Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  His heart bucked in his chest. His hand trembled as he reached for the woman’s shoulder. Rolling her onto her back, he shouted, “No-o-o-o!” then gathered Abby into his arms. He gaped at the dark bullet hole in her forehead and began to sob. “Oh God, I shot Abby!”

  He awoke, gasping, and lurched upright. His clothes were drenched with sweat, and he swiped the moisture from his cheeks; then Bradley surveyed the room, trying to determine where he was.

  It was just a dream, he assured himself. A horrible nightmare.

  For weeks, he had been reliving the most traumatic moments from that black op: engaging the Russians inside the subway; getting shot outside Glenmont Station; enduring that Spetsnaz beating in the woods. But his nocturnal flashbacks had never included Abby before.

  Bradley rolled out of bed and padded from the room. His roommate was gone, most likely taking his morning run, despite the fact that it was still dark.

  The corridor was quiet and dimly lit—tomblike. An observation that shivered through him.

  He entered the hall bathroom to relieve himself, and the nightmare replayed through his mind. It was so real, so vivid that he was having a tough time resetting his emotions.

  He approached the sink, plunged his hands beneath the cool water, and gazed into the mirror at the weary, forlorn face staring back at him. Then the realization struck, an admission dredged from somewhere beyond intense regret and insanity.

  By shooting Dmitry, I put Abby in Volkov’s crosshairs. If anything happens to her, it’ll be my fault ... as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger myself.

  Queasiness was pulsing at the base of his throat, a damning awareness of responsibility fused with powerlessness. He washed his face in an effort to compose himself then left the bathroom.

  In the hallway, he saw an underage Airman taping a Chi-phone to his door.

  “Hey!” he called out. “What are you doing?”

  The kid glanced at him then fled toward the stairwell.

  Bradley sprinted after him, bare feet smacking against the tiled floor, and tackled the intruder. His elbow tightened around the kid’s throat, choking off his oxygen until his body went limp.

  Let go before you kill him!

  Bradley heeded his inner voice and released the boy. He rocked back onto his shins, head swiveling to monitor both ends of the hallway. None of his teammates had stirred.

  Quickly, he hoisted his unconscious prisoner over his shoulder and returned to his room, pausing to peel the taped Chi-phone from his door. His last name and room number had been scrawled onto the back with a marker.

  Bradley let the door fall shut, then dropped his moaning captive onto the bed.

  “Who the fuck are you? Who sent you? And what is this?” Bradley thrust the Chi-phone into the kid’s face.

  “My-my name’s Malcolm. And-and-and some guy said that if I-I-I taped that to your door, he would give me a crate of food.”

  Anger crackled inside Bradley like a raging wildfire, and he clamped his hands behind his back to keep himself from choking the little bastard.

  “I-I didn’t mean any harm,” Malcolm continued. “It’s just that I got a little brother and sister to feed.”

  Bradley inhaled slowly, trying to quell his temper. “What did the guy look like?”

  “Sh-short dirty-blond hair. A big guy with these mean brown eyes, the kind of guy you’re afraid to say no to.”

  “And he gave you the uniform and this Chi-phone?”

  Malcolm nodded, tears dripping from his quivering jaw.

  “Is it a bomb?” Bradley demanded.

  “No ... well ... I-I don’t think so. He said that you’d lost it, and that the dicks at the front gate wouldn’t forward it to you.”

  Bradley roused the Chi-phone from hibernation, and a video began to play. The footage had been captured through a rifle scope, and he watched Abby hurl a helmet into a window. The crosshairs hovered briefly over her forehead, then the image zoomed out until her apartment building was the size of a postage stamp.

  A rocket-propelled grenade discharged.

  Bradley screamed, “No-o-o!” as the smoking hunk of metal plowed through her window and detonated.

  The Chi-phone slipped from his shaking hand; and bitter, gut-wrenching emotions from the nightmare rushed back.

  Oh God ... I got her killed.

  67

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  FRANNY ANDREWS OPENED her eyes and squinted against the bands of sunlight that were squeezing between the vertical blinds. An oppressive silence and the vacant pillow beside her confirmed that Ryan had left for the ops center.

  Damn, it’s almost noon. I can’t believe I slept so late.

  Yawning, she climbed from the bed then made a mad dash for the bathroom.

  The contents of her stomach were rebelling.

  Franny broke into a cold sweat, saliva pooled, and she dropped onto her knees, hugging the toilet. Then her abdomen heaved, vomiting up a bitter stream of water. Her mind reverted to yesterday’s bout of car sickness, sparked by that wild ride, and the terror that followed. Emotions resurged, ferocious, inexorable, and raw. Her entire body began to tremble, then she wretched again; this time, only managing to expel croaking whiffs of air.

  Food poisoning? she wondered. Post traumatic stress? Or a bizarre form of PRE traumatic stress over events yet to happen?

  Volkov would never quit, which meant that she and Ryan were mired in an epic battle, an unscrupulous race with lethal consequences: find and kill the crazy bastard before he can find the asset and kill Ryan.

  Huffing to hold back tears, she wiped her mouth with toilet paper and flushed away her handiwork.

  There’s got to be a communications trail leading from Alex Ivans back to Volkov, she thought.

  Eager to purge the sourness from her mouth, Franny brushed her teeth then changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Harrowing memories continued to loop through her mind. The trap, the wild ride, the smack, the gunfire, the truck, the frantic drive back to Langden, the crash—she raked through every detail, desperate for clues.

  Frustrated, Franny jammed her right foot into a sneaker and wriggled her ankle, too impatient to bother untying the shoe. Her even less coordinated left foot folded the heel like an accordion, and as she absently tugged at the tab, a revelation intruded on her thoughts.

  I need to search that pickup truck!

  She stowed Izzy’s rifle beneath the dresser then exited the apartment, headed east. A remnant of nausea fluttered through her, and she sucked in a deep breath to curb it. The air smelled fresh; the sky was a cloudless blue; and the trees were lush, the yellowish-green of spring giving way to the deeper hues of summer.

  Approaching the eastern gate, she nodded hello to the guards then made her way toward a housing development a few miles from the base.

  After walking for nearly an hour, she found the midcentury rancher with a dead oak tree resting on its roof. Thirty yards beyond it, the bullet-riddled windshield of the stolen pickup truck peeked from a dry drainage ditch.

  I guess sixty miles per hour WAS way too fast for this road, Franny thought, feeling a tinge of guilt since she had conveniently omitted any mention of the crash from her debrief.

  She searched the console and the glove compartment, finding nothing of interest. The floor beneath the seats yielded some steel shell casings, chunks of broken plastic, and a circuit board with a finger-sized hole bored through it.

  The Russians must’ve accidentally shot the GPS unit, she thought.

  Franny withdrew from the vehicle and shut the driver’s door. Her eyes tracked from the smattering of bullet holes in the fender to the metal cap enclosing the truck bed. Last night, she’d been too frazzled to care about its cargo.

  She lifted the crazed glass door of the cap and dropped the tailgate. Two black trunks, each the size of a coffin, were strapped down; and between them was a dented metal briefcase. She skulked into the bed for a closer look, then noting that the small c
ase contained a laptop, she turned her attention to the trunks. A series of latch-action toggle clamps secured the top, and she systematically unfastened them. The hinged lid shrieked as she pushed it upward.

  A layer of white foam obscured the contents, and she gingerly peeled back the corner.

  Then Franny’s breath caught in her throat.

  68

  Edgar Air Force Base

  District Nine, California

  ANNOYED AND IMPATIENT, Abby Webber paced the claustrophobic hospital room, dressed in her TEradS uniform, awaiting her official discharge. Because her injuries stemmed from the dive into the stairwell rather than the rocket-propelled grenade, they were largely benign—two stitches in her forehead, a moderate concussion, a sprained pinky, and a plethora of random aches.

  She had acquiesced and spent last night at the medical center, not due to impairment but because her apartment was a shambles.

  How did the Chinese find my new quarters?

  A rapping noise sounded against the open door, and Abby’s head veered toward it, anticipating the delivery of her discharge papers. Instead, Cozart strolled into her room. He was the one who had broken through her door in the midst of the chaos and transported her to the medical center.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Good to go,” she told him. “Are we still raiding that ‘sanctuary zone’ tonight?”

  Cozart’s eyes slanted away from her, right hand massaging his chin. “We are, but you’re not.”

  “I’m fine. And don’t give me any crap about the concussion. I was only out for a few seconds.”

  He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “Doesn’t have anything to do with that. You have orders to return to HQ in Texas.”

  Abby stared at him, searching for words. More than once, she’d secretly wished for a transfer out of this depressing hellhole, but now the prospect of leaving felt like quitting, like she was running away instead of confronting the enemy. Irritation boiled into outrage, and she repressed the urge to put her fist through the wall.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Because I failed to spot that cameraman during the zombie op?”

  Cozart’s eyebrows arched. His mouth opened, but it took several seconds for words to emerge. “I wasn’t given a reason, but if I had to guess, I’d say it has nothing to do with competence and everything to do with recent history. You found a bomb in your toilet; a sniper almost put a bullet in your head; and an RPG came screaming through your living room window!”

  “I bet Fitz wouldn’t yank you out of here, if the Chinese went after you.”

  “Damn it, Webber. It’s not some kind of sexist conspiracy,” Cozart told her. “Odds are, there’s a traitor here at Edgar, giving up your position. And the order didn’t come from Fitz. Came directly from Major Andrews.”

  Bradley lobbied for this, Abby thought, resentment flaring. He’s always been way too overprotective; and now he’s convinced Major Andrews that I need to be coddled.

  She glowered at a blackbird on the windowsill, then clapped her hands in an unsuccessful attempt to shoo it away. “I hate those damn birds,” she grumbled.

  “So, I guess this is good-bye.” Cozart crossed the room and enveloped her in a hug that lingered long enough to progress from brotherly to awkward. Abby backed out of the embrace, glaring at him, and was shocked by the sudden tenderness in his brown eyes.

  Why can’t he be more like Schmuckatelli? she thought. Corporal Shane Locatelli had befriended her during the Scout Sniper Course, nicknamed her Abi-frail, and always treated her like one of the guys. No goo-goo-eyed stares, no flirty smiles, no nonsense.

  Cozart’s chin swooped lower, moving in for a kiss; and she shoved him backward. “Really, First Sergeant? You say good-bye to all the guys that way?”

  Head bowed, his lips rolled inward as if trying to retract from his face. “Yeah ... I ... uh ... don’t know what that was ... Anyway, for what it’s worth, we’re all sorry to see you leave the team. But it’ll be best for you in the long run.”

  The condescending remark supercharged Abby’s anger. “I am so sick of men deciding what’s best for me!” She snatched a hardcover book from the hospital tray table and hurled it at her team leader.

  He blocked the blow with his forearm, deflecting the book. The spine plowed through the single-pane window and struck the blackbird, an unforeseen consolation; and Abby smirked, watching it topple without so much as a squawk.

  “Webber, what is it with you and breaking windows?”

  Ignoring Cozart, she sidled toward the oblong hole. A foot below the sill, the felled blackbird was trapped within the tangled branches of an azalea bush, its flapping wings sending a shower of pink petals onto the ground.

  Cautiously, Abby reached a hand through the jagged opening and snared the flailing bird, debating whether to set it free or snap its neck. Her fingers tightened around the dark feathers, expecting to feel warm wiggling flesh, but the body felt hard, rocklike. Her index finger pressed against a tiny rounded object.

  A parasitic bug? she thought, resisting the impulse to let go.

  The wings abruptly stopped fluttering. The bird’s head seemed to wilt.

  “Geez, Webber, you killed the damn thing!”

  Abby’s jaw dropped, puzzle pieces aligned, and then everything started to make sense.

  69

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS’ morning had started with news of the RPG attack and progressed into a series of bureaucratic meetings that only served to devour his time and generate additional mounds of paperwork.

  Opting to skip lunch, he returned to his office and skimmed through the messages left by his clerk. Bradley had called six times.

  Shit. I didn’t think word would spread that fast, Ryan thought, lifting the handset from his desktop phone.

  On the second ring, a male voice said, “Scoville Air Force Base, how may I direct your call?”

  “This is Major Andrews, commander of the TEradS. I need to speak with Master Sergeant Webber.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Knowing it would take several minutes for the Private to track down Bradley, Ryan roused his laptop from sleep and checked his e-mail. He was hoping that Grace Murray had unearthed some actionable intel regarding the whereabouts of Volkov, but there was no correspondence from her.

  How did the psycho discover the clandestine e-mail account?

  What else does he know about the black op?

  And when will it show up in the media?

  Ryan accessed the Global News Network, which was presenting a “timeline of U.S. atrocities.” He sighed and sank down onto his chair. Some facts were twisted; his counterpropaganda video, completely disregarded.

  The final incident on the defamatory docket was introduced as new, never-before-seen footage.

  “... A word of caution. What you are about to see is terribly disturbing,” the news anchor said, feigning reluctance and repulsion, when she was obviously thrilled to be breaking the story.

  “The U.S. Air Force wielded a directed-energy weapon against a peaceful protest in California. This horrifying sound cannon has reportedly caused ears to rupture and bleed, along with nausea and severe headaches. Some are even alleging that the pain-inducing tones will have long-term health implications, such as sterilization and birth defects ...”

  Images of bleeding ears faded into a clip of the protestors, walking quietly, holding signs.

  “Oh, come on,” Ryan mumbled. “Tell the whole story. Show them ramming the gate with a car, setting fires, and assaulting Airmen with crowbars.”

  “... Do you see any grave danger posed to U.S. military personnel? These so-called crowd-control measures are an outrageous overreaction to a peaceful protest, a right guaranteed by the First Amendment.”

  Groaning, Ryan closed the live feed and scanned the recent headlines from around the world: storms and volcanoes; mad cow disease and PEDv; plagues of mosquitoes and locusts;
malaria and antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis.

  Isn’t there any good news?

  Hearing Bradley’s voice on the phone, Ryan said, “Abby’s okay. Abby’s okay. Abby’s okay—”

  “Thanks for getting word to me, you prick!” Bradley hesitated, realizing that he’d just insulted his commanding officer, then tacked a belated sir onto the affront.

  “I don’t answer to you, Master Sergeant. You answer to me,” Ryan told him, voice thick with irritation. “And you need to chill out because I already transferred her back to Texas, where Sun has the weakest concentration of peacekeepers—”

  “It wasn’t Sun,” Bradley interrupted. “It was Volkov. I received a fucking video recording of the RPG attack at 0600, a Chi-phone taped to my door.”

  Ryan rolled his head back, anger dissipating, regret accumulating. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to get the news so quickly.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “If Abby had been seriously injured, I would’ve called you immediately, Bradley. And you know it. Now, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I have to go.”

  Ryan ended the call; then responding to the maddening pounding on his office door, he stomped across the room and yanked it open. “Franny? What are you doing here?”

  “You really need to see this.” She marched inside and placed a metal briefcase onto his desk, then dumped the contents of a plastic bag beside it. A dozen mosquitoes rained down onto his blotter, none of them moving.

  “Are they dead?” he asked.

  “No. They haven’t been activated yet.” Franny picked one up. “I think they’re miniature drones. Look, metal body. Translucent silk wings. And watch this.” She gripped the proboscis, the pointy feeler that extended from the head, and slid back a rubbery coating, revealing a hypodermic needle. Then she pinched the body from back to front, and a clear liquid oozed from the tip.