The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I don’t.” Rone tossed the pen aside, and a melancholy frown flitted over his expression. “Gim seems to be suggesting that Carter Sidney is profiting from a loophole involving military satellites.”

  “Is that possible?” Ryan asked.

  “Unfortunately, it is, sir. For a year prior to the pulse, we’d been trying to decrypt rogue foreign communications that were being relayed over our satellite network. Gim is implying that China—who is forbidden to purchase this satellite technology by law—has exploited a loophole to covertly lease access ... on behalf of The Consortium.”

  I bet the Sidney Foundation got a big fat check for brokering that deal, Bradley thought.

  “Are you telling me this other gibberish is actually an encryption code?” Ryan asked. “That would allow us to eavesdrop on Consortium comms?”

  “Quite possibly, Mr. President.”

  Perfidulo was rubbing the back of his neck. “This feels too ... too convenient. Like a setup. Sir, I advise you to return to Washington, D.C., and await the intelligence community’s assessment.”

  “Cheyenne Mountain is closer,’ Rone countered, “and more secure.”

  “Admiral, the President hasn’t been seen publicly in days,” the chief of staff insisted. “GNN is likening him to a cowardly rabbit hiding in a burrow, and wild rumors are beginning to propagate on social media.”

  “Perfidulo’s right,” Ryan said. “Leaders need to be visible; I need to return to D.C. And in the interim, forward the encryption key to Python. Ask him to focus on Carter Sidney, Hellhound, and Johanna Krupp.”

  Then the Commander in Chief patted Bradley’s shoulder and proffered a sly grin. “You should check out the presidential suite and tame that Grizzly Adams look before dinner.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude on the First Lady’s privacy,” Bradley said.

  “Franny’s with Izzy in the medical annex,” Ryan told him. “Seriously, there’s a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a brand-new razor waiting for you. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised ...”

  53

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  HELLHOUND STEPPED OFF the Bombardier Global 6000, a luxurious, ultra-long range heavy jet, and hurried toward a waiting limousine. It was after one a.m. local time in Riyadh, a good hour to be traveling incognito.

  The last thing I need, he thought, is for my competition to find out about this meeting.

  Prince Al-Waleed Amad had ordered Hellhound to Saudi Arabia and, for the first time during his tenure with The Consortium, he felt intense pressure, skittish and intimidated, as if he’d lost control over his fate. How had the apex predator become the prey?

  In addition to battling Ryan Andrews and the yellow snakes opposing the New Global Order, he now had to contend with power-hungry elements within Night Sector. For decades, the ranks had cowered at the sight of him or the mere mention of his name, too terrified of his reputation to pursue the political gamesmanship that plagued the remainder of The Consortium. But he’d become cocky and complacent and, in the blink of an all-seeing eye, his tyrannical immunity had evaporated.

  The drive from airport to palace was the most stressful five minutes of his life, and as he exited the limousine, he scowled at the Night Sector sentries on duty.

  This will be a test, Hellhound thought. If tongues wag, gossiping about this rebuke, my command is in jeopardy. I’ll have to make an example out of the first usurper who dares to challenge me ... to discourage insurrection.

  He strode toward a gated archway comprised of a pair of triangular stone pillars and submitted to an invasive search. To distract from the indignity of blue-gloved underlings patting and probing sensitive areas, he marveled at the mundane-looking, six-foot wall surrounding the palace grounds, a billion-dollar high-tech barrier that had turned the property into an unassuming fortress.

  Once cleared, he ducked into the backseat of a Bentley, and a driver shuttled him to the palace. The two-story cube of straw-reinforced adobe was surrounded by a decadently lush carpet of grass. Landscape lighting illuminated mighty palms, shark-toothed agave plants, and a decorative ribbon of embossed pyramids that crowned the palace.

  The vehicle stopped beneath a portico with a solid, east-facing wall, and Hellhound was received by an intimidating bald man who possessed the muscle, girth, and glower of a bouncer.

  “Remove your footwear,” the man instructed, pointing with the antenna of his two-way radio.

  Put off by the inconvenient custom, he kicked off his shoes and covertly assessed the Bouncer.

  He’s half my age, Hellhound decided, and armed with a .44 magnum Desert Eagle. Good thing he’s half my IQ.

  The palace receiving room was an open expanse of Solomonic columns whose spiraling shafts and three-pointed arches evoked the atmosphere of an ancient cathedral. Italian marble floors and hand-carved wall details amplified their footfalls, and the resulting sound served as a prophetic countdown to the castigation to come.

  The Prince was pacing in his study, a white-robed ghost floating amidst a collection of gaudy, gilded furnishings and richly paneled mahogany walls.

  “Your Highness.” Hellhound obediently awaited an invitation to enter the room.

  “Richard, you were summoned days ago,” Amad said, intentionally slighting him by using his given name. At sixty-two, the Prince was of average height with a jet-black Magnum-P.I. mustache and the malevolent eyes of a demon. “Come!”

  Teeth gritting over being beckoned like a dog, Hellhound ambled into the ostentatious room and clasped his hands in front of him submissively.

  “I truly expected to be inducting you into the Committee this weekend.”

  He bowed, feigning shame and hiding his indignation. The Committee of 300 was a powerful rank within The Consortium. Nicknamed the “Olympians,” they were the backbone of the New Global Order, responsible for organizing politics, commerce, banking, media, and wars at the international level.

  I earned that position, he thought bitterly. The door-to-door executions, the Alameda fever vaccines, the death camps disguised as FEMA shelters—The Consortium would’ve been drowning in yellow-snake extremists if it wasn’t for me.

  “I counted on you,” the Prince said, jabbing an index finger into his face. “And your latest assassination scheme failed miserably!”

  Hellhound stared down at the garishly colorful rug, masking his outrage with a show of contrition before meeting Amad’s angry glare. “An unfortunate setback, indeed, Your Highness, but a patsy has taken the blame. Which means my undercover asset remains in play, poised to strike again.”

  “Which wouldn’t be necessary if you hadn’t bungled Bolshevik 2.0!” Amad’s nostrils pulled straight up, producing wrinkles on the bridge of his nose, and the corners of his lips slanted downward. “Why were millions of dollars worth of men and equipment concentrated in a few vulnerable locations?”

  Believing that the coup would be over and that Johanna Krupp would assume the presidency before the U.S. military could mobilize, he’d amassed his forces accordingly.

  “One forward operating base per district enabled me to maximize security and minimize the probability of premature detection.”

  “A failure on both counts!” Amad scoffed.

  “That was McCann’s failure,” he said nonchalantly. “He was supposed to monitor Langden Air Force Base, neutralize the TEradS, and suicide Abigail Webber.”

  “And you were supposed to have those migrants armed and ready to fight!”

  Hellhound had been unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he feared assassination at the hands of the maligned and mistreated men under his command, which had led him to adopt the U.S. policy of not allowing soldiers to be armed while on base. Only his inner circle, his bodyguards and most trusted advisors, had been permitted to possess weapons in his presence.

  “Your Highness,” he crooned in his most reverent, placating tone, “in addition to the threat of fascist infiltration, there was an unacceptable level of infighting
within the caravan—gang rivalries, religious conflicts, and political strife. Fighters were dying in senseless clashes; therefore, I deemed it best to retain custody of all weaponry until the operation launched. I trusted McCann to provide adequate warning.”

  The Prince’s eyes tightened into slivers. “Shifting blame for your shortcomings is cowardly, Richard, and pointless. Because of you, the New Global Order is in danger of collapsing.”

  Hellhound’s hands fisted. The urge to lash out pulsated through him, but a glimpse of the Bouncer disabused him of the notion. “With all due respect, that assessment is hysterical and inaccurate—”

  “REALLY?” Amad bellowed. “Are you aware that Andrews fired McCann, Combs, and Shaw—our most senior FBI assets? That Pietro Marino has gone off the rails and provided testimony implicating seventeen of our congressional puppets, all of whom have since vowed not to seek re-election and are cooperating with the Judge Advocate General?”

  “Traitors will be dealt with,” Hellhound insisted. “Swiftly and harshly.”

  “Not swift enough!” Amad shouted. “Those seventeen have implicated forty-five additional Congressmen and twenty-three judges; thirteen at the District Court, nine at the Appellate level, and one from the Supreme Court!”

  Blindsided, Hellhound huffed in a breath to slow his pulse. I underestimated the Prince’s anger, he thought. Or did I overestimate my ability to manipulate the royal schmuck?

  An unfamiliar and unwieldy emotion was rioting through his veins.

  Is this what fear feels like?

  “You!” Amad ranted, “are responsible for the decimation of our legislative, judicial, and military strongholds. Our glorious plan, centuries in the making, is being buried beneath an avalanche of incompetence!”

  The hulking Bouncer ordered Hellhound onto his knees.

  Is he going to put a bullet in my head?

  “Your Highness, I have another intervention in the works, one that will eliminate Andrews once and for—”

  “Too late! Johanna Krupp has stepped up to remedy your mess. Andrews will be dead within the hour. Then she will assume the presidency and ascend to the Committee of 300.”

  The grip of a handgun cracked against the back of Hellhound’s head, brilliant light swirled, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees.

  54

  40,000 Feet, Location Undisclosed

  ABBY WEBBER PACED THE cozy, wedge-shaped cabin, studying the ground, forty thousand feet below, for clues as to her destination.

  Colonel Jensen’s “solitary confinement” had turned out to be a monotonous 700-mile road trip in a military convoy, and following her arrival at McDowell Air Force Base, she’d received an update on Wachter’s condition. Surgeons had removed the .22 caliber bullet from his femur and repaired his shredded quadriceps. Recovery would require weeks of physical therapy, at which time, Ryan Andrews would award him the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his heroic actions inside the psychiatric ward.

  Abby felt out of place inside the presidential suite of Air Force One, as if she was intruding on hallowed ground; and that, combined with the anticipation of seeing Bradley again, made her feel jittery.

  Did he get my voicemail? she wondered. Will he forgive the awful things I said?

  Will he be mad at me for losing our baby?

  Abby sank down onto a built-in beige couch that paralleled the tapered contour of the aircraft and gazed up at the painting of Andrew Jackson. Beneath America’s seventh President, titanium lamps with square shades were bolted to a cherry credenza, and Roman-style shades topped both rows of windows.

  Did President Andrews choose that portrait? she thought. Or Pres—

  The door to the airborne suite creaked, and Abby pivoted toward the sound.

  Bradley’s face was bruised and shrouded beneath a scruffy beard; and somehow, he looked much older than a week ago. His smile was a tender caress that electrified the air around her, and his hazel eyes gleamed like multifaceted stone, conveying complex emotions—angst and surprise, dread and joy, reluctance and longing.

  Tears welling, heart hammering in her throat, Abby darted into his arms and buried her face into his shoulder. “I’m so-o-o sorry. I didn’t mean all those horrible things I said ...” Her voice trailed into a trio of minigasps, and Bradley’s arms locked around her reassuringly.

  “You were scared,” he said, lightly stroking her back, “And you had every right to be angry.”

  “I-I wanted to take it all back,” she sniffled. “But it was too late.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I got your voicemail; and when I thought I couldn’t run another step, your words kept me going. You gave me the strength to make it home.”

  Suppressed feelings broke through and manifested in salty streams and involuntary tremors.

  Damn hormones are still out of whack, she thought. Then snuffling and drawing deep breaths to bolster her courage, Abby leaned back far enough to make eye contact. “It’s m-my fault. Last week, I ... I lost—” Her voice broke, and Bradley pulled her roughly to him, squeezing her as if to keep her from shattering into a thousand heartbroken pieces.

  “Your dad told me about the overdose,” he whispered, “and when he didn’t mention the baby, I just assumed ...”

  Shame heated Abby’s cheeks; guilt stole the breath from her lungs. “It happened before the overdose.”

  “Then it was an act of God.”

  “You don’t understand,” Abby wailed. “I found out right after I got your ‘Dear Jane’ e-mail. All that hurt and anger ... I had these horrible thoughts, selfish thoughts. I resented the baby and even wished ...” The words stuck and raw regret shuddered through her.

  “That doesn’t make it your fault,” Bradley said, gently rocking her. “If anything, it’s my fault. I never should’ve sent that stupid e-mail. ”

  “I did-didn’t tell anybody,” Abby stammered. “N-n-not Fitz. Not my parents. And ... and by the time I figured out that the baby was a blessing, a part of you that would live on—” Her voice broke again, but she felt oddly weightless, as though the burden of self-loathing had been lifted from her chest.

  “Listen to me,” Bradley said, cupping her face sternly. “This baby just wasn’t meant to be. There’s nothing you could’ve said or done or thought that would’ve changed the outcome. We have our entire lives ahead of us; and we are going to make lots of babies; I promise ...”

  55

  40,000 Feet, Location Undisclosed

  FOLLOWING A WORLD-CLASS dinner aboard Air Force One, Ryan Andrews bid Franny and his guests good-night and returned to his office. He’d intended to spend the remainder of the flight with Bradley, personally debriefing him regarding White Rabbit and his encounter with Gim Chong Lee. Given that the Webbers had been a no-show for dinner, he’d postponed the discussion.

  Bradley would be too distracted, Ryan had decided. And frankly, he’s earned a few hours alone with his wife.

  Air Force One had departed McDowell Air Force Base two hours earlier, en route to Washington, D.C., and he busied himself with the latest intelligence report. The CIA was warning of an imminent Russian attack and was recommending preemptive action.

  They’re still trying to goad me into a war with the Kremlin, Ryan thought. Which checks off all their boxes: enrich the military industrial complex, balloon our debt, and kill millions.

  What if The Consortium has a traitorous bomber pilot?

  Or a rogue submarine?

  One ill-timed false-flag could change the course of American history.

  A knocking sound captured Ryan’s attention, and he welcomed Lieutenant Colonel Perfidulo inside with waggling fingers.

  His chief of staff’s dark eyes were fidgety and his normally ruddy complexion appeared pale. “Sir,” he said closing the door behind him. “I have just been advised that the Department of Justice has a sealed indictment pending against your adopted daughter.”

  The Consortium is going after Sybil?

  Ryan’s body temperature s
piked, detonating a glut of righteous indignation. “For what?” he demanded.

  Perfidulo edged closer to the desk as if traversing a minefield. “The FBI interviewed her regarding the campaign and her account contradicted that of another witness.”

  “Isn’t that a he-said, she-said?”

  Perfidulo’s head shook, his somber expression emphasizing his status as the hapless messenger. “Investigators have elected to believe the other witness and have charged Sybil with lying to the FBI. The indictment will be unsealed on Wednesday, February 14th ... unless you resign.”

  Ryan’s teeth gnashed. “I’m fed up with the Department of Just-Us. Fire the interim attorney general!”

  “Sir, I’d advise against that,” Perfidulo cautioned. “Any attempt to censure or remove Valerie Van Duyn could be deemed obstruction of justice.”

  Ryan snickered at the bitter irony. “They’re weaponizing law enforcement, persecuting an innocent, and extorting a President. That is NOT justice!”

  “No, sir, it’s not. But we have to be mindful of public perception.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Approval ratings,” Ryan growled. “I’ve heard it a hundred times, but the truth is, if I knuckle under to these assholes, I’m betraying the American people. And the Constitution.”

  His chief of staff stiffened, sending ripples and jiggles through his bowling-pin frame. “It comes down to a simple question, Mr. President. Whom do you want to protect more? Your family? Or your country?”

  Aggravated, Ryan grunted, “Where’s Rone? I need his input.”

  “Actually, sir, I, uh,” Perfidulo stuttered. “I broached this subject privately because ... well ... I have concerns regarding the Admiral’s loyalties.”

  Ryan shot forward in his chair as if launched by a Howitzer. “Rone is a patriot!”

  “Agreed. He has served his nation with honor and distinction, but ... but I have observed troublesome tendencies of late. The Admiral seems to bully you into his way of thinking, and frankly, sir, I’ve heard him trash you behind your back, referring to you as a loose cannon who needs to be reined in.”