The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Abby had lied to him, undertaking a dangerous mission when she was supposed to be here, in Oahu, planning their wedding. And unlike the Aaron Burr operation, which had been a lie by omission, this time she’d looked him right in the eye and deceived him.

  A one-off because she was following orders? he thought. Or a character flaw?

  Gramps’ voice resounded through his skull, leveling a damning accusation. “You’re projecting deceit onto Abby because you’re planning to lie to her ... about your father.”

  Bradley had omitted any mention of his genetic connection to Hellhound from his debriefing. He didn’t want anyone to know that he carried the DNA of a mass murderer.

  Would Ryan deem him a security risk?

  Would Abby live in fear knowing that a dormant monster might emerge?

  Would she hate him if she wasn’t able to conceive?

  Maybe it was just a mindfuck, he thought, slipping into fear-based rationalization. A PsyOp designed to inflict emotion pain.

  First: I don’t know if Hellhound really caused the miscarriage.

  Second: The bastard could’ve learned about her pregnancy through a blackbird spy or a shill digging through her trash.

  Third: He could’ve found those chemical names with a simple Gaggle search.

  Subconsciously, Bradley skipped over the radioactive question—how did Hellhound know about the miscarriage?—and jumped to the preferred conclusion: It would be cruel to put Abby through an infertility scare based on the word of a psychopath.

  “Master Sergeant Webber?”

  He pivoted toward the voice and, using his hand as a visor, surveyed a pair of men.

  The guy on crutches had muddy-brown hair and bulging biceps that stretched the sleeves of his white polo shirt. A bandage peeked from beneath khaki shorts, encasing his thigh and reaching to his knee, and he was accompanied by a Marine toting two large rucksacks. The Leatherneck looked like “fresh blood,” barely a week out of boot camp with a baby face, but he had the observant, hypervigilant eyes of a predator.

  Is he a human dead-man switch? Bradley wondered. Activated by Hellhound to make sure Abby learns the ugly truth?

  “Who wants to know?”

  The Marine blurted, “Agent Wachter, here, took a bullet for Abi-frail. Saved her and President Murphy.”

  A rush of embarrassment heated Bradley’s cheeks as he offered his hand. Emotion knotted in his throat, and he made eye contact, conveying a thank-you more intense and heartfelt than mere words could transmit.

  Wachter looked away, as if uneasy with the unspoken gratitude; and, in a deep, baritone voice, he said, “And Lance Corporal Locatelli, here, saved Abby from an overdose.”

  “Dude,” the Marine protested. “Don’t even try to equate slapping a water bottle out of Abi-frail’s hand with getting shot—”

  “You’re Schmuckatelli? From Scout Sniper training?” Bradley asked.

  “The one and only.”

  He shook the Marine’s hand, thanked him for looking out for Abby, and said, “What brings you to Hawaii?”

  “President Andrews summoned us,” Wachter told him, “for your wedding. The Murphys will be flying in tonight, and the best part ...” The Secret Service agent paused for dramatic effect, and a ballbusting grin spread over his face. “... Schmuckatelli’s gonna be the ugliest damned bridesmaid ever.”

  “Oh, hell no!” the Marine bellowed, emphatically declining the honor with a wave of his hands. “I’m just here for moral support. President Andrews wants it to be a surprise.”

  “Then you’d better double-time it out of here,” Bradley said. “Her flight is due to land any minute.”

  As the heroic duo departed, his thoughts drifted to the wedding. He and Abby hadn’t had time to discuss the nuptials. Would she want to get married on a white sandy beach beside the rhythmic crash of waves? Or in a church with a traditional ceremony?

  A memory resurfaced; Memorial Chapel at Langden Air Force Base; Ryan and Franny gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes as they exchanged vows. It had been perfect ... until a sniper’s bullet felled ten-year-old Izzy.

  Icy fingers raked Bradley’s spine.

  Kyle, Ryan, Abby, and I will all be in the same location ... Our wedding will be an irresistible target for The Consortium. Will Secret Service be able to protect against snipers, mortars, drones, and missiles? Against suicide bombers, poisoned food, sonic weapons, and—

  The squeal of rubber meeting tarmac drew his attention. A small jet, tail code 70217, had just touched down; Abby’s flight.

  Joy and trepidation flared. A nervous sheen blanketed his forehead.

  I have to tell her, he decided, but this isn’t the time or place.

  The jet’s engines alternately revved and purred as it taxied to a stop. The cabin door bowed open, airstairs unfolded, and Bradley blinked, watching Abby deplane. Dressed in Air Force ABUs, her right hand clutched an infant carrier; her left, a dog leash; and it took some coaxing to persuade the stubborn furball to jump down onto the tarmac.

  What’s she doing with that oversized rat?

  And whose baby is that?

  Confusion gave way to a broad, involuntary smile. Bradley jogged toward her, swept her into a hug, and spun her around, entangling them both in the leash. Abby responded with a sultry kiss that triggered intense emotions. So many times during the past month, he’d been certain that he would never see her again, never hold her in his arms; yet here they were in Hawaii, a tropical paradise where they would marry and begin their life together.

  “Yo, brother, you need to get a room!”

  “Wingnut?” Bradley pulled back from the embrace, struggling to disentangle himself from the leash while a selfish sentiment barreled through his head. There goes our honeymoon in his beachfront mansion. “I-I thought you were in the brig?”

  “Python sprung me,” CJ said, dropping what appeared to be a diaper bag at his feet. “But I regret to inform you that I will be unable to attend your wedding. After the Murphys arrive, I’m assuming custody of Matthew and heading for Edgar Air Force Base. Missy regained consciousness!”

  “I told you she’d pull through,” Bradley said, recalling how they’d used the owl to eavesdrop on her thoughts, verifying that she wasn’t brain dead.

  “Doctors say it’ll be a long, slow recovery, but we’re going to be together again, as a family.” CJ’s baby-blue eyes turned glassy, and he huffed in a breath to regain control. “So, I-uh ... I just want to wish you guys all the happiness in the world.”

  “Thanks, brother. Keep in touch.”

  CJ snorted and started back toward the jet. “No worries. I know exactly where to find you.”

  Bradley’s gaze traveled from the dog to the baby and back to Abby. “So, are you going to introduce me to your friends?”

  “This is Ju-Ju, Johanna Krupp’s featherweight Pomeranian, and this ...” Her lower lip began to quiver, and she looked strangely vulnerable. The hard-nosed, outspoken Sniper had just transformed into a soft-hearted mommy. “They were going to sacrifice her,” Abby said, her voice breaking. “Just like Matthew. And ... and I wasn’t about to leave her at a Consortium orphanage.”

  Bradley traced her adoring stare to the infant in a pink onesie. The baby girl had wisps of blonde hair, tiny lips pursed into a pout, and eyes almost as blue as Abby’s.

  Is this what our baby would’ve looked like?

  He squatted beside the carrier and, conjuring his best attempt at baby-talk, said, “You are so-o-o cute. What’s your name?”

  “I’ve been calling her Gia,” Abby said, crouching beside him.

  “Hell-llo, Gia.” He pretended to shake her hand, and when those impossibly tiny fingers latched onto his thumb, something inside Bradley melted. The newborn’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, and it was as if she’d cast some kind of spell over him. He gawked at her adorable little button nose, her delicate eyelashes, and her flawless milky complexion.

  “How’d you come up with Gia?”


  “It’s short for Georgia,” Abby told him, “because her pursed lips reminded me of Gramps.”

  Bradley’s attention snapped back to Abby. Her face was aglow, and he could see it in her eyes, a maternal bond as deep as the Pacific.

  “I ... I was thinking that we could,” she jabbered, “you know, maybe we could uh ... keep her?”

  Doubt exploded within Bradley.

  I’m not ready to be a father.

  I might not even be capable of being a good parent.

  What if psychopathic tendencies are lurking inside me?

  What if I end up being like my father?

  Bradley’s hands went numb.

  A smothering sensation gripped his throat like an invisible hand.

  Then, in a heartbroken voice, Abby whispered, “Just until we find someone to adopt?”

  Bradley knew that would be a disaster. Over time, she would grow ever more attached. She’d never let go, and she would resent him for insisting on it.

  Now’s the time to put my foot down, he thought. It’s now or never.

  “Abby,” he said sternly, “I love you more than life itself, but we are not keeping ...” The words seemed to stick, and the remainder of the sentence sounded like it was spoken by a distant stranger. “... that dog.”

  81

  Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Brookham

  Oahu, Hawaii

  RYAN ANDREWS PEEKED between the seams of a blue velvet curtain that partitioned off the hangar. A scheduled address to the troops had evolved into a Presidential Alert, which would herald the implementation of Plan Z.

  At precisely 1522 hours, Eastern Standard Time, Winthrop Sebastian had made good on his threat to kill the Internet, halting all economic activity in the United States. Cellular towers went offline minutes later, and suspicious fires began raging around the globe: Johanna Krupp’s compound, Carter Sidney’s houses, Lynn Bouclier-Rouge’s estates, and multiple palaces within the United Kingdom and Saudi Arabia.

  The Council of 13 is destroying evidence, Ryan thought, trying to cauterize the wound and save The Consortium. Or is this Sebastian’s handiwork?

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. President,” Rone said. “Assets are operational in all ten districts.”

  The military had deployed dozens of aircraft that were specially equipped to serve as airborne cellular towers in support of the National Wireless Emergency Alert System, which would be carrying his speech.

  Ryan sucked in a deep breath and, though he was not a religious man, offered a prayer. Then he parted the curtain and strode confidently toward a podium bedecked with camouflage netting and the presidential seal.

  Rank-and-file Airmen were clapping and whistling; and he adjusted the microphone, basking in the moment, knowing he wouldn’t see another jubilant gathering of patriots for a long time.

  “My fellow Americans, the storm is upon us,” Ryan began. “Carter Sidney, Johanna Krupp, and Valerie Van Duyn have been tried via military tribunal and found guilty of treason.”

  He paused, waiting for the whooping cheers to die out. “And yesterday, acting under my orders, the brave men and women of the United States armed forces decapitated this terrorist cabal, which sought to abolish our Constitution and extinguish our freedoms.”

  Cheers morphed into chants of U-S-A. Soldiers were slap-hugging each other and high-fiving; and Ryan noted Rone’s displeasure. The Admiral was nonverbally urging him to squelch the celebration forthwith. Managing expectations was crucial to preventing societal upheaval, and the party atmosphere served only to set the public up for a more grievous disappointment.

  “These actions,” Ryan continued, “have triggered a backlash, as evidenced by the Internet, electric, and cellphone outages. Remnants within The Consortium have attempted to coerce me into compliance with their agenda. They threatened to expose details of a classified operation that enabled us to rid the world of an insidious weapon of mass destruction—a network of satellites designed to hack the mind with frequencies and enslave humanity. My actions were vital to national security, and I welcome public scrutiny ... I. Will. Not. Be bought off or blackmailed.”

  The applause amplified, and Ryan swore under his breath.

  “This is not the time to celebrate,” he insisted, “because the fight is not over. Thousands of traitors remain embedded within our legislature, federal agencies, and courts. In the coming days, information will be declassified and disseminated to your cellphones. You will learn of atrocities committed by those you have trusted most: political leaders, journalists, corporate CEOs, bankers, educators, scientists, clergy, and even our physicians. Some have betrayed us unwittingly; some, under physical threat or blackmail; many, with malice of forethought.

  “These Consortium psychopaths are responsible for every war and genocide in modern history; for every famine and plague; every recession and financial collapse; every assassination, coup, and revolution; for every military suicide and drug overdose; every sexually abused and ritually sacrificed child.

  “They have poisoned our food and water with chemicals and corrupted our DNA with toxic vaccines—in the name of population control. They have withheld cures for diseases and harvested the organs of aborted babies—in the name of profit. They have harnessed the power of social media and unconstitutional spy platforms to monitor every word we utter, e-mail, or text; to log every purchase, acquaintance, and location—in the name of blackmail and control.

  “How?” Ryan barked, allowing frustration to seep into his tone. “How could criminals amass so much power?”

  Grave expressions supplanted the smiles. Jaws were clenched, and eyes were burning with righteous anger.

  “While we bickered amongst ourselves over the left-right axis, conservative versus liberal, Republican versus Democrat, The Consortium was working the up-down axis, surreptitiously nudging us away from self-reliance and toward dependence, away from freedom and toward tyranny. They reduced our esteemed colleges, once marketplaces of ideas, to socialist re-education camps; our media to a ministry of propaganda; our justice system to a secret police bureau; and our elections to a farce—a meaningless choice between their puppets.

  “Our fate was sealed on December 23, 1913,” Ryan explained, “when the Federal Reserve Act was signed into law. Creation of the central bank afforded The Consortium a virtually unlimited glut of money to fund their bribery and illicit schemes. Through expansion and contraction of the money supply, the FED orchestrated cycles of boom and bust, and their fiat currency destroyed ninety-six percent of the dollar’s buying power, thereby robbing the American people of our wealth.

  “In the words of Louis T. McFadden, ‘When the Federal Reserve Act was passed, the people of the United States did not perceive that a world banking system was being set up here. A super-state controlled by international bankers and industrialists acting together to enslave the world. Every effort has been made by the FED to conceal its powers, but the truth is, it has usurped the government.’ ”

  A raspy male voice cried out, “Fuck the FED!” Others followed suit, and Ryan raised his hands to quash the vulgar chant. “Regrettably,” he told the country, “our suffering is not unique. Through the World Bank and International Monetary Fund, Consortium fraudsters have plundered the resources of all nations, which is why I am calling on freedom-loving people everywhere to join in this fight.

  “Effective immediately, I am declassifying the first tranche of documents and placing the United States under martial law, until the following benchmarks have been achieved: restoration of Internet, electricity, and other essential services; eradication of Consortium operatives and their Night Sector army; and the establishment of a new economic paradigm.

  “This will be a chaotic transition for American citizens, but we will prevail because the true power of this nation lies with us. We, the people.

  “And rest assured, that when the storm clouds part, we will have a real free-market economy—not a plutocracy. A gold-backed currency—not worthless pap
er. A sound monetary policy controlled by the U.S. Treasury—not a privately owned central bank. A government that represents the interests of we, the people—not billionaire globalists. And an education system that will instill a true understanding of our history, so that we never again repeat the mistakes of the past.

  “We, the people, have the power to usher in an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity. And in the immortal words of Ronald Reagan, ‘It will be morning again in America.’ ”

  The End.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Tidbit #1

  Chapter 1

  Tidbit #2

  Chapter 2

  Tidbit #3

  Chapter 3

  Tidbit #4

  Chapter 4

  Tidbit #5

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue