Chapter 133: FBI Raid

Robert sat in a luxury suite on the seventeenth floor of the "Loews" hotel in Phoenix, the capital of Arizona. Gazing out the window, he looked down upon a park plaza.

The dry air was filled with the faint scent of wheat and beer, and only a scattering of tourists could be seen wandering the square. Beyond them were those who made their living from this space: the Mexican immigrant setting up a stall at the edge of the plaza, a dark-skinned man sitting listlessly behind his display of obsidian crafts; the young boy, a Black teenager who appeared to be under fifteen, pushing a cart around the perimeter to sell shaved ice; and the beggars, the homeless, and the parking lot attendants.

For days, Robert had lost count of how many times he had stared at this same view. Yet, he had no choice but to watch it with forced patience. Ever since he had checked into this high-end suite and held a conversation with the President that very first night, Robert had not been permitted to leave. To ensure he remained confined to the hotel, all meals were delivered by cart, and FBI agents and soldiers stood guard at his door.

However, the memory of that conversation left Robert deeply bewildered. As he recalled, the President had only asked him broad, sweeping questions: "How do you think we should treat the 'Blood Angels' from now on?" and "What attitude should we adopt toward the entirety of East Asia?"

At the time, Robert had presented his thoughts with the utmost gravity and caution. He had argued that the "Blood Angels" were invincible and that America should strategically abandon the East Asian region. In his memory, the President had listened with intense focus, taken his hand, and said, "Thank you for your service to America." After the President departed, Robert had gone to sleep feeling relieved, fully expecting to return to Washington the next day to find comfort in bread baked by his wife.

But things changed the very next morning. As one of the highest-ranking officers in the United States military, he now found himself without even the freedom to step out of this small room. No matter how hard he tried to reason it out, Robert could find no justification for his house arrest. He felt as if his body had been ensnared in a vast, soft web, but he could not see the full shape of it—a sensation that left him deeply unsettled, even bordering on panic.

With a grim expression, Robert pulled out his phone and made a call.

"Kelly, could you please tell me when I might see the President?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Robert..." The President’s secretary replied with a tone of perfectly calibrated warmth and regret. "You know how it is—things are very busy right now, and the President needs time to handle everything properly..."

"I don't want to hear those empty platitudes. Kelly, if the President doesn't want to see me, then let me go back. I have a home in Washington; I don't need to be vacationing in this hellish Arizona weather. I'm serious—what exactly are you people trying to do? Are you planning to send me to a military tribunal as a deserter? Or do you want me to rot in a sewer in Phoenix? Whatever your game is—even if you're going to send me to Guantanamo, at least let me go home to see my family! Fuck—"

The line went dead, the dial tone signaling that the connection to the President’s secretary had been completely severed.

Robert suppressed the urge to smash his phone and dialed another number. "Hello... Chana? Oh, I knew it."

The familiar automated voice on the other end, "Sorry! The subscriber you dialed cannot be connected for the moment, please redial later," drew a mocking smile from Robert. He had known this would be the outcome. In truth, over the past few days, he had dialed his wife’s number countless times, along with those of his son, old friends, colleagues, and subordinates. Yet, aside from the direct line to the President, every attempt to reach the outside world was met with total signal isolation.

In a way, it felt like an imitation of the "dual-track" system from the Dragon Kingdom, but beyond the advanced methods of that Eastern power, American history was not without similar precedents—take the infamous McCarthyism, for instance. Such methods of house arrest were a specialty of the investigative subcommittees of that era, and Robert, who was intimately familiar with history, remembered them well.

Feeling a surge of irritation, Robert unbuttoned his shirt and sat back on the sofa. Despite the air conditioning in the suite, he couldn't help but feel a wave of stifling heat. He knew full well that at this very moment, at least one FBI intelligence team was monitoring his phone signals, and likely another was watching his every move through hidden pinhole cameras in the suite. Even though he didn't want to show any loss of composure in front of those "black-suits," Robert felt his mental state beginning to unravel.

He exhaled a long breath and, in an attempt to steady his nerves, turned on the television. The content didn't matter; he simply wanted the noise of a broadcast to drown out the growing anxiety in his chest.

ATN, the nation's largest network, was airing the news.

Appearing on the screen was the face of Menken, a man as reviled as he was powerful. He stood before the Capitol, speaking to reporters with a self-righteous air:

"...Yes, that is correct..."

"...According to current intelligence, the 'Blood Angels' possess the following abilities: one, devouring; two, camouflage; and three, the creation of mimicry clones. We suspect that 'her'—or rather, 'its'—ability is, in fact, a form of developing blood-borne virus that can lie dormant within the human body. Yes, we are currently screening those who have returned from the Japanese base..."

Robert’s initially detached expression grew increasingly taut. He stared fixedly at the screen, watching Menken’s statement to the reporters, and rose involuntarily from the sofa, stepping closer to the television, muttering, "Oh... you have got to be kidding me..."

On the screen, Menken continued with righteous indignation:

"...Following the preliminary screening of the returnees, we have confirmed that the vast majority of American soldiers remain true patriots who have not been compromised by the 'Blood Angels.' However, in this process, we have identified several individuals who may have been tainted by 'it.' The list is as follows: Deputy Chief of Staff of Yokota Air Base, Les Aining; Commander-in-Chief in Japan, Robert Heinlein..."

"Menken, you son of a bitch..."

Watching the image on the television, Robert shook his head in disbelief. In the next instant, he snatched the ashtray from the coffee table and hurled it at the television in a fit of rage!

"Bang!"

The image on the screen froze into a burst of static, but simultaneously, the door to the suite was kicked open with a thunderous crash!

Uniformed men swarmed in, their Glocks aimed directly at Robert, who had not yet recovered from his explosion of fury. The lead agent stepped forward and held up a thin sheet of paper.

"Robert Heinlein, we suspect you of involvement in the 'Blood Tide Incident.' We are placing you under arrest on charges of endangering national security, treason, and other crimes. You are to come with us for interrogation!"