Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Despite dozens of questions whipping through Kyle’s mind, he slid from the passenger’s seat, rifle in hand, and hurried toward the tree, a good vantage point to detect threats.

  Bradley hauled the dead savage from the truck bed and wrestled his rigid body into the driver’s seat. The barrel of an AK-47 jutted out the window. Kyle forced his focus back to the road. The peak of a gently sloping hill lay to the north; to the south, the road bent and seemed to be swallowed up by trees. Why this location? Desolate and remote?

  Kyle stole another glance. The Marine was hammering something inside the engine, then he closed the hood. Is this some clever plan? Or did he lose it?

  A glistening wet thread was twiddling along the roadway.

  “Um, Bradley ... truck’s leaking oil.”

  “I know. I jacked the oil filter, so the engine will seize in about a half hour.”

  He’s destroying the only running vehicle we have?

  Waving for Kyle, Bradley said, “Follow me and stay low to the ground.”

  They crept into a stand of trees at the hill’s apex. Below them stood a khaki-colored warehouse with thirty-foot corrugated steel walls and a rolling bay door large enough for a tractor trailer. Two traditional man-sized doors provided access to the front and side of the building, and dozens of skylights allowed natural light into the windowless metal box. An eight-foot, chain-link fence enclosed the warehouse and its parking area; and stationed at the gate, two men in U.S. military uniforms stood guard.

  “Are those U.S. troops?” Kyle asked.

  “Negative. This warehouse is a distribution hub for the savages.”

  Sabotaging the truck, the dead driver—the madness was starting to make sense.

  A low-pitched, cranking growl drew Kyle’s attention back to the warehouse. A desert-camouflage fuel tanker was chugging from the building, streaming a cloud of dense black exhaust. Two more Army vehicles emerged and turned north onto County Road 561.

  Bradley’s lips were set in a grim line. Outrage seemed to radiate from his pores.

  “Just how bad is this?” Kyle whispered.

  “Worse than you can imagine.”

  98A

  VLADIMIR STOLEV HAD dreamed of becoming a cosmonaut since he was a boy; and as the Russian space vehicle left Earth’s atmosphere, a feeling of accomplishment glowed like a fire within him. This would be his final mission, a mighty blow to the United States.

  The plan had been fermenting for decades—vengeance for an economic war that had fractured the Soviet Union. Through the launch of Saudi Arabian oil fields, excessive domestic oil production, and brazen speculation, the Americans had created a glut of oil. They had maliciously driven down the price of crude, the financial lifeblood of the communist superpower, bankrupting it, driving it into collapse. Now, the United States would experience disintegration.

  The world believed this launch was a routine resupply mission to the International Space Station. It had been scheduled months prior to the EMP to guarantee safe passage for his precious cargo—stealth microdrones programmed to intercept the orbits of U.S. military satellites. The miniaturized spacecraft contained no explosives, instead relying on the 22,000-mile-per-hour orbital speed of the satellite to cause massive destruction. Metal fragments would become supersonic shrapnel, and Vladimir smirked, likening the orbiting space debris to Saturn’s rings.

  Miles below on terra firma, missiles were flying like a global food fight, diverting America’s attention. Iranian volleys were savaging the streets of Tel Aviv; and North Korean barrages were targeting Seoul and Tokyo.

  After releasing the drones, Vladimir had two options. Reenter Earth’s atmosphere and be shot down by the U.S. military? Or pop a cyanide pill and float into the cosmos?

  The choice was an easy one.

  Vladimir refused to give the Americans the satisfaction.

  99A

  FLABBERGASTED, BRADLEY remained immobile while his mind jetted. He couldn’t pursue the convoy because the pickup’s engine would seize; and even if he had been able to follow the vehicles, he couldn’t stop them—not with an AR-10.

  “Excuse my ignorance,” Kyle said. “But what was that?”

  “A Patriot missile battery. A high-tech surface-to-air defense system that can shoot down ballistic missiles, drones, and fighter jets—even at high altitude.”

  “So terrorists can shoot down our planes with our missiles?”

  “Satellites will track the battery, and Special Forces will recover it—hopefully before the savages can use it.”

  They returned to the pickup, and after shifting the vehicle into neutral, both men pushed it up the gradual incline. Leg muscles burning, perspiration drenched Bradley’s back.

  Finally, gravity tugged the idling engine past the crest, pulling the truck downhill. Bradley and Kyle retreated back to the stand of trees in time to see the gate guards open fire. Bullets pulverized the windshield, and the truck coasted to a stop ten yards from the warehouse entrance.

  A teenaged boy was sent out to investigate. He pulled the dead man from the cab, got behind the wheel, and steered the truck into the compound. Six camouflage-clad men with black headbands surrounded the vehicle. One shouted something in his native tongue, then four teenaged jihadists spilled from the warehouse. They swarmed over the tailgate and fenders into the truck bed, joining the young driver, dancing, pumping their AK-47s, shouting, “Allahu Akbar!”

  Kyle watched one of the boys remove a white plastic bag from the cross-bed toolbox; two others ripped it open, and candy bars rained down. “Is that the poisoned chocolate from the MREs?”

  Bradley shrugged. “Bible says an eye for an eye.”

  The teenaged jihadists tore into the candy as though they hadn’t eaten in days. Within minutes, they began collapsing onto the pavement, then Bradley said, “On my count, shoot the guards from right to left.”

  100A

  AT NOON, GRAMPS RELIEVED Abby from overwatch, and she marched down into the yard where her mother was watering the garden.

  “Mom, you’ve got to talk to Dad. He’s being ridiculous.”

  “Your father’s worried about consequences you probably haven’t considered.”

  “The only downside of kissing Bradley was Dad wigging out.”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea—on your part—to let your father witness it.”

  She had a point. “But Mom, Bradley almost got shot.” Abby paused to steady her voice. “I never would’ve known what it was like to kiss him.”

  “I can understand that.” Smiling fondly, her mother draped an arm around Abby’s shoulder. “You’re in love. That can be incredibly intoxicating, but promise you won’t rush into anything; you’re only—”

  “Sixteen, I know, but I may not live to see eighteen.”

  “Abby, don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s true. There are no guarantees anymore.”

  Irritation flickered in her mother’s blue eyes. “That’s no excuse to be reckless.”

  “Reckless? Compared to what?” She pulled back from her mother’s embrace. “Eating a chocolate bar? Standing too close to a four-year-old? Sleeping with Bradley wouldn’t be reckless.”

  Hearing the words spoken aloud, her mother winced. “Abby, what if you end up pregnant? There are no doctors, no hospitals. God forbid, if there were complications, you could die in childbirth.”

  Their eyes clashed in a fiery war of adolescent independence versus motherly protection. “And I could die in a firefight tomorrow, Mom. Which way would you rather go?”

  101A

  SIX MEN AND FIVE TEENAGED boys lay dead outside the warehouse, and Bradley’s thoughts wavered between remorse and rationalization.

  “Why didn’t the guards know the food was poisoned?” Kyle asked.

  “Cells operate independently. It’s a firewall to prevent cascading arrests throughout the network. These savages had no idea what the others were doing.”

  After observing the warehouse for o
ver an hour, he stationed Kyle across the street from the gate. Since the M4’s shorter barrel would be more maneuverable inside the building, he swapped rifles with Kyle.

  “If anyone approaches the warehouse—fire three quick shots to signal me then get out of here. You got that?”

  Bradley ventured onto the property, wishing it was Abby outside watching his back. Scenarios played through his mind: Best case, the building was empty; average case, a frightened person was hiding; and worst case, someone was lying in wait.

  The building was massive, seventy feet wide by a hundred feet deep, and Bradley edged around the corner with his rifle, clearing the expanse a slice at a time.

  The left side of the warehouse was crammed with bedrolls, prayer rugs, and a few copies of the Koran. Hundreds of empty shopping carts lined the rear wall—S-Mart, various food stores, and wholesale clubs.

  Damn, he thought, they must’ve looted every store in the county.

  Bradley crept inside, advancing on a metal shipping container. Layers of copper sheeting and plasticized paneling lined the interior like a makeshift Faraday cage. Empty boxes formed a knee-high plateau, packaging for satellite phones, global positioning units, and solar panels—all bearing Asian markings.

  He entered a small office and sidled around a dented metal desk, gun trained on the cubbyhole between the drawer towers.

  Satisfied no one was lurking beneath it, he searched the room. Along the far wall, cases of Russian ammunition were stacked waist high and topped off with boxes of U.S. combat uniforms and propaganda flyers. A map of Central Florida hung like a cockeyed window shade, and Bradley noted that an agricultural airport had been circled with a red marker.

  Crop duster planes?

  The question solidified into an aching knot. Are the savages planning to disperse chemical weapons? A biological agent? Radioactive materials?

  102A

  EYES PANNING OVER DEAD bodies, Kyle felt his moral compass spinning out of control, vacillating between the ethical man he had always been and the unrecognizable man he was becoming.

  Teenaged boys had been killed, sons and brothers, innocents infected by their parents’ ideology, bred to kill, aspiring only to death. Guilt morphed into a binge of justification. What about American kids? Billy and Suzanne? The girl at the swing set? The boy with the furry blue bomb? And God only knows how many others?

  Kyle rubbed his temples, head aching, unsure what to think, how to feel. The sharp line between right and wrong had become a murky, meandering valley, and he was lost.

  Bradley emerged and collected weapons and ammunition from the dead guards. He made several trips into the warehouse before pushing a shopping cart full of rifles across County Route 561. “We need to take a little detour before heading home.”

  Kyle helped drag the cart a quarter mile west to the shore of Little Lake Harris. Bradley grasped the barrel of an AK-47 like a baseball bat and hurled it into the lake. Kyle propelled his three times farther, into deeper waters.

  “Looks like you got this.” Bradley settled onto the grassy bank; and after the last rifle splashed into the water, Kyle sunk down beside him, sweaty and spent, with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Those weapons would never be turned against Americans again.

  Both men sat in contemplative silence. Sparkling slivers of sunlight reflected the lake’s choppy surface like twinkling camera flashes at the ballpark. Kyle smiled at the memory, for the first time looking back with gratitude rather than grief.

  “Ready to head home?” Bradley asked, rising to his feet.

  After walking in silence for nearly an hour, Kyle heard a dull thump. A bush with tiny orange flowers was swaying.

  “Bang. You’re dead,” Bradley told him.

  “Did you just throw something over there?”

  “Yes. And when you see movement, you’d better get your rifle on it.”

  “You could’ve warned me.”

  “Hey, Infidel!” Bradley snickered. “We’re here to execute you. Is this a good time?”

  He felt his face flush. Why was it so difficult for him to perceive threats?

  “You see that orange tree in the clearing?” Bradley asked.

  It had three discolored, drooping oranges that had yet to fall to the ground. “Yeah?”

  “Distance and elevation?”

  Kyle judged based on the baseball diamond. The distance between bases was thirty yards, and he estimated it was three times farther. “About ninety yards and level?”

  “Good.” Bradley turned in the opposite direction. “How about that pine tree at the top of the hill?”

  “Around sixty yards? Elevation plus fifty feet?”

  “Right. Now run up the hill, circle the pine tree, bust it back down here, and shoot one of the oranges off the tree.”

  Is this his way of getting even? Kyle wondered.

  Sensing his skepticism, Bradley said, “You’re working in the garden when you spot a wild turkey across the lake. You run up the hill to get your rifle and back down to take your shot. And you have to hit the turkey in the head, because if you hit the body with these rounds, there won’t be much left. Go!”

  Feeling foolish, Kyle took off running. He reached the top of the hill, out of breath, legs burning. Down was easier, but he was still huffing as he raised his rifle.

  Bradley began a countdown. “Five ... four ...”

  Kyle couldn’t steady the barrel.

  The sights were bouncing all over.

  “... Three ... two ...”

  He squeezed the trigger, missing all three oranges.

  “I guess your family’s not eating tonight.”

  ( ( ( 52% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 15A ) ) )

  Friday, February 28th

  103A

  AT 0700 HOURS, BRADLEY trudged from Gramps’ house toward Sugar Lake Road, backpack and rifle dangling from his shoulders. He yawned, blinking at a dingy fog hanging over the lake. The sky felt claustrophobically low, and gray streaks of moisture were obscuring the treetops, creating a prolonged twilight.

  Kyle was sprinting up and down the hillside, retraining out-of-shape muscles, extending his endurance. He had understood part of Bradley’s message, but the physical training would be the easiest for a former Major League Baseball player. The challenge would be in training his mind to perceive threats and react decisively.

  Abby stood at the base of the hill, hands on hips, talking to him during each pass. Neither looked happy; and Bradley stopped ten feet back, safely outside the cross fire. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he was the source of tension between them.

  “You can’t have it both ways, Dad! I’m adult enough for overwatch. And shooting savages. And when Mom has a freaking gun to her head. Who was the adult that night? And who was blubbering like a child?”

  Kyle stopped abruptly. His gaze dropped to his feet. “Abigail, it is not up for discussion. You are going to stay away from him.”

  Uncomfortable, Bradley forced a cough to announce his presence.

  “Bradley!” Abby said with an enticing smile. “You are so thoughtless ... having a firefight without inviting me.”

  Anger was fluttering like a warning beacon in Kyle’s eyes. “Abigail, go help your mother with the garden.”

  “She’s at overwatch until noon, Dad.”

  “Then go to your room!”

  With a glare as potent as a directed-energy weapon, Abby started toward the house; and as she passed behind Bradley, her hand dramatically groped his backside. He flinched. His mouth fell open then eased into a chagrined smile.

  “Abigail Margaret!”

  “What are you gonna do, Dad? Ground me from overwatch? Take away my rifle so the savages can shoot me?”

  Bradley watched her enter the house and slam the front door, then he said, “Ready to head out?”

  They hiked north, paralleling the western shore of Lake Apopka. The fog was dissipating, and sunlight wrestled between tree branches, warming the breeze and turning the
woods into a backdrop of contrast and movement. Bradley removed an acorn from his pocket and tossed it low, striking a fan palm.

  Kyle’s rifle targeted the leaf.

  “Much better,” Bradley said, impressed by his focus, especially after the argument with Abby.

  Kyle stopped midstride. Something bright white had crossed forty yards in front of them.

  Crouching lower, Bradley took the lead and waved for him to follow.

  It was a thirtyish woman with long brown hair woven into a braided ponytail. Dirty clothes hung two sizes too large, and pressed tightly to her chest, she carried a five-gallon white bucket.

  “She’s getting water from the lake,” Bradley whispered. “Wait here until she doubles back.”

  She squatted and scooped water into the bucket, swiveling it to maximize her catch.

  Is she alone? Bradley wondered. Or does she have children? He couldn’t decide which was more heartbreaking.

  A gunshot resounded.

  The woman dropped onto the ground.

  She wasn’t a threat. Why would somebody shoot her?

  Two men converged on her body, one toting a bolt-action hunting rifle.

  “That one’s just a kid,” Kyle whispered. “About Abby’s age.”

  The sentiment struck Bradley like a double tap, first a shot to the heart, the second smiting much lower.

  The teen corralled the floating bucket and filled it with lake water; then the older man handed off his rifle and hoisted the dead woman onto his shoulder.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  Bradley didn’t respond.

  He was praying his gut instincts were wrong.

  104A

  RYAN EXITED THE SOOT-FILLED warehouse, aggravated that terrorists had managed to abscond with the Patriot missile battery—again. A convoy had been hijacked concurrent with the drone attack on Camp Sunshine, yet another blue-on-blue attack.

  Ordinarily, satellite reconnaissance would have tracked the Patriot battery in real time, but a sneak attack had pulverized dozens of military satellites. His team was already feeling the effects—GPS malfunctions, intermittent communications, and less than timely intelligence.