by David Berko
Into the heart of darkness, Alexander thought.
“I never get used to this drive,” Leonard remarked. “A few extra lights in the tunnels wouldn't compromise the security any,” he remarked.
The other man whom shared the backseat with the president and his chief of staff finally looked away from his device long enough to share his two cents on the scenery, or lack thereof. "I think it's peaceful. Reminds me of my visits to my grandfather at the cemetery."
Both Alexander and Leonard exchanged looks of incredulity and astonishment over what was just shared.
Ahmed Negler didn't seem to notice or care what kind of faces were being made at him. "Mr. President, we have something else to get you up to speed on," he flat out said, mere seconds after his mobile device received a communication from Sentinel. "Damion Westover and his chief scientist, Christophe?"
Alexander leaned over to his left to look at his security advisor a little better in the darkness. "What about them?" his voice practically dropped off the deep end and into a sea of debilitating concern.
"Damion's security drones have activated their emergency beacons. This would only happen if..."
Alexander didn't let him finish. "They were killed," he said flatly.
"...or abducted!" Ahmed's voice grew excited.
Leonard joined the impromptu backseat security briefing with a question that underscored his chief concerns. "What about the weapon specs and other valuables Scorpion could get their grubby paws on. Are those safe?"
Just then a call came in directly to the president's very own personal handset. It was the minister of defense on the other end.
…
"Mr. President, I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Minister of Defense Gene Barker intoned.
"Not at all," Alexander hastily replied. "What is it?"
Gene tried to say something, however there was a persisting noise that sounded like machinated interference. Two minutes later the man's voice was heard again by the president, but not until after the minister's message's contents were lost on Alexander in the static.
"Say again, Gene? You were lost in transmission for a moment."
"Sir, requesting military intervention to confiscate Westover Venture's assets."
Alexander knew what he meant. "Absolutely. Use whatever you have to. We can't let the enemy beat us to it. Understood?"
"Perfectly.
--
Beverly Hills, California
Thirty minutes had elapsed from the time he placed a call to the man who owed him. Henry stewed with Hassan in the bombshell of a mansion.
"Go check the vitals on them two," the German directed with a backwards jerk of the thumb.
"No problem boss." Hassan bent down and put two fingers on Damion's neck, feeling for a pulse. It may have been weak, but still there, nevertheless. "These drugs weren't meant to put them out for an extended period of time," Hassan said contemplating how long they had been in the house since they had put Damion and Christophe under.
“It's gonna have to be good enough,” Henry grunted. His boot found a piece of glass...his reaction to crush it couldn't have been more predictable.
Both men suddenly tensed. They heard a noise coming from the portico just outside the front door.
Henry reacted first. Taking the lead, he stealthily slithered, inching closer to where he thought the sound came from. The big man's body remained close to the walls while his feet expertly avoided loose debris that would certainly give away his approach to whoever was out there.
Reaching into his utility belt, the ring leader pulled a small directed energy weapon that was set to kill, not stun. His thumb pressed a little button that powered the firearm up: it glowed blue with a force eager to be unleashed on the victim unfortunate enough to be at the wrong end of the fearsome weapon.
Hassan shadowed his boss and imitated his movements nearly perfectly. He had no problem whatsoever activating stealth mode. It came easy, in fact.
As both men hid behind a structural column in the foyer, poised to blast to kingdom come whatever dared move through the entrance, they heard at the same time a low moan and saw a brown arm attempt to reach through the slit in between the massive door and its door jam. There wasn't anything threatening by what they were witnessing.
Henry grew bold and decided to ask, "Rodney, that you?"
His answer came almost instantaneously with the crashing sound of a nearly-dead African-American who came tumbling into the entryway, no longer able to hang on to the door that swept him into the foyer. He lay there stunned on his stomach. Bleeding everywhere, barely breathing. That's when Henry and Hassan shone their flashlights on their compatriot and discovered his back to be riddled with bullets.
He would die shortly no doubt....Either by a lethal amount of lead in his blood or the sheer amount of blood loss comboed with punctured organs. Unbeknownst to anyone in the room, Rodney was indeed suffering under the duress of a collapsed lung and several broken ribs. He was lucky that was all the damage done to him in his stand against Damion's cheetah robots.
The dying man choked on his own blood as he tried to get his first words out to the shocked Henry and Hassan who stood nearby, motionless. "Did...we...win?"
Hassan was awash with sympathy for this man before him. From his vest pocket he reached for the antiseptic he intended to apply to the many wounds all over Rodney's marred body.
Henry didn't get in the way, but he didn't help either. His position of neutrality spoke volumes on the condition of his soul.
A dull roar swiftly swept the valley floor and traveled up the lookout to reach the ears of those in the house. It had to have been Archie to the rescue. The German thug forgot about Hassan and his dying henchman for a moment to let out a whoop. He rushed the front door and bounded down the steps into the courtyard.
Rodney was fading fast though. He didn't have the strength to cry out in anguish to the touch of the antibacterial solution. “Leave me—” he gasped. His breathing becoming nearly impossible at this point thanks to a lung that was quickly filling with fluid.
"You know I can't do that," Hassan said, feeling the emotions well up inside. He hadn't felt sad about another man on the verge of death in all his years until today.
"Your ride's, waitin," Rodney managed before he convulsed and his eyes looked terrified as his spirit left the tortured body. Dead at age thirty-nine.
--
Chapter 21
The Ozarks
Water dripped needlessly from a pipe that could have used better welding. That's what Heather had to listen to in isolation. But frankly, she was relieved to be away from the guards that frisked her and turned her inside out looking for any weapons or other items that didn't belong before she could wear the orange jumpsuit. Talk about the joys of being an inmate. It was even worse since she was an attractive woman among a largely male population.
Heather sat on her dusty cot and contemplated the future events. What's the worst that could happen to her? Would she get a prison mate? She hoped not. Loneliness wouldn't kill her, but a bad roomie just might. If Scorpion had hoped to dull her wits or make her go squirrely from being boxed in by four walls...they had another thing coming. Heather was a strong woman; she wouldn't unravel so easily.
Now that she had a little more free time than she wanted, her mind wandered back to the events of the past twenty-four hours. Her brain ordered the day sequentially, not leaving even the lesser details out.
…
It started out as a normal Tuesday morning like any other. Heather rose before the sun at the early hour of half past five. She would need to be at the McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas's hub, no later than 6:15 AM.
She was not a morning person at all, so all of the next day's preparations she tried to cram into the night before. Clothes were laid out on a dresser and her digitally integrated household was pre-programmed to make life easier when she woke up....And that's exactly what happened on the 24th of April, 2041.
&
nbsp; At 5:25AM her first alarm sounded. Her phone rang like an old-fashioned telephone until her hand still heavy with sleep attempted to swipe at the screen to turn it off. Five minutes later after her first time pressing snooze it was time to rise and shine.
The smart home knew Heather's preferences better than anybody. It preheated the tiled floors to take away the morning chill. Soft mood lighting turned on in her master bedroom...not too bright, yet not dull like a night light which might coax her weary eyes into desiring more shuteye.
The short walk down a hallway passed by a walk-in closet situated on either side of it—shoes on the left, outfits to the right--took Heather into a rather large bathroom that was ready to receive the sleepy woman.
Its shower already started running with rain-head faucets pouring their deluge of water kept at a bathwater temperature. This was the very thing she appreciated along with her already warm cup of earl grey tea that awaited her in the kitchen.
Thirty minutes was all she needed to complete her brief little morning ritual, which left fifteen minutes to get to the airport to board an unmarked charter flight for Dreamland. Work started at seven...it was a tight schedule with no room for delays or squandering time.
From her previous week's discourse with Howard she knew all the planning and homework she did on bringing a distinguished hacker such as Desmond to the very lair of Scorpion itself would consummate in his actual arrival to the desert headquarters of the agency.
"Nervous?" she remembered reading the text sent from her husband who was already at work that day.
Her reply back said it all. "Does that even happen with me?"
Her husband Derek understood his wife's sarcasm well, so he left her with a winking smiling face and a good-luck message for encouragement.
…
Back in the little room in the here and now on a Wednesday, Heather kicked her legs a little to keep the blood circulating while she let them hang over the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed to better remember the details of the previous day. The timeline took her through the mundane perfunctory daily motions to the more important ones that she chose to linger on and even hit the rewind button at times in her mind's eye.
After she had rewatched everything that had happened up until she had blacked out upon being decommissioned by Scorpion, the same old troubling question resurfaced: why? She and others had diligently done their homework on the black-hat hacker they had picked up off the streets of Austin. He didn't have murderous intentions in his heart or the desire to be the hero of the minority groups in North America to pick off the top guy at the agency. Or so she and others had come to the conclusion which was why he had been the perfect candidate for a job opening at Scorpion.
Where had Desmond gone wrong...or rather how did he so perfectly pull the wool over the eyes of Heather and her colleagues? She could only speculate, but she wondered if there were missing links she'd never be able to connect.
Her troubled mind was working overtime grasping at straws.
She remembered passing Howard a few times in the hall and even seeing him sit at a cafe with strange looking men dressed in black suits and matching trousers. The scene and all its details were still vividly pressed into her memory. What had it meant? Was Howard secretly meeting with others in the upper echelons of Scorpion or other shadowy groups with the same end-game plans? How come she had never suspected anything of him before?
The more she thought about Howard she increasingly began to suspect the old man of playing fast and loose. He had been working for the agency for two decades; he couldn't have been content being subordinate to a guy like Tommy. She shuddered. Suddenly Heather felt a strong tug on her emotional psyche to quit Scorpion altogether. She about had it with everything they had done to her. Before yesterday, she had been up to her eyeballs in their affairs. It was draining and it had left her feeling empty after she returned home from working doubles in recent times.
Two hours had gone by and still no faces showed up at the bars. No visitors to see poor Heather. At last she retired to a state of fitful sleep in her filthy sleeping quarters. When she would wake up, who knew? It's not like there was a pressing appointment she needed to keep. But what she didn't know was she would soon meet two individuals she had heard all about from whispers. Things were about to get at least a little more interesting.
--
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
With the minister of defense's phone call still ringing in his ears, Alexander's resolve became firm as flint. He would do all in his power to serve admirably as the Free Republic of North America's stoic, unwavering leader in the nation's most-trying hour yet.
Leonard Palmer stole glances at the president. He deeply respected the man's cool that he exhibited on a regular basis. Consistency was Alexander's middle name, no matter what.
The two minute underground thrill ride through extremely dark caverns and tunnels was finally over. No one wasted any time whisking the president into someplace more secure and clandestine.
The basement got its generic moniker from the people who walked its corridors the most. These same people wore the little red flag with the three stars and the bear on their breast pockets. And they frequently whistled the patriotic national anthem that was drafted rather quickly by a talented mix of individuals who didn't see the current times as the world's darkest days, but a chance for America to be reborn.
Whatever one's viewpoint on the matter, the never-die attitude belonging to the republic's government workers couldn't be replicated anywhere else. The loyalty, devotion...excellence given to an uncertain cause was just enough to keep the boat afloat despite the choppy waters all around. Now, it was up to Sentinel and its partners in defense to protect the sovereign borders of FRN and come through with a big play in the bottom of the ninth.
…
Director of Sentinel Alfred Demsky took long powerful strides to a private elevator that would take him near the most secure place for miles around. He took with him an aide who often sat in on such security briefings. John Kiefs was the other man's name. He had worked as a field agent for the CIA before being recruited to join the ranks of Sentinel and take a desk to serve under the venerable Demsky.
John stood in attention to Alfred's right. His arms went parallel to his sides in a taught manner. The man couldn't possibly feel relaxed in a moment such as this. No words passed between the solemn figures while they descended together.
The aide finally decided to look at his boss and force something. "It's not going to be brief, is it?" he was referring to the meeting they were headed to.
"I don't suspect so," Alfred replied, not over-thinking his answer.
Before long they were at the bunker's door.
A heavily armed trio of guards asked for identification. They appeared ready to assault the most heavily fortified place on earth.
Alfred reached under his shirt for his lanyard with attached ID.
The guard eyeballed the badge and looked up again at the man that offered it. They appeared to be one and the same. "You may go in, Mr. Demsky," the guard said and nothing else.
John was vetted in the same manner and he too was granted passage.
The rumble the several ton door made was impressive. Stenciled into the vault-like door were the bold red block letters spelling FRN.
He had only been in the basement a couple of times before. The room lacked any color with its sterile silver steel walls and furniture. Straight ahead Demsky saw a welcoming sight. It was a privilege to serve under such a man as Alexander: And there he stood wearing an expression of welcome and relief.
A stray thought suddenly made its way into the director of Sentinel's head. He quickly stole a stealthy look-see around the table looking for one thing in particular. Flummoxed, his eyes didn't find what he was looking for.
Then the president stepped forward to shake his hand. "You look better now. Much better than you did an hour ago," he smiled warmly.
That's when the director'
s distracted gaze stumbled upon the object he had been searching for. It was in the president's left hand!
--
Lackland AFB: San Antonio, Texas
Even though it hadn’t been made official yet, the former state of Texas was closing in on an agreement with the FRN to become its third member in the republic. Any day now the people of the FRN expected their leader to fly into Austin and shake hands with the Texas government sympathetic towards the cause.
However, that Wednesday was different from all others. Alexander needed additional air support and cyber warfare muscles to go into Scorpion-controlled Sector Six to grab Damion's stuff. If the chess match didn't pan out for team Alexander, the 21st century could potentially witness another Black Hawk down scenario take place on LA's west side.
…
The shiny new Operations Center at the aging former U.S. Air Force Base didn't ever go dark. It was alive with activity around the clock...ready to respond to threats foreign or domestic. The base's fighter wings were loaded with sixth and even several seventh-gen multi-role jets.
More importantly they had what the president sorely needed: medium to heavy lift capable aircraft. These behemoths had quadruple turbines with millions of pounds of total thrust--enough to boost into battle tanks and other land-based mechanized units.
The base's operator monitoring the phone lines and all communication of personnel noticed his call center switchboard light up with a caller ID that said: Gene Barker (FRN's minister of defense). It wasn't customary for him to get nervous or jittery over calls, but this one was totally unexpected to say the least. He had not the faintest clue what the nature of business the call would entail.
