by Brandt Legg
The president was going through another biometric screening at the door to the safe room. Schueller and Melissa pulled Fitz to his feet. The chief of staff moaned in agony, blood on his hands. They helped him down onto the floor of the safe-room.
“Where’s 007?” the president asked as the safe-room door opened.
“Still in the passageway,” Schueller said, running back. “Dad, he’s down!”
“Stay here,” the president told Melissa. “That closes the door,” he said, pointing to a red metal button on the wall. He headed back to the passageway where Schueller was hesitating at the entrance.
The passage was filled with soldiers. Agent Bond was slumped on the floor, blocking the door. Two of their pursuers aimed rifles at the door where Schueller and the president now stood.
Agent Bond reached in his coat as if going for a weapon, then pointed his hand at the soldiers like it was a pistol. The men went for the floor and took cover.
“Go!” 007 shouted to the president. “Leave me, I’m doing my job. Now!”
Hudson grabbed Schueller and they made a dash for the safe room. Melissa hit the button as soon as they were over the threshold. A spray of bullets hit the closing door.
Then, suddenly, they were in a vacuum. No sound. No danger. As if the outside world had vanished.
“We’re safe!” Melissa cheered.
“At least for now,” Fitz said, his leg bleeding.
Melissa grabbed the first-aid kit. “I wish Florence were here.” Then she thought better of her words. “Not really, I mean . . . ”
“We know what you meant,” Hudson said.
“I do know how to tie a tourniquet around it.”
“Someone always seems to shoot at me when I’m with you, Mr. President,” Fitz said wearily.
“Sorry about that, Fitz. You’ll be all right,”
“What about 007?” Fitz asked.
“It didn’t look good,” Schueller said.
“Where’d he get hit?” the president asked. “I couldn’t see.”
“Neck,” Schueller answered.
“We can only hope they get him quick medical attention,” Melissa said.
“We can only hope they didn’t shoot him,” the president said. “He pretended to pull a weapon.”
They were all quiet for a moment.
“In case they do figure out a way into here,” the president said, “let’s get to the communications.”
Schueller, who had been rummaging around the windowless twelve-foot by fourteen-foot room, held up two cell phones that had been charging on a cradle attached to the concrete wall. He handed one to his father, but neither worked.
“There’s supposed to be a secure satellite phone in here,” the president said.
“Here,” Melissa said, handing him the unit.
Hudson immediately tried to reach the Wizard. “No answer,” he said after a minute.
“They probably arrested him,” Melissa said.
“That would not have been pretty,” the president said, dialing the number to another man who had saved his life before. “Ace,” Hudson said when his brother answered, so relieved that his eyes filled with tears, “I don’t have much time.”
“Hudson?” Ace asked, disbelieving. “They said you were dead.”
Chapter Eighty
Hudson quickly explained to his brother what had happened. Ace told him there was spotty cell coverage, and that the internet was mostly down everywhere, even on phones, except somehow the Raton Report and some other alternative sites were still coming through on cell phones. Land lines were still up.
“How can I help?” Ace asked. “Where’s Schueller and Florence? Is Melissa with you?”
“Schueller and Melissa are with me. They’re fine. I want you to check on Florence. I also need you to keep trying to reach the Wizard, but they may already have him.” Hudson gave his brother the number. “And it’s vital that you call the Inner Movement. They’re based out of San Francisco. Make sure they know that you’re my brother, and you need to speak to Linh. Tell them you’re calling with an urgent message from me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m writing this down. What do I tell her?”
“Tell her what’s happened, and that I need Booker Lipton.” Hudson would try to reach her himself in a few minutes if the SAT phone held out, but that was far from assured. The military could easily and quickly reposition or destroy the satellites that were making this, and any other call, possible.
“Got it.”
“Ask her to get Booker Lipton to rescue us.”
“He can do that?”
“Booker Lipton can do anything he wants.” Hudson met Melissa’s eyes with the irony of what he was asking—for the head of NorthBridge to save him from his own military. She gave him a reassuring look.
“And the Wizard, what do I tell him?”
“Make sure he knows exactly where we are and what’s happening to us. He’ll know what to do.” Hudson went on to explain in detail what he knew about the soldiers, named General Imperia as the coup leader, then gave him the location of the safe room. Ace promised he’d make all the calls and make sure Florence was safe.
Hudson’s next call was to the vice president. No answer.
“No surprise,” he said to Schueller. “I’m sure they couldn’t wait to arrest her.”
“We’ve got the bleeding stopped,” Melissa said, finishing up first-aid work on Fitz. “At least I think it stopped . . . this really isn’t my thing.”
“You did great,” Fitz said. “We can’t have Florence with us every time we get attacked, can we?”
Melissa patted Fitz on the shoulder and smiled.
“The news media is about half of what it was,” Hudson said. “But they’re clearly part of this, which means the military is acting with the REMies approval.”
“Would the REMies really want this?” Melissa asked. “A coup in America kind of breaks their system, when you think about it.”
“Hard to say,” the president said. “This could be the final play for the CapStone.”
“Which REMie would be powerful enough to make this happen?” Schueller asked.
“The military has probably taken over all the major media outlets in the country,” Fitz said, sounding weak. “That’s hard to do.”
“I don’t think Bastendorff has the connections within the military to get this kind of radical move done,” the president said. “Maybe Titus Coyne.”
“What if it’s Booker?” Fitz asked, grimacing as he repositioned himself.
“Then God help us,” Melissa said.
“Better try the Wizard again,” Schueller suggested. “He might be our only hope.”
“How long can we stay in here?” Fitz asked.
“I think we’re good for a year,” Hudson said as he dialed the Wizard’s number again.
Fitz looked down at his blood-soaked pants. “Maybe you all can last a year. I may actually need medical attention before then.” He’d already forced himself to feel the area around the wound. There was no exit hole. The bullet was still in him.
“Don’t worry,” Hudson said as he waited, hoping the call would connect. “I’m not gonna let you die in here.”
“I have no doubt there are a dozen soldiers on the other side of that door, just waiting for us to open it,” Fitz said. “Getting me to medical attention is the same thing as surrendering.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that then,” Hudson said, realizing the Wizard was not answering.
“Dad, there’s a radio set over here,” Schueller said. “I think it’s a shortwave. I can probably figure it out. You want me to try?”
“Yes, please!” Hudson said, disconnecting his attempted call to the Wizard and trying Fonda. “Broadcast out to the entire world if you can.”
“Is that wise?” Fitz asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Hudson asked.
“Remember the end game,” Fitz replied. “You want to take out the REMies. I’m assum
ing the world doesn’t yet know you’re being held prisoner. If they find out, there could be the kind of chaos the likes of which the world has never seen.”
“Let me think,” Hudson said.
“Look what I found,” Melissa said, holding up a six pack of Cokes. “They’re warm, but they’re real Coke.”
“Warm or not,” Fitz said, “they’re the medicine I need, and you’re an angel.”
“I wish I knew how to reach Rex,” Hudson said. “We need Tarka and Vonner Security to storm this place.”
Fitz looked at Melissa. She shook her head slowly. Hudson missed the exchange, but Schueller had seen it.
“What?” Schueller asked Melissa.
“Nothing.”
“What nothing?” Hudson asked.
She shook her head more firmly to Fitz. “Nothing,” she repeated.
Hudson looked at Fitz, and then back to Melissa. “What’s going on?”
Silence.
The president, looking like he was ready to blow a kidney, more serious than ever in his life and wondering in the last nanosecond just who he was captive with, lowered his voice as if issuing life-saving instructions to a surgeon.
“We are sitting here in an underground concrete box with half of the most powerful military in the history of the world trying to figure out how to get us out.” The president’s gaze lingered on Melissa, and then turned to Fitz. “Ever hear of the GBU-43/B? It’s a Massive Ordnance Air Blast, but most people call it the ‘Mother of All Bombs.’ It’s an eleven ton, large yield bomb that will instantly transform us into fossil fuel. No one will ever know we were here. I have no doubt they’re fueling up a C-130 Hercules right now to drop it on us, so if you have any information that can help us get out of here, anything at all, then tell me now.”
Fitz looked at the first lady. She remained silent.
“Melissa can reach Rex,” Fitz finally said. “She has a number that will forward to him anywhere in the world via satellite.”
“Great,” the president said, clipped. “Give it to me.” He turned to Melissa. “And then explain to me why you have such a number.”
She gave him the number, but said nothing else. Hudson looked back to Fitz. He shook his head. “Her story to tell.”
The president dialed the number into the SAT phone. While he waited, he stared at his wife. “Somebody’d better start talking.”
“Yeah?” Rex answered after a few minutes.
“Rex, it’s Hudson. We need help.”
Chapter Eighty-One
“Resurrected again, hallelujah!” Rex said.
“’The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,’” Hudson replied.
“Seriously, you’re alive? I really have to stop believing the media.”
The president told him the situation and where they were.
“I’ll get Tarka and a team ready, but it’ll be morning before we can get there.”
“Morning?”
“We’re up against a little more than a corporate security firm or a two-bit military of some little country no one can spell the name of,” Rex said. “It’s a lot to get together. Got to make sure we bring you out alive.”
“They may blow this bunker before then,” the president said. “There may be nothing left of us in the morning.”
“They know where you are, and they know you can’t go anywhere. I doubt they’re worried. I expect they’ll cut your communications pretty soon, though.”
“Then tell me what’s going on out there.”
“It’s ugly. The CapWar overflowed into the real world,” Rex said. “Door-to-door searches, mass arrests. There’s just been reports that the military is investigating biological warfare strikes from either NorthBridge or a foreign terrorist group. At the same time, the Pentagon claimed that a cyberattack had taken out most of the internet. They’ve warned citizens that the power grid may go next.”
“They’ve implemented the Beta-Pi plan,” the president said. “It’s just another false flag, another MADE event.”
“There’s got to be a way to get word out,” Fitz said from the floor, voice strained by his injury. “Right now, everybody thinks the military is their savior.”
“And maybe the military believes that themselves,” Melissa said.
Hudson looked at her, bewildered.
“They’ve obviously portrayed you as a weak leader unable to stand up to NorthBridge, unable or unwilling to protect the country,” Melissa said. “That’s how they’ve gotten all those enlisted men to act against their commander-in-chief and their fellow citizens.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Hudson said. “I remember asking the question during the uprisings when they proposed implementing Beta-Pi about how they would get troops to act against their own neighbors. They deploy troops as far away from their hometown as possible. Computers crosscheck Facebook and other databases to make sure they have no friends or relatives near their deployment. Their commanders give them strict orders and false narratives claiming NorthBridge members are in the area ready to spread a virus.”
“In this case, they said NorthBridge killed you and the vice president,” Rex said. “Apparently a missile just hit the White House, but who knows if that really happened.”
“The vice president was supposed to be at the White House,” Fitz said.
“Remember, Brown is AKA Adams, so . . . ” Schueller ventured.
“So she probably knows a lot more than us,” Hudson finished. “My brother said that the power has been going out for a few minutes every hour where he is, which was also part of Beta-Pi. It keeps the population in the dark, quite literally, wondering if the power blackouts will last, when they’ll come again, and not being able to count on electricity at all. Plus they’ll start having troops stationed around every hospital in the country.”
“That’s happening already,” Rex said.
“They’ll claim it’s to protect doctors and medicines from unruly gangs, but that’s just the cover story,” Hudson said. “What they’re actually doing is making sure nobody can verify the amount of, and extent of, the injured or quote-unquote infected. It sounds like the Pentagon is going with the Beta-Pi virus lie, which means they’re already getting lots of resistance. We can use that.”
“Already formulating a plan,” Rex said. “I’ve got Tarka. I’m going to patch her in.”
“Mr. President,” Tarka greeted.
“Alive and well,” Hudson said. “Now, listen, this isn’t just about a rescue mission. We’ve got to figure out a way to get me in front of a camera broadcasting to the whole country. Scratch that, the entire world. The scenarios I can think of with what could happen now that the world sees us in total meltdown . . . ”
“I can get you on every ready device, but we might need some of Booker’s satellites,” Rex said.
“I’ve got a call into him,” the president said, “but that may never happen. Tarka, you try to reach him, and Rex, we’ll need a contingency plan in case we don’t get his satellites. Also, can you find out if the Wizard is okay and track down Granger? And—”
“There’s something else you should know,” Rex said.
“Go ahead.”
“The REMies have—”
The line went dead.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Bastendorff stood in his office, watching eight large screens at once, walking back and forth among them, trying to get a closer look at some of the scenes.
“What the hell is going on in America?” the REMie asked.
“It’s difficult to tell,” his top lieutenant replied. “But our best assessments are that it appears to be either a coup and Pound is no longer in power, or more domestic crises, possibly new uprisings, NorthBridge attacks, or other issues, and this time the president has decided to actually declare martial law instead of a state of emergency.”
“Who’s behind it?”
“We’re still trying to determine that, but it could be Booker Lipton.”
�
��No, not his style,” Bastendorff said. “I’ll wager it’s that weasel, Titus Coyne. He’s in tight with some of those Pentagon bigwigs. Damn, damn, damn!” Bastendorff threw his hands up in the air and shook his fists. “What a way to the CapStone . . . ”
“Sir?”
“Take control of the United States, including their military—boom, you got the CapStone.”
“You think Coyne did all this?”
“Titus may have just won the final CapWar, and what the hell are we doing here?”
“Is a coup really going to hold in America?” the lieutenant asked. “Aren’t there hundreds of millions of guns? How can they control the civilian population?”
“It depends on why they told the stupid masses that the military was totally taking over.”
“We have early reports of a plague virus running out of control. Haven’t been able to confirm that, though.”
“Brilliant, that’ll scare the hell out of anybody.”
“So the—”
“How can we stop this?” Bastendorff interrupted as he jiggled a few loose Legos in his hand.
“Obviously we can’t take on the US military. However, as we’ve all learned in the last twenty years, information is the real power, and the ability to reach millions at a time.”
“Yes,” Bastendorff said, seeing where his lieutenant was going. “We have to broadcast to the American people. Tell them what’s really happening. Can we do that? Is there a way?”
“I think we could certainly get in from the Canadian and Mexican borders, and we can reach facilities quickly off the West Coast and off the northeast,” he said. “Perhaps even Florida. We can cover probably sixty percent of the population . . . though, knowing they’ll be jamming satellite signals, we’ll have to get in through the old-fashioned frequencies.”
“Then get on it,” Bastendorff said, returning to his desk. “I’ll get to the scripts.”
Bastendorff hit a button as his lieutenant was leaving. A woman came in immediately.
“Judy, we need to write some news,” Bastendorff said, smiling while scooping a few chocolates out of a bowl on his desk and pushing them into his plump mouth.
