Bradley dropped his rifle. His hand clamped around Abby’s, reinforcing the pressure on the lever. He slid the pin back into position.
“The Army advises against pin reinsertion,” Ryan said.
“I know. That’s why you’re gonna lob it into the lake.”
The Ranger grimaced then took possession of the grenade.
“Who the hell is he?” Abby asked, suddenly noticing his presence. “And where’s my dad?”
“Damn it, Abby!” Bradley snapped, his voice a furious whisper. “You could’ve killed us!”
“But I didn’t.”
He had to forcibly repress his anger. Right now, he had to deal with the shooter. “What happened?”
“They ambushed us at change of overwatch. Uncle Dave was relieving Gramps. He forgot the nightscope, so my mom was delivering it. Three shots, all from the southern ridge.”
Bradley felt like the ground beneath him was sinking.
“Same location as the guy with the headband.” Abby drew an audible breath before continuing. “I nailed the spotter, but the sniper got away—”
“Whoa,” he said, his tone hushed yet teeming with urgency. “Why do you think he’s a sniper?”
“Stealthy movement—Gramps was on watch and didn’t pick him up. And who else has a scoped rifle and a spotter?”
Is this revenge for Astatula? Or did the Iranians track us from Haywood Field?
“Anything else?” Bradley asked, mentally berating himself over that sawed-off crepe myrtle crutch.
“Just before dark, he shot Aunt Laura and fired at my decoy. I spotted his muzzle flash and did a point-and-shoot. Since then it’s been quiet.”
“Any chance you got him?”
Abby’s head shook. “It was literally just a ‘shot in the dark.’ ”
“Where?”
“Sixty feet below overwatch, ten yards west.”
His patience thinned by the near mishap with the grenade, Bradley whispered, “You stand down! Don’t move until I give an all clear.”
When Ryan returned, both men crawled west along the ridgeline. Bradley saw a gun barrel poking through a wild bush ten yards below him. This bastard had ambushed Gramps and Abby; this was personal, and he was finding it difficult to slow his breathing, to calm his body.
He aligned his rifle scope, then his head drooped with disappointment. It wasn’t the shooter. It was Abby’s decoy, an AK-47, a long-sleeved shirt packed with sand, and a camouflage bicycle helmet—a freaking ballistic scarecrow.
He skull dragged farther west, his wounded arm feeling like it was being ripped open.
Sure enough, there was a shooter lying prone in the location Abby described.
But if this guy was a sniper, Bradley thought, he would’ve moved.
He targeted the man’s head, which tipped forward as if asleep. Bradley squeezed the trigger, and the bullet sheared off the top of the bastard’s skull. It seemed too easy.
He slinked farther west, across the damp ground with crickets blaring like an alarm. Each yard felt like a mile. As he moved past the body, he noticed a large exit wound between the man’s shoulder blades.
That explains why he didn’t change position. Was Abby’s “shot in the dark” a lucky hit? Or did the sniper position his dead spotter there as a clever trap?
Uncertainty bolstering caution, he spent more than an hour skulking around the southern ridge. Ryan trailed a few yards behind, and Bradley was grateful to have an experienced pair of eyes watching his back.
As he began the ascent, he thought, if there’s not a body at the crest, it’s going to be a long night.
The south-facing hillside was noticeably steeper and choked with weeds, its crown of trees blotting out the moonlight. Nearing the peak, he saw a figure lying prone, overlooking the lake. A sense of relief ignited then faded like the flash of a camera. Yes, he had found a body, but was it a dead spotter? Or a live sniper?
He regained control of his respiration and readied his shot, then exhaled, half laughing, half sighing.
A large portion of the man’s head was already missing.
“Un-fucking-believable!” Ryan said in an awed whisper.
Pushing himself to a standing position, Bradley said, “Yee-yup—I trained her.”
With solemn strides, he walked toward overwatch, fixated on Gramps. Still clutching his rifle, the General lay facedown behind the sand-filled bins.
Oh ... Gramps. Bradley removed the walkie-talkie from his grandfather’s belt, pulled it to his face, and then let it drop to his side, unable to find his voice.
Ryan extended his hand, silently requesting the walkie-talkie.
Bradley complied and backpedaled, distancing himself from the truth: the man who had raised him—his only real family—was gone.
“Abby, we’re clear,” Ryan said, speaking into the walkie-talkie.
To Bradley, he sounded muffled, miles away. He felt alone. Empty. He kept stepping backward, wanting desperately to turn back time like Kyle had done with the watch; just a few minutes to thank Gramps, to say good-bye.
His back thudded against a tree, his legs buckled, and he slid slowly to the ground, his strength devoured by grief; then he let the tears come.
188I
RYAN EMPATHIZED WITH Bradley’s loss. He had experienced the guilt, played the what-if game, and discovered firsthand that words, no matter how heartfelt, just didn’t help. So he stood beside Bradley and planted a hand on his shoulder.
Ryan gave an exhausted sigh. Was it really only twelve hours since he had met Bradley? He glanced at the grieving Marine, realizing that there was no one in the U.S. military he trusted more.
Hearing pounding feet, he spotted Abby running up the hill. She had shed the ghillie suit, but still clutched an AR-10.
“Bradley, I’m so sorry!” She fell to her knees beside him, sobbing, and Ryan grappled to reconcile that pretty face with deadly marksman.
Leaving Abby and Bradley to comfort each other, he moved down the hill toward a male body. Finding no pulse, Ryan reverently closed the dead man’s eyes. He had been shot once in the shoulder and slowly bled out.
He walked farther east toward another body, a woman. He noted the resemblance to Abby and bowed his head, knowing it was Kyle’s wife. She was lying on her back, an M1A with a nightscope resting atop her torso. A small splotch of blood marked an entry wound in her shoulder; and as Ryan leaned down to check for a pulse, the rifle barrel sprung upward and jammed into his chest.
189I
ABBY BREATHED IN TINY pants, rivulets of salty tears cascaded over her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop trembling. She felt as if a self-destruct button had been pressed and her body was trying to shake itself apart. “I’m s-s-sorry. I didn’t spot them until it was too late.”
Bradley’s arms closed around her, his damp cheek rested atop her head. “Abby, you weren’t even on watch.”
“You told me to keep everybody safe and now ...” Her voice shattered.
Bradley’s hands forcefully clasped her cheeks, demanding eye contact. “This is not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped that first bullet. And neither could I.”
“What about the second one that killed Uncle Dave? Or the third one that killed my mom? Or the fourth that killed Aunt Laura?”
“For God’s sake, Abby, you were ambushed by a sniper team. And you nailed both of them.”
Head shaking, she said, “You shot the sniper.”
Bradley stood, pulled Abby to her feet, and placed his helmet onto her head. “See for yourself.” Grasping her elbow, he guided her down the hill.
Aided by night vision, she saw it right away. There were two bullet wounds, one to the head, a second to the chest.
“He was already dead when I shot him. That was one hell of a ‘shot in the dark.’ ” Bradley’s voice softened, growing huskier with emotion. “I’m proud of you. Gramps would be too—”
A gunshot resounded.
Bradley took off down the hill, and Abby struggle
d to keep up on jellied legs.
“It’s okay,” Ryan was saying, an M4 in one hand, the M1A in the other. “Your husband’s a friend of mine.”
“Mom ... ? Thank God you’re alive!” The suffocating grip of guilt loosened, and Abby tackled her mother, enveloping her in a hug. Eager for another miracle, she gazed toward Aunt Laura. Through the greenish glow of night vision, she confirmed that her Aunt had been fatally wounded.
Bradley said, “Ryan, what the hell happened?”
“She thought I was the sniper. That was too fu-u-uh—fudging close. Where’s Kyle’s whiskey?”
Still holding Abby in a one-armed bear hug, her mother began craning her neck. “Where’s your father?”
A flurry of fear replaced the grief in Abby’s heart. “Bradley, where’s my dad?”
“Holy shit! He actually followed an order!” Bradley cupped his hands like a megaphone and shouted, “Kyle, we’re all clear!”
( ( ( 92% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(4I)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 4A
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( Epilogue I ) ) )
190I
Thursday, March 6th
BRADLEY SUNK DOWN ONTO the Murphys’ front porch and slouched against the house, elbows draped atop his knees. He and Ryan had just finished transporting Gramps, Dave, and Laura into the garage to protect their remains from predators until they could be buried in the morning.
Numbly, he stared into the blackness. Memories of his grandfather were trickling into his mind, bonding with guilt, forming a toxic emotional haze.
Ryan sat quietly beside him. He made no effort at small talk and offered no obligatory condolences, reminding Bradley of Will’s stubborn presence when his mother died. The memory was an ache in his chest. In just a couple weeks, he had lost so much.
The front door swung open, and Kyle emerged, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Jessie finally fell asleep. Abby’s keeping vigil.” He settled beside Bradley, taking a long gulp of whiskey before passing it on. “We need to leave for Camp Sunshine ASAP—”
“I’m not leaving until I bury my grandfather.” Bradley’s tone came out harsh, edged with anger.
“Of course I-I,” Kyle stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Bradley downed a mouthful of whiskey, and it hit his stomach like a mortar round. “It’s okay. I know you’re just worried about your wife.”
Kyle leaned toward Ryan. “Camp Sunshine has a hospital, right?”
“Affirmative.” The Ranger lifted the whiskey bottle from Bradley’s hand and swilled it. “But they’re gonna confiscate your guns and personal possessions.”
“Like the savages in Tavares?” Kyle demanded.
“You can’t have sleepers waltzing in with assault rifles or bombs hidden in suitcases and stuffed animals.”
Bradley eased his head back against the wall, waiting for the alcohol to dull the ache inside him.
“I don’t like it,” Kyle said, resignation echoing in his voice. “But I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“There’s more.” Ryan paused to down another gulp of whiskey. “Since there’s no post office, e-mail, or telephones, people are being drafted as they walk through the gates.”
Silence thickened in the night air, congealing into a solid mass, pressing against Bradley. Civilians expected a military rescue, not a military induction.
That can’t be going over well, he thought.
“I’ll gladly fight for my country,” Kyle said. “Especially if it saves Jessie’s life.”
“They’re not gonna draft you,” Ryan said softly. “They’re enlisting everyone ages sixteen to forty. Male and female.”
Bradley’s already tense muscles jumped to high alert. He watched Kyle rub his face as if kneading dough. Would he still opt to go?
“Ryan, what if you and Kyle take Jessie to Camp Sunshine for treatment, and I stay here with Abby until they return?”
“No go. Once Kyle and Jessie are in, they’ll relocate them to Texas—where the power grid’s been partially restored—and assign them jobs based on their skill set and government needs.”
“So it’s a combination draft board and labor camp?” Kyle asked, anger radiating like a blast furnace. “When did this country become a dictatorship?”
“Look, we’re at war on multiple fronts,” Ryan told him. “If the U.S. can’t start producing beans, bullets, and bodies to fight, you’ll find out what it really means to live under a dictatorship.”
Bradley had mixed emotions. If the government could draft someone and ship them overseas to fight, why not to Texas to work an assembly line? But how long would these extraordinary powers endure?
After lengthy introspection, Kyle said, “Jessie’s bleeding is under control, the wound’s been disinfected, and she’s tough. You heard her. She said that bullet fragment in her shoulder is nowhere near as painful as giving birth.” His head swiveled toward Bradley; a eurekalike expression lifted his features into a hopeful question. “Is there any chance Abby’s pregnant?”
Laughing, Ryan said, “You’re banging his sixteen-year-old daughter?”
In unison, Bradley and Kyle shouted, “Shut up!”
Yesterday in the lanai, the thought had tempted Bradley. His overprotective inclinations had wandered dangerously close to controlling and sabotaging. “No, sir. No chance.”
“Well, you still could—”
“I won’t.”
Ryan leaned toward Kyle and said, “How do I apply for that job?”
The flippant remark triggered a firestorm inside Bradley. He grabbed Ryan’s throat and pinned him against the house. “I’m already getting court-martialed, and the Army thinks you’re dead. Do the math!”
“Relax, I was joking. I’m old enough to be her father.”
“Not funny.” Although Bradley released Ryan, his stare continued drilling into him.
“Understood.” The Ranger redirected his attention to Kyle. “Now that you have the facts, what are you gonna do?”
“We’re staying,” Kyle said flatly. “If the wound gets infected, then we’ll go to Camp Sunshine.”
“It will get infected. It’s just a matter of time,” Ryan argued. “And if you wait, Bradley and I won’t be here to help transport her. She’ll need to be carried most of the way.”
Kyle rolled his head back. “Then we’ll lie about Abby’s age, tell them she’s fourteen. Without a birth certificate or electronic records, how would they know?”
“Won’t work,” Bradley said, his words dripping frustration. “Abby wants to enlist. She would lie to get in. Not to dodge.”
Angrily, Kyle rose to his feet and wrenched open the front door. “So I’m supposed to choose between my wife and my daughter?” He nearly plowed into Abby.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
The door slammed shut, vibrations rattled the house, and Bradley stood, gripping the stucco wall to steady himself. He’d had a few beers with the guys on base, but never whiskey on an empty stomach. Once the light-headedness passed, he shouldered his backpack and rifle then started toward the slain sniper.
Scurrying to catch up, Ryan said, “Why don’t you get some shut-eye? I’ll keep watch.”
Bradley mumbled his thanks and kept moving.
It’s my fault, he thought. I engaged at Astatula and Haywood Field; I left a trail that led them to Sugar Lake.
He knelt beside the man who had murdered his grandfather, ejected a round from the M110 semiautomatic sniper rifle, and slipped it into the outer flap of his backpack.
“I understand Kyle’s reluctance about Abby serving,” Ryan was saying, “but you were training her. Why are you dead set against it?”
Using a red-filtered flashlight to search the dead man, Bradley said, “I hate the thought of savages shooting at her.”
“Give me a break. They were shooting at her here.”
“But here, I knew her status.” Bradley paused to extr
icate a black IRGC headband and a ring from a cargo pocket. It was a wedding band with some sort of inscription inside. He began flaking away the dried blood with his fingernail. “I just don’t want to wake up every morning wondering if Abby’s dead or alive.”
“Well, if that’s the issue, I might have a solution for you.”
Bradley wasn’t listening. Eyes fixed on the ring, a bitter sense of resentment was surging through him, making his entire body quake with rage.
191I
SINCE READING THE NAMES engraved into that wedding band, combative thoughts had been colliding in Bradley’s mind, anger versus empathy, vengeance versus mercy.
He had been awake all night, restless and inconsolable. By 0800 hours, Bradley had dug Gramps’ grave, laid him to rest in the backyard beside the fishpond, and marked the site with a slab of granite wrested from the kitchen island. Onto it, he had chiseled: Beloved Grandfather, Brigadier General, George Anderson.
After the burial and impromptu memorial for Laura and Dave had concluded, he set out on the three-mile hike to Fern Ridge.
From his hillside perch overlooking the concentric-ringed neighborhood, Bradley stared at the house as he had that fateful night, this time with condemnation rather than compassion.
Although Kyle had insisted the dead sniper was not Zaakir, Bradley was certain the bastard had steered death toward Sugar Lake. The only variable was intent.
He knew damned well that we fed his family, that I put myself at risk to protect them. How could he betray us?
Did he disclose the information under duress? Did the Iranians threaten his family? Take them hostage? Was the blood-encrusted ring evidence that Zaakir had been tortured?
Or did he voluntarily trade the information for food?
What if he was one of the savages? Maybe he died fighting alongside his jihadist brethren; maybe the Iranians were planning to return the ring to his widow.
Then why didn’t Zaakir shoot Kyle and Dave yesterday?
Was he disseminating those flyers to herd Americans into that death camp? His family, the suitcases—was it all just part of the ruse?
Bradley’s gaze dropped to the brass casings scattered at his feet.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 168
