Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Why aren’t the paratroopers firing on the savages? Better still, why aren’t the savages firing on the airborne troops? “None of this makes sense—”

  “Yes, it does,” Bradley told her. “Shoot the paratroopers!”

  123B

  GEORGE WAS AT OVERWATCH when he heard three distinct explosions from the north—the same direction as Haywood Field. Eyes rising skyward in prayer, he noticed a fighter jet, banking, diving, and spitting flares, desperately trying to evade a missile.

  The Pilot ejected seconds before the jet dissolved into a fiery cloud. The wreckage seemed to defy gravity, stretching to the south before beginning its descent.

  George rubbed a hand over his mouth. How are American jets being shot down in U.S. airspace?

  Gaze returning to the ground, he reached for the walkie-talkie. “Kyle, wake up! We’ve got two intruders. Nine o’clock. A male with an AK-47 and a female.”

  “On my way,” Kyle mumbled.

  “Grab the M4 and cover me from your front porch.”

  Piss-poor timing with both sharpshooters away, George thought.

  He checked his handgun, a .40 caliber Ruger, then shuffled down the hill as fast as his arthritic legs would permit.

  The man appeared to be a senior citizen with an unkempt, graying beard. The bill of a baseball cap obscured his eyes, and his rifle barrel drooped toward the asphalt.

  The woman lagged several steps behind, face cast downward, arms hugging herself. Straggly gray hair peeked from beneath a filthy boonie hat too large for her head.

  The couple’s lethargic gait suggested they were exhausted, hardly prepared to instigate an attack, but after the kid with the stuffed animal, George was not taking chances.

  He approached, handgun drawn. “Put your rifle and backpack on the ground. Then take twenty steps to your right. Both of you!”

  They followed instructions, then the man said, “I’m just—”

  “Shut up! Hands on your head. I’ve got riflemen trained on you, so don’t do anything that might make ‘em nervous.”

  George holstered his weapon and frisked the man, seizing a folding knife from his pocket. The woman had no weapons, and he quickly retreated, driven back by the stench of body odor.

  “Now, who the hell are you?”

  124B

  DESPITE HER CONFUSION, Abby followed orders. Three paratroopers had landed and were attempting to extricate themselves from their chutes—easy targets. She aimed higher at the men still airborne. Gravity was pulling them downward, an inconsistent breeze was pushing them east; and Abby swore under her breath, trying to lead the target in two directions. She missed and had no way of gauging how far off she had been.

  Paratroopers began returning fire. Rifle recoil caused them to pitch and sway, adding another dimension of movement.

  Abby tried to slow her breathing.

  She fired again.

  Double miss.

  Damn it!

  Rounds began thudding against the farmhouse. Four savages from the Patriot battery were storming the runway. She shot the lead man in the chest. The others dove to the ground, hidden from view by overgrown weeds.

  She watched Bradley systematically dispatch the remaining paratroopers. He made it look so damned easy.

  “Fall back to the tree line,” he told her.

  She made a crouched dash toward an oak with a ten-inch trunk and readied her rifle.

  As Bradley ran toward her, the savages on the runway popped up.

  Abby uncorked a steady cadence of suppressing fire.

  Rounds began kicking up a trail of sand behind Bradley’s feet. Her sights veered toward the other two savages, and a pulse of lead drove them back behind the Patriot battery.

  Once Bradley made it to safety, Abby switched out her magazine.

  “Rack it!” he snapped.

  “I fired nineteen shots. There’s still one in the chamber.”

  An inkling of a smile touched his lips, then he led her east, past a rusty shed, toward a more dense stand of trees that provided better cover.

  Two of the savages on the runway jumped up and charged toward the farmhouse; the third headed for the rusty shed.

  Once they had a clear view of the Patriot battery, Bradley dropped to a prone shooting position. Abby followed suit, grateful for the reprieve. Her legs felt like overcooked strands of spaghetti.

  “Shoot the savage near the radar truck on my count,” he told her.

  She estimated the distance at two hundred yards; the elevation, perfectly level; and most importantly, he was stationary.

  Simultaneous shots struck chest high. Both men collapsed.

  “We need to keep moving.”

  Three bad guys left, Abby thought, admiring how quickly Bradley had leveled the enemy. I don’t care how much practice it takes. Someday, I’m going to be able to shoot like him.

  They advanced to the eastern hangar, creeping along its rear wall toward the unguarded Patriot battery.

  “Stay here,” Bradley told her.

  She was shielded on three sides, between two hangars with the armored vehicle blocking the runway—a military playpen. The displeasure must have registered on her face because Bradley added, “That’s an order.”

  Giving a reluctant nod, she watched him steal behind the hangar, headed west toward the pallets dropped by the C-130.

  I’m not only out of the action, she thought, I can’t even watch the action.

  A breeze wafted against a layer of sweat, sending a chill along her neck. Abby felt an overwhelming urge to change position. Every cell in her body was screaming, “Move!”

  Orders, she reminded herself.

  After throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder, she sunk into skull dragging position and crawled beneath the radar truck for a quick look.

  From a side window of the old farmhouse, two savages were spraying rounds into the wooded area she and Bradley had just vacated. Abby grinned, knowing Bradley was moving in the opposite direction.

  She sighted her scope and watched for several minutes, unable to get a clear shot; then she scanned the rusty shed.

  What happened to the third guy?

  Awkwardly, she tried to skull drag in reverse, wondering why she had never thought to practice moving backward. Once she had cleared the truck’s rear panel, Abby returned to her feet and paced between the hangars. Her respiration, her heart rate, everything was spiraling out of control.

  Why am I so rattled?

  As she approached the missile truck, Abby heard a rustling sound behind her.

  Instantly, she knew.

  “Drop the rifle.” The male voice had a heavy Middle Eastern accent.

  Fear throbbing through her, Abby leaned her AR-10 against the truck and slowly turned around. The savage sidled closer, his black eyes bottomless pits of contempt.

  Why hasn’t he shot me?

  A vision of the girl at the swing set siphoned the air from her lungs.

  He jammed the barrel of his AK-47 into her chest. “Call him! Scream!”

  Instead, Abby lunged, clearing her body from the line of fire. She grabbed the barrel and upper receiver, twisting the weapon, trying to use the trigger guard to break his finger, a move she had practiced with a handgun—not a rifle.

  The gun went off.

  A bullet struck the hangar.

  Wrestling for control of the weapon, she landed a knee to his groin just as a hook kick nailed Abby’s left ankle.

  Her leg gave way, and she began to fall.

  Abby’s back slammed against the ground, but she maintained her grip on the AK-47.

  The man landed on top of her and maneuvered the rifle, trying to wedge it against her throat.

  She locked her elbows against the ground.

  Bradley must’ve heard the gunshot, she thought. I just have to hang on.

  Her attacker released the butt stock. He reached across his body, grappling for his sidearm.

  Abby let go of the AK-47, desperately swatting at th
e handgun.

  She felt a dazzling pain, as if her head had been struck by a sledgehammer.

  Then everything went dark.

  125B

  KYLE’S RIFLE SIGHTS WERE on the intruders as George frisked them.

  Who are they? And what do they want? Whatever it is, it can’t be good.

  “Kyle, do you know these people?” George shouted.

  He started toward the street. The bearded man’s hands rested atop a brown baseball cap, a Buffalo Wings cap—Kyle’s former team. Arms still extended upward, the woman waved her right hand and smiled at him from beneath a dirty hat.

  Kyle broke into a wide grin. “Oh my God, Dave? Laura? Is it really you?”

  “Hell yeah, Murph!”

  He embraced them each in turn; then repelled by body odor, Kyle backed away. He couldn’t stop staring at them. They both looked like they had lost twenty pounds and aged twenty years.

  After he made the appropriate introductions, he gathered up the AK-47 and backpack.

  “Sorry for the unpleasant welcome,” George said.

  He offered his hand to Dave, who reciprocated, saying, “These days, anything short of a bullet in the head meets my definition of pleasant.”

  “Speaking of unpleasant,” Kyle said, chuckling. “Come on back to the lanai and get cleaned up. You guys really reek.”

  Laura smacked the back of his head playfully. “That’s my husband. Not me.”

  “Well, I’d best get back to my post,” George said, bidding their guests good-bye with a nod.

  Kyle watched the old man shamble across the street, noting that for the first time since the EMP, the calm, confident General seemed troubled. Was it those four blasts? Or was he unhappy about having two additional mouths to feed?

  “So how’s our favorite sharpshooter?” Laura asked as they entered the foyer.

  “Abby’s good. She’s actually on patrol right now with George’s grandson, Bradley.”

  With a throaty laugh, Dave said, “Bet you’re damned glad my niece can handle a rifle nowadays.” Then craning his neck, he searched the main floor of the house. “Where’s Jessie?”

  Kyle glanced toward the shattered living room window and drew in a breath trying to extinguish the despair festering inside him. “A drug addict broke into the house and ... And she didn’t make it.”

  “Oh dear God ...” Shoulders hunched, Laura covered her face with trembling hands and sunk down onto the floor, giving vent to her loss.

  Kyle glanced skyward, reminding himself—once again—to be thankful for the wonderful years he had shared with Jessie and for all the great years still ahead with Abby.

  126B

  HEARING A GUNSHOT, A suffocating sensation gripped Bradley. He started toward Abby, knowing instantly an AK-47 had been fired. The hangars, the truck, they provided cover from all the buildings across the runway, an ideal position—unless someone had snuck in from behind.

  He peered around the corner of the hangar and saw Abby lying on her back. A savage straddled her, clutching a handgun.

  Bradley shot him once in the chest, a second time in the head; and the man toppled into a heap.

  Abby hadn’t moved. Face turned away, a ribbon of blood trailed from her temple, past her ear, along her neck. An icy fear seeped into Bradley’s pores and burrowed into his veins. He called her name, his voice a withered whisper.

  AK-47 rounds began kicking up sand. Bullets were streaming in from the north and the south, and Bradley darted between the radar and missile trucks for cover. Lead spattered against the vehicles, ticking off seconds, and he sensed Abby slipping away from him. His emotions mutated into white-hot determination. He needed to kill these bastards; he needed to get to Abby.

  Bradley squirmed beneath the radar truck and scanned the airfield. Muzzle flashes were pulsing from an upstairs window of the old farmhouse. Gotcha, he thought, squeezing off a round.

  When the sole remaining gunman switched magazines, Bradley sprinted toward the eastern hangar without drawing fire. He circled the building, the silence more maddening than the trill of fully automatic AK-47s. Did the idiot run out of ammunition? Or is he on the move?

  Bradley searched the woods until the AK-47 resumed its irregular cadence. He spotted the savage crouched behind the trunk of a live oak tree, took aim, and before the body hit the ground, he was bolting toward Abby.

  Each breath was like inhaling pepper spray, and his eyes filmed. She still hadn’t stirred.

  Oh God, did I get her killed?

  127B

  I CAN’T BELIEVE WE HAVE to X-ray our fuel tanks before we fly, Chase Kinderman thought as she catapulted off the flight deck of the U.S.S. Stellate.

  In recent days, a traitorous fuel handler had killed a dozen of Chase’s colleagues and destroyed as many aircraft with tiny spark emitting devices designed to look like tampons.

  What a hypocritical ideology, she thought. Driving and going to school are forbidden, but women can become suicide bombers and saboteurs for the sake of jihad.

  Today, Chase was flying with a Pilot who had been transferred from the U.S.S. Ramer, a carrier headed home for repair following a 9/11-style kamikaze dive that claimed the lives of nineteen Sailors. Each insider attack further degraded trust and morale; and the merging of Pilots from the Stellate and Ramer exacerbated the problem. Unfamiliar faces and unproven loyalties had everyone on edge.

  A second Raptor glided into formation beside her, and they headed north toward the Japanese coast. Chase couldn’t help wondering about the other Pilot. Would he have her back? Or shoot her in the back?

  On the horizon, floating like a child’s toy, she spotted the suspicious cruise ship. Two hundred miles off the southern tip of Japan, the vessel had issued a Mayday and continued steaming toward the carrier group, ignoring the Navy’s directive to alter course.

  She frowned, imagining the propaganda coup: U.S. sinks cruise ship, killing thousands of civilians. Then she groaned considering the alternative: civilian vessel rams aircraft carrier, knocking it out of commission. Chase recalled the forty-foot gash in the U.S.S. Cole, a guided-missile destroyer rammed by a small, explosive-laden boat in the Port of Aden. Could it happen again on a more heinous scale?

  The cruise ship enlarged before her eyes, continuously, smoothly, as if the cockpit were a zooming telephoto camera lens.

  An explosion tore through the ship’s upper deck and ejected a hazy cloud above the bow.

  A second blast erupted.

  A third.

  The detonations continued at perfect intervals, marching toward the ship’s stern, each inflating and expanding the smoky cloud like a massive glob of bubblegum.

  Radiation sensors jumped to a hundred times normal levels.

  Chase banked the jet and entered a steep climb to avoid the radiation, an invisible menace chugging at ten knots.

  The vessel had never been in distress.

  And it was not a cruise ship.

  It was a well-disguised weapon of mass destruction.

  128B

  ABBY PEERED THROUGH squinted eyelids, trying to remember what had happened. Her head felt like it had been run over by a Humvee. She vaguely remembered tussling for the AK-47 and falling. But then what?

  How long had she been unconscious? Abby’s legs and feet felt numb and tingly. Her right hand slid along her cargo pants, groping for her folding knife. She would not be brutalized like that girl at the swing set. If she was destined to die today, she would do it fighting.

  A salvo of gunfire began reverberating through her skull, intensifying her headache.

  Don’t move, she told herself. Play dead.

  She concentrated on taking shallow breaths to minimize the rise and fall of her chest. She kept her eyes fixed beneath closed lids, knowing the subtlest sign of life could invite a spate of bullets.

  The gunfire abruptly ceased. Footsteps were drawing closer, and Abby squeezed the knife, reminding herself to aim for the jugular.

  129B

 
RYAN ANDREWS SAT IN the mess hall at Camp Sunshine, analyzing his food, unsure what it was. It looked like random cans of vegetables and mystery meat in a broth of watered-down catsup with a few mushy potatoes protruding above the slop.

  It’s too nasty to be lethal, he decided; then defying his taste buds, he downed the food.

  As he left the mess hall, Ryan saw Soldiers fortifying the adjacent FEMA camp with watchtowers, razor-wire fencing, and cement barricades. Would civilians be safer near the base? Or would it make them a target?

  Terrorists had struck Camp Sunshine with mortars, a Predator drone, and a preschool suicide bomber—safety was an illusion.

  His eyes swept the tent city, lingering on the massive steel towers flanking the main gate. In the name of security, a rational case could be made for all of it: the gun confiscations, the seizure of personal possessions, the collection of fingerprints and biometric data to be cross-checked against terrorist databases. Logical and sane given recent history, but he couldn’t help wondering if freedom would become collateral damage.

  Ryan checked the time and hurried toward command quarters. As he entered the office, Captain Rodriguez was gnawing the end of his pen, lost in thought.

  “Staff Sergeant Andrews reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Rodriguez tossed the pen aside with a disgruntled sigh. “Your recent operation at the Astatula warehouse ... It has been alleged that you desecrated a Koran.”

  The accusation hit like an emotional flash bang. “Sir, I have ripped the bolts from a few AK-47s and goaded the enemy into shooting at me, but I have never laid a finger on a Koran.”

  “Then why would one of your colleagues report otherwise?”

  “Because I know he instigated that firefight at Lake Louisa. He tipped off the enemy with a flashlight—”

  “That’s your opinion. The other members of your team could not say with a hundred percent certainty that it wasn’t a lightning reflection.”

  “And the hot ammo? Was that lightning too?”

  Rodriguez’ eyes narrowed in displeasure. “There have been breaches in Army supply lines. All MREs and ammunition are being inspected. As for the issue at hand, I’ll be launching a full investigation.”