Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I tried,” Bradley told him. In fact, he had made it a quarter of the way home before relenting, a decision that proved beneficial since Eliza had carried Billy the entire way.

  “Well, you’re a better man than I am.”

  “I didn’t do it for them ... or for Zaakir. I did it because it’s what my grandfather would’ve wanted ... Hardest damned thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Ryan met his eye. “The right thing usually is.”

  Bradley helped Billy check in, at a loss to answer most of the questions.

  “Are you assuming the role of guardian for this child?”

  “I can’t, but Mr. and Mrs. Murphy have agreed to look after him.”

  “His right hand, please?”

  As Bradley identified himself, medics loaded Jessie onto a stretcher. Abby kissed her mother’s cheek, face scrunching to ward off tears, then Kyle reluctantly released his wife’s hand.

  “Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews?” Private Wilson’s eyes widened like a spreading stain. His attention seesawed between Ryan and the computer screen, employing old-school facial recognition, then he began typing at a feverish rate.

  Abby approached the table; and after answering all the questions, she inserted her finger into the scanner then extended her right wrist.

  “No, Ma’am, you don’t get a band,” Wilson told her. “You’ve just been drafted. Report to the enlistment center—”

  “Her mother is gravely ill for God’s sake,” Kyle said, his voice rising with consternation. “Can’t she wait a day?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A few hours?” Kyle asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Will she be able to see her mother? To say good-bye?”

  “Mr. Murphy, this may come as a shock, but the Army doesn’t revolve around you.”

  Kyle lunged across the table, toppling the laptop, intent on choking the Private, but Ryan and Bradley intervened.

  “He’s not worth it.” Bradley gave Wilson a death stare then watched the brutal father-daughter farewell. Worry was etched in Kyle’s face, a sentiment Bradley understood—too well.

  “Webber,” Ryan bellowed, plunging a hand into his pocket. “Move a yard to your left.”

  Without question, Bradley casually sidestepped; and Ryan’s hand emerged with a blue wristband, which he surreptitiously attached to Abby’s wrist.

  He must’ve swiped it during Kyle’s outburst, Bradley thought, grinning.

  “This’ll buy you some time,” Ryan said. “And when they catch the mistake, tell them Private Wilson screwed up.”

  Overwhelmed by the gesture, Kyle muttered, “Thank you,” his handshake progressing into a backslapping hug.

  “Hey, I owe you, Rambo.”

  Kyle shook Bradley’s hand then ambushed him with a straightjacket-type hug. “We wouldn’t have survived without you,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude and sadness.

  As Kyle backed away, Abby burrowed into Bradley’s arms, then a bullhorn-amplified voice blared down from a watchtower. “You folks need to move along!”

  “Come on,” Ryan said, nudging Bradley’s shoulder. “This isn’t good-bye. You’ll see her before she ships out.”

  Will I? Bradley wondered, kissing her lightly. Or will I be in the brig?

  He waited until Abby had passed safely through the civilian checkpoint, then he and Ryan entered the military base. He gaped like a tourist, shocked by the condition of Camp Sunshine. Containerized buildings and tents bore the scars of mortars, missiles, and suicide bombers. Sooty black streaks, pockmarks, and a severed flagpole provided the backdrop for the strangest sight of all: a half dozen Military Police, each with a hand resting on their sidearm.

  Ryan broke into a sprint, feet thundering against the ground, fists pumping at his sides. “DJ, you fucking traitor!”

  * Moral Dilemma 5L *

  Path L: YES, try to snap DJ’s neck.

  Path L1: NO, trust the justice system.

  I don’t want to decide.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  ( ( ( PATH 194L ) ) )

  194L

  “RYAN, DON’T!”

  He charged toward DJ, ignoring Bradley’s advice. He knew the Marine was hell-bent on stopping him and barely three paces behind, despite his lack of footwear.

  Al-Zahrani’s hand dove into his pocket.

  He heard Bradley shout, “Knife!”

  Everything slowed down.

  “I told you I’d snap your fucking neck!”

  The crack of bone punctuated his statement, and he angrily flung DJ’s lifeless body to the ground. Then panting, face flushed with rage, Ryan surveyed the closing net of Military Police and sunk onto his knees, arms raised in surrender.

  195L

  Thursday, March 13th

  TWELVE HOURS AFTER surgery, Jessie had been transferred to the civilian clinic. “Mr. Murphy, you can see her now,” the nurse said. “But just for a few minutes. She needs to rest.”

  Taking Billy by the hand and planting an arm around Abby’s shoulder, he walked through a set of double doors into a long, narrow corridor. Jessie’s room was barely the size of a hospital elevator, partitioned by sliding curtains and modular cabinetry. She was lying on an inclined gurney, right leg immobilized, bags of fluid worming down into the back of her hand.

  When Kyle touched her cheek, Jessie’s groggy blue eyes opened. Elation and anxiety were like two freight trains colliding inside his skull. How would she take the news? “Hey, beautiful, how do you feel?”

  “Okay,” she said weakly. “Where’s Abby?”

  “Right here, Mom. And guess what?” Abby asked, sounding as if she had just won the lottery. “I’m old enough to join the Marines now. Isn’t that awesome?”

  Jessie’s eyes bored into Kyle, brimming with sudden anger.

  “They’ve uh, instituted a draft,” he told her. “Ages sixteen to forty—”

  “No, Kyle! Don’t let them take her.”

  “But Mom, I want to do this.”

  Kyle clasped Abby’s hand and Jessie’s as if he could prevent his family from being torn apart.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse said, “but she really needs to rest.”

  “We just need a minute to say good-bye,” Kyle told her, and the word good-bye provoked a deluge of tears from Jessie.

  “I’ll be okay, Mom.” Abby kissed her mother’s forehead. “I love you. Remember that ... Every day.”

  Kyle watched his daughter leave—with Billy trailing after her—before braving his wife’s glare.

  “You knew about this and brought her here anyway, didn’t you?”

  “I couldn’t lose you,” he said, softly stroking the side of her face. “I’ll explain later. Right now, you need to rest.” Kyle kissed her then hurried from the room to catch up with Abby. He watched his daughter lift a pair of scissors from the nurses’ station, and as she cut the blue wristband, he felt like she had sliced through his heart.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad, I promise.”

  Kyle clamped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his lips as if that might forestall the next round of tears. Abby consoled him with one more parting hug. Eyes clenched, lips pursed, they embraced, neither speaking for minutes.

  “I love you, Dad ... Remember that every time you start to worry.”

  “You think I’ll ever stop?” Kyle’s voice was a choked sob. “I love you too ... I miss you already.”

  As she walked away, he summoned his voice. “Hey, Abby ... ?”

  Without breaking stride, she glanced back.

  “Semper Fi!”

  Her face lit up into a genuine smile, energy sparkled in her blue eyes, and he memorized every subtle nuance. It was an image he would cling to ... Every day.

  196L

  Friday, March 14th

  CAPTAIN RODRIGUEZ’ FINGER hovered over the mouse, hesitant to e-mail his findings to his commanding officer. He had spent sleepless hours contemplating the situation. Was he making the right decision?<
br />
  A tentative knock disrupted his thoughts. “Enter.”

  “Lance Corporal Bradley Webber reporting as ordered, sir.” He closed the door and stood at attention, his expression stoic and serene, not the demeanor of a man facing court-martial.

  “One incident detailed in your report is not an obvious case of self-defense. The airbag IEDs—that could result in murder charges. Do you have anything to say, Lance Corporal?”

  Webber’s facial reaction remained neutral. His pallid complexion glistened with a skim coat of sweat. “I did what I believed was right, sir.”

  Rodriguez didn’t doubt that. Why else would the kid have divulged every time he’d discharged a weapon? He had volunteered damning evidence that, frankly, never would have been uncovered.

  Rodriguez shuffled through a printed copy of his report, stalling, deliberately letting the Lance Corporal consider the charges until another knock resounded.

  He barked, “Enter,” and two MPs escorted a prisoner into the room.

  “Uncuff him then leave us.”

  Andrews and Webber stood at attention, facing forward, but their eyes darted sideways, surprised by the other’s presence.

  Rodriguez read a list of charges that included the murders of Juan Rivera, Victor Olenti, and Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. “Do you have anything to say, Staff Sergeant?”

  “I did not kill Rivera and Olenti, sir.”

  Rodriquez cleared his throat. “Both of your written reports referenced a Rambo and a Squirt. Who are these people?”

  “They aren’t responsible,” Andrews said. “We are, sir.”

  Rodriguez shot forward in his chair. “These are my official findings. Approximately ten days after the EMP, Lance Corporal Bradley Webber commandeered a pickup truck for the purpose of returning to base. On the twenty-seventh of February, he was fired upon by enemy combatants near an Astatula warehouse, and he dispatched six members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Five additional jihadists were killed when an IED fashioned from vehicle airbags detonated prematurely.”

  Webber’s face pinched in confusion, and Rodriguez continued, “On the third of March at Haywood Field, with the assistance of a civilian, code-named Squirt, Webber dispatched eighteen enemy combatants and neutralized a Patriot missile battery along with other stolen U.S. weaponry. On the fifth of March, still en route to base, he observed Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews being held captive. With the assistance of a civilian, code-named Rambo, he conducted a successful rescue and sustained a gunshot wound during the firefight.”

  Rodriguez stole a glance at the Lance Corporal as he turned the page. A hint of color had returned to his puzzled face. “Continuing toward Camp Sunshine, Webber discovered an extermination camp in Tavares. Acting in concert with Andrews and Rambo, he neutralized the facility, saving countless American lives.”

  Rodriguez lifted a bottle of water from his desk, guzzled half, then reached for his report on Andrews.

  Stunned, Webber said, “That’s it, sir?”

  “You were fortunate to have a compelling character witness.” Rodriguez rifled through his papers for a letter written on a napkin then read aloud, “To the Commander of Camp Sunshine: At a time when Islamic terrorists were executing Americans on their front lawns, Bradley Webber went out of his way to help my Muslim family. He has been our guardian angel, defending us when we couldn’t protect ourselves, feeding us when we were starving. Even when it became evident that my husband betrayed his kindness, he still escorted my children and me to the safety of Camp Sunshine. He is a man of integrity, and I want his commanding officer to know that. Sincerely, Mrs. Zaakir Abbas.”

  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?”

  197L

  Saturday, March 15th

  KYLE GRABBED A CAFETERIA tray and ushered Billy into 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 bowls. Kyle got Billy 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 Jessie and Billy? 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 undersc
oring 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. Billy was gawking at him, wide-eyed and on the verge of tears.

  “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 grasped the two-year-old by the hand and 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?”