by Steven Bird
I could see him staring into my soul. I’d never felt that analyzed by another man before. He was reading me, almost as if he, too, was desperate to find someone who agreed with him—someone who felt the same as him, and was willing to admit it.
Just then, I heard a sound overhead, and instinctively looked up. It was a surveillance drone flying at around one thousand feet. D.C. was full of them these days. They were as common as birds, or perhaps even more common.
Looking back to Ronnie, I said quietly, “I bet those things can pick up the sound of a voice a long way off.”
Nodding, Ronnie began walking once again. I could tell he wasn’t done saying his piece. It was eating at him like it was eating at me. I didn’t know if he was planning to tap out or planning to make a move.
“This way,” he said, leading me toward a nearby construction site.
Just up ahead, there were several hard hat-wearing workers who were using air-powered jackhammers to break up some old concrete. Between the air compressors that were running to provide air to power the hammers and the clattering of the hammers themselves, it was quite a racket.
Stopping just short, trying not to get too close, Ronnie said, “This should help.”
I nodded, anxious for what he was about to say next.
“Joe,” he said, pausing while searching for his words. “These insurgents. I don’t think they’re the bad guys. Not all of them, anyway.”
“Where do you get that idea?” I asked. “You’re as cooped up in this place as I am.”
“I’m privy to a little more intelligence than you are, Joe. My last position with the Capitol Police was with the Anti-Terrorism Unit. I would spend my days sifting through a plethora of data and intelligence reports from all of the alphabet agencies. I learned how to read between the lines and make up my own opinion of the situation, not just the opinion the analyst who wrote the report wanted me to have.
“Anyway, I’ve been doing the same thing here. There is a large insurgent group out west. They’re well equipped and have a large number of veterans and military personnel who defected from the OWA when it was initially being formed. Too many people in the military intelligence community put two and two together. Word got out, and thousands of people disappeared before being assimilated into the ODF.”
Looking me in the eye, he said, “Do you remember when the Capitol Police was rolled into the law enforcement branch of the ODF? How many times did someone ask you if you wanted to come along? They gave you the low-down, and that was that, right?”
“Pretty much,” I concurred. “It was basically ‘work for us and receive suppressive therapy, or die an agonizing, painful death from the virus’. It wasn’t a tough decision to make. At least, it was the only option I had at the time.”
“Right, well, the armed forces received similar, um, offers, if you can call them that. Well, the surviving armed forces, that is. Many, it seems, were allowed to die from the virus while they awaited shipments of the Symbex anti-viral drugs. I guess the OWA felt they could only support a force of a specific size, so they intentionally let the virus run its course in some areas to, well, downsize.
“But like I said, not all of them took the bait. Some who left their units may have just gone off to help their families and loved ones back home. Others, well, maybe they just wanted in on the melee. You know as well as I do that not everyone who puts on a uniform is a fine, upstanding citizen.
“But some,” he continued, “some, defected to a militia organization, one of the organizations we’ve labeled as insurgents, who vowed to fight the OWA and either find a cure or find a way to manufacture their own anti-viral treatment medication.”
“They’ve got the resources to do medical research?” I asked. “That sounds like more than just a ragtag militia with stockpiles of guns and ammo.”
“It is,” Ronnie confirmed. “They’ve got some very bright minds with them. Their only weakness is that without the anti-viral suppressive therapy drug, they’re being forced to live like rats, avoiding contact with others and remaining as low key as possible.
“The OSS operators the OWA sends out on strike missions are all carriers, so something as simple as hand-to hand-combat, even if they win the fight, could be a death sentence for them all. Those who are exposed are forced to leave the group to protect the rest. They voluntarily die alone to keep from risking the cause.
“All they need is to get their hands on a batch of the Symbex therapy drugs so their medical team can attempt to study it, break it down, and replicate it. Once they have the ability to suppress the virus, they can crawl up out of their holes in the ground and really start to give the OWA a hell of a real fight.
“Higher-ups in the OWA are very worried about that. Their grip on the people depends on their monopoly of the Symbex anti-viral drugs.
“There have been some, even within the OWA, who have tried to obtain classified data on the drug’s formulation, or merely argued to have the data released, who were swiftly dealt with. Not everyone is in on the agenda. Some are just useful idiots, like us, slaving away for those who inflicted this on us. The saddest part is, most don’t even know it. They still think they’re working for the greater good.”
I stood there, speechless. I knew what he was saying was true. I could feel it in my bones. Ronnie had just confirmed my worst fears. He had confirmed my own theories based on everything I had seen and overheard since being on the inside, only Ronnie had much more information and evidence to go on, making the case even stronger.
As I stood there and pondered everything he had just said, Ronnie calmly asked, “So, are you going to sell me out, Joe? You could very easily tell the sector chief everything I just said. I’d be gone and out of your way before tomorrow if you did. You’d have my office and my job. But then you’d also have my cross to bear. You would know what I know, and you would be forced to continue to serve those who killed millions—no, not millions, billions, along with their future progeny and everything they could have ever achieved. Could you do that, Joe?”
“No, Ronnie. No, I couldn’t, and of course, I won’t,” I stammered, still unsure of what to say.
“Good. That’s why I picked you, Joe. And there are reasons I picked the others as well.”
“Picked me? Others?”
“Yeah, there’s a reason I picked you, along with several others for the detail Chief Hildebrandt and the OSS suits assigned to us.”
“What exactly is this detail all about?” I asked.
“The OSS is spread a little thin due to a sharp uptick in insurgent activity to the south. With that in mind, they’ve asked the ODF to carry out a detail they would normally do themselves. They’ll have an OSS unit on site at the Central Detention Facility where the defectors are being transported. The defectors say they will provide the OWA with critical intelligence information in exchange for a two-hundred-dose supply of the Symbex anti-viral drug for them and their families to use while traveling to their assigned OWA facilities, and immunity from prosecution. They want to be able to live out in the open, and be provided with the same level of anti-viral care as the rest of the people who actively support the OWA.”
“People like you and me,” I quipped.
“Exactly, people like you and me. Anyway, I’m done rolling over. I’m done being a part of the problem, rather than part of the solution. We’ve got to break the back of the beast, Joe.”
“What do you propose?” I asked.
“Our assignment is to transport the two hundred doses from Walter Reed to the Central Detention Facility. We are to hand it over to the OSS on site, and they will complete the negotiations.”
“Why would the OWA want the OSS to give insurgents access to the drug. Aren’t they afraid they’ll just use it for the research purposes you mentioned? Wouldn’t that be against the OWA’s best interests?”
“Of course it would. And you’d be nuts to think they’ll actually let them get very far with it before taking them out. These aren�
�t high-level personnel we’re dealing with. They aren’t the best and the brightest. These defectors are low-level individuals who see an easy way out, or what they believe is an easy way out. They’re damn traitors is what they are.
“The OSS can handle them. I’m sure the refrigerated case we’ll be transporting the drugs in will have a tracking device somewhere inside. Those bastards will get just far enough to lead the OSS back to whoever it is they’re trying to help with the medication before they’re taken out.
“The way I see it, those traitors, those Benedict Arnold’s, don’t deserve the drugs, and I don’t plan on giving it to them,” Ronnie proclaimed.
“What’s your plan?” I asked.
“The rest of the detail consists of the last people I would consider my fellow countrymen. Lieutenant Don White, Lieutenant Jose Perez, Sergeant Hamid Houbbadi, and Sergeant Franco Capelli. They’re all in. They know the score, and they’re totally okay with the fact that they’re sleeping with the devil.
“There are two kinds of people serving the ODF. There are people like you and me, who came onboard thinking we were doing the right thing, and when we find out the truth, we’re appalled by it. And there are those who find out exactly what’s going on and are okay with it. They’re just glad they’re on the team with all the guns, the drugs, and the power.”
Confused, I asked, “Then why put them on the detail with us?”
“Because I don’t want us to have to take out someone I like, like you, Joe,” he said with a smile. “Or someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’m trying to do a good thing here, Joe. I don’t want to take more innocent lives.
“None of our guys, whether they’re in on the lies and corruption or not, would just let us walk away with the drugs. They’d all do their duty and try and stop us, knowing that deadly force is more than authorized regarding the protection of the Symbex drugs. So, I picked guys I wouldn’t lose sleep over if I had to kill them.”
Pausing to gauge my reaction, he added, “And you’re not one of those guys, Joe. I can’t do this alone. You and I can work as a team. We can use our knowledge of the system to get those two hundred doses far away from here and into the hands of someone who can do a service for humanity and break the OWA’s monopoly on granting life to people in exchange for their servitude. It may even lead to a cure, Joe. How do we not at least try to make that happen?”
Looking Ronnie squarely in the eye, I said, “I’m in.”
“So, you’ve got no reservations about this?” he asked.
“No, sir. Not one,” I assured him.
“Good. Now, once this goes down, the sand will be running out of our hourglasses. We’ll be able to keep the virus suppressed if we take a dose every other day at a minimum. We’ve got to move quickly, though, in order to get the drugs somewhere fast enough that we’ll have enough left to provide to their researchers, as well as keep ourselves alive while they race to replicate it. If not, we’ll die whether the OWA catches up with us or not. It’s like lighting a fuse. Once it’s lit, there’s no turning back.”
Looking around, I said with a smile on my face and confidence in my voice, “I knew I liked you, Ronnie.”
Chapter Three
Later that evening when I arrived home, I almost expected to have a few OSS thugs waiting inside my apartment for my… um, early retirement from the ODF. No one in the new world of what D.C. had become had any expectations of privacy.
Before the Sembé outbreak began, we had voluntarily conditioned ourselves to constant surveillance. Our phones tracked our every move, listened to every sound, and tracked every selection made on touchscreens through every app and browser. We had installed internet-connected listening devices in our homes for the sake of convenience. Add to that, every internet-connected device we owned had a camera installed, and we gladly gave every application we installed permissions to both the camera and the microphone. Privacy was officially dead.
The difference in the post-outbreak world was merely that we didn’t personally authorize the surveillance, but it was still there. The OWA didn’t operate under something as restrictive as the U.S. Constitution. The global state of emergency had allowed them to capitalize on the philosophy of “Never let a crisis go to waste” like never before.
The absolute horror of the situation, a situation that many truly believed to be the end of the world for humanity, an extreme level of desperation felt by nearly everyone, led to an environment where an authority operating under the guise of providing aid or stability, did so without question or oversight. And the next thing we knew, we had a new, all-controlling government. But hey, they were here to help, right?
And now there I was, sitting in my apartment that was undoubtedly under surveillance, planning, the very next morning, to turn against the beast I had been serving since it all began. A plan I’d only known about for several hours, yet I felt as if it was something I was put on this earth to do.
Not once did I have to convince myself to join Ronnie in his suicidal plan. Not once did I have to weigh my options in my mind. It was something I was going to do. Period. I had never been more certain about anything in my entire life. It was as if everything I had ever done had led to that moment, that time, and that place.
To say it was a sleepless night was an understatement. As frequently as I remember looking at the clock throughout the night as I tossed and turned, I couldn’t have slept for more than a few minutes at a time.
The next morning, I laid there staring at the alarm for what felt like an eternity, counting down the seconds for it to commence its painfully annoying series of beeps to tell me it was time to crawl out of bed and walk away from it all.
Just as the alarm began its plea for me to get up, I silenced it and crawled out of bed, still exhausted and desperately needing sleep. I walked over to the coffee maker and began brewing a pot of my favorite dark roast coffee blend. I couldn’t help but chuckle, in some sort of demented, guilt-ridden kind of way, as to how I was able to enjoy the luxuries of a climate-controlled apartment and a hot cup of coffee, all while many others outside of this center of power and influence suffered every day, struggling to survive in the hellish world my masters had created.
I wanted to pack a few things, you know, just in case this harebrained scheme actually worked. I couldn’t likely keep up any sort of successful escape and evasion if I couldn’t blend in, and wearing the uniform of the ODF was no way to blend in. But, if Ronnie and I were going to be able to pull it off without anyone raising any eyebrows, I couldn’t do anything out of the ordinary. No, that day had to be just like any other day.
Donning my dark grey uniform shirt and black pants, I slid my badge and identification into place and slid my belt through my belt loops. Looking in the mirror, I chuckled to myself and thought, Yep, you’re a damned stormtrooper alright.
I went to the weapons storage locker the ODF had installed in my apartment to keep my government-issued weapons, and I opened it to see my PX40E 9.5mm enhanced service pistol, and my CX91E 6.2x40mm enhanced patrol carbine.
Shortly after the OWA’s assumption of authority in the states, an emergency order was given that outlawed the private ownership of weapons and arms of any kind. Knives were even heavily regulated. Again, much of this seemed like a replication of what had already occurred in Europe and much of the world in the days leading up to the outbreak.
Once traditional weapons had been taken off the streets and destroyed, the OSS, as well as the law enforcement and military branches of the ODF, were then issued advanced combat weapons designed, engineered, and produced by a multi-national conglomeration that had sprung up out of Belgium, called GDI, or Global Defense Industries. They were now the only manufacturer allowed to produce weapons under the authority of the OWA, which, of course, meant everywhere. It was a complete and utter monopoly—cronyism and corruption at its finest. Or should I say filthiest? That, of course, depended on which side of the corruption you stood.
When the private ownershi
p of arms and ammunition was banned, the OWA, via their friends at Global Defense Industries, developed a new line of weapons that used proprietary cartridges and used smart weapons technology to prevent them from being used if they were to find their way into the wrong hands.
The PX40E 9.5mm enhanced service pistol was the first of the new designs to be deployed. Using a polymer-cased proprietary round and an electrical impulse ignition system, rather than the ancient use of percussion-fired primers, they ensured that existing weapons in the hands of insurgents could not be simply rechambered to fire the new round.
The power source for both the ignition system and the integrated advanced holographic sighting system were two very slim but powerful batteries concealed within the sides of the grip, with the double-stack seventeen-round magazine extending through the center between them. The location of the magazine seemed to be the only similarity between this new design and the traditional designs of the not-too-distant past.
All of that advanced technology made for an effective combat and defensive weapon, however, the most essential aspect of the enhanced weapons platform was the use of an identification chip implanted in the soft tissue of the hand, between the forefinger and the thumb, which interfaced with the electronics built into the weapon. This integration rendered the pistol useless in the hands of someone who hadn’t been authorized by the ODF or OSS to use them. Not only would the weapon refuse to fire, but it would also begin to sound an ear-piercing alarm that could only be silenced by another authorized user.
The CX91E enhanced patrol carbine and the RX91E enhanced service rifle were designed around all of the technology used to produce the PX40E handgun, yet were chambered in the compact but effective 6.2x40mm, polymer-cased smart round. The CX version had a compact, collapsible and side folding stock, as well as a relatively short thirty-centimeter barrel, which was just under twelve-inches, while the RX91E was more of an infantry-style weapon with a sturdy fixed stock that could double as a blunt weapon and a fifty-centimeter barrel, which came in at just a shade under twenty inches.
