Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Hell yeah, Murph!”

  He embraced them each in turn; then repelled by body odor, Kyle backed away. He couldn’t stop staring at them. They both looked like they had lost twenty pounds and aged twenty years.

  Will squeezed his walkie-talkie. “George, we’re all clear.”

  After he made the appropriate introductions, Kyle ushered everyone toward the house.

  “I’m sorry for the less than friendly greeting,” Will said.

  He offered his hand to Dave, who reciprocated, saying, “These days, anything short of a bullet in the head meets my definition of friendly.”

  Then Will turned to Laura. “And my apologies to you for my colorful language.”

  “Honey, if you want to offend me, you’ve got to do better than that.”

  “Speaking of offensive,” Kyle said, chuckling. “Come on back to the lanai and get cleaned up. You guys really reek.”

  Laura smacked the back of Kyle’s head playfully. “That’s my husband. Not me.” Then she added, “So how’s our favorite sharpshooter?”

  “Abby’s good. She’s actually on patrol right now with George’s grandson, Bradley.”

  With a throaty laugh, Dave said, “Bet you’re damned glad my niece can handle a rifle nowadays.” Then craning his neck, he searched the main floor of the house. “Where’s Jessie?”

  Kyle glanced toward the shattered living room window and drew in a breath trying to extinguish the despair festering inside him. “A drug addict broke into the house and ... And she didn’t make it.”

  “Oh dear God ...” Shoulders hunched, Laura covered her face with trembling hands and sunk down onto the floor, giving vent to her loss.

  Kyle glanced skyward, reminding himself—once again—to be thankful for the wonderful years he had shared with Jessie and for all the great years still ahead with Abby.

  126D

  HEARING A GUNSHOT, A suffocating sensation gripped Bradley. He started toward Abby, knowing instantly an AK-47 had been fired. The hangars, the truck, they provided cover from all the buildings across the runway, an ideal position—unless someone had snuck in from behind.

  He peered around the corner of the hangar and saw Abby lying on her back. A savage straddled her, clutching a handgun.

  Bradley shot him once in the chest, a second time in the head; and the man toppled into a heap.

  Abby hadn’t moved. Face turned away, a ribbon of blood trailed from her temple, past her ear, along her neck. An icy fear seeped into Bradley’s pores and burrowed into his veins. He called her name, his voice a withered whisper.

  AK-47 rounds began kicking up sand. Bullets were streaming in from the north and the south, and Bradley darted between the radar and missile trucks for cover. Lead spattered against the vehicles, ticking off seconds, and he sensed Abby slipping away from him. His emotions mutated into white-hot determination. He needed to kill these bastards; he needed to get to Abby.

  Bradley squirmed beneath the radar truck and scanned the airfield. Muzzle flashes were pulsing from an upstairs window of the old farmhouse. Gotcha, he thought, squeezing off a round.

  When the sole remaining gunman switched magazines, Bradley sprinted toward the eastern hangar without drawing fire. He circled the building, the silence more maddening than the trill of fully automatic AK-47s. Did the idiot run out of ammunition? Or is he on the move?

  Bradley searched the woods until the AK-47 resumed its irregular cadence. He spotted the savage crouched behind the trunk of a live oak tree, took aim, and before the body hit the ground, he was bolting toward Abby.

  Each breath was like inhaling pepper spray, and his eyes filmed. She still hadn’t stirred.

  Oh God, did I get her killed?

  127D

  I CAN’T BELIEVE WE HAVE to X-ray our fuel tanks before we fly, Chase Kinderman thought as she catapulted off the flight deck of the U.S.S. Stellate.

  In recent days, a traitorous fuel handler had killed a dozen of Chase’s colleagues and destroyed as many aircraft with tiny spark emitting devices designed to look like tampons.

  What a hypocritical ideology, she thought. Driving and going to school are forbidden, but women can become suicide bombers and saboteurs for the sake of jihad.

  Today, Chase was flying with a Pilot who had been transferred from the U.S.S. Ramer, a carrier headed home for repair following a 9/11-style kamikaze dive that claimed the lives of nineteen Sailors. Each insider attack further degraded trust and morale; and the merging of Pilots from the Stellate and Ramer exacerbated the problem. Unfamiliar faces and unproven loyalties had everyone on edge.

  A second Raptor glided into formation beside her, and they headed north toward the Japanese coast. Chase couldn’t help wondering about the other Pilot. Would he have her back? Or shoot her in the back?

  On the horizon, floating like a child’s toy, she spotted the suspicious cruise ship. Two hundred miles off the southern tip of Japan, the vessel had issued a Mayday and continued steaming toward the carrier group, ignoring the Navy’s directive to alter course.

  She frowned, imagining the propaganda coup: U.S. sinks cruise ship, killing thousands of civilians. Then she groaned considering the alternative: civilian vessel rams aircraft carrier, knocking it out of commission. Chase recalled the forty-foot gash in the U.S.S. Cole, a guided-missile destroyer rammed by a small, explosive-laden boat in the Port of Aden. Could it happen again on a more heinous scale?

  The cruise ship enlarged before her eyes, continuously, smoothly, as if the cockpit were a zooming telephoto camera lens.

  An explosion tore through the ship’s upper deck and ejected a hazy cloud above the bow.

  A second blast erupted.

  A third.

  The detonations continued at perfect intervals, marching toward the ship’s stern, each inflating and expanding the smoky cloud like a massive glob of bubblegum.

  Radiation sensors jumped to a hundred times normal levels.

  Chase banked the jet and entered a steep climb to avoid the radiation, an invisible menace chugging at ten knots.

  The vessel had never been in distress.

  And it was not a cruise ship.

  It was a well-disguised weapon of mass destruction.

  128D

  ABBY PEERED THROUGH squinted eyelids, trying to remember what had happened. Her head felt like it had been run over by a Humvee. She vaguely remembered tussling for the AK-47 and falling. But then what?

  How long had she been unconscious? Abby’s legs and feet felt numb and tingly. Her right hand slid along her cargo pants, groping for her folding knife. She would not be brutalized like that girl at the swing set. If she was destined to die today, she would do it fighting.

  A salvo of gunfire began reverberating through her skull, intensifying her headache.

  Don’t move, she told herself. Play dead.

  She concentrated on taking shallow breaths to minimize the rise and fall of her chest. She kept her eyes fixed beneath closed lids, knowing the subtlest sign of life could invite a spate of bullets.

  The gunfire abruptly ceased. Footsteps were drawing closer, and Abby squeezed the knife, reminding herself to aim for the jugular.

  129D

  RYAN ANDREWS SAT IN the mess hall at Camp Sunshine, analyzing his food, unsure what it was. It looked like random cans of vegetables and mystery meat in a broth of watered-down catsup with a few mushy potatoes protruding above the slop.

  It’s too nasty to be lethal, he decided; then defying his taste buds, he downed the food.

  As he left the mess hall, Ryan saw Soldiers fortifying the adjacent FEMA camp with watchtowers, razor-wire fencing, and cement barricades. Would civilians be safer near the base? Or would it make them a target?

  Terrorists had struck Camp Sunshine with mortars, a Predator drone, and a preschool suicide bomber—safety was an illusion.

  His eyes swept the tent city, lingering on the massive steel towers flanking the main gate. In the name of security, a rational case could be made
for all of it: the gun confiscations, the seizure of personal possessions, the collection of fingerprints and biometric data to be cross-checked against terrorist databases. Logical and sane given recent history, but he couldn’t help wondering if freedom would become collateral damage.

  Ryan checked the time and hurried toward command quarters. As he entered the office, Captain Rodriguez was gnawing the end of his pen, lost in thought.

  “Staff Sergeant Andrews reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Rodriguez tossed the pen aside with a disgruntled sigh. “Your recent operation at the Astatula warehouse ... It has been alleged that you desecrated a Koran.”

  The accusation hit like an emotional flash bang. “Sir, I have ripped the bolts from a few AK-47s and goaded the enemy into shooting at me, but I have never laid a finger on a Koran.”

  “Then why would one of your colleagues report otherwise?”

  “Because I know he instigated that firefight at Lake Louisa. He tipped off the enemy with a flashlight—”

  “That’s your opinion. The other members of your team could not say with a hundred percent certainty that it wasn’t a lightning reflection.”

  “And the hot ammo? Was that lightning too?”

  Rodriguez’ eyes narrowed in displeasure. “There have been breaches in Army supply lines. All MREs and ammunition are being inspected. As for the issue at hand, I’ll be launching a full investigation.”

  Ryan blinked in stunned silence, his thoughts fishtailing dangerously. Why is Rodriguez protecting a traitor? Is he one of them?

  “With all due respect, when I requested an investigation, I was told a man’s career couldn’t be jeopardized based on an unproven accusation, sir.”

  “The Army has a zero tolerance policy in these matters—”

  “And a hundred percent tolerance when it comes to traitors? After DJ shouts, ‘Allahu Akbar’ and shoots me, are you going to chalk it up to workplace violence, sir?”

  Rodriquez’ face reddened. The veins on his neck looked like they had exploded beneath his skin. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Staff Sergeant! Dis-missed!”

  130D

  THE SIGHT OF ABBY’S blood-soaked hair made Bradley feel like his internal organs were shattering in slow motion.

  This is my fault. I brought her here. I gave the order to engage.

  Distraught, he grabbed the dead savage slumped atop Abby and hurled him against the metal hangar. Bradley’s knees buckled. He dropped onto the ground beside her, then her right arm swung wildly, wielding a knife.

  He lunged backward.

  The blade glinted an inch from his face. “Abby, it’s me!”

  Pulling herself upright, she said, “Could’ve used that intel a minute ago.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against his chest.

  “Um, Bradley—isn’t hugging on the battlefield against protocol?”

  “I thought I lost you. God, I love you.”

  “Not tonight, honey,” she said, fingers probing her bleeding wound. “I’ve got a headache.”

  Bradley zipped past the joke, focusing on the half-inch, swollen gash running parallel to her hairline. “What the hell happened?”

  “A butt stock must’ve knocked me out.” She glanced toward the savage crumpled against the hangar. “And you saved my life—again.”

  No, Bradley thought, rifling through his backpack for his first aid kit. I’m the one who put you in harm’s way.

  He cleansed the wound with an antiseptic wipe; and once he’d stemmed the bleeding, he applied a glob of antibiotic ointment.

  “Do you feel dizzy? Any blurred vision?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “Just sit down and take it easy.”

  “Don’t start treating me like some fragile glass doll,” she said, flashing that pissed-off pout.

  He looked away to avoid falling under its spell. “Abby, you almost got killed—”

  “So did you. The other day at overwatch.”

  “Listen, this isn’t a debate. You follow orders. Period!”

  “Would you coddle your Marine buddies like this?”

  She tagged a caustic “sir” onto the question that sent his temper soaring.

  “Damn it, Abby, you are not a Soldier. You are sixteen.”

  Tapping the heel of her hand to her forehead in mock revelation, she said, “You’re right. Instead of shooting Mr. IRGC, I should’ve been in my room, playing with my freaking coloring books!”

  The underlying truth in her sarcasm only incensed him more; and through gritted teeth, he growled, “Abby, sit down, now! And that’s a freaking order!”

  She settled onto the ground, arms barricading her chest, and leaned back against the radar truck’s front tire.

  Bradley stomped toward the pallet of military supplies and began sorting its contents into piles: claymore mines and C-4, blasting tubes and detonators, grenades and ammunition.

  Gramps was right, he thought. I never should’ve brought Abby here today.

  He rehashed the argument as he worked, annoyed that she was twisting his concern for her safety into some kind of chauvinistic conspiracy. Of course he would treat the guys in his unit differently, and it had nothing to do with gender. They were adults; Abby wasn’t.

  The thought was an electrical shock to his nervous system, and it spawned a damning question: If she’s not an adult, why the hell are you sleeping with her?

  “These are so-o-o cool.”

  His puzzled gaze seesawed from Abby’s last known position by the radar truck to the origin of her voice, behind him. Wonder twinkled in her eyes; her cheeks glowed with excitement. Bradley had seen that expression on a woman’s face before—in response to designer shoes and jewelry—but never grenades.

  With equal parts exasperation and amusement, he said, “Didn’t I just order you to sit down?”

  “Yes, but you never specified whether I should sit for one minute or one hour. So I used my own judgment.”

  “FYI: you follow an existing order until you’re given a new one.”

  Countering his scowl with an insolent smirk, she said, “According to Sun Tsu’s The Art of War, if orders are not explicit, it’s the commander’s fault.” Then she marched off and began collecting weapons from the dead paratroopers.

  Muttering under his breath, Bradley dumped the contents of his backpack onto the grass, slid a roll of duct tape along his forearm, then put two claymore mines into his bag. He packed the remaining space with C-4 bricks and a wire spool with a blasting cap and detonator already attached.

  He watched Abby drop rifles, handguns, and ammunition into a pile beside the missile battery, noting that she was walking with a slow, bumbling gait.

  “Abby, why are you limping?”

  She hesitated as if formulating a credible excuse, then said, “I, uh, tried to adapt one of those defensive moves you taught me to an AK-47, and a kick to the ankle knocked me on my ass.”

  Aggravated that a butt stock to the head was not the full story and amazed that she hadn’t panicked, Bradley said, “Damn it, Abby, why didn’t you scream? I would’ve gotten there sooner—”

  “Because the savage wanted me to bait you. But if I was going to die, I wasn’t about to take you with me.”

  He gazed past her while his emotions and thoughts tangled into a knot of nausea.

  Staring down the barrel of an AK-47, knowing damned well what these men were capable of—and she was trying to protect me?

  It was the same courage that compelled a man to throw himself onto a grenade to save his squad—selfless and heroic for a Soldier.

  Not for his girlfriend.

  Seeing her bloodied on the ground, believing that he had gotten her killed—that moment had changed everything for Bradley. Suddenly, he hated the prospect of Abby engaging in firefights; and he felt a compelling and irrational urge to quash her Sniper aspirations.

  131D

  SNIPER O
MID GHORBANI and his partner, Hamid Khadem, snapped to attention as the Captain entered the warden’s office inside the Jacksonville Women’s Correctional Facility, a makeshift base for the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.

  Prior to the EMP, they had infiltrated the porous U.S. border, secreted away by a network of radical safe houses patterned after the American Underground Railroad of the 1860s. Shia and Sunni jihadists, mortal enemies for more than a millennium, had pledged to suspend their hostilities and band together in order to purge the United States and Israel from the earth. Only then would Shia and Sunni square off against each other in the battle for the caliphate.

  The IRGC’s mission—to act as advisors and facilitate the demise of America—had been hindered by undisciplined Sunni jihadists and well-armed infidels, making an infusion of additional troops necessary.

  “Despite assurances of security,” the Captain began, “we encountered serious resistance at Haywood Field.”

  “The embedded spy failed to provide warning?” Omid asked.

  “Dajjal may have been compromised,” the Captain said, contempt for the Saudi Arabian Sunni evident in his tone. The Arabic word Dajjal meant deceiver, a fitting code name for a jihadist masquerading as a member of the Great Satan’s military.

  “Our aircraft has been shot down,” the Captain continued. “Radio transmissions indicate that our airborne troops, who jumped prior to missile impact, came under fire. Although the U.S. fighter jets involved have been eliminated, the ground forces remain at large. Because our spies had no knowledge of the ground assault, we believe it could have been an off-the-books black ops team or a highly skilled group of military Veterans. They pose a grave threat to Operation Sunburn. Your mission is to hunt down these forces. And eliminate that threat.”

  132D

  BRADLEY PEELED AWAY the green casing on a dozen bricks of C-4 and molded the plastic explosives into a large block. He jabbed a blasting tube into the center, bent the wire, and taped it in position to be sure it would not pull loose; then he repeated the process.

  After loading enemy handguns, rifles, and magazines into an empty missile canister on the Patriot battery, Bradley inserted a wired block of C-4. He let the spool drop, unwinding as it plummeted to the ground, then he jumped down from the truck.