The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Chapter 11

  Day 726

  Tuesday, February 14th

  61

  The Black Sea

  West of Sochi, Russia

  CAPTAIN LIEUTENANT IVAN Jovovich, commander of the Protektor, was a lean man with dark ghoulish patches beneath steely eyes and an austere demeanor. Barely into his forties, he was too young to recall the height of the Cold War, but as a student of world events, he was certain that the same powerful forces that had stripped Russia of her Czar had just kicked off Cold War II. And this time, they intended for it to go hot.

  Jovovich’s Krivak-class guided-missile frigate, which still boasted a Soviet-era color scheme, was equipped with Zvezda-2 sonar for submarine hunting and a broad array of weapons including guns, rockets, missiles, and torpedoes.

  From the bridge, he gazed out at a faint line separating star-speckled sky from inky black water, then a brilliant flash saturated his vision. He squinted, turning away from the miniature sun, and as his eyes re-adjusted, reports flooded in. Russian satellites had detected the anomalous burst of light, and preliminary assessments indicated it might have been a low-yield nuclear explosion.

  A blip suddenly appeared on radar, two nautical miles out—and on a collision course with the Protektor.

  Jovovich raked the horizon with binoculars, unable to visually confirm the threat.

  Is it just an electronic glitch? he wondered. Or a hostile vessel cloaked behind cutting-edge technology?

  He hailed the phantom ship, requesting that it change its heading.

  Seconds ticked past.

  No response.

  He repeated the directive and, intuiting that the Protektor was in grave danger, he notified his chain of command and sought permission to defend the frigate with electronic warfare.

  Two minutes elapsed.

  The radar blip lurched forward, and the phantom ship’s automatic identification system began transmitting information. The U.S.S. Corrotto, an aging Arleigh-Burke-class destroyer, was just over a nautical mile away and closing at thirty knots.

  Jovovich ordered the Protektor hard to starboard and activated its auxiliary gas-turbine engines to boost horsepower, then the Corrotto materialized like a ghostly apparition and countered his evasive maneuver.

  They’re trying to ram us, he thought, breaking into a cold sweat.

  His second in command suggested activating the Kashtan CWIS, Russia’s answer to the U.S. Phalanx, but Jovovich decided against it. Nine thousand rounds per minute wouldn’t stop the Corrotto’s momentum. The best he could do was tweak his heading and speed to minimize damage from the inevitable collision.

  Alarms began to wail.

  Alerts sounded, warning the crew to brace for impact, and the bow of the Corrotto struck midship with a hollow, metallic boom.

  The Protektor whipsawed fourteen degrees; and, for several seconds, the vessels locked together, side by side. Then a small explosion shuddered through the bridge.

  Fuel erupting? Jovovich thought. Or weapons detonating?

  The U.S. destroyer scraped along the Protektor’s hull, emitting an eerie moaning laughter before breaking free.

  Hundreds of tons of water inundated the ship, resulting in a six-degree list.

  Crews scrambled to control flooding below decks, and Jovovich ordered the water-tight doors sealed, painfully aware that he’d just issued a death sentence for trapped seamen.

  I don’t have a choice, he told himself. My entire ship is at risk, along with 210 souls.

  Then hearing the order issued by his chain of command, Jovovich raised a hand to his gaping mouth.

  62

  Undisclosed Location

  BRADLEY’S SEAT ON THE C-37A, the military equivalent of a Gulfstream V, was fully reclined. His eyes were closed, but he couldn’t sleep. Recent events were niggling at his psyche.

  The strife had begun with an unwelcome phone call from Ryan and culminated in a spirited debate. Bradley had been reluctant to participate in Operation Decollate. He was tired, physically and mentally, from his adventures in North Korea and didn’t want to tempt fate with another dicey mission. It was time for someone else to bear the burden.

  Unfortunately, Abby had volunteered in his stead, leaving Bradley no option.

  What else could I do? he thought. Sun myself on an Oahu beach while my wife ventures into the viper’s den?

  Bradley expelled a resigned sigh. Could this haphazardly thrown-together mission actually succeed? Based on sketchy intel from an unreliable LIT Society member?

  While Admiral Rone planned the mission, the Judge Advocate General of the Navy had convened a military tribunal, presented evidence amassed over decades, and convicted the triumvirate, in absentia. Prince Al-Waleed Amad, Charles Winchester, and Lynn Bouclier-Rouge had been found guilty and sentenced to death as belligerents, enemy soldiers at war conspiring to sabotage U.S. defenses, undermine its economy, and overthrow its constitutionally elected government. Ryan subsequently placed them on a “kill list”; and according to Sebastian’s intel, the damned would be gathering for a predawn emergency meeting at Altahaluf Palace in Riyadh.

  Is the LIT Society legit? Bradley wondered.

  Vladimir Lenin’s maxim whispered into the recesses of his mind: The best way to control the opposition is to lead it.

  What if LIT is the internal affairs division of The Consortium’s spy apparatus? That would be an ingenious way to identify enemies within, to discredit opposition and retard any meaningful opposition.

  Shit! I could be walking into a trap.

  Aided by a classified cloaking device, the C-37A touched down at 0223 hours local time and taxied into a small hangar. The private landing strip was owned by a LIT Society member whose identity was camouflaged behind a web of shell corporations.

  The jet would be serviced and refueled during the operation; and CJ Love, who had remotely piloted the aircraft, would remain on standby, prepared to whisk him out of Saudi Arabian airspace.

  Unbuckling his seatbelt, Bradley stood and stretched stiff, achy muscles that hadn’t fully recovered from Operation White Rabbit, then he ambled into the walk-in baggage area to retrieve the top-secret gear Sebastian had provided.

  Would the novel weapon perform as promised? Or would he be forced to do this the old-fashioned way?

  Dressed in a black Night Sector uniform, he slung a backpack over his shoulder and set off into the brisk, fifty-degree night. Bradley approached the palatial estate from the west, plodding through a grove of date palms, and surveilled its six-foot protective wall. Humdrum in appearance, the barrier was a billion-dollar feat of engineering. The entire adobe structure had been coated with an electronic skin capable of conducting electricity, and if the unpleasant warning shock failed to deter a trespasser, electrocution would follow.

  Hearing a faint murmur, Bradley squatted to minimize his silhouette.

  His gaze combed the landscape.

  His heart was galloping, bludgeoning itself against his ribcage, and he swore under his breath.

  If I had the owl, I could’ve waltzed right through the main gate, he thought.

  Dismissing the murmuring as part of the nocturnal rhythms of Riyadh, he roused an encrypted satellite phone outfitted with a red filter and texted Python.

  The NSA guru replied, “Cameras and sensors disabled in two minutes.”

  Returning to his feet, Bradley weasel-walked toward the high-tech wall then raised himself up on tiptoe. The two-story palace floated amidst a sea of grass, and its grand entrance was obscured by a portico with a solid, east-facing wall. Although the odd architectural feature had been embellished with an array of flowering vines and a peculiar fountain—a fallen angel surrounded by sinister entities spitting water—the portico’s true purpose was obvious to Bradley. The paranoid prince was shielding his front door from sniper fire.

  Bright lights accented mighty palms, and shark-toothed agave plants monopolized the landscape beds—both threats to be reckoned with.

 
Irritated by the sensation that he was being watched, Bradley scanned the perimeter, and the distant howls of feral dogs dumped adrenaline into his bloodstream. Desert-dwelling packs ventured into cities nightly to forage for food and were known to maul people and spread disease, prompting Saudi religious police to declare canines “unclean.” Anyone caught in possession of a dog—for purposes other than hunting, herding, or, in special cases, guarding properties—was subject to capital punishment.

  Bradley’s memory conjured up images of the serrated, bleeding bite wound on Abby’s arm following the Athenian Grove operation, and he thanked God that she was back in Waikiki, planning their beach wedding.

  Finally, his satellite phone vibrated. Python indicated that the cameras and wall sensors would remain offline for sixty seconds, and Bradley smirked at the attached meme: a woman, naked from the waist up, along with the caption, “These are good-luck bewbs!”

  “Arfae yudik!”

  Stunned, he wheeled toward the voice and grimaced at an AK-103 trained on his nose.

  63

  The British Virgin Islands

  UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS, Abby slinked from the tarmac to the water’s edge, toting fifty pounds of gear, but it was the heavy burden of guilt that was zapping her energy. Bradley had no idea that she’d left the safety of Hawaii, taking on a secondary role in Operation Decollate.

  It’s better this way, she rationalized. He’s so damned overprotective ... He would worry ... And worry is a distraction ... And distractions could get him killed.

  For Abby, the demise of The Consortium was a prerequisite to starting a family. She didn’t want to live in perpetual fear, terrified that her child would be targeted. How could she bring a baby into the world, knowing it could be raped by pedophiles? Sacrificed by satanists? Or consumed by cannibals?

  The privately owned Caribbean island belonged to an anonymous LIT Society member and, as promised, an eleven-foot, inflatable boat with an electric motor was moored beside a rickety wooden pier. Abby lowered her gear into the nose of the craft and climbed down onto the aluminum bench seat.

  The motor purred to life, exuding a stealthy electronic hum, and she headed due north. The stars were bright, their luminosity magnified by the new moon, but astral navigation wasn’t necessary. Cythraul Island was within visual range, and its scattered palms and boxy temple were silhouetted against the night sky.

  From her briefing, Abby knew that the demonic shrine, with its blue and white stripes and glittering gold dome, bore an uncanny resemblance to Hammam Yalbugha, a public bath built in Aleppo, Syria, in 1491. During that era, ruling elites routinely kidnapped and enslaved children. The boys were trained to become soldiers; the girls, concubines; and Abby shuddered at the fitting symbolism.

  She beached the boat on the rocky, west-facing shore and, as she hauled her gear inland, her skin began to tingle. The air turned heavy and sour, almost too syrupy to breathe, and a chill raced along her spine.

  This place is evil, she thought.

  Abby carted the lightweight boat out of the surf, toward a dense thicket, intending to camouflage it with vinelike vegetation, but hundreds of hooked spines latched onto her tactical gloves, biting and tenacious. The more she tried to free herself, the more entangled she became.

  This is the plant kingdom’s answer to quicksand, she thought, carefully peeling off her gloves.

  Abby retrieved her satellite phone and squinted at a red-hued text from Python.

  Sensors and cameras deactivated. Two sentries patrolling.

  Damn it! Abby thought. If they stumble across the boat, I’m screwed.

  But what choice did she have? That catch-and-keep plant was the only readily available source of camouflage, and she couldn’t shimmy up a palm to collect fronds without “skylining.”

  Shouldering her backpack, Abby clambered up the hillside, dodging combative vegetation, and skulked toward the eastern side of the island. Aided by a GPS app, she located the temple’s backdoor—a natural cave, halfway down a sheer, forty-foot cliff—then scoured the area for an anchor suitable for rappelling.

  Frowning, she pushed against a puny majestic palm scarcely taller than she was.

  Will it hold my weight? she wondered.

  Light suddenly engulfed the terrain to her left, illuminating the island’s helicopter pad, and Abby’s heart sank to her ankles.

  A chopper was on approach, barely a hundred feet above the sea, its landing lights glowing like the predatory eyes of a giant owl.

  She crouched beside the palm to make herself as small as possible, silently pleading, Please, God, don’t let them capture me.

  Those helpless moments inside Father Ibis’ orphanage rushed back: medieval restraints, satanic branding, and ritualistic rape.

  The aircraft roared overhead, bathing her position in brilliant light, and her hands began to shake.

  I have to move! Now!

  Hurriedly, Abby draped a rope around the trunk of the palm. She created a small loop, passed the end through the loop as if making an overhand knot, then fed the end around the rope and back through the loop. She tugged at the bowline knot, testing its trustworthiness, and attached a slide-and-grip knot to her harness.

  Standing at the cliff’s edge, Abby could feel the raw power of ocean waves thundering against the island, and she surveyed the crashing spray for fins. Sebastian had insisted that the cave was a de facto garbage disposal, making the area a Mecca for sharks.

  Inhaling a deep breath, she rappelled into darkness, and a snapping sound shivered through her.

  The roots of the palm were giving way; Abby was sure of it.

  She hastened her descent and, with that first long bounce away from the cliff face, horrible visions flittered—a four story plunge into the sea; violent waves slamming her against jagged rock; the scent of her blood attracting ravenous sharks. But her boots struck the cliff face.

  Immediately, she pushed off again.

  This time, her feet met no resistance and she swung into the cave.

  Wet, volcanic rock crackled.

  Her boots skated across the slick surface, and she landed on her backside.

  The weapon, she thought. Did I just destroy a billion-dollar piece of technology?

  Under the state’s secrets privilege, the device had remained buried deep within CIA and DARPA black budgets until the LIT Society liberated it. There was no official training program or user manual, and Winthrop Sebastian had made it sound more like a magic wand than a military weapon.

  As the pain relented, Abby climbed to her feet, only then noticing a putrid odor.

  Breathing through her mouth to blunt the stench, she detached the rope from her harness and extracted a lighter from the side pouch of her backpack. She flicked the sparkwheel, shielding the flame from the rancid breeze, and set the rope ablaze. A chemical treatment caused it to burn a deep purple, thereby emitting minimal light. That tiny flame would devour the entire rope like a fuse and peter out before igniting the palm tree, effectively erasing evidence of her breach.

  Abby trekked deeper into the cave, which tapered into a manmade tunnel, and despite the fact that there were no visible heaps of garbage or decomposing animals, the odor grew strong enough to taste.

  Jerking the collar of her T-shirt up over her nose, she rounded a seventy-five-degree bend and came face-to-face with her worst nightmare.

  64

  The Black Sea

  West of Sochi, Russia

  “STAND DOWN?” JOVOVICH repeated, disbelief marring his typically dispassionate tone. “But, sir, we’re under attack.”

  “Understood,” his commander replied. “But President Punansk refuses to indulge The Consortium in a war they desperately crave. Continue defensive maneuvers, pending discussion with the American Presi—”

  The radio transmission went dead.

  Attempts to reestablish the connection failed, and bad news swamped the bridge.

  “Electronic warfare is jamming comms.”

  �
��Bilge pumps are down.”

  “Saltwater filtration is offline.”

  Teeth gnashing, Jovovich fumed over the stand-down. He’d been trained to take the fight to the enemy; not to maneuver like a wounded duck.

  We squandered a stellar opportunity, he thought. We could’ve showcased our electronic-warfare capabilities, disabled the Corrotto, and issued a poignant deterrent to our enemies.

  He rejected Punansk’s reasoning—that the loss of 210 lives was preferable to a nuclear conflagration that would kill tens of millions—because the American President wasn’t a Consortium player. He’d never go to war over a rogue destroyer that was defying his authority.

  Peering through a pair of high-powered binoculars, Jovovich expected the Corrotto to come around for another jab, but the ship maintained a leeward heading, steaming away from the Protektor.

  A palpable sense of relief spread throughout the bridge—a collective, unspoken admission that the incident could’ve been much worse—but the respite was short-lived. Just minutes after the collision, a young weapons officer bellowed, “MST inbound!”

  The Maritime Strike Tomahawk missile had been engineered to engage moving targets at sea, and Jovovich ordered his crew to deploy a fragmentation interceptor. The conventional warhead, unlike its hit-to-kill cousins, operated more like a grenade than a bullet, getting just close enough to damage its target and force it off course.

  The MST banked to the south evasively.

  The Russian interceptor countered, and an explosion lit up the night, illuminating clouds of billowing smoke.

  “MST still inbound.”

  An American laser detonated the interceptor’s warhead prematurely, Jovovich thought.