The Power of We the People
Page 18
“For what?” Abby asked, surprised that the word apology was in his vocabulary.
“For calling you a conspiracy theorist and ...” Vezeto cleared his throat as though the sentiment was stuck. “And for the record, I’m glad you dissed me and went to Fitz.”
She bit back a grin, not sure whether to feel vindicated or chastised.
“If she heeded your advice,” Wachter said, his protective inclinations expanding beyond the physical, “Andrews might’ve been overthrown. And the Constitution right along with him.”
Vezeto rewarded the Secret Service agent with a stare that could’ve burned through body armor then tramped into his quarters and let the door fall shut.
Abby’s thoughts regressed back to the afternoon raid, which had been executed with the precise movements of a Swiss watch. Marines had cordoned off the enemy base, Texas Air National Guard had decimated fixed targets, and the TEradS had mopped up, corralling nearly a thousand POWs.
A married couple from District Nine, rescued along with their four-year-old daughter, had provided intel regarding Hellhound, Night Sector’s deranged commander; but despite an extensive search, the general had yet to be found.
I let the bastard escape again, Abby thought.
Although no tangible proof existed, she was convinced that Hellhound was the boatman who had delivered Matthew to Athenian Grove and dove into the lake, evading the wrath of her sniper rifle.
Vision blurring with unwelcome emotion, Abby bid a hasty good-night to Wachter, ambled inside her quarters, and changed into a T-shirt and gym shorts. The agent had assured her that Secret Service was combing through surveillance and satellite footage to locate the missing toddler, a consolation too insignificant to put a dent in her guilt.
This is my fault, she thought, collapsing face-first onto her bunk and sobbing uncontrollably. If only I’d let him sleep on the couch with me ...
Eventually, she drifted into a fitful sleep, and her dreaming mind forced her to relive that pivotal moment. Abby was back on the couch in her father’s house, cradling the slumbering toddler, when the hellish pain engulfed her. It was a drill bit boring into her chest, unleashing repressed emotion.
She couldn’t inhale.
Couldn’t stop shaking.
Couldn’t stop aching for the baby she would never hold.
Sweat beaded and trickled as if her entire body was crying.
She had to make it stop.
Zombielike, Abby carried the child back to the room he shared with Nikki and Billy and tucked him into his bed. Then the mattress suddenly morphed into an altar of woven branches. Flames ignited. The room turned blindingly bright, and a loud boom startled her from the nightmare.
Abby bolted upright, dazed and panting.
Someone had kicked in her door; and, silhouetted by light from the hallway, a dark figure was moving toward her. A second man perched in the doorway, clutching a handgun.
Abby belted out an earsplitting scream and groped for the Ka-Bar knife hidden beneath her mattress.
A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, muting her cry; and, grasping the hilt of the knife with a reverse grip, she slashed at her attacker.
The man lurched backward, barely dodging the blade, and Abby landed a kick to the groin.
He doubled over. Air rushed from his lungs, part hiss, part groan, and she lashed out again. Metal clanked against teeth, and the blade’s tip carved through flesh, widening his mouth.
He howled, rivaling the intensity of her scream, and Abby rolled off the bed and onto her feet.
I have to hold out until Wachter arrives, she thought, warding off light-headedness.
The other man holstered his gun and lunged at Abby. His hand locked around her right forearm, indirectly taking control of the knife, and he slammed her up against the cinder-block wall. His boots stomped down onto her bare feet, smashing her toes and precluding any well-placed kicks, then a metal handcuff ratcheted around her right wrist.
Unable to counter his strength, Abby released the hilt of the knife, caught it with her left hand, and drove the blade through woven Kevlar fibers and into his gut. He staggered backward, and as the blade reemerged, blood gushed from the wound.
Panic-stricken, he ripped the top sheet from her bed, balled it into a bandage, and applied pressure to staunch the bleeding.
“Rah-f the ‘ife!” the man with the lacerated cheek shouted, the syllables mangled by severed muscles and sheered-off teeth, but the 9mm Glock trained on Abby’s head made the order unmistakably clear.
Reasoning that if he wanted her dead, he would’ve shot her by now, Abby defied him and darted into the hallway.
Wachter was pinned down in the recessed niche of a doorway. His Sig Sauer P229 swung like a pendulum from the north end of the hallway to the south, oscillating between a pair of riflemen, and the agent bobbed his head, gesturing for Abby to get behind him.
Two men in black tactical gear were closing on their position, M16s up, their fingers on the triggers.
Wachter pressed his back against Abby and “got big,” a Secret Service term for standing erect, throwing back the shoulders, and puffing out the chest to shield a protectee.
“Are the MPs on the way?” Abby whispered.
“Negative. They’ve got a cellphone jammer.”
Shit!
Is this Night Sector revenge for the raid on Gramsci College?
“Drop your weapon!” one of the riflemen ordered.
Wachter replied with a spirited, “Hell no!”
“Drop it or I’ll drop you!”
In response to the commotion, Abby’s teammates filtered into the hallway. Adrenaline vanquished yawns and sleepy-eyed gazes, and the TEradS formed human barriers that hemmed in both riflemen.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Vezeto demanded. His eyes widened as the bleeding men exited Abby’s room, and the corners of his mouth retracted into a punitive smirk.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation!” Gut Wound brandished a badge, and in the light of the hallway, Abby recognized him from her stint in the psych ward. “Sergeant Webber is under arrest!” Stropky bellowed. “And this is your final warning. Clear the hallway!”
“Arrest?” Abby exclaimed, “For what?”
“Crimes that have been classified as a national security issue.”
“You’re not going to explain why you’re arresting her?” Vezeto asked, his caustic tone throwing a bullshit flag on the assertion. “How’s she supposed to defend herself?”
Stropky tendered a cocky grin. “Under the state’s secret privilege, the government can block any information that could negatively impact national security.”
“Does it allow you to kick in doors?” Abby snapped. “In the middle of the night? Without a warrant?”
“You assaulted federal agents. I could charge you with attempted murder.”
“You never identified yourself as law enforcement!” she shouted. “I acted in self-defense.”
Vezeto inched forward, a red laser dot fluttered over his chest like an insect, and he locked eyes with Stropky. “You clear this bullshit through chain of command?”
“Step aside or I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”
“Didn’t think so.” Vezeto’s nostrils flared, and his scowl turned an intimidating shade of fuchsia. “You’re not gettin’ it, Agent Dumbass. Only way Webber’s leavin’ the barracks is if you shoot all ten of us ...”
44
White-Jefferson Air Force Base, Ohio
USING A FAKE MILITARY ID supplied by Hellhound, CJ Love entered White-Jefferson Air Force Base just after midnight and cast a wary eye toward the night sky. He plodded across a stress-cracked sidewalk, kicking a spiny seedpod as though it was responsible for his plight, then he gripped the door handle of a two-story building used to train Pilots. Eyeing a tattered Patriot Anon Post, he hesitated, procrastinating, welcoming any distraction that would delay his subversive mission.
Why no media coverage of Gorka Schwartz�
�s confession?
Blackmail ring in Congress not newsworthy?
Engineering diseases for profit not newsworthy?
Organ trafficking not newsworthy?
Invasion of foreign fighters not newsworthy?
What is political correctness?
What is it really?
What was the Frankfurt School?
What is Critical Theory?
Someone had penciled in answers.
Political correctness = cultural Marxism.
Frankfurt School = intellectuals committed to Marxism.
Critical Theory = strategy to criticize / undermine tradition & values > pave the way for Marxism.
Blueprint:
Create racism offenses
Continual terminology changes > sow confusion / uncertainty (i.e. felon / justice involved person; Black / African-American / person of color; pronouns)
Polymorphous perversity > teach children sexuality / homosexuality
Undermine authority of schools / teachers
Massive immigration > destroy identity / history / customs
Promote excessive drinking / drugs
Empty churches
Undermine legal system / bias against crime victims
Foster dependency on state
Control media
Breakdown family
Holy shit! CJ thought. The moral decay of society was a deliberate, Marxist strategy.
I can’t go through with Hellhound’s plan.
Bittersweet memories resurfaced and his resolve began to waver.
Night Sector had returned CJ to the seaside airfield; and while the Beech Baron jet refueled for his flight to Ohio, Hellhound had granted a merciful yet cruel visitation with Matthew, an emotional reunion aimed at cementing his commitment to the subversive plan.
Matthew’s jubilant smile; the excitement in his little voice when he’d shouted Daddy; the look of utter betrayal when the toddler’s confinement resumed—those moments had been carved into CJ’s soul.
I can’t relegate my son to Hellhound.
And I can’t relegate my country to communists.
Fuck!
He navigated through several corridors and approached a security checkpoint ten yards from the hidden elevator. “Captain Kristofr Kakos,” he said, using a prearranged alias since Captain Love had died in a Rocky Mountain plane crash. “Here to see Admiral Rone.”
A baby-faced Sergeant took his ID and relayed his request to the underground base.
CJ removed his belt and boots, placed them inside a rubber bin along with a ballpoint pen, and fed them into an X-ray machine. The Sergeant gestured for him to step into a TSA-style body scanner, and CJ shoved a hand into his pocket, fidgeting with the cutting-edge thumb drive.
Will the revolutionary material evade detection—as promised?
God, if it’s your will to spare Ryan Andrews, let me be caught. And if it’s your will to spare Matthew, let me sneak through.
CJ stepped into the scanner and raised his hands above his head. A rotating arm circled his body, and the air inside the high-tech cocoon became too thick to breathe. His lungs ached, his body temperature soared, and panic began rioting through his circulatory system.
The millimeter waves are going to detect it. I’ll be court-martialed for treason and poor Matthew will be—
“Captain?” the Sergeant said. “Didn’t you hear me? The scan’s complete.”
Assailed by a confounding mixture of relief and disappointment, CJ blinked to restore his blurred vision and padded from the enclosure in stockinged feet.
The Sergeant pressed a thumb against the end of the ballpoint pen. Then, realizing it wasn’t a retractable model, he twisted the grip and scribbled on a file folder, creating a blossom of black loops, testing its functionality. “Nice pen. What kind is it?”
“I have no idea,” CJ said with an awkward, guilt-ridden laugh. “I-uh ... I sort of inherited it.”
The Sergeant twisted it again, the ballpoint tip retreated, and he casually tossed it to CJ.
The barrel slipped through his clammy palms and clattered against the floor.
Shit!
CJ squatted, thumb and index finger extended as if picking up a scorpion.
“Captain, are you okay?” the Sergeant asked.
He mumbled, “Haven’t eaten or slept in days,” and stowed the pen inside the angled pocket of his ABUs. Guilt was battering his digestive track and demolishing his conscience.
It wasn’t my decision, he rationalized, threading his belt through the loops of his pants. God made the call.
Swallowing hard, he jammed his feet into his boots and ambled into the hidden elevator without bothering to tie his laces. The steel door slid shut and he slumped against a tubular handrail.
Why do I feel like I’m descending into hell?
He’d made this pilgrimage once before, with Bradley and Abby following the capture of Gorka Schwartz. That felt like a lifetime ago, like he was no longer the same person, like he’d sold his soul to the devil incarnate.
What if Hellhound double-crosses me?
What if the bastard sodomizes Matthew anyway?
What if I’m selling out my country for nothing?
The elevator doors retracted, and CJ came face-to-face with Rone.
“It’s great to see you, Captain,” the Admiral said, greeting him with an enthusiastic smile and a handshake. “And on behalf of a grateful nation, thank you for your contribution to the takedown of White Rabbit.”
The undeserved praise was a noose chafing his neck, and CJ tugged at his collar, unable to alleviate his intense shame. He followed Rone past a pair of 23-ton blast doors and climbed into the passenger’s seat of an electric vehicle.
“So how did you escape?” the Admiral asked. “And where’s Bradley?”
CJ briefed him regarding his nerve-racking transit from Cuba to Florida, omitting any mention of the Texas airfield. And when asked about Bradley’s status, he replied with a somber shake of his head.
Does Hellhound really have a spy inside President Andrews’ inner circle?
Will he know if I stray from his script?
Heart pounding in his throat, CJ obediently said, “Then Night Sector delivered me to Hellhound and he ... he let me go.”
“He what?”
Wilting under the Admiral’s interrogating stare, CJ regurgitated Hellhound’s decree. “He’s got my son locked in a dog crate, and if I don’t carry out his instructions—to the letter—he’ll sodomize Matthew.” His hand plunged into his pocket and reemerged with the thumb drive. “He ordered me to insert this into your phone; said it would only take ten seconds.”
Suspicion and irritation rippled across Rone’s forehead, and his brown eyes skewered CJ. “How did you get this past security?”
“Hellhound said it’s some kind of revolutionary material, immune to millimeter wave scanners.”
Pocketing the drive, Rone muttered, “This could turn out to be useful.”
The tunnel stretched for a mile and dead-ended at a complex of three-story buildings. Each free-standing structure cleared the rock walls by eighteen inches and sat atop hundreds of giant springs engineered to isolate the buildings in the event of an earthquake or bomb blast.
Rone parked in front of the largest building and ushered CJ into the command post, a massive room with rows of computer stations and banks of monitors. The Admiral passed the thumb drive off to a Lieutenant General to be quarantined and led CJ up a flight of stairs to a SCIF, which served as the underground Oval Office.
“There’s our national hero!” Ryan Andrews welcomed him with a handshake and an affectionate pat on the back. “I regret that the country will never learn of your selfless valor.”
The undeserved praise seared CJ’s skin; it was like being deep-fried in a vat of his own oily lies.
“Do you know where The Consortium is holding Bradley?” the President asked. “I’ve got TEradS Teams on standby.”
“Bradley, he,
uh,” CJ stammered. “He was shot and killed during an escape attempt.”
Andrews’ expression fell, his eyes glistened, and he looked away.
Rone bowed his head in an impromptu moment of silence, then his penetrating gaze returned to CJ. “Do you know where Hellhound is holding Matthew?”
“No, but I can sketch a floor plan of the subterranean lair where I spoke with him.” He retrieved the pen from the breast pocket of his shirt and engaged the twist mechanism. He frowned at the 5mm pencil tip, twisted it again, and when the red ballpoint tip emerged, he broke into a cold sweat.
The thumb drive had been a carefully crafted diversion, a way to make CJ’s implausible release more palatable to the savvy Admiral—and to conceal his true mission. The highly specialized, multifunction pen was masquerading as an ordinary writing implement, but it was a most lethal weapon ...
45
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
“ONLY WAY WEBBER’S leavin’ the barracks is if you shoot all ten of us.”
Abby’s gaze slanted from the north end of the hallway, where four TEradS formed a human blockade, to the south, where her team leader and three teammates stood defiant.
Eight plus Wachter is only nine, she thought. Where’s Sereno?
Both FBI riflemen appeared nervous, their barrels twitching between targets as if trying to decide who posed the greatest threat.