Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I won’t.”

  Ryan leaned toward Kyle and said, “How do I apply for that job?”

  The flippant remark triggered a firestorm inside Bradley. He grabbed Ryan’s throat and pinned him against the house. “I’m already getting court-martialed, and the Army thinks you’re dead. Do the math!”

  “Relax, I was joking. I’m old enough to be her father.”

  “Not funny.” Although Bradley released Ryan, his stare continued drilling into him.

  “Understood.” The Ranger redirected his attention to Kyle. “Now that you have the facts, what are you gonna do?”

  “We’re staying,” Kyle said flatly. “If the wound gets infected, then we’ll go to Camp Sunshine.”

  “It will get infected. It’s just a matter of time,” Ryan argued. “And if you wait, Bradley and I won’t be here to help transport her. She’ll need to be carried most of the way.”

  Kyle rolled his head back. “Then we’ll lie about Abby’s age, tell them she’s fourteen. Without a birth certificate or electronic records, how would they know?”

  “Won’t work,” Bradley said, his words dripping frustration. “Abby wants to enlist. She would lie to get in. Not to dodge.”

  Angrily, Kyle rose to his feet and wrenched open the front door. “So I’m supposed to choose between my wife and my daughter?” He nearly plowed into Abby.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  The door slammed shut, vibrations rattled the house, and Bradley stood, gripping the stucco wall to steady himself. He’d had a few beers with the guys on base, but never whiskey on an empty stomach. Once the light-headedness passed, he shouldered his backpack and rifle then started toward the slain sniper.

  Scurrying to catch up, Ryan said, “Why don’t you get some shut-eye? I’ll keep watch.”

  Bradley mumbled his thanks and kept moving.

  It’s my fault, he thought. I engaged at Astatula and Haywood Field; I left a trail that led them to Sugar Lake.

  He knelt beside the man who had murdered his grandfather, ejected a round from the M110 semiautomatic sniper rifle, and slipped it into the outer flap of his backpack.

  “I understand Kyle’s reluctance about Abby serving,” Ryan was saying, “but you were training her. Why are you dead set against it?”

  Using a red-filtered flashlight to search the dead man, Bradley said, “I hate the thought of savages shooting at her.”

  “Give me a break. They were shooting at her here.”

  “But here, I knew her status.” Bradley paused to extricate a black IRGC headband and a ring from a cargo pocket. It was a wedding band with some sort of inscription inside. He began flaking away the dried blood with his fingernail. “I just don’t want to wake up every morning wondering if Abby’s dead or alive.”

  “Well, if that’s the issue, I might have a solution for you.”

  Bradley wasn’t listening. Eyes fixed on the ring, a bitter sense of resentment was surging through him, making his entire body quake with rage.

  191A

  SINCE READING THE NAMES engraved into that wedding band, combative thoughts had been colliding in Bradley’s mind, anger versus empathy, vengeance versus mercy.

  He had been awake all night, restless and inconsolable. By 0800 hours, Bradley had dug Gramps’ grave, laid him to rest in the backyard beside the fishpond, and marked the site with a slab of granite wrested from the kitchen island. Onto it, he had chiseled: Beloved Grandfather, Brigadier General, George Anderson.

  After the burial and impromptu memorial for Laura and Dave had concluded, he set out on the three-mile hike to Fern Ridge.

  From his hillside perch overlooking the concentric-ringed neighborhood, Bradley stared at the house as he had that fateful night, this time with condemnation rather than compassion.

  Although Kyle had insisted the dead sniper was not Zaakir, Bradley was certain the bastard had steered death toward Sugar Lake. The only variable was intent.

  He knew damned well that we fed his family, that I put myself at risk to protect them. How could he betray us?

  Did he disclose the information under duress? Did the Iranians threaten his family? Take them hostage? Was the blood-encrusted ring evidence that Zaakir had been tortured?

  Or did he voluntarily trade the information for food?

  What if he was one of the savages? Maybe he died fighting alongside his jihadist brethren; maybe the Iranians were planning to return the ring to his widow.

  Then why didn’t Zaakir shoot Kyle and Dave yesterday?

  Was he disseminating those flyers to herd Americans into that death camp? His family, the suitcases—was it all just part of the ruse?

  Bradley’s gaze dropped to the brass casings scattered at his feet.

  If I hadn’t intervened that night, would Zaakir have died? Would Gramps be alive? If we hadn’t shared our food, would they have moved on, away from Sugar Lake?

  Without answers to so many crucial questions, how was he supposed to make the right decision?

  Detecting movement, Bradley’s head bobbed upward. A puffy-eyed woman exited the glass sliding door and scanned the hillside, calling Zaakir’s name. The sight of her personalized his dilemma.

  Invite her to accompany us to Camp Sunshine? Or leave her and the children to fend for themselves?

  In his mind, he could hear Gramps asking, “Would you want to be punished for the sins of your father?”

  Bradley frowned. He didn’t feel like doing the Christian thing. He was in no mood to turn the other cheek. He wanted to hold someone accountable; and to his thinking, merely walking away was a hell of a lot more charitable than sending mercenaries to their doorstep.

  He turned for home, then speaking aloud as if to justify his actions to the world, Bradley said, “Zaakir got Gramps killed. He almost got Abby killed. Screw his family! I already went out of my way twice to help them, and look where it’s gotten me.”

  192A

  Saturday, March 8th

  ABBY TOSSED AND TURNED in a fitful sleep. The battle reenacted through her subconscious on a marathon loop; and with each round, her dreaming mind tried a different course of action. The outcome never changed. After running through every option, she said, “I’m sorry, Gramps. I couldn’t save you.”

  She was startled to hear him reply, “It was my time.” Gramps’ deep, warbling voice sounded at peace; and Abby sensed his presence engulfing her like warm bathwater. Then a hand began gently rocking her shoulder. “Abby, wake up.”

  Prying open heavy eyelids, she squinted at Bradley, who was squatting beside her. Her visual range widened, and she took stock of the unfamiliar room, dimly lit by a flashlight.

  Where am I? she wondered. Then it all rushed back: burying Gramps, Uncle Dave, and Aunt Laura; leaving Sugar Lake, transporting her mother on a makeshift stretcher; hunkering down for the night in an abandoned house north of Fruitland Park. An electric current of fear cut through her, and she bolted upright, muscles stiffening, bracing for bad news. “Is my mom okay?”

  “Her fever’s holding just below a hundred,” he said, hands gripping her shoulders reassuringly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Relief slackened her tense muscles. “Is it time for my shift already?”

  “No, I—” Bradley averted his eyes. His mouth hung open. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Is this my twenty-four-hour warning?”

  “Sort of.” He paused, reaching into his pocket. “This is for you.”

  Abby’s eyes zeroed on the copper-jacketed bullet, dangling from a length of black parachute cord. “You can’t give me your hog’s tooth. I want to earn my own.”

  “You did. And in some ways, yours is more real than mine. According to superstition, only one round is destined to kill you—the one with your name on it. When you dispatch an enemy sniper, you take that round from his magazine and wear it around your neck so it can never be fired, ergo you become invincible.”

  After draping it over her head, his fingers s
kimmed slowly downward, past her elbows and along her forearms; then he clasped her hands. “As for us, I was thinking that ... If the military thought we were married, we could get status notifications. We could find each other again.”

  Caught off guard, it took Abby a moment to recover. “You want to lie to the U.S. military?”

  “Not exactly. The way I see it, two people can be committed to each other with or without some piece of paper from the government.” There was an uncharacteristic flicker of vulnerability in his hazel eyes. “I already talked to your dad. He says it’s your decision.”

  Dumbstruck, Abby wasn’t sure if she was awake or still dreaming.

  “Before you say anything, you need to understand that my future isn’t exactly rosy. There’s a laundry list of reasons why I could be court-martialed. Besides being AWOL for two weeks, I could be facing murder charges.”

  The anguish in Bradley’s expression sent her heart into free fall.

  “You gave the savages back their poisoned chocolate. And when you shot those cannibals you were defending Gramps. And my family,” she said in a raspy, yet forceful whisper. “And everybody else in the vicinity of Sugar Lake. You saved lives.”

  “Maybe.”

  Abby’s fingers glided along his stubbly jaw, beneath his chin, easing his face upward. “It doesn’t matter. I love you, Bradley. Nothing can change that.”

  He released her right hand, reached into his pocket again, and pulled out a tiny dark object. “This was my mother’s wedding band. I spray-painted it black, so it won’t reflect light.”

  His gaze floated from the ring back to Abby, and he dropped onto a knee, still holding her left hand. “I love you, Abby. Will you be my wife?”

  193A

  Wednesday, March 12th

  SURRENDERING HIS WEAPON, Bradley glanced upward at the imposing twenty-foot watchtowers surrounding Camp Sunshine. Triangular with cross-member supports, they looked like oil rigs connected by chain-link fencing topped with spiral razor wire.

  The damned death camp looked more welcoming, he thought. Did the facility feel prisonlike to everyone else? Or was his perception distorted by circumstance?

  His return to base was bittersweet. Bradley was thrilled that the civilians had made it to safety, yet disheartened that Gramps hadn’t; gung ho to reunite with his unit, yet hesitant to say good-bye to Abby; eager to end his AWOL status, yet reluctant to face the consequences of his actions.

  Cherub-faced teens clad with blue latex gloves were confiscating personal items while more seasoned Army personnel performed airport-style pat downs. A bomb-sniffing dog checked each pair of shoes and alerted on Bradley’s combat boots. Despite his uniform and military identification, his shoes were seized.

  Walking along the gravel path in socks, he swore under his breath. Ahead, a Soldier with a ruggedized laptop was processing civilians, gathering names, birth dates, and social security numbers; scanning fingerprints and logging specialized skills.

  After spewing all the required information, Kyle added, “My wife’s been shot and needs immediate medical attention.” Jessie was deathly pale. Her fever had spiked, and she’d lost consciousness hours earlier.

  “I’ll call for a stretcher,” Private Wilson said, not looking up from his computer screen. “But the surgical facility is on base, and you don’t have the clearance to accompany her. Report to the civilian clinic. They’ll keep you informed, and once she stabilizes, they’ll transfer her. Right hand, please?”

  The Private affixed a blue plasticized band on his wrist. “This identifies you as a civilian. I’ll need your wife’s hand too.”

  Bradley stepped aside to allow Eliza, Raeleah, and Zak to check in; and he forced a polite smile. He was still grappling with resentment, alternately blaming Zaakir and himself for his grandfather’s death.

  Ryan whispered, “Given the circumstances, I would’ve left their asses behind.”

  “I tried,” Bradley told him. In fact, he had made it a quarter of the way home before relenting, a decision that proved beneficial since Eliza had watched over Nikki.

  “Well, you’re a better man than I am.”

  “I didn’t do it for them ... or for Zaakir. I did it because it’s what my grandfather would’ve wanted ... Hardest damned thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Ryan met his eye. “The right thing usually is.”

  Bradley helped Nikki check in, at a loss to answer most of the questions.

  “Are you assuming the role of guardian for this child?”

  “I can’t, but Mr. and Mrs. Murphy have agreed to look after her.”

  “Her right hand, please?”

  As Bradley identified himself, medics loaded Jessie onto a stretcher. Abby kissed her mother’s cheek, face scrunching to ward off tears, then Kyle reluctantly released his wife’s hand.

  “Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews?” Private Wilson’s eyes widened like a spreading stain. His attention seesawed between Ryan and the computer screen, employing old-school facial recognition, then he began typing at a feverish rate.

  Abby approached the table; and after answering all the questions, she inserted her finger into the scanner then extended her right wrist.

  “No, Ma’am, you don’t get a band,” Wilson told her. “You’ve just been drafted. Report to the enlistment center—”

  “Her mother is gravely ill for God’s sake,” Kyle said, his voice rising with consternation. “Can’t she wait a day?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A few hours?” Kyle asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Will she be able to see her mother? To say good-bye?”

  “Mr. Murphy, this may come as a shock, but the Army doesn’t revolve around you.”

  Kyle lunged across the table, toppling the laptop, intent on choking the Private, but Ryan and Bradley intervened.

  “He’s not worth it.” Bradley gave Wilson a death stare then watched the brutal father-daughter farewell. Worry was etched in Kyle’s face, a sentiment Bradley understood—too well.

  “Webber,” Ryan bellowed, plunging a hand into his pocket. “Move a yard to your left.”

  Without question, Bradley casually sidestepped; and Ryan’s hand emerged with a blue wristband, which he surreptitiously attached to Abby’s wrist.

  He must’ve swiped it during Kyle’s outburst, Bradley thought, grinning.

  “This’ll buy you some time,” Ryan said. “And when they catch the mistake, tell them Private Wilson screwed up.”

  Overwhelmed by the gesture, Kyle muttered, “Thank you,” his handshake progressing into a backslapping hug.

  “Hey, I owe you, Rambo.”

  Kyle shook Bradley’s hand then ambushed him with a straightjacket-type hug. “We wouldn’t have survived without you,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude and sadness.

  As Kyle backed away, Abby burrowed into Bradley’s arms, then a bullhorn-amplified voice blared down from a watchtower. “You folks need to move along!”

  “Come on,” Ryan said, nudging Bradley’s shoulder. “This isn’t good-bye. You’ll see her before she ships out.”

  Will I? Bradley wondered, kissing her lightly. Or will I be in the brig?

  He waited until Abby had passed safely through the civilian checkpoint, then he and Ryan entered the military base. He gaped like a tourist, shocked by the condition of Camp Sunshine. Containerized buildings and tents bore the scars of mortars, missiles, and suicide bombers. Sooty black streaks, pockmarks, and a severed flagpole provided the backdrop for the strangest sight of all: a half dozen Military Police, each with a hand resting on their sidearm.

  Ryan broke into a sprint, feet thundering against the ground, fists pumping at his sides. “DJ, you fucking traitor!”

  * Moral Dilemma 5A *

  Path A: YES, try to snap DJ’s neck.

  Path Q: NO, trust the justice system.

  I don’t want to decide.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  ( ( ( PATH 194A ) ) )

&n
bsp; 194A

  “RYAN, DON’T!”

  He charged toward DJ, ignoring Bradley’s advice. He knew the Marine was hell-bent on stopping him and barely three paces behind, despite his lack of footwear.

  Al-Zahrani’s hand dove into his pocket.

  He heard Bradley shout, “Knife!”

  Everything slowed down.

  “I told you I’d snap your fucking neck!”

  The crack of bone punctuated his statement, and he angrily flung DJ’s lifeless body to the ground. Then panting, face flushed with rage, Ryan surveyed the closing net of Military Police and sunk onto his knees, arms raised in surrender.

  195A

  Thursday, March 13th

  TWELVE HOURS AFTER surgery, Jessie had been transferred to the civilian clinic. “Mr. Murphy, you can see her now,” the nurse said. “But just for a few minutes. She needs to rest.”

  Taking Nikki by the hand and planting an arm around Abby’s shoulder, he walked through a set of double doors into a long, narrow corridor. Jessie’s room was barely the size of a hospital elevator, partitioned by sliding curtains and modular cabinetry. She was lying on an inclined gurney, left arm immobilized, bags of fluid worming down into the back of her hand.

  When Kyle touched her cheek, Jessie’s groggy blue eyes opened. Elation and anxiety were like two freight trains colliding inside his skull. How would she take the news? “Hey, beautiful, how do you feel?”

  “Okay,” she said weakly. “Where’s Abby?”

  “Right here, Mom. And guess what?” Abby asked, sounding as if she had just won the lottery. “I’m old enough to join the Marines now. Isn’t that awesome?”

  Jessie’s eyes bored into Kyle, brimming with sudden anger.

  “They’ve uh, instituted a draft,” he told her. “Ages sixteen to forty—”

  “No, Kyle! Don’t let them take her.”

  “But Mom, I want to do this.”

  Kyle clasped Abby’s hand and Jessie’s as if he could prevent his family from being torn apart.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse said, “but she really needs to rest.”