Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “We just need a minute to say good-bye,” Kyle told her, and the word good-bye provoked a deluge of tears from Jessie.

  “I’ll be okay, Mom.” Abby kissed her mother’s forehead. “I love you ... Remember that every day.”

  Kyle watched his daughter leave with Nikki before braving his wife’s glare.

  “You knew about this and brought her here anyway, didn’t you?”

  “I couldn’t lose you,” he said, softly stroking the side of her face. “I’ll explain later. Right now, you need to rest.” Kyle kissed her then hurried from the room to catch up with Abby. He watched his daughter lift a pair of scissors from the nurses’ station, and as she cut the blue wristband, he felt like she had sliced through his heart.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad, I promise.”

  Kyle clamped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his lips as if that might forestall the next round of tears. Abby consoled him with one more parting hug. Eyes clenched, lips pursed, they embraced, neither speaking for minutes.

  “I love you, Dad ... Remember that every time you start to worry.”

  “You think I’ll ever stop?” Kyle’s voice was a choked sob. “I love you too ... I miss you already.”

  As she walked away, he summoned his voice. “Hey, Abby ... ?”

  Without breaking stride, she glanced back.

  “Semper Fi!”

  Her face lit up into a genuine smile, energy sparkled in her blue eyes, and he memorized every subtle nuance. It was an image he would cling to ... Every day.

  196A

  Friday, March 14th

  CAPTAIN RODRIGUEZ’ FINGER hovered over the mouse, hesitant to e-mail his findings to his commanding officer. He had spent sleepless hours contemplating the situation. Was he making the right decision?

  A tentative knock disrupted his thoughts. “Enter.”

  “Lance Corporal Bradley Webber reporting as ordered, sir.” He closed the door and stood at attention, his expression stoic and serene, not the demeanor of a man facing court-martial.

  “Two incidents detailed in your report are not obvious cases of self-defense. The cannibals and the poisoned jihadists—they could result in murder charges. Do you have anything to say, Lance Corporal?”

  Webber’s facial reaction remained neutral. His pallid complexion glistened with a skim coat of sweat. “I did what I believed was right, sir.”

  Rodriguez didn’t doubt that. Why else would the kid have divulged every time he’d discharged a weapon? He had volunteered damning evidence that, frankly, never would have been uncovered.

  Rodriguez shuffled through a printed copy of his report, stalling, deliberately letting the Lance Corporal consider the charges until another knock resounded.

  He barked, “Enter,” and two MPs escorted a prisoner into the room.

  “Uncuff him then leave us.”

  Andrews and Webber stood at attention, facing forward, but their eyes darted sideways, surprised by the other’s presence.

  Rodriguez read a list of charges that included the murders of Juan Rivera, Victor Olenti, and Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. “Do you have anything to say, Staff Sergeant?”

  “I did not kill Rivera and Olenti, sir.”

  Rodriquez cleared his throat. “Both of your written reports referenced a Rambo and a Squirt. Who are these people?”

  “They aren’t responsible,” Andrews said. “We are, sir.”

  Rodriguez shot forward in his chair. “These are my official findings. Approximately ten days after the EMP, Lance Corporal Bradley Webber commandeered a pickup truck for the purpose of returning to base. On the twenty-seventh of February, he was fired upon by enemy combatants near an Astatula warehouse, and he dispatched six members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Tainted food belonging to the truck’s owner resulted in the deaths of five additional jihadists.”

  Webber’s face pinched in confusion, and Rodriguez continued, “On the third of March at Haywood Field, with the assistance of a civilian, code-named Squirt, Webber dispatched eighteen enemy combatants and neutralized a Patriot missile battery along with other stolen U.S. weaponry. On the fifth of March, still en route to base, he observed Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews being held captive. With the assistance of a civilian, code-named Rambo, he conducted a successful rescue and sustained a gunshot wound during the firefight.”

  Rodriguez stole a glance at the Lance Corporal as he turned the page. A hint of color had returned to his puzzled face. “Continuing toward Camp Sunshine, Webber discovered an extermination camp in Tavares. Acting in concert with Andrews and Rambo, he neutralized the facility, saving countless American lives.”

  Rodriguez lifted a bottle of water from his desk, guzzled half, then reached for his report on Andrews.

  Stunned, Webber said, “That’s it, sir?”

  “You were fortunate to have a compelling character witness.” Rodriguez rifled through his papers for a letter written on a napkin then read aloud, “To the Commander of Camp Sunshine: At a time when Islamic terrorists were executing Americans on their front lawns, Bradley Webber went out of his way to help my Muslim family. He has been our guardian angel, defending us when we couldn’t protect ourselves, feeding us when we were starving. Even when it became evident that my husband betrayed his kindness, he still escorted my children and me to the safety of Camp Sunshine. He is a man of integrity, and I want his commanding officer to know that. Sincerely, Mrs. Zaakir Abbas.”

  Webber’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.

  “Lance Corporal, your report was unacceptable, rife with unnecessary detail. Rewrite it and have it on my desk by 1400 hours.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  Rodriguez traded the letter for his report on Andrews. “On the fourth of March, in the midst of a firefight, Sergeants Victor Olenti and Juan Rivera were murdered by Corporal Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews was shot with a tranquilizer dart and taken prisoner. On the fifth of March, Andrews was rescued by Lance Corporal Bradley Webber with the assistance of a civilian, code-named Rambo. I’ll skip the paragraph regarding Tavares since it’s the same,” Rodriguez told him. “Upon returning to Camp Sunshine, Andrews was arrested for killing Al-Zahrani, who—at the time of death—was attempting to detonate an improvised explosive device hidden inside the base medical center. Andrews acted in self-defense, saving an untold number of Soldiers ... Got lucky on that one, didn’t you, Andrews?”

  “Evidently, sir,” he replied, unable to contain his astonishment.

  “Your suspicions about Al-Zahrani were well founded. A satellite phone in his possession has implicated him in multiple traitorous acts, including the deaths of Olenti and Rivera.” Rodriguez hesitated, haunted by a revolting question.

  Would those men be alive if I had launched an investigation?

  “The phone also connected Al-Zahrani to a group of IRGC operatives and a sleeper cell of cousins who referred to themselves as the special forces of jihad. Effective immediately, I am restoring your rank as Master Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Both of you will be discharged from your current assignments and sent to Texas for TEradS training. This new Terrorist Eradication Squad has been sanctioned by a presidential executive order to operate on U.S. soil, rooting out terrorists from the civilian population—a skill you both have demonstrated.”

  Rodriguez let the printed copy of the report drop onto his desk. “Now, back to Rambo and Squirt.”

  “Rambo is beyond draft age, sir,” Andrews said.

  “Retired military?”

  “Retired baseball player, Kyle Murphy, sir.”

  Rodriguez did not bother hiding his disappointment. “What about this Squirt who dispatched a sniper team? Is he of draft age?”

  Webber was battling a grin and losing. “Yes, she is. Abigail Webber, my wife, sir.”

  Rodriguez’ head bobbed forward. “She’s here? At Camp Sunshine?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Andrews added, “Mrs. Webber is co
mmitted to becoming a Marine Corps Sniper, sir.”

  Rodriguez paused to send the e-mail then said, “Lance Corporal, you’ve been through Scout Sniper School. You think she’s got what it takes?”

  197A

  Saturday, March 15th

  KYLE GRABBED A CAFETERIA tray and ushered Nikki into the queue of civilians awaiting tonight’s dinner entrée, vegetable-beef soup with rice.

  Two days had passed since he’d said good-bye to Abby, and the ache was not subsiding. It struck like a sucker punch every time he glanced at Jessie, mother and daughter looked so much alike.

  At least his wife had forgiven him for withholding the news about the draft. This time he had managed to bypass her notorious stubborn streak by asking the proper question: What would you have done if I had needed surgery?

  The line slinked forward, and a worker ladled a translucent soup into bowls. Kyle got Nikki settled at a picnic table and silently said grace, grateful for the meal and for Jessie’s recovery. She would be released from the clinic tomorrow; and on Wednesday, they would board a bus bound for Texas, where they would build a completely new life. The thought was exhilarating and terrifying. How would he support Jessie and Nikki? Baseball skills were useless, and although he had owned the car dealership, his managers had run the business. He stared into his soup, stirring it as if divining the future.

  Three tables to his left, Kyle heard a man griping about the food. He had hornlike patches of gray hair at the temple, a dark bushy mustache, and drooping jowls; features that created the aura of a senile bulldog.

  “You think they’re eating this slop on that side of the fence?” the man shouted, thrusting an accusing finger toward the military base. “And what if I don’t want to go to Texas?”

  Murmurs swirled underscoring the tension. A Military Policeman nervously scanned the room, speaking into his radio.

  “I say no!” The Bulldog hurled his bowl of soup against the canvas wall of the tent then leapt onto the tabletop. “No to eating slop! No to slaving in some Texas factory!” He paced, arms swooping upward like a crazed musical conductor. “Just say no!”

  Kyle’s restraint splintered. Climbing onto his own table, he shouted, “If my sixteen-year-old daughter can grab a rifle to defend this nation, you can work to make sure she has bullets!”

  “I say no to the draft!”

  “And yes to the terrorists? Mister, you’d better get clear on who the enemy is ... because it is not the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marines!”

  People began to clap and cheer.

  A half dozen MPs were encircling the Bulldog. He kicked and spat at them, screaming, “What happened to free speech?” He attempted to instigate a chant, unsuccessfully, and once he had been handcuffed, two MPs started toward Kyle.

  “If you want your life back,” Kyle shouted at the crowd, “you’d better get off your asses and fight for it! Because the military can’t do this alone. Right now, you have the power to make or break this country. Which side are you on?”

  Face flushed, mouth dry as sawdust, Kyle stepped down and swiped his water bottle from the table. Nikki was gawking at him, wide-eyed and on the verge of tears.

  “Sir, you need to come with us,” a Military Policeman bellowed above boisterous chants of, “U-S-A!”

  Knowing he had done nothing wrong, Kyle grasped the five-year-old by the hand and followed the MPs along the outer wall of the tent. An officer with a mosaic of ribbons on his uniform waited outside the doorway.

  “Captain Carlos Rodriguez,” he said, offering a hand. His gaze felt like a silent cross-examination, probing and intimidating. “That was quite a speech, Mister ... ?”

  “Murphy. Kyle Murphy.”

  The Soldier’s face spread into a strange smile as if they were old friends. “So you’re the infamous Rambo?”

  Taken aback, Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Captain?”

  “I’ve been looking for a civilian leader,” Rodriguez told him. “Someone who can motivate and organize people to rebuild society. Mr. Murphy, I think you’re the guy.”

  198A

  Monday, March 17th

  BRADLEY WAS AT THE main gate when the draftees emerged, forty-nine glum faces and one glowing like sunshine. Dressed in an Army PT uniform, Abby jogged toward him, her blonde hair sheared off at chin level, bouncing as she moved.

  “They cut your hair?” he asked, fingers combing the loose waves that framed her face. He wanted to remember the silky feel.

  “No, I did.” She presented him with a five-inch braid of hair, fastened with rubber bands at both ends. “I have your ring. I wanted you to have something.”

  Bradley clutched the braid in his left hand and pulled her against him.

  Kissing his cheek, Abby whispered, “How’d it go with Captain Rodriguez?”

  “No charges, no court-martial.”

  “Thank God he wasn’t as bad as Ryan made him out to be.”

  “I think he feels guilty for ignoring Ryan’s warning about Al-Zahrani. He transferred both of us to a new branch of the military called TEradS, so we’ll be hunting down savages here, in the U.S. And Rodriguez said that if you excel in Basic Training, he’ll recommend you for Scout Sniper School.”

  “You told him about me?” Abby stepped back, excitement glimmering in her eyes. “That’s awesome!”

  Bradley didn’t mention that as an underage draftee, she couldn’t be assigned combat duty without parental consent. The government—anticipating that ninety percent of the U.S. population would perish within a year—had begun inducting sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in an effort to keep them alive and preserve the country’s future Soldiers. Bradley grinned, thinking the situation couldn’t have worked out better. Abby would have all the protection of the military—food, shelter, and security—without the risk. At least for the next two years.

  He could hear the bus approaching. Its tires crunched and popped against the gravel road surface, and he felt like the steel-belted treads were rolling over his chest.

  “Thanks, Bradley ... I know it wasn’t easy for you to subdue those overprotective instincts.”

  Offering an innocent smile, he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A Private with a clipboard exited the bus and began calling out names, an alphabetical countdown that made Bradley ache. Caressing Abby’s cheek, he drew her closer. He wanted to compress everything he felt for her into a single kiss, and sear it into her memory. He wanted the bond between them to strengthen her, to carry her through the difficult days ahead.

  Names zipped past, and he held her tighter, not wanting to let go.

  “Webber?” the Private shouted.

  Not acclimated to her “married name,” Abby didn’t react; and Bradley pulled back, grinning at her.

  “Webber, Abigail?” the Private repeated.

  “Oh, that’s me.” A rosy hue seeped into her cheeks.

  “Saying good-bye sucks even more than I thought it would,” Bradley said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “But this is something I really want to do.”

  Was that supposed to make it easier? It didn’t, but he knew he had to let go.

  Bradley watched her walk toward the bus, feeling as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest, then he shouted, “I love you, Squirt!”

  Abby glanced over her shoulder and flashed that adorable, pissed-off pout, the one that always made him smile. “I love you more, Sexy!”

  Then a bizarre feeling of calm spread through him.

  We will be together again, Bradley decided. Because the good Lord always provides.

  * * Change of Heart(5A)? * *

  YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 5A

  NO ... This is the End of Book One

  WARNING: Paging forward will take you into a different story path.

  The Powerless Series continues:

  EMPowered: America Re-Energized

  Power Play: America’s Fate

  Mind Power: America Awakens<
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  ( ( ( DAY 8B ) ) )

  Friday, February 21st

  50B

  “TAKE—TAKE WHATEVER YOU want,” Kyle said, his voice shaking more than his hands. “Just don’t hurt my wife.”

  “I need Oxy.” The man’s eyes darted wildly above grim, sunken crescents that made him appear demonic. His grip was crushing Jessie’s airway. She was gasping.

  “I ... uh ... um ... Our neighbor ... at the end of the street ... I think he—he has some,” Kyle blathered, hoping to lure the addict away from Jessie.

  Rage darkened the man’s features. “You think I’m stupid?”

  “No! I—”

  “You’re gonna be cleaning Blondie’s brains off the floor!”

  “I love you, Kyle,” Jessie said, her voice eerily calm.

  “No! Don’t you say good-bye!”

  Tears streamed down her face, glistening in the faint light. She was in mortal danger and all he could do was stand there. Powerless.

  “Tell Abby I love her ... Make sure she knows—”

  A vicious crack reverberated throughout the house.

  “N-o-o-o!” Kyle couldn’t hear his own voice.

  He watched her head jerk.

  A mist of blood spurted like a ghostly halo and her body sank toward the floor.

  Feeling like his heart was being extracted through his nose, Kyle ran to her. His hand cupped the side of her head, drawing her to his chest. Then feeling the wetness against his palm, he began sobbing uncontrollably.

  51B

  SARAH KHALID AL-DOSSARI was a flight deck crew member aboard the U.S.S. Stellate aircraft carrier. Each specific job was denoted by a color-coded uniform; and as an aviation fuel handler, Sarah wore a purple deck jersey, float coat, and helmet along with navy blue pants, which indicated her rank as a Junior Sailor.

  Two of her cousins had already executed their missions flawlessly, but Omar Roshan Al-Kahtani had fallen short—as usual. The desalination attack had been a dismal waste of thermite since backup pumps had been installed and fully operational within twenty-four hours, barely a hiccup.