Читать книгу Death Card - Nick L. Sacco - Страница 10

Chapter 4

“MESSAGE,” the voice said loudly. Startled, Charlie opened his eyes but remained motionless on his oversized couch, still wearing his clothes from the evening before. The light filtering through the living room window of his apartment told him it was early morning. “MESSAGE,” the voice repeated, but louder and with more annoyance in its voice.

Charlie sat up straight, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“MESSAGE!” screamed the voice, clearly pissed off this time. Charlie reached out and snatched his cell phone off the coffee table. He couldn’t remember why he had chosen such an annoying message ring tone, but it sure did the job.

He began to eagerly read, hoping for any bit of information about what was going on.

TUNE INTO YOUR LOCAL TELEVISION OR RADIO STATION AT NOON EASTERN STANDARD TIME FOR AN EMERGENCY MESSAGE FROM PRESIDENT MARCUS BARAKAT. LIVE STREAMING VIDEO OF THE PRESIDENT’S IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT AVAILABLE AT HTTP:// WWW.WHITEHOUSE.GOV.

Charlie lay back on his couch and covered his eyes with his forearm. He still couldn’t believe he and Maggie had witnessed the killing of Phillip Elliot. Charlie had hoped it was just a bad dream. It wasn’t.

Charlie had dabbled in the journalism profession for years, beginning as the editor of his school newspaper and yearbook. He liked to write, taking thoughts and ideas and creating colorful, visual stories for others. It was true some stories, covering a track team awards ceremony and such, were dull. He often thought of the time he was scolded after covering a National Honor Society luncheon. “Goody Two Shoes Gather for Crumpets,” was the headline he had created that earned him a trip to the principal’s office. Later in life, Charlie would describe himself as the ranking school nerd because he carried a 35 mm SLR camera everywhere. He took pictures of teachers, sporting events, and other students. One day, during homeroom, Charlie spotted the school bully sitting across the room busily picking his nose. Like most other students Charlie had been victimized by the bully. He had been pushed, shoved, and verbally abused. Silently, Charlie reached into his camera bag, retrieved a zoom lens, and waited. Charlie began to click pictures the second the bully had his finger stuck up his nose past the first knuckle. The following morning, Charlie spotted the bully in the hallway where he was teasing a younger girl about her clothing. The bully began to smile as he made the girl cry. Marching up to him, Charlie presented the bully with an 8 x 10 glossy photograph of him sitting unconcerned, picking his nose. Paper-clipped to the picture was a note from Charlie that read, “Bully anyone else and this picture goes in the yearbook.”

After that, the tough guy began to leave everyone alone. Charlie saw the impact that photography could have when the bully never made eye contact, nor spoke to, Charlie Ashman ever again.

Early every morning as other students played dodge ball in the school gym, Charlie worked in a converted bathroom under the bleachers developing film and printing pictures. Charlie was smart and figured out a way to make money. He would take action pictures in the afternoon of the high school jocks playing sports. He would then develop the film and print the photographs in the morning. He sold the black-and-white glossy 5 x 7 prints to the jock’s girlfriends during school. The young, love-struck girls would buy all of Charlie’s pictures and he, in turn, would use that money to finance his growing collection of cameras, lenses, and accessories.

As a junior, Charlie worked his way onto the local newspaper in his small town in Maine. The editor, Percy Pascoe was an old-school, hard-nosed newsman who cut his teeth at the Chicago Tribune before moving to Charlie’s small town to buy the Custer Free Press. Though the town and readership was small, Percy Pascoe rode his news staff hard and edited every article and story like it was a big-city publication. When Charlie brought Percy Pascoe a story on a suspicious business fire, Percy returned it with a large red rejection stamp on the cover page. This only served to make Charlie work harder. He began seeking out story ideas and kept submitting them to the hard-nosed editor. Sometimes he got a rejection letter back, often weeks later, and other times he just heard nothing. Finally, Charlie broke through the tough exterior of Percy Pascoe when he researched and interviewed everyone he could about the possible failure of a local dam. Charlie had come home from school to find that his mother had received a phone call from Percy Pascoe. He had skipped through the small talk with her and simply left three questions he wanted Charlie to follow up on for his story. He was on the job the next morning. Charlie rewrote the article with the requested interviews and delivered it to Percy Pascoe in person. There was no fanfare, in fact the editor, Percy Pascoe, a large man, sat scanning the manuscript, ignoring Charlie who sat across the desk from him. Finally, tossing the story onto his desk, he looked sternly at Charlie.

“I’m not paying you for this story, but I will give you a byline.”

Charlie nodded, stuttered his appreciation and, once out the door, raced home with his good news. As promised, his article, “What if the Dam Breaks?” was the front-page story the next morning. For a week people on the street, his teachers, and even other students, complimented Charlie on the story. Charlie finally found the catalyst he needed to keep writing, and fell into a good rhythm in his storytelling. This “Charlie rhythm” helped him succeed in publishing more articles and closed the gap in his relationship between him and Percy Pascoe.

One day, as Charlie was sitting in Percy Pascoe’s office, he noticed an index card taped to the bulletin board on the wall among pictures and newspaper clippings. Written upon it were the words, “Six Million.” Charlie got up the courage to speak and asked about its significance.

“Six Million stands for how many Jews the Nazis murdered during World War II. I keep it there as a reminder of the evils of man.”

Percy Pascoe continued talking about his experiences in the war. His infantry company had liberated a German extermination camp and he had seen first hand the living skeletons peering through the fences at him. The editor explained that he saw bodies piled six high and open trenches filled with the dead.

Charlie and Percy Pascoe never talked about the atrocities again.

Two years later, Charlie decided to take a hiatus from the journalism field to pursue a career his father, the missionary, was staunchly against. Charlie joined the army. His dad had thrown out several objections, most reinforced with detailed Bible scriptures.

Charlie soon found himself in basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. Here, he shed his camera for an M16A1 rifle and concealed his nerdiness with olive green fatigues. The army suited Charlie well. When he was young, he traveled with his missionary parents and his younger adopted sister, Shade, to places where they often went without food or struggled to find a place to stay. His father always reminded the family that it was God’s plan and that their needs would be provided for by God. In the army, Charlie found that he usually had three hot meals a day, a rack to sleep in at night, and a roof over his head. These luxuries changed when Charlie applied for and was accepted into the Army Ranger program. Out in the woods and swamps around Fort Brag, he slept in the rain, warded off bugs the size of poodles, ate C-rations, learned the art of combat, and earned the Ranger badge.

Charlie got his first taste of battle in 1989 during the invasion of Panama, that ousted dictator Manuel Noriega. Panama was a fairly easy operation for Charlie’s unit. He and a company of troopers had choppered in and captured a small airfield the CIA thought Noriega might use to try to escape. When a convoy of Panamanian Defense Forces – really, Noriega’s thugs – arrived, Charlie’s squad tore them to pieces in an ambush of rifle and grenade fire. The survivors threw down their weapons and ran into the surrounding jungle faster then a raped ape.

In 1993, Charlie experienced his second and bloodiest combat action in a corner of the world barely known to most people, Somalia. In a botched snatch-and-grab operation targeted at war lord Mohamed Farrah Aidid and his lieutenants, Charlie was one of eighty wounded in a night-long battle against Aidid’s followers. The battle would later be the subject of the movie, Black Hawk Down. Charlie would refer to it as the night an RPG rocket tried to blow his balls off.

Raising his arm up, Charlie was checking the time on his watch when a voice interrupted him.

“They already shut the cell service down,” he heard Maggie say. He turned to find her standing beside the pocket doors going into his bedroom. She wore one of his light blue button-down shirts, her legs long and bare.

“I’m sure we . . . well, probably every American . . . got the same message blast right before they flipped the switch back to off,” Maggie said, snapping her phone closed. She looked at Charlie staring back at her, and it took a moment for her to register her lack of clothing.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said making a playful curtsy. “I’m a very bad guest. First I steal your bed, leaving you on the couch, and next I’m helping myself to your shirts. Soon I’ll be asking to borrow your debit card.”

Charlie rose with a smile, and walked up to her, leaning close. For a moment she held her breath and crossed her arms over her breasts, thinking Charlie was moving in for a kiss. “One hell of a time to begin acting romantic,” she thought to herself. However, typical of Charlie, he merely reached around the open door and stepped back, holding a bathrobe he apparently had hung on the bedroom wall. It was three times bigger than Maggie’s thin frame, but at least it covered her up completely. “This should keep you warm,” he said. While it seemed a gentlemanly thing to do, Charlie was not only trying to protect Maggie’s modesty, but also eliminate the temptation for him to stare at her sexy figure.

Maggie slipped her arms into the robe and followed Charlie into his kitchen, tying the belt into a loose knot. As Charlie began making coffee, Maggie crossed to the living room window and looked out onto the street below. Charlie’s second-floor apartment gave him a bit of a view, but there wasn’t much to see. The normally busy street was ominously empty. Further down and across the street was a bus stop where a small group of people sat on a bench or stood around waiting for the next bus. Some were talking with others. One man, holding a gym bag and wearing bright red sweat pants and a hoodie, kept looking at his watch. He would then lean across the curb and look down the street, waiting for the appearance of his bus.

“Black with a little cream, if I remember right,” Charlie said, placing a mug of coffee on the table next to her.

Maggie gave a “thanks” and then turned her attention back to the people at the bus stop. She saw a big, black SUV pull up next to them. Maggie noticed its black-tinted windows and counted six different radio-type antennas sprouting from its roof.

Red sweat suit guy approached the driver’s door. The SUV was between Maggie and the man so she couldn’t see the occupants. But she could see that red sweat suit was being told something by the driver. The man began shaking his head, as if irritated, and as the vehicle pulled away, he turned and kicked his gym bag across the sidewalk. He began talking to the other people at the bus stop and then, picking up his bag, began to walk down the street. Maggie sipped her coffee, watching the others slowly disperse, until the bus stop sat empty. A loud thumping began, the distinct sound of a military helicopter’s rotator blades cutting through the air. Charlie walked over to the window and stood next to her, their eyes scanning the sky as the sounds came closer. Suddenly they came into view, a flight of four Black Hawk helicopters flying in perfect formation just above the trees. Just as quickly as they appeared, the four heavily armed machines crossed out of sight behind some trees.

Maggie and Charlie both sat silently for a moment before Maggie spoke. “Are we at war Charlie?” she said, sitting back and crossing her arms.

Charlie took a sip of coffee from his mug, which sported a big US Army Rangers logo. He sat, thinking. Maggie felt it was time for her to stop throwing questions at her friend and let him come up with some answers. Maggie knew Charlie well enough and was aware of his thought process. The military man in him was assessing the situation, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Maggie understood all too well. Her father was a retired navy officer. As a SEAL, he had led men in combat in Vietnam and later during the invasion of Grenada. Throughout the years of her childhood, her father had always had the same philosophy. “Get the facts, remain calm and make a quick, prudent decision,” he had instructed Maggie a thousand times. Charlie was doing the same thing now.

“It’s something big Maggie, that I can assure you,” Charlie said, his tone serious. “My first thought was a government coup. That can’t be right because President Barakat is addressing the nation at noon, so that means he’s still in power.”

“How does the nightmare we witnessed last night play into all of this?” Maggie asked, shaking the spoon from her coffee cup at him.

“Historically, whenever there is an overthrow of a government or a grab for power,” Charlie began to explain, “the first thing that is done is to seize and control the media. That way whoever is taking power can limit the news and information the citizens receive. Last night was a warning to us, the media, that this is a whole new playing field, and the government isn’t fooling around.”

Maggie began to nod her head in agreement. “I had a teacher in high school,” Maggie said, folding her arms, “who said to worry about anyone or any group who doesn’t like the media or who wants to censor it.”

“Your teacher was right on the money,” Charlie began to say, when someone began pounding on the apartment door. Maggie and Charlie stared across the table at one another. The pounding grew louder and Charlie, pushing away from the table, headed for the door, Maggie close behind.

It seemed as if the person knocking was determined to bring down the door, threshold and all. Charlie had just turned the knob and was trying to crack the door to peak out, when it suddenly burst inward, shoving Charlie aside and almost knocking him off his feet. A black, female police captain stood panting above Charlie. She quickly scanned the room, stared at Maggie for a moment, and then turned to quickly shut and lock the door behind her.

“What the hell, Shade!” Charlie snapped. “You almost knocked me on my ass.” The policewoman ignored Charlie. She moved toward the window, peeked out, and looked both directions as if she thought someone was following her. Then she quickly grabbed the heavy cloth curtains and pulled them shut. Standing beside the window, she rested her back against the wall, eyes closed, catching her breath.

Maggie’s mind was racing as she noticed Shade’s bizarre, paranoid behavior. Shade could get wound up but was typically afraid of nothing. Maggie and Shade had often sat together at the hospital when Charlie’s wife was in the Intensive Care Unit.

When Charlie was growing up, his parents were missionaries traveling to some of the unknown parts of the Third World, including countries in Asia, Africa, and South America. Charlie was a little boy when they traveled to Nigeria to perform work for their church. His parents had returned home from the African nation with two reminders of their trip – Malaria and his new baby sister, Shade.

Events had been put into place weeks before Charlie and his parents stepped foot on the African continent. An aging priest, the spiritual leader of the jungle region, had rescued the sick and malnourished Shade from a village devastated by the deadly Ebola virus. Other nearby villagers had alerted Father Russo of the epidemic and even led him within sight of the huts and outbuildings. However, none would come near. In the same manner their fathers and forefathers had prevented the spread of disease outbreaks, they had sealed off all paths to the village with piles of logs and then set fire to the brush and trees outside the hamlet. A scorched-earth policy had always worked in the past, so they continued it into the present.

Father Russo had squeezed through an opening in the logs that the local men had created just for him. He had barely stepped through it when a noise made him look over his shoulder. The passageway was already being sealed behind him. The village was only three hundred feet away. A small haze of smoke from the brush fires encircling the village made it difficult to see. Father Russo wondered which saint he should pray to when facing a deadly disease zone. He continued to walk forward and remembered the square cloth surgical mask a nun had placed in his hand as he had left the mission. He dug it out of his pocket and tied it over his mouth and nose, not really knowing if it provided much or any protection from the invisible germs ahead.

As he neared the village, Father Russo saw the first line of bodies lying in a neat row near the dirt path as he entered the maze of run-down buildings. Smoke rose from them and the odor of burning flesh assaulted his senses. Someone, at some point in the early outbreak of the disease, had tried to burn the bodies of the dead. The priest quickly crossed himself and walked beside a rough, wooden picket fence and into the heart of the village. He came to an abrupt stop, taking in the sight before him. For a moment he stood silent. The priest tried not to think about the vultures that fluttered overhead. It was as if everything in the priest’s world had suddenly come to a stop. He heard dogs barking in the distance, fighting over something.

Father Russo placed a hand over his cloth mask and looking right to left, estimated a hundred bloated bodies lying in the sun. As his hearing suddenly returned, Father Russo became aware of the din of millions of flies whirling around the bodies like a gray cloud. Sickened by the nightmare scene before him, Father Russo slowly began to back away down the path he had just come. He turned and began to walk faster away from the bodies, when he heard the cries of a baby. He stopped, trying not to breathe in the death-filled air around him. He stood silently listening . . . nothing. He began to take a step when he heard it again, the unmistakable sound of an infant. Father Russo began to look around him, and then his eyes settled on the open door of a cinder block shanty to his left. He walked to the entrance and tried to peer inside, but the small room was black and frightening, with the horrible smell of death emanating from within. As he finally gathered the courage to take a step inside, he saw the body of an older woman who sat with her back against the wall at the entrance. A trail of dried blood ran from her eyes down her cheeks, and from her ears and mouth. The baby cried again in the dark, bringing the priest’s attention from the dead woman back to the dark doorway.

He could barely see, but it was almost impossible for him to miss the shapes of the dead on the floor. The stench of the rotting corpses caused him to retch, but he continued to slowly thread his way among the bloating bodies of Shade’s family. A stiff forearm stuck out from a tattered sheet on a mattress inside the doorway. The rest of the victim lay covered. Several others lay upon the earthen floor where the deadly virus had ended their lives. Trying to hold his breath, Father Russo crept deep inside the cinder block windowless hovel, his heart beating as if it were going to leap out of his body and escape the nightmare on its own. Stepping over and around the bodies in the dark, the priest focused on the faint noises radiating from a far corner. There, he found the filthy baby, lying on the floor wrapped in an old, dirty blanket, barely breathing.

Making his way back to the barricade with the baby, Father Russo found himself facing another serious problem. The village men were furious when they learned he held a survivor from the desiccated village in his arms. Most of the men ran away terrified, but one large black man would not back down. It was obvious from his angry demeanor and gestures that he wanted the baby dead. He even motioned menacingly at Father Russo with a machete to go back, pointing at the village and making a stabbing motion with his weapon.

Father Russo wasn’t to be intimidated, not after the hell he had just been through. To the old priest, the bundle in his arms was the reason God had sent him to the village. As Father Russo stepped toward the man who now held the machete raised high over his head, the priest spotted the look of terror on the villager’s face as his eyes locked on the crying infant. Father Russo suddenly jumped toward the man, holding the baby out like an offering. With a scream, the man turned and fled down the path away from them, as if he were being chased by the devil. Father Russo, with the dying baby cuddled in his arms, began the walk back toward his church.

Father Russo and the nuns in the convent hospital treated and tended to the frail baby. The priest spent the first night sitting beside the old bassinet the nuns had pulled into the room. He stayed awake all night, praying beside the small baby, stopping only to change a dirty diaper or to hold her in his arms while she nursed hungrily on a bottle. Father Russo saw the concern on the nun’s faces and knew deep down the small infant would probably not survive her ordeal. Perhaps she already carried the Ebola virus. The priest himself might have possibly contracted the deadly virus, especially after his risky visit to the village. “What happens is God’s will,” Father Russo had whispered to the baby, kissing her softly on her forehead. He gave a quick thanks, realizing that the baby’s head was cool, and not burning with fever, like the other virus victims.

The nuns finally persuaded Father Russo to leave the bassinet and get some rest. He had been sitting with the baby for nearly thirty hours. The nuns assured him they would take good care of his favorite patient. If anything changed, someone would summon him immediately.

The call came nine hours into his sleep. A young boy, Abeeku, an orphan who lived at the convent and did odd jobs for the nuns, stood shaking the priest’s shoulder. “Come, Father, come quickly,” he said, flipping the blanket off the priest and grabbing Father Russo’s forearm, helping him to stand. As Father Russo put on his glasses and slipped on a pair of sandals, Abeeku handed him his robe. Father Russo struggled to put it on with one hand as Abeeku, holding his other, earnestly began to lead the priest down the steps from his room, toward the hospital.

Silently, Father Russo mumbled a prayer, as he was led toward the hospital. “Another grave to dig,” he thought to himself, picturing the white crosses in the field near the chapel. Once at the hospital, he was surprised to see the atmosphere wasn’t one of sadness or loss. Several nuns met Father Russo with a smile and a bow. Abeeku led the priest to where an older, small-framed Benedictine nun, Sister Nutina Grace, sat rocking the baby in her arms. Wearing the traditional black and white habit of her order, she looked up with a huge smile.

“God has sent us a miracle,” Sister Nutina said quietly to the priest in French. “He has snatched a beautiful soul away from Satan and given her to us.”

Bending down, Father Russo placed a hand upon the baby’s forehead. It was cool. The baby made a smacking noise, but continued to doze.

“God spared this angel. There is no fever, no disease,” Sister Nutina said, rocking the baby slowly. Father Russo patted the nun’s small hand and let out a long breath. Stepping out into the cool African air, he made his way toward the chapel. Abeeku held a heavy wooden door open for him and then stepped back into the dark. Inside, the candles were burning on the walls, and the altar in front sent shadows dancing across the rows of pews. Father Russo sat, and in the silence, gave a prayer of thanks. He wondered what would happen to the baby now. The nuns had decided to name her Shade, which meant “singing wind” in African. “After all, Father,” one nun explained, “if she hadn’t been singing, you never would have found her.”

The answer to Shade’s future would come a few days later, when Charlie and his parents paid a visit to the convent and met Father Russo and his staff. Charlie’s parents fell in love with the small baby in the nun’s care. His mother rocked and talked quietly to the baby for a long time before she held the little bundle out to Charlie. “Go ahead Charlie,” she said smiling, “why don’t you hold her? See if she grows on you.”

Shade did grow on him, and Charlie was thrilled when his parents told him that his new baby sister would be joining their family, and traveling back to the U.S. with them.

Growing up in the U.S., Shade blossomed from a near-dead victim of the Ebola virus to a tough, “see the hill, take the hill,” type of woman. In school, her mind worked like a sponge, soaking up everything she saw and read. She aced every test and exam. Charlie remembered her throwing a fit in high school when she received a B+ on an exam. She acted as if the world had ended. She didn’t take crap from anyone and never backed down from a fight, even taking on the school bully in a brawl that left both of them bruised and bloody. Shade was as sharp physically as she was mentally. She lettered eleven times in track and basketball and challenged the school board until they let her compete on the “boys only” wrestling team.

After graduating high school, Shade immediately applied to the police department. She easily breezed through the exams and physicals, and once in the Academy, found her calling. She worked the streets, kicked doors down at drug houses, fought drunks twice her size, and worked her way up the career ladder, landing in an officer position in the Criminal Intelligence Division.

Now, visibly disturbed, Shade began to pace around Charlie’s apartment with her arms crossed. “Sit down, guys,” she suddenly ordered. Maggie and Charlie sat together on the couch, as Shade pulled a kitchen chair into the room and sat in front of them.

Shade, looking down at the walkie-talkie on her gun belt, turned one of the knobs, and the sound of police traffic went silent. Facing them again, she jabbed her index finger threateningly and scooted forward to the edge of her chair. “Listen up, both of you. What I say here, what I tell you, everything is top secret and never, ever leaves this room. Do you understand?” Shade asked, looking at both of them. Maggie gave a short burst of nervous laughter, realizing that her world of reality had been turned on its side and things were somehow never going to be the same.

They both anxiously nodded in agreement, and Shade began to talk in a low voice, the same tone she used when sending a warning to some young hoodlum on the streets. “There is serious shit going down. Bad stuff, and I only know part of it. Last night, they called in all the command staff, everybody, on duty, off duty, on vacation, everyone,” Shade emphasized, poking her index finger at the palm of her hand. “The word is that the U.S. is under some kind of cyber attack, and that martial law is being put into effect. We are supposed to keep doing our jobs, but now the army and the National Security Force is in charge.”

“That’s bizarre,” Charlie said to Shade, leaning forward on the couch. “So, what do you think is going to happen?”

“It’s total bullshit,” Shade snapped. “First, cyber attacks don’t hit on this kind of scale and affect this many areas of communication. Even our IT guys at the station were shaking their heads and asking questions. Second, why do our police radios still work, and the 911 lines still function, but no one can make any inbound or outbound calls? Here’s the major clue that something rotten is going on behind the scenes. Our guys saw military convoys on the move hours before this alleged cyber attack ever happened. We were getting directions from the command staff to help the army set up road blocks and clear the streets right after rush hour.”

“Oh my God, Shade. This whole thing is really weird,” Charlie said.

“We’re under orders not to say anything to anyone. If a citizen asks what’s going on, our response is supposed to be the cyber attack crap line. On top of that, our patrol people are to keep everyone off the streets, with no group assembly of any kind. If anyone starts asking questions, we are supposed to say it’s for their own safety. If they push the issue, we arrest them,” Shade said, tapping the handcuff case on her gun belt.

“Wait a minute,” Maggie chimed in suddenly. “Your commanding officers are telling you this? Does the chief of police really think this is a cyber attack? What do these restrictions on the public have to do with it?”

Shade began shaking her head, and then looked at Maggie with a smirk. “It’s not the chief giving these orders, or our captains, majors, or anyone else in the command staff. It’s the earpiece guys.”

“Who . . . what are the earpiece guys?” Charlie asked, leaning closer toward his sister.

“Good question, big brother. Seems it’s a government agency we’ve never heard of. That is why I don’t believe this national emergency is anything more than a smoke screen. At about six o’clock, when all of this stuff started happening, all of our division commanders were sitting in a meeting room. Nobody knew anything, and the chief and his staff were sitting like statues. Then, all of a sudden, these three big goony dudes, wearing black battle dress utilities and sidearms, like the SWAT guys, come in, followed by a dozen armed soldiers. They have no insignia, except a patch on their shoulders. The chief was acting really weird, almost as if he was scared. He said the men were with the National Security Force. The National Security Force, kids. Have you ever heard of them?”

Maggie and Charlie looked at one another, confused, and shook their heads in unison. “We might have heard of them, Sis,” Charlie added.

“I’ll break it down for you,” Shade said. “These guys work directly for the president. They outrank everyone, including the military. They say, ‘jump,’ and we say, ‘How high?’ The leader of the National Security Force tells us that the president has enacted martial law and suspended the Constitution until this emergency is under control. Period. End of story.”

“This is crazy,” Maggie said, raising her voice angrily. “Someone should have challenged them or voiced an opinion. Instead, you all just agreed?”

Shade rolled her eyes, before answering back. “Oh yeah, several people protested, Little Sister, and every one of them got their asses arrested on the spot.”

Charlie stood looking down at his sister. “So the chief really arrested his own people, Shade . . . really? How does that work?”

Shade walked over until she stood in front of Charlie, and began poking him in the chest with her index finger. “We didn’t arrest them, Big Brother, they did. These National Security people have their own jails, and they are playing by an entirely different set of rules. We had everyone from lieutenants to majors getting cuffed and hustled away today, just for speaking their minds. I’m telling you that big shit is happening on the reservation.”

Charlie ran his fingers through his hair, thinking, but before he could answer, Maggie came and stood between him and Shade. “Tell her what happened last night, Charlie,” she urged him in a soft voice. “Go ahead. Tell her.”

“What happened last night?” Shade asked, shifting her eyes from Maggie back to Charlie. “I put my ass on the line telling you what I know, now you better spill the beans, Brother.”

Maggie retreated to the bathroom to get dressed and freshen up, while Charlie sat back down on the couch, and explained to Shade the terrible events that happened at the press conference. Maggie came out in time to hear Charlie asking his sister, “What prison ships?” She stood in the doorway of the bedroom listening, suddenly wanting to know what they were talking about.

“One of our guys has a brother who works at the ship yards. He says they’ve been turning some old navy ships into floating prisons. It was real hush-hush stuff. They were told the ships were to be used to hold terrorists prisoners from the Marine base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. That was the story. Then last night while all the shit was hitting the fan here in D.C., those ships were being lit up and going active. Sounds like an awfully weird coincidence, Charlie, don’t you think?”

Charlie stood thinking for a moment, and then suddenly turned toward Shade. “If martial law has been put into place and the military is on every corner of the street, then how did you get here?” Charlie asked.

Without taking her eyes off Charlie, Shade reached inside her white uniform blouse and retrieved a laminated photo ID, attached to a lanyard around her neck. “This is how, Bro,” she answered. “If you hold certain positions within the police department you get one of these ‘do not go to jail’ cards. With this card, I can move through checkpoints and travel around the city freely.”

Charlie examined it and with a smile he said, “You always could get past the rules, Shade.”

For the next ninety minutes, Charlie and Maggie sat on the couch pouring over their copies of the new Media Rules that Press Secretary Koontz had handed out, moments after having Phillip Elliott murdered. Shade, who had been up all night, was taking a nap in Charlie’s bedroom. Charlie had promised to wake her in time for the president’s news address.

The Media Rules covered everything from writing a news story to creating an article for the Internet. Occasionally, Maggie or Charlie would direct the other to a certain page and bring something to his or her attention. The common theme throughout the guidebook was strong advice to never question anything said by the president and administration, to never say anything negative about the president and administration, and, if it came out of the White House, the information was to be treated like the word of God. The last chapter went into great detail about how any reporter or newsperson would be dealt with for violations of the rules. “Indefinite detention without cause or trial,” Maggie read aloud to Charlie.

When the television suddenly came on, both Charlie and Maggie jumped. Charlie had turned the flat screen on earlier, and cruised through all the channels, finding nothing on them. He had left the channel on one of the major networks in anticipation of it eventually coming back to life.

“Shade, get in here,” Charlie yelled.

The screen was immediately filled with a graphic image reading “AMERICA UNDER ATTACK” featured with powerful broadcast background music. Grabbing the control, Charlie quickly flipped from one news channel to another. The exact graphic and music was on every channel.

Shade came into the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and threw herself into a big, padded chair near the screen.

After about fifteen-seconds, the graphic faded to show Brian Williams facing the camera. At first he appeared normal as usual, but anyone watching could quickly detect a sense of tension. Unbeknownst to the U.S. citizens watching the newscast, there were a dozen armed NSF agents making sure Williams didn’t deviate from his prepared script. Williams began explaining how the United States had suffered the worst cyber attack in history. For the next sixty minutes, Williams explained that all communications had been shattered by a massive assault by unknown suspects. His broadcast was interrupted several times by interviews with alleged experts, explaining intricate details about cyber crimes, and field reports, reassuring the viewers the military and government had the situation under control. Williams kept reminding the people at home that a presidential address was coming on at the top of the hour. In one breath, Williams soberly stated the attack was caused by a foreign government, but then in another, he left open the option it was domestic terrorism, accusing members of the far right, the Tea Party and white power or Nazi groups.

Finally, Williams told the viewers they were going live to the White House with President Barakat, and the image changed to the press conference room, with the large seal of the White House in the background. President Barakat, wearing a dark suit and red tie, came to stand behind the podium, the US flag standing to his right.

“Listen to that,” Charlie said, turning his ear toward the screen. “No cameras clicking, no sounds of people sitting down. All I hear is total silence. The press isn’t even there.”

Maggie and Shade both looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

The president looked into the camera and began speaking in his clipped tone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the United States. Much has transpired in the last twenty-four hours. A group or nation, still to be determined, committed a brazen and nationwide cyber attack upon our great country. Everything, from cell phone carriers to the Internet and the media, was completely crippled by this unpredicted assault. I am happy to report that, due to the efforts of this government, in partnership with communications experts across the nation, disaster has been averted. We are recovering quickly, and, even as I speak, law enforcement, especially the NSF, FBI and CIA, are searching and gathering evidence to find and deal with the cowards who attacked us.”

“I must report that preliminary evidence shows that this cyber attack was committed by a foreign nation, we suspect a Middle Eastern country in collusion with the assistance and aide of high-ranking, ultraconservative members of our own government. Sadly, several respected members of Congress and the Senate, including the Speaker of the House, have been taken into custody. They will be questioned and, if guilty, brought to justice.”

“Every citizen of this country must understand that it is my goal and responsibility to protect you and this nation. Changes are being made that some of you may not understand. Many of you may think of these changes as negative, but you must remember, my friends, these changes are for your own good and safety.”

“I know that we as a nation will triumph against these enemies, both foreign and domestic, and we will come out of this a stronger people and a stronger nation.”

“Last night, after learning of the scope of this attack, I ordered that martial law be imposed. This was not an easy decision. This difficult choice was made after an emergency briefing by national security officials. Once I am assured that the security of this nation is guaranteed and the situation is stable, then martial law will be rescinded, and life as we know it will be restored. Until then, my fellow Americans, I ask that you work with me and your government. This administration will be putting programs into place and taking measures that many of you may question or not agree with. Again, let me remind you that these changes are for the good of the nation.”

“I have ordered the borders with Mexico and Canada closed. Travel into or out of the country is forbidden until this emergency has ended. I’ve also ordered the US military mobilized to assist and reinforce local law enforcement and emergency services. Please cooperate with these brave men and women and stay out of their way so they can do their jobs.”

“Finally, listen carefully to what I’m about to say. In the face of this attack on the United States, treason or aiding or abetting the enemy in any manner will not be tolerated. It will be dealt with swiftly and gravely. Enemies of this nation, take note that we are watching you. To my fellow citizens, I urge you – no, I implore you – to immediately notify the police or the military if you suspect anyone who may be a subversive, or anyone who may attempt to rebel, or who challenges our government. I’m relying on you to help us find and bring to justice anyone you suspect of these actions.”

“I also want to report that my cabinet has been preparing for just such an emergency. Several days ago, we started a new, specially trained and equipped government agency, the National Security Force, which will be taking over management of this crisis. All other government agencies, including the FBI, CIA, and the NSA, will be taking orders and direction from our new security force. I’m sure everyone will rest better knowing these special officers are on the job.”

“Be assured that the situation is well in hand, and your welfare is my utmost concern. We will overcome. God bless you, and God bless the United States.”

With that, the screen switched back to Brian Williams, who began repeating the speaking points of the president’s message. Charlie pointed the remote at the television and began flipping through channels. All the channels were back to normal broadcasting. Two women were screaming at one another on a courtroom program. A QVC speaker was hawking a set of cookware. Sigourney Weaver was battling an alien on an old movie channel. Paula Deen was stirring something in a mixing bowl and talking about southern cooking.

Maggie looked down at her phone, and then at Charlie and Shade. “Cell phone signal is back. I’ll bet the computers and telephone are up and running again as well.”

Charlie stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the two women. “I guess it’s time to get on with the day but be prepared for some major changes,” Charlie said. “Shade, you’re our best resource for inside information, but you have to be so careful because you are really in the hornet’s nest. I think we all need to listen to everything and say little to anyone. I’m suspecting the government will have moles inside every place, everywhere. Do you guys agree?”

Both women nodded in agreement.

“Shade, would you give Maggie a ride back to her car? I’m going to start surfing the web to see what I can find. Let’s meet here later tonight and compare notes.”

Meanwhile, at the White House, a cameraman signaled President Barakat they were off the air. Immediately, Donna Koontz walked up, tipped her head to one side and gave President Barakat a toothy grin, red lipstick showing on her teeth. “Excellent, Mr. President,” she chimed in a birdsong voice. “Just excellent.”

President Barakat started to shake her outstretched hand when he spotted a man standing in the shadows behind the stage. The president walked right past Koontz as if she didn’t exist, and she lowered her hand, completely embarrassed.

Koontz didn’t like disrespect, and she felt mortified that the president had just shunned her in public. She knew this was not the time to rock the boat so she just kept smiling, the same way she had her entire career.

Thirty-five years earlier, Donna Koontz had thrown her hat into the political arena, easily sliding into a city council position for a small municipality outside of San Francisco not far from Berkley where she had graduated from college. Koontz had left Berkley with a degree in political science and a mind crammed full of liberal thinking. Like a cookie-cutter image of so many other radicals, Koontz was raised in a setting of wealth and privilege. Her family had moved from the deep south of Alabama when she was still young. Koontz’s father owned several thriving computer technology companies in the Silicon Valley. Her mother spent her days at the gym or on the tennis court at the exclusive country club where they belonged. Nothing less than a BMW sat in the driveway of their two million dollar home.

Yet Koontz admired socialism and communism, two systems of government that vilified the way of life her parents lived. In her junior year, during summer break, Koontz traveled with a small group of other like-minded radicals to Nicaragua for their first taste of a socialist regime. In jeans and a tube top, a bright red bandana in her hair, she fit right in with her radical friends. Of course, she was simply visiting and had a pocket full of cash from her parents. She wasn’t out working in the fields twelve hours a day, and Daddy was just a phone call away. She was just visiting. From Nicaragua, they traveled to China and then to Vietnam where the communists had defeated the South Vietnamese and raised the flag of victory in 1975. Again, Koontz was just a visitor looking in on socialism, not actually participating in it.

Yes, Donna Koontz was jealous of the socialist and communist governments. She dreamed of a day the United States government would be transformed. The wealthy would be toppled, and every citizen would be equal. It didn’t even bother Koontz if a few thousand innocents had to be sacrificed for the cause. Koontz was sure of one thing. Whether it was a socialist takeover or a communist victory, Koontz was going to be among the politburo, the ruling elite. She knew she would never stand in line for eight hours to buy a pair of shoes or a loaf of bread.

Donna Koontz had learned in her study of socialism that change had to start at a grassroots level. Koontz believed being elected councilwoman was a great place to start.

Just a few months into her new job as councilwoman, Koontz began to push for a gay-and-lesbian themed city park, complete with a fountain pool encircling a statue of two men embracing. The council didn’t seem alarmed or even opposed to the park. One of the councilmen thought the statue might be pushing the theme a bit much. The other councilmen tabled Koontz’s plan, citing a lack of funding for the project. “If you can come up with the funds, Ms. Koontz, I’m sure the council would gladly reconsider your proposal,” the mayor suggested, not realizing the trouble he had just set into motion.

The next day, against a backdrop of barking and howling dogs, Donna Koontz toured the city’s animal control facility. Her questions to the staff seemed innocent enough. How much did it cost to board a stray dog for one day? What was the cost to euthanize a cat? Koontz went from room to room and looked into every cage with the animal shelter staff in tow. She would pause at a cage and ask a few question of the employees. She busily scribbled on a note pad, pausing often to glare disapprovingly at one of the noisy caged animals. Koontz returned the next morning with two lists. The first list consisted of the animals to be euthanized. The second list was made up of the animals to be sold to a research lab. With no sense of emotion whatsoever, Koontz notified the stunned Animal Control Director that someone would be coming to pick them up.

“We can’t do that. There’s a thirty-day holding period for every rescue,” the kennel director stammered.

“Not anymore,” Koontz ordered, walking away. “I want these animals taken care of today,” she shouted without looking back.

Donna Koontz had thoroughly and coldly calculated the cost of housing a rescued animal, including food, water, supplies, and man-hours, and compared it to the expense of having the animals euthanized. Koontz had calculated that death was the cheaper option. After a few calls to some dubious animal research labs, Koontz determined that if the animals were euthanized, she would have the funds she needed for her park statue within sixty days.

“Any means to achieve the end,” she had defiantly thought to herself.

Before Donna Koontz had even started her car, the animal control director and employees were furiously making calls. After they called the mayor and several San Francisco television stations, Koontz’s plan to acquire her park money at the cost of the kennel’s pets came to a screeching halt. Word spread quickly and the media descended on city hall and the animal control center like hornets. Behind them poured hundreds of angry people who filled the parking lot in protest. Like a mob chasing Frankenstein, the outraged crowd demanded retribution for Donna Koontz’s actions. The mayor, completely blindsided by Koontz’s evil scheme, assured the media a complete investigation was in progress and that no animals would be harmed. Koontz’s actions achieved a secondary result. The animal control shelter was transformed into a “no kill” facility within forty-eight hours.

Newspapers and television stations ran the scandalous story complete with Donna Koontz’s non-smiling DMV picture. By the end of the nightly news, Koontz had become the most hated woman to darken the state of California.

Koontz couldn’t believe the public’s reaction. She fumed with anger during her drive home. She had been planning to have the director and staff of the animal control center terminated. “I’ll teach those loudmouthed fuckers a lesson,” she thought to herself. However, Koontz found herself the one fired at an emergency session of the city council. The meeting was so crowded that it was standing-room only. Nearly everyone wore a T-shirt with Koontz’s picture on it and the words: “Euthanize Koontz.” The city council fired Koontz in record time with a unanimous vote. As the audience of pet lovers stood and gave a standing ovation, Koontz stormed out of the meeting chambers.

A small group of protesters were already waiting for Koontz when she pulled into her street. A half-block from the chanting crowd, a man in a black suit stepped off the curb, right in front of her car, forcing her to a jolting stop. Stepping beside the driver’s door he motioned for her to roll down her window. Koontz reluctantly did so, expecting the man to draw a gun and shoot her. Instead, he handed her a folded piece of paper and walked away. Koontz quickly read it.

“Love your spunk. Want to work for me? I need people like you.”

Attached was a business card from a politician she was unfamiliar with. After a couple of phone calls and a face-to-face meeting the following day, Donna Koontz became an aide to little-known Democratic Senator Marcus Barakat.

Now, President Barakat dismissed Koontz for the tall man wearing a dark suit barely covering his muscular physique. He stood straight and tall, his dark eyes almost hidden below his protruding forehead. His hair was cut short, and his entire demeanor oozed cloak-and-dagger.

Neither man shook hands with the other, nor offered a warm greeting. They stood for a silent second, until the president finally spoke in a low voice. “How is Operation Stalin going, Mr. King?”

Max King tilted his head, sharply right and then left, emitting small popping sounds from cracking his neck, before answering. His demeanor was very serious, yet cocky, in front of the most powerful man in the world. “Everything is going according to plan, Mr. President,” he replied. “The Joint Chiefs of Staff have been arrested and are being held in secure locations. Our own hand-picked people are being placed in command of all four military branches and the Coast Guard. We have blockaded all the major ports, closed down the airports, and are taking control of the major U.S. cities, especially those on the coasts – such as, Miami, San Francisco and New Orleans. We are telling the foreign press that a plot to have you assassinated was foiled and that is the reason for such a lockdown. The media will be reporting the same story beginning tomorrow morning. I feel confident in saying that Phase One of Operation Stalin is nearly complete.”

“Keep up the good work, Mr. King,” said the president, as Secret Service took up positions around him. “I’m going to expect a lot out of you,” he said, walking away.

“Any means to achieve the end, Mr. President.” As the president walked away, King pulled a smart phone out of his inside coat pocket and quickly dialed a number. A moment later a voice answered, “National Security Operations.”

“This is King. Begin the roundups now,” he said without emotion.

“Yes, sir,” replied the voice.

Max King shoved his phone into his pocket, and tossed a breath mint into his mouth before walking out of the room.

A ring of Secret Service agents escorted the president outside to his motorcade. Climbing into the vehicle, President Barakat settled into the comfortable padded seat. Donna Koontz slid in the back seat behind him and took her usual position.

“Wonderful speech, Mr. President,” Koontz said smiling broadly. “Really moving.”

Barakat nodded his head and looked out the window as the motorcade began to pull away. His mind began to drift. He thought about his beginning and how far he had come.

President Barakat’s father, Jean-Pierre, had immigrated to the United States from Algeria at the height of the conflict between Islamic revolutionaries of the National Liberation Front and French colonial rulers in 1958. His father, a low-level French government official who sympathized with the NLF, had met his mother, Ginny, at a small sidewalk cafe. She was an intellectual and active member of the French Communist Party in Paris. The scathing articles she had written about the French policy in Algeria had brought her onto the radar of the French government. She had left before the French authorities could pick her up and later returned to the turmoil in Algiers when bombings and terrorism were daily events. Barakat’s parents shared a love of communism and anarchy. They had even considered moving to the USSR, but Barakat’s mother had issues that kept her in Algiers, and Barakat’s father was important to her goal. Her four brothers were active terrorists with the NLF. A fifth had already been killed in a failed attack on a French police station. The remaining four were operating a secret bomb factory, and that’s where Barakat’s father was needed. With his position in the government he was able to channel money from France into Algeria and ultimately into the coffers of the NLF to buy guns, ammunition, and explosives. For more than a year, the arrangement worked well. Barakat’s father helped the NLF spread a campaign of terror, while showing fake anger at the bloodshed that he himself helped create. However, the family’s secret support behind the scenes came crashing down following a French commando raid on the bomb factory. Two of Barakat’s uncles were shot dead, one was captured, and another escaped into the night. President Barakat’s mother and father knew it was only a matter of time before French interrogators broke her brother down and he would reveal their names leading the police and army to look for them.

Gathering up what little belongings and money they could, President Barakat’s parents fled from Algeria to the United States where they sought and were granted political asylum. At the time, there was tension between the two countries, so getting accepted into their new country came fairly quickly and with little scrutiny. With the United States becoming increasingly mired in the unpopular Vietnam War, and protests and violence surging stateside, President Barakat’s parents found themselves in the perfect environment for their leftist agenda. President Barakat’s mother quickly began teaching at the University of Chicago while his father found a quiet job teaching French.

The seeds of revolution would be planted in young Marcus Barakat’s mind while researching a simple homework assignment about the history of French colonialism. When he questioned his mother how the NLF could justify killing eight million Algerian civilians to gain freedom from France, her answer had been very matter-of-fact. “Terrorism creates fear, and fear creates change. If you want to overthrow a government, you have to be brutal and without remorse. It doesn’t matter if it is 800 innocents or eight million. Whatever means to achieve the end.” Barakat would never forget this piece of deadly advice.

Eventually, in 1968, Ginny Barakat’s surviving brother would escape to the United States, along with news that her other captured brother had been tortured and executed by the French army. In the United States, Ginny’s brother burned off his anger by joining the Weathermen, a revolutionary force that fought for the overthrow of the United States government. Barakat would be greatly influenced by another life event in the summer of 1968. As secret members of a Marxist anarchist group, Jean-Pierre and his brother-in-law were busy assembling a bomb in the basement of a Chicago tenement building, its target an army recruiting station. However, something went wrong. A spark as minute as static electricity triggered the pipe bomb, killing both men instantly and setting the building ablaze. In the next few days, Barakat watched as the police, arson investigators, ATF and the FBI came to their home, questioned his mother, and searched high and low for evidence tying her to the blast. Ginny Barakat remained silent like stone to the investigators and denied any involvement or knowledge of her husband’s or brother’s radical actions. When asked why she had communist newspapers in her possession, she calmly defended herself by saying she was an intellectual and that she was not breaking any laws. Later, when Ginny was alone with her son, she simply said, “Sometimes you must hide in plain view of your enemies.” A month afterward, after being allowed to travel again, she and Marcus moved to Los Angeles to continue their lives.