In a massive break in tradition, the engines weren’t designed using some theoretically possible but currently unobtainable piece of technology, rather they were built around a significantly upgraded piece of experimental tech currently being designed by NASA: Plasma jet engines. Traditional jet engines mix oxygen and fuel into the engine and ignite them, the force of the explosion is directed backwards which, in turn, propels the aircraft forwards. Plasma jet engines were a little more complicated, they used huge amounts of electricity to create and electro-magnetic field that would compress the air – with no fuel needed - to such an extent that, when ignited, it turned into Plasma – the same substance as the surface of our artificial suns and the same substance that was fired by the X1 rifles – the power from which was directed to provide thrust for the aircraft.
The problem that NASA had run into was that they didn’t have the technology to produce the immense amounts of electricity needed to create the electromagnetic field, at least not in usable sizes without being powered from the ground. The latest version of their engine was only a few inches in length, nowhere near the size needed to power an aircraft. We, however, were much more prepared for that hurdle. Each of our engines had its own reactor and a bank of the new lithium power cells, more than enough to satisfy the power requirements of the new engine. The magnetic shielding from the reactor core could easily be re-modulated to create the EM field needed to compress the air and - once the field was in place - the reactor and the power cells could keep it powered much more efficiently than if they had to create the field themselves – add it a bit of our own reactor created plasma and our engines were hundreds of times more powerful than any comparable jet engine in existence.
Thank you, NASA!
I had been in the Pelican during the escape - with a handful of Spartans, Alice’s core and some crates filled with the materials that had been stripped out of the cabin – I had been pressed into my seat by the enormous g-forces produced by the new aircraft; Alice had later told me that having me onboard had significantly slowed down the speed of our escape – my frail human body simply couldn’t handle the extreme forces that these aircraft would produce with a fully robotic passenger list.
With seats, the Pelican could carry about 15 people, but with the seats removed and the standing Spartans packing in tight, it could easily carry 35 soldiers. The condors – being significantly bigger – could carry up to 80 tightly packed Spartans. There had been more than enough room between the four aircraft to facilitate our exodus from Kentucky with all personnel and materials safely onboard. With the armour and defences of these aircraft, the need for stealth had been an unnecessary consideration – there wasn’t much that could have brought them down.
Talking of our escape, the US Government and federal authorities had scaled back their search for me; it had taken weeks for them to convince themselves that I hadn’t simply doubled back and was still hiding in the US, more time again to give up searching for me in the other countries bordering the Atlantic. They had resigned themselves to dealing with me if and when I finally re-emerged, although they weren’t happy about it.
Their handling of the cabin battle had been almost laughable. The final journalist’s question to the colonel in the press interview had caused an avalanche of investigations – primarily by reporters – most of which had revealed damning evidence of serving military involvement and a few of which had suggested participation by the CIA. All of these accusations had been flatly denied by the administration as – using the term coined by the Presidents father – fake news. Only the most ardent supporters of the Turnbull White House were now ignoring the growing scandal and almost every news network were asking some very uncomfortable questions.
For their part, the administration had fabricated the existence – and subsequent deaths – of 23 terrorist who were apparently with me at the cabin, most being foreign nationals, and all being linked to one enemy country or another. The White House had convinced congress - with ease – that action should be taken against these countries but had only gone as far as formal accusations, they had stopped short of military action, probably more as a result of public opinion than a lack of political will. They had – predictably – named me as the ringleader, conceded that I had either escaped from the cabin, or had been absent at the time of the assault, and announced an international manhunt for me – the likes of which hadn’t been seen since 9-11. I had been stripped of my citizenship and now held pride of place on the FBI’s most wanted list.
They had also continued with their program of fictional accidents to account for the deaths of US servicemen during the battle, none of which were remotely true; a plane crash in Arizona had apparently claimed 94 lives, an explosion at an ammo dump another 130, a few more training accidents, traffic incidents or transport crashes and they had reached the figure that Admiral Garfield had presented to the President – 387 of the 1408 men killed during the battle had been serving US soldiers, only 74 had been from the National Guard.
Only 74
I didn’t know whether to feel appalled at the loss of life, incredulous that the CIA had involved so many mercenaries, or amazed that the administration had so injuriously broken the law and apparently gotten away with it, albeit with some lingering questions.
“Marcus.” Alice called to me as I sat on the porch of my new house and looked out over the calm Atlantic water, pondering these question “I think you are going to want to see this…”
Chapter 24
No news is good news.
Cynthia Cross looked great for a woman in her 60s, long morning walks and daily yoga routines had seemingly held the aging process at bay; she could easily be mistaken for a woman 10 years her junior. Life over the past few years had, however, been less than happy. Her children – the raising of whom had been her primary occupation and joy for over two decades – were fully grown adults now, with happy and successful lives of their own. Her eldest son’s beautiful new wife would soon give Cynthia her first grandchild. But an empty nest had forced her and her husband to do something that they hadn’t done in over 25 years; to live in a marriage without the distraction of children.
Cynthia couldn’t remember the last time her husband had made the grand romantic gestures that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago, but – to be fair – she couldn’t be accused of being the most attentive or affectionate wife herself. Cynthia was a strong woman and a little self-reflection was well within her capabilities; if this marriage was going to work, they would both need to put in the effort.
After all, they were the second family of the United States, her husband was Philip Cross, the Vice-President and there were certain expectations that came with that job. She’d be damned if she was the weak link in the role.
She stepped through the doors of their luxurious DC home, political life came with certain benefits, and dropped her handbag onto the glass topped table in the foyer, she knew where her husband would be at this time of day and – after taking off her coat – she made her way to his office.
She knew something was wrong as soon as her eyes met his. His usually immaculate suit was dishevelled, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. His face was as pale as her bedsheets with the exceptions of the red puffy eyes that stared back at her as she entered the room. She had only ever seen him in this state once before and memories of his infidelity and that slut secretary came pouring in from the back of her mind where they had resided for the past 3 years.
“I know that look…Who is she, Phil!?!” she snapped, the rage and humiliation of the past – and now the present – exploding in her chest.
Her husband closed his eyes in surrender but said nothing.
“I swear to fucking god!” she screamed, her fist clenched, “I don’t care what the paper’s say, I am NOT going to be humiliated by you… not again!”
“I’m not… There isn’t anybody else.” Phil said weakly.
“Don’t give me that, you lying piece of shi
t! I have seen that look before,” She yelled, pointing an accusing finger at her husband’s drawn face, “When you told me that you had been fucking a woman half your age, the day before the story broke in the Post. So, what am I going to be reading about tomorrow?”
“I’m not cheating on you, Cynthia, I swore it would never happen again… Please, if nothing else, you have to believe that.” His voice reminded her of her son, when she had caught him stealing money out of her purse, he had sworn it was not for alcohol or drugs, but he couldn’t deny the stealing. That weak, pathetic voice resigned to its fate.
“Well, then you’d better start explaining otherwise that is exactly what I am going to believe!”
“I can’t, It’s…. It’s classified.” His head dropped.
“I fucking knew it! I’ve been waiting for that line for years,” she hissed, her rage now clearly on show, “you screw some new slut and hide behind your job and its ‘classified’ meetings! Well Fuck you! I’m not sticking around for the press to tell me that my husband has been doing behind my back…” memories of reading the sordid details of Phil’s affair on the front pages flashed through her mind
“Please, Cynthia.” Phil rose from his chair, his voice still lacking even the most basic levels of conviction.
“No! I’m leaving.”
“It’s not what you think, I swear.”
“Then tell me!”
“I can’t…”
“TELL ME!”
“I CAN’T!” his voice raised to match hers.
“IF YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON, I SWEAR TO GOD ALMIGHTY…”
“FINE! YOU WANT TO KNOW!?!” Phil shouted, his face contorting into emotions she had never seen before, “THE PRESIDENT IS KILLING PEOPLE!” He slumped back into his chair, burying his face into his hands and his shoulder starting to shake. “It’s all true,” he said between sobs, “All the conspiracy theories about Kentucky… about that CEO in California… it’s all true… I found out this afternoon. I don’t know what to do.”
Cynthia blinked, her mouth opening to speak but her mind unable to process what she had just heard. Her husband was a liar, a cheat, the father of her children, the love of her life and – in her heart – she knew he was a good man, 25-year-old secretaries notwithstanding. He had pulled himself up from the Ohio state legislator’s office, gotten himself elected to congress and then the Senate, he was a man of principle whose reputation of doing the right thing by his constituents had dragged the Turnbull name back into the White House.
If Philip Cross believes in David Turnbull, then so can you!
The words of the election campaign rang through her ears as she watched her husband’s legendary resolve crumble before her eyes. “I don’t understand” Cynthia said slowly, sinking into the plush leather armchair facing her husband.
“All those news reports, all those journalists saying that something shady was going on… I asked David if there was anything I should know and he… he denied it in the way he always does when he’s screwed up… so I went looking for the answers myself.” Phil could barely bring himself to look his wife in the eye, Cynthia recognised the shame immediately, she had certainly seen that emotion before.
“I still don’t…” she started before Phil’s head shot up, the fury in his eyes was usually reserved for his political opponents and even then, only for the ones who truly deserved it.
He laid it all out for her, The CEO who had developed technology that Turnbull wanted, her refusal to give it to him, the illegal CIA spying op and finally the order to execute her, all either sanctioned or outright ordered by David Turnbull Jr, Phil’s friend of almost 40 years.
“they covered the whole thing up,” he continued, his voice varying from the fire and brimstone of a Baptist preacher, to the abject resignation of an unfaithful lover. She knew both voices well, the former belonging to her father, the latter to her husband. “they made it look like a suicide and hid everything behind a top-level security classification. Those files won’t see the light of day for a century!”
Cynthia sat and listened, Philip’s accusations against his boss – the leader of the free world – terrified her beyond words, “But… why?” she finally asked, her voice now as weak as Phil’s had been when she first attacked him, part of her would have preferred him cheating on her, it would have been better than this.
“Why?!?” he looked at her, the first time his eyes had met hers since he started talking, “You’re joking, right? This is a guy who has spent his entire life getting exactly what he wants, whenever he wants it, daddy made sure of that…” her husband’s disdain for the former President was no secret to Cynthia. “…then some immigrant builds something that could save the government billions in energy costs and refused to hand it over? have you ever seen that son-of-a-bitch react well when someone tells him no? Why did he do it? Because he fucking could!”
“But the law… congress…” her voice trailed off as her own knowledge of the political landscape answered her question before she could finish asking it.
“Congress?” Phil snorted it disgust, “The Republican party had a 60% majority and most of those congressmen personally owe Turnbull for getting them into office. They aren’t much more than lackies, and even then, this is all classified. Maybe congress can issue a few strong words in a hundred years when this all becomes public information.”
“But… What does all this have to do with what happened in Kentucky?” Cynthia asked after a short pause.
“Oh, you’ll love this…” he almost laughed, “turns out, the CEO woman they murdered didn’t develop anything, it was her boyfriend and head of research. This guy must’ve seen what was coming and faked his own death and relocated to Kentucky with all of his work…”
“He left her there?!?”
“I doubt it, I think the plan was fake her death as well and get her to Kentucky too.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The fact that he hunted down and killed every single person involved in her death! After he tortured them that is.”
“…Jesus…” the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place, “…Gregory Hammond…” She had met the former deputy director of the CIA at a function a few years earlier and had been sad to hear of his death.
“Organised the whole damned thing… on the order of the President.” Phil nodded, finishing her train of thought, “Anyway, so this head of research keeps developing new technology except now he is doing it to fight against the US; indestructible robotic soldiers, energy weapons, energy shields, holograms, new types of aircraft… the sort of things that would give Turnbull a wet dream! So…”
“…he orders the CIA to kill him too.” She finished, suddenly understanding where this was going.
“Oh, not just the CIA! He had Langley find them then sent in the FBI and the ATF, remember the 6 dead federal agents…”
“yes, the ones killed by the terrorists before the national guard were called up.”
“err…. Well, there were no terrorists, just this one guy. And he didn’t kill those agents, the CIA did, they killed six FBI agents to ensure the siege failed and the National Guard were brought in…” Cynthia gasped in shock, the ramifications of this were huge. “… The National Guard were put on alert before the FBI even got there, a convenient piece of timing that the press hasn’t clocked onto yet.”
“My god…those agents… all those soldiers…”
“Don’t get me started on the soldiers!” Phil boomed, he was now out of his chair and paced in front of her. “what was the official death toll? 80 something? Bullshit! There were more than 90 just from the National Guard, almost 300 active service personnel killed…” he enunciated each word as Cynthia eyes widened in shock.
“he can’t do that!”
“No shit! How about over a thousand mercenaries drafted in by the CIA!?! You think he can do that? There were almost 1500 men killed in Harlan, the President covered it all up!”
“But…”
“How did he get explain those casualties? Remember the Arizona plane crash? Never happened… Remember the explosion in Fort Bragg? Complete bullshit!... he fabricated the deaths of more than 300 military service personnel just so he wouldn’t have to explain their involvement in a National Guard engagement on US soil!”
“He can’t…” Cynthia couldn’t even bring herself to finish her sentence.
“Can’t he? Oh, it gets better!” he laughed, more in nervous fear than from amusement. “My name is all over this!”
“What?!?”
“In every order… on every classified document… my name is right there next to his. Or it says that the administration orders… or the presidency determines… I am in the fucking administration; I am part of the presidency! My name is on the god-damned orders! I… I am implicated in the worst abuse of power this country has ever seen and…”
This time it was Phil who couldn’t finish his sentence. He sat back down in his chair; his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
“What are we going to do?”
“We?”
“Yes, you are my husband, things might not always be great between us, but I am on your side, especially at a time like this.”
“Thank you, Cynth, I don’t deserve you.” He replied softly, “but I don’t have the faintest idea what to do. It’s not like I can stop it, it’s already been done. If I leak it to the press, then I look as guilty as sin and I’ve leaked confidential documents – a crime in its own right. Confronting the President won’t do anything, he will just smirk and walk away and I’ll want to punch him right in his arrogant, entitled face… Classified information can’t be passed to the Senate for impeachment and even if it could, I still look guilty, I can’t pass it to the FBI for the same reasons… I… I don’t know what to do.”
The Rise of the Speaker Page 27
