Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  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.

  184P

  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.

  185P

  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. Abby is probably worried.”

  186P

  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 Will killed? And mayb
e Billy?

  Gramps would be so disappointed, she thought, not to mention my dad and Bradley.

  Abby could feel herself crumbling, overwhelmed by grief and guilt, aggravated by her own incompetence. Hot tears began rolling over her cheeks, and she fought the impulse to vent a primal scream that her dad and Bradley could hear up in Tavares. That is, if they were alive. What if they were dead? What if she was completely alone?

  Saliva pooled. Stomach acid raced upward, barely a mouthful, but burning and bitter; and for a moment, she considered giving up. What was the point in fighting to survive if everyone she loved was dead? Then a reason came to mind: to kill the bastard who had shot Gramps and Will.

  Armed with a sense of purpose, she blinked away her tears and wrestled to control her emotions. Ironically, the sniper was the safest subject to dwell on.

  Abby heard a muffled noise, and she tightened her grip on the grenade.

  Her heart slammed to a stop.

  Her eyes locked on a faint orange glimmer piercing the blackness at the base of the hill.

  The sniper had just set off her trip wire.

  187P

  BRADLEY COULDN’T SEE IT, even with night vision, but he felt it. Something had caught the heel of his boot. It had too much give to be a tree root, too much resistance to be a broken branch. He bent over and swatted at leaves and pine needles, unearthing a wire anchored to an oak tree. Its trunk glowed with an ominous orange light.

  Diving onto the ground, he shouted, “Trip wire! Abby, don’t shoot!”

  Kyle and Ryan landed beside him, then he heard Abby reply, “Two shooters! Only one down!”

  “So much for R-and-R,” Ryan whispered. “This day just won’t fucking end.”

  Bradley turned toward Kyle. “There’s an active shooter. You stay here. And that’s an order!”

  “You move; you make a sound; you get shot,” Ryan said, underscoring the point.

  Kyle nodded, seemingly too unnerved to speak.

  Bradley crept up the hill with Ryan behind him, his senses on high alert. Halfway up, his eye was drawn to the shape of an arm. It lingered a few seconds before retracting into a bush. That had to be Abby, but why was she on the northern ridge instead of overwatch?

  Resisting the urge to move faster, he pressed on, feeling as if he would never get to her. Was she hurt? Where was Gramps? How long had they been under attack?

  Inch by inch the distance shrunk, yet she remained virtually invisible, and that observation comforted him. If he had trouble finding her, so would the shooter.

  Abby presented her shaking hands. One gripped a grenade; the other, a pin. “I could use a little help.”

  Ryan whispered, “What the fuck!”

  “This one’s real,” she said. “I swiped it from Haywood Field.”

  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. Will had Billy with him, on his way to relieve Gramps. Two shots were fired, both 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 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, Will, 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.

  188P
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br />   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. The man had been shot once in the left shoulder and a blood-soaked cloth protruded from the wound. Grasping an M1A with a nightscope in his right arm, his body was curled protectively around a toddler. Ryan approached cautiously then his hopes withered. The kid wasn’t moving.

  As he leaned down to check for a pulse, a rifle barrel wobbled upward and jabbed into his gut.

  189P

  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 Will?”

  “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.