“What is that? Near the lake?” asked Hamid.
“A fisherman.” Adrenaline boosted Omid’s energy, masking the pain as he quickened his stride.
The middle-aged American had an untamed wiry beard, brown flecked with premature gray, that stretched upward from his chin toward a blue boonie hat advertising Cabela’s. A green T-shirt and denim shorts called attention to his stooped shoulders and frail legs.
He made several casts, then the graphite fishing pole bent, the line pulled taut. He jerked the rod backward and reeled, again and again, until a fish surfaced, flailing, splashing, creating concentric rings. Omid likened the disturbance to the electromagnetic pulse; the doomed fish to America, still fighting, oblivious of fate.
Elated, the fisherman subdued his hard-won prize, a largemouth bass nearly a foot in length. Hamid raised his rifle, but Omid grabbed the barrel and directed it downward, saying, “Do not broadcast our presence.”
They tailed the man to a decrepit cabin camouflaged by spider webs, air moss, and a greenish coating of mold. A pile of tinder, kindling, and wood sat atop the sandy soil; and with a flick of a lighter, a campfire blazed to life. The man cleaned the fish with a filet knife, using smooth, long strokes, bending the narrow blade, separating flesh from scale.
Omid could hear the bass sizzling and breathed in the aroma, stirring the hunger pains gnawing his stomach. His mouth began to salivate while his mind coveted the precisely honed knife.
“This one is mine,” he whispered to Hamid.
The startled fisherman put up no fight, raising his hands at the sight of their weapons.
Omid seized the filet knife, still covered with blood and scales. “We are hunting American ground forces. They could be black ops, Snipers, Rangers, SEALs, or military Veterans.”
The fisherman backtracked until his posterior pressed against the cabin. To stimulate his memory, Omid pressed the tip of the blade two inches below his Adam’s apple.
“I-I haven’t see-seen anybody.”
Slowly, he applied pressure to the blade, penetrating several layers of skin. “American Soldiers?” he demanded again, his question shrinking along with his patience.
Sweat trickled over the fisherman’s forehead and cheeks as if his entire face were crying. “I-I-I swear. You’re the only people I-I’ve seen.”
Omid was certain the man was speaking the truth. No degree of torture could produce the desired information. “I believe you,” he said softly.
The fisherman’s shoulders wilted, and he exhaled with misguided relief. Omid thrust the blade deeper, puncturing his airway. Blood began to trickle into the man’s lungs. A muffled gasp escaped, and he collapsed, clutching his throat, unable to speak, unable to cry out.
Omid nodded courteously. “Thank you for dinner.” Then he and Hamid feasted on the bass while the fisherman drowned in his own blood.
137H
BRADLEY HAD TAKEN A warm shower, washing away perspiration and the smell of gunpowder. The layer of guilt remained. He and Abby had recounted the drama of Haywood Field, except for her close call. She had glossed over it saying, “A savage tried to sneak in behind me, and Bradley shot him.”
Not exactly the whole truth, but it was more than the omission bothering Bradley. His protective inclinations had become an emotional landslide, sweeping away common sense, objectivity, and fairness.
I have to talk her out of enlisting, he thought, pulling on gym shorts and a T-shirt.
Abby was sitting in the lanai, ankle soaking in a bucket of pool water. Kyle, Dave, and Will were brainstorming about where to find propane since last night’s dinner had exhausted their tank.
“I remember seeing a campground not far from here,” Dave said. “I can get a tank and be back before dark.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Kyle told him.
Abby pulled her dripping foot from the bucket and walked toward the pool.
“I can go with Dave,” Bradley said as he whisked Abby off her feet. “And you are supposed to stay off that ankle.” He deposited her back onto the double chaise lounge in the corner of the lanai.
Kyle gave an approving nod and said, “No, I’ll go. You’ve got overwatch this afternoon. Until then, keep Abby off that ankle using any means necessary. Duct tape. Glue. Nails—”
“Dad!” Abby shouted.
“Whatever it takes,” Kyle reiterated. “Hey, Will, you up for an adventure? We can bring back more tanks if three of us go.”
“Sure thing.” Will glanced toward Abby and said, “Billy’s napping. Can you keep an eye on him until I get back?”
After the trio had gone, Bradley sat beside Abby on the edge of the chaise lounge. “So, on a ten scale, how traumatized are you?”
Her eyes narrowed in mock indignation. “Would you ask that if I were a guy?”
“Absolutely, but in guy-speak it sounds more like, ‘You good?' "
Lips twisting into an accusatory smile, Abby said, “You’re the one who’s traumatized. What are you gonna do when I join the Marine Corps?”
“That won’t happen for two years—”
“Unless I lie about my age. Guys did that during World War II.”
Bradley felt like he had been shoved off a cliff. There had to be some way to keep her safe—and out of the military.
“You ... are gonna be a bigger basket case than my dad, aren’t you?”
“I wish I could make you understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” she said. “Do you think I’ll like not knowing where you are? No phones, no e-mail, not even snail mail? Not knowing if I’ll be able to find you again?” Abby’s lips seductively meandered along his cheek and nibbled his lips. “Gramps is at overwatch,” she whispered. “Uncle Dave, Will, and my dad will be gone for hours. And Billy’s asleep.”
Her argument was brief and persuasive—and Bradley didn’t need much convincing. He helped her wriggle out of her clothes, drinking in every square inch of her sensuous body, then he eased her backward against the chaise lounge. Abby’s hands tugged at his shorts, forcing them lower, until they were gathered around his knees.
Bodies pressed together with nothing between them, a dangerously selfish thought invaded Bradley’s mind. There was a way to keep Abby out of the Marine Corps; and right now, he could make that happen ... If he was willing to renege on his promise to Kyle.
138H
DJ LED THE RANGER TEAM north, from Haywood Field to the wreckage of the American C-130. His brother, AJ, the aircraft’s Pilot, had entered paradise as a shahid, a martyr for Allah; and his success was working to DJ’s detriment. Soon, the Army would discover the familial connection, and the tactics he’d wielded to distance himself from his cousin’s drone attack—allegations of Islamophobia and racism—would not work this time. The clandestine segment of his jihad was nearing its end.
He could feel Andrews’ incessant stare, scrutinizing every step, noting every time he scratched his balls. Somehow, he had to scrounge a few minutes of privacy.
He pored over the charred remains of the aircraft, desperate for a solution. Then, like a divine blessing, an idea germinated. Feigning defecation was his best chance at deflecting Andrews’ attention, at least for a minute or two.
He found a secluded spot, dropped his pants, and squatted. DJ rooted through his gear, removing toilet paper and a Chinese-made satellite phone, a rugged technology that did not store games, take pictures, or play music. It simply sent and received phone calls and e-mail worldwide, its only accessory a credit-card-sized solar panel.
An encrypted e-mail was waiting.
“Forward ambush coordinates.”
He typed their current longitude and latitude and sent the message.
“DJ!” Andrews shouted. “Quit jerking off!” His angry gaze ricocheted between his M4 and DJ.
Andrews wants to shoot me, he thought as he pretended to wipe his backside. He was about to stow the satellite phone when a response arrived.
“No mistakes, Dajjal. Operation Sun
burn is in jeopardy. Ambush in thirty minutes.”
Today marked the end of Al-Tokiya, the strategy of outwardly pretending to be a friend and ally, while secretly making preparations for an attack. Finally, he would openly declare jihad.
DJ crammed the satellite phone into his bag and smiled at Staff Sergeant Andrews.
Twenty-nine more minutes, Asshole ...
139H
KYLE FELL INTO STEP between Dave and Will, hoping the propane tanks would still be at the campground. They ascended the southern ridge amidst radiant green pockets of leaves, weeds, and wild vines rejuvenated by recent rains.
“Are you buying that story about Abby’s injuries?” Dave asked.
Facts danced through Kyle’s mind: planes shot down, a missile battery blown up with C-4, and enemy paratroopers raining from the sky.
And they want me to believe she tripped? Grappling to control his emotions, he said, “No.”
“But if you know it’s bullshit, why not call them out?”
“Abby is stubborn. I won’t get the full story until she’s ready.”
“Then wheedle it out of Bradley.”
Will said, “Good luck with that. I’ve known him all my life and I can promise you two things: one, he knows more than he’s saying; and two, short of torture, you will never get it out of him.”
Kyle agreed with both points. “Honestly, Dave. I’m not so sure I want to know.”
“I can’t believe you’re not flipping out, Murph.”
“Abby’s fine. That’s all that matters.”
“Really? Are you letting her venture beyond Sugar Lake again?”
“Hell no!”
Kyle and Will stopped short of County Road 455 to scan for threats.
Dave plowed on. “Come on, Murph. There wasn’t anyone between here and—”
“Hands up!”
It was a male voice, edged with impatience. “Don’t make me say it again.” The fortyish man appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, lanky with ghoulish rings around his eyes; the left was squeezed shut; the right peered down the barrel of an AK-47.
“We’re just looking for propane,” Dave said.
“Are you looters?” the man asked, treading closer, his rifle barrel slowly swinging between them. “Or are you cannibals? You all look pretty well fed.”
Kyle winced. He still hadn’t told Dave the truth, that Laura’s death was his fault, that his decision to spare the cannibals had ended her life; and as each hour elapsed, the prospect of confessing grew more grievous and less probable.
“I just walked here from Tampa,” Dave said. “I’ve been eating dandelions and squirrels.”
Voice rising unnaturally, Will said, “I came from a farm in Georgia with chickens and a cow.”
“And what’s your story?” the gunman demanded.
The rifle drifted toward Kyle, and his mind went blank. He couldn’t tell the truth. If the man knew food was nearby, he would surely attack.
“Don’t have a ready-made lie like your friends here?” the man shouted. “I’ll ask one more time. If you’re not a cannibal, where’s your food coming from?”
Impaled by his damning stare, Kyle said, “Call it divine intervention. The good Lord always provides.”
“You?” The man’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who left the rice and beans on my doorstep?”
Stunned, Kyle blinked. Questions stampeded from his brain to the pit of his stomach, setting off tremors along the route. George was anonymously feeding this man, and Bradley must have delivered the food.
Why didn’t they mention it?
“It wasn’t me,” Kyle told him, “but I’ve received rice and beans, just like you.”
The distrust and fear scrunching the man’s face softened. He shouldered his rifle and called to his family. A teenaged boy with an AK-47 emerged from the woods followed by a woman and a young girl, each loaded down with backpacks and small suitcases.
“I’m Zaakir Abbas. This is my wife, Eliza; my daughter, Raeleah; and my son, Zak.”
Kyle, Dave, and Will introduced themselves, then Zaakir said, “Do you know who this guardian angel is?”
Kyle squirmed, unsure how to respond. “At first, I was curious. Then I decided that if he wanted to remain anonymous, I should respect that. It’s the only thing I can do for him.”
Zaakir nodded, his sunken brown eyes dewy with gratitude. “I wish I could thank him. He saved my family from starvation and kept terrorists from slaughtering us. He is quite the marksman.”
Dave said, “Thank God for the Sniper of Sugar Lake.”
Kyle scowled at him. With eight words he had blurted their address and outed Bradley, who was risking court-martial to keep them safe.
Deliberately changing the subject, Will pointed to the family’s suitcases. “Where are you headed?”
“Tavares.” Zaakir removed rolled up sheets of paper from his back pocket, unfurled one, and handed it to Kyle.
“Federal Emergency Management Association opens Refugee Camp, Tavares Medical Center, Route 441.
“Three meals a day.
“Hot showers, housing, and medical teams in standby.
“Survivor database to locate missing family.
“Facility is under the prevention of the U.S. Army.”
His jaw dropped, optimism and skepticism dueling inside him. Kyle wanted to believe this nightmare was a thirteen-mile walk from being over, but the wording troubled him. Medical teams in standby? Under the prevention of the U.S. Army? Taking a deep breath, he said, “Where’d you get this?”
“Near Lake Apopka. I was hunting yesterday, and they were falling like giant snowflakes from an old biplane. I gathered a few dozen, so I could spread the news along my way.”
This wasn’t right. Kyle could feel it. “This may sound crazy, but I think you should wait—”
“What on earth for?” Eliza asked indignantly.
“To make sure this is legitimate,” Will told her.
Zaakir’s brown eyes hardened with a defensive and resentful anger, the expression of a man being stripped of hope. “Why wouldn’t it be legitimate?”
Kyle said, “I know FEMA has been inept in the past, but I doubt they’d get their own name wrong. It’s Federal Emergency Management Agency. Not Association. And yesterday, foreign paratroopers landed just south of Tavares. There was a wicked firefight, planes blowing up—”
“That’s what all the explosions were?”
Kyle nodded. “Please, Zaakir, wait. If it’s legitimate, our families can make the trip together. Just two days.”
“Agency? Association? Who cares?” Eliza said. “Raeleah has asthma. She needs a new rescue inhaler, and I need real food and a hot shower.”
“Listen, if Kyle’s wrong, you’ll get to Tavares two days late,” Will told her. “But if he’s right, your family could be killed. Is it worth gambling their lives?”
Zaakir’s gaze tarried over each of his children, bypassed Eliza, and returned to Kyle. “Thursday at sunup. We’ll meet right here.”
Eliza began ranting at her husband.
Eager to hear what Bradley and George thought of the flyer, Kyle turned for home. He charged up the hill alongside Will with Dave huffing and chugging behind him.
“Murph, did you ever think that maybe the guy who printed those was just an idiot?” Dave asked, frustration bubbling in his tone. “You’re turning a couple of typos into a damned conspiracy theory.”
“Two more days, Dave. It won’t kill you.”
“Well, I hope to God you’re wrong.”
So do I, Kyle thought. He wanted to live without fear; to eat three meals a day; to reunite with his parents and sister.
He opened the screened-room door. “What the hell?” He averted his eyes, but couldn’t erase the image—his daughter’s legs wrapped around Bradley’s bare ass.
“Dad? You’re back?”
Dave and Will started laughing hysterically.
Livid and embarrassed, Kyle stomped o
ut of the screened room shouting, “Bradley, go home! Now!”
“Come on, Murph,” Dave said, cackling as he chased after him. “You said, ‘Whatever it takes—duct tape, glue, nails.’ So he nailed her on the chaise lounge.”
140H
BRADLEY YANKED UP HIS shorts. Humiliation blazed like a wildfire inside him, its scorching heat radiating from every square inch of skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, kissing Abby’s forehead.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who talked you into it.”
And I’m the one who promised your father discretion, Bradley thought, trudging out of the screened room. He was anticipating a verbal ambush, a well-deserved tirade, but the yard was empty. His relief turned to foreboding, realizing this was merely a stay of execution.
He settled onto Gramps’ deck and gazed at the lake, berating himself, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when libido had overpowered common sense. His grandfather’s warning rustled through his mind. You crossed a threshold that changes everything.
A few minutes later, Gramps arrived.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at overwatch?” Bradley asked.
“Kyle sent Will to relieve me. He’s riled about something, but don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Bradley frowned at his grandfather’s word choice then pulling open the glass sliding door, he swore under his breath. Dave and Kyle were sitting at the kitchen table.
“Son, your face is redder than a communist flag,” Gramps said, motioning Bradley toward the seat opposite Kyle. “What in the hell were you up to?”
Dave snickered, Kyle initiated a death stare, and Bradley sunk onto the chair, fighting the urge to bolt from the room. Slowly, he forced his gaze upward, prepared for a withering glare or a wrathful outburst. The quiet disappointment in Kyle’s eyes was much worse.
His grandfather finished reading a sheet of paper then slid it across the table to Bradley.
“According to Zaakir, these flyers were air-dropped near Lake Apopka,” Kyle said.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 156
