Is the sniper equipped with night vision? Thermal imaging?
The possibility undulated through her nervous system until a snapping sound snared her attention. Veiled by the fading twilight, a hunched-over figure with a long gun was creeping along the house. Abby angled her scope toward the target.
Aunt Laura ... Oh, no ... ! How can I warn her without giving away my posit—
A solitary gunshot rendered the question moot.
Abby’s head jerked toward the sound. She repositioned her rifle then grabbed the twine with her left hand, rolling the rough fibers between her fingers.
God, I could really use your help, she thought, slowly tugging the string.
The AK-47 boomed with successive shots.
Pulses of light winked.
She released the twine, but it must have snagged on a branch because the fully automatic weapon continued spitting bullets until the magazine emptied.
Then she saw a muzzle flash. The sniper had returned fire.
Abby didn’t think. Her rifle barrel instinctively lurched toward the flash, and she fired, regretting it before the sound of the blast had waned.
Another stupid emotional reaction, she thought. There was no way she could have hit him, and she had foolishly risked giving away her position; then an even more dire realization rocked her.
Dumb, Abby! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!
Snipers substantiated “kills” by collecting personal items from their targets. If he located the AK-47, the twine would lead him directly to her.
( ( ( 87% Complete ) ) )
176C
WITH FOOTSTEPS CLOSING, Ryan and Bradley had ducked into the nearest room, a claustrophobic closet packed with portable oxygen tanks.
The Marine was crouched beside the partially opened door, head protruding like a dog enjoying a car ride.
“You see anything?” Ryan whispered.
Bradley leaned backward and gingerly closed the door. “Two guards are in the hallway, searching room by room.”
Ryan rolled his head back then let it fall forward.
I knew that kid was going to fuck up this mission. Why did I let Bradley guilt me into intervening?
“It doesn’t make sense,” Bradley was saying. “They could’ve quietly slit her throat. Why risk the civilians hearing gunfire? And why three shots to take out a five-year-old?”
“We’ve got bigger problems.” Ryan squeezed his aching forehead. “You broke that guy’s neck. Nikki couldn’t do that. They’ll canvas the building. Find the C-4. And us. Now do you get it? Good deeds—no matter how noble—can have unintended consequences. The kid died anyway. And now we’re trapped inside a burning building.”
“And whose idea was that?”
“The blame game’s a waste of time.” Ryan thumbed the safety of his inherited rifle to be sure it was not engaged then eased open the door. “Let’s take care of those guards and get the fuck out of here.”
177C
KYLE HAD STOPPED THE eastbound refugees a quarter mile from the extermination camp, close enough for the glow of electric lights to seduce and beckon the crowd.
That building’s a human bug zapper, he thought.
Using night vision, he estimated close to a hundred refugees were gathered on Route 441. He had expected foot traffic to diminish after sunset. Instead, it was steadily increasing as if people felt safer moving around in the darkness.
Kyle scanned their restless, impatient faces. People stared at the lights longingly, as if they marked a magic gateway, a return to life the way it used to be. He understood their feelings, the relief, the craving for normalcy.
But how would they react when that hope exploded before their eyes? Would they slip back into zombielike despondence? Or would they become angry—with him?
If Kyle had followed orders and stopped the line a mile back, he could have released the refugees and slipped away before the big ka-boom.
“Let’s go, Sergeant. We’re tired and hungry.”
“My son needs a doctor.”
“Come on, Man. You said one hour. Time’s up.”
He’s right, Kyle thought glancing at Ryan’s ruggedized watch. The C-4 should have gone off fifteen minutes ago. Something was wrong. A technical problem? Or did Bradley and Ryan get caught?
Dread seeped from every pore, drenching him, siphoning body heat, making him shiver in the cool evening air.
A man climbed atop a BMW and began to chant, “Food now!” His clenched fist thrust angrily skyward, and a few voices joined his refrain. The chorus grew stronger, louder, angrier, until nearly everyone was shouting in unison. Fists, guns, and knives pumped like pistons.
The ringleader descended from the BMW and marched toward Kyle, his mechanized mob falling into step behind him. “Are you going to stop us, Sergeant?”
Stunned and bewildered, Kyle stepped to his left, symbolically removing himself from the man’s path. A river of bodies flowed past either side of him. A few people hurled curses at him; most offered sympathetic smiles, acknowledging that he was just doing his job.
It was a mass exodus of good people following an idiot. Instead of anger, Kyle felt an overwhelming compassion, especially for the fathers.
There, but for the grace of God, go I.
178C
THE MONSTER HAD MOVED. Nikki was sure of it. That’s why she’d pressed the shoot button, and now her ears hurt so much, even worse than that earache last year. She wedged her hands against them, trying to shut out that buzzing sound.
The big gun was nothing like her brother’s video game. It was louder and scarier than thunder, and it didn’t shake like the game controller. It came to life, jumping, kicking her belly so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Real guns were nowhere near as fun as PlayStation.
She shined the flashlight toward the monster. His eyes and mouth were open, and there was a dark spot where his nose was supposed to be.
Now he’s dead ... But what if he turns into a zombie?
The door to the room suddenly flew open.
More monsters!
Nikki closed her eyes and squeezed the button again, hanging onto the bouncing gun, even though it felt like all the bullets were flying into her ears.
179C
BACK PRESSED INTO A doorway alcove, Ryan waited for the prolonged burst of gunfire to subside.
“Somebody just capped the two guards,” Bradley whispered.
“This floor’s gonna be crawling with enemy soldiers. We have to move. Now!”
They hustled through the hallway, unraveling the detonation wire. Illuminated by night-vision goggles, soot particles whirled like ghostly apparitions and stung Ryan’s eyes. Acrid smoke tickled his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough. He glanced at the dead men slumped across the threshold; then rifle leading the way, finger on the trigger, he nodded to Bradley and pivoted into the open doorway.
180C
EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED in less than a minute. Since then, Jessie had been lying on the ground with Billy, afraid to move. She’d made it as far as the driveway when a stabbing pain had stolen her breath and knocked her off her feet. A bullet had ripped through her right thigh; and despite a tourniquet made from a shoelace, the wound continued to ooze blood.
Once the toddler’s incessant crying tired him out, a rogue wave of worry rose inside her.
Kyle should’ve been back from Tavares by now. Oh God, what if he’s been injured?
An image formed in her mind, unshakeable and terrifying. She could see him lying on some forest floor, bleeding and helpless, just like her. Tears spilled over her lashes, along her cheeks, and crested her upper lip, filling her mouth with the taste of salt.
She blinked to clear her vision and noticed a hunched-over figure with a long gun creeping along the house. Before she could warn Laura, another gunshot shattered the silence.
Jessie’s hushed pleas went unanswered; and as the first pangs of grief shivered through her, an onslaught of gunfire assailed Sugar Lake, followed by an excha
nge of single shots. She was certain one of the muzzles flashes had come from the northern ridge, from Abby. Her eyes filled with joyful tears because her baby was alive; then as the deathly silence lengthened, despondent tears took over. What if that bullet hit her?
The ache generated by that question made Jessie forget about her wound.
Darkness fell, the temperature dropped, and she heard a scraping sound, moving closer.
“Will ... ?” she called out in a smothered whisper.
“Yeah.” His voice was faint, his breathing sounded labored.
When he’d closed within a yard, Jessie could see that he was walking on his knees, dragging the M1A behind him. The smell of blood enveloped her. “Oh God, Will. We have to stop that bleeding.”
She began untying her other shoelace, her eyes fixed on Will’s right arm, glistening in the moonlight.
Panting, he kissed his sleeping son’s forehead. “Take care ... of Billy.” The words escaped Will like a deflating balloon, then he collapsed.
Jessie tightened the tourniquet around his arm, promising herself he had merely lost consciousness. She looked upward at the star-speckled heavens and prayed for Will, for Laura and George, for Bradley and Kyle, but mostly for her daughter.
Abby’s fine, Jessie told herself. She’s in her ghillie suit. She’s read every Sniper book. Bradley trained her. She knows what she’s doing ... Too bad I don’t.
She groped for the M1A, wishing she’d learned to be more proficient, regretting all the wasted opportunities. Then Jessie activated the nightscope and maneuvered the rifle toward the northern ridge. As she scanned the hilltop for Abby, a familiar question barged into her mind. What if she located the gunman? Could she actually pull the trigger?
She had asked herself that question during every overwatch shift. Tonight, the answer was coming back different. Hell yes! I can shoot that bastard!
181C
ANOTHER MONSTER APPEARED in the doorway. Nikki pressed the button again, bracing herself, but nothing happened. Where was the get-more-bullets button?
A big black gun was pointing at her.
Nikki screamed as loud as she could, and Bradley ran into the room. This time, he didn’t beat up the monster. He ripped the gun from her hands, hoisted her off the floor, and tucked her beneath his arm like a football.
“She fu-u-uh—fudging shot those guys!” the monster said. His voice wasn’t nearly as scary as she’d imagined it would be.
Bradley told him he was lucky she burned through the whole mag—what did that mean?
Nikki felt like Superman, flying through the doorway into the dark, smoky hallway. She extended her arms, enjoying the ride ... until the gunshots started again.
182C
RYAN SHOT FOUR GUARDS as they emerged from the stairwell, then he raced through the small office to catch up with Bradley. In eighteen years of military service, he had never felt so rattled. It was more than almost being shot by Nikki, more than almost shooting a five-year-old; it was downright inexplicable.
Ryan had burst through the doorway, zeroed on the rifle, and reacted as trained. He’d pulled the trigger, but his weapon failed to discharge. Somehow, the safety had ended up engaged when he knew damned well it wasn’t when he’d left that closet. It didn’t make sense.
He climbed through the broken window to exit the building, sucking in deep breaths of clean night air, then his eyes lifted skyward.
Did a higher power intervene? To prevent me from accidentally killing a child?
Bradley was making a crouched run for the fence, clutching Nikki and the spool of wire, leaving a metallic trail in his wake.
Ryan crept toward the fuel tankers. Under the glow of floodlights, he saw guards lining an empty walkway. Kyle had succeeded in stopping the influx of refugees, leaving only enemy combatants inside the building.
Ryan removed two claymore mines, firing devices, and blasting cap assemblies from Kyle’s backpack. He angled the first claymore toward the guards; the second, toward the white tent; and after rigging the mines, Ryan opened the fuel tank that fed the tanker’s engine and set it ablaze.
Frolicking flames leapt upward. Agitated voices bored through the drone of the generator. As guards dashed toward the truck to retrieve its fire extinguisher, Ryan detonated the mines, unleashing 700 steel balls at nearly 4,000 feet per second.
He bolted toward the fence, and poufs of sand began fizzing around him like tiny geysers. Ryan glimpsed the silhouette of a gunman perched atop the shipping container.
It was that guard—the one he never should have left alive.
183C
KYLE JOGGED BACK TO the Dodge dealership across from the hospital; and with each step, his blistered feet ached.
He watched the crowd approach a guard distributing MREs. As cheers and applause glided across the street, Kyle entwined his fingers and gripped the top of his helmet.
They’re all about to die. And I can’t stop it.
His faith in humanity transformed into a series of haunting questions. Why did people always follow the ranting idiot? What could he have said to make them understand? And why didn’t the damned building explode?
He checked the time. 8:03 p.m. His orders had been clear—head home at eight, with or without us.
Well, I haven’t followed any other orders, Kyle thought, yanking Ryan’s watch from his wrist.
He reset time to 7:53, and as he refastened the watch, he heard a popping noise that sounded like a grenade. A guard stationed near the roadway was scrambling toward the fence.
Shit! Kyle thought, he isn’t supposed to be there.
The man scaled the shipping container full of seized firearms then began shooting into the compound.
Kyle raised his rifle and aligned his sights on the silhouetted guard. Before he could fire, the man collapsed.
Civilians had stopped entering the facility, half pointing toward the dead guard, half toward the flames shooting from the western side of the hospital.
What the hell? A fire isn’t part of the plan.
A bright light flashed from the rear of the building. A resounding rumble shook the ground, then backlit smoke reared up, roiling like a pit of angry vipers.
Frightened refugees began running, and the guards who had been distributing food and water opened fire. Again, Kyle raised his rifle, but a few well-armed Americans had beaten him to it. He smiled, watching people disperse into the darkness. They had escaped with their lives.
I hope I can say the same for Bradley and Ryan, he thought, then he set off for the rendezvous point.
184C
AS CHASE KINDERMAN’S Raptor closed within range of the B-2 Bomber, two jets appeared on her radar, both on a heading to intercept the rogue plane.
They couldn’t have detected the stealth aircraft, she thought. Was it a routine Chinese patrol? A pair of Russian MiGs? Or did the traitorous Pilot radio his position and request an escort into foreign airspace?
Chase unleashed her 20mm cannon on the slow-moving bomber. A hundred rounds per second punched through the radar-absorbing skin, tunneled into the fuel tank, and turned the aircraft into a seventy-foot dagger of flames.
The approaching fighter jets closed within visual range.
Chinese J11s, she thought as a flurry of rounds pinged against her Raptor. Chase pulled into a steep climb, reporting that she was under fire.
Did the pilots mistakenly assume she had fired on them? Or were they angry over the destruction of their billion-dollar prize? Either way, it didn’t matter because permission to engage was denied. The U.S. could not afford a clash with China that might provoke an attack on Taiwan.
Although the J11s had stopped firing, their pursuit continued. Two more radar blips appeared ahead of her, another pair of J11s. Did they intend to drive her away from their coast? Or was this a hostile act?
Her thoughts jumped back to the Hainan Island incident of 2001. A Chinese fighter jet had caused a midair collision, forcing a Navy signals intelligence aircraft
to make an emergency landing on Hainan Island. China had detained and interrogated the crew for eleven days and returned the disassembled aircraft months later.
Chase refused to let that happen to the Raptor.
Like most fighter jets, J11s could fly at high altitudes, but could not execute the tactical maneuvers that an F-22 could. Giving a fleeting thought to the Raptor’s failure-prone life-support systems, she pushed the jet above fifty thousand feet.
The J11s stubbornly shadowed her until four F-18 Super Hornets appeared on radar, then they abruptly broke for home.
A B-2 Bomber kill, she thought. I can’t wait to tell my dad.
185C
BRADLEY SHOT THE GUARD atop the shipping container, then lifted the fence and shooed Nikki beneath it. He handed off the detonator to Ryan and followed the Army Ranger out of the construction site. As the C-4 exploded, Nikki screamed and took off running.
Bradley chased her down, his wounded arm throbbing with each step, and lifted the squirming child onto his hip. “It’s okay—”
“Another monster!” she shrieked, pointing at Ryan.
“He’s no monster,” Bradley told her. “That’s my friend, Ryan. He’s one of the good guys.”
Nikki tentatively peeked over her shoulder. “No. You’re a good guy. He’s a monster,” she insisted. “And good guys need to kill the monsters!”
“Whoa,” Ryan said, indignation evident in his tone. “Why does he get to be the good guy?”
“Because I’m a Marine.”
“No-o-o!” Nikki admonished him. “It’s ‘cause you don’t look like a monster.”
Gleaning that she was referring to the uniform, Bradley said, “Nikki, the monsters were just dressing up like Soldiers. You know, pretending. The real Soldiers who wear those uniforms are good guys.”
She cast a wary eye toward Ryan then said, “Bradley, can you find my mommy and daddy?”
A rush of sadness plowed through him. “Were they inside the building with you?”
“Ut-uh. The monsters shoved them out a big door. That’s when I ran away.”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 79
