Nation of Enemies (6 page)

 

Chapter 10

Concord, Massachusetts

I
N
HIS
HOME
gym, Reverend Charles Mitchell runs at a swift pace on the treadmill, formulating his next sermon. With his hair tied at the nape of his neck, a light sweat coats his fit body, shaped by a strict exercise regimen. ­People always guess he's younger than his forty-­five years. Hannah cycles next to him, wearing the E-­Trans Glasses he gave her as a gift last Christmas. He wonders what locale she's chosen to cycle in today. He glances at her long legs, the way her face has thinned in the past year or so. As if sensing him, she flips the glasses up, looks over and smiles.

“Hot out today,” she says.

“Yes, it's thick out there,” he says. “Unusual this time of year.”

“I don't mind.” Her eyes wander, staring at nothing.

“Me either. Where are you, Hannah Jane?”

“Back home, New Orleans. I'm starting to forget what it looked like.”

“Hmm. This weather takes me back, too.”

“To Alabama?”

He nods. “Summer days were like walking through water.”

By now she's heard his story countless times. The foster families he lived with. The evangelicals who spoke in tongues and preached creationism. When he was old enough, he chose what to believe, lead by the Holy Spirit. As soon as he was old enough, he left, built his own house, constructed his own family, and now serves a Father he will unite with one day.

Hannah's mouth sags into a pout. “Charles, will I see Joe, Jr. and Mary again someday?”

“If it's God's will.” It's the easy answer, he knows. After Hannah's father died in the Planes, her mother killed herself. Hannah was shipped up to him as a future bride as promised by her father. The other two kids were sucked into the foster care system. He couldn't take them—­it's not possible to care for all the orphans of this war.

“You said you'd help me find them.” Her feet stop pedaling.

“Of course. Soon as this mission is over, I can focus on that.”

She nods, wipes at her eyes.

“Excuse me, Reverend.” Henry enters and slides a thin electronic panel into a holder on the treadmill. “Militia applications are in.”

“Excellent.” Another thought crosses Charles's mind. “And I need you to bring me Huan Chao.”

“Right away.” Henry leaves.

Hannah pulls back on her glasses, retreats once again into her New Orleans ride. Without breaking stride, Charles taps on the screen to play applicant videos that are prescreened by his top BASIA officers. Despite the size of his organization, he insists on viewing each applicant that makes it to the final tier. A visceral process occurs when he watches these individuals tell their stories, make a plea to serve. After all, these men and women may give their lives in the quest to reach the final Day of Judgment.

Most videos he dismisses quickly, reviewing only a few applications in their entirety. One is a man who appears fit, ex-­military, a born-­again Chris­tian bent on change. A candidate ripe for picking. After seminary school, Charles obtained a master's degree in psychology, concentrating on the social aspects of influence, conformity, and obedience, as well as personality traits and how to read individuals. Invaluable knowledge when choosing his soldiers.

When he sacrificed his first militia in the Planes, he put the world on alert. In a dream, God had spoken to him, told him the MedID was the Mark of the Beast. The war had just begun and the world was spinning chaotically in the hands of evil men in the form of government officials. Other than the one-­off crazies and militias hiding in the woods, it appeared Charles was the only one preparing for Armageddon. He'd taken that as a sign from God that it was his charge to lead. A decade later his revitalized Chris­tian militia is fifty thousand strong. His reach ripples to the smallest towns and the remaining city dwellers on both coasts. Soon the MedID will be abolished. Charles has painstakingly planned His Holy War, and there will be no missteps on their path to salvation.

Of the thirty candidates, Charles chooses eight. Pleased with the latest crop, he shuts off the monitor as Henry enters with Huan Chao, BASIA's chief technologist. The slim Chinese man stands just over five feet but wields a hundred times his weight in knowledge. Formerly a CIA system administrator with high-­level security clearance, Huan trained in the CIA's secret school for technology specialists. Five years later he left the Company, disillusioned with the blatant disregard for civilian privacy in exchange for a supposedly safer world. He disappeared from his former life, taking with him an unrivaled cyber arsenal. Now safe in the folds of Patriot's Church and BASIA, he serves God with a clean conscience.

“Huan, my friend.” Charles grins as he hops off the treadmill. He shakes Huan's hand. “Give me good news.”

“We're on schedule, Reverend,” Huan says. Thick spikes of black stick out from his scalp, defying gravity. “And I've found the candidates that will round out my team.”

“Go on.”

Huan describes two men and a woman whose technological knowledge would be an asset for their upcoming mission: an MIT graduate and current professor in the Media Lab, a self-­taught young man with an impressive résumé that includes “cross-­site scripting, botnets, and phishing,” and a seemingly benign housewife who has made a nice living selling crimeware to fellow hackers. Charles is well-­read in technology, but in this regard he defers to Huan, trusts him implicitly. Still, finding the right ­people is the easy part.

“Vulnerabilities?” Charles asks.

“Both MIT professor and housewife have families. Their children have health issues and they're dealing with aging parents. The woman and the self-­taught kid have put themselves at risk with their cyber activities. With threat of exposure, plus pay and supplemental medical ser­vices, they should acquiesce.”

“Tell me more about the kid.”

“More of a risk on our part. He's seventeen, a senior in high school. Nothing to lose. He's a loner, lives with his mother and stepfather. But he's brilliant. Kid hacked the U.S. Department of Education when he was twelve.” Huan's eyebrows rise in excitement. “Twelve. Imagine what he's learned in the past five years. Actually, I don't have to imagine. He's mastered numerous tools. Zero-­day. TOR. Fuzzing . . .”

Charles stops listening. “You said he has nothing to lose?”

Huan bobs his head. “He's pretty comfortable right now. His stepfather is the owner of Hudson's Funeral Homes.”

“A hacker and a mint under one roof? Huan, you've done well.”

“The only issue I can see is that he never leaves the house. On rare occasion he goes skateboarding.”

“Let's think on it. In the meantime, well done. Do what you need to do to secure the professor and the housewife.”

As Huan leaves, Charles returns to the treadmill. Sensing him, the machine moves under his feet. He barely notices that he breaks into a sprint, his thoughts caught up in how to approach this reclusive teenage hacker. It's useful that he's still living under his stepfather's roof. That funeral chain is a multi-­million-­dollar business. God is good.

“Want some lunch?” Hannah asks, not looking up from her screen.

He'd almost forgotten she was there. His eyes wander across the room and land on Hannah. Beautiful, sweet Hannah.

 

Chapter 11

Boston

R
I
CHARD
H
ENSLEY
SITS
on a vinyl bed in the examining room of his general practitioner. For twenty-­five years Dr. Wendall has kept him healthy and, more importantly, kept him
appearing
healthy to the public and administration. It's more important than ever, now that he's running for vice president.

There's a knock on the door and Richard's aide, Carter, peeks his head in. “Sir, we need to leave in ten minutes for the National Tourism office.”

The doctor cocks his head. “You just got here, Richard.”

“I'm a specimen, Doc.” Richard places his hand over his heart. He waves Carter away and the door closes. Retrieving his phone from the bed, he opens the MedID app. Dr. Wendall touches a tablet to his phone, transferring information instantaneously. “It's all there. I have my father's genes. Just try and kill me before the age of ninety.”

The doctor traces a finger over the screen of his tablet, scrutinizing the data. “Apparently you exercise daily. Maintain a low-­fat diet. Indulge in a glass of wine on occasion. And have no physical complaints.” He looks up with one eyebrow raised. “Yes, clearly this is evidence of a superior being. Now, hold out a finger please and we'll talk in the nonfiction realm.” He retrieves a fist-­sized electronic device and guides Richard's finger into it. A needle pokes him, claiming a drop of blood. The doctor slips the device off and observes the screen.

“Your O2 level is low. Total cholesterol is 206. That's on the high side. Your liver enzymes are also elevated. You should cut back on red meat, dairy, and on that, quote, occasional glass of wine.” He shakes his head. “You haven't been taking your medications.”

“I know I don't seem the type, but I believe in a more holistic approach.”

“At your age, your genes need to be supported by meds and a healthy lifestyle.”

“I've been on the road with the campaign the past ­couple months. I hardly know what city I'm in each morning, let alone remember to take my meds.”

“Senator, you're a smart man and that's a sorry excuse. If you don't take your medication you'll have a very short-­lived term as vice president.”

“Understood.” Richard hates revealing his daily habits, resents having his life boiled down to statistics. It's amazing what a drop of blood can betray. He recognizes the irony of his role in the MedID. But despite his own genetic weaknesses, his job is to strengthen the U.S. He didn't anticipate the country spiraling as it has, but eventually disease and deformities will be a thing of the past. Future generations will be thankful. And these idiots claiming to fight this so-­called Armageddon will be delivered unto their own destiny. A flash of Taylor comes to him, knowing that she's defected to their side. Heat climbs from his neck to his face. He stands from the bed and retrieves his undershirt from a nearby chair.

“I haven't done your physical exam yet,” Dr. Wendall says.

“It's all there.” He gestures to the tablet. “It's for them, not for me.”

The doctor rises to his feet, eye-­to-­eye with him. “All due respect, you're not twenty-­five anymore. Why don't you let me do a proper workup?”

“You know why.”

“This is about your life. No one has to know.”

“Oh what a tangled web I've woven.” He slips on his pants. “Our system has worked for the past ten years. Let's not mess with it.”

“As you wish. But at least take your pills.” Dr. Wendall opens a cabinet, pulls out his MRS. He scans the false information from the app. “Hold out your forearm, please.”

The MRS flashes a red light over the MedID site. In less than a second Richard's medical record is updated. “You're good to go for another year.”

“Thanks, Sam.” He shakes the doctor's hand. “Things go as planned, you'll be the physician to the vice president when I see you next.”

Dr. Wendall sets his scanner down, the expression on his face suddenly serious. “I saw Taylor on the news. I'm sorry.”

Richard frowns. “She's marching to her own beat.”

“It's a dangerous beat.”

“Like all kids, she does things for shock value. But I'll admit, she got me this time.”

“I hope for your sake it's temporary.” Dr. Wendall opens the door. “Best of luck with the race. And be safe.”

“Thanks, Sam. Hey, don't forget to vote.”

When the doctor leaves, Richard finishes knotting a navy blue tie and gathers his things. In the hall, he finds Carter, voicing notes into his smartwatch. His aide's cheeks are darkened by day-­old stubble and he needs a haircut, but his clothes are pressed and fresh.

“Sir, we're five minutes late to the meeting. If we shoot down Storrow and up Charles Street to Beacon, we can get there in ten.”

“You worry too much.” Richard strides past him into the corridor. Two statuesque men in tailored suits appear and walk next to them, their earpieces well-­hidden but their roles obvious.

“We're meeting with Kate Manning,” Carter calls from behind. “Director of National Tourism's Northeast Division.”

“I know Kate. Hard to forget a lovely girl like that.”

“The setup will be on the State House steps at the top of Beacon Hill.” Carter's shoes click madly against the tiles. “It'll be a quick run-­through of the event schedule and evacuation plan. Forecast says seventies and sun. We should get a good crowd.”

“It's a waste of time having me there just to stand mute, next to Gardiner,” Richard says. “Obviously they want to see the presidential candidate. I can think of better uses of my day.”

“Your presence is essential to the event, sir.” Carter finally catches up. “I'm sure that's President Clark's reasoning. New England and the Hensley name go hand in hand.”

Blinding sun hits them as they exit the medical office and make their way to the black town car where a driver awaits. On their way to the meeting, Carter phones ahead and speaks to Kate Manning, while Richard uses his phone to catch up on the latest polls. Turns out their numbers are up. Richard's never felt healthier.

 

Chapter 12

Safe District 149

L
ILY
HASN
'
T
FELT
the baby move in hours. Cole is on an overnight shift at Mass General and it's just after midnight. She sits in front of the computer with her shirt pulled up, her hand on her bare belly.

In a group chat for pregnant women, she waits for her turn to speak. The other mothers-­to-­be are annoying. They're discussing how they chose sex, eye and hair color. Asking about the options of gene therapy in utero. At one point she typed:
Doesn't anyone enjoy the element of surprise? Isn't the process more amazing when you don't know what this little life will hold?
But no one responded to her post.

She pushes on her belly, hoping to make her daughter move. The past few hours she's tried all the tricks: drank coffee, walked up stairs, took a bath. The only outcome is a kind of crampy feeling in her abdomen. When she was pregnant with Ian, he'd never stopped moving. From what she's read, in the thirty-­seventh week it can be typical for fetal movement to slow since the space inside is now so limited. But she hasn't felt so much as an elbow. Something's not right.

Finally an icon appears on her screen, asking if she'd like to speak anonymously or on camera. Lily makes her choice and a new window appears. She sees dark circles under her blue eyes, her hair tied in a messy bun.

The moderator, a perky blond avatar, introduces Lily by her first name only.

“Hi,” Lily says. “My baby hasn't moved in about six hours. I'm not really sure what to do. And I don't want to overreact but—­”

Something wet gushes from between her legs. In the dimly lit room Lily can't see clearly. Excusing herself from the group, she sprints to the bathroom. She flicks on the light and looks down to find a steady stream of blood running down her thighs.
Oh God oh God oh God.
She grips the sink to steady herself. Taking a deep breath, she rushes to find her phone and calls 911.

T
HE
AMBULANCE
HAD
been swift, a neighbor had taken Ian, and Kate met her at Mass General. In the triage section of Labor and Delivery, Lily lies with electronic sensors hooked up to her belly. Occasionally a stabbing pain strikes her abdomen, taking the wind out of her. Downstairs, Cole is still on his shift, attending to victims of a lone gunman. They'll page him when it's time.

In a private room, Lily's OB examines her. The hospital johnny is like a tent on her bulbous body. She stares at her sister, gorgeous in subtle makeup and a stunning blue dress.

“Why do you look like this before dawn?” Lily says.

“This is not my first emergency, believe it or not.” Kate kicks off her heels and stands in bare feet. “What if this is the real thing? Her birth day?”

“And you thought that was the appropriate outfit?”

“Ha. No. I'm sure Cole will be here for the big event. I have my own not-­as-­big event. You know, the James Gardiner, Richard Hensley, tourism thing. Starts at noon and I can't be late. I figured I might as well dress as though I'm leaving straight from here.”

A swift cramp grips Lily and she groans.

“You okay?” Kate leans closer.

Lily can only nod.

“All right.” The doctor pushes back with her rolling stool and tells Lily to relax her legs. “The membranes of the amniotic sac have ruptured, which was part of the gush of fluid you felt. The placenta is separating from the uterine wall and there's a tear, but the bleeding has stopped for now.” She stands and goes to a monitor, pointing to spikes in the readout. “These points here. This is your baby's heart rate. And this is her heart rate during your contraction. See the difference? The dip? That's when she's losing oxygen. We need to induce you right away. If the bleeding starts again we'll need to do an emergency C-­section.”

“Is the baby okay?” Lily asks.

“She is,” says the obstetrician. “But if induction doesn't take, and bleeding starts again, we'll get you into the OR. Both of you are safer in that situation.”

“I'll text Cole,” says Kate.

Lily lies back and stares at the tile ceiling as the nursing staff readies her for transport to the labor room. Tears stream from the corners of her eyes, past her temples, wetting her hair. Kate kisses the top of her head, whispers that Cole is on his way. Lily clutches her belly with both hands.
Please be okay.
Pain grips her again and she closes her eyes. They still haven't chosen a name. She imagines what this baby might look like in her arms and repeats their list like a meditation. Daisy. Talia. Sadie. Esme. Gala.