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.
175K
HEARING THE HUM OF insect night song and the guttural croaking of bullfrogs, Abby sighed. Billy’s cries had abruptly ceased. Did he fall asleep? Did the bullet injure him too? Are Gramps, Will, and my mom slowly 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, Will, 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.
Is the sniper equipped with night vision? Thermal imaging?
The possibility undulated through her nervous system until a snapping sound snared her attention. Veiled by the fading twilight, a hunched-over figure with a long gun was creeping along the house. Abby angled her scope toward the target.
Aunt Laura ... Oh, no ... ! How can I warn her without giving away my posit—
A solitary gunshot rendered the question moot.
Abby’s head jerked toward the sound. She repositioned her rifle then 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 ) ) )
176K
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.”
177K
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, Ky
le 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.
178K SKIPPED
179K SKIPPED
180K
EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED in less than a minute. Since then, Jessie had been lying on the ground with Billy, afraid to move. She’d made it as far as the driveway when a stabbing pain had stolen her breath and knocked her off her feet. A bullet had ripped through her right thigh; and despite a tourniquet made from a shoelace, the wound continued to ooze blood.
Once the toddler’s incessant crying tired him out, a rogue wave of worry rose inside her.
Kyle 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.
She blinked to clear her vision and noticed a hunched-over figure with a long gun creeping along the house. Before she could warn Laura, another gunshot shattered the silence.
Jessie’s hushed pleas went unanswered; and as the first pangs of grief shivered through her, an onslaught of gunfire assailed Sugar Lake, followed by an exchange of single shots. She was certain one of the muzzles 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.
Darkness fell, the temperature dropped, and she heard a scraping sound, moving closer.
“Will ... ?” she called out in a smothered whisper.
“Yeah.” His voice was faint, his breathing sounded labored.
When he’d closed within a yard, Jessie could see that he was walking on his knees, dragging the M1A behind him. The smell of blood enveloped her. “Oh God, Will. We have to stop that bleeding.”
She began untying her other shoelace, her eyes fixed on Will’s right arm, glistening in the moonlight.
Panting, he kissed his sleeping son’s forehead. “Take care ... of Billy.” The words escaped Will like a deflating balloon, then he collapsed.
Jessie tightened the tourniquet around his arm, promising herself he had merely lost consciousness. She looked upward at the star-speckled heavens and prayed for Will, for Laura 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 groped for the M1A, wishing she’d 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 herself that question during every overwatch shift. Tonight, the answer was coming back different. Hell yes! I can shoot that bastard!
181K SKIPPED
182K
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.
183K
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.
184K
AS CHASE KINDERMAN’S Raptor closed within range of the B-2 Bomber, two jets appeared on her radar, both on a h
eading 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.
185K
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.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 175
