Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  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.

  191B

  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 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.”

  192B

  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 and Aunt Laura; leaving Sugar Lake; hunkering down for the night in an abandoned house north of Fruitland Park. She bolted upright, muscles stiffening. “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 skimmed 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 me,” 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?”

  193B

  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 bitterswee
t. 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 friend’s been shot and needs immediate medical attention.” They had been carrying Dave for the last twenty miles because his fever had spiked, and he was fading in and out of consciousness.

  “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 him. Report to the civilian clinic. They’ll keep you informed, and once he stabilizes, they’ll transfer him. Right hand, please?”

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

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

  “Mr. Murphy, are you assuming the role of guardian for this child?”

  “Looks that way,” Kyle told him.

  “Her right hand, please?”

  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.”

  As Bradley identified himself, medics loaded Dave onto a stretcher. Abby kissed her Uncle’s forehead while Kyle assured him that he was going to be fine.

  “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.

  Ryan offered Kyle his hand, and the handshake progressed into a backslapping hug. “Thanks again for saving my ass, Rambo. I owe you one.”

  “You should thank Bradley. He’s the one who got shot,” Kyle said, simultaneously deflecting the credit and ambushing Bradley with a straightjacket-type hug. “We wouldn’t have survived without you.”

  “Who’s next?” Private Wilson demanded, seemingly annoyed by the heartfelt good-byes.

  Abby approached the table, and after answering all his questions, she inserted her finger into the scanner.

  “You’ve just been drafted,” Wilson told her. “Report to the enlistment center.”

  Bradley could see the worry etched in Kyle’s face, a sentiment he understood—too well.

  Eyes clenched, lips pursed, father and daughter embraced, neither speaking for minutes.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad, I promise ... I love you. 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.”

  Abby withdrew from her father’s hug, eyes dewy with tears, and walked toward Bradley. His arms enveloped her, and as if on cue, 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?

  “I hope Ryan’s right,” Abby whispered, “because I can’t handle another good-bye right now.” She marched toward the draftee checkpoint, then Bradley heard Kyle shout, “Hey, Abby ... ? Semper Fi!”

  Her face lit up into a brilliant smile, energy sparkled in her blue eyes, and Bradley memorized every subtle nuance. It was an image he would cling to—every time he started to worry.

  Once she moved beyond view, he followed Ryan through the gates of the military base, gaping 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 5B *

  Path B: YES, try to snap DJ’s neck.

  Path U: NO, trust the justice system.

  I don’t want to decide.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  ( ( ( PATH 194B ) ) )

  194B

  “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.

  195B SKIPPED

  196B

  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,” Andre
ws 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.”