Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Using her fingers, she gently combed her hair, smoothing it to hide her injury, and secured it loosely with an elastic band.

  “Don’t put weight on that ankle,” Bradley said, scolding her. He had the tree trunk in one hand, the KA-BAR knife and a roll of duct tape in the other. “Give it time to heal.”

  Abby lifted her foot, balancing like a flamingo.

  Bradley grabbed a towel from the linen closet, draped it over the V-shaped end of the branch to cushion it, and began wrapping it with tape. “How do you feel? Any dizziness or blurred vision?”

  “I’m fine. Quit fussing over me.”

  He handed her the crutch. “Here, give this a try.”

  Abby placed it beneath her arm, surprised by the near perfect fit. “How did you know what height to make it?”

  Smirking, he tapped his temple and said, “I’ve got all your measurements stored in memory.”

  “There’s a phrase a woman never wants to hear from her commanding officer.”

  The crutch worked well for the first hour, then part of the “V” snapped from the constant pressure.

  Bradley said, “Back to plan B. Rifle up.”

  “I don’t want to be carried—”

  “And I don’t want to hear it. We need to get home. Your father’s probably freaking out.”

  An unwelcome feeling of dread wormed through Abby. “When we get home, let’s not mention my, uh, ... my close call. Please, Bradley, will you do this for me?”

  135C

  KYLE HAD BEEN AWAKE all night. The thunderstorm had been the most severe he’d ever experienced, and when it ended around one a.m., he reported to overwatch. Alone with his thoughts, a battle raged inside him, fear versus courage, doubt versus faith, loss versus reunion.

  As a Major League shortstop, he had trained himself to envision spectacular catches and homeruns, not errors and strikeouts. Why was that so difficult to apply outside baseball?

  At sunrise Jessie relieved him from overwatch. Her blue eyes were puffy and swollen from tears and sleep deprivation.

  “Abby’s safe with Bradley,” he said, reassuring himself as much as his wife.

  “I know,” she said, sniffling in a breath. “They probably spent the night in some empty house, sheltering from the storm.”

  Abby and Bradley spending the night together? Maybe this was an excuse for them to be alone. Kyle was surprised to find himself clinging to the possibility.

  “Don’t worry, Jess. I’ll find her and bring her home. I promise.”

  Twenty minutes later, Kyle and Dave headed north through the earthy, damp smell of the woods toward Haywood Field.

  “So my niece is obsessed with the Marine Corps and Snipers,” Dave said, chuckling. “And this Bradley guy is a Marine Corps Sniper. How’s that working for you, Murph?”

  “Not well at the moment, but I still have two years to change her mind about enlisting.”

  “Hey, you thought it was great when my daughter joined the Navy. What did you say to me? Something about letting Chase live her own life?”

  “She wasn’t sixteen,” Kyle said. “And speaking of Chase, do you know where she was when the pulse hit?”

  “Stationed aboard the U.S.S. Stellate. So she still has all those modern conveniences. Like food and water.” Dave stared straight ahead, his profile sad but resolute. “I hope to God she’s doling out a serious ass-kicking right now.”

  Kyle nodded, contemplating whether the Marine Corps might actually be safer for Abby. “Any word on David Junior?”

  The question seemed to deflate Dave. “He, uh, was away at college—NYU. How about you? Heard from your folks? Or Megan?”

  Kyle hadn’t allowed himself to think about his sister or his parents much. “I’ve got my hands full with Jessie and Abby. Everyone else is in God’s hands.”

  He halted abruptly and settled onto the ground. Dave flopped beside him, a man-made earthquake telegraphing their position.

  “Quiet,” Kyle whispered. He scanned the forest, sure they were being watched.

  Bradley emerged from behind a bush with Abby slumped over his shoulder. Unable to see her face, the warmth drained from Kyle’s body.

  As if sensing his anxiety, Bradley returned Abby to her feet. Kyle ran to her and scooped his daughter into a hug, mumbling, “Thank God,” over and over before finally releasing her.

  “Uncle Dave?” Abby asked, her voice rising with delight.

  Kyle watched uncle and niece embrace; and after making formal introductions, he said, “Bradley, why were you carrying her? You scared the hell out of me.”

  The Marine’s evasive hazel eyes deflected the question to Abby.

  “Dad, I wasn’t paying attention and ended up hurting my ankle. I fell and got a pretty good knock on the head too. Check it out.” Abby parted her hair, displaying a small cut heavily coated with antibiotic ointment.

  “And Superman, here, couldn’t save you?” Dave asked jokingly.

  The color receded from Bradley’s face. “I didn’t see it happen, sir,” he said, eyes still locked with Abby’s in an unspoken conversation.

  Though Kyle knew there was more to the story, he didn’t press them. His daughter was safe—nothing else mattered. Handing Dave his rifle, he said, “Come on, Abby. I’ll give you a piggyback ride home. Just like when you were little.”

  136C

  SNIPERS OMID GHORBANI and Hamid Khadem had covered fifty miles on foot, just over half the distance to Haywood Field.

  “You’ll have to commandeer resources along the way,” his Captain had said. That advice was proving unrealistic. Americans had little food to pilfer, and functioning vehicles and fuel were virtually nonexistent.

  Omid’s feet, blistered and raw from slogging through heavy downpours, protested each step. Wet socks were abrasive sandpaper, burning, chafing, biting at his flesh. His hunger was a leaden anchor that slowed his stride, dulled his reflexes, and numbed his thinking.

  “What is that? Near the lake?” asked Hamid.

  “A fisherman.” Adrenaline boosted Omid’s energy, masking the pain as he quickened his stride.

  The middle-aged American had an untamed wiry beard, brown flecked with premature gray, that stretched upward from his chin toward a blue boonie hat advertising Cabela’s. A green T-shirt and denim shorts called attention to his stooped shoulders and frail legs.

  He made several casts, then the graphite fishing pole bent, the line pulled taut. He jerked the rod backward and reeled, again and again, until a fish surfaced, flailing, splashing, creating concentric rings. Omid likened the disturbance to the electromagnetic pulse; the doomed fish to America, still fighting, oblivious of fate.

  Elated, the fisherman subdued his hard-won prize, a largemouth bass nearly a foot in length. Hamid raised his rifle, but Omid grabbed the barrel and directed it downward, saying, “Do not broadcast our presence.”

  They tailed the man to a decrepit cabin camouflaged by spider webs, air moss, and a greenish coating of mold. A pile of tinder, kindling, and wood sat atop the sandy soil; and with a flick of a lighter, a campfire blazed to life. The man cleaned the fish with a filet knife, using smooth, long strokes, bending the narrow blade, separating flesh from scale.

  Omid could hear the bass sizzling and breathed in the aroma, stirring the hunger pains gnawing his stomach. His mouth began to salivate while his mind coveted the precisely honed knife.

  “This one is mine,” he whispered to Hamid.

  The startled fisherman put up no fight, raising his hands at the sight of their weapons.

  Omid seized the filet knife, still covered with blood and scales. “We are hunting American ground forces. They could be black ops, Snipers, Rangers, SEALs, or military Veterans.”

  The fisherman backtracked until his posterior pressed against the cabin. To stimulate his memory, Omid pressed the tip of the blade two inches below his Adam’s apple.

  “I-I haven’t see-seen anybody.”

  Slowly, he applied pressure to the blade,
penetrating several layers of skin. “American Soldiers?” he demanded again, his question shrinking along with his patience.

  Sweat trickled over the fisherman’s forehead and cheeks as if his entire face were crying. “I-I-I swear. You’re the only people I-I’ve seen.”

  Omid was certain the man was speaking the truth. No degree of torture could produce the desired information. “I believe you,” he said softly.

  The fisherman’s shoulders wilted, and he exhaled with misguided relief. Omid thrust the blade deeper, puncturing his airway. Blood began to trickle into the man’s lungs. A muffled gasp escaped, and he collapsed, clutching his throat, unable to speak, unable to cry out.

  Omid nodded courteously. “Thank you for dinner.” Then he and Hamid feasted on the bass while the fisherman drowned in his own blood.

  137C

  BRADLEY HAD TAKEN A warm shower, washing away perspiration and the smell of gunpowder. The layer of guilt remained. He and Abby had recounted the drama of Haywood Field, except for her close call. She had glossed over it saying, “A savage tried to sneak in behind me, and Bradley shot him.”

  Not exactly the whole truth, but it was more than the omission bothering Bradley. His protective inclinations had become an emotional landslide, sweeping away common sense, objectivity, and fairness.

  I have to talk her out of enlisting, he thought, pulling on gym shorts and a T-shirt.

  Abby was sitting in the lanai, ankle soaking in a bucket of pool water. Kyle, Dave, and Will were brainstorming about where to find propane since last night’s dinner had exhausted their tank.

  “I remember seeing a campground not far from here,” Dave said. “I can get a tank and be back before dark.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Kyle told him.

  Abby pulled her dripping foot from the bucket and walked toward the pool.

  “I can go with Dave,” Bradley said as he whisked Abby off her feet. “And you are supposed to stay off that ankle.” He deposited her back onto the double chaise lounge in the corner of the lanai.

  Kyle gave an approving nod and said, “No, I’ll go. You’ve got overwatch this afternoon. Until then, keep Abby off that ankle using any means necessary. Duct tape. Glue. Nails—”

  “Dad!” Abby shouted.

  “Whatever it takes,” Kyle reiterated. “Hey, Will, you up for an adventure? We can bring back more tanks if three of us go.”

  “Sure thing.”

  After the trio had gone, Bradley sat beside Abby on the edge of the chaise lounge. “So, on a ten scale, how traumatized are you?”

  Her eyes narrowed in mock indignation. “Would you ask that if I were a guy?”

  “Absolutely, but in guy-speak it sounds more like, ‘You good?' "

  Lips twisting into an accusatory smile, Abby said, “You’re the one who’s traumatized. What are you gonna do when I join the Marine Corps?”

  “That won’t happen for two years—”

  “Unless I lie about my age. Guys did that during World War II.”

  Bradley felt like he had been shoved off a cliff. There had to be some way to keep her safe—and out of the military.

  “You ... are gonna be a bigger basket case than my dad, aren’t you?”

  “I wish I could make you understand.”

  “Oh, I understand,” she said. “Do you think I’ll like not knowing where you are? No phones, no e-mail, not even snail mail? Not knowing if I’ll be able to find you again?” Abby’s lips seductively meandered along his cheek and nibbled his lips. “My mom’s at overwatch,” she whispered, “Aunt Laura’s asleep. Uncle Dave, Will, and my dad will be gone for hours. And Gramps is preoccupied with Billy.”

  Her argument was brief and persuasive—and Bradley didn’t need much convincing. He helped her wriggle out of her clothes, drinking in every square inch of her sensuous body, then he eased her backward against the chaise lounge. Abby’s hands tugged at his shorts, forcing them lower, until they were gathered around his knees.

  Bodies pressed together with nothing between them, a dangerously selfish thought invaded Bradley’s mind. There was a way to keep Abby out of the Marine Corps; and right now, he could make that happen ... If he was willing to renege on his promise to Kyle.

  138C

  DJ LED THE RANGER TEAM north, from Haywood Field to the wreckage of the American C-130. His brother, AJ, the aircraft’s Pilot, had entered paradise as a shahid, a martyr for Allah; and his success was working to DJ’s detriment. Soon, the Army would discover the familial connection, and the tactics he’d wielded to distance himself from his cousin’s drone attack—allegations of Islamophobia and racism—would not work this time. The clandestine segment of his jihad was nearing its end.

  He could feel Andrews’ incessant stare, scrutinizing every step, noting every time he scratched his balls. Somehow, he had to scrounge a few minutes of privacy.

  He pored over the charred remains of the aircraft, desperate for a solution. Then, like a divine blessing, an idea germinated. Feigning defecation was his best chance at deflecting Andrews’ attention, at least for a minute or two.

  He found a secluded spot, dropped his pants, and squatted. DJ rooted through his gear, removing toilet paper and a Chinese-made satellite phone, a rugged technology that did not store games, take pictures, or play music. It simply sent and received phone calls and e-mail worldwide, its only accessory a credit-card-sized solar panel.

  An encrypted e-mail was waiting.

  “Forward ambush coordinates.”

  He typed their current longitude and latitude and sent the message.

  “DJ!” Andrews shouted. “Quit jerking off!” His angry gaze ricocheted between his M4 and DJ.

  Andrews wants to shoot me, he thought as he pretended to wipe his backside. He was about to stow the satellite phone when a response arrived.

  “No mistakes, Dajjal. Operation Sunburn is in jeopardy. Ambush in thirty minutes.”

  Today marked the end of Al-Tokiya, the strategy of outwardly pretending to be a friend and ally, while secretly making preparations for an attack. Finally, he would openly declare jihad.

  DJ crammed the satellite phone into his bag and smiled at Staff Sergeant Andrews.

  Twenty-nine more minutes, Asshole ...

  139C

  KYLE FELL INTO STEP between Dave and Will, hoping the propane tanks would still be at the campground. They ascended the southern ridge amidst radiant green pockets of leaves, weeds, and wild vines rejuvenated by recent rains.

  “Are you buying that story about Abby’s injuries?” Dave asked.

  Facts danced through Kyle’s mind: planes shot down, a missile battery blown up with C-4, and enemy paratroopers raining from the sky.

  And they want me to believe she tripped? Grappling to control his emotions, he said, “No.”

  “But if you know it’s bullshit, why not call them out?”

  “Abby is stubborn. Like Jessie. I won’t get the full story until she’s ready.”

  “Then wheedle it out of Bradley.”

  Will said, “Good luck with that. I’ve known him all my life and I can promise you two things: one, he knows more than he’s saying; and two, short of torture, you will never get it out of him.”

  Kyle agreed with both points. “Honestly, Dave. I’m not so sure I want to know.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not flipping out, Murph.”

  “Abby’s fine. That’s all that matters.”

  “Really? Are you letting her venture beyond Sugar Lake again?”

  “Hell no!”

  Kyle and Will stopped short of County Road 455 to scan for threats.

  Dave plowed on. “Come on, Murph. There wasn’t anyone between here and—”

  “Hands up!”

  It was a male voice, edged with impatience. “Don’t make me say it again.” The fortyish man appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, lanky with ghoulish rings around his eyes; the left was squeezed shut; the right peered down the barrel of an AK-47.

&
nbsp; “We’re just looking for propane,” Dave said.

  “Are you looters?” the man asked, treading closer, his rifle barrel slowly swinging between them. “Or are you cannibals? You all look pretty well fed.”

  Kyle winced as horrific memories resurfaced: the grief in that mother’s eyes, the frustration when the bolt-action rifle didn’t fire, the desperation when she’d hurled herself onto that knife.

  “I just walked here from Tampa,” Dave said. “I’ve been eating dandelions and squirrels.”

  Voice rising unnaturally, Will said, “I came from a farm in Georgia with chickens and a cow.”

  “And what’s your story?” the gunman demanded.

  The rifle drifted toward Kyle, and his mind went blank. He couldn’t tell the truth. If the man knew food was nearby, he would surely attack.

  “Don’t have a ready-made lie like your friends here?” the man shouted. “I’ll ask one more time. If you’re not a cannibal, where’s your food coming from?”

  Impaled by his damning stare, Kyle said, “Call it divine intervention. The good Lord always provides.”

  “You?” The man’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who left the rice and beans on my doorstep?”

  Stunned, Kyle blinked. Questions stampeded from his brain to the pit of his stomach, setting off tremors along the route. George was anonymously feeding this man, and Bradley must have delivered the food.

  Why didn’t they mention it?

  “It wasn’t me,” Kyle told him, “but I’ve received rice and beans, just like you.”

  The distrust and fear scrunching the man’s face softened. He shouldered his rifle and called to his family. A teenaged boy with an AK-47 emerged from the woods followed by a woman and a young girl, each loaded down with backpacks and small suitcases.

  “I’m Zaakir Abbas. This is my wife, Eliza; my daughter, Raeleah; and my son, Zak.”

  Kyle, Dave, and Will introduced themselves, then Zaakir said, “Do you know who this guardian angel is?”

  Kyle squirmed, unsure how to respond. “At first, I was curious. Then I decided that if he wanted to remain anonymous, I should respect that. It’s the only thing I can do for him.”