Feeling like a pack mule for unwanted equipment, he reluctantly complied and watched Bradley and Ryan swivel into the doorway, rifles raised.
Kyle lagged behind them. The air felt thick, heavy with the greasy odor of oil. Looters hadn’t just scavenged for resources to stay alive. They had trashed everything for sport and left ankle-deep debris on the floor. Did his dealership suffer this fate?
A narrow hallway led into the showroom, and he stopped midstep. Across Route 441, an eight-foot, whitewashed plywood fence surrounded the hospital. Its blue lettering read: Welcome to the Central Florida Civilian Assistance Center.
Men dressed in U.S. Army uniforms were distributing bottled water and food from several large pallets. Refugees expressed their gratitude with handshakes and hugs; and the cluster of jubilant civilians wormed forward, turned left, and moved out of view.
Behind that plywood wall civilization existed. No more looting, firefights, or fear of starvation. Destruction had given way to reconstruction. Americans were rebuilding society, and Kyle took it in with ravenous gulps, the hope he had been desperately craving.
Bradley brushed past him, saying, “It’s here somewhere.”
“Try the garage again,” Ryan said, two steps behind him.
“What are you looking for?” Kyle asked, joining the procession into the service department.
“Roof access,” Bradley said.
“No problem. Follow me.” Kyle led them through the pillaged garage into the parts warehouse, a windowless room with two skylights. Toppled steel shelving created a metallic maze. Spilled engine parts carpeted the floor, rising and falling like windswept sand dunes, and they advanced through the mess, attention divided between watching their step and scanning for threats.
Kyle opened the utility-room door and pointed to a steel access ladder bolted against an exterior wall. It extended past the ceiling into a recessed square hatch.
Ryan vaulted past an overturned water heater and climbed the ladder. “It’s locked. You have a sidearm?”
Bradley handed up George’s 1911 Springfield.
“Make sure you hit the hinge side,” Kyle told him.
“Been there, done this,” Ryan said. A booming thud resounded, then a column of sunlight pierced the small room.
Kyle was last to ascend the ladder, emerging onto a flat roof enclosed by a two-foot wall. He scurried toward an outcropping of air conditioner units where Bradley and Ryan waited. A rectangular façade stretched five feet above the roof like a chimney, housing the building’s main entrance and a semicircular window.
Bradley sighted his rifle on the hospital rooftop, ready to provide suppressing fire in case enemy snipers were lying in wait.
Kyle followed Ryan to the façade, and while the Ranger covered Bradley, he gawked at the scene across the street. Parents with a teenaged daughter were celebrating their arrival, arms entangled in a group hug, rocking and bouncing.
Kyle felt an empathetic bond with the father, who had succeeded in keeping his family alive. Slipping into a daydream, he envisioned walking that path, embracing his own daughter. He could see Abby’s relieved smile, could hear excitement bubbling in her voice, could feel a burdensome weight lift off his shoulders.
Able to peer above the eight-foot wooden fence, he watched soldiers frisk the family and impound their personal belongings. Firearms were placed inside a red shipping container; suitcases and bags, inside an open-topped blue dumpster. Then soldiers ushered the family into a large white tent with plywood walls.
Seizure of property and gun confiscation?
Kyle thought back to the boy with the stuffed animal bomb. Is that the justification? To protect civilians from suicide bombers and armed terrorists?
The prospect of relinquishing his M4 sent a pulse of dread through him; and Kyle shook his head, wondering when he had become so attached to that rifle.
Behind the tent, he spotted a generator and two fuel trucks.
Army tankers, Kyle thought. This has to be legit.
Bradley continued sketching a map onto a Tavares Dodge notepad while Ryan fed him details—distances, fence locations, and guard positions.
Why the hell are they doing that?
Through a doorway on the left side of the tent, Kyle saw the same family exit, their celebratory mood extinguished. Heads down, shoulders stooped, the contrast was striking, from hopeful to hopeless.
The air suddenly became too thick to breathe.
The father he had identified with, the daughter he had likened to his own, had exited the tent with their arms bound in front of them.
161D
AFTER GUTTING THE sandhill crane, Zaakir plunged his hands into the lake and rubbed vigorously to clean away the blood.
A full stomach should appease Eliza, at least until tomorrow, he thought.
“Asalaam Alaykum!”
Zaakir turned toward the voice and replied, “Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam!”
Two men were approaching. Both appeared to be U.S. Soldiers. They had olive complexions, dark eyes, and Persian facial features at odds with the surnames on their uniforms—Miller and Taylor.
After an exchange of introductions, the man whose real name was Omid Ghorbani said, “Where is the rest of your cell?”
They think I’m a jihadist, Zaakir thought. “I was hoping you could tell me. I lost contact with them a couple days ago.”
“Allahu Akbar,” Hamid said as he commandeered the pile of raw meat. “Come, dine with us.”
Feeling as though he had no choice, Zaakir grabbed his AK-47 and followed Hamid through the woods. Omid trailed a few yards behind, stealthy and intent, his rifle poised to engage any threat.
Damn it, Zaakir thought. I can’t shoot Hamid without Omid shooting me.
They entered an abandoned house, a two-story Colonial that faced the lake, and quickly built a fire on the lanai using children’s books and the legs from kitchen chairs. Smoke rose then wafted along the ceiling, and within minutes, the aroma of roasting meat was moistening Zaakir’s mouth.
I have to get out of here, he thought, without them tracking me. He couldn’t risk exposing his family to these barbaric men.
“So, Zaakir, who is your commander? Mullah Abassi? Or Mullah Turani?”
He stared wordlessly at Omid, his heart pounding, fearful of offering the wrong response. “Mullah Abassi,” Zaakir finally said. “A wise and noble leader.”
The two jihadists exchanged a glance fraught with animosity; then they seized Zaakir’s AK-47 and forcefully escorted him into the kitchen.
A rifle barrel dug into his cheek.
“You have lied to us,” Omid hissed. “There is no Mullah Abassi.”
The saliva in Zaakir’s mouth turned to acid.
Hamid bound his wrists with the electric cord of a lamp then tramped deeper into the house.
“I ... I lied because I was ashamed. I was too cowardly to join the jihad.”
Disdain and hatred hardened Omid’s expression. “We are hunting American ground forces. They could be black ops, Snipers, Rangers, SEALs, or military Veterans.”
The word Snipers struck Zaakir like a fist. Thank God for the Sniper of Sugar Lake ...
They’re after our guardian angel, he thought, conflict roiling inside him. Betraying the man who had saved his family would be unconscionable; but endangering his wife and children would be immoral.
“I-I haven’t seen any U.S. Soldiers,” he stammered.
“We will need to verify that.”
Hamid returned, and Zaakir’s eyes locked on a rusty pair of bolt cutters. Searing hot fear spread through his body, sapping his strength.
“American forces?” Omid repeated.
Lips trembling, his voice failing, Zaakir only managed to shake his head.
The bolt cutters bit into his left arm just below the elbow, pinching and carving through tendons and nerves. He shrieked. Blood streamed down his arm and dripped from fingertips he could no longer control.
Omid wrestled Zaa
kir’s wedding band free and deposited it into his pocket.
A second bite tore open his right calf, and Zaakir collapsed.
Will they let me go if I give up Kyle, Dave, and Will?
Zaakir’s head slammed against the tile floor. He felt the scissorslike blades slicing through his ear. “Stop! I can’t take any more ... ! There-there is a Sniper ... A few miles from here ... At-at Sugar Lake.”
Hamid jettisoned the bolt cutters in favor of a butcher knife, and Zaakir expected him to sever the binding on his wrists. Instead, Omid knelt atop his chest, and Hamid began slicing through the gash on his forearm.
“By protecting infidels, you are guilty of apostasy!” Omid shouted. “According to Surah 5:33 of the Noble Koran, those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger will have their hands and feet cut off from opposite sides of the body!”
Writhing and screaming, Zaakir cursed himself.
I should’ve shot Hamid when I had the chance; I should’ve listened to Eliza and left for Tavares; I never should’ve betrayed our guardian angel. He saved us, and I’ve sent death to his doorstep.
162D
BRADLEY, KYLE, AND RYAN walked a mile to the east, out of view of the hospital, before crossing Route 441. The sporadic trickle of refugees was growing steadier, a parade of zombies, most in varying stages of dehydration and starvation.
Scenarios flashed through Bradley’s mind, each more horrifying than the last. Were terrorists using hostages for human shields? For slave labor?
They crept into a strip mall adjacent to the hospital and made their way to the roof. At the western end, a decorative turret—with arched windows and a metal roof—extended ten feet above them.
Bradley locked his hands together, and Ryan lifted a foot into the stirrup. The Ranger’s left foot planted atop Bradley’s shoulder, using him as a human ladder; then he climbed into the tower.
“Can you do that, Old Man?” Ryan called down to Kyle with a ball-busting smile.
He responded with a one-finger salute, dropped the helmets, and struggled to haul himself into the turret.
Bradley handed up his rifle and attempted to scale the wall. Kyle and Ryan latched onto his arms, and as they hoisted him upward, his wound ached like it had been doused with lighter fluid and set ablaze.
Ignoring the pain, Bradley smeared the sweat from his forehead and studied the hospital. The ground fell away from front to rear, revealing a lower level not visible from the street. The back of the property was a construction site enclosed by a chain-link privacy fence that stretched back two hundred yards to a lake or, more accurately, a glorified drainage ditch.
Prior to the EMP, a massive hole had been excavated for an addition that would have jutted from the original building. The savages had removed a huge expanse of glass from the hospital’s second-floor elevator lobby, in perfect alignment with the pit.
A man appeared in the opening, wrists bound, his sneakers peeking over the edge of a dark, wet-looking stain.
An arm streaked past the man’s face.
Blood spurted from his throat.
Then someone shoved him forward, and the body tumbled into the excavated hole, now a mass grave.
“How is this possible?” Kyle slumped onto the floor, face ashen, breathing rapidly, his entire body shaking.
“Slow down,” Ryan said, kneeling beside him. “Breathe slowly.”
Bradley glanced back toward the hospital, and a heaviness permeated his chest. Auschwitz had come to America.
163D
ADAM WALKER WAS IN THE midst of his twentieth mission, copiloting a B-2 bomber. He had departed from McDowell Air Force Base in Kansas hours earlier, tasked with destroying a missile site inside North Korea, but that was about to change.
Most of the traitors within the U.S. military were religious or political zealots, but not Walker. His motives were strictly financial, and he would not be paid in worthless paper. He had negotiated for a thousand pounds of pure gold bullion.
Walker looked at the Pilot beside him, a decent guy, who—under other circumstances—might have been a good friend. He dismissed the thought. He would have plenty of friends tomorrow, after he became rich.
“What the hell is that?” He pointed to nine o’clock on the horizon. As the Pilot turned, Walker drew a Ruger from his holster, a civilian handgun he had smuggled aboard, and fired a bullet into the back of his head. The .22 caliber round had the power to penetrate the skull, but not enough to exit and damage the nearly billion-dollar aircraft.
With the plane on autopilot, Walker began altering the target coordinates. Eighty conventional, 500-pound bombs would soon be raining from the sky, changing the world forever.
164D
RYAN SETTLED ONTO THE turret floor beside Kyle while Bradley added details to his sketch of the death camp.
“This is brilliant,” Ryan said, a hand slapping against his thigh. “They’ve not only stolen pallets of humanitarian aid; they’ve weaponized them.”
“This has to stop,” Kyle muttered.
Ryan felt like an overstretched spring about to snap, emotion and logic tearing him in opposite directions. He wanted to save those civilians as much as Kyle, but an impulsive plan was just a suicide mission. “Without a radio, I’ll have to haul ass back to Camp Sunshine.”
“That’ll take too long,” Kyle said. “Thousands will die. We have to shut it down today. Not a week from now.”
“We?” Ryan started to laugh. “Are you willing to die in there? Leave your daughter on her own?”
Kyle looked to Bradley as if soliciting help. The Sniper was still surveilling and scribbling notations.
“We need to do something,” Kyle said, irritation crinkling his brow. “Warn people? Stop the inbound traffic?”
“What makes you think they’ll believe you?” Ryan asked. “Those flyers filled desperate people with hope. They’re not going to thank you for stripping it away.”
“Then raid the building,” Kyle sputtered. “Don’t you do this shit all the time?”
“With the right intelligence, personnel, and equipment. Kyle, we have no idea how many enemy troops are holed up inside. There are only three of us, and we’re only armed with rifles—”
“Not exactly,” Bradley said, turning around. He knelt across from them, hunched his shoulders, forcing his backpack to slide downward, then dumped the bag.
“Claymores? C-4?” Ryan’s face split into a grin. “Game on, motherfuckers!”
165D
IT WAS NEARLY SIX P.M. when Kyle set out east along Route 441, slinking behind trees, looted businesses, and burned-out gas stations. The sun was drooping toward the horizon, drenching the apocalyptic scene with warm light. In a half hour, darkness would descend and set the plan into motion.
If my feet hold out that long, Kyle thought, cursing the combat boots that were pinching his toes and chafing his ankles. Dressed in Ryan’s uniform, he felt like a fraud, unsure if he could convincingly impersonate an Army Ranger; but Bradley had insisted it was essential. Kyle had to look—and act—like an authority figure.
“Try not to talk too much,” Ryan had told him. “Let the uniform and gear argue your case.”
Swells of refugees were thickening like an inrushing tide. Exhausted and dazed Americans stared straight ahead, propelled and blinded by hope, blissfully unaware that they were on a death march.
Who would have ever thought hope could be so dangerous? Kyle thought. He had experienced it firsthand, back at the Dodge dealership. Hope had seduced him into believing that civilization—life the way it used to be—was waiting behind those walls. It had duped him into imagining his daughter entering that white tent then forced him to contemplate a swan dive into a mass grave. Kyle knew better; he had known since laying eyes on that flyer; and still, he wanted to believe so badly that he only saw what he wanted to see.
He glanced at the innocent faces streaming past him, knowing their fate, yet unable to save them all.
These terrorists are Hi
tler incarnate, he thought. And they didn’t even have to supply the trains and boxcars.
Although Bradley and Ryan had given emphatic orders—get a mile beyond the facility before stopping traffic—Kyle just couldn’t bear it. At the half-mile mark, he jogged toward Route 441.
Would anyone shoot at him? Given that terrorists were impersonating U.S. Soldiers, there were no guarantees.
He made it to the roadway, hands extended like stop signs. “I’m Staff Sergeant Andrews, and I need you to wait here,” he shouted, mustering his most commanding deep tone. “We’ve had to quarantine a group with a lethal strain of influenza. The situation is under control, but it will take about two hours to sanitize the facility.”
Complaints crashed down like an avalanche.
“Two hours? Are you serious?”
“We’re starving.”
“What about the people in front of us?” an angry voice shouted. “You let them through.”
“They’re being diverted up ahead,” Kyle lied.
“If you’re military, why are you alone?”
Ryan had prepared Kyle for that question. “We’re short-staffed because exposed Soldiers had to be quarantined.”
Blustering gripes traveled backward through the column of refugees. As Kyle fielded questions, two men approached, each with arms thick as paint cans and assault rifles slung over broad muscular shoulders.
Shit! Are they going to confront me? Push past me?
“Sir, I asked you to wait here,” Kyle said, alternating eye contact with each man, attempting to read their intent.
“I’m Lieutenant Dunn, retired Army. This is my friend, Trey Green. We think you’re full of shit, Staff Sergeant.”
166D
FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, Abby scavenged the hillside near her trip wire, selecting twigs, fresh leaves, and pine needles to modify her ghillie suit. Lime green patches of infant leaves had appeared since the rains, claiming territory previously dominated by brown hues. Her camouflage would have to reflect that change in order to slip past Gramps’ watchful eye.
Convinced that she had heard a footstep, Abby raised her rifle. She turned in a slow pirouette, listening intently, eyes scanning for abnormal colors, shapes, or movements. Despite spotting nothing suspicious, the restless, anxious feeling worsened.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 98
