Table of Contents
Foreword
Prologue
Part 1: Deep State Incursion
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part 2: The Head of the Snake
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Postscript
Post-Postscript
Books by Vikki Kestell
A Prairie Heritage
Girls from the Mountain
Deep State Stealth
Nanostealth | Book 4
Vikki Kestell
Also Available in Print Format
Conspiracies. Collusion. Plots. Secrets within secrets and plans within plans.
Thanks to Gemma and the nanomites’ timely intervention, President Jackson survives Vice President Harmon’s attempt to assassinate him and seize the presidency. Back in Albuquerque, Gemma makes a difficult decision: She allows the explosion that killed her identical twin sister to serve as the cover-up for her own “death.”
Half a year later, Gemma emerges from hiding as Jayda Locke. Soon after, the President’s sole contact within the NSA, an old and trusted friend, vanishes. Did the President’s friend learn the identities of Harmon’s co-conspirators in his plot to assassinate the President? Was the President’s friend found out and eliminated because of what he uncovered?
The President calls upon Jayda (now married to Zander Cruz) to infiltrate the NSA and, with the nanomites’ assistance, identify the remaining traitors. But is the sedition within the government more widespread than either Jayda or the President believed? More importantly, will Harmon’s confederates stage another coup, a second attempt upon the President’s life?
As Jayda and the nanomites breach the NSA’s security and begin to untangle the web of treachery, no one can conceive how deep the corruption runs—or how close it stands to the President himself.
Deep State Stealth
© 2018 Vikki Kestell
All Rights Reserved
Faith-Filled FictionTM
http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/
http://www.vikkikestell.com/
Dedication
To all those who have sworn an oath
“to support and defend
the Constitution
of the United States of America
against all enemies,
foreign and domestic,”
and who have held to their oath
with both honor and sacrifice.
Remembering
Wayne
Acknowledgements
I have acknowledged and thanked
my wonderful team many times,
but they deserve every kudo I can apply.
Thank you,
Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann.
I am honored to work with such
dedicated and talented individuals.
I love and value both of you.
Our gestalt is powerful!
Cover Design
Vikki Kestell
Scripture Quotations
The New International Version (NIV)
The HOLY BIBLE,
NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®.
Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984
International Bible Society.
Used by permission of Zondervan.
All rights reserved.
and
The Message.
Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995,
1996, 2000, 2001, 2002.
Used by permission
of NavPress Publishing Group.
Up from the Grave He Arose
(Low in the Grave He Lay)
Lyrics and Music, Robert Lowry, 1874
Public Domain
Foreword
The Deep State:
The unelected “fourth branch”
of the U.S. government.
“A BODY OF PEOPLE, TYPICALLY influential members of government agencies or the military, believed to be involved in the secret manipulation or control of government policy.”
—Oxford English Dictionary [*]
“A HYBRID ASSOCIATION of elements of government and parts of top-level finance and industry that is effectively able to govern the United States without reference to the consent of the governed as expressed through the formal political process.”
—Mike Lofgren, former Republican U.S. congressional aide, 2014 [*]
“THE DEEP STATE DRAWS power from the national security and intelligence communities, a realm where secrecy is a source of power.”
—Jason Royce Lindsey, The Concealment of the State, 2013 [*]
“THE ENTRENCHED BUREAUCRACY composed of political appointees and career government employees engaged in coordinated attempts to undermine the authority and legitimacy of the democratically elected President of the United States. Civil servants opposed to the President’s political beliefs and agenda, pulling strings in the background to obstruct the executive branch through regulation, procedural red tape, weaponized national intelligence actions, a complicit media, and the judicial overreach of like-minded allies in federal courts. Unelected officials able to thwart the will of the voters and effectively impose their values and objectives upon the American people. Sedition and treason. A ‘soft’ coup.”
—Vikki Kestell, Deep State Stealth
Prologue
Mid-June, Columbia, Maryland
I WAS DREAMING—AND it was not a sweet or pleasant dream.
The thing is, I knew I was dreaming, but I couldn’t wake myself up. If you have ever been caught up in a nightmare, you get what I mean: I twitched and tensed, tangling my feet in the bedsheets, but I was powerless to pull myself from the events unfolding before me. I was reliving that evening—and my anxiety levels had already spiked through the roof.
I was with FBI Special Agent Ross Gamble in his apartment. He’d invited me there for dinner (ostensibly), but my gut knew in advance that there was more to his summons than food and a friendly chat between friends.
When I’d knocked on Gamble’s apartment door, he’d eyed me with mistrust. Well, it was the first time he’d seen me in my new persona as Jayda Locke . . . you know, Gemma Keyes being dead and all.
Gamble’s wariness had been so strong that I’d been obliged to ask the nanomites to temporarily dissolve my disguise. Only then had Gamble, with a begrudging shudder, conceded that the stranger at his door was truly me. He had allowed me to enter and, in my dream state, we drifted through a meal of homemade pizza and salad.
Odd.
I could smell the warm pepperoni and spicy Italian sausage pizzas—right down to their yeasty crusts and still-bubbling cheese. The memory was so true to life that my stomach clenched as Gamble worked up to what our meeting was really about.
Like I said, I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t jar myself awake or wre
nch myself from the inevitable. In perfect detail, my subconscious replayed our conversation, starting with me slicing through Gamble’s pretense.
“The pizza was great—thanks for making two, by the way—but why did you ask me here, Agent Gamble? What do you need?”
Gamble exhaled and eased into the point of our meeting. “You’ll never guess where I spent the early part of this week.”
“Cut the guessing games, Gamble.”
I hadn’t been in the mood for his stalling tactics that evening, and I wasn’t now.
He rubbed his jaw. “Fine. All right. Here it is. I got an interesting call last week and flew out of Albuquerque Monday.” He slanted a look at me to gauge my reaction. “I spent Tuesday at Camp David.”
I said nothing, only stared at Gamble. The same jolt of panic I’d experienced at that moment stabbed me as I sank deeper into my dream.
“I met with the President and the lead agent of his protective detail, Axel Kennedy.”
I slowly and methodically folded my napkin, trying to delay what was coming. “What . . . did the President want?”
Gamble leaned toward me. “He wished me to convey his thanks to you for your assistance in December. He didn’t elaborate on the specifics of the assistance you provided, only that your aid averted a national crisis—a crisis that had something to do with the Vice President. From that, I took it to mean that Harmon’s death wasn’t from natural causes, after all?”
Gamble searched my face, probing for answers. What he found was the poker face I’d perfected as Gemma Keyes—the old Gemma Keyes, Gemma BN (Before Nanomites), back when Gemma had honed the art of fading into the background like so much white noise.
“The President asked me to tell you that, although the head of the snake was severed, he has uncovered evidence of co-conspirators in the NSA who continue to plot against him. The evidence suggests that intelligence gathering is being weaponized to use against the President’s key allies in the government—all with the purpose of taking down his administration.”
I squirmed in my sleep. Co-conspirators in the National Security Administration. Great. Super. Nothing better than knowing your enemies are smiling in your face while sharpening a shiv to stick between your ribs.
“The situation has grown particularly dicey. The single contact whom the President trusted—an individual placed high within the NSA—has disappeared. This means the President is now without eyes or ears on the inside. Meanwhile, every move he makes is watched—perhaps by treasonous elements within the intelligence community. The President doesn’t know who he can trust, and Axel Kennedy is wound tighter than a drum. I think he fears for the President’s life.”
I’d met the President and his wife just the one time—when I’d snuck into the White House to warn them of the Vice President’s intent to assassinate Robert Jackson, our second African American president. I found that I liked Robert and Maddie Jackson very much. Within the dream, concern for their safety harried me. Apprehension chased after me, and I tossed and moaned.
“The President is growing desperate, Jayda. He needs someone who can infiltrate the NSA, penetrate their bureaucracy, and get inside their secrecy—someone who can provide him with the evidence he needs to clean out that nest of vipers. Someone who can defeat every kind of security, go wherever she wants, search every air-gapped computer, and listen in on the most private of conversations.”
“H-he wants me?”
No, I protested in fretful sleep. Not me.
But Gamble continued. “Yes. He proposes providing you with a bogus identity and slipping you inside the NSA in a low-level position. He said you and your unique ‘skills’ could handle the rest from there. But I think—” and here Gamble hesitated. “—I think Jayda Locke is the perfect bogus identity. You even have the right mix of employment skills and experience the NSA might desire.”
I said nothing to Gamble, but I felt the bottom falling out from under my perfectly reconstructed world. And now, within my dream, his previous words lodged in my mind: Although the head of the snake was severed, the President has uncovered evidence of co-conspirators in the NSA . . .
The head of the conspiracy had been Vice President Harmon. The dead VP.
I shivered in my sleep. The head of the snake. Something about that phrase disquieted me. Could snakes regrow their heads like some reptiles or amphibians could regrow limbs and tails?
No, I assured myself. Of course not.
Gamble’s voice droned on, “The President was stumped, however, at how to ensure that the NSA would hire you—especially within a tight time frame. I told him to leave that to you, that you and your little friends could manage it. Am I right?”
“If. If I were to agree to the President’s plan.”
“Let me lay it out for you, er, Jayda. The President wants to transfer me to the D.C. area. Special assignment. We—you and I—would work together.”
“We? How?”
“I would be your handler, convey instructions to you, provide whatever logistics you needed, and communicate your information to the President. You and I have worked together; I think we make a good team, don’t you?”
I stared at the floor—anywhere but at him. “I’m not looking to make a career change, Gamble. I just started a good job, and Zander and I . . . well, we’ve been talking about getting married.”
“Congratulations. I’m glad you guys finally figured it out.”
“No. No, we haven’t. That’s the problem. We’re trying to work out how to deal with my ‘condition.’ Frankly, it’s a total wet blanket on our relationship. A deal breaker, so to speak, for multiple reasons.”
I must have looked as morose as I felt, because the kind and compassionate Gamble had shown himself.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought about the relationship problems your, uh, ‘condition’ might create.”
“You have no idea. And I’ve just established myself as Jayda Locke. If my cover is blown, do you have any idea how difficult it would be to start over? Again? Right now, only a handful of people know my new identity. I want and need to keep my ID and ‘condition’ confined to that small group. It’s the best way to keep me and those I care about safe. You know that old saying, ‘The only people I trust are you and me—and I’m not sure about you’?”
Gamble was empathetic. “The President agrees with that proverb. That’s why he called me himself. Outside of him and Agent Kennedy, not a single other person will know that we’ve planted you in the NSA. Nor will anyone suspect your ability to turn invisible and penetrate their most secure areas, hacking the NSA from within.”
In my sleep, I shook my head. “Nope. Sorry, Gamble, but no. I can’t run off on Zander. We . . . we’re praying about our relationship and waiting for God to answer. Besides, what you propose is way out of my league.”
My recollections of that night petered out, and Gamble wafted away, leaving me alone in the dream, no longer in his apartment but in a damp and dim place where thick mist puddled about my feet and legs. I didn’t recognize my whereabouts, so I turned, slowly, looking for some marker or clue as to where I was.
I found nothing—only emptiness in every direction.
With tentative steps, I advanced, hoping to spot a door—or even a wall. Anything to indicate the boundaries of this strange place. I counted off fifty paces, encountering more nothingness and more of the ubiquitous mist.
“Hello?” I whispered.
No response.
I raised my voice. “Hello?”
Had I gone in a circle? Without a fixed position to orient myself, I supposed it was possible.
Pointing my eyes straight ahead, I counted off another fifty steps.
When I stopped, I called, much louder than before, “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
My words faded without echo or amplification. No, perhaps “faded” is the wrong descriptor. My shouts thudded to the ground as soon as they left my mouth. They dropped as though weighted or robbed of impetus, adding to the w
eird impression of vacuity around me.
Wherever I was, the laws of physics did not seem to apply. This place was unnatural.
Creepy.
Wrong.
Aloud, I said, “It’s okay. I’m just dreaming. When I wake up, all this will be gone,” but I felt my pulse quicken and throb in my throat.
Within the dream, Gamble’s words repeated: Although the head of the snake was severed, the President has uncovered evidence of co-conspirators . . .
That phrase stuck in my craw. Vice President Harmon had been the head of the plot, and he was dead. Since Harmon was dead, why did those words bother me so?
The head of the snake. The words made me itch; they gave me the heebie-jeebies. I shivered and kicked at the soupy fog that obscured the “floor” and my feet. The fog was so thick, I couldn’t tell if I was standing on stone or tile, only that the substance was hard and cold. I stretched my hand down into the mist—and changed my mind. Maybe fumbling around in the mist with bare fingers wasn’t the smartest idea. Instead, I decided to keep walking, to try to find my way to the “end” (or the beginning) of wherever I was.
“Any exit will do,” I whispered.
I started forward and walked for quite a while, gradually growing drowsy. Lethargic. I couldn’t focus. My eyes drifted closed.
I may even have sunk into a deeper sleep, leaving the dream behind.
I only know that I was much more relaxed when I heard it: the faintest rasp—small, whispery, similar to the sound a sheet of soft tissue paper makes when it is drawn slowly across the smooth surface of a desk. Up until now, I hadn’t heard anything in the shadowy void except my own breath, words, and footsteps.
I halted, forced my drooping eyes open, and listened.
There it was again. Faint. Subtle. Intermittent. Hardly the breath of a sound.
Yeah, like I said—a sheet of gauzy paper slowly pulled across a smooth surface.
I blinked, still stupid with sleep. The thick mist eddied off to my right and, within the mist, I thought I caught movement.
When I turned and focused on the shifting haze, it—whatever it was—stopped. I squinted through the gloom, trying to figure it out. Then I picked up on the sound again.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled and stood up and, well, I realized it wasn’t paper I heard.
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