“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(5C)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 5C
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 71D ) ) )
71D
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 11D ) ) )
Monday, February 24th
72D
RELUCTANTLY, BRADLEY entered the screened room. “Morning, Kyle.”
Abby’s father peered above a timeworn wedding 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 her?” Kyle’s tone was edged with insecurity and indignation.
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
A shadow of humiliation crossed Kyle’s face. His eyes dropped to the wedding 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.
If only Abby had pulled 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.”
73D
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. Kyle was poring over a wedding album, eyes bloodshot and glassy, sorrow deepening the folds in his skin.
“I know I already offered my sympathies,” Will told him, “but is there anything else I can do?”
“No. It’s just going to take time,” Kyle said, setting aside the album. “How’s Billy doing?”
Will shared the miraculous news 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 coupl
e 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.”
74D
“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!”
Smirking, he said, “Impressive checkmate, Abigail,” then resumed his trek through the woods.
A few minutes later, he stopped midstride. Abby cocked her head, trying to identify a shuddering metallic sound. Across the street, inset amongst trees, there were four battle-scarred Colonial houses with rent doors, broken windows, and trash peeking through foot-high weeds.
The buildings aren’t the source of the noise, she decided.
Imitating Bradley, Abby squatted behind a wild bush dotted with orange flowers. An armed boy, barely thirteen years old, came into view leading a procession of women and young children. The group filed down the center of the road, each woman pushing an S-Mart shopping cart, the contents concealed beneath blankets and tarps.
The ruckus grew louder as they approached, a single-file parade of females dressed in tracksuits, sneakers, and head scarves, marching with robotic movements and austere expressions.
A pair of young girls zigzagged across the street. One clutched a stack of papers; the other, a stapler; and together, they were attaching flyers to trees and wooden fences along their route.
Why leave a trail that could lead people to you? It made no sense.
The procession ended with another armed boy, bearing a rifle that looked like an AK-47. Once the group had trudged two hundred yards beyond their position, Bradley said, “I’m gonna retrieve that flyer.” He indicated an oak tree at the driveway apron of a house across the street. “Chamber a round, stand by that tree, and be ready ... just in case.”
Abby braced herself against its eight-inch trunk, a good vantage point with an unobstructed line of fire. Elevating her rifle, she nodded at Bradley; and as he entered the roadway, Abby’s ankle began to sting. Without looking, she knew. Her left foot had disturbed a fire-ant mound, and dozens of the tiny vampires were piercing her ankle.
Like crawling over a cactus, she told herself.
Her eyes scanned west, then she checked the houses across the street for telltale changes. Ignoring the assault of wrathful insects, Abby gazed to the east, the parade’s direction of origin. Would another convoy come along?
A movement caught her eye, a shadow sweeping across a broken window. Her rifle sights settled on a blue curtain whipping in the breeze.
Tenacious ants continued charging up her calf, turning more square inches of skin into a fiery, itchy sock of misery.
Bradley snagged the flyer, and Abby’s eyes circled again. She spotted another movement, this time a plastic bag skirting atop swaying weeds, propelled by the breeze.
Damned wind. She knew it could alter a bullet’s trajectory, but today it was jamming her senses.
Finally, Bradley returned; and as he sat down to examine the flyer, Abby flopped beside him, pulled her pant leg above her knee, and began mashing the little pests into paste. Red, swollen bumps peppered her leg from ankle to calf.
“Oh shit!” Bradley fumbled through his backpack for the first aid kit and handed her a tube of cortisone.
The cream started out as a glaze of fire and turned to ice before the itching and pain began to ease. Pulling her pant leg back down, she perused the flyer.
It looked like a newspaper with four prominent color photographs. The first depicted the Golden Gate Bridge, a support pier pulverized, its cables and road deck mangled and drooping into San Francisco Bay.
Another showed a naval base with fires raging amongst partially sunken ships, evocative of Pearl Harbor with fallen Sailors floating like driftwood.
The third was an aerial photo of Times Square with skyscrapers stripped of upper stories, standing like broken teeth. Ghostly wisps of smoke rose from the rubble, the entire scene shrouded by gray dust reminiscent of 9/11.
The last picture was a theme park. Its steely blue iconic castle walls were charred, its lofty spires snapped off like a child’s toy. Corpses paved the entrance, and in the foreground, a child lay facedown, a ribbon tied to his wrist anchoring a smiling character balloon.
It’s not real. It can’t be.
Abby swallowed hard to derail her emotional reaction. “Those women are transporting supplies for the savages, aren’t they?”
“Yee-yup.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
Frustration and regret smoldered in Bradley’s eyes. “Nothing. It’s a bunch of unarmed women—”
“The boys were armed—”
“They’re kids, for God’s sake.” He hesitated, eyes panning the area. “Like it or not, there are rules of engagement.”
“So let me get this straight. American women and children can get raped and murdered, while theirs have immunity?”
Bradley took a deep breath and exhaled, air vibrating his pursed lips.
“Don’t you get it?” she demanded. “They’re using our morality against us.”
“We are not shooting women and children. You’re probably right about the supply line, but what if you’re wrong? Snipers have to justify every shot they take. Make a mistake and you go to jail for murder.”
Abby’s fingers curled into fists and dug into her palms. “Bradley, do you really think innocent civilians would be plastering this psyops bullshit all over?”
“You know about psyops?”
“World War II term paper,” she told him. “The Nazis dropped these ‘While You’re Away’ flyers on our Soldiers, implying their wives were whoring around back home.”
Momentarily speechless, a bemused smile softened his expression.
“Shouldn’t we at least follow the parade?” Abby asked.
Bradley sighed as if conceding the point. “When you’re with me, you’re bound by my rules of engagement. Understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get moving. They’ve got a good head start.”
“You do realize,” Abby said, “that if we play by the rules and our enemies don’t, we’ll ultimately lose to them.”
“And if we stop playing by the rules, we’ll ultimately become them.”
75D
GLIMPSING A RED PICKUP truck headed east toward Summit Springs, an opportunistic smile warped Reza’s lips. He was thirteen years old, bored and belittled by his current mission, cattle driving a herd of females and supplies between outposts. Reza yearned to wage jihad alongside his brothers, two of whom had achieved the greatest honor—dying for the sake of Allah. How was Reza ever going to become a martyr babysitting beans, bullets, and bitches?
He ordered an early break, despite afternoon prayers being an hour away, and corralled his mules into the garage of an abandoned house. Leaving his younger brother in charge, Reza set out on a reconnaissance missio
n. Ferreting out a functional vehicle, especially a pickup truck, could earn him a position among the men—Allah willing.
A meter-high masonry wall separated the house from County Route 455 and Reza sprung over the barrier, likening it to an Al Qaeda training obstacle he had seen on the Internet. He jogged north, the truck’s direction of origin, and stumbled across a development called Fern Ridge.
Maybe it came from here, Reza decided, wedging himself behind a bushy magnolia tree at the gated entrance.
Doubt began creeping into his thoughts. What if the truck was on a one-way journey? It could be miles away. Was this a foolish waste of time?
He was about to give up when a whooshing murmur rose above the swish of trees. The red truck rolled past, windows pulverized, honeycombed with bullet holes—a tactical treasure. Salivating, Reza watched the vehicle turn left. He darted across County Route 455, weaving through a grove of pine trees, forging a shortcut, desperately trying to maintain visual contact. His thighs ached, a thorny pain stabbed his side; still, Reza kept running.
Two hundred yards ahead, the pickup was shrinking into the horizon, a speck of red disappearing along with his chances of joining the mujahideen. Then a blessed miracle happened. The truck slowed and turned right. Reza sprinted up a steep hillside, another shortcut. Brush and weeds slowed him.
Straining to hear the engine, he pushed his inflamed leg muscles harder and clamped a hand over his side, squeezing a painful cramp. The hill’s summit didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
Then the truck noise ceased.
Did it move out of range?
Or did it stop?
Reza panted, forcing air into his broiling lungs. Holding his side, he reached the crest and collapsed onto the ground. Three villas fanned out below him, and in the driveway of the yellow house, he saw it.
The red truck—Allahu Akbar!
76D
RYAN WAS UNIMPRESSED with Camp Sunshine. The temporary Army base, situated south of Gainesville, was a patchwork of olive-drab tents and metal shipping containers arranged in a horseshoe, an American flag at its center, flapping in the breeze.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 83
