The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

Rone pocketed his phone and clasped his hands behind his back, assuming an at-ease posture. “Our counternarrative is to characterize the Corrotto incident as an unfortunate chain of events set off by human error. Given the media’s tarnished reputation, the public will be inclined to believe our spin.”

  Heat flared in Ryan’s core. The muscles in his abdomen clenched, and he delivered a scorching glare. “I don’t want to lie to the American people.”

  “Sir, politics is a contact sport. You either implement damage control or allow yourself to be swamped by emotional appeals and swept into the tide of war.”

  “Maybe it’s time for Americans to be read-in on the truth.”

  Rone’s head cocked to the side. “What ... truth ... Mr. President?”

  “There’s only one,” Ryan said. “Terrorists attacked a U.S. warship with a weapon of mass destruction, murdered the crew, and subsequently turned the destroyer’s weapons against a Russian vessel.”

  “You can’t do that, sir—”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because the public will demand action against said terrorists.”

  “That’s the point!” Ryan snapped. “The Consortium just gave me a way to bring the shadow war into the public realm and mobilize the military against them.”

  Rone’s lips retracted into a razor-sharp line. “They’re an international crime syndicate, Mr. President. Eliminating their stronghold in the United States won’t negate the threat. In fact, it’s likely to compel world leaders controlled by The Consortium to wage war against us.”

  “I doubt it. The Chinese, Iranian, and North Korean armies have been decimated. And European nations are dependent on NATO. Without our funding and military assets, the EU is toothless,” Ryan argued. “And don’t forget, Americans are not the only victims. If I declassify it all, the entire world will be outraged. It won’t be safe for these assholes to walk the streets anywhere.”

  “Those revelations could incite vigilante mobs.” Rone’s eyes fluttered closed and reopened as if rebooting his patience. “Sir, destroying The Consortium is not advantageous if, in the process, rule of law becomes collateral damage.”

  The Admiral had a point, Ryan knew, but he adamantly believed that secrecy—in the name of protecting the public—had nurtured the exponential growth of corruption.

  “Maybe the press secretary should deliver the statement,” Rone suggested.

  “Negative! This was a serious incident. The public needs to hear from me.”

  Ryan strode from the office, into an adjacent conference room, and took his place in front of a lectern, flanked by a pair of TelePrompTers. Behind him, in addition to Old Glory, flags representing the armed forces formed a horseshoe, each adorned with battle streamers commemorating the campaigns in which they’d fought. The display was a visual cue, meant to convey strength and confidence to the public and to issue a stark warning to The Consortium: The U.S. military stands behind the Commander in Chief.

  Then Ryan’s resolve wavered.

  Back on inauguration day, he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t allow the federal swamp to taint him; that he would remain true to his values and to the voters who elected him.

  Am I serving their interests if the truth results in social unrest?

  Should I defer to Rone?

  Camera lights glowed. The television crew counted down, and Ryan began reading the carefully crafted statement.

  “My fellow Americans, our corporate media have made critical mistakes in recent days; mischaracterizing the raids on foreign invaders; falsely reporting the death of President Kyle Murphy; errantly claiming that Air Force One had been downed. And I regret to inform you that they have learned nothing from their missteps.”

  Ryan’s heartbeat became thunderous, and he felt light-headed.

  I can’t do this, he decided. This government is supposed to be of, by, and for the American people. They hold the real power; and in order for them to make good decisions, they need facts, not fairy tales.

  “Russia did not attack the U.S.S. Corrotto with a neutron bomb,” Ryan stated, his tone defiant and resolute. “This was an act of war, carried out by a consortium of criminals that have been stoking hatred and fomenting war for centuries. I know that, to many of you, this may sound like a conspiracy theory; therefore, I invite you to ponder the words of Woodrow Wilson, our twenty-eighth President.”

  Ryan retrieved a folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his suit and said, “ ‘Some of the biggest men in the United States, in the field of commerce and manufacture, are afraid of something. They know that there is a power somewhere so organized, so subtle, so watchful, so interlocked, so complete, so pervasive, that they better not speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it.’

  “These are the same people that John F. Kennedy was referring to when he said, ‘For we are opposed around the world by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy that relies primarily on covert means for expanding its sphere of influence—on infiltration instead of invasion, on subversion instead of elections, on intimidation instead of free choice ... It is a system which has conscripted vast human and material resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific and political operations. Its preparations are concealed, not published. Its mistakes are buried, not headlined. Its dissenters are silenced, not praised. No expenditure is questioned, no rumor is printed, no secret is revealed.’

  “To those who have sensed, for a long time, that something was terribly wrong in America—and in the world—you can now identify the enemy. These monsters may live in the most opulent homes, drive the most expensive sports cars, and fly in the most luxurious jets, but make no mistake. They. Are. Terrorists.

  “Therefore, I will be taking action to rid our nation of this menace. This is a declaration of war against corruption, sedition, and treason; and I invite likeminded leaders around the globe to join the fight for truth and justice. Thank you. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”

  As soon as the live shot ended, Ryan hustled past Rone, evading eye contact.

  The Admiral followed him into his office and slammed the door. “What the hell was that?” His irate question was punctuated by the chime of his phone. Rone’s frown shifted from Ryan to the caller ID, and he grunted a terse greeting. “... How’d you get this number ...? Pertaining to?”

  The Admiral’s head shook, and he extended the phone to Ryan, mouthing the name Sebastian.

  “Good-evening, Winthrop,” Ryan said, his tone impatient yet polite. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve just done?”

  73

  The British Virgin Islands

  JOHANNA KRUPP GLARED at Valerie Van Duyn, issuing an unspoken demand for quiet. The acting attorney general lifted the colicky infant; and, with a bob of her head, she whispered, “Come on, Ju-Ju,” and ushered the yipping featherweight Pomeranian out of the sanctuary.

  Krupp waited for the discord to ebb then raised her cellphone to her ear. “You’re going to have to repeat that, Carter. I didn’t hear a word you said.”

  “I can’t make it to Cythraul Island,” the former presidential candidate told her. “Proceed without me.”

  Krupp felt a burning sensation in her stomach, as if she’d swallowed flaming jumping beans. “B-b-but you’re the most powerful witch on the continent,” she stammered. “The efficacy will be diminished without you.”

  Carter Sidney launched into one of her shrill rebukes. “You think I don’t know that? Someone inside the fucking DOJ defied Valerie’s authority. I’ve been indicted!”

  Krupp looked to the statue of Moloch, beseeching it for strength. She liked Carter, but her temper tantrums were counterproductive. “Rela-a-x. The Andrews situation will be resolved within twenty-four hours.”

  “Do you have any idea how many fucking times I’ve heard that? Take my advice, Johanna
. Finish the ritual and meet me at Anolachia Air Force Base. I’ve got a military jet departing for Antarctica at noon.”

  “I think you’re overre—”

  Carter terminated the call without warning, and Krupp’s attention shifted to Van Duyn, who was reentering the chamber. Valerie was an overweight sixty-year-old with a pixy-cut, copper-colored wig and electric-pink lipstick befitting a teenager.

  “Ju-Ju made a beeline for the dungeon, and I am not chasing her around that foul-smelling cesspool.” Her angry tone startled the newborn, and Van Duyn made no effort to soothe its distress. The baby girl had been procured through a Consortium breeder program, which tapped impregnated sex slaves to augment the supply of sacrificial offerings.

  “Carter can’t make it, so more for us,” Krupp said, eager to commune with Moloch and partake in the ancient fountain of youth. She was a direct descendent of Elizabeth Bathory, a Hungarian royal known as the blood countess and the most prolific female serial killer in history. An alleged cannibal, Bathory was said to have tortured and murdered hundreds of young girls and bathed in their blood to retain her youth and beauty.

  Soon, human sacrifice will be decriminalized, Krupp thought, and we won’t have to conceal our rituals.

  The plan had been progressing in carefully designed baby steps for decades: start with abortion procedures that were “safe, legal, and rare”; promote harvesting of stem cells in the name of science; campaign for acceptance of late-term abortion; expand that definition to include infanticide; and then define infants to be five years of age and under.

  I’ll be able to revive Bathory’s legacy, Krupp thought, and frivolously bathe in blood ... until then, I’ll have to settle for six measly ounces.

  Van Duyn laid the crying infant onto the blood-stained hands of a statue depicting Moloch with the head of a horned bull. Krupp preferred the owl representation because the predator of the night seemed more feminine, wiser and all-seeing, but she hadn’t been consulted regarding the design of this particular temple.

  As Van Duyn unpacked an array of razor-sharp tools, her head snapped forward, and she melted onto the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

  The boom of a suppressed gunshot reverberated through the satanic shrine and, instead of rushing to her friend’s aid, Krupp scooped up the wailing infant and positioned it as a human shield.

  A female dressed in black tactical gear prowled into the sanctuary, brandishing a handgun.

  Fear putrefied into hatred, and Krupp hissed, “Abigail Webber, gender traitor!”

  “Speaking of traitors, you’ve been tried by a military tribunal, found guilty of treason, and sentenced to death.”

  Krupp edged closer to the panic button hidden beneath the altar and tapped it with her foot.

  Security will be here any minute, she thought.

  “Lay the baby on the floor and put your hands above your head.” Webber’s voice sounded authoritative, but her eyes were glassy.

  “Andrews lied to you,” Krupp shouted above the newborn’s wails. “American citizens cannot be tried via military tribunal.”

  “Not according to Chief Justice Harlan Stone. In Ex parte Quirin, the Supreme Court ruled that U.S. citizenship does not relieve an enemy belligerent from consequences.”

  “You are hopelessly naïve,” Krupp sneered. “Bribes and blackmail can overturn any precedent. Wake up, Abby. This is a government OF, BY, and FOR The Consortium. Your entire world is ... One. Big. Lie.”

  “And your world is about to end.”

  Tsk-tsking, Krupp gazed at Webber with pity until she swapped out her handgun for a futuristic-looking, double-barreled shotgun. Then her confidence disintegrated into full-blown panic.

  How could she ...?

  Why is that ...?

  Who could’ve ...?

  The jumble of questions crystallized into a disastrous conclusion: The weapon had fallen into the hands of the enemy.

  But how?

  Was Winthrop Sebastian captured?

  Or did he betray The Consortium?

  The directed-energy beam bored through the stone altar, devoured Van Duyn along with the blood-red drapery behind her, and left a grayish residue on the checkerboard floor.

  “I’m only going to say this one more time,” Webber barked. “Lay the baby down—gently—and put your hands above your head.”

  Beads of sweat were rolling along Krupp’s spine, heightening her sense of doom.

  Carter wasn’t overreacting. I need to get out of here and flee to Antarctica ... And what’s taking security so long to get their asses down here?

  Krupp gripped the shrieking infant by an ankle and dangled her upside down, eliciting a horrified scowl. Raw emotions played over Webber’s face, varying in animation and intensity, an ever-changing display of outrage, disgust, and maternal fear.

  The badass Sniper’s about to dissolve into teary-eyed mush, Krupp decided, pleased that her nonverbal threat had provoked such a visceral reaction.

  “Abby, your silly notion of right and wrong is an impediment to success,” she said, raising her voice above the infant’s incessant cries. “This is why WE have been winning for centuries; why WE will ultimately prevail in establishing OUR New Global Order. Now, as much as I’ve enjoyed this chat, I’ll be leaving. I have a flight to catch.”

  “You are not leaving here alive!”

  “We both know you’re not going to atomize me,” Krupp snorted. “Not if it means killing this little angel ...”

  74

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  SHIT, BRADLEY THOUGHT. I can’t atomize her feet without damaging the marble pavers.

  Would his second target notice the maimed walkway?

  Would it spook him into notifying security?

  Deciding that a divot would be less alarming than a pair of disembodied feet, he used the directed-energy weapon to erase the last trace of Lynn Bouclier-Rouge from existence.

  Faisal’s befuddled expression toggled between Bradley and the manhole-sized flaw; then, resuming his Allahu Akbar chant, he wrenched open the door of the Rolls Royce Phantom with a trembling hand, and drove off, swerving like a drunken fool.

  Could his Saudi ally keep it together?

  Bradley had his doubts.

  Peering through the scope, he watched Faisal make an overly wide U-turn. The front right tire plowed over the regal purple runner, instigating verbal rebukes and irritated gestures, and the Rolls Royce jerked to a stop.

  Aw-w-w shit!

  The battery indicator now registered seventy-five percent.

  So much for 180 seconds at maximum range, he thought. At this rate, it might not have enough juice to atomize my remaining targets ... And if I have to resort to my .45, every guard in the palace will come running.

  The prospect of being captured created an empty ache in his chest. Memories cascaded through his mind: lying beside Abby in that hammock, gazing at the deep-blue Pacific, listening to the swish of palm fronds.

  Why did I agree to this?

  I could be in Oahu right now, on a pristine beach; exchanging vows with Abby; enjoying a honeymoon in paradise.

  One of Gramps’ mantras rattled his gray matter. “Stop wishing for it, and start working for it!”

  Bradley rebooted his attitude and attempted to hone his focus.

  Target number two was late.

  What if he’s a no-show?

  Can Ryan prevail if only two legs of the triumvirate are neutralized?

  Should I wait?

  Bradley was still deliberating when Banning Winchester finally arrived. The future king of England strutted along the purple carpet, head tilted back, looking down his nose at the lowly security guards, and grudgingly submitted to the weapons search. He was a homely aristocrat with an indulgent double chin and a receding hairline that was unearthing a smattering of blotchy age spots.

  How could such a frail and impotent old man inflict such carnage on the world? Bradley wondered before realizing that it wasn’t the man. It was
the vast wealth he wielded, more deadly and effective than any weapon of war.

  Faisal remained inside the Phantom while his colleagues catered to the future king, and his second lap along the winding driveway was relatively stable.

  Bradley redirected his scope to the portico, and expletives ripped through his mind. The Bouncer, who had greeted the abaya-clad woman, was crouched beside the divot in the marble walkway. He brushed the surface with his hand and rubbed loose particles of calcite and dolomite between his fingers. Forehead crinkling, he stood and dusted off his hands, then his observant dark eyes began raking the landscape bed.

  This isn’t a hide, Bradley thought, and I’m not well camouflaged.

  He ducked, and a blue agave thorn pierced his cheek just below his left eye. Pain gave way to a pinpoint of heat and an itching sensation he didn’t dare indulge.

  An inch higher and I could’ve lost my eye. Damn it, why can’t I focus?

  The Bouncer’s gaze drew closer.

  Anxiety knotted in Bradley’s throat, and he felt a peculiar head rush.

  His hearing faltered.

  Night sounds waxed and waned in sync with his pulse as if someone was turning a volume knob up and down. Then the Bouncer abruptly turned toward the approaching Rolls Royce. He snapped to attention, betraying his military background, and after the vehicle came to a smooth stop, he scrambled to open the rear door.

  Winchester emerged wearing a perfectly tailored black suit with a violet silk tie. The heir to the British throne halted beside the divot. His bushy eyebrows, up-twirled to resemble devil’s horns, contracted in puzzled concern, and Bradley took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  The Bouncer gaped, petrified by the spectacle of the headless royal diffusing into a stream of particles, and he shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs. His right hand groped for his holstered pistol; his left, for his two-way radio; and Bradley diverted the energy beam to silence him.

  Twenty percent, he thought, cursing the remaining battery life after erasing the remains of both men.