“With the right intelligence, personnel, and equipment. Kyle, we have no idea how many enemy troops are holed up inside. There are only three of us, and we’re only armed with rifles—”
“Not exactly,” Bradley said, turning around. He knelt across from them, hunched his shoulders, forcing his backpack to slide downward, then dumped the bag.
“Claymores? C-4?” Ryan’s face split into a grin. “Game on, motherfuckers!”
165A
IT WAS NEARLY SIX P.M. when Kyle set out east along Route 441, slinking behind trees, looted businesses, and burned-out gas stations. The sun was drooping toward the horizon, drenching the apocalyptic scene with warm light. In a half hour, darkness would descend and set the plan into motion.
If my feet hold out that long, Kyle thought, cursing the combat boots that were pinching his toes and chafing his ankles. Dressed in Ryan’s uniform, he felt like a fraud, unsure if he could convincingly impersonate an Army Ranger; but Bradley had insisted it was essential. Kyle had to look—and act—like an authority figure.
“Try not to talk too much,” Ryan had told him. “Let the uniform and gear argue your case.”
Swells of refugees were thickening like an inrushing tide. Exhausted and dazed Americans stared straight ahead, propelled and blinded by hope, blissfully unaware that they were on a death march.
Who would have ever thought hope could be so dangerous? Kyle thought. He had experienced it firsthand, back at the Dodge dealership. Hope had seduced him into believing that civilization—life the way it used to be—was waiting behind those walls. It had duped him into imagining his family entering that white tent then forced him to contemplate a swan dive into a mass grave. Kyle knew better; he had known since laying eyes on that flyer; and still, he wanted to believe so badly that he only saw what he wanted to see.
He glanced at the innocent faces streaming past him, knowing their fate, yet unable to save them all.
These terrorists are Hitler incarnate, he thought. And they didn’t even have to supply the trains and boxcars.
Although Bradley and Ryan had given emphatic orders—get a mile beyond the facility before stopping traffic—Kyle just couldn’t bear it. At the half-mile mark, he jogged toward Route 441.
Would anyone shoot at him? Given that terrorists were impersonating U.S. Soldiers, there were no guarantees.
He made it to the roadway, hands extended like stop signs. “I’m Staff Sergeant Andrews, and I need you to wait here,” he shouted, mustering his most commanding deep tone. “We’ve had to quarantine a group with a lethal strain of influenza. The situation is under control, but it will take about two hours to sanitize the facility.”
Complaints crashed down like an avalanche.
“Two hours? Are you serious?”
“We’re starving.”
“What about the people in front of us?” an angry voice shouted. “You let them through.”
“They’re being diverted up ahead,” Kyle lied.
“If you’re military, why are you alone?”
Ryan had prepared Kyle for that question. “We’re short-staffed because exposed Soldiers had to be quarantined.”
Blustering gripes traveled backward through the column of refugees. As Kyle fielded questions, two men approached, each with arms thick as paint cans and assault rifles slung over broad muscular shoulders.
Shit! Are they going to confront me? Push past me?
“Sir, I asked you to wait here,” Kyle said, alternating eye contact with each man, attempting to read their intent.
“I’m Lieutenant Dunn, retired Army. This is my friend, Trey Green. We think you’re full of shit, Staff Sergeant.”
166A
FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, Abby scavenged the hillside near her trip wire, selecting twigs, fresh leaves, and pine needles to modify her ghillie suit. Lime green patches of infant leaves had appeared since the rains, claiming territory previously dominated by brown hues. Her camouflage would have to reflect that change in order to slip past Gramps’ watchful eye.
Convinced that she had heard a footstep, Abby raised her rifle. She turned in a slow pirouette, listening intently, eyes scanning for abnormal colors, shapes, or movements. Despite spotting nothing suspicious, the restless, anxious feeling worsened.
Irrational fear began to drive her thoughts. Where is Bradley? And my dad?
What if they were ambushed? Or injured? What if they didn’t make it back?
Abby took a deep breath as if oxygen was the antidote for fear.
Snipers can’t lose control of their emotions, she told herself, or their imaginations.
She spread her ghillie suit like a picnic blanket and bunched it to mimic a human form. After dozens of minute adjustments, she pulled on the suit and began skull dragging.
Fifty yards from her hide, within sight of overwatch, she eyed Gramps as he surveyed the hillside. Although their game would not begin until Uncle Dave relieved him, he was already scrutinizing the landscape using a random, unpredictable pattern. Abby held her breath as if his gaze were a breaking wave, then she released it with a smug sigh. His eyes had passed right over her!
She watched the sun sink, a cosmic ticking clock working against her. She had to make it to her hide—undetected—before the sun dipped below Sugar Lake Road.
I only have a half hour of daylight at best, she thought, but that constraint also provided an advantage. The low angle of sunlight was bathing the hillside with blindingly bright patches and long, deep shadows. Gramps’ eyes would strain to adjust between the extremes, a circumstance she intended to exploit.
Uncle Dave emerged from the screened room en route to overwatch, and Abby grimaced. The nightscope on the M1A had been recharging all day, and he had forgotten to retrieve it. That was going to cost her precious daylight.
No matter what, I can’t rush, she told herself, vowing that halfway undetected was better than getting nailed.
Abby eyed her absent-minded Uncle as he ascended the hill. She estimated holdover and lead, adjusted for wind, temperature, and humidity; then chided herself. Her Uncle would not approve. Then again, he would never know.
As if realizing his blunder, he hastily reversed course; and after two urgent strides, he resumed his relaxed gait.
Abby’s mother was toting the night-vision equipped rifle across the street.
Thanks, Mom! You just saved me two minutes.
She watched them converge in the middle of Sugar Lake Road.
Abby sensed a flash.
Her eyes jerked toward its origin, and she heard the unmistakable roar of a gunshot.
167A
LIEUTENANT DUNN’S DARK eyes glinted like the tip of a scalpel, slicing through Kyle with surgical precision. The retired Soldier had debunked the quarantine story, so for the second time in fifteen minutes, Kyle had disobeyed orders. He had told Dunn the truth.
“An extermination camp? With a mass grave? That’s even more farfetched than your original line of bullshit,” Dunn told him.
“What kind of scam are you running?” Trey Green asked, thrusting an index finger into Kyle’s face. “Are you trying to steal from these people?”
“I’m outgunned thirty-to-one, and you think I’m here to rob them?” Kyle’s eyes tracked from Green back to Dunn. “I’m trying to save their lives. And yours.”
The Lieutenant rubbed a bear paw of a hand over his beard. “If you’re legitimate, why lie about the influenza quarantine?”
“People have their hopes set on hot meals and showers,” Kyle said, exasperated. “How will they react when I tell them there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? The cover story was designed to keep the messenger from getting shot.”
The two men traded dubious glances, then Dunn took an ominous step closer. “If people are being executed a half mile from here, why don’t we hear gunshots?”
“They’re using knives, so new arrivals aren’t scared away.”
Dunn’s cheeks expanded like a puffer fish, and he ex
pelled an audible breath. Was that a hairline crack in his skepticism? Or was Kyle just seeing what he wanted to see? Again?
Arms barricaded across his chest, Green said, “And how—exactly—is all that changing in two hours?”
“They’re trying to shut it down—”
“They?” the Lieutenant demanded.
“An Army Ranger and a Marine Corps Sniper.”
Dunn jammed a thumb and index finger into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Six men broke their conversational huddle, approaching like a wall of linebackers eager for a sack.
Were they going to pummel him? Or push past, hell-bent on completing their death march?
The men formed a semicircle around him. Kyle felt every muscle clench as if his entire body were cringing.
“Gentlemen, there’s a situation at the refugee camp,” Dunn told them, “and we need to assist the U.S. military by manning a roadblock for the next two hours.”
“Lieutenant, thank you,” Kyle said, offering his hand. “But I have to go. I have to stop the eastbound traffic.”
“Do what you gotta do, Andrews—or whatever your name is. We got this.”
168A
OMID GHORBANI WAS LYING prone amidst oaks, pine trees, and wild brush, surveilling the houses bordering Sugar Lake.
To his right, Hamid Khadem peered through his spotting scope and whispered, “Someone exited the yellow house.”
A dark-haired man carried himself like a black bear awakened prematurely from hibernation. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, as he padded across the street and lumbered up the hillside. Omid’s eyes swept ahead to the man’s projected destination.
An old man with white cropped hair rose from a well-concealed position. Gripping a rifle, he was keeping watch over the landscape across the street, focused and thorough, with the intensity of a wolf on the hunt.
“That hide is well constructed,” Hamid whispered. “I hadn’t even noticed it.”
Omid redirected his attention to the yellow house. A woman with golden-colored hair was carrying a rifle, jogging as if to catch up with the Black Bear.
“These people are not Soldiers,” Hamid insisted.
“Friends and family can be useful nonetheless.” He planned his assault like a billiard player, each shot setting up the next. Armed and alert, White Wolf posed the greatest threat, so Omid took aim and split the silence with a single gunshot.
“Through the heart,” Hamid said, his voice trailing into a disappointed hiss. “A slow death would better serve our purpose.”
Still five yards apart, Black Bear and Golden Lady froze, seemingly unsure what had happened. After exchanging worried glances, both heads swiveled away from Omid, toward the wooded hillside across the street. They were looking in the wrong direction, the same direction White Wolf had been intently watching.
Omid acquired his second target and applied a slow, steady pressure to the trigger. Another blast rumbled over the hillside.
“Through the left shoulder,” Hamid reported, gleefully.
The force of the bullet had spun Black Bear like a top and hurtled him onto the ground. He stared at the bleeding crater in his shoulder, crying out in pain, disbelief, and panic.
Golden Lady raised the rifle to her shoulder and turned in a slow circle, unsure where the shot had originated.
Omid took aim. The trigger was halfway depressed when an unseen gunman returned fire.
A red haze drifted past Omid’s scope and settled onto his arms like an aerosol mist.
He didn’t have to look.
He knew Hamid had been fatally shot.
And he would be next. I need to move. Fast.
Hugging his rifle tightly against him, Omid rolled laterally and pivoted until his body was parallel with the ridgeline. He rose no more than a shoulder’s width above the ground in his dizzying retreat, making himself a smaller, more challenging target.
Two rotations. Three.
He kept rolling beyond the safety of the hill’s crest.
There really is a Sniper at Sugar Lake, he decided, and thanks to Black Bear and Golden Lady, I know where to find him.
169A
CROUCHED BEHIND AN overgrown hedge surrounding the strip mall’s dumpster, Bradley used night vision to watch Ryan approach the massive drainage ditch behind the hospital. Darkness rendered the Ranger invisible to the guards inside the well-lit building, now a twenty-four-hour death camp thanks to the stolen Army generator and diesel tankers.
Ryan waded into the water until only his head jutted above its inky surface. Night vision protruding like a snout, he looked like an alligator on the prowl.
Hopefully the construction scared away any resident gators, Bradley thought, questioning the wisdom of this operation.
He monitored the guards stationed on the perimeter, ready to create a diversion if Ryan was spotted. Three men spanned the property at hundred-yard intervals, statuesque and unblinking. Bradley’s attention returned to the rear sentry, posted where the fence met the drainage ditch.
Ryan emerged from behind him. His hand closed over the guard’s mouth, and he plunged his knife into the base of his skull, silently severing brain stem from spinal column.
Bradley checked the nearest guard, stationed even with the hospital. He was still staring straight ahead, though without night vision, he probably couldn’t see more than ten yards into the darkness.
The Ranger gently lowered the body to the ground and exchanged Kyle’s wet clothes for the guard’s dry U.S. Army uniform. The jacket buttons puckered, the pants reached to midcalf, and he didn’t even bother with the boots.
Ryan rolled the body into the water then stepped behind the chain-link privacy fence and began shaking it. The metallic clamor shuddered along its length, piquing the interest of the closest guard. The man raised his rifle, switching on the attached flashlight, and started toward the drainage ditch to investigate the sentry’s absence.
Bradley moved with weasellike strides, stealthily closing the distance, his wounded arm throbbing in sync with his pulse. His right hand grasped the man’s chin, his left gripped the back of his head. Simultaneously pushing and pulling with a swift jerking motion, he broke the guard’s neck. He heard the snap, felt the bone fracture, and resisted the urge to yank away his hands. This was more personal, more intimate than taking a life with a bullet from yards away, and a jolt of squeamishness radiated through him.
“You okay?” Ryan asked, sensing his discomfort.
“Yeah. Let’s dump him into the water and get the last guard.”
The third sentry post was outside the plywood gates enclosing the shipping container and dumpster, but that guard had strayed thirty yards from his previous position and was now overseeing westbound refugees on Route 441.
Weary civilians seemed rejuvenated by the sight of the hospital, joy and hope spreading like a contagion. They saluted the guard and broke into a horribly off-key rendition of God Bless America, which rose above the growling generator.
“We’re screwed,” Ryan snarled. “All those armed Americans think he’s a U.S. Soldier. If we take him out, they’ll assume we’re terrorists and open fire.”
Bradley took a deep breath. They hadn’t even breached the fence, and there was already a major glitch. “The guard’s away from the fence,” he said. “Maybe we should leave him alone and just move on.”
Ryan’s head rocked side to side, like a windshield wiper sweeping away the suggestion. “Better to deal with him now.”
They banged their rifle butt stocks against the fence, but the sound faded into the background noise of the humming generator and celebrating Americans.
We can’t lure him away from the crowd, Bradley thought. What the hell are we gonna do now?
170A
FIGHTER PILOTS ABOARD the U.S.S. Stellate had been flying nonstop missions since the failed attack by the cruise ship.
Failed attack, Chase Kinderman thought. What a misnomer. Although the Navy had promptly sunk the floating di
rty bomb and the carrier group had maneuvered out of harm’s way, the jet stream was still driving radioactive plumes of air eastward, and ocean currents were spreading contaminated seawater over the Pacific. Hawaii had been beyond range of the electromagnetic pulse, so people there might receive warning, but what about Californians? Washingtonians? Oregonians?
In a microsecond, Chase’s thoughts skipped across the country. Are my parents safe? My little brother?
She was certain the Navy’s official mantra, “Order is being restored, and the situation stateside is improving,” was a whitewashed version of events just like the “failed attack.” She was equally certain the hellish rumors—tales of execution squads, poisoned food, and nuclear meltdowns—were gross exaggerations. The truth, she figured, had to be somewhere in between.
The catapult engaged, hurling her Raptor forward, and g-forces threw Chase back against her seat. She loved this feeling, the acceleration, the sense of raw power. As her wheels cleared the deck, dozens of stark white missile contrails streaked upward on either side of her like an oceanic dancing fountain.
A thunderous detonation jostled the aircraft, then metal fragments began clanking off the Raptor. Ahead, she could see missiles striking targets, flashes of light with pockets of smoke smudging the sky.
She climbed, cutting through a tunnel of contrails. Cruisers and Destroyers continued to belch fire and smoke, launching missile after missile.
Flying past the Stellate, its flight deck looked as choppy as the ocean, twisted chunks of metal accumulating like snowflakes. Why the hell didn’t Aegis detect the threat sooner? The computerized ballistic missile defense system was designed to intercept threats miles away, not thousands of feet overhead.
Chase’s thoughts were zipping, keeping pace with her jet. Above her, she noted the absence of incoming missile contrails.
They must be conventional bombs, she decided. Did the enemy have a stealth bomber capable of defeating our best radar?
After several brutally tense minutes, the fireworks dwindled, and the Cruisers and Destroyers fell silent. Receiving new orders, Chase banked the Raptor toward the coast of China.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 31
