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 committed 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?”
197B
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.
Three days had passed since he’d said good-bye to Abby, and the ache was not subsiding. He didn’t feel like eating or socializing. He was going through the motions for a little girl who was sullen, irritable, and frightened—just like him.
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, appreciating the meal and praying for Abby’s safety.
Dave 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 depressing and terrifying. How would he support his adopted daughter? 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.”
198B
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(5B)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 5B
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
( ( ( PATH 71C ) ) )
71C
STANDING AT ATTENTION beside Captain Zugarra, Ryan shuddered inwardly as the honor guard carried the flag-draped transfer case from the aircraft. He choked down bitterness as abrasive as barbed wire against his throat. Grief and wrath were interlocked in a destructive feedback loop, emotion fueling emotion, Marcos’ death compounding the loss of Dannel four days earlier.
Fists clenched, teeth gnashed, Ryan couldn’t contain it much longer. He craved a dark, desolate corner where he could fall apart, and a bottle of rum to wash away the pieces.
The honor guard disappeared from view.
Zugarra whispered, “My office. One hour,” and walked away before Ryan could reply.
He groaned, in no mood for Army red tape. After dropping off his gear, Ryan took a long shower, tears mingling with the spray of lukewarm water. He dawdled into a clean set of fatigues and looked in on Mike before finally heading to command quarters.
He entered Zugarra’s office and stood at attention, anxious to get this over with, eager to become reacquainted with his other captain—Captain Morgan.
“Master Sergeant Andrews reporting as ordered, sir.”
“I know it’s been a rough week with the loss of Sergeants Thews and Mettle,” Zugarra said, “and it won’t be getting any easier.”
“Permission to speak, sir?”
The Captain rocked back against his chair, four prominent creases visible on his forehead. “Granted.”
“How can an army prevail if its soldiers can’t trust military-issued food, sir?”
“Your concerns are justified and duly noted.” Zugarra’s chin jutted forward. “Is it true your team dispatched five civilians in Savannah?”
Fucking DJ, Ryan thought. “We were fired upon by men that I presumed to be the ghost attackers, sir.”
A hint of a fifth crease sprouted on Zugarra’s forehead. “Did they fire at you? Or the fucking doorknob of the house you happened to be in?”
“At the time, I believed they were firing at me, sir.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Zugarra shouted, crease number five blooming into full maturity. “I know exactly what you did, Andrews. You defied my orders and broke rules of engagement. I’m busting you two levels of rank. Sergeant First Class Michael Bays will take over as team leader. And if we weren’t so damned short-staffed, you’d be on standdown.”
“Yes, sir.”
Demoted for killing bad guys and saving Americans? Ryan’s mind plunged into vertigo. Right was wrong, wrong was right. Nothing made sense.
“Your team is being redeployed to Camp Sunshine, a temporary base in Florida. You leave at 0400 hours.”
“I respectfully request to be removed from DJ Al-Zahrani’s team, sir.”
“De-nied. And since the Corporal expressed concerns about retribution,” Zugarra said, anger giving birth to an unprecedented sixth crease. “Make sure he doesn’t trip or walk into any walls.”
( ( ( 39% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 11C ) ) )
Monday, February 24th
72C
RELUCTANTLY, BRADLEY entered the screened room. “Morning, Kyle.”
Abby’s father peered above a timeworn photo album. “Hey, Bradley, what can I do for you?”
He groped for the right words, despite his mental practice drills. “I was uh ... thinking about taking Abby with me today, letting her get some experience on patrol.”
“Is Will going?”
“No. I think his family needs him here today.”
Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes shut, spurning the request. “Is this about training Abby or romancing her?”
The words struck with the finesse of a sledgehammer.
“Look, Bradley, I remember what it’s like to be twenty. When I first met Jessie, I concocted my share of excuses to hang out with her.”
“It’s not a freaking date. I’m trying to teach Abby to defend herself.”
“Because I can’t defend my family?” Kyle’s tone was edged with insecurity and indignation.
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
A shadow of shame crossed Kyle’s face. His eyes dropped to the album, now in his lap. “Go ahead, Bradley. Just go.”
He hurried toward the door, feeling a surprising degree of empathy. Bradley remembered feeling powerless at the elementary school, unable to save a stranger; being unable to save your own wife had to be exponentially worse.
Thank God Abby had the guts to pull the trigger, he thought.
Bradley found her reclined against a queen palm near the garage. She tossed an object straight up with a backhand motion, causing it to spin. Bradley’s eyes widened. The shape, the color, the size, the way it tumbled—it looked like a grenade.
Abby caught it, yanked the pin, and lobbed it at him.
He nonchalantly snagged the black metallic ball with his left hand. It was a real grenade; its bottom cut away, the explosives removed. “Where the hell did you get this?”
“The Internet. Same website as my knife.” Abby gestured for him to return it, and he grudgingly complied. “My dad will definitely fall for this,” she said, laughter in her voice as she reset the pin. “Daddy, look what Bradley gave me.”
“Don’t you dare. I’m already on his shit list.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
Bradley quelled a ripple of guilt. “Long story. Grab your rifle. You’re going out on patrol.”
73C
INSIDE THE MURPHYS’ guest room, Will awoke to his infant daughter’s cries. He
roused his wife and coaxed her into nursing the baby, then turned his attention to Billy. Gently, he inserted the thermometer beneath his son’s tongue and counted off the minutes.
“Heather, the fever’s gone!” Joyful tears welled, and he bowed his head, thankful for the miracle.
Doubting his diagnosis, she pressed a palm to Billy’s forehead. A preening smile engulfed her face, and she kissed the sleeping toddler. “Mommy would never let anything happen to you.”
Will rolled his eyes then walked into the lanai.
“How’s Billy?” Kyle asked, setting aside an old photo album.
Will shared the miraculous news, eyes welling again, then walked to the pool, dipped his handkerchief in the water, and began wiping his face and neck.
“That’s fantastic,” Kyle said, relief bubbling in his tone. “You know, in a couple of hours there’ll be warm water, and you can take a shower.”
Will’s gaze traveled upward to the plumbing configuration then fixed on the manual pump. “Do you have a bike in the garage?”
Shaking his head, the color seemed to drain from Kyle’s face. “Abby had one, but it’s down at the high school. Why?”
“A bike’s gear ratio would make it easier to get the water up to the roof.
74C
“HEY, BRADLEY, I, UH,” Abby stammered. “I’m sorry for putting you in a bad position.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, attention focused on the terrain ahead.
“If I knew what I was doing, you could report for duty.”
He stiffened. Angst shone in his hazel eyes. “Don’t apologize for circumstances you have no control over. I happened to be home when the EMP hit, so I figure God wants me here for a reason.”
Abby weighed his words then said, “Being AWOL, I think that’s tantamount to throwing yourself onto a grenade to save Gramps.”
An inkling of a smile touched Bradley’s lips. “You’re supposed to be patrolling, Squirt. Not chatting.”
“Yes, sir. Sexy, sir!”
He stopped abruptly and did an about-face. “Do not call me that!”
“That’s your new nickname,” she told him. “Every time you call me Squirt; I call you Sexy!”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 61
