With a tranquil voice, he requested an emergency landing, citing the onset of hypoxia, a claim no one would question given the F-22’s shady track record. Cockpits were only partially pressurized due to the threat of bullet strikes; and that, combined with high-altitude missions, forced Pilots to rely on full-body pressure suits and respiration systems. Both technologies had notorious reputations for inducing hypoxia—a lack of oxygen to the brain that decreased alertness and caused loss of consciousness—and were presumed responsible for at least eight crashes.
The carrier was barely visible through the turbid blackness. Faint dashes of light outlined the runway, and two brighter patches designated the island, the ship’s superstructure that rose like a skyscraper above the flight deck.
Maurice aligned the aircraft with the set of landing lines. By the time flight control realized something was wrong, he would be unstoppable.
Via radio, he was advised to correct his glide slope—his path of descent.
Maurice ignored it.
The Landing Signal Officer waved him off, but he refused to abort his approach.
Closing on the Ramer, he advanced the throttle to maximum power.
The Verse of the Sword chanted through his mind.
“Kill those who join other gods with God wherever ye shall find them, and lay wait for them with every kind of ambush.”
The ship’s island grew larger, like a steel dragon rising from the blackness, a dragon he would slay for Allah in a 9/11-esque attack.
Maurice banked the plane; and it happened so rapidly, he never felt the seismic impact, never heard the roar of the jet striking the superstructure, never saw the blinding fireball leap into the night sky like the carrier’s fiery last breath.
( ( ( 57% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 17E ) ) )
Sunday, March 2nd
113E
DAVE KINDERMAN OPENED his eyes, unsure where he was. He squinted at silhouetted treetops swaying against blue sky and sniffed the air. The smell of a campfire brought him fully awake. Then his nightmare resumed.
Two weeks ago, he and his wife, Laura, had abandoned their home in Tampa, Florida. They’d fled with only a backpack, trying to evade roving gunmen who were indiscriminately shooting men, women, and children.
The hundred-mile journey had been especially onerous for a couple in their late fifties, hiking on blistered feet and bad knees, sleeping in the dirt. Harder still were all the unknowns.
His son, David Junior, had been away at college when the pulse hit. Are there gangs of gunmen up North too? Is David still in the Big Apple? Or is he wandering somewhere between New York and Florida, struggling to survive hour by hour?
Given that his daughter, Chase, was a Navy Fighter Pilot aboard the U.S.S. Stellate, he assumed she was faring better than the rest of the family.
Hearing a gunshot, Dave jolted upright, anxiety joining with the hunger that perpetually gnawed his gut. Where the hell is Laura?
He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder, chambered the last round of ammunition for his inherited AK-47, and started toward the lake, worry yielding to anger.
How many times do I have to tell her? How many dead bodies does she have to see before she stops going off by herself unarmed?
This is payback for snapping at her last night, he decided, brushing away a tinge of remorse. It was her fault for continually bombarding him with a terrifying question he couldn’t answer: What if we get there, and they’re all dead on the front lawn?
Dave didn’t want to think about it. He had convinced himself this odyssey would lead to safety and security, to a place without constant thirst, hunger, and fear. That hope sustained him, motivated him. Without it, he couldn’t carry on. Why couldn’t Laura understand that he was barely coping with today’s problems? That he would deal with tomorrow ... tomorrow?
He stopped short, eyes locked on the small silver pot they’d been using to retrieve and sterilize lake water. Two sets of footprints were visible in the muddy lake bank, and as he followed them to the north, panic began to build. The memory of that gunshot echoed through his mind, making his entire body feel weak and rubbery.
After a quarter mile the tracks veered west, toward a column of smoke rising through the trees. In anticipation and dread, Dave hastened his stride toward a green, igloo-shaped tent where a middle-aged man and a teenaged boy were cooking over a campfire.
Then he saw Laura, sprawled in an umbrella chair, neck rolled back, her lifeless eyes staring toward heaven.
114E
DISTANT MURMURS OF thunder joined with Abby’s rumbling stomach, and she still had another hour before her overwatch shift ended.
Detecting movement, her rifle barrel swung toward the northern ridge then abruptly dropped. Bradley and her father were returning from Haywood Field, an agricultural airport of particular interest to the savages.
Abby’s mouth tightened into a pout. She hated being stuck on overwatch when she could’ve been patrolling with Bradley.
Abby watched them enter the screened room then resumed scanning the hillside.
How much longer will Bradley be here? she wondered. And how are we going to manage without him?
She was surprised to see him reemerge minutes later with a towel tied around his waist, clothes and boots in hand.
Haywood Field must’ve been eventful if he needs a shower before relieving me at overwatch, she thought.
For the next half hour, Abby forced her eyes to sweep for threats, her ears to isolate unnatural sounds. But her wandering mind continually defied orders, jumping topics like a stone skipping over water until Gramps began plodding up the hill.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bradley’s exhausted, so I offered to take his overwatch shift.”
Abby stared at him, perplexed by the guilt-ridden smirk tweaking his lips.
“Aw, dang it!” Gramps said with a snap of his fingers. “I forgot to ask Bradley to bring up lake water for the toilets. Can you swing by and tell him on your way home? There’s no way I’m climbing that hill again tonight.”
“Sure thing.” Abby trotted down to Sugar Lake Road, cut across the lawn, and opened the front door. The house smelled like french fries, and she took a deep breath, wondering if the aroma was an olfactory mirage. “Bradley?”
Barefoot, he strode toward her, a blue Oxford shirt overhanging khaki shorts, and his clean-shaven face sported a mischievous grin. “Welcome to McWebber’s,” he said, removing Abby’s rifle from her shoulder and ushering her into a dining room chair.
Hot-pink hibiscus flowers spilled from a slender vase, and crystal glassware glistened beneath the glow of candlelight. Abby blinked, certain she was dreaming. Her gaze floated from the serving plate to Bradley, as enthralled by his thoughtfulness as the dinner he’d prepared. “Where did you get popcorn chicken and french fries?”
“Gramps had a couple of potatoes,” he said, a guilty gleam in his eyes. “But it’s not exactly chicken. It’s something I caught in the woods.”
“Rabbit?” she guessed between mouthfuls, savoring each delicious bite. She had always heard it tasted like chicken.
Head shaking, Bradley made a serpentlike hand gesture.
Abby stiffened, suddenly feeling snake meat slithering in her stomach. Bradley’s warm hazel eyes were studying her reaction; and a month ago, she might have been puking; but tonight, Abby was still hungry, and it tasted like chicken. With an indifferent shrug, she took another bite, telling herself it’s just chicken. Chicken!
Bradley’s laughter resonated off the walls, intensifying each time she looked at him.
“It’s really not that funny.”
“Actually, it is.” He tossed a printed label onto the table.
“Canned chicken?” Abby’s face flushed. “You suck. You know that?”
“Admit it,” he said, still chuckling. “You’re going to miss my sense of humor.”
Was this a good-bye dinner? Was he about to break the news?
Although Abby knew it was inevitable, she wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“So what did I miss at Haywood Field today?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Not much. We spent the afternoon sabotaging old crop duster planes whose mechanical systems weren’t affected by the EMP. If the savages plan to spray chemicals or germs over Central Florida, they’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
“Is that why my dad is suddenly so paranoid about us being outside?”
His expression was a stony mask, but she could see emotion fluttering in his eyes. Regret or resignation? She couldn’t be sure.
“Bradley, keeping secrets doesn’t protect me.”
His head listed, victimized by a precision-aimed guilt trip, then he said, “There were some cannibals in the area, preying upon people who were getting water from lakes.”
“Cannibals aren’t within your rules of engagement either?”
Through the dim candlelight, he shook his head, his elongated shadow skirting the wall behind him. “Wasn’t my call ... I went back the next morning. Alone ... But they were gone ... Hopefully, out of Lake County.”
When they had finished eating, Bradley stood, extended a hand to her, and led Abby through the deepening shadows into the family room. On the coffee table a rechargeable lantern spotlighted a snack-sized package of Oreos.
Squealing in a pitch unbefitting a Sniper, Abby tore open the wrapper. She chewed slowly, memorizing the crunchy texture, the chocolaty flavor. “These are awesome. Where’d you get them?”
“They were in my bag when I flew in,” he said, settling onto Gramps’ old leather recliner. “I rediscovered them this morning.”
Was he packing? A draft of sadness swept through her, then she willed it away. Abby removed another cookie and extended it to Bradley. His mouth opened, he rocked forward, and she pulled it away. “Miss. Re-engage.”
“Oh yeah?” His forearm chopped the back of her knees, taking out Abby’s legs; then Bradley caught her and lifted her onto his lap.
Undaunted, she dangled the Oreo near his mouth, taunting him.
He grasped her wrist, slowly pulling the cookie closer. Unable to counter his strength, Abby dropped it, letting the Oreo fall into her other hand.
“Double miss,” she said, giggling.
Lips pursed feigning annoyance, Bradley forced her wrists together until he could restrain both with one hand; then smirking, he plucked the cookie from her fingers and tossed it into his mouth. “Mmm, mmm,” he said, gloating. “Best Oreo ever.”
Abby nuzzled his ear and grazed a winding trail to his lips, inhaling the fresh scent of vanilla soap, then breathlessly whispered, “I didn’t want the cookie ... I want you.”
Bradley’s mouth closed over hers in a possessive kiss. The recliner lurched backward, and he pulled Abby on top of him.
She could feel his heart drumming fiercely. His hands gripped her backside, pressing her hips tighter against him, then roamed upward. His fingertips slipped beneath her T-shirt, caressing bare skin, electrifying her senses. His thumbs gathered the fabric, hiking it higher, and thoughts of making love began pulsating through her.
In one fluid motion, he sat upright, rolling and rotating Abby across his lap, scooped her into his arms, and rose from the recliner.
This is it, she thought, nerve endings jangling with anticipation. He’s carrying me to his bedroom.
Then Bradley returned Abby to her feet and pulled back from the kiss.
Dumbfounded, she watched him retreat into the kitchen without uttering a word.
115E
RYAN HIKED THROUGH waist-high weeds and between gnarled pines, keeping a wary eye on Jihad-Joe.
DJ could easily take me out during a firefight, Ryan thought. He could pick up an abandoned AK-47, pop off a shot, and make it look like enemy fire, just another casualty of battle.
A perilous thought made a jailbreak, running wild through Ryan’s nervous system, pumping jagged little icicles through his conscience.
Then again, I could take him out the same way.
He shook away the temptation.
Since the Army had not gleaned any actionable intelligence on the missing Patriot missile battery, his team had been tasked with recovering a dozen Stingers, shoulder-launched missiles capable of destroying vehicles and low-flying aircraft.
More U.S. weaponry being turned against us, he thought.
Ryan cast a wary eye skyward, wondering if he could trust the drone support overhead.
Rumors were swirling: The IRGC had boots on the Eastern Seaboard and the Gulf Coast; an F-22 had crippled the U.S.S. Ramer with a 9/11 dive into the ship’s island; North Korean operatives had infiltrated the West Coast.
Flashes of lightning silhouetted their target, a small cabin inside Lake Louisa State Park that backed up to Dixie Lake. As the team moved into position, Ryan counted four men with AK-47s outside the building, a minimal threat.
Mike, Juan, and Victor covered the front of the cabin and the eastbound road. Ryan was across Dixie Lake watching the rear of the property; and DJ was monitoring the T-shaped intersection at the western end of the road, six hundred yards away—a wise decision on Mike’s part.
Is he afraid of DJ shooting us? Ryan wondered. Or me shooting DJ?
Probably both.
He checked the time. The drone strike was still minutes out when Ryan spotted a pinprick of light to the west, too inconsequential to be lightning, more like a flashlight switching on and off repeatedly. Was DJ signaling someone inside the cabin? Alerting them to the Rangers’ presence?
The guards posted behind the structure grew restless, and Ryan could smell the scent of ambush hanging in the air. Swearing under his breath, he readied his rifle, then bullets swarmed around him like mosquitoes. He fired off a half dozen bursts. Then the back of the cabin grew quiet.
Out front, the firefight continued, and he heard a hollow popping noise, too loud to be a gunshot, more like a grenade.
A missile launcher poked through the cabin’s side window, aimed toward Juan and Victor.
Ryan delivered a deluge of bullets.
The Stinger pivoted toward him.
A streak of light arced.
A hissing trail of smoke whooshed from the building and plowed into the lake. The missile detonated, spewing water and mud onto Ryan with a force that stung; then a Hellfire missile struck the cabin and rattled the ground.
He waited, scanning the dusty remains for movement, thinking about those orphaned AK-47s.
So tempting ...
As if DJ could read his mind, he was first to report in, followed by Juan and Victor.
A brittle silence filled the night.
“Mike, you clear?” Ryan asked.
No response.
Soaking wet, the breeze felt like frosty fingers clawing his back as he moved toward Mike’s position.
His friend was lying prone, and Ryan dropped to his knees, frantically trying to stem the bleeding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, lying to himself, more so than Mike. The right side of his face was a mass of chewed, uneven flesh with bits of metal and bone protruding.
Blood was gushing from his neck.
His pulse was fading.
Ryan cradled his friend, then he squeezed his eyelids tight, refusing to watch what was about to happen.
Instead, he heard a soft shush of air.
He felt the last wisp of life expire from Mike’s battered body.
Like a whispering sigh. Peaceful. Final.
116E
BRADLEY WANTED HER; Abby was sure of it.
So why did he run away?
Emotions tottering between confusion and anger, she snatched the lantern from the coffee table and followed him into the kitchen. Bradley stood at the sink, back to her, rinsing dinner dishes in a bucket of water. To his left, flames danced, slowly consuming the tapered candles that had adorned the dining room table.
“Need some help?” she asked, placing the lantern on the islan
d.
“Nope. All done.” Bradley extinguished both candles and turned around. He slouched against the countertop, hands gripping the granite, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle.
“Why did you run away from me?”
Seemingly taken aback by the bluntness of her question, Bradley’s gaze dropped to his feet. Minutes passed with no response.
“Damn it, do I have to waterboard you to get an answer?”
Disappointment and hurt solidified into an unorthodox plan. Abby grasped the bottom of her camouflage T-shirt, wrenched it upward over her head, and flung it onto his bare feet.
Stunned, Bradley’s lips parted. His eyes roamed higher, hovering over her silky pink bra, an involuntary smile overspreading his face.
Abby edged closer, straddling his shins. She began unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy, trembling fingers. His hooded eyes met hers, simultaneously pleading for her to stop and begging her to continue.
She unfastened the button on his khaki shorts, and he inhaled sharply. Abby could feel heat radiating from his body as her thumb and index finger found the pull tab of his zipper. She eased the slider slowly downward.
Bradley exhaled in an audible pant and pitched forward, shorts slipping to his ankles. He kissed her with a devouring intensity, his hands slid downward, exploring bare skin.
Abby’s silky pink bra drifted to the floor, and a flurry of insecurity shivered through her—a reminder that book knowledge was no substitute for practical experience.
Weighted down by loaded magazines, her cargo shorts dropped with a thud; then Bradley’s hands grabbed her backside, lifting her. Abby’s legs encircled his waist, two thin layers of fabric separating them as he carried her to his bedroom.
117E
AMID INTENSIFYING CRACKLES of lightning, Ryan searched the cabin’s remains. Pulverized drywall coated the grass and trees; and the evening breeze felt heavy, damp and thick, like an onrushing tide pushing against him. He couldn’t fend off the thought. Mike, his best friend, the only person he trusted, was gone.
Grief was a burning abscess demanding vengeance. A dozen terrorists were dead, but one traitor was still breathing, plotting against his country, wearing a U.S. uniform.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 105
