Nothing out of the ordinary.
He started on the second cartridge.
“Come on, Staff Sergeant. You’re wasting time,” DJ said, “and wasting ammunition.”
I’d like to waste you, Ryan thought. He twisted and tugged until the chunk of lead slipped free. Again, Victor dumped the shell’s contents onto Ryan’s palm; and this time, the flashlight illuminated sparkling white crystals.
“Fucking hot ammo!” Victor said, incensed.
Trust was a military staple eroding before Ryan’s eyes. He wondered every time he took a bite of Army-issued food; every time a drone flew overhead; every time DJ grasped his rifle. And now, he would have to wonder every time he squeezed the trigger: are there explosives inside my ammunition?
( ( ( 60% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(3F)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 3C
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( DAY 18F ) ) )
Monday, March 3rd
120F
YAWNING, BRADLEY MADE his way into the dimly lit kitchen. Gramps’ fingers were bleating out a nervous cadence that mingled with the hiss of a radio broadcast.
“With the arrival of a high-capacity transformer from Europe, the U.S. military has successfully restored power to three critical refineries in Texas. Distribution of electric and diesel will be prioritized in accordance with national security concerns.
“By week’s end, a civilian assistance center is slated to open in Central Florida. This joint effort by FEMA and the U.S. Army will house, feed, and provide medical care for displaced citizens. Additional details will be forthcoming.”
Relief surged through Bradley. If that were true, he could escort everyone to the FEMA camp then report for duty, knowing they would be safe; and Army personnel could help him reunite with his Marine Corps unit. Finally, a workable solution to his family-versus-country dilemma.
As the message repeated, Gramps switched off the radio. “So, I trust you had a good night?”
“Yes. And thanks for being such a dick.”
“Son, indiscretion has its price.”
And it was definitely worth it, he thought. After his grandfather’s stunt, Bradley had made love to Abby two more times and awakened with her beside him. She had returned home just before her father’s overwatch shift ended at sunrise. Hoping to re-engage again tonight, a decadent smile sprawled over his lips.
“Look at you,” Gramps said, “grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. Let’s hope you don’t regret it.”
Bradley responded with a critical stare. “I was careful. There won’t be any surprises.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gramps let out a beleaguered sigh. “You crossed a threshold that changes everything.”
“How so?”
“You still taking her on patrol up to Haywood Field today?”
With Kyle going right to sleep following his midnight-to-sunrise shift and Will at overwatch at noon, Bradley didn’t have another option. “Yee-yup. But Abby understands the danger out there. She doesn’t flirt or complain. She pays attention and follows orders.”
Gramps chuckled, and his weary, bloodshot eyes rolled skyward. “Who says I’m worried about Abby?”
121F
ABDULLAH JAWAD “AJ” AL-ZAHRANI was lost in thought, relying on the computerized autopilot to keep his C-130 on course.
He had grown up in suburban New Jersey, along with his brother and cousins, four of whom had already achieved the most supreme success: dying in jihad, the only way any Muslim could be assured of entering paradise.
AJ checked the time, disengaged the autopilot, and decreased speed. The critical rendezvous over the Gulf of Mexico was just minutes away. His eyes skimmed the instruments then passed over John, his dead copilot strapped into the seat beside him. He had foolishly accepted a stick of gum laced with tanghin.
The idiot actually thanked me for killing him, AJ thought, snickering.
In the rear of the aircraft, the Crew Chief and Loadmaster suspected nothing; and once he activated the drop light, they would expel the cargo without question. Six pallets would be delivered into the hands of jihadists, one loaded with weapons bound for Camp Sunshine, the remaining five with supplies destined for the new FEMA camp. Then AJ would crash the aircraft into the barracks at the temporary Army base, become a shahid, and join his noble cousins—the special forces of jihad—in paradise.
On the southern horizon, an aircraft was growing larger, a knockoff of a U.S. C-130, detailed with American flags and Air Force logos, identical except for its crew and cargo.
The two aircraft maneuvered together like a bizarre, aerial mating ritual until the imposter was flying close enough to make it appear that only one aircraft was approaching the Gulf Coast of Florida. Operation Sunburn was underway.
122F
HAYWOOD FIELD, WITH its one-kilometer grassy runway, looked more like a farmer’s field than an airstrip. Knee-high stalks of green jiggled in the breeze, dancing against the backdrop of four gray metal hangars arranged like a dashed line. Abby saw no indication of activity. Maybe the map Bradley swiped from Astatula was a red herring meant to misdirect U.S. forces.
She was lying prone beneath the wraparound porch of a deserted farmhouse, Bradley at her side. She sighed, recalling this morning’s awkward lecture where he had defined the boundaries of their personal relationship.
“Out here, I’m your commanding officer,” he had told her. “No flirting. No hugs. No kisses. You just follow orders.”
Disguising her indignation, she had made a joke of it, saying, “I’ll obey out here, but at home you are shit-out-of-luck. Sir!”
A grumbling din caught her attention.
Bradley whispered, “Don’t move.”
Realizing it was a combustion engine, adrenaline jolted through Abby’s body.
Two large trucks were passing a hundred yards to her right—U.S. military trucks.
“Is that a freaking Patriot missile battery?” she asked, her voice hushed yet thrumming with alarm.
“Yes. And those are not American Soldiers.”
The missile truck crossed the grassy runway and rolled to a stop, its cab poking between the easternmost hangars. The radar truck, towing an enclosed landscaper’s trailer, parked behind it; and six men with AK-47s began leveling the missile truck to prepare it for action.
Fifty mind-numbing minutes later, a speck appeared on the western horizon and swelled into a gray blob. Abby presumed it was a cargo plane. She glanced toward the missile truck, anticipating a launch. The savages appeared only moderately interested. Why weren’t they attempting to shoot down the plane?
The blob expanded then divided into two distinct aircraft, one above the other. Air Force bombers sent to destroy the missile battery? Or was it a food drop like Jacksonville?
Bradley was surveilling them with binoculars.
“Are they ours?” she asked.
“They look like C-130s.”
As the aircraft approached, parachutes began falling toward the runway.
Paratroopers over Florida?
The savages looked on, their level of interest holding steady as pallets and soldiers drifted toward the ground.
Two eastbound streaks cut the sky, white missile contrails speeding toward the cargo planes. The savages began shouting and gesturing wildly. The Patriot battery came alive, its missile canisters rising and rotating.
A few miles northeast of the airfield, a brilliant ball of fire inflated with a menacing boom. The first C-130’s fuselage cleaved into flaming chunks like man-made comets blazing through the atmosphere, leaving a ghostly tail of smoke.
Mesmerized by the spectacle, Abby watched the second cargo plane explode; then hearing a jet engine, she glanced west. Events were unfolding so rapidly, she wasn’t sure where to look.
A fighter jet streaked past in a steep climb, banking to the north. Abby’s eyes widened. “Was that an F-4 Phantom?”
“Ye
e-yup. Last I heard, we were using them for target practice.”
The Patriot battery whooshed to life, emitting a massive white cloud that engulfed the truck. A missile sped toward the Phantom, its contrail drifting slowly with the wind. The fighter jet ignited into a miniature sun with flaming tendrils tracing out an arc like the spines of an umbrella.
Abby searched the smoke for a parachute; the Pilot had not ejected. Thinking of her cousin Chase, worry coiled inside her.
A second Patriot missile hissed to life, launched at an unknown target to the south.
Why aren’t the paratroopers firing on the savages? Better still, why aren’t the savages firing on the airborne troops? “None of this makes sense—”
“Yes, it does,” Bradley told her. “Shoot the paratroopers!”
123F
WILL WAS IN THE LANAI with George, watching Billy pet the rabbits when he heard three distinct explosions from the north—the same direction as Haywood Field. Eyes rising skyward, he noticed a fighter jet, banking, diving, and spitting flares, desperately trying to evade a missile.
The Pilot ejected seconds before the jet dissolved into a fiery cloud. The wreckage seemed to defy gravity, stretching to the south before beginning its descent.
Will rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You think Bradley and Abby are all right?”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” The old man was the picture of confidence, except for his pale-blue eyes which betrayed his concern.
“George!” It was Jessie’s voice, wavering over the walkie-talkie. “An intruder at nine o’clock. A male.”
“Armed?” he demanded.
“He has a long gun. An AK-47, I think.”
“I’ll go,” Will told him. “You keep an eye on Billy.”
He pounded on the glass sliding door to rouse Kyle, grabbed George’s .40 caliber handgun, and dashed through the house to the front door.
The intruder appeared to be a senior citizen with an unkempt, graying beard. The bill of a baseball cap obscured his eyes, and his rifle barrel drooped toward the asphalt. The man’s lethargic gait suggested he was exhausted, hardly prepared to instigate an attack, but after the kid with the stuffed animal, Will was not taking chances.
He approached, handgun drawn. “Drop your AK-47 and backpack. Then move to your right!”
The man followed instructions, raised both hands in surrender, then said, “I’m just—”
“Shut up! Hands on your head and don’t do anything stupid. We’ve got you surrounded.”
Will holstered his weapon and frisked the man, seizing a folding knife from his pocket, then quickly retreated, driven back by the stench of body odor.
“Now, who the fuck are you?”
124F
DESPITE HER CONFUSION, Abby followed orders. Three paratroopers had landed and were attempting to extricate themselves from their chutes—easy targets. She aimed higher at the men still airborne. Gravity was pulling them downward, an inconsistent breeze was pushing them east; and Abby swore under her breath, trying to lead the target in two directions. She missed and had no way of gauging how far off she had been.
Paratroopers began returning fire. Rifle recoil caused them to pitch and sway, adding another dimension of movement.
Abby tried to slow her breathing.
She fired again.
Double miss.
Damn it!
Rounds began thudding against the farmhouse. Four savages from the Patriot battery were storming the runway. She shot the lead man in the chest. The others dove to the ground, hidden from view by overgrown weeds.
She watched Bradley systematically dispatch the remaining paratroopers. He made it look so damned easy.
“Fall back to the tree line,” he told her.
She made a crouched dash toward an oak with a ten-inch trunk and readied her rifle.
As Bradley ran toward her, the savages on the runway popped up.
Abby uncorked a steady cadence of suppressing fire.
Rounds began kicking up a trail of sand behind Bradley’s feet. Her sights veered toward the other two savages, and a pulse of lead drove them back behind the Patriot battery.
Once Bradley made it to safety, Abby switched out her magazine.
“Rack it!” he snapped.
“I fired nineteen shots. There’s still one in the chamber.”
An inkling of a smile touched his lips, then he led her east, past a rusty shed, toward a more dense stand of trees that provided better cover.
Two of the savages on the runway jumped up and charged toward the farmhouse; the third headed for the rusty shed.
Once they had a clear view of the Patriot battery, Bradley dropped to a prone shooting position. Abby followed suit, grateful for the reprieve. Her legs felt like overcooked strands of spaghetti.
“Shoot the savage near the radar truck on my count,” he told her.
She estimated the distance at two hundred yards; the elevation, perfectly level; and most importantly, he was stationary.
Simultaneous shots struck chest high. Both men collapsed.
“We need to keep moving.”
Three bad guys left, Abby thought, admiring how quickly Bradley had leveled the enemy. I don’t care how much practice it takes. Someday, I’m going to be able to shoot like him.
They advanced to the eastern hangar, creeping along its rear wall toward the unguarded Patriot battery.
“Stay here,” Bradley told her.
She was shielded on three sides, between two hangars with the armored vehicle blocking the runway—a military playpen. The displeasure must have registered on her face because Bradley added, “That’s an order.”
Giving a reluctant nod, she watched him steal behind the hangar, headed west toward the pallets dropped by the C-130.
I’m not only out of the action, she thought, I can’t even watch the action.
A breeze wafted against a layer of sweat, sending a chill along her neck. Abby felt an overwhelming urge to change position. Every cell in her body was screaming, “Move!”
Orders, she reminded herself.
After throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder, she sunk into skull dragging position and crawled beneath the radar truck for a quick look.
From a side window of the old farmhouse, two savages were spraying rounds into the wooded area she and Bradley had just vacated. Abby grinned, knowing Bradley was moving in the opposite direction.
She sighted her scope and watched for several minutes, unable to get a clear shot; then she scanned the rusty shed.
What happened to the third guy?
Awkwardly, she tried to skull drag in reverse, wondering why she had never thought to practice moving backward. Once she had cleared the truck’s rear panel, Abby returned to her feet and paced between the hangars. Her respiration, her heart rate, everything was spiraling out of control.
Why am I so rattled?
As she approached the missile truck, Abby heard a rustling sound behind her.
Instantly, she knew.
“Drop the rifle.” The male voice had a heavy Middle Eastern accent.
Fear throbbing through her, Abby leaned her AR-10 against the truck and slowly turned around. The savage sidled closer, his black eyes bottomless pits of contempt.
Why hasn’t he shot me?
A vision of the girl at the swing set siphoned the air from her lungs.
He jammed the barrel of his AK-47 into her chest. “Call him! Scream!”
Instead, Abby lunged, clearing her body from the line of fire. She grabbed the barrel and upper receiver, twisting the weapon, trying to use the trigger guard to break his finger, a move she had practiced with a handgun—not a rifle.
The gun went off.
A bullet struck the hangar.
Wrestling for control of the weapon, she landed a knee to his groin just as a hook kick nailed Abby’s left ankle.
Her leg gave way, and she began to fall.
Abby’s back slammed against the ground, but she maint
ained her grip on the AK-47.
The man landed on top of her and maneuvered the rifle, trying to wedge it against her throat.
She locked her elbows against the ground.
Bradley must’ve heard the gunshot, she thought. I just have to hang on.
Her attacker released the butt stock. He reached across his body, grappling for his sidearm.
Abby let go of the AK-47, desperately swatting at the handgun.
She felt a dazzling pain, as if her head had been struck by a sledgehammer.
Then everything went dark.
125F
KYLE’S RIFLE SIGHTS WERE on the intruder’s head as Will frisked him.
Who is he? And what does he want? Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
“Kyle, do you know this guy?” Will shouted.
He started toward the street. The bearded man’s hands rested atop a brown baseball cap, a Buffalo Wings cap—Kyle’s former team. He broke into a wide grin. “Oh my God, Dave? Is it really you?”
“Hell yeah, Murph!”
They embraced, then repelled by body odor, Kyle backed away. He couldn’t stop staring at Dave. He looked like he had lost twenty pounds and aged twenty years; and his bloodshot eyes shone with an ache that deterred Kyle from asking about his wife, Laura.
Will grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Jessie, we’re all clear.”
“Jessie’s alive?” Dave asked, smile deepening. “And Abby?”
“The girls are fine.” Kyle hesitated, and when Dave didn’t mention Laura or the kids, he bowed his head, interpreting the silence as a solemn confirmation; then he thanked God that his family was safe.
After he made the appropriate introductions, Kyle ushered them 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.”
“Speaking of less than friendly,” Kyle said, chuckling. “Come on back to the lanai and get cleaned up. You really reek.”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 122
