Webber’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.
“Lance Corporal, your report was unacceptable, rife with unnecessary detail. Rewrite it and have it on my desk by 1400 hours.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”
Rodriguez traded the letter for his report on Andrews. “On the fourth of March, in the midst of a firefight, Sergeants Victor Olenti and Juan Rivera were murdered by Corporal Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews was shot with a tranquilizer dart and taken prisoner. On the fifth of March, Andrews was rescued by Lance Corporal Bradley Webber with the assistance of a civilian, code-named Rambo. I’ll skip the paragraph regarding Tavares since it’s the same,” Rodriguez told him. “Upon returning to Camp Sunshine, Andrews was arrested for killing Al-Zahrani, who—at the time of death—was attempting to detonate an improvised explosive device hidden inside the base medical center. Andrews acted in self-defense, saving an untold number of Soldiers ... Got lucky on that one, didn’t you, Andrews?”
“Evidently, sir,” he replied, unable to contain his astonishment.
“Andrews, your suspicions about Al-Zahrani were well founded. A satellite phone in his possession has implicated him in multiple traitorous acts, including the deaths of Olenti and Rivera.” Rodriguez hesitated, haunted by a revolting question.
Would those men be alive if I had launched an investigation?
“The phone also connected Al-Zahrani to a group of IRGC operatives and a sleeper cell of cousins who referred to themselves as the special forces of jihad. Effective immediately, I am restoring your rank as Master Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Both of you will be discharged from your current assignments and sent to Texas for TEradS training. This new Terrorist Eradication Squad has been sanctioned by a presidential executive order to operate on U.S. soil, rooting out terrorists from the civilian population—a skill you both have demonstrated.”
Rodriguez let the printed copy of the report drop onto his desk. “Now, back to Rambo and Squirt.”
“Rambo is beyond draft age, sir,” Andrews said.
“Retired military?”
“Retired baseball player, Kyle Murphy, sir.”
Rodriguez did not bother hiding his disappointment. “What about this Squirt who dispatched a sniper team? Is he of draft age?”
Webber was battling a grin and losing. “Yes, she is. Abigail Webber, my wife, sir.”
Rodriguez’ head bobbed forward. “She’s here? At Camp Sunshine?”
“Yes, sir.”
Andrews added, “Mrs. Webber is committed to becoming a Marine Corps Sniper, sir.”
Rodriguez paused to send the e-mail then said, “Lance Corporal, you’ve been through Scout Sniper School. You think she’s got what it takes?”
197I
Saturday, March 15th
KYLE GRABBED A CAFETERIA tray and entered the queue of civilians awaiting tonight’s dinner entrée, vegetable-beef soup with rice.
Two days had passed since he’d said good-bye to Abby, and the ache was not subsiding. It struck like a sucker punch every time he glanced at Jessie, mother and daughter looked so much alike.
At least his wife had forgiven him for withholding the news about the draft. This time he had managed to bypass her notorious stubborn streak by asking the proper question: What would you have done if I had needed surgery?
The line slinked forward, and a worker ladled a translucent soup into a bowl. Kyle settled at a picnic table and silently said grace, grateful for the meal and for Jessie’s recovery. She would be released from the clinic tomorrow; and on Wednesday, they would board a bus bound for Texas, where they would build a completely new life. The thought was exhilarating and terrifying. How would he support himself and Jessie? Baseball skills were useless, and although he had owned the car dealership, his managers had run the business. He stared into his soup, stirring it as if divining the future.
Three tables to his left, Kyle heard a man griping about the food. He had hornlike patches of gray hair at the temple, a dark bushy mustache, and drooping jowls; features that created the aura of a senile bulldog.
“You think they’re eating this slop on that side of the fence?” the man shouted, thrusting an accusing finger toward the military base. “And what if I don’t want to go to Texas?”
Murmurs swirled underscoring the tension. A Military Policeman nervously scanned the room, speaking into his radio.
“I say no!” The Bulldog hurled his bowl of soup against the canvas wall of the tent then leapt onto the tabletop. “No to eating slop! No to slaving in some Texas factory!” He paced, arms swooping upward like a crazed musical conductor. “Just say no!”
Kyle’s restraint splintered. Climbing onto his own table, he shouted, “If my sixteen-year-old daughter can grab a rifle to defend this nation, you can work to make sure she has bullets!”
“I say no to the draft!”
“And yes to the terrorists? Mister, you’d better get clear on who the enemy is ... because it is not the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marines!”
People began to clap and cheer.
A half dozen MPs were encircling the Bulldog. He kicked and spat at them, screaming, “What happened to free speech?” He attempted to instigate a chant, unsuccessfully, and once he had been handcuffed, two MPs started toward Kyle.
“If you want your life back,” Kyle shouted at the crowd, “you’d better get off your asses and fight for it! Because the military can’t do this alone. Right now, you have the power to make or break this country. Which side are you on?”
Face flushed, mouth dry as sawdust, Kyle stepped down and swiped his water bottle from the table.
“Sir, you need to come with us,” a Military Policeman bellowed above boisterous chants of, “U-S-A!”
Knowing he had done nothing wrong, Kyle followed the MPs along the outer wall of the tent. An officer with a mosaic of ribbons on his uniform waited outside the doorway.
“Captain Carlos Rodriguez,” he said, offering a hand. His gaze felt like a silent cross-examination, probing and intimidating. “That was quite a speech, Mister ... ?”
“Murphy. Kyle Murphy.”
The Soldier’s face spread into a strange smile as if they were old friends. “So you’re the infamous Rambo?”
Taken aback, Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Captain?”
“I’ve been looking for a civilian leader,” Rodriguez told him. “Someone who can motivate and organize people to rebuild society. Mr. Murphy, I think you’re the guy.”
198I
Monday, March 17th
BRADLEY WAS AT THE main gate when the draftees emerged, forty-nine glum faces and one glowing like sunshine. Dressed in an Army PT uniform, Abby jogged toward him, her blonde hair sheared off at chin level, bouncing as she moved.
“They cut your hair?” he asked, fingers combing the loose waves that framed her face. He wanted to remember the silky feel.
“No, I did.” She presented him with a five-inch braid of hair, fastened with rubber bands at both ends. “I have your ring. I wanted you to have something.”
Bradley clutched the braid in his left hand and pulled her against him.
Kissing his cheek, Abby whispered, “How’d it go with Captain Rodriguez?”
“No charges, no court-martial.”
“Thank God he wasn’t as bad as Ryan made him out to be.”
“I think he feels guilty for ignoring Ryan’s warning about Al-Zahrani. He transferred both of us to a new branch of the military called TEradS, so we’ll be hunting down savages here, in the U.S. And Rodriguez said that if you excel in Basic Training, he’ll recommend you for Scout Sniper School.”
“You told him about me?” Abby stepped back, excitement glimmering in her eyes. “That’s awesome!”
Bradley didn’t mention that as an underage draftee, she couldn’t be assigned combat duty without parental consent. The government—anticipating that ninety percent of the U.S. population would
perish within a year—had begun inducting sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in an effort to keep them alive and preserve the country’s future Soldiers. Bradley grinned, thinking the situation couldn’t have worked out better. Abby would have all the protection of the military—food, shelter, and security—without the risk. At least for the next two years.
He could hear the bus approaching. Its tires crunched and popped against the gravel road surface, and he felt like the steel-belted treads were rolling over his chest.
“Thanks, Bradley ... I know it wasn’t easy for you to subdue those overprotective instincts.”
Offering an innocent smile, he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A Private with a clipboard exited the bus and began calling out names, an alphabetical countdown that made Bradley ache. Caressing Abby’s cheek, he drew her closer. He wanted to compress everything he felt for her into a single kiss, and sear it into her memory. He wanted the bond between them to strengthen her, to carry her through the difficult days ahead.
Names zipped past, and he held her tighter, not wanting to let go.
“Webber?” the Private shouted.
Not acclimated to her “married name,” Abby didn’t react; and Bradley pulled back, grinning at her.
“Webber, Abigail?” the Private repeated.
“Oh, that’s me.” A rosy hue seeped into her cheeks.
“Saying good-bye sucks even more than I thought it would,” Bradley said, his voice thick with emotion.
“But this is something I really want to do.”
Was that supposed to make it easier? It didn’t, but he knew he had to let go.
Bradley watched her walk toward the bus, feeling as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest, then he shouted, “I love you, Squirt!”
Abby glanced over her shoulder and flashed that adorable, pissed-off pout, the one that always made him smile. “I love you more, Sexy!”
Then a bizarre feeling of calm spread through him.
We will be together again, Bradley decided. Because the good Lord always provides.
* * Change of Heart(5I)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 5I
NO ... This is the End of Book One
WARNING: Paging forward will take you into a different story path.
The Powerless Series continues:
EMPowered: America Re-Energized
Power Play: America’s Fate
Mind Power: America Awakens
( ( ( PATH 172J ) ) )
172J
THROUGH THE DAGGERLIKE streaks of light and shadow, the savage had been difficult to detect. His position was slightly elevated, but he wasn’t moving. Abby increased the tension on the two-stage trigger, and a bullet tunneled through the bastard’s forehead, just above his spotting scope. She didn’t notice the well-camouflaged man beside him until he moved. Like an alligator in a death roll, he spun himself behind the ridge, out of sight and out of range.
Above the agonized ballad of Uncle Dave’s moaning, a voice within Abby shouted, “Move!” The gunman might have seen her muzzle flash. She had to change position. She had to get to her hide.
Skull dragging up the hill, the realization struck. This time, it was real. The consequences of being spotted would not be embarrassment or going back to start. This time, failure would mean death.
Abby’s heart felt like it had divided and spread miniature replicas of itself throughout her body, simultaneously hammering her chest, her throat, her hands, her skull. The numbing sensation made it difficult to move. Uncle Dave’s cries made it impossible to concentrate.
She could feel the creeping darkness engulfing her, chilling her. Soon it would be pitch black, and Abby would be fighting blind ... and deaf thanks to Uncle Dave. She would never hear an approaching footstep or a snapping twig.
Shut up, idiot, so he doesn’t shoot you again! Dear God, please make him shut up!
Abby knew he had been hit since he’d announced it to the world, but Gramps and her mother remained silent. Were they just being smart? Or were they ... ?
The question crystallized the air in her lungs.
Slowly, she retrieved her walkie-talkie. “Gramps?” she whispered, wondering if he could hear anything over Uncle Dave’s bawling.
She tried a half dozen times with no response then continued crawling toward her hide.
“I need help,” Uncle Dave shouted. “I’m bleeding to death!”
She closed her eyes to shut out the despair and pleading in his voice. It was maddening.
I can’t help you, she thought. Not without getting shot, so shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!
Abby’s eyes snapped open, reeling from a moment of fearful clarity. That’s why the gunman had left Uncle Dave alive: to lure her into the line of fire.
Then an even more terrifying thought snaked through her. In all likelihood, this guy was an IRGC sniper.
173J SKIPPED
174J
BRADLEY FOLLOWED RYAN through the dark hallway, trying to ignore the pained wails of a little girl being abused. Militarily, Bradley understood and respected Ryan’s reasoning—that the lives of the many outweigh the life of one individual; but emotionally, the decision was vexing. In his mind, her shrieks were fusing with the screams from that girl at the swing set, merging into a single haunting memory, a regret-filled duet. Another innocent he’d failed to save.
They entered a storage room directly beneath death’s doorway. Barren metal shelving lined the windowless room, and the floor crunched beneath each footstep, crackling like a thin layer of ice. Bradley swept his foot over it as if smoothing sand. It was shattered glass from dozens of fluorescent light tubes.
He eased his backpack off his shoulders then removed twelve bricks of C-4 and a spool of wire with a detonator and shock tube attached at either end.
“I’m not so sure this will be enough to put the building out of commission,” Ryan said as he stripped the green plastic from each brick. “We need a backup plan.”
“Have something in mind?”
“You have a lighter or some matches?”
Bradley stopped molding the bricks. Unable to shut out the panic and misery in the little girl’s cries, he bit his lower lip until it throbbed then said, “You want to set the building on fire?”
“No alarm. No sprinklers. No fire department. They won’t be able to continue operations. At least not here.”
Expressing his objection with a lengthy silence, Bradley resumed molding the explosives. A fire would set the clock ticking, eliminating all flexibility from their timing.
Ryan sensed his reluctance. “You realize that if they’re able to reopen for business, this is all for naught.”
Bradley glanced at the shoebox-sized white blob of explosives. Would it be enough? Could he live with the guilt if it wasn’t?
No, he would have to try again; and next time, it would be more difficult to breach the building. With a resigned sigh, he nodded toward his backpack. “Outer pocket on the right.”
Ryan retrieved a Bic lighter then snapped, crackled, and popped his way to the door. He paused to pick glass from the soles of his wet shoes, muttering, “Might as well be wearing tap shoes.”
The little girl’s screams escalated into one drawn-out howl, a death cry saturated with agony, then the room fell morbidly silent. Frustration and guilt were like a meat grinder, shredding Bradley from the inside out.
That savage killed her, he thought. And unlike last time, I could’ve saved this girl.
Bradley shuffled his feet, shushing and tinkling toward the exterior wall, pushing glass rather than crushing it, to minimize the shards embedded in his boots. He inserted the shock tube into the fifteen-pound block of C-4, wrapped the connected wire around it like a ribbon, and secured it with duct tape to prevent the shock tube from accidentally dislodging.
He forced his thoughts 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, footsteps began charging down the stairwell.
“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Ryan grumbled.
“There’s no time,” Bradley said, reaching for the nearest doorknob.
175J
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? Are Gramps and my mom 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, Uncle Dave, and her mother had all been shot.
She had let her parents 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, and the nightscope was lying in the street.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 170
