The Six

By Calvin Wolf

Eleven weeks after a political revolution swept aside a corrupt and brutal president, America is thrown into chaos when an unregistered satellite is de-orbited over west Texas. The mysterious substance inside the satellite offers untold wonder and horror...and unbelievable wealth and power to those who control it. Lives are threatened, loyalties are shattered, and families are broken as nefarious forces will stop at nothing to capture every milligram of what was on the Silver Six satellite. Hank Hummel and Hector Rodriguez, forced to abandon their quiet lives, are on the clock and forced to face off against foes who are, quite literally, like nothing on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Calvin Wolf
• Release date: Nov 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370308415

Calvin Wolf

Writer. Blogger. High School Social Studies Teacher. Crime-fighter. Former Comic Strip Creator. Texan for the most part, with a little mix of New Mexico, a healthy dash of Wyoming, and just a pinch of Colorado. I teach teenagers and write articles by day, attempt novels during my vacations, and I used to be a professional backpacking guide. Today I am loving life in west Texas with my wife and young son.

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The Six

Copyright 2016 Calvin Wolf

Published by Calvin Wolf at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

About Calvin Wolf

Other books by Calvin Wolf

Connect with Calvin Wolf

Acknowledgements

I would like to dedicate this novel to my son, Aiden. He lights up my life with his intelligence, energy, and creativity. I love him very much and always will.

I would also like to thank my beautiful wife, Brittany, for all of her love and support.

As always, much thanks to Mom and Dad, who have always been there for me. Best wishes to my amazing brother and his wife – may little Theo grow and prosper mightily!

Chapter One

1

At 1:27 PM eastern, the integrated Human Capital Market eclipsed the New York Stock Exchange in terms of trade volume for the first time. The recent political crisis, which has birthed a new era of democratic socialism in the United States, appears to have been underwritten by the billionaire class itself. Ever since the astounding Tupelov Airlift ushered in a new presidential administration, the nation’s largest investment firms have shifted over a trillion dollars in assets from corporate stock to human capital stock.

He changed the channel.

As of start of business Monday, the STITCH network has been fully restored nationwide, offering new transportation schedules to virtually all major cities. In Congress, Republicans appear willing to trade privatization of STITCH for universal healthcare, with corporate bids being accepted by the STITCH Administration even as health insurers weigh federal buyout offers.

The screen showed a plethora of slick corporate logos, revealing which Fortune 500 companies were bidding for pieces of STITCH. Apparently, the giants of air and rail were excited about expanding into pressurized underground tube travel. As he watched, a video clip revealed that Boeing and Airbus were already tweaking their latest airplane designs to fit inside the government-built armored tubes.

Whether consumers will pay a premium for ultimate travel security remains to be seen, but the recent spate of terrorist drone attacks on airliners during takeoffs and landings has definitely increased airlines’ interest in partnering with STITCH.

A third channel showed sports. A fourth showed some sort of children’s show, probably the Disney network. The fifth channel had what he wanted:

After many weeks of speculation, it has been revealed that the former president did indeed flee to Russia, where he was apparently offered asylum by its hard-line government. The comely blonde was replaced with a video of the former president speaking from behind a wooden podium. Though the video did not zoom in closely on the man’s face, it was clear that it was the disgraced commander-in-chief. With a stern face, the controversial politician declared that he had been driven from office in an illegal coup and hoped for an international investigation to clear his name.

All future communications with the deposed political figure are supposed to go through a Moscow-based law firm. Although we have tried repeatedly to get in touch with any relatives and close friends of the former president, nobody has been willing to comment. The news report from Russia, however, officially ends the FBI investigation into the president’s whereabouts. Since Russia is a non-extradition country, the White House has announced that it will not seek the return of its former occupant to face trial here at home.

With a smile, he turned off the television and picked up his tablet. Swiping through the news sites, he discovered that the whole plan had gone off without a hitch: Everyone was buying the story. He looked across the room at the full-length mirror and smiled, a practiced expression of friendliness and reassurance. The former president of the United States smiled back at him. The makeup and minor cosmetic surgery had worked wonders.

Feeling ravenous, he left his bedroom and headed to the luxury apartment’s stainless steel kitchen. As he strode down the hallway, he passed the large study that had been renovated to resemble a Russian Federation political briefing room, complete with seals and flags. Good work, comrades, he chuckled to the empty room. Amazing what you can do with automation these days.

In the kitchen, the lights turned on automatically. Though this had been happening for days, he had no idea why it was occurring. Occasionally at first, and then more frequently, electrical appliances in his apartment had started working even before he had turned them on. They even started up before he could grab his tablet or remote control. It was as if they sensed him somehow, or as if he projected his desires to them telepathically.

He opened the fridge and grabbed some leftover pizza. Without bothering to heat up the slices, he began to eat. He was always hungry these days; his metabolism seemed to be turbocharged. Although forty-five was in the rearview mirror, he had never felt more energized. It wasn’t some tweak of testosterone, either - it was as if he was on some powerful cocktail of amphetamines and steroids. Frankly, it was starting to scare him.

The phone rang, and then answered itself. Why?

Good job with that video. They bought it hook, line, and sinker. It was our lucky day that you happened to resemble that son-of-a-bitch. The voice belonged to a Marine general turned spymaster, a man who was both loved and loathed around Washington. Despite an image of solid dependability, the former leatherneck had sucked up to the escaped president, now a reviled fugitive, just as much as he was sucking up to the new prez. What a pathetic waste of cells.

Thank you, sir.

Is everything going okay out there? We’ve been trying to get information about the MIST labs, but nobody seems to be answering.

He knows.

Everything is fine, sir. It’s right before the start of a new semester, so things get a little hectic in a university town. You know how it is.

The power went off, and he discovered that the spymaster was not in the mood for small talk.

2

Rural areas were sanctuaries to those on the run, and America’s backwoods were enjoying something of a revival as hundreds of zealots from the deposed administration fled Washington, New York City, and other locuses of power. On short notice, resignations had been tendered and families had flown to Denver, Salt Lake City, Portland, and Albuquerque with their most valuable possessions. From there, pickups and SUVs had been hastily purchased with cash. Cabins, trailer homes, and ranches had been snatched up by the dozen, often with little or no haggling.

Within a few weeks of the previous president’s departure, virtually his entire administration had taken up new residence in rural areas west of the Mississippi. Whether or not they cropped up again on the radar, having accepted jobs or attempted to engage in local politicking, depended on the likelihood of arrest. The ex-president’s Secretary of Defense had allegedly fled to the Yukon Territory. The Secretary of Education, meanwhile, had moved to Colorado Springs and was openly giving speeches about the state of America’s public schools. While the old education guru was not at risk of arrest, the move to Colorado was likely prompted by concerns that he would be forced to testify constantly if he remained in Washington.

Most of those with ties to the former president were keeping a low profile and telling their families to pretend that they were on extended vacations. They quickly sold their stocks, bonds, and HumCap shares and were prepared to live off their capital gains, perhaps forever. As ardent conservatives, most were quite well-to-do and had plenty of cash to fund their permanent backwoods vacays.

If the new administration came calling with FBI agents and U.S. Marshals, looking to detain and depose, many of the ex-president’s cronies were well prepared to actually flee into the woods for lengthy camping trips. Canadian currency had appreciated slightly due to increased demand, and sporting goods chains had sold out of various popular gear. The deposed elites had an affinity for name-brand apparel and would be fleeing across the northern border in style if warrants were served.

Though most of the former president’s cronies and benefactors were laying low, praying that Congressional inquiries would not lead to something worse, not all were playing meek and mild. Like the old Soviet hard-liners in the early ‘90s, some remained defiant, cunning, tapped in. After having fled Washington, they were eagerly searching for back-channels. They maintained contacts and skulked around the dark fringes of the Internet.

They knew people who knew people, and many were alarmingly well-connected to those who remained in power. Not many degrees of separation divided the reviled corporatists of old from the democratic socialists now in power...and everyone knew it. Pursuing justice would be a delicate balancing act, a fact that everyone of importance also knew. If push came to shove, names would be named and reputations tainted.

From a wilderness retreat outside of Cloudcroft, New Mexico, a former presidential adviser kept his finger on the national news pulse. A bank of computers in the basement of his remote cabin allowed him to maintain a complex array of aliases. Though he had only been in grade school when the Berlin Wall had crumbled, he would have made an excellent Cold War spy. A thin and physically unimpressive man, he had never desired a military or law enforcement career, but had instead done a brief stint in intelligence as a diplomat. Once a Foreign Service Officer, he had proven himself a natural facilitator and communicator.

The Diplomat spent his days now as a connector, linking fallen giants of the old administration to those who could help them regain what they had lost. Few knew his real identity, and an impressive bug-out bag awaited just in case anyone did crack under interrogation. Within four weeks of being in his cabin, the Diplomat had broken a laundry list of federal laws regarding classified information, conspiracy, corruption, and aiding and abetting fugitives. As for being an accomplice? The Diplomat had helped commit hundreds of other crimes.

A computer chimed and revealed that a situation had gone sideways in Laramie, Wyoming. Ever the helpful ambassador, the thin man scuttled over to that particular laptop in his rolling chair and set out to learn everything he could.

3

The MRI machine clicked, whirred, and roared. Hank Hummel was claustrophobic, and being in an enclosed space that was howling at him was downright excruciating. He tried to clear his mind, but his thoughts traveled back far in the past, to his son’s bathroom. An assassin had tied him to a toilet and was ransacking the house. The assassin burst into the bathroom to deliver the coup de grace, and Hummel slammed the toilet tank into the man’s torso.

Who was that man? Why was he trying to kill me?

The machine stopped howling and Hummel was pulled from the tube by a kindly-faced nurse. You’re all done, Mr. Hummel, the portly man announced, his appearance and tone reminiscent of a comedian. Nodding, Hummel sat up and accepted a robe.

The doctor is ready to see you in the office whenever you’re done getting dressed, the nurse announced.

Thank you, Hummel replied. Always good to be polite.

Robed, Hummel climbed off the MRI table and went through a door into a cozy dressing room. Were my clothes like that when I hung them up? I thought I always hung my pants in front of my shirt. Old habit. Checking to make sure the chubby nurse had not ventured into his wallet, Hummel found everything in perfect order. Quickly, he dressed.

Leaving through a more solid, oaken door, Hummel emerged into a plush hallway and went down to the MRI office.

You’re right as rain, Mr. Hummel, beamed his doctor. The dapper chap, practically a transplant from a TV medical drama, pointed to a bank of computer screens. Your body is completely free and clear of any nanoparticles.

You’re absolutely sure?

Positive. I understand you’re worried, but this is your fourth visit and they have all been negative. No sign of anything. Didn’t the authorities put you at ease after the incident? Hummel had explained the basics of what had happened to the doctor, despite having been badgered into a fearsome-sounding nondisclosure agreement. Since I didn’t mention the rocket launch, I doubt they’ll seek an indictment. Hell, politicians get away with a lot worse…

Hummel laughed at the doctor’s innocent query. At first, yeah. But then I thought about it. You wave a little wand over me like some TSA guy, and I’m supposed to believe you? No thanks, Uncle Sam, but I’ll take a second opinion. The doctor smiled and nodded. The hospital, and the doctor himself, were being paid handsomely for these second opinions. In cash.

I’m glad you came to us. Your worries may have been justified, but let me put your mind at ease. Whatever nanoparticles were in your body have since gone away. Would you like to schedule a follow-up appointment? Say, three months?

Pulling out his phone, Hummel checked his schedule and told the doctor when he was free. The doctor used his tablet, a sleek holographic model, to suggest a suitable date and time for the appointment. Hummel confirmed that the time would work fine. Great, we will see you then! the internist beamed. The men shook hands and Hummel departed, heading through the winding hallways and stairwells that would eventually take him to the Midland Memorial Hospital parking garage.

He was three right turns into his journey before he realized that the doctor had been wearing gloves when they shook hands.

4

In generations past, there would have been tall filing cabinets lining every wall of the room. With the joys of modern technology, all the misery was compacted into a sleek holographic tablet. The president ignored the device, encrypted and customized by the Ivy League nerds downstairs, and demanded an update in plain English: How the fuck did we miss this?

Men and women in fancy suits stuttered and stammered, trying to come up with a coherent response. Finally, a young woman stepped forward and declared that files had been deleted when the arrests of the hard-liners began. They were hacking and deleting as fast as they could, she said. The president clapped and announced that this was the type of response he needed. "We don’t have a lot of time, ladies and gentlemen. I need to cut through the bullshit. Now, tell me the problem and what we are currently doing about it."

One week ago, we discovered an alert that had been deleted by the hard-liners. It was related to the MIST project in Laramie, the young woman continued. The president used the tablet to search M-I-S-T, bringing him face-to-face with a digital folder marked with more classification icons than he had ever seen.

Yet another thing they didn’t tell me about, the president snarled, annoyed. "How long has this program been going on?"

Three years, give or take, a man responded, his voice hoarse. We felt that, with everything going on, it wasn’t necessary to-

Necessary to inform me? People thought they could handle it themselves, right? Well, it looks like that didn’t happen. The president sighed loudly, then demanded that the briefing continue.

The man they sent to Laramie to oversee the project, just before the president was deposed, turned out be infected with MIST. He bears a strong facial resemblance to former president, and agreed to try and fool the computer. That part worked, but the computer later analyzed the video and identified that the man had symptoms of MIST. That’s why it tried to launch those missiles - it viewed MIST as a top threat.

And this was eleven weeks ago?

Yes, sir. The computer’s alert got lost in the shuffle, and only a week ago did we realize that this guy is still out there, by now completely infused with MIST.

Standing, the president stared deeply into the eyes of his aides and advisers. That’s a helluva long time. Be honest, how bad is this?

By now, he could have infected many people he has come into close contact with, the young woman explained, her voice strong but shaky. He was already at that point when he made the initial video. Since then, his nano count has almost certainly tripled.

And this is from the scientists? Who’s in charge of this? The president began swiping and tapping up a storm, seeking names and numbers from his tablet. Inches above the screen, three-dimensional pixels swarmed and danced.

We, uh, have been having trouble reaching them, someone said, and the president rolled his eyes. Of course. Same shit, different day.

Have we picked up this guy who’s infected with the MIST, the esteemed individual my predecessor sent out there as his consigliere or whatever?

We tried to keep him occupied, but he eluded us when we went to grab him last night, the young woman said. The situation went sideways and there were casualties.

The president swore and collapsed back in his office chair. Civilian or our people? He seemed a bit relieved when his aides assured him that only uniformed personnel had been affected. How many? Dead and wounded. And I better not be finding out on CNN.

It’s been kept quiet. Eight dead, seven more wounded.

"Jesus Christ! From one man?! Who was in charge of this arrest? Someone delivered the name Drew Storm, the former Marine and current assistant CIA director, and the president immediately whipped out his cell phone. That wannabe Patton better be in my office inside the hour, the commander-in-chief hissed as he dialed. All of you, get out of here and find me some solutions! I want this guy found and I want everything dealing with MIST to be put on ice until we can run a full investigation."

5

We haven’t had sex since it happened, the police lieutenant said. Reclining on the couch, he exhaled heavily and wiggled his toes. Behind him, comfortably ensconced in a leather armchair, his therapist scribbled on a yellow notepad. It was Hector Rodriguez’ first time in therapy.

What do you think the problem is? the psychologist asked. The man came highly recommended, and there was no way that Rodriguez would go to the usual counselors used by local law enforcement. MUPD’s guy was good, but a bit too close to home.

That stuff that was in me. They say it’s gone, but I just can’t trust them. Rodriguez had explained the nanoparticles as best he could, but there was no paperwork he could hand over. With the whole thing classified above top secret, there was little to go on aside from the information gleaned from Google and Wikipedia. Fortunately, the good doctor had done an impressive amount of homework. Despite probably thinking that his newest client was a kook, the psychologist had downloaded and printed out reams of documents on nanotechnology.

Why do you think they might be lying? the doctor asked.

Rodriguez stared up at the relaxing ceiling, beige and sand soothing his mind...or trying to. Where do I begin? It’s what I would do in their shoes. What were their options? Tell me that the stuff didn’t come out? That there was still some in there, replicating? Evolving? I might go crazy, do something unpredictable.

But what do they gain from telling you that you’re free of these particles, if you really still have them in your system?

Now they can watch me. Track me. Study me. Watch me to see what happens. If I start showing symptoms, then they pick me up and take me back to a lab. Now I’m worried that I really am crazy.

And how is this impacting your life now? It has been… the therapist ruffled through his notes. Eleven weeks since the incident, which was related to the political crisis. Since you started with the sex, let’s go back to that.

I’m worried that my wife will be infected or something.

Does she know about the nanoparticles?

No. I haven’t told her. She knows something is wrong, and she keeps demanding that I tell her. But I can’t tell her this - it’s too much!

Would you be comfortable bringing her to a session with you? I have lots of experience working with couples.

She might not take it well. My marriage is crumbling, Doc, and I need to calm her down and try to get things back to normal, not drop this sort of bomb on her.

The therapist cautioned against lying to one’s spouse, a response Rodriguez had predicted. Still, hearing the words stung. Am I really being that guy? I guess I am.

I didn’t ask for any of this, Hector Rodriguez snapped, feeling the unfairness of it all. The last several years had been rough, and trouble just seemed to find him. It’s like there’s no way to get off the damn roller coaster.

Such is life, the therapist said wryly. Unfortunately, we cannot wish our way to another path. But, being where you are, let us discuss what we can do to improve your relationship with your wife. I feel that that is your greatest source of stress right now.

Rodriguez concurred. It’ll be a tough sell. How do you tell your wife that you might never be normal again?

6

The stately mansion had once housed the dean of the College of Engineering, but its current occupant was a world-renowned scientist who had largely disappeared from the usual circles. The man’s latest employer, a shell agency within the United States executive branch, had paid handsomely to relocate him to this isolated, remote college town. Someone had decided that rural college towns were the best place for clandestine and controversial research projects, and the scientist did not disagree.

However, he certainly had some qualms about it now.

When your employer gets disbanded during a political crisis and your government-appointee boss starts acting strangely, being stuck in a small town becomes a lot less fun. Shortly after the crisis in Washington, all communication from anyone above the CIA guy had ceased. A week later, his car had begun breaking down. After several weeks of the dealership not being able to determine the cause of the various malfunctions, he had decided to buy a new vehicle.

You’ve got some issues with your credit, sir, the salesman had said after running his info. Your accounts have all been flagged.

The scientist immediately took the problem to his superior, the CIA guy, and had been informed that it must be a temporary glitch. Things like this always happen in countries after big political shakeups. I’ll call my people at Langley and have them straighten this out.

When he had finally decided to screw the job and take the next flight out of Denver, he had not been able to buy the ticket. Sitting at his home computer, he had felt his blood run cold. This is no glitch. This has all been intentional. My car never working, my phone never working, my Internet never working. My credit cards not working. I’m being held hostage.

On a foolish whim, he had grabbed his phone and called as high up the chain as he could, fueled by adrenalin, energy drinks, and vodka. When he finally got an undersecretary on the phone, he discovered, to his shock, that the project