The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Oahu, Hawaii

  RYAN ANDREWS STOOD IN front of a mirror, retying his red necktie into a trinity knot for the fifth time. The intertwining, trefoil-shaped design resembled the Celtic Triquetra and typically represented eternal love. Today, however, it would epitomize an inverted pyramid and herald the takedown of the triumvirate, a symbolic gesture, placing all traitors on notice.

  Following his press conference, an indictment would be unsealed, accusing Carter Sidney of racketeering, treason, and crimes against children. He expected a Consortium-affiliated judge to immediately dismiss the charges, thereby making the corruption within the judiciary evident and establishing the need for military tribunals. In the interim, the indictment would divert attention away from Operation Decollate.

  Ryan held the knot with his left hand, gently tugged on the wider end to tighten the design, and inhaled deeply as if oxygen could dispel the angst churning in his gut.

  Did I send Abby and Bradley into an ambush? he asked himself. They’re supposed to be incarcerated, in solitary confinement. If either of them is captured or killed, I’ll have to implement “Plan Z.”

  A laptop inside his makeshift office chimed, indicating a request for a conference call. Only a handful of cabinet members were privy to his presence at the NSA’s Cryptologic Center in Hawaii, and Ryan grimaced.

  What did Bennett want?

  Had the acting CIA director sniffed out Operation Decollate?

  Ryan covered the laptop’s built-in webcam, to prevent the spymaster from prematurely decoding his trinity knot, and accepted the call. Bennett’s image replaced the GNN newscast on a wall-mounted monitor. The sixtyish bureaucrat looked like an albino Yoda with saggy, wrinkled skin and pointy ears that protruded like wings.

  “Mr. President,” Bennett began, “I regret to inform you that the Russian Federation has attacked the U.S.S. Corrotto with a neutron bomb. Analysts believe this was the opening salvo in a war aimed at annexing territory, like the Crimean Peninsula in 2014, and current troop movements suggest an invasion of Ukraine is imminent ...”

  Ryan’s thoughts were undergoing a fission reaction, facts splitting into questions and setting off a chain reaction of confusion.

  That makes no sense, he thought. Why would Punansk pick a fight with the United States ... a conflict that’s sure to bring the wrath of NATO down onto Russia?

  Is my CIA director feeding me fake intel? To goad me into a nuclear war?

  “... Sir, prompt military action is required,” Bennett concluded. “Consequences must be severe and timely.”

  The CIA had just maneuvered Ryan into another lose-lose proposition. If he retaliated, The Consortium would have the calamitous war they craved; and if he refused, his approval ratings would plummet, paving the way for impeachment.

  Admiral Rone barged into the office, looking agitated. He glared at Bennett’s on-screen image and made a slashing motion across his throat.

  “I’ll notify you when I’ve made my decision,” Ryan told his acting CIA director.

  “With all due respect, sir, there’s no time to spare,” the spymaster insisted. “We must seize the initiative.”

  “Understood.” Ryan ended the call with a click of the mouse, muted the GNN broadcast which had automatically resumed, and offered his undivided attention to Rone.

  “Sir, The Consortium just made a desperate move.”

  “Bennett briefed me on the neutron bomb,” Ryan said. “I want military options. ASAP!”

  “Mr. President, Russia DID NOT attack the Corrotto,” Rone stated flatly. “The flash was electrical, most likely plasma, and satellite data was falsified to fit the narrative. NSA has video proof that the entire crew was afflicted with convulsions.”

  Ryan recoiled as though sucker-punched. “VX nerve gas in the air filtration systems?”

  Rone’s chin dipped and he stroked it as if coaxing words to emerge. “Sir, do you recall the Japanese cartoon with the bright flashing lights? The one that induced seizures in children?”

  “Are you telling me the Corrotto was hit by a directed-energy weapon?” Ryan asked. “Like the one that cost Kyle his hearing?”

  “Yes, sir. The crew was dispatched via an inaudible, seizure-inducing frequency. Then Consortium hackers turned the destroyer against a Russian guided-missile frigate in the Black Sea and—”

  “Get President Punansk on the phone,” Ryan interrupted. “I need to assure him that the United States did not commit an act of war.”

  An uncharacteristic emotion dulled Rone’s eyes, regret tinged with dread, and his mouth turned downward. “It gets worse, sir. Russia is currently experiencing a hellacious cyber attack. Electric, communications, commerce, Internet—everything is currently down.”

  Unlike the incident at sea, which could be hidden from the public, the cyber attack would impact every citizen.

  Punansk is smart enough to recognize this was a Consortium false flag, Ryan thought. But he’s in the same quandary I am, unable to justify inaction to his citizenry.

  Rone’s brown eyes skittered from Ryan to the muted newscast and contempt furrowed his forehead.

  The chyron read, “U.S.S. Corrotto nuked in Black Sea.”

  Ryan blurted, “Motherfucker!” and scrambled to unmute the newsfeed.

  “... Two hundred and seventy-six American Sailors were lost, executed via what experts are describing as a low-yield nuclear weapon,” the female anchor was saying, her expression sullen, her tone bubbling with excitement. “And at this hour, sources are telling GNN that the uranium used to fuel the bomb will be traced back to Russia. Could this be why our President has yet to respond ...?”

  Bennet! Ryan thought. The bastard leaked the story ... And that uranium was part of Carter Sidney’s “Russian Reset” ... The bitch set up Punansk and netted a $140 million for her foundation.

  “... Should we be concerned that our Commander in Chief, currently under investigation for Russia collusion, might be an agent of the Kremlin? Let’s hear from Don Meyer, our resident expert in all things foreign policy. Don?”

  “Rochelle, if Ryan Andrews was not Punansk’s puppet—which I know he most certainly is—he would retaliate quickly and decisively to send a powerful message: that unleashing nuclear weapons against America is suicidal.”

  “You know Andrews is a puppet?” Rochelle followed up. “Do you have proof?”

  “Of course!” Meyer said, hands flailing in exasperation. “For starters, he has never publically criticized Punansk. He emboldened the Russians by refusing to hold them accountable for the commercial jet shot down over Ukraine. And, most importantly, Andrews denies he’s a Russian agent, which is the ultimate proof that he really is ...”

  “Since when is pleading innocent an admission of guilt?” Ryan griped. “And when did innocent until proven guilty become guilty until proven innocent?”

  Rone gave a melancholy shrug. “Pretty sure it was the day you were elected.”

  “... Let me go out on a limb here, and make a prediction, Rochelle,” Meyer said, displaying his palms in a believe-me gesture. “Andrews will NOT take any punitive measures against his Moscow masters.”

  “Don, what you’re suggesting ...” The host paused, feigning fear. “That’s ... that’s treason ...”

  And then the scope and breadth of Ryan’s predicament struck like an RPG to the gut.

  Do I take defensive actions that might spook Punansk?

  Or maintain a neutral posture that might leave the country vulnerable to a devastating Consortium attack?

  70

  The British Virgin Islands

  WHAT DO I DO IF THIS doesn’t work? Abby thought as she placed the blue contact lens onto Python’s “binary iriscode.” She couldn’t disable the biometric lock or shoot it without tipping off the enemy.

  Abby held the phone in front of the device. Red lasers danced, and the scanner emitted a dejected bleep.

  She tried again.

  Another bleep.

  She repositione
d the lens, offered a prayer, and, this time, the lock clunked.

  Holy shit, it worked!

  Passing through the steel gate, she stashed the lens in her pocket, leaving no trace behind. Abby thanked Python then swapped out the phone for a peculiar, snub-nosed long gun and attached its lead wires to a “super battery.”

  Composed primarily of carbon fibers and plastic, the weapon felt like a toy, lightweight and flimsy.

  Will this thing live up to the hype? she wondered, subconsciously patting the suppressed .22 caliber in the drop-down holster on her leg.

  The odor intensified as she ventured deeper into the subterranean complex, and nervous energy evolved into a burning lump of nausea. The smell was worse than rotting garbage, worse than excrement; and the thin layer of protection provided by her cotton T-shirt couldn’t mitigate the rank stench of death.

  Don’t gag! she scolded herself, fearful that even the slightest retching sound would betray her presence.

  Wooden stalls were scattered throughout the labyrinthine passageway, cramped, dank pens for sex slaves. A few were littered with tiny corpses, each decomposing within a swarm of bugs.

  That iris scanner wasn’t intended to keep trespassers out, Abby thought. It was meant to keep slaves in.

  The mazelike tunnel dead-ended at an elevator, and electric torch lights were casting eerie shadows over carved symbols: owls, all-seeing eyes encased in pyramids, pentagrams, baphomets, and upside down crosses. A stainless-steel door adjacent to the elevator bore the phrase, “Do what thou wilt,” and its lopsided, childish characters appeared to have been scrawled in blood.

  Oh shit!

  Abby glowered at the second iris scanner and fished the curled-up piece of plastic from her pocket. It felt dry and brittle, as though it might shatter, and she attempted to rehydrate the lens with saliva.

  This is worse than Saran wrap, she thought, trying to peel back the edge.

  Abby plunked the misshapen lens onto the touch screen of her phone; and, after dozens of frustrating failures, she managed to unlock the steel door.

  Depositing the contact lens beneath her tongue to keep it moist, she entered a stairwell with rough-cut treads carved into igneous rock and ascended three flights. Abby paused on the landing; and, as she primed her newfangled weapon, the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stood at attention.

  The air around her felt suddenly cold.

  The presence of evil became palpable.

  And Ephesians 6:12 screamed through her mind. “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

  Unsure who—or what—was lurking on the other side of the door, she pushed warily against the breaker bar and peered through the resulting two-inch opening. A heavy, metallic smell wafted in from a torch-lit lobby along with the soft wail of a newborn.

  A debilitating ache clawed Abby’s heart, and her hands began to tremble.

  Strength and courage drained from her body.

  And she began to sob.

  Stop! she chided herself. Guys wouldn’t fall apart. They wouldn’t allow emotion to compromise the mission.

  Then another unwelcome sound sent her careening into a melodramatic tailspin.

  71

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  PEEKING BETWEEN THE blades of a jagged-toothed blue agave, Bradley watched the chauffeur align the tips of his index fingers and thumbs, fashioning a downward pointing pyramid, then retreat into the Rolls Royce Phantom and drive off.

  Was that a secret signal to alert security?

  Were sentries closing on Bradley’s position?

  Or was that his LIT Society accomplice, identifying himself to avoid becoming collateral damage?

  Bradley’s fretful gaze traced out an arc from north to south and swept the windows and rooftop above him. All was quiet.

  Too quiet, he thought.

  The Rolls Royce returned to the triangular towers, swung a U-turn, and flashed its headlights, unleashing a flurry of activity. Roving sentries sprinted toward the vehicle, security screeners scrambled to unroll an amethyst runner, and floodlights bathed the area with a regal, purple glow.

  Six guards assembled on either side of the royal carpet, standing at attention; four armed with rifles, two with metal-detecting wands.

  They’re preparing for a VIP arrival, Bradley thought, simultaneously keyed up and relieved. That must’ve been Faisal. But what the hell happened to the Bentley?

  Minutes later, a svelte, middle-aged woman with long blonde hair strutted into view. She was wearing a pricey, purple skirt suit that barely reached to her knee, and Bradley was taken aback by her “normal” appearance. She didn’t look like a mass murderer or a satanic pedophile, and it was hard to believe that the trillionaire was personally responsible for the majority of suffering, crime, and death in the world.

  Evil is masquerading behind a façade of beauty, Bradley thought.

  The guards respectfully wanded her, screening for weapons, then she slithered into the back of the Phantom. Faisal closed the door, and scurried around the front end of the vehicle. Despite the chilly night, beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead. He was gulping in drafts of air, on the verge of hyperventilating, and his Consortium counterparts appeared to notice his strange behavior.

  He’s panicking, Bradley thought. And if they question him, he’ll crack ... This op will end before it begins.

  The Rolls Royce accelerated in fits and starts with a bucking motion and meandered along the winding driveway, drifting wide left, nearly onto the pristine grass before overcorrecting with an erratic swerve.

  Come on, Faisal, hold it together, buddy.

  Bradley peered through the proprietary scope, double-checking the range as the Phantom braked to a stop. Faisal hustled toward the rear door, tripped over his own feet, and planted a hand onto the hood to prevent an embarrassing fall. Thankfully, the portico’s wall shielded his clumsiness from the gate.

  A dainty foot protruded from the vehicle, donning a gold high-heel shoe with an ankle strap that looked like a royal necklace with gaudy violet gemstones and diamond accents.

  Uncertain whether the she-devil would cry out in pain, Bradley took aim at her head. Once she’d sashayed a safe distance from Faisal, his trigger finger retracted.

  A pair of invisible energy waves shot from the end of the barrel. But, aided by the scope, they appeared like fragile lasers, one pale green, the other a weak reddish hue; and at the desired range of twenty yards, they intersected, forming a dazzling white ball.

  Time seemed to slow down, and Bradley was overcome by a surreal sensation that he was dreaming. He guided the barrel lower, painting her body with light, and Lynn Bouclier-Rouge dissolved as if touched by a magic eraser.

  Faisal slumped against the Rolls Royce and began chanting, “Allahu Akbar,” his voice splintering with disbelief and raw horror.

  Bradley’s thoughts reverted to Gorka Schwartz.

  “Crime, as we know it, will cease to exist,” the old goat had asserted. “Anyone contemplating a transgression will be atomized. No need for police, trials, prisons, or cemeteries.”

  “Atomized?” Bradley had asked. “As in a nuclear attack?”

  Gorka’s eyes had narrowed, expressing disdain for his ignorance. “Directed-energy weapons can generate frequencies capable of breaking the molecular bonds between atoms, in the same way that sound can shatter glass.”

  Bradley blinked at the faint mist being carried away by a lazy breeze. Lynn Boulcier-Rouge was being reduced to particles of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorous that would fertilize Prince Amad’s lush grass—an apropos retribution given that her terrorist armies had slaughter Americans on their front lawns. Then Bradley realized that he had a problem.

  72

  NSA Cryptologic Center

  Oahu, Hawaii

  PUNANSK MAY PUT HIS military on alert, bu
t he won’t fire the first shot, Ryan Andrews reasoned. The real threat is The Consortium.

  Exhaling a somber sigh, he threw back his shoulders and lifted his chin. “A follow-up attack could be imminent. Strategic Air and Cyber Command to DEFCON 2. All other forces remain at DEFCON 3.”

  Admiral Rone’s thumbs feverishly relayed the order via encrypted direct messaging and his head bobbed upward.

  “And I can’t have the CIA feeding me lies,” Ryan added, irritation spilling into his tone. “Not when millions of lives could be at stake. I want those traitors rooted out! Today!”

  Rone gave a placating nod at odds with the deepening parenthetical grooves between his eyebrows. “Understood, sir, but we have to be careful, lest the media characterize the action as a purge conducted by a paranoid dictator.”

  “Fuck the media! Fake news is trying to instigate nuclear war. They’re the enemy of the American people.”

  Horizontal ripples of frustration sprouted across the Admiral’s forehead. “With all due respect, Mr. President, the public doesn’t have the classified knowledge that you do. From their perspective, you’ll come across as an extremist.”

  Ryan stared daggers at the muted GNN broadcast. He wanted to plunge his fist into the anchor’s cartoonishly smug face. Instead, he jabbed the power button with a balled hand and terminated the feed.

  “We’ve crafted a statement,” Rone told him, “and scheduled a presidential address to get ahead of this before the media whip the public into a frenzy for war.”

  “Do you have a draft of the statement?”