Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Powerless:

  America Unplugged

  By Diane Ryan

  Copyright 2015

  Diane Ryan

  Kindle Edition

  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 use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Essential Information:

  In this interactive novel you will face five moral dilemmas—each with life-and-death consequences—which will alter the story. Because there are 32 distinct “paths,” it is essential that you navigate using the links provided to avoid ending up on an “unintended path.” Links will allow you to “undo” a decision without getting lost within the book.

  Your decisions can prevent an event—good or bad—from occurring and may cause you to encounter a “skipped chapter.” (If you choose “I don’t want to decide” for each dilemma, you will follow the same path as the paperback version.)

  Please note that the “time remaining” and “percent complete” functions on your eReader will not be accurate so we have included a percent complete at the close of each “day.”

  We have respectfully elected to capitalize the words Soldier, Marine, Seaman, Airman, Sniper, Pilot, and Veteran when referring to United States military personnel.

  Thank you and we hope you enjoy the novel.

  ( ( ( DAY 1 ) ) )

  Friday, February 14th

  1

  MOHAMMAD RIZWAN AL-GHAMDI studied one of the candy bars, marveling at the counterfeiting. The brown color was slightly off, an error that would not be discernible unless placed alongside a legitimate sample. They had been easy to smuggle aboard, and he had kept them under lock to prevent accidental discovery by ravenous crew members.

  Mohammad had been training for this mission his entire life, along with his older brother and six cousins. Born and raised in the United States, all eight had assimilated flawlessly into American society. They had been soccer players, scholars, and martial artists with perfectly scripted interactions on social media, a token digital presence to avoid suspicion. They had never been affiliated with any mosque and had received their indoctrination in a miniature madrassa—the soundproof basement of a New Jersey home.

  “You eight have been chosen,” his Uncle Jawad Saad Al-Zahrani had told them. “Each of you is destined to join the U.S. Armed Forces. You will become insiders, the special forces of jihad. Disciplined and invincible.”

  His uncle’s strategy was not without precedent. The Prophet Muhammad had sent Abed Allah Bin Anis Algahni to join an enemy camp. Algahni had denied his faith, cursed the Prophet to gain trust, and eventually decapitated the rival leader while he slept.

  Unlike his brother and cousins, Mohammad had always struggled with self-control. Although refraining from political and religious speech had come easily, it was his dark eyes that threatened to betray his mission. Hatred seemed to glow from his gaze, a bloodlust infidels sensed, one that required conscious effort to disguise.

  For the past two years, Mohammad had served as a Sonar Technician aboard the S.S. Weikert, a Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine with a crew of 140; and today, he would use his position to strike a blow at the heart of the Great Satan’s military.

  Mohammad gripped a faux candy bar between his thumb and index finger. Feeling the tiny buttons, his pulse quickened; then he squeezed them simultaneously, setting the timer into motion.

  He crept through the bunk room and gently wedged the “treat” beneath the mattress of a slumbering Sailor. Like the tooth fairy on a jihad, he thought, smirking. He activated and deposited five more throughout the room, strategically planted near exits.

  Mohammad continued stashing the candy bars, a half dozen per location, targeting the battery well, the carbon dioxide scrubbers, the oxygen generators, and the emergency air breathing system.

  Each “treat” contained three components: a timer that emitted a spark; magnesium shavings, which burned excessively hot—about 3,100 degrees Celsius; and a rubbery base to nurture the flames. Soon, fires would rage, consuming life-sustaining oxygen, destroying air quality systems; and the S.S. Weikert and her crew would sink to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean—Allah willing.

  2

  CHAO CHUNG COULD FEEL energy crackling in the air. All his life, he had been taught that war would be the midwife for the birth of a “Chinese Century,” one in which the Chinese Communist Party would dominate as sole superpower; and the men in this room, twenty elite cyber warriors, were about to induce labor.

  This was the culmination of decades of research and planning. Vulnerabilities had been analyzed, and spies had been inserted into key facilities, providing backdoor access and detailed information about security procedures. The simple plan required no weapons or chemicals that could be tracked. The spies simply had to show up for work, as they did every day, and the Cyber Warfare Division would create the opportunity.

  Chao eyed the wall of monitors above him, sixty-inch screens arranged like a checkerboard, each providing a live video feed from halfway around the world.

  He had seized control over his target, the computerized sensors and security cameras inside the Bayou Fuel Depot in Louisiana. The Americans could not see Lin Weng sabotaging the massive storage tanks, could not detect the leaking gasoline and jet fuel. Their computers maintained ordinary readings, an attack patterned after the Stuxnet virus, which had made Iranian centrifuges appear to be functioning normally while spinning out of control and self-destructing.

  Monitor number eight flashed white as a brilliant explosion temporarily overwhelmed the Bayou Fuel Depot’s security camera. An orange fireball materialized, churning like a crashing wave, spewing dense smoke.

  Other monitors—other fuel depots—detonated like random kernels of popcorn until the entire checkerboard was ablaze; then his commander gave the order to commence with phase two.

  3

  KYLE MURPHY HEARD THE alarm. He felt the seat belt contract. The driver’s seat and headrest were in motion. His Mercedes S-Class sedan was already braking as his heart plunged into free fall.

  The car lurched forward in slow motion then rocked back, stopping miraculously short of the blue Prius in front of it.

  Having owned a Mercedes dealership since retiring from Major League Baseball, Kyle was aware of the car’s automated braking system, but he had never encountered a need for it—until today. Thank God the car’s radar and computers had been thinking for him; and that his teenaged daughter, Abby, hadn’t been here. He’d been lecturing her about distracted driving since she’d gotten her Learner’s License a year earlier.

  Kyle’s fingers combed his sandy-brown hair, and he squeezed a handful as if pulling himself together. His attention veered back to the bizarre scene that had distracted him. A man at a service station was dousing his red Mustang convertible with gasoline. Although he didn’t appear angry or deranged, there was a disturbing nonchalance about his demeanor, as though he were rinsing the car with a garden hose.

  Rising fumes wriggled above the hood, and Kyle’s eyes widened. Now the man was hosing down the car’s interior, lingering briefly over each seat as if watering a beloved shrub.

  Either the guy’s insane or his wife just got the Mustang in a divorce settlement, he decided.

  Behind Kyle, a horn blared; and he accelerated through the intersection, his thoughts shifting to his Valentine’s Day lunch with his wife, Jessie
. If the service was prompt, they might have time for a little “afternoon delight” before Abby got home from school.

  Just after one p.m., Kyle walked into T-Bonz Steak House in Windermere, Florida. The vestibule was crowded, but he immediately spotted Jessie near the hostess desk. His gaze drifted downward from her long, wavy blonde hair to her sexy red sundress. Grinning, he wondered if he could convince her to skip lunch.

  “Hey, beautiful.” His left hand caressed the side of her face; his right closed around her back, pulling her tight against him. His lips had barely brushed hers when he heard a familiar voice.

  “E-e-w-w, Dad. Gro-o-oss.”

  Confused, he whirled around and saw his daughter perusing a menu. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “It’s a long story,” Jessie said, the sympathetic glint in her eyes confirming their romantic plans had been canceled.

  “Murphy, party of three?” the hostess called out.

  Disappointed, Kyle followed the women through the restaurant, giving the television above the bar a cursory glance for the latest golf standings. Raging flames and smoke filled the screen.

  Did the idiot set fire to his Mustang and the gas station?

  He halted midstep to read the scrolling banner.

  “Breaking news: Fuel depots are burning in twenty-four states. Natural gas pipelines are exploding nationwide. Authorities blame a cascading computer glitch. No credible evidence to suggest terrorism.”

  Yeah, right, he thought, continuing past branding irons, stirrups, and chandeliers consisting of antlers and cowhide lampshades.

  Kyle settled into a chair across from Jessie. After ordering an iced tea, he stared at his daughter, awaiting an explanation.

  Abby was a replica of her mother, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed personification of the word stubborn, but she lacked Jessie’s tactfulness. His daughter never minced words; and her direct, outspoken nature often landed her in trouble.

  “Dad, Mitchell Sullivan kissed me, and I ended up getting suspended,” she said, her tone implying it was not a big deal.

  Kyle snapped his fingers. “Let’s have it.” He extended his hand, palm up toward his daughter.

  “Come on, Dad. Not my phone.” Pouting, she relinquished it with a karate-chop motion.

  “Gone,” he said, slipping it into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “For a month.”

  “But Dad, it wasn’t my fault. He started groping me ...”

  Kyle winced. His appetite evaporated.

  “... So I punched him in the face. That’s why I got suspended.”

  Making eye contact with Jessie, he gave a choked laugh and returned Abby’s phone. “But you’re still grounded. Two weeks. You can’t go around hitting people. Violence creates problems; it doesn’t solve them.”

  “Dad, I tried it your way,” Abby told him. “I said stop; didn’t work. I tried again. I was even polite about it. I said please stop; didn’t work. You know what worked, Dad? Violence!”

  4

  MASTER SERGEANT RYAN Andrews stood at attention, awaiting the bombardment. Enlisted since age eighteen, he had spent half his life in the Army and was currently serving in the Third Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment at Fort Bennetton, Georgia.

  Ryan had light-brown hair, a customary military buzz cut, and inquisitive honey-brown eyes that were constantly in motion. Street-smart with a hint of cockiness, he was an artisan with expletives, a contortionist with rules and regulations, and an expert at pushing boundaries without consequence; but lately, he couldn’t seem to keep his ass out of trouble.

  Captain Zugarra frowned and slammed the Military Police report against his desk. “That’s your second arrest this month. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t reassign your stupid ass.”

  Ryan cringed. He had known Dannel, Marcos, and Mike since Ranger School. He refused to let that happen.

  “We’re a highly effective team, sir.” Zugarra might dispute their tactics, never their results.

  The Captain rocked backward against his chair, rubbing his chin. Ryan counted the creases on his CO’s forehead. He had adopted the tornado scale to assess the destructive intensity of Zugarra’s anger. Each additional crease indicated an exponential upsurge with the F-5 being completely fucked—demoted and transferred. Ryan double-checked his assessment. F-4. He was home free.

  “Weekend leave suspended,” Zugarra said, “In—definite—ly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Andrews, you’re thirty-six. Too old for this bullshit. Start setting an example for the younger guys.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Ryan’s team was outside the command quarters, anxiously awaiting the ruling. “We’re good,” he told them, not breaking stride. “Let’s grab some lunch.”

  Dannel, Marcos, and Mike fell into step beside Ryan, but DJ—the new guy who joined the team two months ago—was walking in the opposite direction.

  “Aren’t you coming to the mess hall?” Marcos asked.

  DJ shook his head. “I’m not eating that crap.”

  5

  TERRI LEVIN HAD HEARD enough. Grimacing, she ended the call, hanging up on her husband, and returned the cellphone to her pocket. Charles was right. She should be off tonight, not stuck pulling a double shift on Valentine’s Day; but as manager of S-Mart Superstore, it was her responsibility. Charles knew that, yet he would remain angry for at least a week. He could be so infantile, pouting and whining. A voice within her asked: What exactly do you like about your husband? Another replied: I have a beautiful house with designer clothes oozing from my closets.

  At thirty-eight, Terri’s elongated face, pointed chin, and sunken cheeks gave her the appearance of being malnourished. She had shoulder-length dark hair, and a crook in the bridge of her nose despite two corrective surgeries. To compensate for her harsh features, she doused herself in expensive clothing and makeup, as effective as a fresh coat of paint on a condemned house.

  Something on the surveillance monitor drew her attention. A troop of men dressed in jeans, high-end polo shirts, and sneakers marched into the store in a two-column formation, each pushing nested shopping carts. Terri counted twenty-five of them. Through all her years in retail, she had never seen anything like it.

  She watched them disperse throughout the building. One man began filling a cart with batteries. Three more were loading bottled water. Each appeared to have a unique objective: dried beans, rice, powdered milk, canned meats ...

  What the hell? Did these men intend to buy those items? Or was this the most asinine robbery ever? She pulled out her cellphone, debating whether to call the police. After all, it was weird to buy a shopping cart full of batteries—not illegal.

  She skimmed the monitors again. One of the men had penetrated the secure area of the pharmacy. He was throwing prescription drugs into a cart. Terri dialed the police.

  The line rang once, then her cellphone lost service.

  Her office went dark.

  Security monitors faded to black.

  Terri tried the landline phone on her desk. It was dead.

  Her hands began to tremble. S-Mart was being robbed, and she had no way of contacting the police, no way of getting help.

  6

  AMPED UP ON CAFFEINE and vengeance, Mahmoud Turani walked into a mess hall at Fort Bennetton. The room was already packed with Soldiers, many of them high-value targets—Army Rangers.

  Wearing an oversized jacket, Mahmoud arrived at his designated position, the far corner of the hall, his back protected by two walls.

  He scanned for Military Police, the only armed Soldiers in the room. They would be primary targets, and there were only two of them—praise Allah.

  The lights clicked off. Murmurs, grumbles, and expletives simmered through the mess hall; and from the back of his waistband, Mahmoud removed a Carbon 15 pistol, a compact assault weapon with a thirty-round magazine.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  After shooting both Military Polic
emen, he sprayed NATO 5.56 rounds throughout the room. Soldiers dove to the floor, overturning tables. Mahmoud pulled a fresh magazine from his pocket, slapped it into position, and released the slide. A group of fools had attempted to rush him while he switched out the magazine, and they had gotten too close for his liking. He needed to be faster.

  Soldiers were climbing out windows and crawling along the floor through the blood of their brethren; and Mahmoud grinned, knowing that at this moment, this scene was unfolding across military bases all over the United States.

  7

  CHARLES LEVIN WAS waiting in line for his usual lunch, a Java Chip Frappuccino Light from the Starbucks three blocks from his bank. He hated being a local branch manager in downtown Orlando. He hated the tellers, the customers, the thirty-mile commute, but the sacrifice had been worth it. As of the first of the month, he would become a Regional Director of American Federal Bank; and tonight, he was supposed to be celebrating.

  The argument with his wife replayed through his mind. Did she not realize how many favors he had called in to get these reservations?

  I should have divorced her before the promotion, he thought. Now, it would be too costly.

  Middle-aged, Charles had a frail, skeletal-looking body and chestnut hair that drooped against his forehead, a cross between the bowl cut of a four-year-old and a mop.

  “Next,” the clerk called out.

  He ordered his designer coffee and removed his cellphone to tender payment. Before Charles could enter his pin number, the electricity went out.

  Damn, the bank probably lost power too.

  “Ok Google, call Alicia,” he said, anxious to inform his senior teller that he was headed back, but the battery in his phone had expired without warning—yet again.

  Muttering under his breath, he passed the line of caffeine junkies, opened the front door, then paused to take in the traffic snarl on Abbott Street. It was ludicrous. He counted four accidents within his line of sight; and sprinkled between them, dozens of stalled vehicles. Only one car was moving, attempting to navigate the obstacles.