by Shawn Davis
Revolution
By
Shawn Davis
And
Robert Moore
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Revolution
Copyright 2015 by Shawn William Davis and Robert Moore
First Edition
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
I like a little rebellion now and then.
It is like a storm in the atmosphere.
- Thomas Jefferson
Chapter 1
Explosion
The midnight-blue Corvette raced ahead of the expanding fireball like a demon escaping from Hell. Incredibly, the car’s reinforced armor was only slightly charred by its suicidal proximity to the inferno.
A strikingly beautiful, black-haired woman, calm behind the wheel, glanced in the rearview mirror; she grinned as she watched the explosion blast out like an atomic mushroom cloud. In a delayed reaction, she heard crackling thunder emanate from the lower levels of the fifty-story skyscraper. From the reflection in her rearview mirror, the fireball resembled a monstrous orange and black flower expanding to breathe in the sun’s rays.
The driver watched millions of flaming steel and glass shards shoot from the explosion like glittering meteors. For a moment she worried the fire would outrun her car and incinerate her, but with the accelerator pressed to the floor, she easily outpaced it.
Her name was Jane Campion and she was the number one player in a covert organization whose goal was to topple the U.S. government. She knew the explosion would panic the public, confound the media and confuse the police, but not her organization. An enormous amount of effort had gone into planning and engineering the explosion at the Getty Government Building. Yet, she showed little emotion at the sight of its lower levels disintegrating into melting concrete and steel. A slight flush on her cheeks was the extent of her reaction.
Campion turned her eyes to the road ahead. The timing had been precise like everything else up to the time of the explosion, and after. Traffic was relatively light, though not so sparse that her car would be remembered by anyone in the area. She weaved her sports car past slower moving traffic, leaving the burning skyscraper far behind in seconds.
A job well done, she thought, smiling.
Suddenly, she spotted flashes of blue lights in her rearview mirror. A police car was following her. She watched it accelerate and pull alongside her.
Goddamn cops!
Jane instinctively jerked the nose of the reinforced Corvette into the side of the cruiser, crashing into it and smashing the driver’s side door. She glanced toward the cop, grinning.
He looks surprised. Never underestimate a woman driver.
Campion watched the cruiser swerve toward the sidewalk, but the officer recovered in time to avoid a crash. She smiled at him again as his face contorted with rage and he shouted what she guessed was a string of obscenities at her. She steeled herself as the cruiser swung back toward her. The cruiser struck the side of her Corvette, smashing the passenger door.
That’s going to cost a few bucks to fix.
Jane expertly turned the wheel, recovering. She reached for a second lever behind the gearshift and pulled it upward. The Corvette trembled slightly, as if taking a deep breath, and then rose slowly into the sky. The steering wheel vibrated as the wheels receded into the undercarriage.
The sleek air-car continued its ascent as the police cruiser followed suit, rising into the sky alongside the Corvette. Freed of the traction of the road, the gleaming Corvette continued to pick up speed, pulling ahead of the cruiser. The cruiser followed in hot pursuit, soaring above the slower-moving cars left behind on the road below.
Campion evaded the pursuing police officer by weaving in and out of air traffic until they reached a busy intersection. She steered through one of the many retail sections of New York City, soaring past stores, restaurants, specialty shops and theatres. She watched pedestrians gaze up from the sidewalks as they spotted the high-speed air-pursuit.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tried to shake the cruiser by weaving around, under, and above slower-moving air-cars. The police officer was not deterred, executing every turn, dive, and ascent with unusual skill.
This guy’s pretty good for an underpaid civil servant.
Campion turned the wheel hard to the right while ascending. Her air-car leapt over the roof of a building that was several stories lower than the skyscrapers surrounding it. She felt G-forces pressing against her body as she narrowly maneuvered through the gap. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she watched the cruiser make the sharp turn behind her.
This guy leaves me no choice but to play dirty.
Campion had hoped that she wouldn’t have to resort to dirty tricks, but the pursuing cruiser left her no choice. Reaching across the dashboard, she flicked a silver switch near the anti-gravity controls. A trail of smoke streamed out from behind a grill in the trunk of the air-car, obscuring the road behind her. It was one of the many special defenses her tech guys had dreamed up – modeled on a gadget used by the fictional British spy, James Bond.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she watched the cruiser bank hard to the right in an attempt to evade the smoke screen. The cruiser shot off course and smashed into a building, sliding along the ribbed cement wall trailing sparks like shooting stars. Jane’s eyes narrowed as she watched the police car explode in a brilliant flash of light in her rearview mirror. Flaming metal shards spilled onto the roof below like burning hail.
Campion steered her car around a corner and rose high above the road, unhindered until she found herself lost in heavier traffic. Unfazed by the whole affair, she removed a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket, pressed the lighter in the dashboard, and took one out. She lit the end and pulled hard against the drag of the filter until her lungs could hold no more. This was the moment she had been waiting for, the satisfying exhale that calmed and invigorated her.
A job well done.
********
Peter was third in line to have his hand stamped. At least, that was the slang term used for the procedure. Eight A.M. Monday through Saturday for eight years he had placed his hand over the metal scanning device at the security gate of the Breechlere Corporation. A soothing computerized female voice announced his presence.
“SEVEN FIFTY-FIVE AM, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 2058, PROCESSING OF PETER RAYNE, FORKLIFT OPERATOR, EMPLOYEE NUMBER 877582, ON TIME.”
As Peter turned away from the security scanner to move in the direction of the main warehouse, he was startled by a sudden rumbling and vibration in the floor. He saw the security guard’s coffee cup tremble on his desk while his pencil bounced in the air and rolled off. He heard a violent crackling explosion emanate from somewhere in the distance as if a nearby building had been struck by lightning. As abruptly as it began, the rumbling and vibrations stopped. The woman ahead of him in line turned around and lifted her eyebrows.
“What was that?” she asked, warily.
“I don’t know. It felt like an earthquake,” Peter replied.
“Keep moving! Wh
o’s next?” the security guard shouted from behind his bulletproof glass wall.
An audible alarm screamed from inside the security station and throughout the interior of the warehouse as other stations sounded their alarms. Peter saw the security guard pick up his phone, dial a number, and engage in what appeared to be a harried conversation. Peter couldn’t hear what the guard was saying because of the alarm and the thick glass separating them.
“That’s a nice way to start the day,” the female employee grumbled.
“I’ll bet you fifty bucks it’s those damn terrorists again,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.
“I’m not taking that bet. When’s the last time we had a real earthquake in New York City?” the woman asked, smirking at him over her shoulder.
Peter discontinued the conversation as the line of workers he was in continued single-file down the long corridor leading to the main warehouse. He knew there were concealed listening devices and cameras hidden throughout the building, so he kept any further speculation to himself. It wasn’t worth the risk to talk about it anymore.
I don’t need any trouble on a Monday morning, he thought.
As Peter walked away from the security office, he glanced over his shoulder and saw another employee approach the security station and run his wrist over the scanner. He looked past the employee and saw, as usual, the line extended past the warehouse lobby door and into the parking lot.
Poor bastards.
Peter felt bad for the other employees waiting in line because there was a good chance the computer would record them arriving late. He focused on the gray cement floor as he did his best to smooth his wind-blown hair. It was an extremely windy morning and his long walk to work had rendered all his previous morning efforts with his comb useless. He knew his short brown hair was nothing special anyway. He hadn’t been able to afford a real haircut in years.
Peter knew he had an average, non-descript appearance and he didn’t care. His light brown eyes matched his hair and contributed to making him unremarkable. Blending into the crowd suited him just fine and besides, he preferred that nobody bother him.
Peter stood five-foot-eleven and was aware he appeared quite thin at 170 pounds. However, his physique had a hard edge from years of working out with weights in his apartment. He had a powerful, wiry frame that allowed him to hold his own against much larger opponents. Throughout his life he had been known to give bullies a few surprises.
As Peter entered the warehouse, he wasn’t surprised by the frantic movement within the building. As the employees hurried to get to their workstations, security guards wearing dark blue suits rushed from a nearby security station and ran toward the closest entrance leading to the mile-long shopping mall.
It looks like someone blew something up again, Peter thought as he continued toward his workstation. I just hope the goddamn terrorists never target my place of work.
Peter hoped the security in his building was too tight to allow any unauthorized personnel inside. Most buildings had implemented tighter security since the urban terrorism began twenty years ago. Yet somehow, the terrorists were still able to get inside.
There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s not like I can choose to work someplace else or quit my job. The unemployment rate is still over 20%. Most jobs nowadays don’t pay any more than $10.50 an hour, subsistence wages at best.
The bottom line was that jobs were tight and he needed the money. So, terrorists or no terrorists, he had to go to work.
Chapter 2
The Organization
When Campion saw there was no longer any pursuit, she slowed the car and descended to the road. She merged with the slower-moving ground traffic until she disappeared into the lines of cars moving through the congested city streets. Glancing around, she realized for the first time since blowing up the building that she was free and clear. For a few moments during the high-speed chase, she thought her assignment might end badly.
She counted herself lucky. She knew what to expect if captured; a violent death after hours of torture. After all, the Constitutional provision prohibiting Cruel and Unusual Punishment had been repealed in 2045. Today, in 2058, the Federal Police Force used torture extensively as a common practice when dealing with domestic insurgents.
Jane pushed these negative thoughts aside as she concentrated on the road leading to the Warehouse District. Maneuvering her way through various back streets, she finally arrived in front of a long warehouse on the waterfront.
The bold, black words Property of Hovercrafts International were painted on the gray cement wall above a row of garage doors. As if someone was expecting her, the door closest to the Corvette rumbled upward on its metal hinges.
Within the dimly-lit interior, human silhouettes waved her in. Jane drove her car through the opening and seconds later, the door slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang as if the Corvette had never existed. She shut the engine off and opened the driver’s side door.
“You’re late, Jane,” a tall, gray-haired man wearing an expensive blue suit asked as she stepped out of the car.
“I got away, didn’t I?” Campion replied, dusting off her black suit.
“It’s always a good thing when you come out of a mission alive,” Rick commented, his blue eyes glinting as they walked across a clearing surrounded by tall stacks of crates. “Your suit looks pretty beat up. What happened? Did you have to wrestle with a Federal Police Officer in the basement of the Getty building?”
“Luckily, no,” Jane replied as they entered a narrow aisle surrounded by more crates. “It went smoothly. Until I left the parking garage. Then, I had the bad luck of running into a police car that wanted to tag me for speeding.”
“That wouldn’t have worked.”
“Not at all.”
“So what did you do?” Rick asked.
“What do you think I did? I lost him,” Jane said.
“Permanently?”
“What difference does it make?”
“You know the new policy we talked about at the last meeting; keep casualties to a minimum,” Rick said.
“I thought that only went for civilians,” Campion said, grinning ironically at the tall, gray-haired man who was at least twenty years her senior.
“You know it goes for everyone,” Rick said, grinning back.
“Sure, Rick, but there is that self-defense exception. And besides, I followed the rule when it came to the explosion. I only destroyed the unoccupied lower levels of the Getty building, so I could take out the power generator. The offices above remained untouched. No casualties.”
“As far as we know,” Rick said. “We’ve found out from previous experience that there are always a few civilian stragglers in the wrong place at the wrong time who wander too close to ground zero.”
“We don’t know that.”
“The newspaper obituaries confirm it.”
“It could be government propaganda.” Jane suggested.
“True, but they usually don’t mess with the obituaries. They usually only interfere with the big stories,” Rick said.
“Yeah, usually,” Campion agreed, glancing uneasily at the older man walking alongside her.
The older, gray-haired man, Rick Connelly, stood six-feet-three inches tall and weighed a healthy one-hundred-ninety pounds. He was in good shape for a man in his mid-fifties and was very distinguished in appearance; he appeared to be a well-dressed, high-level business executive.
Jane thought he looked like the quintessential successful older man; confident from past achievements that he could face any challenge. His pale blue eyes gleamed with compassion and wisdom. He had the general appearance of a businessman, but the soulful eyes of a poet.
The younger woman, Jane Campion, was slightly shorter at five-foot-ten and was about thirty pounds lighter than Rick. Despite her relatively unsubstantial weight, Campion was not weak. She spent many hours at the gym every week, which ensured that most of her weight was concentrated in her arms, chest, shoulders,
and back. Her black suit camouflaged her muscles, allowing her to blend into business environments.
Campion’s black hair was medium-length and slicked back like most businesswomen of the time. Her steel-gray eyes glinted with intensity. She usually had to work to contain her energy, for she found it difficult to sit still for any length of time. Jane was an excellent planner, but she really shined when there was action. She had a sixth sense in battle that had helped her to survive numerous missions many thought she would never come out of alive.
Some men might have considered her beautiful, if they could overlook the hard-edged masculine intensity she emanated most of the time. She had classically beautiful, well-defined features with high cheekbones and full lips, an hourglass figure that was only slightly offset by her powerful arms and shoulders.
However, she stalked rather than walked and never wore high heels. She rarely wore a dress, unless it was a top-of-the-line suit. Campion carried herself with an almost regal bearing as if she was destined to be a leader. She was a hard-edged woman of the twenty-first century: tough and independent. Many people thought she didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body.
The associates reached the end of the long, narrow warehouse aisle, which terminated at a wide freight elevator. They boarded the elevator, as they had done so many times before, and Jane entered a numeric code in a wall panel.
Rick pressed a black unmarked button below a white button marked “B” for basement level. Instead of going down one floor, the elevator continued underground for the equivalent of eight floors before opening to an underground level that was not marked on the elevator panel.
They entered a spacious area that was only slightly smaller than the immense warehouse eight levels above them. A group of variously attired people wearing business suits and gray-and-black urban camouflage uniforms emerged from a section of office cubicles and began walking their way.
