The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution (21 page)

She trotted over to them and
checked their pulses. Alive but out. She opened up vials of smelling salt under
their noses, and they coughed back to life.

“If you assholes ever mess with
these folks again, I'll come back. But I won't
hold
back.” The men just
looked on, terrified. The big man stumbled to his feet.

“Who the hell
are
you?”

“I'm the one taking out your
street-thugs-for-hire.”

“Yeah, you're Helius. I know
that." He did know. Helius had been taking out the street gangs the local
Council used for muscle and transport for years now. She'd never interfered
with the Council Guard directly, though. So the Council had steered clear of
her. But she had just upped the ante. "What's your
real
name,
bitch?”    

“Here, let me give you my card,”
she said. The bracelets pulsed again, and she landed a swift left punch to the
big man's stomach that caught him completely by surprise. The power behind the
punch was unnatural, augmented. The bracelets formed a field of energy over her
fists just before she swung. Her hand never actually touched him.

It was like being slugged by a
blowtorch and a sledgehammer at the same time. He'd have second-degree burns
where she’d touched him.

He doubled over in agony, wheezing
and choking for air. She followed with a right uppercut to the chin from her
now fully charged rings. The blow lifted him off his feet, and he crashed back
on his rear end. “Now get the hell out of here!”

They ran without another word. The
smaller Guard helping the bigger rise and run. She smiled as she watched them
flee. The adrenaline pumped in her veins. She was ready for more. Wanted more.
This was better than food, better than sex, better than a whiskey straight. Even
better than solving the mathematical mysteries of quantum entanglement—okay,
not
that
good. Sophia raised her head. A blast of the blue energy
launched her high into the grey sky and she was gone. Code name:
Helius
was on her way to Boston.

SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN

250 MILES OFF THE VIRGINIA COAST

3:15 A.M.

The massive black hulk blasted through the ocean
depths, leaving a wash of current in its wake powerful enough to topple a
battleship. The
Freedom-class
submarine, modeled on the old Soviet-era
Typhoons, was larger than any other.

It was a mobile military base.
While most marine fighting technology had been miniaturizing, the Freedom-class
project had created a moving city under the sea. The subs were designed to bring
the Pentagon itself to the theater of war. Capable of launching fighter jets
and X-1 Apaches when surfaced; mini-subs and ballistic or nuclear missiles when
submerged. This particular one housed an army of warriors, all of whom could be
deployed on the land, or into the depths if necessary.

So to see the tiny human figure
zooming through the black beside it might have seemed bizarre. But that is what
Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey Hollis was doing. He was forty-eight years old and
better known by his adopted call sign,
Hunley
.

He had joined the Resistance
the day he saw the F
reedom
C
ouncil
’s ultimate act of treason, and his own unwitting role in it. A
secret
shame
he had carried with him for ten long
years.
He never talked about it. Tried not to
even think of it. Few knew the true extent of the Purge.

But Hollis knew.

He had been there. Seen it all up
close.

Now he was rocketing through the
dense, deep water at an unheard-of 170 knots. Just keeping pace with the metal
monster beside him. Not all technology had improved during the Depression. But
watercraft, they were a different story.

And no other human alive could do
what Hollis was doing right now. He was unmatched under the waves. His
specially designed grey-and-silver diving suit was dotted with faint blue
lights that allowed him to see what he was doing in the darkest depths of the
sea. The blue lights covered his eyes as well, and they aided in his sonar-like
visual system that allowed him to see for miles under the water. A sliver mask
covering his face housed the world’s most sophisticated hyperbaric breathing
and pressurization system. The suit not only allowed him to travel at these
speeds without being ripped apart by the force of the ocean, it also allowed
him to automatically adjust to rapid descent or climb, convert seawater into
unlimited breathable oxygen, and decompress his bloodstream in a matter of
seconds. Lightweight armor was built into the suit and covered him in
strategically important areas to protect against sharp objects or projectiles.
He looked like a cross between a scuba diver and an alien.

And more importantly right now, he
had an onboard underwater surveillance system second to none. He didn't need to
hear inside the sub, though he could do that if he wanted. Instead, he was
downloading every bit of communication and logistics data the floating city was
producing.

But even Hunley's advanced
e-capture system could only hold so much, and the USS
Tiger Shark
had no
limit as to how much data it could belch forth. Hollis knew he would only be
able to listen for so long. No matter, he had what he needed. The long, lanky
southerner smiled to himself.
The General's gonna thank me for this
, he
thought. The
Tiger Shark
was headed for Boston.

And so was he.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

The folder floated through the air. It landed
softly on the desk, and the pages ruffled open as if by magic. One by one they
turned. Methodically, carefully. Finally, the flipping of pages ended. A log
sheet lay open.

A small mechanical hum, barely
audible. The exact sound a Remote Dimensional Scanning Device, or RDSD, makes.
The RDSD was the ingenious invention of the “late” CIA surveillance expert
Diego Alvarez. Alvarez himself had used one to show Paul Ward his own living
room only hours earlier in Boston.

An RDSD could make a
three-dimensional scan of any object, living or not, and either store it in its
own memory or send it digitally to a remote location. In this case, the RDSD
was routing the information to a remote server and only scanning in 2-D. Only
this one, like its user, was
invisible
.

Rachel Dodge had the unique
ability to make herself undetectable to the human eye or most other visual
surveillance equipment. This also went for nearly any item she held or used,
for instance an RDSD. She was not, however, invulnerable to motion detectors.
Like the highly sophisticated one she had just tripped. The alarm screamed in
her ear, and she quickly jammed the file back in its drawer and rushed for the
door. 

Code name:
Stealth
, Rachel
Dodge was thirty-five years old, and never married, like most women in the
movement. She had spent more than a decade in the CIA. First as a weapons
developer and later as an agent herself.

She was brilliant. A fact she did
her best to hide. She was not comfortable with people thinking of her as a
brain. She had other assets she preferred they focus on.

In an hour she would be on a
flight to Boston. She hoped to meet her good friend John Bailey there. Or, as
he was going by these days,
Saratoga.

In the terminal, she turned on her
usual charm. That is, unapologetic, unrestrained, prefeminist sexuality. Her
plunging neckline and stilettos actually made her feel more comfortable. So did
her boob job. She was a persistent flirt. Her shrink had told her it was her
way of relating to men and that it was a self-destructive behavior and if she
didn't quit it, she would never develop any meaningful relationships with the
opposite sex. Rachel had decided that the bitch was just jealous and canceled
her next session.

As she settled into her seat with
a sweating gin and tonic, she couldn't help but notice the
wolf-in-salesman's-clothing sitting one row up. He'd been checking her out as
she put her bags in the overhead compartment. This was the guy your mother
warned you about. “Hi,” she said to him, tapping the wet plastic cup, “I'm
about to get high. Care to join me?” She used her best little girl voice, which
was part genetics and part years of practice. It worked every time. Mr. Wolf
broke into a long grin.

“Hi. I'm Steele,” he said.

“I bet you are,” she said. She
took her moistened hand off her cool drink and extended it to him with a grin
that was all red lipstick and white teeth. “Oh, look at that. I'm all
wet.”         

CHAPTER
36

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

THE HALL OF CHAMBERS

T
he
room was large, surprisingly dark, and slightly medieval. The Hall was tucked
beneath a dive of a tavern called the Green Dragon, which was itself located
inside an old abandoned power station on the banks of the Delaware River. A
destination that completely flummoxed Ward until he was led underground.
Members slipped in from a dozen smaller side “chambers” scattered along the
periphery. They each sat at tall leather chairs that circled the large Hall.
Ward was surprised to see that the members wore robes. Even they looked a bit
medieval, and more like Supreme Court justices rather than legislators.

These were the members of the
Congress of the Revolution, or COR. COR was the highest authority the
insurgency had. When the Revolution said they ran things democratically, this
is what he was really talking about. One representative from every state.

The Suns of Liberty strode in from
a side chamber and sat at a long table set up in the middle facing the center
seat where Dr. Leslie Gibbons presided over this meeting. Ward noted the empty
chair just to her right. That, he had been told, was where the Revolution
normally sat. As the leader of what passed for the insurgency’s military, he
was the only nonelected voting member of this body. The electors were the folks
who worked directly for the Resistance itself, like all the people at the HQ in
Boston. They had elected Leslie as their representative and then COR had
elected her as their leader. They only met physically for the most important of
occasions.

On this day, Revolution led the
team of seven across the hall and sat in the first seat at the desk. The Suns
were all dressed in their uniforms, but all their helmets were missing, except
for the Revolution’s. Next to Revolution sat John Bailey, who would be his
second in command in the field. Then it went: Diego Alvarez, Rachel Dodge,
Ramsey Hollis, Sophia Lihn, and Paul Ward sat at the end. He tried to remind
himself that, after the two leaders, they were seated alphabetically, not
according to rank, importance, or expendability. Leslie had explained that the
official formation of the team would need COR's approval, since this was the
most coordinated military effort they had ever undertaken. 

They were an impressive group.
Leslie had filled Ward in on each of them. While she was to be the civilian
leader of the Suns, Revolution would be the tactical leader. So for most of
what Ward would be involved in, the Revolution would be his boss. Nothing new
there.

Second in command was John
“Saratoga” Bailey. Bailey was, until very recently, a CIA field
commander—director of the Agency’s controversial new Special Division, called
SHADOW. Highly decorated and an insider to the Council. A spy not just working
on the inside among a bunch of other spies, from whom he had to keep his true
intentions secret—he led them. His skills as a weapons expert and leader were
renowned. He had helped the Resistance plant the rumor of the ultimate weapon
in the first place. And he was as brave as the Revolution. He commanded a great
deal of respect from COR. He could be intense, and his muscular frame and
shaven head only added to his aura. Ward figured him for his late fifties, but
he was in the shape of a guy thirty years younger. Bailey was tall and
chiseled. A permanent scowl seemed tattooed across his face—even when he told a
joke or boomed a hearty laugh. The shaven head concealed a dark receding
hairline that was still visible despite his best efforts. And although Bailey
could be jovial in that bravo-military-jock sort of way, or soft “like a teddy
bear,” Rachel had said, there seemed to be a raging beast just below the
surface. And the beast demanded respect. The only person Ward had seen him
defer to was Revolution himself. 

The Council now knew of his
disappearance, but the information had not been made public. News of his
defection would strike like a body blow to the Council, Ward had been told more
than once. But it also meant a loss of important inside information for COR.

Unlike the others, Bailey did not
sport a specific uniform. Ward wondered if that would change given that one of
the things they wanted to do with this group was project the image of a team of
superheroes to further counteract Media Corp’s influence. Today, Bailey wore
something that looked very much like the getup of a commando. All he needed to
complete the image were grenades strapped across his chest.

Alvarez, it turned out, was a
living legend. Or dead legend, as the case may be. Ward had gotten to know
Lantern pretty well. As well as you
could
know him. The man just didn't
speak that much. But he was damn good at his job. He was a legend not just
because everyone outside these walls thought him dead, but because there had
never been anyone in the field of surveillance that could match him. His
presence alone would scare the hell out of the Council. Another reason to keep
his survival a secret. There were moments when Ward thought the Revolution
considered him their best weapon. He came dressed in his normal attire, even
the leather jacket.