Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Billy was playing with a truck, spinning in circles on the family room floor, making vroom-vroom sounds. Heather shushed him. “We don’t want to wake the baby,” she told him. “Suzie is sleeping.”

  “Guzie gleeping,” he whispered.

  A booming crack startled Heather.

  The baby began to wail.

  Damn you, Bradley. And your stupid guns.

  Didn’t he understand there was an infant in this house?

  Then she realized the inconvenience was actually an opportunity.

  82D

  BRADLEY DETECTED A glint of angst in Abby’s blue eyes. A voice inside him asked: Would you have passed this test your first time shooting with a scope? He deleted the question, reminding himself that the circumstances were drastically different.

  Abby struck the first plate with one shot; the second plate took two tries, just as Bradley anticipated. “Eighteen points, cumulative,” he told her.

  Target three was sixty feet below overwatch, and Abby’s first shot was two yards too high.

  “Miss. Re-engage.” Scrutinizing her, Bradley detected no disappointment, no frustration, only unrelenting concentration. Her composure surprised him, especially since he had invited an audience to maximize her stress level.

  Maybe she’s used to it from competition.

  Abby fired a second round which clipped the top edge of the plate. “Hit. Eight points. Twenty-six, cumulative.”

  That’ll be her final score, Bradley thought, estimating only a ten percent chance of Abby striking either of the last two plates.

  Target four was planted in front of the garden; and instead of a dinner plate, he had used the saucer of a teacup, simulating a gunman prone on the ground.

  Abby fired. Bradley’s head bobbed forward, lips parting. Her first shot hit eighteen inches low, when he had expected it to sail high into the lake. “Miss. Re-engage.”

  Abby didn’t speak or turn around.

  A woman on a mission, he thought, assuring himself that the warmth drubbing through his veins was just respect.

  She fired again. Bradley blinked, incredulous. The tiny saucer was a blanket of dust and shards, a ghostly shadow on the grass.

  She hit the damned thing!

  Gramps’ elbow plunged into his side, gloating and prompting him for the score.

  “Hit. Eight points. Thirty-four, cumulative.”

  The final target, another saucer, was wedged in an oak tree high above the overwatch, mimicking an attacker lying in wait atop a roof or hillside.

  Kyle, Will, and Gramps moved behind Abby. For this target, she would have to shoot from a standing position—without benefit of the bipod.

  Bradley watched her intently, noting that just before firing, the gun barrel jogged slightly left. The bullet struck the tree trunk a foot below the saucer, three feet to the left. Much closer than he had thought possible. “Miss. Re-engage.”

  None of Abby’s other shots had been off left to right; they had only required vertical adjustments.

  Did she pull it left deliberately? If it had passed beneath the saucer through open air, she wouldn’t have been able to assess her shot.

  Bradley focused on the gun barrel. No leftward jog this time, and the saucer popped like a white balloon, splinters raining onto the ground.

  “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” Bradley said, a smile invading his face. “Hit. Eight points. Forty-two, cumulative. Congratulations, you passed, Squirt.”

  Abby’s pout evolved into a simper. “Thanks, Sexy!”

  Then Kyle’s head snapped toward Bradley.

  83D

  SHE HAD ACTUALLY DONE it, called him Sexy—right in front of her father. Bradley stood dumbfounded until Kyle’s interrogating glare moved on to Abby.

  She said it; she can explain it, he thought, starting down the hill.

  Will scampered after him, snickering. “Okay, what’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing,” he said gruffly.

  “You’re full of shit. Bradley, it’s obvious. You’re freaking making love to her in a glance.”

  He held his breath as if to prevent the remark from seeping into his brain. “Nothing has happened, and nothing is going to happen.”

  “Why not?” Will bounded ahead of him, walking backward as they crossed the street. “It’s clearly mutual. What are you waiting for?”

  “About two years. She’s only sixteen.”

  “Seriously? If I were you? I’d jump right into that situation.”

  Bradley stopped abruptly on Gramps’ front lawn. “Besides, it would be wrong to jump into that situation and walk away a few days later.”

  “Walk away?” Will repeated, concern rising along with his pitch.

  “I have to report for duty. I’m freaking AWOL.”

  “You can’t leave. We-we need you. Here.”

  Bradley exhaled through gritted teeth. “With you here to protect Gramps, I planned to head over to MacDill Air Force Base.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Will rubbed a hand over his mouth, head shaking. “But I think Abby’s better qualified.”

  Bradley recoiled, feeling as if his best friend had pitched an iron noose around his neck.

  An awkward silence persisted until Will changed the subject. “Hey, I finally managed to get the well pump rigged.”

  Bradley walked toward the pink bicycle, trying to erase the memories it stirred, then climbed aboard and began pedaling.

  Will strode to the outdoor spigot and twisted the handle. Water dribbled out. “Come on, Sexy! Pedal faster.”

  Bradley tendered a one-finger salute and doubled his speed. The flow only increased marginally.

  “It won’t work for a shower,” Will said, “But at least it’s plan B if the pool goes dry.”

  Bradley hopped off the bicycle and inspected the jerry-rigged contraption. Will had spliced automotive belts together using U-shaped nails to create a loop large enough for the bike rim.

  “The belt won’t last forever,” Will told him, “But we can always make another one. I guess I shouldn’t say we, since you are leaving. But hey, with you gone, maybe Abby will fall for a cute mechanic who knows how to use his tool.”

  “You are an asshole, you know that?” A menacing frown contorted Bradley’s face. A warning not heeded.

  “That could work out well for me. Ditch the wife; end up with the boss’s daughter; inherit his dealership.”

  Bradley’s thumb and index finger dug into a pressure point in Will’s shoulder, forcing him to walk.

  “Ow, ow, ow. Damn it, Sexy, that hurts ... Where the hell are you taking me?”

  Bradley busted out laughing and continued his forceful escort. “Home to your lovely wife—”

  “Come on, Man. Have a little mercy. Beat the shit out of me instead.”

  Bradley opened the front door and jokingly shoved Will into the house. He heard his best friend gasp.

  “Heather?” Will hurried toward the kitchen, shouting, “Don’t bother hiding it! We already saw it!”

  Bradley’s frown traveled from the menagerie of empty cans that cluttered the countertop to Heather. “You broke into my grandfather’s house? And stole from us?”

  “I didn’t break in,” she said, eyes rolling. “The door was unlocked.”

  Red-faced, cheeks puffed like a human bomb, Will smacked the empty cans off the counter, launching them across the kitchen. “I can’t believe you did this!”

  “It’s his fault!” she shouted, thrusting a finger at Bradley. “If his food rationing plan wasn’t so unreasonable, I wouldn’t have had to do it!”

  84D SKIPPED

  85D SKIPPED

  ( ( ( 45% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 13D ) ) )

  Wednesday, February 26th

  86D

  AS BRADLEY TREKKED TOWARD Sugar Lake Road, he spotted Abby beside the garage, rifle propped against her leg. At her feet on a bed of white sand, the scope manual and index card were held in place by Abby’s gren
ade paperweight.

  “What’re you up to so early?”

  “Working on my SWAGs.”

  “Your Scientific-Wild-Ass-Guesses were pretty damned good yesterday.”

  “Not good enough,” she told him. “Four misses, four chances for someone to shoot back.”

  Bradley had expected the victory to make her cocky, but Abby appeared humbled by it.

  She’s so damned unpredictable, he thought, bending down to retrieve the index card. Beneath it was a Mildot Master, an analog calculator designed like a slide rule for determining range, bullet drop, wind drift, and angle of fire. “Never used a scope before? You’re full of crap!”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Gramps—”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I think you’re both screwing with me.”

  “I’m not ... But it’s a very tempting idea,” she said with a flirtatious sparkle in her eyes.

  Bradley looked away. Heat stole into his cheeks, and he swore under his breath knowing his face was bright red. “Gee, look at the time. Got to relieve Will from overwatch.”

  “Hey, wait. I need a favor.” Sensing his reluctance, she said, “Relax, it’s just a scope question. I’m having trouble with the crest of the hill. Which adjustments are closer? Original or new?”

  Lips puckering, he reached for her rifle. After sighting both, he pointed to the pencil and snapped his fingers. Her new set was an improvement, but not where she needed to be.

  After scribbling the corrections, he returned her rifle. “I’m glad you’re not letting that victory go to your head. You’ve still got a lot to learn.”

  “I know. Can you teach me about leading the target?”

  “Later. After overwatch.” Bradley held out the index card, then as Abby reached for it, he jerked it away. “You’ve really never used a scope before?”

  “Only if you count video games,” she said with a guilty grin. “But I have read a bunch of books on mil-dot scopes and holdover. Unfortunately, book knowledge only gets you so far.”

  Bradley walked away thinking it had gotten her further than most.

  87D

  WILL WATCHED BRADLEY ascend the hillside, still marveling at the degree of restraint his best friend had shown after discovering Heather’s treachery. Without uttering a word, the Marine had marched out of the house, and Will had been too embarrassed to show up at the Murphys’ house for dinner.

  “Will, nobody’s blaming you,” Bradley said. “Your dinner is still in the lanai. Go eat.”

  The sinking sensation returned to Will’s empty stomach. “My family consumed way more than our fair share of food, yesterday—”

  “Don’t punish yourself for the sins of your wife. And besides, you’re no good to anyone if you’re too weak to work.”

  “Point taken.” Will attempted to surrender the M1A.

  “We use an AR-10 during daylight hours,” Bradley said, shrugging the weapon off his shoulder. “But since you’re headed to the lanai—to eat—can you plug the nightscope and walkie-talkie into the inverter so they can recharge?”

  “Consider it done.”

  After making good on his word, Will went home to check on the kids. Heather was nursing Suzanne; and Billy, awakened by his sister’s crying, was kicking his miniature soccer ball around the master bedroom. Will gave chase, drawing giggles from his son.

  “Will, why don’t you take him outside to play for a few minutes while I finish up?” Heather asked, yawning.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said, sweeping Billy off his feet, tickling him.

  “Come back in five minutes and get Suzanne. So I can get some sleep.”

  “You realize that I’m the one who was awake all night, covering your overwatch shift, right?”

  “Come on, Will. Be a father for a couple hours. It won’t kill you ... Although, last time it almost killed Billy.”

  He stared at her for a beat, wondering why he hadn’t left her in Georgia, then carried Billy out the door.

  88D

  AMED KHALID AL-DOSSARI had been transferred to Camp Sunshine in response to a rash of convoy attacks. Diesel, generators, weapons, and ammunition—supplies destined for the temporary Army base had been pilfered during the past week.

  Amed’s job was to monitor, detect, and eliminate threats from miles away and miles above, using an unmanned aerial vehicle known as a Predator drone. It was a tedious job, staring incessantly at computer monitors, scanning the live video feed for ambush indicators; but that boredom was about to end.

  Allah had reunited Amed with one of his cousins, effectively magnifying the damage the special forces of jihad could inflict upon the Great Satan.

  He looked askance at Simon, the drone Pilot who shared his containerized office space. Then he rose to his feet, stepped behind his chair, and rotated his arms as if stretching. Simon’s eyes remained focused on his monitor.

  Right hand slinking into his pocket, Amed extracted a coiled length of razor wire. His arms swung upward above his head. His thumbs slipped through the metal rings at either end, unraveling the wire.

  A layer of righteous sweat filmed his face, his neck.

  Wrists crossed, the razor wire formed a loop and plunged over Simon’s head before the unsuspecting Pilot could react.

  Amed’s elbows sprung outward.

  The wire sliced through muscles, arteries, and nerves, nearly decapitating him. Then Amed yanked the bloody corpse from the chair and seized control of the drone, which prowled thousands of feet above a six-vehicle convoy en route to Camp Sunshine.

  He studied the live video feed; and once the lead vehicle arrived at the preordained location, he unleashed a Hellfire missile which reduced a transport truck to a ball of fire. Jihadists on the ground loosed an avalanche of bullets and rocket-propelled grenades. Americans exited their vehicles, using them for cover—just as Amed anticipated. A second well-placed Hellfire missile butchered a dozen Soldiers.

  The firefight raged. A handful of surviving Americans fought viciously, martyring more than half the jihadist fighters. And they might have prevailed, if not for an embedded sleeper, a fuel truck driver who drew his Army-issued sidearm and shot the Americans from behind while they contended with the ambush.

  “Allahu Akbar!” Amed hissed, watching jihadists commandeer high-tech weapons of immense tactical value.

  89D

  ABBY WAS IN THE LANAI with Gramps, Will, and Billy when Bradley’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. “There’s a preschool-aged kid walking up Sugar Lake Road; could be a trap.”

  Gramps’ brow knitted. “I’ll take Billy down to the storage room. Doubt I’ll get a signal down there,” he said, entrusting Will with the walkie-talkie.

  Abby grabbed her rifle and raced through the house, up the interior stairs, and out the front door, taking cover behind a square concrete portico column. Everyone had an assigned position. With Bradley at overwatch, Abby’s dad was stationed on Gramps’ front porch, while Will guarded the rear of both properties and Gramps babysat Billy.

  Torturous seconds of silence ticked by, the calm before the chaos. Why would a kid that age be wandering alone? Was it a trap? What kind of person would use their own child as human bait?

  With quivering legs, Abby dropped to a knee and took a deliberate breath, trying to quell the gush of adrenaline.

  The boy entered her field of view. Light-brown hair, pale complexion, hugging a furry blue monster—the kid looked scared witless. His gaze swept as though searching for someone. He sat down on the driveway apron and shouted, “Mommy? Daddy? Where are you?”

  The fear and yearning in his little voice spurred sympathy and animosity.

  Damn them for using a kid—

  A slamming door dissolved Abby’s thought. She turned, rifle barrel pivoting like the needle on a compass. Will’s wife was marching down the Levins’ driveway, the baby carrier swinging with each stride. “Will? Where the hell are you? You promised to take Suzanne, so I could sleep
!”

  The boy with the stuffed monster jumped up and began running toward her.

  Abby shouted, “Heather, go home—”

  “Abby, you need to mind your own business! Will ... ?”

  “I’m serious, Heather. You could get hurt.”

  The preschooler closed within a yard, then there was a flash.

  A puff of bluish-black smoke.

  A booming explosion.

  Abby blinked and squinted, trying to focus her disbelieving eyes on the surreal scene. The baby carrier bounded hard against the asphalt and landed upside down. Heather and the boy were crumpled heaps on the street, their bleeding bodies ravaged by a shower of metal pellets that mottled the roadway. A four-year-old suicide bomber? With a stuffed animal bomb?

  Gunshots began resounding from the west. Bradley was engaging someone on Sugar Lake Road, hidden from view by the four-foot berm.

  Drawing a slow breath, her eyes glided eastward. Three men in jeans and polo shirts were creeping down the hillside toward the Levins’ house, AK-47s at the ready. Abby watched their crouched advance, patiently waiting for them to reach the driveway—level ground.

  Finger on the trigger, she hesitated; then a glance at Suzanne’s baby carrier hardened her resolve. Abby’s first round struck the lead man in the chest; her second, a perfect duplicate. Crosshairs on the third man, he dropped to the ground before she could fire.

  Holy shit, she thought, my dad shot him!

  A spate of bullets splattered above Abby’s head.

  She flung herself behind the column. Her entire body felt like it was expanding and contracting with her rapid heartbeat. Where the hell did that barrage come from? Are they closing on my position?

  Abby peeked around the column and detected movement higher on the hillside. Dressed in camouflage, two gunmen were backtracking toward the peak, a high probability location on Bradley’s index card. Although Abby had memorized the scope adjustments, this would be more complicated than ceramic plates. These targets were moving ... and shooting back.

  She made an educated guess, leading to the right, gauging the elevation increase, and the bullet struck behind the man’s feet, succeeding only in making him move faster.