The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Fear heated his core.

  It percolated through his pores and condensed into anger.

  He and his crew were about to be sacrificed like pawns.

  Then, inexplicably, the American missile dove into the Black Sea; and as saltwater shot upward like a geyser, the U.S.S. Corrotto took the assault to a new level.

  65

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  TIME STOPPED.

  Bradley’s heart thudded, and his field of view gradually expanded from the barrel of the AK-103 to the gunman holding it. The guy was thin and short, barely into his teens, and dressed in a dark-colored woolen thawb, the traditional “Arabic dress” for men and boys during cool weather.

  Instinctively, Bradley rotated the satellite phone, flashing the photo of Python’s bare-chested woman.

  The gunman’s eyes widened with delight then constricted in disgust.

  Capitalizing on the split-second distraction, Bradley lunged at his would-be captor. His hands moved, lightning fast and seemingly of their own volition, disarming the gunman with a technique that left both men equally stunned.

  What the hell just happened? Bradley wondered. Was that a reflex? Or a maneuver Volkov programmed into my brain?

  The perplexed gunman shook his head as if clearing his mind, then his jaw dropped, telegraphing the shouted warning to come.

  Bradley slapped a hand over the scrawny teen’s mouth and manhandled him into a headlock.

  Teeth punctured flesh.

  Pain and panic exploded.

  Then, desperate to avoid tipping off Amad’s security, Bradley snapped the boy’s neck.

  As the lifeless body collapsed onto his boots, he belted out a hushed string of expletives.

  Although he understood that the fate of the United States superseded the well-being of any one individual, he felt terrible about taking the teen’s life.

  If I still had the owl, he’d be alive, Bradley thought, stashing the corpse and the AK-103 behind a desert rose bush.

  Then his conscience delivered a bitter dose of reality. “You allowed yourself to become dependent on the owl; you let your senses become dull and rusty; that’s why the kid is dead.”

  Stop being a pussy, he scolded himself.

  But the truth was, his priorities had changed. His heart just wasn’t in it. He no longer coveted the drama of clandestine ops in foreign countries. Maybe he was just tired. Or maybe he’d reached a saturation point for the death and misery of war.

  He yearned for a mundane nine-to-five job and a middle-class lifestyle that would allow him to crawl into bed every night beside Abby and raise a family.

  “Just get through this mission,” he whispered, “and then I’ll be free.”

  Ryan had promised him the instructor’s position at Ulupau Crater, along with an administrative post at Marine Corps Base Hawaii for Abby.

  I have to do this for her, he told himself.

  Via text, he informed Python that the “Good-luck bewbs” had performed as advertised and requested that he deactivate the wall a second time.

  Amad is such a freaking hypocrite, Bradley thought. The Dopey Prince had railed against Ryan’s proposed border wall, declaring it to be a xenophobic and immoral waste of resources. Yet he surrounded himself with the most expensive wall per linear foot on the planet.

  After receiving Python’s go signal, Bradley scaled the barrier, intrigued by the weird texture of the electronic skin, which felt like a metallic foil yet stretched like a rubber glove. He lowered himself onto the lush grass gingerly to avoid creating vibrations and glanced at the arched entryway a hundred yards to his right. The Amad family crest was emblazoned on the triangular towers: a lion and unicorn rearing up alongside a red shield bearing a crown. It was one of many symbols adopted by The Consortium and represented the thirteen ruling families who terrorized the world.

  For God and country, Bradley thought, these assholes have to be stopped!

  Channeling his anger into a renewed sense of purpose, he reconnoitered Night Sector’s defenses. Three sentries were dedicated to monitoring camera feeds and sensors; two more screened incoming visitors. A chauffeur shuttled guests from the gate to the palace’s grand entrance because the paranoid prince, ever fearful of vehicular bombs, only permitted his personal fleet on the grounds.

  Bradley squinted at the conspicuous Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament—an iconic female form, leaning forward with arms outstretched behind her—on a black Rolls Royce Phantom VIII.

  What the hell?

  The LIT Society member who provided the intel for this operation—code-named Faisal—was supposed to be driving a Bentley.

  Every molecule in Bradley’s body was shrieking, “This is a setup!” and a crazy notion began churning in his gut, a foreboding yearning to retreat.

  I have to follow through, he told himself. For Abby. For our future.

  Sighing, he tilted the red-filtered screen of his satphone away from the towers and embarked on a crouched tiptoe across the opulent lawn, using Python’s custom app to navigate a minefield of sensors. The sophisticated underground security system could distinguish between the seismic waves generated by footsteps and those produced by vehicles and nomadic animals. But as long as Bradley remained on course and on pace, his seismic signature would present as a nonvenomous grass snake.

  An irrational urge to turn around was building inside him like a ticking time bomb.

  The air in his lungs solidified into a heavy weight.

  And the word Fuck oozed between his clenched teeth.

  66

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  PYTHON’S ATTENTION toggled between two banks of monitors in support of both Webber missions. The complexity and criticality of the dual-pronged operation should have garnered two full teams of cyber specialists, but President Andrews insisted on keeping the loop of people involved in Operation Decollate to a minimum. He was understandably squirrely after surviving two assassination attempts within twenty-four hours and being betrayed by his own chief of staff.

  CJ Love, a longtime friend, had been set up as a patsy, prompting Python to scour Hellhound’s phone transcripts, text logs, and e-mail records. He’d stumbled across the general’s relationship to Perfidulo and later discovered that the Lieutenant Colonel’s father had been part of Project MK-Ultra, a top-secret psychological weapons program. Records suggested that Perfidulo’s mind had been shattered at a young age, generating multiple personalities. The dominant persona, the one Andrews had known and trusted, had no knowledge of the other’s existence, which allowed the assassin to lie dormant, waiting to be set off by a phrase, image, or some other innocuous trigger.

  Python had lobbied hard with Rone, vouching for his friend’s character, and petitioned President Andrews for a pardon, reminding him that but for CJ’s actions, Perfidulo’s treachery would’ve gone undetected—with potentially deadly implications.

  An incoming message from Abby Webber drew his attention back to his phone.

  Sh-sh-shit!

  Who installs a biometric lock inside a glorified garbage chute? he thought. It’s not like somebody’s gonna accidentally rappel down a sheer cliff face and wander in.

  Although Python had noticed the iris scanner during preliminary planning, its presence on the island’s intranet hadn’t disclosed its point of installation—the steel gate connecting the cave to Cythraul Island’s underground complex.

  Research had revealed that the scanners used mathematical pattern-recognition to differentiate between human eyes. That had inspired him to “borrow” 5,000 points of information on the eyes of approved users, cross-reference them with photographs, and compile the data into a set of “binary iriscodes”—detailed, digital images.

  He sent Abby a multimedia file, an iris reconstruction belonging to a member of the cleaning crew, and instructed her to place a contact lens onto the image, to mimic the curvature of the eye, and resize it as needed before scanning.

  She replied via text, “B
ut I don’t wear contacts.”

  Smirking, Python typed, “I had colored contacts inserted into your first aid kit. Try the brown lens.”

  Fingers crossed, he stared at the satellite phone, painfully aware that this hacking method only had an eighty percent success rate. That meant Abby Webber had a twenty percent chance of being stranded inside that cave, forced to choose between being captured or jumping into shark-infested waters.

  His phone pinged. “No go.”

  The muscles in Python’s neck ratcheted tighter, giving birth to a tension headache, and he texted, “Sending another pix. Use green lens and try again.”

  He waited, fingers rapping against his desk, and threw a casual glance at the real-time satellite feed from Altahaluf Palace. Bradley had encountered a complication, now a deceased blob of orange on the thermal feed, and the Sniper was requesting another window of opportunity to breach the wall.

  Sighing, Python re-executed the script, extending the duration to ninety seconds, and gave him the green light.

  Will he blame me if Abby doesn’t make it off that island?

  Despite being a keyboard jockey who had never seen combat, Python had heard rumors of the Sniper’s vengeance, punishing soldiers for merely disrespecting his wife.

  What will he do to me?

  His phone pinged again. “No go.”

  “Sh-sh-shit!” Fingers bobbing over the touch screen, he told her, “New image. Blue lens,” and forwarded the digital iris of the island’s owner, anticipating failure.

  Powerful billionaires don’t dispose of their own trash, he thought, checking Bradley’s progress. The Sniper had cleared the wall and was tiptoeing toward the palace, guided by his app.

  He glanced at the hacked feed from Amad’s security system.

  Just a little old grass snake, he thought, pay it no mind. Nothing to see here.

  Python’s phone pinged, he flinched, and anxiety supercharged his fledgling headache.

  What am I supposed to say to Abby? Sorry, you’re shit out of luck?

  His gaze eked toward the touch screen tentatively, as if the phone might scorch his retinas; then, in an act of willful procrastination, he diverted his attention to the satellite feed of Altahaluf Palace.

  Python gasped and choked on his saliva.

  A vehicle was about to catch Bradley in the sweep of its headlights.

  And it wasn’t a Bentley.

  67

  The Black Sea

  West of Sochi, Russia

  A SMOKING CONE blossomed against the night sky, spitting forth brilliant bits of fire that trailed downward like the fingers of a fireworks display. Incandescent flecks rained onto the Protektor’s decks. Crew members scrambled to avoid the shower of white phosphorus and its ensuing noxious smoke.

  The U.S.S. Corrotto was exploiting a loophole in international treaties, which permitted use of the incendiary weapon if the “intent” was to camouflage movement. Deployment against personnel had been prohibited because phosphorus absorbed into the body and damaged the liver, heart, and kidneys; its hot, dense smoke-irritated eyes, mucous membranes, and the respiratory track. And anecdotal evidence, provided by a former soldier, suggested that the throat and lungs blistered, suffocating victims while microscopic phosphorus particles burned them from the inside out.

  As fire crews mobilized, Captain Lieutenant Jovovich considered his options. Obey his last-known order and endure the American assault? Or protect his ship and risk igniting a greater conflict?

  None of this makes sense, Jovovich thought. Why would the Americans jam our radio frequencies but elect not to blind our radars? Why not disable our weapons and engines? Does the Corrotto WANT us to retaliate?

  He ordered electronic countermeasures designed to disorient the enemy and temporarily cripple the destroyer’s five-bladed propellers.

  For several tense minutes, the Protektor shadowed the drifting American vessel, then two emergency lights high on the Corrotto’s mast winked on, signaling that the ship was “red over red”—no longer under command. A flare discharged, swamping her deck with creeping orange smoke, another international distress signal indicating grave and imminent danger to life.

  Jovovich’s anxiety spiked.

  You intentionally ram us, he thought, and now you have the unmitigated gall to request assistance?

  Then, with a resigned sigh, he dispatched a boarding party of eight marines, equipped with rifles and helmet cameras to document the encounter.

  The rubber-hulled inflatable boat drew no warning shots, and no Sailors rallied to assist or discourage their approach.

  Jovovich was perplexed by the lack of activity.

  Why isn’t the crew preparing to evacuate?

  Is this maskirovka? he thought, referring to the Russian term for military deception. Are they lying in wait, ready to ambush my marines?

  Fraudulent use of a distress signal was a violation of international law, but given the Corrotto’s aggressive actions, the threat was real.

  Uncertainty buzzed in Jovovich’s veins, tormenting and unrelenting. Something was wrong. He could feel it on a cellular level, and it was too late for corrective action. He couldn’t re-call the marines while radio bands were being jammed, and he couldn’t view the footage from their cameras. He was deaf and blind, at the mercy of an unpredictable enemy.

  Consequences swirled through his mind: humiliation, loss of command, and prosecution.

  I should’ve ignored their distress call, he thought. I should’ve—

  The electromagnetic interference abruptly ceased. His marines had seized control of the destroyer’s bridge, and their helmet cameras began relaying frightful images.

  The Americans were slumped face-first against their consoles.

  No bullet wounds.

  No knife wounds.

  No hint as to the cause of death, and facts crackled through Jovovich’s mind.

  The flash that glowed like a miniature sun—had the U.S. warship been attacked by a neutron bomb? A low-yield, enhanced radiation weapon with a lethal radius far greater than the range of the explosion?

  And then a terrifying theory coalesced.

  It’s a Consortium false flag, he decided. They’re framing us for a nuclear attack on the Corrotto ... But how could the crew die within an hour?

  Even if they’d been topside and fully exposed, it should’ve taken a day or two for the radiation to claim them. And Arleigh-Burke-class destroyers were equipped with air-filtration systems designed to protect Sailors from nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare. Had those systems been sabotaged?

  What the hell killed the crew of the Corrotto?

  And are we about to suffer the same fate?

  68

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  AWARE THAT MOVING objects were more likely to draw attention, Bradley froze midstep.

  There were no nearby trees or rocks, no cover of any kind; and he couldn’t just throw himself onto the ground for fear of tripping the buried sensors. The best he could do was squat.

  As the headlights glided over him, a siren began to wail. Spotlights bathed the wall to his right, and he could hear the crackling hum of electricity.

  Python noticed my predicament, Bradley thought, and engineered a diversion.

  Seizing the opportunity, he resumed his trek, weasel-walking through the minefield of sensors and inhaling shallow breaths as if—somehow—that might make him less noticeable.

  A half dozen guards converged, rifles ready, at the site of the breach; two from the command post; four more who had been roving the perimeter.

  As the siren cut out, Bradley skulked into a landscape bed that reeked of manure and ducked behind the trunk of a thirty-foot date palm. He shrugged the backpack from his shoulder, accidentally impaling his biceps on the fangs of a blue agave, and extracted an odd-looking gun from a protective case.

  The weapon reminded him of a sawed-off shotgun with dual barrels that weren’t parallel. A two-inch gap near the trigger narrowed to
less than a half-inch, and the interior of each synthetic barrel was outfitted with miniature waveguide designed to ensure that varying wavelengths emerged simultaneously. A funky concave lens magnified the directed-energy beam, and its proprietary digital scope allowed him to dial in the range, monitor the weapon’s power supply, and view the otherwise invisible waves of energy.

  Bradley connected the wires that protruded from the butt stock and primed the weapon, mindful that the weighty “super battery” in his backpack could only power the weapon for 180 seconds at maximum range.

  The Rolls Royce was idling beneath the grand portico with the solid, east-facing wall, and the driver’s door popped open. The chauffeur had toffee-colored skin, etched with crevices and dotted with age spots. Dressed in a thwab, he wore a red-and-white-checkered ghutra with a black, ropelike igal, traditional Saudi headgear worn to protect against sunburn, dust, and sand.

  He didn’t alert security, Bradley thought. Is he my LIT-Society friend? Or an oblivious foe?

  Winthrop Sebastian had refused to provide a photograph or even a physical description of Faisal, opting to identify the “white hat” by his vehicle—a nonexistent Bentley.

  The driver circled the Rolls Royce and opened the rear door for a tiny woman, scarcely four feet tall who was wearing a black abaya, a long-sleeved cloak with just a narrow slit for the eyes.

  Yet another complication, Bradley thought. Collateral damage.

  A bald man with the demeanor of a bouncer greeted her with a deferential nod and escorted her inside.

  The chauffeur returned to the open driver’s door, inserted his right leg into the vehicle, and hesitated. His gaze toggled between Bradley’s former location on the lawn and current position within the landscape bed, then he did something completely unexpected.

  69

  NSA Cryptologic Center