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Stealth Insurgence (Nanostealth | Book 5)

By Vikki Kestell

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Chapter 1
Early September

With only one more meeting scheduled to debrief the president, Zander and I tendered our two-week notices to our respective employers, Zander at our church, and me as a contract employee at the NSA. So, I sat with HR at the end of my work day and filled out the requisite paperwork. The next morning, when I made the announcement to my team, my coworkers stared at me, eyes brimming with unarticulated questions, “why” being the predominant one.

Zander and I had discussed how to handle the situation, but there was no easy answer. I was, of course, ill at ease with lying to their faces. However, as Zander pointed out, the commandment reads, You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor, not “you are obliged to tell everyone your business.” I suppose that’s an important distinction in these trying times, particularly when circumstances require a measure of dissimulation in order to protect a life.

This was one of those times, and the life we were protecting was our unborn child’s. The only people in DC who knew I was pregnant were the Jacksons, Kennedy, Gamble, and Trujillo.

I offered my teammates a soft, understanding wince of a smile. “I know. We only just got settled here. But . . . that family emergency that called us away for three weeks? It’s not going to resolve itself. We need to go home . . . and continue taking care of it.”

They nodded, trying to understand but, without details, failing. I appreciated their concerned looks and kind words anyway.

“We’ll miss you, Jayda,” Sherry Woods said with my coworkers nodding their agreement. “You’ve been a valuable part of this team.

“Thank you. All of you. I will do my best in the weeks I have left.”

I sat back down at my station, grateful to have the discomfort over.

Well, safeguarding our baby was now Job One, so this baby was the family emergency that would take us home. Keeping our child out of public view was likely just the first of many times I would protect our child.

A mom’s life’s work, I suppose.

The first part of that thought knocked the breath right outta me.

A mom!

—

Our last meeting with President Jackson and Axel Kennedy began no differently than the previous ones. Mrs. Jackson joined us for lunch as she usually did, but afterward she excused herself, saying she had something she needed to attend to. We then answered the final questions the president and Kennedy put to us.

I thought our answers were exhaustive. And exhausting. We’d been over the same ground more than once. But then President Jackson glanced at Kennedy, and a minute signal passed between them.

Good grief! What now?

Jackson put his elbows on the table and his fingertips together. He said, “Jayda, Zander, when you and your belongings arrived here in DC around the last week of May, you met with Special Agent Gamble to receive your instructions, did you not? And I believe he directed you to keep an accounting of your expenses so the government could reimburse you?”

“Oh! Ah, yes, sir.” I side-eyed Zander. “We may not have . . . actually kept track of our expenses, sir.”

We have kept track of your expenses, Jayda Cruz. We can provide you with a full accounting.

“Thanks, Nano, but we’re not going to bill the president for our services.”

“What Jayda said, Nano,” Zander echoed.

The president, of course, did not hear our exchange with the nanomites, but he tipped his head a little to the side.

“And yet I understand you lost your car during the attack on Malware, Inc.’s home base? That it was, er, blown up?”

Zander answered. “Yes, we did, sir, but we had insurance and have a rental until we buy—”

The president cut him off. “Hold up there, Zander. It is our decided intention to reimburse you both for the entirety of your moving and living expenses from the day you left Albuquerque until you return there. We’ll use a per diem to reimburse you if necessary.”

Zander Cruz, Jayda Cruz, we keep quite accurate records. We can provide the exact figure for you right now.

A spreadsheet appeared in front of my eyes.

If we may direct your attention to lines—

“Shush, Nano,” Zander told them.

I added, “Um, thanks, Nano, but we’d rather not give the country a bill for doing our patriotic duty. Besides, the Lord will see to our needs.”

Our “druthers” didn’t seem to matter, though, because the President kept pressing his point. “I believe Special Agent Gamble also told you we would be paying you a contractor’s fee for your work?”

“That isn’t necessary, sir—”

“It is necessary, Mr. Cruz, or should I say, Reverend Cruz? You are familiar with Scripture, are you not? Do you recall this one? The worker is worthy of his wages.”

“Er, yes, sir.”

“Then let there be no more talk of refusing your wages, all right? We have routed your fee, your expenses, and the cost of replacing your car through your friends at Malware, Inc. Malware has been a military contractor in good standing for close to a decade. They provide excellent training and specialized security where the government needs it. Funding for them was already allocated in the latest Congressional continuing resolution, so both of you will receive checks, from them, as subcontractors. Special Agent Gamble has conveyed our instructions to Malware’s accountant regarding your payments.

“Malware, Inc. will also be reimbursed for the damage done to their training center. In addition, the family of their lost comrade will receive a generous compensation and our grateful, undying thanks.”

He stared at the table top for a moment. “I believe in honoring those who put their lives on the line for our nation—which you both surely did. Furthermore, I will never abandon the families of those who have given their all.”

“Yes, sir,” Zander whispered.

“Your friends at Malware will be in touch with you when the checks are cut. Now. Do you have any last questions for me or tidbits of nano-insight you can share with us?”

Zander and I looked at each other. He shrugged. I, rather timidly, said, “Mr. President, you have gone through two vice presidents. Do you have an idea who you might nominate next? Perhaps the nanomites could do a deep dive for you on whomever you choose. Might prevent . . . you know.”

“I will take you up on that,” Jackson said, “but I can tell you one thing for certain: I’ll pick the VP I really want this time. My last pick was from the other party and was supposed to be the great peacemaker—yet he stabbed me in the back and sat around to talk to me while I keeled over and bled out, so to speak. I’ll nominate who I want, thank you very much, and the other party had darned well go along with it.”

“Er, right, sir.”

Jackson stood and moved away from the table, signaling the end of our last meeting with him. He nodded to Kennedy, who strode to the dining room door and opened it. Maddy Jackson entered, a soft smile playing on her lips. She held two flat velvet boxes between her hands.

“Mrs. Jackson,” I breathed. Something was up.

She moved to the president’s side. He smiled back at her, then exhaled and addressed us.

“Zander and Jayda, please stand here. Yes, right here, in front of us. Thank you.”

He waited until we were where he indicated he wanted us to stand.

I started shaking.

“Zander and Jayda Cruz, your nation can never thank you enough for the services you have rendered over the past year—and I explicitly include Maddy and myself in those sentiments. You, Jayda, saved my life when that coward Harmon tried to kill me. Then the two of you uprooted your newlywed lives and came when I asked for further aid. You risked your lives to uncover the ongoing conspiracy and all its foul tentacles. You nearly perished as a result, but you did not quit on us. Had you given up? Had you drawn back? Well, I would no longer be the president of this great country. No, I would be dead. You saved my life a second time, and we owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

“I owe you,” Maddy Jackson whispered, “for saving my beloved husband. I promise you, if you should ever need us—ever—we will answer.”

For once, Axel Kennedy’s intent, piercing gaze on us was in accord with President and Mrs. Jackson’s.

My throat was suddenly tight, and my eyes were wet. I blinked to clear the moisture clouding my vision, and I shivered again. In fact, President and Mrs. Jackson’s words and demeanor, from the moment Mrs. Jackson reentered the dining room, had altered, had become suddenly serious and formal. I felt a little anxious, as if something important were about to happen. My fingers sought Zander’s and tucked themselves into his hand. The warmth of his fingers closed around mine and gently squeezed.

He felt what I felt.

“It was our honor to serve, sir,” Zander answered.

“Thank you, but today, Mr. Cruz, it is our honor.”

Robert Jackson motioned to his wife. She opened the first box, turned it so it faced outward, and held it toward the president. President Jackson removed a star-shaped medallion on a gold background that hung from a wide blue ribbon edged in white.

He moved to stand directly in front of me. “Jayda Cruz, for your especially meritorious actions in preserving the security and national interests of the United States of America and for preserving me as its duly elected president—not once, but twice—I award you the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

I was stunned. More tears sprang to my eyes as he asked me to turn around, and as he fastened the ribbon behind my neck. When I again faced him, he shook my hand. When he moved back, Maddy Jackson stepped forward, held my shoulders, and kissed me on both cheeks.

They repeated the process with Zander. By then, we were both blubbering like babies, but so were President and Mrs. Jackson. Kennedy held himself rigid, his mouth pursed, jaws tightly clenched. Despite his best efforts, his eyes glistened.

When the ceremony concluded and Zander and I had scrabbled together a bit of self-control, President Jackson shook his head. “I am sorry this could not have been a public ceremony. However, we accept that anonymity is absolutely paramount to your ongoing well-being—and that of your precious baby.”

We nodded in mute agreement.

He continued. “These medals are yours to keep, but they have no engraving on them to identify you as their recipients. Now, based on your need for anonymity, I must ask you to make a difficult decision. Please tell us if you wish to take the medals with you or if you prefer that we . . . hold them for you.”

Hold them for you.

If we left the unengraved medals with them, they would either disappear forever, or they would, at some point in the future, be uncovered to mystify and confound historians.

I glanced at Zander. He gave his head a shake. I nodded my agreement.

“Sir,” Zander said, “we will treasure this day and this moment for the rest of our lives. That said, we would appreciate it if you . . . kept them for us.”

“We will.”

The nanomites had been silent for a while now, but I had sensed their intent interest as they observed the ceremonies. Now they spoke.

We have recorded this ceremony, Jayda and Zander Cruz. We can play it back for you any time you wish.

I was touched. “Thank you, Nano. That was very thoughtful of you, and . . .”

I hesitated, then said to the president, “Sir? I . . . May we presume on your kindness and generosity?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Could you . . . would you confer the medal upon the nanomites? They deserve it more than we do. We could not have accomplished any of we did without them and . . . and I think it would bless them to be acknowledged.”

Kennedy frowned, probably at my audacity.

The president blinked twice. Cleared his throat. “I . . . Yes. Yes, I certainly will.”

He still stood before both of us, perhaps a little discomfited, but with his game face fixed in place. “How do I address them, Jayda?”

“We call them Nano, sir.”

“Very good.” He lifted his voice a bit. “Um, Nano, for your especially meritorious actions in preserving the security and national interests of the United States of America and for preserving me as its president, I hereby award you the, ah, virtual Presidential Medal of Freedom. If it were possible to fasten the real thing around your neck, er, necks, I would certainly do so. We are most grateful to you, Nano, and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

“Yes, we do,” Maddy added.

The nanomites whispered to us both, Zander and Jayda Cruz, please inform President and Mrs. Jackson that we are honored to accept this award.

I nodded to Zander, and he spoke. “Mr. President, Mrs. Jackson? They have asked us to inform you that they are honored to accept the award.”

I was surprised, then brought to tears yet again, when . . . from within my chest, I felt, then heard a soft, lovely, melodious hum, growing, expanding. Zander experienced the same, and the two melodies lifted, rose, resonated, then harmonized, from us, through us, above us.

The song of the nanomites held the sweetness of a carillon’s bells, then the rich sweetness of orchestral strings joined the chimes . . . and together they soared.

Their singing flowed up, up, up, until a shining, twinkling blue and silver cloud hovered near the ceiling of the president’s dining room, swirling over our heads, a mist of joyous melody eddying around us. The Jacksons and Axel Kennedy stared at the cloud, mesmerized by its haunting beauty—although Kennedy’s eyes may have held more alarm than pleasure.

“Wh-what are they doing?” the president asked.

I had to swallow the lump in my throat.

“They are singing, Mr. President. The nanomites are singing their joy and gratitude.”

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