* * Change of Heart(2D)? * *
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( ( ( DAY 14D ) ) )
Thursday, February 27th
96D
“IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” Bradley said, tossing two black headbands onto the kitchen table.
Will peered at him, eyelids drooping with grief and exhaustion. “You can’t apply logic and common sense to people who are willing to use children as bombs.”
Gramps examined the tattered fabric, speckled with blood and missing its ties. He plunged a pinky through the bullet hole. “Showing off on this one?”
Bradley shook his head. “Nope. That was your protégé.”
“Abby should be aiming center mass,” Gramps said, tapping his chest. “No head shots. Did you set her straight?”
“She, uh ... That’s all she could see.”
“The body at the crest?” Gramps’ brow tightened as he reconstructed the scenario. “So the tongue wrestling on the hill? That was your way of thanking Abby for saving your ass?”
He stiffened, eyes momentarily clamping shut to deflect the question. Did the trauma of yesterday’s firefight catch up with Abby? Is she emotionally fit for overwatch this morning? Can she pull the trigger again if the savages return?
To hell with Kyle’s edict. I have to check on her, he thought, braving Gramps’ stare.
His grandfather began humming Can’t Help Falling In Love. Will chimed in with the lyrics.
“Can we get back on task, here?” Bradley snapped. “Those weren’t just garden-variety savages.”
Grudgingly, Gramps’ attention returned to the headband. “If we’re lucky, it’s a group of wannabes ... Or we could be dealing with the Al Quds Force, the branch of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps responsible for spreading the Islamic revolution abroad.”
“IRGC?” Bradley repeated. “Why the hell would they attack us?”
A pained recognition registered on Will’s face. “I think they were after my truck.”
Bradley swatted the possibility as if shooing an insect. “It’s been in the Levins’ gar—” His chair scraped backward. He sprung to his feet, palms flattened against the table. “Abby’s bike! You took the truck to get it?” He glared at Gramps. “And you let him?”
“It’s not your grandfather’s fault,” Will said. “I just took off. He gave me hell when I got back. I didn’t think anyone saw me.”
Bradley’s thoughts spun. Foreboding feelings buzzed through him. What if they have explosives, rocket-propelled grenades, or mortars? What if they come back with fifty fighters?
“Damn it, Gramps. We may have just swatted a hornets’ nest.”
“I’ve been mulling this over all night,” Will said. “And if they want the truck that badly, I say let ‘em have it!”
97D
WEDGED IN THE BACKSEAT of the truck behind Bradley and Will, Kyle couldn’t stop yawning. The aftermath of yesterday’s battle and his argument with Abby had made sleep impossible.
I don’t want her involved with a twenty-year-old. Does that really make me a tyrant?
A strained silence loomed during the six-mile drive to Summit Springs, but as Bradley backed the pickup onto the playground, Kyle’s mood lightened.
One by one, they pitched dead savages over the tailgate and erected a human monument beside the swing set, an inkling of justice for that young girl.
Bradley jumped down from the truck bed.
“What about that last body?” Kyle asked.
“We’re taking him with us. Just get in.”
Taking him where? Kyle wondered, climbing back into the truck. And why?
Bradley drove north for ten miles, weaving around vehicles; and for brief stretches the landscape appeared ordinary, untouched by the EMP. Kyle began to reminisce, mourning the beautifully intricate and indulgent world he had lost: waking up alongside his wife; being able to eat anything, anytime; feeling safe inside his own home; having an entire planet of experts an Internet connection away. He had taken so much for granted.
I want to go back, Kyle thought, knowing he would have a better chance of getting to Mars. At least Mars still existed.
The Marine braked to a stop south of Astatula. “Kyle, you need to stand watch,” he said, gesturing toward a scraggly orange tree at the side of the road.
Despite dozens of questions whipping through his mind, he extricated himself from the backseat, rifle in hand, and hurried toward the tree, a good vantage point to detect threats.
He watched Bradley haul the dead savage from the truck bed and wrestle his rigid body into the driver’s seat. Will was hammering something inside the engine.
Kyle forced his focus back to security. The peak of a gently sloping hill lay to the north; to the south, the road bent and seemed to be swallowed up by trees. Why this location? Desolate and remote?
He stole another glance. Bradley was positioning an AK-47 so that its barrel jutted out the driver’s window. Will was standing atop the truck bed, rifling through his cross-bed toolbox. Is this some clever plan? Or did they both lose it?
A glistening wet thread began twiddling along the roadway.
“Um, Will ... truck’s leaking oil.”
“I know. I jacked the oil filter, so the engine will seize in about a half hour.”
He’s destroying the only running vehicle we have?
Waving for Kyle and Will, Bradley said, “Follow me and stay low to the ground.”
They crept into a stand of trees at the hill’s apex. Below them stood a khaki-colored warehouse with thirty-foot corrugated steel walls and a rolling bay door large enough for a tractor trailer. Two traditional man-sized doors provided access to the front and side of the building, and dozens of skylights allowed natural light into the windowless metal box. An eight-foot, chain-link fence enclosed the warehouse and its parking area; and stationed at the gate, two men in U.S. military uniforms stood guard.
“Are those U.S. troops?” Kyle asked.
“Negative,” Bradley told him. “This warehouse is a distribution hub for the savages.”
Sabotaging the truck, the dead driver—the madness was starting to make sense.
A low-pitched, cranking growl drew Kyle’s attention back to the warehouse. A desert-camouflage fuel tanker was chugging from the building, streaming a cloud of dense black exhaust. Two more Army vehicles emerged and turned north onto County Road 561.
Bradley’s lips were set in a grim line. Outrage seemed to radiate from his pores.
“Just how bad is this?” Kyle whispered.
“Worse than you can imagine.”
98D
VLADIMIR STOLEV HAD dreamed of becoming a cosmonaut since he was a boy; and as the Russian space vehicle left Earth’s atmosphere, a feeling of accomplishment glowed like a fire within him. This would be his final mission, a mighty blow to the United States.
The plan had been fermenting for decades—vengeance for an economic war that had fractured the Soviet Union. Through the launch of Saudi Arabian oil fields, excessive domestic oil production, and brazen speculation, the Americans had created a glut of oil. They had maliciously driven down the price of crude, the financial lifeblood of the communist superpower, bankrupting it, driving it into collapse. Now, the United States would experience disintegration.
The world believed this launch was a routine resupply mission to the International Space Station. It had been scheduled months prior to the EMP to guarantee safe passage for his precious cargo—stealth microdrones programmed to intercept the orbits of U.S. military satellites. The miniaturized spacecraft contained no explosives, instead relying on the 22,000-mile-per-hour orbital speed of the satellite to cause massive destruction. Metal fragments would become supersonic shrapnel, and Vladimir smirked, likening the orbiting space debris to Saturn’s rings.
Miles below on terra firma, missiles were flying like a global food fight, diverting America’s attention. Iranian volleys were sav
aging the streets of Tel Aviv; and North Korean barrages were targeting Seoul and Tokyo.
After releasing the drones, Vladimir had two options. Reenter Earth’s atmosphere and be shot down by the U.S. military? Or pop a cyanide pill and float into the cosmos?
The choice was an easy one.
Vladimir refused to give the Americans the satisfaction.
99D
FLABBERGASTED, BRADLEY remained immobile while his mind jetted. He couldn’t pursue the convoy because the pickup’s engine would seize; and even if he had been able to follow the vehicles, he couldn’t stop them—not with an AR-10.
“Excuse my ignorance,” Kyle said. “But what was that?”
“A Patriot missile battery. A high-tech surface-to-air defense system that can shoot down ballistic missiles, drones, and fighter jets—even at high altitude.”
Will let out an aggravated grunt. “So terrorists can shoot down our planes with our missiles?”
“Satellites will track the battery, and Special Forces will recover it,” Bradley told him. “Hopefully before the savages can use it.”
They returned to the pickup, and after shifting the vehicle into neutral, they pushed it up the gradual incline until gravity tugged the idling engine past the crest, pulling it downhill. Bradley, Kyle, and Will retreated back to the stand of trees in time to see the gate guards open fire. Bullets pulverized the windshield, and the truck coasted to a stop ten yards from the warehouse entrance.
A teenaged boy was sent out to investigate. He pulled the dead man from the cab, got behind the wheel, and steered the truck into the compound. Six camouflage-clad men with black headbands surrounded the vehicle. One shouted something in his native tongue, then four teenaged jihadists spilled from the warehouse. They swarmed over the tailgate and fenders into the truck bed, joining the young driver, dancing, pumping their AK-47s, shouting, “Allahu Akbar!”
A series of dull pops augmented the celebration. Glimmering objects swirled around the truck as if the vehicle were trapped inside a giant snow globe. Amidst shrieks, bloodied fingers clutched at wounds—legs, chests, throats, and eyes. Dazed and frightened jihadists bounded into one another. A few tumbled down onto the pavement as the men with headbands rushed to their aid.
“Will, what the fuck did you do?” Bradley demanded, readying his rifle.
“I gathered up a bunch of airbags, sprinkled them with razor-sharp glass and metal, and rigged them to go off when someone opened the cross-bed toolbox. It’s like the Bible says, an IED for an IED.”
“Are you crazy, pulling a stunt like this without telling me? There could’ve been a hundred savages in that warehouse!”
“But there are only eleven,” Will said flatly.
Seemingly unable to contain his anger, words spewed from Kyle. “And they know exactly where to find us! You and that damned truck are gonna get us all killed!”
“That’s enough!” Bradley snarled. “Right now, we have a serious decision to make. Leave Sugar Lake before they can exact revenge? Or shoot ‘em all?”
100D
ABBY HAD BEEN AT overwatch since sunrise, grappling with anxiety, anger, and exhaustion.
Last night, in the solitude of her room, it had begun with a tremor in her right hand and spread until her entire body was trembling. The peculiar energy jolted through her nervous system, agitated her stomach, and triggered an overwhelming nausea.
Abby had staggered into the bathroom, emotions rearing like a tsunami, destructive and unstoppable. She wretched, wanting desperately to purge the grief, the fear, but only managed to expel a bitter, scorching acid.
The bout of vomiting had only angered her more. Stop acting like a child, she’d scolded herself. Don’t prove Dad right.
Then a damning question had rattled her to the core. What if my reaction’s not age-related? Everyone says that women are more emotional than men. How can I become a Sniper if I can’t control my emotions?
Self-doubt and self-condemnation had kept her awake all night, a fact that was not lost on Bradley when he’d stopped by overwatch earlier that morning.
“You look well rested,” he’d said facetiously. “Rough night?”
“Nasty argument with my dad,” she’d told him, trying to explain away her bloodshot eyes and pale complexion.
“Was that before or after you puked?” he’d asked, extending a clear bottle filled with orange liquid. “Gatorade. To replace your electrolytes.”
Realizing that lying was futile, she had accepted the bottle and downed a quarter of it. “Just for the record, I don’t regret shooting them. The only guilt I feel is for my total lack of remorse ... I mean, what does that make me? A heartless bitch? A cold-blooded murderer?”
“Not at all. You did, what you had to do. And you don’t need to shed any tears for terrorists ... But that’s not what’s really bothering you, is it?”
Abby had resumed scanning the hillside, signaling the discussion was over. Bradley had casually reclined against a tree trunk, silently informing her that he wasn’t leaving without an answer.
Irritated by her inability to camouflage her feelings, she’d muttered, “Not very Sniperlike, huh? Pull the trigger and lose your lunch.”
“Happens more than you think, Squirt.”
Her gaze had snapped toward him. “Yeah? And did you puke, Sexy?”
Self-reproach had seeped into his hazel eyes; his head tilted away from her.
“Oh my God, you did? Didn’t you?”
“The first time ... And you’re enjoying that information way too much ...”
Bradley had unknowingly dissolved Abby’s shame and dispelled her greatest fear—that as a female, she wouldn’t be emotionally tough enough to become a Sniper.
He’s always there when I need him, she thought. How can I get my dad to see that? And stop acting like Bradley’s the enemy?
At noon, Abby and Gramps traded duties. He relieved her from overwatch, and she took custody of Billy. She lingered until he had recovered from the steep climb then tentatively said, “Gramps, could you talk to my dad? He’s being so unfair, treating me like a child, wigging out just because I kissed Bradley.”
He hesitated as if some unseen force had drained his energy. “Abby, your father loves you and only wants the best for you.”
She kicked at the bed of pine needles beneath her shoe, missing her mother, the family peacekeeper who had advocated for Abby and gently coaxed her into recognizing when she was wrong.
“Come on, Gramps. Bradley’s your grandson. You know he’s a good guy.”
“And so does your father. He just doesn’t want you rushing into anything. After all, you’re only sixteen.”
“But I may not live to see eighteen.”
“Abigail, are you trying to break an old man’s heart?” he asked with a droll smile.
“It’s true, Gramps. There are no guarantees anymore.”
Disappointment flickered in his blue eyes. “Uncertainty about the future is no reason to live carelessly in the present.”
“Kissing Bradley wasn’t careless. Not compared to standing too close to a four-year-old.”
“Abby, I wish I could help, but it’s just not my place to come between a father and his daughter. Besides, part of being an adult is having to solve your own problems. If I interceded with your father, then I’d be treating you like a child.”
101D
SIX MEN AND FIVE TEENAGED boys lay dead outside the warehouse, and Bradley’s thoughts wavered between anger at Will and frustration with Kyle.
After observing the warehouse for over an hour, he stationed them both across the street from the gate. Since the M4’s shorter barrel would be more maneuverable inside the building, Bradley swapped rifles with Kyle.
“If anyone approaches the warehouse—fire three quick shots to signal me then get out of here. You got that?”
He ventured onto the property, wishing it was Abby outside watching his back instead of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Scenarios played through h
is mind: Best case, the building was empty; average case, a frightened person was hiding; and worst case, someone was lying in wait.
The building was massive, seventy feet wide by a hundred feet deep, and Bradley edged around the corner with his rifle, clearing the expanse a slice at a time.
The left side of the warehouse was crammed with bedrolls, prayer rugs, and a few copies of the Koran. Hundreds of empty shopping carts lined the rear wall—S-Mart, various food stores, and wholesale clubs.
Damn, he thought, they must’ve looted every store in the county.
Bradley crept inside, advancing on a metal shipping container. Layers of copper sheeting and plasticized paneling lined the interior like a makeshift Faraday cage. Empty boxes formed a knee-high plateau, packaging for satellite phones, global positioning units, and solar panels—all bearing Asian markings.
He entered a small office and sidled around a dented metal desk, gun trained on the cubbyhole between the drawer towers.
Satisfied no one was lurking beneath it, he searched the room. Along the far wall, cases of Russian ammunition were stacked waist high and topped off with boxes of U.S. combat uniforms and propaganda flyers. A map of Central Florida hung like a cockeyed window shade, and Bradley noted that an agricultural airport had been circled with a red marker.
Crop duster planes?
The question solidified into an aching knot. Are the savages planning to disperse chemical weapons? A biological agent? Radioactive materials?
102D
EYES PANNING OVER DEAD bodies, Kyle felt his moral compass spinning out of control, vacillating between the ethical man he had always been and the unrecognizable man he was becoming.
Teenaged boys had been killed, sons and brothers, innocents infected by their parents’ ideology, bred to kill, aspiring only to death. Guilt morphed into a binge of justification. What about American kids? Suzanne? The girl at the swing set? The boy with the furry blue bomb? And God only knows how many others?
Kyle rubbed his temples, head aching, unsure what to think, how to feel. The sharp line between right and wrong had become a murky, meandering valley, and he was lost.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 87
