Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  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 ) ) )

  176J

  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. “Another guard must’ve heard the girl screaming, and I think he noticed the smoke. He and the child molester are headed our way.”

  Ryan rolled his head back then let it fall forward. “That kid still managed to fuck up this mission. And now we’re trapped inside a burning building.”

  “And whose idea was that?”

  “The blame game’s a waste of time. Let’s take care of those guards and get the fuck out of here.”

  They cobbled together a plan and moved into position.

  Ryan could hear doors opening and shutting, moving closer.

  Gripping his KA-BAR knife, he mentally rehearsed every movement, every step, a choreographed combat ballet.

  The closet door was thrust open. A rifle poked through, its attached flashlight sweeping like a miniature searchlight.

  Bradley grabbed the barrel and dragged it forward.

  With one fluid motion, Ryan stepped behind the guard, locked a hand over his mouth, and slashed his throat. Bradley caught the body and eased it to the floor.

  They tiptoed into the hallway, repositioning beside an open doorway. 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 tracked the guard’s movements throughout the room then nodded to Bradley, signaling the target’s approach.

  Within seconds, he met the same fate as his partner.

  Ryan thumbed the safety of his inherited rifle to be sure it was not engaged, then he and Bradley hustled through the hallway, unraveling the detonation wire.

  The door where the girl had been held was open. Her little body lay atop a gurney, an island amidst a lake of blood.

  He heard Bradley mutter, “Damn it! She was just a kid.”

  177J

  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.

  178J SKIPPED

  179J SKIPPED

  180J

  EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED in less than a minute. Jessie remembered Dave spinning as he fell, screaming that he’d been shot. A second bullet had struck the M1A. The fierce vibration had stung her hands, then a stabbing pain had stolen her breath and knocked her onto her backside.

  Just below the collarbone, a tiny puncture was oozing blood, and because there was no gaping exit wound, Jessie assumed a bullet fragment had burrowed into her left shoulder. Although she retained feeling and movement of her fingers, it hurt like hell to move her arm.

  Since then, Jessie had been lying on the ground, afraid to move.

  Dave’s incessant screams abruptly subsided, and she slipped into denial, promising herself that he’d merely lost consciousness.

  Jessie redirected her thoughts to Kyle, and a rogue wave of worry rose inside her.

  He should’ve been back from Tavares by now. Oh God, what if he’s been injured?

  An image formed in her mind, unshakeable and terrifying. She could see him lying on some forest floor, bleeding and helpless, just like her. Tears spilled over her lashes, along her cheeks, and crested her upper lip, filling her mouth with the taste of salt.

  Another sequence of gunshots assailed Sugar Lake, an onslaught, followed by an exchange of single shots. She was certain one of the muzzle flashes had come from the northern ridge, from Abby. Her eyes filled with joyful tears because her baby was alive; then as the deathly silence lengthened, despondent tears took over. What if that bullet hit her?

  The ache generated by that question made Jessie forget about her wound. She looked upward at the star-speckled heavens and prayed for Dave and George, for Bradley and Kyle, but mostly for her daughter.

  Abby’s fine, Jessie told herself. She’s in her ghillie suit. She’s read every Sniper book. Bradley trained her. She knows what she’s doing ... Too bad I don’t.

  She gripped the M1A, wishing she had learned to be more proficient, regretting all the wasted opportunities. Then Jessie activated the nightscope and maneuvered the rifle toward the northern ridge. As she scanned the hilltop for Abby, a familiar question barged into her mind. What if she located the gunman? Could she actually pull the trigger?

  She had asked h
erself that question during every overwatch shift. Tonight, the answer was coming back different. Hell yes! I can shoot that bastard!

  181J SKIPPED

  182J

  A STEP BEHIND BRADLEY, Ryan exited the building through the small office and sucked in deep breaths of clean night air. He tried to erase the sight of the little girl’s bloody body from memory, to lock it away along with recollections of Maddie, another child brutalized by this merciless enemy; but doubts continued to batter his conscience.

  Could I have saved the girl and still completed the mission? Should I have tried?

  Ryan shouldered the backpack containing the claymore mines then raised his rifle to cover Bradley. Clutching the spool of wire, the Marine made a crouched run for the fence, leaving a metallic trail in his wake.

  Once reaching the breach point, Bradley provided cover for Ryan. He approached the fuel tankers, and 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 both mines, he 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.

  183J

  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.

  184J

  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.

  185J

  SCOWLING, RYAN SAID, “I told you we should’ve taken out that guard.”

  “I did,” Bradley said, his wounded arm throbbing with each step toward Route 441.

  “Yeah? Well, it took you long enough.”

  “Because you went off script, set the tanker on fire, and fucked up my night vision.”

  He gazed toward the hospital, now an inferno. Intense heat was rending windows, and ravenous flames jutted from the building like hellish tornadoes, spawning massive columns of sooty orange haze. Civilians were helping themselves to the pallets of food and water; a few had ventured back to the shipping container and were raiding the cache of weapons.

  “So, are you reporting for duty? Or staying AWOL?”

  The barb reverberated through Bradley and settled like a slab of granite in his stomach. “Reporting.”

  “Good, because the fifty-mile hike to Camp Sunshine is going to be much easier if we double up.”

  “I can’t leave without my family,” Bradley told him. “I’ll need a couple days.”

  “Is that Marine-speak for I’m staying AWOL?”

  He sighed, knowing how it sounded. “Why don’t you come with me? Two days of R-and-R at Sugar Lake. We’ll load up with food, water, and ammunition then head out.”

  “You want me to walk thirteen miles south, making it a sixty-three-mile trek back to Camp Sunshine?”

  Bradley shrugged as they approached their rendezvous point, the man-made triangular lake.

  “You got any alcohol down there at Sugar Lake?” Ryan asked.

  “I don’t, but Kyle does—”

  “Deal! And speaking of Kyle, shouldn’t he be gone by now?”

  “Yee-yup.” Via night vision, Bradley saw Kyle fiddling with his watch. “Did he just reset the time?”

  “Yeah ... Let’s teach him a lesson.”

  “You sure you want to do that while he’s wearing your pants?”

  “Point taken,” Ryan said. “There’s no way I’m going back to base dressed like this.”

  As they closed within ten feet, Bradley said, “You were supposed to leave a half hour ago. That was
an order.”

  “Seven fifty-five,” Kyle said, displaying the watch as evidence. “Five minutes to spare.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Ryan told him. “We just watched you turn it back.”

  Kyle’s head bowed with embarrassment. “Let’s just head home. The girls are probably worried.”

  186J

  ABBY HAD BEEN FORCED to abandon her hide. That damned twine was a post-EMP MapQuest leading directly to her.

  Why didn’t I think of that before?

  Alone in the darkness, she glanced at the moon, trying to determine how much time had elapsed. The full disk had risen around six p.m. and was now high overhead. Estimating fifteen degrees of arc per hour, Abby figured it had to be approaching midnight.

  There had been no activity since her ill-advised AK-47 stunt, which led to three possibilities: the sniper was dead, had retreated, or was still out there.

  Abby ruled out dead. The shot she’d taken couldn’t even qualify as a scientific wild-ass guess. Retreat was possible, but unlikely. A sniper wouldn’t just give up. For him, five hours hunting a target would be a mere blink of an eye.

  Hearing a rustling noise, she held her breath. The sound was moving closer, emanating from behind, and Abby didn’t dare move. Above her thumping pulse, she heard a flutter directly overhead. Eyes projected upward, she saw nothing.

  It must’ve been a bat, she decided, returning to its roost after feasting on insects near the lake.

  Taking a slow breath, she thought, what would I do if I were the sniper? Her gaze swerved from her hide to the trip wire at the base of the hill. I’d establish the twine’s direction and sneak in from behind.

  With deliberately slow movements, she retrieved the grenade from the pocket of her cargo pants. If she lobbed it at the middle of the trip wire, shrapnel would pelt anyone within a forty-five foot radius. Without the nightscope, it seemed her best—and only—defense.

  Perilous thoughts seeped into her mind. Would Gramps have spotted the sniper if he hadn’t been distracted by their bet? Did she inadvertently get him killed? Get her mother killed? Get everybody killed?