“Only if you count video games,” she said with a guilty grin. “But I have read a bunch of books on mil-dot scopes and holdover. Unfortunately, book knowledge only gets you so far.”
Bradley walked away thinking it had gotten her further than most.
87C
WILL WATCHED BRADLEY ascend the hillside, still marveling at the degree of restraint his best friend had shown after discovering Heather’s treachery. Without uttering a word, the Marine had marched out of the house, and Will had been too embarrassed to show up at the Murphys’ house for dinner.
“Will, nobody’s blaming you,” Bradley said. “Your dinner is still in the lanai. Go eat.”
The sinking sensation returned to Will’s empty stomach. “My family consumed way more than our fair share of food, yesterday—”
“Don’t punish yourself for the sins of your wife. And besides, you’re no good to anyone if you’re too weak to work.”
“Point taken.” Will attempted to surrender the M1A.
“We use an AR-10 during daylight hours,” Bradley said, shrugging the weapon off his shoulder. “But since you’re headed to the lanai—to eat—can you plug the nightscope and walkie-talkie into the inverter so they can recharge?”
“Consider it done.”
After making good on his word, Will went home to check on the kids. Heather was nursing Suzanne; and Billy, awakened by his sister’s crying, was kicking his miniature soccer ball around the master bedroom. Will gave chase, drawing giggles from his son.
“Will, why don’t you take him outside to play for a few minutes while I finish up?” Heather asked, yawning.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, sweeping Billy off his feet, tickling him.
“Come back in five minutes and get Suzanne. So I can get some sleep.”
“You realize that I’m the one who was awake all night, covering your overwatch shift, right?”
“Come on, Will. Be a father for a couple hours. It won’t kill you ... Although, last time it almost killed Billy.”
He stared at her for a beat, wondering why he hadn’t left her in Georgia, then carried Billy out the door.
88C
AMED KHALID AL-DOSSARI had been transferred to Camp Sunshine in response to a rash of convoy attacks. Diesel, generators, weapons, and ammunition—supplies destined for the temporary Army base had been pilfered during the past week.
Amed’s job was to monitor, detect, and eliminate threats from miles away and miles above, using an unmanned aerial vehicle known as a Predator drone. It was a tedious job, staring incessantly at computer monitors, scanning the live video feed for ambush indicators; but that boredom was about to end.
Allah had reunited Amed with one of his cousins, effectively magnifying the damage the special forces of jihad could inflict upon the Great Satan.
He looked askance at Simon, the drone Pilot who shared his containerized office space. Then he rose to his feet, stepped behind his chair, and rotated his arms as if stretching. Simon’s eyes remained focused on his monitor.
Right hand slinking into his pocket, Amed extracted a coiled length of razor wire. His arms swung upward above his head. His thumbs slipped through the metal rings at either end, unraveling the wire.
A layer of righteous sweat filmed his face, his neck.
Wrists crossed, the razor wire formed a loop and plunged over Simon’s head before the unsuspecting Pilot could react.
Amed’s elbows sprung outward.
The wire sliced through muscles, arteries, and nerves, nearly decapitating him. Then Amed yanked the bloody corpse from the chair and seized control of the drone, which prowled thousands of feet above a six-vehicle convoy en route to Camp Sunshine.
He studied the live video feed; and once the lead vehicle arrived at the preordained location, he unleashed a Hellfire missile which reduced a transport truck to a ball of fire. Jihadists on the ground loosed an avalanche of bullets and rocket-propelled grenades. Americans exited their vehicles, using them for cover—just as Amed anticipated. A second well-placed Hellfire missile butchered a dozen Soldiers.
The firefight raged. A handful of surviving Americans fought viciously, martyring more than half the jihadist fighters. And they might have prevailed, if not for an embedded sleeper, a fuel truck driver who drew his Army-issued sidearm and shot the Americans from behind while they contended with the ambush.
“Allahu Akbar!” Amed hissed, watching jihadists commandeer high-tech weapons of immense tactical value.
89C
ABBY WAS IN THE LANAI with Gramps, her parents, Will, and Billy when Bradley’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. “There’s a preschool-aged kid walking up Sugar Lake Road; could be a trap.”
Gramps’ brow knitted. “Jessie, take Billy into the storage room. You’ll be safe down there.”
Abby grabbed her rifle and raced through the house, up the interior stairs, and out the front door, taking cover behind a square concrete portico column. Everyone had an assigned position. With Bradley at overwatch, Abby’s dad was stationed on Gramps’ front porch, while Will and Gramps guarded the rear of each property.
Torturous seconds of silence ticked by, the calm before the chaos. Why would a kid that age be wandering alone? Was it a trap? What kind of person would use their own child as human bait?
With quivering legs, Abby dropped to a knee and took a deliberate breath, trying to quell the gush of adrenaline.
The boy entered her field of view. Light-brown hair, pale complexion, hugging a furry blue monster—the kid looked scared witless. His gaze swept as though searching for someone. He sat down on the driveway apron and shouted, “Mommy? Daddy? Where are you?”
The fear and yearning in his little voice spurred sympathy and animosity.
Damn them for using a kid—
A slamming door dissolved Abby’s thought. She turned, rifle barrel pivoting like the needle on a compass. Will’s wife was marching down the Levins’ driveway, the baby carrier swinging with each stride. “Will? Where the hell are you? You promised to take Suzanne, so I could sleep!”
The boy with the stuffed monster jumped up and began running toward her.
Abby shouted, “Heather, go home—”
“Abby, you need to mind your own business! Will ... ?”
“I’m serious, Heather. You could get hurt.”
The preschooler closed within a yard, then there was a flash.
A puff of bluish-black smoke.
A booming explosion.
Abby blinked and squinted, trying to focus her disbelieving eyes on the surreal scene. The baby carrier bounded hard against the asphalt and landed upside down. Heather and the boy were crumpled heaps on the street, their bleeding bodies ravaged by a shower of metal pellets that mottled the roadway. A four-year-old suicide bomber? With a stuffed animal bomb?
Gunshots began resounding from the west. Bradley was engaging someone on Sugar Lake Road, hidden from view by the four-foot berm.
Drawing a slow breath, her eyes glided eastward. Three men in jeans and polo shirts were creeping down the hillside toward the Levins’ house, AK-47s at the ready. Abby watched their crouched advance, patiently waiting for them to reach the driveway—level ground.
Abby’s first round struck the lead man in the chest; her second, a perfect duplicate. Crosshairs on the third man, he dropped to the ground before she could fire.
Holy shit, she thought, my dad pulled the trigger!
A spate of bullets splattered above Abby’s head.
She flung herself behind the column. Her entire body felt like it was expanding and contracting with her rapid heartbeat. Where the hell did that barrage come from? Are they closing on my position?
Abby peeked around the column and detected movement higher on the hillside. Dressed in camouflage, two gunmen were backtracking toward the peak, a high probability location on Bradley’s index card. Although Abby had memorized the scope adjustments, this would be more complicated than ceramic plates. These targets
were moving ... and shooting back.
She made an educated guess, leading to the right, gauging the elevation increase, and the bullet struck behind the man’s feet, succeeding only in making him move faster.
Damn it!
Abby adjusted the lead and holdover.
Fired again.
Another miss.
Damn it!
Her third shot nailed the back of his thigh, causing him to slip. Finally, he had stopped moving. The fourth round penetrated between his shoulder blades.
The other gunman ducked into the tree cover and crested the hill. Was he retreating? Trying to get a line of fire on her? Or worse, sneaking in behind Bradley?
A fierce sense of helplessness rushed through her. Gramps had the walkie-talkie. She had no way of warning Bradley.
Abby darted to the other column and scouted the ridgeline. Would the terrorist be moving when he popped up? What if she couldn’t hit him? What if he shoots Bradley?
Competition, she told herself, banishing the possibility of failure from her mind.
She adjusted her scope and surveilled the crest in a life-or-death game of peekaboo amongst the trees.
Bradley continued to exchange fire with attackers obscured by the contour of the land.
Peripherally, Abby could see bullet strikes shredding oak leaves thirty feet above him.
They can’t shoot uphill either.
She glimpsed motion. The top of the man’s head was protruding above the crest. He was a tiny lump between a window of tree trunks with a black headband encircling his forehead.
Abby waited, an inexplicable calm overtaking her.
The gunman crawled forward, attention divided between Abby’s former location and Bradley’s position.
His rifle inched upward, aligned toward overwatch.
Abby fired.
The round struck six inches in front of him, kicking up sand.
She nudged the barrel higher.
Squeezed.
Her second round burrowed through his black headband.
Relieved, she exhaled audibly, a cross between a sigh and a stifled laugh; then she turned toward Bradley. Fully automatic rounds had migrated down from the treetops, dousing the overwatch with a relentless spray of lead. Bradley was pinned down under suppressing fire, most likely for the benefit of the gunman she had just dispatched.
Abby sprinted across the driveway to the queen palm beside the garage; and although she couldn’t see the assaulting forces, she knew their location—just beyond the berm, behind the metal electrical box. Conflicting thoughts slammed headlong and spun like a vortex in her mind. If she breached the berm, she would become an easy target; and sneaking in behind them would put her in Bradley’s line of fire.
Damn it! Abby bowed her head, tapping it against the palm tree. How can I help Bradley?
90C
A COCKTAIL OF FRUSTRATION, disgust, and hatred was building inside Ryan.
Maddie’s teddy bear had been rigged with C-4 and ball bearings, a miniature claymore mine crammed into a stuffed animal. The explosives belonged to the U.S. Army, stolen by traitors within the ranks. A doctor, three nurses, and Maddie had been killed; six others had been mauled in the blast. Every time Ryan closed his eyes, he could see her scared little face.
How are we supposed to defeat people who are willing to weaponize American children?
This was a treacherous and heinous enemy. They were nameless, everywhere and nowhere; they could be anybody, a guy standing at attention beside you, or a civilian begging for help. Nothing could be trusted—no vehicles, no meals, no objects.
Feeling isolated and claustrophobic, Ryan left the containerized housing unit that served as troop barracks. Maybe a little of that overhyped Florida sunshine would help. It was a beautiful February day, seventy degrees with a gleaming, cloudless blue sky. Closing his eyes, Ryan turned toward the sun. Its rays heated his face, and he sucked in a deep breath as if nature’s light and warmth could fill the holes inside him.
Then a raucous growl quaked the ground beneath his feet, the tremor rumbling upward through his legs.
Ryan’s eyelids flew open. He wheeled toward the sound.
A fire-lit cloud of smoke was rising over command quarters, the base’s center of operations.
Another suicide bomber? Ryan thought, senses jumping to DEFCON one, the most acute state of readiness.
Sirens wailed. First responders flooded the site—understaffed, overworked, and on edge since the teddy-bear bombing.
Another blast nearly knocked Ryan off his feet, this one followed by a large fireball.
The generators and diesel.
A funnel of dense black smoke confirmed his suspicion. How many more bombers are there?
Ryan was running toward command quarters to help evacuate wounded Soldiers when he saw it. A hundred feet above, descending in a near-vertical angle—there was a Predator drone in a full-on kamikaze dive.
Mouth agape, Ryan watched the aircraft impale itself on the flagpole at the center of Camp Sunshine. His body shook, seething with fury as the battered American flag landed irreverently in the dirt.
They hacked our fucking drones!
91C
BRADLEY WAS CROUCHED behind the sand-filled plastic bins, waiting for the gunman to switch magazines, a reprieve that never came. He concluded there had to be at least two gunmen and that they would not be wasting all that ammunition on suppressing fire without purpose. Someone had to be closing on his position.
Unlike the savages from Fern Ridge, who had shied away from a fight, these guys had some discipline.
Who are they?
Bradley peered around the plastic bins. A smattering of sand and pine needles danced a foot from his face—bullet strikes.
He sprung backward, heart jackhammering.
Somehow, he had to disrupt the steady downpour of bullets. He switched out his magazine, preparing to send an unaimed, twenty-round volley toward his attackers.
Then the automatic fire unexpectedly ceased.
Cautiously, Bradley peeked above the sand-filled bins. Two gunmen were running, abandoning the cover of the electrical box.
He pounced on the opportunity and shot one man in the chest.
The second gunman must have tripped. Lying facedown in front of the electrical box, he was an easy target.
It was over.
Finally.
Why did they make such a stupid move? Did they run out of ammunition?
He descended the hill, squeezing the walkie-talkie, and said, “Gramps, we’re all clear, but we lost Heather and the baby.”
“Damn it ... ! I’ll send Will your way then head over to the storage room and let Jessie know.”
Palming his forehead, fingers gripping his temples as if wringing emotion from his mind, Bradley’s gaze drifted from Heather’s mangled body to Abby. He watched her right the baby carrier, and as tears began to stream down her face, an ache carved through him. In just a few days, she had grown so attached to the infant.
Will was sprinting toward the street, mouth hanging open.
“I tried to warn her,” Abby told him. “Heather, she—she just wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s not your fault.” Bradley draped an arm around her and planted a hand on Will’s shoulder as if he could physically keep them from falling apart. He could hear the sorrow in each ragged breath Abby took; could feel the tremors racking his best friend’s body; and Bradley clenched his eyelids, holding back his emotions. His worst fear had been realized; he hadn’t been able to protect everyone from the savages.
Without a word, Will abruptly walked away, and Bradley watched him, knowing he had let him down.
“It’s not your fault, either,” Abby whispered.
“Yeah ... I know ... Why don’t you go to the Levins’ house and get some sheets to cover them up? Give them a little dignity.”
After she had gone, Bradley busied himself with rounding up weapons and ammunition. None of the dead men bore identifica
tion. All appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, and he recognized one of them as the teen from the propaganda parade.
Did I lead them here?
Bradley stacked five AK-47s in a pile and headed toward the green electrical box.
What were you guys thinking? he wondered, noting the placement of the bodies. They had been moving toward the street instead of up the hill toward the cover of trees, an escape route that would have made them more challenging targets.
Behind the electrical box, pools of blackened-steel shell casings littered the grass—hundreds of them. Bradley stopped midstride. “No fucking way.”
He moved two yards to his right, toward the base of the hill, and picked up the baseball-sized black hunk of metal—Abby’s grenade. In the chaos of the firefight, the savages assumed it was live. That was why they had scrambled toward the street.
Pocketing the grenade, he glanced at Abby, admiring her unorthodox problem-solving skills. The breeze tossed her long blonde hair; and with her rifle slung over her shoulder, she was as lethal as she was beautiful. His pulse doubled, pumping something beyond admiration through his veins.
92C
KYLE’S MIND BRISTLED with troublesome questions. Who are these gunmen? Why did they attack us? How could they use a child as a weapon? It was incomprehensible. This new world continued to grow more horrific, and a biting question barreled through him.
Would I have approached the child absent Bradley’s warning?
That could’ve been me, Kyle decided, staring at Heather’s blood-soaked, shrapnel-pocked body.
Twice in the past two weeks his naїveté had nearly gotten him and his family killed—first with the intruder and now the child bomber. In a world ruled by survival of the fittest, Kyle felt hopelessly out of shape. Inept.
“You okay, Dad?” Abby asked as she jogged toward the Levins’ house.
“Yeah, just a little shell-shocked, I guess.” He turned away to hide the fear rampaging through him; then seeing the dead man on the Levins’ lawn, words began howling through his mind.
I killed him.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 64
