If I go outside carrying one of those orphaned AK-47s, will I get shot?
Angry and restless, he sunk into his recliner. Five terrorists lay dead on his property. Who had shot them?
Yesterday, he had scaled the hillside behind his house and discovered a flattened patch of weeds. Shooting from a prone position, someone had left seven shell casings behind. Who was this al-mu’aqqib, this guardian angel who kept his family from death before its decreed time?
A loud thud disrupted his thought.
Something had struck the back of the house.
Retrieving his newly inherited AK-47, Zaakir rushed to the kitchen window. Sweat crept along his back. Was this the opening salvo of a predawn raid? Did the vengeful extremists return? Were his neighbors seeking retribution? Should he rouse his family?
Impending sunrise was brightening the horizon, transmuting the heavens from black to majestic purple, and Zaakir squinted into the shadows, his yard still too dark to divulge threats.
“What was that?”
Startled, he jumped, smacking his nose into the glass. He let out a hushed moan before addressing his son, Zaakir Junior, who went by the Americanized nickname Zak. “I’m not sure.”
Minutes passed—an eerie torturous silence.
“Dad, there’s something on the lanai,” Zak whispered. “Right outside the sliding door.”
A bomb? he thought, craning his neck. “Go wake your mother and sister. And get to the garage. Go on! Move!”
Zaakir snatched the flashlight from the countertop and scurried into the family room. He poked a finger between the vertical blinds and nudged them aside gently as if a rash movement would trigger detonation. A shivering blotch of light traced the outline of a white box and two plastic bags encircled by wires.
Explosives?
The thought resonated like an earthquake, then he noticed the wires were actually twine, knotted like a handle.
Stupefied, he stared at the box of rice and bags of beans, a modern-day miracle. Who had delivered this lifesaving food?
Then he noticed a scrawled message: The good Lord always provides.
38
YAWNING AND RUBBING his eyes, Bradley followed Abby into the wooded hillside west of Sugar Lake. Another sleepless night had sparked a stopgap solution to his dilemma. He would postpone his departure, rationalizing that since his ten-day leave had not been officially revoked, he couldn’t be AWOL until Monday.
Five days, he thought, better than nothing, but not enough, especially given Mr. Murphy’s mind-set.
Gramps had spent a half hour cajoling him into this ghillie-suit exercise, not the initial skill Bradley would have chosen. Although concealment and moving undetected had considerable merit, given her father’s preferred strategy of fleeing into the woods.
“First, you need to work on your ghillie suit,” Bradley told her. “Use the cloth strips to attach things from the environment. Pine needles, twigs, dried leaves, but no pinecones or flowers. Nothing too big or colorful.”
He watched her gather and affix foliage, tying it with the spaghettilike tendrils of fabric, astonished by the speed and quality of her work. She made it look effortless when Bradley knew damned well it wasn’t. Abby had an undeniable knack for camouflaging, maybe some mystical female flower-arranging gene.
He observed the suit from various angles to verify his assessment. “You’ve got a pretty good eye.”
“You think I’ve got pretty eyes?” Abby asked, batting those vivid blues at him with a flirtatious smile.
Bradley ignored the remark. “Your objective is to move around undetected. If Gramps locates you, you fail. And in combat that means you’re dead.”
Abby pulled on her ghillie suit, all traces of playfulness gone.
“Start here and advance ten feet,” Bradley told her.
She took up a prone shooting position, and using elbows and knees to propel herself, she looked more like a toddler than a Sniper.
“Use your toes. Not your knees,” he told her. “Lay your feet flat against the ground and use them like oars.”
She tried again, slinking like a giant slug, entire body tight to the ground except for her protruding head.
“Better,” he told her, “but put your noggin down. Remember, there’s a reason it’s called skull dragging.”
At least she’s following directions, Bradley thought. He had been skeptical after the pretty eyes remark.
“Okay, Abby, across the street there’s a gallon milk bottle with a two-digit code written on it,” he said, trying to extinguish a flurry of guilt. “Your mission is to get close enough for a shot, which means read the code—without being spotted. Got it?”
An aspiring grin enveloped her lips, the smile of someone whose definition of fun included dragging her face in the dirt.
Damn it. Bradley could feel himself being sucked toward the black hole, perilously close to falling for Abby Murphy.
He moved ten yards away and squeezed the walkie-talkie’s push-to-talk button. “Sniper ready? Go.”
Abby plodded using toes and elbows, inching forward, cheek grazing the ground, but the walkie-talkie crackled.
“I don’t see her,” Gramps said, “But I spotted a smidge of pink.”
“Sniper, you just got shot. Back to square one.”
The second time, she tried a different direction, but again the walkie-talkie hissed. “I see pink.”
Abby jumped to her feet. “That’s it. The pink parts have to go!”
39
REJUVENATED, WILL AWOKE to a country breakfast cooked over a propane grill. From the tantalizing aroma of coffee to the delicious taste of freshly harvested eggs, his senses seemed sharper, more intense. Even the horizon radiated with vibrant color, a swath of dazzling blue cut by a zigzag of verdant pines anchored in rusty-red Georgia clay. Was the world this colorful yesterday?
For a moment, life seemed normal. He understood how Erica and Eli had slipped into denial, blind to the mushrooming social unrest; and he almost envied them, but Will knew this peaceful paradise was only temporary. People were the same everywhere. Civil—as long as their bellies were full; then hunger would unshackle the brutal side of human nature.
Enjoy the moment, Will told himself. He rose to his feet and lifted Billy from his high chair. Perfect time for our playdate.
After retrieving his son’s miniature soccer ball, Will set the toddler onto a thick patch of grass and rolled the ball in front of him. Squealing with delight, Billy kicked at the ball, missed, and fell onto his rear end, giggling.
The melodic sound coursed through Will. “I’m going to get you,” he said, giving chase.
Billy tripped over his own feet and tumbled forward, laughing. “Gall down.” Awkwardly, he teetered into a standing position, dusted his little hands together, and extended them toward Will. “Gosh? Gosh?”
“We can’t wash your hands. Let’s do this instead.” Will swiped a hand across his chest and smeared imaginary dirt onto his shirt. “Mommy loves it when we wipe our hands on our clothes.”
Watching his son imitate him, Will beamed then gave the ball a gentle tap. Billy waddled after it, kicked the ball, and sent it twirling toward the barn. He lurched forward, hands breaking his fall, but this time there were no giggles. A piercing scream shot through Will.
He lifted the toddler, stunned by the bleeding puncture wound on his palm, in the meaty flesh just below his thumb.
Calming and comforting his son, Will raked the grass with his foot in search of the object that had produced the injury.
He gasped.
A segment of rusty barbed wire peeked through the grass.
Thank God he’s had tetanus shots, Will thought; then he grimaced, recalling that Suzanne had only completed part of her initial sequence.
He started toward the house and said, “Let’s go wash it off.”
Immediately, Billy wiped his hand across his chest and smeared blood over his shirt.
Chuckling, Will kissed the top
his head. “That’s my boy.”
Inside the kitchen, Heather erupted. “Will, what happened? Why weren’t you watching him?”
“I was watching him,” Will snapped, resenting the implication. “He tripped and landed on a piece of barbed wire.”
Heather extracted Billy from his arms. “Aw, Will, why did you let him smear blood all over his clothes?”
Really? he thought. You’re worried about the clothes?
Will turned to Erica. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
She nodded and trotted up the stairs.
“Heather, bring him to the kitchen sink.” Will doused his hand with bottled water, and Billy shrieked.
“Be gentle, Will. It’s bad enough that you let him get hurt, now you’re making him cry.”
Gritting his teeth, Will blotted the wound with a paper towel, only then realizing how deep it was.
Erica returned with a first aid kit containing knuckle and fingertip Band-Aids, medical tape, gauze, and tweezers.
“Don’t you have any peroxide or antibiotic ointment?” Will asked.
Erica folded her arms defensively. “We’re not used to rug rats running around our house.”
Will pitched the paper towel into the sink. “Heather, where’s our first aid kit?”
“I don’t remember which box it’s in.”
Will ascended the stairs and opened a random box, blinking in disbelief. DVDs and CDs? When there’s no power?
The next seven boxes were clothes, one for him and each of the kids; the other four belonged to Heather.
A half hour later, he had found scrapbooking supplies, a high school yearbook, wedding photographs, makeup, nail polish, and two boxes of high heels.
No first aid kit. Not even a Band-Aid.
40
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER Abby replaced the pink-camouflage butt stock and pistol grip with the standard black parts, Gramps’ voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. “I think I’ve got her. Ten yards forward.”
Busted, Bradley thought as he marked off the distance with ten uniform strides.
“Turn right,” Gramps told him, “and take two steps ... one more ... Now, kick that shrub.”
With his right foot, Bradley jostled Abby’s shoulder. “Sniper, you’ve been shot. You made it farther that time. But remember, low to the ground and slow down,” he said, escorting her back to the starting point. “And don’t take the easiest path. Least expected—if the target would never expect you to crawl over a cactus, you do it.”
Eyebrows crimped, lips drawn, Abby was digesting every word; and Bradley caught himself smiling at her. Luckily, those pretty blue eyes hadn’t noticed.
This time she skulked toward the lake, each movement protracted, nearly imperceptible.
Like watching freaking grass grow, he thought approvingly. She might make it this time.
His thoughts skated ahead to the hoax he had concocted. Bradley had deliberately scrawled the milk bottle’s two-digit code so that she could interpret it as the letters BS or the number 85. Either way, she would be wrong.
Oh shit!
Abby was creeping toward the marsh at the lake’s edge where reeds and saw grass grew taller, taking advantage of a previously flattened path that originated from the alligator nest.
Son of a bitch!
Baby reptiles and the mother’s carcass created a utopia for hungry alligators. Hands clawing the top of his head, Bradley strode toward the lake intent on getting between Abby and that nest.
“I’ve got the shot,” she called out triumphantly.
Bradley strangled the walkie-talkie. “Gramps, do you see her?”
“No go.”
Hearing a swish, Bradley’s head jogged left. A two-foot alligator scuttled through the saw grass into the lake, its tail sweeping like a pendulum.
He joined Abby, squatted down, and held the push-to-talk button so that Gramps and Mr. Murphy could hear. “Sniper, read the code.”
Abby looked askance at him. “Numbers or letters?”
Bradley couldn’t rein in his smile.
“Eight-five or more likely B-S,” she said, “because this is bullshit!”
He released the button, too late.
“Abigail!” Her father’s angry voice sputtered over the walkie-talkie, nearly drowned out by a panicked outcry.
“Kyle! George!” Mrs. Murphy, who had been keeping vigil with Mr. Levin, was running down Sugar Lake Road.
Bowing his head, Bradley pressed the push-to-talk button. “I think we’ve lost Mr. Levin.”
Gramps and Mr. Murphy headed toward the house, and Bradley stood, hands trussed against his hips, staring at his feet.
“Thanks to you, he didn’t die alone in the middle of nowhere,” Abby said.
Bradley watched her peel off the ghillie suit, then giving a nod of acknowledgement, he wended his way back to Gramps’ house to get a shovel.
How could someone that smart have so little common sense? he thought as he began digging beyond Mr. Levin’s property at the foot of the southern ridge.
Abby approached, and without a word, speared the ground with a shovel, assisting him with the grave. Bradley stared at her, anger mounting with each scoop of sand. “Do you realize that a gator could’ve dragged you into the lake and drowned you?”
Indifferent, Abby reached into the pocket of her jeans. “But I had a knife ...”
Bradley winced, driving away a vision of her diving onto an alligator.
“... And you said, ‘Least expected. Crawl over cactus.’ ”
“There’s a colossal difference,” he said, his tone castigating. “The cactus will cause discomfort, but it won’t kill you.”
“It could. If there’s a rattler underneath it.”
“And where the hell did you get that knife?” It was a Smith & Wesson Special Ops, a tactical folding knife similar to his.
“The Internet.”
“Does your dad know you have that?”
“Not exactly,” she said, smirking.
Bradley pummeled the ground with his shovel, channeling frustration into energy. “You took a stupid chance going near that alligator nest.”
“You would’ve done the same damn thing,” she said, indignant. “Why is it okay for you and stupid for me?”
“I’m a Marine, and you’re not—”
“Yet,” she interrupted. “You want to know what I think? You’re being overprotective because of my pretty blue eyes.”
Bradley harrumphed. “I didn’t even realize you had blue eyes, Squirt.”
41
“MASTER SERGEANT, DO you know why you’re here?” Captain Zugarra demanded.
Standing at attention, Ryan Andrews responded, “No, sir.” A quick anger assessment revealed only one forehead crease—minimal F-1 damage.
“It has been alleged that you unlawfully policed civilians and confiscated personal property.”
Ryan’s fingers dug into his palms. Fucking DJ, he thought.
Zugarra rose to his feet, walked around his desk, and leaned against the front of it. “Look, I understand what you did, and I understand why you did it. However ...” The Captain’s arms folded across his chest, and he let out a clipped sigh. “You’re treading into legal quicksand. If those five men are members of a terrorist group or soldiers of an enemy state, your actions were lawful. Can you prove those men belonged to one of those groups?”
“No, sir.”
“If those men are a bunch of local ‘bubbas,’ you violated the Posse Comitatus Act.” Zugarra fell silent a moment, head shaking. “The penalties are a $10,000 fine and/or two years in jail.”
Jail? Unlikely, Ryan thought. The fine? Maybe. And it would be worth every penny.
“You may not like the rules of engagement,” Zugarra told him, “but you will operate within them, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get your ass out of my office.”
“Yes, sir.” Ryan did an about-face and exited, hoping he didn’t run into DJ b
ecause the thoughts zipping through his head could earn him jail time.
He met up with Dannel, Marcos, and Mike outside the mess hall.
“Get your wrist slapped?” Dannel asked.
“Pretty much.” Ryan passed through a security checkpoint, where MPs frisked Soldiers for firearms and improvised explosive devices; then he joined the mess hall queue, nose wrinkling at today’s menu.
Mushloaf and mushed potatoes, he thought, knowing he would have to smother the mystery meat with gravy to make it tolerable.
Since the electromagnetic pulse, the Army had begun conserving food and consolidating mess halls, offering only one entrée with no fast-food options; worse still, off-base restaurants and food stores no longer existed.
Ryan’s face contorted into a repulsed frown. It looks like someone partially digested it and barfed it back up, he thought, dropping his tray onto a table where Dannel, Marcos, and Mike had just settled with their steaming plates of mush.
A Corporal at an adjacent table began gasping. He clutched at his throat. Another Soldier yanked him to his feet and began performing the Heimlich maneuver. Vomit spewed over the floor; and amidst groans and expletives, Ryan’s gaze oscillated between his dinner plate and the variegated puddle on the floor.
Yup, looks identical, he thought, pushing the tray away from him.
Marcos and Mike were preoccupied with the drama, but Dannel was undauntedly shoveling food into his mouth.
Always irreverent, Ryan said, “Hey, Dannel, if you’re still hungry, I think that guy’s done with his.” He pointed toward the puking Corporal who was now lying on the floor. Ryan’s ball-busting smile faded. The man’s face was twitching, his body convulsing. Medics raced toward him. Was it a severe allergic reaction?
“What the hell’s going on over there?” Marcos pointed behind Ryan.
He swiveled in his seat. Across the room, a Ranger was down, and a commotion surrounded him. Ryan climbed onto his chair for a better view. The Ranger looked like he was having a seizure. The Corporal, no longer moving, was being taken out on a stretcher. Six other Soldiers were vomiting.
Alarmed, Ryan said, “Dannel, make yourself throw up.”
“What?” he asked, perplexed.
“That’s an order! Do it!”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 9
