“Howe, get me the most commonly searched word on the Internet during dips on airwar attacks.”
Only moments later, Captain Howe’s voice came over the phone with a one-word response, “Ube.”
The admiral frowned. The answer was clearly Ube and he kept trying to reframe the question to understand the answer. Coming up blank, he did a routine check of ongoing stats. He was shocked. Current attacks on airwars had suddenly bottomed out. Worldwide, it was the lowest hourly attack count yet.
He was exhilarated. He knew he’d get credit for the drop even though it wasn’t his doing, nor had he a clue to the cause.
He checked the news; no breaking stories and nothing on Ube. Plus, anything new would have crossed his desk long before airing. He looked again at the Ube numbers. He noticed the Ube report release time was at the nadir of the second dip. The plunge in attacks started hours before. He then had a thought; if it’s not our media, it must be the Internet.
Admiral Beckwourth logged onto a highly visited, but “illegal” anti-airwar blog. He selected the most recently posted video. A man was emerging from the water, and a collapsed airwar floated in the background.
While he was viewing the video, Colonel Vickers entered the admiral’s office. Colonel Vickers, assigned by the Air Force to aid Beckwourth during the crisis, was a no-nonsense military type. He wasn’t an ASC member, nor was anyone else under Admiral Beckwourth’s command. The colonel rarely spoke and never smiled, but he followed orders with military precision.
The colonel looked to be in his mid-forties. He maintained a short-cropped military haircut with beginnings of gray showing in the temples. He kept himself in good shape, and appeared not the type one would want to pick a fight with in a bar.
The admiral motioned to Vickers to join him watching the video, but before he could walk around the desk, the admiral’s phone rang. Beckwourth checked the caller ID, then answered.
“Yeah, I’m watching the video now. Did he actually kill it?”
Colonel Vickers, privy to only the admiral’s side of the conversation, stood silently.
“Any word on how he did it?”
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch! If we’d all known that in the beginning, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
Colonel Vickers began to move to the door, but the admiral held up a finger, indicating he wanted him to wait in the office. The admiral continued speaking.
“Okay, don’t panic! This isn’t a disaster; it’s fantastic!”
“The hell you say! Have him brought in here.”
“I don’t care what they want, I’m running this end of the show and if they don’t like it, they can kiss my ass!“ Vickers flinched slightly as the admiral’s clinched fist suddenly pounded the desk.
“Bring me that Ube guy, too”
“Stewart did what? . . . Frickin’ idiots surround me!” The admiral looked at Vickers, mouthed the words, not you, and continued speaking.
“Okay, what about our Immunes?”
“Okay, good. I’m emailing you parameters. Bring those meeting the criteria to me.”
“Well, tell them they weren’t prisoners. Tell them it was a quarantine for their own protection. Then tell them they’re heroes.”
“Yeah, I know all about foreign purges—I argued against them vociferously. The extractions make me cringe and are nothing more than inhumane torture. An hour ago I didn’t have power to stop the purging or processing, but now I do.” He hung up the phone.
Admiral Beckwourth smiled and thought, I may be the greatest PR guy in the world. He scribbled on a notepad, handed it to Colonel Vickers, and said, “Get started on this. I’ll explain later.”
Without a single question, Vickers saluted and exited the room. The admiral picked up the phone. He had several other calls to make. This was going to piss people off because he was about to crap on the current ASC dogma. He didn’t care. This plan would work. The High Council would be happy and he’d get breathing room. He punched a speed dial.
“Yes, this is Admiral Beckwourth,” he said into the phone, “I need to speak to the senator . . . yes, it’s an emergency.”
CHAPTER 10
TERRORIST
After manhandling him into the van, marines grabbed and restrained John. His arms, now folded behind him, had plastic ties binding his wrists. The soldiers patted down his dripping, light blue shorts and, satisfied he didn’t have a weapon, backed off, leaving him lying on the floor. A small man in a military uniform with captain’s bars on his shoulders spoke in a demanding voice, “Terrorist, where’s your gun?”
John thought, What’s going on? Maybe they found his gun hidden in the condominium. They might be trying to entrap him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” lied John.
The officer was so furious, he was shaking. He was partially balding, and his comb-over was standing up. As he reached up to smooth it down, he winced. John noticed he had a bandaged left hand and a dressing on the left side of the neck.
“We know you have a gun,” said the officer, “Do you know the penalty for owning a gun?”
“You’ve got the wrong man,” said John, “I’m Dr. John Long. I’m an internist and not affiliated with any terrorist group. I see from your injuries you’ve been in the fray with terrorists, but please don’t project militia’s defiant actions on me.”
“I just saw you attack and kill an airwar,” screamed the captain, “You’re a terrorist! You know there’s a world ban on attacking airwars. WHERE’S YOUR GUN?”
The man’s jugulars were bulging so much John thought the captain’s neck wound might start bleeding. His fingers were tapping on his gun holstered to his side. He looked as if he was deciding whether to shoot John right then.
“Do you know how many deaths were caused today by the antics of you and your ilk?” the captain said with a shrill voice. “Well, I’ll tell you, two hundred, and the toll is rising.” His finger flicked the snap of his holster open.
“Sir!” said the sergeant with the flat-top haircut. He spoke with such force the captain hesitated.
“Look, I’m not a part of Mad Mike’s Liberty Fighters,” interjected John, “Do I look like I came to attack airwars?” He nodded down to point out his still-dripping pale blue shorts, “I clearly don’t have a gun.”
“So you say,” said the captain snidely, “I have a feeling our interrogators will have you singing a different tune in a few hours” and, he added, “That’s, of course, if I don’t shoot you here and now.”
John took a deep breath and tried another approach, “Look, my fiancée was killed by an airwar a week ago. I wandered down to the park and—”
“—you thought, I’ll just kill an airwar
