Super World

by Lawrence Ambrose

  They arrived at the final checkpoint blocking the road that wound right up to the rear entrance of the famous building. Thomas skipped the imaginary I.D. and just told the agents to let them in. The iron gate opened, and they rolled past a line of black SUVs and two armored vehicles. Hardly as much security as Thomas would've expected. Not that it would've made a shithouse pimp's worth of difference.

  They rolled up to the rear entrance. Three Secret Service punks came out to greet them, business-like but not too concerned. Thomas climbed out and stretched his arms, taking in the marble columns and the expanse of arches and windows rising beyond his hands. He closed his fingers, imagining it all within his grasp.

  "Who are you, sir?" one of the agents inquired, checking a computer tablet and his license. "We don't have anyone scheduled for arrival."

  "My name's Thomas. Thomas Mayes, Junior." He extended a hand – the agent was a brother – enjoying himself. "And who might you be?"

  "Michael. Do you have a pass or invitation, sir?"

  "Yes, my brother. An invitation engraved by Fate himself. Or is it herself?" He laughed. "Anyhow, we're VIPs. It's real urgent that I speak with the President, and you and your men will do everything we ask. Capesh?"

  "Yes, sir. Welcome to the White House, Mr. Mayes."

  "The pleasure's all mine, Michael. Take me straight to President Morgan. We got no time to waste."

  "Understood, sir. President Morgan is currently in the Situation Room. Please follow me."

  "Where be the Situation Room?"

  "In the West Wing basement, sir."

  Thomas worked hard at not being impressed as they crossed the marble floors, passing a bust of Abraham Lincoln as they entered a red-carpeted hall.

  "What do you think, boys? Seem like a nice place to call home?"

  His companions looked around uneasily.

  "I'm thinking of changin' a few things, though," said Thomas. "Maybe a new paint job. Black. Yep, the Black House. What do you all think?"

  "I think you're out of your mind is what I think," Tyler grumbled. "Any second now this place is gonna be swarmin' with SWAT teams and Special Forces paratroopers."

  "You watched too many John Wayne movies, Ty."

  "I never watched no damn John Wayne movie in my life."

  Marcus snickered. "I saw a White House and I want it painted black," he sang in falsetto.

  Thomas slapped his skinny friend on the back. "That's the spirit, brother. We wanna paint this motherfucker ebony, we gonna paint it until it shines like a Nubian night. From now on we be callin' the shots."

  "How about ebony and ivory in honor of Stevie?"

  Thomas broke out laughing. The Secret Service agents glanced at each other warily, apprehensive frowns working into their poker faces. They sensed that something was wrong. Something, as Terry would say, "did not compute." He knew his commands or hypnotic suggestions or whatever didn't last forever. You had to kinda reinforce them from time to time. But they'd last long enough to get him safely into the "Situation Room" and in control of this government and from there, with any luck, the whole fucking world. America was still the big dawg in the pound, and all it would take was a talk with other powerful governments to bring them in line.

  They followed the agents down a steep set of stairs into a windowless complex of hallways and smaller rooms. A pair of arms-crossed Secret Servicemen stood guard in front of a closed door. They listened to Thomas's agents explanation for why they needed entrance with skeptical frowns.

  "We'll ask the President," one of them said. "He's meeting with his cabinet and security advisors right now."

  "No need," said Thomas. "Open the doors and let us in. Me and my dawgs are good people and you're loyal to us without question."

  "Yes, sir," the two agents responded in unison, opening the door.

  When they entered, President Morgan glanced up from his laptop at the far end of the table with minimal interest, but then frowned and did a double-take.

  "Who are these gentlemen, Michael?" he asked.

  "This is Thomas Mayes, sir. It is urgent that you speak with him."

  The President's double-take had evolved into a prolonged and disbelieving stare. The white bastard looked even more pale and pockmarked than he did on TV, Thomas reflected. Face looked like the moon, craters and all.

  "Thomas Mayes." President Morgan tasted the words. "Brother to Kevin Mayes? Recent prison breakout in North Dakota?"

  "That be me, Mr. President."

  "We were just talking about the situation there."

  "I'm not surprised."

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Mayes?"

  As the President spoke he reached casually into his front shirt pocket and removed two small objects.

  "They appear to be earplugs, Thomas," said Steven. "He's aware of your command voice capabilities."

  "Good catch, my brother. Hey, Prez, how about you toss me those plugs?" When President Morgan hesitated, he amended his order: "Toss me the damn plugs!"

  The President tossed them. The earplugs bounced off the table about halfway between them and rolled to the floor.

  "Now listen up, alla you," Thomas growled, his voice ascending to his grandfather's Baptist preacher's pitch. "I am the rightful leader of this country. There ain't no one you all respect and admire more than me. You would die for me. Obey my every order as if it were the word of God almighty."

  The people in the room regarded him with worshipful eyes. Even his own crew was watching him with renewed devotion. Thomas smiled.

  "Any questions?"

  "What do you want us to do?" President Morgan asked.

  "Call an emergency session of Congress." Thomas uncrumpled a paper from his back pocket and laid it out on the table. "Got me some legislation that needs passin'."

  AS THE private jet started to descend over West Virginia, Zach got off his cell phone and turned to Jamie with a puzzled smile.

  "That was the DHS Secretary, Jill Allen," he said, a note of wonder mixing with the question in his voice. "She says President Morgan is locked in an emergency meeting with Congress."

  "The super-power virus/nanotech thingie?"

  "She's not sure. She's heard some emergency legislation is being proposed. I'm guessing Morgan is taking some form of bold action as discussed in that meeting."

  "I thought halting all international flights was pretty bold."

  "Yeah. He's taking a lot of heat for that. But I'm guessing that will be nothing compared to whatever he's planning next."

  "So how does that change our plans of meeting with the President and his Cabinet?"

  "We're going directly from the airport to your guest room in DARPA. I'll be staying in the Residence Inn next door."

  Jamie gazed out the window at the picturesque views of the Potomac River and a succession of bridges. The Capitol Building and Washington Monument rolled into view, followed by the Jefferson Memorial, the World War II Memorial, and the White House. She'd been looking forward to a tour of the White House, or at least seeing part of it – more than she cared to admit - but she knew sightseeing wasn't the priority.

  Then she noticed a pair of fighter jets barreling down on them from the east. Perhaps to escort them into restricted airspace? She saw flashes of light and then smoke trails rushing toward them. What -

  The jet lurched hard away from the river, diving so low it seemed to brush the line of trees on the bank.

  "What the hell?" Zach gasped, thrown forward in his seat.

  "Air Force jets have just fired missiles at us." The pilot's voice sounded strangely calm over the loudspeakers. "I don't know why. I'm trying to contact them."

  "Must be some epic security screw-up," said Zach. He turned to her, his face bleeding color. "Jamie, can you stop them?"

  She was already concentrating. She wasn't sure what to focus on. The missiles were out of sight. She imagined a force field expanding outward from their plane –

  The wing on the other side of the cabin vanished in a ba
ll of flame. She and Zach were thrown against the side of the plane. They were falling.

  Up!

  Their descent halted, and then they were ascending at body-crushing speed. At least crushing for Zach's body. Jamie eased up the acceleration, and Zach groaned, struggling to push himself to his feet. The fighter jets. She had to stop them. But first she needed to see them.

  Jamie flew out through the ceiling. No sense of resistance at all. Two missiles were arching up toward them. She stopped them dead in the air – pushed them down into the river a half-mile below while holding their plane in the air.

  The two fighter jets were curling in toward them. Jamie started to stop them, then realizing that would kill the pilots she slowed the approaching jets a bit at a time. They launched another round of missiles, which she stopped a short distance from them and shoved them into the river with their brethren. Now she was balancing her plane, with Zach and the pilot inside, and the two jets. Not so hard, she thought with mild surprise. She wondered how many more things she could add to her balancing act.

  Jamie could see what she assumed was the intended airport, Reagan National, a few miles to the east. She could even make out a cluster of vehicles that she thought might be waiting for them. Hopefully, they wouldn't try to kill them.

  She moved their plane and the fighter jets toward the airport, slowly picking up speed. Was Zach okay? They weren't high enough for depressurization or lack of oxygen to harm either him or the pilot, she was sure of that. But the sooner everyone was on the ground, the better.

  Jamie lowered the three aircraft onto the airport tarmac next to a cluster of government vehicles, including a grey CDC bus that she guessed was a mobile quarantine unit. She'd worn a Level One Hazmat suit into their jet, which was probably still there, but suiting up again wasn't high on her priority list.

  A lot of men in suits – Secret Service guys, Jamie assumed – stood outside the vehicles shading their eyes and staring slack-jawed as she emerged from the plane with a groggy but apparently unharmed Zach in her arms.

  Four shaken pilots climbed out of the two fighter jets, tugging off their helmets. The two pilots of their commercial jet had the door open and were gingerly descending the steps. As the men in suits converged on Jamie and Zach, one tall man whose polished bald head reflected the sun like a mirror stepped to the fore.

  "Zachary Walters and Jamie Shepherd?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Jamie.

  "Are you two okay? Do you require medical attention?"

  "I think I'm all right," said Zach. "Just banged around a bit."

  "I'm Deputy Director Greg Mellon, Secret Service. Can you tell me what the hell just happened?"

  Zach turned with a grimace back toward their plane, which was missing most of its right wing and had a gaping, body-sized hole in its fuselage. "That's a damn good question. Those guys" – he nodded to the four Air Force pilots being escorted toward them – "just tried to shoot us down."

  The Deputy Director turned to the pilots, who glanced from him to Jamie and Zack with glazed eyes.

  "Which of you is the ranking officer?" the Deputy Director demanded.

  "I am," a slim man with short locks of grey-brown hair plastered to his forehead spoke up. "I'm Captain Norquist."

  "Greg Mellon, Deputy Director, Secret Service. I've just been told you attempted to shoot down this plane."

  "Yes, sir. That is correct."

  "Are you going to tell me why?"

  "We were told that a Gulfstream Three jet loaded with high explosives was inbound to D.C., the White House as its target. We confirmed its ID and transponder code and opened fire as ordered."

  "You didn't attempt to contact the plane?"

  "No, sir. Our orders were simply to shoot the aircraft down."

  "Who ordered this?"

  "The orders came directly from the President of the United States."

  Jamie and Zach stared at each other. The Deputy Director seemed at a loss.

  "That...that doesn't make a damn lick of sense. These two individuals are here by personal invitation of President Morgan. We were waiting to escort them directly to the White House."

  Captain Norquist and the other pilots appeared shocked.

  "There must've been some kind of misunderstanding," said the captain.

  "Are you sure you were speaking to President Morgan?"

  "His voice, authentication codes, all matched."

  "What exactly did he say?"

  "That a plane with explosives was headed for the White House, commanded by domestic terrorists."

  "What 'domestic terrorists'?"

  "He didn't say, sir. He ended the communication and we didn't have time for discussion or anything else before the interception."

  Deputy Director Mellon aimed a pensive frown at the Gulfstream jet. He slipped out a cell phone and pressed it to his ear.

  "Sir, it's Mellon... It's about Jamie Shepherd, sir. Her plane was attacked..." Mellon paused, his brown knotting. "They're here right now. She was able to neutralize the attack and land everyone safely..."

  Jamie glanced at Zach, whose furrowed brow was starting to resemble the Deputy Director's.

  "Are you sure?" The Deputy Director's Adam's apple bobbed. "That doesn't seem right. You're sure there isn't a misunderstanding... May I speak to President Morgan? No, ma'am, I'm not questioning... Yes...all right. I understand. I'll let you know. Goodbye, ma'am."

  Deputy Director Mellon lowered his phone, his face mapped by bleak lines. Jamie got a chill as their eyes met.

  "That was the Homeland Security Secretary, Jill Allen. She has informed me that the President has designated you both as enemy combatants, subject to immediate arrest. Lethal force has been authorized should you resist."

  They all stood as if captured in a nature diorama. Some of the nearest agents undid their jackets and not-so-subtly eased their hands within range of their handguns. Mellon continued to stare at Jamie as though working his way through a difficult puzzle.

  "No offense, Deputy Mellon," said Zach, "but that is complete and utter bullshit. The President himself requested – to my face - that I bring Mrs. Shepherd here. In fact, several members of his staff, including the Secretary of Defense, were eager for me to convince her to come!"

  The Deputy Director regarded him, and then Jamie, with an expression that seemed more neutral than skeptical.

  "Something's not adding up," he muttered. "The Secretary did not sound like herself. This emergency meeting of Congress seems odd. And when did they decide you were domestic terrorists? My last orders, from my own Director John Atkinson, were issued only thirty minutes ago. You'd think he'd know about such a drastic change of status."

  "Something's happened," said Jamie. A strange notion was worming its way into her thoughts. "Someone must've convinced the President that I was dangerous sometime after we were on the plane – in the last couple of hours. But how could he do that?"

  "A different advisor?" Zach asked. "Someone besides his normal people?"

  "Someone outside his normal circles?" Her strange notion was suddenly not seeming so strange any more. She could think of at least one person capable of compelling President Morgan or anyone else to do something weird and out of character. A light dawning in Zach's eyes made her wonder if he wasn't thinking something similar.

  Deputy Director Mellon had his cell out again.

  "Yes...Michael. Deputy Director Mellon here. I'm wondering if the President has had any unusual visitors in the last few hours?" His eyebrows slowly rose. "Oh? And this person's assuming a new leadership role in the government? You don't find that slightly odd?" His eyes met Jamie's and then Zach's as he listened. "I see. I appreciate the information, Agent Bradford. Okay. Goodbye."

  Mellon slipped his cell back under his jacket, lips pursed in a sour-lemon frown. "The President and his chief advisors took an unscheduled meeting with someone named Thomas Mayes and a group of individuals accompanying him this morning. According to Agent Michael Bradford, Whit
e House Chief of Security, Mayes just showed up and essentially proclaimed himself the new leader of this country and ordered the President of the United States to convene an emergency Congressional session. For some reason, Bradford, President Morgan, Jill Allen, and everyone else seems to accept his leadership role."

  "Ah, shit," Zach whispered, glancing at Jamie, who nodded grimly.

  "What?" Mellon asked him.

  "How much do you know about the Object and the way it's altering people?"

  "Only that it's probably an alien artifact spreading what people in the know around the Beltway are calling the 'Superpower Plague.'"

  "One of those powers is the ability to command people," said Jamie. "Thomas Mayes used it to escape from prison and then to help others break out."

  "I've heard rumors about that." Melon rubbed his face, eyes narrowing in thought. "Are there limitations to what this person can order people to do?"

  Zach looked at Jamie, who shrugged.

  "I don't know," she said. "But the fact that people obeyed his order to kill themselves..."

  "So you're saying that a man who can make anyone do anything is in control of the President and some of the most powerful people in our government?"

  "That's what it looks like, Deputy Mellon," said Zack. "That would explain the fighter jet attack and everything else that seems to be happening."

  "Jesus." Mellon shook his head, glancing at the agents around them, whose sickly expressions made Jamie think of people who'd spent too much time on a carnival ride. "This individual could order a full-scale nuclear strike. He could destroy the world."

  "Fortunately, it looks like right now he just wants to pass some legislation," said Zach. "That doesn't fit too well with being Dr. Strangelove."

  "They're in the Capitol Building at this moment. I need to call some people who haven't been compromised and organize an operation to take back our government."