Ryan’s fingers ground into his palms as if crushing the ridiculous question. “No, sir, and with all due respect, I’ve already lost two of my guys through insider attacks. I would be remiss in not reporting my suspicions—”
“Duly noted. Dismissed.”
“You’re not going to investigate a potential traitor, sir?”
“Investigate what?” Rodriguez demanded. “Your perception of the man who reported your insubordination, resulting in your demotion? I will not accuse a man of being a traitor without evidence. Dis-missed.”
111B SKIPPED
112B
MAURICE ROSHAN AL-KAHTANI catapulted off the flight deck of the U.S.S. Ramer in an F-22 Raptor. He looked down onto the inky black ocean which merged seamlessly into the night sky, clusters of starlight the only visual indicators distinguishing up from down.
He would not falter like his brother, Omar, who had failed to neutralize the desalination system aboard the U.S.S. Axelson. Despite rumors implicating Navy SEALs in his murder, Maurice knew that Omar had nobly ended his own life in order to protect the identities of the special forces of jihad.
With a tranquil voice, he requested an emergency landing, citing the onset of hypoxia, a claim no one would question given the F-22’s shady track record. Cockpits were only partially pressurized due to the threat of bullet strikes; and that, combined with high-altitude missions, forced Pilots to rely on full-body pressure suits and respiration systems. Both technologies had notorious reputations for inducing hypoxia—a lack of oxygen to the brain that decreased alertness and caused loss of consciousness—and were presumed responsible for at least eight crashes.
The carrier was barely visible through the turbid blackness. Faint dashes of light outlined the runway, and two brighter patches designated the island, the ship’s superstructure that rose like a skyscraper above the flight deck.
Maurice aligned the aircraft with the set of landing lines. By the time flight control realized something was wrong, he would be unstoppable.
Via radio, he was advised to correct his glide slope—his path of descent.
Maurice ignored it.
The Landing Signal Officer waved him off, but he refused to abort his approach.
Closing on the Ramer, he advanced the throttle to maximum power.
The Verse of the Sword chanted through his mind.
“Kill those who join other gods with God wherever ye shall find them, and lay wait for them with every kind of ambush.”
The ship’s island grew larger, like a steel dragon rising from the blackness, a dragon he would slay for Allah in a 9/11-esque attack.
Maurice banked the plane; and it happened so rapidly, he never felt the seismic impact, never heard the roar of the jet striking the superstructure, never saw the blinding fireball leap into the night sky like the carrier’s fiery last breath.
( ( ( 57% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 17B ) ) )
Sunday, March 2nd
113B
DAVE KINDERMAN OPENED his eyes, unsure where he was. He squinted at silhouetted treetops swaying against blue sky and sniffed the air. The smell of a campfire brought him fully awake. Then his nightmare resumed.
Two weeks ago, he and his wife, Laura, had abandoned their home in Tampa, Florida. They’d fled with only a backpack, trying to evade roving gunmen who were indiscriminately shooting men, women, and children.
The hundred-mile journey had been especially onerous for a couple in their late fifties, hiking on blistered feet and bad knees, sleeping in the dirt. Harder still were all the unknowns.
His son, David Junior, had been away at college when the pulse hit. Are there gangs of gunmen up North too? Is David still in the Big Apple? Or is he wandering somewhere between New York and Florida, struggling to survive hour by hour?
Given that his daughter, Chase, was a Navy Fighter Pilot aboard the U.S.S. Stellate, he assumed she was faring better than the rest of the family.
He toggled his head side to side. Where the hell is Laura?
Dave jolted upright, anxiety joining with the hunger that perpetually gnawed his gut. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder, chambered the last round of ammunition for his inherited AK-47, and started toward the lake, worry yielding to anger.
How many times do I have to tell her? How many dead bodies does she have to see before she stops going off by herself unarmed?
A silvery glint reflected through the woods, and he said, “Damn it, Laura! I told you not to go to the lake without the rifle. It’s not safe.”
“Sorry,” she said, striding past him with a pot of lake water and a cluster of evergreen branches for that infernal pine needle tea she forced him to drink. “I figured I’d be back before you awoke.”
He reversed course, jaw clenched shut. He’d already explained it calmly with every combination of words in his vocabulary. He’d screamed it in profanity-riddled rants until she cried; and still, his wife would not listen.
“Dave, we need to formulate a contingency plan. I mean, what if we get there tomorrow, and they’re all dead on the front lawn?”
He didn’t want to think about it, and he’d told her so at least ten times a day. Dave had convinced himself this odyssey would lead to safety and security, to a place without constant thirst, hunger, and fear. That hope sustained him, motivated him. Without it, he couldn’t carry on. “Laura, let’s just get through today’s problems,” he said, a thread of warning in his voice. “And we’ll deal with tomorrow ... tomorrow.”
After boiling lake water and refilling their plastic bottles, they set off again, trudging between fan palms, oaks, and vines, paralleling Route 565A. Laura remained mopey and sullen, which suited Dave as he waged a mental battle for survival.
Laura stopped short. “Do you hear that?”
Faint voices were rippling above the wind-induced rustle of trees. People were singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic, and Dave began humming the chorus, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.
Across a two-lane roadway, the charred cinder-block remains of a church reached skyward, roof and windows missing, its doorway festooned with a singed American flag. Congregants were gathered in the parking lot, and a pastor stood behind a tree-trunk pulpit adorned with a crucifix made from branches. The mothers clutched their children; the fathers, their shotguns.
Dave bowed his head, listening as the preacher called for cooperation, prayer for lost loved ones, and guidance for a nation in crisis. Dave sensed an undercurrent of hope bubbling like a spring. Other people were alive, good people who would rebuild and restore everything the terrorists had attempted to destroy. Dave felt pride and optimism sluicing through his veins.
Then a torrent of gunfire shattered the spell.
Horrific screams replaced the sermon as teenaged boys with AK-47s sprayed bullets into the worshipers.
Laura whispered, “They’re staking out Sunday services?”
Dave’s hand clamped around his wife’s wrist, and he dragged her from the scene in a crouched run, knowing that with only a single round in his rifle, he was essentially powerless.
114B
DISTANT MURMURS OF thunder joined with Abby’s rumbling stomach, and she still had another hour before her overwatch shift ended.
Detecting movement, her rifle barrel swung toward the northern ridge then abruptly dropped. Bradley and her father were returning from Haywood Field, an agricultural airport of particular interest to the savages.
Abby’s mouth tightened into a pout. She hated being stuck on overwatch when she could’ve been patrolling with Bradley.
Abby watched them enter the screened room then resumed scanning the hillside.
How much longer will Bradley be here? she wondered. And how are we going to manage without him?
She was surprised to see him reemerge minutes later with a towel tied around his waist, clothes and boots in hand.
Haywood Field must’ve been eventful if he needs a shower before relieving me at overwatch, she thought.
For the next half hour, Abby forced her eyes to sweep for threats, her ears to isolate unnatural sounds. But her wandering mind continually defied orders, jumping topics like a stone skipping over water until Gramps began plodding up the hill.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bradley’s exhausted, so I offered to take his overwatch shift.”
Abby stared at him, perplexed by the guilt-ridden smirk tweaking his lips.
“Aw, dang it!” Gramps said with a snap of his fingers. “I forgot to ask Bradley to bring up lake water for the toilets. Can you swing by and tell him on your way home? There’s no way I’m climbing that hill again tonight.”
“Sure thing.” Abby trotted down to Sugar Lake Road, cut across the lawn, and opened the front door. The house smelled like french fries, and she took a deep breath, wondering if the aroma was an olfactory mirage. “Bradley?”
Barefoot, he strode toward her, a blue Oxford shirt overhanging khaki shorts. His clean-shaven face sported a mischievous grin. “Welcome to McWebber’s,” he said, removing Abby’s rifle from her shoulder and ushering her into a dining room chair.
Hot-pink hibiscus flowers spilled from a slender vase, and crystal glassware glistened beneath the glow of candlelight. Abby blinked, certain she was dreaming. Her gaze floated from the serving plate to Bradley, as enthralled by his thoughtfulness as the dinner he’d prepared. Then a familiar stab of emptiness returned, like a wound that ached on damp, rainy days. Abby’s mother was gone; she had no confidant, no one to share her excitement, to rehash and analyze every detail.
Stubbornly, she redirected her thoughts back to the present, asking, “Where did you get popcorn chicken and french fries?”
“Gramps had a couple of potatoes,” Bradley said, a guilty gleam in his eyes. “But it’s not exactly chicken. It’s something I caught in the woods.”
“Rabbit?” she guessed between mouthfuls, savoring each delicious bite. She had always heard it tasted like chicken.
Head shaking, he made a serpentlike hand gesture.
Abby stiffened, suddenly feeling snake meat slithering in her stomach. Bradley’s warm hazel eyes were studying her reaction; and a month ago, she might have been puking; but tonight, Abby was still hungry, and it tasted like chicken. With an indifferent shrug, she took another bite, telling herself it’s just chicken. Chicken!
Bradley’s laughter resonated off the walls, intensifying each time she looked at him.
“It’s really not that funny.”
“Actually, it is.” He tossed a printed label onto the table.
“Canned chicken?” Abby’s face flushed. “You suck. You know that?”
“Admit it,” he said, still chuckling. “You’re going to miss my sense of humor.”
Was this a good-bye dinner? Was he about to break the news? Although Abby knew it was inevitable, she wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“So what did I miss at Haywood Field today?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Not much. We spent the afternoon sabotaging old crop duster planes whose mechanical systems weren’t affected by the EMP. If the savages plan to spray chemicals or germs over Central Florida, they’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
When they had finished eating, Bradley stood, extended a hand to her, and led Abby through the deepening shadows into the family room. On the coffee table a rechargeable lantern spotlighted a snack-sized package of Oreos.
Squealing in a pitch unbefitting a Sniper, Abby tore open the wrapper. She chewed slowly, memorizing the crunchy texture, the chocolaty flavor. “These are awesome. Where’d you get them?”
“They were in my bag when I flew in,” he said, settling onto Gramps’ old leather recliner. “I rediscovered them this morning.”
Was he packing? A draft of sadness swept through her, then she willed it away. Abby removed another cookie and extended it to Bradley. His mouth opened, he rocked forward, and she pulled it away. “Miss. Re-engage.”
“Oh yeah?” His forearm chopped the back of her knees, taking out Abby’s legs; then Bradley caught her and lifted her onto his lap.
Undaunted, she dangled the Oreo near his mouth, taunting him.
He grasped her wrist, slowly pulling the cookie closer. Unable to counter his strength, Abby dropped it, letting the Oreo fall into her other hand.
“Double miss,” she said, giggling.
Lips pursed feigning annoyance, Bradley forced her wrists together until he could restrain both with one hand; then smirking, he plucked the cookie from her fingers and tossed it into his mouth. “Mmm, mmm,” he said, gloating. “Best Oreo ever.”
Abby nuzzled his ear and grazed a winding trail to his lips, inhaling the fresh scent of vanilla soap, then breathlessly whispered, “I didn’t want the cookie ... I want you.”
Bradley’s mouth closed over hers in a possessive kiss. The recliner lurched backward, and he pulled Abby on top of him.
She could feel his heart drumming fiercely. His hands gripped her backside, pressing her hips tighter against him, then roamed upward. His fingertips slipped beneath her T-shirt, caressing bare skin, electrifying her senses. His thumbs gathered the fabric, hiking it higher, and thoughts of making love began pulsating through her.
In one fluid motion, he sat upright, rolling and rotating Abby across his lap, scooped her into his arms, and rose from the recliner.
This is it, she thought, nerve endings jangling with anticipation. He’s carrying me to his bedroom.
Then Bradley returned Abby to her feet and pulled back from the kiss.
Dumbfounded, she watched him retreat into the kitchen without uttering a word.
115B
RYAN HIKED THROUGH waist-high weeds and between gnarled pines, keeping a wary eye on Jihad-Joe.
DJ could easily take me out during a firefight, Ryan thought. He could pick up an abandoned AK-47, pop off a shot, and make it look like enemy fire, just another casualty of battle.
A perilous thought made a jailbreak, running wild through Ryan’s nervous system, pumping jagged little icicles through his conscience.
Then again, I could take him out the same way.
He shook away the temptation.
Since the Army had not gleaned any actionable intelligence on the missing Patriot missile battery, his team had been tasked with recovering a dozen Stingers, shoulder-launched missiles capable of destroying vehicles and low-flying aircraft.
More U.S. weaponry being turned against us, he thought.
Ryan cast a wary eye skyward, wondering if he could trust the drone support overhead.
Rumors were swirling: The IRGC had boots on the Eastern Seaboard and the Gulf Coast; an F-22 had crippled the U.S.S. Ramer with a 9/11 dive into the ship’s island; North Korean operatives had infiltrated the West Coast.
Flashes of lightning silhouetted their target, a small cabin inside Lake Louisa State Park that backed up to Dixie Lake. As the team moved into position, Ryan counted four men with AK-47s outside the building, a minimal threat.
Mike, Juan, and Victor covered the front of the cabin and the eastbound road. Ryan was across Dixie Lake watching the rear of the property; and DJ was monitoring the T-shaped intersection at the western end of the road, six hundred yards away—a wise decision on Mike’s part.
Is he afraid of DJ shooting us? Ryan wondered. Or me shooting DJ?
Probably both.
He checked the time. The drone strike was still minutes out when Ryan spotted a pinprick of light to the west, too inconsequential to be lightning, more like a flashlight switching on and off repeatedly. Was DJ signaling someone inside the cabin? Alerting them to the Rangers’ presence?
The guards posted behind the structure grew restless, and Ryan could smell the scent of ambush hanging in the air. Swearing under his breath, he readied his rifle, then bullets swarmed around him like mosquitoes. He fired off a half dozen bursts. Then the back of the cabin grew quiet.
Out front, the firefight continued, and he heard a hollow poppi
ng noise, too loud to be a gunshot, more like a grenade.
A missile launcher poked through the cabin’s side window, aimed toward Juan and Victor.
Ryan delivered a deluge of bullets.
The Stinger pivoted toward him.
A streak of light arced.
A hissing trail of smoke whooshed from the building and plowed into the lake. The missile detonated, spewing water and mud onto Ryan with a force that stung; then a Hellfire missile struck the cabin and rattled the ground.
He waited, scanning the dusty remains for movement, thinking about those orphaned AK-47s.
So tempting ...
As if DJ could read his mind, he was first to report in, followed by Juan and Victor.
A brittle silence filled the night.
“Mike, you clear?” Ryan asked.
No response.
Soaking wet, the breeze felt like frosty fingers clawing his back as he moved toward Mike’s position.
His friend was lying prone, and Ryan dropped to his knees, frantically trying to stem the bleeding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, lying to himself, more so than Mike. The right side of his face was a mass of chewed, uneven flesh with bits of metal and bone protruding.
Blood was gushing from his neck.
His pulse was fading.
Ryan cradled his friend, then he squeezed his eyelids tight, refusing to watch what was about to happen.
Instead, he heard a soft shush of air.
He felt the last wisp of life expire from Mike’s battered body.
Like a whispering sigh. Peaceful. Final.
116B
BRADLEY WANTED HER; Abby was sure of it.
So why did he run away?
Emotions tottering between confusion and anger, she snatched the lantern from the coffee table and followed him into the kitchen. Bradley stood at the sink, back to her, rinsing dinner dishes in a bucket of water. To his left, flames danced, slowly consuming the tapered candles that had adorned the dining room table.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 47