Freedom (33 page)

“Well, then we do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Something big is about to happen in Greeley.”

N
atalie Philips shared the Cessna Citation III business jet with only one other passenger as it flew high above . . . well, somewhere. The destination was classified. In the absence of reading materials or a laptop, she had difficulty keeping her thoughts from wandering. She wasn’t even permitted a pad of paper or a pen. So instead she used her prodigious memory to recall her exploit code line by line—searching for flaws.

The interior of the plane was roomy and reasonably comfortable, but there was no easy way for her not to be in view of the other passenger. He was a disheveled man in his sixties with unruly gray hair, a sizable belly, a cheap suit, and a wide, striped tie in a careless knot. He smelled of alcohol from the moment he got on the plane. He was staring into space—or so Philips had thought.

“You mind if we turn that on?”

Philips looked up at him and then toward the front of the cabin where a flat-panel television screen was set into the bulkhead. “I don’t think we can get television. It’s probably for video.”

The man sighed and got to his feet, grabbing a remote from a low table. “I saw the HD satellite antenna on the fuselage. They always want to know what the media is saying. If we’re gonna be here for a while . . .”

He clicked the television on, and it was already set to a news channel. On-screen newscaster Anji Anderson was talking, while behind her video played of masked gunmen looting a shop in a town somewhere in Kansas. The Chiron read, “Illegals on a Rampage.”

Anderson’s voice came through clearly even over the jet engine noise,”. . . another night of violence. Armed gangs of men—believed to be undocumented laborers and drug dealers. Local residents have taken up arms in defense of their property, but the problem seems to be growing ever worse as the economy continues to crumble.”

The guy sighed, nodding to himself. “You gotta hand it to ’em.” He looked at his watch then continued clicking through the channels. . . .

News followed by news, and all of it showing mayhem in the streets of middle America. One of the graphics bore the title “Rape Counseling Center” in bold letters, followed by addresses and phone numbers in several states. He kept clicking—cartoons, a shopping channel, and more disturbing newscasts.

“Can we just watch one thing, please?”

“So, why’d they call you down?”

Philips turned to him. “I don’t discuss my work.”

He smirked. “I used to be like that.”

“Well, I’m still like that.”

He muted the television as burning houses filled the screen, and put the remote down. “Too bad they don’t have a bar on this thing. I could really use a drink.”

Philips tried to ignore him.

“Name’s Rob, by the way. You are?”

Philips just looked at his extended hand. “Rob, no offense, but we’re not intended to socialize. There’s a serious crisis under way. I suggest you use this time to concentrate on what you’ll do about it.”

“Ah.” He retracted his hand. “So you already accepted an offer, then.”

Philips felt suddenly irritated. “I didn’t
accept
anything. I’ve been loaned to Weyburn Labs from a government agency.”

“And that’s how it goes.” He sat down across from her. “I was in government work. But after a while you just . . .” He looked around the cabin. “Christ, I could use a drink!”

She said nothing and tried to return her focus to her remembered code.

“You know, I did tours in some real shithole dictatorships, let me tell you. We helped build a huge commercial empire overseas. Hell, we were facing down communism in those days. A lot of questionable things were done to contain the Soviets. We installed a lot of dictators who were business-friendly. But we didn’t give much thought to what would happen after.”

“I don’t think you should be talking about this, Rob.”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose anymore. Did you ever feel like that?”

She just stared at him.

“Do you know why it was possible for the
Krasnaya mafiya
—the Russian mafia—to spring up, fully formed, organized, and financed so soon after the fall of the USSR? Didn’t you ever wonder where those guys came from?”

Philips considered it and realized she hadn’t.

“The intelligence sector. The KGB. Those guys were spread around the world. They had covert communications, bank accounts, and knowledge to move and launder money. They had useful skills like eavesdropping, weapons, assassination, and they had incentive—lots of enemies.

“After the Cold War, some of our own guys didn’t come home either. They helped to keep in place the system built overseas to hold back communism, and it became the system we’re all a part of now.”

“Are you referring to a conspiracy to betray the United States?”

Rob shook his head. “Betraying America doesn’t require a conspiracy. That’s what Sobol figured out. It’s why he was able to hack into it. The free market is just a system of positive and negative reinforcement with a few interchangeable fixers to maintain it. The sole purpose of that system is to maximize profit. For whom the returns are made is irrelevant. Those who make the profits might turn around and become great philanthropists—who knows? Who cares? Because there’s always another set of investors who want in. Who want to work the split-second fluctuations of the markets to get very rich, very fast. They might not ever know what’s done in their name. That was the secret Sobol knew. And what he did was create a new system that leveraged a broader human will. That’s what freaks these guys out. The Daemon is the first true threat they’ve faced.”

“But what they do overseas has no legal authority here in the States.”

He stared at her for a moment—then laughed. “International trade agreements are equivalent to constitutional amendments. They’re the ‘supreme law of the land’ according to article four, paragraph two. That means we must meet foreign trade obligations or face reforms—and I’ve seen firsthand what those reforms do. They create a have and have-not society. The rich are bunkering down. It’s not a conspiracy, just a reaction to a process set in motion. You don’t even have to know what the goal is. That’s why systems
work
—because they don’t rely on individuals.”

They sat for a few moments in silence, listening to the drone of the plane’s engines.

“If this is what you believe, why are you on this flight?”

He shrugged. “Eventually, you come to realize it’s inevitable. What’s about to happen can’t be stopped.”

Philips stepped from the jet into withering humidity and a merciless prairie sun. She looked across a stretch of sun-bleached tarmac—fear turning her feet to lead.

Two dozen heavily armed soldiers in MTV body armor patterned in universal camouflage, Kevlar helmets, and ballistic goggles stood in ranks, cradling M4A1 rifles with full SOPMOD hardware. They just stared, face-forward, without acknowledging her existence.

Philips walked toward the reception committee.

At first she couldn’t tell what division or corps the soldiers belonged to, but as she came within thirty feet she could make out a nondescript logo above their breast pockets—where an American GI’s last name would normally go. It read simply: “KMSI.” She knew it well; Korr Military Solutions, Inc.—the private military arm of its parent, Korr Security International.

She glanced around the airfield. A modern control tower with a rotating radar dish stood above an American flag drooping lazily in the torpid heat. Beyond stood hangars and row after row of gleaming aircraft—Bombardiers, Gulfstream Vs, a mammoth Boeing Business Jet. A couple billion dollars in private aircraft. In the distance, she could see squads of soldiers marching double-time toward distant hangars from the belly of an unmarked C-17 cargo aircraft. Hundreds of soldiers were in her field of view. A corporate army. What the hell was this place?

Suddenly a nearby non-com shouted in a hoarse voice,
“Pochodem vchod! Zrýchlené vpred!”
and the soldiers responded in unison with a guttural
“Hah!”
and began to march off double-time.

Philips watched as the troops moved in formation across the tarmac, toward a distant, taxiing transport plane. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do next.

But the soldier’s departure revealed a square-jawed man in a sweat-soaked shirt and a photographer’s vest moving briskly toward her. A KMSI photo ID badge wagged on his lapel as he walked, and he was completely absorbed in flipping through papers in a dispatch case. He finally looked up to reveal mirrored sunglasses and smiled broadly. “Dr. Philips, Clint Boynton, Sky Ranch Services.” He offered his hand.

Philips just glared at him. “What is this place, Boynton?”

He started flipping through folders in the dispatch case again. “I’ve got that here.”

“I don’t think you have to look in there to tell me where we are.”

“An undisclosed location.” He pulled a thick Mylar envelope from the case. It was stamped “Top Secret” in four places. He handed it to her. “The decision to bring you here was made at the highest level.”

“The
White House
is involved?”

Boynton laughed, then apparently realized Philips was serious.

She took the envelope from him and felt the weight of it. There was a thick report inside. In her experience a document this heavy meant somebody had just spent several hundred million dollars.

Boynton pointed. “I’m told you’ll find answers to your questions in there. There’s a cover letter.”

She sighed and ripped the seal on the envelope, pulling out the contents. There was a thick bound report inside entitled “Project Exorcist,” with an attached letter, addressed to her. It was on Pentagon stationery. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” As she had been told, she was being loaned out to Weyburn Labs—for Operation Exorcist. She maintained a poker face.

“I’ve been instructed to—”

Philips just interrupted him with one upheld hand, then started flipping through the fifty-page bound report at great speed.

“Doctor?”

Philips ignored him and continued flipping pages. In half a minute she’d reached the last page. She looked up again. “Very, very interesting . . .”

Boynton pointed at it in disbelief. “You just read that?”

“Only the useful parts. Some of the estimates are overly optimistic, but still . . .”

Boynton snapped his dispatch case shut. “In any event, you’re now part of the Weyburn Labs team.” He looked at his watch.

“We’ve got a forty-mile drive ahead of us, Doctor, and time is tight.”

“We’re going to this Sky Ranch?”

“You’re already on the ranch, and we won’t be leaving it.” He raised his arm and curled the four fingers of his hand.

Several vehicles emerged from a nearby hangar: a rose-colored Mercedes Maybach limousine followed by a couple of Chevy Sub-urbans with blacked-out windows.

The Maybach rolled to a stop in front of Philips and Boynton. The passenger door bore a family crest, as though it was some Renaissance coach and four horses. The crest was a riot of cattle, rifles, and oil derricks.

She’d seen it once in a library book when she was a child.
Great American Families
. “The Aubrey coat of arms.”

Boynton smiled. “I’m impressed, Doctor. The Aubreys no longer own an interest in the property, but the holding company still uses their coat of arms as a logo.”

Philips nodded. “They owned the largest contiguous parcel of private land in the United States. 784,393 acres. Larger than the state of Rhode Island.”

Boynton grinned. “If we play Trivial Pursuit, can I be on your team? In all fairness, it’s more like two million—not that anyone would know.” He motioned for her to approach the waiting limousine.

“Why such a large piece of land?”

“Privacy. We’re seventy-five miles from the nearest town. The outer perimeter is ten miles from where you’re standing and ringed with the latest seismic sensors and cameras. The sky is swept by radar, and we’ve got a battalion of crack troops in garrison—including an artillery section. The Daemon would have difficulty sneaking up on us out here.”

Philips nodded
.

Soldiers wielding what looked to be metal detection or radio frequency wands emerged from the Suburban and approached Philips. Other soldiers moved to take her luggage.

“What’s this?”

“Necessary, I’m afraid. No outside electronic devices or weapons of any kind are permitted on the ranch. The Daemon is cunning and the secrecy of this operation is vital. Your understanding is greatly appreciated.”

She had left her phone and laptop back in Maryland, but they riffled through her purse and carry-on bag with gusto.

They also started scanning her body.