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  “We need to transport him to the University Hospital in Portland, now!” the physician said to one of the agents, who relayed the information into a microphone on his wrist.

  The response came back immediately.

  “Negative.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Police on the ground ran toward the bullets, looking for shooters. Another missile impacted, blowing the stairs apart and taking out the last Secret Service agent.

  “Multiple shooters! NorthBridge attack!” one state trooper called in before he was hit. Three Ravens died instantly when something else exploded.

  “Where’d that come from?” a Raven, who’d been far enough away from the flash point to survive it, shouted.

  The only other surviving Raven shook his head. They didn’t know if it had been a bomb, a missile, or some other improvised explosive device.

  “Must have been an IED,” the first Raven speculated. “This has gotta be NorthBridge, no one else could bring this much havoc!”

  A second later, they were both dead.

  Just as the plane began picking up speed for takeoff, it veered and came to an abrupt halt. Dozens of police and bystanders lay injured on the bloody tarmac as emergency vehicles roared down the runway. More officers stormed into the crossfire, trying to find the source of the attack. An agent on board, looking out the window at the mayhem, called Washington. “This isn’t just a shooter. There is an undetermined number, but multiple hostiles are attempting to prevent us from taking off. Repeat, we are under heavy fire, receiving artillery fire.”

  The Special Agent in charge (SAIC) rushed to the cockpit, wanting to know why they weren’t moving. As he ran, he spoke into his wrist directly to the crisis center at Secret Service headquarters in Washington DC, relaying the situation. Horrified, they were already watching the whole thing live via the 3D System. Smoke had enveloped Air Force One, shots were still being fired outside, and the agent was thinking only two things—“NorthBridge” and “Get. Into. The. Air!”

  Secret Service agents were trained to always expect multiple attacks, and, as he reached the cockpit and saw the navigation officer and radio operator pulling the unconscious pilot and copilot from their seats, he knew this was a coordinated event. He quickly conveyed the scene to his superiors while also asking the navigator what happened.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “They both just went out, like someone turned off the switch.”

  “Can either of you fly this plane?”

  “I could probably keep it in the air,” the navigator replied. “But I can’t get us off the ground.”

  The radio operator shook his head.

  Just then, a missile emerged from the smoke and exploded under the nose of the plane.

  “We’re under attack!” the radio operator shouted.

  “You’re just now realizing that?” the SAIC snapped. “They’re trying to destroy the runway so we can’t take off.”

  “Preparing countermeasures,” the navigator said.

  “While on the ground? At this range?” the SAIC yelled.

  “Whatever is necessary.”

  The SAIC ran from the cockpit in search of the solution he wasn’t sure existed. He knew there was armor plating on the plane which could withstand a nuclear blast from the ground if they were airborne, but he wasn’t sure how it would react while sitting on the runway. The windows were also armored glass, but Air Force One had never actually been attacked before today. Just past the dining room, he ran into the president’s brother and sister with the first daughter, Florence. The three had just talked their way out of the secure area and were heading to the president.

  “Why aren’t we in the air?” Ace, Hudson’s brother, asked. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

  Secret Service agent Bond came up behind the SAIC. Bond’s eyes met Florence’s. “We need you,” he said. “Now!”

  The SAIC moved as she passed while also answering Ace. “Pilot and copilot are down.” At that moment, he remembered from advance work that Ace was a pilot. “Can you fly this thing?”

  “Yes,” Ace replied. Without hesitation, he began jogging toward the cockpit. “As long as they don’t knock an engine off before we get up. Come on, Jenna, I need a copilot!”

  The president’s sister knew Ace had logged more than twelve thousand hours flying 747s, but other than some minor flight experience in the military a long time ago, she had none. Yet Jenna was a firm believer that great things can be accomplished, and incredible courage can be found, when one is without options and there is simply no other way.

  Another explosion sent a shocking vibration to the fuselage as Florence stumbled into the makeshift operating room. The horrifying sight of her father, almost unrecognizable, greeted her. Hooked up to an IV, oxygen tubes clipped into his nose, excessive blood, and the absence of color in his skin told her how dire things were.

  He looks dead, she thought.

  “Florence,” the doctor said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Florence asked. She had met the doctor on several occasions, and knew him to be a competent and efficient man, so she couldn’t understand why he had just said he was sorry.

  “He was gone before he even made it to the table.”

  “No,” Florence said, now understanding what the doctor was telling her. “No!”

  “His heart has been stopped for four and a half minutes.”

  Another agent in the room looked at Bond and said, “The continuity of government plan has been deployed.” Bond knew this meant that the Secret Service was in the process of locating and staying with the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the President pro tempore of the Senate, and the Secretary of State. The vice president, of course, already had protection. But at that moment, Bond didn’t care about the crisis in the government. His only concern was for Hudson and his daughter.

  Florence looked at Bond for a fleeting second, her eyes reflecting back on the attack in Colorado as if to say not again.

  “What have you done?” Florence screamed, without knowing she had, at the doctor, while beginning to administer CPR.

  “I defibrillated, did CPR,” the doctor said. “A bullet nicked his carotid artery before it exited past and damaged the second vertebrae. Another large caliber bullet is lodged near a spinal nerve in his lordosis.”

  “One, two, three,” Florence said, pumping the president’s chest. “Come on, Dad!”

  The doctor didn’t interfere. He knew it was too late. The President of the United States was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Watching live coverage of the attack on Air Force One from the office at his Sun Wave estate in Carmel, Vonner held the communicator in his clenched fists. No answer. His voice, a combination of fear and anger, trembled as he yelled for Rex.

  Rex had been in the server room, mining the DarkNet for digiGOLD data in his obsessive quest to find a way into the hidden realm of NorthBridge. Accustomed to Vonner’s demands and tirades, the fixer detected something a bit more urgent in his employer’s tone.

  “What is it?” he asked, jogging into the Pacific room.

  Vonner just pointed to the gigantic screen.

  “What the hell!?” Rex shouted as he watched the smoky images of Air Force One under siege. “Is Hudson on that plane?”

  Before Vonner could answer, the network split the screen and showed a replay of the president getting shot as he waved from the door.

  “What in the fangdangled world does NorthBridge think they’re doing?” Vonner asked, trying to find his drink without taking his eyes from the screen.

  “It looks like they’ve decided to declare war,” Rex said, heading to his workstation and immediately beginning to type. “Assuming it’s them.”

  “Who else would do this?” Vonner wiped a tear from his eye, hoping Rex hadn’t noticed. “There must be ten or twenty shooters. It’s an all-out attack. No one other than NorthBridge could pull off a military operation like this on American soil.”

&nbs
p; “I can think of someone,” Rex said, fidgeting with five black dice. “Booker Lipton. His private army, the BLAXers could do it.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “To win a CapWar.”

  Bastendorff had been called up from the Lego floor. “I got an alert,” he said, walking into his office, reaching into a silver bowl for a handful of pretzel sticks.

  “President Pound has been shot. Air Force One is taking hostile fire,” his assistant said.

  “Excellent,” Bastendorff replied, licking his sweaty hands. The strange habit was one of the reasons some of his employees called him a “troll” behind his back. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Is the useless pillock dead?”

  “No one knows.”

  “How can no one know if the American president is alive or not?”

  “His plane is trying to take off,” the assistant said, pointing to a monitor.

  After watching the replay of President Pound getting shot, Bastendorff said, “He’s dead. No one survives that, especially if they don’t get him to a hospital immediately.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Bastendorff laughed, reaching for his third jelly doughnut. “If I had a dollar for every time I’d been wrong, I’d be broke. Instead, I’m the richest man in the world! Now, with Pound dead, Brown becomes President. Then we just need to make sure Senator Russell is appointed Vice President. I’ve already got that in the works. Then we simply produce a scandal to force our new president, Celia Brown, to resign, and presto! Our boy Russell is the new president! Just like Nixon-Agnew-Nixon-Ford all over again. It worked once, it’ll work again. Boy, I love this stuff!”

  The Wizard sat tensely, watching the horrifying images on his television. Medical analysts, weapons experts, military personnel, and other contributors had been rushed on the air by cable news producers, all speculating that it would be next to impossible to survive injuries like those sustained by the president. Slow motion replays, enhanced video, and ultra-close close-ups showed every drop of blood and tearing flesh as the bullets ripped into Hudson over and over. The coverage included details of the Colorado and stadium attacks during the campaign, and the failed attempt during the inauguration.

  “While it is the job of the Secret Service to protect the president, the FBI conducts the investigation if the president is attacked,” the announcer said over footage of the Secret Service counter assault team fighting back at the airport before being overwhelmed. “The prior attacks against President Pound are all assumed to be the work of NorthBridge. There is no reason to believe this full-scale assault on Air Force One is any different. We can only hope this time they apprehend the culprits.”

  The Wizard didn’t think so, but at that moment he didn’t care who did it, or if they got caught. He just wanted his friend to live. He’d always known that the odds were against Hudson surviving his presidency, but actually facing his death now left him feeling vacant and confused. The Wizard, a student of metaphysical and philosophical principles, including Booker Lipton’s Universal Quantum Physics, believed in fate, destiny and a trusted force which governed the universe. But, in that moment, he couldn’t get it to reconcile with the horrors he saw on TV.

  “Come on, Dawg, don’t be dead,” he whispered determinedly.

  Booker Lipton had often said, “You can’t just trust the universe when it’s convenient.” The Wizard tried to hold that thought, but his tears were washing it away.

  The news reports continued speculating how such an attack could happen in America, in broad daylight, against the president and Air Force One.

  “The Secret Service counter assault teams, or CAT, have been beefed up considerably since NorthBridge launched its reign of terror nearly two years ago,” the anchor began. “They were in full deployment, the spectators had gone through two magnetometers, as well as other screening, and yet this happened.”

  The footage of Hudson being shot replayed on a split screen, the other half showing live coverage of the crisis. The Wizard was suddenly brought out of the real-life nightmare by a call from Crane.

  “This has all the markings of a REMie action,” Crane said in lieu of a greeting. “As soon as I first saw the news, I ran it through Gypsy, like always, but this time I added a few new filters I’ve been working on, and it shows up REMie.”

  “The news and government officials are already saying NorthBridge,” the Wizard said.

  “No surprise.”

  “Yeah, but why would the REMies assassinate the president?”

  “Why did they kill Kennedy? Why do they do anything? Because they can,” Crane said bitterly. “Anyway, this could be the link to NorthBridge being under REMie control.”

  “Is Gypsy showing that link?” the Wizard asked, realizing his hands were trembling. His mind was taking leaps and making connections even before Crane could answer.

  Booker Lipton was a REMie, Arlin Vonner was also one, and although the group of elites didn’t act as one, they shared a common goal of protecting their power. They’d rather fight amongst themselves than let the masses have any power, any chance at true freedom, anything at all . . . other than distractions.

  “Yes,” Crane said quietly, still reviewing the data streaming in. “I think they’re what the patterns are showing us, and within a few days, maybe even hours, we’ll have a clear link between NorthBridge and the REMies.”

  It was huge news, but as the Wizard watched the replay for the umpteenth time, he realized it was probably too late. “I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Florence continued counting as she pressed on her father’s blood-covered chest. Twenty- nine, thirty compressions . . . two breaths.

  “He’s gone,” the physician said above the constant bursts of machinegun fire.

  “Do we have an automated CPR device?” Florence shouted at the president’s physician. At her hospital, Florence had seen automated chest compression system machines help prevent or lessen neurological damage by providing a steady supply of oxygen to the heart and brain. Life-sustaining circulation can be maintained only by uninterrupted chest compressions, and often the person providing manual CPR would grow tired or inconsistent within a couple of minutes. Florence had certainly fallen into that category, as the stress of pounding on her dead father’s chest while their plane was under attack by armed terrorists was overwhelming her.

  “Yes,” he said, grabbing it from a compartment and quickly setting up the device to relieve her efforts. He then attached a monitor that showed the quality of oxygen getting into the president’s brain. “He’s been dead six minutes.”

  “Stop saying he’s dead!” Florence yelled.

  Agent Bond began speaking into his wrist. He was required to report that the president of the United States was dead.

  Florence caught Bond’s eyes. “No!” she said, punctuating her words with a flashing glare which made clear the unstated understanding that Bond owed her father.

  Bond paused before quietly reporting to his superiors, “Resuscitation efforts ongoing.”

  “If we keep the chest compressions and breathing going—” Florence said, grabbing the physician’s arm.

  “His oxygen levels still aren’t normal,” the physician interrupted. “We’re facing cerebral ischemia.”

  Florence knew the battle—getting blood to the brain. If they could bring Hudson back, he would still be able to function. “What about—”

  Boom, BOOM, boom!

  “They may blow us up before we—”

  BOOM, BOOM!

  “We’ve got the same job, Doctor . . . keeping the president alive,” Bond said.

  “Neither of us has done a very good job today,” the physician said.

  Florence shot him a hurt and angry look. “We. Are. Not. Done!”

  “If we get through the next couple of minutes, we can go ECMO,” the physician said as the plane jerked and swerved. Florence had seen the Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation (ECMO) system
used at the university hospital where she worked.

  “What’s that?” Bond asked as the physician opened a cabinet and began setting up the ECMO.

  “It restores oxygen levels in the brain to normal to help minimize permanent injury,” he said. “But we have to cool his body.”

  “Let’s get gel pads to his torso and legs.”

  “If you insist on continuing,” the physician said.

  The plane’s engines grew louder as it pushed faster down the runway.

  Florence nervously double checked the straps securing her father.

  “I’m going to have to go in and surgically remove that other bullet,” the physician said. “We’d be better off putting a catheter into the groin. That will cool the blood down as it passes through the catheter.”

  The sound of machine-gun fire was momentarily drowned out by another close explosion.

  “We can’t do surgery under these conditions,” Florence said.

  “You can do everything in the world to keep his brain healthy, but if we don’t get that other bullet out, his heart won’t be able to pump enough blood.”

  Florence grimaced. “Then let’s prepare to operate.”

  Bond looked stunned. At that moment, a command came into his earpiece.

  “Brace yourself. We’re going to try takeoff.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Secret Service interrupted Schueller mid-session at the recording studio and handed him a phone.