CJ hazarded a final glance at the road-rail bridge, expelling a sorrowful sigh, and a blast of turbulent air savaged the aircraft and caused it to lose altitude.
Son of a bitch!
It was a dry microburst, an intense downdraft of rapidly descending air that was capable of generating wind speeds of 150 miles per hour.
The left wing pitched down, increasing the drag, then the aircraft yawed and began to spin.
CJ’s training took over. He reduced the thrust, switched the ailerons to neutral, and added rudder right.
Will this motorless aircraft respond like its fuel-guzzling cousins? he wondered, shifting the elevator forward.
Can it withstand the same forces?
The spin slowed, yet CJ continued spiraling toward the ground, and he was about to initiate a final chat with God when the aircraft emerged from the spin.
Relieved, he reset the rudder to neutral, raised the nose, and gradually increased the thrust.
He set a course for the Sea of Japan, and his thoughts wandered back to Matthew and Missy. Would The Consortium still pose a threat to his family? Or would they be too busy playing defense to Ryan Andrews’ offense?
Without warning, the aircraft banked north, heading deeper into Russian airspace.
What the hell?
Did The Consortium seize control?
Rone had assured him there was no uninterruptible autopilot onboard, that there would be no rerun of his harrowing close call in the Rocky Mountains.
Could that uncontrolled spin have damaged flight controls?
Two blips of light appeared on the horizon, closing at supersonic speed, and a pair of Sukhoi Su-30s whipped past on either side of him, hauling ass toward the North Korean border.
The Russians probably think the collapse was another nuclear test, CJ thought.
To his surprise the fighter jets maneuvered as if in pursuit OF HIM.
This aircraft has an electromagnetic cloaking system. They can’t possibly detect my presence ...
A hollow, sinking sensation spread outward from CJ’s core.
... Unless those saplings scraped the coating from the wings and broke the circuit.
Fuck!
Do I want to get shot down?
Or taken prisoner while in possession of the owl?
18
District Nine, California
HELLHOUND RECLINED against a leather chair in the judge’s chamber, binge-watching news coverage. GNN reporters were in the midst of a feeding frenzy, capitalizing on the violence at the southern border.
Raw footage of the incident had been edited to reflect The Consortium’s narrative. Clips of Abigail Webber had been looped, making it appear as though she’d fired repeatedly, shooting women and children. The noble efforts of the fallen Medic had been deleted along with all frames that had accidentally captured the Night Sector operator spraying aerosolized fentanyl—a synthetic opioid more lethal than heroin. Media assets were blaming the Marines for deploying chemical weapons and proclaiming Ryan Andrews guilty of genocide.
A brilliant countermove, Hellhound thought. I field-tested the weaponized fentanyl and discredited Abigail Webber while demonizing the idiot-in-chief and preventing him from uncovering our primary attack: Bolshevik 2.0.
He grinned, likening himself to Trotsky and Lenin. The radical Marxists, bankrolled by Jacob Schiff, had invested twenty million dollars into strategic bribes and a private army comprised mainly of foreigners in order to overthrow the Russian Czar and terminate the Romanov family bloodline.
And once I flush the presidential rat from his underground nest, Hellhound thought, history will repeat itself. My legions will blockade Andrews’ motorcade and overrun his protective detail. He’ll be dragged into a culvert, beaten, and sodomized with a bayonet—like Muammar Gaddafi.
Colonel Bardi intruded on his daydream with a text message announcing an unexpected visitor.
Why didn’t he just send an emissary?
Is he so irate that he wants to personally rebuke me?
Did Andrews release him just to fuck me over? Hellhound thought, a layer of sweat blossoming. Even at his level, he wasn’t exempt from Consortium retribution.
The chamber door swung inward, and Gorka Schwartz shuffled into the room looking like a vengeful ghost. Pale and sickly, the old man was dressed in a wrinkled Alexander Amosu suit with diamond-studded, 18-karat buttons—the same one he’d worn to the wolf moon ritual.
“Welcome back, Mr. Schwartz. You’re looking well, despite your ordeal.”
Gorka’s liver-spotted eyelids drooped, and he licked his dry, cracked lips. “Ordeal?” he repeated with a mongrelized Hungarian accent.
“Athenian Grove, sir. The enemy opened fire, and you were kidnapped.”
His megalomaniac master gaped at him as if he’d just vomited up unicorns and daisies. “General, have you lost your mind?”
A prickly tingle enveloped Hellhound’s spine, a precursor to the panic-tinged dread that began squeezing his heart.
Did Andrews wipe the old goat’s memory? Or has senility set in?
Hellhound’s encrypted phone vibrated, and he glanced at another incoming text.
White Rabbit has suffered a catastrophic collapse; a total loss of assets, electronic and human.
Temper flaring, he trembled like a volcano on the verge of erupting. “You gave up White Rabbit!”
Fury gleamed in Gorka’s tired eyes. “You’re mad! I’m relieving you of duty!”
He’s going to project the blame onto me ... I’ll be hunted down like a dog ... tortured and sacrificed. Hellhound drew his holstered sidearm and shot the scatter-brained traitor in the head. The old man’s body slumped onto the marble floor with a contentious whump, as if vowing revenge from beyond the grave; then the chamber door flew open and crashed against the board-and-batten paneling.
“Are you okay, sir?” Colonel Bardi’s gaze roamed from Gorka’s lifeless body to the pistol in Hellhound’s hand, and his jaw began to quiver.
“Schwartz betrayed The Consortium!” Hellhound punctuated the statement with a homicidal glare designed to preclude questions, but he knew intimidation would not deter Prince Al-Waleed Amad and the house of Bouclier-Rouge.
I need an ally, he thought, and the Winchesters are the only ones with the standing to intervene.
The royal family had been evicted from the triumvirate decades earlier on Black Wednesday, when Gorka’s currency war had devalued the pound sterling and broke the Bank of England.
If I couch this properly, they’ll be indebted to me for restoring their rightful position of power.
“Get the Winchesters on the line!” he barked.
“Y-y-yes, sir,” Bardi stammered, avoiding eye contact as if Hellhound could be detonated by an errant glance. “B-b-but what about the uh ... the body, sir?”
A cold smile formed, heralding a wickedly clever idea. “That corpse is a weapon, Colonel. And I know precisely how to wield it!”
19
3,000 feet below White-Jefferson
Air Force Base, Ohio
GENERAL JONATHAN Quenten hesitated, bracing for intellectual combat before entering the mezzanine office.
The President peeked above a laptop expectantly. “Any word from Bradley and CJ?”
“No, sir. But satellite imagery has confirmed that White Rabbit suffered a total collapse.”
“Mission accomplished!” Andrews gloated. “I told you Bradley was a better bet than bunkers busters.”
Quenten nodded, thinking that the mission had only succeeded because of a fortuitous twist of fate, an emergency shipment of parts; but the truth was, signals intelligence had since identified two more scheduled deliveries that would’ve opened those blast doors ahead of the February 14th deadline.
“Mr. President, the raid on CIA headquarters has produced a troubling piece of intelligence.”
Curiosity twinkled in Andrews’ astute, honey-brown eyes, and he closed the laptop, inviting Quenten to proceed.
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br /> “H-A-M-R, a parallel surveillance platform referred to as The Hammer, is the source of an enormous extortion ring. We have evidence that 183 judges, including Chief Justice Robins, have been illegally wiretapped and blackmailed, along with a majority of Congress.”
Andrews’ mouth tightened into a thin-lipped frown. “Was the platform fried by the pulse?”
“I’m afraid not,” Quenten said regretfully. “All Consortium assets were shielded. NSA has since wrested The Hammer from CIA control, but tranches of data may have been backed up on external devices.”
“So the blackmail is likely ongoing,” Andrews said, slumping against his chair and folding his arms across his chest, “which explains why your brother sold us out. I need to clean house, starting with the SES. Fire the entire lot of them!”
“You can’t do that, Mr. President.” Quenten’s weight shifted foot to foot, a subconscious attempt at alleviating stress. Andrews had a reputation for mangling rules, and he feared that unorthodoxy would stray into unconstitutional territory. “It’s virtually impossible to remove someone from the Senior Executive Service.”
Created in 1978, SES comprised key positions, which functioned as a roadblock between presidential appointees and the federal workforce; and although the Senior Executive Service professed to be “grounded in the Constitution,” the primary qualification was allegiance to The Consortium.
“I found a loophole,” Andrews replied. “I just have to prolong the government shutdown.”
The defiant energy radiating from the President’s face spawned a rush of anxiety. This was precisely the type of impetuous, self-destructive behavior Quenten was worried about. “That won’t end well, sir. The Consortium’s media assets will lambaste you.”
Andrews sprung from his chair and strode toward him, his palms raised as if in surrender. “Just hear me out. I bring in essential personnel only, and as the shutdown drags on, the public will notice that fifteen percent of government employees are far more productive without the obstructionists.”
“And if the eighty-five percent join the ranks of Anti-Ty, protesting in the streets?” Quenten asked.
“They’re already doing that, calling out sick, forcing taxpayers to subsidize their sedition.” Andrews’ hands dropped to his hips as if preparing for battle. “But here’s the best part. If the shutdown extends past thirty days, I can legally restructure the alphabet agencies and implement a reduction in force ... rooting out The Consortium’s army of globalist traitors.”
Quenten pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, formulating a diplomatic renunciation. “That won’t work unless you have one hell of a good reason to shut it down. Something the public would overwhelmingly support.”
“Already got it.” A cocky grin tweaked the corners of Andrews’ mouth. “The Consortium handed us a perfect excuse: border security! We need money in the budget for a wall.”
“Have you seen the coverage of yesterday’s incident? I warned you that deploying troops would result in a debacle, and now people are screaming about Posse Comitatus violations.”
Undaunted, the Commander in Chief said, “The media are screaming—not the American people. U.S. citizens believe that the terrorists responsible for the door-to-door executions just waltzed across our southern border. Don’t you see it, General? We have the power of the people on our side.”
Quenten likened the President’s unorthodoxy to fire; if harnessed properly, it could be a tremendous asset; but if left unattended, it could wreak destruction in the blink of an eye. “How will people react when Congress refuses to fund that wall and forces you to renege on a promise?”
“I don’t need Congress,” Andrews said with a confident shrug. “The President is authorized to deploy troops to the border to build fences under 10 USC § 284. And according to the dictionary, the word fence includes barriers. And the definition of barrier includes walls.”
Quenten’s anxiety graduated into foreboding. Doesn’t he understand that if he loses re-election in four years, The Consortium will take over the country? And the world?
“Oh, one more thing,” Andrews continued, his enthusiasm melting into irritation. “We’ve got a two-star traitor spouting off on GNN. McCreaty equated the TEradS to the Gestapo, called for its dissolution, and demanded that Abby Webber be court-martialed for murder.”
“I bet The Consortium dropped The Hammer on him,” Quenten said, starting toward the door. “I’ll personally relieve him of duty.”
“And in the interim, I’ll initiate the fake news takedown.”
The President’s smirk sent a wave of panic coursing through Quenten. “Do me a favor, sir. Run your ideas by Rone or White House Counsel before taking action ... Or commenting ... Or posting chats.”
Andrews’ brow rumpled into a scowl, but amused contempt was shining in his eyes. “You think I’m a loose cannon, General?”
Quenten denied it with a headshake as he left the office, thinking, Lord, help me keep his muzzle pointed downrange. He threw a cursory glance at the hectic command center, then exited the underground building and hustled toward a 23-ton blast door. An electric vehicle chauffeured him through a mile-long tunnel, which dead-ended at a freight elevator.
Ascending to the surface, Quenten debated how to quash the ill-advised shutdown scheme. He’d expected Murphy and Andrews to be a pair of “yes men,” the civilian faces of a military coup engineered to restore the Republic; now he feared that he’d unwittingly ceded the country to an impulsive leader with a penchant for risk.
If it had been Rone’s suggestion would I feel differently? Quenten asked himself.
At the very least, I would’ve said it merited further analysis. So what’s the source of my opposition?
An intuitive sense that the shutdown will fail miserably?
Or my own egotistical need for control?
The steel doors of the hidden elevator glided open, and he nearly bumped into Admiral Rone.
“Any news on our boys?” Quenten asked, referring to Bradley and CJ.
Mouth turning downward, Rone responded, “Negative ... And let me guess; Andrews is prepping to personally lead the rescue mission?”
“Not yet,” the General said, camouflaging his contempt with a smile. “He’s fabricating a crazy strategy to oust ‘deep state’ bureaucrats. Good luck reining him in.”
The two men shared an uneasy laugh, each venting an unspoken disdain for the unconventional tactics of their Commander in Chief.
“Where are you off to?” Rone asked. “Tag-teaming Andrews may be my only hope.”
“To sack McCreaty.”
The Admiral’s expression grew pensive. “The General’s idiotic comments might’ve been a distress call, alerting us that he’s been compromised. If so, you might be able to flip him.”
“Worth a shot.”
The elevator doors glided shut, terminating the discussion. Quenten navigated a labyrinth of corridors, and exited the two-story building used to train Pilots. Squinting against the morning sun, he broke into a cold sweat.
A handgun barrel was digging into his spine, and a feminine voice cooed, “Keep your mouth shut and keep walking ...”
20
Undisclosed Location
HIS EYELIDS FLUTTERED open. They felt like sandpaper scraping his corneas, dry and gritty, and his vision was blurred. Black, fingery shapes were snaking against a charcoal backdrop; it was uncomfortably cold; and he detected the scent of a distant fire.
Where am I?
What happened?
His ankles and wrists were bound, and he felt groggy, disoriented, as though he’d been drugged. Gradually, he inferred that he was lying on his back, gazing at barren tree branches silhouetted against a moonlit sky.
He tried to sit upright and a vicious pain ripped through his legs, then he heard an English-speaking voice say, “You’re conscious. Now the fun begins, m-aye-t.”
Bradley’s arms were suddenly wrenched upward; parachute cord bit into hi
s skin; and, as his captor hoisted him like a side of beef, his wrists felt like they were being detached from his arms. He shuffled his feet, inadvertently setting his strained quads ablaze, and attempted to climb the rope to relieve the pressure on his wrists.
Hazy memories swirled: the DARPA robot, the seemingly endless tunnel, the open blast door.
Did Pulverulentus detonate? Did it destroy White Rabbit?
Did Warbird make it back to CJ?
A tranquilizer dart, fired from beyond the owl’s sphere of influence, had struck his thigh. He recalled raising the barrel of his .22 Ruger to his temple and then ... nothing.
I was too slow on the trigger. And now I’ll be tortured.
Grunting against the sharp ache of his ribcage, he readjusted his grip on the paracord. His fingers were throbbing; his biceps, burning; and he glared at his captor. The man was a human pit bull, muscular with a sadistic smile and an Australian accent. Decked out with camouflage face paint and Night Sector BDUs, the guy was armed with an American-made AR-10, a Sig Sauer P320, and a dart gun.
“How did you find out about White Rabbit?” the Aussie demanded.
Bradley huffed, “Hellhound,” trying to delude The Consortium into cannibalizing one of their own.
A 9mm bullet whizzed within an inch of his right ear, and he swore aloud, lamenting that his captor was a decent marksman. If the bastard had pulled the round, this nightmare would’ve ended mercifully, without excruciating torture, without betraying the country he loved.
The Aussie retrieved a Thuraya combination satellite / smartphone and snapped a picture of Bradley. His thumbs danced over the LCD screen, most likely sending it off to the Consortium’s private intelligence arm—the CIA.
“Where’s the owl?”
“Who-o-o?”
Looking up from his phone, the Aussie scowled. “You think you’re funny, m-aye-t?”
The handgrip of the Sig Sauer smashed against Bradley’s jaw.
The Power of We the People Page 8
