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.
99B
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.”
100B
ABBY HAD BEEN AT overwatch since sunrise, grappling with anxiety, anger, and exhaustion.
Last night, in the solitude of her room, it had begun with a tremor in her right hand and spread until her entire body was trembling. The peculiar energy jolted through her nervous system, agitated her stomach, and triggered an overwhelming nausea.
Abby had staggered into the bathroom, emotions rearing like a tsunami, destructive and unstoppable. She wretched, wanting desperately to purge the grief, the fear, but only managed to expel a bitter, scorching acid.
The bout of vomiting had only angered her more. Stop acting like a child, she’d scolded herself. Don’t prove Dad right.
Then a damning question had rattled her to the core. What if my reaction’s not age-related? Everyone says that women are more emotional than men. How can I become a Sniper if I can’t control my emotions?
Self-doubt and self-condemnation had kept her awake all night, a fact that was not lost on Bradley when he’d stopped by overwatch earlier that morning.
“You look well rested,” he’d said facetiously. “Rough night?”
“Nasty argument with my dad,” she’d told him, trying to explain away her bloodshot eyes and pale complexion.
“Was that before or after you puked?” he’d asked, extending a clear bottle filled with orange liquid. “Gatorade. To replace your electrolytes.”
Realizing that lying was futile, she had accepted the bottle and downed a quarter of it. “Just for the record, I don’t regret shooting them. The only guilt I feel is for my total lack of remorse ... I mean, what does that make me? A heartless bitch? A cold-blooded murderer?”
“Not at all. You did, what you had to do. And you don’t need to shed any tears for terrorists ... But that’s not what’s really bothering you, is it?”
Abby had resumed scanning the hillside, signaling the discussion was over. Bradley had casually reclined against a tree trunk, silently informing her that he wasn’t leaving without an answer.
Irritated by her inability to camouflage her feelings, she’d muttered, “Not very Sniperlike, huh? Pull the trigger and lose your lunch.”
“Happens more than you think, Squirt.”
Her gaze had snapped toward him. “Yeah? And did you puke, Sexy?”
Self-reproach had seeped into his hazel eyes; his head tilted away from her.
“Oh my God, you did? Didn’t you?”
“The first time ... And you’re enjoying that information way too much ...”
Bradley had unknowingly dissolved Abby’s shame and dispelled her greatest fear—that as a female, she wouldn’t be emotionally tough enough to become a Sniper.
He’s always there when I need him, she thought. How can I get my dad to see that? And stop acting like Bradley’s the enemy?
At noon, Gramps relieved Abby from overwatch. She lingered until he had recovered from the steep climb then tentatively said, “Gramps, could you talk to my dad? He’s being so unfair, treating me like a child, wigging out just because I kissed Bradley.”
He hesitated as if some unseen force had drained his energy. “Abby, your father loves you and only wants the best for you.”
She kicked at the bed of pine needles beneath her shoe, missing her mother, the family peacekeeper who had advocated for Abby and gently coaxed her into recognizing when she was wrong.
“Come on, Gramps. Bradley’s your grandson. You know he’s a good guy.”
“And so does your father. He just doesn’t want you rushing into anything. After all, you’re only sixteen.”
“But I may not live to see eighteen.”
“Abigail, are you trying to break an old man’s heart?” he asked with a droll smile.
“It’s true, Gramps. There are no guarantees anymore.”
Disappointment flickered in his blue eyes. “Uncertainty about the future is no reason to live carelessly in the present.”
“Kissing Bradley wasn’t careless. Not compared to eating a chocolate bar or standing too close to a four-year-old.”
“Abby, I wish I could help, but it’s just not my place to come between a father and his daughter. Besides, part of being an adult is having to solve your own problems. If I interceded with your father, then I’d be treating you like a child.”
101
B
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 over 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?
102B
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, and Kyle’s thoughts reverted to Jessie, to happy times spent on the water—cruises, water skiing, surfing in Hawaii, snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef. He smiled at the memory, for the first time looking back with gratitude rather than grief.
I’m still luckier than most, he thought. I had twenty wonderful years with the love of my life.
“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 daughter’s not eating tonight.”
( ( ( 52% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 15B ) ) )
Friday, February 28th
103B
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! If I’m adult enough for overwatch and shooting savages, I’m adult enough to have a relationship with Bradley.”
Kyle stopped abruptly. “Abigail, this 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 George with the garden.”
“He’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 s
he 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?”
Kyle muttered, “God, I wish her mother was here,” then began walking.
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?”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 45
