Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  His thoughts shifted to Kyle. Was he able to stop the pedestrian traffic? Or were refugees still pouring in? He strained to listen, hoping the quiet indicated a respite from the slaughter.

  Bradley positioned the C-4 just feet below the executioners. He unraveled twenty feet of wire from the spool and inched toward the door, feet plowing through jagged particles. Just as he began extracting glass slivers from his boots, Ryan returned.

  “We’ve got to move. The laundry area was packed with linens. Even looters didn’t want shitty hospital sheets.”

  Bradley scurried down the hallway, unwinding the spool while Ryan guided the wire against the wall, where it would be less conspicuous.

  With fifty feet to go, three rapid gunshots boomed.

  Where the hell did they come from?

  Frenzied footsteps were charging down the stairwell.

  “We need to get the fuck out of here,” Ryan grumbled.

  “Not without Nikki,” Bradley said, reaching for the doorknob.

  175G

  HEARING THE HUM OF insect night song and the guttural croaking of bullfrogs, Abby sighed. Uncle Dave’s cries had abruptly ceased. Did he tire of screaming for help? Did he die? Is Gramps bleeding to death?

  Unrelenting guilt boomeranged between her conscience and common sense.

  I should try to help them ... but then I’ll get shot ... but I should do something ...

  She had been holding back unwelcome thoughts, allowing them to accumulate like floodwaters behind a levee, and now they were about to rupture with destructive fury.

  I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.

  And Gramps and Uncle Dave had been shot.

  She had let Gramps down, let Bradley down, let everyone down.

  A layer of sweat blossomed. Her hands began to tremble.

  “Snipers don’t fall apart under pressure,” she whispered to herself. “Think, damn it!”

  The full moon had just peeked above the eastern horizon, its light barely sufficient to distinguish roadway from woods. Her scope and iron sights were nearly useless.

  Is the sniper equipped with night vision? Thermal imaging?

  The possibility undulated through her nervous system. It’s now or never, Abby decided. She repositioned her rifle and grabbed the twine with her left hand, rolling the rough fibers between her fingers.

  God, I could really use your help, she thought, slowly tugging the string.

  The AK-47 boomed with successive shots.

  Pulses of light winked.

  She released the twine, but it must have snagged on a branch because the fully automatic weapon continued spitting bullets until the magazine emptied.

  Then she saw a muzzle flash. The sniper had returned fire.

  Abby didn’t think. Her rifle barrel instinctively lurched toward the flash, and she fired, regretting it before the sound of the blast had waned.

  Another stupid emotional reaction, she thought. There was no way she could have hit him, and she had foolishly risked giving away her position; then an even more dire realization rocked her.

  Dumb, Abby! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

  Snipers substantiated “kills” by collecting personal items from their targets. If he located the AK-47, the twine would lead him directly to her.

  ( ( ( 87% Complete ) ) )

  176G

  WITH FOOTSTEPS CLOSING, Ryan and Bradley had ducked into the nearest room, a claustrophobic closet packed with portable oxygen tanks.

  The Marine was crouched beside the partially opened door, head protruding like a dog enjoying a car ride.

  “You see anything?” Ryan whispered.

  Bradley leaned backward and gingerly closed the door. “Two guards are in the hallway, searching room by room.”

  Ryan rolled his head back then let it fall forward.

  I knew that kid was going to fuck up this mission. Why did I let Bradley guilt me into intervening?

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Bradley was saying. “They could’ve quietly slit her throat. Why risk the civilians hearing gunfire? And why three shots to take out a five-year-old?”

  “We’ve got bigger problems.” Ryan squeezed his aching forehead. “You broke that guy’s neck. Nikki couldn’t do that. They’ll canvas the building. Find the C-4. And us. Now do you get it? Good deeds—no matter how noble—can have unintended consequences. The kid died anyway. And now we’re trapped inside a burning building.”

  “And whose idea was that?”

  “The blame game’s a waste of time.” Ryan thumbed the safety of his inherited rifle to be sure it was not engaged then eased open the door. “Let’s take care of those guards and get the fuck out of here.”

  177G

  KYLE HAD STOPPED THE eastbound refugees a quarter mile from the extermination camp, close enough for the glow of electric lights to seduce and beckon the crowd.

  That building’s a human bug zapper, he thought.

  Using night vision, he estimated close to a hundred refugees were gathered on Route 441. He had expected foot traffic to diminish after sunset. Instead, it was steadily increasing as if people felt safer moving around in the darkness.

  Kyle scanned their restless, impatient faces. People stared at the lights longingly, as if they marked a magic gateway, a return to life the way it used to be. He understood their feelings, the relief, the craving for normalcy.

  But how would they react when that hope exploded before their eyes? Would they slip back into zombielike despondence? Or would they become angry—with him?

  If Kyle had followed orders and stopped the line a mile back, he could have released the refugees and slipped away before the big ka-boom.

  “Let’s go, Sergeant. We’re tired and hungry.”

  “My son needs a doctor.”

  “Come on, Man. You said one hour. Time’s up.”

  He’s right, Kyle thought glancing at Ryan’s ruggedized watch. The C-4 should have gone off fifteen minutes ago. Something was wrong. A technical problem? Or did Bradley and Ryan get caught?

  Dread seeped from every pore, drenching him, siphoning body heat, making him shiver in the cool evening air.

  A man climbed atop a BMW and began to chant, “Food now!” His clenched fist thrust angrily skyward, and a few voices joined his refrain. The chorus grew stronger, louder, angrier, until nearly everyone was shouting in unison. Fists, guns, and knives pumped like pistons.

  The ringleader descended from the BMW and marched toward Kyle, his mechanized mob falling into step behind him. “Are you going to stop us, Sergeant?”

  Stunned and bewildered, Kyle stepped to his left, symbolically removing himself from the man’s path. A river of bodies flowed past either side of him. A few people hurled curses at him; most offered sympathetic smiles, acknowledging that he was just doing his job.

  It was a mass exodus of good people following an idiot. Instead of anger, Kyle felt an overwhelming compassion, especially for the fathers.

  There, but for the grace of God, go I.

  178G

  THE MONSTER HAD MOVED. Nikki was sure of it. That’s why she’d pressed the shoot button, and now her ears hurt so much, even worse than that earache last year. She wedged her hands against them, trying to shut out that buzzing sound.

  The big gun was nothing like her brother’s video game. It was louder and scarier than thunder, and it didn’t shake like the game controller. It came to life, jumping, kicking her belly so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Real guns were nowhere near as fun as PlayStation.

  She shined the flashlight toward the monster. His eyes and mouth were open, and there was a dark spot where his nose was supposed to be.

  Now he’s dead ... But what if he turns into a zombie?

  The door to the room suddenly flew open.

  More monsters!

  Nikki closed her eyes and squeezed the button again, hanging onto the bouncing gun, even though it felt like all the bullets were flying into her ears.

  179G

  BA
CK PRESSED INTO A doorway alcove, Ryan waited for the prolonged burst of gunfire to subside.

  “Somebody just capped the two guards,” Bradley whispered.

  “This floor’s gonna be crawling with enemy soldiers. We have to move. Now!”

  They hustled through the hallway, unraveling the detonation wire. Illuminated by night-vision goggles, soot particles whirled like ghostly apparitions and stung Ryan’s eyes. Acrid smoke tickled his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough. He glanced at the dead men slumped across the threshold; then rifle leading the way, finger on the trigger, he nodded to Bradley and pivoted into the open doorway.

  180G

  EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED in less than a minute. Since then, Dave had been lying on the ground, moaning in pain. He hadn’t reacted to the first shot, expecting that Abby had tagged a rabbit or alligator for tonight’s dinner. Then a bullet had struck his right arm and hurled him to the ground. Initially, it had felt like getting pegged with a fastball, a blunt, scorching ache; then a stabbing pain had radiated throughout his body.

  He had called out for help until his throat was raw. Why aren’t George and Abby answering me?

  Three shots had been fired. What if they were both injured? Or dead ... ? Like Laura?

  He gasped, and tears began to flow. He had been grieving for days, and a wall of denial had finally shattered, bringing him face-to-face with his own cowardice.

  I never should’ve left those cannibals alive. I should’ve used my last bullet on the teen and fought the father until one of us was dead. Why did I just run away? Is this my punishment for abandoning her?

  Dave fashioned a shoelace into a tourniquet to stem the bleeding; and although he retained feeling and movement of his hand, it hurt like hell to move his arm.

  Kyle and Bradley will be back from Tavares any minute, he told himself. They’ll know what to do. I just have to keep it together until they—

  Another sequence of gunshots assailed Sugar Lake, an onslaught, followed by an exchange of single shots. Dave had no idea what had initiated the barrage, but he had glimpsed muzzle flashes in three distinct locations. He felt a rush of hope, concluding that George and Abby must be alive; then as the deathly silence lengthened, he slipped back into pessimism. What if they’d been hit in that exchange? What if Bradley and Kyle never made it back? What if he was on his own—again?

  The ache generated by that question made Dave forget about his wound, and he cursed his failing memory.

  If I’d remembered to grab the M1A, I would be able to fight back. I wouldn’t be lying here, unarmed and powerless.

  181G

  ANOTHER MONSTER APPEARED in the doorway. Nikki pressed the button again, bracing herself, but nothing happened. Where was the get-more-bullets button?

  A big black gun was pointing at her.

  Nikki screamed as loud as she could, and Bradley ran into the room. This time, he didn’t beat up the monster. He ripped the gun from her hands, hoisted her off the floor, and tucked her beneath his arm like a football.

  “She fu-u-uh—fudging shot those guys!” the monster said. His voice wasn’t nearly as scary as she’d imagined it would be.

  Bradley told him he was lucky she burned through the whole mag—what did that mean?

  Nikki felt like Superman, flying through the doorway into the dark, smoky hallway. She extended her arms, enjoying the ride ... until the gunshots started again.

  182G

  RYAN SHOT FOUR GUARDS as they emerged from the stairwell, then he raced through the small office to catch up with Bradley. In eighteen years of military service, he had never felt so rattled. It was more than almost being shot by Nikki, more than almost shooting a five-year-old; it was downright inexplicable.

  Ryan had burst through the doorway, zeroed on the rifle, and reacted as trained. He’d pulled the trigger, but his weapon failed to discharge. Somehow, the safety had ended up engaged when he knew damned well it wasn’t when he’d left that closet. It didn’t make sense.

  He climbed through the broken window to exit the building, sucking in deep breaths of clean night air, then his eyes lifted skyward.

  Did a higher power intervene? To prevent me from accidentally killing a child?

  Bradley was making a crouched run for the fence, clutching Nikki and the spool of wire, leaving a metallic trail in his wake.

  Ryan crept toward the fuel tankers. Under the glow of floodlights, he saw guards lining an empty walkway. Kyle had succeeded in stopping the influx of refugees, leaving only enemy combatants inside the building.

  Ryan removed two claymore mines, firing devices, and blasting cap assemblies from Kyle’s backpack. He angled the first claymore toward the guards; the second, toward the white tent; and after rigging the mines, Ryan opened the fuel tank that fed the tanker’s engine and set it ablaze.

  Frolicking flames leapt upward. Agitated voices bored through the drone of the generator. As guards dashed toward the truck to retrieve its fire extinguisher, Ryan detonated the mines, unleashing 700 steel balls at nearly 4,000 feet per second.

  He bolted toward the fence, and poufs of sand began fizzing around him like tiny geysers. Ryan glimpsed the silhouette of a gunman perched atop the shipping container.

  It was that guard—the one he never should have left alive.

  183G

  KYLE JOGGED BACK TO the Dodge dealership across from the hospital; and with each step, his blistered feet ached.

  He watched the crowd approach a guard distributing MREs. As cheers and applause glided across the street, Kyle entwined his fingers and gripped the top of his helmet.

  They’re all about to die. And I can’t stop it.

  His faith in humanity transformed into a series of haunting questions. Why did people always follow the ranting idiot? What could he have said to make them understand? And why didn’t the damned building explode?

  He checked the time. 8:03 p.m. His orders had been clear—head home at eight, with or without us.

  Well, I haven’t followed any other orders, Kyle thought, yanking Ryan’s watch from his wrist.

  He reset time to 7:53, and as he refastened the watch, he heard a popping noise that sounded like a grenade. A guard stationed near the roadway was scrambling toward the fence.

  Shit! Kyle thought, he isn’t supposed to be there.

  The man scaled the shipping container full of seized firearms then began shooting into the compound.

  Kyle raised his rifle and aligned his sights on the silhouetted guard. Before he could fire, the man collapsed.

  Civilians had stopped entering the facility, half pointing toward the dead guard, half toward the flames shooting from the western side of the hospital.

  What the hell? A fire isn’t part of the plan.

  A bright light flashed from the rear of the building. A resounding rumble shook the ground, then backlit smoke reared up, roiling like a pit of angry vipers.

  Frightened refugees began running, and the guards who had been distributing food and water opened fire. Again, Kyle raised his rifle, but a few well-armed Americans had beaten him to it. He smiled, watching people disperse into the darkness. They had escaped with their lives.

  I hope I can say the same for Bradley and Ryan, he thought, then he set off for the rendezvous point.

  184G

  AS CHASE KINDERMAN’S Raptor closed within range of the B-2 Bomber, two jets appeared on her radar, both on a heading to intercept the rogue plane.

  They couldn’t have detected the stealth aircraft, she thought. Was it a routine Chinese patrol? A pair of Russian MiGs? Or did the traitorous Pilot radio his position and request an escort into foreign airspace?

  Chase unleashed her 20mm cannon on the slow-moving bomber. A hundred rounds per second punched through the radar-absorbing skin, tunneled into the fuel tank, and turned the aircraft into a seventy-foot dagger of flames.

  The approaching fighter jets closed within visual range.

  Chinese J11s, she thought as a flurry of rounds pinged
against her Raptor. Chase pulled into a steep climb, reporting that she was under fire.

  Did the pilots mistakenly assume she had fired on them? Or were they angry over the destruction of their billion-dollar prize? Either way, it didn’t matter because permission to engage was denied. The U.S. could not afford a clash with China that might provoke an attack on Taiwan.

  Although the J11s had stopped firing, their pursuit continued. Two more radar blips appeared ahead of her, another pair of J11s. Did they intend to drive her away from their coast? Or was this a hostile act?

  Her thoughts jumped back to the Hainan Island incident of 2001. A Chinese fighter jet had caused a midair collision, forcing a Navy signals intelligence aircraft to make an emergency landing on Hainan Island. China had detained and interrogated the crew for eleven days and returned the disassembled aircraft months later.

  Chase refused to let that happen to the Raptor.

  Like most fighter jets, J11s could fly at high altitudes, but could not execute the tactical maneuvers that an F-22 could. Giving a fleeting thought to the Raptor’s failure-prone life-support systems, she pushed the jet above fifty thousand feet.

  The J11s stubbornly shadowed her until four F-18 Super Hornets appeared on radar, then they abruptly broke for home.

  A B-2 Bomber kill, she thought. I can’t wait to tell my dad.

  185G

  BRADLEY SHOT THE GUARD atop the shipping container, then lifted the fence and shooed Nikki beneath it. He handed off the detonator to Ryan and followed the Army Ranger out of the construction site. As the C-4 exploded, Nikki screamed and took off running.

  Bradley chased her down, his wounded arm throbbing with each step, and lifted the squirming child onto his hip. “It’s okay—”

  “Another monster!” she shrieked, pointing at Ryan.

  “He’s no monster,” Bradley told her. “That’s my friend, Ryan. He’s one of the good guys.”