Rapid-fire automatic. As the Apaches laid down their third round of fire, the rifle barked back. The high-caliber rounds sprayed across the nearest X-1 as it zinged by.
A match was lit, a fuse ignited.
The explosion was yet to come.
CHAPTER 9
The bullets were high-powered—enough to puncture pure steel. They blasted toward the nearest chopper.
Inside Apache Nine, young pilot Harry “Buzzsaw” White watched helplessly as bullets chipped away at the reinforced glass of his cockpit window. A few of the rounds pierced the underside. It all happened in a matter of seconds.
“I'm under fire! Fire is ho—”
A shard of plastic flew off his dashboard and struck him in the throat. He clutched at his Adam’s apple, which felt like it had lodged itself in his spine. He coughed and gagged, eyes watering. His X-1 swerved and rolled. The sleek chopper nearly fell out of its safe zone, but he stayed the throttle at the last moment.
Night Hawk spied Buzzsaw’s erratic wobble. He'd heard the faint gunfire from below, despite the roar of their engines. “Is that live ammo, Nine?”
Buzzsaw said nothing.
“Nine?” he repeated. “I say again, is that fire hot?”
But Buzzsaw was clutching his voice box, unable to speak. He punched the com, but he could make no sound. The Night Hawk saw Nine's com light up, and then nothing. He thought that couldn't be good. Suddenly, Apache Eight chimed in. He was flying in formation right next to Nine.
“Sir, that did not sound like civilian issue to me. I think they're the real thing. I think they're hot!”
Inside Apache Nine, more bullets slammed into the cockpit. The glass spidered all around. Buzzsaw could tell the bullets were definitely hot. Glass spattered in. A round finally pierced the thick glass shield cleanly and sliced into Buzzsaw's arm. He cried out from the burning, searing pain. Fear gripped him like a raging inferno.
Desperate, angry, scared to death, he switched to live ammo. Motherfuckers try to kill me! I'll kill 'em right back! he thought.
Apache Nine dove from formation straight at the crowd; Buzzsaw was firing like a mad man. His emotions had overtaken him. The young pilot had never been fired on before. He wanted to make sure no one would ever do it again. Bloodlust pumped through his veins.
Night Hawk saw him, but in the split-second chaos of the moment he couldn't tell if he was diving or crashing out of the sky. “Pull up, Nine! Pull Up!”
Nine's turrets were full open. The metal zinged out red-hot into a sea of humanity; small sprays of crimson stretched like waves across their numbers. Eight hundred rounds per minute, nearly fourteen per second, into a mass of living targets.
“Harry!” Night Hawk screamed.
Those struck fell immediately. Many were ripped apart. They didn't stand a chance.
The crowd screamed in horror and scattered in every direction. Nowhere was safe.
Like swarming ants they turned and fled in the opposite direction of the air birds, toward the closed-off end of the square...
They rushed away like the tide, leaving the dead lying in their wake, sprawled across the street like so many fallen leaves.
The shooter, cloaked in the crowd, didn't back down. He kept blasting, staying covered, slipping away with the mass of people. Spraying the air wildly.
The pilots scanned for the gunman, but there was simply no way to spot him. The pilot in Apache Two shouted, “Sir, I can't see the shooter! Can anyone see the shooter?”
Night Hawk knew the rules of engagement, and this had gone on too long. He’d been given a direct order to clear the street. His squad had been fired upon, and however ill-advised, one of his number had fired back—with no reduction in hostility. He had no choice but to give the order. If the street runs red, they've got no one to blame but themselves, he thought.
“Don't need to. Heat your flames.”
The pilots switched to live ammo. They prepared to move the crowd, no matter the consequence. They knew then they were going to have casualties. It wouldn't just be Nine taking lives tonight. The mission parameters were clear. The crowd must be dispersed and their own squadron defended.
Protocol demanded that they fire to stop the shooter—and that meant firing into the thickest part of the crowd...
“Open fire!”
The aircrafts swooped down. Bullets tracked the street, from their six to twelve o'clock positions, chasing and striking the crowd. People fled down the street, a desperate stampede with nowhere to escape to.
Later, analysts would lament that while the pilots had orders to clear State Street, they had inadvertently herded them to the very part of the Square from which there was no exit. The crush of people had created a human blockade.
They were trapped. With the copters coming.
It all happened dizzyingly fast.
The Revolution was caught off guard. Upping the ante like this was an unusual move for Council Guard. But then again, he'd never seen civilians fire on them before either.
He scanned the crowd. They were stampeding for the narrow end of the square. The copters were shooting their red-hot metal behind the crowd. As they zoomed closer, their bullets sprayed into the mass of people and the air again turned crimson. Screams erupted from the throng, as those nearby knelt to attend to those who were struck—and then were struck themselves.
And that was just the warning. The real attack was still coming.
The X-1s circled back. Engines blasting. Their guns read locked and aimed in Revolution’s Heads-Up Display, or HUD: the digital readout that scanned across the eye shields inside his helmet.
It was all unfolding at a blood-chilling pace. The Apaches were catching up with the thickest patch of the crowd. Soon they would open fire again. He could time it. Seen it in combat many times. It was now or never. Only one move had any hope of saving the civilians.
The Revolution leapt from the rooftop. He sailed into the far path of the copters.
He fell three hundred feet straight down. A death dive from atop a skyscraper. From a thought command his cape snapped rigid, slowing his descent and bringing his legs back under him.
The fall took forever.
Once again he slammed onto his feet, onto the solid concrete of the street. He landed hard and fell to one knee. Head down, concealing the intense wave of pain that washed over him.
His scarlet cloak draped lightly over his form. Bioindicators from his armor sent a rapid response of the drug ketorolac tromethamine into his bloodstream to moderate the pain. Its effect was immediate. He rose to face the choppers. Held out his arms. Defenseless. Daring them to strike.
Night Hawk didn't see him immediately. His focus was on the crowd, on disrupting the shooter. Night Hawk knew the local Council reps were fed up with the resistance. They were ready to send a message. That message sizzled out via his 800-rounds-per-minute gunship turrets. Had he wanted to, he could have killed them all. He was showing great restraint. They all were.
“Commander, do you see that?” The pilot in Apache Four had stopped firing. He was peering straight ahead at the Revolution landing in the square.
“That's not him, is it?” another ventured.
Two hundred miles away, Chairman Sage sat glued to his wall of televisions. He watched as one of his own reporters breathlessly recounted the coming standoff. The camera swiveled from the Revolution to the copters and back ag
ain.
Sage had seen enough. He was no longer amused. The last few seconds had descended into abject horror—and it had happened so fast.
There was no choice now but to intervene.
It had not been his call to send in the choppers. That had happened on the local level, a decision made by the local Council. But he was damn sure going to make the call to end all this. The Chairman thought-commanded a number to be dialed. A ring echoed across the room's sound system.
Inside Apache One, Night Hawk took aim. The target in front of him was holding back the evacuation. And that meant the target was going down. Orders were orders.
It didn't matter who the target was.
The Revolution saw the Apaches closing in on him. They opened fire. Scarlet streaks of artillery danced in front of him, inching closer, ripping up the asphalt, marching straight for him. Fifty feet and closing. He felt a rush of panic overtake him. Even if the bullets couldn't puncture the armor, would their many impacts knock him unconscious?
It was unlikely. The odds of it ran through his mind. But there were a dozen choppers coming. Their bullets were far more powerful than the battalion he had faced all those years ago. If they all fired at once, those odds would improve. The numbers again raced through his brain. It would take a lucky shot. Still, a dozen X-1s...
He brushed off a shiver. A vision of being captive. His identity revealed. The symbol of resistance reduced to a real, living, breathing human being. With all the associated flaws and foibles. This was his nightmare. He must either stop this massacre or die trying.
Fragments of gravel sprayed him. The artillery impacts ripped into the street. It was just another moment...
CHAPTER 10
Aboard Apache One, Night Hawk targeted the red star on Revolution's chest as his wingmen strafed the street, hoping to scare him off. No dice. Night Hawk’s guns locked on. He prepared to fire. Just as his finger squeezed the trigger, a crackle in his headset. Night Hawk's eyes lit up. There was no mistaking the voice in his ear, and as Night Hawk replied, his tone was absolute.
The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution Page 5
